Mom Doth Murder Sleep

by James Yaffe

  “Absolutely, it was a crazy way to commit a murder,” Mom had said. “But this murder was committed this way. This is a fact. So you should ask yourself, ‘Out of what type person could such a cockamamy murder come?’ Every murder has its own peculiar individual personality. Like fingerprints. You told me this many times yourself, Davie, when you were on the Homicide Squad. This is why I had my suspicions from Allan Franz right at the start, even before you started talking to people and digging up clues. You remember what he said to you the first time you met him? How directors go about making movies? ‘The script gives you a general outline,’ he said, ‘but the details along the way keep changing, so you have to improvise, you have to take crazy chances. And if you want to survive, you have to enjoy fear and uncertainty.’

  “To me this murder right away had such a feeling to it. It was put together like a scene from a movie. Plenty action, plenty twists and turns, plenty opportunities for everything to go wrong, all building up to a big climax. Definitely a movie director’s murder.”

  I used this phrase to Franz now, and he grinned and made me a small bow. “Thank you, Dave. You couldn’t pay me a nicer compliment.”

  He rose to his feet and turned his smile on Grantley. “You’ll want to book me now, I suppose? Book—is that the word you people use? It’s what we always use in the movies. Well, let’s get it over with, and then I’ll be on the blower to my lawyers. I’ve got some very good lawyers, incidentally. This won’t be an easy one for you.”

  He held his wrists out, as the two uniformed cops who had come along with Grantley approached him. In a movie Grantley would have motioned them away; no handcuffs would be necessary for this gallant gentleman murderer. I could almost see the idea forming behind Grantley’s eyes. But it never got through to the surface, and the cops put the cuffs on Franz just as they would have put them on any other criminal.

  “Oh, there are a couple of last words I want to deliver,” Franz said, as they were nudging him toward the front entrance. “Mrs. Michaels, I’m truly sorry for what Hapgood and I put you through. I don’t suppose it’ll be any consolation to you, but there was nothing personal in it at all. As a matter of fact, I kind of enjoy your acting. You’ve got a real quality of your own. You’re going to be a very entertaining Lady Macbeth.”

  Sally’s mouth was wide open. Never before had I seen her at a loss for words.

  Franz was led down the aisle, Laurie marching by his side. He kept telling her he didn’t need her, and she kept saying he wasn’t going to get rid of her that easily. At the door he stopped, and for the first time I could hear the strain in his voice. “Okay, sweetheart, you do what you want. What does it matter? It’s all a bad movie anyway. Lots of publicity today, nobody’ll even remember the title tomorrow. A grade-C stinker directed by some idiot. Meaning absolutely nothing.”

  Then they were gone, and after a long pause Ann said, “Thank you, everybody. I think the performance is over now.”

  I felt a sudden impulse to break into applause.

  I didn’t give in to it, of course, but silently, inside myself, I murmured a “Bravo!” to Mom.

  16

  Roger’s Narrative

  A lot of things happened that Sunday. I think I’m still trying to sort them out.

  After we left the theatre, Dave and I went to his mother’s house, and she gave us an early dinner. I wasn’t much of a guest. I kept thinking about Laurie, and that interfered with my concentration on the food and the conversation. And I was on the phone every half hour, calling Laurie’s apartment. No answer, which didn’t exactly surprise me. She would stay with her father at headquarters until the cops kicked her out. Or maybe his high-priced lawyers had flown in from Los Angeles already, no doubt they chartered their own plane, and he was out on bail, and she was holding his hand and giving him moral support in his hotel room.

  Still, I wanted to talk to her if I possibly could, so I kept phoning.

  I didn’t tell Dave and his mother who I was trying to reach, but I didn’t have any delusions that they hadn’t figured it out for themselves. A couple of sharp cookies like those two, you can’t have any secrets from either of them. They’re good friends, but don’t go to them if you’re looking for privacy.

  Especially that old lady. All the time we were in that theatre Sunday afternoon, all the time Dave was coming out with those fancy deductions, I knew it was really the old lady talking. While he peeled away one layer of lies after another until he finally got down to the naked truth, I could hear the old lady’s voice in my imagination.

