“I remember that day all too well,” she said. “I knew poor Viv; I’d worked with them on Cracked Ice and a few of the others.” I suppressed the urge to ask about behind-the-scenes details of the Lillis and Townes films and managed to stay on subject. I asked Mrs. Mason why Townes hadn’t shown up for shooting that afternoon.
She sounded as if I must truly be demented. “But he did,” she said. “I was in the room when Les heard the news of the fire. He looked like someone had drained the blood out of his body, he was so white. All he wanted to know was ‘What about Viv? Is Viv okay?’ He left that minute to get to the house.”
What? Now Townes was at the studio after three in the afternoon? “But I saw a studio sign-out sheet that had him leaving long before the fire began,” I said.
“I don’t know anything about a sign-out sheet,” Mrs. Mason said with a firm tone. “I know Les was there waiting for the scene to be lit. We were playing cards in the commissary for hours.”
When I got off the phone with Mrs. Mason, I was stunned, but not entirely convinced. The story contradicted everything Marion Borello had told me; it didn’t seem possible Mrs. Mason was right. So I called one of the “secondary” names on Newman’s list, an arson cop who had not been on the force at the time of the fire (he was twenty years too young), but who, Newman said, had made a “hobby” of old Hollywood fire cases and would know this one as well.
I reached Martin Donnelly at his home in Mentor, Ohio, and he immediately owned up to being a former Los Angeles police lieutenant, now retired. It was amazing how many people left L.A. as soon as they could. Considering the number of people who are attracted to the place with celluloid fantasies (now being rapidly replaced with computer-generated digital fantasies), I guess things evened out.
“I won’t waste your time, Mr. Freed,” Donnelly said. “I spent six years looking over every report, every piece of evidence, every newspaper account. I’ve even looked at the Internet stuff. I can tell you one thing: nobody set that fire. It began as an electrical fire in the kitchen wall. What was criminal was the way that house was constructed, but you can’t blame anyone at the time for that; it was thirty years old then.”
“There weren’t any traces of kerosene, chemical fertilizer, no igniters on the scene?” I asked.
“Nothing. And they went over that place with a fine-tooth comb, I’m telling you. The Reynolds woman must have fallen asleep upstairs and by the time she woke up, it was too late to get out. No good escape route in that house, and she didn’t have a ladder to get down from the second story. No, she was trapped, no question. It’s even possible she died of carbon monoxide poisoning, and never woke up at all.”
“Was her neck broken?”
“Her neck? Hell, no. The skeleton, after it was removed, was determined to be in perfect condition. No breaks. Why, do you have evidence her neck was broken?” Donnelly sounded amazed.
“I guess not,” I said, and thanked him for his time.
For a long time, I sat there and stared. It was starting to look like Vivian Reynolds hadn’t been murdered after all.
34
ESTELLE Mason’s firm insistence about Les Townes’s presence on the soundstage when Vivian Reynolds died took a good deal of wind out of my sails, and there hadn’t been much more than a light breeze to begin with. If Townes had been at the studio, then he couldn’t have set the fire, nor could he have been seen taking his possessions out of the house before it began. Les Townes couldn’t have killed his wife.
And I couldn’t hang this one on Wilson Townes, either, as he’d been less than a year old at the time, and probably incapable of standing up, let alone strangling his mother and setting the house on fire before he managed to get out, put on adult clothing, and start hauling mementos out of the house. If his present-day physique were any indication, even at that age, Wilson might have been big enough, but not mature enough to do all that. I was only marginally sure he was mature enough now.
Besides, Donnelly’s information, which sounded awfully official and comprehensive, made it seem pretty clear that no one had murdered Vivian Reynolds—she’d just been a sad, unfortunate victim of bad luck. The smoke-screen (no pun intended) by the studio, if there had really been one, was probably just a hysterical response, an attempt to keep two bankable stars bankable.
Sophie walked by the office door, shoulders slumped, head down. If she’d been followed by an enormous cloud of dust, she could have been Pigpen from an old Peanuts cartoon. I decided against trying to wrest the source of her angst out of her, assuming it had something to do with her oppression by the Male Establishment, of which I was the most convenient symbol. I had enough women angry at me today.
That meant I couldn’t call Sharon; there’d be no point. And I couldn’t call Dad, because he’d ask me about Sharon and I’m incapable of lying to him successfully. So I called Chief Barry Dutton, because at least I could be cynical with him. Besides, I figured he’d probably be out of his office.
As with most other things that day, I was wrong. Dutton answered his phone, and I started with, “By the way, nice job on the missing film. Yup, you sure cleared that one up.”
“I’m sorry; are you trying to get sixty-two speeding tickets attached to your record?” Dutton asked.
“I don’t own a car.”
“What’s your point?”
“Chief, what are we going to do about Anthony’s movie? We knew where it was, and then . . .”
“And then the person who hid it there decided to move it on us. Or more specifically, on you. The security in your theatre is atrocious, isn’t it?” Dutton was getting back what I’d taken from his dignity.
