The Tinseltown Murderer

by Maureen Driscoll

  She was pointing at Detective Carson, who was covered in blood.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “I didn’t do it,” said Vernon Carson once again. He was in the sitting room wearing a change of clothing after Grant had insisted on putting the bloodied ones in a bag.

  “Then why were you covered in blood?”

  “I told you. I was walking down the hall and saw him lying there. I checked for a pulse, even though I knew he was dead, and got blood all over me.”

  “Why’d you check for a pulse if you knew he was dead?”

  “Haven’t you ever done that?”

  Grant frowned. “Not when someone’s nearly decapitated, no.”

  “I was in the war,” said Carson quietly. “You’d be surprised what some people survived.”

  “Why did Frau Zimmer say you killed her husband?”

  “I don’t know, but I didn’t. Maybe she panicked.”

  “She doesn’t seem the panicking type.”

  “We saw you,” said David. “The other night you were talking to Frau Zimmer in German. I heard you say the word tod.”

  “Yeah, it means ‘dead.’ I’ve seen how violent he is with her. I told her if she didn’t get away from him she might end up dead.”

  “Why’d you do that?” asked Grant.

  Carson looked at him. “We’re in law enforcement. It’s what we do. Or are you the kind of agent who thinks a wife deserves it?”

  “I’m very much not that kind of agent. But I was wondering if you had a more personal reason for stepping in. Perhaps you and Frau Zimmer were having an affair, and you told her you wanted to see her husband dead.”

  “That didn’t happen.”

  “And maybe you were seeing her tonight and when he interrupted you, you killed him.”

  “I didn’t kill him and she’s definitely not my type.”

  “Then why did she say you did it?”

  Carson rubbed his hand over his eyes. “I don’t know. Maybe she’s protecting the person who really killed him.”

  “But nobody else was covered in blood,” said Grant.

  David studied Carson. “That hallway leads to a lower level. It’s possible that whoever did this ran out the back.”

  “See?” said Carson.

  “It’s a theory,” said Grant. “But it’d help if we found blood anywhere else, and so far we haven’t.”

  They were interrupted by the entrance of Greta, Frau Zimmer and six guards carrying machine guns. “Arrest that man!” said Frau Zimmer.

  “The FBI doesn’t usually get involved in a simple murder,” said Grant.

  “I wasn’t talking to you,” said Frau Zimmer scornfully. She nodded at one of the men with guns. “He has the authority of the Reich.”

  “Not on American soil, he doesn’t,” said Grant, as he rose and stood between the men and Detective Carson.

  “You are merely a guest in my home,” said Frau Zimmer. “And an uninvited one at that.”

  “And you are guests of the United States of America since you’re not citizens,” said Grant. “Your men have no jurisdiction here. We’ll call the Los Angeles police, and they can take Carson away for questioning.”

  “Haven’t you heard, Agent Barker?” asked Frau Zimmer. “The storm has washed out the roads and we are cut off from the outside world. Take him away,” she said to her guards.

  Grant took a step closer to Carson. “I can’t let you do that. He’s an American citizen and a police detective.”

  “And a murderer,” said Frau Zimmer.

  “I have a suggestion,” said Greta, as she stepped between Frau Zimmer and Grant. “We don’t know what happened, other than our host is dead and Detective Carson was found with the body, covered in blood. Your police cannot get here tonight, and I understand why you are reluctant to use our security. Yet, I am certain I’m not alone in feeling unsafe if Detective Carson is allowed to roam free.”

  Josie couldn’t resist an audible scoff.

  “Did I say something to amuse you, Josie?”

  “I just can’t imagine you ever feeling unsafe.”

  “I shall take that as a compliment.”

  “I didn’t entirely mean it that way.”

  Greta smiled at her, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Be that as it may, might I suggest a compromise? We can lock Detective Carson in his room until the Los Angeles police arrive.”

  “Absolutely not,” said Carson. “I’m supposed to be protecting O’Donnell.”

