Tomorrow Is Another Day

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  Weston became a bartender in Florida somewhere along the Suwanee River and Brother married a harness maker’s daughter and moved to Healdsburg in the Californias where he repaired typewriters and telegraphs and wrote many a newspaper article about his exploits with the Rough Riders.

  There was more, much more, but not for me. Not today. I closed my eyes and opened them almost immediately. Mrs. Plaut was standing in my doorway, arms folded, wearing a yellow dress with a print of large red flowers and a straw hat with a wide brim.

  “They are assembled,” she said.

  She had something in her hand. I blinked. It was a small garden shovel covered with dirt.

  “You’ve been reading,” she said, pointing the shovel at the pile of papers.

  “And you’ve been planting,” I countered with aplomb.

  “A garden is a lovesome thing,” she said, returning her shovel to parade-dress military position.

  “I’ll remember that,” I said, sitting up. “Now if you’ll …”

  “I’m going downstairs,” she said, taking the yellow poultice from my hand. “I’m brewing some hot mixed-berry saft and there is many an orange snail muffin remaining. Have you finished reading about Brother in Puerto Rico?”

  “I have,” I said. “Murryhill was an interesting character.”

  Mrs. Plaut sighed and looked toward my window.

  “I would have considered a marriage offer from him had he but importuned,” she said. “Instead, Fatty Arbuckle and the Mister.”

  “Fatty Arbuckle?”

  But she had turned her back and exited. I got up, arranged Mrs. Plaut’s manuscript on my little kitchen table, and put a box of dominoes on the pile. I had my pants and shoes on and was considering whether to wear the clean white shirt with the missing button, the not-so-clean blue shirt with the small salsa stain, or the fashionable off-white with the unfashionably frayed collar. I took the off-white and was buttoning it when Dash leaped through the window.

  “Wait’ll I tell you about my day,” I said.

  Dash seemed interested, but I was in a hurry. I opened the cabinet over the small refrigerator in the corner near the window and pulled out a can of Strongheart dog food. I had picked up a dozen cans by mistake and discovered that Dash liked the stuff.

  Over my shoulder I checked the Beech-Nut clock near the door. Three-forty. I found the can opener while Dash sat back watching me.

  “People are getting killed, Dash,” I said.

  Dash’s pink tongue darted out and back while I poured the dog food into a bowl, tried not to smell it, and set it on the floor. Dash moved to the food and began eating.

  “And killers are sending me poems about it.”

  Dash slurped away at the Strongheart.

  “Will you answer a question for me?”

  Dash paused to catch his breath. I took that for a yes. He went on eating.

  “Is it too late for me to grow up? I’m asking you this because the loony who’s writing these poems may want to kill me too. And, I ask you, what will I have left behind if he kills me? A cat, a few friends, no money, a Crosley that should be turned in for scrap metal.”

  Dash didn’t care, but Mrs. Plaut, who had returned and opened the door without my hearing her, did have some ideas.

  “First,” she said, ignoring my yelp of surprise, “it is most assuredly too late for you to grow up for you have already done so. Second, I do not know what you will leave behind if Wendell Willke kills you. Actually, I think you must be seriously deluded to believe that Mr. Willke would have the slightest interest in you. But if you were to be hit by a Red Car on the Melrose line, I, though grieved, would request that one of your cronies take your cat.”

  “You are always a comfort to me in moments of indecision and self-doubt,” I said.

  “They are still waiting downstairs. They have consumed all of the remaining orange snail muffins, and the little fat one with the thick glasses and odious cigar has drunk one quart of saft and spilt another pint on the rug.”

  “I didn’t invite Shelly,” I said.

  “And I hope you have not invited Keats or Byron,” said Mrs. Plaut. “I am playing the “Song of India” for those assembled, but while I am the gracious landlord, I always ask myself what the departed Mister would say in a situation.”

  “What would he say?” I said, buttoning my shirt.

  “Tell them to keep their feet off the furniture, including the hassock, and that minimal refreshments will be served this day.”

  “I’m on the way down,” I said.

  “You said that once before,” she said.

  I took the box of dominoes off the manuscript, hoisted the tome in two hands, and handed it to her.

  “Fascinating,” I said.

