by Goulart, Ron
"I'm aware you think you inherited all your talent from him," said Ben. "Honestly, though, he wasn't an especially good artist."
"Acting is your specialty," she reminded him. "I think I can judge drawing ability better than you. My father was an exceptional artist."
"I've looked at the stuff in that old portfolio of his, remember? He was just passable."
"I suppose that's how you'd sum up my work, too."
"Nope, you're terrific."
"Oh, yes. Which is why I'm painting an endless procession of bimbos with their tits spilling out of their gowns."
"Not as of now," he reminded. "You've just changed careers in midstream."
"I'll probably end up like my father."
"No comment."
"That was really so stupid, the way he died. Getting run down by a taxi."
"Lots of people get hit by cabs in Manhattan."
"But not a heck of a lot of them while staggering out of a bar."
"Quite a few probably."
"Shit," she said, folding her hands in her lap.
"You weren't anywhere near P. J. Malley's Saloon that night nine years ago," he told her. "There was nothing you could've done."
"I should have tried harder to persuade him to get help for his drinking problem."
"You did try that, many a time."
"Yes, but I could never get him to go. He'd promise and promise and then—"
"Over," Ben said. "It's been over a long time."
"And now Lloyd. I couldn't save his life, either."
"Despite what your dear old dad taught you, your primary purpose in life isn't to look after middle-aged men who've screwed up their lives."
Shaking her head slowly, she leaned back in the seat. "Wake me when we hit the Massachusetts border," she requested, shutting her eyes.
Chapter 19
The shop of "Mark Juster, Photographer," was on a twisting, tree-lined lane off the main street of the small town of Willmur. On its left stood Macri's Grocery, a defunct mom-and-pop that looked to have shut down many months before. On the right was a wine shop calling itself It's a Grape Life.
The overcast sky had gradually faded, and when Ben and H. J. left their parked car to cross the street, the sun was shining thinly up in the midday sky.
"Business isn't exactly thriving in these parts," remarked H. J.
The shade was down on the photographer's glass door and a dangling sign announced "Sorry, We're Closed."
"You're sorry?" said Ben in his Sylvester voice. "You're sorry?"
H. J. was scanning the narrow display window, which had several small posters taped to it. Inside were arranged nine starkly framed photos. "Not a single shot of the lady we're hunting for."
After a careful glance around, Ben took hold of the knob. It turned and he shoved the door slowly open. "Let's take a look inside," he suggested.
"Door wasn't locked?"
"Nope." He stood on the threshold of the shadowy shop, listening.
"That's usually a bad sign." She nudged him inside and followed.
Ben quietly shut the door. "In this case, a sign that somebody preceded us."
They were in an office-reception room. The drawers of the row of black filing cabinets against the gray wall had all been yanked open. Folders lay spilled on the white carpeting, along with envelopes that were leaking negatives, an assortment of business letters, dozens of glossy photos, and wads of memo slips.
"Larry Dahlman couldn't be responsible for this one," H. J. observed. "He's dead."
"This must be the handiwork of his successor."
"Okay, then we can conclude that this successor didn't know the model's name or address. Came here and broke in and hoped to find out." She roamed the room as she spoke, picking up scattered photos at random and glancing at them. "He shot other nudes besides ours."
"There are a couple things I'm curious about." Ben sat at the white desk. "Did whoever did this job actually get to talk to Juster? And does he have the Timberlake baby's current address?"
"Well, whatever the answers may be, Ben, it isn't likely we're going to find any information on her whereabouts here. Too late."
Ben had noticed the top sheet of the memo pad beside the gray phone. "That's interesting."
"What?"
"Phone number scribbled here looks vaguely familiar. I'd guess that Juster wrote it and not our ransacker," he told her. "'A New York City number." Picking up the phone, he punched out the number.
After three rings a recorded voice answered. "Good afternoon, this is Timberlake Products. If you wish our Executive Department, punch one. If you wish—"
Nodding, Ben hung up. "Timberlake headquarters in far-off Manhattan."
