The following continues the April 25th entry in the Rocky Stone notebooks:
Experience told me what kind of woman the wife of Frank Weller IV was: the kind who cared little for her husband and even less for other men, despite her dalliances, the kind who searched for every advantage, no matter what it cost her in shame and reputation, and the kind who would never knowingly disclose a full truth. She led us down a set of stairs in measured steps, her hips dancing just a bit at each footfall. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure we noticed, and asked us our names. Dave eagerly offered his up. I told her mine was Bob Hansen, and that I represented the delivery company Dave worked for.
“You can call me Jesse,” she said, and for the first time I detected the Southern breeze in her accent. “Short for Jessica. What do you do for the delivery company, Mr. Hansen?”
“Just this,” I replied. “You'd be surprised by the complaints I get on a daily basis.”
Jesse winked at me. “I have no complaints.”
The stairs ended at an open room. A white couch sat in the center, facing a white wall, and in between were three life-sized statues: a large Buddha, seated, in bronze; an African god, tall and black and misshapen, carved by hand in wood; and a marble Venus, her empty eyes looking off to the sky as she rested her naked body against a pillar. Jesse Weller directed us away from this room and out a glass door to a courtyard, where there was a full-length pool and room for a hundred or more of their intimate friends to lounge about. Past all this splendor was a full view of the unspoiled valley, trees and mountains and peace as far as the eye could see. She opened her robe and removed her shoes and took a deep breath, as if she were seeing it for the first time herself. “Drink, gentlemen?” she grinned.
“Yes, Ma'am,” said Dave, a little too eager. I quietly waved her off and found a chair ideal for taking in the sights.
Her bare feet padded against the concrete as she went off to get the refreshments. Dave quietly inched his way over to me, his head spinning. “Have you seen the like...?” he burbled, unable to contain himself.
“Keep your head,” I reminded him.
She returned in short order and handed Dave a highball glass. She had poured one for herself, which she sipped from slowly and easily as she found a chaise lounge close enough to keep an eye on me. A devious move of her left hand swept her robe from her body and she stood there for a moment and gathered in the midday sun. Dave watched her and the hand holding his drink shook. He figured he would spill it if he didn't do something about it so he gulped the whole thing down in one shot. She smiled at him, pleased.
“Mr. Weller sent out a package with our company this morning,” I stated, getting down to brass tacks. “It was to go to a repair shop across from the Bunkles Building in Los Diablos. I hate to tell you this, Mrs. Weller, but the package was stolen somewhere in transit. We're not exactly sure how it was done, but when our driver came to deliver...”
I would have continued with the speech, but something else got my attention: Dave had passed out cold and landed on me. I caught him as best I could and lowered him to the concrete floor. Jesse Weller stood by and watched the scene, slightly amused. Knock-out drops in his drink.
She draped herself over the chaise and beamed at me. “Now,” she cooed, “perhaps we can talk business.”
Can Rocky find out why Jesse Weller knocked out Dave? Find out next week in The Adventures of Rocky Stone!
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