But like Doc Moody said, an idiot with a touch of genius. Each shell was a masterpiece of craftsmanship. Some were carved into animals, others were seascapes, all worked into the rounded exterior of a shell. The pale light of the lantern hardly brought out the exquisite pink and cream tones. I knew people in the city who would pay top dollar for these.
I asked, “Ever sell any, Poochie?”
“Sure, I sell ’em. The stuff I keep on that one shelf, those are for sale.” He pointed. “That’s how I get all my money.”
His little shack wasn’t exactly a showroom. “How much do you get, Poochie? And who buys them?”
“Oh, a nice man from the city comes by and gives me a whole dollar a piece for ’em. That’s pretty darn good, ain’t it, Mike?”
“That’s good, all right, but don’t you sell any more until I see the guy that buys them.”
“Why… sure, Mike. He’ll be here in a few days.”
“Great. Let me act as your agent. All great artists need agents.”
“You think I’m a great artist, Mike?”
“I sure do. How often does he come around, this guy?”
“Always around this time every month he comes.”
I would kick the crap out of the bastard for taking advantage of Poochie like that. A buck a piece and he was probably raking in a hundred per, anyway.
“I’ll negotiate a new price.”
Velda was walking around the little room, looking at the individual shells on the shelf, breathless at the sheer beauty of them.
I got up and put a hand on her shoulder. “I want to take a walk up the beach. Care to come?”
She shook her head, the dark tresses bouncing. “No. You go ahead. I’ve had my fill of walking on sand for a while. I’ll just stick around here and enjoy the view.”
Soon we were back on the beach where she had kicked off her sandals and was lifting her skirt to wade in the tide, her gaze on the expanse of blue that a world away joined the other expanse of blue above. The wind was making lovely dark streaming tendrils of her long raven hair, as if she were underwater. Who needed mermaids?
I started off with Poochie at my heels.
When we were out of earshot of Velda, I said, “Show me where that lady lives-the one with the yellow hair.”
As we rounded a dune, he pointed between a number of trees that stood in a row, like a tall fence designed to keep one half of the beach away from the other.
“Right up there, Mike. That’s where she lives. You’re not gonna go up there, are you?” He seemed fearful.
“No, Poochie, not now.”
I took in the place from a better angle. It was a magnificent home, built like an old colonial mansion right down to the twenty-foot pillars surrounding the entire structure. Set back a few hundred yards from the ocean, it commanded a superb view from the top of a slight rise. Earth must have been shipped in to make a terrace on either side, as its color was the bright green of lawn grass and not the duller shade of the sand variety.
From the rear of the house that faced the water, a flagstone path curved down to the trees and ended abruptly at a gazebo whose latticework was covered with ivy.
A little warning sign was tacked to the tree nearest the sandy beach. Poochie stayed behind, nervous, as I walked up for a better look. It read:
PRIVATE PROPERTY
KEEP OFF!
E.J. WESLEY
I grinned. Now I knew who the lady with the yellow hair was.
Sharron Wesley.
You probably read about her yourself-the infamous, two-timing ex-chorus tomato that stood charges for murdering her millionaire husband and got off scot-free when an all-male jury paid more attention to her legs than the testimony.
I remembered that case well, though I knew it strictly from the spectator seats. Because of Sharron, two husbands had died. Even before she married Wesley, she had spent a term in the big house for manslaughter of hubby number one: a glorified pimp of a manager that she claimed beat her. Well, he hadn’t been beating her when she smothered him in his sleep. But the tabloids had loved that yellow hair and those long chorus-girl gams that she wasn’t shy about showing off only to jurors-reporters got in on the fun, as well.
Still, what the hell her second husband ever saw in her was more than I could see. There are plenty of good- looking fluffs around Manhattan that don’t smother their hubbies in bed. Of course, Wesley had died due to his bad heart, right? That digitalis overdose was just an accident on curvy Sharron’s part.
And ever since, she had been using his dough to support a revolving door of gigolos and a gambling habit and a general party-girl good time. I knew her a little, and she had tried to make me more than once, but I’d sooner sleep with a snake. Last time I saw her, at the Zero Zero Club, she was crocked to the gills.
According to Pat, the D.A. had plenty to hang her with, but the shyster she had pleading her case did a fine job of screwing up the facts. The scandal sheets went crazy over the angle shots of her legs and the jury was drooling half the time. The judge who sat on the case almost blew his top at the verdict, telling that jury he’d never seen a greater miscarriage of justice in his courtroom, shooing them out in disgust.
If these fancy beach-side digs were any indication, Mrs. Wesley must have inherited her husband’s money intact and decided on this modest playpen instead of her penthouse on Central Park to establish a residence.
Only now she was gone.
A missing person.
And last night Dekkert had damn near crippled a nice simple-minded joe just to squeeze out any morsel of information about her whereabouts. No doubt Dekkert figured that the Wesley dame would have been seen, if she had taken off through town. Her car would be well known in this vicinity. Otherwise, beachcomber Poochie was in a fine spot to see anything and everything that went on at the mansion, even if he didn’t pay particular attention to it.
But why was Dekkert interested?
Sharron had a perfect right to go where she pleased. So what if she took off by boat, or with some out-of- towner in a strange car that wouldn’t raise any notice rolling through sleepy Sidon? She’d been gone a week. And a week wasn’t so long as to warrant an investigation when there were no suspicious circumstances.
Or were there?
The only thing I was sure of was that something foul was in the ocean breeze and I was going to find out what. I had tangled with Dekkert before and was not about to let him get away with making a punching bag out of an innocent schnook like Poochie.
Velda had fallen asleep on the sand when I got back. She had spread out that light sweater and was nestled down on it, her sweet, sultry face turned to one side. I gave her gentle prods with my toe until she looked up at me sleepily.
“Time to get up already?” she purred, stretching her arms.
“Rise and shine,” I said. “We have to go.”
“Where?”
“Town. I have a date.”
“Do tell!”
“With the police chief.”
She got to her feet in an instant. Her eyes narrowed, and the pretty mouth got as ugly as it could, which wasn’t very ugly.
“I get it, you louse. You’re going to work. I can see myself already, chasing all over Sidon doing your legwork. Well, if you think-”
“Aw, kitten, take it easy. I only-”
“You ‘only’ nothing. When you get that look on your face, it means trouble. We came up here for a vacation.
