Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine Annual, No. 3, 1973

“Just because she got in last night and I didn’t know she was coming this trip, and she didn’t call me right away, what difference does that make? I don’t see anything to ask questions about. She would’ve called today, let me know she was here. Why wouldn’t she? But this man Painter got all excited when I told him I didn’t know Melody was here. He wanted to make a big deal out of it.

“What kind of a deal? Melody wouldv’e called this morning. Nothing wrong with a woman taking a vacation in Miami Beach, is there? Who’s going to call in the middle of the night? Melody knows I go to bed around nine, always have, probably always will. She isn’t going to call, she’ll wait till this morning. I can’t see making a big deal out of not calling. Who could’ve killed her, Mr. Shayne?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Deans.”

“You were there, weren’t you? You’re a private detective, aren’t you?”

“Mr. Deans, do you want me to find your sister’s killer?”

“Mr. Shayne, somebody killed my sister. I want to know who and why. If I was home in Iowa I could go to the sheriff. He’d find out pronto, probably would already know. Sheriff Miller is good, knows his job, not much goes on in our county he doesn’t know about, but here— What’s your price for finding out who killed my sister?”

“Two hundred a day, plus expenses.”

“Do I give you the two hundred now or this afternoon?” he asked, taking a checkbook from his shirt pocket. “We can settle the expenses later.”

Shayne said, “Sometimes it takes longer than a few hours to find a killer.”

Deans looked up from writing. “How come? Somebody must’ve broke in on her in her room. They say she was robbed. Well, somebody in that hotel must’ve seen this man fiddling with her room door or something.”

“Mr. Deans, you’re not depressed.”

“Huh?”

“Your sister was murdered early this morning. I assume Painter took you to the morgue. You saw the body. I—”

“Certainly, I saw her. It was a shock, I want to tell you. Wait a minute — I get it. You figure I should be at the funeral parlor, huh? You figure—” He put down the ballpoint pen.

“Mr. Shayne,” he said, his lips flattening, “I don’t like the idea of my sister being dead. I don’t like the idea of somebody killing Melody and thinking they can rob her and just go on today, eating hamburgers and stuff. I don’t like it at all. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I’m writing this check. I’ll do my grieving in due time. Tomorrow we’ll grieve. But today I want to know who killed Melody.”

“Mr. Deans, I may not find the man today.”

“So take tomorrow, too. Do you want me to make out the check for four hundred? Is that what you’re after, Mr. Shayne?”

“Don’t write the check, Mr. Deans.”

The round man sat silent for a few seconds, his face pinking. Then he capped the ballpoint and stuffed the checkbook in his shirt pocket. “Sorry I took up your time, Mr. Shayne. But perhaps you’ll find some satisfaction in knowing that you have just convinced me. I’m moving back to Iowa pronto, where people care about people.”

“You can write the check after I find your sister’s killer,” Shayne said. “You can write it for a single dollar if you feel like it.”

Albert Deans puffed, reddened, and then sat back with an expulsion of breath. “Mr. Shayne,” he said finally, “I thank you for setting me on my butt. I needed that. I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know what happened to Melody, or why. God, to die like that! Dropped from a hotel balcony—”

He sat shaking his head.

“Tell me about your sister, Mr. Deans. All you know about her.”

Melody Deans was forty-two years of age when she died. She had been gone from the Iowa farms twenty years. She had gone to California to an airline stewardess’ school, worked for a line for six years before quitting and going to Las Vegas. No one in the family knew why she had quit the airline. It had been sudden. But she had found a good job in Las Vegas and had seemed settled.

Albert Deans and others in the Deans family had visited her in Las Vegas. She always had seemed happy to see her family. She treated them well, put them up in good accomodations. Perhaps a bit more fancy than the Deans were used to, but then Las Vegas was different than an Iowa farm.

Albert Deans and his wife Clara had retired in Miami. Melody had vacationed here twice a year. She stayed in a hotel, but she always spent a lot of time with Albert and Clara. In the last year it had just been with Albert, of course. Clara had died. But on this final trip to the Miami area Melody had not told Albert she was coming. Yes, it seemed a bit unusual, but then maybe it was a sudden trip. Maybe she hadn’t had time to notify Albert. Not even by telephone? Well... Albert didn’t know, but there must have been a reason. Whatever it was, it was all right, Melody would have called this Tuesday morning.

Except that she was dead, murdered.

“Albert, does the name Flora Ann Perkins ring a bell?”

“No.” He frowned deeply.

“When was the last time you visited your sister in Las Vegas?”