  “And all of it a factual chronicle,” she said.

  Far behind her, well beyond her doubtful hearing, someone shouted, then someone answered, then the shouting rose.

  “I think we’d better get downstairs,” I said, moving past her.

  Dash dashed between my feet into the hallway, and Mrs. Plaut mumbled to herself that the age of chivalry had gone to rest with the Mister.

  I went to the bathroom, brushed my teeth and hair, and looked at myself in the mirror. Mrs. Plaut’s poultice was doing its job. The cut was clean, tight, small, and no longer discolored. I was ready for guests.

  When I got to the day room, Shelly was standing in the center of the floor squinting through his bottle-bottom glasses at Gunther, who stood below him but didn’t give an inch.

  Jeremy sat on the sofa, arms folded, ignoring the confrontation and making notes on a pad. Next to him was Clark Gable, who sat, arms folded, shaking his head in disbelief. He was wearing a pair of worn khaki fatigue pants and an olive-colored long-sleeved shirt with a turtleneck.

  Mame Stoltz sat on the Mister’s rocking chair, reputed to have been the property of Mr. Abraham Lincoln’s secretary of something or other. Mame was sleek, lean, hair short and dark, piled up to show her neck. She wore a gray blouse and matching skirt, with white pearls and plenty of makeup. She looked up when I came in and smiled.

  “Toby,” she said. “Landlady or no landlady, Clark and I are going to smoke.”

  Gunther and Shelly continued to glare at each other. Shelly made a low growling sound.

  “Is that what they’re fighting about?”

  “They’re fighting about someone named Mildred,” Gable said, rubbing his forehead.

  Without turning his gaze from Gunther, Shelly whined, “He made remarks about my wife.”

  “I said that Mrs. Minck bore no resemblance to Miss Stoltz,” said Gunther, who looked at me seriously.

  “Mildred is a Venus compared to her,” Shelly said.

  I glanced at Mame, who was playing with an unopened pack of Old Gold’s.

  “Mrs. Minck is of no anatomical distinction,” Gunther insisted. “Physiological comparisons are of the most superficial kind.”

  I tended to agree with Gunther but I knew that folly and defeat lay in pursuing it with Sheldon, who had an unexplained loyalty to Mildred who vaguely resembled Marjorie Main on a bad day. Mildred had once run off with a Peter Lorre imitator and when he was dead returned to Shelly and took all the money the beachball of a dentist had hidden in an old vase.

  “Shelly,” I said, going for the idea that a strong offense would obscure the argument, “what are you doing here?”

  This got his attention and he turned to me somewhat sheepishly while Gunther moved to Mame’s side. Seated in the rocker, Mame was about the same height as Gunther, a mating made in Hollywood heaven.

  “I heard that we were meeting. Jeremy said …”

  “I did not,” Jeremy said without looking up from his pad.

  “Sit down, Shelly,” I said.

  “But that little …”

  “Down, now, Sheldon,” I said.

  “I’m not apologizing,” Shelly said, looking for a chair and finding a wooden one in the corner. “No. He’ll apologize.
”

  “Fine,” I said, “let’s …”

  “But I will apologize to Mr. Gable,” Shelly said, standing next to the chair.

  “Apology accepted,” Gable said with a smile and a glance at me that made it clear he was losing patience.

  “In fact,” Shelly said, as if he had a flash of inspiration, “I’ll be glad to work on your teeth, cleaning, fillings, whatever, for half the celebrity price.”

  Mame whispered something to Gunther, who nodded.

  “No, thank you,” Gable said, pulling a cigarette from his pocket and putting it to his lips.

  “But …” Shelly went on as Gunther moved quickly to his side and touched his arm. Shelly wanted to brush him away but Gunther insisted. Shelly sat in the wooden chair and Gunther whispered in his ear.

  “No,” said Shelly, looking at Gable, who looked as if he was seriously considering a run for the door. “Clark Gable? False teeth?”

  “That’s it,” said Gable, rising. “Peters, I’m going out on the front porch with Mame. We are going to have a cigarette. When we are finished, I’m going home, where I will pack what few belongings I’ve brought to the States with me, and tomorrow I’ll catch the first military air transportation I can find back to England. I’d like to get my hands on this Spelling, but there’s a war going on and I think I’d better escape this …”

  “Sideshow?” Mame suggested.

