It Happened One Knife

by JEFFREY COHEN

  “Precisely.” Dutton didn’t say, “Precisely, Holmes,” but he could have.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” I asked. “People have been accusing me of being too blasé about this. I’d like to at least look like I’m doing something.”

  Dutton’s brows lowered, which I took to be a sign that he was thinking, or trying to determine how to get the rest of my doughnut out of my hand. “There’s really nothing I can think of,” he said.

  That was, actually, the answer I was hoping for. I smiled. “Good enough,” I told him. “Now, about this murder in Hollywood . . .”

  “Okay, okay,” Dutton said, as if I’d been browbeating him. “You can question Anthony’s roommate, Danton, or your ex-wife.”

  That was, actually, not the answer I’d been hoping for. “Sharon?” I said. “Why do you think Sharon stole the film?”

  “I don’t, or I wouldn’t be suggesting it to you,” Chief Dutton said. “We’ve already talked to both of them, and you could never say publicly that I even suggested you walk by their houses. But if it’ll make you happy to show Anthony you’re doing something, this will create that appearance. ”

  “I really would rather look into the murder . . .”

  “You can go to any library you like and look up the press clippings from 1958,” Dutton said with real gravity in his voice. “I’ll bet there’s stuff you can Google. But you won’t get one hint of cooperation from me or any of my officers.”

  I figured I’d send up a trial balloon. “Do you think Anthony’s girlfriend, Carla, took the movie, to keep him from moving to Hollywood and out of her life?” I asked.

  Dutton shrugged. He wasn’t giving anything else away.

  I sat and looked at him for a moment, then sipped my coffee. If that was the way he was going to be about it . . . “Danton,” I said. “Is that his first name, or his last name?”

  “You’re the sleuth,” Chief Dutton said. “Go find out.”

  9

  SINCE Dutton had been adamant about my not persevering with the Vivian Reynolds investigation, I decided to concentrate on that. It wasn’t that I didn’t respect him; I do. But I’m a contrary cuss, and I generally do what people tell me not to do. I didn’t say it was rational.

  I rode my bike back to the town house and got right on the phone to Sergeant Margaret Vidal of the Camden Police Department’s homicide division.

  I’d partially financed Comedy Tonight with the money I’d made selling my first (and only) novel, Woman at Risk, to a Hollywood production company. The producers promptly changed everything except the color of the police officers’ uniforms and made a movie called Split Personality , which resembled the book in that all the people had feet and hands, and things like that.

  But in researching the novel, I had spent a good deal of time with the Camden homicide detectives, chiefly (because no one else wanted to talk to the idiot writer) Meg Vidal. She and I had gotten close but not intimate for a short period of time, and then not, as soon as the book was written. But now when I called her, she still answered the phone, and I appreciated that.

  “Elliot Freed. Don’t tell me: you’re working on a new book.”

  “As a matter of fact, I am,” I lied. “But not a novel. I’m writing about a murder that took place in Bel Air, California, in 1958. I got some stuff off the Internet, but I don’t know anybody out there except the perpetrators of that movie they made from my book, and let’s just say I’m not on their speed dial. Who can I call?”

  “You once told me that if you called and said you were writing another book, I should come up and shoot you,” Meg reminded me.

  “I said another novel,” I told her. “This is nonfiction. I’m just reporting the facts.”

  “I thought you owned a movie theatre.”

  “A man can’t have a hobby?”

  “Elliot.” Meg’s voice sounded less than enthralled. “You’re lying to me.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “I’m a trained investigator,” she said. “And you’re a really bad liar. What’s really going on?”

  I explained the situation and told Meg I’d like to do some research into Vivian Reynolds’s death. “I really don’t see how I could screw up an investigation that was closed in the last century,” I told her.

  “Neither do I, but I’m sure you’ll find a way,” she answered. “Still, I can put you in touch with a guy who was on the LAPD then. Friend of my dad’s. You give him a call, and tell him Magpie said hello.”

  “Magpie?”

