Hugger Mugger (18 page)

I turned the dead bolt and put the chain on. The venetian blinds were open. I closed them.

“There,” I said. “Privacy.”

Billy nodded. He sat on the neatly made bed, near the foot, leaning a little forward, with his hands clasped before him and his forearms resting on his thighs.

“How'd you know I was here?” I said.

“Everybody knows you're here.”

“Does everybody know why?”

“Everybody be wondering,” he said.

I saw no reason to dispel the wonder.

“What can I do for you?” I said.

“I don't know who else to talk to 'bout this,” Rice said.

I waited.

“I mean, I talked with Delroy and he told me to just do my job and not go worrying about stuff I had no business worrying about.”

“Un-huh.”

“But damn! Hugger is my job. It
is
my business to worry 'bout him.”

“That's right,” I said.

“I can't talk to Penny 'bout it. She knows about it and ain't done a thing.”

“Un-huh.”

“And nobody broken no law, or anything.”

“So why are you worried?”

“They ain't guarding him,” Rice said.

“Security South?”

“That's right. They around all the time, and they keeping people out of the stable office and away from Mr. Clive's house and like that. But nobody paying no attention to Hugger, except me.”

“They used to guard him closer?” I said.

“Used to have somebody right beside his stall.”

“Anybody say why they don't anymore?”

“No. Like I say, Delroy shooed me away when I said something to him.”

“Must think he's no longer in danger,” I said.

“Why they think that?” Rice said. “The horse shooter killed Mr. Clive trying to get to Hugger.”

“Maybe,” I said.

“What you mean, maybe?”

“Just that we haven't caught the killer. So we don't know anything for sure.”

“I been sleeping in the stable with Hugger,” Rice said.

“Family?” I said.

“Me? I got a daughter, ten years old, she's in New Orleans with my ex-wife.”

“You got a gun?”

“Got a double-barreled ten-gauge from my brother.”

“That will slow a progress,” I said. “You know how to shoot it?”

“I've hunted some. Everybody grow up down here done some hunting.”

“What's he hunt with a ten-gauge, pterodactyl?”

“Maybe burglars,” Rice said.

“So what do you want me to do?” I said.

“I don't know. I'm worried about the horse. You seemed like somebody I could tell.”

“There a number I can reach you?” I said.

“Just the stable office, they can come get me. Don't tell them it's you. You ain't allowed in there.”

“Who says?”

“Penny, Delroy, they say nobody's supposed to talk to you or let you come near the place.”

“But you're talking to me.”

“I'm worried about Hugger.”

“I think Hugger will be all right,” I said.

“You know something?”

“Almost nothing,” I said. “But I'm beginning to make some decent guesses.”

“I'm going to keep on staying with him,” Rice said. “Me and the ten-gauge.”

“Okay,” I said. “And I'll work on it from the other end.”

“What other end?”

“I'm hoping to figure that out,” I said.

I
SAT WITH
Becker in his office. The air-conditioning was on and the blades of a twenty-inch floor fan were spinning in the far corner. We were drinking Coca-Cola.

“Two days before Clive was murdered,” I said, “he learned for certain that he was the father of Dolly Hartman's son, Jason.”

“Learned how?” Becker said.

“DNA test results came back.”

“Hundred percent?”

“Yes.”

“So he's got another heir,” Becker said.

He was rocked as far back as his chair would go, balanced with just the toe of his left foot. He had taken his gun off his belt and it lay in its holster on his desk.

“His will mentions only his three daughters.”

“Suppose if he'd lived longer that would have changed?”

“The timing makes you wonder,” I said.

“There's other timing makes you wonder,” Becker said. “Kid's about what? Twenty-five?”

“Dolly says she had an affair with Clive early, and then disappeared until Sherry was gone.”

“Slow and steady wins the race,” Becker said. “You figure one of the daughters scragged the old man to keep him from changing his will?”

“Or all three,” I said.

“Why not pop the kid, Jason?”

“Old man is readily available,” I said. “And if he included the kid, before they knocked the kid off, then his estate would be in their lives.”

“You like one daughter better than another?”

“Well, that's sort of sticky,” I said. “I figure Stonie or SueSue would be willing to do it, but would have trouble implementing. I figure Penny could implement all right, but wouldn't be willing.”

“How about our friend the serial horse shooter?”

