A Slap Dash Mystery Part 3

She was a thoroughly disagreeable woman, from her purposefully frizzy brown hair to her thoroughly sensible black shoes. In fact, her shoes were the only things sensible about her, I later found out. She fawned over Pretty-boy the moment she saw him again, and cast a look of utter contempt at me when I arrived on his heels. The feeling was instantly mutual.

"Who is this?" she said down her nose at me while addressing Pretty-boy.

"My...partner," he told her, and I definitely noticed the hesitation. "He's helping me."

She sniffed, but made it clear she would tolerate me, then asked him if that meant he really was going to take the case. As he assured her he was, I took the opportunity to study her carefully. She was as tall as he, her body thick and straight, her face round. Her clothes were simple, a floral blouse over a pleated skirt of green. For some reason, she wore white gloves that cuffed at the wrists. Her eyes were dark, almost black, under brows that were plucked and artificially arched to a ludicrous degree. Freckles dotted her cheeks, and her mouth was a droll little bow, and she had an expression of perpetual disappointment with the world in general, and short people in particular, judging by the glares she kept throwing at me. And, for all of that, or despite it, I had the feeling I knew her from somewhere, though the where eluded me.

Pretty-boy stammered somewhat under the attention she was giving him. I had the feeling I was there to help him out with more than just the case. If I wasn't there, that woman would probably throw herself at him, and the fact that Pretty-boy realized that elevated my estimation of his intelligence. A little bit, anyway. I still couldn't help but watch his reactions to her constant flirting, and in chuckling over his demise, I missed out on what they were saying. I was still lost when Pretty-boy abruptly turned to me and desperately said, "Isn't that right, Partner?"

"Hmn?" I grunted. Not my finest moment, and the woman wasn't shy about showing her contempt over it.

"It's so hard to get good help these days," she complained, looking down her nose at me. Pretty-boy gave me a stern glare, but it vanished instantly when she turned to face him, replaced with a bland smile. She sighed heavily and said, "Are you sure you need this...man?"

Pretty-boy told her, "He's pretty handy."

She turned to give me another once over, and over her shoulder, Pretty-boy gave me another urgent glare. It vanished the moment she turned back to him, saying, "Well, whatever it takes to solve this."

I gestured at him to ask her about the case, but he squinted at me fleetingly before putting his attention back on her; he didn't understand a thing I tried to tell him. So, I had to say, "Maybe you could tell us why someone wants to kill you?"

"I have no idea," she icily replied. "And, I didn't say they were trying to kill me! I said they had already killed me!

"Really, Mr Petty," she told Pretty-boy. "You have to train your assistants better than that!"

She didn't show it, but I could hear the sneer in her tone.

I couldn't let her get to me, so I gritted my teeth and observed, "That's a very particular way of putting it. Why do you say that?"

I didn't add that she looked a little like a walking corpse; it wasn't true, anyway. She wasn't pale or waxy. In fact, I had to admit, her skin had a fine tint to it. Very fleshy. A bit tight from all those facelifts, but quite nice. She might even be pleasant to look at if she would just smile once in a while.

She looked at me as if I was the dumbest person in the world. "Because," she coldly told me, "It's already been done!"

I was about to fire back when Pretty-boy intervened, making me forget what I was going to say. He said, "It's the doll thing, isn't it?"

"You have such an adorable way of putting things!" she told him with an adoring smile. I wanted to barf. "Yes. The doll!"

I scowled, not seeing the connection.

"You have such a wonderful memory!" she gushed at him. "Yes, I'd specifically booked that room months ago for this trip! But at the last second, they had to move me, and then that dreadful display went up! I think it's a warning of some sort!"

I wanted to tell her that she wasn't dead, and that we weren't conversing with a ghost, but I don't think she would have gotten the point. Besides, those big, dark eyes were fixed on Pretty-boy's big dumb pretty-boy face, and I don't think she could have pried her eyes off it long enough to answer. Besides, there was little chance that the doll was in any way linked with her.

