Ed McBain - Goldilocks

The moment I stepped into the office, Cynthia said, “Galatier was here.”

“I thought I asked you to cancel.”

“I did. He came anyway.”

“All right, get him for me. No, just a second, order me a sandwich and a bottle of beer first. Then call Galatier.”

“What kind of sandwich?”

“Ham on rye, I don’t care, anything.”

“There’s a list of calls on your desk.”

“Fine, where’s Frank?”

“At First Federal. The Kellerman closing.”

“Hurry with the sandwich, I’m dying.”

I went into my office, took off my jacket, and loosened my tie. There had been a dozen calls while I was gone, only one of them urgent. I assumed Frank had dealt with that one, since it had to do with the closing at First Federal. The bank had called to say that the interest rate had just been reduced by a quarter of a percent, and they were willing to permit the lower rate if we could change the papers before closing. The call had been clocked in at twelve-thirty, and the closing had been set for one-thirty. I picked up the phone and buzzed Cynthia.

“I ordered it already,” she said. “They were all out of rye, I settled for white.”

“Good. Cynthia, on this call from First Federal about the interest rate...”

“Frank dictated the changes, and I typed them for him before he left. Promissory note, mortgage, and closing statement. That was nice of the bank, don’t you think?”

“Yes. When the sandwich arrives—”

“I’ll bring it right in.”

“Who saw Galatier when he was here?”

“Karl offered to talk to him, but he refused. Said he wouldn’t deal with an office boy.”

“All right, get him for me, please.”

Cynthia came in ten minutes later with my ham sandwich and beer. Eating the sandwich, sipping beer from the bottle, I gave her a list of calls I wanted her to make, starting with Mrs. Joan Raal to tell her we’d be free of the lunatic Galatier come morning, and ending with Luis Camargo who was buying an apartment building we’d had examined for him by an engineer. The engineer had called while I was out, to say he’d found both the boiler and the electrical system deficient. I wanted Cynthia to ask Luis whether he still wanted to buy, or would he insist that the seller repair at his own expense.

“Is that it?” Cynthia asked.

“Yes. I’ll be leaving here in a few minutes. I may be back later, but I’m not sure.”

“Where can we reach you?”

“You won’t be able to,” I said. “I’ll be on a boat.”

Afternoon sunlight slanted on the water, reflected glaringly from white-painted pilings and slips. A pelican preened itself on one of the pilings, and then squinched down into the shape of a saucer. I came around the back of the restaurant, and walked past the row of docked boats jutting out into the lagoon. The Broadhorn was the fourth in line, her stern in against the dock, her name lettered on the transom in gold. I estimated her to be a forty-five-footer, maybe fifteen years old, a solid offshore cruiser with a blue wooden hull and white superstructure. I walked halfway up the slip, stopped just short of the wheelhouse and tentatively called, “Miss Schellmann?”

“Who is it?” a girl’s voice answered.

“Matthew Hope,” I said. Silence. Water slapped against the boat’s sides. “I’d like to talk to you about Michael Purchase.” More silence. Out across the lagoon, in the mangroves, a tern shrieked and another answered, and then both were still. I could see down the dock to where a man in bright red pants was fishing, a bait knife hanging from his belt. I thought of the knife that had killed Maureen and the two children, the knife Michael later threw into the Gulf of Mexico. I waited.

“Who’s Matthew Hope?” the girl said.

“Dr. Purchase’s attorney.”

Another silence.

“Come aboard,” she said at last. “I’m on the foredeck.”

I climbed onto the boat and eased down the narrow passage past the wheelhouse. Lisa Schellmann was lying prone on an inflated blue mat, her face turned to the left, her eyes closed. I saw her only in profile, slender nose faintly tip-tilted, wide upper lip beaded with perspiration, pronounced cheekbone slanting away cleanly into her blonde hairline. She was wearing a white bra top, the straps untied to show a wide expanse of brown back glistening with suntan oil. The swift line of her jaw curved into a flowing neck and shoulder, expanded into the smooth shining back, tapered to a narrow waist. Blue denim cutoffs began just in time to rescue the cleft of her behind.

“Miss Schellmann?” I said.

“Don’t tell me,” she said. Her eyes were still closed, her face still in profile on the blue mat. “Dr. Purchase wants the boat back, right?”

“No. Michael’s in trouble.”

The single eye opened. Pale blue against the deeper blue of the mat. “What do you mean, trouble?” she said.

“He’s in jail.”

“Why?”

“He’s been charged with murder.”

She sat up abruptly, swiveling cross-legged on the mat to face me, crossing one arm over the bikini top to keep it from falling away from her breasts. Her face was what Frank would most certainly have labeled a fox face, lean and narrow, a trifle too hard-looking for someone who couldn’t have been older than eighteen. Pale blue eyes and long blonde lashes. Frizzy blonde hair sitting on her skull like a knitted wool cap. She looked at me and said nothing.

“Yes,” I said.

“Who? What do you... who’d he kill?”

“His stepmother and his two—”

“Jesus!” Lisa said, and stood abruptly, pushing herself off the mat from her cross-legged position. She turned her back to me, quickly tied the straps of the bikini top, and then reached for a brown leather bag resting on the deck near the starboard ventilator. She threw back the scrollwork flap, and dug in the bag for a pack of cigarettes. Her hand was shaking when she plucked one loose, put it between her lips, and lighted it. She tossed the burnt match over the side. Beyond, to the east, a sailboat was coming into the lagoon under power, her sails furled. She motored in past the bow of The Broadhorn , water sliding smoothly past her own bow.

“Tell me what happened,” Lisa said.

“I’ve told you. Michael confessed to killing—”

“That’s total bullshit.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Michael? He couldn’t,” she said. “He’s the gentlest person in the world.”

“How long have you known him?”

“Two months. I’ve been living with him since January. I came for the Christmas break, and decided to stay.”

“How old are you, Lisa?”

“Seventeen.”

“Where were you living before you met Michael?”

“With my mother. My parents are divorced,” she said.

“Where does your mother live?”

“Connecticut.”

“And your father?”

“New York.”

“Do they know where you are?” I asked.

“They know where I am, yes,” she said, and flipped the cigarette over the side. It hissed into the water. Some three slips down, the sailboat had maneuvered in, and a woman in an orange bikini was making the dock lines fast.

“Michael told the police he needed money,” I said. “To make a repair on the boat. Would you know anything about that?”

“He was probably talking about the oil leak.”

“Yes, what about it?”

“We’re losing drive oil. Michael first noticed it on the gauge, the needle kept dropping down to fifty or sixty. Then he checked the dipstick, and put in more oil, but it just leaked out again. It’s a big job to fix it. They’ve got to jack the engine up on an A-frame and put in a new gasket, and I think replace the plate. The marina gave him an estimate of six hundred dollars. That’s more than both of us make together in a month.”