"You think Juster called Don T. Timberlake?" Stepping over the scatter of photos and files, H. J. approached the desk.
"He must've called somebody there. Of course, it could be he just wanted to buy a box of soap."
"How the heck did he know about—holy cow!" She was looking beyond him now, at the single black bookshelf on the wall behind the desk. Reaching over, she snatched a book from among the seven displayed there. "Here's another interesting item."
Smiling, she handed him a copy of Lloyd Dobkin's Great American Kidnappings. "The bookmark," he said, "is at the picture of the Timberlake baby."
"So this guy knows who she is."
"Who she might be."
"I'd truly love to know at what point in the proceedings he found out."
Ben stood. "We may as well depart, before any cops wander in here."
H. J. dropped the book into her shoulder bag. "That makes two copies I'm hefting."
They were able to get back out on the sidewalk without being noticed.
H. J. stepped over for a final inspection of the photographer's window. "Hey, look at this." She pointed at one of the posters.
It announced an upcoming series of performances of the classic mystery play 13 Guests at Darkwood Inn. There were five cast members listed—Carolyn Wyler, Klaus North, Nancy Marschall, J. P. Marquis, and Mark Juster.
H. J. tapped the window. "'A model might also be interested in acting."
"Many are," he said. "We'd best drop in at the Willmur Community Theatre and show your sketch around."
"First I want to buy a bottle of wine."
"Wine? We have a sufficient supply at home."
"Sure, but I'd also like to talk to Juster's next-door neighbor," she said.
"Can you drive and sulk at the same time?" H. J. asked.
"Yep, I've had considerable practice."
They were on Willmur's main thoroughfare again, heading for the community theater.
"You're a nitwit," she remarked after a while.
"Probably so."
"Anyway, I wasn't flirting with him."
"Fine."
"However, being sweet and amiable is one of the tried and true techniques of interrogation."
"Right. Jack Webb did a lot of that on Dragnet."
"Plus which, the proprietor of It's a Grape Life is an elderly man."
"Fifty."
"Too old for me."
"What's your cut-off age?"
"And, thanks to me, we found out some valuable things."
"Telling the guy you thought his wine shop had a cute name. Jesus."
"Lying is another sure-fire tool in questioning people."
"As is holding hands?"
"I didn't hold his hand, Ben. I simply lingered over the handshake."
"Ten minutes. That must be the world's record for lingering."
"He had some useful information for us. For instance we now know what Juster looks like. He's a tall, rawboned man with a dark beard."
"Description also fits Abe Lincoln."
"And we know Juster hasn't been at his photo shop since Tuesday morning. That's after Lloyd was killed."
"You figure Juster went into hiding when he heard about Dobkin?"
"Seems a possibility. Have you quite sulking?"
"Not completely, no, but I'm thawing."
"Bob doesn't know Juster's home address, and there's nothing but his shop address in the phone book. We have to find out where the guy resides."
"Bob?"
"Bob Webster, the proprietor of It's a Grape Life."
"I was hoping he'd be able to identify the girl in the sketch."
"That was disappointing, yes. He never saw anyone looking like her with Juster, doesn't know who she could be."
"Since he didn't hear any noise next door, we can assume the burglar must've hit during the night."
"Probably drove right up here to Willmur soon as he killed Larry Dahlman."
"Unless he was already here."
"Meaning there's more than one person hunting for the heiress?"
"Could be a whole team."
"We want to turn on Quincy Street, don't we?"
"Yes."
"That was Quincy Street you just drove by."
Lightning flashed and thunder rumbled, hard rain pelted the leaded windows of the old country inn. The two wall lamps that feebly illuminated the dark, hollow lobby flickered and nearly died.
The slim, blonde young woman who was standing fearfully in the exact center of the polar bear rug was alone on the stage of the Willmur Community Theatre. She brought one trembling hand up to her mouth as the handle on the heavy wooden door began rattling.
