After accepting a case from a lovely, but mysterious client, everything has fallen apart. Weaver's partner, Gary Gaston, has been killed along with the man – Keith Nottingham - that his partner was tailing for the mysterious client. The police have accused Weaver of murdering both Gaston and Nottingham. He's now been accused of murdering Gaston by the 'distraught' widow.
Chapter 2
A Hopeless Mess
"Did . . . did you kill him? Did you kill Gary?" Zelena asked him.
"What? Who the hell put that idea into your head?" Weaver wasn't pleased to hear this question.
"I thought . . . I thought it would be a way for us to be together," she told him, tears running down her face.
"Zelena, I thought we had resolved this. We have never been together. We were never meant to be together. And you would not want to be with a man who would kill your husband just so you could be together. Now, dearie," he spoke more softly. "You shouldn't have come here today. You should be home."
"You'll come to see me . . . soon?"
"As soon as I can," he replied and guided her to the door, opening it. "Now, goodbye, Zelena." He shut the door behind her and went back to his desk.
He wasn't sure how long he'd sat there, brooding, when Tilly peeked in.
"How did you and The Widow make out?"
"She thinks I shot Gary."
"What? So, you could marry her? Euuh." Tilly shook her head.
"Yeah. The police think I shot Gary and Nottingham, the guy Gary was tailing."
Tilly came over and opened the bottom drawer of his desk. She pulled out a bottle of Johnny Walker and a paper cup. She poured a drink and handed it off to him.
"Thanks, Angel."
"You aren't planning on marrying Zelena, are you?" she asked him.
"Oh, sweet Jesus, no. I wish I had never laid eyes on the woman."
Tilly hesitated. "Do you think Zelena could have killed Gary?"
Weaver hadn't considered this, but he knew Tilly was smart and savvy about people. "What? Why would you ask that?"
Tilly licked her lips. "Suppose I told you that Zelena hadn't been home very long before I got there after one in the morning to break the news to her."
Weaver was interested. "How do you know that?"
"The hood of her car was hot like it had been driven recently. She kept me waiting at the door for a while, too. She was in a nightdress when she finally answered. Her clothes had been dumped on a chair and the slip on top of the stack was warm. She still had on all her makeup. The bed had been wrinkled up, but the wrinkles weren't mashed down."
Weaver shook his head. "Maybe she'd just been out barhopping. I don't know that she would have wanted Gary dead . . . " he trailed off.
"I don't know of any reason why she wouldn't have wanted him dead," Tilly informed him. "They both cheated on each other. They often had screaming, knock-down drag-out fights. I also happen to know that there's a half-million dollar insurance policy on him that made him worth more to her dead than alive."
"But is she capable of killing a man?"
Tilly narrowed her eyes. "Oh, please. She's capable of drowning puppies for a nickel a head. Yeah, yeah, she could have killed her husband." She sat on the corner of his desk. "Now tell me, do the police really think you offed this Nottingham character?"
"Swan thinks the timeline is off."
"Yeah, well Swan's a thinker, but that can't be said of the rest of the police force."
The phone rang. Tilly picked it up. "Weaver and Gaston . . . . Oh yes," she looked at Weaver. "Yes, Miss O'Shaughnessy. He's in." She handed Weaver the phone.
"Yes, Miss O'Shaughnessy," he spoke into the receiver. "I'm so glad you called me. . . . Oh . . . . How's that? . . . Where are you? . . . the Loft Hotel on Lexington. Room 1001. I'll be right over."
Tilly had written down the address and handed it off to him as he stood.
On his way out, he stopped a moment and looked at the front door of the office. "Tilly, have 'Weaver and Gaston' removed and put 'The Weaver Agency' on the door."
"Gotcha Boss," she told him.
The Loft Hotel
Weaver knocked on the door of Room 1001.
"It's Weaver."
