[Celebrity Murder Case 01] - The Dorothy Parker Murder Case

by George Baxt

  “My airplane.” Mrs. Parker paled. She was terrified of heights. “Did you know I was a licensed pilot?”

  “I seem to recall reading that in the Graphic," said Mrs. Parker, her voice losing strength.

  “I love flying Jennies. They’re war surplus, known as JN-4D. Today they’re used mostly by barnstormers.”

  “You mean wing-walkers and people who hang by their legs from rope ladders, and other such unhinged creatures?

  Van Weber laughed. “They’re quite safe. I once flew one cross-country.”

  Cross-country, thought Mrs. Parker; now we’re beginning to get somewhere. “Do you spend a great deal of time in Hollywood?”

  “What makes you assume I’ve lived in Hollywood?”

  “You said you’ve flown cross-country.”

  “I could have flown to San Francisco.”

  Mrs. Parker inquired smoothly, “Do you spend a great deal of time in San Francisco?”

  “I spend time all over the globe. Wind too strong for you? I can roll up the windows.”

  “Oh, no. I just love the wind in my hair. It’s so Faith Baldwin.

  Woollcott had George S. Kaufman trapped at the other end of the telephone, impressing him with the news that on his behalf he, Woollcott, and Mrs. Parker, were enduring almost unspeakable dangers. “What are those ghastly noises I hear, Kaufman?”

  “Eva LeGallienne’s here, trying to get me to write something for her Civic Repertory Company. Right now, she’s tunning up and down the room giving little Annie a piggyback.”

  “How revolting.”

  “You really don’t know how grateful I am, Alec, for what you’re doing.”

  “I really don’t know because I never hear from you.”

  “Don’t be unfair. I tried reaching either you or Dottie several times yesterday after I read Vera DeLee was murdered, but neither of you were anywhere to be found.”

  “Well, you can bloody well buy me lunch today, and don’t give me some lame excuse you’ve got a date to lay Bea Lillie or one of your other corps of quickie availabilities.”

  “I’ll meet you at the Algonquin at one.”

  “Bring lots of cash. I’m very hungry.” Woollcott hung up with a sigh and then, at the thought of lunch, smacked his lips. He looked at the wall clock. It was almost noon. He wondered how Mrs. Parker was faring.

  “There it is,” said Van Weber as his estate came into view. “You can see it just over the rise ahead.”

  “Oh, my,” said Mrs. Parker, truly impressed. “It must cover thousands of acres.”

  “It was a derelict when I bought it. The restoration cost a fortune.”

  “Oh, but well worth it. Such a cozy little mansion for the occasional weekend. I’m sure it’s more fun than necking in the balcony of the Loew’s State.”

  They drove through massive iron gates opened by an attendant who, Mrs. Parker later insisted, touched his forelock as they drove through. The exquisite, tree-lined drive to the main house was over a mile long. On the way, Mrs. Parker could see stables and what she assumed was the hangar that housed his accursed Jenny.

  Mrs. Parker was right. “That’s the airport to your right; you can see the hangar. On the left are the stables.”

  “Do you breed horses?”

  “I’ve got some pretty good ones. I haven’t raced any yet, but, all in good time.”

  The main house was four stories high and turreted. It was painted a bright blue, with yellow shutters framing the windows. “Who looks after all those rooms?” asked Mrs. Parker, awestruck, her hand on her chest, her voice several octaves higher than normal.

  “Oh, I’ve got dozens in help.”

  “How do you remember which one is which?”

  “I don’t have to. There’s a majordomo to look after them.”

  Half an hour later, Mrs. Parker was still being given the grand tour. She had been led to impeccably designed tiered gardens and had appropriately admired the oversized swimming pool. His private dock boasted a cabin cruiser as well as a motorboat moored nearby. A short distance ahead stood an impressive lighthouse, constructed on a spit of land that overlooked and protected the entrance to the estate’s private bay. Finally leading her back to the main house, Van Weber asked, “Hungry?”

  “Famished,” and she meant it.

  Of course the interior was palatially furnished and decorated with immaculate taste. Mrs. Parker thought dolefully of her sad one-room studio and wondered how she would ever make do with it after this. Van Weber was explaining as he led her on the short hike to the dining room, “The interiors are mostly by Syrie Maugham and Elsie de Wolfe. The paintings are more or less eclectic, don’t you agree?”

