by Mike Ashley
“And you couldn’t afford another scandal, now, could you, Mr Goodrich?”
“Come on,” Fatty said, removing a cigarette from a silver case. “We both know I can’t use my real name if I want to work in the movies. The Hays office saw to that.”
“Cleaning up Hollywood. There’s a good one for you,” Means said. “The town’s crawling with hookers and drugs, bootleg hootch—”
“Men like William Randolph Hearst who flaunts his mistress, men who think nothing of the lives they ruin. No, nothing matters to them except money,” Fatty said with contempt. “You certainly are aware of the kind of diseased vermin making huge profits in the film industry, Mr Means. So you can certainly understand why I tried delaying Irma’s exit.”
Means nodded. “Well, I guess we should get down there and see if that is in fact our hostess before worrying about what decisions need to be made.”
“How do we do that without causing a riot?” Arbuckle asked. “You’re the investigator. The ex-FBI man. What do we do?”
“We’re not alone in our need for propriety, Arbuckle. Why, just from the misfortune that has befallen the two of us, every single person in that house knows how easily their careers can tumble down around them and their families. We have to go back in there and stoke that fear.”
It was as if they had all forgotten about Lily completely. When the two men entered the grand ballroom, not one guest turned to ask them what had become of her. The music was loud, the glasses were full and the majority of voices were competing for attention. Gaston Means walked the length of the room alone without attracting one glance.
When he had come to what looked to be the library, he was met by a butler.
“May I help you, sir?”
“Please get Miss McKeon for me.”
“Certainly, sir.” The elderly man bowed and slowly, as if each step caused pain, walked out of the room.
She must have been just down the hall, because Judith McKeon returned within a moment.
“Well? Where is she?”
“I assume Lily . . . Mrs Armstrong-Smith has a gardener on the premises? A caretaker?” Means asked.
“Yes, William. He lives in the cottage up the road.”
“Call him. I need his help.”
“May I ask . . .”
“You may not. Call him and tell him to meet me by that dead evergreen near the cliffwalk. Tell him to bring a lantern and a rake.”
“Fine.”
“Oh, and Miss McKeon,” he said, looking up at the tall woman, “I’ll need you to stay close by.”
She glared down at him as if he were an imbecile. “I live here, Mr Means. Where else would I go?”
“That’s her, all right,” William said as he watched Means drape Lily’s body with a tablecloth. “I kept telling Mrs Armstrong-Smith that she should put a fence up along here. But she’d just laugh. Told me it would detract from the ‘wildness’ of this place. Can you believe that?” he asked, eyeing Arbuckle as he approached. “Wildness? After all the money she poured into this property? After the landscapers and architects, builders, fancy artists? There ain’t nothin’ wild left out here except maybe that water down there.”
“Thank you, William,” Means said when Arbuckle was standing next to him. “Please, don’t say anything to alarm the staff. We’ll have Miss McKeon send for the doctor who will in turn, no doubt, send for the police.”
“Whatever you say, Mr Means. But I want it on the record that I warned her many times. She was very headstrong; she didn’t listen to many people.”
Means nodded, watching Fatty bend over to lift the cloth from Lily’s face. “I’ll make sure the authorities are made aware of your concerns.”
“That’s all I’m asking, Mr Means.” William removed his cap from his jacket pocket and pulled it down over his thinning hair. “That’s all I’m asking.” Satisfied that he was blameless, William quickly walked back to his cottage.
Fatty stood up. “She fell, then? But I don’t understand why . . .”
Means waited until William was out of sight. “That’s what I thought at first. And that’s exactly what I want William to believe. At least for the time being. But if you’ll look closely at her neck, you can see the bruises.”
Fatty slowly lowered his hefty frame again. Means held the lantern closer to the body. “Well, I’ll be. You can see the imprints of hands, right there, plain as day.”
“The person who did this had to be very strong.”
Fatty wheezed as he stood up. “How do you know that?”
