Cold Wind to Valhalla (Abby Fouchet Mysteries Book 3)

by Flo Fitzpatrick

  “Yay-uh, that’s rahght. Ah’m her roommate. She told me everythin’ that had happened that nahght when Colette was shot. Ah’d jes gotten in myself from San Francisco where Ah was talking to backers ‘bout a new movie project assumin' Silhouette Tower takes off as it should.”

  I squinched my eyes at her and whispered, “Quit promoting movies and get to the damned point! And what’s with the drawl? In about two seconds you’re going to start singing C & W tunes!”

  She glared at me, whispered, “You’ll see,” then continued. “But y'all don’t want to hear about that, now da ya? Y’all want to know what Colette Currie uttered jes moments before she dahed in the arms of Miz Abby Fouchet.”

  I barely refrained from moaning aloud. Shay was milking this like a new calf with mama.

  Silence from Sumner’s end.

  “Rahght. Yessir. Make the check out to Shay Martin. Y’all have the add-ress?”

  Silence.

  “Yes, indeedy. Ah actually wrote them down so I wouldn’t forget them.” With great precision and deliberation she read, “Can. See. Move. He. Re-al. Harm.”

  Silence.

  “Before that? Uh, I do believe Miss Colette told Abby that someone had sinned."

  Silence.

  “Not that Ah’m aware of.” She put her hand over the phone and muttered to me in her normal voice, “I’m going directly to hell for lying. Not even passing go. You do realize that?”

  I muttered back, “Purgatory. The lie is for a good cause. It’s to keep me alive. And we’ll be together so don’t fret about it.”

  She returned to her conversation with Graham Sumner. “Why show-uh, that’d be jes fine. Thank y’all so much. Ah do hope this helps ketch whoevah did this to Miss Colette and Ah jes know that Abby will be grateful she doesn’t have to relive those tragic events with enyone evah agin, ya know?”

  I nodded. Good thinking on Shay’s part. Keep me out of it as long as possible.

  She and Sumner were obviously in the goodbye section of this call. She finally repeated, “Thank y’all agin, now. You too. Bye-bye.”

  She clicked the ‘off’ button and stuffed the phone back into her bag before high-fiving me. “Yes! Was that good or was that good?”

  “Aside from sounding like a cross between Scarlet O’Hara and Annie Oakley, it was fantastic!” I beamed at her. “What up with that anyway?”

  “Ha! You were so nervous I’d blow it, you non-trusting wench you, you failed to notice the slight change that happens with words when one goes Texas off the rails.

  My eyes widened. “Ooh! Wait! Many Texans tend to turn the ‘e’s into either ‘i’s or ‘a’s. So Ken became Can. Can see.” I stood up, ran around the table and gave Shay as big a hug as I could manage since she stayed seated. “Brilliant. Beyond brilliant. It even makes more sense for a dying person. Can see. Move. Real harm. Like she was warning me to move because she could see someone there ready to do real harm. You are good, Shay Martin. So good I think you can bypass Purgatory and get in line for heaven! Not to mention, you’ve made mucho puppies in Valhalla happy little critters.”

  She preened. “Did I mention that sleaze Sumner said this should go into tomorrow’s paper? If you want to call that a paper. To me it’s a magazine on cheap-o print but I don’t care because they give money to snitches and sources and I’m now one of them. Bet half the city and metro area will see it.”

  “I’m calling Johnny and letting him know you did your duty.” I reached for my own cell, then stopped. “Crap. Can’t.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, speaking of snitches and sources, he’s supposed to be meeting two of them today.”

  Shay smiled. She knew that Johnny's dad Kieran had him chasing after sources of info regarding the Senator Edge story. “Who is it today?"

  “Oh yeah. Ready for this? Peaches and Cherry Cobbler. Twins. 'Escorts' and by that read 'hookers.' Johnny told me they’re meeting at a diner near Times Square that’s supposed to have awesome cobblers and pies and the ‘girls’ eat there all the time and pick up—uh—clients.” I stopped when I saw the individual approaching our table. “Well, speak of the man himself. Johnny? What happened? Did your girls stand you up?”

