“Found in the …”
“Yes.”
“For those of you who missed our newscast earlier tonight, I should mention that the body of a man carrying Mr. Crandall’s identification …”
“Yes.”
“… was found in an automobile rented by a visitor to New York …”
“Is this a series?” the four-year-old asked.
“No, Glory, it’s a newsbreak special,” Albetha said.
“… a man named Michael Barnes, whose wallet was also found …”
“Yes,” Crandall said.
“In the automobile.”
“Yes.”
“So it would appear at least possible that the man the police are now actively seeking …”
“Are you sure this isn’t a series?” Glory asked suspiciously.
“Positive,” Albetha said, and gave Michael another sharp look.
“… is, in fact, the man responsible for the murder. But why—and this is the big question, isn’t it, Mr. Crandall—why would he have put your identification in the dead man’s pocket?”
“I have no idea,” Crandall said.
“Nor does anyone else at this moment,” the blond man said hurriedly, obviously having received an off-camera signal to wrap. “Believe me when I say, however, that we’re happy one of our most talented screen directors is still with us. Mr. Crandall …”
His face taking on a sincere and solemnly heartfelt look, his voice lowering …
“Thank you so much … literally … for being here with us tonight.”
“After the false reports of my death,” Crandall said, smiling, “I’m happy I was able to be here.”
“He’s so full of shit,” Albetha muttered.
“What?” the eight-year-old said.
“I said it’ll be a while before Daddy gets home, so I want you all to go to bed now. If I hear Santa coming to drink his milk and eat the cookies you left by the tree, I’ll come wake you. But you mustn’t frighten him off or he won’t leave any presents. All right now?”
“Who’s this?” the four-year-old said, looking at Michael.
“One of Daddy’s friends,” Albetha said.
“I’m sure.”
Michael smiled.
“What’s your name?” the six-year-old asked.
“Michael,” he said.
“Come on, kids, bed,” Albetha said, and shooed them off down the hallway.
Michael watched them go.
He debated running.
He decided not to.
When Albetha came back some five minutes later, she said, “You still here? I thought you’d be in Alaska by now.”
“No,” he said.
“A ploy, right? Murderer sticks around, lady thinks, Gee, he can’t be the murderer.”
“No, not a ploy.”
“You going to slay my children in their beds?”
“No, ma’am.”
“You better not. And don’t call me ma’am. I’m at least five years younger than you are. What size suit do you wear?”
“Thirty-eight long.”
“Arthur’s a forty-six regular. Come along with me.”
“Where are we going?”
“Put you in a Santa suit.”
He followed her up the stairs.
“Why do they think you killed somebody?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
“But you didn’t, huh?”
“I didn’t. It wasn’t even my wallet. All they stole from me were my credit cards and my driver’s license. And my library card.”
They were in the master bedroom now. Four-poster bed covered with a gauzy canopy. Imitation Tiffany lamp in one corner. Plush velvet easy chair. Old mahogany dresser.
“What are you doing here?” Albetha asked.
“I thought you might be able to help me.”
“How?”
“This was before I knew your husband was still alive.”
“Yeah, well, that’s a pity,” she said. “Him still being alive.”
“You’re divorcing him, right?” Michael said.
“Right.”
“Because of Jessica.”
“Right.”
“Jessica who?”
“Here, put this on,” she said, and handed him a Santa Claus suit on a hanger. “I’ll get some pillows.”
“Jessica who?” he asked again.
Albetha went to the closet. He began taking off his trousers.
“Wales,” she said. “Why do you want to know?”
“What does she look like?”
“She looks like a bimbo,” Albetha said. Her back was to Michael. She was reaching up for a pair of pillows on the closet shelf. The trousers were much too large for him. He suspected they’d be too large even with pillows in them.
“What color hair does she have?”
“The same color hair all bimbos have,” Albetha said. “Blonde. Even black bimbos have blonde hair.”
“Is she black then?”
“No,” Albetha said. “Here. Stuff these in your pants.”
He accepted the pillows.
“She’s white?”
“Yes. Even as the driven snow.”
“I need something to fasten these pillows with,” he said.
“I’ll get one of Arthur’s straps.” She went to the closet again.
“Are her eyes blue?” he asked.
“No. Brown.”
Which eliminated the woman in the bar. Whose star sapphire ring he hadn’t stolen. And who’d called herself Helen Parrish.
“How does your husband happen to know her?” he asked.
“Intimately,” Albetha said, and came back with a very large brown belt.
He took the belt, wrapped it around the pillows, and buckled it. He fastened the trousers at the waist. They felt good and snug now.
“How do you know she wears red panties?” he asked.
“Don’t ask me about her goddamn panties. Goddamn blonde bimbo with her red panties. God knows what I may have caught from her panties.”
“What do you mean?”
“I had her panties on once.”
“How’d that happen?”