top down, in the
driveway. A fieldstone path led around to the back of the house and a
large in-ground swimming pool. Felicia Arnold lay stretched out on
one of two chaise lounges that had never sported a Zayre’s price
tag. She wore a European-style string bikini and Porsche sunglasses,
which she tilted down ever so slightly as I approached her. On the
cocktail table next to her was a portable telephone and two
bottom-of-the-glass water rings.
"Mr. Cuddy. Good timing. The afternoon was just
growing tiresome."
"Last night not enough for you?"
She slid the glasses back into place. "Was it
for you?"
"Plenty." I sat down on the other chair.
The surface was slick, sweaty. Up close, her legs appeared waxy
smooth, no varicose veins or blemishes of any kind. She had striking
muscle definition, even in her upper arms and shoulders. "The
police said you directed them to me."
“ My duty as an officer of the court."
"You don’t seem too crushed by your client’s
death."
"Perhaps I’m not the sentimental type."
"Maybe—"
"What the hell do you want!"
I stood up and turned to the voice. Paul Troller,
coming out of the house. He wore a leopardskin bikini bottom with a
desk-job spare bulging over the front and a lot of baby oil catching
the sunlight. Even so, I pegged him as a light heavyweight. There
were two tall drinks in his hands, and a match for Arnold’s
sunglasses rode up above his hairline.
"I said—"
"I heard you, Paulie. This your house or hers?"
Troller thought about throwing the glasses, but
instead set them down near the pool’s edge, clinking them a little
and sloshing some booze in his rage. He started to stride manfully
over to us.
Arnold said, "Paul, I don’t want any trouble."
"He has no right barging in here."
"He’s not ‘barging in,' Paul. I asked Mr.
Cuddy to come over."
"You . . . asked him?"
"That’s right. And I would like to confer with
him privately now."
"Felicia, my God, he’s wanted for a murder."
"Two murders," I said.
Troller’s eyes seemed to have the same problem with
light as Marsh’s had. He looked at me as if he needed just one more
little push.
Arnold saw it too. "Paul, please. Leave us
alone."
Troller just about bit it back. "Give me your
car keys."
"No."
He looked down at her, but behind the glasses I
couldn’t read her eyes.
"Felicia, you drove me over here, remember?"
"Like it was only an hour ago, Paul. It’s a
beautiful day. Why don’t you jog home?"
She had the same control over her voice that she did
over her body. I couldn’t say the same for Troller, whose lips were
as blue and shivering as a five-year-old’s after a day in the surf.
He turned and choked out, "See you tomorrow at the office,"
before stomping back into the house.
I sat down again. "You ever hear of the National
Labor Relations Board?"
She smiled. "Paul’s position isn’t exactly
unionized."
And my next line was supposed to be "And what
exactly is Paul’s position?" but instead I said, "You and
Paulie there are among the few people who knew Marsh and I had mixed
it up."
"And therefore?"
"Somebody who knew that set me up to look like
his killer."
"Oh, John—"
"I prefer ‘Mr. Cuddy.' "
She took her glasses all the way off and stared at
me.
"Why?"
"Maybe I’m not crazy about the way you treat
people you call by their first names."
“ You are a bit different, aren’t you?"
"Let’s talk about Marsh instead."
"Why bother? He’s dead, so the divorce case is
over."
"The murder case isn’t."
“ Oh, a lot of people could have known about you and
Marsh. His girlfriend the nurse, his friends--"
“ Assuming he had any--"
"——the police, Christides, Hanna . . ."
Arnold stopped.
"Because Marsh had no will, Hanna gets
everything, doesn’t she?"
"Roy was rather stupid in a lot of ways, Mr.
Cuddy."
"Tell me about them."
"Look, anyone who lives on the coast up here
tends to hear stories."
"What kind of stories?"
"About fishermen whose insurance rates have
driveway. A fieldstone path led around to the back of the house and a
large in-ground swimming pool. Felicia Arnold lay stretched out on
one of two chaise lounges that had never sported a Zayre’s price
tag. She wore a European-style string bikini and Porsche sunglasses,
which she tilted down ever so slightly as I approached her. On the
cocktail table next to her was a portable telephone and two
bottom-of-the-glass water rings.
"Mr. Cuddy. Good timing. The afternoon was just
growing tiresome."
"Last night not enough for you?"
She slid the glasses back into place. "Was it
for you?"
"Plenty." I sat down on the other chair.
The surface was slick, sweaty. Up close, her legs appeared waxy
smooth, no varicose veins or blemishes of any kind. She had striking
muscle definition, even in her upper arms and shoulders. "The
police said you directed them to me."
“ My duty as an officer of the court."
"You don’t seem too crushed by your client’s
death."
"Perhaps I’m not the sentimental type."
"Maybe—"
"What the hell do you want!"
I stood up and turned to the voice. Paul Troller,
coming out of the house. He wore a leopardskin bikini bottom with a
desk-job spare bulging over the front and a lot of baby oil catching
the sunlight. Even so, I pegged him as a light heavyweight. There
were two tall drinks in his hands, and a match for Arnold’s
sunglasses rode up above his hairline.
"I said—"
"I heard you, Paulie. This your house or hers?"
Troller thought about throwing the glasses, but
instead set them down near the pool’s edge, clinking them a little
and sloshing some booze in his rage. He started to stride manfully
over to us.
Arnold said, "Paul, I don’t want any trouble."
"He has no right barging in here."
"He’s not ‘barging in,' Paul. I asked Mr.
Cuddy to come over."
"You . . . asked him?"
"That’s right. And I would like to confer with
him privately now."
"Felicia, my God, he’s wanted for a murder."
"Two murders," I said.
Troller’s eyes seemed to have the same problem with
light as Marsh’s had. He looked at me as if he needed just one more
little push.
Arnold saw it too. "Paul, please. Leave us
alone."
Troller just about bit it back. "Give me your
car keys."
"No."
He looked down at her, but behind the glasses I
couldn’t read her eyes.
"Felicia, you drove me over here, remember?"
"Like it was only an hour ago, Paul. It’s a
beautiful day. Why don’t you jog home?"
She had the same control over her voice that she did
over her body. I couldn’t say the same for Troller, whose lips were
as blue and shivering as a five-year-old’s after a day in the surf.
He turned and choked out, "See you tomorrow at the office,"
before stomping back into the house.
I sat down again. "You ever hear of the National
Labor Relations Board?"
She smiled. "Paul’s position isn’t exactly
unionized."
And my next line was supposed to be "And what
exactly is Paul’s position?" but instead I said, "You and
Paulie there are among the few people who knew Marsh and I had mixed
it up."
"And therefore?"
"Somebody who knew that set me up to look like
his killer."
"Oh, John—"
"I prefer ‘Mr. Cuddy.' "
She took her glasses all the way off and stared at
me.
"Why?"
"Maybe I’m not crazy about the way you treat
people you call by their first names."
“ You are a bit different, aren’t you?"
"Let’s talk about Marsh instead."
"Why bother? He’s dead, so the divorce case is
over."
"The murder case isn’t."
“ Oh, a lot of people could have known about you and
Marsh. His girlfriend the nurse, his friends--"
“ Assuming he had any--"
"——the police, Christides, Hanna . . ."
Arnold stopped.
"Because Marsh had no will, Hanna gets
everything, doesn’t she?"
"Roy was rather stupid in a lot of ways, Mr.
Cuddy."
"Tell me about them."
"Look, anyone who lives on the coast up here
tends to hear stories."
"What kind of stories?"
"About fishermen whose insurance rates have
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