A
later case in Grandpa Walt’s career (June 1975); it was particularly intriguing
to me when I learned the identity of the client…
WANTED: DEAD… OR
DEADER
I knew she was trouble the minute
I saw her. But I was mesmerized by those baby blues and the legs that never
quit. Call me stupid; I married the ball-buster. Several miserable years
later—divorce.
It was either that or murder. I took the coward’s way out and she ended up with
the house, the car and the bank account. At least I kept the dog; she kicked us
both out.
The years hadn’t touched her
looks. She cha cha’d into my downtown Chicago office and I felt a familiar
tingle even though twenty years had passed. Two decades since I’d laid eyes on
her and she had the audacity to imagine I’d drop everything I was doing to come
to her rescue. (She’d divorced me soon after I opened my own detective agency—too
lowbrow for the lady). Now Renee claimed
she’d misplaced her brand new hubby and demanded I find him. Fat chance. He
must’ve been a faster learner than yours truly; the lucky stiff got her number
after only four months. Took me four years.
God help me, I took the case. Business
had been slow recently, and I had a current wife and kid to support. Not to
mention my latest dog, Jingo. Pure bred basset hound (what other kind of dog is
fit for a private eye? I had adopted Jingo five years ago after the death of
Barnaby—the Boston Terrier that Renee and I had owned during our marriage). Before
she waltzed out, Renee handed over a picture of the guy. Turned out he was
hubby number five. (She’d tied Elizabeth Taylor in the marriage department. Renee
must’ve made a killing with all the divorce settlements). So I took her case
and her money. Call me a fool (in case you haven’t noticed, I call myself a lot
of things); I agreed to look into the matter.
I spent all day checking out the
man. Abner Jerome Carlyle. Sixty years old and ugly as sin. Alfred E. Neuman
ears, sumo wrestler’s body and Marty Feldman eyes. (Look it up if you don’t get
the references.) I bet he avoided mirrors like a vampire avoided garlic. She
could only have married him for one reason—money (though personally I don’t
think there’s enough dough in the world to face that mug across the breakfast
table every morning). Ex-husbands one through four apparently hadn’t signed
over enough assets to keep her in the lifestyle she’d become accustomed to.
Enter Abner Carlyle, real estate
tycoon. Into everything you could imagine and then some. I did some digging and
found out Abner’s net worth. Now I understood the real problem—Abner missing was
worth zero payout to the new Mrs. Carlyle. Dead, Renee would never have to lift
a finger ever again. And I do mean ever. She didn’t want me to find the man;
she wanted me to find his body.
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