The Case of the Rich Man's Wife

My thoughts turned to the first time Estelle and I met. Her seductive nature nearly lured me, and I wondered what that sweet threesome with her and her remarkable husband would have been. In the night, we'd have ended up, all elbows and asses, in an oversized bed. A tangle of arms, legs, and torsos wound so tight together you couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.

You have to understand if a woman was a dyke, so be it. Far more acceptable for women to be homosexual than men. Even so, when the barn door swung both directions, society didn't turn a blind eye. No, you see, charges would've been filed if the coppers found out.

How Estelle avoided being the subject of other gossip columnist articles, I hadn't a clue. Well, yes, I understood how, if they reported on Estell, they'd be goners. She destroyed her enemies in a heartbeat; her viciousness made anyone think twice. Fear kept her cohorts in line. For Estell was a skirt, no one wanted for an enemy.

Her warning sounded ominous. Why was she so worried? Trying to shake off the bizarre impression Estelle gave me, I paced around my office. At last, I ended up at my window staring down at the street. The noise from the road muted clamor. However, a soft mumbling made a home through the glass.

The always-busy city appeared like a seething anthill. Commerce was the life's blood of the island.

Couldn't help myself from wondering what happened in the park today. Knowing I'd miss walking about the visitors in Central Park that day. Children were playing despite the heat of late summer. Children, how I loved seeing the buggers play. Often, I yearned for what I would never have.

As my English friend says, gazing over the road, I caught the show. A businessman boning his secretary. He pounded the stuffing out of her. With her legs spread, she took what he gave, returning the favor with zeal. They screwed together in an oversized chair. I wondered how loud the creaks, groans, and scrapings of the chair sounded?

How long I stood staring out the window, I hadn't a clue. Some action below grabbed my attention when three cars pulled up outside. The middle vehicle happened to be the same make and color which picked up the hooker a few hours before. From the bright yellow roadster, Mr. Alistair Cranston Randolph exited the middle motorcar. While what I took for bodyguards got out of the other two.

I reconnoitered as they walked up to the building under me. Lost from my sight, I realized the trio would make their way to the elevators and my office in a short time. After careful consideration, I decided I should pose myself for effect.

Buzzing Aaron, I gave him instructions to hit the buzzer when they arrived. With a strict order, Aaron should escort Mr. Randolph into my office and only Mr. Randolph. After Aaron left, I sat at the small table off to the left of my desk. Pulling my dress up, I crossed my legs for maximum effect. The plan ensured Aaron would take notes for me. Without a doubt, I heeded Estelle's warning.

The buzz happened much faster than I expected. I made the most of the time afforded me. Pulling a king-size, I tapped down my coffin nail as the door opened. Aaron ushered Mr. Randolph into the room. Before speaking, I lit the smoke.

"Mr. Randolph," I said, stayed seated, and extended my hand. Acting the gentleman, he ambled to me and gave me a slight shake of my hand. "Please be seated," moving my hand to show him the oversized leather chair on the other side of the table, "I thought this far better for our chat than across a desk."

The wealthy man settled into his place, stared at me with an intense, pained grimace. At first, Randolph struggled to put words together. As he moved about, the old leather made a familiar sound, which one may mistake for something not so polite.

He started to speak, stopped, and gaped at me, mouth open, nothing coming forth.

With uneasy eyes, he studied me. Adjusting himself, he moved to the edge of the chair. With his pudgy fingers, Alistair Cranston Randolph rolled the weed using deliberate care. The man rolled the paper with dexterity, which comes from much practice. Placing his roll-your-own into the corner of his mouth, he extracted a packet of matches from his pocket. Lifting the cover, Alistair bent a match downward, closed the cover, and stuck the paper stick with his thumb on the rough patch. After he lit the grasper, he turned his attention back to me.

Whatever he wanted to say wouldn't come. Some dark secret he needed to tell but couldn't. Something like, "I beat the living daylights out of my wife, and now she's run away from me." Only he'd never admit such a thing.

While he did all this, I composed myself and, in due time, spoke.

"With diligence, I have read all you sent me, and I am prepared to accept the case. What I need to understand, in a nutshell, is what you expect and what aid you can provide. Please, have no hesitation talking to me, sir!" I told him.