The handle slowly turned, and the door swung inward with much creaking.
The young woman gasped, taking a frightened step backward.
A grizzled old man in a faded mackinaw, faded jeans, and heavy boots came staggering in from the stormy night.
"Jeb, what's wrong?" asked the young woman.
"It's . . . it's . . . the thirteenth guest," he muttered in a New England voice and then fell face down at her feet.
"Terrible accent," whispered Ben.
"Hush," advised H. J.
They were standing at the back of the small theater, surrounded by dark empty seats.
There was an ax buried in the rustic caretaker's back. The blonde noticed it and screamed.
A handsome young man in white sweater and white trousers came bounding into the room from stage left. "Hazel, dearest, whatever's wrong?"
"It's . . . Jeb," she sobbed, pointing at the fallen man with a quivering finger. "'And, oh, Leon, there's a hatchet protruding from his back."
"So there is." Striding over, Leon knelt beside the body. "Poor fellow. I fear he's dead, Hazel."
"Oh, Leon, who will be next?" asked Hazel and fainted. The curtain fell.
As the house lights came up, a lean bald man of about sixty rose from a second-row seat. "Not too bad," he called. "We'll run through the next act in ten minutes, gang."
Catching hold of Ben's arm, H. J. hurried him down the slanting aisle. "Excuse me," she called to the bald man. "'Are you Jack Fullerton?" His name had been on the poster, too.
"Afraid so." He turned, studying them as they approached.
"You seem to be doing a marvelous job of directing," she told him, smiling sweetly.
"Well, thanks, ma'am. Who are you, by the way?"
"I'm H. J. Mavity," she explained. "This is Ben Spanner."
Fullerton grinned, and his eyes widened for an instant. "The voice man?"
"Yep," admitted Ben.
"I was with a Boston ad agency for nine ungodly years. I think we used you at least once. On some Shawn's Sparkling Cider commercials maybe?"
"Right. I was the sour apple."
"Would you have time to talk to the guy who's playing Jeb? His Down East dialect sucks."
"Actually," put in H. J., "we're here on my account. See, Mark Juster was supposed to provide me with some photos for a rush paperback cover I'm painting. But he seems to have disappeared from his place of business. Since we knew he's in your play, I'm hoping he's around here someplace."
Fullerton shook his head. "He's not here, and I don't know where the hell he is," he told her. "He's playing Ace Ricardo, an important part, and I've been using a sub who's nowhere near as good."
Ben asked, "When's the last time you saw him?"
"We have two sorts of actors in this thing." The director sat on the arm of an aisle seat. "People who can come to afternoon rehearsals and those who have jobs and can only hit the night sessions. Mark only came evenings, and the last time he showed was on Monday."
"Any explanation?"
"Nothing. Not a damn word from him since."
H. J. asked, "Have you tried his home?"
"You know, I don't know where Mark lives. I always got in touch with him through his photo shop."
Ben said, "Is that Juster's usual pattern, to go off without a word?"
"No, he's usually very dependable. You see, he also does all our publicity photos and he doesn't want to make anybody mad."
From her bag H. J. took the sketch. "I'm especially anxious to find this particular model," she told him. "Is she a member of your cast?"
He scanned the picture. "Wish she was," he said, grinning and handing it back.
"Well, do you know who she is?" persisted H. J. "Juster gave me the impression she was a close friend of his."
"She might be," said Fullerton. "But I haven't any notion who the lady is."
Chapter 20
They started back up the theater aisle. Then H. J. stopped in her tracks, snapped her fingers, and said, "Of course."
"Eh?" said Ben.
"I never forget a face. C'mon." She led him back the way they'd come. "Mr. Fullerton, what's the name of the woman playing Hazel?"
"That's Carolyn Wyler. You thinking of using her as a model instead?"
"Never can tell. Might we talk with her?"
"Sure, she's backstage someplace. Use that door yonder." He pointed at an exit.