  Johnny quickly rounded the table to give me a hug and a brotherly peck on the cheek. “Nope. We changed from brunch to breakfast. So we met at eight this morning which was very interesting since they’d just gotten off work for the night.” He paused and continued with a totally deadpanned expression. “And I have no idea if this is a good thing or a bad thing but not one soul even blinked at the ladies who still had on last night’s make-up and—uh—working attire. Apparently the Cobbler sisters hit this diner every morning so they’re greeted like the regulars they are.”

  Shay beamed at him. “This is why we love New York. So, didja get the goods on the Senator. Will your Dad be pleased?"

  “Oh yeah. Senator Edge is not going to be echoing your sentiments concerning his home state once this hits tomorrow’s headlines. Which won't be until the D.A.'s office has officially sent someone to arrest the man. Hopefully I'm done with being a snitch. Or investigator. It's so much easier on the show. So? Forget Edge and the Cobbler siblings. Tell me how Shay performed as the rotten informant.”

  “She was amazing. She even adopted a very broad Texas accent and turned ‘Ken see’ into ‘Can see.’ That’ll mess ‘em up.” I stated.

  “Wow! Didn’t realize Ms. Martin was that . . ..”

  “Talented? Creative? Beyond brilliant?” Shay interjected.

  “I was going to say savvy and sneaky. But then, you've always been an awesome choreographer as well as director so I should have known you'd lead the idiot in a very lively dance."

  Shay nodded wisely. “Nice. All compliments gratefully accepted."

  Johnny turned back to me. “So, are you done with your brunch?"

  “I am. Why do you ask?”

  “Because, my dearest darling, we’re going on a field trip."

  Chapter 22

  “So, you’re hijacking me—where?” I asked Johnny as I lounged on one of the window seats on the C train. He took a seat diagonally from me so we could chat without craning necks to face each other.

  “Colette’s apartment.”

  I sat up straight. “Whoa Nellie! Excuse me but isn’t that considered breaking and entering and won’t we end up in the slammer somewhere forced to fight ugly felons for survival, cigarettes and a clean toilet?”

  “Nope. Not even a fingerprint will be taken. Gordon Clark is meeting us there with key in hand. It’s all legal."

  “Oh-kay. Second problem. Is any of Taylor Mills’ stuff still there?”

  “He doesn’t live there. He never lived there. The apartment belonged to Colette’s family and Colette herself only moved back in last year after her mom died.”

  I stared at him. “And you found this out—how?”

  “Being nosy."

  “So, when did you find time to even dig up anything about where Colette was living in between researching Cinnamon Garrity and meeting with hookers?” I grinned. “That didn’t sound right.”

  “Fortunately, you now know me well enough to know you don’t really believe my meetings were anything other than chaste and fact-filled so I’m going to let it pass. As to when Colette moved back home? Taylor Mills told me at Colette’s memorial service. Said she took her mom’s death hard and decided she wanted to move back to the old family domicile. I gather she and Taylor were already in a much more platonic relationship by that time.”

  “And you believe him?” I asked.

  “As to? Colette moving out? Yeah, I believe that. As to the platonic relationship?” Johnny shrugged his shoulders. “Excuse the hackneyed phrase but the jury’s still out. I’m not sure it matters one way or the other as to the shooting although it may raise the issue of one more suspect.”

  “Really? Who?”

  “Taylor had the feeling Colette was seeing someone else. He had no idea who that person might b
e.”

  “Wow. That kind of gives him more motive though.”

  “Possibly. Most people don’t shoot their exes unless they either catch the ex in bed with someone before the ex becomes an ex or they’re just loco.”

  “I’m not even going there. Last question—maybe.”

  “Yes?”

  “Why Colette’s apartment?” I ooched back into the corner of the seat and took a sip from the water bottle I’d brought with me.

  “Because I believe we may find some clues as to what else Colette was trying to tell you. Look. Abby, you’ve been focused on those last words. Understandably so considering the trauma accompanying them. And you’ve been hard at work on Endless Time as well. You’ve been shot at. You’ve been followed. But I didn’t experience that original trauma and I've barely had five scenes to tape and I've been chasing around trying to help the D.A's office nail a crooked senator while keeping his son out of it. At any rate, I've had a lot more free time to ponder the whys and wherefores about the whole situation.”