  And during dinner that night, Dave stopped making any bones about it. He came right out and congratulated her that her deductions had turned out to be true. He said it without any squirming or blushing in my direction. The way you’re willing to say anything that comes into your head as long as it’s in front of your family.

  Between my phone calls, I kept trying to concentrate on the conversation. Mostly it was Dave telling his mother everything that happened in the theatre, and her explaining from time to time how she tumbled on to this or that.

  “To tell you the truth,” she said, “it’s a relief everything’s out in the open finally. Like I told you, I had my suspicions about Allan Franz from the beginning.”

  “Why wouldn’t you tell us about them, Mom?”

  She fidgeted a little. “There were certain things about him. They made it so I didn’t want to believe he was a murderer. So I pushed it out of my mind.”

  She didn’t look at me while she said this. But I guess I knew what she was talking about.

  “Maybe this is why I wasn’t sleeping so good lately,” the old lady said. “Telling yourself you don’t think what you do think, this isn’t good for your peace of mind.”

  Then a smile came over her face. “One thing makes me feel better about it, though. He started off spoiling my sleep—but I ended up spoiling his even worse!”

  She laughed. It was the laugh that comes out of Blanche Yurka, in A Tale of Two Cities (the 1930’s Ronald Colman version), while she’s knitting under the guillotine.

  Then she brought out a chocolate cake, a big rich one she had baked herself. Ordinarily it’s the type of dessert I can jump into, like a fish jumps into the water, and really swim around in. But that night I had too much on my mind, my troubles were ruining my appetite. All I could get down was one medium-sized piece, and another half a piece for seconds.

  Then I asked her if I could use her phone one more time. I excused myself and went into the living room and dialed Laurie’s number, and my God, after a couple of rings I heard her voice. “Hello?”

  The crazy thing was, I couldn’t say a word for a second or two. As if my throat was paralyzed.

  “Hello?” she repeated, a little louder and impatient.

  She’ll hang up in another second, I thought, so I forced myself to speak, even though what came out sounded like a croaking frog in my ears. “Laurie, it’s Roger. I just wanted to find out, are you okay?”

  There was a long pause, then her voice came again, very even, very steady, “Yes, I’m okay.”

  “Can I come by? I want to talk to you, I want to explain—”

  “Don’t,” she said. That was all, just that one word. It exploded in my ear, and then she hung up the phone on me.

  I sat for a while. I shook my head a few times. The poor kid, I told myself. She was ashamed. She thought she couldn’t face people. All right, we, her friends, had to make her realize that we still cared about her, and it didn’t matter to us what her father had done. I’ll go down there, I told myself. I’ll plant myself at her front door; she’ll have to let me in eventually.

  I said good-bye to Dave and his mother. Dave told me he’d call me tomorrow, not before eleven. It would be Monday, the office would be open, but he figured I was entitled to at least a morning off.

  I got in my car and drove as fast as I could in the direction of Laurie’s house. If I got picked up for speeding, it would delight the heart of
District Attorney McBride and his elves, but at that particular moment I didn’t give a damn. Dave could chew me out until my toes started curling, Ann Swenson could fire me on the spot—nothing mattered except getting to Laurie.

  I pulled up in front of her house. It was nearly midnight, nobody was on the street. The streets empty out early in Mesa Grande.

  I got out of my car and went up to the front door of the little white clapboard house. I could see there was a light on beyond the door. I paused because I could hear sounds.

  Music. Some rock group, I recognized them right away, but I couldn’t seem to think of their name. I stared at the doorbell while the music blasted away inside.

  She’ll hate me if I bust in on her now, I thought. If I lay my big insensitive clodhopper hands on her distress. Just to indulge my own feelings, my own unhappiness.

  I’ll talk to her tomorrow, I told myself. Or the next day. When it seems right. When the wounds have started to heal.

  So I turned away from her house and drove home. I put the Marx brothers on my VCR—Duck Soup. It did it for Woody Allen in Hannah and Her Sisters, but that night it just didn’t do it for me.

