Эд Макбейн - The April Robin Murders

“I’m sure it is, Handsome,” Bingo said.

“Where are we going now?”

“To Kimballsville,” Bingo said.

“What for?”

“To look up a ghost, Handsome.”

The Kimballsville cemetery was not a large one, but it was a scary one nonetheless. As Bingo and Handsome threaded their way through the tombstones with the assistance of a flashlight, Bingo had the distinct urge to whistle or something. Instead, he began talking.

“You’ll remember,” he said, “that Mariposa DeLee told us her sister-in-law died in Kimballsville and was buried here. Am I right, Handsome?”

“You’re right,” Handsome said. “She also said that Charlie Browne was married to this Miss DeLee.”

“Mmmm,” Bingo said. He flashed the light onto a tombstone. “Parker Atchison,” he read. “That’s not what we’re looking for.”

He flashed the light onto another tombstone. Then he stepped closer to the grave. “I think this is it,” he said. Together, they studied the chiseled inscription:

“What I’d like to know,” Bingo said, “is how Lois DeLee managed to get buried in 1928 and then marry Julien Lattimer in 1950.”

Handsome nodded soberly. “Maybe her sister-in-law Mariposa can tell us,” he said. “It should make interesting listening.”

Bingo was not willing to speculate on whether or not Mariposa DeLee was actually at the Skylight Motel all day long and simply refusing telephone calls. Such an observation would have been ungentlemanly, and he liked to think of himself as possessing at least some of the social graces. The fact remained, however, that Mariposa was very much in evidence when he and Handsome arrived at the motel. Sitting in front of the office under an amber-colored bug light, she started from the chair when she spotted the convertible and then apparently decided to brave it through.

“We’ve been trying to reach you,” Bingo said.

“I’ve been out,” she answered. In the soft amber light, she looked younger than she did in natural sunshine. She wore a white sweater and black tapered slacks, and the yellow light concealed the wrinkles on her face, so that she might have been a young matron.

“Find Charlie Browne?” Bingo asked.

“No.”

“That’s a shame,” Bingo said. “There were a few things, Mrs. DeLee...”

“Yes?”

“... which we know you won’t mind discussing since we’re such old friends.”

“What is it?” she asked.

“You said that your sister-in-law died in Kimballsville a couple of years back. You did say that, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did.” Nervously Mariposa DeLee lighted a cigarette and blew out a cloud of smoke.

“What did you mean by a couple of years back?”

“Just what it sounded like.”

“A couple is usually defined as two,” Bingo said. “Now, you didn’t mean two years back, did you?”

“I meant a couple. Two, three, four — who remembers?”

“Her tombstone remembers,” Handsome said.

“What?”

“She died in 1928,” Bingo amplified. “Unless you’re counting by fifteens, that’s not a couple of years ago.”

“All right, I forgot the date,” Mariposa said.

“Did you forget her name, too?”

“Of course not.”

“What was her name?”

Mariposa paused. “Lois,” she said at last.

“Lois what?”

Again Mariposa paused. This time the pause assumed rather lengthy proportions. Bingo and Handsome waited. It seemed as if Mariposa was not going to answer.

“Lois what?” Bingo repeated.

Mariposa maintained her silence.

“You said she was married to Charlie Browne, didn’t you? You said he took care of her while she was sick. You said he was more like a mother to her than a husband. Didn’t you say that, Mrs. DeLee?”

“Yes, I did,” Mariposa answered. She puffed on the cigarette, let out a quick nervous ball of smoke, and then puffed on it again.

“Then her name would be Lois Browne, wouldn’t it?” Bingo asked.

“Yes.”

“Then why is the name Lois DeLee on her tombstone?”

“I... I don’t know. Perhaps it was a mistake.”

“Perhaps,” Bingo said. “Or perhaps she wasn’t married to Charlie Browne at all. Since she was only fifteen when she died—”

“Who says she was only—”

“The tombstone,” Handsome said. “1913 to 1928.”

“Since she was only fifteen,” Bingo continued, “it’s unlikely that she was married, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” Mariposa said. “I don’t have to answer your questions. I don’t have to—”

“Naturally you don’t,” Bingo said. “But we’re all friends and all trying to work this thing out together, aren’t we? Sure we are. Like for example, your husband’s name was Frank, isn’t that right? Frank DeLee?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“And he died young, isn’t that right?”

“He died shortly after we were married.”

“And Lois DeLee was his sister, isn’t that right?”

“Yes.”

“How did she happen to be in Kimballsville, Mrs. DeLee? And how did she die?”

“She came to visit me, as I told you.”

“And the dying?”

“She was very sick.”

“With what?”

“Pneumonia.”

“And she died of pneumonia?”

“Yes.”

“Did you have a doctor?”

“Not until it was too late.”

“Was a death certificate issued?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“By a doctor?”

“Yes.”

“Which doctor?”

“A... a doctor Charlie knew.”

Bingo nodded. “Do you still maintain, Mrs. DeLee, that Charlie Browne was married to young Lois? Isn’t it more likely that he was a... ah... a friend of yours?”

“Why don’t you ask him?” Mariposa said.

“I suppose we’ll have to,” Bingo answered, sighing. “Come on, Handsome.” He turned on his heel and then stopped. “Mrs. DeLee, I hope you realize that permission is often granted for the exhumation of bodies.”

“What are you talking about?” Mariposa said.

“Only this. I’m not a betting man, but I’m willing to wager that the coffin of Lois DeLee is, and always was, empty!”

The Owl’s Roost would have been called, in New York, a very sleazy dump. In California, it was called a very sleazy dump. The upholstered booths had been done in imitation zebra, which had peeled and cracked long ago and which now resembled vertical interference on a television screen. The people lounging about the roost might very well have been owls. They observed each newcomer with the wide-open stare of a night bird.

Bingo and Handsome had been so observed when they entered the bar at ten minutes past ten. It was now twenty minutes past midnight, and the observation had slackened off somewhat during the last two hours and ten minutes, but Bingo nonetheless felt the bar’s clientele were wondering what he and his partner were doing here. Matthew, the bartender, had no such moments of speculation. He knew exactly what they were doing there. They were looking for Charlie Browne.

Eying the clock, he said now, “It don’t look like he’s coming. Maybe he’s been tipped to stay away.”

“Maybe so,” Bingo said.

“I’ve always wondered,” Handsome said to Matthew, “how to get foam on a whiskey sour. I once read an article in Esquire which told how to make the six most-ordered cocktails in the United States, but it didn’t mention the way to get the foam. An article on Anita Ekberg started on the next page. She was almost naked, as I recall.”

“Egg white,” Matthew said.

“I don’t understand,” Handsome said.