The Missing Heir

There was something about her. Felton Landry could sense it when she walked into his office on that sultry Saturday afternoon. It was more than just the cheap perfume. She smelled like a hooker at a wedding. But that wasn't what made his skin crawl. It was her gait. It was her alien way of entering a room and sitting down. Was this how she always walked into a room? He'd have to test out the theory. Maybe he could ask her to come have cocktails at Bianco's. No. She'd want something cheaper. A double scotch at some seedy bar. Would she walk in with the same slender, snake like movements? Maybe she was nervous. No. It wasn't that. This was a confident walk. A walk that said I own you. She wasn't half wrong. Every time he took on a job he was 'owned.' The clients didn't know it, but he did. She was the first client he had who also seemed to know it. See, a private dick calls the shots when it comes to expenses; he calls the shots when it comes to accepting a case; and he calls the shots when it comes to deciding that a case is a dead end, or more often than not, when a case is beyond his legal or moral jurisdiction; but during the case itself, well, that's when the client called was in charge.

He looked her up and down in the moments it took her to walk in his office, stopping for a photographer that she wished was there, before taking her seat in the waiting chair with a perfectly eel like rhythm, uniting with the contours of the chair. She had a mouth that would sooner eat her own face than admit a smile. Her lips were thin, with lipstick applied with the attention to detail of a watchmaker for a Lilliputian.

'Finally,' she huffed. 'I thought your secretary would never buzz me in.'

'That's Doris, and she's more than a secretary. She's like a kind of aunt. But what can I do for you.'

'An aunt, you say. Got any cousins.'

'That all depends.'

'Depends on what?'

'I'm very protective of my family. I wouldn't want them being lead astray.'

'Astray. Ha. Speaking of which, can I smoke?'

'Sure. If you've got lungs it shouldn't be too hard.'

She smiled, 'May I smoke?'

'Go ahead.'

'So, tell me about your family.'

'Just me and my brothers, Jack, Johnny, and Jim. I love them dearly but they give me a headache. A bit like the one I have now. Suppose you tell me why you're here.'

'I need your help.'

'You don't say. Do you mind if I make a prairie oyster while you ramble.'

'Of course not. Say, are you always this rude to potential clients.'

'Not until today.'

'It's my husband. He's a very important person. You might have seen in the papers. Milton Prescott the Third, heir to the Prescott Wines fortune.'

'Oh, yeah, now I know you. Susanna Hamilton.'

'Pleased to make your acquaintance. As you are no doubt aware my husband went missing Thursday. Needless to say it has caused quite a lot of angst to we, his family, not to mention his extended family of shareholders and employees. Just today, before I came here, I received a phone call which leads me to believe that my husband has been kidnapped.'

'What was it? A ransom?'

'Not a ransom. When I went to the drugstore, my husband is a diabetic, you see, so I went to pick up his insulin. The chemist knows us both, and Milton has told him to sell to me should I come in. That's the nature of being the heir to the largest wine company in California, you don't have time to buy your own insulin. The chemist said he had already been there with another man. I asked him to give me some details. He said that he remembered the man was young, perhaps 24 or 25. He wore glasses, a real bookish type.'

I looked at her, looking through her as she spoke, though she couldn't have noticed, not with those vacant eyes. She was like a hawk that looked right through until everything it saw became a blur. She was trying to read me like one of those magic eye 3D puzzles, but I was reading her like the ingredients on a bottle of carbonated water. She was like a map with no topographical details. I read her easily is what I'm saying. A little too easy. It was giving me the chills the whole encounter. I listened to her ramble off her half baked story. There was something rancid about the dough. The story didn't quite rise where it needed to. Now I was hungry. First I needed to pay a trip to the chemist.

'Well, it sounds like a real dozy of a case, Mrs. Prescott.'

'Hamilton. I've keep my name for my career.'

'Your career? I didn't know...'

'Yes, I'm a model. I didn't want the press to accuse me of being a gold digger. That's not the only reason. I love my career. I have real promise. Besides, I didn't marry Milton for his money. The money helps. His considerably more wealthy than me, but I could survive just fine on my own. No. I happen to be what used to be celebrated as old fashioned, but is now derided as pathetic. I'm a romantic at heart.'

