[12] The Horse You Came in On by Martha Grimes

Author:Martha Grimes
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Scribner
Published: 2014-02-06T20:00:00+00:00

DOWN AT HEEL?

DOWN ON YOUR LUCK?

DOWN-IN-THE-MOUTH?

they asked, suggesting the condition might be alleviated and sorrows drowned if the customer would buy one thing or another from the stock of Nouveau Pauvre.

As the youngish man drifted toward them like a big petal, Jury studied a lovely rosewood dining table in the center of the room. It was covered with a cloth of Irish linen and set with gold-rimmed china. On china and stemware were tiny crowns, a hotel logo; and the napkins were embroidered and emblazoned with intertwined initials.

“Helmsley Palace,” the beautiful fellow informed them. “But these are the old ones, I should tell you. The napkins they use now are pink and plain.” When Wiggins looked puzzled, he added, “You know, the Helmsley Palace—Leona’s place, poor thing. She went inside April fifteen a year ago.”

“Inside?” asked Wiggins. “Inside where?”

“Ah, you’re British. Not up on local gossip? They did her for tax evasion. Inside whatever upholstered pink prison they reserve for millionaires. Looking for something special?” He wore a tiny gold ring in his ear and hair shoulder-length sixties-style, but very well tended. “Gift for a friend? Lost his job? Stocks fell?” He smiled, as if such circumstances needed only a bottle of champagne to make them complete.

“No, not exactly. We’re looking for Alan Loser.”

“I’m your man. Actually, the name’s pronounced ‘Low-zher.’ But I’ve given up correcting people; and it goes with the business.”

Jury’s eyes swept over the room, snagging on a blow-up of Maggie Thatcher exiting from 10 Downing Street, suitcase in hand. “You’re certainly in an unhappy one, Mr. Loser.”

“Call me Alan,” he twinkled, and looked from Jury’s ID to Wiggins’s and gasped with evident delight. “Scotland Yard? Why on earth? I don’t understand.”

“We’re interested in one of your former employees. Beverly Brown.”

“Beverly. Oh, God.” His sigh was deep; he looked away and indeed seemed stricken. “Horrible. But I’ve talked to one of the city detectives—”

“I know. He told us we could question a few people who might know something.”

“Let’s sit.” He pulled out the chairs around the rosewood table and the three of them sat down. Wiggins took out his notebook.

“We won’t keep you long.” Jury looked around the room. “You know, I’d imagine you’d have to have money to take a chance on something like this, original as it might be.”

“Marketing of bad luck, you mean? Grubbing around for the leavings of somebody else’s bankruptcy?” When Jury nodded, Loser simply laughed. “You’d be surprised at how popular it is. Actually, I’ve come to believe nothing is more saleable than somebody else’s misery. My favorite saying is that comment of Gore Vidal: ‘It is not enough that I succeed, but that you fail.’ He’s probably right; it’s one of humankind’s nastier traits. Wouldn’t you like a Ross Perot mug to take back to England?” Alan flashed a smile as he held up the white mug by its big ear-handles. “One of the sad leavings of last November.”

“Beverly Brown worked here, is that right?”

“She did, but only a few hours a week.

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