Inside, I set aside Annabelle’s behavior and went to work. I stepped around the medical examiner and studied the pistol in Eric’s hand, a common Colt .45. His finger was on the trigger, but the killer could’ve placed it there. I peered inside the open nightstand drawer.
I removed a handkerchief from my pocket and lifted a glass from the drawer. I sniffed along the rim. Detecting the fresh aroma of hooch and a thin film at the bottom, I set the glass beside the other. “Eric poured two drinks tonight, one for himself and one for a guest.”
Annabelle shook her head. “Gus totally missed this.”
He jotted an entry in his notepad without attempting to hide a sneer.
The rumpled sheets suggested Eric had enjoyed a romp in the hay. I had no idea who he’d been sleeping with. That would take grunt work. I was here to make sure Annabelle and Gus hadn’t missed anything, and my work was nearly done. “After the body is moved, you might want to examine the sheets for recent activity. I suspect that will explain what Eric was doing after he left the party.”
For the first time, Gus wasn’t acting like I was a rock in his shoe. He shook his head. “You think a skirt shot him? No offense, Sergeant.”
I shrugged. “It could still be suicide. Maybe he wanted to go out with a bang.”
Gus bellowed with laughter. When Annabelle stepped toward him with a cold, disapproving glare, he wiped the grin from his mug.
I circled the bed. “Perhaps a woman did plug him. Then again, someone may have been waiting until Eric and the lady finished doing the deed. After she left, Eric might have fallen asleep with the cigarette smoldering in the ashtray. The killer could’ve come in and plugged Eric while he slept. Or maybe it was suicide.”
I stepped in front of the desk and read the “suicide note.”
Life is no longer worth living. I appologize for any hurt this will cause my father, brother, or anyone else. E.
“He misspelled apologize.” I leaned closer to the typewriter, paying particular attention to the alignment of the page. “Either of you do much typing?”
Gus shrugged. “Reports, that type of thing.”
Annabelle shook her head. “The same.”
“Doctor?”
“I probably type more than they do.” The medical examiner crossed his arms. “What are you getting at?”
“I type nearly every day, sometimes a dozen or more pages. If I stop before I get to the end of the page, and roll the paper out, I have to pay close attention to align the page when I roll it back in. I make sure the margins are perfectly straight and the last line is level before I can continue.”
Gus groaned. “Enough already!”
“My point is, the note wasn’t typed on this typewriter.”
Gus rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on.”
“Are you sure?” Annabelle’s eyes widened as if I’d discovered the Holy Grail. Was I the only one to notice her creepy behavior?
I faced the three of them. “This is an Underwood typewriter, like mine. Very popular. If I were to hit the backspace, I’d be over the E on the paper. If the letter was typed on this Underwood and I hit the shift lock and typed a capital E, the letter would be perfectly aligned with the one typed earlier. The E would appear the same, only darker because it would have two layers of ink.” I pointed to the E on the page. “But if I do that now, I’m certain it will be slightly off, proving someone typed this on another typewriter then rolled it into this one and tried to make it look as if Eric typed the note.”
The medical examiner removed his gloves and set them in his black bag. “Very impressive. I may have to read one of your books.”
Gus shrugged. “Only one way to be sure.”
“Go ahead.” Annabelle stopped breathing. “Let’s find out whether you’re right.”
“You sure? If I’m right, you’ve got a murder on your hands, one for which Hollywood will want quick answers.”
Annabelle nodded. “Do it.”
I pressed the shift-lock lever and tapped the e on the keyboard. The new letter on the page was slightly above and to the right of the first E.
Gus let out a whistle. “Son of a bitch. Someone tried to make us think Eric’s death was a suicide.”
It had almost worked.
Annabelle closed the bedroom door. “I don’t want this to leave the room. As far as reporters are concerned, this is still a possible suicide. Maybe the killer will relax and make a mistake. Anything else, Jake?”
I walked around the room one more time, stopping at the nightstand drawer. “If I were investigating this, I’d want to know whether the piece came from this drawer, or if it was the killer’s. I’d also examine the rooms on the other side of these walls. Find out whether anyone might’ve been listening between midnight and one.”