  “Oh, yes, I do agree,” said Mrs. Parker, having recognized some Tintorettos, a scattering of Van Goghs, some presumably shy and retiring Van Dycks and one rather magnificent portrait of a sixteenth-century dandy.

  “Who did that?” asked Mrs. Parker.

  “Oh, that, that was painted by Anon. Would you care to freshen up?”

  Jacob Singer was looking uneasy. Al Cassidy had just reported waiting over an hour for Sid Curley to show up at a scheduled rendezvous. Singer called Curley’s landlady, who in carefully worded sentences let him know Curley hadn’t spent the night or been in touch and this was strange behaviour for Curley. Singer knew what she was telling him. He’d learned to decipher the coded statements of the landladies of shady establishments a long time ago. Singer said to Cassidy, “It looks like Curley’s been fingered.”

  “Shit.”

  “Right.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think Mrs. Parker and Woollcott are making certain people a little nervous.”

  “That’s bad.”

  “Oh, no, that’s good.” Singer lit a cigarette and leaned back in the swivel chair. Cassidy sat opposite him and wiped the inside of his Stetson with a handkerchief. “Now those people will start getting clumsy. We’ll get a break soon. Somebody’ll get just frightened enough to make them come running to us for help and they’ll talk. That’ll be the hole in the dike. Then the water’ll come trickling out, the hole gets bigger, soon the whole fucking dike collapses and we collar the whole buggering ring. What do you think, Al?”

  “Very picturesque. How’s for sending out for some sandwiches and java? I ain’t had nothing since mud and sinkers early this morning.”

  “The trout is perfection.” Mrs. Parker meant it, and the sincerity in her voice crossed the table and nibbled gently at Van Weber’s ears.

  “More wine?”

  “Just a drop.”

  The flunky behind Mrs. Parker poured more wine. The flunky behind Van Weber wondered how the lady could pick the bones from her fish without removing her gloves. In the kitchen, the chef stood with his arms folded, white chefs hat trembling, waiting anxiously for the master of the house to compliment him on the cuisine.

  “Oh, dear, I’m afraid I just can’t eat anymore. It was all too marvellous.”

  Van Weber addressed a flunky. “My compliments to the chef. Tell him he outdid himself.”

  The message was relayed to the chef, who spread the word to his staff and signalled for their own lunch to be served, an expensive beef Wellington complemented by imported hearts of artichoke and truffles. For Van Weber, fish, peas, mashed potatoes and salad constituted a banquet.

  “We’ll have coffee in the conservatory,” said Van Weber over his shoulder as he conducted Mrs. Parker from the dining room. The walls in the hallway leading to the conservatory were decorated with paintings by the modernists. Mrs. Parker recognized Picasso, Utrillo, Modigliani and Sargent.

  “These must be very heavily insured.”

  Van Weber shrugged. “There isn’t a thief that could penetrate the estate.” Mrs. Parker innocently wondered why not, having noticed the absence of moat and drawbridge. Then she recognized what had been hiding in the back of her mind. The dozens in help were all men. There were no maids, no sign of a housekeeper. This isn’t an estate
, it’s a stronghold. “What are you thinking?” he asked her, as they made themselves comfortable in the conservatory where there was a bar and a stunning view of Long Island Sound.

  “I’m thinking you have to be a multimillionaire to lay claim to a spread like this.”

  “Would you like a brandy?”

  “No, thanks. I don’t think I can handle one right now.”

  “Do you mind if I have one?”

  “Please go right ahead.”

  She watched his catlike move to the bar where he poured the brandy and soon returned to the seat next to her.

  “You’re very beautiful, Mrs. Parker.

  “Have another brandy.”

  He smiled. “I wanted to spend the night with you last night.”

  “But you didn’t, did you?” She was nervous and feeling teenage-ish and twittery. He had taken her by surprise and was moving too fast for her. It was too soon after eating for romance. Give a girl’s stomach a chance to settle; don’t get it churning with unexpected emotions.

  “I want you, Mrs. Parker.”

  “Oh.”

