“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 really going to speak to Matthew Wansborough,” I said. “If he goes to the cops right away, my name will come up and that’d leave all sides distressed, me because I don’t have any solid answers and the police because they’ll conclude I’m holding out on them.”
“Holding out what?”
“That’s the point,” I said. “Give me a couple more days and maybe I’ll have explanations to deliver.”
“Wansborough’s bound to get word of Alice’s death some time very soon,” Annie said.
“Well, he’s family,” I said. “Somebody’ll call him. Even if not, the murder’s going to catch tonight’s news for everyone to see and hear and feast upon.”
“Imagine what the Sun’s going to do with the story tomorrow.”
“Take a guess at the headline.”
Annie thought for a moment.
“‘Sexy Socialite Slain’.”
“The proper alliteration,” I said. “Don’t know about the sexy.”
“We’re talking about a newspaper that measures sexiness on the Sunshine Girl standard,” Annie said. “By comparison, Alice Brackley is a knockout. Was.”
“How about ‘Annex Asks Action On Attacker’?”
Annie said, “That’s for the follow-up story later in the week.”
Annie was past the first shock of the news of Alice’s death, and time,
