by Nero Blanc
“What choice do we have, Rosco?”
“Just say no?”
“Very amusing.”
“I’m serious, Belle.”
She stared at him in befuddled surprise.
“Look,” he continued, “if you’re correct about the ‘accidents’ on the set of Anatomy being arranged … and that someone had every intention of using the live ammo … then it stands to reason that there’s a dangerous person on the loose.”
“Exactly,” was Belle’s blithe response. “Which is why you’re going to start investigating the folks at Anatomy first thing tomorrow morning, and why I’m driving to Burbank to watch the taping of Down & Across tonight.”
Rosco’s jaw tightened in frustration. “Belle, the name Harriet appears in the crossword. If you’re correct about the puzzle being connected to Darlessen’s death, what makes you think she’s not involved? What makes you think she didn’t shoot Chick?”
“She’s a little old lady in orthopedic shoes, Rosco! And don’t start telling me women like her are the most untrustworthy kind. Look at Sara.”
“If you ever suggested that Newcastle’s grande dame get fitted for orthopedic shoes, you’d be the next murder victim.”
CHAPTER 27
Luck was on Belle’s side. She located McKenet Studios without a hitch, and when she reached the Down & Across soundstage, tickets for that night’s filming were still available. And the best part was that Harriet Tammalong was already mingling with the crowd inside. Immediately upon entering the studio, Belle saw the diminutive septuagenarian’s white-pink hair and the carefully chosen and accessorized floral pants outfit, which seemed to be the older woman’s stock in trade. It was as though a special spotlight had been aimed at Harriet and her gold-toned hoop earrings. The only jarring note was that Rolly Hoddal, the toupee-toting stand-up comic stood beside her, bending down in a private conversation that, at a distance, appeared almost conspiratorial. His pose was made more curious and awkward by his obvious difficulty at maintaining an upright and respectable posture.
Belle noticed Harriet’s lips were drawn into a tight and unhappy line. The impression she gave, right down to the disapproving wrinkling of her nose, was that of wishing she were elsewhere. Then she glanced up the aisle, noticed her “niece,” and trilled a joyous “Gale!,” while Matthew, the stage manager, conducted Belle toward her “aunt.”
“I’m just pleased as punch to see you again! And so very soon. Did that hubby of yours desert you and stay up in Minnesota longer than planned?”
Minnesota? Belle thought. It took her a second to recall the lie about Rosco being off on a fishing trip that she’d begun and that Harriet had then liberally embellished.
“Yup,” Belle responded with the biggest grin she could muster. If words failed, sometimes the appearance of enthusiasm and goodwill served as an excellent substitute.
“Rolly, you haven’t met my niece Gale Harmble, yet … She was here last week … her first time visiting Down & Across. She thought you were an absolute stitch in your warm-up act.” Harriet smiled convivially while Belle caught her breath, curtailed the impulse to roll her eyes at the notion of the comedian being even remotely amusing, then decided to stop counting how many fibs she and the older lady had concocted between them.
Belle extended her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Hoddal.”
The comic’s rheumy eyes swiveled back toward Harriet. “I didn’t know you had a niece. The only relative I’ve heard you mention is—”
“The things you don’t know, Rolly, would fill The Encyclopaedia Britannica … Gale’s from out of state … She’s my sister’s kid. She doesn’t visit me near enough, do you Gale?”
Hoddal’s gaze swept over Belle before returning to the older woman. “Gotta go. It’s almost showtime, and Gerry’s gonna be parading down the aisle before you know it … He doesn’t like it if I mingle with the audience … Remember what I said, Harriet.”
“Rolly, hon … words to the wise … Whatever, well, substance you’re enjoying … I don’t think it’s helping you think straight—”
“Mark my words. There’s trouble up there in heaven. I know what I heard.” Rolly did an about-face while Harriet sighed, shook her head, and began leading the way toward her customary seat.
“I hope I didn’t interrupt anything,” Belle offered.
