The Big Bout Page 8

“Not really. Lotta blood on it. Part of it hidden by the pillow.”

  “But you could tell it was Jeff Bennett?”

  “I couldn’t,” he said.

  “Who said that’s who it was?”

  “I heard a lotta people say it. Maid. Manager. Cops.”

  Though he had yet to say a word, I could tell David Howell was focused on the conversation. His quiet concentration was palpable.

  “You couldn’t because you couldn’t see enough of his face, or because it didn’t look like him?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Just looked different to me. Maybe it was being dead or the blast from the gun . . . but I didn’t think it was him.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Thanks Francis.”

  “But it was him. Everything in the room was his––hell, his name was on most of it. And everyone else said it was him. I just . . .”

  “Whose room was it?”

  “Was supposed to be empty.”

  “So why’d the maid go in?” Howell asked.

  He shrugged. “They check ’em and freshin’ ’em up every few days when they’re not bein’ used. Maybe that, but I don’t know for sure.”

  “She still here?” Howell asked.

  “Sent her home.”

  I withdrew a five and slipped it to him. “Nicely done,” I said. “Keep it up.”

  “Whatta you think?” Howell asked.

  We were still standing in the back corner of the lobby. Frances had just hurried off to help an arriving couple with their luggage.

  I shrugged. “Not sure what to make of it. Might not have been able to tell even if we had gotten to see the body, but I would’ve liked the chance.”

  He nodded. “The whole thing is . . .”

  I waited for him to say something else, to finish the thought, but he never did.

  “Plenty that’s off,” I said. “Question is whether it just seems that way because of how little we know or if the more we find out the more off it will become.”

  “Was thinkin’ there for a minute that he had been shot in the face to cover up who it really was,” he said, “but guess that’s not the case after all.”

  “Won’t know for sure until we see the body. Think you can arrange that?”

  He nodded. “Shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Anything Butch is within a mile of is a problem.”

  Before he could respond, a middle-aged man carrying a briefcase stepped over.

  He was wide and thick without being fat exactly.

  “Mr. Riley?” he said.

  I nodded.

  “I’m Pierce Ames,” he said. “I’m––or rather was––Harry Lewis’s attorney. Well, I guess I still am. I just meant . . . I now work for the estate. It’s absolutely urgent that I speak to Mrs. Lewis. I’m told you might be able to help with that.”

  “I might,” I said.

  “I’m gonna go see if I can find out what’s going on,” Howell said, “and see if I can get us a look at that body. I’ll let you two talk.”

  He walked away.

  “What’s this about?” I asked.

  “I understand the Lewises weren’t on the best of terms when Mr. Lewis died, but . . . if he ever had any intention of doing something about it––”

  “Oh, he had plenty of intention.”

  “Well he didn’t get around to it.”

  “He got around to plenty, pal. Trust me on that.”

  “She stands to . . . ah . . . inherit a great deal. Harry––ah, Mr. Lewis––never made a new will. She gets it all. And all is a lot.”

  I was suddenly and inexplicably angry with this attorney.

  He was giving me some genuinely good news, but that was not how I was hearing it. All I could think about was all the trouble Harry had caused us, all the trouble his money would if given the chance.

  He withdrew his card from his coat pocket and handed it to me.

  “Can you help?”

  “I might be able to,” I said.

  “I want to reiterate: It’s good news. It’s an inheritance. A huge one. That’s it. Nothing more. Nothing else.”

  The front door flung open and Kay Hudson rushed in, her eyes frantically scanning the lobby.

  “Excuse me,” I said to Ames. “I’ll be in touch.”

  When Kay’s wild eyes landed on me, she ran over to me.

  “Is it true?”

  “Breathe,” I said, touching her shoulder with my hand. “Take a breath, try to calm down, and listen very carefully to what I’m saying.”

  She took in a deep breath, let it out in a long, loud sigh, and attempted to settle down.

  “We don’t know who it is,” I said. “There is a body, but I haven’t seen it yet, and there’s conflicting information about the identity.”

  “But it could be him?”

  “It’s possible,” I said, “but it’s just as possible it’s not. I know it’s difficult, but if you can just wait until we know before you––”

  “I knew this was going to happen,” she said. “I knew it. Where’s the body? I can help with the ID.”

  “It’s not here,” I said. “Already been removed.”

  “Well, take me to where it is. I can––”

  “Miss Hudson, I have to tell you,” I said, “your reaction doesn’t strike me as that of a concerned colleague.”

  “What?”

  “Have you been having an affair with Jeff? Are you two . . .”

  “No,” she said. “I swear it. We’ve never even touched beyond a handshake. Any concern is for both Jeff and his wife. Any idea where she is? How she is?”

  “Not yet, no,” I said, “but I’m working on it.”

  She had visibly calmed down now, her strength and self-possession having returned.

  David Howell walked back over and I introduced them.

  “Miss Hudson is a colleague of Jeff and Rebecca’s and has offered to identify the body if we need her to.”

