Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 29, No. 4, September 1971

Caldwell had plunged into a Colorado mountain top in his own private plane six months and six days after marrying the divorcee Tina Polk. Tragic. Yes, the death of Roger Caldwell Jr. had been tragic. And Tina had needed help in those dark days, needed someone in the house to comfort and support and lift her. Thus the return of the doctor.

But just what had Tina Polk had to say about this return? Well, she had been receptive, perhaps not enthusiastic. She hadn’t held open the door while the doctor had hauled clothing and posessions up to what had once been a guest bedroom on the second floor. But she hadn’t shut the door either. She hadn’t argued one way or the other. If the doctor wanted to room in this fancy brick and stone abode, well, the doctor could take a room. Just don’t be toodling after her all the time, like a little boy. She hated little boys. She hated children.

Sam Champagne also had learned:

(2) That the ruddy man with the hanging pink belly was Roger Caldwell Sr., insurance executive and father of Roger Caldwell Jr., now deceased, who, along with Mrs. Caldwell Sr. had during Roger Caldwell Jr.’s brief marriage to Tina Polk come to know and adore Tina Polk Caldwell, and had retained that kinship since Roger Caldwell Jr.’s untimely demise, even though the friendship may have paled slightly.

After all, Roger hadn’t been around lately, so naturally, the attraction had been perhaps infinitesimally less. Roger Caldwell Sr., insurance executive, ex-father-in-law, adoring friend, also had been the guy who had discovered the body and called the cops.

Sam Champagne further had learned:

(3) That the Mexican-American was Richard Ramirez, professional at the Racquet Club, a very exclusive club with semiannual dues that made it prohibitive for the poor, the middle class, and the upper middle class to belong and which further barred Jews, Negroes, Puerto Ricans, Cubans, Indians, rebels, freethinkers, dissenters, demonstrators, protesters, anti-Americans, not necessarily in that order. But had hired a Mexican-American to teach tennis because said Mexican-American probably was one of the best damn tennis players and tennis teachers in the world today.

The tennis player also happened to be a very special friend of one Tina Polk, who was not only a member of the Racquet Club, but was a vice president and on the board that made ethnic decisions and who had found Richard Ramirez on the professional tennis tour one day and had immediately professed to fall in love with his athletic body and dark complexion and charming manners.

The only trouble being she had not discovered until recently that he, Richard Ramirez, was not so hot on marrying one Tina Polk until Tina Polk agreed to give up the doctor’s house; give up the doctor; give up drinking; give up the Racquet Club; have kids. Dick Ramirez liked kids. He wanted a houseful of kids and a mother to brood over them.

Sam Champagne got down to the nitty-gritty. He asked, “Gentlemen, who killed Tina Polk and why?”

The response was titanic. None of the trio said a word. Which is a cop’s lot sometimes.

Sam turned methodical. “I want to have a little talk with each of you individually. I’ll begin with you, doctor, if you other two gentlemen will excuse us.”

The other two gentlemen left the room. Slowly. Reluctantly. Caldwell seemed to want to listen. Ramirez may have taken personal affront at the temporary dismissal. It was difficult for Sam to tell.

He faced the ashen man. “Doctor, I find this relationship between you and an ex-wife to be a rather — well, shall we say different communion?”

Benz shrugged. He was near total baldness and he obviously had not spent much time in the sun. You could guess him at forty or fifty years of age. Sam took forty.

“Roger Caldwell’s death upset Tina terribly,” he said. “I’ve been attempting to be salve.”

“And perhaps re-establish your one-time marital relationship?”

“That too,” he nodded. “I don’t deny it. I love — loved her.”

“You seem a bit older than—”

“I am.”

Benz suddenly was defiant. Some color crept into his face. And Sam immediately decided to get off the age kick. He didn’t know anything about age in relationship to marriage. Hell, he didn’t know anything about marriage. He’d never been in love.

“There are domestics in the house, I believe,” he said.

“Two. Roscoe and Amelia Bales. I employed them shortly after Tina and I married. They’ve been with Tina since.” He hesitated, chewed his lower lip.

“Yes?” Sam prodded.

Benz clipped the words. “And there is the boy. Oliver Johnson. He has been chauffeuring Tina the past two months. She lost her driver’s license. Too many speeding tickets.”

“Oliver Johnson was not employed by you?”

“He was not.”

“He was employed by Miss Polk.”

“He was.”

“Doctor, I have the impression you do not like Oliver Johnson, nor the idea of him chauffeuring your—”

“Let’s just say I would not have employed him, sergeant, and let it go at that.”

“Why wouldn’t you have employed him, doctor?”

“He’s a Negro.”