by P. J. Conn
"Certainly."
"I like having the altar flowers here well before Sunday morning."
"The chrysanthemums are especially colorful this year," Joe exclaimed. She'd brought yellow, bronze, and orange with springs of green lemon leaf foliage. "How long have you arranged the bouquets for the church?"
She was a slim, gray-haired woman who walked with a spritely step. "Let me think, it's been either eight years or nine. I enjoy it, and not everyone wants to accept the responsibility."
"I know exactly what you mean," he sympathized. He pulled open a heavy front door for her.
"Thank you." She strode up the center aisle ahead of him. "I don't believe I've seen you here before. Are you working on the new Sunday school building?"
"I'm visiting from Los Angeles, so I doubt I'll have the time. Tell me about it." He followed her up on the chancel and placed his bucket beside hers.
"The old building was dark and drafty, not a welcoming place for children. We were lucky Phillip Fitzgerald had a project being built nearby. Are you familiar with his work?"
"I've heard his name."
"He's the best of the young California architects, and when one of the vestry approached him about donating plans, he said he would. Whenever he's in town, he comes by to join in the construction. He's certainly not a talker, but he's been so generous with his time and talent, I don't criticize his lack of charm. Now I can take everything from here. Will you be attending church on Sunday?"
"If I'm in town," Joe responded, and he left before she's thought to ask his name.
Phillip had looked as though he planned to remain there for the day, and Joe saw no reason to stay close and watch for him to leave.
San Francisco was such a colorful city, and now he had a couple of hours to ride the cable cars and explore. It was a great opportunity to find a nice hotel he could afford for a honeymoon, and line up places to take Mary Margaret. Inspired, he whistled as he walked away thinking he'd begin with Fisherman's Wharf for lunch. He'd missed the sea since leaving the Coast Guard, and the San Francisco Bay was a wonderful place to visit.
* * *
Three hours later, Joe swung by Saint Edmund's again and nearly ran into Phillip as he was leaving. He ducked into a small grocery store, bought a pack of gum, and watched the architect walk by. Trailing Phillip to the hotel was easy, and he waited in the lobby ready to follow Phillip should he again leave. The desk had a variety of brochures on places to visit and tours, and he read them all while he waited.
San Francisco had so many fine restaurants, he was surprised when Phillip left the elevator and crossed the lobby for the hotel's dining room. He'd changed his clothes, and his dark hair still looked wet from the shower. Joe waited fifteen minutes before he entered the dining room. Phillip was seated alone, and didn't appear to be waiting for anyone to join him.
"May I help you, sir?" the maître d' asked.
"Thanks, just checking for a friend, and I don't see him."
He left and took the elevator to the Top of the Mark on the nineteenth floor, a bar and restaurant with a spectacular 360 degree view of the city. Drinks tasted better there, he was sure. He savored a scotch and soda and could have sat there all night enjoying the city lights in the distance, but he did have a job to continue tomorrow. When his stomach began to rumble, rather than stay to eat, he returned to his room to order another steak from room service.
He sat at the desk to expand on his notes while they were fresh in his mind. Other than volunteering at Saint Edmund's, Phillip hadn't surprised him, and he wondered if tomorrow would be a repeat of today. If so, Neal Sloan and his partner had nothing to worry about where Phillip Fitzgerald was concerned.
He'd bought a postcard for Mary Margaret on Fisherman's Wharf. It wouldn't arrive before he returned home, but she'd love it anyway. He took care to write how much he missed her. After he ate dinner, he read more of I, the Jury, and called it a night.
* * *
Saturday morning, Joe stopped at the desk to buy a stamp for the postcard. He licked it, slapped it on the card and handed it to the desk clerk to mail. As he turned away, he came face to face with Phillip Fitzgerald. His heart dropped to his shoes, but he smiled as though he were happy to see him.
"Good morning," Joe greeted him.
Phillip frowned, which appeared to be his favorite expression. "What are you doing here?"
"It's a very fine hotel," Joe replied, deliberately misinterpreting his question.
