J. Jance - A more perfect union

The charming smile never left Green's face as he took me by the elbow and guided me unerringly through his guests to the front door where his mother was still holding court. It was one of the smoothest bum's rushes I've ever experienced. Smooth as glass and absolutely effective.

"What time tomorrow?" I asked.

"Nine? Nine-thirty? Whatever's good for you."

"Nine-thirty," I said. "Where?"

"Do you know where my office is next door in the Labor Temple?" he asked.

"I'm sure I can find it."

"Good," he said. "I'll see you then." With that he closed the door and left me standing in the hallway. Here's your hat; what's your hurry.

I had no more than gotten back to my apartment when the phone rang. The last person I expected to hear from was Marilyn Sykes, the Mercer Island Chief of Police. She and I had met several months earlier and had become friends. She was single and so was I. On occasion things came up where one of us needed to have an escort and we had called on each other to pinch-hit. We had good times when we were out together, with no pressure for our relationship to be either more or less than it was. We had only one hard-and-fast rule between us-no talking shop.

"How about a hot date?" she asked.

I laughed. "With you?" Our rare dates were fun but hardly hot.

"I know this is late notice. I was supposed to be out of town today and now I'm not. The Mercer Island Chamber of Commerce is doing its big benefit dinner tonight. Would you consider coming along and bailing me out of hot water? I really should put in an appearance."

"Sure," I said. "What time?"

"It's supposed to have started at six, but if we're a little late, it won't matter."

Had the Bentley been working, I would have had Pete drive me over to Mercer Island to pick her up-just to make a splash. As it was, I took the Porsche.

The first time I ever saw Marilyn Sykes she was a take-charge lady wearing a gray pinstriped suit and directing a SWAT team. When I picked her up at home that night, she had on a low-cut cream-colored evening gown. She's tall for a woman, five eleven or so, with hazel-colored eyes and naturally curly brown hair. I liked the dress a whole lot more than the suit.

I drove while she gave directions. It was a circuitous route that took us to the backside of the island and down a long hill to a magnificent house on the water. A parking attendant met us in the circular driveway to take care of the car while I went around to open the door for Marilyn.

"By the way, Beau," she said, taking my hand and letting me help her to her feet. "There's one thing I forgot to mention."

"What's that?"

"I told you it's a benefit dinner, but I didn't tell you what kind."

"Don't worry about it," I said. "As long as it's not my own cooking, I'll eat anything."

She smiled. "It's a murder mystery dinner."

I stopped in my tracks. "A what?"

"You know, one of those dinners where they hire actors to do a fake murder and the guests try to figure out who did it. I was afraid if I told you, you might not want to come."

"You're right about that," I said. "But we're here now. We could just as well go on in."

The host and hostess met us at the door. Mercifully, when she introduced us, Marilyn kept quiet about my profession. When they ushered us inside, I could see we were more than a little late. The huge living room was already full of people. I guess it was a nice enough place, but I didn't have a whole lot of opportunity to check it out.

We had barely gotten inside the door when an elegant blonde made a move on me and started bending my ear about buying some real estate, something about the house next door. What did I think? Would it be a good investment or not? Totally without an opinion on the subject, I glanced around looking for Marilyn, hoping she'd rescue me. Instead, she made a beeline for the food and left me to handle the blonde on my own. I had about convinced myself the lady was a mental case when a man came striding up to us carrying two drinks, one of which he shoved in the woman's direction.

"You just can't do it, can you," he commented snidely to the woman. "You can't be trusted alone long enough for me to go order a drink."

"Wait a minute," I began, "we were just…"

"You stay out of this," he snarled at me. "This is between us. After all, she is my wife."

The blonde began twisting her wedding ring nervously. "Come on, Carl. It wasn't anything like that. I was only telling him about buying the house next door."

"Like hell you were! I saw the way you looked at him when he walked in the room. He's your type, isn't he. Tall-" He paused long enough to look at me. "Tall, gray, and handsome."

"Please, Carl, don't do this. Not here in front of all these people."

Carl shook his head. "I'd stay away from her if I were you. She collects men the way some people collect bowling trophies. They don't mean much afterwards, do they, my dear."

A deep flush began creeping up the back of my neck. Everyone in the room was staring at us, overhearing every word. On the far edge of the crowd, there was Marilyn holding a plate of hors d'oeuvres. She wasn't going to be any help at all.

Carl turned to me and gave me a companionable whack on one shoulder. "No hard feelings, of course, old boy!" he said. With that, he walked away.

At a loss for words, I turned back to the blonde just as she took a tentative sip of her drink. "I'm so sorry," she apologized. "He's been like that more and more lately, and the doctors can't tell me what's wrong."

"Try a shrink," I suggested. "I think he's off his rocker."

Suddenly, the blonde's eyes got big. She sputtered and choked.

"What's the matter?" I asked.

She looked at me helplessly, shook her head, and clutched at her throat. Staggering away from me, she fell facedown on the carpet and lay there without moving.

Carl raced to her side and turned her over. He placed his ear against her breast.

"Get an ambulance," someone shouted.

Carl sat up, gravely shaking his head. "It's too late for an ambulance," he said. "She's dead."

I glanced over at the spot where I had last seen Marilyn. She was almost doubled over with laughter. That's when I finally realized what was going on, that these were the actors and they had suckered me into their script as a reluctant leading man.

When I finally pushed my way through the crowd to Marilyn, she was still laughing.

"What's so funny? Did you know they were going to do that?" I demanded.

She shook her head. "I had no idea, but you were perfect. I didn't know you could act."

"I can't," I answered grimly.

Marilyn handed me a plate of food-smoked salmon, fruit and vegetables with dip. "Try this," she said. "After all that hard work, you should at least get something to eat."

Much as I hate to admit it, the evening turned out to be fun. The rest of the party was occupied with trying to figure out who had murdered the blonde. Some even suspected me which I found hilarious. Most suspected Carl. When all was said and done, though, the killer turned out to be Carl's gay lover.

It was late when I finally took Marilyn home, but she invited me up to her apartment for a nightcap. We sat there for some time, laughing and comparing notes on the evening. I was about to get up and leave when she put her hand on my leg.

"You wouldn't be interested in spending the night, would you?" she asked casually.

I slid my hand over hers. "I could probably be persuaded," I replied.

And so she set about persuading me.

Marilyn Sykes fixed breakfast for us the next morning. It was the kind of breakfast that made me think I'd died and gone to heaven-crisp bacon, over-easy eggs, toasted English muffins, black coffee, fresh orange juice. When she stopped beside me long enough to pour a second cup of coffee, I gave her a playful pat on the rump.