Ed McBain - Three Blind Mice

Well, I…

Became that’s what the State Attorney’s going to ask you, Mrs. Leeds.

I can’t say that for certain, no.

“Mrs. Leeds… did your husband know there were sleeping pills in the house?”

“I… guess so. Why?”

“He told me you’d both had an after-dinner drink before you settled down to watch the movie. Do you remember what you were drinking?”

“I had a cognac. I don’t know what he had.”

“And after that, you watched the movie.”

“Yes.”

“And he fell asleep.”

“Yes.”

“And you went to sleep sometime later.”

“Yes.”

“And slept soundly through the night.”

“Yes.”

I didn’t hear the car starting. I would have…

But you were sound asleep.

Well… yes.

So you wouldn’t have heard the car starting.

I guess not.

So you really can’t say for sure that your husband was home with you all night long.

Matthew was wondering if Bloom and Rawles had seen that half-full bottle of sleeping pills anywhere in the bedroom on the morning they’d arrested Leeds. He was wondering, too, if Patricia Demming knew that a Dr. Marvin Weinberger somewhere here in Calusa, Florida, had prescribed sleeping pills for Jessica Leeds, and that those pills were still floating around the house somewhere. He hoped she didn’t know, and he hoped she never found out.

Because then she might start thinking that the reason nightmare-prone Jessica Leeds had slept the whole night through after downing an after-dinner drink was that her husband, Stephen Leeds—

But Matthew himself did not want to start thinking that way.

The body-repair shop was called Croswell Auto, and it was in one of those industrial parks that blighted the Calusa landscape east of U.S. 41. Straddling the major east-west arteries that connected the city to its suburbs, these conclaves of commerce consisted more often than not of World War II Quonset huts sitting cheek by jowl with long, low, peaked, tin-roofed buildings that gave each busy complex a further resemblance to a military staging area.

In each of these greenless “parks” — Matthew found the very label onerous — one could find little unadorned spaces specializing in picture framing, or television repair, or appliance sales, or pet boarding, or pool cleaning, or plumbing supplies, or pest control, or marine engines, or roofing and siding, or any one of a thousand little enterprises eking out small existences where the rents were low and the maintenance minimal.

The owner of Croswell Auto was a man named Larry Croswell who had come down from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, long before it was ranked the number-one city in America by Rand McNally’s Places Rated Almanac . He did not regret the move. Florida in general, and Calusa in particular, suited his lifestyle right down to the ground. Croswell was a fat man with a sunburned bald pate, bright blue eyes, white sideburns, fringes of white hair curling around his ears, and a white beard stubble on his Pillsbury Doughboy cheeks and chin. He was wearing either a grey tanktop undershirt or else a very dirty white tanktop undershirt. He was also wearing blue shorts and white socks and high-topped workman’s shoes, and he was holding a can of Coors beer in the stubby fingers of his right hand. He was telling Matthew and the insurance adjuster just how much it would cost to repair the Acura. The adjuster’s name was Peter Kahn. He was a thin, grey-haired man who moved among the debris of wrecked autos like a wading bird who’d mistakenly landed in a metallic marsh. As Croswell spoke, Kahn jotted notes onto a pad attached to a clipboard.

“What we got here,” Croswell said, “we got a whole new quarter, plus an inner…”

“What’s a quarter?” Matthew asked.

“The quarter panel back here,” Kahn explained. “Where the other car hit you.” He even moved his head like a bird, Matthew noticed, bobbing whenever he spoke.

“Plus the inner panel,” Croswell said, and took a sip at his beer. “Plus we got to repair the unibody where it’s bent, and you’re gonna need a new taillight and bumper, and a new wheel — the wheel alone’s gonna cost you three hundred bucks — plus new molding. She done a nice job on you, this lady.”

Matthew nodded sourly.

“So what’s your estimate?” Kahn asked.

“You’re lucky there wasn’t no damage to the trunk,” Croswell said.

“How much?” Kahn asked.

“I’ve got to figure three thousand, including the frame repair.”

“Let’s make it two thousand,” Kahn said.

“There’s other body shops,” Croswell said,

“Don’t shlep me all over town, Larry. Twenty-two five and we’ve got a deal.”

“Twenty-five hundred sounds okay,” Croswell said.

“You’ve got it,” Kahn said.

“When will I have my car back?” Matthew asked.

“Two weeks,” Croswell said,

“Why so long?”

“Lots of labor involved. Also, we’re backed up.”

“Who pays for the rental?” Matthew asked Kahn.

“We do. Just send us the receipts.”

“Let me see if I’ve got all the keys I need,” Croswell said, and began moving toward the office.

“There’s only one key,” Matthew said. “Do you pay me or him?” he asked Kahn.

“We’ll pay him directly, if that’s okay with you.”

“Fine.”

The office was the size of a walk-in bedroom closet. There was a desk behind which sat an attractive woman in her early forties, brown hair piled on top of her head, pencil stuck in it, one long earring dangling from her right ear. She was sitting behind an Apple computer. The wall behind her contained a hand-fashioned calendar with huge squares for each date. Into each square a name was lettered, followed by the name of a car in parentheses. Hanging on the wall alongside the calendar was a wooden board with cup hooks screwed into it. Car keys dangled from the hooks, each key labeled with a small white tag. Croswell went to the board, found a key tagged hope, nodded, and then said, “You sure this one key opens the trunk, too?”

“Positive,” Matthew said.

“ ‘Cause we may have to get in there.”

“The ignition key opens the trunk and also the glove compartment.”

“Okay, if you say so,” Croswell said. “ ’Cause I hate having to call anybody about keys. I get people in here, they have two cars, they’ll leave the keys to the wrong car. Or else, they’ll call me to say they left the house key on the ring, they can’t get in their own house, would I please stay open till they got here? You be surprised the shit I have to go through with keys. When did I say?”

“Two weeks,” Kahn said.

“Mark that, willya, Marie? Hope, the Acura Legend, two weeks from today. That’s when?”

Marie rose from behind the desk and behind the computer. She was a compact woman with a tight, well-formed body. Kahn’s eyes went to her backside. So did Matthew’s. Croswell was spoiled; he sipped at his beer. Marie ran her hand down the calendar, her finger stopping on the Monday two weeks from today. The third of September.

“You figuring on Labor Day?” she asked.

“What?” Croswell said.

“That’s Labor Day, that Monday,” Marie said. “September third. We’ll be closed, won’t we?”

“So make it the Tuesday,” Croswell said.

“What time?” Matthew asked.

“End of the day,” Croswell said. “Four, five o’clock?”

“Which?”

“Five’d be good,” Croswell said.

“Who’s driving the rental?” a voice behind them said.

Matthew turned to the door. A man in paint-spattered coveralls was standing just outside the office, one hand on the doorframe, leaning into it.