Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 34, No. 5, April 1974

Tim Rourke took Mike Shayne over and introduced him as “My friend from Miami.”

Della Peckinbaugh gave him a long, level look before replying. She was a beautiful, auburn-haired woman in her early forties. The late Harvey P. had been seventy-three the week before he died. Della had large green eyes and a statuesque figure well set off by the simple linen dress she wore.

“I’m glad you’re here, Mr. Shayne,” she said finally. “I’ve heard of you of course. I guess anyone who reads very much news has. When I heard that Mr. Rourke knew you, I asked him to phone Miami and ask you to come down and talk with me.”

Shayne smiled. “That’s flattering to say the least.”

“I’m not trying to flatter you,” she said. “Just to he honest. Harvey’s death has been a real shock to me. I won’t pretend that I’m grief stricken. If I did, it wouldn’t fool you for long. Harvey’s position and wealth were major reasons for my marriage. There was some affection at first, while he was busy courting me, but I’m afraid that was long ago. Still, with all of Harvey’s faults I had no reason to kill him. It disturbs me that someone else did. I’ll be honest with you. It shocks and, yes, frightens me.”

“I was hoping you could tell me who wanted to kill your husband and what the motive was,” Shayne said.

“On the contrary,” Della Peckinbaugh said. “I’m counting on you to find out and tell me, Mr. Shayne.”

She paused. Then, “You must find out and tell me before that same person decides to do the same thing to me as she did to Harvey.”

V

“Good lord Della,” Tim Rourke said. “You don’t really mean that, do you? Harvey was an overbearing man. He could be rough and tough, and he made enemies. But who on earth would want to murder you?”

She looked at Rourke.

“That’s what I want your Mr. Mike Shayne to find out for me,” Della Peckinbaugh said, and she wasn’t smiling when she said it. “Honestly, gentlemen, I think this was a personal killing. Not based on politics or Harvey’s business dealings, though God knows some of those may have-made him bitter enemies. I think this was strictly a personal thing and that the killer has the same crazy, twisted reasons to murder me.” She spoke calmly and with certainty.

“You sound very sure of yourself,” the big redheaded detective told her.

“I am. Oh, believe me, I’m in fear for my life right this very minute.”

“I believe you,” Mike Shayne said. “I also think that if you’re this sure of danger you can give me an educated guess where that danger is coming from. Who do you suspect killed your husband?”

“I don’t want to say,” Della Peckinbaugh said. “I don’t have any real evidence, at least not the sort that would stand up in court. I could be sued for accusing the wrong person.”

“Anything you say to Mike will be absolutely confidential,” Tim Rourke said. “I promise you that. You know he can do a better job if he knows who you suspect.”

She thought it over.

“Alright, Mr. Shayne. I have to trust you. Go see the woman who calls herself Dolly Dawn.”

“Your late husband’s friend?”

“My late husband’s girlfriend, his infatuation, his open and shameless light-o’-love. I’m not stupid. I know about her as I know about all the others. She’s the one.”

“But why would she want to kill him? You’re his legal wife and heir. What has she to gain?”

“You don’t know my husband,” she said. “I do. He told the same lies to each of his mistresses in turn to bind them to him. He told each one that he had put her in his will for a bequest of a cool million dollars cash. It was a lie of course, but it did heat up their feelings for him. I could always tell just when he’d told the girl by the way they both behaved. Oh, don’t look so shocked, Mr. Shayne. My Harvey was perfectly shameless in all the departments of his life.”

“I guess I’m just a bit old fashioned in a few things,” Shayne said.

“Only a few,” Tim Rourke interjected.

“To tell the truth I’m like you,” Della Peckinbaugh said. “I never quite got used to it myself — but that’s the way he was. On top of that he would hint to each girl that he would divorce me and marry her if she continued to make him happy. That was mighty effective too. Then after a while, of course, he’d cool off or find another girl. That could be an awful shock.”

“You think he was going to, drop Dolly Dawn?” Shayne asked.

“I think he was about to and that she found it out, but hadn’t found out yet that there wasn’t any million dollar bequest in his will. There was no million for Dolly, but she didn’t know it yet. Isn’t that a motive to kill?”

“Wrong, Della,” said a new voice. It was Bill Buzby who had come up to the table just in time to overhear her last words.

“Wrong?” she said. “What on earth do you mean?”

“I mean that in Dolly’s case there is a million dollar bequest — and she’ll collect it too. Harvey had a codicil to his will executed only three months ago. Up till then he’d just talked about doing that, but for Dolly he actually went ahead. I had to call in the attorneys and witness.”

“You never told me,” Della said.