Mysterical-E

He Said, She Says

Midnight Express

by Lawrence Starr

I hate the rain in winter; cold, dark, bone chilling; a lot like my marriage; and my life.

The ride out of town takes no more than fifteen minutes. My partner Phil is asleep in less than five; his head tilted back against the fogged passenger window, a river of drool down his right cheek. Gene Krupa’s banging out a solo on the roof and the incessant swish, swish, swish of the windshield wipers is making my eyelids heavy. I check the rear view mirror and tap the brake just so I can see Phil’s heavy head snap forward.

The call came in about a jumper from the Pigeon River Bridge. Homicide usually doesn’t get called for suicides but they wanted an extra set of eyes on this one. Some big shot took the midnight express, so we are sluicing down the interstate in the dark of night, our red rotating beacon reflecting off tiny ruby raindrops shattering on the windshield.

We are nearing the bridge. Through the streaked arcs of worn wiper blades I can see the flashing beacons of the black and greens already on the scene. I nudge Phil awake with another firm tap on the brakes. The last thing I need tonight is to pull up to a secured scene with a snoring partner. I’d never hear the end of it.
Phil snorts and wipes his cheek with the back of his hand, which he then wipes on the inside of his jacket. I’d hate to be his dry cleaner.

“Come on Phil, rise and shine,” I say.

The rain isn’t bad enough.

I coast to a stop by a black and green with Phil picking his nose. Maybe I should have let him sleep. We seem to be dead center on the span.

The rain soaked truss work has turned the bridge into a hall of mirrors with beacons reflecting from every angle. The three cruisers on the scene look like thirty. I leave the relative comfort of our car and trudge over to the vic’s vehicle. Rain pours from the brim of my hate and down the back of my neck.

Maybe I could find another line of work in Florida, or maybe Arizona, less rain there. California’s even better. Marge always wanted to go to California. I’ll go without her.

“We found the vehicle running with nobody in or near it,” one of the uniforms explains. “I turned off the ignition but no one has touched anything else.”

“Any witnesses to the jump?” I ask him.

“If there were they didn’t bother to stop.”

Why am I not surprised?

I walk around the late model Lincoln Continental as it sits glistening in the rain and do some mental gymnastics trying to figure how many paychecks this heap would set me back. I lean over the bridge railing and hear the rush of the river. In the semi darkness I can barely make out the roiling surface far below. I turn back to the Lincoln and open the passenger door. An array of dome lights floods the posh interior with an inviting warm glow. It reeks of expensive leather.

It would be so easy. All I have to do is tell them that I need to take the vehicle for a short test drive. That maybe the guy didn’t jump after all. Maybe he had car trouble and he went for help. I have to drive it to make sure that it is working properly. Then I would be off to California. Phil could find his own way back to the precinct.

An expensive men’s wool coat lies neatly folded on front seat. On top of the coat rests a pair of brown wingtip shoes (about size 13, I estimate), a wallet, and a gold wedding ring. Looks like someone was trying to tie up some loose ends. I pick up the wallet and instruct the uniforms to bag the rest of the items. As I open the wallet a police tow truck pulls ahead of the Lincoln and then backs into position to set the hook. The rain has become an irritating drizzle.

Inside the wallet, a driver’s license bears the picture of a well-groomed middle-aged man, graying at the temples.

Howard Scanlon, 42 Miller Lane. Age 52.

And he is smiling.

I have considered it myself, what it would be like to pull the Dutch act, take the loveless leap, swing from a rope, eat my gun. The only thing that has stopped me is the pleasure (and the pension) it would give my wife.
“So it’s a cut and dry suicide, right?” Phil asks as he waddles up. The rain has unglued his meticulous comb over. A sheaf of soaking hair is hanging down the left side of his head like tarp blown loose in the wind. He reaches up and sweeps it back across his bare scalp.

“Yeah, Phil, looks like we will be paying Mrs. Scanlon a visit to break the news.” This is one part of the job I never get used to.

As we walk back to the car the sound of a motor launch approaching from up river signals the start of the search and recovery for the body of Howard Scanlon.

It has stopped raining and stars are starting to show themselves as we pull up in front of 42 Miller Lane: a large, comfortable Tudor with a football field expanse of manicured lawn and a circular driveway. I’ve always wanted a circular driveway. You never have to back out, you always move forward.