"No, what are you doing in San Francisco?" He took a step away from the desk, and Joe followed him.
"I'm here on a job. A sweet little old lady from Pasadena lost track of her grandson, and I came to find him. I got a lead from a friend at his last address and spoke with him yesterday. He was thrilled to hear from his grandmother. People have moved around so much since the end of the war, it's no wonder family members have difficulty staying in touch. Now why are you in San Francisco?"
"We have a building under construction not far from here. Have you had breakfast?"
"No, I haven't. Can you recommend someplace good?"
"Let's eat here." Phillip gestured toward the dining room where he'd had dinner the previous evening.
"Fine." Joe had never had anyone he'd been trailing invite him to share a meal, but he was game for it.
Once seated, Phillip spent a few minutes viewing the menu before slapping it down on the table. "You must think me an arrogant ass."
Joe couldn't help but laugh. "I don't become involved in my clients' lives, and I've made no assumptions whatsoever."
Phillip looked away. "I doubt it. My parents, and they are my parents, are elderly, and they needn't be forced to explain how I became their son. As for Fred, I wish him well, but I'm content with my life as it is."
"Merely content?" Joe asked. "You're successful and have a nice family. Shouldn't you be happy with your life?"
"Let's not quibble over terms," Phillip responded. "I'll not argue that I've been luckier than most men, but I've also worked hard to be a success. It's enough. Let's leave it at that." He focused on the bandage on Joe's forehead. "What happened to you, were you in a fight?"
Joe touched the fresh Band-Aid he'd applied that morning. "I was kidnapped and abandoned in the desert, but it only set me back a couple of days."
"You're kidding." The architect looked decidedly skeptical.
"It's the truth." Joe raised his hand. "I'm working on the Cookie Crumble murder, and got too close to the man who killed her."
"And now you're tracing missing grandsons?"
It was a good story, and Joe stuck with it. "I like variety in my work. I'm not going back to LA until tomorrow, is there any place I ought to see while I'm here?"
"Take one of the tours the hotel offers. They'll show you the sights and give you the city's history."
Joe could have gotten that advice at the desk. Phillip Fitzgerald was one of the coldest individuals he'd ever met. He appeared to be devoted to his work, and his concern for his parents was touching, even if he hadn't displayed any pride in his own family.
"Thanks, I will. I'm getting married at Christmastime, and I'd like to bring my bride here for our honeymoon."
"Lots of people vacation here over the holidays. Better make your reservations now."
"I'll do that." He gave up on drawing Phillip into a meaningful conversation and enjoyed bacon and eggs with a side of pancakes while they sat in a somewhat companionable silence. Each charged his breakfast to his room.
As he rose from the table, Phillip paused. "I've never been considered friendly. Don't take it as anything personal."
"All right, I won't." Fred Cooper had already drawn that regrettable conclusion, and Joe wouldn't waste his breath attempting to convince Phillip having a twin brother was well-worth changing his long standing solitary habits.
* * *
Mary Margaret met Joe's train when it pulled into Union Station on Sunday night. Opened in 1939, it was an unusual mixture of Mission Re
vival architecture enlivened with Art Deco elements. With high vaulted ceilings, the building welcomed travelers to Los Angeles with a view to the past as well as the future.
"I love this place, and you," she exclaimed. "So many of the movies filmed during the war had soldiers passing through here and kissing their girlfriends good-bye. It's a wonderfully romantic place, don't you think?"
"Only if I'm with you," he insisted, and he hugged her tight. With his many cuts and bruises, he did look like a war veteran, and he was elated she didn't mind at all.
Chapter 17
Monday morning Joe typed his notes for Neal Sloan, and while he'd only confirmed the work Phillip Fitzgerald had been expected to do, he felt he'd earned his pay.
He hung his bulletin board on the wall and sat back to study it. He really wanted to speak with Tom Green, even if the college student was unlikely to name his father as a murderer. He needed to touch base with Gladys Swartz as well.
