Dreamspell Mystery Volume 2

I sat at my desk flipping cards, playing solitaire—and losing—when my office door opened. A lady who might have been a contemporary of JFK came through the doorway. I looked behind her, expecting to see a nurse or some other kind of attendant. None there.
She squinted at me through eyes that were as bright as mine. Modern medicine is wondrous. Eyelift, cataract removal, whatever, had obviously been a success.
“Are you a Private Detective?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am. Says so right here.” I tapped my nameplate—Tom Roberts, P.I.
“Oh. P-I? I thought it’d say P-D. Are you Mr. Roberts? What’s the I for?”
I didn’t bother to explain. “What can I do for you, ma’am?”
“Do you follow husbands and catch them having sex with hussies that drag them off to their bedrooms?”
I stared at her, wondering just how to answer that. After a moment, I decided to take the direct approach. “Yes, that’s one of the things I do—sometimes with pictures.” Actually, I don’t like to catch them in the act. And I especially don’t enjoy taking the pictures. My preference is to trip them up just after. Who am I to stand in the way of true lust?
“I’m here to hire you. I want you to catch him and bring him home.”
Now that spiked my curiosity. I’m accustomed to irate wives who hire me to get the goods on their husbands. They want to clothe their men in pickle barrels and live off alimony for the rest of their lives. But I’ve never had a case where I was expected to deliver the errant lover to his grandmother-in-law, or maybe his great-grandmother-in-law.
I explained my hourly fees, expenses, and what-all expenses entail. While I talked, she paid no attention, fumbling in her purse. Finally, her head came up, and she held out a piece of paper.
“Mr. P.I. Roberts, here’s a check for ten thousand. Is that enough? I really don’t like to be bothered with finances. My husband handled them for fifty-two years. Now he’s stepping out on me. I want you to find him and bring him home. Can you start today, like right now?”
I stopped. My mom taught me to shut my mouth when a lady speaks. But that upbringing had nothing to do with my silence. Ten thousand dollars would meet my meager budget needs for two to three months with a few dollars left over. “Yes, ma’am, this very afternoon.”
She smiled, showing me a full set of dentures. “That’s good. I want him home. He might not be much, but he’s mine, and I love him.”
That produced an eye roll that I hoped I caught in time. “Yes, ma’am. Now, you need to fill me in on the details.”
We talked. I learned that the man she wanted home was her husband, Melvin Melhouse. She was Melva Melhouse. Melvin and Melva, go figure. I wondered if it was the last name that united them. They moved from New York City when he retired at age fifty-two, twenty years ago. He suffered from perfect health—her words, not mine. At age seventy-two, he discovered the blue pill. She said how wonderful it was at first after he began to take them. I quickly explained that I didn’t need those details. The picture of the two of them getting it on was more description that I would ever need. She finished the story by saying he hadn’t touched her in two months. The only reason must be that he had a girl friend.
Oh, somewhere during her story, I pinned Melva’s age at sixty-nine.
“I’m sure it’s that Hanna Feldman,” she told me, scowling. “She lives next door and flaunts herself in front of the men. You should see her bathing suit. When she comes out of the water, you can see right through it. I told her not to buy a white suit, especially a two-piece that shows her navel. She may as well be naked. One day she came out of the water and walked right over to my Melvin and stood by his shoulders. He was lying in his lounge chair, and you can imagine where his nose was when he turned his head. I thought he was going to drop his false teeth he was staring so hard.” Melva hesitated long enough to sneer. “She just smiled at him, giving him that, Do you like what you see? look. Yes, I’m sure of it. Definitely Hanna Feldman.”
I made squiggles in my notepad while I swallowed the laughter that wanted to bubble out. I was getting an education you couldn’t find on any college campus. “How old is Mrs. Feldman?”
“Oh, she’s young. Only sixty-six, maybe a year older. I know she’s drawn social security for at least four years. Of course, she passes herself off as fifty-nine. As if any woman would believe that.”
“I see. What about her husband?”
“Never been married. But she’s been around the block a few times. She doesn’t spend much time without a man. The last ten years, she’s had five different ones. She was a chorus girl, you know?”
The way she said chorus girl made me wish I lived near a chorus line. I had much to learn about show biz. “I see. You think your husband has a relationship with Ms. Feldman?”
“No. I have a relationship with Melvin—I’m his wife. They’re just having sex. All she wants is his body.”
I couldn’t take it. A grin popped out.
“Young man, are you taking this seriously? This is not a humorous matter. My Melvin is a hunk. All the women around our condominium pool say so. But he’s my hunk, and he needs to come home. I’ve been reading magazines and if you bring him back, I promise he won’t stray again. I’ve learned enough to keep him satisfied.”
That did it. I terminated the interview as quickly as I could. After she left, I grabbed the box of tissues to wipe the tears caused by my laughter.