“Can’t we do this is the morning,” Phil complains. “It’s past midnight.”

“You know this is how it has to be done, Phil. The woman has the right to know that her husband has left her”

I had left Marge years ago, only I never bothered to tell her. Since I still came home every night, I guess it was easy to miss.

“We gonna tell her he took a late night flight out of town?”

I stare at him. He had that big goofy grin that he gets when he thinks he just cracked wise. “Not funny. Just let me do all the talking. In fact, why don’t you stay in the car?”

“Because that would be against department rules. Two officers or detectives must be present to deliver the news,” he said smugly. He always manages to surprise me, the fat bastard.

“Okay, but like I said, let me do all of the talking.”

Phil rings ring the doorbell. We prepare for a long wait. It’s late and the misses is probably sleeping. I doff my hat and assume the somber undertakers pose. You know the one, feet apart, hands together in front holding the brim of my hat as it dangles over my privates. Phil is once again picking his nose. I glare at him. He sheepishly looks at his crusted digit before striking a similar pose, sans the hat.

I’ve got to remember never shake hands with this guy.

We are startled when the outside light comes on and the door is unlocked. Burning the midnight oil, I guess. The door swings open. I hear a short gasp; only it didn’t come from the woman at the door. It came from me.
This is one of those moments that you read about in the Chandler novels. The scene where the beautiful dame with gams to die for walks into the smoke filled PI’s office. It is just like that, only I’m no PI, and I don’t have an office, only a crummy desk in the midtown precinct. And I am standing in HER doorway.

She sweeps long wavy blond locks away from her face. Looking to be about twenty-five, she was not at all what I was expecting. “Can I help you gentlemen,” she purrs.

I swallow hard. “Yes ma-am. I am detective Nick Johansson and this is my partner Philip Johnson. May we come in?”

“Johansson and Johnson. Weren’t they a comedy team way…” she giggles?

“No ma-am. Please, may we have a word with you.”

She eyes my seductively. “Is this official police business?”

I redden. “Yes Ma-am. I’m afraid it is.”

“Well then by all means, come in and make yourselves comfortable,” she said leading us into lavishly decorated room off of the main foyer. “Excuse me while I slip into something more appropriate.”

What could be more appropriate than what she was wearing? I could see nothing wrong with, I correct myself, I can see everything through that clingy light blue silk nightgown that she felt comfortable enough to answer the door in. Nope, nothing wrong at all. I followed her out of the room with my eyes, hypnotized by the swing of her hips and hair. Hips to the left hair to the right; Hips to the right, hair to the left; and so it went as she climbed the stairs and disappeared behind a large paneled door on the second floor.

The clinking of china reminded me that I was not alone. Phil had his mitts all over an expensive looking antique tea set. He was studying one of the cups turning it over to look at the bottom. The tiny cup sat inside a sterling silver frame. I watched as the little china cup dropped out of the metal frame and fell to the floor. I closed my eyes, hoping that when I opened them Phil and the broken cup would be gone. The sound of the upstairs door made me open them again. Phil was on his hands and knees gathering shards of china and stuffing them in his jacket pocket.

“Maybe she won’t notice it’s gone,” he wheezed.

Maybe I won’t notice if you were gone.

She sucks the air out of the room as she enters. A less revealing pair of slacks and a sweater can’t hide the fact that this is one ripe tomato. Phil drops onto the sofa, the broken pieces of cup rattling in his pocket.
“Can I get you boys something? Coffee, a drink?” she asks, tossing me look that I haven’t fielded in years.
“Perhaps you should sit down, Mrs. Scanlon.” I suggest.

“Darlene. Please, call me Darlene.”

Darlene it is.

She sits down across from us, takes a cigarette from a holder on the table and lights it. I watch her put it to her lips. She takes a long slow drag expanding her chest, if that was even possible.

“Darlene, can you tell me where you husband is?” I ask trying hard to focus.

“Oh. He’s probably at work. He usually keeps late hours. Even more so now that business hasn’t been good. Money is tight. He has to work extra hard to keep up.”

I bet he does.

“Mrs. Scan… Darlene, your husband’s car was found on the Pigeon River Bridge. It was still running and he was nowhere to be found. We believe he may have jumped from the bridge.”

