The Lucky Duck Affair. Mel Gilden

      COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

      Copyright © 2013 by Mel Gilden

      Published by Wildside Press LLC

      www.wildsidebooks.com

      DEDICATION

      For Nick and Nora Charles,

       who were there first

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHANCE MEETING AT A MEXICAN RESTAURANT

      Amos True looked out over the Hollywood Hills and smiled. Because it was spring, and Los Angeles had just experienced one of its rare rainstorms, the bushes and trees were a deep green. Cool air rolled in off the hills, and True hungrily inhaled the fragrance of sage and eucalyptus—they pleasantly spiced the smell of the eggs, bacon, toast, and coffee that were half-finished on the table before him.

      “What are you smiling at?” the woman across the table asked. She was slim, one might say almost willowy; her pert round face under short dark hair had something of the elf in it. It would be easy to believe she was kidding or trying to pull a fast one even when she was not doing either.

      “Just you, my dear Polly,” True said. “You and the hills and a pretty fair breakfast. It’s a beautiful morning.”

      “Breakfast on the patio,” Polly St. Jough said with satisfaction. “How civilized. And you deserve it,” she went on. “We both do after all that trouble with the two divas.”

      True shuddered. “I knew there was a reason I didn’t like opera.”

      “Opera is not the problem.”

      True frowned. “No,” he admitted. “Murder is the problem, as usual.” He carefully buttered a slice of toast while Polly sipped her coffee.

      “You need a vacation,” she said. “And I will help you take it. Nothing will wear a person out like dealing with the dirty little secrets of other people.”

      “Those dirty little secrets paid for this civilized breakfast,” True reminded her.

      She kicked him under the table, doing little damage to either her slipper-clad foot or his stockinged shin. True was a big man; his enemies—of which he had a few, both social and professional—often described him as looking like a gorilla. He was not handsome, exactly, but had a pleasantly ugly mug, and his brown hair was always well-barbered. People who met him for the first time were often surprised by his grace. “You know what I mean,” Polly said.

      True meditated while he nibbled some of his buttered toast and chewed. “Yes,” he said at last. “I know exactly what you mean. But here’s an idea. We’ll take the Auburn up the coast and have lunch in Santa Barbara.”

      Her eyes got big, but Polly attempted to look innocent. “Then what?” she asked.

      True said nothing, but wiggled his eyebrows at her lustfully, like Groucho Marx.

      Polly laughed, sounding like a tuned set of bells.

      True leaned across the table at her, about to confide more, when deep in the big white stucco house behind them the front doorbell rang out the chimes of Big Ben. True threw down his napkin and walked quickly into the house.

      “If it’s Lieutenant Ochoa with news of someone’s dirty little secret,” Polly called after him, “tell him we are full up and don’t want any more.”

      True chuckled as he approached the front door and pulled it open. Waiting on the step was a slim man in a brown suit that was only slightly darker than the color of his skin. He had a pencil-thin mustache, beneath which was a shy smile. He held his fedora in one hand.

      “Why, Lieutenant Ochoa,” True cried with delight. “Polly and I were just talking about you.”

      “That can’t be good,” Ochoa said as he stepped inside the house.

      “No need to be suspicious,” True said. “Have you had breakfast?”

      “I was hoping you would ask.”

      “I don’t suppose you are here just for the free food,” True said as he led Ochoa along the cool dim hallway to the back patio, stopping briefly in the kitchen to pick up a coffee mug.

      “Of course not. I’m here to bask in Polly’s warm glow.”

      “I thought so,” True said as he and Ochoa emerged into the sunlight.

      “What’s that about a warm glow?” Polly asked.

      Ochoa gave her a quick peck on the offered cheek, and sat down at the table. He took a piece of toast and began to slather it with butter. True filled the clean coffee mug and Ochoa took a quick sip. He sighed with pleasure.

      “Well?” True asked.

      “Well, nothing,” Polly said. “If you’re here to tell us about some new horror, we don’t want to hear about it.”

      “No. As a matter of fact I’m here to report that something has gone right for a change. Famed opera singer Madame Von Klempt has confessed to the murder of Madame Francesca.”

      “You see, Amos,” Polly said, “it’s officially time for a vacation.”

      True grinned. “That’s fine, fine,” he said. “Are you sure that’s the only reason you’re here? That and to bask in Polly’s warm glow?”

      “Now who’s suspicious?” Ochoa asked.

      The police lieutenant finished his breakfast quickly and stood up while he tapped his mouth with a napkin. “Sorry to rush off,” he said.

      “Crime won’t wait,” True suggested.

      “You got that right.”

      After True had escorted Ochoa back to the front door, he returned to the breakfast table and stood next to Polly, who was still idly sipping her coffee.

      “Let’s get cracking,” True said as he began to collect dirty dishes. “We’re burning daylight.”

      Just this once they left the dirty dishes in the sink. They hurried down to the garage where they got into True’s Auburn Speedster, a long bone-white automobile that, despite its length, seated only two comfortably; it was mostly engine at one end and mostly trunk at the other.

      True quickly navigated the switchbacks and hairpin turns that would take them from his home down the narrow road past other stucco houses hidden behind walls and dense foliage. Like True, most of the people who lived in the hills liked their privacy and could afford to maintain it.

      At Sunset Boulevard he turned right and headed west. The traffic was not bad in Hollywood that morning. Soon they passed Sid Grauman’s Chinese Theater, and the spire of the optimistically named Crossroads of the World. In Beverly Hills the street suddenly became residential, and they motored past long, low, ranch-style houses with front lawns big enough to accommodate putting greens. The university came up on their left and was behind them in an instant. As Sunset became more snake-like, the houses got farther and farther apart, and soon they were driving between rows of eucalyptus trees and wide open fields dotted with cottonwoods and live oaks. At last they reached the coast route and True turned north.

      The cliffs of Santa Monica rose on their right while on the left waves marched in across the sparkling ocean from Japan and hurried up onto the sand. The fresh sea smell compounded of sea salt and kelp invigorated them. Polly laughed and playfully punched True in the shoulder. They drove past beach towns, some of which were no more than a bar and a gas station huddled together against the salt spray.

      The trip to Santa Barbara was a pleasant drive of about two hours, and when they arrived True sought out Veracruz, his favorite Mexican restaurant.

      “Señor True,” cried the patrón, a man in a frilly white shirt and black pants.

      “Javiar,” True cried in response and they hugged like brothers. Javiar bowed politely to Polly, then lead the two of them toward an empty table.

      “Amos