Finally, Johnny had the bright idea to surreptitiously send a text to himself, allowing the cell phone to loudly play an old Fleetwood Mac song “Tusk, “which makes an amazingly fine ring tone. He answered and promptly dove into some phony phone acting to a non-existent other party.
“Yo.”
Silence.
“Now? Well, it’s going to take me at least an hour to get there depending on traffic and this rain. I’m currently at the Kensico Cemetery. Will he wait?”
Silence.
“Great. Hang on to him. Take him to that diner on Forty-fifth and Tenth and feed him whatever he wants. The District Attorney's office will pick up the tab.”
Johnny hung up and gave me a surreptitious wink. “I’m so sorry. We have to cut this short. Kieran is sending me out to meet another scandalous person for dirt on the political scandal of the year.”
I dove right there with him. “Not a problem. The rain seems to be getting worse anyway. And I have lines to learn."
“That’s good, then. I didn’t want you to be disappointed. We'll come back another time when it's sunny.”
We casually strolled back to the lot where Johnny had parked the borrowed van and courageously refrained from taking one itsy bitsy peek to see if the stalker was still on our tail.
We did look in all mirrors once we were on the road. No one was following. At least not that we could tell. Smart stalker. He or she knew if we spotted them we’d know who they were. And really, he or she didn’t need to follow us. We were headed back to Manhattan and Johnny had made that clear in the “I’m finding a way to let us haul out of here gracefully” phone ploy.
About three seconds after I’d hooked up my seat belt I asked Johnny for his phone.
“Searching?” He asked.
“Yep. I don’t have Internet access on mine.”
“Which is ridiculous. Why don’t you?”
“Because normally when I search online I want to be in the privacy of my apartment with a tall glass of something by my side, a plate of nachos and various retro rock groups or any version of Les Miz playing in the background. At my leisure.”
Johnny smiled. “You’re such a bum.”
“True. Would you hand me the phone, please?”
He did. I immediately typed in “For the listener, who listens in the snow.”
Bless our modern era of instant access. The answer came within seconds.
“Ah ha! That’s why it’s familiar,” I stated.
“Will you tell me? I’ve been as nuts as you are trying to figure out where I heard that before.”
“Wallace Stevens. From his poem The Snow Man. Believe it or not I remember reading this in a college Lit class." I checked the phone again. “Copyright Nineteen-twenty-one. Interesting. That was only eight years before Cinnamon died. It’s in a book of Stevens' collected poems called In Harmonium. Want to hear the whole passage?”
“Hell, yeah. Maybe it’d tell us who murdered Cinnamon. Why he or she murdered Cinnamon. Or even who picked that poem for her grave marker.”
“And does any of it have anything to do with Colette’s death? Okay. Here it is:
“One must have a mind of winter To regard the frost and the boughs Of the pine-tress crusted with snow:
And one must have been cold a long time To behold the junipers shagged with ice, The spruces rough in the distant glitter of The January sun;
And not to think Of any misery in the sound of the wind, In the sound of a few leaves, Which is the sound of the land Full of the same wind That is blowing in the same bare place For the listener, who listens in the snow. And nothing himself, beholds Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.”
We’d both lapsed into silence. Finally Johnny glanced at me. “Anything?”
“Nope. Apart from thinking this is both a gorgeous and very sad piece of poetry, I got zippo. You?”
“Not yet. I’m wondering if there’s even any significance in this. Could be whoever got that marker thought it was pretty. Could mean absolutely nothing at all. The director of the cemetery might simply have been in a big Wallace Stevens poetry phase and picked it himself.”
“Yo! Abby!”
I looked up, startled but immediately focused back to my present state— on a ledge in New Jersey. “Maxwell!"
“You ready to bounce?” he shouted.
“Would it matter if I said, ‘hell no?’” I yelled.
“Hell, no!”
“Fine, then. Let me recheck the rope and make sure it’s still secure and let me know when y’all are ready to roll.”
