And Leave Her Lay Dying

by John Lawrence Reynolds

  Fleckstone had a boxer’s physique: a fighter past his prime and out of shape. His rounded shoulders flowed into a massive chest which ended abruptly at a soft, protruding stomach. His face was round, the grey hair thinning. But it was Fleckstone’s stance which suggested he belonged in a ring: he stood with his stocky legs apart and balanced, the head bent slightly, the lids half-lowered, the eyes watching McGuire warily from an off-centre position—a boxer’s stance.

  “I’ll pass on the coffee,” McGuire said. “Just tell me about Jennifer Cornell.”

  “Thought so.” Fleckstone, wearing a blue blazer over a worn sweatshirt and cotton slacks, sat down and rested his feet, clad in white tennis shoes, on the corner of the desk. “Couldn’t think of any other reason for you to come.”

  “What the hell do you do here?” McGuire asked, sweeping his arm to take in the wall of electronic equipment.

  “I used to do nothing but TV commercials,” Fleckstone replied. “Still do some. But now we’re into other things. Industrial movies. Corporate presentations, training films. ‘Six Steps to Sales Success.’ Stuff like that. Even some rock videos.” He swivelled in his chair and pointed to the television monitors. “See that top screen, second from the left? Watch.”

  McGuire followed the producer’s gesture. The monitor flashed a frozen black-and-white image of a silhouetted man in a harshly lit street. As McGuire watched, the scene shifted almost imperceptibly and the street lights acquired a blue tone. The man’s hat, a forties-style fedora, faded from black to chocolate brown and in the background a white neon sign was transformed to orange.

  “Colorizing,” Fleckstone explained. “We take old black­and-white movies, put them through a computer one frame at a time and add colour. Gives a whole new dimension. This one’s The Communion Murders. Old Sydney Greenstreet flick.”

  “Isn’t there a lot of controversy about that?” McGuire asked.

  “Yeah. Some. These movies, they were never made for colour. They were exposed, framed, edited, all for black-and­white.”

  “So why do it?”

  Fleckstone smiled. “Hey, you want art, you go to an art gallery. I’m a businessman. I’ve got over three million tied up here in video and computer equipment and I pay sixteen people to run it. First thing I ask anybody applying for a job here, the artsy-fartsy types with their degree in video arts or cinematography, kids who grew up expecting to become Eisenstein or Spielberg, I say, ‘You concerned about prostituting yourself?’ If they answer yes, I say, ‘So how come you’re looking for work in a whorehouse?’”

  “Did Jennifer Cornell work here?”

  “Jennifer? You kidding?” Fleckstone looked away, shaking his head and smiling. “Hell, no.”

  “How did you know her?”

  Fleckstone looked back at McGuire from under half­lowered eyelids. “Should I have a lawyer here?”

  “You can if you want one. My suggestion is, save yourself the fee until I read you your Miranda rights.”

  Fleckstone considered McGuire’s advice before leaning back with his hands clasped behind his head. “I met Jennifer about a year ago at a party over on Newbury Street. A photographic exhibit or something. She latched on to me as soon as she heard I was in video work. Said she’d done some amateur theatre productions and wanted a chance in commercials.”

  “And you gave her work?”

  “A couple of local things. Carpet store commercial, some spots for a Chevy dealership in Quincy. I think she played a mother in a training video we did on dental hygiene.” He grinned at McGuire. “Not as much glamour in this business as some people think, but you can make a few bucks.”

  “Were you ever in Pour Richards?”

  Fleckstone nodded. “It’s a dump. I met Jennifer there a couple of times. She liked to impress the regulars, have people meet her at her special table in the corner. She’d introduce me, saying ‘This is Richard Fleckstone, I bet you’ve heard of him.’ Most of them hadn’t and I told her to knock it off, don’t try to come on like a star.”

  “Were you sleeping with her?”

  Fleckstone froze his gaze on McGuire, then allowed a smile to crease his face. “Boy, you get right to the point, don’t you?”

  “Beats wasting time.”

