5 Detective Novels Magazine — page 33: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

THANKS FOR MURDER I took the check, waved it slowly to dry the scrawls, but not before I had read the scrawls. Five hundred dollars, payable to bearer. “Down payment? 2” T asked pleasantly. “I don’t understand.” “If you’ve stated the case correctly, Mrs. Macon, this undesirable woman might like more than five hundred dol- lars.” “That’s your check,” she said, stand- ing up. She walked over, laid two fin- gers on my shirt front, said, “If my hus- band were living, he might think you were cute. What does the B in your name stand for?” “Beverly, my mother’s maiden name.” “Ronald Beverly Darling!” Her eyes lifted to the ceiling. I started to growl, “Take this check and—” but remembered, in time, that foolish words don’t pay the rent. I asked: “Isn’t there more you want to tell me?” “Ronald Beverly Darling!” she said, and snickered. ... LUE water shimmered between wooded ridges. Beyond the dam, within the oak woods, were cottages. The convertible drifted along a narrow macadam road. A jay winged off, like a blue-white flash. A tame squirrel sat on its haunches and begged for a hand- out. You couldn’t miss the Macon cottage. It had a four-car garage and sat a hun- dred yards from the other places. I tooled the car between fieldstone pillars and down to the turn-around in front of the garages. I got out leisurely. Nobody around. No cars in the gar- age, but there were fresh tire tracks in the dirt. Where were Kitty Watrous and Joe Macon, eh? Nobody came out to meet me. I knocked on the back door. Nobody answered. I turned the knob. The door opened. I walked into a kitchen filled with refrigerators, chrome trim, and other culinary gadgets. The only signs of occupancy were a half-filled bottle of Teacher’s Highland Cream and two smudged glasses on a table. Mrs. Macon’s five-hundred dollar check told me I had a right to be here, so I pushed through a swing door into a built-in breakfast nook. Nothing here, except a quarter-filled bottle of High- land Cream and two more smudged glasses on the table. Next, a long, wide, story-and-a-half living room, finished in dark, knotty pine. Red-leather chairs. Red-leather divans. Book shelves. Lamps. Ankle- deep rug. The stale odor of cigarette smoke. A divan in front of a fireplace that held ashes and a smoldering log. A pair of high-heeled, red slippers on the rug. A coffee table between the divan and the fireplace screen. A third-filled bottle of Highland Cream and two smudged glasses on the coffee table. It was getting monotonous. Young Joe Macon couldn’t have been much with a woman or he wouldn’t have needed all that Scotch. Two doors opened off the living room. I looked in, ready to say, “It’s morning and time to get up, kids.” Nobody in either bedroom. Beds made. Okay, there must be more bedrooms. There were, on either side of a cor- ridor that left the living room. Nobody in the bedroom towards the garage. No- body in either of two bathrooms. There was one room left, facing the lake. I rapped on the closed-door. Nobody an- swered. No springs creaked in a bed. I listened for a moment, then opened the door. Sunshine poured through four win- dows of a master bedroom. Two twin beds, three-quarter size and both were rumpled. Did he have two women with him? On a nightstand, between the beds, next to a tiny lamp with a rose- colored shade, stood the inevitable bottle of Highland Cream. This bottle was un- opened. Well, considering the build-up in the other rooms, even Joe Macon should have been able to cross the goal line without any more Scotch. From somewhere outside the cottage, GomilGcbdoo (Cc S