The Bessie Blue Killer. Richard A. Lupoff

      “Not good, eh?”

      “I have almost enough years in for retirement. My husband is still working. My kids are grown up. I’m a grandmother, Bart. I think I’ll just be a housewife and a grandma for a while. I think I’ll enjoy that.”

      Lindsey plopped into a familiar chair. “You going to do it?”

      Ms. Wilbur exhaled loudly. “I don’t know. I think so.”

      “That bad?”

      “You wouldn’t believe it.”

      “Yes I would. I had breakfast with the man today. I mean, I tried to.”

      Ms. Wilbur grinned. “Don’t tell me he was stewed.”

      “No. Just obnoxious. I couldn’t take it, and I realized that I didn’t have to. I’ve never enjoyed missing a meal so much.”

      “And what are you doing for International Surety now? Ever since you went off to the mysterious SPUDS I’ve been wondering.”

      Lindsey told her about Bessie Blue and Double Bee Enterprises and about the murder of Leroy McKinney.

      Ms. Wilbur shook her head. “I’ll take a look and see if we have life coverage on him.” She called up the alpha file of policy holders. “No policy. You don’t think they’re going to try and claim a death benefit under the umbrella policy, do you? He wasn’t even working for Double Bee, was he? Wasn’t he some kind of maintenance man or janitor at the airport?”

      “That’s right. No, I’m only afraid that the investigation is going to hold up the project and Double Bee will come after us with an indemnity claim. If we could clear up this killing it would be a big help.”

      Elmer Mueller strode into the office. He’d cleaned the egg off his chin but he had some on his tie and he wore the same stained black suit he’d worn at Oakland International. He dropped his briefcase on his desk. “Lindsey, Harden says I have to let you use this hole. I guess he’s sucking up to Ducky Richelieu, God knows why. But I want you to you remember who’s the boss here now. I am. Get it? You’re supercargo.”

      He turned and pointed a finger at Ms. Wilbur. “As for you, Mathilde, if you don’t have anything better to do than gossip with visitors, maybe we should see about cutting your hours.”

      Mathilde! Lindsey had worked with Ms. Wilbur for more than a decade. She was a gray-haired, older woman. She’d helped him learn the ropes of International Surety. Mathilde! He’d never even thought of calling her by her first name.

      He settled into a spare desk and began writing up his notes on the day’s work. He’d been back in California for a mere matter of hours, and he was already involved in another murder case and in an intracompany mess.

      He shot a covert look at Ms. Wilbur, feeling like a schoolboy and expecting the teacher to scold him at any moment for not concentrating on his textbook. All he could see was the back of Ms. Wilbur’s neck. It was flaming red.

      He clicked on the computer on his desk and called up KlameNet. Ms. Wilbur had determined that there was no policy in the name of Leroy McKinney, but he knew the umbrella policy issued to Double Bee would appear. He called up the full text of the policy and verified that it contained a moral turpitude clause. If Double Bee suffered a loss through its own illegal or immoral conduct, the coverage was void.

      Not that he expected anyone from Double Bee to have killed the janitor. Ina Chandler had arrived with Lawton Crump when Crump discovered the body. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to have a talk with Mrs. Chandler. Or even with Mr. Crump. Sergeant Finnerty had already questioned them, but Lindsey would approach the man from another angle. Sometimes that made a difference. Sometimes it made a very big difference.

      He phoned Berkeley police headquarters and reached Marvia Plum. Now that she was a sergeant in Homicide, she was spending more time at her desk and less time in the field. She complained about it. Doc High made the same complaint. Lindsey hardly knew Sergeant Finnerty, but undoubtedly he would grumble out the same gripe if he had the chance. They all worked for promotion and then they all complained that they weren’t in the field any more.

      Lindsey would pick Marvia up and drive her back to Walnut Creek for dinner. That way she couldn’t go home afterwards by herself. He’d have to drive her back.

      “You’re a schemer,” she said. She laughed. The sound was like a hot jolt that ran through his body.

      When he arrived at Oxford Street one of Marvia’s housemates let him into the restored Victorian house. She was another woman, heavyset and orange-haired. She said, “Well, if it isn’t Mr. Suburb. Back to grace the land of peace and progress with your presence?”

      Lindsey managed a polite banality before racing up the stairs two at a time. He reached Marvia’s turret apartment gasping for breath.

      Marvia had showered after work and was standing before a full-length mirror in her underwear, drying her hair. There was a fireplace with kindling and a quartered log, but the only heat in the room came from the evening’s warmth. Lindsey ran across the carpeted room and put his arms around Marvia, his hands on her naked arms. She shut off the dryer and turned to him.

      There were still a few drops of water on her chest.

      He bent and kissed them off. He said, “I missed you. Denver was okay but I really missed you.”

      She said, “I love you, Bart.”

      He sat on the edge of her bed, on the Raggedy Ann quilt. She held him and he pressed his face against the blackness of her belly, between the whiteness of her brassiere and the whiteness of her panties. He said, “I love you, Marvia.”

      She finished dressing and they drove to Walnut Creek, fighting the thousands of commuters struggling home from San Francisco and Oakland to the bedroom communities of Contra Costa County.

      In the car Lindsey said, “Mother’s doing well. She’s making dinner. But we can’t expect too much. I mean—we can’t expect too much.”

      Marvia said, “Does she still think I’m your football coach’s daughter?”

      “I don’t know what she thinks. I told her you were coming for dinner. She said something like, ‘Oh, that nice colored girl.’ I don’t want you hurt. When you are, I feel it too. I know I can’t feel it the way you do, but I can see it and—”

      Marvia put her hand on his thigh. They’d left the classic Mustang that Marvia’s brother had restored as a gift for her, at Oxford Street. She said, “I have some vacation time coming up. I’ve been saving my days. You think we could get away for a little while?”

      “I’d love it! What about Jamie? You don’t mind leaving him with your parents?”

      “We could do that. Or maybe we could take him with us. I thought we might go down to Monterey. He’s interested in fish, he’d like the aquarium.”

      “As soon as I wrap up this case!” Lindsey was ready to jump out of the car and dance on the freeway.

      Dinner went amazingly well. Mother had stayed with a simple pasta dish. The result was far from gourmet fare, but for a woman who had been almost helpless a few months before, it was an achievement.

      Mother served coffee and ice cream and told Lindsey and Marvia that she had seen a wonderful movie on cable while Lindsey was away. She’d enjoyed it so much she’d got Mrs. Hernández to take her to Vid/Vid/Vid and she’d bought a copy and now she watched it every day.

      It made her think, she said.

      At first it had confused her and upset her, but then she started to understand it better.

      Now she understood a lot of it, and every time she watched it, she understood more.

      Lindsey asked what movie it was.

      Mother said, “It’s called Sunset Boulevard.”

      Lindsey