  The other man nodded. “Yeah, I spent a few nights at her place, she spent a few nights at mine. No big secret. I’ve got two ex-wives and three kids too, in case you’re curious.”

  “You drive a white BMW, spoiler on the back?” McGuire asked.

  “Sure. Parked in the lot. You want to check it out?”

  McGuire shook his head. “You had a fight with Jennifer at her apartment about two weeks before she was murdered, right?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Mind telling me what it was about?”

  “The usual stuff. Greed. Lust. Lies.” Fleckstone’s grin widened. “Her greed. My lust. And both of us lied.”

  “You were using her.”

  “Routine as old as show business. And hey, she earned a few bucks in the process.” Fleckstone jabbed a finger at McGuire. “Look, she wouldn’t have gotten any work without me. I mean, she could act, but like I kept telling her, she was no Meryl Streep. So who was using who?”

  “What was she like?”

  “Jennifer? A little desperate. She could be calm, pleasant. And funny in a raunchy sort of way. Other times . . . hell, I guess it depended on what prescription bottle she grabbed when she got up in the morning. I see a lot of women like that her age. They dabble in acting or modelling or something, doing amateur theatre work, telling themselves their break is just around the next corner. Then one day they wake up and realize they’ve turned too many corners. They have no family, no career hopes, nothing. But they can’t let go of that dream. So they get a little desperate. Do weird things.” Fleckstone swung his feet off his desk and studied his fingernails as he spoke. “I heard, after that fight we had at her apartment, she tried to change her looks. Tried to look younger, take some years off by changing her hairstyle, buying a new wardrobe. Kind of sad, I guess.”

  “Was she difficult to get along with?”

  “You mean bitchy? Jennifer was born bitchy. But like I said, she could be funny too. And she was bright. And I’ll admit it, she had some talent.” He grinned up at McGuire. “Even did a great impersonation of Richard Nixon.”

  “Did you ever meet her brother? Andrew?”

  Fleckstone snorted. “No, he phoned here a couple of times. She even called me, pleading with me to audition him. Said she knew we were finished but that Andrew had just come to Boston and was looking for a break.” He shrugged. “Whole damn family was nuts. Couple of days later I get another phone call and it’s this Andrew Cornell. Before I can say anything he starts tearing into me about the way I treated his sister. Said he was coming over to have it out with me. I hung up on the yo-yo. Then, maybe a couple of days later, he calls again and apologizes. Says he has a comp sheet, a sample reel—”

  “What are those?”

  Fleckstone sighed. “Comp sheet, that’s what models use to show how they can look in different scenes. Bunch of pictures they get taken by professional photographers. Sample reels have actors’ roles on them, from commercials or films. When you call on a producer, you’d better take your comp sheets and sample reels with you or you don’t even get considered. Anyway, I thought, ‘What the hell is this? First the guy wants to pick a fight with me, then he wants an audition?’ Well, you never know. I told him, you want to fight, you want to act, come on over. Do either one, I don’t care. But he never showed.”

  “Think you frightened him away?”

  “No idea. Anything else?” Fleckstone’s eyes scanned the monitors on the wall.

  “You ever hear about Frances O’Neil? Or Gerry Milburn?” Fleckstone closed his eyes and shook his head slowly. McGuire stood up, scribbled his telephone number
on a sheet of paper from his notebook and handed it to Fleckstone. “You think of anything else, you let me know. Okay?”

  Fleckstone rose and nodded silently.

  “I’ll bet you remember where you were the night Jennifer was killed,” McGuire said. He was looking down at Fleckstone’s desk.

  “Sure do,” the other man replied. “I was in New York for the weekend. Left Friday night, came back Sunday afternoon. Still have the receipts, if you want to see them.”

  “Business?”

  Fleckstone smiled. “Pleasure. Lots of pleasure.”

  “Who are all these women?” McGuire asked, waving his hand over the stack of photographs.

  “Actresses. Models. Women who want to be actresses and models.”

  “These are comp sheets?”

