by Ron Goulart
Shivering slightly, she took hold of his arm. "Maybe I am getting sort of paranoid over this mess. Seeing potential crooks everywhere."
"Crooks quit wearing tweed caps in about 1940."
She gave a small, fretful sigh. "I'm glad you didn't let me down," she said, tightening the pressure on his arm. "I really don't think I could have made this damn trip all on my own."
"Neither one of us has to go through with it, H.J. We can forget Buggsy, have lunch in Port Jefferson and catch the next boat back."
"No, I want to go at least as far as visiting McAuliffe and his dummy."
He leaned back, watching a scatter of bright white gulls circle high up in the morning sky.
H.J. inquired, "By the way, who was it that phoned early this morning? Candy perhaps?"
"I doubt I'll be hearing from her for a spell," he answered. "No, it was Les Beaujack. He's a VP at the Lenzer, Moon & Lombard Ad Agency and they want me for some My Man Chumley radio spots."
"Is that good?"
"Sure, since LM&L is one of the top advertising agencies. The Chumley account alone currently bills about $75,000,000 a year." He nodded, smiling. "They'll pay me a handsome fee—or at least a good-looking one."
"Lenzer, Moon & Lombard," she said slowly, frowning thoughtfully. "Trinity Winters works for them, doesn't she?"
"Yes. She appears in all the television commercials and print ads for Crazed perfume." He switched to a sultry-voice. "I'm crazed with love . . . and in love with Crazed."
"Rick dated her."
"Rick Dell dated one of the top actress/models in New York?"
"For a while. I don't have all the sleazy details, but he flaunted her name to me more than once."
"He was seeing you and Trinity Winters at the same time?"
"Apparently."
"I'm impressed. Two stunning women simultaneously."
"Screw you," she remarked, letting go of his arm. "You still don't appreciate what an attractive person I am. That's why, during the seemingly endless years we were married, you undervalued just about everything about me."
"Our truce," he reminded.
"Well, you started it this time." H.J. uncrossed her legs, recrossed them. "Is it kind of strange, do you think, that the same agency that uses Rick's ladyfriend is also anxious to hire you?"
"Just a coincidence, H.J. I mean, if he'd been dating a woman who was an editor at Bantam Books and they offered you a cover, it wouldn't mean—"
"Yes, I suppose it is only a coincidence."
"LM&L has two dozen major advertising accounts, which means they hire a lot of talent each and every day," he said. "And I've worked for Beaujack before. So it isn't as though this were the first time they called me in to do some voice work."
"What did you do for them before?"
"Oh, just a voice for an animated cartoon spot."
"What product? Maybe I saw it."
"I doubt it's something you'd pay much attention to. It's DynaDiapers and—"
"Oh, that's the one where the little baby's rear end carries on a conversation with the paper diaper. They have a witty discussion about how ordinary paper diapers can cause itching and such. That one?"
"That's it." He looked out to sea.
"Which voice were you?"
"I played the rough, red baby bottom."
Laughing quietly, she took hold of his arm again. "That was a very cute voice," she said. "And very appropriate casting."
He worked free of her, stood and crossed the mildly swaying deck to the rail. The boat was drawing close to Long Island.
"Turn left just before the crest of this hill," instructed H.J.
Hunched slightly, Ben was behind the wheel of his car. The auto had traveled across the Sound on the ferry with them. "Nobody is trailing us," he assured her yet again. "You don't have to sit all scrunched up like that."
"It's best to take no chances." Knees tucked under her, she was keeping watch of the street behind them.
He executed the left turn. "I noticed a wide assortment of restaurants in Port Jefferson, during the brief time we were there."
"Tourist traps."
"Even so, we could've stopped for lunch."
"We'll eat after we see the ventriloquist."
The Street they were driving down pointed toward the small harbor about a mile away, and was lined with trees and large old houses. Two- and three-story wooden ones, some trimmed in intricate gingerbread, sitting on quarter- and half-acre lots.
"There are probably even some dandy seafood places right here in Coldport."