  “I’ll go with that,” Gable said. “Five minutes.”

  He looked at his wristwatch and strode to the door with Mame a step behind him. Gunther stood blinking at the temporary loss of Mame to the call of tobacco and the company of Clark Gable.

  “More saft?” Mrs. Plaut said amiably, coming into the room with a pitcher of dark liquid. “Iced this time.”

  I sat next to Jeremy in the spot Gable had been. No one answered Mrs. Plaut, who placed the pitcher on a wooden block on the coffee table.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “What happened to the lady and the man who looks like Robert Taylor?”

  “Smoking on the front porch,” I said, feeling that the businesslike atmosphere I had hoped for had vanished in smoke rings.

  “I don’t allow smoking in the house,” Mrs. Plaut said, standing straight, smiling, and wiping her hands on the apron she had put on.

  “We are painfully aware of that,” I said.

  “Not pipes or cigars,” she said, looking at Shelly, who put his palms on his chest and squealed, “What did I do?”

  “We’ve all done things about which we are not proud,” Mrs. Plaut said. “You appear to have done more than the rest of us.”

  With that Mrs. Plaut departed.

  “I haven’t done anything,” Shelly insisted, shoving his glasses back on his nose just as they were about to tumble into his lap.

  “Violet Gonsenelli,” I said, closing my eyes and regretting my words.

  “Violet Gon … I haven’t … she … I, we need a receptionist,” Shelly said, pleading his case to the indifferent Jeremy and Gunther.

  “That’s it,” I said, raising my voice. “That’s it. People are dying out there. Some maniac may be trying to kill Clark Gable. Hell, he may be trying to kill me too. Let’s, for God’s sake, try to make some sense around here.”

  Gunther sat in the rocker. Shelly considered a rejoinder and changed his mind. Jeremy put his pencil in his pocket, folded his notebook, and said, “The police are watching Mr. Varney, who appears to be one of the final two remaining witnesses to the events that took place on the night Spelling’s father died.”

  “Final two?” asked Shelly.

  “I’m the other one,” I said.

  “Ah, good,” said Shelly, sitting back with a satisfied smile.

  “While we may assume that you are capable of defending yourself under reasonable circumstances,” said Jeremy, “these circumstances are not reasonable and I suggest we take turns watching you from a discreet but alert distance.”

  Jeremy looked at each of us for comments. We had none, so he went on: “We have a series of poorly written poetic clues which present obscure hints to the identity of the next victim of Mr. Spelling.”

  “Ah ha,” said Shelly.

  Jeremy ignored him.

  “Also present in these versified notes are allusions to a threat to Clark Gable, who has also been telephoned by the would-be poet,” Jeremy said. “Couple this with the suggestion that something will take place, perhaps a final murder or two, where the stars meet tomorrow. Conclusion?”

  “We’re dealing with a nut,” I said.

  “Or we are dealing with a killer who is leading you someplace, Toby,” Jeremy went on. “He is a step or two ahead of you, turning his head, luring you forth with a wave of the finger, a clue, a murder. Where is he leading you to, Toby? Where and why?”

  “Jeremy, no offense, but we’ve got plenty of questions. What we need are answers,” I said.

  “The stars,” Gunther said suddenly. “Under the stars. And what was it Juanita prophesied, the grove. The Academy Awards are being given tomorrow night at the Coconut Grove.”

  “Poetically appropriate,” said Jeremy.

  “I don’t get it,” said Shelly, pouring himself a fourth, fifth, or sixth glass of iced saft.

  “Looks like our poet Spelling wants an audience for his next murder,” I said. “He plans to kill someone at the Academy Awards dinner.”

  “It makes sense,” said Jeremy.

  “Who?” asked Shelly, ignoring the blue stain on his jacket from a dripping glass of saft. “Kill who? Why?”

  “Lionel Varney,” I said. “Varney’ll be at the Academy Awards dinner.”

  “Then I suggest we say good-bye to Clark Gable, allow him to leave as he plans, and hope the police will do their job,” Jeremy said, rising.

  “I’ll call Phil and tell him,” I said.

