by Helen Knode
“Who killed her and why?”
“I don’t know!”
“Who killed her and why?”
“I don’t know!”
“Who killed her and why?”
My voice sounded dead; I sounded like a robot. It was horrible even to me. But there was nothing I could do about it.
Barry sat looking me over. He seemed to notice my injuries for the first time. I looked back at him, and for a minute we had stalemate.
He spoke first. He said, “You should know that—”
“Who killed her and why?”
He snapped. “Will you let me talk?”
I didn’t say anything. He set his notepad down and leaned forward. “I’ll tell you what I haven’t told the staff yet. I’ve signed the deal with Entertainment Media Group—the newspaper is sold.”
He waited for a reaction. I didn’t have one. He said, “The new owners are on the line about keeping you for film. They’ll take my recommendation.”
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t feel anything.
Barry said, “I’d like to leave the paper with a bang, and Lockwood’s forced retirement would be a nice legacy. You know what happened in Culver City. Did you actually see the tunnel? Were you inside of it?”
Barry realized he wasn’t getting through to me. He took a fatherly tone. “Don’t be stubborn, Ann—this isn’t a good time to get fired. There are no jobs out there for you.”
I said, “Who killed Greta Stenholm and why?”
Barry started to stand up. I braced my cane against the desk and blocked him. He sat back down.
“You’re sick. Go home, get some rest—we’ll discuss this when you feel better.”
“Who killed her and why?”
Barry shrugged. He reached around and picked up his notepad and pen. He said, “All right, you tell me what you know, and I’ll tell you what I know. How’s that?”
I said, “You first.”
Barry said, “I don’t know who killed her, and I never gave a flying fuck. I only wanted the Lockwood piece, if you recall. You threatened to go to the Times with it.”
I was silent.
Barry said, “I have a producing deal in the works with Jules Silverman. I’ll be in a position soon to offer you a job. You’d be perfect in development with what you know about story.”
“Who killed her and why?”
Barry said, softer, “Or I can fire you right now.”
He waited for my answer.
I stood up and tapped his notepad with my cane. I said, “Neil Phillips shot first. He is responsible for the deaths of Mrs. Florence May and Isabelle Pavich, and for his own. I don’t know who put the bullet in Scott Dolgin’s neck. Douglas Lockwood acted with integrity and intelligence, and the cops who went down into that tunnel are very brave men.”
I unlocked Barry’s door and walked out of his office.
My only thought was: Entertainment Media Group. They turned good weeklies into film industry pap. They always added “Entertainment” to the name of the newspapers they bought. The Entertainment Millennium.
I ESCAPED FROM the building by the parking lot door. I thought I’d avoid the reporters that way, but my car was surrounded. Someone had spotted the Colt and the box of shells in the backseat. A roar went up when I appeared. I heard “gun,” and “Doug Lockwood,” and “Rampart links,” and “grand jury probe,” and “official investigation,” and other phrases I now recognized as pertinent.
I didn’t have the strength to force through the crowd. I stuck my cane out like a wedge and cut a path to the driver’s door. Someone jostled me; it sent pain all through my left side. I stopped, feeling faint. A stitch popped in my arm. Someone saw the blood on my bandage and said to back off, give me room.
I climbed into my car and drove. I made sure I wasn’t followed before I parked on a side street.
Scott Dolgin was next.
I called UCLA to see if he was awake. I couldn’t get past a nurse at the intensive care unit. She wouldn’t answer questions or take a message.
I needed gas. I got my wallet and checked how much money I had. I was close to broke. I dug around in my bag for loose bills. I found a couple of ones—and I found a chain necklace. I didn’t wear necklaces. I held it up: there was a key on it. The key was stamped with the name MAILBOX BOUTIQUE and the number 65.
I tried to think...
The necklace was important. Someone important gave it to me. My mind would not remember how or where I acquired it. But I knew it was important.
Mailbox Boutique was a local company that rented private mail drops. I started the car and drove to the nearest gas station. I bought gas, then checked the public phone booth for a directory. It had one intact. I flipped to the yellow pages for Mailbox Boutique locations. I ran down the list. I got to “Culver City” and started to shake. I leaned against the booth. Culver City. The Casa de Amor.
