“She’s an actress like any other. What you see is what you don’t get. She’s awfully confused right now. Needs a nice, stable career guy with a good pension to take care of her. You’d make an awfully cute couple, you know.”
“Cut it out, will ya?” he objected.
“Sorry, Lieutenant.”
“You don’t honestly think she killed Zorch and Geoffrey, do you?” he wondered.
“I don’t know. But I do think it was carefully planned.”
Lamp frowned. “Planned how?”
“Why did Zorch stop his car there outside the gate and get out?”
“I wondered about that myself. It wasn’t to get the mail—Kenji picks that up about noon. I figured he got out to talk to his killer. I figure they had words before he and Geoffrey got plugged.”
“He never opened the gate. Why not?”
“Maybe he didn’t want them coming in.”
“Or maybe he couldn’t get in himself,” I suggested. “Maybe Zorch had to get out of the car so he could ring Kenji to open the gate for him. He’d make a perfect target that way, stuck out there in front of that closed gate.”
“True,” said Lamp. “Except there’s a remote control to the gate right there in the Rolls.”
“Is it functioning?”
“Haven’t tested it,” he replied. “Left it for the lab people.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s been tampered with. Removing the battery would be the simplest way. The only problem with that theory,” I admitted, cleaning my plate, “is that the Rolls was in the shop today getting new windows.”
“Kenji said the Rolls-Royce agency picked it up early this morning. They provided a chauffeur-driven limo to take Zorch to his office.”
“Nice service.”
“They ought to provide nice service, the prices they get for those cars. After they fixed it they left it for him in the parking lot of his office building in Century City.”
“What time?”
“I don’t know. I can find out, if any of this plays.” He mulled it over. “They’d have to go to his office garage and disarm the remote. Then go up to his place to wait for him. But it’s a possibility. Of course, a lot of things are possibilities at this stage. It could have been random violence. An aborted break-in attempt, a drive-by shooting. We get a lot of those now, even in the best neighborhoods.”
“Think that’s what it was?”
“No, I don’t,” he confessed. “Not with it going down the same day as this Enquirer business. Zorch was behind that?”
“Shelley Selden seems to think so. I’m not sure. Zorch was a sleaze, but he wasn’t dumb. He told me last night that the Murakami people had been leaning on him to cool it. They hate all of this publicity. Might even pull out. He and Schlom seemed genuinely nervous about it. And Zorch definitely sounded nervous on the phone this afternoon.”
Our waiter cleared our plates. We ordered coffee.
“I’d love to find out who the Enquirer did get them from,” muttered Lamp, scratching his chin thoughtfully. “But the press gets real mulish about revealing stuff like that to the police. Heck, they’d go to jail before they’d tell me.”
The waiter returned with our coffee, and to tell Lamp there was a phone call for him. He headed off eagerly to take it. He was positively beaming when he came back a few moments later.
“Chalk up one for you, Hoagy,” he reported, as he sat. “The remote in Zorch’s Rolls was indeed nonfunctioning—no battery. You’re getting pretty darned good at this.”
“Why, thank you, Lieutenant.”
“Just for that you get a prompt, courteous reply to your question—Norbert Schlom’s wife, Toy, was home at the time Abel Zorch and Geoffrey Brand were shot. Would you believe the Schloms have a fake squad car parked outside their house twenty-four hours a day? He borrowed it from one of the cop shows his studio does. Keeps it there to ward off burglars.”
“Can he do that?”
“He’s doing it.” Lamp consulted his notepad. “Mrs. Schlom says she heard nothing. Her maid and gardener didn’t hear anything either. One neighbor down the block thought she might have heard several pops, but she said the canyons are always playing tricks with sounds, so she ignored it.” He grinned at me expectantly. There was more.
I tugged at my ear. “A little something else, Lieutenant?”
“A big something else—housekeeper directly across the street from Zorch’s has noticed a certain poco lurking outside his place off and on for the past several days. She considered calling the police, until she recognized him as Yonny Forhay, the famous American movie actor. Did you know Johnny’s even bigger in Guatemala than he is here?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“She said he rides a motorcycle. Big, white one.”