“Billy Rice came and told me that there's no more security on the horse.”

Becker frowned a little. It was the first expression I'd ever seen on his face.

“Rice is the groom?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” Becker said. “Been couple months now.”

“I know, but it's a valuable horse, and there's still security on the stable area and on the house. But no one's paying any special attention to the horse. Except Billy, who's sleeping in the stable with a ten-gauge.”

“Case a hippopotamus sneaks in there,” Becker said.

Becker let his chair tip forward. When he could reach the holstered gun on his desk, he tapped it half around with his forefinger so that it lined up with the edge of his blotter.

“So it seems like they're not expecting anyone to try to shoot their horse,” I said. “Why would that be?”

“Might be that the horse shooter is a Clive,” Becker said.

“And the whole horse shooter thing was a diversion?” I said.

“Except it went on for quite a while before the DNA results came back.”

“How about this?” I said. “The killer or killers find out ahead of time about the paternity thing. They know Clive is going to have DNA testing done. They put the serial horse shooting in place so that if it turns out wrong, and they have to kill him, it'll look like a by-product of the horse shooting.”

“It would explain why no one seemed to care if the horses died or not,” Becker said.

“Yes.”

“Nice theory.”

“It is, isn't it?”

“Pretty cold,” Becker said.

“Very cold,” I said.

“Can you prove it?”

“Sooner or later,” I said.

“Where's Delroy fit into all of this?”

“I don't know. Pud Potter says that Delroy and Penny Clive are intimate.”

“Penny?”

“That's Pud's story.”

“Was he sober when he told it?”

“Yes. The other thing about Delroy is that he's a phony. He was never with the FBI. He was never in the Marine Corps. And I'm pretty sure that there isn't any big company that he works for. Security South is him, working out of a letter drop in Atlanta.”

“Well, you're a detecting fool, ain't ya?”

“We never sleep,” I said.

“On the other hand, so he's bullshitting his way to success,” Becker said. “Don't make him unusual. He's got the proper accreditation from the state of Georgia.”

“That would mean his prints are on file,” I said.

“Sure.”

“Maybe you could run them for us, find out what he was doing while he wasn't in the FBI or the Marine Corps.”

Becker took a pull at his Coke.

“Yeah,” he said. “I can do that.”

“While you're doing that, I'm going to commit several covert acts of illegal entry,” I said.

“Be good if we get something that will be useful to us in court,” Becker said.

“On an illegal entry by a private dick who's not even licensed in Georgia?” I said.

“Be better if you didn't get caught,” Becker said.

“Be good if you don't look too close at what I'm doing.”

“Be good if nobody asks me to,” Becker said.

“Eventually I'm going to find out what happened,” I said.

“Be nice,” Becker said.

I
HAD A
drink with Rudy Vallone at a restaurant called the Paddock Tavern, downstairs from his office. There was a bar along the right-hand wall as you came in; other than that, the place was basically the kind of restaurant where you might go to get a cheeseburger or a club sandwich, or if you had a date you wanted to impress you could shoot the moon and order chicken pot pie, or a spinach salad. There were Tiffany-style hanging lamps and dark oak booths opposite the bar, and a bunch of tables in the back where the room widened out. There was a big mirror behind the bar so you could look at yourself, or watch women. Or both.

“You're an industrious lad,” Vallone was saying as he sipped a double bourbon on the rocks.

“Thank you for noticing,” I said. “Did Walter Clive ever talk to you about changing his will?”

Vallone took a leather case from the inside pocket of his suit coat and took out a cigar. He offered me one. I
declined. He trimmed the end of the cigar with some sort of small silver tool made for the task. Then he lit the cigar carefully, rolling it in the flame. Drew in some smoke, let it out, and sighed with contentment.

“Man, smell that tobacco,” he said.

It smelled to me like there was a dump fire somewhere, but I didn't comment. Vallone sipped some more bourbon.

“Now,” he said, “by God, this is the way to finish a workday.”

“Did Walter Clive ever talk to you about changing his will?” I said.

“That might be considered a private matter between an attorney and his client.”

“It doesn't have to be,” I said. “Especially since the client got shot dead.”

“There's something to that,” Vallone said.

He puffed on his cigar and rolled it slightly in his mouth.

“And you've got some local support.”

I cast my eyes down modestly.

“Dalton Becker has spoken to me about you.”