  They were in each other’s arms, and he was kissing her passionately. Gone was the hummingbird; enter a bird of paradise.

  “You haven’t seen the bedrooms,” he whispered. “I want to show you the bedrooms.”

  “I just adore bedrooms.” Her voice was hoarse, and her j feet were liquifying. This is it, she thought, her brain spinning; this is what it means to be swept off one’s feet. It’s | never happened before and it’s wonderful. She didn’t remember being guided upstairs across plush carpets and past more paintings and expensive portieres and an arras that he said once hung at the Palace of Trianon. Now they were in the master bedroom, and he was undressing her while peppering her with exquisite little kisses. Then he undressed himself, Apollo revealed, and joined her on the bed, and oh, thought Mrs. Parker, isn’t this better than dessert?

  It had taken Woollcott another hour to pull himself together before joining Kaufman at the Algonquin for lunch. He remained at his desk compiling voluminous notes on the murders. He jotted down reminders to himself, reminders to ask Jacob Singer questions about the man in the elevator I with Vera DeLee, first at Horathy’s and then at her apartment hotel. He wrote down what he suspected was George Raft’s almost slip of the tongue, Denn … Denn what? Denn who? He studied Lily Robson’s name, which he had neatly lettered, and wondered if she was of any consequence to this case or just a nuisance of a red herring. On the next line was lettered Charlotte Royce’s name. He didn’t like her. He didn’t like her one bit. But she couldn’t be discounted. Not yet. After lunch he planned to be in touch with Singer and suggest a meeting to share in discussing and digesting his notes. Ah, Jacob Singer, the son I might have had. Who would have lain still long enough to be the mother? Woollcott sighed his special Woollcott sigh, the one reserved for foolish fantasies, and he entertained so many of them of late. It was time to leave to meet Kaufman.

  * * *

  “What’s that you’re reading?” Al Cassidy asked as he stirred sugar into his container of coffee.

  “Lab report,” replied Jacob Singer.

  “What on?”

  “A pill.” Cassidy looked up with interest. “A pill Mrs. Parker thought might have been intended to poison Lily Robson.”

  “Well, is it poisonous?”

  “It’s not only not poisonous, it’s absolutely harmless, useless, a placebo. But Robson took violently ill last night after swallowing one of these things. She was having dinner with Lacey Van Weber.”

  “Then it must have been plain old food poisoning. In this hot weather and the lousy refrigeration in most of the kitchens in these restaurants, I’m always expecting to get hit by some bug.”

  “Cassidy, you’re such a fatalist.”

  “What else can you be when you’re a cop?”

  “I wonder how Parker’s doing out there on the island with Van Weber?”

  Mrs. Parker seemed to be doing just fine. They had had a refreshing swim in the pool, Mrs. Parker finding a lovely selection of bathing costumes in one of the pool houses. Then he drove her around the estate, overwhelming her with its lavishness, his mouth moving while her heart sang. She would one day remember his lovemaking as a Beethoven symphony compared to the ragtime renditions of her other lovers. They reached a fork in the road, and he seemed confused. Mrs. Parker wondered, Not all that familiar with your own bailiwick, Mr. Van Weber? He made a right turn, and they soon entered what looked like a compound within the compound, a huge stone structure topped by a slate chimney from which smoke poured forth. Two men came running out of the structure toward the car. “It’s all right, boys. It’s me. I took a wrong turning!” The men watched as Van Weber backed the vehicle out of the compound. Mrs. Parker suppressed a shudder. One man had an ugly scar on his right cheek running from his ear to his mouth. The other was missing part of his right ear and seemed to be having trouble with ill-fitted false teeth.

  Mrs. Parker reminded herself she was supposed to be gleaning information. “What goes on in that building?”

  “Oh, that? We do some agricultural testing there. I’ve acres of land lying fallow, and we’re thinking of planting them with crops.”

  “You have partners?”

  “What do you mean?” he asked sharply.

  “You said, ‘we’re thinking of planting them.’”

  “Oh, that. That’s the royal ‘we.’”

  “Of course. The Graphic article said it was believed you were brought up in England.”

  “Like I said, I’ve travelled the globe. How’s for a spin in Jenny?”