Mrs. May.
Mrs. May had given me the necklace. The hospital dumped my tunnel clothes: Doug must have emptied my pockets. Mental images oozed up. Of a dark room, of white tiles, of whimpering—
I thumped my forehead on the glass. I tensed my muscles and willed the images to go away. If I started to remember I would be paralyzed. I’d start to scream and never stop.
I took deep breaths and kept reading.
There were six Mailbox Boutiques in West L.A. and Culver City—five more in Venice and the Marina. I wrote down the ones closest to the Casa de Amor. I felt my mind click on. I had a plan; I focused on it.
I got back in the car and drove to the freeway. Dots of blood seeped through my shirtsleeve; I’d popped more than one stitch. It didn’t help the driving, which was already a strain. The freeway was a strain.
I tried the Mailbox Boutiques in geographical order east to west. The key didn’t work in the first three. The fourth Mailbox Boutique was in a strip mall at the corner of Robertson and Culver. I parked and walked in. All the stores were arranged the same: numbered mailboxes covered the back and side walls. I walked along until I found sixty-five and tried the key.
The key worked; the door opened.
I saw folded sheets of paper inside. I didn’t stop to worry about fingerprints. I grabbed the papers, relocked the mailbox, and hurried back to the car to read.
It was a handwritten note dated August 30, 2001. Last Thursday-eight days ago.
The note was addressed to “Mommy May,” and it looked like it was scribbled in a rush.
Dear Mommy May—
If youre reading this it means you think something happened to me and you used the key like I asked. Take this info to the cops in case of my disappearance or death I swear its all true and Im sorry if it hurts you because you’ve been sogood to me
Bens real name is Neil Phillips. Ive known him since Bev Hills High but we havent been friends for a long time He found the tunnel under the Casa when he worked at the Columbia mailroom which is why he pressured you to rent to him and why he wanted the last bungalow because its the only one with direct access tothe tunnel (Remember you told me history of Casa and how MGM had a secret underground city You saidthey closed the tunnel 30 years ago and it was hard not to tell you N found it again. He moved into the suite inthe corner where the examining room is where you told me that the studio had their own MD perform abortions on actresses)
I paused, but I would not let myself picture that room.
On July 12 last year N shot his agent Ted Abadi (Im sorry I know its terrible) He was blackballedby the Industry and Teds agency fired N as a client. It was a spur of the moment act because N knew no other agency would take him and his career was over. I didnt realize N did it at first He asked me to be his alibi becaus he didn’t have one and he told me he was home alone. I helped him out because I was alone that night too and the cops were going to be on me I was sure But a few months-later I realized from something N did that he killed Ted himself. I stupidly asked N about it instead of going to the cops N threatened to kill me if I told the cops and hes made my l
ife hell ever since. He made you rent to mebecause he wanted to keep me close. Hes latched onto InCasa Prods and my friends and business associates He almost never leaves me alone (Hes gone tonight thats how I can write this and get away to hide it) He thinks hecan use me as his ticket back into Holly wood and I can't do anything becaus of Ted because Im an accessory and because N says he’ll hurt you
Last Thursday night. It was Phillips who jumped me at the pool house. I knew why now: I’d seen the tunnel diagram that morning.
N murdered my frien Greta. He came to Bary Ms party and killed her for a screenplay she wrote (Tell the cops he snuck in the back so nobody saw him, I didnt) You remembe that fight in my apartment It was over the same script. G sold it for big bucks and N wanted his name on it because they were partners once and he thought she owed him. I was mad too because I thought the script could launch InCasa if she’d attach me as producer I lent her money and helped her when she wasnt working But she wouldnt help me or N and N killed her because he was desperate (He’s not crazy he just wants what he wants. Hes always been that way)
But N cant find a copy of the script. He broke into Gs car before he killed her and couldnt find one And she only had a partial draftwith her when he killed her He thought she left it where he killed her and searched there attacked one of Barrys writers whos doing a feature on InCasa. Ns plan was to tell Gs agent that hes the ghost cowriter. But how can he say that when if he hasnt even seen the whole script? He made me call Gs agent for a copy buttheysaid they didnt have one N is really getting crazy and he doesnt trust me He thinks I have the scrip-tand holding out on him
Greta fooled everyone with her story about a six-figure movie deal. I’d seen Phillips two days ago. He was still looking for a copy of GB Dreams Big and playing the injured cowriter. And Hamilton Ashburn told PPA he’d seen the script. He hadn’t; he was trying to screw Phillips with Len Ziskind by saying it was bad.