Her hand flies to her mouth. The cigarette falls to the floor. In less than a second, I am there picking it up.
“I didn’t think he would do it. He has been so low lately. Business has been real bad and he has been talking nonsense. More than once he has said ‘I would be better off dead’. I didn’t think he was serious.” She sobbed.

I sit down next to her. Not to close but close enough that I can that I get a whiff of whatever perfume she is wearing. Even at this distance I can feel the heat of her body. It makes me wonder why a guy would work his life away when he’s got a dish like this simmering on the stove at home. Mid life guy with a woman half his age, must take a lot to keep her in roses.

But look at what he gets for his trouble. Look at what I got for mine. Marge. Her pot boiled over long before I met her.

I take out his wallet. “We found this along with his coat, shoes and wedding ring on the front seat.”

“That’s his,” she says. “You say he took off his ring? Do you have it?”

“It’s downtown with the rest of his belongings. Once we finish the investigation we will return everything to you.” I tell her.

She blows her nose into a tissue pulled from a small box on the end table. “Thank you.”

As always I am uncomfortable in this situation but have to press on. “What kind of business was your husband in?”

“He’s a hat maker. You must have heard of Scanlon Hats. His father started it back in 1915. Howard took over the bushiness after his father died about twenty-five years ago. He took on partner, Max Grubman, when it got to be too much for one person to handle.”

So all of this happened before she was even born. I wonder if there was a Mrs. Scanlon number one. “This is an awkward question, Darlene, but I have to ask. Was Howard married before and are there any children from another marriage?”

She sniffles. “Yes and yes. Howard divorced his first wife to marry me. He has two children. His marriage was already as good as over when I started working for him as his secretary.”

If any one knows when a marriage is as good as over…

“I understand,” I nod. “Is there anything else you can tell us?” I add.

“Well, he did take out a rather large insurance policy a little over a year ago. About one million dollars, I think. Do you think he planned this?” she asks.

Phil shifts in his seat causing the debris in his pocket to tinkle. “If he did, he didn’t do such a good job,” he says.

“What do you mean?” Darlene and I ask in unison.

“Well if you are counting on the insurance money, you can forget it?”

“What?” Darlene says with a start.

“What are you talking about, Phil,” I practically snarl.

“There’s no way any insurance company is going to pay on a suicide, especially after only six months. If they did we’d all be offing ourselves. A policy has to be at least two years old before they will pay on a suicide.”
Now there’s a thought for you, Phil.

“Well, I don’t care about the money,” Darlene insists. “I want my husband home.”

“We are sorry for your loss, Mrs. Scanlon,” I hand her a business card. “If there is anything you need, anything I can do.”

“So what happens now?” she sniffs.

“They are out there looking for him now. We can’t do much more till they find him.”

“What if they never find him?”

“They will.”

“But what if they don’t? What do I do?”

I looked at her. Why the twenty questions? Was she hoping that he wasn’t really gone or did she want to make sure he really was? “There is usually a seven year wait to have someone declared dead in absentia, but if there is sufficient proof of death as in the case of your husband, the wait can be much shorter. But like I said, they will find him and when they do I will notify you.”

I have to wrap this up and get some air.

“Is there someone you can call to come and keep you company?” I ask.

“I’ll be okay. You have been very kind,” she says as we walk to the door.

“There is one more thing,” I add. “My partner here, has something he wants to tell you.”

Phil has a deer in the headlight stare. “I broke one of your teacups. I would be happy to pay for it.” He dug into his pocket and produced what was left of shattered cup.

“Don’t worry about it, sweety” she shrugs. “I hate that set. Howard’s mother gave it to him for his first marriage. It’s one of the few things he got to keep. Besides, It’s worth more than what your partner makes in a month.”

#

Phil slams the car door. “I was going to tell her”

“Yeah, I know. You would never have been comfortable walking out of there with a lie. I just get a kick out of putting you on the spot.”

What a hypocrite I am. I lie every day from the time I wake up till I close my eyes at night. But Phil, he maybe like a cheap Victrola, not always up to speed, but he’s honest as the day is long.

“Well at least I got to get rid of that crap in my pocket. It was beginning to stick me in the gut, and I didn’t have to pay for it,” he says rubbing his side. “There’s one thing I don’t get, though. They got this houseful of expensive antique crap. If they need money so bad, why don’t they just sell some of it off?”

