The Case of the Rich Man’s Wife

Chapter One

August 1945

Clicking out a familiar tune, my high heels resonated from the walls as I made my way up the flights of steps to the third floor. Exiting the stairwell, the signage jumped into view, my trade shingle. ‘Theodora Drummond & Associates, Private Investigators,’ emblazoned in black paint on the pebbled glass of my office door.

The truth was, I found seeing my name and profession decorating my office door something which made the arduous work worthwhile.

I was a woman making my way in a world dominated by men. With this admission, I owed part of my success to the war effort. The harshness of the times demanded I couldn’t ignore the situation. And the problem was, no one would’ve given me the time of day if many of the men in America hadn’t been off fighting Hitler and Tojo.

But give this devil her due, I acted with diligence to achieve a measure of prosperity. The war ended; that notwithstanding, I wasn’t going anywhere. For you see, I earned my position in the world.

The long, rough day left me wanting nothing more than to go home. Well, I also wanted Aaron to come over and relieve my tension. With fond memories of our earlier cuddle, I smiled as I opened the unlocked door.

Assuming Aaron waited for me, a thought dawned on me. He took the initiative and entertained Estelle and her Girl Friday until my arrival. Being late for my appointment caused me to contemplate my tardiness. Might be, perhaps, I stayed at the docks considering Lady Liberty, too, long.

The back of my head exploded as I stepped into my reception area. This blinding, burning pain detonated across the back of my noodle. The floor rushed towards me. Twisting to the right, gravity took hold, toppling downward like a tree succumbing to the ax. I glanced around the waiting room.

Crap, one of my heels broke. “No, I love these shoes.”

The heel skittered off across the tile, making a peculiar high reverberation. A severe impact shook my body as I crashed into the deck. Confusion took hold, and I tried to comprehend.

Sliding away from me, my purse spilled the contents within, makeup compact, lipstick, and other sundries insides sprayed out across the floor. Worst of all, my.45 colt flew away from my reach. All the debris came to rest near Aaron’s face. The young man’s eyes moved around under the lids. Thank God he lived, dreaming, or more likely, having a nightmare.

Trying to push up, I pressed my hands, planting them on the cold tiles. Thump, another vicious blow, sent a shockwave deep into my skull. Darkness rose with the force of a tidal wave, submerging me.

As the surging tide overtook me, I slipped below the surface of consciousness. The light in the room faded into black. Leaving me with only a few disjointed flashes of awareness. A vast stillness enveloped me as I clung to memories, trying to fight off the eclipse covering me in nothingness. The night before, such a long time ago. Dear God, couldn’t be over 24 hours since Aaron and I balled together in my bed?

The world died or slept. Whichever world I fell into, either possibility frightened me so.

****

21 Hours Earlier

Thinking of my lover, back in the mid-1940s, the term for a promiscuous man comes to mind. Active-duty gentleman, in no way, described Aaron. The entire day, he’d been an eager beaver. Most guys have this built-in sense when things are going right. In this regard, Aaron himself was a regular feller.

However, not being wanton, the knowledge that something was about to happen triggered his nervousness.

All day, all evening, Aaron’s uneasiness showed. Stumbling through the day, dropping things, missing his mouth with the water from a fountain, and spilling his popcorn everywhere while we watched The Woman in Green. The tension increased after arriving at my apartment.

The truth is strange, for I didn’t appreciate the reason for his trepidation. He trembled when I took his hand, guided him to my bedroom, and took him in my arms.

When our lips met, he calmed, and we clutched one another in a long loving embrace. Once we broke apart, I again controlled him while removing his clothes. In an apparent hurry, Aaron rushed, and I slowed him. When I had him in his birthday suit, I directed him on how to undress me. More blundering, I thought, his ineptitude endearing.

What does that say about me?

Tossing the covers from my bed, I positioned him on its edge. Getting between his legs, I kissed and licked him, working my way to his erect member. When my tongue touched his dick, the thing exploded, sending globs of semen across his chest and belly, and dribbling down the shaft. Gazing into his eyes, he let go of a catalog of apologies as heavy as his discharge.

Undaunted, I retrieved a wet washcloth, cleaned him, and resumed his first lesson in making-whoopie with Theodora Drummond. Over the next several hours, we made love, long, slow, stroking, rough, raw, blazing screwing.

At best, we were out of sync. Despite Aaron losing his load, I kept riding away on top of him. And I’d shutter through an orgasm, and he stayed rock hard.

