Mystery

ress for success.

For this job that meant my best suit, a black Zegna I’d found on sale, a yellow tab-collar shirt with French cuffs, a black-and-gold Hermes tie purchased at the same closeout, Italian loafers so infrequently worn their soles remained glossy.

One hand swung free. The other clasped the handle of a chrome-plated case fitted with stainless-steel clasps.

“Very James Bond,” said Robin. “Aston all gassed up?”

“With jet fuel.”

“Try not to eject.”

She walked me down to the Seville, touched an ancient Detroit-fashioned flank. “Guess this’ll have to do.”

“A boy can dream,” I said. “Zoom zoom zoom.”

The mansion’s copper pedestrian gate was locked. After I pressed the buzzer, the closed-circuit camera rotated. Seconds later, the front door eased ajar and the Slavic maid—Magda—studied me through the crack.

Manfred the cat sat by her feet, a plump bundle of feline confidence.

I smiled and waved.

She pushed the door fully open, came forward. The cat remained in place. “Yes?”

“Dr. Delaware for Mrs. Suss.”

“Doctor?”

“Dr. Alex Delaware.” I checked my watch. Things to see, people to do.

She studied me. “You here before.”

“Sure was.”

Her forehead rumpled.

I let her study my faculty card. The venerable med school across town prints nice-looking credentials, replete with an impressive gold seal. My appointment’s in pediatrics as well as psychology.

Clinical Professor, hoo-hah-hah. A couple of lectures a year, no salary, I get the title. Everyone figures they’re getting a deal.

Magda said, “Missus know you come?”

“You bet.” I hefted the chrome-plated case.

“She sick?”

“Just a checkup.” In a sense, it was.

I pocketed the card. “I’m kind of in a hurry.”

Nothing like a good suit. She unlocked the gate.

Once we were in the house, Magda seemed unsure what to do with me. I left her pondering in the entry and saw myself into the same delft-blue room. Sitting on the same downy sofa, I placed the metal case next to me, released the clasps but kept the lid shut. Crossed my legs and sat back and enjoyed the art and the glorious view to the glorious garden.

Magda came in, flummoxed.

“Go get her,” I said.

“Doctor?”

“Delaware.”

“She sleeping.”

Hardening my voice, I said, “She needs to wake up.”

Leona Suss racewalked into the blue room wearing body-conscious mauve velour sweats, rhinestone- spangled running shoes, and full-metal-jacket makeup. White fingers clamped a cell phone that matched the sweats.

Pale brown eyes zeroed in on mine. The lavender I’d seen last time was a contact-lens invention.

Artificial lashes fluttered like breeding moths.

“Morning, Mrs. Suss,” I said.

“What do you think you’re doing? I need you to leave.”

I rested my hands behind my head.

“Did you hear me?”

Flipping the metal case open, I removed a shiny black laptop, placed it next to me.

“I thought you were a cop.”

“Nope.”

She said, “Well, I don’t care who you are, I’m calling the Beverly Hills police.”

She began punching a number on the mauve phone.

I said, “Suit yourself, Olna.”

Her fingers stopped moving. Her chin jutted forward like a switchblade. The phone lowered to her side. “What do you want?”

“To reminisce.”

“About what?”

“Old Hollywood,” I said. “Ancient Hollywood.”

She recoiled as if slapped. “Don’t be rude.”

“I didn’t mean you,” I said. “I just like vintage cinema.”

Opening the laptop, I gave her a direct view of the screen.

Out of the case came a cordless mouse that I rested on the lid.

Click.

The screen filled with opening credits. Garish green letters over black. A film title.

Guns of Justice.

Leona Suss said, “You need to leave my house at once.”

But she made no effort to enforce the command.

I said, “Treat yourself—c’mon, make yourself comfortable.”

She remained on her feet. “You have sixty seconds and then I am going to call my police.”

Click.

Close-up of a black-haired beauty wearing Hollywood’s improbably haute version of cowgirl garb. Rifle in hand. Sneer on glossy lips. “End of the line, Goldie.”

Camera shift to manicured fingers around trigger.

Ponderous music.

Then a long shot offering a full view of the brunette standing in front of a log-sided cabin. Obvious matte painting of mountains in the background.

New shot: rear view of two figures facing the femme with the rifle.

Shift to their POV: fresh-faced blond girl, equally pretty white-Stetsoned young man.

He said, “Don’t do this, Hattie.”

The brunette sneered, “Breathe your last, Rowdy.”

The brunette shouldered the rifle.

The blonde screamed.

White Hat quick-drew a six-shooter and fired.

A blossom sprang from the brunette’s left breast. A cardiac surgeon couldn’t have placed it more accurately.

She looked down at the spreading splotch. Flashed a crooked, oddly engaging smile. Relaxed her fingers.

Dropped the rifle.

Fell to the dirt.

Close-up on beautiful dying face. Murmurs.

“What’s that, Hattie?”