Free You Might As Well Die by J.J. Murphy Page B

Overhead, the elevated train rumbled by.
    She and Benchley hadn’t spoken about what Viola had said to them—that taunt about Ernie being a married man, implying by association that Dorothy and Benchley themselves were involved in an illicit affair. As they walked together in silence, Dorothy wondered if she should say something about it to Benchley to clear the air. Perhaps she should make some joke about it in an effort to deflate it—to nullify it.
    She glanced up at Benchley. He smiled back and took Woody out of her arms. “Let me help. The poor creature must be getting heavy for you.”
    The moment was gone. Benchley had cleared the air on his own, although the question remained unresolved.
    “Thank you,” Dorothy sighed. “So, do you believe Ernie’s spirit can speak through Mistress Viola?”
    “Not a ghost of a chance. Not even the ghost of Ernie.”
    “What makes you so sure?”
    “Oh, come on, now.” Benchley smiled warmly, his merry eyes creasing. “She’s a nude model and self-proclaimed paranormal clairvoyant. Her head is clearly full of stuffing. I’m surprised she can even speak for herself, much less MacGuffin.”
    Dorothy shook her head. “I disagree. She had a good head on her shoulders—to match the rest of that body of hers. But I wonder, is she sharp because she has the clarity of a true believer? Or because she’s a conniving opportunist?”
    Benchley’s face clouded. “She did say that Ernie’s spirit spoke about that dead cat posed as a mountain lion. We know that’s for real. Ernie mentioned it several times. How could Viola know about it? To be honest, it spooked me a little.”
    Dorothy wouldn’t believe it. “Ernie told that tidbit to anyone who’d listen. Viola could have picked it up anywhere, especially through artistic circles. Hell, Neysa and Frank Adams went there for the séance the other night. Neysa could have let that information slip, and now Mistress Viola is using it in her act.”
    “Maybe. But if Viola does have a connection to the spirit world—”
    “Which she doesn’t,” Dorothy said emphatically.
    “But supposing she does, why would Ernie’s spirit choose her?”
    “Why not her? She’s gorgeous. Any man would like to be inside her. Even a dead one. It’s the only way MacGuffin ever could.” Dorothy stopped. They were within sight of Midge MacGuffin’s house. Two people stood by the doorway. “Look, there’s Clay. He’s leaving.”
    Bert Clay was on the stoop, a childlike grin on the bulky man’s face. Dorothy couldn’t hear what Clay was saying, but he was apparently taking his sweet time saying good-bye. Midge, standing at the door, looked equally reluctant to see him go.
    “Here, give me Woodrow Wilson,” Dorothy said, grabbing the dog from Benchley. “You follow Clay and talk to him. I’ll question Midge.”
    Benchley looked doubtful. “Won’t he be suspicious?”
    “You’ll figure something out. Now, go.”
    He shrugged, smiling. “Go I shall.”
    As Clay finally walked away from the house, Benchley nonchalantly followed several paces behind him.
    Dorothy, carrying the dog in her arms, strolled to the bottom steps of Midge’s house. The tall woman lingered in the doorway, her eyes fixed on the retreating figure of Bert Clay.
    Dorothy recalled something unusual that Clay had said the last time she had seen him on Midge’s doorstep. “Hello there, Harriet—oh, I’m sorry,” Dorothy said. “I mean, hello there, Midge .”
    The woman froze. Her expression was guarded, though her face showed neither surprise nor alarm. “Hello? Yes?”
    “It’s Mrs. Parker.” Dorothy ascended the stone steps. “Do you remember me? I stopped by a few days ago? Last Wednesday, to be exact. I’ve also called you on the telephone several times. And I sent you two letters and a telegram.”
    Midge now looked a little nervous. She took a half step backward.
    Why should she be nervous? Dorothy thought, looking up at the tall woman, who