The Monet Murders: A Mystery

by Terry Mort

  When the sun started to dip into the ocean, I started the engine and headed south, back to the Garden of Allah, wondering if Myrtle’s young Lochinvar had finally “come out of the west” driving a Duesenberg. It kind of looked that way.

  I had forgotten that I needed to get ahold of Catherine Moore and arrange for the next day’s meeting with Manny Stairs. I remembered all this as I drove back to Sunset Boulevard, hoping that Catherine had followed my advice about the hotel. It would save me a trip out to the Lucky Lady, and I wasn’t in the mood for a boat ride just then: I was in the mood for a gin and tonic.

  The usual crowd of inebriants was gathered around the pool, and the usual bevy of starlets was splashing joyfully in the water, doing what they could to attract attention and succeeding. I checked to see if Catherine was in there with them, but she wasn’t. As soon as I’d had my drink, I’d check with the front desk to see if she was registered.

  My friend Hobey, the writer, was sitting by himself at a table; he was cradling a drink and peering into it as though it were a crystal ball. I guess in some ways gin had answers for him, although you couldn’t be sure they were the right answers. He looked up and saw me and waved at me to join him.

  “You look a little down in the dumps,” he said. “Have a drink.”

  “Thanks. I will. And I am, I suppose.”

  “Women, eh?”

  “Does it show?”

  “Kind of.”

  “It’ll pass.” It always had, although some took longer than others. Hobey didn’t look so chipper himself, and I mentioned it to him.

  “Oh, it’s just the usual thing with this writing game.”

  “Producers driving you crazy?”

  “No, not this time. I’m working on a novel. Just about finished with it, but now and then I get stuck.”

  “Does drinking help?”

  “Not really. But neither does not drinking.”

  “What’s the book about?”

  “About a man with a difficult wife.”

  “Should appeal to a wide audience.”

  “I hope so. But how would you know? Are you married?”

  “No. But I read a lot.”

  “A wise policy. Vicarious misery is much better than the real thing. Well, I hope you will read this one, if I ever get it finished.”

  “I look forward to it. What’s it called?”

  “I don’t know yet. I always save that bit for last. I’ll dig up something. Maybe a quote. Bartlett’s is always good for finding titles.”

  We sat drinking in silence for a few minutes. I was still a little confused by what I had seen at Myrtle’s place. I was trying to sort through what I really felt about it, but I wasn’t having much luck.

  But after a few moments I said to my companion in mild misery: “Do you remember that story I told you about the producer who fell in love with the woman who was a dead ringer for his former wife?”

  “Sure. It’s a good story. I’ve been toying with it a little. Maybe that’s why I’m having trouble finishing up the other thing.”

  “Well, look over yonder and you will see the woman herself, coming this way.”

  He looked across the way, squinted, and drew in his breath.

  “Why, it’s Minnie David,” he said, astonished. “I mean, her exact double. I knew her, you see. Lovely woman. Physically, that is. Otherwise, not so much.” He thought for a moment and then made the logical connection. “So Manny Stairs is the lovelorn producer of the story.”

  “Good guess. This one’s named Catherine Moore.”

  “Remarkable.”

  Catherine hadn’t seen me. She was wearing a skimpy bathing suit the color of a California sunset, and she sat down in one of the chaises longues beside the pool. I assumed she’d bought the suit that afternoon, although she could have brought it from the Lucky Lady; it might have easily fit in a change purse.

  “Remarkable,” he said, again.

  “Would you excuse me for a while? I’ve got some business I need to do with her.”

  “I can well imagine,” he said. “While you’re at it, ask her if she’d like to meet a down-at-the-heels, formerly famous writer.”

  “I think she’s got her eye on a currently famous producer.”

  “Can’t say I blame her.”

  I walked over to her, and she brightened up when she saw me. I took that as a hopeful sign. I don’t know of what exactly. Maybe just that she was in a good mood and ready to hear that her secret admirer was in fact the well-known cheapskate Manny Stairs.

