“Walt,” I said, “Harry Lillis didn’t really get along all that well with the other residents, did he?”
Walt wasn’t going to admit any discord. “I wouldn’t say that, but he did keep to himself, for the most part, except when you came to visit him. Marion Borello would talk to him, but Mr. Lillis never sought her out. He’d be very gregarious with the other residents when you visited, and I think he confused some of them. The rest of the time, though, he’d spend mostly on the computers.”
“The computers?”
“Yes, we have desktop computers and Internet access in some of the common rooms, and Mr. Lillis was very taken with them. He spent a lot of hours in there. Seemed especially interested in Photoshop. I thought he was getting family photos e-mailed to him, then I recalled that his file showed no immediate family at all. But he loved the computer. It’s really a great blessing for some of our residents, because they can communicate with people who might not be able to come visit.”
Harry Lillis, webmaster. It was an interesting thought. “I’ve been feeling awful about something,” I told Walt. “Ever since Harry died, I’ve meant to talk to Mitchell and tell him how badly I feel about it. He seemed so devoted to Harry; this must have hit him very hard. May I see him?”
Walt’s eyes went up to his left as he mentally ran through rosters. “I don’t remember another patient named Mitchell, Elliot,” he said.
“Mitchell’s not a patient. He works here.”
Walter Lee gave me a blank stare.
“He’s an orderly, or a nurse, or something,” I tried. “Large African-American guy? Looks like he could lift a Mack truck? He drove Harry to Comedy Tonight the evening of the Cracked Ice showing. Mitchell.”
“We have a driver who takes any of the residents out whenever they ask,” Walt said. “They still like to go to the theatre and remain active. But his name is Ivan.”
“No,” I insisted, since clearly I knew more about Walt’s staff than he did. “This guy was Mitchell. It said so on his white coat.”
“I’ve been working here five years,” Walter Lee said, “and I don’t recall anyone named Mitchell on staff.”
The really sad part was that I’d gotten pretty much every answer I’d expected.
I spent about twenty minutes on the phone in Walt’s office, and by the time I reached Jersey City, I had pretty much concluded what I’d find out, but it was necessary to hear it firsthand. And when I found the brownstone and parked, checked the apartment number and rang the bell, I knew the interview I’d set up on the phone would be exactly as I’d expected.
“Actually, my name is Darius,” said the man I knew as Mitchell the ambulance attendant. “Mr. Lillis hired me because I’d done some time working for a private medical transport company, but he wasn’t looking for a driver; he wanted an actor.”
The room was littered with 8x10 images of Darius/ Mitchell, in black and white and in full color, with an agency’s logo stamped tastefully over the top right corner. The requisite theatrical posters decorated the walls as Darius and I sat in facing armchairs. He offered me coffee, but I wasn’t in the mood.
“How did he find you?” I asked.
“How did you?” Darius asked.
“It wasn’t hard. Once I realized you weren’t a real ambulance driver, I figured you must be an actor, and I called Actors’ Equity. Gave the union the date and the place of your performance, and they hooked me up with your agent, who was very disappointed I wasn’t a producer. Now, how did Harry Lillis get in touch with you?”
“He put an ad in Daily Variety,” Darius said. “Very specific, had to be a big guy, had to be in the northern New Jersey area. I figured it was for a student film or something, and then I got the call from Harry Lillis. I’d never heard of him, but I looked him up on IMDb, you know.” I probably winced at the idea of someone who’d never heard of Harry Lillis.
“Did he tell you what he wanted you to do? How did he explain it?”
Darius smiled. “Said he was playing a gag on a friend. Wanted him to think Harry needed a wheelchair. He’d already rented an ambulance, now he needed someone to drive it and push the chair.”
“But the Booth Actors’ Home has a driver named Ivan who’ll take people wherever they want to go.”
