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The sun greeted us with its normal infuriating brand of cheery goodness as we stepped free of the building, darkening my mood another notch. I pulled Bambi quickly to the safety of my car, where the severely tinted windows keep the fiendish solar glow at bay. Once in, I opened up the ashtray to expose the old cigarette butts, which Bambi was kind enough to notice. I started the motor, wincing at the quiet hum the car gave off as it idled. One more thing to look into, when the clams come in from the successful and stylish completion of my passenger’s mystery. Fortunately, I always have a backup. I started the misfiring sound effects, and pumped in some burning oil fumes from the spare canister of smells for good measure.
Back in the day, a man in my position could afford to waste a little more time on the set up. A case like this, maybe I could have sent her away twice before allowing Ms. Smith to lure me into her bosomy embrace, at which point I could play the proper reluctant hero and begrudgingly accept the challenge. Nowadays, with everything so backwards, the Feds barge their way in immediately. Wait a good hour, and you’ll probably miss out on your chance.
Pulling up to the house, I saw it was a mansion, of course, resplendent with a dark wrought iron gate to keep riffraff like me out. Bambi pushed it open and sauntered to the door. Being at least two-thirds leg, she made it in a few steps. I hurried to catch up. Bambi pushed the door open when I reached her. I dug out a cigarette butt and threw it on the step, grinding it under my heel before entering. We paused in the lobby to give me time to pull out my notebook and scribble something official in it. To let Bambi know she was getting her money’s worth, I took several minutes to scowl at various objects and scratch my whiskers. I even went so far as to chew on my pencil while glaring suspiciously at an umbrella stand, a move I reserve for select clientele.
“Any clues here?” Bambi asked with a quaver when I turned from the canister. I smirked and slapped the notepad shut.
“There may be, Dollface. There just may be. Where did this dastardly deed take place?”
Bambi nodded toward the stairs. “In the guest bedroom.”
She led the way, struggling against the fabric of her dress, which afforded little room to move. As she grabbed the banister, the varnish oozed underneath her warm grip. A few stitches burst as she sashayed, sending shrapnels of thread in every direction. I tipped down my battered fedora to protect my eyes, steadying myself against the wind generated by her swaying posterior.
We were already too late. The bedroom was crawling with Feds. I recognized one snake in particular and snuck up behind him. As he turned, I grabbed him by the shirt and slammed him against a wall. “What’s the deal, Kirker? Not enough satisfaction failing at your own cases, now you gotta butt into my gig?”
Kirker gasped in fear, thinking he was dealing with the Devil himself. He wasn’t, quite. I’m not as easy going. “Christ, Irving, what are you doing here? I thought they took your license away.”
I twisted the end of my fake cigarette, and it spouted out smoke dutifully, billowing into Kirker’s face. “Don’t need a license to find the truth, Kirker. Why not stand back and let a pro show you how it’s done?” I let him go to dig out another cigarette butt and grind it into the floor. “By the way, the name’s Trigger, pal, not Irving. You’ve got me mixed with some other sap.”
“Whatever. Anyway, we’re done. There was no foul play, of course,” he sighed at me. “The old guy’s heart failed.”
I turned to Bambi, who was misty-eyed watching a real man like myself in action. “Maybe that’s what someone wants you to think, Kirker. Ms. Smith here thinks different.”
Bambi nodded and sighed, knocking down a few of the Feds in the room during inhalation.
“Nope,” Kirker said, looking through a sheaf of plastipapers. “Full enzymatic profile, biochemical analysis, genetic sweep… no intruders or suspicious physiological condition. Heart attack.”
“You trust your fancy schmancy technology, Kirker,” I growled as I glared at each of the Feds in turn. “I’ve got a different kind of tool. It’s called instinct, Kirker. A man in my profession learns to trust his gut.”
“Whatever you say, Irving.”
“Trigger, Kirker. The name is Trigger Steel. I think someone in the family fixed Pops an arsenic omelet for breakfast. And I think it was Candy.”
Kirker looked through his report. “Who’s Candy? There’s no Candy in my records. Will you please back off and let us finish up here?”
I smirked. “Probably because she wanted it that way. Candy doesn’t want to be noticed. And why would that be?”
“Because she doesn’t exist? Go away, please?”
“Because she killed Pops, that’s why.” I nodded to Bambi. “Something Ms. Smith told me earlier gave me the clue I needed. Seems her husband Englebert is less then successful in financial respects. Set herself up as a recipient to Granddaddy’s fortune, then slipped him a terminal Mickey. Nice and neat.”
“Who’s Englebert?” Kirker sighed, fearing my inevitable solvation of the case.
“That’s right,” Bambi said from the doorway. Her chin dropped to rest on the platform of cleavage just underneath it. “Candy was in the will…”
“We did a full genetic sweep of the house, Irving. No DNA but the victim and the lady right here. Heart attack.”
I scowled. Everything fell into place in my mind like the pieces of a well-oiled jigsaw puzzle. “No, Kirker, that’s just what someone wanted you to think. Someone in this room.”
About Sean MacKendrick