Carolyn was sitting, legs up, on a prop sofa. She was smoking a cigarette and going over a copy of the play. "'But, Leon, I did . . . I saw a face at the window.' No, shit. 'I saw a face at the window.'"
"I saw a face at the window," offered Ben as they halted next to the flowered sofa.
"You think so?" she asked, looking up at him and exhaling smoke.
He nodded. "Sure, because Leon is the kind of dimwit who never believes the obvious. You're trying to convince him that you really did see something. An escaped lunatic, in fact, and the man who'll turn out to be the thirteenth guest."
"You familiar with this stupid play?"
"Played in it in high school."
"In what role?"
"Deb."
"Really? I'd think you'd be a perfect Leon. Not that you're a dimwit, but because you're obviously the leading man type."
"Thanks, but Leon's a wimp. Character parts are the most fun in—"
"Mightn't we get on to business?" interrupted H. J.
"I'm not really sure what business is," admitted Ben. "So I've been indulging in a little light badinage."
H. J. looked at the blonde actress. "You've posed for Mark Juster, haven't you?"
"A few times. Why are you—"
"I saw her photo on the floor," she said to Ben.
"Ah," he said.
Turning to Carolyn, H. J. said, "I'm a painter. I do paperback covers and—"
"You call that painting?" asked the young woman. "I'd think in order to call yourself a painter you'd have to do serious work. Museum stuff."
"Okay, I'm a commercial artist," said H. J., fists starting to clench slightly. "The point is, dear, that I'm anxious to contact Mark. He was supposed to do some photos for me."
"Don't tell me you posed for him?" She sat up, planting her feet on the floor. "It's tough for an older woman to get anywhere in the men's mag field. Too many wrinkles and bulges, which turn off the—"
"I'm thirty-two—no, thirty-one until next week," H. J. told her. "I'm not old and I don't bulge or sag or—"
"That's true," said Ben. "Carolyn, do you know where we can find Juster?"
"No, not really. But you might try his sister."
"
Sister?"
"Her name's Linda Albright, and she lives across town on Emerson Lane," said the actress. "Mark more or less lives there, when he's not shacked up with someone."
H. J. produced her sketch. "Do you know who this is?"
Taking the drawing, Carolyn replied, "Well, this isn't a very good likeness, but it could be Mardy."
"Not a good likeness?" said H. J., snatching it back. "Hell, it's—"
"Who's Mardy?" asked Ben. "What's her full name?"
"I don't know. I saw her with Mark once or twice. Mardy . . . no, I can't remember."
"How recently did you see her with him?"
"Oh, a couple weeks ago."
"Where?"
"It was probably at the Bunker Hill Café. That's one of his favorite hangouts. I'm not certain, though."
"Do you know what she does, where she works?"
"Sorry, no," replied the actress. "Could you drop by later to help me go over these lines?"
"I'd like to, except—"
"We have to go." H. J. took hold of Ben's nearest arm and tugged.
"It'll work," Ben assured her while parking down the block from the house of Mark Juster's sister.
"My system's been working." She climbed out of the car, stretched.
"Some people like to be helpful, some don't," he pointed out, joining her on the cracked sidewalk. "But everybody likes the idea of potential money."
"Okay, we'll give your way a try. What's my name during this scam?"
"Miss Mavity."
"Very inventive."
"And I'm Prentiss Choate."
"I don't doubt it."
The house they wanted was a narrow two-story one of pale red brick. Instead of a lawn, there was a small stretch of green-tinted cement.
When Ben pushed the bell, cats commenced yowling inside.
"Quiet, please. Quiet," someone said inside. "This is no way to act."
The cats, three or four of them at least, continued to howl. "Yes?" A thin, gray-haired woman opened the door a few inches.
"Linda Albright?" inquired Ben in his Boston voice.
"William Buckley," murmured H. J. into her fist.
"Yes. And you are . . . ?"
Holding out his hand, he smiled falsely. "Prentiss Choate of Healy and Associates."
"I don't believe I'm familiar with that name."