“Yeah, I know,” Darius answered. “But Harry wanted the drama of an ambulance arrival. So instead, he had Ivan take him to a movie theatre in Englewood, then I came and picked him up in the ambulance. After the show, we drove back to Englewood, and Harry called Ivan to take him home. Told him he’d gone to see a double feature and then met a lady friend for drinks, if you know what I mean.”
“But you seemed so concerned,” I said. “You kept reminding him that he’d have to leave.”
He straightened up with an actor’s pride. “That was my motivation,” he said. “It was also my responsibility to get a uniform, and the one I found had the name Mitchell embroidered on it, so that became my character’s name.”
“Weren’t you the least bit curious about this elaborate gag, especially after you got to Comedy Tonight and saw what kind of an evening we’d planned?”
Darius shook his head. “I was too deep in the role to worry about inconsistencies,” he said.
Actors are crazy.
THE drive home was even less memorable than the one coming up. I don’t even know if I put the music back on. Jeff Lynne and his cohorts could go on playing songs in the past without me.
Chief Barry Dutton thought it was odd that I was asking about Harry Lillis’s remains. Of course, he thought it was odd that I was calling at all, since his detective had never given him my message.
“What about Lillis’s remains?”
“I’m just curious when the ME released them, because I know the autopsy report took some time.” I wanted to approach this delicately, and delicacy is not my best thing.
Dutton sounded like a man whose forehead was wrinkling in puzzlement. “I’d have to check, but the last I heard, the medical examiner had released Lillis’s body, but nobody had claimed it. He didn’t have any relatives I know about. Do you?”
I’d already checked Internet sites and all the connections I had in the comedy community, so I knew the answer to that one. “No. He didn’t have anyone who would have picked him up. But you know, in the Jewish tradition, he’s supposed to be buried as soon as possible. What happens if nobody claims the body?”
“After a reasonable period of time, the county will inter the remains in a . . .”
“An unmarked grave. Even if the deceased had enough money to pay for a funeral?” I had to cover all the bases.
“Well, if there was a will, and a provision was made for some service, I’m sure that would be taken into account,” Dutton answered. “Even if there wasn’t a will in place, the County Surrogate would probably issue an order to garnish the deceased’s account.”
“There was a will,” I told him.
“Then I doubt Bergen County wants to pay for Harry Lillis’s funeral if it doesn’t have to.”
“Well, maybe I can help,” I said. “Would they release the remains to me?”
There was dead silence on the phone for some seconds. “You? What’s the plot now, Elliot?”
“No plot,” I said unconvincingly. “I’ve decided that there should be a public memorial service for Harry Lillis. Tomorrow. At Comedy Tonight.”
40
There’s one way to find out if a man is honest: ask him. If he says yes, you know he’s crooked.
—GROUCHO MARX
FRIDAY
It Happened One Night (1934) and Screwball (this week)
I had to work fast to get the Press-Tribune to work up an ad for Friday’s newspaper, but since I was paying half-page rates, roughly eight times the size I normally buy, they were willing to work a little harder. There was no helping the expense: I didn’t want to wait for Wilson Townes to come and bend me into a pretzel, and I wanted to make sure the ad wouldn’t be missed by Wilson or his fath
er. You can’t bury a Jewish man on Saturday anyway, and Sunday we have matinees, so the service had to be Friday, and for my purposes, the ad had to be large.
To make the memorial work into the theatre’s schedule and the other meeting I’d already set up, I had to call it for five in the afternoon, not a great time for a movie theatre. Earlier in the day would mean I’d have to staff the whole thing myself (my staff would be in school), and later would mean we’d have to cancel a showing on the night we changed films for the week. Leo Munson would probably stage a coup.
Five o’clock it was.
I spent Friday morning making arrangements: seeing to it that the funeral home had the address and the time right, ordering flowers (you’re not supposed to send flowers to a Jewish funeral, but people don’t know that and find it strange if there are none), seeing to some finger sandwiches and nonalcoholic drinks. I made some phone calls to people who might miss the ad, like my father, and cleaned up the theatre as best I could. I also alerted local (and some New York City) media on the assumption that the chance to further milk the “mysterious death of a comedy legend” they’d run a week ago might be enough to bring a camera crew and a reporter or two if I gave them enough notice, which I was just barely doing.
