"Gischler, Victor - The Scent Of Jasmine" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gischler Victor)

THE SCENT OF JASMINE
By
Victor Gischler

When Liddy Caruthers hired me to follow her husband, I really should have been a little more persistent in asking her why because when I found the old man in his living room he was already dead as disco. Ike Caruthers looked like one of those mystery party parlor corpses, pretty dramatic, lying flat on his back in expensive, ankle-deep Persian carpet. A gleaming eight-inch carving knife sprouted from his chest. I had two choices: back slowly out of Caruthers' study, out of his ivy-covered mansion, wiping my fingerprints from doorknobs as I went, or I could call the police. I picked up the phone.

* * *

"St. Jude in a sombrero, Samson. Can't you swing your fanny around without bumping into a stiff?" Detective Sergeant Bill Rolland looked squat, bald, sweaty and cross, so all was right with the world. The sour look he gave me was as friendly as he ever got -- and I was usually on his good side. Usually he looked at private eyes like we were something he scraped off his shoe.

"What's the word, Bill?" I handed him a styrofoam cup of dishwater coffee which he used to wash down a mangled looking bearclaw. I didn't see how people ate that crud. I was in good shape for a guy approaching the big four-oh, and I planned to stay that way.

"I got the usual cast of characters in the. . .the room . . . the one without a television."

"The drawing room."

"Right. " Bill drained the coffee, crumpled the cup in a little fat fist and tossed it at a nearby wastebasket. He missed by a foot, and didn't bother to pick it up.

"Is Liddy Caruthers in there?" I asked.

"Yeah. I'm about two minutes from slapping the cuffs on her." Bill finished the tail end of the bearclaw in one bite and wiped his hand on his pants.

"Can I talk to her?"

"Your client?"

"Right."

Bill waved over one of the uniformed cops, a stout, serious looking woman with freckles. To her, he said, "This is Conner Samson. He's freelance, but don't give him any trouble. Take him in to see the girl." To me he said, "Don't go far, Samson. I'll need to ask the usual questions."

The uniform took me into the drawing room. Liddy Caruthers sat with her dowager mother-in-law Olivia Caruthers. She was eighty-two, and a strong wind would've shattered her into a thousand pieces. She held her daughter's hand, and both shed gentle tears which may or may not have been genuine.

The slick man with an arm draped across the fireplace mantle was unknown to me. He'd found the liquor cabinet and was diligently pouring warm, amber liquid into his face. I ran an expert eye up and down the length of him. He was in his early thirties and made a good living; his charcoal gray, double-breasted suit was expensive and of a modern cut like you see improbably perfect gay models wear in men's fashion magazines. Good haircut. Well-manicured nails. My guess: corporate lawyer. He caught me giving him the once over and narrowed his eyes. I filed him away for later and went to Liddy.

"Miss Caruthers, I'm sorry about Ike." That should start us off.

She looked up at me through glistening blue eyes as big as hubcaps. She had her fragile kitten act down pretty good. A real good girl. For three hundred dollars a day I'd believe she was Mother Theresa, although shoving Liddy in a convent would be a real waste of curves. She was a leggy, Nordic handful with breasts that had their own zip codes. When she turned her head, a wave of jasmine leapt from her hair and washed over me. I made some polite noises and pulled her away from her mother-in-law.

"Mr. Samson, what happened? You were supposed to be following him." She'd meant to sound accusatory, but she was wrung out and her question came out more like a plea.

"Sorry, Liddy. Somebody beat me to him. I know you're upset, but listen. A sweaty little detective's going to come in here soon and take you away in his little black and white car. Do you still want me working for you? I might be your only friend right now."

"I don't know. I mean, I guess. Yes."

"Okay. Do you have a lawyer?"

"Art Weaver." She nodded her head toward the man near the fireplace.

Bingo.