Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 40, No. 6, June, 1995

“You were at the mall,” she said.

My mouth fell open. “That’s right; I remember you. At the Cut ’n’ Curl. You’re the one with the kid who—” I put a hand over my mouth. “Sorry,” I finished lamely.

Lucille made a dismissive gesture with her wrist. “Don’t worry about it. Not like it’s a secret or anything.” She hesitated for just a moment, then stepped back from the door. “You want to come in?”

I stepped through the door, and Lucille turned her head.

“Suzannah, turn it down! We’ve got company!”

She motioned for me to have a seat on the well-worn couch.

“Can I get you somethin’? A beer maybe?”

I shook my head. “Nothing for me, thanks.” I looked in the direction of the music.

“Suzannah. That’s a pretty name.”

She nodded and blew about two quarts of smoke out her nose.

“Her daddy’s from Georgia,” she said as if that explained everything.

“I heard you two were in an accident or something.”

“A car wreck. Some guy plowed into the back of us in broad daylight.” She shook her head. “Left me near crippled with this back pain.” She indicated her massive nether region. “I spend every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon at the chiropractor’s office just so’s I can get around.”

I shook my head. “I hope the jerk who hit you is paying for it.”

“Oh, he will,” she said, her face the picture of unvarnished greed.

We sat there a few awkward moments; me trying to think of something else to say, Lucille puffing thoughtfully on her cigarette. The music had quieted down. I got the feeling I was on the verge of overstaying my welcome.

“Well, guess I’d better be off,” I said, getting to my feet. “I’m sorry I took up so much of your time. I just wanted to see that you got your gas cap back.”

Lucille lurched forward, teetering uncertainly on her feet. “Don’t mention it. I appreciate you bringin’ it by. Besides, I enjoyed the company.”

We’d just reached the door when the air was split with a nerve-jangling cackle. I smiled, recognizing Crazy Carlos’s patented hyena laugh.

Lucille rolled her eyes. “Can you believe that guy? Suzannah spends every afternoon listening to his show. Sent him fifty, sixty postcards thinkin’ he’s gonna give her the money.” She shook her head. “I tell her: you can’t get somethin’ for nothin’.”

I smiled. Without knowing it, Lucille had just given me the rope I needed to hang her with.

It was ridiculously easy to get Carl to sign on to my plan. I guess there’s a part of each of us that wants to be in on catching the bad guys. Lucille was gone, of course; I’d watched her leave for her appointment at the chiropractor’s at two o’clock. The only possible snag was quickly resolved when Suzannah ran to the manager’s office and borrowed a car to get to the studio. From there she hustled her buns down to the station and crowed her little heart out when Carlos handed her the check. Carlos got the whole thing on tape, which he gave to me when Suzannah drove off.

“This should do it,” he said, handing me the cassette.

“Thanks, Carl. You saved my life on this one.” I tucked the tape into my purse. When it was played for Lucille and Suzannah, I had no doubt they’d drop their suit like a hot potato.

Carl was grinning from ear to ear. “This was fun. Let me know if you ever need my help again. I’m usually available on short notice.”

“Thanks,” I said. “But this was a special case. Luckily, most of my clients aren’t as pressed for time as Gordon Lively.”

His face fell. “Lively? As in Lively Enterprises?”

I shrugged, feeling a bit defensive. “Yeah. What’s the matter? Is something wrong with that?”

Carl chuckled, laughing at my naivete. “Well, I suppose his money’s as good as anybody’s; but geez, Cath. The guy’s a sleazy, ball-busting bastard. How’d you ever hook up with him?”

I thought back to Mai’s recommendation. “A friend of mine sent him to me,” I said. “How do you know so much?”

Carl shook his head. “He owns this whole friggin’ station.”

I’d thought a lot about how I was going to present the evidence of their duplicity to Lucille and Suzannah and decided not to spring it on them in court. I make it a point to let people hang on to their dignity whenever possible, and after what Carl had said, I wasn’t so sure I could trust Gordon Lively to be big about it. I drove up to Ray’s Motel and parked in front of Unit 7. It was eight fifteen, and the sun was just beginning to set.

I could tell something was wrong the minute Lucille answered the door. Her face was puffy, and her eyes were rimmed with red. She seemed relieved to see it was only me at the door — as if she might have been expecting the bogeyman — and hustled me inside. I wondered if her demeanor had anything to do with Suzannah’s on-air escapade.

“What’s wrong, Lucille?” I asked, as innocently as possible.

Lucille pulled a Kleenex from a box on the table and dabbed at her eyes. “Oh, Cath. I don’t know what I’m gonna do.”