Annabelle smiled. “That’s wonderful, Jake. Can I call you…if I think of any more questions?”
I didn’t want to see or talk to her again. She gave me the creeps. “I’m going to be busy working on a novel and a screenplay, but I’ll do what I can.”
The medical examiner moved closer to the body.
“Something wrong?” Annabelle asked.
He rubbed his forehead. “I’d accept your theory, Mr. Donovan, but it conflicts with the obvious physical evidence. I don’t think Eric was asleep when he was shot. He appears to have put up a fight.” He pointed to the bruise under Eric’s left eye and the abrasions on his knuckles.
I stood beside the bed and studied Eric’s face. “I did that…earlier in the evening.”
The two homicide detectives and the medical examiner stared at me for several seconds. The only sound was the ticking of the clock on the dresser.
Don’t say anything stupid, Laura had warned me, but I had to tell the truth. They either already knew Eric and I had fought, or they’d find out and wonder why I’d kept quiet. “There’s blood on the right nostril. We got in a fight earlier. I bruised his eye and bloodied his nose. Half the party saw punches thrown.”
Gus smiled with glee. “So you two didn’t like each other?”
“I barely knew the guy. We first met yesterday at the train station.”
The medical examiner lifted Eric’s hand and studied his bloody knuckles. “You don’t appear injured.”
“I got the best of it.”
Gus furrowed his brow. “So, after the fight you left and went back to the hotel. What time was that?”
“You’re getting ahead of yourself. After we fought, I met with Norman Carville. The first half of the meeting included Todd Carville, Christine Brody, Roland Harper, Laura, and Eric.
The medical examiner pointed to Eric’s ear. “The deceased has a recent abrasion at the top of the ear. Most of the blood was cleaned away, but the abrasion is still visible. You know anything about this injury, Donovan?”
My identity had gone from Mr. Donovan to Donovan in minutes. Reluctantly, I explained. “That happened earlier in the evening when I arrived with Christine Brody.”
“Christine Brody!” Gus rubbed his forehead. “I thought you and Laura Wilson were an item.”
Annabelle’s eyes narrowed as if she was waiting for my answer.
“Laura was already coming to the party. Christine is Laura’s costar. She needed an escort. I did her a favor, professional courtesy.”
The medical examiner ran a hand through his hair. “You got in two fights with the deceased.”
I tried to choose my words carefully. “When we arrived, Eric had already been drinking. He grabbed Christine’s arm in an aggressive and threatening manner. I came to her assistance, and during the course of removing Eric’s hand from Christine, he collided with a pillar out front, an accident, really. Miss Brody will confirm my account of what happened. As for our fight later, nearly everyone at the party saw Eric throw the first punch. He was the aggressor, and I was the victim.”
“At some point in the evening, Eric Carville became the victim.” Gus’s smile was as warm as a frozen mackerel.
Annabelle
crossed her arms. “I don’t like the way you’re putting the screws to Mr. Donovan.”
“Too fucking bad.” He pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket.
The typing paper he’d taken from my Underwood. I barely remembered what I’d written.
“Listen to this, Sergeant. ‘I disliked the man from the moment we met, but he didn’t deserve to die that way. No one deserved a bullet to the head.’ ” He handed the page to Annabelle.
I let out a heavy moan. “That’s a scene from a novel I’m working on.”
Annabelle’s lips moved as she read the sentence. Her forehead wrinkled. “Jake?”
“Those are words spoken by Blackie Doyle.”
Gus’s pen hovered above the notepad. “Who’s this Doyle guy, and how can I contact him?”
Had this dumb palooka gotten stupid or deaf over the years? “I said it’s a scene from the novel I’m writing. Blackie Doyle is a fictional character. Have you read any of my novels?”
Gus and the medical examiner shook their heads. Annabelle blushed. “I’ve read them all.”
I pointed to the paper in her hand. “See those? Quotation marks. Blackie is jawing with a blond reporter he met.”