“Good point. My guess is when you work so hard for something; it’s not that easy to give it up. You find a way to keep it all.”

And sometimes, there just is no way to keep any of it.

“So, you think we can wrap this one up?” Phil sighs.

“Not just yet. Something isn’t on the up and up. I’m just not sure what it is yet. We need to talk to the partner and the ex. If he had a partner he had to have another life insurance policy for him. And there is nobody nastier than a dumped wife.”

I drive back to the station house with Phil snoring against the window.

#

I don’t sleep well. Never have. I thought it would get better once Marge packed up the kids and left, but it didn’t. I toss and turn for hours. Sometimes I break out a bottle, other times I just stare at the TV. One of the disadvantages of working the nightshift is I can’t shut out the light of day.

#

Max Grubman is still in the office when I call. I got in a early this afternoon to make a few calls, so I have to wait for Phil to arrive before heading over to see Grubman. I don’t give him a chance to take off his coat.
“Grubman’s waiting for us at his office. Brush the crumbs of your tie and let’s go,” I tell him.

#

“I was just about to leave when you called,” Grubman says. Where as Scanlon looked more like a banker than a garmento, Grubman looks the part. Short, balding, shirtsleeves rolled up revealing hairy ape like arms. A pair of round spectacles sits atop the bump on his rather large proboscis. The only thing missing was the measuring tape around the neck. Don’t need it for hats, is my guess.

“Thank you for waiting,” I say as Phil and I drop into chairs in his office. Phil flips open his notepad. I look around at walls covered with copies of ads for Scanlon Hats and photographs of famous Scanlon topped people. There’s FDR and Harry Truman, among dozens of others. “We just have a few questions to ask in order to tie up some loose ends,”

“Ask away. I’ve got nothing better to do.” His chair squeaks as he leans back against the springs.

“You don’t seem too upset about your partners suicide.”

“Killing himself was the best business decision that bastard ever made,” he grunts.

“You two didn’t get along?” I eye him carefully.

“Not for years. The hat business was dying. Everybody knew it. Who wears hats anymore?” I look down at the fedora lying on my lap. “I kept telling him that we had to move on, diversify. I was coming up with new ideas and new products. He kept shutting me down.”

“So you weren’t equal partners?” I ask.

“It was his families business. I came in with a forty percent stake. He held all of the cards. What could I do?” He shrugged.

“How much was he insured for?” I am watching for any tells, any slip-ups.

“I stand to collect five hundred thousand. By the time I pay of the creditors and the bank, I might still owe fifty grand, and that’s fine with me. It’s better than being on the hook for the full nut. So in the end, he did right by me.”

“You are going to shutter the business?”

“It’s not mine to shut. I get out with my life savings intact. My wife and I are moving to Miami at the end of the month. Mattie and the kids take over the business and the balance of the debt.”

“Who is Mattie?” I already know, but I have to ask.

“She is the first bitch he married. He had as much sense with women as he did with business.”

“You have a problem with his wives?” I ask.

“Hell no. He’s the one with the problems. They’re his wives and not mine. The first one was hell on wheels. Controlling and mean as they come. I couldn’t blame him for trying to get away from her. But the second one was worse. She was sweet and loving as long as there was money. Look, I really didn’t hate the guy. If anything, I felt sorry for the schmuck. He was always looking for something to make him happy. I don’t think he ever found it. Sure, at times I would get angry with him. Who needs this kind of aggravation? I have everything I need and want at home.” He looks at his watch and stands. “Gentleman, I hope that I have been of some help. It is late and I need to be getting home. We have had buyers coming to look at the house every night this week.”

Phil slaps the notebook shut. There is a round of handshakes and we leave.

I thought the house on Miller Lane was impressive. This joint makes it look like a bungalow. Phil and I are stopped in front of a locked iron gate that insulates Mattie Scanlon’s mansion from the rest of the world. Phil lets out a slow whistle.

“Holy… She must be doing something right,” he mumbles.

“Yeah. She married the right guy and then she had the right lawyer for the divorce,” I say opening the door. I walk over to a call box on the brickwork supporting the gate and press the button.

“Yes? Who is calling please,” a male voice answers.