By three, I was on a ladder outside the theatre, changing the marquee to read HARRY LILLIS MEMORIAL SERVICE 5 P.M. when Vic Testalone pulled up in his vintage Oldsmobile Cutlass convertible. You could land aircraft on Vic’s car, which probably got less than a mile per gallon. He was smoking a cigar as he drove up—just to pollute the atmosphere a little more—and parked a few yards short of the marquee.
It was an hour earlier than I’d expected him. “Vic,” I said, coming down from the ladder (I hate heights, so any interruption was welcome). “You’re early.”
“I was in the neighborhood,” he said. “Elliot. Are we okay?”
“You and me?” I asked. “Why wouldn’t we be?”
“The last time I saw you, you seemed irritated with me.”
I took down the ladder and Vic followed me as I carried it back inside. “You mean because you ratted me out to Anthony and tried to talk him into quitting school? Don’t be silly. We’re fine. That’s just business.”
He grinned. “That’s what I thought.”
We had just made it to the office door. “Go inside,” I said. “I’m going to put the ladder away. Be right back.”
Vic walked into the office and I went to the closet to put the ladder back where it belonged. I noticed Sophie as I was walking out. She hadn’t exactly reverted to her traditional Goth style, but she was wearing all black. I’d called the staff the night before to let them know about the memorial service, and urged them to dress appropriately. I believe I mentioned something to Jonathan about wearing shoes in which his toes were not visible.
“You all set?” I asked Sophie as I locked the closet door.
“For what?” she asked. “This funeral thing?”
“It’s a memorial service, if anyone asks, and even if they don’t,” I told her.
“Yeah, I’m ready,” Sophie said. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I can’t think of a reason,” I answered.
“Are we selling snacks at the funeral?”
“Memorial service. And no! We’re not selling snacks. That would be unbelievably tacky.” I started toward the office, and then turned back toward her. “Do you think we could get away with it?”
She pretended the music from her iPod was too loud to hear me, and set about getting the snack bar ready. For the evening showings.
Anthony, in black jeans and a black shirt, was walking in when I left Sophie. Carla, prim in black slacks and a scoop-neck black top, tried to look properly solemn at his side. He nodded at me, pleasantly (for him), as he walked by. We stopped and looked at each other.
“Anthony,” I said, “I didn’t steal your movie.”
“Okay.”
“I really didn’t,” I reiterated.
“I believe you,” he said. “I have my own theory of what happened.”
Now, that was intriguing. “Come into the auditorium and tell me. If you’ll excuse us, Carla.” She nodded, looking apprehensive, and stayed put in the lobby. Anthony looked at me strangely, but followed me into the auditorium. I sat down in the last row (row HH) and prepared myself.
“Okay, shoot.” I told him.
“I think Carla took it,” Anthony said. Over my incredulous expression, he added, “She always feels threatened by my films, and I think when she saw that Killin’ Time was really good and might take me away from her, she panicked and stole the movie.”
“Okay. How’d she do it?” Let’s see if he could come up with something plausible, because it didn’t make sense at all to me. I was certain by now that Carla hadn’t stolen his film.
“While I was talking to my friends from school, and my dad, and you, and your ex-wife . . .”
“I get it. While you were otherwise occupied.”
Anthony nodded. “She went up into the projection booth. She knew she couldn’t sneak the reels out, so she stashed them in the floor.”
“Uh-huh. And how did she get the key to the projection booth? How did she even know there was storage space in the floor under the console? How did she get back into the projection booth to remove the reels after Chief Dutton and I found them, but before we were ready to give them back?”
Anthony’s lips pouted out as he thought. “Um, I don’t know. Maybe it wasn’t Carla.”
“No, but it’s nice to know you two have such a trusting relationship. Look, Anthony, it’s none of my business, but Carla is a great girl and she’s crazy about you. That doesn’t happen very often. You should stop looking for reasons to push her away.”
