Nine Deadly Lives

by Livia J. Washburn

  “Even if what, Kay?”

  Kay bit her lip. “You’ve always looked after me, ever since Mom and Dad died; even after the accident! Now, it’s my turn to make it up, to take care of you. You can’t go back to that man. Please, think about it, Blanche.”

  Blanche leaned forward and squeezed her sister’s knee. “I haven’t thought about anything else for the past three days. I haven’t given Fitzroy my final answer yet. I told him I needed a fortnight to think about it.”

  She pursed her lips in thought, and then added, “I’m not sure that either of us have been very lucky with men, Kay.”

  Kay flushed. “Wh-whatever do you mean?”

  “It’s only the thought of leaving you alone with Fenton that has made me procrastinate.”

  3

  Fenton Carlyle arrived home at the weekend with news of his latest expedition and with news that he had arranged for his taxidermist in Nairobi to prepare a lion and the head of a black rhinoceros that he had shot.

  Kay was less than enthusiastic, much to his chagrin.

  “You used to admire my hunting prowess,” he said after downing two malt whiskies in rapid succession.

  “I…I do, Fenton, it is just that I prefer cats to be alive rather than dead.”

  “Like that damned Persian thing you suddenly acquired?” he asked, picking up one of the silk cushions and tossing it into a corner.

  “Alfonso is lovely. Why did you do that?”

  He ignored her question. “I can’t say I’m keen on the name. Why didn’t you give him an English or an American name? Where did you get him anyway?”

  “A fan gave him to me as a present!”

  “A fan? You mean an admirer, don’t you? Like the one that gave you that damned lynx coat that you are so fond of, even in the height of summer.”

  “I don’t care for your tone, Fenton. I’m going to check on Finlay. He had a bad cough, but Dr. Kennedy gave him a linctus to settle it down.” She glared at him. “You do remember that you have a son, don’t you? Or were you going to ask about him after you had dinner?”

  “My son?” he snapped at her. “That, I’m not sure about. I was hunting in Kenya for two months, remember.”

  He turned on his heel and stomped out of the room, almost knocking Blanche over as he did so.

  “Fenton, welcome home,” she said.

  “So, it’s your home now, is it?” he said over his shoulder. He snorted. “I’ll be back sometime.”

  He did not return until well after four o’clock in the morning, and he slept in one of the vacant rooms.

  o0o

  On the day before Blanche said she was going to talk to Fitzroy Fleming, her producer husband, the household was woken at seven o’clock in the morning by a scream from the nursery.

  Helen the maid found Finlay lying motionless in his cot, his face blue and his body as cold and stiff as marble.

  Doctor Kennedy was called and arrived just before the ambulance. He did what he could, but they all knew that it was hopeless.

  “I cannot tell you how sorry I am to tell you this,” he said at last. “Your son is dead.”

  “How the hell did it happen, Kennedy?” Fenton bristled.

  “I can’t be sure Colonel Carlyle. This is an unexpected death, so the coroner will have to decide. That means there will have to be an autopsy on your son, I am afraid.”

  “No!” wailed Kay, clasping hands over her face and slumping into a chair. “My baby! Finlay! No!”

  Blanche put a consoling arm about her sister’s shoulders. “We’ll get through this, Kay. We’ve gotten through everything else that this crummy life has thrown at us, and we’ll do so again. I’m here for you. I’ll always be here for you.”

  “Don’t be too sure about that!” snapped Fenton. “My son is dead, so maybe the cement that held this wall together has just gone.”

  Doctor Kennedy issued instructions to the ambulance crew.

  “We will have his body removed for the coroner, and as soon as I have news of the autopsy I will be in touch. I think it would be helpful if you would let me prescribe some sedatives for you all. I have some in my bag and I can leave them.”

  “Leave them for them,” Fenton said contemptuously. “I’m going to have a whisky. Maybe several!”

  o0o

  Hollywood Daily Citizen,

  August 16th 1927

  TRAGEDY AT THE DU MAURIER MANSION

  Kay du Maurier has had her share of drama, romance and high adventure in her life, as witnessed by the many motion pictures that she has appeared in for all of the main studios on both coasts. Yet, that is as nothing compared to the tragedy that befell her and her husband, the famous hunter and explorer Colonel Fenton Carlyle. Their infant son, Finlay Grenville Fenton was found dead yesterday morning.

