Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 140, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 853 & 854, September/October 2012
- Автор: Макдермид Вэл, Манфредо Лу
- Год: 2012
- Язык: английский
- Год: Dell Magazines
- ISBN: 0013-6328
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 140, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 853 & 854, September/October 2012». Краткое содержание книги:
“That’s Jed Jamison,” said Velma, indicating a tall man in a tux who’d just come in. He had a hard-edged, weathered face, grey hair, and a thick grey moustache. He looked past middle age, though he seemed trim and fit enough. Just off his shoulder was a brunette I took to be Jane, and she looked like a real stunner from across the room. Jed stopped to talk, and the dame touched his arm and whispered something. He nodded, and she headed into the fray.
“She’s going to the bar, Frank. Why don’t you get me another one of these?” Velma drained her Champagne flute and wiggled it for me to see.
I wanted a closer look at Jane. “Okay, sweetheart. Schramsberg, right?”
“Blanc de blancs.” I gulped the rest of my Zin down and set a course to intersect with my target.
Jane pulled up to the bar first and I got there in time to hear her order a Campari and a Prosecco. I stood next to her and gave her the up-and-down. She was a good-looking broad with a curvy figure. She wore a red gown, a deeper red than Velma’s, and full-length, whereas Velma’s was cut short to show off her long gams. Jane’s wine-dark gown had a deep vee, and was gathered tight in front under the bosom, down to the waist, then it was sheer and flowed out loosely. There were layers of sheer, like a seven-veil dress, but it was clingy, and a guy could really see the arcs of her long thighs. Mrs. Jamison was shaking as fine a pair of maracas as you’d want to see, but you’d barely notice them because of the stunning necklace that hung about two-thirds of the way down into the vee of the dress. The White Tiger was strung with alternating diamonds, in baguette cuts, and opals about the size of black beans. At the center, a diamond pendant lay against her chest. It was large for a single diamond, but it had a flaw. A vein of black, like a tiger’s stripe, ran through the heart of it.
“See something you like, Bo?” Her voice cut clearly over the tinkle of glasses and polite patter of party talk mixed with laughter.
“Oh, you caught me admiring your... uh... stones. I’m Frank Swiver, Mrs. Jamison. I’m a private dick. I’ll be keeping an eye on your assets this evening for the Golden Gate Insurance Company.”
“Strictly business, Mr. Swiver? Not a personal interest? Well, I hope you enjoy your work. Excuse me; I must get back to my husband. He likes to keep an eye on me too.” She picked up her drinks and headed across the room, moving her rear end like a washer tub with an unbalanced load.
2.
When I returned with the Schramsberg, I found Jed Jamison wasn’t doing a very good job keeping an eye on his wife. He only had eyes for Velma. Up close, it was clear he must have been at least fifty, but he was acting like a teenager in lust around Velma. She seemed to be enjoying the attention, and took her glass from me without a word of thanks, listening to Jamison’s line. He was going on about the size of his grapes or something like that. I drifted a short distance away with my glass of wine to keep an eye on the ice.
Joe Damas was flitting around the room, a Gauloises drooping from the side of his mouth, trying to squeeze into tight circles of conversation. Most people looked at him like they’d look at something they stepped in, and kept right on chinning with each other as if he weren’t there. Another drink and I might have started to feel sorry for him. He was a crook, but he’d been square with me. Joe worked his way over to the Jamisons and Velma. Jamison shook his hand and draped an arm across the Frenchman’s shoulders. He moved his head close to Damas and smiled while he talked into his ear. But soon, Jamison turned and took Velma’s elbow and guided her away. Joe didn’t have anything to say to Jane, so he gave her a little bow and moved away to look for another prospect.
Well, I guess Jane Jamison started to feel the chill from her husband, and before I knew it, she was walking up to me. “How’s your drink, shamus?” she said.
“Excellent Zinfandel, Mrs. Jamison. What happened to your Prosecco?”
“I think the bartender must have poured me a short one. Buy me another?”
“Sure,” I said, and we walked over to the bar. I ordered two more. Jane Jamison brought her glass up to her lips and bent her head back. Her long, dark walnut curls hung free, her smooth neck rose in a graceful curve, and the Champagne flute pointed straight up at the ceiling as she drained it all at once. I half expected her to toss the empty at the nearest fireplace but she slammed it down on the bar. She looked me in the eyes and licked her lips.
“The case of the disappearing drink,” she said. “It’s gone, but I’m still thirsty.” She licked her lips again.
“I’ll get you another,” I said. “But slow down a little, all right?”
Her eyes bored into me and for an instant, I thought she was going to give me an argument. But she softened and smiled. “You’re right. I just get so mad at that husband of mine sometimes. He’s making a fool of himself with some dish half his age.”
“I don’t know. He seems to be doing okay.” We looked over. Velma and Jed were sitting on a small davenport. She was sitting up straight, with her legs crossed, and he was leaning towards her ear, jawing softly. Velma laughed; Jed put his Campari, which was still half-full, on a little table, and withdrawing his hand, let it linger on Velma’s knee. I had to turn away to keep calm.
I was working, but as long as Jane was staying this close, I wasn’t having much difficulty doing my job, keeping an eye on the White Tiger. So I had another drink with her and we talked.
“You know, you look a little like that actor, the one who was just busted for reefer. Robert Mitchum,” she said. “Anybody ever tell you that?”
“I’ve heard it once or twice.” It’s a compliment. Mitchum’s five years younger, and I don’t have a dimple in my chin.
“He has a lot of self-confidence, Jed,” she said, with a nod of her head in his direction. “He thinks he can do anything he wants.”
“I guess the Jamison Winery is pretty successful,” I offered.
“Hunh. We have top-grade Cabernet and Chardonnay land in the Alexander Valley. That’s what I brought to the table. My father owned a big ranch. I was born and raised up there. Dad had cattle. But Jed’s the businessman. Did you know he used to own the Oakland Oaks? We met at a ball game, back in thirty-eight. After we got married, after my father died in forty-one, the land came to me. Jed wanted to grow wine. He sold the Oaks, and now we live up on the ranch. We’ve only had vines in for six years. Jamison Winery is just getting started, really.”
And so it went. I made small talk with Jane Jamison and we drank our drinks, while Jed made time with Velma Peregrino on the other side of the room. The orchestra started up and Jane asked me if I could dance a fox trot. I said sure, and she put down her glass and led me out on the floor. My right arm went around her back and her bare flesh was warm and smooth. She pressed her bosom into me and I looked down at the White Tiger and the view into the vee of her wine-dark dress below.
We stayed out on the dance floor for a few numbers. My right arm slipped a little further down her back each time I guided her around the floor. Jane knew how to use her body and she moved her long thighs against me as if we were doing a tango not a fox trot. Finally, the orchestra took a break. We picked up our drinks and went to sit down.
“They’re gone,” she said.
“Who?”
“That two-bit bum I came in with and the blond kitten.”
I looked around the room. I felt sure if Velma were there in her red cocktail dress, I could pick her out of the crowd. But after scanning the joint twice, I agreed. Neither Velma nor Jed Jamison was in the room.