If memory serves, I allowed him to be on top. Oh, I think twice. But for me, on top, in control, punched my ticket. So, my being experienced and aggressive, I dominated him in this area as I controlled him in all other areas. The hour turned late, so we embarked on our last hump of the night. This took some time, and we, at last, synchronized.

The first wave of my fifth orgasm overtook me in a fierce flash. Rolling my hips, riding the tide, I rippled above my lover. With a massive, violent, rough thrusting of my hips, I brought him closer to the edge.

Hungry eyes devoured me, gazing at me with adoration while I rode him hard. The young man belonged to me. As sure as the sun would rise in the morning, I owned him. Controlling him, guiding him, nearer, nearer. At last, I release my clutch on his cock and balls, letting him cum.

Less cream this time than before, his seventh. Still, he added more of his seed to my soaked pussy. In ragged huffing, his breathing made his chest heave, slivering his tongue over his thin lips while his eyes held mine with a hungry, craving glower. With greedy clutching, his paws roamed over my back, arms, and butt. Taking his arms into my hands, I pushed them down on my bed.

“Be still,” I ordered him.

With a noticeable reluctance, he calmed himself. Descending to him, I lowered myself and wound my legs and arms around him, covering him with a protective cocoon. Now that the three and a half hours of fevered rutting passed, the night’s adventure remained as only a fond reminiscence in our afterglow.

All the while, his seed seeped from me over his belly. For many long minutes, we stayed together in the warmth of our first hesitant torrid bout of mutual, satisfying self-indulgence.

Yes, self-indulgence is the word for want of a more polite one. The experience satisfied me, which, in retrospect, was all that mattered to me that night. Considering my partner’s rather tender years and his professed lack of knowledge, our copulation proved memorable. With our lovemaking finished, at least for the moment, it was time to move on.

I turned my attention to something else, for I longed for a shower and sleep. To Slumber alone in my bed was foremost in my thoughts.

Most women are clingy after sex. They fill up with this neediness, wanting so much for him to cuddle, cooing in her ear, while the man ‘toys’ with her equipment, and entertains her with praise as she comes down from her adrenaline high.

Well, screw all sappy, sentimental twaddle. Not my style.

Frankly, I wanted the fellow out of my bed, on his feet, and moving out the door as soon as possible. Now don’t take this wrong. After all, I liked Aaron, liked him a lot. And to my surprise, I discovered I had the hots for him. Still, I want solitude after I’m done with my partner of the moment. Not unlike Greta Garbo, “I want to be alone.”

Being aboveboard, I think I was wired like a man, at least where bonking was concerned. Hum, I suppose this doesn’t speak well of me as a woman. I was clearly a hot-blooded, all-American gal who craved quiet solitude after the tussling ended. Even now, take me as I am ... or leave.

My bedroom was more in shadows than light. The eerie yellow glow of the small bedside lamp lit my room. My room felt oddly mundane. Old wood-paneled walls showed their age. I thought to myself perhaps, an apartment wasn’t the best place for me. Thinking, wow, I need to buy a brownstone and move up in the world.

“Never satisfied, are you, Theodora? Nothing’s ever good enough for you?” The words of a so-called old friend crossed my mind.

My rooms seemed old and worn-out to me. I couldn’t shake the thought, and I wondered why. In actuality, the rooms changed little from when I first moved in. The point might be the wear and tear didn’t belong to my rooms. The thing was, perhaps, I’d been made old before my time.

Life used me up, all those cases over the past five years. Nothing about most of those jobs would be called appealing or adventurous. However, they included lots of lies, cruelty, and piles of bull-pucky. Each case chucked full of twists, turns, and dead ends enough for Chandler to have pounded them out for Marlow to solve.

A study in semantics. If Marlow were a woman, would she be Phillipa?

Weeks seemed like months, and the months wore on as the cases ground me, like salt in a mill, in their wake. Fatigue stifled me while frustrations attempted to drive me off my rocker. Send my soul to below ... I loved my life, my work. I didn’t believe myself old, not yet. Unmistakable, the mileage on my equipment showed as sure as hell.

As I approached my 31st birthday, I felt as old as the cobblestone streets outside my building. Question, do those bricks feel the footfalls, the tires as they drive over them, the unkind weight of trucks laden with goods? No, because they, unlike me, aren’t alive to feel the torment of life.