  “That would be helpful,” he said. “It’ll be a while before we can do it, but I’ll set it up.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  While waiting to meet David Howell and Kay Hudson at the morgue, Lauren and I paid a visit to the law office of Pierce Ames.

  His office was located in the back of Harry’s bank. Thankfully, there was a side door that led straight in so we didn’t have to walk past Harry’s old office or be exposed out in the open for more than a moment.

  After pulling up and parking on the curb right in front of the door, I jumped out, checked the area, then got Lauren out and rushed her across the few steps of the sidewalk and through the door.

  “Thank you so much for coming,” Ames said. “So good of you to bring her.”

  He had met us in the small outer office occupied by his secretary.

  “If you’d like to have a seat out here,” he said to me, “this shouldn’t take long. Brenda here will be happy to get you some coffee or––”

  “Jimmy’s coming in with us,” Lauren said.

  Her voice was strong and firm, but there wasn’t anything emotional in it. She was just stating a fact, not arguing a point or responding to a slight.

  “Are you sure?” Ames said. “This is––”

  “We really don’t have long,” Lauren said. “We need to get on with this.”

  “Of course,” he said. “As you wish.”

  There was something about Ames, a sort of prissiness and formality and inauthenticity that I found annoying. Of course, in fairness, I found this entire ordeal annoying and angry-making, so that may have contributed to my dislike of the man.

  When we were seated in his office––him behind his too-large desk, us in the two chairs in front of it––he looked at the file folder on his desk, then at Lauren.

  I wondered if he had anything to do with Harry’s depravity and criminality or his plot to denigrate and destroy Lauren.

  “What all did you do for Harry Lewis?” I asked.

  “This is it,” he said. “Just his will.
He had a variety of attorneys for a variety of interests. I specialize in wills and last testaments, that sort of thing.”

  It occurred to me that as difficult as I was finding this, Lauren may have been even more so.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  She was seated to the right of me, so I had to reach across my body with my left to touch her on the back, an awkward movement for a simple gesture of support.

  She nodded, her eyes narrowing slightly as they found mine.

  “Well then,” Ames said. “Let’s get to it, shall we?”

  He looked at the open folder on his desk again, then closed it––and something about it looked rehearsed.

  “The simple fact is you get everything, Mrs. Lewis,” he said. “Not to put too fine a point on it. All his property, including your lovely home on the bay, all his stocks and bonds, his life insurance, his CDs, all the cash in his accounts. Everything. It’s an old will, and though he had expressed a desire to make another, he never actually did.”

  “I thought he had,” Lauren said. “I thought . . .”

  “The estate is worth in excess of three and a half million dollars,” he said. “You are a very wealthy woman. The wealthiest in town, in fact. My guess is that Lady Bird Bennett is second, but I bet she barely has over a million.”

  With this last statement some of his affect fell away and more of the real Pierce Ames became visible.

  “Congratulations, Mrs. Lewis,” he said. “I have quite a few documents I need you to sign but I’m afraid all of them are not ready yet. But you’re welcome back in the house––I assume you’re not staying there because I’ve tried calling on you there several times––and I can get you a line of credit at the bank in any amount you like.”

  “Can we have a moment?” Lauren said. “Would you mind excusing us for––”

  “Of course,” he said, tripping over himself to get up and get out of his own office because the newly wealthy lady wished it so.

  When he had closed the door behind him, she turned to me.

  “Wow,” she said, exhaling a long sigh. “I just can’t . . . This is so unexpected.”

  I didn’t say anything, just listened, just let her process what had just happened.

  “I guess all our financial worries are over,” she said.

  “Don’t kid yourself,” I said.

  “I just meant . . .”

  “I know,” I said, “but this is the beginning not the end of worries and troubles. They may be different than the ones you have now, but there will be far more of them and they will be far more intense.”

  “You?” she said.

  “Huh?”

  “You said you not we.”

  “It’s your money.”

  “We’re a we,” she said. “It’s not my money. It’s ours. I’m yours. You’re mine. We’re . . .”

  “None of this is easy for me,” I said. “I’m sorry if I’m not saying or doing the right things.”

  “You’re not saying or doing anything wrong,” she said. “This isn’t easy for me either.”

  I nodded.

  I realized I was feeling much more than I was expressing to her, that I apologized for not saying or doing the right things because of what I was feeling.

  “What is it?” she said. “Tell me.”

  “Can we talk about it later?” I asked. “I really need to get to the morgue for the identification.”

  “Okay,” she said, “but could you at least tell me a little? Give me something.”

  “I could never live in Harry’s house.”

  “I wouldn’t ask you to,” she said. “I couldn’t live there either.”

  I nodded.

  “What else?”

  “It can wait.”

  “Tell me,” she said.

  “I want nothing to do with Harry’s money. Nothing.”

  “It’s not Harry’s money anymore. It’s ours. Think of all the good we can do with it. Think of the––”

  “I can’t right now,” I said. “I really need to go.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  “Are you sure you’re okay to do this?” I asked.