  “Hiya, Sparky,” she said, grinning playfully. “You were right. This is an interesting place.”

  “Glad you like it.”

  “I saw Francis X. Bushman in the lobby.”

  “That must’ve been a treat.”

  “He looked old.”

  “That happens. And in Hollywood it happens faster than anywhere else.”

  “So, what’s up? When do I get to meet the mystery man?”

  “Tomorrow. For lunch. In Malibu. I’ll drive you there.”

  Her eyes narrowed into a “Wait a minute, buddy” look, and then she smiled slyly. “That wouldn’t be at an unfinished house on the beach, would it?”

  “How’d you guess?”

  She laughed. I had to admit she was even more beautiful when she laughed than when she thought someone was watching her and she was posing.

  “I figured it was him. He had a bad case.”

  “Bad case?”

  “Bad case of yours truly. What else?”

  “Does it matter? That he’s the one, I mean?”

  “Not if he comes through with the screen test. I’ve been thinking about it, and I realized I could put up with a little schtupping in the short run. Hell, name me a dame in this town who’s made it who didn’t have to put up with putting out.”

  “You said—for the short run.”

  “Right. If I make it big, I’ll give him the push again. What’s he going to do about it, anyway, huh?”

  “What if you don’t make it big?”

  “If I don’t, I’ll turn off the honey supply until he promises to marry me. Then once I’m safely married, I’ll live my own life and he can either lump it or pay the alimony. Won’t matter to me which.”

  “What if he gets tired of you?”

  “Think it’s likely?” She ran her hands down the sides of her breasts and down along her thighs. Impure thoughts returned to me, as she intended.

  “No, but just for the sake of discussion.”

  “If that happens, I can still say ‘cigars, cigarettes, cigarillos’ with the best of them.”

  “Which brings up another question: What about Tony?”

  “Tony’ll keep. Besides, he wants me to become a big-time star, and he knows how the game is played.”

  “What about the phony jewelry? Still mad about that?”

  “No. He won’t try that trick again. If anything, he’ll go overboard the other way.”

  “Seems like you’ve thought it all through pretty carefully. I’m impressed.”

  “I didn’t do it to impress you, Sparky. I’m out for number one, and I’m just like Tony: I know how the game is played. I was mad as a wet hen at first—when I had those fake diamonds appraised. And I figured I wasn’t ever going to talk him into making me an actress, so I said what the hell and buggered out. But after I talked to you and more or less figured out who your client was, I saw things clearer. Things had changed, and good old opportunity was staring me in the kisser. I’d be a fool to turn it down, now that I had the upper hand. Which I do.”

  I had to smile. She was beautiful and sassy, but that’s not why I was smiling. It was the thought of what Manny’s future would be like. During office hours, he might terrorize nervous directors, but at home he’d be singing a different tune, or I was missing my guess by more than a little bit.

  “What are you doing for dinner?” I asked.

  “Why, I’m surprised at you, Sparky. Didn’t you know? I’m hav
ing it with you.”

  By midnight, I no longer had to wonder what Catherine Moore looked like without her clothes. Neither did a half dozen or so shattered writers and a handful of extras who were flush from five days of work and blowing their earnings at the Garden. She treated us all to a stripping exhibition from the high-diving board, after which she attempted a swan dive that turned out to be something more like a duck committing suicide. A quart of gin or thereabouts will ruin even the most professional diver’s timing, and Catherine, for all her naked physical perfection, was strictly an amateur off the board. The splash she made, both literal and figurative, was stupendous; that sort of thing happens when you land flat out on the water, like a gigantic beaver slapping its tail. And it was only because I was still moderately sober that she didn’t sink to the bottom of the pool and stay there, for the rest of the audience wasn’t capable of realizing that she’d knocked herself out in the fall, much less of jumping in and rescuing her.