The door opened, the inside chain preventing it from opening wide. One of Miss O'Shaughnessy's bright blue eyes peered at him. She shut the door and he heard the sound of the chain being moved. The door opened to let him in.
"Come in, Mr. Weaver," she stepped aside to let him in.
"Good morning," he greeted her following her into the small seating area. He noted several pieces of designer luggage sitting around. She was dressed in a short full, gray skirt and soft pink ruffled blouse. Her hair had been left down and fell in dark curly waves past her shoulders. A morning newspaper was lying on one of the chairs with the two deaths in the headlines.
"I haven't had a chance to unpack," she told him. She sat down in one of the two chairs, nervously looking at her fingers and working them together. He waited quietly.
"Mr. Weaver," she finally began. "I . . . I have a terrible, terrible confession to make."
Weaver gave her a quick smile but didn't say anything.
"That . . . that story I told you yesterday about my sister . . . it was all . . . just a story."
He sat down next to her and spoke kindly. "Oh that . . . well, we didn't actually believe your story, Miss O'Shaughnessy or . . . what? what is your real name?
The woman looked down at her fingers, "It's really . . . uh . . . Avonlea . . . Lacey Avonlea," she told him.
"Well, we didn't exactly believe your story, Miss Avonlea. We believed your three hundred dollars."
"You mean . . ." she began.
"I mean, you paid us more than if you had been telling the truth . . . and enough more to make it all right."
"Mr. Weaver," she was looking directly at him with her bright blue eyes. "About last night . . . I feel awful. I feel I'm to blame for what happened."
Weaver shook his head. "You warned us that Nottingham was dangerous. Of course, you lied to us about your sister and all . . . but that doesn't count because we didn't believe you." He sat back, "No, I wouldn't say it was your fault."
"Thank you," she whispered. "Mr. Gaston was so alive yesterday, so solid and hearty . . ."
"Now stop that," Weaver interrupted roughly. "Gaston knew what he was doing. Those are the chances we take in this job."
"Was he married?"
"Yes, with a five-hundred thousand dollar insurance policy, no children, and wife who didn't like him."
"That sounds awful," she said.
"No time to worry about that now. Although, I am curious what happened to you last night."
Miss Avonlea stood up, obviously uncomfortable with the question. "I was able to point out Nottingham to Mr. Gaston. Keith is . . . was . . . hard to miss. Mr. Gaston told me to go back to my hotel . . . and . . . and I did."
"And did anyone see you, can anyone vouch that you were back in your room?"
Miss Avonlea turned to him. "Do you . . . do you think I killed Mr. Gaston?"
"No, I think that Keith Nottingham killed Gaston. I am wondering if you might have taken the opportunity to kill Nottingham."
"What?! You think I might have killed Keith?" She pulled back from him, obviously alarmed.
"I don't know you, Miss Avonlea. I do know that there is a flock of policemen and probably at least one assistant district attorney running around with their noses to the ground looking for who killed Nottingham."
"Oh god! Do they know about me?" she asked him. She was alarmed, her lips trembled, and her eyes grew wide.
"Not yet. I've been stalling them until I could talk to you."
"Oh please, can't you somehow keep them from finding out about me? I don't want to have to answer their questions." She seemed frantic.
"Maybe, but I want to know what this is really all about," Weaver told her.
"Oh, I can't tell you – I can't tell you. Not yet. Maybe later. Soon. Please, you must trust me, Mr. Weaver. I'm so alone, and I'm so afraid. I've got nobody to help me if you won't help me. Please, you're strong and brave. I need your help so badly. I've no right to ask you, but I do. Please, help me," she begged.
Weaver smiled briefly. "Oh dearie, you won't need much of anybody's help. You're good – really good. I think it's your eyes. They tear up a little. And there's also that little throb you get in your voice."
