”Aw, Ma, I don’t want to go over there again.“
”Come on now, no arguing. Hop in the car I’ve got a lot of shopping to do. The party is tonight, and I don’t want you in the way. You know how nervous I get when I’m having a big party. And while I’m at the shopping center I don’t want you here alone. It’s too dangerous.“
I went to my car and put the photo in the glove compartment.
”Well, lemme stay with Mr. Spenser.“
Marge Bartlett shook her head firmly. ”Not on your life.
Mr. Spenser is my bodyguard, and he’ll have to go with me to the shopping center.“ She clapped her hands once, sharply. ”In the car.“
Dolly climbed into the backseat of the red Mustang.
Marge Bartlett got in behind the wheel, and I sat beside her.
The dog stood in front of the car with his ears back and stared at us.
”Can I bring Punkin?“ Dolly asked.
”Absolutely not. I don’t want him getting the car all muddy, and Aunt Betty can’t stand dogs anyway.“
”He’s not muddy,“ Dolly said.
The cop in the Smithfield cruiser poked his head out the side window and said, ”Where you going?“
”It’s all right. Mr. Spenser is with me. We’ll be gone most of the day, shopping.“
”Whoopee,“ I said. ”All day.“
The cop nodded. ”Okay, Mrs. Bartlett. I’m going to take off then. You let us know when you’re back, and Chief’ll send someone up.“
He started the cruiser and headed down the drive. We followed. He turned left. We turned right.
Chapter 14
The north shore shopping center was on high ground north off Route 128 in Peabody. Red brick, symmetrical evergreens, and parking for eight thousand cars. I discovered that Marge Bartlett was a member of the shopping center the way some people belong to a country clubb. Between ten fifteen and one twenty she charged $375 worth of clothes. I spent that time watching her, nodding approval when she asked my opinion, keeping a weather eye out for assailants, and trying not to look like a pervert as I stood around outside a series of ladies’ dressing rooms. I was glad I hadn’t worn my white raincoat. There were a lot of very well-shaped suburban ladies shopping in the same stores.
Suburban ladies tended to wear their clothes quite snug, I noticed. I was alert for concealed weapons.
We got back to Smithfield at about a quarter of two. The house was still. Roger Bartlett worked Saturdays, and Dolly was going to spend the night with Aunt Betty. Punkin lay placidly in a hollow under some bushes to the right of the back door Marge Bartlett held the door for me as I carried in the shopping bags. The dog came in behind us.
”Put them on the couch in the living room,“ she said. ”I want to call the caterer.“
There was a corpse in the living room. On the floor, face down, with its head at a funny angle. I dropped the shopping bags and went back to the kitchen with my gun out.
Marge Bartlett was still on the phone with her back to me. No one was in sight. The back door was closed. The dog had settled under the kitchen table. I turned back to the living room and stood in the center, beside the corpse, and held my breath and listened. Except for Marge Bartlett talking with animation about a jellied salad, there was no sound.
I put the gun back in the hip holster and squatted down beside the corpse and looked at its face. It had been Earl Maguire. That’s it for the law practice, Earl. I picked up one hand and bent the forefinger back and forth. He was cold and getting stiff. I put the hand down. All the college and all the law school and all the cramming for the bar, and someone snaps your neck for you when you’re not much more than thirty. I looked around the room. A glass-topped rug was bunched toward Maguire’s body. A fireplace poker lay maybe two feet beyond Maguire’s outflung hand. An abstract oil painting was on the floor beneath a picture hook on the wall as if it had fallen.
I duck-walked over to the poker and looked at it without touching it. There was no sign of blood on it. I stood up and went to the front door The lock button in the middle of the knob was in. The door was locked. I’d seen Marge Bartlett unlock the back door. I opened the front door No sign of it being jimmied. There’d been no sign of jimmying on the back door I’d have noticed when we came in. There weren’t any other doors. I walked across the front hall to the dining room. It was undisturbed except that the door to the liquor cabinet was open. There was a lot of booze inside. It didn’t look as if any was missing.
I heard Marge Bartlett hang up. I headed for the kitchen and cut her off before she got to the door.
”Stay here,“ I said.
”Earl Maguire is dead in your living room.“
”My God, the party’s in six hours.“
”Inconsiderate bastard, wasn’t he,“ I said.
She opened her mouth and then put both hands over it and pressed and didn’t say anything. ”Sit there,“ I said and steered her to a kitchen chair. She kept her hands over her mouth and watched me minutely while I called the cops.
When she heard me say Maguire’s neck was broken, she made a muffled squeak.
Five minutes later Trask arrived with a bald, fat old geezer who carried a black bag like the ones doctors used to carry when they made house calls. He eased himself down on his knees beside the body and looked at it. He was
