by Joan Hess
“Couldn’t shake loose. Had a lunch lined up that was too important to pass up, even though the guy’s a swish. Anderson had to do a little last-minute shopping. I picked him up and we tore out to LAX with ten minutes to spare. Carlotta made sure there was a rental car waiting for us at the airport in whatever that town was, and a map and thermos of martinis on the front seat. She’s not a sexual fantasy, but I gotta admit she’s professional.”
“What about the others? I’ve heard several times how professional Meredith and Miss Kaye were.”
“We’re all professionals, even those two little hayseed lovers. Fuzzy requires a baby-sitter, but as long as he stays off the juice during work hours, he does a good job … for nonunion. We’re one big happy family at Glittertown Productions, Inc., and that’s why we can make tight little movies that earn a solid profit.”
“How much does a movie like Tanya Makes the Team earn?” I asked. I admit it had nothing to do with the investigation, but I, along with most of the popcorn eaters of the world, was intrigued by Hollywood and its hypnotic aura of fame and fortune.
“It should have pulled in two or three million,” Hal said proudly. “We did that baby on less than two hundred thou, which isn’t even peanuts in the industry—it’s the shells that were scattered in the sawdust after the circus split. The trick is to lock up the distribution early in the game. We’re talking the foreign rights, the video, the cable deal, even the novelization, although we haven’t had much luck there. I’m on the track of a little outfit in Peoria or someplace that wants to do a line of comic books.”
“Like the Classic Comics?”
He dropped his cigarette on the floor and ground it out with his heel. “Like that, yeah. Listen, doll, I’ve got so much work to do that I’ll be up all night, so let me run through it. Anderson and I arrived here before dark. We stashed our stuff, met the others in the barroom, had a few laughs with the locals, and went to bed. The next morning Carlotta, Fuzzy, and I made the grand tour of most of the sites. After lunch, jet lag caught up with me and I took a nap while Carlotta finished up on her own and pulled everybody together to distribute the schedule. We ate, then I went back to my room to meditate so I’d be vibrating with intensity this morning when we started rolling. I channel all my energy so it’s like a friggin’ laser beam. You ever meditate?”
“I don’t even mediate,” I said absently, making a few notes, including one about a few laughs with the locals. One local in particular came to mind … one with a badge and an adolescent mentality.
“Meditation’s hot these days. You should give it a try. Tell you what—you come by my room later tonight, and I’ll share my expertise with you. We’ll get really, really comfortable and loose, then—”
“I don’t think so, but I’ll keep it in mind, Mr. Desmond. Neither Meredith nor Miss Kaye did anything out of the ordinary? They didn’t mention seeing someone they knew, or having plans to go somewhere?”
“Naw, but I was preoccupied with the production. I don’t much mingle with the others; it stifles me. I prefer to isolate myself, and if I want companionship, I take a quick look around and find someone who’s fresh and exciting.” He winked at me, in case I’d been out to (make that “doing”) lunch and missed his hint.
“What can you tell me about the murder of Anderson St. James’s wife? I gather it took place while you all were on location?”
He lit another cigarette and exhaled at length. His eyes were as mine were reputed to be: dark and appraising. “That’s right, we were making Satan’s Sisters in some podunk in Nevada. You ever caught that?” I shook my head. “Try it sometime; it puts me in tears every time I watch it. Anyway, we were close enough to Vegas that I didn’t have to pay hardship wages. You been to Vegas? Now, there’s a place you’d enjoy, Arly, and lemme tell you, I’m always welcome at Caesar’s. Limo, suite, champagne, fruit, a front table for the shows—the whole number. How about it one of these days, you and me?”
I held in a shudder as I imagined sharing a suite with him, champagne and fruit be damned. A few weeks ago I’d been grousing about my floundering social life. Since then, I’d been invited to make sparks with a fire fighter, call a handsome actor by a diminutive, and go to Vegas with a social disease. Plover was huffing around, to be sure, but he hadn’t trudged into the sunset. If I wasn’t careful, my dance card would be full.
