Mister Jinnah Mysteries 2-Book Bundle. Donald J. Hauka
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speaker.
“Who is it?” said a woman’s voice.
Jinnah assumed a subservient look and adopted his best “just off the boat from Bombay” accent.
“Pardon me, Madame,” he said, laying the accent on thick and raising his voice. “But someone is sending you flowers here.”
There was a pause and Jinnah knew he was being scrutinized electronically. To add to the effect of a recent immigrant to these shores, he started humming an Indian pop bangra tune just loud enough to carry over the intercom. Sanderson would be ashamed of me on several counts right now, thought Jinnah. Too bad — if it worked.
“Come on up to the house,” said the woman over the intercom. “Stand back.”
“Thanking you, Madame,” said Jinnah, stepping back as the gate swung ponderously open.
Jinnah walked up the drive with his heart soaring. He was in. It was possible the Widow Schuster would slam the door in his face, but he had taken the precaution of wearing his steel-toed, reinforced boots, which he kept in reserve for his most difficult interviews. All the way up the winding drive, Jinnah noted the marvelously manicured lawns without a blade out of place, the ornate gardens overflowing with flowers more suited to the English countryside than the West Coast. When he came around the corner past a massive boxwood hedge and spied the house, he took in a sharp breath. Sam Schuster had lived well before he died. Very well. The impression of wealth was cemented by the two cars sitting under the cover of the portico in front of the main entrance. One was a huge, pink Cadillac — this year’s model. The other was a fire-engine red porsche. Jinnah was both impressed and envious as he rang the doorbell. Maybe, just maybe, if the Orient Love Express was a huge success …
His revelry was interrupted as the door abruptly opened. In the rectangular frame stood Paula Schuster. She was still draped in black, like a monument, but her pillbox hat and veil were missing. At this range, up close, the pouches under her eyes really showed. She looked at the arrangement without betraying anything other than perhaps exhaustion.
“Who are they from and where do I sign?” asked Paula Schuster.
“You don’t have to sign anything, Mrs. Schuster,” said Jinnah, handing her the flowers and reverting to his usual deep, mellow voice. “They are from the Vancouver Tribune newspaper and myself. My name is Hakeem Jinnah.”
Paula Schuster, who had taken the heavy arrangement from Jinnah, reeled back a step, her face a study in surprise and horror. Then she launched herself at the door with her free hand, bringing all her slender weight to bear on it.
“Go away!” she shouted, trying to slam the portal shut.
Jinnah’s practiced right foot was already inside the door jam and in any event, his left arm was more than enough to check the door’s progress before it tested his boot.
“Mrs. Schuster, I have come to talk to you about your husband’s death —” he began calmly.
“I don’t care!” she shouted, struggling ludicrously to maintain her grip on the flowers while trying to close the door on Jinnah. “Get out of here before I call the police!”
“I can understand that you are upset,” continued Jinnah, as if Paula Schuster hadn’t spoken. “But I think it is in both of our best interests to talk, hmm?”
“I have nothing to say to you!”
Paula Schuster dropped the flowers used both hands on the door.
“You’re trespassing!”
“Mrs. Schuster, I just want to know one thing,” said Jinnah, now using both his hands to keep the door from slamming on his foot. “It’s about the body in Sam’s trunk.”
Paula Schuster stopped pushing on the door and looked at Jinnah as if seeing him for the first time, her eyes wide with amazement.
“The what?” she said in a small voice.
“The body and the dent someone made removing it. Before the fire.”
Mrs. Schuster scrutinized Jinnah’s face minutely and for a moment, he felt a bit like a share prospectus being gone over by a securities regulator.
“You said your name was Jinnah?” she said, clearing her throat.
“Yes, ma’am,” nodded Jinnah. “Here, let me get these for you.”
Jinnah darted inside and scooped up the flowers. He was in the foyer now and Paula Schuster showed no signs of protesting. Jinnah tucked a leaf that had fallen off one of the lilies into the mass of green twigs and stems. Several of the roses were drooping and their petals were loose.
“There we are,” he said, holding the arrangement out to her. “No harm done.”
“You’re the reporter who wrote about the police looking for a suspect in Sam’s murder,” said Schuster in a flat, emotionless tone. “The figure at the scene.”
“Mrs. Schuster, you have my most sincere condolences on your husband’s death,” said Jinnah, dripping with sincerity. “Truly. I apologize for the cheap trick I used to gain access to you just now. It was inexcusable.”
Paula Schuster took the battered floral arrangement from him and closed the door.
“These look like they could use some water,” she said, her voice tired. “You’d better come in too,” she added.
Jinnah could not help smiling. For a change, his boots had not been tested. He followed Mrs. Schuster as she trailed falling leaves, petals, twigs, and bits of baby’s breath from the entrance lobby and into the living room. Jinnah was struck by the contrast between the outside of the house and its inside. Mrs. Schuster’s taste in interior decoration — if indeed it was her own — owed nothing to the classical English country look of the mansion. It was from the nouveau riche school of the hideously expensive combined with a trendy colour pattern that clashed with what Jinnah had imagined should have been an austere, dark wood paneling and throw-rug inside. There was none of that here. The living room itself was dominated by a huge wall-television. The fireplace was gas, not wood, although the sprawling mantle above it probably was oak underneath the thick layers of paint applied by various owners. Currently it was a sort of fuchsia colour that Jinnah disapproved of. He did find the over-stuffed, pink leather sofa quite comfortable, however, and had no hesitation in sinking down into its soft cushions at Paula Schuster’s request. The recently widowed woman did not seat herself. She placed the flower arrangement down carefully on a large, teak coffee table, its ornate carvings of pagodas and Buddhas protected by a thick glass top. Jinnah shifted himself, getting snug, while Paula Schuster repaired the damage to the flowers, plucking at the leaves and buds with long, slender fingers that trembled slightly.
“Have you been in this line of work for long, Mister Jinnah?” she asked calmly.
“No ma’am,” Jinnah smiled. “I’ve only just started in the flower business.”
To Jinnah’s disappointment, Paula Schuster didn’t get the joke. She didn’t even look at him while she spoke. She continued to fix the flowers, pulling out a piece of baby’s breath here, righting a lily there, pausing to see if it created the right effect and then rearranging everything yet again.
“I meant reporting on crime. Murder, death — that sort of thing.”
“I am sorry, Mrs. Schuster. Yes, of course. For nearly twenty years.”
“It must be difficult, dealing with death every day.”
“It takes a toll,” Jinnah admitted. “But I take some comfort in knowing it is as nothing compared to what people like yourself suffer.”
“So you have interviewed many … bereaved relatives?”
“And not a few killers, ma’am.”
Jinnah was beginning to feel vaguely uncomfortable. There was something surreal about this conversation being carried out