Free Murder Queen High by Bob Wade

swimming pool lay against the knee of a hill and had been expensively disguised as a small lake. A rough oval in shape, it was surrounded on three sides by the ubiquitous palm trees which were inset in the cement walk. Some of the fronds hung over the water. Like surrealist satires on the palms, gaudy beach umbrellas over round tables clustered along the banks of the pool.
    Said Mr. Trim, “What are you watching him for?” Thelma Loomis moved her gaze hastily. “Curious,” she said. “I wanted to see how the old goat operated.” Her companion looked shocked. “He’s got quite a reputation around L.A.,” the writer explained gently. “Plus a wife.”
    Trim’s “Ah!” could have meant anything. But he looked disapprovingly at the archaeologist and his brunette consort.
    “That’s no relic he’s found there,” chuckled Miss Loomis.
    The girl’s two-piece swim suit clung insistently to her rounded and enticing body. An inviting face crowned by braids of black hair was turned up attentively to Robottom’s. And he was putting his most charming foot forward. Even across the wide expanse of pool came the constant flash of blinding white teeth in the bronze aquiline face.
    Then the silver-haired man got up lithely and fumbled in the pocket of his discarded beach robe.
    “He’s giving her something!” exclaimed Trim. “Say, is it — a key?”
    “Not so loud, for Pete’s sake,” said Thelma Loomis. Robottom handed the girl a little card that looked like a claim check. She tucked it in the waist of her suit so that the edge showed against her bare stomach. Then he said something and they both laughed.
    Mr. Trim clucked a couple of times. “A lottery. Maybe that ticket was a chance on something.”
    “You can say that again,” the blonde writer murmured.
    Apparently unaware of his audience, the archaeologist stood on the edge of the pool and stretched. Cords of muscle rippled above swim trunks that had been chosen to match his browned skin. The girl had cradled her chin in one hand and was watching him admiringly. Robottom said something over his shoulder to her. Then he launched his long body into a perfect dive, cleaving the blue water.
    Thelma Loomis watched the graceful display he made through the shimmering water as he arched his torso and sounded to the depths of the pool.
    “Say!” whispered Trim, tapping at her hand. “Another married man!”
    Miss Loomis quit wondering about the card and brought her sharp gaze up to the girl opposite. The brunette wasn’t appreciating Sagmon Robottom’s performance at all. Instead, she had her pert face turned to a stocky young man in gray trousers and blue sport coat who had strode purposefully from the direction of the guest cottages.
    “That’s young Conover,” hissed Mr. Trim.
    “Of course,” said Thelma Loomis exasperatedly.
    The girl patted the yellow tiles beside her and Conover sat down awkwardly, folding his legs beneath him.
    Robottom surfaced and blew out water. He looked for applause from the girl. Then he saw the man with whom she was engaged in fascinated conversation. The expression on his face was impossible to catalogue.
    John Henry had no more than determined how to pursue his course of clever questioning when Miss Jordan said matter-of-factly, “I suppose you’re here to find out how I got your cottage.”
    “Uh-well — no,” he managed.
    “Oh, sure you are,” Miss Jordan told him confidently. “Your wife probably sent you.”
    “That’s not true. In fact, she — ”
    The girl’s round eyes brightened still more and she leaned a smooth shoulder closer to him. “Why, Mr. Conover!” her voice caressed his ear. Conover’s stomach tingled. He felt as if he could warm his hands at her purple eyes.
    He glanced around hurriedly. Sin wasn’t in sight. A muscular middle-aged man was flailing up and down the pool, apparently disgruntled over something. And at a table on the other side, Mr. Trim and the fan magazine writer had