  17

  Dave’s Narrative

  What’s left for me now is to tie up some loose ends.

  Allan Franz was charged with murder on Monday morning, October 7, just four days after the fateful opening night of Macbeth. Right away, and regularly for weeks, The Republican-American ran human-interest stories about the accused’s suffering in jail, the agonies of remorse and shame that were keeping him from sleeping at night, the bravery of his young daughter in sticking by her father during his ordeal. Along with the lawyers, a battalion of savvy press agents were on Franz’s team.

  Three weeks later Lloyd Cunningham was true to his word and reopened the Mesa Grande Art Players production of Macbeth. Randolph Le Sage had to leave the show, his two-month dispensation from Equity having expired, so Lloyd took over the title role. Sally Michaels returned in her triumphant performance as Lady Macbeth. Danny Imperio moved up to Banquo, and a kid who was going to Mesa Grande College became the Second Murderer, among other parts. Laurie Franz obviously couldn’t go on as Lady Macduff, so the youngest of the weird sisters filled in. She did a creditable acting job, once you got used to her looking more like Macduff’s mother than his wife. Third Murderer became the local high school soccer coach, who had been playing the Porter at Macbeth’s gate and the bloody Sergeant in Duncan’s army. Harold Hapgood’s other roles were thrown to Jeff Greenwald.

  Roger asked my permission to return to the play too. Privately I wasn’t sure it was a good idea for one of the investigators who had exposed Banquo’s killer to go on the stage night after night playing a part in Banquo’s murder scene. Somebody could have accused the public defender’s office of using the play to get a little free publicity. But I didn’t have the heart to tell Roger he couldn’t do it. The kid was going around with such a long face these days. Things weren’t working out between him and Laurie Franz, which was obviously no big surprise.

  It was clear at opening night that Macbeth was going to be a smash hit, the first one the Mesa Grande Art Players had ever had. The house was packed, with standing room. Ovations for the actors’ big speeches were frequent.

  After the performance, the cast held an opening-night party, to which Ann and I were invited. It was at Lloyd Cunningham’s house, but his wife was nowhere to be seen; we were told she had retired with a splitting headache. Her absence didn’t dampen anybody’s high spirits. The liquor flowed freely—and the joints too, to which Ann and I, as officers of the court, had to shut our eyes diplomatically.

  Lloyd grew more and more exuberant as the night wore on. He took every possible opportunity to make toasts—to everybody in the cast, to the public defender’s office, to himself. The toast I remember best was the one he made to Sally:

  “To our lovely and beloved leading lady, with gratitude and admiration. And here’s a piece of advice, Sally my precious. Get yourself arrested for murder before every play you’re in, and by God, you’ll be a star!”

  Everybody roared with laughter, and Sally’s giggle rang out above the rest.

  I didn’t do much drinking myself at that party. I watched quietly, with amazement and growing understanding. It wasn’t really the opening of Macbeth they were celebrating. What was making them laugh and cry and paw each other and yell their lungs out was, first of all, their relief that none of them had turned out to be the murderer. And second of all, their delight that Allan Franz and Martin Osborn—the intruders, the aliens from another planet—were gone for good. Osborn’s money would be missed, financial disaster (Macbeth notwithstanding) was probably waiting for them around the corner, but the loss was worth it to get back that fragile something that had temporarily been shattered.

  They were a big happy family, I thought, and their sense of it was what held them together. It gave some meaning and joy to their knowledge that none of them would ever make it to Broadway or Hollywood, or even get a decent review from the drama critic of The Republican-American.

  The success of Macbeth continued after the opening night. The house was full at every performance, even though Cunningham took a chance and doubled the ticket prices. The run, originally scheduled for four Thursday-through-Saturday weekends, was extended for two more, and for another two after that. By Mesa Grande standards that’s practically A Chorus Line.