“I can’t imagine how someone got up there without a key, twice,” I said. “And I’m sorry I made a wiseass remark.”
“You can’t help it; it’s deeply ingrained in your personality, ” Dutton answered. “But you need to think about when you left the key unattended, or put back into play the possibility that Anthony is doing this to himself.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” I told him, dismissing the notion. “Anthony wouldn’t do that in a million years. He’s too protective of that film, and besides, what evidence is there that he even has any insurance on the movie? My guess is that he’s being blackmailed, but that leads us right back to the idea that somebody has been in and out of my projection booth on a regular basis, and I don’t know how that could happen, either. There are only two keys, and Anthony never lets go of his.”
“Could one of his roommates have gotten hold of it?”
“I spoke to Danton, and he doesn’t have a motive,” I said. “I’ve never met the others. But they’d have to work pretty hard to swipe Anthony’s key to the projection booth, steal the movie, put the key back so that he wouldn’t miss it, and then do all that again a second time.”
“Couldn’t they just get the key copied while he was sleeping?”
“I guess it’s possible,” I said, “but that would mean that Anthony sleeps at night. I usually don’t send him home until after midnight, and I’m pretty sure he just stays up watching movies or playing video games until dawn. I think he only ever actually sleeps in class.”
“I see your point. Well, that leads us to your key,” Dutton said. “Do you always have it on your person?”
“Nah. It ruins the line of my jeans.”
“So did that pillow you had stuffed down the back of your pants the other day, and that didn’t seem to worry you. Where do you keep the projection booth key?” Dutton asked.
I figured there was no harm in telling the town’s top cop. “I have it on a hook in my office,” I said. “It’s not marked, and I lock the office when I’m not using it.”
“Always?”
“What do you mean, ‘always’?” I asked.
“If you get up to go to the bathroom or something, do you always lock the office door?”
I had to admit I didn’t, but added, “It’s unmarked, and you really have to know where to l
ook to find it.”
“Who would know?” Dutton said. “Consider everybody. ”
“Me,” I answered, more to myself than to him. “Anthony, but he already has a key. I guess Sophie, although she has no interest in knowing anything about the theatre that doesn’t take place at the snack bar.” I hesitated.
“What?” Dutton asked, hearing my reluctance.
“I don’t want to say it, but Sharon knows where I keep the key,” I said.
“Don’t be an idiot. Your ex-wife didn’t steal the film,” Dutton said. “She has no motive, and she’s too smart.”
“You couldn’t have told me that yesterday?”
“What about Jonathan?” asked Dutton. “Does he know where you keep the key?”
“He really hasn’t been around the theatre that long, but he might,” I told him. “Jonathan thinks the projection booth is where the Great Oz lives. But remember, he wasn’t working here back then.”
“Right,” Dutton agreed. “Besides, he doesn’t an obvious motive. Unless—could he be blackmailing Anthony?”
“Jonathan blackmailing Anthony?” It was too bizarre a concept. “Jonathan isn’t awake enough to blackmail somebody. ”
“You thought he was in cahoots with Les Townes to threaten you. He was awake enough for that.”
“At best, I think he could be tricked into it,” I said. “And by the way, ‘cahoots’? What kind of cop are you?”
“You should know by now.”
“I withdraw the question. What about Carla?”
“Carla Singelese?” Dutton asked. “We questioned her, and she couldn’t really come up with an alibi for when the film was taken, but then, we don’t actually know when the film was taken, do we?”
“So what do you think I should do?” I asked him.
“Start locking your door when you leave the office,” Dutton said. “Hang on, I have a call on another line. I’ll be right back.” And there was a click on the line.
I looked around my office, and specifically at the key on the wall (try not looking at something you’ve discussed at length when it’s in the room), as Anthony skulked by, rethought his disposition, walked back into my doorway, and nodded at me. I gestured him in, as I was on hold.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Didn’t you wear those clothes yesterday?” he asked.
I ignored that. “What did you want, Anthony?”
“I forgive you,” he said.
“You forgive me.”
“Yes.”
“For what?”
“For stealing my film,” Anthony said.
I did a Moe Howard burn and said, “I didn’t . . .” There was a click on the line, and Dutton’s voice came back on. Anthony turned and left the office, having said his piece.
“That was the Englewood Police,” Dutton told me. “Detective Honig.”
“What’s up with good old Benjamin?” I asked.
“They’re sending you something,” Dutton said. “He wanted me to know before you got it.” His voice sounded odd, a little confused.
“What?” I asked him. “What are they sending me?”
“I’m not sure. Honig said they found it in Harry Lillis’s room, and it was clear Lillis wanted you to have it.”
It took me a moment to realize he wasn’t referring to Lillis’s guitar, which I already had at the town house. This was something the cops had found in Lillis’s room! And he wanted me to have it? What the hell did that mean?
“What the hell does that mean?” I asked Dutton.
“I have no idea,” he said. “But you’ll have it later tonight. They’re sending someone down.”