“Well, not only did they strangle Lily but they dragged her body all the way out here. How do you suppose they did that? Without being seen?”
“What makes you so sure she didn’t come out here on her own? Maybe she just wanted some fresh air.”
“Not likely. She’d be getting ready for her party. You know how much she looked forward to these productions of hers. Besides, did you happen to notice she only has on one shoe? And her stockings are worn away only on the heels.”
“So? Maybe she didn’t have new stockings for the party. And her other shoe probably came off when she was thrown into the water.”
“No, if I’m not mistaken, that’s it over there.”
The two men walked toward the object Means pointed out.
Holding the lantern close to the ground, it was easy to see a black velvet pump half buried in the soft earth.
“Whoever killed Lily had to be strong enough to drag her out here.”
“I don’t like the way you’re looking at me, Means.” Fatty was angry. “I thought we were in this together.”
“Relax, I didn’t mean that to sound like an accusation. I’m just thinking out loud.”
“So what do we do now? We have to go back in there.”
Means looked toward the mansion. “And we have to convince everyone to trust us enough so they don’t leave until we can figure out who killed Lily.”
“Why does everyone have to stay for us to do that?” Fatty asked.
Means brushed off his jacket. “Because, Arbuckle, what we both fear the most will happen quicker than you ever imagined. If you thought you had troubles before, wait until you see what they do to you now. Both of us have been put through the grinder, had our reputations ruined. But somehow, we managed to make lives for ourselves again.”
“Yeah, things are a helluva lot better than they were a few years ago.”
“And I have the new book,” Means said. “But this, getting our names connected to a murder? This would bury us alive! There’d be no coming back . . . ever.”
Fatty didn’t understand what Means had planned; all he knew was he was scared. “Okay,” he said, “just tell me what to do.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a large handkerchief to blot the sweat.
“What time is it?” Means asked.
“I don’t know.” Fatty shrugged.
“But you have a pocket watch. There,” Means pointed to the chain hanging from Arbuckle’s gray flannel vest.
Arbuckle looked down, embarrassed. “That’s just for show. I had to hock the watch years ago.”
Means didn’t care about his companion’s sad financial state. “Well, I imagine we’ve only been out here for twenty minutes – half an hour at the most. From the sound of things inside, I don’t think we’ve even been missed.”
When Irma saw Arbuckle enter the brightly lit room, she immediately thought of Lon Chaney. The way he’d contorted his face – his whole body – when he played the Hunchback of Notre Dame had given her the willies for days. His eyes bugging out that way. Poor Fatty, she thought. He looked so ill-at-ease that she felt deeply sorry for him. The lights made his skin look waxy. She stopped singing without realizing she had done so. And when she stopped, the band stopped. And when the musicians broke off so abruptly, everyone in the room froze.
It was Zelda Fitzgerald who came to life first. “So,” she giggled, apparently drunk, “where is our little Lily? Our precious little flower?
Our lovely, lost Lily?” Her laughter embarrassed practically everyone in the room.
Gaston Means walked onto the dance floor. “Gather around,” he said. “I have an announcement.”
“Oh, a game! We’re going to play a game!” Zelda clapped her hands together.
“Hush,” someone shouted.
“You wouldn’t talk to me like that if Scott were here.” She took another gulp of her drink and then retreated into a pout.
“But he’s not, so kindly hush up,” the same person told her.
Satisfied he had their attention, Means began. “First off, is Miss McKeon here?”
“I certainly am,” she said as she walked over to stand beside him.
“Good. What I am about to tell you is very upsetting but I want you all to remain calm and quiet until I’ve finished.”
Judith straightened her back and folded her arms across her chest. “Just tell us, Mr Means, we’re not children.”
“Our hostess is . . .”
“Dead! I knew it!” Irma said.
The crowd ignored the singer and continued staring at Means as if she hadn’t spoken.
“She’s right, I’m afraid. Lily must have fallen. We found her body down in the water.”
“How terrible,” Judith said.
