A Purple Place for Dying

Book 2: Travis McGee

by John D. MacDonald

Genres: Hard-Boiled; Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

From a beloved master of crime fiction, A Purple Place for Dying is one of many classic novels featuring Travis McGee, the hard-boiled detective who lives on a houseboat.
 
Travis McGee's taking his retirement in installments while he's still young enough to enjoy it. But sooner or later, his money runs out and he has to work. This time McGee's lured out West to a strangely secretive meeting with a woman in trouble, in a place whose beauty hides some ugly, dangerous secrets.
 
“John D. MacDonald created a staggering quantity of wonderful books, each rich with characterization, suspense, and an almost intoxicating sense of place.”—Jonathan Kellerman
 
Mona is in love with a poor, young college professor and married to a wealthy man whom she is convinced is stealing from her trust fund. So she does what any self-respecting girl would do: She hires someone to steal her money back so she can run away with the love of her life.
 
Travis isn't sure he wants to help out until he sees Mona getting shot and killed out on the cliffs near her cabin. Now he's a lead suspect in a plot to help her escape, and to clear his name, he needs to get to the bottom of things. But the murders just keep mounting, and for Travis, even working with Mona's husband doesn't seem to help matters. Will he be able to uncover the complex plot in time to save his own skin?
 
Features a new Introduction by Lee Child

Release date: January 8, 2013

Publisher: Random House

Print pages: 240

Sample

One

She took the corner too fast, and it was definitely not much of a road. She drifted it through the corner on the gravel, with one hell of a drop at our left, and then there was a big rock slide where the road should have been. She stomped hard and the drift turned into a rough sideways skid, and I hunched low expecting the white Alpine to trip and roll. But we skidded all the way to the rock and stopped with inches to spare and a great big three feet between the rear end and the drop-off. The skid had killed the engine.

“What a stinking nuisance!” Mona Yeoman said.

The cooling car made tinkling sounds. A noisy bird laughed at us. A lizard sped through the broken rock.

“End of the line?”

“Goodness, no. We can walk it from here. It’s a half mile, I guess. I haven’t been up here in ever so long.”

“How about my gear?”

“It didn’t seem to me you had very much. I guess you might as well bring it along, Mr. McGee. Perhaps you might be able to roll enough of this rock over the edge so you can get the jeep by. Or I can send some men to do it.”

“If we’re going to keep this as quiet as possible, I better give it a try.”

“That makes sense.”

“If I decide to try to help you, Mrs. Yeoman.”

She glanced at me. Her eyes were the beautiful blue of robins’ eggs, and had just about as much expression. “You’ve come this far, haven’t you? I think you will.”

I lifted my suitcase out of the little car, and we climbed over the rock. It was a fresh slide. The broken edges of the rock showed that. I felt just as happy to be out of the car. The road was steep and the curves were very interesting. She had met me at noon at an airport fifty miles away, quite a distance from her home base. She said she had a place I could stay, a very hidden place, and we could do all our talking after we got there. Ever since meeting her I had been trying to figure her out.

She did not seem to fit either the rough country or the type of clothing she was wearing. She was a big ripe-bodied blonde of about thirty. She had a lot of control, and a competent way of handling herself, and a mild invulnerable arrogance. She would have looked far more at home on Park Avenue and Fifty-Something, in the highest of high style on a Sunday afternoon, wearing a fantastic hat and walking a curly little blue dog.

Here she strode up the gravel road in six-stitch boots, twill trousers, a tweed hacking coat, a sand-pale cowgirl hat. Though we were high, there was no wind and the sun made walking very hot work. I stopped and put my suitcase down and took my suit coat off.

“Good idea,” she said, and shed hers and slung it over her shoulder. She went on, with the air that she was destined to walk ahead with most of the world following in single file. Her waist was narrow and she held her back very straight. The pale twill pants, a shade darker than her hat, were almost as tight as her skin. I read female character from sterns. Hers was hefty, shapely, rich and unapproachable. This one, I decided, would consider any gift of her favors a truly earth-shaking event, to be signaled by rare wine, incense and silk sheets. And she had the look of almost being able to live up to her own billing.

She was intent on one thing at a time. Walk now. Talk later.

The road ended at a cabin. It was on a half acre of naturally level ground, a rocky shelf three-quarters of the way up the mountain. The cabin was of silver-gray wood, twenty feet square, old but honestly made, with a steep roof. There was an open shed beside it containing cords of wood and an ancient jeep still wearing its army paint. There was a shack behind it, against the rock face of the hill. There was a privy built out over one hell of a drop.