  Our reporter discovered that an autopsy performed by the county medical examiner reported that the child had died from suffocation. There were cat hairs in the child’s mouth and upon its head, consistent with a cat having lain across the baby’s face, obstructing breathing and causing death by asphyxiation.

  4

  August 19th, 1927

  The funeral of Finlay Carlyle took place three days later at the Catholic Church of the Good Shepherd in Beverly Hills.

  It was intended to be a small, private affair with family and closest of friends, yet such was the public interest surrounding Kay du Maurier and the tragic death of her infant son that the church was surrounded by well-wishing fans who had come to share the star’s grief, as well as a crowd of newspaper reporters and photographers with flash cameras, who wanted to record the event for their respective publications.

  As ever, Blanche was on hand to support her younger sister and share her sorrow. Colonel Fenton was there also, yet by his bearing and the lack of physical contact between him and his wife, murmurs of suspicion started to hum around the throng.

  Attending Rudolph Valentino’s funeral had been the most emotional moment of Kay’s life up until then, which she had striven so hard to conceal from anyone. Yet it was as nothing compared with the funeral of her son.

  Of their son!

  Her grief, her tears and her utter desolation touched everyone who saw them. They even seemed to melt Fenton’s heart, and he reached out to her for the first time in days and squeezed her hand.

  “Our son…has gone!” Kay said from behind her veil, without looking at him.

  “He has gone!”

  She returned his squeeze, although he did not and could not realize that, in that moment, she was imagining that the hand she held belonged to another.

  Afterward, as they left the church they were deluged by a sea of people, who had to be pushed away for them to make it to the waiting Rolls Royce. Amid the popping flash bulbs, Kay realized that she had never felt so alone in all her life. And as she looked at Fenton, still holding her hand, she suddenly felt only one emotion for him–hate.

  She was sure that he sensed it, too, for he let her hand slip from his as he pulled open the door for her to get in.

  The crowd of people waved and collectively wished them well as the car pulled away, just as a car would in a Kay du Maurier adventure or melodrama. The hero and heroine would be driving off to seek comfort and solace from each other.

  But nothing could be further from the truth.

  o0o

  Doctor Roger Kennedy called on the afternoon of the funeral and again the following morning. Helen the maid let him in and rang through to alert Blanche that he had arrived. Blanche took him through to the dining room where Fenton and Kay were eating in stony silence at opposite ends of the long table. By the thunderous look on Fenton’s face and the moistness of Kay’s eyes it seemed clear that they had been in the middle of a heated row.

  “Damn it, Kennedy, give her something stronger, will you? She won’t eat and she can’t sleep.”

  “It is normal, Fenton,” Kay said, defensively.

  Fenton stood up and tossed his napkin on the unfinished plate o
f bacon and eggs. “Normal as hell. I’ll be in the billiard room when you’ve finished, Doctor.”

  Roger Kennedy stood back apace to let Fenton flounce out.

  “Is it true, Kay? Can’t you sleep?” he asked, as Blanche took a seat on the other side of the table and poured herself a cup of coffee.

  “I can’t eat, and my mind only sees Finlay,” Kay volunteered. “I…I don’t know what Fenton expects. I can’t just snap out of this with a fanfare of music. This isn’t a motion picture.”

  “Of course not, Kay. The thing is, that Fenton will be hurting just as much as you, and from my impression of him as a man of action, he wants everything to be fixed as quickly as possible. If it is not, then he gets irritable. I suspect that you are experiencing the backlash of that irritability.”

  “That is exactly my take on this, Roger,” said Blanche. “If Fenton can’t pull a trigger and get a result, he’s cross. He was planning to kill Alfonso, but the cat has just disappeared.”

  “Alfonso never killed Finlay,” Kay said quickly. “He wouldn’t. I know he wouldn’t. You yourself said that cats smothering babies is just a myth, Roger.”

