Lay Her Among The Lilies

“Not a great deal. Most of it we know already,” Paula said, sitting on the edge of the desk.

“Macdonald Crosby made his millions in oil. He was a hard, unlovable old Quaker with a

mind as broad as a tightrope. He married twice. Janet, the elder by four years, was by his first

wife. Maureen by his second. He retired from business in 1943 and settled in Orchid City.

Before that he lived in San Francisco. The two girls are as unalike as they can be. Janet was

studious and spent most of her time painting. Several of her oils are hung in the Arts

Museum. She seems to have had a lot of talent, a retiring nature and a sharp temper. Maureen

is the beauty of the family. She’s wild, woolly and wanton. Up to Crosby’s death she was

continually getting herself on the front page of the newspapers in some scandal or other.”

“What kind of scandal?” I asked.

“About a couple of years ago she knocked down and killed a fellow on Centre Avenue.

Rumour has it she was drunk, which seems likely as she drank like a fish. Crosby squared the

police and she got off with a heavy fine for dangerous driving. Then another time she rode

along Orchid Boulevard on a horse without a stitch on. Someone betted her she hadn’t the

nerve, but she did it.”

“Let me get that straight,” Kerman said, sitting up excitedly. “Was it the horse or the girl

who hadn’t a stitch on?”

“The girl, you dope!”

“Then where was I? I didn’t see her.”

“She only got about fifty yards before she was pinched.”

“If I’d been around she wouldn’t have got that far.”

“Don’t be coarse, and be quiet!”

“Well, she certainly sounds a grand subject for blackmail,” I put in.

Paula nodded.

9

LAY HER AMONG THE LILIES

“You know about Crosby’s death. He was cleaning a gun in his study, and it went off and

killed him. He left three-quarters of his fortune to Janet with no strings tied to it, and a quarter

to Maureen in trust. When Janet died, Maureen came into the whole vast estate, and seems to

be a reformed character. Since she lost her sister she hasn’t once been mentioned in the

press.”

“When did Crosby die?” I asked.

“March 1948. Two months before Janet died.”

“Convenient for Maureen.”

Paula raised her eyebrows.

“Yes. Janet was very upset by her father’s death. She was never very strong, and the press

say the shock finished her.”

“All the same it’s very convenient for Maureen. I don’t like it, Paula. Maybe I have a

suspicious mind. Janet writes to me that someone is blackmailing her sister. She then

promptly dies of heart failure and her sister comes into her money. It’s too damned

convenient.”

“I don’t see what we can do,” Paula said, frowning. “We can’t represent a dead client.”

“Oh, yes, we can.” I tapped the five onehundred-dollar bills. “I have either to hand this

money back to the estate or try to earn it. I think I’ll try to earn it.”

“Fourteen months is a long time,” Kerman said dubiously. “The trail will be cold.”

“If there is a trail,” Paula said.

“On the other hand,” I said, pushing back my chair, “if there’s anything sinister about

Janet’s death, fourteen months provides a pleasant feeling of security, and when you feel

secure, you’re off your guard. I think I’ll call on Maureen Crosby and see how she likes

spending her sister’s money.”

Kerman groaned.

“Something tells me the brief spell of leisure is over,” he said sadly. “I thought it was too

good to last. Do I start work now or wait until you get back?”

10

LAY HER AMONG THE LILIES

“You wait until I get back,” I said, moving towards the door. “But if you’ve made a date

with that mousetrap of yours, tell her to go find another mouse.”

II

Crestways, the Crosby’s estate, lurked behind low, bougainvillea-covered walls above

which rose a tall, clipped, Australian pine hedge, and back of this was a galvanized cyclone

fence topped with barbed wire. Heavy wooden gates, with a Judas window set in the right-hand gate, guarded the entrance.

There were about half a dozen similar estates strung along Foothill Boulevard and backing

on to Crystal Lake desert. Each estate was separated from its neighbour by an acre or so of a

no-man’s-land of brushwood, wild sage, sand and heat.

I lolled in the pre-war Buick convertible and regarded the wooden gates without much

interest. Apart from the scrolled sign on the wall that declared the name of the house, there

was nothing particularly different about it from all the other millionaire estates in Orchid

City. They all lurked behind impregnable walls. They all had high, wooden gates to keep out

unwelcomed visitors. They all exuded the same awed hush, the same smell of flowers and

well-watered lawns. Although I couldn’t see beyond the gates, I knew there would be the

same magnificent swimming-pool, the same aquarium, the same rhododendron walk, the

same sunken rose garden. If you own a million dollars you have to live on the same scale as

the other millionaires or else they’ll think you are punk. That’s the way it was, that’s the way

it is, and that’s the way it’ll always be—if you own a million dollars.