  “You murdered my husband!” said Frau Zimmer.

  He turned to her, staring her down. “You know that isn’t true.”

  “We should lock him in the cellar,” said Frau Zimmer. “He’ll be well-guarded there.”

  The men with machine guns appeared to like that idea. Carson looked like he was contemplating making a run for it, then Grant spoke. “Carson, maybe it’d be best if you stayed in your room.”

  “But…”

  “It’s the better of the two options,” said Grant with finality. “It’s only until your boys can get here.”

  “This is outrageous!” said Frau Zimmer. “He killed my husband in my own house!”

  “He allegedly killed your husband, and while it is your house, this is now my jurisdiction. Keep in mind that the Bureau has its say over foreign nationals, so it’s in your best interest to leave Detective Carson unharmed until we can straighten this out. Carson, come with me.”

  “I’m supposed to be looking after O’Donnell,” said Carson one more time.

  “You’ll be busy enough looking after yourself. I’ll keep an eye on O’Donnell, but for now I’m taking you back to your room.”

  * * *

  After locking Carson in his suite and advising the man to barricade the door for his own protection, Grant, Josie and David went back to the scene of the crime, only to find it was almost entirely clean. “What are you doing!” Grant yelled at two women with blood-stained mops. They’d made good use of their time since much of the gore had already been cleaned up. “Where’s the body?” he asked them. They shrugged and it was unclear if they didn’t understand the question or truly didn’t know.

  “It’s in the icehouse,” said Greta, who’d silently crept up behind them and held rain slickers and boots for each of them. “If you’ll follow me.”

  The rain was pouring down as they went outside, and the courtyard was mostly mud as they made their way to one of the outbuildings up a hill. Greta had a difficult time opening the heavy door against the wind, but a moment later, the four of them were in the cold, concrete building.

  “What is this place?” asked David, as they walked through the industrial building past closed wooden doors toward a room at the end.

  “It’s used to store supplies for the house, including heating oil and petrol for the vehicles,” said Greta. “The Zimmers are rather isolated out here. It’s important to have everything on hand.”

  “You seem to be an expert on the Zimmers,” said Grant. “Any idea about who would want to kill him?”

  “None at all,” said Greta.

  They reached the room where Herr Zimmer’s body was lying under a sheet. Grant looked at Josie and Greta. “Perhaps you ladies should wait in the hall.”

  “Absolutely not,” said Greta.

  “I’m with her, for once,” said Josie.

  Grant grunted, then crossed to the body and pulled back the sheet. Herr Zimmer’s clothes had been removed and his body had been washed, though the skin around his throat and torso was still stained red. “His throat was slashed from ear to ear, a very thorough job of it. No wonder Carson was covered in blood.”

  “Do you think Carson did it?” asked David.

  “I’m not one to make snap judgments.”

  “But if you had to?” asked David.

  “Then I’d say a seasoned detective wouldn’t kill someone in a crowded house by slitting his throat. Maybe he’d stab a guy in self-defense, but this was pre-meditated.”

  “H
ow can you tell?” asked Josie.

  “Because he was garroted,” said Greta as she stood near the body and bent over for a close-up look. “It sliced right through. A knife would’ve made a more jagged wound, but this was precise, like razor wire. It’s something a trained killer would’ve used.”

  “And how would you know that?” asked Josie.

  “Hunting, of course. I’ve used a knife to kill small game, so I know the difference.”

  “You are one crazy broad,” said Grant, then added, “Josie’s about to tell me I can’t say ‘broad.’”

  “I’m okay with it this time,” said Josie.

  David turned to the others. “So, if it wasn’t Detective Carson, who was it?”

  “Well, it doesn’t take a lot of strength to kill someone this way,” said Grant, “just specialized knowledge and the element of surprise.”

  “So, any of the men with machine guns could’ve done it?” asked Josie.

  “Yep,” said Grant, who then turned to Greta. “As well as someone who’d trained with the S.S.”