  “That’s what they are. I use them when I’m casting a shoot. If I like what I see, I might find something for them.”

  “Like TV commercials for rugs and cars?”

  Fleckstone’s face crinkled in laughter. “You got it. I might even take one down to New York for a weekend, introduce her to a few friends, you know? Hell of a job. Doubt if I can keep doing it for more than another thirty, forty years.”

  He escorted McGuire to the door and watched the detective walk down the long hall and through the reception room before crumpling the paper with McGuire’s telephone number into a ball and tossing it in his wastebasket.

  Chapter Eleven

  Driving beyond the exit to Logan Airport, McGuire turned south on Bennington and into the town of Winthrop. Tall wooden houses lined the narrow streets, forming corridors which revealed tantalizing glimpses of the sea in one direction and dramatic views of Boston Harbour in the other.

  It seemed like an idyllic place to live, a residential area on a finger of land offering vistas of both the city and the ocean. But its location also meant much of Winthrop lay directly beneath the landing approach to the airport. Throughout the day and much of the night, aircraft skimmed the tops of trees, the deep roar and angry whine of their engines disturbing the tranquil neighbourhood.

  At the tip of the peninsula, like a brooding menace, sat the fortress-like structure and stone guard towers of Deer Island jail.

  Outside of Winthrop and before Deer Island, McGuire entered Cottage Hill and quickly found the address of Frances O’Neil, a three-storey house on the harbour side of the peninsula.

  With the exception of its size and location, the building was undistinguished, even dull in appearance, constructed in a perfect cube shape as deep and high as it was wide. White shutters gleamed against the chocolate-brown siding; brass light fixtures added in an attempt to create character only drew attention to the practical, unimaginative lines of the house.

  McGuire stepped out of his car, ducking instinctively at the roar of a jumbo jet passing low overhead, and walked up the concrete steps to the front door.

  At the sound of the bell, a large dog barked inside and the door opened just wide enough to reveal a weary-eyed woman in her mid-thirties clutching a robe around her body.

  “Yes?” she asked McGuire. Her eyes flew from him to his car, then up and down the street before alighting on McGuire again. A black Labrador retriever stood behind her, watching McGuire carefully.

  He asked to see Frances O’Neil.

  “She’s not here. She’s out.” The woman’s eyes darted past him again, confirming that he was alone.

  “When do you expect her home?” McGuire asked.

  “Can you tell me what this is about?”

  He showed her his badge and identification. “I just have a few questions for her, that’s all,” he said soothingly.

  Her eyes widened and searched the street once more. “Is Frannie in trouble?” She bit her lower lip.

  “No, ma’am. Not at all, “ McGuire replied. “I’m just cleaning up some routine work before closing a case. Thought she might be able to remember something that could help me.”

  “She’s . . . Frannie looks after my little girl, Kelly. She’s gone down to meet Kelly at the school bus and bring her home. It’s not due for another ten minutes but Frannie’s always afraid it might arrive early and she won’t be there to meet her. Frannie’s like that.”

  “Where is she meeting the bus?”

  The woman opened the door wider and leaned out, pointing down the road. “It stops around the corner, where this street curves at the sea wall. She’ll be waiting there. She’s wearing a blue quilted jacket.”

  McGuire thanked her and turned away.

  “Just a minute,” the woman said from the door. “Can you wait just a minute, please?” Closing the door, she disappeared inside, returning a few seconds later and thrusting a woollen scarf towards him. “Would you give this to her, please? Frannie never dresses warmly enough and there’s a terrible wind off the harbour today.” She smiled for the first time, a smile that brought warmth to her face but did not disguise the concern in her eyes. “You’re sure Frannie’s not in any trouble?”

  McGuire assured her she wasn’t and turned again to walk down the steps. From the corner of his eye he saw the woman watching him from a window.

  The street curved left, making a switchback that led back towards Boston via Winthrop Shore Drive. On the outer edge of the curve a low stone wall separated the road from the waters of the harbour.

