Chapter 3

“Hey, Miss Drummond,” the elevator operator leaned out from the door, ogling me as I walked away.

Swiveling, I faced him.

The operator imparted his appreciation with a wink and a vulgar clicking sound in the back of his mouth.

“Hubba-Hubba, keen as always, Miss Drummond. No fooling, you’re stacked to the ceiling.”

Winking at me again, he returned to the inside of the cage, closing the doors of the packed car. Every few days, the elevator boy would make a comment on how appealing my appearance was. Don’t take me wrong, for I didn’t need the attention. Still, have to admit, his interest comforted me.

Opening the door to the outer office, I pondered if Aaron beat me to work. We were still an hour from opening as my wristwatch pointed straight up 8:00am. Sniffing the coffee perking, I listen to the familiar plop, plop. The reception area was immaculate. The doors to my two associate’s offices stood open, but the lights were off in their offices. At first, I didn’t perceive Aaron’s presence as I locked the door behind me. Without warning, Aaron burst out of my office.

“Top of the morning,” Aaron’s manner bristled with a perkiness similar to the coffee brewing near him, “Miss Drummond, the coffee is brewing. Also, I have put the information about Mr. Randolph on your desk. Slats’ is out digging up what he can on the Crawford case. Miller is working on a personal injury lawsuit for the Dawson and Rutherford law firm. The last item for your consideration, Mr. Randolph, is scheduled to appear, on a red carpet, at 9:30.”

Aaron continued to talk as he made his way around the room. “I took the liberty of calling bookworm yesterday, I mean, Mr. Bookend, and asked him to research everything he can find out on Mr. Randolph. Must’ve worked all day Sunday, as he couriered over the information a few minutes ago. Taking liberty, I put the report on your desk. Old money from railroads and goldmines, which he managed to increase, some folks have all the fortune.” In a flurry of nervous energy, Aaron fussed about straightening a pillow on the couch or picking up an old magazine, expending his anxiousness.

“Slow down, baby boy,” I said. Glancing at my wristwatch, “We’re ahead of schedule. Where is Effie Patrick?” asking if Slats O’Hare’s, Tyson Miller’s, and my secretary had made her way to the office. As a rule, Effie was the first person in the office.

“She caught a bug, according to what she told me when she called in. Jazz played in the background while some man sang. His voice, at best, rather off-key. If you ask me, and I recognize you didn’t, I think she is having a romantic interlude today,” Aaron told me, with a sly smile on his face.

Oh, sweet Effie and a man, what a lovely thought. My mind dwelled on her body. The woman was stare-worthy. A tall, leggy, ebony beauty with an angelic face and curves befitting of a mountain road. What a tongue, oh my sweet lord, with her tongue, she’d trace the alphabet where it counted the most. I was jealous of her manfriend, the blessed bugger. The thought of Effie made me randy.

“Come here, love,” I said, my arms spread apart.

In a few quick steps, Aaron strode to me, and we hugged. Our lips met as we locked in a passionate kiss. His body, taut, trim, and fit, in his three-piece suit, which I bought him the week before, suited him. Oh, how lovely. The desire built in me as my mind calculated time. This self-consciousness swept over me, wondering if Mr. Alistair Cranston Randolph might arrive early. Still, a brief romantic encounter of our own would be ... oh, so, incredible.

Aaron responded, our interest engaged us equally while our bodies molded together. I pushed away with reluctance, lowering my head, my breathing raw and ragged.

“No, dumpling, we better cool off for now,” I told him. Patting his chest, I turned, moved from him. Going to my office, I stepped through the door, closing it behind me. I fell against the old wood and frosted glass door. Putting my hand on my chest, I shook my head, must control my lust.

Pushing away from the door, I let out a small sigh of disappointment. Allowing my thoughts a moment of a pleasant retrospection, me in my bed, on Aaron, my hands on his chest, his dick buried in me, and we undulated together.

“Turn a hose on yourself, sister!” I said.

Moving to my desk, sat in my swivel chair, and glanced at the door. For the first time ever, I spotted the light shining through the window cast a shadow of the painted window logo on the wall. ‘Theodora Drummond Private Eye’ stared me in the face. How had this escaped me for so many years? In the light from the window, the shadow had to be visible at some point every morning. Moving to the floor later and gone by midday.

Pulling my cigarette case out, I took one, tapped my unfiltered, stuck the cig in my mouth, and lit up. The smoke caressed my lungs, spreading into my bloodstream, the nicotine calmed me. Making myself comfortable, I put my feet up on my desk, grabbed the file, and began to read about the third richest man in the world.

Not much in the file to read, he graduated from Yale, inherited a fortune from his railroad & mining baron father, which he tripled. I read many dates and acquisitions, business stats, a list of his houses and properties in a dozen cities, and not one word told anyone, anything, about the man.

“For crying out loud. Is this all we have?” I said in a hushed voice.

In reflection, I had ominous sentiments about this case. Brother, let me tell you, I don’t understand what kind of man hires a P.I. to search for his wife but does not go to the police? What sort of gentleman pays out $10,000 with the promise of a substantial bonus if I find her, jackrabbit, fast? Why is she gone? Why does he want to locate her quick and yet, refuses to have the police help? All valid questions and none of which he would answer.