“I’ve been to Vegas,” I said. “Let’s return to the subject of the St. James murder, shall we?”
“I can get tickets to Wayne Newton just like that,” he said, snapping his fingers. When I stared, he resumed toying with the gold chain and flicking ashes on my floor. “Right, right. Can’t waste time until this mess is resolved, but don’t hesitate to give me a call if you change your mind. Like I said, we’re shooting in this podunk, and it’s going like satin. Gwenneth’s screwing up her lines and missing her marks, but what else is new, and nobody’s worried because we’re well under budget and the light at the end of the tunnel’s as green as a hundred-dollar bill. We do the final wrap, get so soused that I’m thinking Carlotta looks like Monroe—maybe better—and call it a night. The next morning Fuzzy, the Merediths, and Gwenneth decide to continue the party in Vegas. I give Frederick and Anderson a ride back to L.A. in my Mercedes, and we have a helluva time, laughing and drinking and discussing some of the seriously bizarre scenes involving holy water. Talk about your symbolism—”
“And then?” I said, wondering why the mention of holy water was evoking such a smirk. A large population gave it mystical significance, but I’d never heard any hint of its ability to intoxicate or induce hallucinations.
“I dropped Anderson off, and was backing over his hibiscus when he came running out of the house. Looked like a—I don’t know—one of your stars of The Night of the Living Dead. I’m talking the original in black and white, not the remakes. He was yelling about the ambulance and the police, that kinda thing. Frederick took a fast look inside while I tried to calm down my blubbery buddy. Before I could say Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, we had police and medics all over the place.”
“There was never any suggestion that Anderson was involved?”
“From what I heard, she’d been dead since the middle of the night.” He gave the chain a yank. “Like Kitty; I guess. Damn, she was class, real class. We’re gonna miss her. Carlotta’s trying to do the revisions as we speak. The footage we did this morning will work, even if Meredith’s in Mexico by now. We were planning to dub his voice in later, anyway.”
“Wait a minute,” I said, determined to remain focused despite these abrupt tangential flights. “There’s no way Anderson could have had anything to do with his wife’s murder, right?”
“Lodging in Podunkville was tight, worse than here. We all had to share rooms, and I swore to the police that he was snoring across from me all night. It was a kind of a tragedy, because there was this little blond waitress in the coffee shop who thought she had talent and was more than willing to prove it. Problem was, she had this truck-driver boyfriend who might have shown up at her place, and—”
“I think this will do for the moment, Mr. Desmond,” I said hastily. “When you get back to the motel, would you ask”—I consulted the list—“Fuzzy Indigo to come to the PD?”
“I’ll do anything for you, darling. Look, here’s my card, and I’m going to put my private number on the back so you won’t have to go through the service. Night or day, you give me a buzz and I’ll send you a first-class ticket to Vegas. There’ll be a limo at the airport and anything you want—and I mean it—in the suite. You name it, Hal Desmond can get it.”
He dropped a card on my desk, leered for a minute, and left before I could produce an appropriately couched remark that might have alluded (but very delicately, I’m sure) to castration and a dull knife.
Having negotiated a settlement with Estelle, Ruby Bee knocked on the door of #4 and waited impatiently. This was the room assigned to Fuzzy and Frederick, whom she’d swapped for Anderson St. James down at the othe
r end, in #6. Estelle had been real misty about it, but Ruby Bee hadn’t done it to be generous; she’d figured she had a better shot overhearing something from the peculiar one and/or the smart-mouthed one.
“Whattya want?” shouted the latter.
“I brought a tray of sandwiches. The deputy says you all can’t leave your rooms just yet, and I thought you might like something to tide you over until I can fix a proper supper.”
The door opened, and she went on in without waiting for an invitation, in that she doubted she’d get one. The beds were unmade, and there were beer cans and dirty glasses everywhere. “I’ll set this on the dresser,” she said, trying not to let on how disgruntled she was by the mess. “Is your friend in the bathroom?”