  “You want help, or not?”

  She gave me the name of her father’s friend, we got up-to-date on the sorry state of our lives, and I hung up. Maybe someday I’ll actually be in a room with Meg again; she’s good people.

  Talking to Meg had bolstered my resolve. Vivian Reynolds was calling to me; I had to discover the truth about her death. It was back to the World Wide Web.

  Research has never been my specialty, but I’m fascinated by the amount of information—true and otherwise— available through search engines these days. I spent three hours moving from site to site, gathering bits of data here and there, finding things I knew were completely incorrect (Peace and Quiet was not filmed at the Sarasota racetrack— they actually went to Santa Anita because it was cheaper), discounting some sites, and moving on to others. Most of the facts about Vivian Reynolds’s death were duplicated over and over again; there was little fluctuation, and in many cases, the same newspaper accounts and documents were cited on multiple pages.

  In other words, I wasn’t getting very far, and there was almost no hint that Les Townes might have had anything to do with his wife’s death; it certainly seemed like the fire was an accident.

  Until, tucked away on whokilledviv.com, I noticed a copy of a studio sign-in sheet from the day of the fire: on a full day of shooting, Les Townes had signed out from the Paramount lot at 1:30 p.m.—and didn’t return for eight weeks.

  He’d been off the soundstage, unaccounted for, at the time the fire started in his home. And according to the call sheet for Step This Way (also provided by the website), Townes was supposed to have been onstage for the entire afternoon, shooting scene 78, on “the dancing school” set. This excited me more than anything else on the Internet.

  There had never been a dancing school scene in Step This Way: was the scene shot and excised, or was it not filmed after Vivian’s death? Lillis, who was directing, would know. I was sure if I got in touch with him and asked . . .

  But perhaps that was beside the point.

  The fact was, Les Townes was not on the set when he was called for, and his whereabouts were not known at the time Vivian Reynolds died. Wouldn’t the cops have known all this stuff? It was enough to justify calling Meg’s police source, so I reached for the phone.

  But the doorbell rang, and stopped me in my tracks, assuming one can have tracks when sitting down and reaching for the telephone. My doorbell never rings; I don’t know that many people, and I almost never invite anyone to the town house. I’m still working on making it feel like someplace I want to be, let alone someplace other people would like to be.

  Mystified, I walked to the door. I’d have looked to see who was waiting on my doorstep, but the builder had neglected to equip me with either a peephole or a window near the door, which I assume means that the builder doesn’t care if I’m ambushed by a serial killer masquerading as a pizza delivery guy. That wouldn’t work anyway, because I always go to get my own pizza. New Brunswick is a town where you can walk to stuff.

  I decided to throw caution to the wind and open my front door, and there was Sharon, hand on one hip and an expression on her face that said there could be no arguing with her.

  “Gregory and I have separated,” she said. “Legally. I’m filing for divorce.”

  That was quite a step, and I was impressed. “Did he move out?” I asked.

  “No.” The tone was evasive. There was more to this than met the ear.

  I t
ried the obvious next tactic. “Did you move out?”

  “No.” Defiant this time. “If I move out, he can get the house.”

  “And if he moves out, you can,” I ventured.

  “That’s right.”

  “So you’ve separated, but you’re living in the same house. Do you want to come inside?” I gestured into the town house.

  She walked into the hallway. Sharon doesn’t love being in the town house—it makes her feel like her leaving me left me in a hollow, sad existence, which, let’s face it, is true—so she didn’t walk all the way in, but the rush of excitement from her news was driving her. Her voice was a half tone higher than usual, and she was talking fast. If it had been 1987 and I didn’t know her well, I’d have sworn she was using cocaine.

  “I have this sense of freedom I haven’t felt in a long time,” she said. “Not like I’ve thrown off a heavy weight, but more like I have all these possibilities. I’m not tied to Gregory anymore. I’m a free agent. Elliot! It’s like buying a new car. You can have your choice of any one you want.”

  “How romantic,” I noted.