  You would think that someone so well endowed would be more buoyant, but not so. Once she hit the water, she headed straight down. I dove in after her and reached her just as she was settling onto the bottom. When she felt my arms going around her, she actually opened her superb green eyes and smiled, as if to ask “What took you so long to make a pass?”

  It was something of a struggle getting her to the surface, because when she smiled at me, she had also swallowed a pint or so of water and began flailing her arms and kicking her legs. But I made it after all; and when we broke the surface, me holding her under her breasts in the approved Dick Champion lifeguard technique, the various writers and extras all broke into applause and someone started singing “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.” I managed to get her into a sitting position on the edge of the pool, and she continued coughing up the water she’d inhaled, after which she passed out again. It was at this point that the various onlookers decided to offer their help; but I firmly resisted and, lifting her by the arms, threw her over my shoulder in what they call the fireman’s carry and staggered the few yards to my bungalow.

  I dropped her on the imitation Spanish sofa and went to get a towel. When I came back, she was awake again. Apparently her swim had sobered her up, a little.

  “Hey, Sparky. Did I have a good time?”

  “Exquisite.”

  “That’ll be a first. How about you? Was it good for you?”

  “So-so.”

  “Yeah. Pull the other one. Why am I so wet?”

  “Diving into the pool bareassed will do that.”

  “Oh.” Apparently a dim memory was beginning to flutter around her. “So, are you saying . . . we didn’t get around to it?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I figured that when you said ‘so-so.’ If there’s one thing I’m not, it’s so-so. In that category, I mean.”

  “I believe you. Do you want any help drying off?”

  “No, thanks, Sparky. What I really want is a place to go to sleep.” She yawned and stretched elaborately. It was one of the best stretches I’d ever seen. “Mind if I bunk with you? I’m too tired to make it back to my room.”

  “Do you snore?”

  “Nobody’s complained so far.”

  “In that case, let me show you to the bedroom.”

  “Smooth talker.” She paused as if processing a new thought. “I wonder where my bathing suit went.”

  About three in the morning, I found out that she wasn’t lying when she said she wasn’t so-so. For an hour or so, all thoughts about Myrtle disappeared. I know that’s not very noble, but as I’ve said before, I’m just a blue-collar guy trying to make his way in the world. Nobility and I are more or less strangers.

  I woke up to the smell of fresh coffee. It was about seven.

  “Mornin’, Sparky,” she said as she delivered a cup of coffee laced with cream and sugar. I normally drank it black, but I have to say this one tasted pretty good. She was wearing what’s been called a roguish smile. The fact that she was also wearing only a bath towel added a certain something. Despite the amount of gin she’d taken on board the night before, she looked fresh and bright. “How’d you like last night?”

  “The three A.M. version, or the swimming party?”

  “You know,” she said, with an ironic imitation of coy girlishness.

  “It was so-so,” I said with my own version of the roguish smile.

  “Oh, sure.”

  “How about you?”

  “What was the word you used before?”

  “Exquisite?”

  “That’s it. Pretty much. I may have to put you in my card file.”

  “I’d be honored.”

  “Don’t go falling in love with me, though. I’m going to be pretty busy for the next few months.” She winked elaborately.

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  “What time are we going to meet Shorty?”

  “Manny? Around noon. He’s putting together a lavish lunch out at his place.”

  “Lobster and champagne, I’ll bet. Jews aren’t supposed to eat shellfish, but he doesn’t pay any attention to that kosher stuff. And afterwards a little schtupping, I suppose. Well, you gotta take the rough with the smooth in this life.”

  “You’re a philosopher.”

