Crang Mysteries 4-Book Bundle. Jack Batten

that went with the murder wasn’t the kind that professionals commit.”

      Annie couldn’t keep the small tremble out of her hand when she lifted the coffee cup.

      She said, “You’ve just told me that Alice’s gold necklace and bracelet and whatnot were taken.”

      “Or even that a sensible amateur would commit.”

      “You were there, Crang,” Annie said. “You’ll have to explain what you’re talking about.”

      “Whoever bopped Alice rigged the house to look like a break-in after the deed was done in the living room,” I said. We were talking in the kitchen and Annie had her feet tucked under her in the chair closest to the window. “The broken glass gave it away. It was on the patio side, which means our intruder punched out the sliding door from the inside. Obvious stuff. And, another item, if he was so intent on Alice’s gold, why did he leave the Rolex on her wrist? Everything about the set-up smacks of contrivance. Not very sophisticated contrivance.”

      I was leaning against the kitchen counter. My body wanted me to pace, but no one paces anymore: Doesn’t look hip. I settled for leaning and drinking.

      Annie said, “Well, how did this intruder get into the house in the first place? If he was some sort of threat to Alice, surely she wouldn’t open the door to him.”

      “Maybe intruder isn’t the right description.”

      “It’s not bad for characterizing someone who murders the occupant of a house.”

      “Ex post facto intruder,” I said. “Alice let him in because he posed no danger. He was a friend, an acquaintance, a late-night date, and afterwards he turned nasty.”

      “Killed her, you’re supposing,” Annie said, “and then arranged the rooms to make it seem like the killing happened when Alice caught a burglar in the act?”

      “But why was he so sloppy about the cover-up?” I said. “We don’t need to summon Sherlock Holmes from 221B Baker Street to spot the flaws in the faked robbery. It was as if the killer were making a show of his arrogance.”

      “Or his panic.”

      I’d drunk three ounces of Wyborowa. It was beginning to kick in with a muzzy warmth in my chest.

      “I choose arrogance,” I said. “This guy showed the same disdain when he killed Alice. The way it looked to me, the mark on her cheek, the position of the body on the floor, he smacked her hard and he broke her neck and she died. Gave her the back of his hand, you might say.”

      Annie said, “I can’t believe we’re speaking like this.”

      “I’ll talk, you listen,” I said. “It helps.”

      The words came out more sharply than I intended. Annie’s mouth tightened around the corners, but she didn’t say anything. Instead, she reached for her coffee cup. Her hand was no longer trembling.

      “Presupposing Alice’s murder is tied in to whatever’s going on at Ace,” I said, “the company payroll has unlimited candidates for the role of murderer.”

      “May I speak?” Annie said. There was no anger in her voice, but plenty of firmness.

      “Be my guest.”

      “In my book, the list of candidates wouldn’t exclude Charles Grimaldi,” she said. “If anyone exudes arrogance, it’s Alice’s boss.”

      “Even if they were lovers?”

      “We don’t know that for absolute certain.”

      “A packet of photographs in Alice’s dresser drawer seems to confirm the romance.”

      “Oh, no.”

      “Oh, yes,” I said. “And there’s another problem with pointing at Grimaldi as the killer. On arrogance, okay you’re right. But Grimaldi comes from a mob background. Death by smacking isn’t how these people handle office problems. They get rid of annoyances with a bullet behind the ear, and the body’s more likely to wash up on the shores of Lake Ontario next year, not on the broadloom next day.”

      Annie said, “You’ve just reopened the possibility that the killer isn’t necessarily an Ace person.”

      “Nothing about the murder is professional, I’ll go that far,” I said. “But it’s got to be Ace.”

      “Well, old sport,” Annie said, “whatever the explanation is for all this horror, it’s a horror that’s been taken out of your hands.”

      “Not really.”

      “The police are involved now,” Annie said. “They’ll make the decisions whether Alice’s killer is one of those creepy men at her company.”

      “Cops have no reason to suppose Alice’s death and Ace are tied in,” I said. “They’ll light on the phony robbery fast enough, and down the line, middle of the week probably, they’ll put it together that Charles Grimaldi is connected to the mob. But right now, up at Alice’s townhouse, all the cops have is the body of someone who happens to be a businesswoman and got herself bumped off by person unknown.”

      “Unless some responsible party tells them better.”

      “Yeah,” I said. “When Wansborough hears the news about Alice, he might be spooked enough to summon the cops and speak of his concerns about Ace’s surprising prosperity.”

      “The responsible party I had in mind,” Annie said, “was a criminal lawyer of my close acquaintance.”

      “Call me irresponsible.”

      I swallowed more vodka. Something was making me feel giddy, the vodka or the murder. Likely a combination of both. Call me irresponsible. Catchy melody. I hummed the first bars and took another swallow from the glass of vodka.

      “Call me unreliable,” I was half singing. Giddiness had gained the upper hand.

      “Crang,” Annie said from her chair, “don’t you dare.”

      Her look had a warning in it.

      “Throw in undependable too,” I sang, none too tunefully. I was holding out my arms like Sinatra without the hand mike.

      “You idiot,” Annie said, “a woman’s just died.”

      But Annie was beginning to show a small grin.

      “Call me unpredictable.”

      Annie’s smile occupied more of her face.

      “Tell me I’m impractical,” I sang. It was more wobble than croon.

      Annie got out of the chair. Her hands reached toward me in a choke grip.

      “Tell me I’m impractical.” I was racing the words. “Rainbows I’m inclined to pursue.”

      The last line came out strangled. Annie had her hands around my throat and she was laughing.

      “Crang,” she said, “you’re disgusting.”

      “So now you’re a music critic,” I said. “Pardon, reviewer.”

      Annie and I hugged and swayed and laughed in the kitchen.

      “Bet you don’t know what movie the song’s from,” Annie said after a while. She was talking into my chest.

      “I know Jimmy Van Heusen wrote it.”

      “Papa’s Delicate Condition,” Annie said. “Early 1960s. Jackie Gleason, Glynis Johns, I think Elisha Cook.”

      Annie leaned on the counter beside me and I put my arm around her shoulder. She was still wearing the terry cloth robe.

      “You really aren’t going to speak to the police?” she said.

      “No, but I’m