Murder on Location by Howard Engel Page A

everything on a bigger scale than the Tudor. Everything looked as though it was expected to be handled by more people and stand up to less discriminating use. The coffee shop was called “The Guard Room.” An attempt had been made to carry a military motif from the cash register to the salt and pepper shakers. On the wall crossed muskets hung benignly. Powder horns, battle prints and campaign maps extended this theme, but the waitresses were a sop to those for whom history was either rough or controversial. In their blue and white checked uniforms, with criss-cross lacing at the waist, they looked less like camp followers and more like Mother Goose’s little girls. I sipped a coffee slowly.
    Billie Mason walked into the restaurant alone, looking more attractive than her eight-by-ten glossy three-quarter view. I’ve never seen blue like the blue of her eyes and her neck was like a note held at the end of a song. She wasn’t the sort of woman who could kill conversation dead when she walked into a room, but you could hear the level drop for a moment and there wasn’t a man in the place who didn’t lose the drift of his wife’s monologue for a minute. She was about five-feet seven and weighed under 120. There was a confident glide to her walk that made the women look up from their cottage cheese as well as the men. She was obviously looking for Hayes. She hadn’t heard, then, unless she was playing some kind of elaborate game that happens only in mystery novels or on television: he knows that she knows that he knows that she knows. She frowned prettily and stood in the aisle wondering what to do next. I got up, crawled over my bunched coat on the padded bench beside me and went over to her.
    â€œMrs. Mason?” She didn’t like the
Mrs
. It was clear warning. “My name’s Benny Cooperman. I’m a detective from Grantham. I’m sorry but your husband has asked me to find you. He’s very worried about you.” I kept talking but I could see as her face darkened that she’d stopped listening. Her smile went inside the house.
    â€œI knew he’d try to find me,” she said, tilting her head away from me. It looked like a summer squall had hit her features. “The creep. Why doesn’t he leave me alone?”
    â€œLet’s talk about it. I’m sitting over there.”
    â€œI can’t. I’m meeting somebody. You’d better leave me alone. I don’t want a scene.”
    â€œThat’s right. Nobody does. Let me buy you a cup of coffee.”
    â€œI told you. I’m waiting for someone.”
    â€œI know. He won’t be coming. Please sit down, have a cup of coffee and I’ll tell you all about it.” I started toward the table and she followed. I pulled out a chair and climbed over my coat again.
    She was wearing a fawn-coloured suede jacket and skirt with a soft blue blouse under it. Her hair was ash blonde and as unreal as angels.
    â€œYou’re not big enough to take me back to Grantham,” she said rather awkwardly, getting used to the face across the table. I checked myself in the mirror behind me. It was a good enough face, the eyes hazel and fairly honest. I made them look sympathetic.
    â€œHe’s worried,” I said.
    â€œWorried about my commissions. Worried because I’m not there putting out for his friends. Where’d that ever get me? Maybe he’d give me another Salesman of the Month award. He could fix it. He could fix anything.”
    â€œI think he cares about you apart from your sales record.”
    â€œIn a doughnut, he cares! Oh, all right. So he cares. I feel sorry for him, but he’s
so
… Lowell. I can’t describe it. If I told him I’d dreamed of a Spanish castle in the clouds, Lowell would start talking about plumbing and upkeep. Don’t get me started on Lowell. There’s no wayI’m going back to that.” For a minute I thought the storm