They were ready. I was hoping the camera crew would suddenly call out ‘Break!’ but that wasn’t happening. I was on. I was ready to push off from one end of the cliff ledge, hit middle, then push off again and hit the other side (which would end up being camera left.)
I say ‘ledge’ but it was more like a bunch of rocky juttings along a path. I’d seen much the same scenery in the old silent movie The Wishing Ring, which was the whole point of this scene. Make it look like it was being filmed circa 1917—give or take a few years. Nonetheless, dangling from a rope off any kind of cliff is—in one word—damnscary.
I was extremely grateful all microphones were off for the bouncing from jutting rock to jutting rock. I was using language every nun in my twelve years of Catholic schools would have beat out of me with a stick, not to mention sentencing me to at least a hundred years more of Purgatory than I felt I deserved.
Naturally, we couldn’t get this bouncing done in one take either. I had to go back to my mark on the rocky path and repeat twice more. I didn’t want to admit it to myself but I was actually having a blast. Scared out of my wits, but I could get into this mountain climbing business as a hobby. It’d be cheaper than paying dues to the equestrian club I wanted to join. I started adding a little more swing in between bounces and was applauded for my efforts (literally) by the Endless Time cast and crew watching the filming. Eventually I heard Mitch call out, “One more take. Give us five minutes and we’ll go again.”
I plopped back to the ground and massaged my neck, which was getting very tense with all the bouncing. Mountain climbing was fun. Bouncing was not.
In the midst of massaging I got thwapped with a vision. I could see myself in an apartment but didn't recognize it. Johnny was with me. For some bizarre reason (which happens in visions) we appeared to be tossing vinyl record albums around. It seemed pretty benign which meant something awful was doubtless about to occur because my second-sight gift or curse generally zones in on tragedies and disasters.
I blinked.
I heard a whirring sound and a tiny piece of rock flew away from the cliff-side. Then another. Little flakes of rock were chipping away from the jutting edge. I stopped cold. This was not a second vision. This was real.
Someone was shooting at me.
Another sound and another piece of rock. Time to leave. Ignoring the terror that had quickly overtaken every part of my brain and body I began to duck and bounce and duck and swing and flail as much as possible. If someone really was shooting I wanted to make it as difficult as possible for the shooter to have a clear, still target.
I’d been in some not-too-great dangerous situations before but this was different. I was helpless. A clay pigeon—albeit an active one—waiting for that one shot that could smash me into a million tiny pieces. I began running along the ledge, certain I resembled a demented Maypole dancer after a few stiff pints of mead.
I was also screaming “Pull me up! Pull me up! Someone’s shooting!”
I suppose a normal television crew would take their time or believe I was joking. But this crew obviously had heard about Colette's death. They took me at my word. Strong hands from above helped pull me to the top even as I continued to do as much swaying and scrambling to find spots between giant rocks that might provide a little shelter.
I hit the top and shouted, “Drop! Everybody!” My rescuers took to the ground and stayed on stomachs, in case the shooter
decided that Abby wasn’t the only person he or she was aiming for. All of us immediately began doing some fast crawling toward the food service tent and the more bulletproof trailers that lined the area right behind it. I couldn’t hear any more sounds of bullets but I wasn’t taking any chances.
Once inside the tent, the crew and I cautiously began to get to our feet and inspect one another for any major bleeding or broken bones or bullet holes lodged in jackets. Thankfully, everyone’s clothing and exposed body parts appeared intact. My bruises did have bruises but that was from being pulled up so fast and bumping every inch of the cliff.
I grabbed Max and managed to gasp out, “Call 9-1-1! Then call Detective Gordon Clark in Manhattan”! I gave him the number I’d memorized the night Colette died. “Tell him what’s happened and ask if he can come out here. And after that—call Johnny.”
Chapter 19
“Can anyone tell me why have I just endured a good five minutes of playing ‘shoot-the-rabbit' at a carnival firing range with me as the target bunny?”
“Because whoever killed Colette figures you know more than you’ve said and they either want to scare you into giving up the information or kill you because they don’t want you giving up the information even though that idiot Sumner spilled the fact that you do have information over three weeks ago.”