Harriet turned to face her, a sympathetic smile spreading over her creased and powdery cheeks. “Poor Rolly. You know those drugs can do terrible things to people’s brains … make them invent weird stories and such … imagine folks around them are up to no good. It makes them paranoid, that’s what I think. It’s terrible, isn’t it, what people will do to their bodies? And willingly, too! I tell you, Gale, the whole world’s gonna go to hell in a handbasket if people keep sniffing and smoking that awful stuff.” Harriet sat and patted the chair beside her. “I’m sure Matthew intended this for you.” No further mention of Rolly Hoddal and his problems were made. “Now, I seem to remember you telling me you were only able to visit L.A. for a few days. Did you extend your stay?” Harriet’s birdlike hand touched Belle’s arm, and her tone turned concerned and worried. “I don’t mean to pry, but I hope that doesn’t indicate difficulties on the marital front.”
From her third-row seat, Belle watched other members of the studio audience find their places while, on the stage, cameras were repositioned, lighting levels adjusted, and sound booms moved. As she gazed at the activity, Belle thought, and her deliberations turned to one Gale Harmble. The alias had been hastily chosen and insufficiently fleshed out. It was a name and nothing more, and the fact was causing problems—allowing Harriet to invent whatever story she chose while “Gale” was left playing catch-up. It was time, Belle decided, to take control. Given the current circumstances and what she hoped the evening might reveal, a better and bigger lie seemed called for. “I’ve got a confession to make, Harriet.”
“Oh, dear … and I was so hoping you weren’t having man troubles … It’s never a good sign when husbands go off on vacations by themselves. And I should know, considering all the times I’ve been hitched. And ice fishing? What do you think really goes on in those little houses they roll out there on those frozen lakes—?”
“It’s not about my husband. It’s about me. I’m not exactly who I said I was.”
Harriet turned a stricken face toward Belle. “You’re not Gale Harmble?”
“Well, yes … Of course, I’m Gale … It’s just that … well, I’m here on assignment … undercover, in a way. I’m … I’m doing a feature-length magazine article on America’s fascination with crossword puzzles.”
“Oh my.”
“But I didn’t want to tell you when we first met because I needed to have an unbiased view from a long-time fan of Down & Across.”
Harriet eyed her companion. “You mean you singled me out on the studio bus?”
“No … that was pure luck, Harriet. Or maybe I sat beside you because you have such an honest face. However it happened, you were obviously the perfect person to give me a ‘regular’s’ view of the show.”
The older woman frowned. “So, you weren’t telling the truth when you said you’d never seen Down & Across before?”
Belle shook her head. “I’ve been researching it—and the contestants and studio audience—for a some time now.”
“And you aren’t married? Because I have a nephew, a very charming—”
“Yes. I’m married. Sorry.”
“Well, my goodness,” Harriet clucked. “You certainly did a good job of pretending you knew nothing about Gerry or the others when you were here before.” There was a sound of hurt in the older woman’s voice, prompting Belle.
“I apologize for the ruse, Harriet, but I needed to—”
“Were you taping me on one of those ‘lipstick’ cameras?”
“‘Lipstick’?”
“I saw a TV special—an expose, really—on women reporters who go undercover. They’re equipped with cameras a
s small as lipstick wands. Sometimes, the gals hide them in little handbags or sew them into their shirts or jackets.”
Belle pursed her lips in consternation. Ace journalist Gale Harmble was proving as problematic a piece of fiction as Gale Harmble, out-of-town hick. “Did you know that more than forty million Americans do the crossword every day?” she offered in reply. The technique was one of Rosco’s—pull out a list of facts when an investigation turns sticky. “Making those forty million plus lexicographomaniacal—crazy about crosswords.”
“I never heard that term before,” Harriet admitted. Her tone indicated a good deal of surprise.
“I’m considering entitling the story ‘Exercise Your Hippocampus: Use It or Lose It.’”
“Hippocampus,” Harriet repeated. “There’s a new one on me, too.”
Belle decided that “Gale” was out of the woods. “You mentioned Bartann Welner when I was here before.”
“But you must already know all about him, dearie. With your prior research on word games and everything.”
No, Belle realized, Gale’s not in the clear yet. “I’d like to hear his story from you, Harriet, as the most regular of the regulars at Down & Across.”
“Am I going to be in your article, too?”
