The Richard Deming Mystery MEGAPACK™: 15 Classic Crime & Mystery Stories

When Mother learned that Ellen and I would be flying from New York to Los Angeles together, she seemed delighted.

“I’ll be back home even before you two get there,” Mother said. “My engagement here ends next Saturday, and I’ve informed my agent I don’t want another booking until after Easter. Can you spend some time with us, Ellen?”

“Not until the last couple of days of Easter vacation, I’m afraid,” Ellen said apologetically. “Francis and I won’t be arriving in Los Angeles until about noon Saturday, and of course I want to get to the ranch before Easter. I plan to rent a car at the airport and drive straight there. Dad and Mom are returning to Washington a couple of days before I have to fly back, though, so I can visit you then.”

Mother gave me a worried look. “You’re not planning to spend your vacation at the ranch too, are you, dear?”

“Just one day,” I assured her. “I’ll spend Easter with you, then drive up on Monday to meet Ellen s parents, and return the next day.”

“Oh,” she said in a relieved tone.

I said to Ellen, “Why do you have to leave for the ranch directly from the airport? It can’t be much more than about an hour and a half drive, so you would get there early in the evening even if you stayed over for dinner. I would like you to meet Dad.”

“Oh, yes,” Mother said with an air of resignation. “You must meet Francis’ dear father.”

“I want to,” Ellen said. “I suppose I could wait over a few hours.”

Two weeks later Ellen and I landed at Los Angeles International Airport at ten minutes before noon. Since Ellen had arranged to have a rental car waiting for her, there was no one at the airport to meet us. There was a message awaiting us at the call desk, however. It was from Mother; we were to meet her and my father for lunch at the Beverly Hilton Hotel at twelve-thirty.

That didn’t give us a great deal of leeway, as the airport is a considerable distance from Beverly Hills. Nevertheless we managed to arrive a few minutes early.

Exactly at twelve-thirty the two of them came in together. I could tell by Ellen’s expression that she was impressed by Dad the moment she saw him moving across the lobby toward us. He was as handsome a man as Mother was a woman, and just as aristocratic-looking. Tall and lean and as erect as a career soldier, he had the man-of-distinction’s gray at the temples, yet gave an instant impression of warmth and friendliness. Mother always said it was a false front designed to conceal from his hundred-dollar-an-hour patients that he was as neurotic as they were, but I always felt that he was warm and friendly.

Dad didn’t wait for introductions. Smiling broadly, he said, “Hi, future daughter,” took Ellen by the shoulders and kissed her on the forehead. At the same moment Mother planted a kiss on my cheek.

Looking flustered but pleased, Ellen said, “Hi, future father.” Then Dad was thrusting his hand at me and saying, “Good to see you, son.”

“Good to see you too, Dad,” I said sincerely.

We had the smorgasbord lunch in the Starlight Room. Dad was obviously delighted with my choice of a wife, and Ellen was equally delighted with him. They had little time to get acquainted, though, because Dad had to eat and run to make a one-thirty group therapy session at the local Veterans Administration Hospital, where he donated his time on Saturdays. Mother had invited him to dinner, however, so Ellen would see him again before she left.

Mother had driven to the hotel in her little roadster. After lunch Ellen and I followed her home in the rented car.

Our house was only a few blocks from the Beverly Hilton. We still lived in the mansion my maternal grandfather had built when he was head of one of Hollywood’s major studios. To friends who asked Mother why she continued to hang onto such a huge place, particularly since in recent years she was away so much of the time, she defensively pointed out that modern tract houses were jerry-built and that she hated apartment living. This was no real answer to the question, of course, but Mother seemed to regard it as adequate.

I think Ellen was more nonplussed than impressed by the three stories and twenty-four rooms, particularly when she learned that the only servants were a cleaning woman who came in twice a week when we were in residence and a handyman who took care of the gardening. I explained that Mother hung onto it because she had grown up there and she had a tendency to resist change.

Mother had a roast with potatoes and carrots all ready to cook, so the only meal preparation she had to do after we got home was to turn on the oven. The three of us spent the afternoon just sitting in the oversized front room before the empty fireplace, talking.

Ordinarily, I imagine prospective mothers-in-law ask lots of polite questions about the backgrounds of prospective daughters-in-law, but the Flynn Detective Agency had made that unnecessary in this case. The conversation remained largely impersonal except for one question on Mother’s part. She was curious about the mention of insomnia that had appeared in the agency’s report.

“It’s nothing serious,” Ellen told her. “It’s what our family doctor calls ‘situational insomnia.’ That is, I only suffer it from some immediate cause, such as the night Francis asked me to marry him. I couldn’t sleep a wink.”