“This is Detective Nick Johansson. My partner and I would like to have a word with Mrs. Scanlon.” There is a short silence before an electric motor whirs and the gate slowly swings open.

Another circular driveway. What is it about expensive cars, no reverse gear?

We pull up to the front door. A very proper looking butler is waiting for us. “Mrs. Scanlon will see you now,” he says in one of those hoity English accents that somehow manage to get on my nerves. They always sound as if they think they are better than everyone else. We are led to a large room that is similar to the one in the other Mrs. Scanlon’s home, but larger. Much larger. My whole flat would rattle around in this room. There are more and larger antiques. And Paintings. Lots of fancy paintings cover the walls almost floor to ceiling. Looks to me like Mr. Scanlon traded down. From where I stand it’s still way up.

“I assume you are hear because of Howard,” Mattie Scanlon says appearing in the arched entry the room. She is dressed all in black.

Mourning or merely fashionable? I try to picture Marge in black. The image won’t gel.

“Yes Ma-am. Just a few questions if you don’t mind.” I try my humble voice hoping to put her at ease.

“Ask whatever you like,” she says dropping into a large ornate throne like chair.

“Thank you,” I say. I sit across from her. Phil stands next to me with his ever-ready notebook in hand. “When was the last time you saw your ex-husband?”

“That would be at Genie’s birthday party, about two weeks ago. Genie is our daughter. She just turned sixteen.”

“How did he seem to you?”

“He seemed like Howard. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Was he here alone?”

“Do you mean did he bring the Bimbo? Of course he didn’t. He knew better,” she practically hissed. Must have hit a nerve.

“So you and the new Mrs. Scanlon didn’t get along?” I braced myself for the eruption. It never came.
“Look Howard did what all men do. He traded an older model in for a newer one. It is no surprise. I did what any woman in my position would do. I made sure the children and I were taken care of. Let him have the little blood-sucking bitch. She has nothing on me. She may have gotten Howard, but I got all the rest,” she said waving her arm around the room. “So tell me detective, who do you think got the better deal?”

“And now that he is dead?” I ask.

“Makes no difference to me. I feel bad for my children of course. They lost their father. He was heavily insured so they are well taken care of. Even without the business.”

“When was this insurance purchased?”

“When the children were born. It was a gift from his mother.”

“Mrs. Scanlon, where were you last night?”

She laughs. “Am I a suspect? This is too humorous. I wouldn’t waste my time on him. As I said before, detective, it makes no difference to me. The divorce settlement was more than adequate to keep me in a style that I have grown accustomed to. Even without the insurance, the children will never have a care in the world.”

“All the same, can you account for your whereabouts last night?” I’m persistent if nothing else.

She is still laughing. “Do you think I pushed him off the bridge? Genie has the lead in the school play. Last night was the opening night performance. I had reserved a table for the three of us at Flanders to celebrate. It is Genie’s favorite restaurant. We were there until about eleven. Any other questions?”

“No Ma-am. That’s all, thank you.”

Jeeves or whatever his name is shows us the door.

We settle in the car. I give the key a twist and put it in gear. “So what do you think, Phil?” I say as we pass through the gate. In the rearview mirror, I watch as it slowly closes behind us.

“I think when there is that much money in the game, that people do weird things. It’s possible that Scanlon decided to go for a swim, but it’s equally likely that he may have had some help along the way.”

“Yeah, I’m thinking the same thing. I’ll feel much better when we have a body. Dead men do tell tales.”

I lay here in my cramped cluttered flat for one, thinking that someday when my kids are talking to me again I will to give them some sage advice. First: don’t knock up your high school senior prom date. Second: if you do run like hell.

The phone on my nightstand jars me back to reality. It almost never rings during the day and when it does it is usually Marge calling to harangue me about one thing or another. I hesitate to answer. There is a chance it could be work. I pick up the receiver.

“Hello?” I mumble in my groggiest ‘I hate you Marge’ voice.

“Detective Johansson? This is Sergeant Collins ”

“Yes, Collins, it’s me,” I say fully awake.

“We just got a call from a Mrs. Scanlon asking for you. She wanted to know if you could possibly stop by this afternoon.”

Which Mrs. Scanlon would that be?” I ask.

“The one who lives on Miller Lane.”

I light a cigarette and draw deep, savoring the moment. “Did she say what it was about?”

“Nope. Just asked for you.”

