sweater tight around her shoulders and sidled up to me.
“Hello, Eleonora,” she began. “You’re so busy. I never see you anymore.”
I nodded and smiled politely. It wasn’t a question.
“Of course I hear you from time to time. Wooden floors. And bottles. So many bottles.”
“I try to walk around in slippers as you asked.”
“Yes, dear, and thank you. Your shoes are quite quiet now. It’s more the other noises. When you’re entertaining.” She looked at me expectantly.
“I see. Well, I’ll be sure to ask my guests to remove their shoes.”
“As long as they’re removing clothing . . .”
Wow. That was bold even for Mrs. Giannetti. I tried not to give her her victory.
“You know, Mrs. Giannetti,” I said, “some carpeting would dampen the noise. Remember you promised to look into it?”
That put her on her heels.
“Well, of course, dear,” she said. “I’ve inquired at Dumart’s over and over again, but they don’t have the rugs I want. They tell me they’ll have more come summertime.”
“You’d think carpeting would be easy to find in this town.”
“Yes, well, I always say it’s because of the war.”
The war?
“That reminds me, Eleonora,” she said. “This ugly business of Judge Shaw’s daughter. My friend Mrs. Isadora says that girl behaved shamelessly. I read your story in the paper. What can you tell me about it?”
“Nothing, I’m afraid,” I said as Frank Olney pulled up to the curb in an unmarked Ford Fairlane. “Here’s my ride. I must fly.”
Mrs. Giannetti stooped to see into the car. She frowned, then adjusted her sweater again before slipping back inside.
Frank was alone. I climbed in, and he threw the car into gear as I closed the door. At Market Street, we turned north onto Route 40, and Frank hit the gas. He picked up the radio to alert his men that we were on our way.
“I’ll be there in five minutes,” he said, clicking the mike with his right hand as he steered with his left. “Nobody moves till I get there. You all follow me in, roger?”
Four cars acknowledged the sheriff’s order, and he signed off.
“I don’t want those guys tipping off Jean Trent,” he said to me. “If Julio’s there, we’ll catch him with his pants down.”
“That would be a first,” I said. “Julio with an audience . . .”
Frank Olney laughed, his entire body shaking in the seat. I wondered how he fit behind the wheel.
We raced past Wilkens Corners, where four county prowlers crouched on the shoulder of the road. They jumped to life, one by one, first their headlamps blinked on, then the cherry tops began to spin. The engines roared and tires spun on the loose gravel as they fishtailed onto Route 40 to join the chase. Gosh, cops are sexy!
We sped into the Mohawk with four cars on our tail, lights still spinning but sirens silent. I was impressed by the sheriff’s timing and sense of the dramatic. The four prowlers skidded to a stop in front of the motel, headlights blazing against Jean Trent’s door.
“Ready, Ellie?” asked Frank. I nodded, and he yanked his cap onto his head. “Say, you sure look pretty today.”
I followed the sheriff to the front door, where Jean Trent was already waiting, barring the way.
“What do you want, Sheriff?” she scowled.
“I got a warrant, Jean. We’re coming in.”
Frank showed her the document through the storm door and explained he had the right to search her premises for a knife and any evidence of Julio Hernandez’s presence. I understood the law well enough to know that such a document gave Frank carte blanche to snoop through everything in the motel. Jean tried to block the door just the same, and Deputy Brunello was summoned to remove her from the sheriff’s path. She kicked and screamed, tried to scratch Brunello’s eyes out, but a short moment later, Frank had won the first round without much fuss.
A couple of troopers from Albany were due within the hour to dust the entire motel for
“Hello, Eleonora,” she began. “You’re so busy. I never see you anymore.”
I nodded and smiled politely. It wasn’t a question.
“Of course I hear you from time to time. Wooden floors. And bottles. So many bottles.”
“I try to walk around in slippers as you asked.”
“Yes, dear, and thank you. Your shoes are quite quiet now. It’s more the other noises. When you’re entertaining.” She looked at me expectantly.
“I see. Well, I’ll be sure to ask my guests to remove their shoes.”
“As long as they’re removing clothing . . .”
Wow. That was bold even for Mrs. Giannetti. I tried not to give her her victory.
“You know, Mrs. Giannetti,” I said, “some carpeting would dampen the noise. Remember you promised to look into it?”
That put her on her heels.
“Well, of course, dear,” she said. “I’ve inquired at Dumart’s over and over again, but they don’t have the rugs I want. They tell me they’ll have more come summertime.”
“You’d think carpeting would be easy to find in this town.”
“Yes, well, I always say it’s because of the war.”
The war?
“That reminds me, Eleonora,” she said. “This ugly business of Judge Shaw’s daughter. My friend Mrs. Isadora says that girl behaved shamelessly. I read your story in the paper. What can you tell me about it?”
“Nothing, I’m afraid,” I said as Frank Olney pulled up to the curb in an unmarked Ford Fairlane. “Here’s my ride. I must fly.”
Mrs. Giannetti stooped to see into the car. She frowned, then adjusted her sweater again before slipping back inside.
Frank was alone. I climbed in, and he threw the car into gear as I closed the door. At Market Street, we turned north onto Route 40, and Frank hit the gas. He picked up the radio to alert his men that we were on our way.
“I’ll be there in five minutes,” he said, clicking the mike with his right hand as he steered with his left. “Nobody moves till I get there. You all follow me in, roger?”
Four cars acknowledged the sheriff’s order, and he signed off.
“I don’t want those guys tipping off Jean Trent,” he said to me. “If Julio’s there, we’ll catch him with his pants down.”
“That would be a first,” I said. “Julio with an audience . . .”
Frank Olney laughed, his entire body shaking in the seat. I wondered how he fit behind the wheel.
We raced past Wilkens Corners, where four county prowlers crouched on the shoulder of the road. They jumped to life, one by one, first their headlamps blinked on, then the cherry tops began to spin. The engines roared and tires spun on the loose gravel as they fishtailed onto Route 40 to join the chase. Gosh, cops are sexy!
We sped into the Mohawk with four cars on our tail, lights still spinning but sirens silent. I was impressed by the sheriff’s timing and sense of the dramatic. The four prowlers skidded to a stop in front of the motel, headlights blazing against Jean Trent’s door.
“Ready, Ellie?” asked Frank. I nodded, and he yanked his cap onto his head. “Say, you sure look pretty today.”
I followed the sheriff to the front door, where Jean Trent was already waiting, barring the way.
“What do you want, Sheriff?” she scowled.
“I got a warrant, Jean. We’re coming in.”
Frank showed her the document through the storm door and explained he had the right to search her premises for a knife and any evidence of Julio Hernandez’s presence. I understood the law well enough to know that such a document gave Frank carte blanche to snoop through everything in the motel. Jean tried to block the door just the same, and Deputy Brunello was summoned to remove her from the sheriff’s path. She kicked and screamed, tried to scratch Brunello’s eyes out, but a short moment later, Frank had won the first round without much fuss.
A couple of troopers from Albany were due within the hour to dust the entire motel for
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