He Done Her Wrong: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Eight) (Toby Peters Mysteries) Read Free Page A

take him seriously in his costume, but he was serious. So was the signal across the room from Mae West. I pushed away from Hom and made my way through a sea of girdles.
    “I’ve got the book,” she said, holding it up. “He’s got the money. Said he wasn’t through with me. Left by the back door.”
    “What’s he look like?” I said, anxious to move.
    “Like me,” she said. “A bit too much makeup, and he hasn’t got the voice down. Frilly dress, gold with—”
    I was off toward the rear. I knew who she meant. I had spotted the guy earlier. He had looked a bit strange—darting blue eyes and a white beaded purse big enough to hold a manuscript or a packet containing five thousand bucks. But since everyone in the place looked strange, I had filed him away. Now I was after him.
    I danced past a short Mae West who was saying, “Sure I’d do a Gene Autry, if the price was right,” and skipped down the hall.
    There was no one in the back rooms. I went through the kitchen where Dizzy and Daffy were busily making little sandwiches. The monkey was in a cage on the kitchen table chattering at his captors.
    “Someone just go through here?” I said.
    The blond one nodded and the monkey showed his teeth. I went out. There was a slight rain falling, so the sky didn’t give me much help. The kitchen window light didn’t penetrate very far, but the sound of someone moving through nearby bushes gave me a good idea of the direction I wanted. I plunged in, feeling the new suit tear as I pushed through the shrubs. Whoever was ahead heard me coming and took off. I followed the sound and remembered the layout. He was heading for the pool out back. I leaped over the bushes, falling on my face, got up and ran to head him off.
    By the time I hit poolside, the rain was coming down heavily and pinging off the tile edges. Two lights showed the clear bottom of the pool, and I huddled behind a bamboo table and chairs as the sound of someone coming through the bushes grew louder. I could hear someone panting and, I could swear, humming “Three Blind Mice.”
    When the figure stepped into the clearing in front of the pool, I made my move.
    “Hold it right there,” I said showing my .38 automatic.
    Holding it right there was a rain-soaked figure in a wilting hat. Even in the lack of light I could see he was grinning, which gave me a chill the rain couldn’t accomplish. What the hell did he have to grin about? He’d just been caught.
    “Just step forward a few feet very slowly.”
    As he stepped forward, I moved around the pool, wiping rain from my eyes. His makeup was running and I had the feeling I was watching some horror movie or seeing an episode of “Lights Out” come to life. The monster’s face was melting, but the monster was smiling.
    “Now,” I said gently, “just drop the bag and keep on coming with your hands up.” He came. We were about ten feet apart at the edge of the pool when he hissed and dropped the bag.
    “I take it,” he said in a high-pitched Mae West imitation, “that this means we are not friends.”
    “You’ve got a sense of humor,” I grinned back. “I like that in a nut with a foot on his throat. Now, we’re just going to walk very slowly back to the house.”
    He didn’t move.
    “Who are you?” he said, staring at me through soggy mascara. I was sure he had switched to a W. C. Fields imitation.
    “Name is Peters,” I said. “Private detective. Who are you?”
    It was pouring and our voices were muffled. He didn’t answer. The chill hit me and I yelled, “Let’s move.”
    He didn’t move.
    “You want to get shot in drag?” I shouted. “Move. This is a gun. It shoots real bullets and makes holes in people.”
    He didn’t move. I shot twice well over his head into the rainstorm, but he still didn’t move. He had me. It was either shoot him or find some other way to bring him in. He turned his back on me and stooped to pick up the purse.
    I shoved the gun back in my holster