I glared at Shay. “Thank you so much. Your clarification was so eloquent I’m ashamed I asked. Jeez.” I turned to Detective Clark. “Exactly how did my roommate manage to ride along on a nine-one-one call?”
The detective smiled. “Because it was only nine-one-one for the Fort Lee police. I’m here in an unofficial capacity because I believe what the rest of you believe—your hang-up phone calls, the stalker at Valhalla and this odd cliff shooting all are related to the murder of Colette Currie. Your roommate and I happened to be eating lunch together when your production assistant called me. Naturally she was concerned about you.”
I refrained from looking at Shay, knowing I would only see that smug “I landed Gordon Clark, detective, and he is now my main squeeze,” expression plastered on her face. Instead, I addressed the detective directly, “So what happens now?”
“We wait for some word from the Jersey cops and crime techs who are still probing the cliff-side for bullet fragments. As well as from the techs on the other side of this —cavern—or gap or whatever you want to call it who are looking for evidence of the shooter since it appears that’s where the shots were fired.”
Johnny spoke up, “And while we wait, anyone care to discuss possible suspects?”
I quit shaking and trying to get my breathing back to something approaching normal and managed to ask, “Do you have something to tell us? Something concrete?”
“Not really. Which infuriates more than I can say. I simply feel we haven’t even begun discussing the who or the whos, plural, with motive to kill Colette and . . .”
“Scare the living stuffings out of Abby” Shay interrupted.
“I wasn’t going to put it quite like that, but you’ve pretty much nailed it,” Johnny responded.
“Fine. Let’s theorize then,” I stated with as much firmness as a body mirroring gelatin could muster. “It might help keep me from flashing back every two seconds to being on that ledge and waiting for . . . oh, never mind. Who are our leading suspects?”
Shay immediately jumped in with both feet. “Diamond Richards.”
Gordon Clark smiled at her. “I hate to be logical and practical here, but why Ms. Richards specifically?”
“Because she sent her delinquent son to try to force information out of Abby and there’s something tacky about her and very low class and I, for one, don’t really believe the story about the note on the napkin.” She beamed. “All right! Another good title for a mystery film. The Note on the Napkin.”
“Ignore her,” I said. “And try not to come up with anything our movie maven here can turn into next year’s Cannes Film Festival honoree.” She and I grinned at each other. I already felt better. “I’m not sure one way or another about Diamond being Colette’s killer. I mean, take the incident with the napkin. She could have sent Omar to bug me or she could be telling the truth that someone put her up to it. Really hard to say which is the right reason.”
Johnny casually tossed in, “I do know something about Ms. Richards the rest of you are currently unaware of.”
“Well?” I demanded.
“Remember the red Corvette?” He glanced at me. “And do not start singing that song by ‘the artist formerly known as Prince.’
I tried to look innocent, knowing full well that if Johnny hadn’t made that statement I would have indeed been warbling and knowing that Johnny also knew that which is why he’d made that statement.
Shay sighed. “Who could forget? Excuse the term but I’d kill for one just like it.”
“I’m sure Diamond would as well.”
I sat up straight. “So, it’s definitely not hers?”
“Nope.”
“Whose is it?”
“Sullivan’s Rent-a-Car over on the West Side Highway and Fifty-Seventh.” Johnny paused for a second, then smiled at Detective Clark. “I didn’t do anything illegal to get the information. I promise. I didn’t even bribe some poor bored clerk at the DMV for details on car registrations. I merely used my sharp eyes the day we saw Diamond driving and noted a sticker on the windshield that read ‘Sullivan’s.’ I knew that was a car rental place. So I hiked it over there and asked about folks who’d rented red Corvettes in that week. The good news was that the guy I asked said that 'yes' he had rented that model recently. The bad news was he refused to tell me who footed the bill. He did admit Diamond Richards did not pay for the rental herself.”
Shay nodded wisely. “So Diamond has a sugar-daddy who was letting her try out vehicles for the afternoon.”