  Greta betrayed no emotion, other than raising one perfectly arched brow. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “We know you trained with the S.S.”

  “Who told you something so foolish?”

  “No one told me, I saw evidence of it. It was on microfilm we recovered from a crime scene.”

  Now Greta showed genuine surprise before quickly schooling her features again. “I think someone is trying to – how do you say it – pull the wool over your eyes. There are many reasons why that is absurd, not the least of which is the S.S. doesn’t approve of women in their ranks. It is, as Josie is so fond of saying, rather sexist.”

  “I expect they made an exception for Goebbels’s niece,” said David. “This also seems to call into question your claim that you’re not very close to your uncle.”

  “My uncle is my uncle. But I have never trained with the S.S. It is categorically untrue.”

  “You’re the second person to claim my information is false,” said Grant.

  “Then, perhaps, you should re-evaluate the information. What was this crime scene?”

  Grant didn’t say anything for a moment, as he weighed how much to tell her. “An FBI agent was murdered and the evidence was in her possession, which makes me trust the veracity.”

  “Did she tell you about it?”

  “No. We found it after her death.”

  “And it hasn’t occurred to you that someone might have planted it there to falsely incriminate me and the other person?”

  “I’ve been a federal agent for a long time, and one of the things I’ve noticed is that complicated plots are for detective novels. The most straightforward explanation is usually the correct one.”

  Greta studied him. “I suppose the next thing you’ll ask is whether I killed your agent.”

  “Did you?” asked Josie.

  “No.”

  Grant continued. “I talked to your friend Straub at the League. He was reluctant to give me any information which might help me crack this case, making me think the killer might be German.”

  “I am far from the only German in Los Angeles.”

  “Yet, you’re at the scene of another murder.”

  “So were a dozen other Germans. Tell me, Agent Barker, why was I not covered in blood if I, for some reason, murdered Herr Zimmer?”

  That was a question Grant couldn’t answer.

  “I didn’t kill anyone. Not your agent, nor Herr Zimmer. But if you’re looking for people with the skills to do this, anyone with a machine gun could have done it since they’ve all been trained in hand-to-hand combat, as was anyone in law enforcement, like Detective Carson. Then you have people who were in the war, such as Detective Carson, again, as well as Ralph Harris, Finn O’Donnell and, actually, Frau Zimmer. She also had a motive to kill the husband who’d been beating her these many years.”

  “Women poison their husbands,” said Grant. “They don’t slice their throats.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind in case I ever get married. Yet, I would still be extremely careful around our hostess. She’s more dangerous than she looks. Now if you’ll excuse me, I should go back to the house and busy myself with female tasks, like looking up poisons.”

  As Greta walked off, Josie turned to Grant and David. “I don’t like her, but that was a great parting line.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Dinner was a subdued affair, with not many people at the table. Frau Zimmer kept to her room in mourning and Detective Carson was locked in his. For once, Finn O’Donnell looked like he wasn’t under the influence of drugs and was particularly out of sorts because of it. Ralph Harris was more subdued than usual and didn’t even try to put his hands on any of the maids.

  After spending time looking for clues but coming up with nothing, Lawrence, Dora and Blake were warily keeping an eye on the two armed guards in the room as dinner was served. Grant, David and Josie sat across from Greta to keep an eye on her. For her part, Greta was the only one who seemed to be enjoying herself.

  “There seems to be a lack of conversation tonight,” she said, as a piece of Linzer torte was placed in front of everyone for dessert.

  “Our host was murdered,” said Dora. “That does tend to put a damper on most festivities.”

  Lawrence took a sip of wine. “Though I’ve been to a few parties which would’ve been greatly improved by the host’s demise.”

  “Perhaps I’m the only one who’s never been at a real murder scene,” said Blake. “The closest I’ve ever been was a movie soundstage. But this will definitely motivate my acting. By the way, how is Kurt?”

