Killer's Choice

'Did you know her, Mrs Phelps?'

'I met her on one or two occasions, yes. At the store.'

'What did you think of her?'

'A very beautiful girl. Franklin's taste is to be admired.'

'Your attitude is a pretty broad-minded one, isn't it, Mrs Phelps?'

'Are you married, Detective… Meyer, was it?'

'Yes.'

'Ask your wife. Ask her about the time she's put into shaping you into a man. It's an investment, Detective Meyer. A simple investment. A woman's man is her only investment. And her children, of course, if she's lucky enough to have them. I have no children. Do you have children, Detective Meyer?'

'Yes. Three.'

'Your wife is luckier than I. I only have Franklin. He is my sole investment, my life work; men have other things, women only have their men. He is my business. And I have thrown assets into this business, Detective Meyer. I have given Franklin every thing I had to give. Everything. I've been a good wife. And as a result, he's a man today. He was not very much of a man when we met. I saw potential. I invested. The only thing I had to invest: myself.'

'I see,' Meyer said.

'And so, when my investment is threatened by a beautiful woman, I do what my common sense tells me to do. I sit, and I wait. I'm not going to close shop because of a small fire in the stockroom, am I?' Mrs Phelps smiled pleasantly. 'It would have been over in another six months. Things would have gone on again.'

'Did Annie Boone know you knew?'

'No.'

'Did your husband?'

'No. He still doesn't. I wish you wouldn't tell him. It's not good for a wife to appear too intelligent.' Again, Mrs Phelps smiled. 'But then, I'm giving you trade secrets, Detective Meyer. I'll be spoiling things for your wife.'

'She doesn't need hints,' Meyer said, smiling. 'She's got her own investment.'

'Are you going to confront him with what you know?'

'Yes.'

'I wish you wouldn't. I don't think it'll help much. He's not the person who killed her.'

'Who is?' Meyer asked.

'I'm sure I don't know,' Mrs Phelps said. She smiled. 'May I sound somewhat cruel for a moment?'

'Go ahead,' Meyer said.

Mrs Phelps was still smiling. 'I'm sure I don't give a damn, either,' she said.

'Don't give a damn about what, dear?' Franklin Phelps asked from the doorway.

'Don't give a damn about showing our dogs,' she answered, adjusting her mind almost instantly to the new situation.

'Oh,' Phelps said. He smiled at the detectives. 'We've got a trio of Goldens. I want to show them, Marna doesn't. Handsome animals.' He looked at Meyer. 'Oh, Detective Meyer. I didn't recognize you.'

'Hello, Mr Phelps,' Meyer said, rising and taking his hand. 'This is my partner, Bert Kling.'

'Detective Kling,' Phelps said, and he took his hand. He was a tall man with greying hair, and he wore a blue terry cloth robe belted at the waist. He had not impressed Meyer very much the first time Meyer had questioned him, but a man is always looked at somewhat differently when it's learned he was having an affair with a beautiful redhead perhaps ten years younger than he. Phelps had a strong sweeping nose, and piercing grey eyes. His mouth was full and hard. His jaw could have driven railroad spikes.

'I'm sorry we got you out of the shower, Mr Phelps,' Meyer said, 'but we'd like to ask you a few more questions.'

'I behaved like a bit of an ass last time we spoke, didn't I?' Phelps said.

'Well,' Meyer answered non-committally.

'I really shouldn't have carried on so about my stock. I really shouldn't have.'

'Well, there was a lot of money involved,' Meyer said.

'Certainly, but after checking with my broker, I found out my insurance covered the loss.'

'Oh,' Meyer said flatly. 'I see.'

'I'm glad to clear the air on that,' Phelps said. 'I didn't want you to have the impression I was an ass.'

'Well, I never got that impression,' Meyer lied. 'Could we talk to you, Mr Phelps?'

'Certainly, go right ahead,' Phelps said smiling. He went to a small Louis XVI table, removed the cover from a porcelain box, and picked up a cigarette. He was lighting it when Meyer said, 'Alone.'

The match faltered for just an instant. Phelps brought it to the cigarette again and said, 'Certainly. Marna?'

'I've got a million things to do, anyway,' Mrs Phelps said. 'It was nice meeting you gentlemen.' She smiled again and left the room.

'What is it?' Phelps asked.

'We'd like to run over the information you already gave us, Mr Phelps,' Meyer said.

'Certainly.' He puffed on his cigarette, one hand in the pocket of his robe.

'How long did you say you'd known Annie Boone?'

'She'd been working for me about a year,' Phelps said.

'Yes. How long before that had you known her?'

'I met her for the first time when she answered an ad I placed in the newspaper.'

'What was your relationship with Annie Boone?'

'I was her employer.'

'How much did you pay her?'

'A hundred and twenty-five dollars a week.'

'Do you remember sending her roses once when she was ill?' Kling asked.

'I don't recall.'

'You did,' Kling said.

'Perhaps.'

'Isn't that a little unusual?'

'If I did send them, I don't see anything unusual about it. Annie was a trusted employee. Without her, I could not have run that shop.'

'When did you first meet, Mr Phelps?'

'When she answered my ad.'

'Where did you run the ad?'

'In most of the local dailies.'

'Why did you hire her?'

'She'd had selling experience.'

'Selling whisky?'

'No. Furniture.'

'Where had she sold furniture?'

'Herman Dodson, Inc.,' Phelps said.

'She told you that?'

'Yes.'

'You remember it?'

'Yes, certainly.'

'Was Annie a drunkard?'

'A what?'

'A drunkard.'

'That's preposterous! Of course not!'

'How do you know?'

'Well, I never saw her drink more than a glass of…' Phelps paused.

'A glass of what, Mr Phelps?'

'Wine,' he completed.

'Where was this, Mr Phelps?'

'I don't remember.'

'You knew her socially, did you, Mr Phelps?'

'Socially? No, no, of course not. I don't remember where I saw her drink. Perhaps at the store.'

'Your stock?'

'Yes. Yes, my stock.'

'What was the occasion?'

'No occasion. We… we opened a bottle of wine.'

'Was that the only time you saw her drink?'

'Yes.'

'Then how do you know she wasn't a drunkard?'

'Well, a man can tell, can't he? She worked for me, you know. I saw her in the shop, and she was never drunk.'

'How much did you pay her, Mr Phelps?'

'I told you. A hundred and twenty-five dollars a week. What is this? A third degree of some kind? Am I going to have to call my lawyer?'

'You can if you wish, Mr Phelps. You can very easily do that. I suggest, however, that you sit tight and start answering some of these questions straight.'

'I'm answering as honestly as I know how. I don't have to answer a damn thing if I don't want to.'

'You will if we book you.'

'On what charge?'

'Suspicion of murder,' Kling said flatly.

Phelps was silent for a moment.

'I think I'd better call my lawyer,' he said at last.

'If that's what you plan, Mr Phelps,' Meyer said, 'you'll have to call him after we get to the squad room.'

Phelps blinked.

'Here or there,' Meyer said. 'You can answer the questions anywhere you like. If you didn't kill her, you've got nothing to fear.'

'I didn't kill her.'

'Okay. Why'd you lie to us then?'

'I haven't lied to you.'

'Were you having an affair with Annie Boone?'