Gordon stated. “Which may well be true, but how does that connect to Colette's death? Evidence, folks, evidence.”
“Forget evidence!” I exclaimed. “Forget you’re a real detective for a moment and go with the crazy TV, movie and Broadway types here who have to go with imagination more than facts in order to create brilliant plots. We’re theorizing. We’re not getting ready to make an arrest with all constitutional rights intact so we’re free to let those imaginations take us wherever they care to roam. And mine is saying if Diamond has a sugar daddy who rents Corvettes for the day, that same person is likely the s.o.b. who sent Omar to harass me into giving up Colette’s words. Did that person actually shoot Colette? I don’t know. But it seems to me Diamond Richards could use some looking into. Especially concerning any of her buddies with bucks to spare.”
Gordon’s right eyebrow shot up. “For a lady who was just hauled up the edge of a cliff after a harrowing experience, you’re amazingly clear-headed.” He turned to Johnny, “I see why you like her.”
Johnny winked at me. “You charmer, you. You’ve just converted one of New York’s finest into the arts of imagination, creativity and wild theorizing.”
“Whatever. We’re rollin’ now, gang. Who’s next on the suspect list?”
“Wait. Wait. Are we through with Diamond?” Shay asked.
“Yes and no. I doubt she actually pulled that trigger but she definitely knows who was interested in whatever clue Colette had to offer Abby,” Johnny replied. “Until we can get that info we’re stuck with Diamond, a napkin and a not-too-bright son well on the road to juvenile delinquency. So I’m with Abby Who’s next?”
I didn’t miss a beat. “Geoff Murray and Billie-Clare Buchanan. Our naked friends from Hangin’.”
“Who?” Clark stared at me.
“Sorry. They were at Colette’s memorial but I did not introduce you because there were oodles of other folks there and I wasn't exactly at my best thinking wise. So. Geoff Murray and Billie-Clare Buchanan. One actor and one actress and I use those terms loosely and I’m really sorry I said the word “loosely” because it reminds me of things that were dangling in that
awful show. . . well, y’all get my drift. And Billie-Clare has a really ugly body. Gooshy. She needs to work out big time.”
“Let's leave that sentence somewhere in the wilderness it deserves to be left in.” Johnny smiled. “Any reason for suspecting them other than your less-than-fond memories of their performances in Hangin’ and that you saw them near that diner the other day when we were discussing Cinnamon Garrity?”
“They were very insistent that I tell them what Colette had said. At the memorial. Which made me wonder, why should they care? None of the other performers from the show asked. Everyone else was really sweet about asking how I was dealing with being there when Colette died. Not those two. I say that makes them suspect.” I glanced at Gordon. “And yes, that’s worse speculation than Diamond but I’m sticking by my impression that they wanted more than to offer sympathy.”
“I agree with you, Abby,” he said. “To me that’s even more suspect than Diamond and her boyfriend because we don’t know how that relates. And people can be casually curious about Colette’s last words but you stated ‘insistent’ and I’m going with your gut on that.”
“Who else then?” Shay interjected. “Anyone?”
“Taylor Mills,” Johnny answered. “Colette’s ex or as Abby so succinctly puts it—her ‘ex um-mer.’ He wanted to know what she said and while that’s also natural, it’s natural that he be a suspect since half the time someone is murdered it’s by their significant other especially when that significant other was dumped some months ago by Colette.”
I bit my lip. “I agree with some of that, partly because I’m aware of the statistics on those significant others, but I kind of hate slapping him on the list. He was genuinely upset about Colette and that gut of mine felt he wanted to know her last words because he wanted to know if she said something like, 'tell Taylor I’ll always love him even though I rejected him.' Which, of course, she didn’t say and I hated the fact that I couldn’t simply lie and say that to his face. It seemed cruel.”
Shay gave a ‘humph’ of exasperation. “You are too sappy to live, you know that? Gullible is your middle name. It gets you into a ton of trouble. We’re stickin’ Taylor on the suspect list and you can just get over it.”
Cold Wind to Valhalla (Abby Fouchet Mysteries Book 3) Page 13