  “That’s one word for it. I’m going to go out and see if I can find my bathing suit. Do you think anyone’ll mind if I’m only wearing a towel?” She laughed again and left me to finish my coffee, musing about the fact that a woman with a sense of humor was one of life’s great treasures, especially if she had a body like Catherine Moore’s—and an equally voluptuous willingness to share it. True, she was a little coarse, but that didn’t bother me any. Moonshine whiskey was a little coarse, too, and I didn’t mind that either.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  A few hours later, I drove Catherine to Malibu. Manny’s Rolls, immaculate and shining, was parked in front of his house. There was no chauffeur to be seen, so I assumed Manny had driven there himself. I smiled as I pictured him peering just over the steering wheel.

  As soon as the Packard’s tires crunched on the gravel driveway, Manny came out the front door. He was dressed for yachting, I guess. Blue blazer, white ducks, and a yachting cap covering his dome. When he saw Catherine, his face lit up in a hopeful and nervous grin. It would have almost been funny had it not been so sincerely pathetic. He waved to her weakly, and she turned to me and raised her eyebrows as if to say “well, here goes nothin’,” and then she whispered “don’t lose my number,” and jumped from the car and said to Manny, “Hiya, Sparky,” apparently her favorite all-purpose term for men. And when he saw her smiling at him, all his well-founded doubts disappeared, and he beamed with profound relief and opened his arms to her.

  She accepted the invitation and more or less swallowed him up in an earth-motherly embrace. While they clung together, his head buried up to his ears between her breasts, his yachting cap knocked askew, he waved his hand dismissively toward me, and I took the not-so-subtle hint that I was no longer needed in the tender scene. So I drove away. That job was done, apparently. And “‘twere well done.” The thought didn’t carry with it the level of satisfaction like a cold beer and a Lucky after a day in the steel mill, but this work did pay better and you got to wear a tie and drive a Packard.

  Since I was in the neighborhood, I decided to drive by Myrtle’s bungalow. I’d always known I was going to do that, but you know how you play these little games with yourself. I assumed she’d be at the studio for her acting class, but I thought I’d have a look around and see if there were some telltale clues about what, if anything, was going on between her and that guy with the Duesenberg. Telltale clues like a man’s slippers under the bed. There might be other clues, too. These weren’t worthy thoughts, I know, but I did think them. I guess I was trying to figure out where I stood with her, and the less secure I felt about it, the more I wanted to get on firmer ground. And if our futures involved a parting of the ways, the sooner I found out, the better.

&
nbsp; Her bungalow was hidden down a fairly long driveway that was bordered on each side by tall oleander bushes. I eased the Packard down the drive. To my surprise and disgust the Duesenberg was still there, in what seemed like the same spot as last night. I guess they both must’ve called in sick.

  I was about to put it in reverse and drive away, when something seemed not quite right. Maybe it was one of those instincts, or maybe it was the drawn drapes—Myrtle loved the morning sunlight. She always made a big deal out of opening the drapes wide in the morning. So I pulled up behind the Duesenberg, walked quietly to the front door, and listened. No sound. The door was locked, but I had my key and I carefully unlocked the door and pushed it open, gently. The first thing that hit me was an unusual smell, one that didn’t belong there. It was the smell of blood. And maybe some other stuff, too.

  Now a little panicked, I pushed through the door and switched on the lights.

  Myrtle was lying on the floor in the middle of the room. She was naked and moaning. Next to her lay Rex, the Gatsby wannabe. He was wearing a button-down polo shirt and his pants were down around his ankles, just above a pair of black-and-white saddle shoes. He was apparently the source of the blood smell, for he had a terrible-looking gash across the front of his head, and his head was lying in the middle of a dark stain. Though his complexion still looked a nice balance between olive and suntan, that would soon begin to fade after all the blood he’d lost. Reluctantly, I put my finger on his throat to check for a pulse, but there wasn’t any. Lying next to him was the poker from the fireplace. It had blood on it, and some strands of hair. Someone, most likely Myrtle, had whacked him with it and put an end to his promising career. There were parts of his brain exposed that were never intended to see the light of day, though as I thought about it I realized that no part of the brain was intended to see any part of the day.

  “Myrtle,” I asked quietly, “are you all right? What happened?”