guys just said the cook is in the house.” He wrapped the shirt around him. “I’ll get it back to you as soon as I find some clothes. Nice guy. Give someone his shirt right off his back.”
The gardener knelt down and resumed weeding the flower bed.
“You have any idea where Mrs. Habeck went?”
“La señora no es la señora.”
“What?”
“La señora no es la mujer, la esposa.”
“What? ‘The lady is not the wife.’ You speak English better than I do. What are you saying?”
“You mean that broad you were talking to, right?” the gardener asked.
“Right.”
“She’s not Mrs. Habeck.”
“She’s not?”
“Mrs. Habeck is young and pretty.” The gardener sketched a shapely form in the soil with his finger. “Like that. Blond.”
“She said she was Mrs. Habeck.”
“She’s not.”
“She the cook?”
“The cook is Hispanic. Forty years old. She lives two blocks from me.”
“Then who was she?”
“I dunno,” the gardener said. “Never saw her before.”
As Fletch was going through the Habecks’ kitchen, the cook shrieked at the sight of a strange man naked except for a denim shirt hanging from his waist.
As Fletch was going up the stairs, Biff Wilson came out of the living room and said, “I’ve just talked to Frank Jaffe. He says you’re a dumb kid who misunderstood your assignment. You’re to get your ass back to the office and report to Ann McGarrahan in Society double quick time.”
“Right,” said Fletch. “Double quick.”
He began taking the stairs two at a time.
“Why are you going upstairs?” Biff yelled.
Fletch yelled back, “I parked my car up here.”
As Fletch handed the denim shirt back to the gardener, Fletch said, “Sorry I can’t give it back to you washed, dried, and pressed, but that’s how I lost my last clothes. They were headed for a wash.”
As the gardener stood up and put back on his shirt, his eyes crinkled at the sight of the clothes Fletch was wearing.
Fletch shrugged. “Found this suit in Habeck’s closet. He’ll never miss it.”
“The suit is short and fat.”
“I got a belt. Nice tie. The necktie should distract the eye from the rest of the ensemble, right?”
“You’re ready to boogie, man.”
“Thanks again. The cook yelled at me.”
“I heard. I thought it was the noon whistle.”
“What would she have done if you hadn’t lent me your shirt?”
“Scrambled eggs while they were still in the refrigerator.”
“Where did you learn your Spanish?” Fletch asked.
“BHHS.”
“BHHS?”
“Yeah,” the gardener said, stooping to his work. “Beverly Hills High School.”
“Cecilia’s Boutique. Cecilia speaking. Have you considered jodhpurs?”
“I’m thinking very seriously about jodhpurs,” Fletch said into his car phone.
“They’re just coming in, sir. In another month they’ll be all the rage. I’m sure your wife would be really impressed if you bought her jodhpurs now. Impressed by your prescience.”
“So should the jodhpurs be impressed. I haven’t got a wife.” Waiting at the red light at the intersection of Washington and Twenty-third, Fletch saw that all was peaceful at the liquor store. Plywood had been nailed over the shattered breakproof glass of the door. They were ready for their next attack. “May I speak with Barbara Ralton, please?”
Cecilia hesitated. “Sales personnel are not to take personal phone calls. May I take a message for her?”
“Sure. This is Fletcher. Tell her I can’t see her for lunch today. Please also tell her I look forward to buying her a pair of jodhpurs, at Saks.”
“Here I am,” Fletch said.
“Here who is?” Ann McGarrahan, society editor of the
News-Tribune
, was a tall, broad-shouldered woman in her forties. She sat behind a desk that was too small for her in an office that was distinctly too small for her.
“I thought you people in Society knew everyone.”
“Everyone who is anyone,” Ann said softly. The corners of her mouth
The gardener knelt down and resumed weeding the flower bed.
“You have any idea where Mrs. Habeck went?”
“La señora no es la señora.”
“What?”
“La señora no es la mujer, la esposa.”
“What? ‘The lady is not the wife.’ You speak English better than I do. What are you saying?”
“You mean that broad you were talking to, right?” the gardener asked.
“Right.”
“She’s not Mrs. Habeck.”
“She’s not?”
“Mrs. Habeck is young and pretty.” The gardener sketched a shapely form in the soil with his finger. “Like that. Blond.”
“She said she was Mrs. Habeck.”
“She’s not.”
“She the cook?”
“The cook is Hispanic. Forty years old. She lives two blocks from me.”
“Then who was she?”
“I dunno,” the gardener said. “Never saw her before.”
As Fletch was going through the Habecks’ kitchen, the cook shrieked at the sight of a strange man naked except for a denim shirt hanging from his waist.
As Fletch was going up the stairs, Biff Wilson came out of the living room and said, “I’ve just talked to Frank Jaffe. He says you’re a dumb kid who misunderstood your assignment. You’re to get your ass back to the office and report to Ann McGarrahan in Society double quick time.”
“Right,” said Fletch. “Double quick.”
He began taking the stairs two at a time.
“Why are you going upstairs?” Biff yelled.
Fletch yelled back, “I parked my car up here.”
As Fletch handed the denim shirt back to the gardener, Fletch said, “Sorry I can’t give it back to you washed, dried, and pressed, but that’s how I lost my last clothes. They were headed for a wash.”
As the gardener stood up and put back on his shirt, his eyes crinkled at the sight of the clothes Fletch was wearing.
Fletch shrugged. “Found this suit in Habeck’s closet. He’ll never miss it.”
“The suit is short and fat.”
“I got a belt. Nice tie. The necktie should distract the eye from the rest of the ensemble, right?”
“You’re ready to boogie, man.”
“Thanks again. The cook yelled at me.”
“I heard. I thought it was the noon whistle.”
“What would she have done if you hadn’t lent me your shirt?”
“Scrambled eggs while they were still in the refrigerator.”
“Where did you learn your Spanish?” Fletch asked.
“BHHS.”
“BHHS?”
“Yeah,” the gardener said, stooping to his work. “Beverly Hills High School.”
“Cecilia’s Boutique. Cecilia speaking. Have you considered jodhpurs?”
“I’m thinking very seriously about jodhpurs,” Fletch said into his car phone.
“They’re just coming in, sir. In another month they’ll be all the rage. I’m sure your wife would be really impressed if you bought her jodhpurs now. Impressed by your prescience.”
“So should the jodhpurs be impressed. I haven’t got a wife.” Waiting at the red light at the intersection of Washington and Twenty-third, Fletch saw that all was peaceful at the liquor store. Plywood had been nailed over the shattered breakproof glass of the door. They were ready for their next attack. “May I speak with Barbara Ralton, please?”
Cecilia hesitated. “Sales personnel are not to take personal phone calls. May I take a message for her?”
“Sure. This is Fletcher. Tell her I can’t see her for lunch today. Please also tell her I look forward to buying her a pair of jodhpurs, at Saks.”
“Here I am,” Fletch said.
“Here who is?” Ann McGarrahan, society editor of the
News-Tribune
, was a tall, broad-shouldered woman in her forties. She sat behind a desk that was too small for her in an office that was distinctly too small for her.
“I thought you people in Society knew everyone.”
“Everyone who is anyone,” Ann said softly. The corners of her mouth
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