“That is local support,” I said.

“He asked me to be as helpful to you as possible. Said of course he wouldn't want me to violate any ethical standards, but that he'd be grateful for any support I could give you.”

“Dalton and I have always been tight,” I said. “Did Walter Clive ever talk to you about changing his will?”

Vallone twiddled with his cigar some more. He
seemed preoccupied with getting the ash exactly even all the way around.

“He talked about it with me once,” Vallone said.

“When?”

“Before he died.”

“How long before?”

“Well, you are a precise devil, aren't you. Maybe a month.”

“What did he say?”

“Said he might want to change his will in a bit, would that be difficult? I said no, it would be easy. I said did he want me to get a start on drafting something up? He said no. Said he wasn't sure if he was going to. Said he'd let me know.”

I drank a little from the draft beer I had ordered. “Did he ever let you know?”

Vallone took the cigar out of his mouth and shook his head. Had he left the cigar in his mouth when he shook his head, he would probably have suffered whiplash.

“Do you have any idea how he would have modified his will?”

“No.”

“Or why?”

“None. Walter wasn't talkative. I think the only person he ever trusted was Penny.”

“She say anything to you?”

“Penny?” Vallone smiled. “Sure—charming things, funny things, sweet things. Anything that gave you any information? Not ever.”

“She understand the business?” I said.

“Recent years, she ran it. He was the front man mostly, since she got old enough. He'd shmooze the buyers, drink with the big money in the clubhouse, he and Dolly would take them to breakfast at the Reading Room in Saratoga. They could always get a table at Joe's Stone Crab in Miami. That sort of thing. Penny stayed home and ran the business.”

“And the other girls?”

Vallone smiled.

“How'd they occupy themselves?” he said. “In the business?”

“Yes.”

“They didn't. They had nothing to do with the business that I could ever see,” Vallone said.

“So how'd they occupy themselves?” I said. “Besides boozing and bopping.”

Vallone took out his cigar and smiled again. “They didn't,” he said.

“So, boozing and bopping was all there was.”

He nodded.

“Bopping and boozing,” he said. “Boozing and bopping.” He flicked his perfect ash into an ashtray on the bar.

“Well,” I said, “there's worse ways to spend your time.”

“And ain't that the by-God truth,” Vallone said.

A
FTER
I
LEFT
Vallone, driving back to the motel, I noticed that I had picked up a tail. He wasn't very good at it. He'd get too close, then drop too far back, then have to drive too fast and pass too many cars so he wouldn't lose me. When we got to my motel I pulled into the lot and parked. He pulled in behind me, and went to the far corner of the lot, and just in case I hadn't noticed him, he turned the car around and backed into a slot where he could come out quickly if I took off. Pathetic. I sat in my car with the motor running and the a/c on high and thought for a minute or two. Then I got out and walked over to his car and rapped on the window. The window slid down and the cold air from the interior slipped out and wilted in the heat. The tail was a slim young guy with curly blond hair and aviator sunglasses. He was wearing a plaid summer-weight sport coat and he looked at me with an expression so studiously blank that it made me smile.

“Yeah?”

“Where's your boss?” I said.

“Excuse me?”

“Delroy,” I said. “Where is he?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“The car's registered to Security South,” I said, just as if I had checked.

“How you know that?” he said.

“It's why they make car phones,” I said. “You picked me up outside the Paddock Tavern and followed me here. Worst tail job I've ever seen.”

“Shit,” the kid said, “I never done it before. You gonna tell Delroy?”

“Maybe not,” I said. “My name is Spenser, what's yours?”

“Herb,” he said. “Herb Simmons.”

He stumbled a little over “Simmons” and I assumed it wasn't really his name.

“Why are you following me, Herb?”

“Delroy told me to. Said to keep track of you and make sure you didn't get near the house or the stables.”

“The house being the Clives' house.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And if I did?”

“I was to call for backup and we was to apprehend you.”

“Why?”

“Trespassing.”

“Call a lot of backup,” I said. “How long you been working for Security South?”

“A month.”

“What'd you do before?”

“I was a campus police officer over in Athens. I never had to follow nobody.”

“A good thing,” I said. “Where's Delroy as we speak?”

“Up in Saratoga. Hugger Mugger's running in the Hopeful.”

“So Penny's up there too.”