Belle smiled. “Of course, if you wish to be. Or I can always cite you as one who spoke on condition of anonymity.”
“Well, I don’t know … Sometimes, fame has a funny way of courting disaster, doesn’t it? Just look at what happened to poor Bart … Not that his death could be connected to being a Grand-Slam Winner, despite my little jest about Stan McKenet doing him in … Still, it does give you pause.”
Belle was silent a moment. “I hope you’re not seriously suggesting that Bartann Welner might have met with foul play?”
Harriet’s brow creased. “Now, that’s just an awful notion. I hadn’t considered it seriously before. That would make two in one family—”
“Two?” Belle asked.
“Why, his nephew, Chick Darlessen. You must have read about it in the newspapers after you got here. It happened Sunday. His live-in girlfriend shot him, in a beach house in Malibu.”
Belle’s surprise at this revelation was so great that she could hardly keep her voice steady. “Chick Darlessen was Bartann Welner’s nephew?”
Harriet nodded, then tapped Belle’s arm again. “The relationship wasn’t mentioned in the obits.” The old lady’s frown deepened. “… Come to think of it, Gale, you probably know all about the film Chick was working on, on account of it being based on a true murder that was solved by clues planted in a crossword. I heard that famous puzzle gal is involved—”
“Yes,” Belle interrupted. “I’ll be visiting that set later this week.”
Harriet studied her companion; her stare was disconcertingly probing. Belle felt it was time to add to her already gargantuan fib. “Due to the homicide, my editor and I had difficulties arranging interviews. Needless to say, the cast and crew were completely thrown off schedule by the tragedy … And, yes, I’ve been aware of the film’s story line for some time. In fact, it was the coincidence of crosswords being featured in both a movie of the week and a game show that prompted my assignment. Crosswords and those devoted to them are obviously ‘hot’ all of a sudden.”
Harriet continued to stare at Belle, who, in turn, continued to warn herself that the journalist “Gale Harmble” would be a complete professional during her various interviews, of which this was surely one. Belle pasted on what she hoped looked like a newsperson’s encouraging but practical smile. “Does the name ‘Wanda’ mean anything to you, Harriet?”
“You mean Wanda Jorcrof?”
“Yes,” Belle lied.
Harriet sighed. “That’s just who Rolly Hoddal was jawing about when you came in. He claims—” Then the words abruptly ceased, and her lips pinched together in a sad and worried line.
“‘He claims’?” Belle prompted, increasing the ‘trust-me’ wattage in her wholesome face.
“I told you Rolly’s into drugs, and whatever else he can find at a given moment. I’ve learned not to pay attention to his rantings. Wanda was a contestant on the show. A good contestant, too.”
A noisy commotion at the back of the studio indicated that Gerry Orso was about to begin his promenade through the audience. Belle took an inward breath, and plunged ahead before she lost her momentum. “What about a Max? What can you tell me about him?”
Harriet’s eyes narrowed. “Max?” she repeated.
“That’s right. My sources tell me there was a Max who also appeared on the show—”
“I never heard of any Max,” Harriet insisted. Then she turned away and began hollering Gerry Orso’s name.
CHAPTER 28
The worst traffic in the world is in Boston, right? Rosco thought, then let out a aggrieved chuckle and shook his head as he reconsidered that foolhardy notion. How could I have been so naive? Boston worse than L.A., or midtown Manhattan at lunch hour, or any “shore” location on a sunny summer weekend? Heck, I might as well have said the outskirts of Newcastle have serious “vehicular issues.” He stared at the 110 Freeway’s five lanes of traffic. The morning rush had the cars lined up bumper to bumper like a parking lot at a World Series game. And not one of the vehicles had moved from their resting spot for the past eleven minutes, but who was counting? I mean, what’s the point of renting a Mustang? he continued to grouse. I could be moving faster on a tricycle—a rusted tricycle without tires.
Rosco’s intention, after completing his interview with Debra Marcollo, had been to take the 110 to the number 10 Freeway and be at the studio in Culver City by 9:30, well before Belle arrived with Sara. Well, fat chance. Forget it. The hour had come and gone a lot longer than eleven minutes ago.