That was odd, but neither Dutton nor I could explain it, so all there was to do was wait until the Englewood cop showed up with my inheritance. I said good-bye and had barely hung up the phone when Sophie appeared in the doorway.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“We’re low on Goobers,” she said. “Were you wearing those clothes yesterday?”
That was it; I stood up and reached for my jacket and the bicycle’s front wheel. “No,” I said. “I’ll be back in an hour.”
“Where are you going?”
“Home,” I told Sophie. “To change.”
She didn’t even look amused when I squeezed by her on my way to the front door. I made sure to lock the office door on the way out.
It occurred to me just as I got out into the cool early autumn air that I’d gotten progressively more confused every day since the screening of Killin’ Time. Everything that had happened since then had, instead of clarifying matters, made them murkier. I was at a point where I was starting to expect things to be more baffling as they developed.
Now the Englewood Police Department was sending me a mystery memento from Harry Lillis. I had been elated to own the great comedian’s guitar, but that was different: this was something he’d apparently left instructions should be given to me. Given my current mood, I was sure it would just mystify me to the verge of exasperation.
I turned the corner and walked into the alley next to Comedy Tonight. Shaking my head at the glass-half-empty thoughts in my head, I tried to look at whatever bright side was available: Maybe the package Honig was sending would actually help. Maybe it was a lost Lillis and Townes artifact, like the missing seven minutes of Bargain Basement that had been cut by the Hayes Office and were rumored to have been shown on British television in the 1970s. Yeah, I was sure it would be something like that. Maybe things were taking an upturn.
And then I noticed that my bicycle seemed to be standing at an odd angle, chained as always to the water pipe next to the brick wall of the theatre. In the twilight, it seemed to be turned almost backward. I picked up the pace and moved closer.
The bike was bent, twisted at its frame, into a grotesque pretzel of aluminum alloy. It seemed as if every tube, every handlebar, every rod, was pulled into an impossible position. And in some places, the metal was perforated with small holes in a pattern that also seemed to have penetrated the brick in the wall behind the bicycle.
Someone had shot at the bike with a shotgun. Like the one Wilson Townes had shot at me with.
35
“YOU know, pretty much all the crime in Midland Heights happens right here at your theatre,” said Chief Barry Dutton. “I’m thinking of opening up a branch headquarters in your lobby to cut down on our response time.”
We stood in the alley, with the lights from Dutton’s car illuminating what was left of my bicycle. The twisted mass of metal didn’t look any better with repeated viewings. I felt like someone was using my stomach for an accordion. Tears were not entirely out of the question.
“It had to be Wilson Townes,” I said with great hoarseness. “You should issue an arrest warrant for Wilson Townes.”
Dutton looked back at me, surprised by the depth of my hurt. “With all the arrest warrants issued for Les and Wilson Townes, I don’t think one more is going to make a huge difference.” He studied the look on my face, and nodded. “But I’ll put out one for questioning,” he added.
“He just came by and shot it and twisted it and . . .” I babbled. “It was just sitting here by itself.” I had to stop talking.
Dutton decided to distract me. “That fingerprint came back, the one that I took off the film can in the projection booth. It was yours.”
But I wasn’t being taken in. “You just don’t understand, ” I said to Dutton. “That bike . . .”
“Let’s go inside,” Dutton said. “The officers will take care of it.” He motioned to Patel and his partner, who were standing on the sidewalk looking slightly amused. I wanted to throttle them. They walked over as Dutton gently led me back toward the front door. “Give me the key, Elliot,” he said.
The key? “It’s hanging up in my office, Chief,” I told him. “We discussed it.”
“The key to the bicycle lock,” he said. Oh. Yeah. I handed it to him, and Dutton gave the key to Patel. I didn’t want to watch. Dutton
and I walked inside. We walked through the lobby and sat on the stairs to the balcony.
I leaned forward and put my head in my hands. “This is too much,” I said. “You can shoot at me if you want to. You can send me a fake bomb. Hell, you can send me a real bomb. But you don’t go after my only mode of transportation. I’ve had that bike for fourteen years.”
Dutton actually reached over and put his hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said, and I don’t think he was being ironic.
I looked up at him, partially because I wanted him to see that I wasn’t crying. “What can we do?” I asked. “There has to be something we can do.”
“The NYPD and the Englewood Police—not to mention the New Jersey State Police—all have warrants out for the Towneses. We’ll add our own. Sooner or later someone’s going to spot them. If Wilson was in your alley today, he can’t be too far from here.” Dutton didn’t make eye contact, because he knew I wouldn’t think that was enough. “We’ll find them.”
“No, you won’t.” Dutton stared at me, but I went on. “No offense, Chief. But they’ve been looking for Les and Wilson since Harry Lillis died—days ago. I don’t think the bicycle thing is going to fire up the state troopers that much.”
Dutton stood up, and I had to crane my neck to look at his face. The man is tall. “Elliot. I know it seems bad now, but we’re searching for an eighty-year-old man and his fifty-one-year-old son. We know what kind of car they were driving, and the license plate number. Even if they’ve switched cars, they’re not going to be hard to spot. Les Townes is a famous man. People will notice.”
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