Free McCone and Friends by Marcia Muller Page B

and my campy tendencies.
    “So what d’you think?” Chris asked.
    I said, “Good sound tone.”
    Neal said, “The price is kind of steep for us, though.”
    Chris said, “I’ll throw in a box of extra 78’s.”
    Neal said, “I don’t know…”
    And then Shar wandered back over. “What’s with the tape?” she asked Chris. “And what’s with the guy on the other side of it?”
    Neal looked as if he wanted to strangle her. I stifled a moan. A model of subtlety, Shar, and right when we were trying to strike a deal.
    Chris grimaces. “That’s my partner of many years, Ira Sloan. We’ve agreed to disagree. The tape’s my way of indicating my displeasure with him.”
    “Disagree over what?”
    “This hotel. We jointly inherited it six months ago from Tom Atwater. Did either of you guys know him?”
    I shook my head, but Neal nodded. He said, “I met him.” Grinned at me and added, “Twice.”
    “Well,” Chris said, “Tom was an old friend. In fact, he introduced Ira and me, nearly twenty years ago. When he left the place to us we said, ‘What a great way to get out of the city, have our own business in an area that’s experiencing a renaissance.’ So we sold our city house, moved up here, called in the contractors, and got estimates of what it would take to go upscale and reopen. The building’s run down, but the construction’s solid. All it needs outside is a new roof and paint job. The cottages were swept away in the floods, but eventually they can be rebuilt. Inside here, all it would take is redecorating, a new chimney and fireplace in the common room on the other side, and updated kitchen equipment. So then what does my partner decide to do?”
    All three of us shook our heads, caught up in his breathless monologue.
    “My loving partner decides we’re to do nothing. Even though we’ve got more than enough money to fix the place up, he wants to leave it as is and live out our golden years here in Faulkneresque splendor and while it falls down around us!”
    Neal and I looked properly horrified, but Shar asked, “So why’d you put up the tape?” maybe a single-minded focus is an asset in a private investigator, but it seems to me it plays hell with interpersonal relations.
    Chris wanted to talk about the tape, however. “Ira and I divided the place, straight down the middle. He took the common room, utility room, and the area on the floors above it. I took the restaurant, kitchen, bar and above. I prepare the meals and slip his under the tape on the reception desk. He washes our clothes and pushes mine over here to me. I’ll tell you, it’s quite a life!”
    “And in the meantime, you’re selling off the fixtures in your half?”
    “Only the ones that won’t fit the image I want to create here.”
    “How can you create it in half a hotel?”
    “I can’t, but I’m hoping Ira’ll come around eventually. I wish I knew why he has this tic about keeping the place the way it is. If I did, I know I could talk him out of the notion.”
    Shar was looking thoughtful now. She walked around the jukebox, examining its lovely lines and gnawing at her lower lip. She peered through the glass at the turntable where the 78 of “You Belong to Me” now rested silently. She glanced through the archway at the yellow plastic tape.
    “Chris,” she said, “what would it be worth to you to find out what Ira’s problem is?”
    “A lot.”
    “A reduction of price on this jukebox to one my friends can afford?”
    I couldn’t believe it! Yes, she was offering out of the goodness of her heart, because she’d seen how badly Neal and I wanted the jukebox, and she knew the limits of our budget. But she was also doing it because she never can resist a chance to play detective.
    Chris looked surprised, then grinned. “A big reduction, but I don’t see how—”
    She took one of her business cards from her purse and handed it to him. Said to me, “Come on, Watson. The game’s afoot.”

    “Mr.