When Aaron touched the scar on my belly, I rolled away, wiggling into a more comfortable position. Ever curious, Aaron turned persistent. Fingers danced over me. A light touch sent a shiver as his index finger strayed over the scar on my lower back. Tracing my wound with his finger, from entry to the slight bulge next to my spine. With a soft touch, he pressed on the lump.

“Does this hurt?”

“No,” I said, which wasn’t, altogether, a lie.

Numbness, not gnawing, radiated from the point like ants scrambled across my back and legs. No, not painful, but most unpleasant. Rising from the bed, I caught Aaron’s frown in the mirror. Upset, I no longer laid with him, I suppose. His curiosity about my scars overflowed. In a stubborn determination, he refused to ask how I got them. While I, with as much resolve, declined to volunteer the information.

In the adjacent bathroom, I cleaned myself. After which, I returned to the bedroom.

“Rise and shine, dear, go wash up and change the sheets on the bed,” I told him in a manner to let him appreciate I’m the boss, in my home, at work, and in his life.

“Oh, gee whiz, Miss Drummond, can’t I rest for a bit?” he said.

Adamant in my desire to be alone, I shook NO and pulled my nightgown over my head, maintaining my attitude. On this occasion, the time came for him to leave.

I understand how cold-hearted this sounds, but this was me. Smoothing out the nightie, I glanced at the U-shaped, plunging neckline covering my breasts but exposing my cleavage. Turning, I faced Aaron, and his hungry eyes fixed on me.

“Now, wash, dress, and please change my sheets, honeybunch. You can doze when you’re home.” I sat at my dressing table, applying cold cream to my face, spying on him from the corner of my eye.

As I thought, he touched his privates with a washcloth, without washing much at all. Tossing down the cloth, he grabbed his shorts and yanked them up, covering himself.

Before he might take his tight little ass out of the bathroom, I stood before him, hands on hips, with a stern scowl of disappointment. Tapping my toe, I raised a hand, pointing at him.

“Right this moment, you march, you’re not so sweet butt, right back into the sink, young man.” I said, and I scolded him more about hygiene.

Aaron ducked his head like a puppy, retreating again into the bathroom. After I had tugged his shorts down, I eyeballed him with a harsh stare of disgust. Standing behind him as he held his head down in shame.

“Other women are not as fussy about themselves as I am. Be honest, dear one. You don’t want to catch something, do you?”

“No, ma’am.”

“You must wash well when you finish having sex as soon as you’re done. Clean yourself and keep your dick clean.” Pausing, I added, “If you want to be my steady guy, sugar.”

With vigor, I lathered him up with soap and scrubbed him. Not being tender, perhaps I was too rough. With dogged tenacity, I scolded him while I worked. A radiant smile came over his face at my words. Thinking about this, my calling him my guy mightn’t be wise.

“Bonkers, I’m sort-a sore...” he said as he moved against the sink, attempting to scurry away from my rough touch.

“Comes from screwing like bunnies, honey,” I said as I scrubbed him. After I rinsed out the washcloth. Being a smidgen more tender, I cleaned all the soap from him and handed him a towel before turning and striding away.

“Blivet, bah-Jeezus, Aaron, look what you made me do. My gown is all wet.” Returning to my dressing table, I finished removing my makeup.

The August heat still permeated my apartment, and the ceiling fan did little to help. Grinding the blades around and around, the unit made constant background noise this time of year.

“Umm, Miss Drummond may tell you something?” I nodded to him. “This was my first time.” His captivating smile was boyish and manly.

Mixed emotions wove their way through me. Curious, I became unsure about our having an intimate relationship. Although, I never thought I would take anyone’s virginity. Still, I consoled myself with the thought my lover might’ve found a much more dangerous sharecropper than me for his first adventure.

Changing the sheets, Aaron put the soiled ones in the hamper. Sitting in an easy chair by the lamp in my living room, he fiddled with my cigarette case. Out of habit, you understand, he always liked to play with the trinket, eyeing his reflection in the shiny gold plating. The scrollwork on the face fascinated him.

The thing was, Arron searched for answers that refused to be found. It was a connection to my past, having been my Uncle Franks. A history for him, being an orphan, where he had no relationship with parents he never knew.

A woman murdered, a man untouchable, who may or may not have cut down the woman, and the son of the man, the father of Aaron. A father who might not even know of the child’s existence.

Walking out to the living room, I took the case from him. Keeping my eye on him, with my lip curled, I removed a cigarette from the canister and tapped it, packing the tobacco tight. Sitting in a chair on the other side of the small table, I crossed my legs. Aaron had a decent gander at my legs, which he wanted to ogle. This pleased him all the better, for fun, for the night had ended. But I still appreciated his admiration of me. We would strike up the band again another night.