  “And your conclusions?”

  “First. We don’t know what else Colette might have said that night to you. Clearly she wanted to talk to you and she had no idea she wasn’t going to be able to finish.”

  I began to chew on my lower lip. Johnny shot me a quick, but sympathetic glance. “Are you going to be okay? We can get off at the next stop and turn right back around if this is too much to deal with, especially after everything you went through this week in Fort Lee.”

  I shook my head. “I’ll man up. Really. I can’t promise I won’t start sobbing two seconds after we enter Colette’s apartment but damn it! I owe it to her to either figure out who shot her or figure out why and try to accomplish whatever mission she was sending me on.”

  “Good. It occurred to me that she must have had some reason to start this search for Cinnamon Garrity’s—whatever. Patent? Movie? Something we haven’t even imagined? I don’t know. But something set her on this course. So what she said to you at the Cameo Theatre was probably the second, or even third part of her own journey.”

  “Ah. Got it. What did she originally find that started her on this—quest? Right?”

  “Yep. And it’s a slim hope but it is a hope that whatever it is might be at her apartment.”

  I took another sip of my water before asking rather tentatively, “What if someone else has managed to sneak in? Found whatever it is?”

  Johnny smiled, opened a messenger bag and handed me a candy bar, slightly mushed, that apparently had been lying in wait in the bottom. He knows me and my carb cravings too well. “No one has been there.”

  “How do you know? And don’t tell me Gregory Noble has been investigating or I’m pulling the emergency brake cord.” I smiled.

  “Because Gordon Clark has kept an eye on her apartment after that night. Well, to be honest, he's had some beat cops swing by now and again. But it appears that none of our so-called suspects has arrived to even put flowers on the doorstep.”

  “Hmmm. I wish we could eliminate some of these folks as suspects. If would make life easier. You know, it’s a wild theory but I’ve been wondering if someone like Taylor was actually Diamond Richards' secret lover and he used her as a hit woman. Or a hit man was hired by Billie-Clare Buchanan or the Townshends or Geoff Murray.”

  Johnny stared at me before laughing. “Have you been watching old episodes of Endless Time?"

  “Yeah, right, it’s a bit outrageous, but I don’t want to rule out anyone until we figure this out and someone’s behind bars where he or she can’t take pot shots at me.”

  “In that case, I’ll be happy to go with any outrageous theory that will ultimately keep you safe.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “No problem.”

  We spent the rest of the ride down to West 50th Street chatting about things not related to Colette or Cinnamon or bullets flying. I told Johnny all about Shay's hysterical barrage of information as the leaker to Graham Sumner. Johnny gave me a preview of what scandalous doin's were going to be revealed about Senator Edge. Since the Senator had done a ton of scandalous doin's this brought us to our stop in a way shorter time than I desired to feel I was ready to face any mementos belonging to Colette with any kind of equilibrium.

  Colette’s apartment was on West 46th Street between 10th and 11th Avenues, which was a moderately short walk from the C train's 50th Street station. It was also only a few blocks from the Cameo but Johnny and I avoided taking the route that would lead us past the theatre. Colette Currie's family had lived in an old brownstone that had been converted to four separate residences. Their apartment was on the top floor. No elevator. Johnny had given Gordon a rough estimate of what time we’d be there and he was waiting for us with the key. Within five minutes the three of us we were standing inside what had been Colette Currie's home growing up and for the last four months of her life.

  Detective Clark was trying to be professional, but that didn’t stop him from immediately asking, “Shay didn’t come with you guys?” about two seconds after he’d pushed aside the crime scene tape and unlocked the door.

  “She’s flying to San Francisco tonight,” I told him. “She tried to call you but said all she got was your machine. But she did do her civic duty and call Graham Sumner this morning.”

  “Ah. Nuts. Not about Graham. I didn’t realize Shay was flying out so soon. Sadly, I’ve been at another crime scene all morning.”

  Johnny perked up. “Details?”