I crush the barely smoked coffin nail before stripping for a quick but thorough shower.

I park my clunker down the road from her house. I don’t want to be seen crawling out of a fifteen year old rusting piece of crap. Not in this part of town. I casually stroll up to her door as if I don’t have a care in the word. At this moment I feel like I don’t.

This one’s for you Marge.

Before I can ring the bell the door swings open. Darlene is standing there holding her bathrobe closed. Not too closed. The twins are nearly out basking in the afternoon sun. Following my eyes, she modestly pulls the robe tighter.

“Thank you for coming,” she says.

I will NOT go there!

“You called, I came,” I said lamely.

I went there.

“I found some of my husbands papers. I thought you might want to look at them.”

“If you think it will help.”

She steps aside and I enter the house.

“They are upstairs in the bedroom. I can bring them down if you want,” she says coyly.

I’m no fool (or am I). “That won’t be necessary.” I say trying to appear blasé.

I follow her up the stairs. Hips left, hair right. Hips right, hair left….

I fantasize that when I return to my crummy little dive of a flat Marge is there, waiting for me. Where have you been, what have you been doing, she demands. And I tell her, in excruciating, glorious detail.

Every big city has a Mole Town. It’s the place where you don’t want to find yourself after the sun goes down. Abandoned buildings mildewing in the damp night. Cheap dives filled with cheaper woman setting their hooks into desperate men. Seedy is two or three steps up from Mole Town, so when the call comes in about a stiff found in an alley down there, I’m not exactly overjoyed. I drag Phil out of the men’s room and we’re out the door to meet our John Doe.

He’s lying on his back, a large wet, red circle in the center of his fancy blue tailored shirt; too fancy for Mole town. This guy is way out of his element; a thrill seeker perhaps; looking for a cheap trick or maybe something to stuff up his nose. He has a surprised look on his face. Who wouldn’t? It’s almost always a surprise when you realize you are about to die.

I ask a uniform, “Any ID on this guy?”

“Clean as a whistle, Detective. All pockets empty.”

Phil skirts around the large pool of O-negative, stopping near the vic’s outstretched left arm and calls me over. “Take a look at this,” he says lifting up sleeve cuff. The lifeless wrist is marred with scratches. “I think he had a watch here. Whoever killed him scratched him up pretty good taking it off. Must have had some set of nails. Not much bleeding so he was probably already dead.”

Who is this fat genius and what has he done with my partner?

“I think you may be right, Phil. And this depression on his fourth finger, must have taken his wedding ring too.”

Something was bugging me about this guy. I had to take a step back and look at the big picture. I nearly land on my keister sliding on an empty bottle of cheap hooch.

Here’s this guy, looks to be about fifty or so, dressed to the nines, shot dead in an apparent robbery in a stinking alley in the worst section of town. Something doesn’t add up.

It hits me like a grand piano dropped from a tenth floor window. I walk over to the car and key the radio. “This is detective Johansson. You can call off the river search for that jumper from the other night. He seems to have washed up in the middle of Mole Town.” I knew he looked familiar.

Phil has joined me at the car. “So everybody’s alibi just flew out the window. He hasn’t been dead for more than a few hours so it could have been anyone. My money is on the ex. She had the most to gain.”

“It’s still a crap shoot, Phil. We will pay them all another visit in due time. But first we have to call on his wife and tell her for the second time, that she is a widow.

Once again we find ourselves sitting in front of the impressive Tudor with the circular driveway. I couldn’t tell Phil about this afternoon. He wouldn’t understand. I am not sure if I understand. It all went down so fast. We got to the bedroom, the rob drops to the floor, and she was all over me, naked as a Vegas showgirl. I couldn’t have stopped her if I wanted to, and believe me I didn’t want to. I can still smell her.

There is no car in the driveway and the house is dark. There is no answer when we ring the doorbell. “I guess we come back tomorrow in the morning,” I say to Phil. He looks relieved. I don’t think he was as anxious to see Darlene, Mrs. Scanlon, as I was.

We are about to pull away from the curb when she pulls into the driveway in one of those expensive little Italian sports jobs. She slithers out of the car.

“Detective Johansson and Johnson. Are you here with any news?”

“As a mater of fact we are,” I say joining her at the front door. “May we come in?”

“Of course you may,” she says giving me a wink.

