Read Online Love Me and Die by Louis Trimble - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Louis Trimble
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my legs!”
I turned the flashlight on and shone it in her face. I turned it off again. She was drunker than I had ever seen her. A slack mouth, moist eyes, one braid hanging down almost to her waist, skirt and blouse wrinkled—these seemed strange in connection with the redhead.
I said, “Shut up and behave yourself. What are you doing here anyway?”
She said, “When you told me Bonita knew who you were, I was afraid she was trying to frame you or Art. I thought if I moved the body, her frame wouldn’t be so likely to work.”
I said, “And what were you going to do with it, for God’s sake?”
“Put him in the river,” she said thickly. “I took the knife out already.” Even in shadow, her face was white with the memory. She added, “It was Art’s hunting knife, Jojo. The one he kept in his car.”
I began to see her reasoning. And I thought she might be right. I didn’t like the idea of playing fast and loose with the law. But I knew how the police operated—and they were no different south of the border, except that they could be tougher and sometimes smarter. Once the body was found in the motel room, they wouldn’t need much time to find their suspects. Especially since someone must have seen the Mercedes beside Unit 7. And it wasn’t a car the custom’s men were going to forget. Nor would they forget the driver.
The redhead said, “Did I do good?”
I said, “It’s beginning to look that way.” I gave her the flashlight and bent down. The body was too heavy for me to carry easily. I compromised by dragging it to the river. I found a little backwash under a drooping willow. I slid Turk in there.
I straightened with a sigh. I wondered where the redhead had found the strength to move him at all. But then fear or rum or a combination of both had probably given her the power she needed.
The redhead had followed me. She said sadly, “Poor Turk. All dead and not even his woman to weep over him.”
“What do you mean, ‘his woman’?” I demanded.
She said, “You’re a hell of a detective, Jojo. Didn’t you see the lipstick on his face? There was a tiny smear under his lower lip, another by the bruise on his jaw, and a good-sized one on his earlobe. And it wasn’t very old, either.”
I was too bushed to do much thinking. I realized I was hungry as well as tired. I started slowly back up the road. I said, “I don’t remember any lipstick on him last night. And I was closer to him then than I was at the motel.”
She said, “My guess is that some woman was nuzzling him when she put the knife in his stomach.” She added philosophically, “There are worse ways to die, I suppose. But that would depend on who the woman was, wouldn’t it?”
I said, “For God’s sake, stop being so gruesome. And from what Bonita said tonight, Turk was working for her.”
“Or with her,” the redhead said. “Or maybe she thought he was working with her and he tried to cross her, so she stabbed him.”
“In Art’s motel room?”
She said petulantly, “Can you think of a better theory?”
I said, “I can’t think at all now. I haven’t eaten in—” I stopped to check my watch so I could tell her how long it had been since I ate.
My watch read five minutes to ten. I forgot about food. I said, “I’ve got a date with Toby Jessup at the Frontera in five or ten minutes. Let’s get moving. Are you in any shape to drive?”
The redhead said, “I drove your bug here. I can get it back. And don’t worry about my shape,” she added darkly. “It’s probably better than Toby Jessup’s.”
I helped her into the camper and gave her an encouraging slap on the fanny. I said, “Put this thing back where you got it and take a taxi back to Ramiera. And stay in the motel.”
“Yes, sir.” She turned away. I heard a cork being pulled. I listened to a gentle gurgling. I hoped she’d get my camper back in one piece.
I started for the Mercedes and stopped. “By the way, how did you get into
I turned the flashlight on and shone it in her face. I turned it off again. She was drunker than I had ever seen her. A slack mouth, moist eyes, one braid hanging down almost to her waist, skirt and blouse wrinkled—these seemed strange in connection with the redhead.
I said, “Shut up and behave yourself. What are you doing here anyway?”
She said, “When you told me Bonita knew who you were, I was afraid she was trying to frame you or Art. I thought if I moved the body, her frame wouldn’t be so likely to work.”
I said, “And what were you going to do with it, for God’s sake?”
“Put him in the river,” she said thickly. “I took the knife out already.” Even in shadow, her face was white with the memory. She added, “It was Art’s hunting knife, Jojo. The one he kept in his car.”
I began to see her reasoning. And I thought she might be right. I didn’t like the idea of playing fast and loose with the law. But I knew how the police operated—and they were no different south of the border, except that they could be tougher and sometimes smarter. Once the body was found in the motel room, they wouldn’t need much time to find their suspects. Especially since someone must have seen the Mercedes beside Unit 7. And it wasn’t a car the custom’s men were going to forget. Nor would they forget the driver.
The redhead said, “Did I do good?”
I said, “It’s beginning to look that way.” I gave her the flashlight and bent down. The body was too heavy for me to carry easily. I compromised by dragging it to the river. I found a little backwash under a drooping willow. I slid Turk in there.
I straightened with a sigh. I wondered where the redhead had found the strength to move him at all. But then fear or rum or a combination of both had probably given her the power she needed.
The redhead had followed me. She said sadly, “Poor Turk. All dead and not even his woman to weep over him.”
“What do you mean, ‘his woman’?” I demanded.
She said, “You’re a hell of a detective, Jojo. Didn’t you see the lipstick on his face? There was a tiny smear under his lower lip, another by the bruise on his jaw, and a good-sized one on his earlobe. And it wasn’t very old, either.”
I was too bushed to do much thinking. I realized I was hungry as well as tired. I started slowly back up the road. I said, “I don’t remember any lipstick on him last night. And I was closer to him then than I was at the motel.”
She said, “My guess is that some woman was nuzzling him when she put the knife in his stomach.” She added philosophically, “There are worse ways to die, I suppose. But that would depend on who the woman was, wouldn’t it?”
I said, “For God’s sake, stop being so gruesome. And from what Bonita said tonight, Turk was working for her.”
“Or with her,” the redhead said. “Or maybe she thought he was working with her and he tried to cross her, so she stabbed him.”
“In Art’s motel room?”
She said petulantly, “Can you think of a better theory?”
I said, “I can’t think at all now. I haven’t eaten in—” I stopped to check my watch so I could tell her how long it had been since I ate.
My watch read five minutes to ten. I forgot about food. I said, “I’ve got a date with Toby Jessup at the Frontera in five or ten minutes. Let’s get moving. Are you in any shape to drive?”
The redhead said, “I drove your bug here. I can get it back. And don’t worry about my shape,” she added darkly. “It’s probably better than Toby Jessup’s.”
I helped her into the camper and gave her an encouraging slap on the fanny. I said, “Put this thing back where you got it and take a taxi back to Ramiera. And stay in the motel.”
“Yes, sir.” She turned away. I heard a cork being pulled. I listened to a gentle gurgling. I hoped she’d get my camper back in one piece.
I started for the Mercedes and stopped. “By the way, how did you get into
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