'Well, a romantic is just a realist after a few drinks.'

She tried to smile. I appreciated the effort. She was doing her best. She was like a kindergarten kid trying to summarise Kafka.

I broke the chill of the silence with a warm rejection.

'I can't take the case, Miss Hamilton.'

'And why not.'

'Because I don't like you. I don't like your air. There's something about you. Something Malus spiritus as the Romans said. You come into my office drowning in so much cheap perfume that I was about to call a life guard. You're married to the richest man in California but he doesn't buy you a doesn't scent. You're a model but you smell like a cheap hooker.'

'How dare you.'

'You call yourself old fashioned, but you didn't even take your husband's name.'

'And that's not the worst of it. You aren't even Prescotts's old lady. I knew it before you walked in. Precott's been married fifteen years. He's married to that what'shername, daughter of the mayor.'

She got up. I got up.

'You need not bother, Mr. Landry. I can find the door without your guidance. Thank you for your time.'

As I watched her walk out I had the sudden urge to see a chemist for something stronger for my headache.

The chemist on Main Street was small and cramped; and the air conditioning was no much for the hot air that came streaming in every time a customer entered. It stunk of sweat and lotion. I walked up to the desk. A young pimple-faced kid greeted me with a morose expression. Why don't you go be a soda jerk, kid, I thought.

'Yer boss in, kid.'

'Yeah.'

Our progress was promising.

'Where is he?'

'He's out the back.'

'You wanna bring him out front.'

'Sure.'

The kid was so taciturn he made Helen Keller seem like Cicero. He turned around and walked into the room behind him. The kid vanished, and in his place out walked a short, balding, pale man of about 200 years old. He was dressed in a brown short, yellow bowtie and double breasted cardigan. He shuffled up to the counter like he was being carried by Lilliputians.

'What can I do for you, son?'

Son, what a swell old guy. Nobody'd called me son in thirty years.

'I was wondering about two fellas who came in here about Thursday.'

'This is a chemist, Mister, not a social club. Unless you're police I can't be saying ought.'

I had gone from son to mister in less than a cat's whisker. I was on shaky ground.

'I'm a detective.'

'What kind of a detective?'

'The kind who asks too many questions but never gets an answer.'

'Well, you can try me with a few questions. I'll let you know if I can answer.'

I sensed a reasonableness about him. He was a good old soul. He was cautious where he needed to be, but I sensed he'd open up when he realised that severity of the situation. Even if Hamilton had been masquerading as Prescott's wife, there was still the fact that Prescott had been kidnapped. Why had she been passing herself off as Prescott's wife.

'Milton Prescott was in here last week.'

'Yes. He was here. He comes in for his prescriptions.'

'His wife came to see me earlier today, only it turned out she wasn't his wife. She told me he's a diabetic. I'm guessing your going to tell me that isn't true either.'

'No. He's not a diabetic. He's a homosexual.'

I was stunned. That was the last thing I had expected him to say.

'I beg your pardon.'

' Yeah. He's prescribed apomorphine. It induces vomiting. The idea is he takes it when he's out with his, how do I say, boyfriends, and it makes him nauseous. He associates the homosexual act with sickness.'

I looked at the counter in confused silence.

'Anything else I can help you with, son.'

I was back to son. I thought I should leave while I was ahead.

'That's all. Thank you for your help.'

There was nothing that could fix this headache.

I took a cab back to the office. When I got upstairs Doris was in a panicked sweat. Papers were strewn across the desk and floor, and the phone was ringing off the hook.

'Oh, it's terrible. It's the worst thing. Oh. Prescott.'

'What is it, Doris?'

She was pacing up and down the room.

'What's the world coming to.'

I went and poured her a straight Johnny Walker. She drank it in one gulp. I waited for her to compose herself.

'What's wrong? They found Prescott? Is he ok.'

'Dead.'

Dead? Milton Prescott. So they killed him. The ransom was just to buy time.'

'No. Mrs. Prescott. They found her in the Santa Clara river.'

'Did they say what happened? An accident perhaps?'

'Accidents don't come with six bullets in the back.'

I lit a cigarette. It always helped with my headache.