About two-dozen ideas go through my head about ditching Phil just so I can be alone with her again.
We follow her into the foyer. She stands before a mirrored hallstand and unbuttons her coat. Her back is to Phil and me but I can see in the mirror that she opens the draw, digs into her right coat pocket and puts her keys and a few other items in the draw. The draw is closed and she hangs up her coat.

“So what is the news?” she asks innocently.

“You are under arrest for the murder of Howard Scanlon, your husband,” I tell her.

I can’t tell who is more stunned; Darlene or Phil. Or me.

“What? How? Are you serious? What about this afternoon? What are you talking about?” she blabbers.
Phil is speechless for a change. He is staring at me like I have two heads and one of them is the Prince of Whales.

“Cuff her, Phil, and get her into the car.”

“But how? What? Are you serious?”

“Not you too. Yes I am serious. Just do as I say and I will explain it all on the way back to the station,” I tell him.

Darlene squirms and protests, her long nails flashing like daggers, as Phil cuffs her wrists behind her back.
“You will regret this Nick. I’m telling you, you don’t want to do this,” She snarls.

“Yeah, I do,” I tell her.

Phil shepherds her out to the car and stuffs her in the back seat. Before I leave the house I take a look in the hallstand draw. Satisfied I have the right person for the murder I pull the door close making sure it is locked. We will be back later with a warrant to collect the evidence.

Darlene sits sulking in the back seat as we pull away from the Tudor on Miller Lane. “Okay, spill it,” Phil says to me. “Tell me you haven’t lost your mind.”

“I’ve never been saner. You want the story?”

“You owe me the story, and don’t leave out ‘this afternoon’.”

“This afternoon isn’t important. Now pay attention.” I adjust the angle of my hat. “She and her husband were in on this from the beginning. Just her and Howard. No partner, no ex. It started off as a simple insurance scam. He takes out a large insurance policy, fakes a suicide, she collects the million bucks and they live happily ever after in Mexico or Rio or someplace warm. At least that was the plan. Someone was not paying attention when the insurance was bought otherwise they would have known about the suicide clause. I was surprised that you knew and they didn’t. When you mentioned it last night I though she was going to pass out. There was to be no payoff. Then she has an idea. They had arranged a way to keep in touch while he went underground. She calls Scanlon and tells him she needs to see him. They should meet in Mole Town where nobody would recognize them. They meet in the alley where she pulls a gun and pops him in the ticker. Now it’s no longer a suicide. It’s a murder, and that the insurance will cover. One million bucks all to herself. And on top of that, she couldn’t help taking the expensive watch from his cold wrist.”
Phil lets out a long slow whistle. “That’s some tale. How did you figure?”

“I felt something was not quite right from the beginning. It was too neat and clean. But it all fell into place tonight when she came home. She didn’t think we could see when she put her keys in the draw. But she was wrong. It wasn’t just keys she put in there.” I pause for effect. Let Phil beg a little.

“Come on, Nick, what was it?”

“It was a men’s watch and a gun.”

“His watch? It was her nails that scratched him up,” Phil said slapping his pudgy thigh. “So she did do it. That’s the story.”

“Yup, except I don’t think it’s the whole story.”

“Whaddaya mean?”

“I think she planned the whole thing. I think she knew from the get go about the suicide clause. She bought the policy for him knowing all along that she would have to kill him to collect. She probably told him that she bought it when they got married. The only way she could get him to along with the plan was let him think they would live happily ever after with a cool million. The plan of hers gets her the hot seat in stead of a life bit.”

I look in the rearview mirror. “Isn’t that right, Honey”

“Prove it, asshole,” she spits.

“Oh, I will,” I smile. “I will.”

Phil nudges my arm. “But what about this afternoon? What was she doing this afternoon?”

“She was trying to by more insurance,” I say looking once more in the mirror. “But it wasn’t worth what she paid.”

-----

Mr. Starr was born and raised in Brooklyn, New York. He is a relative latecomer to writing having spent much of his life moving through several diverse career changes that have included among other things film production, auto mechanic and textile designer and technician. He currently calls Long Island, New York home and has been a manager at a military history museum for more than a decade. The noir genre is but one of many styles that Mr. Starr dabbles in. This is one in a series of stories featuring detectives Johansson and Johnson.