Бретт Холлидей - Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 34, No. 3, February 1974

The darkness, the lateness of the hour, her anticipation to see her boy friend; all these factors would have temporarily clouded Julie’s perception of things until it was too late to defend herself or shake her younger sister from her terrible trance.

“But her poetry,” said a visibly shaken Paul Knight. “And the Herald-Talisman. Wasn’t she making every honest attempt to expose Julie’s murderer?”

“Of course,” said Strowe. “To eventually expose herself. Poem by poem, she was slowly pulling herself back into the horrible reality of it all. It would have taken time for her to move from the voice of her sister speaking from her grave, to the voice of Lonnie Davenport, and finally to herself. But a total transformation would have come to pass.”

Paul Knight sighed with incredible sadness.

Out beyond the living room window, past green rolling lawns, a yellow and black school bus pulled to a halt at the Knight front gate. A young girl stepped from it and began the long walk up to the house.

“I hope the matter is resolved long before any public trial,” said Sheriff Strowe. “And I’m sure it will be. No one wants Hope to endure any more embarrassment and pain. Her young life has been a stifling nightmare of it. She deserves a long rest from it.”

And then Hope Knight was standing in the open doorway, smiling valiantly, if a little in terror at noticing Sheriff Strowe’s unexpected presence. “How many milkings this afternoon, Dad? The thirty in the east pasture? Hey! do I smell apple pie and fresh cheese?”

“The milking can wait for later, Hope,” said Paul Knight’s breaking voice as he tried to find his daughter’s wide-set eyes, already glistening with moisture. “Sheriff Strowe wants to have a little talk with you. About the contents of the box there on the sofa, and other matters.”

Hope Knight dropped to her knees then. Her sobbing brought her mother out from the kitchen. “God, it’s like standing in a room and watching yourself being painted into a corner,” said Hope. “Backing up, backing up and waiting for your shoes to get painted. You can hardly stand the waiting. But you know it’s going to come. All over your very best new pair of shoes.”

“How about talking in the kitchen, Hope?” her father suggested. “Over warm apple pie and cheese?”

But Hope Knight had already turned and raced out of the front door.

Ev Strowe let her go. When he went out into the massive Knight front yard, she was a distant figure sitting cross-legged with her back turned to the house in symbolic shame.

Hope Knight had not gone anywhere, Sheriff Strowe thought. She had taken her first small step back from somewhere.

She was all female and black lace and she knew her value to the last tainted dollar. And so did I...

The sign on the outer door, Room 705, read Mel Carver, Investigator. The office inside was small, but it was partitioned off into an entry with a desk, and the private office beyond. Even in the best of times nobody had ever sat at the desk. Still, it had looked good.

But no more. If you walked in, you could somehow tell that these were hard times. There was no correspondence in sight, the daily calendar was a couple of days behind, and the desk chair was tight up against the desk, as if it had never been used and wasn’t going to be. Still, Carver hadn’t quite given up, and wouldn’t until the end of the month, when his next rent payment was due.

He’d read the paper all the way through, including the ads, and he was wondering whether to use the phone for a little gossiping or whether to save himself the few cents, when he heard the outer door open.

He could tell from the step that this was a woman, and he perked up at once. In his mind’s eye he envisioned a beautiful blond with a ten grand retainer in her bag and a fantastic story to tell. He was, at bottom, that romantic.

He waited a moment or two, and then he opened the door and saw her. She was blond all right and she was beautiful, but she certainly had no ten grand.

“Oh,” he said. “It’s you.”

She blinked, and her mouth dropped in disappointment, but after a moment or two she managed a smile. It was pleading and vaguely hopeful, and he smiled back.

“Glad you dropped in, Marcia” he said.

“I just thought I’d say hello. How are things?”

He shook his head. “No dice. Nothing doing. It’s over.”

“I know,” she said. “That law.”

“Progress!” he said, snorting. “Adultery’s accepted. Nothing wrong with it any more. Sleep with your wife, sleep with her best friend, sleep with a tramp or anybody you want to, it’s like having lunch together.”

“Don’t be so bitter,” she said softly. “People still—”

“Sure,” he said, interrupting, “but the point is that now you can get a divorce on grounds of desertion or mental cruelty. That’s all you need. People don’t divorce for adultery any more, even when it’s for real.”

“Did you have many cases that were for real?”

He shrugged and opened the door to his inner office. Marcia slipped inside and sat down as if she’d just reached her favorite chair. He followed her before answering her question.

“Hardly,” he said. “The way we’d set it up, with me coming in on the two of you with a camera and a witness, that was about it. You figured in practically every case I handled.”

“Well, it was good while it lasted.”

“It was a living. You know, I always wanted to ask you, did any of them try to make love?”

“They were usually too scared, too nervous. They hardly looked at me.”

“I don’t know how they could help it. There you were all undressed, and they didn’t even look?”

“I was never all undressed.”

“Sure, but with that black lace bra of yours and matching pan ties. I keep thinking about it, and I always felt—” He cut himself off. “Clients are human,” he went on. “Some of them must have made passes at you, didn’t they?”

“Some? Naturally,” she said, blushing, “but you always saved me by knocking on the door at the right time. As if you had some kind of special intuition.”

“We understood each other,” he said. “We were a good team and it’s too bad to break up. Just because they had to go and make a law—” Carver grunted. “But that’s over and done.”

“I guess so. What are you going to do now?”

“Be a cop. I took the exam last week and I think I did pretty well. Besides, I have the right kind of experience and all the other qualifications, and they need police.”

“People like you don’t apply every day, that’s for sure. What does it pay?”

“I’ll start at eight and go up. A detective, first grade, can get as high as fourteen or fifteen.”

Her eyes brightened and she spoke confidently.

“You will,” she said. “I know you will.”

“Nothing’s sure,” he said. “Think of what we had, and now where are we? Kaput!”

“Don’t be so pessimistic,” Marcia said. “There can be wonderful things ahead. New jobs, new chances, maybe a whole new life.”

“You always did make me feel good,” he said. “I’d get to thinking what a messy business this was, and then you’d come along and say I was bringing happiness and a second chance to people. But... oh, well. You were telling me about the ones that wanted to go through with it. How did you handle them?”