The apartment was a lovely one. However, I have been here for over five years. The familiarity of my home with a spacious living room, terrific kitchen, and dark wood paneling imparted an impression of luxury. An indulgence I had grown quite accustomed to. Of late, however, my enjoyment of my surroundings corrupted with concern. My home, while comfy, grew dilapidated, and I feared things were worn.

Why I worried about such a thing is beyond imagination. The sad thing about my life, outside of my work, was I entertained men for pleasure, mostly my satisfaction, not theirs. These men, who neither concerned themselves with the rooms’ décor nor my fans’ condition, meant nothing to me. The only room they cared about was my bedroom and how they might land in my bed. The same was true for me.

Men were for pleasure, mostly, nothing more. Though, Aaron, I held in fond regard.

I found the hum and weird rhythm created by the two ceiling fans, the creaking, groaning, and squeaking musical and soothing. A piece of relaxing music. All the while, I pondered, the noise might be the racket of a tired, old hunk of junk running.

But like many things in life, I consoled myself with the thought that the fan motors provided a soothing jingle. The fans’ background sound and the muffled noise from the street combined to make me comfortable, and even at the lateness of the hour, the city was still alive, and life bustled outside my windows.

Sticking the unfiltered in my mouth, I reached out and picked up the Zippo. I flipped the lid open and dragged my thumb over the wheel in one smooth motion. The flame leaped up as I lit my ciggy, laying the lighter on the case, sucked the fumes deep, and poisoned myself a tad more. Laying my head back, I blew circles of smoke into the air to amuse myself. This pleasure was one of those insignificant moments, the charming little things I remembered my father did and I imitated.

“Go home, young man. Catch some shut-eye. Tomorrow is an important day,” I murmured, gazing at him through the smoky haze. All the while, he eyed me, his eyes languid. Still, after our marathon session in bed, his eyes invited me, begging me for more.

Yet, he looked ready for sleep. Shaggy blonde hair hung over his eyes, unkempt from our earlier exertions. His hair would not be so messy had he bothered to run a comb through his wavy locks. Understand, Aaron’s not so tall and kind of on the thin side. Still, Aaron was fit, with tight muscles, a handsome face, and the parts necessary to pleasure a woman.

Bright blue eyes gawked at me from his angelic face, but his eyelids almost closed. At last, he was also tired and fatigued from our lovemaking, not frayed from a world gone mad.

“May I have a cigarette before I go?”

“No,” I snapped at him. “You do not need to be smoking, young man. You are only eighteen years old. Baby, you’ll find plenty of time in life for better things than smoking,” speaking in a firm tone. The poor boy needed guidance, and determination filled me to be his guide.

“If I had a mom, I would hope she was like you,” he said.

While his words touched me, and yet, for personal reasons, they saddened me. Besides, I was far too young to be his mother. Still, considering our carnal activities during the evening, I wasn’t sure what I thought about his comment.

“Before you leave, dear boy, please fetch me a glass with some ice, baby.” Twisting to my left, I removed a bottle of Kentucky’s finest from the liquor cabinet. As I opened the door, a nostalgic squeaking greeted me — this old familiar sound dated further back than my recollection stretched.

The creaking helps me to shut out the outside world. The ancient cupboard, a family history memento, and my father’s liquor cabinet, handed down from one generation to another. At least, so the story goes.

The antique piece of furniture was a measure of solace in a world devoid of harmony.

“May I have some whiskey with you, Miss Drummond?” The melancholy appearance of his face almost caused me pain.

“Yes, I can’t think of any reason you can’t.” Saying this without thinking. As an afterthought, I added, “We will drink together when you turn twenty-one. Your first drink will be my treat.” Consistency, Theo, this is essential, I reminded myself as he brought me a glass with ice. Warm bourbon poured over rocks, the ice cracking, and ice tinkled against the glass. Umm, just what the doctor ordered.

The rocks cooled the whiskey while the gentle sounds aided my relaxation before I took my first drink. Pulling the sickly, sweet, raw bouquet into my nose. A sip rough, with a sort of molasses-like, and smoky flavor, wait for the sting ... ah, the burn invariably, what my doctor ordered.