  “No. Not even for Gregory Noble."

  I smiled at Gordon. “You shouldn’t have said that. You know Mr. Gerard. This only makes him more determined to know all there is about crimes in the city.”

  He smiled back. “Too many years I’ve known Gerard. And I'll tell both of you. I promise. Just not until one or two things come back from forensics. So. We’re here. What are you guys trying to find?”

  “Anything. Everything. Letters. A diary,” Johnny answered.

  “A note saying ‘this way to the treasure,’ “ I added. “A giant blackboard with forensic style notes tacked everywhere with brilliant clues.”

  The task should have been be a bit easier since Colette had been a pretty organized person. But simply glancing around her living room at the bookshelves, neatly stacked and categorized, first by genre then alphabetically by author, heightened the sense of absolute sadness I’d been experiencing since I first saw the crime tape in front of her door.

  Johnny gently squeezed my shoulder. “I’ll take her bedroom. Probably not good for your psyche to be digging through letters. Maybe you could check for books on vaudeville or silent movies? Or she might even have one of Daniel Asher’s books. He was primarily a playwright but he did get two non-fiction works published as well although I believe those were after Cinnamon's death. Need to find out. Anyway, since he lived in this building she’d be more likely to have kept anything he wrote. After all, they were friends." He smacked his forehead. "Damn! I’m an idiot. I don’t even know when he died. He may still be alive. Really old. Or maybe he had children who were aware that the family had once lived next door to Cinnamon?”

  I nodded. “Put that on your to-do list, Gerard.”

  Gordon went with Johnny to check for elusive journals or notes that might have ended up in the second or third bedroom that had belonged to some Currie in the past. I headed for a giant bookshelf that clearly was the Arts and Entertainment section of Colette’s library and reminded myself that I wasn’t there to hunt for great monologue books for actors or compilations of various playwrights like Ibsen, Shaw, collection of Neil Simon comedies, funky dance technique books or biographies of Fred Astaire or Gene Kelly.

  I quickly found a couple of history of the theatre books that currently graced my own bookshelves; leftover from college courses. There were books on directing, on stage management, on how to run a successful non-profit theatre. There were tons of acting books, from creating conflict to styles from Greek to Shakespeare to American real
ism to melodrama. (I smiled, wondering if there was a chapter in that melodrama book about characters like flower girls greeting detectives with every “oh” under the sun, moon and stars.) Colette had a nice collection of scripts as well but I forced myself not to dive into the first one I grabbed and start reading. I did make a mental note to ask Gordon if there was any way this collection could end up at one of Manhattan’s libraries or—even better—be sent to a high school in Cut n’ Shoot, Texas so some overworked and poverty-stricken drama teacher wouldn’t have to pay for materials out of his or her own pocket.

  After about five minutes of scanning titles, I discovered the film section. Colette had books on the heyday of musicals in the Forties and Fifties. She did have biographies of Fred Astaire and Gene Kelly and Ginger Rogers and Cyd Charisse. There were books about the making of non-musical films from the Thirties on. I spotted two books about The Wizard of Oz and the history of the Ruby Slippers Judy Garland had worn and three books about Gone With the Wind, including the big search for the right actress to play Scarlet. Dozens of fun books. None seemed relevant to Colette’s last words or to Cinnamon Garrity.

  I also toured her Literature section, hoping to find a book that had some inclusion of poets of the Early Twentieth Century—specifically Wallace Stevens. Johnny and I had discussed that poem upwards and downwards and left and right since the day we’d visited Kensico Cemetery but hadn’t been able to come up with a single reason for why the line about the listener in the snow had been the inscription for Cinnamon’s gravestone or why the poem itself might be important.

  Finally, I hit the very early movie making collection. There was a book about Fort Lee, which I took off the shelf and put aside—both for a possible clue-giver but also for my own benefit. I’d have to ask Gordon if I could take any of this stuff with me. I found two books about the making of silent movies and added those to what was now a small pile.

  The last three titles on that pile seemed to offer more hope for better clues. One was a book about the early comedians in silent movies and the last was something called “A Glimpse into Vaudeville’s Past.”