Interrupted by the telephone, he answered without hoping for a new client. "Discreet Investigations."
"This is Archibald Kimble. Is Joe Ezell there?"
"Speaking." Joe had been too busy to remember he'd signed a six-month contract with the agent.
"I've got work lined up for you. When can you come by the office?"
"How’s Friday?" Joe replied. He had too much on his plate to deal with Kimble any earlier, but another couple of days filming would be a welcome break. "Casper Green won't hire me again though."
"He's not the only director filming in this town. You told me you could ride a horse. Can you?"
"Sure, and I can stay in the saddle too."
"Roy Rogers is casting his next film for Republic Pictures, Under California Stars. He's looking for men that fans haven't seen a dozen times in his Westerns."
Joe covered the telephone so the agent wouldn't hear him laugh. "We'll then, I qualify."
"Be here early Friday morning."
"Will do." Joe hadn't ridden a horse since he was a kid, but he thought it must be like riding a bicycle and once you'd learned how, you wouldn't forget.
He made a pot of coffee, enjoyed a cup, and then called Gladys. "I hope you have good news," he greeted her.
She sighed. "You're not going to believe this."
"That doesn't sound good."
"It isn't," she explained. "Casper Green claims Bernice, or Lily, attacked him, and he manhandled her to keep her from stabbing him with a pair of scissors. He claims she'd read for a part, but wasn't accomplished enough to hire. When he told her so, he says she went berserk. He sent her home in a cab and didn't report the assault because he didn't want to make trouble for her."
"Snake," Joe responded. He hadn't tracked down the taxi driver who had driven Lily to Casper's, but with Casper admitting she had been at his home, there was no need.
"Snakes have more character than he has. There are no witnesses to what happened at Casper's, so it's a wash, and the DA won't consider prosecuting either allegation."
"I want to talk with Tom Green. He's claiming Cookie was alive when she left his home with Brett Wayne, but I'll bet her body was already cold. I also want to talk with Victoria Ray, who's starred in several of Casper's films. If Casper has pressured her to sleep with him to be hired, she might say so under oath."
"She might not," Gladys mused. "You'll need to find as many actresses as you possibly can who've had a similar experience to give substance to Bernice's story."
"I'm on it," Joe promised.
He dialed Victoria, and this time found her at home. She listened as he explained why he needed to talk with her. "Can we meet somewhere?" he asked.
"Frenchie's is a bar not too far from where I live." She gave him the address. "I'll meet you there at 5 o'clock tonight. I'll wear sunglasses and a scarf, so don't expect to recognize me from my movies. Sit at a table in the back, and I'll come to you."
"Got it. I'll see you then."
* * *
With plenty of time on his hands, Joe drove over to USC, and parked across from the Kappa Sigma fraternity house on Twenty Eighth Street. He doubted he'd see Tom Green coming or going from class, and preferred a more direct approach. He went up to the front door and knocked.
A young man answered and looked surprised to find a stranger on the doorstep. "May I help you, sir?"
"Yes, I have a prize certificate for Tom Green. It's worth quite a bit of money and I need to place it in his hand."
"Tom Green?" he repeated. He pushed his glasses up his nose, and peered at Joe more closely.
"Yes, it's a common name, do you have two here?"
"No, only one, but he was in a car accident, and is recuperating at home."
"I'm so sorry to hear that. Please don't tell him I was here. We want the certificate to be a surprise when he receives it."
"All right, I guess I could do that."
"Thank you."
As Joe walked back to his car, he debated driving to Casper Green's home, but if the director were there, he wouldn't let him speak to Tom. Then again, Casper might not be home. He stopped at the closest gas station to use the pay telephone. He still had the information for the MGM lot in his notebook, and put a call through to the gate.
"Good morning. I'm calling from the Los Angeles Times. We want to interview Casper Green. Is he shooting a film there today?"
"Yes, he's on the lot. Do you want to leave a message?"
"No, thank you. I'll catch him later."