“It’s a Harley Fat Boy. She saw him today?”
Lamp nodded. “Sitting out there on his bike at about a quarter to six—maybe half an hour before the shooting.”
“What was he doing?”
“Smoking a cigarette.”
“Did she see him leave?”
“Nope.”
“Did she witness the shooting?”
“Nope. But you’ve got to admit that Johnny looks good for it now. Sure wasn’t bright of him to let himself be seen that way.”
“Like I said, he’s not totally there.”
“Apparently he’s there enough to figure out how to take the battery out of a remote.”
“Apparently.” I thought this over. “So that explains it …”
Lamp frowned. “Explains what, Hoagy?”
“The fuss Lulu was making. She smelled Johnny’s Patchouli.”
“She smelled his what?”
“His cologne. That’s what she was trying to tell us.”
Lulu sat up and yapped at me. She was waiting for some kind of appreciation.
“Good work, Lulu,” I said, patting her. “You were right. I was wrong. I apologize for doubting your sincerity.”
That wasn’t enough. She barked. People turned to look at her.
“Very good, Lulu. Good girl.”
She barked again, her big one. Water glasses shook.
“You can stop now, Lulu.”
She wouldn’t stop. Not until I’d promised her a certain treat. And told her that if she didn’t shut up she’d get nothing but Bunny’s cooking for the rest of our stay. That did the trick.
“Any idea where we can find young Johnny?” Lamp inquired.
“He’s into spontaneous.”
“He’s into real trouble, is what he is. Any of the Bedford Falls people know where he is, they’d be wise to help us. They’ll be helping him in the long run. Because we will find him.” He cleared his throat uneasily. “I like you, Hoagy. It’s real nice to see you again. But I’d be fibbing if I told you I was happy to have you here in the middle of this.”
“Whatever do you mean, Lieutenant?”
“I mean you played it a little too close to the vest last time.”
“I seldom wear a vest.”
“You put your celebrity’s interests ahead of the law’s. I understood. I forgave. But try to be a little more open with me this time, okay?”
“I’ve been totally open with you so far.”
“And if I end up having to squeeze your man?”
I drained my coffee and called for the check. “Good luck.”
“With what?” he demanded.
“Finding Johnny, of course. What did you think I meant?”
“Gosh knows,” he fumed. “I don’t know what you mean half the time.”
“Don’t let it get you down, Lieutenant. I don’t know either.”
“He didn’t do it, Meat. Johnny didn’t do it.”
“How do you know, Matthew?”
We were sitting in the Seldens’ den. We were not alone. Sarah sat on the floor at Uncle Matty’s big feet, chomping on popcorn. Benjamin snuggled in Uncle Matty’s lap, chomping on his own left thumb. They were watching a ta
pe of their all-time favorite movie on the big screen TV, Uncle Matty’s Dennis the Dinosaur. The scene where Dennis meets up with Theotis, the jungle bully. Danny De Vito provided his voice.
“How do you know, Matthew?” I repeated.
“I just do,” he said stubbornly.
“I’m afraid that won’t be good enough.”
The press had already started calling. Shelley was on the phone right now in his study with an L.A. Times reporter. Lamp had called, too, urging the family to cooperate if Johnny contacted them. Shelley had assured him they would.
The two Shelleys lived in a vast, pueblo-style hacienda tucked into a rural pocket of Brentwood north of San Vicente, by way of Santa Fe. The walls and ceilings were rough, textured stucco, the beams exposed, the floors Spanish quarry tile, the furniture heavy antique Spanish colonial. No shortage of Indian artifacts. Navajo rugs, wall hangings, patterned pillows, and brightly colored ceramic plates were on display everywhere. There were Zuni totems of stylish rusted iron. There were cacti. There were hand-woven baskets. It was all a bit much, but it was airy and cool. The ceiling fans helped.
“I know Johnny didn’t do it,” Matthew insisted, “because Johnny was with me when the police say it happened. We were together from maybe six until a little before seven.”
“You were?”
“We were.”
“Where?”