I followed her up onto the porch and she pried a key out of the pocket of those tight pants and unlocked the door.

“This is the bunk room and living room. That fireplace heats it beautifully. Kitchen through there. Wood stove. A good stock of staples. There’s a spring up the hill. That’s very rare around here. The water is piped into the kitchen. Cold water only. Excellent water though. I assume you saw the outside plumbing. The battery in the jeep is probably dead, but it should start if you run it downhill. You can take it to a gas station and see what it needs and put the amount on your bill. There are some rough clothes in that closet there. I doubt there’s anything big enough to fit you, Mr. McGee, but I think you can make do.”

“Mrs. Yeoman?”

“There are no sheets but plenty of blankets and . . . What?”

“I am not buying the place. I am not even renting it. Maybe I’m not even staying. So let’s get to it, shall we?”

She looked at me with disapproval. “But somebody has to help me,” she said. “Why did you come so far if . . .”

“Like a self-respecting call girl, Mrs. Yeoman, I reserve the right to pick and choose. Once upon a time a lady assumed I’d happily kill somebody for her. That isn’t my line of work.”

“This is nothing like that! Fran Weaver is one of my oldest friends. She said that if anybody in the world could . . .”

“I know. I know. She wrote me. I got in touch. You sent plane fare. You gambled your money, and I gambled my time. Now we see if we can get together.” I put my suitcase on the bunk and opened it and took out the bottle carrier. “Bourbon with no ice?”

“Please. Some water, half and half. You’ll find the water cold enough.”

It ran rusty at first and cleared quickly, and it was cold enough to numb my fingers. I put drinks in two mismatched glasses and took them in. She sat on a leather cushion on the raised hearth. It was cooler inside. She had put her jacket around her shoulders and laid her hat aside.

I sat in a thong chair nearby. She lifted her glass and said, “To an agreement.”

“Fine.” We drank and I said, “I took this one blind because I’m almost broke, Mrs. Yeoman.”

She looked concerned. “That . . . isn’t very heartening.”

“Like not being successful? I’m very successful.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I work when the money gets low. Otherwise I enjoy my retirement, Mrs. Yeoman. I’m taking it in installments, while I’m young enough to enjoy it. I am commonly known as a beach bum. I live on a houseboat. I live as well as I want to live, but sometimes I have to go to work. Reluctantly. Do you understand the terms?”

“I . . . I think so. Fran said . . .”

“Something has to have been taken from you, something that belongs to you. You have exhausted all ways of getting it back. I’ll make a try at it, if I go for the situation. If I can make a recovery, I keep half the value.”

“It . . . it couldn’t work that way in my case.”

“Then let’s walk back down that hill.”

“No. Wait a minute. Let me tell you the situation. My father was Cubitt Fox. That doesn’t mean anything to you, I know. But it is still a remembered name around here. I was his only child. My mother died two years after I was born. He tried to raise me like he would a son. He died twenty years ago, when I was twelve. He was forty-four. His dearest and closest friend was Jasper Yeoman. Jass was thirty-eight when daddy died. The will named Jass executor. He took over. He was very kind and generous. I went to good schools in the east, Mr. McGee. After I graduated from Vassar, I went to work in New York, on a magazine. I was on a generous allowance. I was twenty-two. I fell in love with a married man. We ran away together. It was a ghastly and horrible mistake. In Paris he had a change of heart and went scurrying back to his wife. I stayed there, for almost a year. I did too much drinking and I did some very foolish things. Then I got sick. Jass came over. He took me to Switzerland and stayed with me until I was well. I needed emotional stability and security and affection. Jass and I were married aboard ship on the way back, nine years ago. He’s fifty-eight now. Up until a year ago, it was . . . a comfortable life. Jass is a rich and successful and tough-minded man. It was a first marriage for him. We’ve been unable to have children, and it’s my fault, not his. A year ago I fell in love again. I thought Jass would be . . . reasonable. He hasn’t been. I decided I would leave him. I thought I would get the money my father left me and leave him. I was still getting the allowance which I thought was the interest from the estate held in trust for me. I know there were several trust funds. I had been receiving fifteen hundred dollars a month since I was twenty-one. And spending it. I’ve been a little too damned good at spending it.