Hunting Sweetie Rose : A Mystery (9781429950879) by Jack Fredrickson Page B

she said.
    We went into the kitchen. It, too, was large, obviously outfitted to feed as many people as the living room could hold. There were two stainless steel refrigerators, a gas stove with many burners and ovens that looked like an antique but probably wasn’t, and several long counters. The four dainty white chairs set at a small table in the corner looked like an afterthought, incongruous in such a large room.
    She walked to a cabinet. “Wine, Mr. Elstrom?”
    â€œI try to avoid it.” I saw no need to add that I’d had whiskey in my coffee that morning.
    â€œGood idea.” She took out a bottle and poured three inches into a glass on the counter.
    â€œYou have guards on staff?” I asked.
    â€œNone on staff. Tim hires them, as needed.” She walked us to the table. “In fact, I no longer have any live-in help.”
    â€œNeither do I,” I said, to be sociable.
    Her eyes widened for only a second, until she realized I was having her on. She offered a faint smile. “Most of my life was spent being the help, not having it,” she said.
    Part of me wanted to like her for that, as I had for the Velveeta and her tacky office with its crummy furniture and worn postcard of a covered bridge. First, though, I needed to know she wasn’t a killer.
    We sat across from each other, in the strong light of a low overhead fixture. Just like on the previous night, her age was impossible to determine, even in the bright light. She could have been forty, she could have been fifty.
    She noticed my scrutiny. “Fifty-eight,” she said.
    â€œWow,” I said.
    â€œWow for not looking that old? Or wow for not looking that young?”
    â€œWow for your ability to read minds.”
    â€œExcellent, and very diplomatic.” She took a slow sip of wine and asked, “Was the clown murdered, Mr. Elstrom?”
    â€œHis name was James Stitts—”
    â€œI know that. Was he murdered?”
    â€œIt would be tough to prove, but yes.”
    Her hand shook, just a little, as she set down the glass. “You’re certain?”
    I told her the safety rope had been cut, its severed end taken away. It was information she’d paid for.
    Her face had paled. “Murder, no doubt.”
    â€œStitts’s widow said it was a woman who’d hired her husband to go up on that roof. She came to their home in a chauffeured limousine.” I watched her face.
    â€œThe woman was blond, of course?”
    â€œBea Stitts couldn’t see inside the car.”
    â€œShe was blond, Mr. Elstrom. That detail would not have been overlooked.”
    â€œYou’re being set up?”
    She put her hands on the arms of her chair and pushed herself up like she weighed a thousand pounds. “Thank you, Mr. Elstrom.”
    I didn’t get up. “You’re being blackmailed?”
    She started out of the kitchen as though she hadn’t heard me. I’d been dismissed. I got up and followed her across the living room because there was nothing else to do.
    Duggan already had the elevator door open.
    Sweetie Fairbairn turned around and walked away.
    I went into the elevator. The door closed, and I was sent descending.
    I thought, then, of an old comedian’s slurred, confused retort in a drunk-at-a-tavern routine. “I’ve been thrown out of better places than this,” the drunk had bragged, looking around confused but proud, as he’d been tossed onto the sidewalk.
    I doubted I’d ever been tossed from classier digs.
    Still, I was as confused as the drunk, not at all sure what had just happened.

CHAPTER 14.
    Amanda surprised me later with a call. “You doing anything this evening?” Her voice sounded small.
    â€œNothing I like.”
    â€œDinner?”
    â€œYou told me last night you were booked up until the next millennium, or at least until our date next week.”
    â€œI canceled for tonight. I’m craving