  “I did, Kay, but–”

  “Please, don’t say another word on the matter. Alfonso is innocent; I know it and that is all that matters. But can you help us to feel less tense and help me to sleep?” Kay asked. “Those sedatives you gave us weren’t much help.”

  “They were just the mildest,” Roger said. “I’ll give you both much more potent ones.”

  He gave her the slightest of smiles as he opened his bag and drew out his prescription pad. “An odd stiff drink might have helped, if only the government hadn’t decreed that they were illegal.”

  o0o

  Kay had never had a great head for drink, so the18th amendment, which brought about the prohibition of alcohol across the nation, had never been much of a problem for her. She enjoyed the odd mint julep or cocktail with Blanche, but other than that, she had been happy enough without it. By contrast, Fenton had always enjoyed his drink, especially his malt whisky and, like virtually most of the affluent residents of Beverly Hills, he had no problem keeping his bar stocked.

  Over the next few days, the stronger sedatives that Doctor Kennedy prescribed for her only made Kay feel suppressed, numbed, and disconnected from reality; yet, they did nothing to stop the agony of grief. The malt whisky that her husband drank made her feel ill, while the mint juleps that she had previously enjoyed drinking with Blanche, did nothing. Gin sling cocktails, however, seemed to produce the slightest of salving effects, albeit never for long. The result was that over the following days, she started drinking a lot of them and virtually stopped eating anything at all.

  In this state of torpor she and Fenton got through the next few days, although with fairly minimal contact. It was left to Blanche to organize the running of the house, instructing the staff to give the grieving couple the distance that they needed.

  It was the late afternoon delivery of a packing crate from Fenton’s taxidermist in Nairobi that brought them out of their state of alcohol-fuelled denial.

  As he levered the lid off with a claw-tooth hammer and lifted out the heavy object from its padding of gutta-percha, he found himself laughing. Not just a chuckle, but a deep belly laughter that caused him to jack-knife in hysterical mirth.

  Sitting in the drawing room. Kay was drinking a gin sling and Blanche was drinking coffee.

  “It’s arrived!” he called from the hall as he clumped into the drawing room carrying the large object wrapped in a sheet. “You will both enjoy this,” he said, laying it down on a low coffee table.

  With a flourish, he grabbed a corner of the sheet and pulled it off to reveal a cat standing ready to pounce, as if frozen in time.

  Blanche mouthed an oath and Kay, after staring blearily at it for a moment dropped her glass, which shattered on the floor.

  “Clumsy!” Fenton sneered.

  “What…what is the meaning–?” Kay blurted out.

  “It’s a present, my love. You like cats, don’t you? This is a caracal that I shot on my last trip. You know, when I was away and you acquired that Persian cat…and when you were given that lynx coat.”

  “I prefer living animals, Fenton,” Kay said, standing and walking over to the bar to make a fresh drink. “I told you that.”

  “That coat isn’t living, though, is it?”

  She spun round. “What are you trying to say, Fenton?”

  “I’m saying that I don’t believe you. I don’t believe that a fan gave you that cat. And you never did tell me who gave you that coat.”

  Blanche stood up, ready to move between them. “Kay! Fenton, please, keep calm.”

  “Calm! I am bloody calm,” Fenton said. “But what have I to stay calm about? I’ve lost my son.”

  “I have, too,” Kay said with a sigh.

  “Who gave them to you?” he persisted.

  “Who gave me what?”

  “The cat and the coat. Who gave you them?”

  Kay shook her head, her eyes glassy from the alcohol. “I…don’t …remember.”

  “Then try! It can’t be difficult. That coat was worth a fortune. How many millionaire admirers do you have?”

  “I can’t remember! I don’t want to remember,” Kay cried, clutching her head. “Just–leave me alone.”

  “Leave you alone! That would be a delight. And do you know why? Because I loathe you. I don’t believe that child was mine. I think the father was your damned admirer–your lover!”

  He picked up the whisky glass that he had filled earlier, but his hand shook and his facial muscles tightened. Suddenly, he threw it at the bar where it smashed and showered Kay with the amber liquid.