As I thought about that, the woman moved closer to Pretty-boy and asked, "Do you think it's safe for me to be here?"

"Uh," Pretty-boy answered, and I let him flounder for a while. Thinking about the doll made me realize how little headway I'd made with that case. My internet investigation turned up little other than to shoot down a few theories...actually, all of my theories, leaving me back at square one. Detective work wasn't panning out. Luckily I had my writing career ahead if me...way, way ahead of me.

"Do you think I need a bodyguard?" she asked him huskily. I nearly choked on my own spit.

"Uh," Pretty-boy replied in a pleading whine directed my way.

"Is there anyone that wants to do you harm?" I suddenly asked, like a real investigator. I couldn't let the guy suffer for too long, could I?

She glanced at me with an expression that wished I would just go away, but then said, in a flat tone, "No one I can think of."

"And, why are you here in the hotel?" I asked, still playing up the part.

"I'm an entertainer," she told me, acting like I stank or something. "I'm here for the convention."

Call-girl? I wanted to ask. Instead, I said, "And, what do you do?"

"I'm a magician," she told me, wryly adding, "Want to disappear?"

"Maybe later," I replied with a fake smile.

She turned back to Pretty-boy, signalling the end of the interview. "Well?" she asked him. "What do you think?"

"Uh," he floundered. "About what?"

"Can you," she asked, stepping closer to him, "Help me?"

"Uh," Pretty-boy sounded broken. I needed to get him out of there.

"We'll look into things," I told her, grabbing his arm and leading him to the door. "He'll be in touch."

"When?" she asked eagerly, as if he had said it.

"Eight O'Clock," I told her. Then, taking perverse pleasure in it, I added, "Over dirnks, maybe!"

"I can't wait" she replied, and she let him leave her room.

We returned to mine, and I told him at the door, "Whatever you do, don't go anywhere at eight o'clock tonight."

"I won't," he promised. Then, he asked, "Did you mean it when you said we'd look into it?"

"That's what I said," I told him.

"Think we'll find anything out?" he asked.

"Well, with our track record," I told him with supreme confidence, "No. If she's being threatened, she should go to the police. The fact that she hasn't suggests that either she's just lying to get into your pants or she doesn't have enough proof to go to the authorities. Or, it's all in her imagination, and she knows it. I'll go with the first one. She saw the doll display and you, and figured out a nice perilous little story from there."

"So, she isn't in danger?" Pretty-boy asked.

I shook my head and said, "Doubt it."

Pretty-boy whistled in relief. He didn't say it, but I think he was mostly relieved that he wouldn't have to put up with her anymore. After a bit, he asked, "You still working on that doll mystery?"

"Hit too many dead ends," I admitted. Then, since I was in it already, I told him, "I don't think it'll go anywhere."

"Well," he told me, smacking me pretty hard on the arm, "Can't win them all, right?"

I just nodded. I bid him a good day and retired to my room. I still had time before the next workshop to work on my story. But as I sat there, staring at the manuscript, I couldn't help glancing at the doll lying limply on my bed. I stood and went to it, picking it up to look at it. It grinned blandly up at me with its black button eyes and its tiny puckered mouth. Its yarn hair had long ago lost its twist and looked wind-blown and frizzy, a testiment to its age. It had seen some years. It wasn't even dressed in a modern style, with its floral blouse and its green, pleated skirt...

I stared at it for a while, trying not to see it. But the longer I looked, the more I saw it. The straight, curveless body. The black, painted-on shoes. The arching brows. The mitten-like hands. It couldn't be a coincidence. It just couldn't be! And, she was a magician! Perfect!

Fortunately, or unfortunately as circumstances warrented, Pretty-boy had given me his room number. I direct-dialed it, and he answered dully. I must have woken him from a nap.

"Good news," I told him excitedly. "The case is back on!"