  I was standing in a small, sterile hallway inside the morgue with Kay Hudson.

  She nodded.

  I wanted to watch her reaction to viewing the body, but I also felt for her and didn’t want to be inhumane––even regarding a task she insisted on undertaking.

  David Howell had gone to get someone to help us with the viewing.

  “I have to know,” she said. “Have to see for myself. I just can’t believe he’s dead. And if he is, where is Becky? What has happened to her? We’ve got to find her, got to––”

  “We will.”

  When Howell rejoined us he looked even more somber than before.

  “I’m sorry,” he said to Kay, “but I’m afraid it is him. No need to identify the body. His mother did it about half an hour ago.”

  “So it’s him,” she said. “He’s . . . really . . .”

  She seemed genuinely upset but not overly so––not nearly as undone as she was earlier at the Dixie.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “We’ve got to find Becky,” she said. “Poor thing. She . . .”

  “His wife is missing too?” Howell asked.

  I nodded. “Seems so.”

  “I still want to see him,” Kay said. “Still have to. Won’t really believe he’s dead until I do, and since I’m already here anyway . . .”

  Howell looked at me.

  I gave him a small shrug and a nod.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll go set it up.”

  “That’s not him,” she said.

  The mortician had just pulled back the sheet, folding it down to reveal the face of the body on the table.

  The room was bright, white, and cold.

  The mortician was a weary-looking middle-aged man, tall and egg-headed, his pallor running to gray.

  “What?” Howell said.

  “That’s not him. That’s not Jeff Bennett. Only looks like him a little. Did you pull out the wrong body?”

  “Ma’am,” the mortician said, “I assure you this is the right body.”

  “And I assure you, this is not Jeff Bennett.”

  “Perhaps in death his appearance has altered to the point of––”

  “This is not Jeff Bennett.”

  “His mother says it is.”

  Kay looked over at me. “Well, then she’s lying. I don’t know why she is, but she is.”

  I nodded. “We’ll find out.”

  “What possible reason would Lady Bird Bennett have for lying about her son?” the mortician asked.

  “You’re absolutely sure?” Howell asked her.

  “His calf,” she said. “His right calf. He’s got a long cut that runs the length of it from a rusty wire fence in Burma. He tried to jump it while we were there covering the war recently and a barb ripped open his skin nearly all the way down his calf.”

  “Can we see his calf?” Howell asked.

  “What will it prove?” the mortician said. “Whether it’s there or not. . .”

  He moved around to the right side of the table and expertly folded back the sheet to reveal only the right leg––and not even all of it. He then turned the pale leg just enough to reveal most of the calf.

  There was no cut.

  “See?” she said. “She’s lying. That’s not Jeff’s leg. This is not Jeff Bennett. Something is very much amiss.”

  “Whatta you think?” David Howell asked.

  We were in the hallway, near the same spot where Kay and I had stood before. She was in the restroom. We were waiting for her.

  “Someone’s lying,” I said.

  He looked at me quizzically, as if he couldn’t quite tell whether I was being serious or not.

  I was tempted to smile, but I didn’t.

  “Insightful,” he said.

  Points for Dave. I wasn’t sure he had it in him.

 
“It’s a gift.”

  “Any insight into which one is lying and why?”

  I shook my head. “Even my gifts have their limitations.”

  “Guess it’s not possible one of ’em is just mistaken,” he said.

  “Hard to see how,” I said.

  “If it’s really not Jeff Bennett,” he said, “then not only do we still have to find him but we need to figure out who this guy is and who killed him too.”

  “What’re you, a cop or something?”

  Kay Hudson returned and we began walking out of the building, Howell and I both careful to check the area outside before we did––though she didn’t seem to notice.

  “How much does the body in there resemble Jeff?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “Some.”

  “Enough for a distraught mother to misidentify her son?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “Absolutely not.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  When we left the morgue, Kay and I drove over to the Cove to Lady Bird Bennett’s while Howell went back to the station to check in with Folsom.

  To no one’s surprise, Mrs. Bennett refused to see us.

  “Tell her we only need a moment,” Kay said.

  We were standing outside the enormous front door, which had just been opened slightly a second time for the maid to tell us that the lady of the house would be unable to see us just then.

  “Ma’am,” the maid said, “she’s just lost her son. She is unable to––”

  “But––”

  “We’ll come back another time,” I said.

  “Please make an appointment first, sir.”

  “Why you little––” Kay began.

  “We certainly will,” I said. “Thank––”

  She closed the large door with a loud reverberating thud before I could finish.

  “See?” Kay said. “She won’t see us because she knows I know that’s not Jeff.”

  “Or she thinks her only son is dead and she’s too upset.”

  Walking back to the car, I noticed the chauffeur over near the garage working on one of Lady Bird’s vehicles––a different one from the ’42 black Nash Ambassador I had seen before.

  “Go ahead and get in the car,” I said to Kay. “I’ll be right back.”