  Another aircraft passed overhead, its engines screaming and its landing gear extended. McGuire grew convinced that views of the city skyline and the sea, no matter how spectacular, could never compensate for the noise from the busy airport flight path.

  The woman was sitting on the low wall, her back to him, wearing loose woollen slacks, a tattered ski jacket and a thin kerchief on her head. She was staring not at the city skyline but at the grim black towers of Deer Island jail down the peninsula. The wind tugged at her clothing and danced with a wisp of hair dangling from under her kerchief.

  At the sound of McGuire’s footsteps she turned to look at him, then quickly away.

  “Miss O’Neil?” he asked, stopping beside her. “Frances O’Neil?”

  She looked up at him again and forced a smile across her face. Her soft attractive features seemed to be heavily weighed by life and her eyes were dark and melancholy, the eyes of a saddened child.

  “Lieutenant Joe McGuire,” he said, showing his identification.

  She looked at the badge without interest before turning to face the harbour.

  “Are you Frances O’Neil?” he asked.

  Leaning forward, she held her head on her hand and said something McGuire was unable to hear.

  “I’m sorry. Would you repeat that, please?” McGuire sat on the wall with his back to the harbour and leaned to look at her.

  “Yes,” she said in a small voice. “Yes, I am.”

  “I was asked to bring you this.” He handed her the scarf. “I think it’s from your sister. Back at the house.”

  She smiled, avoiding McGuire’s eyes, and accepted the scarf. “Thank you,” she said, wrapping the scarf around her neck and tucking it into the ski jacket with her thin, delicate hands. “Yes, that’s my sister. My older sister. Older sisters think they’re mothers to the rest of the world.”

  He showed her his badge and introduced himself. “Did you know Jennifer Cornell?”

  Frances O’Neil continued to smile sadly and nodded. “I knew it would be about Jennifer.”

  “Why did you know that?”

  “Because she was murdered. And because you haven’t found the killer yet.”

  “How did you meet her? When you worked at Pour Richards?”

  She moved her head up and down in short, jerky motions. “I worked there as a waitress for over a year. But I guess you know all that. I told some police officers all about it after Jennifer . . . after the murder.”

  “What kind of person was she?”

/>   Frances looked directly into McGuire’s eyes. “She was mean. Terribly mean. And ambitious. And sexy to men in her own way, I guess.”

  “Did you ever meet Richard Fleckstone?”

  “Who?”

  McGuire repeated the name and Frances shook her head.

  “How about Gerry Milburn?”

  The smile returned and she turned away to stare out at the harbour, her chin on her hand. “Gerry thought Jennifer was wonderful. And she could be wonderful, too, when she wanted something from somebody. She took him home with her once and I guess he thought it was love or something. But not Jennifer. For Jennifer it was just recreation.”

  “Would you say Milburn was in love with her?”

  “Smitten.”

  “Pardon?”

  She looked back at him, one hand toying with a wisp of hair that had fallen out from under her kerchief. “He was smitten with her. Nice word, isn’t it? Comes from the word smite. ‘She smote him a heavy blow.’” She tucked the errant hair back under the kerchief. “Sorry, I used to be a teacher. Sometimes I miss it.”

  “You went from being a teacher to a barmaid?”

  “With a few stops in between. Now I’m just a babysitter. So in a way I’ve come full circle.”

  A 727 roared overhead, drowning out her last few words. McGuire glared up at it, but Frances O’Neil didn’t seem to notice.

  “This Milburn,” McGuire began, watching the aircraft drift lower towards the runway across the water. “Do you think he was jealous enough to kill Jennifer?”

  “He wasn’t jealous,” she replied. “He was shattered.”

  “But could he have killed her out of anger or revenge?”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “Who knows what people can do?” she asked. “You must know that better than me. In your line of work.” She stiffened, looking over McGuire’s shoulder towards Winthrop. “Here comes my baby,” she said, her face brightening. “Here comes my angel.”

  McGuire turned to see a yellow school bus winding its way around the curve. “How about Jennifer’s brother, Andy?” McGuire asked. “I understand you knew him.”