Disbelief ricocheted around the room, hitting each guest in their gut, then their heart. Shock, then commotion. “Dreadful!” “Unbelievable.” “How very awful.” “Poor Lily.”
Fatty looked at Means, confused.
Means motioned for him to remain quiet. Then turning to Judith, he asked, “Do you have a guest list?”
“In my office. I’ll go get it.”
Several people asked the butler for their coats. Means hurried over to the servant and told him to stay where he was. “Listen. Please. No one can leave here yet.”
“The party’s over, as they say, old chum,” Bing said, slapping the man on the back.
“The police have to be called,” Means said. His words quieted the room.
“Then we should clear out so they can do their work. Write up their reports. Whatever it is they do.” Dorothy Parker walked to the bar and sat her empty glass on a coaster.
Judith returned with the list and handed it to Means. He held it over his head. “I have the names of every person in this room and I’m going to check to see if we’re all here.”
An elderly woman wearing a diamond choker timidly asked, “But what does that matter? Lily had an accident and . . .”
“It wasn’t an accident!” Arbuckle shouted from his side of the huge room.
“Is this true?” Judith asked.
“Well, possibly. Maybe. I believe her death was caused by someone other than . . . herself.”
Fatty came closer. “He means she was murdered.”
“I have to get out of here,” W.C. Fields said. “I can’t be associated with any of you. Look what happened to ole Fatty there. No, no, this would definitely ruin me. Excuse me, but I must be on my way.”
“Sorry, Mr Fields. That is precisely why you should not leave. We must all stay here and be accounted for. There is strength in numbers. If we all remain calm and vouch for each other, we’re safe.”
“Then tell me, my good man,” Fields asked, looking down at Means with disgust, “why did you tell us Lily succumbed to an accident when in fact she was murdered?”
“I’ll tell you why,” Fatty said, “because he was a hot shot with the FBI, then a private investigator after he got involved in one too many scandals. Now he’s looking to solve a murder – make the headlines and a new name for himself. Think all will be forgiven, Mr Means? Think you can write a brand new book about the murder of Lillian Armstrong-Smith?”
Means was the confused one now. “No, why would you ask me that? I thought we had an agreement? An understanding of sorts.”
“I did too until you lied to me out there, when you showed me Lily’s shoe.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, I know you think I’m just a big, fat, dumb clown. Everyone does. But I’m real good at what I do. I spent years practising falls, tumbling, figuring out where arms and legs land when you chase someone. Hell, I did nothing else for hours at a time with the Keystone Cops. I’m a professional, Mr Means, and damn good at what I do – did.
“The shoe you showed me was dug deep into the ground. If someone dragged Lily, as you assumed they did, her shoe would have slid off and fallen away – not pushed down into the soil. For the shoe to end up where and how we found it, would have meant one of three things: someone pushed her forward, she walked to that place willingly, or she was running away from her attacker. However, it was you who found the shoe, in the dark. Odd, considering I had been out on the grounds in the yard – on that very spot – earlier and missed it. Imagine! In the light of the full moon, I missed a silver object the size of a shoe, sparkling there – like a spotlight. Therefore, I can only assume you planted it yourself, Mr Means.”
Means fell down into a plush club chair forcing it against the wall. “All right, I admit I put the shoe there, but only after I’d stumbled over it earlier.”
“Why would you do such a thing?” Judith asked, stunned.
Embarrassed to look the woman in the eye, he spoke slowly. “I needed to be believed.”
“You mean admired,” Fatty said. “You thought this was just the opportunity you needed to regain some credibility.”
“Is that true?” Bing asked.
“Yes,” Means said, still too cowardly to look up. “I worked for the FBI. I had respect, a position close to the President of the United States. The most powerful man in the world.”
“And you brought disgrace down upon yourself,” Bing ranted. “You brought disgrace to your office and your country. There is no one to blame for your misfortunes except you, sir.”
“I know. Don’t you think I know all that?”
