Death of a Sunday Writer (26 page)

“I'll say. He got the right one, didn't he?”

Could what Nina was saying be true? About transvestites in Longborough. Was she that naive? Maybe the ladies of her book club were protecting her. Surely not. Surely it was just an odd gap in her knowledge, like not knowing how to pronounce “idyll”. There remained the glasses, but not for long. Brighton called to say he had discovered the owner, and promised to drop the glasses off with the owner's name later in the day. He delivered the glasses within the hour, preserving the mystery of why he wanted her to meet him later in the week at Yuk-Yuk's. It was important, he said, but he couldn't say why until the night.

When he had gone, she cleared the front half of her desk and placed the glasses in the cleared space as if in a window display. When Tse came in he saw them immediately.

“My glasses. Jesus. Where'd you find them? I've been searching for them all over. They cost me four hundred bucks.”

“The people at the morgue had them. The ambulance attendant found them by David. The police assumed they had fallen out of his pocket.”

“They must have fallen out when I tried to help him. That's terrific.” Now Tse looked at her.” What's the matter? Why are you looking at me like that?” Then, “You put them out for me to see, didn't you? You've had them all along. When did you know they were mine?”

“Today.”

Tse looked at her, down at the desk, then back up to her face. “Lucy. You thought they might have belonged to the guy you thought killed him, didn't you?”

“I knew they weren't David's. They're the wrong strength, and he would never wear bifocals.”

“No, he wouldn't. Clever. Clever. Oh, Lucy you silly bitch.” He threw back his head and laughed to show where he was coming from, that it was a term of endearment. “And what happened about that woman you were following?”

“Can we go somewhere for coffee. I'll tell you the rest of it.”

After three sentences in the Portuguese café, Tse was grinning, and at the end he was bouncing in his seat with glee. Then he got control of himself and patted Lucy's hand. “Never mind,” he said. “You've done wonders.”

“I've made a complete cake of myself.”

“No, you haven't. It was clever of you to find out who owned my glasses.”

“Jack Brighton did that.”

“It was
your
idea. I think you're suited to the business.”

“Jack thinks so, too.”

“There you are, then. You can have the same rent as Dave.”

The next day Cowan, the bookmaker, called. After two or three sentences in which he made it clear there was nothing more to be said about Trimble the novelist, he said, “Have you had any of David's customers wanting to invest with you?”

“Three or four a day.”

“What have you told them?”

“The truth. David's dead, and the betting business has moved.”

“I wondered if you'd given any thought to it yourself?”

“Me? Hey, do I look like a bookie's runner?”

“That's an English expression, I think. I've never heard it over here. I can see you might not feel comfortable. If you change your mind, though, you know where to find me.”

“Not me, Mr. Cowan. I'm staying away from gamblers.”

“It's just a living, Mrs. Brenner.”

They drove past the Dentons' farm four times, every half-hour, until she saw that the truck had gone. Then she telephoned the farm from a call-box on the highway. Nora Denton answered and confirmed that Denton had gone to Toronto. Ten minutes later, Lucy was in the farmhouse and telling Mrs. Denton of the legacy, explaining that she had made sure no news of it would come to the farmhouse without Nora Denton's consent.

“All you have to do is tell me where you want the money deposited,” she said.

“It's a lot of money.”

“It's yours.”

“Maybe if I give him half? I could make a start again on the rest.”

“The money is yours.”

“He'd come after me.”

“Tell the police. Go to the shelter in Longborough. Tell them.”

“Could I stay there?”

“I think so. For a few days.”

“Then what?”

Lucy had wanted to avoid this, but she felt committed. “Don't you have anyone in Longborough? Or Toronto?”

“I couldn't go to Toronto. I wouldn't know where to go to feel safe. And there's only his relatives in Longborough. I got a brother out west someplace, that's all.”

Lucy looked around the apalling room. “You could stay in my house until you get sorted out. There's plenty of room.”

“I could help you out,” the woman said quickly, following her glance. “I don't like to live like this.”

Lucy had her doubts. “Just until you get organised. We'll get you a lawyer and find out your rights.”

“When shall I come?”

“Now. Before he gets back.”

Fifteen minutes later, the woman came downstairs with a suitcase and three plastic bags of clothes. “Quick. Let's go,” she said. “I won't even leave a note. That way it'll take him more time to find me.”

Lucy went to the door and waved, and Johnny brought the car up close, said something to the dog, which sent it scuttling, its lips in place, and loaded them in. Lucy gave him the address and they drove north, straight to Lucy's house.

Back in the city, Lucy phoned Mrs. Tibbles to tell her what she'd done.

“That sounds splendid. But Denton is bound to find her. What's your address in Longborough? I'll have the police keep an eye on the house, frighten him off. I still know the chief. By the way, Henry and I discussed your involvement, and I've sent you a cheque. A sort of retainer.”

“You want me to work for you?'

“Yes, although I don't have anything for you to do at the moment.”

“I see. You want to know of anything more I might hear that could affect you.”

“Yes.”

“All right.”

It was five thousand dollars. Not a bribe, Lucy reminded herself. A retainer.

Yuk-Yuk's was more crowded than before. It was amateur night again. Lucy found a seat near the back and waited for Brighton to join her. She kept a seat for Johnny who was coming later. She was halfway through her beer when Brighton came out on stage. He told about a dozen
jokes, some of which were genuinely funny, and retired to a good round of applause.

“Jack Brighton, secret comic,” she said, when he appeared at her table.

“How was I?”

“They like you. This is why you asked me to come? Me and all the others?”

There was a steady stream of well-wishers at their table, steady enough to make Lucy realise that Brighton had papered the house.

“I need all the help I can get. Couple more nights like this and I might get paid. Or run out of friends.”

“Good luck,” Lucy finished her beer.

“Don't run away. I've got something for you.”

“A job. I don't need any more surprises.”

“There's a bookshop that's being lifted too much. They want a store detective for a day, someone like you. They think it must be one of their regular customers. They'd like to know who before they do anything. It could be embarrassing for them.”

“What do I do?”

“You spend the day browsing.”

“Fifty an hour?”

“Two hundred for the day. If you catch them early you still get your two hundred.”

“All right. Why don't you do it?”

“I don't know how to browse. Besides, I've got an audition Saturday. For a paid job.”

“What's the name of the store?”

Brighton told her, adding, “There's a second show here tonight.”

Johnny said, in her ear, “My sides are aching from the first show. Let's go.”

That night, Comstock said, “Will you marry me, Lucy?”

“Just so that I can't testify against you?”

“That, too.”

She pushed him off, on to his back, then hauled herself up until her head was level with his. “No,” she said, finally.

“You could forget about Trimble's agency. I'll look after you.”

“No.”

“Is there something wrong with me?”

“No.”

“Then why, for God's sake?”

“Because I don't need anyone to look after me. I didn't come all this way just to get married again, even to you, though I do love you.”

“How will I introduce you to my mother?”

“You can tell her I'm your latest, and I'll tell her you're mine.”

Finally, the police called to tell her they had found the persons who had broken into her office. They had conducted a raid on premises occupied by three Vietnamese youths, and come across a hoard of stolen goods. Trimble's binoculars were among them, identifiable by a customs declaration inside the case.

A week later, Johnny helped her with her last problem. He put his head round the door to take her to lunch.

She looked at the list in front of her. “Trimble
Investigations; L. Trimble, Private Investigator; Lucy Trimble, Private Investigator. Which?”

“Why are you using his name still?”

“It's my name, too. Brenner was my old name, my married name.”

“Then Lucy Trimble.”

“Why?”

“I like it. Now let's eat.”