  Greta shook her head with some regret. “Unfortunately, still unwell. But he has told me so many stories of being an actor. It must be odd to spend your entire life being paid to lie.”

  Blake laughed. “I wouldn’t exactly put it that way. This is the land of make-believe, where talented writers like Dora and Lawrence create worlds for the rest of us to escape into. It’s especially important now when there are so many terrible things happening, from the bread lines of America to the soldiers goose-stepping in Germany. As an actor, if I’m lucky, I get to play a part. If I’m really lucky, the movie is actually good.”

  “Then you’ll be pleased to know we have excellent entertainment planned for tonight,” said Greta. “I know it is a common belief here in America that all the good films are made in Hollywood. But I have a German classic from one of our most renowned directors, F.W. Murnau.”

  Lawrence took another sip of wine. “But he left Germany, didn’t he? He moved here to Los Angeles because America was more to his liking.”

  Greta pushed her untouched torte away from her. “Unfortunately, it was not a good move for him in the end since he died in a mysterious car accident a few years back. It is a shame for cinema because he was a wonderful director, and tonight we have one of his very best films. It’s Nosferatu, from 1922. a classic.”

  Blake looked at Greta in disbelief. “That’s the Dracula movie, right?”

  “So, you’ve seen it?”

  “I’ve heard of it. But I find it hard to believe you want to watch a movie about a blood-sucking vampire on the same night our host had his throat cut.”

  Now everyone turned to Greta in disbelief. “So, this isn’t a good idea?” she asked innocently. Or as innocently as it got with Greta.

  “It’s a very bad idea,” said Ralph Harris. “I’ve had enough of blood and death to last a lifetime.”

  “I suggest everyone get some sleep, instead,” said Grant. “It’s been a long day and there’s a murderer on the loose. I think everyone should go to their rooms and lock the door.”

  “Do you know what I think?” asked Finn O’Donnell. “I think the murderer is already in his room. I just hope you really did lock him in.”

  * * *

  Lawrence knocked on the door to Detective Carson’s room, carrying a tray. “Detective? I’ve brought you
dinner and a good German beer. May I come in?”

  There was silence on the other side of the door until Carson finally said, “It’s locked.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of that, but I have a key. May I come in?”

  There was more silence on the other end, before Carson finally said yes.

  Balancing the tray on one hand, Lawrence unlocked the door and pushed it open. Detective Carson was standing on the other side of the room, near one of two chairs by the fireplace, looking warily at his visitor.

  “I hope you’re not thinking of charging the door,” said Lawrence, as he closed it behind him, then put the tray on a side table near the two chairs. “Two Germans with machine guns are stationed at the end of the hall, and I have a feeling they’re both trigger happy and skilled with a weapon. I wouldn’t give them a reason to shoot. You must be starving.”

  Carson stood still, as if frozen to the spot.

  “Aren’t you going to eat your food?” asked Lawrence, indicating the tray.

  “How do I know it’s safe?”

  Lawrence picked up the fork and took a bite of the steak. “There. I made a plate for you myself from the food we’d all just eaten, including Greta. And I don’t think anyone’s going to poison her.” Lawrence sat in one of the chairs. “Well, aren’t you going to eat?”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Carson sat in the other chair and began eating. He was either ravenously hungry or really didn’t want to talk since he barely took a breath as he ate in silence.

  “Finn O’Donnell is doing reasonably well, in case you’re wondering, other than his burgeoning drug habit, of course.”

  “I suppose you know a lot about that.”

  “Why? Because I work in Hollywood?”

  Carson’s only response was a glance between bites.

  “I don’t have much personal experience with drugs,” said Lawrence carefully, “though I did a bit of experimenting when I was younger. It’s no secret that theater folks and Hollywood types like their various substances, so I’ve seen the effects of abuse and they’re not pretty. I’m vain enough to not want to do too much damage to this body, and I enjoy life too much to risk ending it prematurely. And that is why I don’t indulge.”