Chicken Salad Country.”
I left Lt. Webb’s office, more convinced than ever that Heidi needed my help. Webb clearly had Heidi pegged as a psychotic Cinderella who’d gone berserk and offed her evil stepmom. If he had his way, she’d soon be sharing His ‘n Hers prison jumpsuits with the Menendez brothers.
I made my way past the suntanned Dudley Do-Rights and down to the parking lot where I retrieved my Corolla.
Of course, now that my gig with SueEllen had come screeching to a halt, I should have been home thinking up new slogans for my biggest client, Toiletmasters Plumbers. They’d been using their old slogan (In a rush to flush? Call Toiletmasters!) for several years, and they were ready to try something new.
For a few desultory moments I forced myself to think up slogans. (At Toiletmasters, we take the plunge for you! Let us bowl you over with our prompt courteous service. And others too flushworthy to mention.) But my heart wasn’t in it. I couldn’t stop thinking about Heidi. Webb didn’t believe her story about the blonde in the hallway. If only someone else had seen the blonde, he’d have to take her seriously.
It wasn’t until I was halfway home that I remembered SueEllen’s Peeping Tom neighbor, the retired astronomy professor. The one with the all-seeing telescope.
Chapter Ten
P rofessor Henry Zeller’s magnificent Tudor house was set back from the street on a blanket of lushly landscaped grounds, within spying distance of Casa Kingsley. I parked out front, and headed up the front path, past an impressive array of rose bushes. When I rang the bell, the chimes played the theme song from The Sound of Music.
Professor Zeller answered the door, an elderly man festooned with liver spots. I figured he was somewhere between eighty and a birthday announcement on the Today show. He wore khaki pants and a plaid shirt with a plastic pocket protector. Once a scientist, always a scientist, I guess.
“May I help you?” he asked, blinking into the bright sunlight.
I assumed my most official voice.
“I’m here investigating the SueEllen Kingsley murder.”
“Oh, dear.” He seemed flustered. “I already spoke with the police. Didn’t see anything. Not a thing.”
“I’m not with the police. I’m a private investigator. May I come in?”
He hesitated. “Can I see some identification first? Your license?”
What is it with people nowadays? They’re such fussbudgets when it comes to inviting perfect strangers into their homes.
“Um…sure.” I rummaged through my purse and whipped out some identification. I flashed it before his watery blue eyes, hoping he wouldn’t realize it was my YWCA card.
No such luck.
“That’s a YWCA card,” he said, squinting at the print.
“Yes, of course,” I said, pedaling furiously. “YWCA. Young Women’s Criminology Association. We get kidded all the time about our name.”
“The Young Women’s Criminology Association?” He scratched his head, sending tiny flakes of dandruff fluttering to his plaid shoulders.
“So may I come in?”
He thought about this for a moment, then must have decided I wasn’t a deranged maniac with a meat cleaver in my purse.
“All right,” he said finally, ushering me in to the living room.
I took one look around and realized that The Sound of Music door chimes made perfect sense. The place hadn’t been decorated since Julie Andrews was in dirndls. Lots of harvest gold furniture on an avocado shag rug. A grand piano covered with sepiatoned family photos. And over in the corner, an old console television that was probably still playing The Ed Sullivan Show.
“Won’t you sit down?” he said.
I took a seat on a sofa that bore an uncanny resemblance to the one in Rob and Laura Petrie’s house. More family photos were propped up on the coffee table in front of me.
“How can I help you?” he asked, lowering himself into an armchair.
“I’m representing Heidi Kingsley.”
“Little Heidi?” He smiled
I left Lt. Webb’s office, more convinced than ever that Heidi needed my help. Webb clearly had Heidi pegged as a psychotic Cinderella who’d gone berserk and offed her evil stepmom. If he had his way, she’d soon be sharing His ‘n Hers prison jumpsuits with the Menendez brothers.
I made my way past the suntanned Dudley Do-Rights and down to the parking lot where I retrieved my Corolla.
Of course, now that my gig with SueEllen had come screeching to a halt, I should have been home thinking up new slogans for my biggest client, Toiletmasters Plumbers. They’d been using their old slogan (In a rush to flush? Call Toiletmasters!) for several years, and they were ready to try something new.
For a few desultory moments I forced myself to think up slogans. (At Toiletmasters, we take the plunge for you! Let us bowl you over with our prompt courteous service. And others too flushworthy to mention.) But my heart wasn’t in it. I couldn’t stop thinking about Heidi. Webb didn’t believe her story about the blonde in the hallway. If only someone else had seen the blonde, he’d have to take her seriously.
It wasn’t until I was halfway home that I remembered SueEllen’s Peeping Tom neighbor, the retired astronomy professor. The one with the all-seeing telescope.
Chapter Ten
P rofessor Henry Zeller’s magnificent Tudor house was set back from the street on a blanket of lushly landscaped grounds, within spying distance of Casa Kingsley. I parked out front, and headed up the front path, past an impressive array of rose bushes. When I rang the bell, the chimes played the theme song from The Sound of Music.
Professor Zeller answered the door, an elderly man festooned with liver spots. I figured he was somewhere between eighty and a birthday announcement on the Today show. He wore khaki pants and a plaid shirt with a plastic pocket protector. Once a scientist, always a scientist, I guess.
“May I help you?” he asked, blinking into the bright sunlight.
I assumed my most official voice.
“I’m here investigating the SueEllen Kingsley murder.”
“Oh, dear.” He seemed flustered. “I already spoke with the police. Didn’t see anything. Not a thing.”
“I’m not with the police. I’m a private investigator. May I come in?”
He hesitated. “Can I see some identification first? Your license?”
What is it with people nowadays? They’re such fussbudgets when it comes to inviting perfect strangers into their homes.
“Um…sure.” I rummaged through my purse and whipped out some identification. I flashed it before his watery blue eyes, hoping he wouldn’t realize it was my YWCA card.
No such luck.
“That’s a YWCA card,” he said, squinting at the print.
“Yes, of course,” I said, pedaling furiously. “YWCA. Young Women’s Criminology Association. We get kidded all the time about our name.”
“The Young Women’s Criminology Association?” He scratched his head, sending tiny flakes of dandruff fluttering to his plaid shoulders.
“So may I come in?”
He thought about this for a moment, then must have decided I wasn’t a deranged maniac with a meat cleaver in my purse.
“All right,” he said finally, ushering me in to the living room.
I took one look around and realized that The Sound of Music door chimes made perfect sense. The place hadn’t been decorated since Julie Andrews was in dirndls. Lots of harvest gold furniture on an avocado shag rug. A grand piano covered with sepiatoned family photos. And over in the corner, an old console television that was probably still playing The Ed Sullivan Show.
“Won’t you sit down?” he said.
I took a seat on a sofa that bore an uncanny resemblance to the one in Rob and Laura Petrie’s house. More family photos were propped up on the coffee table in front of me.
“How can I help you?” he asked, lowering himself into an armchair.
“I’m representing Heidi Kingsley.”
“Little Heidi?” He smiled
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