“I know all that, Mr. Winters,” she interrupted. “In my case, my husband, Paul, ran away a little over three weeks ago.” Her voice breaking, she continued, “No, the truth is… he… he left me, and…” Mrs. Smith began sniffling and put her hand over the mouthpiece while she composed herself.
As I waited, the newspaper society page photos came to mind. The images showed a smiling, brash, and flashy society dame who, along with her sister, often pushed the limits of good taste established by our staid Fort Worth upper crust. Now, envisioning her as a despondent wife slightly altered my perception.
As a private investigator, my livelihood depends on understanding human nature. I also know that family and personal problems are not confined to one part of society.
When she calmed down, I suggested, “Let’s meet face-to-face and decide how I can help you, Mrs. Smith.”
Despite Christine Norton’s wealth and influence, a husband who’d gone missing of his own free will left her powerless. In less than two hours, a driver in a shiny, black ’47 Cadillac picked me up from my tiny office above Dubcek’s Saddlery just northwest of the stockyards.
I sat up front with the unliveried driver at Christine’s request to avoid attracting attention. That made no sense, but I get paid not to sweat the little things that make no sense.
As the driver pulled away from the curb, he asked wryly, “Even with a friendly wind, how can you stand being this close to the stockyards?”
I replied, “The rent is cheap, and the odor keeps me from hanging around the office too much.”
“One-man shop?” he asked with a sidelong glance.
“Yeah. Mrs. Dubcek handles walk-ins when I’m out, and I have an answering service.”
“Don’t tell me that,” he groaned with a smile. “I thought every private dick had a beautiful blonde secretary who was in love with him.” Laughing, he slapped the steering wheel and handed me a pint of Old Crow. “Hair a’ the dog?” he asked.
I held up my hand and shook my head. “Thanks, but no hard liquor when I’m working.”
He nodded agreeably and said, “You passed Mrs. Smith’s first test.” Without looking, he heaved the bottle onto the brick street. “Besides, son, who drinks that swill?” Half smiling, he snorted and stared straight ahead. The rest of the trip passed in silence.
Del Norton built his stylish, pre-war mansion in fashionable Westover Hills. Christine awaited me in a large sitting room, whose somewhat flashy 1930s Hollywood décor felt out of place but came off as tasteful and not tacky. Of course, Norton money can erase ‘tacky.’
Sitting on an oversized chaise lounge, Christine looked more petite than her photos, which I realized were usually shot from a low angle. She wore her auburn hair in a perfect, tight chignon, and despite her natural beauty, she couldn’t hide the fatigue and worry. Makeup mostly hid the dark circles under her eyes, and her face presented a pretty but tense mask. Worry and concern clouded her light hazel eyes.
She wore an expensive yet conservative navy blue dress, matching heels, and a dainty strand of pearls. Christine slid smoothly from the chaise, where she’d been reading Ladies Home Journal and sipping what looked like a tall glass of iced tea. A half-read copy of Richard Tregaskis’ book, ‘Guadalcanal Diary,’ lay open and face down on the coffee table. I’d imagined the Norton sisters’ private quarters as much like this, minus the reading material.
After introductions, we sat on facing sofas, and she offered coffee from a silver serving set, which a maid silently placed on the large coffee table.
“You noticed the book,” she observed. “I wanted to read about what you and Paul did in the war.” Smiling at my evident surprise, she continued, “Yes, I know you were also a Marine in the First Division. Like my Paul, you also saw a lot of action.”
“So, how…”
Smiling, Christine cut me off, “Mr. Winter, I had you checked out because the detective agencies I’ve hired to find Paul are having no luck. You will also notice I’ve gotten your name correct.” She smiled demurely as she removed several typed pages from her magazine and waved them. “Daddy’s lawyer put together a short biography on you. Most importantly, you have a solid reputation that you can find anyone.
“Daddy and I also think having served in the same Marine division as Paul might be helpful. You will understand him better. Do you agree?”
I nodded, suddenly intrigued and curious. ‘Did I know Paul Smith?’
“First, thank you for the kind words,” I offered.
Her eyes hardened. “Oh, Mr. Winter, kindness plays no part in this. You will find me churlish, petty, insufferable, and quite spoiled. That’s because Mother died giving birth to sister Rita, and Daddy raised a pair of girls who can be quite…willful.” She snickered with a devilish grin, “He feels plumb awful that we were thrown into this old world without proper female guidance.”
Sensing my discomfort, she laughed and stated, “Come now. You read the papers, and right after the Opry on Saturdays, there’s that awful scandal program on NBC. All the gossip lovers listen to it, you included, right?” When I didn’t answer, she chuckled. “So, you must know that Rita and I are quite the pair.
“Rita and I are nice to each other in public, but we can barely tolerate each other. While it’s true that Baby Sis and I are rivals where Daddy is concerned, we like men who are nothing like him. She’s jealous that I have my Paul.” She snorted derisively, “Rita keeps trying on men but can’t find one that fits, and mine is off limits!”
She raised her right eyebrow and giggled, “You’re shocked, Mr. Winter.” Christine regarded me with a strange half-smile topped with intense eyes. “Oh, my, but I’ve never seen a man blush, especially a battle-hardened Marine.”
Christine’s default smile appeared to be a combination of ingénue and she-wolf. “The truth is, Mr. Winter, nobody knows the real us. Our lives are quite simple–Daddy makes the money, and we girls spend it having fun.”
She laughed merrily. “He feels guilty that we raised ourselves, so he makes many more apologies than demands.”
She stared briefly before becoming almost angelic. Her demeanor changed like flipping a switch. “So, may I call you Doug?” she cooed.
Feeling like an overmatched boxer, I answered evenly, “Yes, Ma’am.”
“I’m Christine,” she said warmly. Then, the warmth drained from her face, and she continued in a demanding tone. “With all the niceties out of the way, let’s start looking for my husband.”
She regarded me carefully as she refilled my coffee. In this strange and awkward atmosphere, I began to understand what Paul Smith might be fleeing.
“Was your husband working when he decided to leave?” I asked.
She furrowed her brow for an instant. “Heavens, no. He decided to go back to college on the G.I. Bill. His SMU credits transferred to TCU,” she explained.
“Were you happy about that?” I asked.
She bit her lower lip and said, “Well… I wasn’t, but… I came to respect him for it.” I remained quiet, and she explained, “Paul had been gone nearly three-and-a-half years. I hadn’t seen him since he came home on a short leave before shipping out in the spring of ’42. When he came home in late ’45, I wanted to renew our marriage, travel, party, and have fun, but Paul wanted to finish college starting in January.”