Frederick studied her for a minute, and when he spoke, his drawl sounded familiar in an eerie way. “No, he wandered off earlier, and although it’s possible he’s in some other bathroom, you kin rest assured that he’s not in this one. But thank you kindly for the tray, ma’am. My innards was beginnin’ to grumble something fierce.”
Ordering herself to overlook his insolent manner, Ruby Bee managed to find a place for the tray. “Would you like me to tidy up just a bit?”
“Suit yourself. I thought it was kinda homey, myself.” He took a sandwich and lay down on the bed, watching her as she began to fill a wastebasket with beer cans and other assorted debris. “Any sign of the media invasion yet?”
“No, the police are doing their best to keep it real quiet.”
“Is it true the head cop is your daughter?”
“Her name’s Ariel Hanks, and she’s been the chief of police ever since she moved back here from a real fancy apartment in Manhattan, which is downtown in Noow Yark City.”
“No kidding,” he murmured. “She any good at solving murders?”
Ruby Bee stopped dumping ashtrays and frowned at him. “She’s solved a whole passel of murders since she got home. Why, only last year a woman was poisoned by one of those cream-filled sponge cakes, and Arly—” She stopped as the telephone rang.
“Hold that thought,” Frederick said as he picked up the receiver. “Marland here.” After a moment, he covered the mouthpiece with his hand and said, “Just leave the mess and run along. One of these days we’ll do a drink and you can finish this fascinating story.”
Ruby Bee took the wastebasket and headed for the door. As she stepped outside the room and pulled the door closed, she heard Frederick say, “Listen, darling, I’m not going to blab about last night, so stop sniveling.”
She was thinking about it as Hal Desmond crossed the parking lot and went into his room. Estelle had won him, although she didn’t notice how readily Ruby Bee had passed when his name arose. Now he was back in his room, and would have plenty of time to peel off his clothes before Estelle showed up with a tray. The imagined scene put a tiny grin on Ruby Bee’s face, and she had to scold herself to stop gawking and get on back to the barroom.
She was glad she did. Dahlia was in the middle of the dance floor, surrounded by a variety of locals, all of whom were looking either pleased as Punch or sorely perplexed.
“Ruby Bee!” Dahlia thundered. “Guess what I just heard!”
“Don’t split a gusset,” Ruby Bee said over the gabble of voices and the jukebox. She nudged her way through the crowd. “What did you hear?”
“They’re gonna keep making the movie, and I’m still in it! You don’t mind if I hunt up Kevin to tell him, do you?”
“You go right ahead. Did you hear any more about your part?”
“The assistant lady’s gonna tell me what to say when we get up there and start filming. She said it’d be right easy for me to remember. In the meantime, I’m supposed to practice looking excited.” Dahlia screwed up her face, but the unspoken consensus was that she looked more constipated than anything else.
Ruby Bee went on into the kitchen, where Estelle was poking black-eyed susans in juice glasses.
“I thought it might cheer them up,” she said. “Make ’em more talkative.”
“I’m sure it will,” was all Ruby Bee said. She might have mentioned Hal Desmond’s fondness for being buck-naked, or her suspicion about the plot of Wild Cherry Wine, or even the disappearance of Fuzzy, but there were a lot of other things she could have mentioned, too, and she let it go.
I wasted a great deal of the local taxpayers’ money, along with the proceeds of speeding tickets and fines for the endless and often diverting string of misdemeanors committed on Saturday nights. I did this courtesy of Ma Bell and the insidious technological advancement called “hold,” as in “I’ll put you on … and see if Detective Cannelli is back from the meeting,” and five minutes later, “his partner says he’s here somewhere, lemme put you back on … and run down to the locker room.”
After a hundred dollars or so, the detective came on the line. I explained the present situation, which elicited a whistle, and asked about the status of the St. James case. I was told it was open but covered with blue-green mold and stored at the very back of the filing cabinet.
“There was never any question about the husband?” I asked, scrunching up my forehead in the precise way that Ruby Bee keeps saying will leave permanent wrinkles on my forehead and no chance of a ring on my finger.