What a grand sight he made. The millionaire's clothing spoke volumes as Randolph's suit was blue silk, a double-breasted design, new and custom-made. The Brooks Brothers, no doubt, had made him the outfit perhaps only days before. With his pull, the last of the line, Winthrop Brooks, himself might have tailored the clothing for him. The suit had a new, fresh from the box appearance.

"First, let me say this, I need her found, with promptitude," he peered at me with a stony stare as ice water ran through my veins. Whether his expression or the warnings from Estelle caused my chill, I couldn't say for sure. I nodded my understanding.

Whether Randolph told me things I needed to understand, or he wanted to impart to me for effect, I couldn't say. What he sold was his concern. For the world, Mr. Alistair Cranston Randolph reminded me of a used car salesman, taking pains constructing the story about the little old lady who only drove the car to church on Sundays. Alistair worked in about how upset their son would be if he figured his mother was missing.

The 12-year-old lad was off at boarding school. Causing me to wonder how much concern either of them had if they shoved the child off to preparatory school at his age. The couple had another son, their youngest, a one-year-old. Who was taking care of him?

He spoke of love. The man talked of his concern for her safety. The third richest man in America jabbered about how he needed to be confident his wife was safe. Randolph spoke of how much he wanted to find her. Out of the blue, he added an unexpected warning.

"Not standing on ceremony, Miss Drummond, you come with solid recommendations. Making no bones about this, I selected you, as much, because you are a woman, as the references. But I caution you to be careful, ma'am. For my wife is a dangerous woman."

"What do you mean?"

My gut screamed at me, "Liar," this is not what he presented the situation to be, smoke and mirrors. Whatever he wanted her for, he fed me a line of crap as deep as the Grand Canyon. The tiny hairs on the back of my neck sprang to attention, backing up my gut-assessment.

Over the past few minutes, Alistair Randolph's agitation became apparent. He scrawled the second number on the back of my card and pushed it into one of his coat pockets.

I allowed him to believe I bought the dog and pony show, hook, line, and sinker. Knowing, not so much from what he said to me, but rather from what he didn't. Without question, Randolph's concern wasn't for his wife's safety.

Sure, I'd find her, but not for him. No, I'd locate her and help her. Whatever this was, she was not safe around this man. As we finished, he stood and stepped toward me. Following suit, I stood as well. We shook hands. The man's hands were strong and rough, not a normal condition for a rich man's hands, or so I imagined.

Walking toward the door, Randolph pulled out a sizeable well-stuffed envelope and threw the thing across the table in front of my assistant, careening upward the object headed for Aaron. With a quick move, he ducked to avoid being struck in the face by the bulky missile. Aaron appeared both shocked and angered by Alistair Cranston Randolph's perceived insult. The man's following words backed up Aaron's perception.

"This is the retainer, boy! The retainer of $10,000 as agreed," he said to Aaron, sneering back over his shoulder at me as he put on his hat. Randolph adjusted his fedora as he marched towards the door, still adjusting his hat.

As an afterthought, I realized, something personal triggered his anger. Whether directed at Aaron or me, I can't be sure. And I pondered if Randolph knew something about Aaron.

"His name is Aaron, not boy!" I said. Speaking in a loud, aggressive manner to the only human-sized prick in the room.

"Okay, so next time I'll call him, Aaron," he said. "Don't take my actions wrong, lady. Today, I'm all nerves, and I didn't mean any offense. Pay no mind to my bad manners. Take this down, bo … Aaron, Stillwell-2942, my Long Island home. Call if you need more information or have something to report. If I'm not there, call me at Pennsylvania-5000 room 2415. I have a permanent suite at the Pennsylvania hotel."

"Likewise," I said, "you can call me at Lorraine-6252, the office, or at my Greenwich Village home, Greenwich-2147."

Over the past few minutes, his agitation became apparent. He scrawled the second number on the back of my card and pushed it into his coat pocket. He treated me to another sneer, turned, and passed through the door as the bodyguards leaped to their feet.

"What an obnoxious piece of shit," I thought. Through my open office door, I viewed Mr. Randolph and the paid gorillas as they left. Yes, sir, the case stunk, and none of this felt right. Nothing about this case, not one thing at all, made any sense. The manure he ladled on me reeked.