Before he could answer me, Bunny came bustling out from the kitchen with pound cake and dessert plates. “Later,” Matthew whispered.
Sarge followed with a trayful of coffee cups. Mrs. Shelley had the coffee. On the TV, Dennis and Theotis were throwing rocks at each other.
“I’m worried about you, Matty,” Bunny fretted, handing him his cake. “You hardly touched your tuna surprise.”
“I’m fine, Ma,” he said, looking around for a fork.
Sarge was there with one instantly. Sarge was always there.
“There’s plenty of it left, Hoagy,” Bunny informed me. “You sure Lulu won’t have any?”
Lulu gazed at me imploringly from her perch by the screen door to the courtyard.
“Thanks, but she had a big dinner,” I replied. To Matthew I said, “If Johnny didn’t do it, he should turn himself in.”
“He’s right, Matthew,” Mr. Shelley said, appearing in the doorway. “Hoagy’s absolutely right.”
“He can’t,” contended Matthew. “He’s totally terrified of the law. He can’t handle them.”
“He won’t have to,” Sarge pointed out. “That’s what they got lawyers for.”
“Where is he now?” I asked Matthew.
“I don’t know, and I wouldn’t tell you if I did,” he replied petulantly.
“Matthew,” said Mr. Shelley sternly. “If Johnny’s innocent, he has nothing to fear. But if he stays on the run, he’ll just be hurting himself. The publicity alone will—”
“They’ll railroad him,” Matthew blurted out. “They won’t believe him. Or me. They’ll say I’m covering up for him.”
“Are you?” Mrs. Shelley asked him.
“No!”
“What were the two of you doing, kid?” Mr. Shelley asked him gently.
Matthew shot a nervous glance over at Bunny. “Talking,” he mumbled.
“About what?” he asked.
Matthew shrugged. “Stuff.”
“And you really haven’t heard from him since the murder?” he persisted.
“I haven’t heard from him!”
“You will,” I advised. “Just as soon as he finds out he’s a wanted man.”
Mr. Shelley went over to Matthew and laid a hand on his shoulder. “When you do, tell him to turn himself in. Will you do that?”
“I can’t make him,” Matthew declared. “And I won’t.” He dove into his cake, the matter closed as far as he was concerned.
The two Shelleys exchanged a look of frustration. She gestured for him to join her on the sofa. He did, sitting heavily.
“You were with Johnny until when?” I asked Matthew.
“I already told you,” Matthew replied coldly, cramming a huge forkful of cake in his mouth. “A little before seven. I got here about a quarter after.”
“Does that sound about right?” I asked Mrs. Shelley.
“I wouldn’t know,” she replied. “Matthew was the first one here. I was still out with the kids. Twinkle and Sarge and Mom hadn’t gotten here either.”
“The traffic was murder tonight,” said Bunny. “Absolute murder.”
“Was your housekeeper here?” I asked Mrs. Shelley.
“We don’t have one,” she replied. “Just a woman who comes in two days a week to clean. Today wasn’t one of them.”
“She’s all alone now,” Matthew said softly, almost to himself. “Penny’s all alone. What’ll she do?”
“Land on her feet like any alley cat would,” sniffed Bunny.
“C’mon, Ma,” protested Matthew. “Enough already, will ya?”
“Excuse me,” she said curtly. “I didn’t mean to interfere.”
“What do you want me to say?” Matthew demanded, raising his voice at her. “You want me to say I shouldn’t have married her? You want me to say I blew it? Huh? What do you want?”
“I want you to be happy,” she said quietly.
“I’m happy, okay? I’m very, very happy!”
“Someone’ll find her another lawyer,” Mr. Shelley broke in. “Either Schlom or HWA will step in and help her.”
“I hate to sound like some sort of ghoul,” said Sarge, “but don’t this help our cause—Zorch being taken out of the game?”
“No question about it,” Shelley acknowledged. “Whoever she hires won’t be Zorch, and that’s a godsend.” He shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. “But I know what you mean—I hate to say it, too.”
“She must be feeling awfully alone right now,” said Matthew, his voice quavering.
“Why don’t you call her up?” I suggested.
