John MacDonald - The Good Old Stuff

“Gil, usually.”

“Ah, Gil, if this were a properly conceived plot, I would be the one who lured your Mr. Davisson to his death. Now I accompany the investigator to allay suspicion.”

“No such luck, Kathy.”

“No such luck.” They walked along the shell path to the main building of the Aqua Azul. She led the way around the building toward a Cadillac convertible the shade of raspberry sherbet.

“More protective coloration?” Darrigan asked.

She smiled and handed him the keys from her purse. After he shut her door he went around and got behind the wheel. The sun was far enough gone to warrant having the top down. She took a dark bandanna from the glove compartment and tied it around her hair.

“Now how do you go about this, Gil?” she asked.

“I head south and show a picture of Davisson in every bar until we find the one he was in. He could have called his wife earlier. I think he was the sort to remember that a cocktail party was scheduled for that evening. Something kept him from phoning his wife.”

“Maybe he didn’t want to phone her until it was too late.”

“I’ll grant that. First I want to talk to a man named Drynfells. For this you better stay in the car.”

The Coral Tour Haven was a pink hotel with pink iron flamingoes stuck into the lawn and a profusion of whitewashed boulders marking the drive. Drynfells was a sour-looking man with a withered face, garish clothes, and a cheap Cuban cigar.

Darrigan had to follow Drynfells about as they talked. Drynfells ambled around, picking up scraps of cellophane, twigs, burned matches from his yard. He confirmed all that the Clearwater police had told Darrigan.

“You couldn’t decide on a price, Mr. Drynfells?”

“I want one hundred and forty-five thousand for that piece. He offered one thirty-six, then one thirty-eight, and finally one forty. He said that was his top offer. I came down two thousand and told him that one forty-three was as low as I’d go.”

“Did you quarrel?”

Drynfells gave him a sidelong glance. “We shouted a little. He was a shouter. Lot of men try to bull their way into a deal. He couldn’t bulldoze me. No, sir.”

They had walked around a corner of the motel. A pretty girl sat on a rubberized mattress at the side of a new wading pool. The ground was raw around the pool, freshly seeded, protected by stakes and string.

“What did you say your name was?” Drynfells asked.

“Darrigan.”

“This here is my wife, Mr. Darrigan. Beth, this man is an insurance fellow asking about that Davisson.”

Mrs. Drynfells was striking. She had a heavy strain of some Latin blood. Her dark eyes were liquid, expressive.

“He is the wan who is wanting to buy our beach, eh?”

“Yeah. That bald-headed man that the police were asking about,” Drynfells said.

Mrs. Drynfells seemed to lose all interest in the situation. She lay back and shut her eyes. She wore a lemon-yellow swimsuit.

Drynfells wandered away and swooped on a scrap of paper, balling it up in his hand with the other debris he had collected.

“You have a nice place here,” Darrigan said.

“Just got it open in time for last season. Did pretty good. We got a private beach over there across the highway. Reasonable rates, too.”

“I guess things are pretty dead in the off season.”

“Right now we only got one unit taken. Those folks came in yesterday. But it ought to pick up again soon.”

“How big is that piece of land you want one hundred and forty-five thousand for?”

“It’s one hundred and twenty feet of Gulf-front lot, six hundred feet deep, but it isn’t for sale any more.”

“Why not?”

“Changed my mind about it, Mr. Darrigan. Decided to hold onto it, maybe develop it a little. Nice property.”

Darrigan went out to the car. They drove south, stopping at the obvious places. They were unable to pick up the trail of Mr. Davisson. Darrigan bought Kathy Marrick dinner. He drove her back to the Aqua Azul. They took a short walk on the beach and he thanked her, promised to keep in touch with her, and drove the rented sedan back to Clearwater Beach.

It was after eleven and the porch of the Bon Villa was dark. He parked, and as he headed toward his room a familiar voice spoke hesitantly from one of the dark chairs.

“Mr. Darrigan?”

“Oh! Hello, Mrs. Davisson. You startled me. I didn’t see you there. Do you want to come in?”

“No, please. Sit down and tell me what you’ve learned.”

He pulled one of the aluminum chairs over close to hers and sat down. A faint sea breeze rattled the palm fronds. Her face was a pale oval, barely visible.

“I didn’t learn much, Mrs. Davisson. Not much at all.”

“Forgive me for coming here like this. Colonel Davisson arrived. It was as unpleasant as I’d expected. I had to get out of the house.”

“It makes a difficult emotional problem for both of you — when the children of the first marriage are older than the second wife.”

“I don’t really blame him too much, I suppose. It looks bad.”

“What did he accuse you of?”

“Driving his father into some crazy act. Maybe I did.”

“Don’t think that way.”

“I keep thinking that if we never find out what happened to Temple, his children will always blame me. I don’t especially want to be friends with them, but I do want their... respect, I guess you’d say.”

“Mrs. Davisson, do you have any male friends your own age?”

“How do you mean that?” she asked hotly.

“Is there any man you’ve been friendly enough with to cause talk?”

“N-no, I—”

“Who were you thinking of when you hesitated?”

“Brad Sharvis. He’s a bit over thirty, and quite nice. It was his real estate agency that Temple sent me to for a job. He has worked with Temple the last few years. He’s a bachelor. He has dinner with us quite often. We both like him.”

“Could there be talk?”

“There could be, but it would be without basis, Mr. Darrigan,” she said coldly.

“I don’t care how angry you get at me, Mrs. Davisson, so long as you tell me the truth.”

After a long silence she said, “I’m sorry. I believe that you want to help.”

“I do.”

She stood Up. “I feel better now. I think I’ll go home.”

“Can I take you home?”

“I have my car, thanks.”

He watched her go down the walk. Under the streetlight he saw her walking with a good long stride. He saw the headlights, saw her swing around the island in the center of Mandalay and head back for the causeway to Clearwater.

Darrigan went in, showered, and went to bed. He lay in the dark room and smoked a slow cigarette. Somewhere, hidden in the personality or in the habits of one Temple Davisson, was the reason for his death. Darrigan found that he was thinking in terms of death. He smiled in the darkness as he thought of Kathy Marrick. A most pleasant companion. So far in the investigation he had met four women. Of the four only Mrs. Hoke was unattractive.

He snubbed out the cigarette and composed himself for sleep. A case, like a score of other cases. He would leave his brief mark on the participants and go out of their lives. For a moment he felt the ache of self-imposed loneliness. The ache had been there since the day Doris had left him, long ago. He wondered sourly, on the verge of sleep, if it had made him a better investigator.

Brad Sharvis was a florid, freckled, overweight young man with carrot hair, blue eyes, and a salesman’s unthinking affability. The small real estate office was clean and bright. A girl was typing a lease agreement for an elderly couple.

Brad took Darrigan back into his small private office. A window air conditioner hummed, chilling the moist September air.