H.J. untangled her long legs, settled into a new position on the passenger seat and frowned at him. "You're not going to distract or dissuade me, or any combination of the above," she told him firmly. "I'm going to talk to McAuliffe and I'm going to dismantle his damn dummy if need be."
"I've been thinking again about Rick Dell," he said. "They treated him pretty rough."
"I already know that, since he died right on top of me."
"If you get hold of whatever it was he had then they're sure as hell going to treat you rough, too."
"That's one of the risks, sure. Turn right after we pass that godawful mustard-colored saltbox house."
Ben did and they entered a cul-de-sac. At its end rose a narrow, three-story Victorian house, still vaguely white and rich with carved trimming, spires and cupolas. The sea wind had been working at it for over a century, rubbing away much of the paint, twisting the multitude of dark shutters askew, trying to pull the rusted weathercock from its high perch.
The wide front yard consisted of foot-high grass in which lurked a cast-iron elk, the remains of a tandem bicycle, a marble fountain topped by a tottering sea nymph, the weather-beaten and possibly female figurehead off a sailing ship, and the ramshackle skeleton of a small gazebo.
"That's the Coldport Actors Retirement Home." H.J. gestured at it.
"I figured as much." He parked a few dozen feet from the sprung wrought-iron front gate.
"Let me do the talking." She left the car, gracefully and swiftly.
"Same ground rules as our marriage." He followed at a less enthusiastic pace than hers.
"You can be a sourball at times."
They started up through the overgrown lawn, following the remains of a path made of cracked and disordered flagstones. H.J. hurried up the swayback front steps, poking at the doorbell with a forefinger.
Far off inside the giant old house a buzzer made a faint choking sound. After a moment, footsteps could be heard. The oaken door rattled, creaked, swung open inward.
"Well, my goodness, it's Helen. Nice to see you, dear, though under the circumstances, you'll excuse me if I'm not my usual jolly self." The manager of the home, a tall, plump woman of about seventy had opened the door. She had fluffy hair the color of brand new cotton and wore a pale green pantsuit.
H.J. smiled, studying the woman's face. "What circumstances, Mrs. Farber?"
"Oh, I thought that was why you were here, hon." She reached out of the house to pat H.J. on the elbow. "You and your other boyfriend used to visit him. It's poor Mr. McAuliffe."
Ben guessed, "He's dead?"
"He's dead," confirmed Mrs. Farber.
Chapter 7
"Natural causes?" asked H.J. from the fat, flowered armchair.
"Why, yes, hon." Mrs. Farber set her cup on the claw-footed coffee table in front of her and gave the young woman a puzzled look "Yes, he passed away in his sleep two days ago, poor man. That's me back in my Hollywood days, Mr. Spanner."
Ben was making a slow circuit of the cluttered living room, scanning the dozens of framed photos on the walls. "And that's George Givot and Isabel Jewell with you on the soundstage."
The manager chuckled. "You're the first person in years to recognize either one of them."
"Givot was a voice man on the side."
"Oh, are you in—"
"McAuliffe," put in H.J., recrossing her legs. "What exactly did he die of, Mrs. Farber?"
&nbs
p; "Mostly just old age, Helen." She sighed, touched a knuckle to the corner of her right eye. "I was the one, you know, who found him. He was in his room up on the second floor, stretched out on his bed. He looked very peaceful and you might also have thought he was just taking a nap, except you can usually tell when someone's dead. His heart simply gave out, according to Dr. Weinberg."
Ben stopped in front of another large glossy photograph. "Here's McAuliffe," he said, tapping it.
The late ventriloquist, a heavyset blond man in a tuxedo, was sitting with his back to a dressing room mirror. Sharing the picture was a scatter of dummies.
"He wasn't an especially handsome man, but he was extremely likeable," observed the manager of the home. "Very kind to one and all with never—"
"Had he had many visitors lately?" asked H.J.
"Besides your other boyfriend, no. Except for his cousin. He had a cousin who lives over in Smithtown. As a matter of fact, that's who's paying for the funeral and all."