While Rosco balefully studied the semis, pickups, SUVs, luxury sedans, low-riders, and ordinary four-wheels-as-simple-transportation within his field of vision, he reflected on the Marcollo visit. He’d spent nearly an hour with her in the Los Angeles County Jail on Bauchet Street, and although their conversation hadn’t shed much new light on who might have killed Chick Darlessen, Rosco was surprised at how calm and reasonable she’d appeared. Jillian Mawbry had painted her as potentially problematic, but Rosco’s impression had been quite different. Perhaps three days in the cooler had given her time to reflect on things, or at least to get her act together.
Naturally, like everyone else incarcerated in the L.A. County Jail, she’d insisted she was innocent of all charges, and did a credible job of maintaining that the off-duty lifeguard had completely misinterpreted her when she’d sobbed, “I don’t know why I did it.” She’d also stated that the Malibu police had browbeaten her into making other remarks she hadn’t intended—or that had then been taken out of context. Finally, she’d proceeded to run down a list of folks who’d had strained relationships with Darlessen: from Lance diRusa, her ex-boyfriend to Dan Millray, of all people. No one had been left out of the act.
Debra had also insisted—vehemently—that she’d been sound asleep when Chick had been killed, and that it was only the explosion of gunshots that had awakened her. She’d explained that Chick had deserted her for some of his Pacific Palisades buddies, and that in his absence, she’d polished off a bottle of wine, “maybe a little more”, then locked herself in the bungalow’s single bedroom where she’d fallen into a self-pitying and irate slumber. When the noise had assailed her troubled dreams, she hadn’t been able to identify it at first. Then she’d grabbed her robe, rushed into Chick’s office where she’d seen him lying in a pool of blood with the gun resting on the desk. Her only thought had been to escape from a murderer who she’d assumed was still lurking somewhere in the house. Debra had further described an incident with a prowler a few days earlier, which had been the motive for Chick supplying some rudimentary target practice, thus establishing her fingerprints on the pistol.
A lot of the tale sounded awfully convenient to Rosco, but all in all, he was inclined to believe D
ebra’s story. For that reason alone, he considered his visit to the county jail to be worthwhile. But what seemed to clinch her protestation of innocence was this: Debra had maintained that Darlessen had opened a brand-new box of .38 caliber shells when he’d taken her down to the ocean for their practice session. He’d fired off a full cylinder and so had Debra, twelve rounds in all. The police report stated that five bullets had been retrieved from Chick’s body, and one from the wall of his office, bringing the count to eighteen—which should have left another eighteen shells remaining in the box of thirty-six. However, the report also indicated that the forensic team found only twelve shells in the box. So if Debra was telling the truth about how much ammunition had been expended into the Malibu surf, then six .38 caliber shells were missing, a number that just happened to coincide with the amount found in Andy Hofren’s prop gun.
A man in a large Mercedes-Benz, directly behind the Mustang, began leaning on the car’s horn. The shrill noise cut into Rosco’s eardrums and brought his mind leapfrogging back to the here and now. The traffic remained at a dead stop, and the piercing sound of the horn was having less than no effect on improving traffic flow. Surprise, surprise. However that didn’t keep Mr. Impatient from continuing to express his dissatisfaction with the fact that life wasn’t treating him with the appropriate deference and homage he expected, given the sticker price of his automobile.
Rosco stepped from the Mustang and walked back to the Mercedes.
“Would you mind not doing that? You’re giving me a headache.”
“You tell him, Pancho!” a squat and broad-shouldered man in a nearby Toyota shouted, and then laughed. “Give ’im hell!”
The Mercedes’ driver reached under his seat and pulled out a .357 Magnum. It was a huge gun. “You want a headache? I’ll give you a headache. Get back in that piece of junk Ford, you jerk.”
Instinctively, Rosco raised his hands and took a couple of steps backward while a tall Hispanic man stepped from a pickup truck directly behind the Mercedes and ambled toward the open window. He noticed the driver was pointing a pistol at Rosco, so he eased his grass-stained canvas work vest away from his hip to reveal his own revolver and a gold LAPD detective’s shield.