"Well, he is different. I guess being rich, you can afford to be offbeat." Aaron said, eyeing the bulging package in his hand. "Wow, 10,000 bucks, what a retainer."

"Blood money, Aaron."

"Blood money?" he said.

"Yes, her blood in exchange for the money," I replied. Raising an eyebrow, "Put the money in my safe, do not deposit it or take any currency from the bundle. I have to figure this out." Rubbing my forehead, lost in thought. Speaking words but not talking to Aaron so much as thinking aloud.

My back still throbbed. Not bad, but enough to not let me forget the bullet wedged into my spine. Shot twice years before, one slug robbed me of a part of my future. The other lodged at the base of my spinal column pressing in between two vertebrae.

The doctors, at the time, believed the thing, too, close to the nerves of my legs to be removed. The scar tissue behind the slug spread. This growth pressed the slug, keeping it on its trajectory, pushing the lead, ever deeper, into my backbone. Threatening to rob me of more. But someday, in the future, for the moment, I suffered discomfort.

"Applesauce and horse-feathers, I need some dick," I said. "Aaron, sweetheart, go lock the office door, and come in here, lock this door. We need some privacy."

"We're going to have fun, now?"

****

The fumbling from the day before vanished. With a smoothness, we undressed one another, tumbling into the oversized sofa. Meshing together, him below and I above, we went straight into making love.

Riding him like a stallion. Until our mouths and tongues became one, and our bodies bonded into a mishmash of contorted perfection. With Aaron's hands roaming over me, I gasped as I heaved on him. Each of our motions, met by the other's counter-movement in unison. With our breathing wild and rasping, our bodies jostled in passions bliss.

For over twenty minutes, we humped, bucked, and tussled on the squeaking, creaking leather. Relishing in our greedy needs, consuming one another, in a horizontal foxtrot or tango. The voluptuous dance climaxed as we both orgasmed as one. Never had I so matched another, not in the act or the climax. Something deeper than hankering, more profound than desire, flooded me.

Pounding our bodies together, the slapping of sweaty flesh against sweaty flesh produced a sweet, lecherous symphony. All through our tryst, I pondered if the printer next door listened to the prurient commotion through our shared wall.

As I near climax, emotions flare, volcanic, burning passion, deep abiding ravenousness needs and the thing one doesn't contemplate. The word every man fears, every woman requires, the word which makes the world go round, a deep selfless emotion which builds and destroys in equal measures, overwhelmed me. Oh, dear God, NO!

Might this be love, or if I'm blessed, only lechery in masquerade?

Interlocked, like the parts of a jigsaw puzzle fitted together, cuddling on the couch, breathless, clutching, refusing to yield our time together, just, yet.

"Hot diggity dog, I thought, for a minute or two, I'd bought the farm. The whole thing's like death, or what I think death is like."

"Cool down, baby," I said. Dismounting him, I turned away and moved to the bathroom. "Screwing is fun, gobbledygook, baby, nothing important." Downplaying what we experienced. A simple detail, I had no time for love. Gumshoes don't make decent spouses. Not a cold-hearted bitch of a private dick like me, at least.

Besides, I don't like any more complications in my life than necessary. Love, friendship, and relationships always have difficulties, a-plenty.

Chapter Four

Doing the work, I dogged around all morning talking to friends of Florence Randolph. Speaking with mechanics, hairdressers, and the florist she used. Finding out little from my efforts, they either knew nothing or were unwilling to tell me anything. I determined to protect the woman. Letting each person realize I wanted to find her and protect her. Not mentioning her husband at all, I waited for them to give me a clue.

Thick and saturated like the humidity of August, silence hung in the air. All the while, I interrogated family friends, associates of her or her husband, finding nada. A nothingness returned, filling my mind with a smokescreen, which further clouded the issue.

Growing used to the blank stares, I began to wonder if Florence Randolph existed, a'tall. She might be, I suppose, a figment of someone's imagination. Pressing home, the notion I wanted to help her bought me nothing. It was as if the woman didn't matter to them. No one told me anything. Well, no one until I interviewed her personal maid.

First I spoke to her on the phone, we arranged a meeting. The Park, near the roadway, where it goes under one of the arched bridges. The one near a large pond. Arriving early, I parked the Stutz, sat on the bumper, breathing cigarette smoke while I waited.

