God Save the Child

Helping Margery Bartlett overcome her grief involved a lot of housework. The caterer arrived about twenty minutes after they’d hauled Maguire away in a blanket. He had two eight-foot tables in his truck and enough food to cover both of them. It was warm and I had my coat off. The caterer’s assistant stared covertly at the gun on my hip but made no comment. I helped them set up the tables and carry in the food.

Marge Bartlett was hustling about in a passion of haste, directing me where to put the cold ham and what kind of silverware needed to go beside the schmaltz herring. Roger Bartlett got home about six o’clock and was told to set up the bar before he was told about Earl Maguire.

“Sonova bitch,” he said, “sonova bitch.” He kept shaking his head as he lined the bottles up on the counter in the kitchen. At 6:30 Marge Bartlett retired to her room to begin getting ready, and Roger Bartlett went down to the store for soda. I called Susan Silverman. It was late on a Saturday, but there was no harm trying, and if I had to stand around at a cocktail party in the subs, I might as well have a date. She answered on the second ring.

“Mrs. Silverman, I’m calling to tell you that you’ve won the Jackie Susann look-alike contest. First prize is an evening with a sophisticated sleuth at the Bartletts’ cocktail party tonight.”

“And second prize is two evenings,” she said.

“Well, I’m doing guard duty here, and I wondered if you wanted to come along and carry my ammo.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“Okay. What is anyone wearing?”

“I would say it’s dress-up stuff. You know, sixty-five people. The food catered. A punch bowl. Ice sculpture. White linen tablecloth. Real silver. Mrs. Bartlett has started getting ready, and the guests don’t come till eight.”

“All right, I’ll dress accordingly. Will you pick me up?”

“No, I’m sorry, I can’t. There was a murder here today and Mrs. Bartlett’s been threatened and I can’t leave her. Can you drive yourself over okay?”

“A murder? Who?”

“The Bartletts’ lawyer, Earl Maguire. I’ll tell you about it tonight.”

“What time do I arrive?”

“Eight o’clock.”

“See you then.”

I said good-bye. There was a pause at the other end, then she said, “Jackie Susann?”

“Maybe it was Jackie O.,” I said.

She said, “Well, it’s better than Jackie Coogan, I suppose,” and hung up.

Bartlett came back in the house with a case of club soda and put it on the floor beside the refrigerator.

“I’m going to take a shower,” I told him. “Lock the door and don’t let anyone in till I’m back down here. Okay?” I was much jumpier about the threats to Marge Bartlett since Maguire had turned up dead.

“Well, don’t be long,” he said. “I gotta get ready too.”

“Ten minutes,” I said.

“Right.”

“Oh, by the way, I’ve invited a woman I know, Mrs. Silverman from the high school. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Mind? Hell no. A man needs some female companionship, long as he doesn’t get carried away and end up married. You know? Don’t need to be married to have fun. Right? Don’t need that.”

“Sure don’t,” I said, heading up the stairs.

I stuck to my word and was out of the shower in four minutes and dressed in another five. I put on a dark blue two-button suit with wide lapels and a shaped waist, a blue and white checked shirt, and a wide red tie striped blue and black. I didn’t have any shoe polish, but I managed to freshen up my black boots with some Kleenex. I clipped my gun on and went back downstairs. I hoped there’d be no gun-play tonight. My hip holster was brown, and it didn’t go with my outfit.

At eight the first guests began to arrive. Marge Bartlett was still getting ready, but her husband was there at the door dressed fit to kill. He had on a green and gold paisley-print jacket that was loose-fitting around the collar, a yellow shirt with long collar points, a narrow green and red paisley tie, brown flared slacks with cuffs, and black and brown blunt-toed stacked-heel shoes which made him walk a little awkwardly. His tailor looked to be Robert of Hall. How he must have yearned for a blue work shirt and khaki pants.

I stood around the hall with a can of beer in my hand as Bartlett let the guests in. He kept saying “Say hello to old Spenser here; he’s a detective,” which produced a lot of warm handshakes. I felt like a weed at a flower show.

Susan Silverman showed up at 8:30 and a lot of people, mostly but not exclusively men, turned and looked at her. She was wearing a full-length backless dress with red and black flowers against a white background. The top tied in two thin strings around her neck. Her arms and back were still tanned from summer, and her black hair glistened. She had red earrings and fingernails to match. I introduced her to Bartlett.

“Hey,” he said, “aren’t you down the high school?”

“Yes, I’m a guidance counselor.”

“Boy, they didn’t look like you when I was in high school. Hey, Spenser? I bet they didn’t look like that in your high school, huh?”

“No,” I said, “nothing like that.”