* * *
Joe drove into Beverly Hills, and made his way to Casper Green's home. He parked on the street as he had the night of the party and took the path around the garage to the patio. Just as he'd thought he might be, Tom was asleep in a chaise beside the pool. He was dressed in shorts and a knit shirt, his left arm in a sling.
After quietly pulling up a patio chair, Joe tapped Tom's leg. When Tom sat up with a startled gasp, he was quick to reassure him. "I came to thank you for alerting the Sheriff's Dept. to the accident in the desert."
Tom looked ready to run, but he couldn't escape the determined detective. "I wouldn't have left you out there for the buzzards."
"Your generosity of spirit is most inspiring. You knew you weren't involved in a practical joke when you and Brett Wayne shoved me in his car trunk and drove me out to the desert. Did you really expect the police to believe that tale?"
"They did believe it!"
"Oh, really? Are you sure they aren't letting you think so while the DA gathers evidence against you?"
Tom had a glass of water on the small table beside him. He reached for it, and took a long drink. "They didn't arrest me."
"That doesn't mean they won't," Joe cautioned. "How far will you go to protect your father? Will it merely extend to perjury in court, or are you willing to spend the rest of your life in prison for him?"
Tom leaned forward. "I don't have to listen to you. Get out of here."
Joe stood and swung his chair aside. "It's a lot to think about, isn't it? First your father told you to get rid of Cookie's body, and then to get rid of me. What's going to be next, son? Think you'll look good in stripes?"
He walked away before Tom could voice a frustrated moan, but he'd planted the necessary seeds to frighten him into wondering about his own loyalties and his father's.
* * *
Joe walked into Frenchie's at ten to the hour, ordered a beer and carried it to one of the two tables near the rear exit. He took Mary Margaret to the movies so often, he thought they must have seen Victoria in something, but when she slid into the seat across from him, she didn't look familiar. She had startling blue eyes and dark curly hair only partially tamed by her blue scarf.
"Tell me your name," she began. Her voice had a low, husky depth.
He handed her his card. "Joe Ezell. That's a smart move, make whomever you're meeting say his name first. Otherwise, you might spend the whole night talking with someone who claims to be the person you'd hoped to meet."
"Care to ask how I learned such a
valuable trick?"
She was a beautiful girl with smooth, creamy skin and a lively, intelligent gaze. "Clearly it's a mistake you didn't make twice."
The bartender brought her a Shirley Temple, a ginger ale with grenadine syrup and a maraschino cherry. "No, I didn't." She pulled a small notebook from her purse. "Casper Green is a competent director, but he expects more than a performance on screen. He's not nearly as repulsive as some of the other directors in town, so I went along with his amorous demands, but only to get screen credits."
"Was he rough with you?"
"No, but I didn't put up any resistance. That sounds as though I lack any sort of moral standard, I'm afraid, but I considered sex with him the cost of getting work."
"I believe he killed Cookie Crumble, and he may have come close to killing a stripper from Sherry's. Do you know of any young women he might have forced to sleep with him?"
She tore a sheet from her notebook and gave it to him. She ran a red tipped nail down the first four names on the list. "I've heard each of them complain he made it clear what he wanted in exchange for a role in one of his films. None of them was eager to go along, but they might have, so you should talk with them.
"As for the fifth name, Marsha Kincaid, the first time Casper hired me, it was to replace her in Showdown at Sundown. He said she'd thrown away the chance to become a star and gone home to Tulsa. She was new in town, not many people knew her, but it struck me as odd she'd quit after landing such a good part."
Chilled by where his imagination took him, he drew in a deep breath. "You think it's possible she never left Hollywood?"
Victoria nodded. "If Casper has an old refrigerator in his garage, you ought to look inside."
He hadn't expected another murder to drop into his lap, but if he couldn't get Casper for killing Cookie, he'd see what he could do for Marsha.
* * *
When Neal Sloan arrived at the Discreet Investigations office Tuesday morning, Joe had his report ready. He read it aloud before handing it to Neal.
Neal leaned forward to take the typed pages. "Phillip is working at a church?"