When I gaveyou the maibox key Mommy I said I leaving town for the weekend to get away but it isn’t true but tell Isab it is. N wants me inthe tunnel with him I say its better if lm avail-abl and not suspicious. I dont know how long that will be but I know youll do the right thing if lm gone too long Goto the cops and tell themabout tunnel lm sure thats where I am. Show them this statement N said if I accuse him he’ll say Im the killer and its his word against mine But it wont be becaus I was with Barry M when N killed G
N says he’ll frame me with evidence but dont believe it I didn’t do anything really wrong I swear and what I did do was under duress, big hug...
Scott Dolgin signed his name at the bottom. The signature, like the writing, was herky-jerky.
I stared out the window.
I believed it. It was the only explanation that fit all the facts.
I wondered why Dolgin didn’t grab Mrs. May and run to the cops if he’d had time to write a note and stash it blocks away. One guess: he wasn’t thinking straight. Another guess: he hoped to avoid a scandal and save himself somehow by some non-police-involved miracle.
Doug must have suspected Phillips. He must have suspected him the minute they received the anonymous tip accusing Dolgin. Who else would have phoned it in? Not Mrs. May, the surrogate mother who removed damaging evidence from Dolgin’s bungalow. Not Isabelle Pavich, who wanted to marry him. And Dolgin and Phillips covered each other for Ted Abadi’s death.
Two people had called In-Casa Productions a “farce”: Greta, and Neil Phillips. It was Phillips in the back office at Barry’s party.
Doug had guessed a lot of things. He would never have guessed she was murdered for GB Dreams Big.
I folded up Dolgin’s confession, put it in the glove compartment, and started the car.
If Barry hadn’t been protecting his movie interests, we would’ve known about the fight the day I found her.
If only I’d hung on to Phillips when I had him at Georgette Bauerdorf’s. If only Doug had come.
I saw the fateful if's. I saw the big sweep of Neil Phillips’s crime and his ambition. I saw every last detail, every decision, every minute of every day since the day last year he shot Ted Abadi in a rage of frustration.
I knew I was suffering a kind of insanity. I could see everything and feel nothing.
I DROVE TO the Casa de Amor. As I pulled up, I didn’t even look toward the Thalberg Building. More camera trucks were parked at the curb; more reporters milled on the sidewalk. A cameraman was panning the Casa’s facade. Crime-scene tape had been strung across the entrance to the courtyard, and across the back gates. Two Culver City cops stood guard, watching.
I cut over the lawn before the press people noticed. I was prepared to use Doug’s name as a password. I didn’t need it; the cops knew my face and waved me forward. They lifted the tape so I could bend under it, then stood together to screen me from the reporters.
There was tape across Mrs. May’s porch and Scott Dolgin’s porch. A triple string of tape cordoned off Phillips’s bungalow and front path. I walked up to Erma’s and knocked on her door. Loud sobbing broke out in Dorene’s bungalow. It echoed through the courtyard until Erma’s voice cut it off:
“We all know Flo’s wishes! She wanted to be near her Harry!”
A woman wailed. “Home of Peace is so far! Flo will want fresh roses every week!”
Erma’s voice was impatient. “We’re old, Shirl, we’re not crippled! It’s just a short hop on the freeway!”