  Blanche took a step toward him. “Fenton, you are not being reasonable. You are both getting too heated.”

  “Too heated am I? Well, tell me this: where is the cat now, and where is the lynx coat? I can’t find either of them.”

  “As for Alfonso, he’ll be keeping away from you,” Blanche said. “He…he senses that you don’t like him. As for the coat–I have no idea.”

  She looked across at Kay. “Have you put it somewhere, Kay? You haven’t been quite so focused lately, have you?”

  “No! I haven’t put it anywhere.” She glared at Fenton and then at Blanche. “One of you has taken it, haven’t you? Well, I want it back, and I want it right now.”

  She picked up the bell and rang it.

  Moments later, Helen the maid knocked and entered.

  “You rang, ma’am?”

  “Where is my lynx coat? I need it now.”

  “Now, ma’am? I...I am not sure where it is. It is not in your dressing room or in the cloakroom. I…I thought you must have–”

  Kay slapped both hands on the bar counter. “Never mind! It doesn’t matter! In fact, nothing matters any more except getting away from here. I need air. Get Thomas to get the Gold Bug out for me. I’m going for a spin–on my own!”

  Blanche protested, but Kay brushed her aside. “I have had enough, and don’t even try to stop me.”

  Fenton folded his arms and sank into an easy chair. “I wouldn’t dream of stopping you. You’re a woman who does whatever she wants.”

  Minutes later, the Kissel Gold Bug Speedster’s six cylinder engine roared into life and amid a crashing of gears, Kay du Maurier sped off into the twilight.

  o0o

  Hollywood Daily Citizen,

  August 26th, 1927

  KAY DU MAURIER KILLED IN TRAGIC ROAD ACCIDENT

  A week ago, the famous motion picture actress Kay du Maurier was coping with the sudden death of her baby son, Finlay Carlyle. For the young mother, it didn’t seem that matters could get worse. Now, tragedy has struck again and her husband, Colonel Fenton Carlyle, is left to grieve for not just a son, but his beloved wife, as well. Kay du Maurier drove her car into a boulder while driving on one of the snaking roads up in the Hollywood Hills. She died instantly.

  o0o


  Fenton started drinking in earnest when he returned from the mortuary, after identifying Kay’s body. Blanche tried to persuade him to stop, but he would brook no interference.

  “If you want to help, then drink with me. If you don’t, then just get lost!”

  Blanche poured herself a very weak mint julep and lit a cigarette. “I’ve lost my little sister and my nephew, too, Fenton. How much more can life take from us?”

  He drained his whisky and shook his head, wretchedly. After a moment:

  “It’s all my fault, Blanche. If I hadn’t been so dammed jealous, I wouldn’t have pushed her so hard. I think…I think she deliberately went out and drove into a rock. I pushed her into taking her own life.”

  “You can’t think that, Fenton. You mustn’t. Even if–”

  He looked up suddenly.

  “Even if what? What do you know that you aren’t telling me, Blanche?”

  “Nothing,” she said, hesitantly. “I don’t know anything at all except Kay was in love.”

  “Who with? Tell me, who with!” he demanded, his eyes wild.

  “She was in love only with you, Fenton.”

  He said nothing for a moment, then his head sank onto his chest and he sobbed.

  When he recovered a few moments later, he pointed to the stuffed caracal. “I goaded her with that thing. I was cross about that Persian cat that someone gave her.”

  As if being given a cue, there was a purring noise from the doorway and then Alfonso sauntered into the room, ignoring both Fenton and Blanche as he walked purposefully to the chaise longue, where he leaped up and then lay down on the silk cushions, as if nothing had happened.

  Fenton pointed a trembling finger at the cat, his bloodshot eyes widening in horror as his cheeks suffused with color.

  “That bloody thing caused all this, just as much as that darned lynx coat. It’s responsible for Kay’s death, just as much as it was probably guilty of murdering Finlay. We both know that he smothered Finlay.”

  “Fenton, we don’t know that at all. You need to be calm.”