Miss Avonlea huffed and her eyes, her clear eyes, narrowed. She gave him a quick smile. "All right, I deserved that." She looked at him, examining him, judging him. "But the lie was in the way I said it and not at all in what I said." Her lips were trembling slightly, and she turned away. "It's my own fault if you can't believe me now."
Weaver expression darkened. "Now, you are dangerous." He stood. "I've got nothing against trusting you blindly except that I won't do you much good if I don't have some idea what this is all about. At least, tell me more about Keith Nottingham."
Miss Avonlea nodded and sat down in one of the chairs. Weaver sat down again.
"I met him in Marseille. He promised to help me . . . but then . . . he took advantage of my dependence on him to betray me."
"Betray you? How?"
Miss Avonlea shook her head and said nothing.
"Why did you want him shadowed?" Weaver asked.
"I wanted . . . I needed to learn how far he had gone, whom he was meeting. Things like that.".
"Did he kill Gaston?"
"Probably. Keith had killed before."
"What kind of gun did he carry?"
She thought a moment. "His favorite was an old Ceska, but I also know he kept a small Beretta. He sometimes carried a Luger and, I think, I once saw him with a Glock."
"Whoa. Why all the guns?"
"He lived by them. The story in Marseille was that he'd first come to town as a bodyguard to a drug dealer. Something happened to the drug dealer along the way, but Keith stayed in Marseille. I don't know what he did except that he always had plenty of money. He always went heavily armed and . . . " she hesitated. "He never went to bed without covering the floor with crumbled newspapers so that nobody could come silently into his room."
"Nice playmate you picked."
"I needed someone like him. Only someone like Keith could have helped me – if only he had been loyal." She wrung her hands together.
"Just how big a hole are you in?"
Miss Avonlea took a deep breath and looked him dead in the eye. "As bad as it could be."
"Physical danger?"
"I'm pretty brave, but I don't think there is anything worse than death."
"Then . . . it's that?" Weaver confirmed.
"It's that . . . unless you help me."
Weaver scowled. "So, who killed Nottingham? You, your enemies, or his enemies?"
"I didn't. I . . . I don't know who killed him." She sniffed and thought a moment. "Likely my enemies."
Weaver cleared his throat and stood, frustrated. "This is a hopeless mess! I don't know what you want! Protection? Vengeance?"
"Are you going to go to the police?" Miss Avonlea asked him.
"Go to them? Oh, dearie, all I have to do is stand still and they'll be swarming all over me."
Miss Avonlea stood, and she spoke quietly, "You have tried to help me. You've been patient. I guess you are correct. This is all a hopeless mess. I thank you for what you have done so far. I guess I'll have to take my chances." She seemed resigned to her fate.
Weaver sat back down, obviously thinking, planning. "All right now. How much money do you have?"
Miss Avonlea looked at him, startled, "What? Uh . . . I've got perhaps five hundred left."
"Let me have it," Weaver demanded.
Miss Avonlea hesitated, unsure of him.
"Give it to me," he repeated.
It took her a moment to decide to trust him. She walked into the sleeping area of the hotel room and returned with the money. She handed a stack of small bills over to him.
Weaver counted the money. "There's only four hundred here."
"I have to have something to live on," she protested.
"Can't you get any more?"
"I have no more cash."
"Do you have something you can pawn to raise some more?"
"Well, I have some jewelry and some furs, perhaps . . ."
"Hock them," Weaver told her. "Let me have the rest of your cash."
Miss Avonlea frowned, but then she handed over the remaining hundred.
Weaver counted the money but then, glancing at Lacey, he relented and handed her back a couple of the smaller bills.
"Listen," he said kindly, "I'll be back as soon as I can with the best news I can manage. I'll ring four times, long-short-long-short, so you'll know it's me."
"Thank you," she told him following him as he started for the door. She put her hand on his arm and he stopped. "Mr. Weaver, I . . . I . . ." she stood on her tiptoes and gave him a small kiss on his cheek. "Thank you. I feel safe with you."