He stood up. “Forgive me, Mr. Freed, but I don’t know if I should be taking relationship advice from you. You know, your track record isn’t great.”
I nodded, although that one stung because it was true. “Your parents have been married for twenty-eight years. What do they think?” I asked.
Anthony didn’t answer, and he left the auditorium to get the projector threaded.
I went back to my office, where Vic was sitting with his feet up on my desk. “I’ve been looking through your Rolodex,” he said. “It makes no sense.”
“I’m sorry. If I’d realized that casual visitors would be leafing through it, I’d try to organize it more efficiently.”
He didn’t catch the sarcasm. I saw Sharon walk by the office door, but she avoided looking in. She appeared to be heading for Sophie’s station. “It’s not even alphabetical,” Vic persisted. “How can you tell where anything is?”
“I have my own system, and I don’t need to explain it to you.” Actually, I couldn’t explain it, since the system consisted of sticking in a new card wherever the Rolodex happened to be sitting when I got a new phone number to add. It wasn’t efficient, but it did help me to review my list of acquaintances on a regular basis. Sometimes it gets slow in a movie theatre. At least, it does in mine.
Luckily, Barry Dutton walked in at that moment, followed almost immediately by Danton, and then Jonathan. “Good,” I said. “We’re ready.”
“For what?” Vic asked.
“A meeting in the projection booth.” I walked out the door, and he followed me. Not that I had actually invited him, or anything.
I called, “Meeting upstairs,” as soon as I hit the lobby, and I watched the assembled group: Sophie, Jonathan, Sharon, Dutton, Danton, Anthony, Carla, and Vic, start up the stairs. Sophie turned to me with an expression that indicated she’d just thought of something.
“Why do we have to crowd into the projection booth? Why can’t we can have the meeting down here, or just sit in the balcony?”
“Good question,” I said. “In fact, two good questions. There’s a reason, and you’ll see once the meeting gets under way.”
That didn’t satisfy her, but she turned and continued up the stairs, with the group trudging up behind
her.
I watched them for a moment, and then retreated to my office. Vic saw me back off, but shook his head at my eccentricity and continued on his way. Nobody’d asked him upstairs anyway.
Inside the office, I quickly threw on a trench coat I’d had in the office since last winter and a fedora I’d borrowed from Dad for a Halloween party eight years ago. Had to get that back to him any day now. I buttoned up the coat, looked at my reflection in the computer screen to adjust the hat, and left the office to climb upstairs.
Anthony had let everyone into the projection booth by the time I got there. I flung the door open and strode into the room as if I owned the place, which I did.
“So,” I said. “I suppose you’re wondering why I invited you all here.”
There was a long pause. Sharon broke the silence with a dry tone that said, “I’ll bet you’ve been waiting your whole life to say that.”
“As a matter of fact, I have,” I answered. The rest of them stared at my outfit and said nothing. This wasn’t as much fun as I’d anticipated, but I went on with it anyway. “I think we all know that a crime was committed in this room some weeks back, and you’re here today because I can definitively identify the person who perpetrated it.”
“What?” Jonathan asked. I noticed he was still wearing the sandals, but with long pants and black socks. At least you couldn’t see his toes. Not clearly.
“He’s going to tell us who stole Anthony’s movie,” Barry Dutton said.
“Good,” Vic said. “Maybe I can still make a deal with Monitor Films. Tell us, Elliot: Who took the film, and where is it now?”
“It’s someone in this room,” I intoned, expecting the requisite incriminating glances and beads of sweat on a forehead.
Instead, Sophie said, “Well, duh. You wouldn’t make this whole show if it was some guy in Utah.” Some people just aren’t tolerant of high drama.
“You were never really a serious suspect,” I told her, doing my best to pace in a room that held five more people than it should. “You were downstairs the first time the film was discovered missing, and couldn’t have moved it. Besides, you don’t know where the key to the projection booth is kept.”
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