  “Don’t knock it,” she said. “I was feeling this way when I met you the first time.”

  “Walk into the house,” I tried. “It doesn’t bite.”

  Sharon made a face at me and walked into the living room. She’d been here before, but not since I’d added the floor-to-ceiling shelves for the massive video collection I’d inherited, sort of, a while back. She stood, awed by its enormity.

  “I’m back in the dating pool, I guess,” she went on. Maybe the videos weren’t getting to her as much as I thought. “I’m available.”

  That sounded like far too good an opening for me to ignore. I’d been hoping for such a statement for a long time. I sucked in a deep breath.

  “Well then,” I said. “How about having dinner with me one night this week?”

  Sharon stopped and turned to make eye contact with me. She realized my invitation wasn’t simply for another let’s-be-pals lunch at C’est Moi! like we’d been doing for more than a year now. I was asking her on a date.

  It took a long moment, but then she said, “I’d love to.”

  10

  SUNDAY

  Cracked Ice (1956) and Time Traveler: The Story of

  Wendell Ludicke (last Friday)

  ON the bicycle ride to the theatre for an afternoon showing, I considered the size of the step I’d taken with Sharon. Most men have a best friend, someone with whom they discuss taking such a risk ahead of time, but I hadn’t known I was going to ask that question before it came out of my mouth, and besides, my best friend was the woman I was asking on a date.

  I supposed I could talk to my father about it, but that would have been remarkably weird.

  For the few of us who are divorced but not in the majority of ex-couples who would prefer to duel to the death rather than reconcile, there is always a lingering doubt: Maybe we could have stuck it out. Maybe we didn’t give the marriage enough of a chance.

  Maybe we still love each other.

  On my side, I knew how I felt. I’d loved Sharon when she was my girlfriend. I’d loved her when she was my wife. Even when she came home one night to tell me she preferred to be married to Gregory, I felt betrayed, hurt, and disoriented . . . but I loved her.

  Yesterday, she had seemed to offer me the chance to start again, to go back to the place we’d started and see if there was still ground to explore. And the moment she’d said it, the moment she’d held out the possibility that we could do exactly what I’d wanted to do for the two years we’d been living apart, I had jumped in and suggested a major step in a major direction.

  But had I pushed too hard, too soon? That would be my style, based on past experience. Sharon was in a strange emotional place right now, and I might be taking advantage of that.

  On the other hand, I couldn’t let some imaginary other guy, someone I hadn’t met, find out Sharon was back “on the market” and ask her out ahead of me. Call me old-fashioned, but I think the ex-husband has the first right of refusal on a newly separated ex-wife.

  Perhaps this was a rule no one had considered before.

  We’d made a tentative “date” to go out for dinner at somewhere other than C’est Moi! the following Thursday, a night that was usually slow at the theatre and when Sharon’s practice did not have late hours.

  That gave me four days to sort out in my mind whether this was a door opening wide to a second chance, or the offered embrace of a straitjacket just before they put you in the padded cell.

  Today, although we offered an early show of the new Will Ferrell comedy, business was slow. Six other theatres in the area were showing the same movie, and they had stadium seating, video games in the lobby, and larger newspaper ads than I did. I felt like I was starring in The Little Movie Theatre Around the Corner, and was being forced out of business by a heartless chain of movie houses—like, all the other ones.

  Normally, I’d be hovering over Anthony in the projection booth, but the icy breeze coming off his demeanor meant I’d have to put on an extra sweater, and I wasn’t in the mood. Jonathan was watching the house, such as it was, from the back of the auditorium, and Sophie, on the pretense of selling snacks, sat behind the counter reading The Feminine Mystique.

  There didn’t seem to be any need for my presence, so I retreated to my office. Standing outside the door was Carla Singelese, Anthony’s girlfriend, looking like a street urchin selling flowers. I said hello and invited her into the office. Carla looked surprised, but came in. She sat in the desk chair, so I stood.

  “Why aren’t you up in the booth with Anthony?” I asked.