When Weaver shut the door behind himself, he realized he could still smell her light perfume. He was also smiling.
55 1/2 Heywood Street
It was late in the afternoon, nearly five o'clock. Tilly was sitting at her desk, her attention half taken by the man who was etching "The Weaver Agency" on the glass window of the door to the offices. Weaver himself stepped by the worker and came into his office.
"Anything happening?" Weaver asked his clever assistant. He'd spent the day talking with all his contacts, police and not-police but hadn't discovered that anyone knew anything about Keith Nottingham.
"I sent flowers to Zelena from you."
"You are an irreplaceable angel," he thanked her. Then, "Can you get Edward Hyde on the phone for me?" He walked on into his office. Shortly his phone buzzed and Tilly informed him that Mr. Hyde was on the line.
"Thanks for taking my call, Ed. I felt I needed advice from an attorney . . . Yeah, I've got another situation . . . . Listen, can I hide behind the sanctity of my client's secrets and privacy and whatnot, like you attorneys do? . . . I know, but Swan's getting contentious and, maybe, well, it's a bit thick this time."
Tilly had come into his office with a pristine white business card in her hand. He took the card and looked at it while holding onto the line, listening to his attorney.
He read, "Madden Jefferson" on the card, then held up his hand to signal Tilly to wait.
"Yeah, Hyde. I understand. Thanks for talking with me." He hung up. There was a strong fragrance drifting off the card. He looked at Tilly, sniffing the card.
"Gardenia," she told him. "You'll want to see him, I'm sure – natty dresser that he is."
"Well then," he said. "In with him, darling."
Tilly went to his door to open it. She addressed the tall man waiting in the outer office. "Mr. Jefferson, please, come in."
Weaver blinked trying to take in the resplendent Mr. Jefferson. His hair had been pomaded and styled. He wore tight fitting pants with high black boots and a black brocade jacket. He had a deep purple cravat tied around his neck and matching purple gloves on his hands. He sported a tall black opera hat.
"Sit down," Weaver gestured to a chair.
"I thank you for seeing me," Mr. Jefferson bowed before taking a seat in one of the dark green leather chairs set in front of Weaver's desk.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Jefferson?"
Mr. Jefferson removed his hat, then his gloves which he dropped into his hat. Weaver could see that the man wore several rings, one with a ruby and the rest with diamonds.
"May a stranger offer you condolences for your partner's unfortunate death?" he spoke smoothly, without any sincerity.
"Thank you," Weaver replied.
"May I ask, Mr. Weaver, if there is, as the newspapers infer, a certain . . . ah . . . relationship between that unfortunate happening and the death a little later of the man Nottingham?"
Weaver stared at Jefferson, not flinching. After an uncomfortable moment, Jefferson smiled and shook his head.
"More than idle curiosity prompted my question, Mr. Weaver. I am trying to recover an . . . ah. . . ornament . . . an ornament that, shall we say, has been . . . uh . . . mislaid. I thought and I hoped that perhaps you could offer me some assistance."
Weaver gave the man a slow nod.
"This ornament . . . it is a small statuette – a black figure of a bird," Jefferson continued.
Weaver nodded again.
"I am prepared to pay," Jefferson explained, "on behalf of the figure's rightful owner, the sum of five thousand dollars." Jefferson sat back. "I am prepared to promise that . . . oh, what is the phrase? . . . that there will be no questions asked as to how you might have put your hands on the statuette."
"Five thousand dollars," Weaver stated thoughtfully. "That's a lot of money."
There was a discreet rap on the door which opened up enough for Tilly to stick her head through. "Is there anything else, Boss?" she asked.
"No, Angel. Lock the door when you go, would you please?" he responded.
"Sure 'nuff," she answered and shut the door again.
Weaver returned his attention to Jefferson. "It's an interesting figure. . . " he began and looked over at Jefferson, who was now standing and pointing a pearl-handled gun at him.