  * * *

  A few months after the last performance of Macbeth, Allan Franz’s trial began. It promised to be an even bigger hit, though it was on for a limited two-week run. Crowds gathered in front of the courthouse every day to see the famous Hollywood people who made personal appearances as character witnesses for the defendant. Limousines with familiar faces sitting in them drove through town for the duration of the trial, and The Republican-American made sure to put every one of those faces on the front page. Newspaper people from big cities on both coasts moved into the Richelieu Hotel and other cheaper establishments, and among them all there seemed to be some confusion as to whether they were covering a murder trial or a major-studio world premiere.

  Sally Michaels was a leading witness for the prosecution. A persuasive witness, because she obviously held no grudge against the defendant regardless of what he had tried to do to her. In the course of her testimony, she referred several times to “Mr. Franz’s generosity in telling me how much he appreciated my efforts in the role of Lady Macbeth.”

  Bernie was in the courtroom watching her, of course. He spent most of his free time with Sally nowadays, and it was common knowledge that he had moved into her house, though officially he still kept his own. All you had to do was look at him while he was looking at her, and you knew how much he was dying to marry her again. Personally, though, I don’t think she’ll ever go that far herself. The role of wronged woman, gallantly protected by her ex-husband whose heart is breaking for her, suits her very nicely.

  Another prosecution witness, even more effective than Sally, was Ted Hillary. He was introduced by Grantley as “Mr. Hapgood’s business associate and lifelong friend,” and he testified from his wheelchair, a hard prop for the defense to operate against. Hillary’s face was the color of old cracked paper, he looked ten years older than when I had seen him last, but he gave his testimony firmly and clearly. He described how Harold had told him, almost in so many words, that Allan Franz had promised him a part in his next film. Harold hadn’t explained what his own side of the bargain was to be, but Hillary, fixing his bitter grief-stricken gaze straight at the jury, said, “He was in a state of strange excitement for four days before the murder. Like he was hypnotized or drugged. The sweetest, gentlest man in the world. Some devil got into him and corrupted his soul!” All of the defense counsel’s objections couldn’t erase that speech from the jury’s mind.

  Since the trial, incidentally, Hillary has taken a new partner into the insurance agency with him. This young man also shares the apartment above the office.
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  Franz himself took the stand in his own defense. He didn’t make nearly as good a witness as we had expected. His face was chalky, his eyes were pins of light surrounded by black circles; suddenly I could believe the newspaper stories that he wasn’t sleeping at night. But somehow his state of physical devastation made him look sinister rather than sympathetic. And his voice was failing him too: it cracked and grated, and the judge kept telling him to speak up so the jury could hear him.

  In spite of all these advantages, however, the prosecution was far from a shoo-in. District Attorney Marvin McBride positively surpassed his usual standard of ineptitude in conducting the case. There were moments when the betting around the courthouse was even money that Franz would be acquitted. What tipped the scale was Franz’s team of astronomically expensive lawyers, who made it clear, without meaning to—as Easterners in our part of the world so often do—how much contempt they felt for our town full of moronic hayseeds. Even so, when Franz was finally found guilty, the jury reduced the charge to second-degree murder. Ann Swenson would’ve got him off scot-free.

  The judge was good old Harry Van Heulenberger, who’s been on the bench in Mesa Grande for thirty-five years and, since there is no mandatory retirement age for local judges, holds on to his job with a grip of steel. He frequently confuses plaintiffs with defendants, and in recent years has taken to giving suspended sentences to all juvenile offenders who can prove to him that they play varsity sports in their high school. “Varsity sports build character,” says Judge Van Heulenberger at every possible opportunity, and especially at sentencing time. “This young man knows what it is to stride down the playing field as part of a team. I feel sure that he’s learned his lesson and will never commit armed robbery with violence again.”

  As it turned out, Judge Van Heulenberger was a movie fan, and Allan Franz’s pictures particularly appealed to him. He even referred, in his sentencing speech, to the “salutory effect” they always had “in upholding the moral standards and traditional values of American life.” He gave Franz ten years, the minimum sentence possible under the law, and specified that his time be served at our state’s country-club prison for white-collar criminals; it’s located up in the mountains near one of our best ski resorts.