The Red 65. Grant Peake

she did not fancy herself as “mixing with the riff raff” of everyday living, let alone a child.

      “I knew Billy was living with that foreign couple, at number 1811. Occasionally, I saw the child out walking alone. It worried me dreadfully, Chief Inspector, oh I mean, Marty. That poor boy, wondering along the street, unaccompanied. Anything could have happened to him, and it did, poor little soul.” Mrs Cavallaro completed her sentence with a look of woe and clasped her thin hands together in mock remorse.

      Marty didn’t fall for this crap. This dame couldn’t care one bit!

      On she went, like a clock wound to capacity. “No, I did not see the child on the day he disappeared. Although, I did see the red car speed by my home, later in the day.”

      Giving Marty an expectant look, Mrs Cavallaro halted and eyed Marty in a penetrating manner. Her eyes were conveying a message; what it was, Marty could not tell.

      CHAPTER six

      “Let me explain myself.” Mrs Cavallaro said in an air of supreme knowledge and authority. “As you are already aware, no doubt, um, Marty, someone did see Billy on that day, Mrs Marjorie Femmer. Lives at number 1768, but you would already know that. She apparently saw Billy walking along North Beaumont, and said that ‘he was walking in the direction of the pathway that led down to Roy Rogers Avenue’. What intrigues me Chief Inspector is, how did she know this, it is only an assumption Chief Inspector? Heavens know why she did not stop and take Billy home or take him to her own home. It was a tragedy just waiting to happen, I say. We all knew that Mrs Femmer had a soft spot for Billy, it was common knowledge.” She shot a very direct look at Marty. Mrs Cavallaro was waiting for Marty to make a comment but Marty chose not to and played dumb. So Mrs Cavallaro went on with her “la de da” voice.

      “Billy spent considerable time at the Femmer residence and went on various outings with them, I understand.” Mrs Cavallaro looked up as there was a knock at the door. “Enter,” came the authoritative response from Mrs Cavallaro.

      The door opened to reveal Matilda coming in with the tea. The grand dame stopped any further speech and waited patiently for Matilda to set the china tea pot, cups and saucers in their correct place. A plate of small decorated cup cakes and petite biscuits had also been provided. Once completed, Matilda asked Mrs Cavallaro if there was anything else.

      “No, thank you Matilda. That will be all.” replied the efficient Mrs Cavallaro.

      Matilda departed from the room as silently as she had arrived.

      “Shall I play mother, Inspector?” asked Mrs Cavallaro with a grin of very white false teeth. Nothing natural about those dentures, thought Marty. Hell, even this lady’s teeth are the most expensive in Hollywood!

      Pouring the tea into the gold and white, egg shell china cups, she leant over and passed the tea to Marty. Offering Marty the plate of delicacies, Marty chose to have a biscuit, to keep the pace going with Mrs Cavallaro’s outpouring of vital information.

      Truth be said, Marty was ravenous.

      ***

      It was now late morning and Marty had an eventful day, so far.

      Breakfast had been on the run, as Charlie Solomon wanted to meet with him early. The biscuit was not too sweet, Better not reach for anything else to eat, it might put her off talking. She might think I’m a pig, Marty reasoned to himself.

      There was a faint, yet pleasant aroma, wafting into the room through an open window. Must be from those Hydrangea bushes outside the windows, thought Marty. His mother adored Hydrangeas, especially the Oakleaf variety, which Marty suspected were the species being grown here. As a youngster, his mother would scold Marty and his friends for breaking the flowers or the new shoots of her beloved Hydrangea plants. Not that he knew much about plants at all, but he recognised these plants for sure. Marty’s parents had shifted some years ago to live in Vermont. Mrs Hislop had joined the local Hydrangea Society of Vermont, and was an active member. The perfume was not overpowering, you could almost say therapeutic to the senses. Their colour was almost surreal, an intangible shade of heavenly blue that darkened on the outside of the petals. The flower heads were immense. Quite a stunning display!

      “Now where were we? Ah yes,” said the informative Mrs Cavallaro. Cradling her tea cup and saucer in her lap, she spoke on, “The red car that Mrs Femmer drove around from daylight to dusk, and I might add with Billy in tow as well. Never out of it, the pair of them! Mr Femmer purchased the car for her not long before Billy came on the scene. Now what was the car again, yes, I recall. It was a Ford Mustang. All over red with white wall tyres. Thought she was the ace of spades, driving up and down North Beaumont all day long.” Mrs Cavallaro ended at this juncture to sip her tea.

      “Really!” said the interested Marty.

      “As I said in my statement, many moons ago of course,” chuckled Mrs Cavallaro, “I did see the car pass by here late in the afternoon, about a quarter to six. It was travelling at a heck of a pace too, I might add Chief Inspector – Marty – sorry, I forgot,” finished Mrs Cavallaro with a apologetic gesture of her delicately shaped right hand.

      Marty decided to throw a question at the “know it all” woman sitting before him.

      “Can you be quite sure that it was definitely the red Mustang you saw? It must have been getting dark for you to see the car clearly.” enquired Marty in a curious tone.

      “I can assure you that I saw the red Mustang.” The tone became brittle. “I was in the front garden. It was summer, and the sun had not set. I heard the vehicle coming up the street. I looked up and saw the car hurtle by like a flash of lightning. I unfortunately did not discern the driver, but it could only have been Mrs Femmer, it was her automobile, after all,” retorted Mrs Cavallaro with a firmness to her ladylike voice. “I will prove it to you. Ever since I was 21, when my father gave me a diary, I have religiously kept a record of events. Now, if you will just pardon me for a moment, I will get the diary for 1965 from the bookcase.” said the ‘fastidious record keeper’.

      Rising to her feet with the aid of the walking stick, Peggy Cavallaro walked over to the mahogany bookcase. Opening the glass doors, she selected a diary and brought it back to the sofa. Sitting down again, she flipped through the pages and got the date in question. Bringing the diary over to Marty, and holding it with one hand, she said with great pleasure, “There you are, told you so! It’s all there, the date and time, as I stated before.”

      Marty saw the flamboyant style handwritten entry recording the time and the red Mustang “hurtling up” North Beaumont. Marty nodded his head in consent with Mrs Cavallaro.

      This satisfied her dented ego! Hmmmm, considered Marty. Was this woman correct in her statement or was there a subtle suggestion of placing Mrs Femmer in an awkward position? Yes, it could have been Marjorie Femmer at the wheel OR it could have been Max Femmer OR even someone else. It was feasible, after all. Max Femmer undoubtedly had an extra set of car keys and went out in the car himself. Or, was it another person altogether? Marty had yet to find this out.

      Marty took the bull by the horns, so to speak, and asked in his most charming speech, “Oh, do you think that Mrs Femmer would be out at that time, surely Mr Femmer would have been home by then? But, I guess you know more about the neighbours than I would Mrs Cavallaro.”

      This bait was taken by the wealthy woman who replied with relish in a sophisticated attitude, “Oh yes, it’s quite possible that Marjorie Femmer could have been behind that steering wheel. You see,” Mrs Cavallaro leaning forward in Marty’s direction said quietly, “she was a law unto herself.” Drawing her frame back into the comfortable sofa, Mrs Cavallaro gave Marty a wink with her right blue eye.

      Marty raised his eyebrows and answered in a lowered tone, “Is that so, well I never!” Marty focused his attention on Mrs Cavallaro more intently. She loved this play on words and proceeded to reveal more secrets.

      “You see Detective Chief Inspector, I know Marjorie Femmer better than anyone else in Hollywood. I know for a fact