Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 101, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 610 & 611, March 1993

He got ready for bed. Maybe she hadn’t come to him for comfort. Maybe she’d just been setting him up — to embarrass him? To charge him with something serious?

He sacked out. His dreams were chaotic, erotic, angry.

13

His alarm clock woke him at seven. He showered and shaved and still felt less than human. He dressed and went downstairs, checked on breakfast, went into the library. He picked up the phone and dialed Alan’s home number.

“Scherer,” Alan said without interest.

“Tom Bell. Hope I didn’t wake you.”

“Oh, hi. No, I was just heading into breakfast. Did you learn anything yesterday?”

“Some. I met the lady who claims to be Shannon Fargo’s mother.” He summarized briefly. “The Parker Clinic is now closed. It might be interesting to know why. Two questions: Do you know where Charles’s ex-wife is? And does the name Estelle Marchand ring any bells?”

“No. I’ll check around. As to Charles’s ex-wife...” A pause. Alan sighed gustily. “Is there any way to leave Mary Jane out of this? Charles doesn’t want her contacted. He doesn’t even know where she is, even on which coast — she was originally from somewhere in Maine — or even if she’s still alive. Besides, he’s sure she wouldn’t know anything about Shannon, so why waste time?”

“What’s he hiding?”

“I think he just doesn’t want to open an emotional can of worms. Mary Jane was a very appealing lady, very open intellectually and emotionally. I think that’s what first attracted Charles, even if it did later drive him up the wall. He was a lot younger then, not quite the no-nonsense adding machine we all admire. Forget I said that — he’s a friend as well as a valued client. Keep digging, we don’t want to get blindsided. I’ll get back to you about this what’s-her-name, Estelle Marchand.”

Tom hung up and went in to breakfast.

Charles, in a business suit and tie and a gleaming white shirt, was taking his place at the table and Felipe was filling his cup with pungent dark coffee. Tom’s place setting featured a glass of orange juice.

Felipe asked brightly, “Coffee, Mista Tom?”

“Please. Morning, Charles.” He sat down. Felipe poured his coffee, then put the pot on the warmer on the sideboard.

“You look like hell,” Charles said.

Tom thanked him and drained half his orange juice. Felipe presented a large platter from which they served themselves bacon and eggs. The four-slice toaster on the sideboard popped up. Felipe put the toast in a silver rack and put it on the table as Katherine came in.

She had on a pink and blue dressing gown closed up to her throat. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail and her face was pale and cold, her lips bloodless.

Felipe said, “Coffee?” and filled her cup when she nodded. He offered her the eggs and bacon. She waved them away.

“Get me a couple of scrambled eggs on toast.”

“Yes, miss.” Felipe returned the platter to the sideboard, covered it, and left the room. Katherine picked up her coffee cup with both hands and inhaled the steam.

Charles said shortly, “Variant orders should be given in advance. And in this house we are polite to the servants.”

Katherine said, “Really.”

“And we don’t display hangovers or bad temper at the breakfast table.”

Katherine slammed down her cup. Coffee slopped into the saucer and onto the tablecloth. She scraped back her chair and stood up and stalked out.

Charles’s face settled into its anvil scowl.

“That girl’s got to learn how to handle a little stress.”

“Not from you, I hope,” Tom said. “Stressed or not, you handle everything and everyone with the unerring instincts of a bully. No wonder she’s so screwed up.”

“I wish,” Charles said acidly, “that I’d had your experience as a parent.”

“That’s about all you have had. You always hired nannies and governesses to have the experience for you.”

Felipe came in to offer coffee refills and another chance at the eggs and bacon.

Charles said, ignoring him, “You snot-nosed little bastard. I’ve put up with you for twelve years out of respect for my father. I guess you can take the kid out of the gutter but not the gutter out of the kid. Mr. Tom is moving out, Felipe. He won’t be here for dinner.”

Felipe mumbled, “Yes, sir,” poker-faced.

Charles went on, “Forget the Fargo assignment. You can just owe Mac for the rest of your life.”

Tom pushed away from his half-eaten breakfast and stood up.

“I don’t work for you, I work for Alan. He wants me to keep digging — to make sure you don’t get blindsided. Excuse me.”

14

Throttling back anger, he took his coffee cup and saucer into the library. He set them down with exaggerated care, then almost knocked them over with his elbow when he sat down in the swivel chair.

For long minutes he sat there with his eyes closed, listening to the angry roar of his own bloodstream until it began to subside. When he opened his eyes he found he was looking at the bottom of the nearest floor-to-ceiling bookcase, where the L.A. phone books were shelved.

A long shot, but worth a few minutes of his time, surely...