“I’m where I should be, darling. The question is where are you? You’re not minding the store and you’re not in your car.”
“I’ve such exciting news. Where are you?”
“At home, indulging in a cholesterol sandwich. Want some?”
“God forbid. Open a can of soup for me. I’ll be there as-”
She hung up before saying when, but he knew it would be soon.
Doreen’s vegetarian vegetable soup, to his mind an awesome redundancy, simmered on the stove when she burst into the house.
“I knew it, didn’t I tell you, Harry Gould was murdered.”
“I can only answer you did, you did, and how do you know?”
She shook her head. “What are you saying? Oh, I get it. Stop being amusing, Walter, this is important. Harry Gould’s computer files have been trashed-obviously by whoever killed him.”
He bit off a mouth full of his thick ham and cheese on rye, tried to mumble through it, then pointed to the stove, finally getting out, “0Your soup’s ready.”
“I don’t care about soup. Why are you being so insufferable, Walter?”
He chewed a moment, then swallowed. “Because you’re not making a speck of sense. Why don’t you start with who, what, when, so I can ask why-instead of beating the facts out of you with a stick.”
Now she smiled. “You’ve never beaten me, love, would I like it?”
“When next it rains, we’ll find out. I really do want to hear what you have to tell me, Doreen.”
“I went to Harry Gould’s office. Don’t ask me why, I just thought I might learn something. I used flowers to get in.”
“And you learned the hard drive on Harry’s computer was erased.”
She glared at him. “So you did understand?”
“Only when you told me where. Everything is gone, not just a file or two?”
“It’s a blank screen, Walter. Hyacinth, that’s Harry’s secretary, well part-time or time-share secretary-”
“What have spring bulbs got to do with it?”
“That’s her name-and I refuse to be Gracie Allen to your George Burns.”
“Thank God, they’re both dead. It wasn’t a mistake, someone deliberately erased the files?”
“The killer did-so there would be no trail leading to him. He even stole the back-up disc.”
“You’d better stop boiling that soup or-”
“Oh God!” She ran to it, grabbed a hot pad and lifted it off the burner. “It’ll take forever to cool.”
“You may have something, Doreen. Let’s talk to Lupe about it.”
“There’s more. Gould’s appointment book is missing. Hyacinth assumes the police have it. If they don’t that’s more evidence of an intruder.”
“Good work.”
She curtsied. “Thank you, kind sir, but there’s still more.” She reached in her purse and handed him a paper. “I should phone that number and find out who Sophia and Cyn are, don’t you think?”
“Eat your soup first.” He worried about her getting enough to eat. A bird could starve on her calories sometimes. “And while you dine on that liquid grass, I have my own super sleuthing to report.” He told her about Addie Kinkaid and how she’d come to be on the street.
Doreen reacted with exasperation. “I’m sure she’s a nice woman, I regret she’s been treated so shabbily, and I’m sorry she’s living on the street, but what has that to do with Harry Gould’s murder and the lost mother of a three-year-old named Jamie?” She made an exaggerated “whew” sound and panted after her long speech.
He ignored her. “Addie asked me to drive her out to the Kinkaid estate, so I did.” He made an expansive gesture. “Damndest looking place I ever saw, huge, sort of oppressive looking, dominated by this huge tower, kind of creepy, like a set for an old Vincent Price movie.”
“A tower of evil. How fascinating!”
“It’s way up in the boonies, populated by trees and igneous rocks, guarded by not one but two iron gates and-”
“Stop it this instant, Walter Byerly, it’s not funny.” Then she squinted at him. “I know when I’m being put on. If I’m not going to be Gracie Allen, I’m not about to be Ma Kettle either.”
“Ma Kettle?”
“Wasn’t she always getting worked up over nothing?”
“Do you really think of me as Percy Kilbride?”
“I will if you don’t stop teasing me.”
“Very well.” Now he spoke rapidly, as she had. “The driveway contained a black limo, the sticker on the back bumper read, JUSTIN WRIGHT FOR PRESIDENT, the chauffeur who most definitely didn’t want us there fit the description given by Henry Clay, and, yes, he does look like a Ninja Turtle.” He laughed. “You really should enter a gaping contest, dear.”
“Karl Kinkaid abducted a woman?”
“At best someone using his limo, and that’s far from certain. Maybe his chauffeur is in love.”
“And maybe Karl Kinkaid has something to do with a little boy named Jamie.”
“As you know, adored one, I couldn’t possibly be a bigger fan of your famous intuition, but this time don’t you think-”
“Well, it could be, couldn’t it? At least it’s something to think about.”
“Want something more?”
“If this is going to be the long version, I’ll eat my soup.”
“Addie told me who Kincaid’s wife is. Supposed to be a celeb, only I never heard of her and didn’t want to admit it.”
“No reason you should. You have me for these things. Who is the good woman?”
“Somebody named Joy Fielding. Addie said she’s some kind of advice guru.”
“You sure you’re not putting me on?” Now she laughed. “Of course you’re not. Darling, your lack of interest in celebrities is so remarkable it ought to be written up in a medical journal.”
“I knew Percy Kilbride, didn’t I?”
“But nobody since. Joy Fielding is Dr. Joy. She has an advice column, radio and TV shows. She’s an author, lecturer, the most famous blonde since Barbie-and just as plastic with about as many brains.” She laughed. “Now she really is someone who should be named DeeDee.”
He roared. “Only jiggling Jezebels named Joy are-”
“Still don’t know who she is? Okay, more clues. Dr. Joy is four square for family, family, family. She rails against premarital sex, abortions, divorce, homosexuality, liberals in general and women’s libbers in particular. Dr. Joy is a regular scold-and people eat her up.”
“Now I know who you mean. I may tune out phony celebs, but I do follow politics. You’re talking about that darling of the Christian Right.”
“Self-appointed.”
“She backs every half-baked nut there is. Hell, she makes Charles Manson and the Boston Strangler look like caregivers, the KKK and Adolf Hitler seem enlightened. She’d happily return to the Spanish Inquisition and Ivan the Terrible.”
He had Doreen doubled over with laughter, which pleased him greatly. Finally, she could say, “You exaggerate, but not by much.”
“So she’s Mrs. Kinkaid. That accounts for the bumper sticker. Justin Wright is her kind of guy-and maybe the next President, unless the country comes to its senses.”
“He is good-looking and glib.”
“So was Attila the Hun.”
Again she laughed. Doreen was such a good audience. He opened his cell phone. “Who are you calling?”
“Lupe, I’d better fill her in.” She shook her head. “Why not?”
“Just don’t tell her about Jamie. She’d be duty bound to call Children’s Services and-”
“Very well. Meanwhile, see if you can get anybody at that Boston number.”
“What will I say to her?”
“Tell her you think Sophia has been kidnapped by King Midas and turned into a gold statue.”