“So,” Judith said, “let me see if I understand this. You took Mrs Armstrong-Smith’s death as an opportunity to benefit yourself?”
Dorothy Parker sniffed. “Typical man, you’ll always land on somebody’s feet.”
Judith McKeon shook her head. “Poor Mrs Armstrong-Smith.”
“Oh come now, you hated her . . .” Arbuckle’s fat hand swiftly clamped over his mouth.
Means’ head jerked upward to look at the secretary. “You did?” And then shifting his eyes to Arbuckle he asked, “How would you know something like that? Have you met Miss McKeon before this evening?”
“Well, yes, and . . .” He looked to the woman contritely.
“It’s okay, Roscoe, I’m not ashamed of our friendship.”
“Friendship? This is all so cozy I can’t stand it,” Parker quipped.
“Miss McKeon wrote me several letters while I was going through my ah, trouble.”
“Fan letters?” Means asked.
“It started out that way,” Judith told them. “I was infatuated with . . .”
“A star. It happens all the time,” Crosby said. “But the papers, magazines, they were full of stories. All the gory details. Weren’t you afraid you were corresponding with a murderer?”
Judith looked at Fatty adoringly. “Oh, no. I could tell Roscoe would never hurt anyone. He’s a gentle, kind, sensitive soul.”
“And you could tell all of this from . . . what?” Bing asked. What ever led you to believe you knew this man so intimately . . . unless . . .”
“No! Don’t even think it! Nothing happened between the two of us.”
Means studied the guest list he had gotten from Judith. “I notice here that your name is not among those invited, Mr Arbuckle.”
“And if you look closer, Mr Means, neither is yours,” Judith pointed out.
“I don’t understand.”
“I invited you – both of you. It was easy just to slip in a few extra guests, being responsible for the invitations and all. Mrs Armstrong-Smith never saw what went out in the mail or what I didn’t want her to know came back.
”
Dorothy Parker finished her martini, held the empty glass up to attract a waitress. “So why the invites?” she asked.
W.C. Fields laughed. “Life is certainly a stage and how we all do strut. Our little lady here set us up. We were all here for her entertainment. Isn’t that so, my dear?”
“No. I just wanted to see Roscoe. I knew he’d never consent to meet me otherwise. So I spoke through Mrs Armstrong-Smith. But it wasn’t as if she would have appreciated a man like you,” she said to Arbuckle. “Truth is, she always thought you were a killer.”
“So knowing what her reaction would be at the very sight of me, you wanted to shock her? Upset her?” Arbuckle’s face fell into a soft frown.
“It’s terrible,” Judith admitted, “I know it’s unforgivable but, Lord help me, as much as I wanted to be with you, I wanted to see her uncomfortable more. I wanted to see her frightened.”
Cal walked over, Irma trailing behind. “Miss McKeon, should I tell the boys they can pack up and go home? Or do we have to wait around for the police?”
Judith was glad for the interruption. “What do you suggest we do, Mr Means?”
“Why in Sam Hill are you asking that imbecile?” W.C. Fields wanted to know.
“Because he’s the closest thing we have right now to any kind of law.”
“Law by association? That’s rich.” Parker laughed.
“Tell your band to hang around,” Means addressed Cal, ignoring Dorothy.
“Sure thing.” Cal turned to leave and Judith spotted the necklace around Irma’s neck.
“Hold on a minute, you.” She grabbed Irma by the arm. “Just where did you get those pearls?”
Means stood up and advanced on the woman, hoping to frighten her into an answer.
“Cal gave them to me. Honest! I ain’t no thief, I’m a good girl!”
The bandleader started for the French doors. Means chased after him.
A group of drinkers sitting in lawn chairs laughed as Means shouted for help. It was Novarro who ended up tackling the man.
“Get offa me!” Cal shouted to the actor. Then to Means, “I found them. Honest, Mr Means. Over there. I swear! Just go ask that guy.” He pointed to the bartender stationed under a green awning.
“Bring him over here,” Means told Novarro.