Gus scratched his head. “What newspaper does she work for?”
I grabbed his lapels and shouted, “It’s a damn novel, moron!”
Annabelle pulled me off Gus, but not before the detective threw a punch that split my lip. “I can pinch you for assault.”
With outstretched arms, Annabelle stood between us. “No one’s getting arrested.” She breathed deeply while I snatched the handkerchief from my pocket and pressed it against my mouth.
Gus sucked in gulps of air. “Tell me about the meeting, Jake.”
I blotted my lip and glanced at the blood on the handkerchief. “What meeting?”
Gus chuckled. “Now who’s the moron? The meeting with old man Carville.”
I provided a brief summary, without giving away too much information that the Carvilles might not want to read in the papers.
When I finished, Annabelle stared at me a moment. “So you agreed to rewrite Eric Carville’s screenplay.”
“Reluctantly.”
“How did Eric take the news?” Gus asked.
“Norman Carville and I didn’t come to our agreement until he’d dismissed Eric and the others from the meeting. I don’t know when or if Eric was told I’d be helping with the screenplay.”
Annabelle touched my arm. “Jake’s not a suspect, Gus, so quit treating him like one.”
I glanced at Annabelle’s hand. Was I the only one who recognized how odd her behavior was? Still, now wasn’t the time to bring that up.
The doctor studied my clothes. “The deceased was shot at close range, so I expect the killer would have Eric’s blood on their clothing.”
“Of course.”
The doctor’s gaze dropped below chest level.
Annabelle and Gus followed his eyes. The tuxedo jacket had opened when I shook Gus’s lapels.
I glanced at the bloodstain I had tried to remove after we returned to the hotel.
“Is that your blood?” Gus asked. “I mean, if you got in a fight, that would make sense.”
I never should’ve agreed to assist with the investigation. I couldn’t help but chuckle, though I was certain none of them would laugh when I explained.
Gus shot me a glowering stare. “Something funny, Donovan?”
I forced myself to get serious. I touched the stain. “It’s Eric’s blood, from the bloody nose I gave him. I told you about that.”
Gus pointed to the smudge. “Looks like you tried to get rid of the bloodstain.”
“Of course I did. It’s an expensive shirt. Look, I’ll be happy to hand over the shirt for analysis when I return to the hotel room.” I studied the three faces. “Or I could hand it over now.” I removed my jacket and tie then the shirt. I handed it to the medical examiner.
I’d gone from consultant to suspect in less than five minutes. I needed to set the cops straight before things got worse for me. “I couldn’t have killed Eric. The butler called a cab just after eleven. We left at approximately eleven fifteen. The trip lasted forty minutes. By the time Laura and I returned to our room, your witnesses reported hearing a gunshot. The timeline proves I wasn’t anywhere near the Carville Estate when someone drilled Eric.”
Gus chuckled. “Maybe it does, maybe it doesn’t.”
Eric’s injuries and his blood on my shirt raised suspicions in Gus and the medical examiner’s minds, perhaps even Annabelle’s. “Laura will tell you.”
Annabelle cocked her head. “Would she lie for you, Jake?”
Probably. “No. Check with the cabbie. He’ll confirm the time he picked us up and dropped us off at the hotel. The elevator operator and the desk clerk will tell you what time we rode the elevator to our suite.”
“We’ll talk to everyone.” Gus stared at me unblinking.
Annabelle held up both hands. “Everything you say makes sense.”
“You gotta be kidding.” Gus’s lip curled in disgust. “What crime scene have you been in?”
“I’m in charge here, and Jake Donovan isn’t a suspect.” Annabelle ran a hand over her face. “A suicide of a movie studio executive is bound to hit the papers. A murder would be a goddamn sensation. By this time tomorrow, the brass will be crawling up our asses. We can’t afford to screw this up, but pressure comes with the territory. We have to get things right. Okay, Jake?”
“Of course. I just want you to have all the information.”
Gus savored my unease with a deep breath. “You’ve been most helpful.”
