“I appreciate your honesty,” I said. “Maybe we can work something out when we get back home.” With a little help from my friends, I might be able to put together a case yet.
“Have a police lineup,” April said. “Put those old ladies up against the wall. Excuse me, Mrs. Morgan, no offense intended. I don't consider you to be old.”
“No offense taken.” Her eyesight must be poor. She showed more enthusiasm for this detective business than Sandra did. Too bad she lived in California.
The conversation moved on to other subjects, including women's fashions. although Mark and Ron didn't seem to have much in common, they agreed that miniskirts were a good thing.
“In addition to my other questionable skills,” Mark said, “I write a bit of verse once in a while, when a subject moves me enough. Does anybody know who Mary Quant is?”
To my surprise, I was the only one with an answer. I said, “Mary Quant invented-or designed, if you will-the first miniskirts.”
“Right! Anyway, I wrote a poem about her, which I will now recite.”
Sandra was feeding Winston, apparently ignoring the conversation. I wondered how she was taking this, since April was the one wearing a miniskirt, not her. I tried to flash Mark a warning with my eyes, but he was looking at April.
“Let's give three cheers for Mary Quant who knows just what the people want.
What's that? You don't remember her?
Well, she created quite a stir, and controversy-yes, a binful, with fashions that some thought were sinful.
'Twas nineteen-hundred-sixty-eight; her minis stormed the Golden Gate.
For she designed the miniskirt, with which each coed soon was girt.
It took America by storm and made us all feel really warm.
It brought elation to the eye of every woman-loving guy, and was the swinging, swaying pal of every freedom-loving gal.
For garterbelts and crinolines, sometimes held up by safety pins, had been replaced by pantyhose, or just a suntan, heaven knows.
For guys the mini left revealed the wonders skirts had long concealed.
For gals the mini marked the hour of breaking out and taking power.
It helped to foster new relations between the sexes in all nations.
It brought world peace; it was a star!
What's that? You think I've gone too far?
Well, anyway, it doesn't hurt, so lets enjoy the miniskirt.”
CHAPTER 15
Sandra was still asleep when I woke up the next morning, but Winston was standing in his crib, ready for action. I changed his diaper and fed him a bottle-I was getting pretty good at this-then took him outside in the morning sun.
I had babysat with Winston again the night before. The four young people had gone out together and Sandra had come in late again. Now, Winston and I explored the parking lot of the motel while we let her sleep. After a while I took him back inside because I was hungry and wanted to give her a nudge.
She was just waking up. She didn't seem to be her usual cheery self as she went into the bathroom. When she came out she said, “What's the matter with men?”
I didn't have a quick answer for that one so I kept quiet. After some chitchat about Winston and other minor topics, she said, “Mark spent most of the evening talking to April. It was as if I didn't exist.”
“You should know by now that Mark talks to everybody. He's a friendly person. You don't have anything to worry about. April already has a boyfriend.”
“Surfer dude Ron? He's a nonentity.”
I couldn't disagree with that. I shut up and decided to let her funk run its course.
I had received a message from Tess stating that nobody named Harrington lived at Silver Acres. However, I had Benny's home telephone number; I decided to give him a call. After we greeted each other I said, “Do you remember the name of Maxwell Harrington's wife?”
After a pause Benny said, “I'm afraid I don't. Is that important?”
“It might be.”
“I believe his son still lives in San Diego. I think he's a dentist. Hang on while I get a phone book.”
I hung on, hoping he would come up with a name. I didn't relish having to search through county marriage records. Besides, I didn't even know where Maxwell had gotten married.
Benny came back on the line and said, “Dr. Michael Harrington is his name. He has an office right here in La Jolla. Probably specializes in tooth problems of the rich.”
He gave me a telephone number and address. I immediately dialed the number and a cheery female voice answered. I asked about office hours today-Saturday. The cheery female voice said that they went until noon but that Dr. Harrington had no openings. Could she make an appointment for me? I said that all I needed was five minutes of his time and that I would come in and wait until he was free. She began some well-rehearsed arguments, but I told her in a voice as cheery as hers that I would be right there; then I hung up.
As I sat in Dr. Harrington's waiting room, thumbing through an old issue of Cosmopolitan, I tried to work on my story. I certainly couldn't tell him I was investigating a murder.
Sandra, Mark and Winston had dropped me off and were looking at the interesting caves along the La Jolla beach. Although Sandra had been cool toward Mark during breakfast he was so relentlessly cheerful that I suspected he would soon be back in her good graces.
The cheery voice I had talked to on the phone belonged to a face and body I never would have associated with it. The woman of the voice was overweight, and although she couldn't be more than 50, I suspected that I was in better shape than she was. She finally condescended to let me have my five minutes with Dr. Harrington at quarter past twelve.
I met him in one of his dental procedure rooms, complete with reclining chair and instruments used for oral torture. He still had a patient in the next room, for whom he was mixing something in a small container. His colorful sport shirt, long hair and mustache were perhaps intended to make him look younger than his forty-some years. They succeeded in disguising the fact that he was a dentist.
I introduced myself. He looked at me when he said hello, asked what he could do for me and then turned back to his mixture. Realizing that I wasn't going to get any more of his attention than this, I said, “I'm sorry to take up your time. But I have a friend in the Economics Department at the UC campus here-uh, Benny Tokamatsu.”
“I don't know anybody who's in the department now,” Dr. Harrington said without turning his head. “It's been a long time since my father taught there.”
“But he remembers your father. He was a student when your father…when your father was there.”
“As far as I'm concerned, those days are best forgotten. What is your interest in my father, Ms…?”
“Lillian.”
“Lillian.”
Sometimes honesty is the best policy. “I knew Gerald Weiss.” Dr. Harrington seemed to miss a beat with his stirring, but he didn't say anything. “I was looking through his papers at Dr. Tokamatsu's office when I came across a draft copy of the book, Fiat Money Madness. On the title page it had Gerald's name and it also had your father's name.”
Dr. Harrington snapped his head around to face me. He said, “Can you wait another 15 minutes until I finish with my patient?”