I walked next door, knocked, and went in. The Casa tenants were holding a wake. They sat around in black dresses, without their makeup. Erma wore a black muumuu. The living room had been straightened—the Frito bags and empty booze bottles were gone. Dorene sat on the couch, propped up by pillows. Only Erma recognized me.
She said, “Honey! What happened to you?”
“I need to talk to Mrs. Johnson.”
“Were you in the tunnel, honey? Is that what happened?”
A tenant sniffled. Erma said, “Quiet!”
It was no good: the tenants heard “tunnel” and started to cry. Crying led to sobbing. They sobbed into their Kleenex and clutched each other’s hands. Dorene’s eyes filled with tears. Erma shook her head at me. Then she gave in and cried, too.
I sat down between Erma and Dorene. Dorene’s crying was silent. I said, “I need to talk to you about Jules Silverman and Georgette Bauerdorf.”
Dorene didn’t answer and didn’t look at me. I didn’t know if she could hear, or if she was crying because she saw everyone else crying. Her black dress had moth holes.
I tried again. “Mrs. Johnson, I need to talk—”
Dorene opened her lips. She whispered, “Fix me a drink.”
I stood up and walked to the bar. I poured her a bourbon over ice, and the same for the other tenants. I handed glasses around; that stopped the crying. Erma turned hers down. Too early in the day, she said.
Dorene guzzled her drink and seemed to perk up. I’d poured her the stiffest one. I said, “What did you tell Greta about Jules—?”
“Ben!”
Dorene blurted out the name. I said, “What about Ben?”
A tenant wailed, “It’s all his fault! The policemen said—!”
Erma broke in. “Button it, Shirley—we know what happened. You’re upsetting everyone.”
Shirley bit her knuckles; she was past sixty and jaundice yellow. Another tenant put an arm around her.
Erma leaned close and spoke low to me. “Ben threatened Dorie, you know, before she collapsed outside. He said not to talk about your Silverman person.”
I spoke low, too. “How do you know?”
“Dorie said.”
“What else did she say?”
Erma shook her head. “Dorie will never tell you what you want to know. None of us knows.”
“She told Greta Stenholm.”
Erma shrugged. “Greta was a beautiful girl.”
I looked at Dorene. A lie came to me. I raised my voice and addressed the tenants.
“Mrs. May died because of a man named Ju
les Silverman. He is a murderer. Mrs. Johnson has information that will help the police catch Silverman, but she won’t give it to them.”
Shirley let loose. “Flooooooooooo!”
The other tenants joined in. “Poor Flo!” “Dorene!” “Tell the police!” “Flo is dead!” “Dorieeeeee!”
Shirley wailed and the tenants sobbed. The noise built but Dorene didn’t move or speak. The noise built more. It made my head ache. It didn’t affect Dorene.
Erma finally got mad. She reached around me and slapped Dorene in the face. Dorene fell against my shoulder. The tenants gasped and shut up. Dorene lay there and still didn’t speak.
Erma heaved herself off the couch, went to the bar, and started pulling out the bourbon bottles. I looked at Dorene: she was watching the process.
Erma said, “You’re on the wagon as of now, Dorie. No more joy juice until you tell her what she wants to know.”
Erma set the bottles by the front door and went back for a second load. Dorene’s arm shot up. She was pointing into the kitchen.
Erma nodded. “Drunks only understand one language, honey. There’s something in the kitchen. I pulled Dorie out of a cupboard this morning.”
I leaned Dorene off me and stood up. “Which cupboard?”
“Under the sink—you’ll see where.”
I walked into the kitchen, using the cane to push junk out of my way. The doors under the sink were open. I got down on one knee and stuck my head inside. It was dark. I took the cane, reached for the light switch, and pushed it up. The ceiling light went on. I opened the doors wider.
The cupboard, like the kitchen, was crammed with sacks.
The sacks were paper, plastic, and cloth. I hauled them out and opened them one by one. They held empty liqueur bottles, old restaurant menus, old lingerie, used cosmetic containers, TV Guides from ten years ago, Las Vegas souvenirs, obscene corkscrews, joke cocktail napkins, fancy swizzle sticks, and matchbooks from bars all over North America.