The Fruitcake Murders. Ace Collins

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СКАЧАТЬ matter what the dime said,” McCoy calmly explained, “my gut tells me all I need to know.”

      As she waited for him to explain, Tiffany studied the man who evidently held her life in his hands. His hair was dark, his eyes green, and his chin strong. Not only were his shoulders as wide as an axe handle, but his chest was broad and his waist thin. In a different time and place, she would have been attracted to the handsome stranger, but it was hard to warm up to man with a gun in his hand.

      “What’s your name?” McCoy demanded, his question reminding her she really was in a tough spot that was getting tougher by the moment.

      She licked her lips, searching for a suitable response that didn’t blow her cover while also trying to latch onto a name that seemed real. She almost opted to use Brenda Strong, but that sounded too much like a comic page heroine. The next handle she landed on, Madge Wooley, seemed too old. Janie was a nice name, but what last name worked well with it? She’d just about decided on McCall when McCoy waved his left hand and frowned.

      “You’re not the blonde that was supposed to come to the house. By now that’s pretty obvious, so who are you and what happened to her? You might want to give out with the truth and not try to dream up another fairy tale. I outgrew those a long time ago.”

      “I have to be the blonde,” she continued to build on her lie. “Otherwise, how would I have known when and where to meet you? I mean, that Lane person sold me out. You see, he assured me I was going to meet a rich guy who had a great job for me. You might have problems believing this, but I sing a bit. So, I naturally bought into what Lane was selling. After all, I told you I had to pawn the ring. I need the money.”

      “Yeah,” he smiled, “I can imagine you onstage, after all, I’ve been listening to your song-and-dance routine for an hour now.” He shook his head, “Just quit playing games and admit you’re not the real blonde.”

      “That’s not true,” she shot back. “I’ve never dyed my hair. I’ve been a real blonde since the day I was born.”

      “Listen lady,” a now noticeably frustrated McCoy complained, “I’ve had about as much of this as I can stomach. Quit with the jokes and give me the real story. After all, I’ve got the gun and I’m not afraid to use it.”

      Though she didn’t want to abort her performance and though she feared shelling out the truth would mean the end of her life, what other choice did she have? The real story had to be written and she might as well be the author who decided the words to employ. Shrugging, she silently marched past her captor, his eyes and gun following her every step, through the bedroom and into the ten-by-ten-foot living room. Sitting on the edge of the couch, she pointed to a chair. “McCoy, if you’ll keep your hand off that trigger, I’ll shoot straight with you. So take a load off, open up your ears, and I’ll give you the real unvarnished scoop.”

      The man eased down into a second-hand Victorian reading chair and crossed his right foot over his left knee. Though he didn’t aim his weapon directly at her, he kept his finger on the trigger as he balanced the revolver on the arm of the red chair.

      “Okay, McCoy, I’m not only not the blonde, I don’t even know the blonde. I just happened to be at Elrod’s when you called. And you might as well know this: Elrod’s dead. He was dead when I arrived.”

      “So that’s why you were with Lane Walker. You’re a lady cop.”

      “Not really,” she explained, “I don’t work with the guy. In fact, I usually try to avoid him. But I had an appointment with Elrod, and Lane was there when I knocked on the door. He’s in charge of the murder investigation.”

      “Did Lane answer the phone when I called?”

      “Yeah.”

      “Then,” McCoy said, his expression and tone softening a bit, “the quiz-club final question becomes, who are you?”

      She smiled. There was no longer any reason to continue the charade. If she was going to die she might as well do it under her real identity. “I’m a reporter for The Chicago Star. My name is Tiffany Clayton.”

      “That’s just great,” McCoy grumbled, “I was paid to kill a blonde wearing a jade ring. If I don’t mail a photo of the dead girl along with that ring back to the man who hired the hit, then he’s going to kill me. So it looks like you and Walker signed my death warrant.”

      “Well, excuse me,” Tiffany quipped, “I’m sorry I’m not the woman you need to murder.”

      “Them’s the breaks,” he grumbled. “If I just had the jade ring I’ll bet I could pass you off as the dame.”

      “Well,” she snidely replied. “I just seem to be a big disappointment to you. How tragic it must be to meet a woman who simply can’t deliver what you need before you blow her brains out.”

      McCoy pushed out of the chair and walked over to the window. He peeked through the curtain and noted, “Well, it has quit snowing.”

      As he continued to study the empty street three floors below, Tiffany quietly rose and took two steps toward the front door.

      “I can see your reflection in the glass,” he noted, “so why don’t you sit down and let me figure a way out of this mess.”

      As she dejectedly moved back to her seat, collapsed on the couch, and crossed her legs, McCoy turned, walked into the apartment’s kitchen, retrieved a glass, and turned on the tap. After taking a drink of water, he marched back into the room and studied the woman for a few minutes before finally revealing his thoughts. “If I just knew what the ring looked like maybe I could come up with a duplicate and still pass you off as her. That’d keep me alive for a while.”

      “But that would seal the deal for me,” she noted. Forcing a grim smile she added, “Well, I’m sorry I couldn’t help you, but I realize your time is limited and you have another blonde to find, so why don’t you just let yourself out and I’ll get ready for bed.”

      “It’s not that simple,” he explained. “And, if I might be so bold, you’re being a little selfish here. If I don’t follow through on this hit, then I die.”

      “I get that,” she quickly explained. “And I wish it wasn’t that way, but there’s not much I can do about that. So, as your killing me really won’t do you any good, I think it might be wise for you to hop in your car and go and find the real blonde. Check with Santa, he is supposed to know where everyone is all the time. Maybe he can help you.”

      He nodded, “You might just be onto something.” Moving back to the chair he took a seat and glanced back at his unwilling host. His expression revealed a cool detachment and, as both of their lives were on the line, that either made him the coolest cat since author Dashiell Hammett invented Sam Spade or a person resigned to his own fate. His next question, delivered in a monotone, echoed the man’s matter-of-fact manner. “So you were at Elrod’s earlier tonight?”

      “We’ve already established that,” she impatiently admitted. “You’re as bad about going over the same thing again and again as Lane Walker is.” She suddenly smiled and snapped her fingers. “Wait a minute. A brilliant thought just hit me.”

      “I doubt the brilliant part,” McCoy countered.

      “No,” she begged, “give me a chance. Here’s my idea, and I think СКАЧАТЬ