“Oddly enough, I remember this one,” Cannelli said. “Murder’s the crime du jour these days, but the more popular M.O.’s an assault weapon from a moving car. Which isn’t to say we don’t get knifings—very popular in alleys behind bars.”
“The St. James case?”
“Sorry, honey. We looked at the husband, of course, along with the wackos in cardboard boxes and the recent graduates of the psycho wards. The word was that Mr. and Mrs. St. James were on the verge of a divorce, and not a friendly one, due to both property and accusations of infidelity. He admitted he’d moved out of the house, but said he went by to suggest a civilized discussion over champagne. Seems like he was making a movie in another state or something. In any case, he had an alibi for the time we considered significant.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I know you’re busy, but is there a chance you can dig up some background on all these people? I’m out of my league. I’m not even in the minors.”
He didn’t sound particularly enthusiastic, but he did say he’d make a few calls and get back to me when he could. I read the list and then thanked him at length, thus adding to the long-distance bill but ensuring cooperation, and hung up just as Plover came into the PD.
He dropped a folder on my desk and went into the back room, mumbling something about coffee. The folder was dog-eared and stained, its contents sparse. Billy Dick MacNamara had made marginal grades in Farberville, had been considered uncooperative by most of his teachers since kindergarten, but had never had a major problem with the principal, nor had he had a brush with the juvenile authorities.
“I wonder if he ever reported a fire in Farberville,” I said loudly enough to be heard by Roy Stivers, should he have been rocking outside the antiques store.
“He could have done so anonymously.”
“I realize that. If someone does say his name, do they put it in the report?”
“You’ll have to ask your chum in Emmet.”
“You’re a pain in the butt,” I said, but not so Roy could hear it, or even Plover. I decided to ignore his pettiness (and get my revenge later, when I had time to polish it). “I called L.A. and talked to Detective Cannelli.”
“He a bachelor?”
I gripped the pencil so tightly that my knuckles looked as if they were dusted with frost, but I kept my voice level. “I didn’t ask, but I hope so. I’m shacking up with him in Vegas for a long, passionate weekend as soon as this is cleared up. Once he stopped making kissy noises, he said that they investigated St. James’s alibi and cleared him.”
Plover came to the door, a mug in his hand. “What about the other members of the company?”
“They had finished the film that day, partied, and were sharing rooms in so
me little town in Nevada. I presume they all had the same alibis—roommates. It’s not our case, so I suggest we occupy ourselves with the present problem.”
“This coffee must be a week old,” Plover said as he sat on the corner of my desk. “I checked on the prints at the scene. They matched the ones on the personal effects of the victim and her husband, except for a few ancient ones that are apt to be Ruby Bee’s. The murderer must have worn gloves.”
“I’m not amazed.” I glanced at my watch. “Desmond was supposed to send Fuzzy Indigo here. He should have arrived half an hour ago. I guess I’ll call his room.” I reached for the telephone, but as I did, it jangled. “Arly Hanks,” I said into the receiver, which smelled faintly of onions.
“I know that,” Ruby Bee said. “Don’t you think your own mother ought to recognize your voice?”
I switched the receiver to the other ear so I’d be sandwiched between the two most irritating people I knew. “I’m in the middle of an investigation, Ruby Bee. What is it?”
“Well, excuse me. I didn’t realize you were as busy as an ant at a Sunday school picnic. I happened to have some information to pass along, but I’ll just wait until you have time to listen to me.”
“I’m listening.”
“I thought you might be interested to know that that Fuzzy fellow disappeared a while back.”
I gulped. “What?”
“I took a tray out to number four in case they were getting hungry. Mr. Famous Frederick said Fuzzy had gone off earlier and hadn’t come back.”
From the way Plover was frowning at me, I must have looked more than a little perturbed. I let out a breath and said, “Let me get this straight, Ruby Bee. You took a tray to one of the motel rooms? What about the state trooper who’s stationed there to prevent anyone from disturbing the movie people?”