Mr. Shelley gave me a conspiratorial wink. “Yeah, go ahead and use the phone in my study, kid. I’m sure she’d love to hear from you.”
“No, I couldn’t.” Matthew’s voice was choked with emotion. “God, this is Georgie’s favorite scene.” His eyes were on the TV. The scene where Dennis meets Theotis’s kid sister, Althea (voice by Winona Ryder), and falls hopelessly in love with her. I didn’t know six-month-old babies could have favorite movie scenes, but there’s a lot I don’t know about babies. And don’t ever intend to find out.
Benjamin began wriggling around in Matthew’s lap, his face all scrunched. Matthew noticed, and made a face of his own. “Uh … Sis?”
She immediately tensed. “Okay, it’s fire drill time.”
Mr. Shelley tensed, too. “Right. What do we do?”
“Act relaxed, most importantly,” she replied. “It has to seem like a fun thing.”
“Fun. Right.”
I glanced curiously at Sarge.
“Master Benjamin is experiencing a small difficulty making his transish to big-boy pants,” she explained.
“He won’t go,” confessed Mrs. Shelley. “That’s where I was tonight—we had a late appointment with his child psychologist.”
Little Sarah made a face. “Ugh. Benjamin smells, Mommy!”
Benjamin began to wail.
Lulu was nowhere to be seen now.
“Now, Sarah,” Mrs. Shelley said with forced patience. “Benjamin is your brother and we all love him, just like we all love you. And if he has a problem we all have a problem together.”
“But Mommy, he smells like poopy!” she wailed loudly, though not nearly as loudly as her brother.
“Okay, here we go, big guy,” said Mr. Shelley, scooping Benjamin up out of Matthew’s lap. “And the operative word here is go.”
“Remember, Twinkle,” cautioned Mrs. Shelley. “Relaxed.”
“Right.” Grimly, father and son trudged off down the hall.
Lulu was still nowhere to be seen.
“Wel
l, Hoagy, I guess you officially qualify as family now,” said Mrs. Shelley with a chuckle.
I tugged at my ear. “Anything else I should know about?”
“There’s more coffee in the kitchen,” she offered, getting to her feet. “How’s that?”
“Sounds good. I’ll help you.”
The kitchen wasn’t lacking for counter space. They were topped with orange and blue Spanish tile. The cupboards were pickled pine. There was a central work island with a sink and chopping block. A set of copper pots and pans hung from the ceiling over it. The stove was a mammoth cast iron four-oven AGA, blue. Glass doors opened onto the courtyard.
“I guess this won’t exactly encourage you to have kids of your own,” Mrs. Shelley ventured wryly.
“Possibly not.”
She poured both of us more coffee. “In quiet moments you do find yourself strangely drawn to them. It’s just that there aren’t many quiet moments. Milk?”
“This is fine.”
There were stools. I sat on one, so I wouldn’t tower over her. Shelley leaned against the counter, ankles crossed, and sipped her coffee. She was wearing a coral silk T-shirt, white linen slacks, and deerskin moccasins. I was struck, once again, by her comfortable plumpness and warmth. She seemed happy to be who she was. I so seldom meet people who are.
“Matthew is very pleased with you. He said you’re really helping him get in touch with himself.” She laughed. “It didn’t sound quite so seventies when he said it—words to that effect.”
“You can be a big help, Shelley.”
“Me?” She seemed surprised. Flattered, too. “What can I do?”
“Fill in a few blanks.”
“I’d be happy to, if I can. Like what?”
“Did you do it on purpose?” I asked.
“Did I do what on purpose?”
“Forget him at kindergarten that day.”
She ducked her head in defeat. “I honestly can’t believe it. He’s made such a big thing of that all these years. He even put it in Dennis. It makes me feel like the biggest meanie on earth.”
“Evidently it made quite an impression on him.”
“All I wanted to do was have some fun,” she recalled. “Be with my friends, go where they were going. Matthew was my twerpy kid brother. I always had to be responsible for him, since Mom worked. One day I acted up. You know how kids are. But, really, it was nothing personal.”
The Boy Who Never Grew Up Page 17