Page 112 of The Happy Month
“You’ve told me very little and most of it lies. I’ll be going over to Scottsdale soon to confront Harper and Gloria Dawson. I think you and your husband have information that will help me trap Vera’s killer. I’m hoping you’ll help me.”
After studying me a long time, she said, “Come in then.”
She had to hold the door open for me. I slipped by into a small living room with two large reclining chairs on opposite sides of the room. In one of them was Manny Marker. He seemed to be in his early eighties, though he could have been older or younger. He was clearly frail, attached to a tank of oxygen, and you could still hear him struggling to breathe. Like his wife, he wore a pair of shorts and a thin shirt. His arms were covered with bruises of various ages. I wondered what exactly was wrong with him.
“Manny this is Dominick Reilly. He says he knows who killed Vera Korenko.”
“And Shirley Kessler,” I added.
“Yes, of course, Shirley.”
Manny’s breathing hastened, as though the prospect of finding their killer excited him. Virginia sat down in the other recliner. There wasn’t really anywhere else to sit. The small sofa was covered in newspapers.
Looking straight at Virginia, I said, “You met Vera at a bar called The Blue Fox.”
“Yes. I did.”
Her husband gasped, “No.”
“Manny never went to The Blue Fox. It wasn’t his sort of place.”
He seemed to want to say something but couldn’t get it out.
“Did you go there a lot?” I asked Virginia.
“Oh yes. There was not very much on television,” she said, dryly. I doubted that was the reason.
“You have a slight accent. Where are you originally from?”
“France. Manny and I met there after the war. He brought me home with him. I was a war bride. Why do you think Harper Dawson killed Vera?”
“A number of people told me that Vera’s girlfriend named Gigi had a violent husband. Georgia lied to me about a number of things and Gigi is a nickname…”
I had to stop. Something was becoming clear. Or at least clearer. It wasn’t Georgia Dawson who was Gigi, it was Virginia Marker.
“I’m wrong though, aren’t I. You’re Gigi.”
She just smiled. “Yes. Gigi is a pet name for Virginie, which is my name in French.”
I looked at her husband. This frail, crippled creature had killed two women? It seemed impossible.
“How long has he been sick?”
“Several years. Emphysema. He won’t last much longer.”
“Don’t—” he attempted to speak again. She stood up and spoke to him angrily in French. He looked confused. She touched his shoulder and he flinched.
“Does he speak French?” I asked.
“Not a word. He gets the gist, though.”
“He beat you, he killed two women you loved, why are you taking care of him?”
“Why do you think I’m taking care of him?”
And then the bruises suddenly meant something different. They weren’t there because of his illness, they were there because of his wife. She was now the abuser. It was pay back.
“Why didn’t you leave him all those years ago?”