“Miss Penny, everybody. Everybody goes to Saratoga in August. . . . Hell, I never been to Saratoga,” he said. “Except when I was in the Air Force, I ain't never been out of Georgia.”

“No reason to go,” I said.

“You gonna tell Delroy?”

“No,” I said. “How about your relief, when's he show up?”

“I got no relief. Delroy says we're shorthanded and I'm on you by myself.”

“Hard to tail somebody by yourself,” I said.

“Damn straight,” Herb said.

“Why doesn't he cut back a couple of guards at the stable area, and help you out?”

“There ain't no guards on the stables no more. They figured it would be more efficient just to put somebody on you.”

“Who do you call for backup?”

“There's guys at the house. I call them.”

“Why are they guarding the house?”

“I don't know. I know nobody's supposed to go in there.”

“Well,” I said. “I'm going in now and have a
sandwich, and watch the Braves game and go to bed.”

Herb didn't know what to say about that, so he tried looking stalwart.

“Have a nice night,” I said.

I walked back past my car and into the motel lobby. I looked at my watch. It was 6:35. I went through the lobby and out the side door and walked through the gas station next door and out onto the highway. It was about two miles from the motel to Three Fillies Stables. I strolled. Even in the early evening it was very hot, and by the time I got to the stable area at seven, my shirt was wet with perspiration. Mickey Blair was still there washing one of the horses with a hose. The horse seemed to like it. I could see why. It looked like I would like it.

“Hello,” I said. “I'm back.”

“Oh, hello,” Mickey said. “I thought . . .”

“Yeah. I was let go, but now I've been hired again. Anyone in the office?”

“Nope. It's all locked up.”

“Got a key?”

“Sure.”

“I'll need to get in,” I said.

“Why?”

The water sluiced softly over the small chestnut horse, who bent her neck a little so she could look around at me.

“Penny wants me to check something in the files.”

“Nobody said anything to me,” Mickey said.

“No, they wouldn't. It's supposed to be very hush-hush.”

“Gee, I don't know.”

“No, of course you don't and it's not fair to ask you,” I said, “without explanation. Penny wants me to sort of check up on Security South.”

“Security South?”

“Yes, Jon Delroy, specifically.”

“She wants you to check up on Mr. Delroy?” There was something in Mickey's tone that suggested she thought it would be a good idea to check up on Delroy.

“She's afraid he's stealing from her.”

“Damn!”

“This is the best time to do it,” I said. “While they're all in Saratoga.”

Mickey nodded. She could see that.

“So I figured I'd take the chance and tell you.” I smiled at her. “Our secret?”

Mickey smiled. “Sure,” she said. “Key's on a nail right inside the door to the tack room.”

“Thank you.”

T
HE FILES WERE
locked, but I figured there'd be a key somewhere. People who would leave the office key hanging on a nail in the tack room wouldn't be terribly fastidious about the file cabinet. It wouldn't be too high because then Penny couldn't reach it easily. And it wouldn't be too far because people hate to bother. In about five minutes I found it, hanging on a hook in the lavatory, under a hand towel.

It took me a while longer to find anything interesting in the files. But it didn't take forever. The files were immaculately neat, which helped. Everything was precisely labeled, and everything was alphabetical, and near the back was a file folder with no label. I took it out. Inside were reports from Security South dating back more than ten years. There was information about Stonie at the truck stops, about Cord's problems with young boys, about SueSue's adulteries, and Pud's arrests for public drunkenness and assault. Each case
included specifics of action taken and sums expended by Security South to resolve the problem. Most of these reports in the earlier years were initialed WC, and in recent years, increasingly, PC.

There was also a three-page typewritten report, unaddressed and unsigned, which in summary concluded that it was quite possible that Walter Clive had been having an affair with Dolly Hartman while he was married to Sherry, and it was entirely possible that Jason Hartman was Walter's son. There was a copy machine on the long table behind the desk. I ran the report through the copier, folded up the copy, stuck it in my back pocket, and put the original back in its folder. I assumed the report was by Delroy, and I assumed it was for Penny. There were no initials on this one, but there was no reason for Walter Clive to commission such research. He'd know whether he could have been Jason's father or not.

I spent about an hour more, but didn't find anything else to help me. It appeared from my fast glom of the files that Penny was running the business, and that the business was doing very well. I locked the files, put the key back, turned off the lights, locked the office door, and put the key back in the tack room.