Bourbon’s my favorite painkiller. My back, still numb from where he had touched the slug, lodged against my spine. The alcohol wouldn’t dull my other pain, my loss. Nor relieve the terrible thought I was half a woman. Nothing dampened my suffering from my loss. Aaron turned from me, walked to the door, turned to me, and he spoke.

“Miss Drummond, I didn’t make the grade, I’ve missed the war, and with VJ day come and gone, the guys are coming home. I lost my chance for glory,” he said, a touch of sadness in his voice.

A painful thought; in those days, most young men dreamed of war and glory. Once they experienced the horrors of war, all too often, nightmares replaced their dreams of glory. And I was glad he would not suffer from those.

“I, for one, am glad you missed the War, Aaron.” For the past four months, he had worked for me. When VJ day was announced a few days ago, the boys’ dream shattered into a million pieces.

“Why?” He asked me with a peculiar tone.

“Because I don’t need to worry if you’ll come home in a box, sweetie.” Sweetie was the most common name I called him. In reconsideration, one might believe I baby-talked to him, somewhat like a mother. Aaron had no mother and no father, either.

“Thanks, Miss Drummond, your concern means a lot to me,” he said with a goofy smile.

“Go straight home, and do not be late for work in the morning,” I told him.

After I kissed his cheek, I closed the door behind him. Locking the door and the two deadbolts. I moved to the window and spied on Aaron while he rambled the sidewalk toward the subway with my eyes following him up the street.

Reassured he was safe, I left my spot at the window. No one would say I corrupted his soul. Or had I? Does using him for pleasure qualify as the corruption of his soul, despite how much he enjoyed our lovemaking?

Well, Mary, Joseph, and Jesus, I’m going to hell. Before he met me, Aaron was a virgin.

How many Ava Marias and Our Holy Fathers are necessary for this?

Having had no knowledge of who his parents were or what happened to them. His parents’ destiny, shrouded in mystery, and buried for over seventeen years, bothered the lad. The important thing, Aaron was healthy and happy. I was sure the answers to his questions, the truth, would be his someday. The cold reality. I worried he wouldn’t want the answers he might find.

Coming to work for me in May as my personal assistant after trying to hire me to find out who his parents were, if they were alive, and why they had abandoned him. I promised to check on the matter. I explained to him that his paltry $50.00 wouldn’t go far. After some hounding, he convinced me to hire him and let him earn the information.

In the following months, he proved to be a quality employee. I decided to keep what I learned about his mother from him, at least for the time being. Sometimes reality is the last thing a person wants. Whenever he quizzed me about what I discovered, I told him, “Nothing yet.” So much balderdash. Someday, I’d tell him his mother was dead, and his father was not.

Lost in my thoughts, I realized a constant, relentless racket, Tick-Tock, tick-tock. The constant ticking sound from the old clock on the wall drew my attention. The old family timepiece became louder with each passing year. The grandfather clock hit a steady march, one year following another, never missing a beat. One tick, followed by one tock, moving ever forward, reminding me no moment comes twice in this life. After midnight, where had the day gone?

After enough time passed for Aaron to get home, I picked up the phone and dialed Nevins-2102. The phone rang several times.

“Hello,” a woman said. The woman’s voice was groggy with a put-out tone.

“Did Aaron Foundling make it home, Mrs. Danner?”

“Yes, do you want to give him a goodnight?”

“No, I’m his boss, making sure he made it home safely after leaving work. I kept him rather late,” I said.

“I should hope to croak, you kept him late and on the Lord’s Day. It’s after midnight. In the future, Miss Drummond, take him with you if it’s this late when you’re done with whatever you were doing. But if the two of you are dragging me out of bed at 12:42 and 1:07 in the wee hours, you might as well wish the child a good night.”

“I’d rather he not know that I checked on him,” I said.

“Well, good night then.” The line went dead. The bluenose, teetotaler landlady snapped her cap and slammed the phone down. Waking her twice in less than 30 minutes didn’t help matters.

With that, I thought, “I had better go to bed myself.” A memorable day awaited me in the morning as well. Opening the face of the old clock, I stuck the key in the slot, winding the mainspring, for another week of timekeeping to ensure I marched boldly into the future.

I rested in bed, smoking and sipping my drink as a wondering mind queried what the third richest man in America wanted with me. Cracking a piece of ice between my teeth, crushing the cube, tiny, cold particles moved down my throat. The case promised to be a profitable gig. The rich man guaranteed me a minimum payday of $10,000.

That was a preview of The Case of the Rich Man’s Wife. To read the rest purchase the book.