The Cover Girl Killer. Richard A. Lupoff
(“I live with my son William since my husband died”) remembered the Paige Building in Chicago. It had been a family joke between her husband and herself. (“There’s our building. Isn’t it nice being landlords? I wonder how the tenants are doing.”) But in fact her husband had been a wholesale butcher with a shop near the stockyards, and her son was regional manager for the Piggly-Wiggly supermarket chain and they really had nothing to do with the Paige Building or with Paige Publications.
Lindsey straightened his tie, slipped into his suit-coat and took the elevator downstairs. He walked into the bar and ordered a whiskey. There was a TV set above the back bar, tuned to CNN. Of course there was a set in Lindsey’s room, but he hadn’t turned it on. The picture looked murky and for a moment Lindsey thought the satellite was acting up, but the bartender leaned his elbows on the wood and pointed at the set with one thumb.
“What do you think of that?”
Lindsey tried to figure out what he was looking at. This might be one of those wonderful medical shows featuring super blowups of some poor soul’s intestinal parasites.
The announcer intoned, “These are the photographs that have the world of ichthyology in an uproar. Have scientists from the University of Nevada really found Tahoe Tessie, the mountain lake’s cousin of Scotland’s famous Loch Ness Monster, or is it merely a sunken log, or perhaps an overgrown Mackinaw trout?”
The image cut to a perfect co-anchor team seated behind a news desk. They weren’t Dan Rather and Connie Chung but they could have passed for clones. The Connie had been speaking. Now the Dan took over. “In the Kremlin today, forces loyal to former leader.…”
The bartender used the remote control to cut the volume on the set. “Lake Tahoe, hey? That’s a little puddle. Those professors ought to take a look at the bottom of Lake Michigan. Then they’d see what a real monster looks like. Waddaya think?”
Lindsey said, “You’re absolutely right.” He paid for his whiskey, left most of it in its glass and headed back to his room. Once there he looked out the window again at the now black sky and black lake. He sighed and went back to work.
He could go in either of two directions. He could spread his net wider—look for Wilbur or William Paiges in Chicago proper, or in other suburbs—or he could keep trying Paiges in Evanston and Skokie, but not limit himself to William or Wilbur.
He decided on the latter course.
Another hour’s work and he hit pay dirt. He’d had to go a little past Evanston, but not very far. A Paul Paige on Willow Road in Winnetka announced that he’d just got home from work at the Chicago Museum of Science and Industry where he was a senior curator. Yes, he knew about Paige Publications and the Paige Building. No, he didn’t know any William or Wilbur Paige, but his father had been Walter Paige, founder and president of Paige Publications. No, he was no longer alive. Nor was his wife, alas.
But Paul was alive and well thank you very much and what was it that Mr. Lindsey wanted?
Lindsey explained that he was with International Surety and was trying to find the beneficiary of a life insurance policy.
Mr. Paige said, “I’ve heard ’em all, brother, and believe me, that one’s the oldest in the book.”
Lindsey dialed Winnetka again. This time a woman answered. Lindsey asked, “Is this Mrs. Paige?”
Her voice was smooth but not particularly friendly. “No, Mrs. Paige died many years ago. Who is calling?”
Lindsey said, “I’m sorry. I meant, Mrs. Paul Paige. I’m trying to—”
“Are you the insurance man?” she cut him off.
“Yes, but I’m not a salesman. I give you my word of honor.”
“Then just what do you want?”
Lindsey tried to explain the Vansittart situation in twenty-five words or less. He must have done pretty well, because the woman who was not Mrs. Paige finally said, “All right, you may come to the house. Tonight. It’s—” he could almost hear her look at her watch “—almost six-thirty now. We should finish our dinner by eight o’clock. You may join us then for coffee. Paul and I will try to assist you.”
Lindsey thanked her.
“But I warn you,” she added, “if you even try to sell me anything, I will go in the other room and get my gun and come back and kill you. I’m not joking.”
She hung up.
Lindsey vowed silently not to try to sell her anything.
The phone rang. It was Gina Rossellini. How was Lindsey doing, did he need any help with the case, and was he all at loose ends in a strange city and looking for company for dinner?
He thanked her for the offer but begged off. He thought about phoning Marvia or Mother at home, then remembered the difference in time zones. He dialed Marvia at Berkeley police headquarters.
He got through to her and told her that he’d located the Paige family and was going out to their house in an hour. She said that Willie Fergus had called and told her that the fiber-optic probe at Lake Tahoe was getting good results. Lindsey told her about his conversation with the bartender. They promised to keep each other informed.
That was the end of the call.
He thought, Maybe if we were married I could get her to quit the police force. Then she could travel with me. This would be one heck of a lot pleasanter if I weren’t alone in this city. I wouldn’t have to fend off Gina Rossellini.
Then he thought, Do I want to fend her off?
Then he thought, Yes, I really do.
Then he thought, What if she looked more like Sophia Loren and less like Anna Magnani? Would you still fend her off?
Then he thought, Yes.
He ate another room service sandwich for dinner, put on his Jim Dial topcoat and fedora, and picked up his white Ford LTD. The drive to Winnetka wasn’t as bad as he’d feared; they kept the roads pretty clear in Chicago and the northern suburbs.
The Paige home on Willow Road was a tall Tudor set behind a broad lawn. A gravel drive led to the front door. Lindsey’s prospective hosts had left a light burning—that was a good sign. The house sported a three-car garage, but there was already a new-looking Chevy Caprice in the driveway. Maybe there was more company tonight, or maybe the Paiges were a four-car family.
Lindsey had left his palmtop computer in his room at the Drake. The only equipment he brought with him to Willow Road was his pocket organizer and his gold International Surety pencil.
The woman who answered the door wore a black maid’s uniform complete with white apron and cap. Lindsey hadn’t seen anything like her since AMC re-ran My Man Godfrey with William Powell and Carole Lombard. She took his fedora and topcoat and his card away and came back and ushered him into the living room.
Yes indeed, the family was assembled for their after-dinner coffee, and Lindsey was invited to join the fun.
The ceiling was high enough for a few small clouds to form among the heavy wooden beams. The floor was blue slate. The furniture was late Curt Siodmak hunting lodge. Lindsey half expected C. Aubrey Smith to stride through a doorway, shotgun over his arm, a couple of newly-killed partridges in his hand.
The woman who rose to greet him wore her white hair in a graceful upsweep that might not have been current but was definitely fashionable. She wore a dark green woolen dress and a simple golden chain that reached halfway down her chest. A tiny golden crucifix hung from the chain. Jesus looked happy and contented between the woman’s breasts. She had received Lindsey’s card and glanced at it as he approached.
She shook his hand. He noticed long fingernails, a first-rate professional manicure, a wedding band and a large glittering rock.
“I am Patti Paige Hanson. Please do not make any jokes about the doggie in the window, I was tired of them thirty years ago. You are Mr.