  Shit, thought Mrs. Parker, I hoped he’d have forgotten about that. “I’m not very good about heights,” she warned. “I get very sick if I go too high up. That’s why I’m on the third floor of my building. They offered me a studio on the top floor, but I was having none of that and made it clear to them I wanted to be on one of the lower floors and …” Van Weber interrupted her. “Mrs. Parker, you’re babbling.”

  In a Childs restaurant just off Columbus Circle, Marc Connelly was gently holding Lily Robson’s left hand. With her right, she was attacking a pile of pancakes drenched in maple syrup and sopping in a yellow lake of butter. Her eyes were slightly damp, and she was frightened, but it would take more than fear to curtail her appetite. She had violently lost her dinner the night before, and this was breakfast. She had awakened perspiring with the fear that she might have been poisoned, as hinted at by Mrs. Parker, which was followed by a cryptic phone call from Charlotte Royce telling her to keep her lips buttoned should that Parker snoop and her boyfriend Woollcott come sniffing around for information.

  “But what do I know?” wailed Lily between mouthfuls of pancake.

  “I don’t know, dear,” said Connelly with sympathy. “At least I don’t know what you might know that would interest Dottie and Alec.” The fools, he thought, what could they be up to now? Come to think of it, why had they really dropped in on him unexpectedly two days ago? What were they going on about? That party at Lacey Van Weber’s, Valentino’s illness, and what the hell was it all about? “Are you working tonight?”

  “No, I phoned Tex before I came here to meet you. The joint’s a wreck. It’ll take the cops a couple of days at least before she can reopen.”

  “The cops?” Connelly was utterly bewildered.

  “It’s just too complex to explain, Mr. Connelly. I ought to go back to Youngstown and marry a miner or something. This town’s getting too much for me.”

  Connelly sighed. “It’s getting too much for a lot of us.” He relinquished her hand. “How’s the pancakes?”

  “They’re okay.” Her voice was listless, in direct contradiction to her attitude.

  “How would you like to come to a party with me tonight?”

  She brightened visibly. “Whose party?”

  “A good friend of mine. Neysa McMein. She’s made a bathtub of gin and invited a whole gang of us over tonight.”
r />   “Oh, yeah? Who is she?”

  “Neysa’s a very talented artist. She does illustrations for the better magazines.”

  “And she makes bathtub gin?”

  “Absolutely superb bathtub gin. Her own recipe. She’s also a numerologist.”

  “No kidding? Well, how about her?”

  “And on the seventh day,” added Connelly wearily, ‘she rests.”

  The Jenny was soaring over Long Island Sound. Van Weber had outfitted Mrs. Parker and himself with flying goggles and then strapped her safely into her seat. She continued to protest until after the take-off, and now she sank I lower into her seat, the rear cockpit, while Van Weber I gracefully maneuvered the craft. Briefly, she risked looking over the side and immediately cowered back at the sight of I the water hundreds of feet below.

  “Isn’t this exciting?” she heard him shout. She opened her mouth to reply, but no sound emerged. “Hold tight! I’m going to do a barrel roll!” What in God’s name is a barrel roll, she wondered as the plane revolved like a barrel. She found her voice and shrieked. She heard him laughing and thought to herself. The sadistic brute! “Hold on for a loop the loop!” The loop the loop was no improvement on the barrel roll.

  Mrs. Parker was frightened. She knew she was safely I strapped in, and yet, she’d been strapped in by Van Weber, not by herself. She tugged at the straps, and they held. Would a man do this to a woman? Lay her and then dump her out of an airplane? Maybe in a Cecil B. DeMille extravaganza but certainly not out here over the Long Island Sound. Take me down, she prayed, take me down. This isn’t why I want to remember this afternoon; this isn’t a side of you I want to know.

  But I have to know. That’s why I’m here. I have to get to the bottom of you, Mr. Van Weber, if you’ll pardon the expression.

  He was turning around in the front cockpit and smiling at her.

  “Wheeeeeee!” yelled Mrs. Parker and then gratefully felt the craft descending.

  “I have to be back in New York by six,” insisted Mrs. Parker. She and Van Weber were having tea in the patio behind the house.

  “Something special?” asked Van Weber.

  “I promised to meet a friend of mine and then,” she suddenly remembered, “there’s Neysa’s party.”