The Adjal of Jimmy Temple

Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

A woman was standing by the mailboxes. An expensive woman with short, well-coiffed white-blonde hair and glacier blue eyes that looked hard enough to scratch diamonds, including the ones on the well-manicured fingers of each hand. She wore a white button-down Brooks shirt and a blue denim skirt, the kind of casual clothes you might wear lunching at the Tennis Club. She had plenty of makeup, although maybe not too much, just enough to convey an impression of self-aware beauty and insolent wealth.

"Are you Temple, that detective?"

"I am, and I'm free Monday morning, first thing."

"This can't wait. My stepdaughter intends to kill me."

She even looked like a Trish. I figured that only a Trish would wear a black bra under a white shirt. The black bra might have been an understated piece of mourning garb, while the rest of her wardrobe made it clear she had no intention of overdoing the funereal touch.

"Mrs. Kincaid, I presume?"

"Did you hear what I just said?"

"I did."

"And it means nothing to you?"

"What it means, Mrs. Kincaid, is that I wish I'd have stayed in bed and avoided the last twenty-four hours."

"You're a funny fellow, Mr. Temple."

"And a tired one, Mrs. Kincaid. You'll have to excuse me."

I turned away from her and went into the courtyard. The courtyard had star jasmine and rose bushes edging its flagstone, while humming birds flitted around clusters of bougainvillea. At the far end of the courtyard a young couple who worked for a head hunting outfit was swimming laps. I could smell someone cooking spicy sausage for breakfast and I was ravenous.

"We really have to talk, Mr. Temple."

The widow Kincaid had followed me through the wrought iron gate and into the courtyard. There was an air of willful determination about her that my discourtesy had only seemed to heighten. I hadn't wanted to be rude. All I wanted was a few hours sleep with dreams that did not feature dead bodies. I wheeled around to face her.

"We really have to die, everything else is optional," I said, and was immediately sorry. After all, her husband was now at that big land development office in the sky. "My apologies. And my condolences on the recent death of your husband. It's just that I've had a roller coaster night."

The blonde nodded knowingly. "She's real trouble."

I knew she meant Wanda. "She sure is," I said. "She's driving without a license."

"I'll repeat myself, Mr. Temple. You're a funny fellow." Her smile was as perfect as a fresh fall of snow and just about as icy.

"And I'll repeat myself, Mrs. Kincaid. A tired one. If you like, we can talk on Monday."

"I'm prepared to hire you for a great deal of money."

I suddenly felt not so tired. "Define 'a great deal of.'"

"A blank check. You can fill it in for whatever."

"Whatever?" Those red warning lights started to blink again in my tired, tiny brain.

"Within reason, of course. My money won't do me much good if I'm dead." From her shoulder purse she brought out a wallet-sized checkbook and a silver Montblanc pen, signed a check, peeled it off and slapped it into my hand. "You'll now protect me from my stepdaughter."

The words coming from my brain to my lips were my I-don't-do-that-kind-of-work litany, but clients presenting blank checks didn't come around every day. "How did you know Wanda came to see me?"