  “I don’t like to distract him when he’s working,” Carla answered, staring at my Harpo Marx screen saver. “We’ll go out afterward, and he can wind down.” Anthony could make running a movie projector sound like a marathon event. Come to think of it, running my projector was enough to tire out the average triathlete.

  “So how are you and Anthony doing?” Why do people ask such stupid questions of vague acquaintances? I wouldn’t ask someone I knew well about their personal relationship to start a conversation. If I knew anyone well.

  “It’s been hard since . . . well, you know.” Carla looked away, and I wondered what the hell she was talking about.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Since what?”

  Carla looked astonished. “Since you took his movie,” she said.

  I shook my head, trying to loosen the cobwebs. “I didn’t take anything, Carla. I don’t know why Anthony thinks that, but I didn’t steal Killin’ Time.”

  Her mouth opened. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure,” I answered. “I was there when I didn’t do it. In fact, I sort of thought you might be trying to separate Anthony from the rival for his affections.”

  Carla stood up in a blatantly melodramatic gesture she’d probably seen in an old Jean Arthur movie that Anthony had forced her to watch. “Me? Why would I want to do that?”

  “Because if Anthony starts a Hollywood career now, he might not take you with him,” I suggested.

  “Of course he would,” Carla said, defiance in her eyes. “Anthony loves me.”

  “I’m sure he does. But success does funny things to people. If you thought . . .”

  “Well, I didn’t think,” Carla cut me off. “I wouldn’t ever get in the way of Anthony’s film career, Mr. Freed, and I’m sorry you think I would.” She started for the door, which isn’t a long walk, but it’s an awkward one if someone is in your way.

  “I’m sorry, Carla, I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just that I’m offended that everyone seems to simply assume I took Anthony’s movie, and I guess I took it out on you. Please forgive me.”

  Since I was actually being sincere, I was glad Carla stopped and considered, then smiled at me. “I understand,” she said. “You were using reverse psychology.”

  “I was?”

  “Sure. You wanted me to
know how it felt to be suspected, so you pretended to suspect me. Now I know what you’re going through.” Carla reached up and kissed me on the cheek. “Don’t worry, Mr. Freed. I’ll talk to Anthony for you.” And she squeezed past me and walked out into the lobby to talk to Sophie.

  Yeah, that was it.

  It took a while, but I regained my senses and found the piece of paper on which I’d written the phone number Meg Vidal had given me. I dialed carefully, as it was long distance, and our budget is, for lack of a better metaphor, stretched to the limit.

  I expected the voice that answered to be crusty. Ex-cops are supposed to be crusty, especially those who used to be big-city homicide detectives. But this voice was soft and patient, almost cozy. You wanted to crawl up inside it and wrap it around you.

  “Sergeant Robert Newman?” I asked, figuring this was his roommate, his manservant, or his nurse.

  “That’s who I used to be,” he answered. “And who exactly is this, calling me thirty years after I left the force?”

  I told him who I was, and dropped Meg’s name—and her father’s—early in my explanation. In fact, I dropped the “Magpie” reference, and got a chuckle from the other end. Sergeant Newman listened quietly, until I brought up the reason for my call.

  “I wasn’t the primary on the case,” he explained. “It was investigated by the fire department first, then the arson squad, but there was never any evidence that the fire had been set. It was electrical; started in a wall in the kitchen, if I recall correctly.”

  “If you recall correctly?” I marveled. “I wish I could remember something that happened to me last week as well as you remember what happened to you fifty years ago.”

  “So do I,” Newman said.

  “So there was nothing suspicious about the fire at all?” I asked. “Why did they call in Arson?”

  “I never found out,” Newman told me. “But I heard kind of behind the scenes that there’d been a tip. Somebody had seen the victim’s husband in the area of the house before the fire started.”

  I sat up a little bit in my chair. I’d have sat up a lot in my chair, but then, you’d have to know my chair; it’s just not possible. “Was it suspicious that Les Townes would be in the vicinity of his own house?” I asked Newman.