"Please, clasp your hands together at the back of your neck," Jefferson ordered him.
"Sure," Weaver told him and complied.
"I intend to search your office, Mr. Weaver. I warn you that if you attempt to prevent me, I shall certainly shoot you."
"Go ahead," Weaver said.
"You will please stand. I shall have to make sure that you are not armed."
Weaver looked at the younger man for a while, shrugged and shook his head. He stood and allowed Jefferson to approach. When Mr. Jefferson switched the gun from his right hand to his left, Weaver took advantage of the position and popped Jefferson's hand. Jefferson fumbled the gun and Weaver was able to snatch it away. Weaver then swept his arm up and across Mr. Jefferson, knocking him in the head, then catching his jaw with a right jab, pushing the man off balance. Mr. Jefferson fell to the floor, dazed.
Weaver set the gun into his top desk drawer, then crouched down beside Mr. Jefferson, reaching into the man's coat pockets, finding his wallet, a much-used passport, and a large silk handkerchief with a purple paisley design and a sweet, almost sickly, fragrance drifting up from the silk.
Weaver returned to his office seat and went through the wallet. There were about three hundred dollars in the fold, several five-pound notes, and five folded sheets of onion-skin paper covered with what appeared to be Arabic script.
Jefferson groaned and flickered his eyes open.
"Sorry," Weaver said. "Imagine my embarrassment when I found that your five-thousand dollar offer was just hooey."
Jefferson shook his head, "You're mistaken, Mr. Weaver. That was, and is, a genuine offer."
"Really?" Weaver clearly wasn't believing the man.
"Yes. I am prepared to pay five thousand dollars for the return of the figure. Do you have it?"
Weaver shook his head, "No."
Jefferson had pulled himself to his feet. "Then why," he asked, "why did you risk serious injury to stop me from searching your office for it?"
"Because I don't take lightly to people coming into my office and sticking me up," Weaver told him crossly.
Jefferson nodded. "All right then. But you understand that it is natural enough that I should first try to spare the owner such a considerable expense. If I'd been able to find the figure here, I could have just taken it."
Weaver nodded reluctantly. "Who is this mysterious owner?"
Jefferson smiled slowly. "You will have to forgive me. I would think you would understand a client preferring to remain anonymous."
"All right then." Weaver did understand. "Why don't we put all our cards on the table?"
Jefferson regarded him. "I don't think that is necessary. If you know less about this whole affair than I do, I stand to profit."
"I guess. Here's your stuff," he waved his hand at his desk where the wallet, passport, and handkerchief lay. "But without the five thousand dollars, your offer doesn't look very serious."
"Ah . . . you wish some assurance of my sincerity?" Jefferson surmised. "How about a retainer? Would that serve?"
"It might."
Jefferson retrieved his wallet. "You will take, say . . . one hundred dollars?"
"I will take, say . . . two hundred dollars," Weaver told him. "Now, about this . . . uh . . . black bird . . . . Your first guess was that I had it. I don't. So, what's your second guess?"
"That you know where it is . . . or, at least, that you will know where it is."
Weaver hesitated. "You understand that you're not hiring me to do any murder or burglaries. You just want to get this black bird back - if possible, in a legal, honest way."
"If possible. And, in any event, with discretion," Jefferson agreed. He picked up his hat, "I am at the Hotel Belvedere, Room 305 when you wish to communicate with me. I expect the greatest mutual benefit from our association, Mr. Weaver." Jefferson looked around. "Where is my gun?"
"Oh yeah," Weaver reached into the desk drawer he'd tossed the gun. He handed it to Jefferson who promptly pointed the pistol at him.
"Now, you will kindly keep your hands on top of the desk. I intend to search your office," Jefferson told him pointing his pearl-handled gun again at the private detective.
NEXT: Miss Avonlea continues to negotiate with Weaver for his help. Weaver assists her in a confrontation with Jefferson.