  “In case we are wrong, Toby,” Gunther said, moving toward us as I stood, “may I suggest you remain as inconspicuous as possible.”

  “I’ll go for a ride in the desert or catch a double feature,” I said. “Or I …”

  “I’ve got it,” Shelly said, putting aside his glass of Mrs. Plaut’s five-star saft and looking at us with a sappy smile. “Dental care for dentures. Special care of dentures for the stars. Discretion guaranteed. Newsletter on the latest denture research and inventions. I’ll get a consultant. The West-mores. Well? What do you think?”

  Neither Gunther nor Jeremy responded so I was stuck with humoring Shelly. “It has possibilities. Why don’t you work out the details, put them on paper, see if there’re any flaws, and then move ahead.”

  “No,” Shelly said. “Inspiration. Came to me all at once. Perfect.”

  “Like your ideas for animal dentistry and tinted teeth,” I said.

  “Yeah, but even better,” said Shelly. “Like, like I don’t know. Magic. Maybe even God.”

  “If God is interested in such inspiration,” said Jeremy seriously, “then he either has a sense of humor which is truly unfathomable, or free will is no longer a tenable concept.”

  “Yes,” said Shelly gleefully. “You’ve got it.”

  “Shelly,” I warned.

  “Okay, okay, I’ll discuss it with Mildred and Violet,” he said, actually rubbing his chubby cigar-stained hands together. “Separately.”

  Gunther had hurried to the front porch, looking, I was sure, for Mame Stoltz before Clark Gable stole her heart away.

  Jeremy stood silent, head cocked to one side until Shelly was finished and said, “Would you like me to stay with Gable tonight?”

  “No,” I said. “I’ll do it. Maybe I can persuade him to join me at some desert motel or …”

  Shelly was just standing there, working out the details, mumbling things like “It’ll work” and “Low overhead. Maybe even work with Mark Marvel on the fourth floor. Therapy for celebrity denture-wearers. Learn to love your dentures.”

  Jeremy was holding out his hand to me. He opened it. There was a key in the mass
ive palm.

  “Van Nuys,” he said. “Address is on the key. I’m remodeling the apartments, upgrading when I’m finished. That’s the model. One bedroom. Everything including running water.”

  I took the key.

  “Thanks, Jeremy,” I said.

  “I’ll see you in the morning, Toby,” Shelly said, waddling past us and into the afternoon.

  “Alice would like to move,” Jeremy said.

  “Move?”

  “To San Antonio. We both have relatives, and with the current market I can get a reasonable price for the Farraday and my other property and devote the remainder of my life to poetry.”

  “You can do that in Los Angeles,” I said.

  He shook his head and put a hand on my shoulder. “I cannot,” he said. “Alice believes that you may eventually get me hurt or even killed. I’ve already committed one murder because of our association and …”

  “That was an accident,” I said in a whisper, looking around to be sure we hadn’t been heard.

  “I can deceive my mind but never my soul. Toby, Alice is right. We have Natasha. It would be nice if she had a father.”

  “I won’t ask you for help anymore, Jeremy,” I said, crossing my heart. “Promise.”

  “But I will offer or volunteer.”

  “I’ll move out of the Farraday, other side of town. You can’t really be thinking about leaving because of me.”

  “No,” he said, removing his hand from my shoulder. “There are other reasons, private reasons. I’ve shared one public one with you, the one that touches our friendship. I’m not a young man.”

  “Saft?” said Mrs. Plaut, staggering into the day room with the weight of a fresh gallon of liquid in a pitcher balanced on a tray she was carrying.

  Jeremy moved quickly to take the tray and place it on the table.

  “Everyone’s gone,” she said, looking around.

  “Miss Stoltz and the man who looks like Clark Gable are on the front porch smoking,” I said.

  Mrs. Plaut nodded knowingly.

  “I think I put a touch too much gin in the saft,” she said to us brightly.

  “How much gin was in—?”

  “One fifth to three-quarters of a gallon,” she said. “Agnes Smeed’s recipe. At least she was Agnes Smeed before she married Reed Clixco. I always thought it would be more interesting if he took her name when they married so he could be Reed Smeed, but, alas, that idea was long before its time which has not yet come except for the occasional suffragette and her passive concubine.”