“Thanks, Jake.” Annabelle led me to the door.
“Yeah, thanks.” Gus’s voice contained more than a hint of swagger.
We headed down the stairs. Annabelle stopped halfway and glanced back at Gus, who stood, smug, at the top of the landing. She spoke in a soft voice: “In case, you know, we have any other questions, you’re not leaving town any time soon, are you?”
“Sergeant—”
“Annabelle.”
“I told you the truth, the whole truth.”
“I have no doubt, but with such a high-profile case, we’ll have to check out everything.”
Laura approached the foot of the stairs. Her eyes widened at my chest beneath the tuxedo jacket. I buttoned my jacket. “I’ll be around and will be happy to answer any questions that come up. I’m staying at the Hollywood Hotel until Laura’s picture is finished.”
Annabelle stared at Laura. “Let me guess. You two are…”
“Engaged.”
“Engaged?” Her eyes narrowed into slits. “I had no idea.”
Chapter 7
Putting on My Gumshoes
On the way down the stairs, I replayed the mistakes I’d made in the crime scene examination with Annabelle, Gus, and the medical examiner. I’d proved Eric Carville’s death wasn’t a suicide, but moments later, I’d aroused everyone’s suspicions.
The weight of being a suspect in a murder investigation felt like a pallet of bricks on my shoulders. The timeline proved I couldn’t have committed the murder, but I’d seen plenty of cases where cops stretched little details like that to fit their theory and make an arrest.
Laura would insist I get a lawyer, but I didn’t trust meat-wagon chasers. The only way out of this mess was to dust off my detective skills and clear my name. I had to find out who wasted Eric before the cops, led by Detective Gus Connolly, threw me in the clink.
It wasn’t just my future in jeopardy. What kind of acting career would Laura have if she married a man charged with the murder of a studio executive?
Someone at the party was bold enough to kill Eric and clever enough to convince the cops Eric shot himself. They had nearly succeeded.
Bold and clever described most actors and nearly everyone at the Carville Estate the night of the shooting. I had to find out who, and it wouldn’t be easy. Nearly everyone who had attended was
wealthy, powerful, and influential. I had to learn more about those who might have had a motive to drill the youngest Carville. And I had to start now.
I reached the foot of the stairs as Laura stepped into the foyer. She touched my swollen lip and studied my blood on her finger. “You’ve got some explaining to do. You can start by telling me why you’re not wearing a shirt.”
Before I could even begin to explain, James, the butler, approached, carrying a tray of half-empty bottles of booze. His limp appeared more noticeable than when we first met; and now that I had a closer look, I noticed he held an air of bitterness. I suspected his resentment, like the arrogant resentment of a couple of Englishmen I knew during the war, dated back to when the colonists told his ancestors to kiss off. “Miss Wilson, Mr. Donovan, Mr. Carville senior asked that you visit with him by the pool before you leave.”
“Certainly.” I held Laura’s arm then paused. “A moment, James?”
His voice cracked a bit as he set the tray on a table. “Yes, Mr. Donovan?”
“How long have you been with Mr. Carville?”
His carefully calm demeanor wavered. He reached for a bottle and swallowed a shot of whiskey. “From the beginning.”
What exactly did that mean? “One more thing. I’d like a list of everyone who attended the party.”
“I already furnished that to the lady detective.” He pointed up the stairs with the bottle.
“Sergeant Church needs one for her file. She asked me to make sure everyone in attendance gives statements, so I’ll need a copy of the list, too. It’s grunt work, but I agreed to help. If it’s too much trouble…”
“No trouble at all, Mr. Donovan.” He sipped again and set the bottle on the tray. “One moment.”
While Laura tapped her foot, the butler straightened his toupee and disappeared into the kitchen. He returned and handed me four sheets of typed names and addresses. Without checking the list, I folded the pages, tucked them inside my jacket pocket, and thanked him.
In the ballroom, I led Laura toward the French doors.
She whispered. “Are you going to tell me about your missing shirt and swollen lip?”
“Of course. Just not right now, darling.”
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