it’s just that—”
“You’re blonde and beautiful,” I cut in, my voice jumping a little. “Your chassis would put you in the front row of the chorus or set you up as a free-lance model if you had to make a living, but this wagon we’re sporting around in says you don’t need the dough. Which brings us to your point—you’re not the type that has to hire boy friends. Now let’s see about that coffee, shall we?”
“I’m sorry, Marty. It did sound cheap, I guess.”
I looked hard at her and ran my hand over the soft gray leather of the big Cadillac. The idea trying to form itself in my mind for the last half hour finally took shape and this wasn’t my day to be coy.
“Kiddo,” I said softly, “could this all be a gag? A lot of people with too much money and not enough amusement and one of them says, ‘Why doesn’t someone bring up a private eye next weekend? We’ll give him something to investigate just for laughs. We’ll have us a ball.’ If that’s the way it is, Kate, just say the word. We’ll scoot back to San Fernando and pick up a double-billed cap and give ’em a real belly laugh.” I watched her face, saw the sudden flush of anger, edged by a hint of fear.
“Of course not, Marty. Mr. Gregory assured me that you’d be specially careful not to let anyone know. You were to go as a friend.”
“Then why not keep all the mystery on the other side? Just between friends, what’s wrong up here? So far all I’ve got to go on is that someone called Sandy Engle hasn’t been going out much lately, and that there’s always a flock of guests.”
Kate ran a slow hand over her temple, then let the hand fall to her lap and pluck nervously at the band of her tiny watch.
“Marty, there are really two things at the Engle Ranch that just don’t add up. First there’s Sandy—Mrs. Engle. I’ve known her ever so long, since we were children, and she’s the type that loves to see and be seen, as the phrase has it, and yet in the two—” She broke off as the screen door of the café slammed. A man and woman came heavily down the wooden steps. I felt Kate stiffen against the leather seat.
“The Pilchers,” she whispered. “They’ll probably be guests up there this weekend. I’ve seen them there twice.”
They were both big people, though not too many years over thirty. The woman gave us a quick glance, faltered as recogniton came to her, then went on without a word. She was brown haired and going to hips and might have looked a little less pudgy in something that fit rather than straining the seams of a dress two sizes too small. But it wasn’t a cheap dress.
Her husband did a double take when he saw the blonde beside me, then ambled our way. He had a red baseball cap cocked back at a jaunty angle, a toothpick between his thick lips, and a brothers-in-misery sneer on his kisser. He folded his elbows across the chrome window trim on the Cad, shifted his toothpick a little and grinned at the girl.
“Hell of a note, isn’t it, Miss Weston?”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand, Mr. Pilcher,” Kate said evenly. “You said something like that once before, up at the ranch, but really I—”
The brotherly grin turned to a sarcastic look and he backed off from the Cad.
“Hell, I forgot. You’re the one that comes up here to smell the sagebrush. ‘Scuse me all to hell.”
I slid out of the big car and went around just as he was working his fat can behind the wheel of his Pontiac. I pulled the door out of his hand and put a foot along the floor trim.
“Getting a little near-sighted, aren’t you neighbor? That was a lady you were talking to.” I said it softly and waited. Chubby squinted up at me, his eyes shifting over me as he weighed the possibilities. I didn’t think I ought to leave any doubt in his mind. I gathered a handful of shirt, gave it a half twist and hauled him out onto the gravel, then let him straighten up. He stood there blowing hard breaths through his thick lips and I measured him with a watchful eye because there’s no point in leaving yourself open for the sucker punch. If he so much as tightened a face muscle I was going to hang one on him. He looked away, turned back, didn’t see any change in my eyes, and faced the big Cad.
“Sorry—Miss Weston. I made a mistake,” he said.
I watched him wiggle back into his car, fire it up, back around and gun out onto the highway. He headed north and disappeared around a bend as I opened the car door for Kate.
I grinned. “I still want that coffee, Kate.”
We found a booth. A tired gent in a white shirt and apron was busy cutting the day’s delivery of pies near the front. Kate and I settled, ordered coffee when the man came over, watched him leave, and looked across at each other.
“Thanks, Marty. I’m not sure you should have, but thanks.”
“You were going to tell me a couple of things that were out of step up at the ranch,” I reminded her. “The first had to do with Sandy Engle.” I shook a couple of cigarettes loose and held the pack across the table, then struck a mach from the folder on the ashtray. She puffed quickly and glanced nervously toward the distant waiter.
“Well—it looks like you got the second part first. As guests at the ranch, Pilcher isn’t the exception, he’s the rule. They all have one thing in common. They resent being there. They give the impression they are forced to come and bullied into making believe they like it.”
Two
THE WAITER brought two steaming cups, slid one in front of me, made a production of arranging the other for Kate and went reluctantly back to subdividing his pies. I offered sugar, tipped a half spoon into my own cup and gave it a slow round-and-round.
“That brings us to me, Kate,” I said quietly. “I haven’t asked to be invited either—but what about you? You’re a guest up there quite often, or so you say.” I made it sound like a question. Two blue eyes caught mine and held on, and when she spoke her voice asked for a small measure of confidence.
“Would I hire you to find out something I already know?”
I didn’t answer but I remembered a couple of years back a blonde babe pushing thirty, trim and wearing forty dollars worth of bathing suit, came down to the plunge in one of those swank Las Vegas hotel pools. I had the duty and this chick decided to take a few lessons. She started out by sputtering and thrashing the water and in half an hour I had her paddling across the pool. I was feeling real proud of myself until it crossed my mind that she’d learned just a little too fast and it came out later that this was one hell of a way from her first dip. There was something about her being on the 1948 Olympic swimming team and we had a good laugh over it in the bar later that evening. Looking across at Kate, I reminded myself not to bite down too hard on everything she handed out. It might not all be candy.
I sipped hot brown coffee and sifted a few possibilities, then leaned forward and swept salt and pepper shakers, the sugar bowl, ashtray, and napkin holder over to the wall. Except for our cups that cleared the table.
“Let’s dive in and get wet all the way, Kate,” I said. “You think something is off the beat up at the Engle ranch. Okay, we’ll start with what we have and see where it leads us. So far we’ve agreed that people don’t want to go up there but they do go and what’s more, they try to make believe they like it. But not you. Right? You’re not in the general setup.”