After a bit, I heard a car stop, a door opened and closed. Focusing on the arch, I saw a paisley sleeve and arm protruding at the far end. In a moment, red curly hair and an eye followed the arm. Stepping out, she strolled toward me. In short order, she stopped and stood next to my Bearcat.

A tall, flexible, and slender young woman stared at me, without angularity about her body, standing erect, as one expects of a servant. The lady wore two shades of green, with one shade matching her eyes. The woman's dark red hair curled in ringlets about her long, thin face, and her full lips were a glistening, ruby red. Despite her bright lipstick, she appeared an attractive but timid soul.

"So, you're a woman P.I," she said. "Didn't know private eye's really existed, and not women in the game at all. Thought if they were real, they were slippery, little men sticking their noses in where they don't belong."

"I'm a real, live private eye," I said.

She put her hand on the hood of my car, flashed a sheepish smile, and moved one long, red curl from in front of her eye.

"How did you like Mr. Randolph?"

"Not much," I said.

"He's not, so, bad, maybe a bad day when you met him."

"If you say so," I said.

"You gonna turn her over to her husband or the cops?" the young woman asked me.

"What? Why would I turn her over to the cops?" I said.

"Her husband, then?"

"Not my plan. No, I don't think I will," I said, gazing into the woman's eyes with a harsh intensity, hoping to reveal some detail in her meaning.

"What's best to say? Let me say, this much and no more. The woman's safe where she is and doesn't want to be found. Figuring, you ought to worry about Mr. Alistair Randolph more and her less. As for me, I'm leaving this bloody city." The trembling in her voice was unmistakable. "I have to find a place where I won't be found by either of them. The thing is, you don't realize what darkness is till someone turns out the lights."

What a curious thing for her to say.

"I want to help her and protect her. Why does Mr. Randolph want her? Other than because she is his wife, why is finding her so important to him? Why does he think she needs to be found fast?"

"Cause the truth is dangerous. And God's word, he appreciates the truth won't set him free. I realize the truth, too, and this truth will kill me if I don't get away from their reach. You don't understand what you think you understand. Lady, best leave things alone because you don't want to find her."

"What truth?" I asked and still comprehended she would say nothing to help.

"I'll give you one more thing; God help me, She with Tommy Antonio. In the old days, he was her lover."

All at once, fortune favored me, and I discovered something vital. Well, how interesting, the runaway wife had a previous lover. A former lover of hers might be the key. Did I catch sight of light at the end of the tunnel? If luck held, the lover had some knowledge or hid her himself. Lovers, they're your best friends and worst enemies, providing you strength and weakness. No one is more vulnerable than when they have another person to worry about.

The woman turned and strode away, clambering into a car with her husband. The couple sped away. I couldn't help but speculate what they were running from. How was I going to find Florence Randolph, with everyone so tight-lipped?

What in the Sam-hill frightened everyone, and what dark secret of Mr. Randolph's did they keep? How might Randolph hold such sway over so many innocent people? Neither my promise to protect Florence Randolph nor the lure of money would extract anything from any of them.

What I found out today; wouldn't be a sip from a soda bottle. Florence Randolph ran from the Randolph mansion four days before with only the clothes on her back and her roadster. Her husband and his "Henchmen" searched for her for days before contacting me. They broke into the homes of her friends. All their efforts bought them nothing.

I sought her. The lack of fruit for my efforts told me she tried hard to stay lost. Her husband endeavored so hard to find her spoke to his desperation. Their upsetting, too, many people before I entered the case didn't help me either. I needed to talk to one specific person who might have information and not be, too, afraid to share. Without a hint of who the person was.

Like a goldfish swimming round and round in a fishbowl, I went round and round looking for a clue. The word pointless comes to mind. Sometimes in life, everything is meaningless. In my life, I reached the point where I questioned my life choice. As I ambled back to my car, the thought of futility vanished, surprising how my car could remind me who I was. After all, I'm J.J. Drummond's daughter.

My cream-colored, 1927 Stutz Bearcat belonged to my father. Neither of us ever gave up on anything worthwhile.

Uncle Frank would help. Dropping a nickel, "Operator, connect me circle- 4811."

"That's a police department, ma'am."

"Yes, I know."

"Sixth Precinct," a man said.