In my mind, Uncle Frank’s voice echoed, “The rich didn’t become wealthy by worrying about other people. For most of these bastards, they must win. Now others must not fail, so much, as to be crushed and ground under their feet.”

“The whole deal reeks like sour pussy or old fish,” voicing my gut-feeling to no one. My two best senses, olfactory, and my sixth sense, my gut, told me something nasty lingered in his words. Neither one liked the deal, for nothing made any sense at all. Feeding my habit, I sucked in hard on my Camel. My gut tied in knots over this case.

Picking up the phone, I dialed a number. Waiting for the third ring, knowing the answer would be on the third ring, or not at all. A young woman’s voice, “Hello, this is Judson-0408, Mrs. Estelle Parsons Clark-Smith’s office.”

Estelle Parsons Clark-Smith was the most famous gossip columnist in the country. If she printed something, the story was no longer a rumor. Estelle had far more dirt than she put in print.

“Yes, this is Theodora Drummond for Estelle,” I called her by her first name. Which, for me, was fortunate. The woman had too long a handle to string the complete name together every time I called her.

“Miss Drummond, how are you?”

“Fine,” I told the young woman.

“Hold for a moment, please. Mrs. Clark-Smith instructed me any time you call to put you straight through.” She had a bright, cheery voice to match her vivacious personality. The weight was short, owing to Estelle’s and my friendship.

“Theo, glad to hear from you,” Estelle bubbled. As always, her lyrical voice proved a delight.

“I need to talk to you about someone but don’t want to do this over the phone. I have a meeting with Mr. Alistair Cranston Randolph in about an hour and a half. I need a better fix on him, and I figure you are the woman who can give me the most information.” Only the sound of silence for some time.

“Why? Is he hiring you, dear?” Estelle’s tone changed. Something mysterious entered the tenor, which sounded ... concerned.

“Estelle, you get the idea this is in the strictest confidence, and you can’t share, so we’re off the record. He wants me to find his wife.” I said as I stubbed out the butt of my smoke.

“So, she left him at last?” Estelle asks me.

“Not sure. The lady’s missing, and he wants to find her. However, he isn’t going to the cops on her disappearance,” I told her. Glancing around my office, I grasped this room was as clean as the outer office. I speculated how early Aaron arrived to clean the place so thoroughly.

“No, he wouldn’t go to the authorities. Do not be alone with him under any circumstance. Theodora, you realize how fond I am of you. When is a convenient hour for us to meet?” Estelle’s concern touched me, but I didn’t understand why she was so concerned.

“Time is tight as I have a packed day in front of me, hunting her. I have at least a dozen people to talk to, and I have to stop by and talk to Uncle Frank at police headquarters. Estelle, how about we meet at 8:00pm here at my office?” Again, silence with only the sound of her thumbing pages in a book.

“Fine by me, I’m writing down the time. Dear, there are, swirling rumors about Randolph everywhere he goes. Anyhow, 8:00 tonight, we will go through this in detail, and I’ll tell you all about Mr. Alistair Cranston Randolph. I’ll bring my Girl Friday with me. I should say secretary, not Girl, but she is so darling. Again, dear friend, do not be alone with him!”

Estelle’s “girls” were always more than secretaries. Estelle and her husband made sure to please the young women. In my mind, I pictured their threesomes, all packed together, tussling above the sheets. Never having tried a threesome, my curiosity peeked an ugly head out and said, “What if?”

My thoughts turned to the first time Estelle and I met. Her seductive nature nearly lured me, and I wondered what that sweet threesome with her and her remarkable husband would have been. In the night, we’d have ended up, all elbows and asses, in an oversized bed. A tangle of arms, legs, and torsos wound so tight together you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

You have to understand if a woman was a dyke, so be it. Far more acceptable for women to be homosexual than men. Even so, when the barn door swung both directions, society didn’t turn a blind eye. No, you see, charges would’ve been filed if the coppers found out.

How Estelle avoided being the subject of other gossip columnist articles, I hadn’t a clue. Well, yes, I understood how, if they reported on Estell, they’d be goners. She destroyed her enemies in a heartbeat; her viciousness made anyone think twice. Fear kept her cohorts in line. For Estell was a skirt, no one wanted for an enemy.

Her warning sounded ominous. Why was she so worried? Trying to shake off the bizarre impression Estelle gave me, I paced around my office. At last, I ended up at my window staring down at the street. The noise from the road muted clamor. However, a soft mumbling made a home through the glass.

The always-busy city appeared like a seething anthill. Commerce was the life’s blood of the island.

Couldn’t help myself from wondering what happened in the park today. Knowing I’d miss walking about the visitors in Central Park that day. Children were playing despite the heat of late summer. Children, how I loved seeing the buggers play. Often, I yearned for what I would never have.

As my English friend says, gazing over the road, I caught the show. A businessman boning his secretary. He pounded the stuffing out of her. With her legs spread, she took what he gave, returning the favor with zeal. They screwed together in an oversized chair. I wondered how loud the creaks, groans, and scrapings of the chair sounded?

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