"Has anybody been to visit in the past few days?"
"No, dear, not even his cousin. If you know somebody's going to die, why, I guess you make an effort to see them one last time. But in this case, it was a complete—"
"I have a . . ." H.J. shifted in the chair, twisting her hands together in lap. "Well, it's rather a sentimental request I guess." She lowered her eyes, studying her hands. "But may I, please, take one last look at Buggsy?"
Mrs. Farber's sigh was deeper than the last one. "Oh, Buggsy isn't here anymore either, hon," she said. "No, he's going to be buried with Mr. McAuliffe. That was the poor man's wish."
Descending the front steps, H.J. briefly drooped. "Shit," she muttered, "I hate setbacks."
"I've noticed that."
"Damn." She paused on the cracked pathway to kick out angrily at the high grass. "Ow."
"What now?"
"I don't know. I stubbed my damn toe on something hiding in the weeds."
Bending, he parted the grass and weeds. "Appears to be what's left of a ceramic troll."
"Well, screw him." She resumed walking, arms stiff at her sides, hobbling a bit.
"We seem to have come to a dead end in our quest."
Just short of the dangling iron gate she halted abruptly, pivoting around to face Ben. "The hell we have," she told him evenly. "We're going to that funeral parlor Mrs. Farber mentioned—The Teenie Weenie Chapel in the Swamp or whatever the heck they call themselves."
"The Wee Chapel in the Glen Funeral Home," he provided. "Listen, don't think I'm being non-supportive, but I draw the line at grave robbing."
"It's not grave robbing if the body is still above the ground. At the moment, Ben, McAuliffe is still lying in state."
"Even so, Helen Joanne, I think any kind of ghoulish activity is going to get us in deep trouble," he said. "Let's keep in mind, too, that we're on Long Island and not over in more liberal Connecticut. The penalties for bodysnatching are likely to be more severe over here."
"Dummy-snatching can't be all that serious." Giving him a thorough scowl, she pushed through the gateway. "And keep in mind that . . . Oh, good afternoon. How are you?" She halted on the sidewalk, smiling.
A tall gaunt man in a venerable black suit was approaching the home. "Ah, my day is made," he informed her, bowing deeply. "Always a pleasure to encounter you, Miss Mavity."
"Same here, Marvelo."
"Here's but a small token of my esteem." From out his left sleeve popped a large bouquet of flowers.
They were cloth blooms, faded and frayed. Accepting them with a smile, H.J. pressed them to her breasts. "Thank you."
"And for your companion." A large peppermint stick appeared in Marvelo's right hand.
"Thanks, but I'm trying to quit."
The magician waved and the candy was gone. "I'm the Great Marvelo, sir—and you?"
"Ben Spanner."
"Ah, Miss Mavity's erstwhile husband. She's mentioned you on her previous visits to our little seaside hideaway. I've enjoyed your voice work on several commercials, in spite of some nitwit copy."
"Thanks. I remember seeing you on television when I was a kid."
"That indeed dates me." Marvelo took H.J.'s hand. "I was saddened to hear of Rick Dell's death, my dear, which I just read of in our local library's copy of this morning's newspaper." He tilted his head in Ben's direction. "I presume it's permitted to discuss a departed rival in front of you."
"I'm not in the running in that contest anyway."
H.J. said, "I understand Rick visited Mr. McAuliffe here by himself a couple of weeks ago. At least Mrs. Farber thinks so."
"McAuliffe is gone, too. I'd hate to think, considering my advanced years, that these things actually do go in threes."
"Did he, though, Marvelo?"
"He did, my dear, to be sure. Yes, Rick, looking very furtive and secretive—although, now that I think of it, he always looked that way. Something to do with his eyes being a mite too close together. Yes, he called on McAuliffe about two weeks since. Although my room is next to his, I didn't hear what they chatted about. I'm not above eavesdropping, but this time they spoke in very low tones. Even a water glass against the wall didn't help." He bowed again to H.J., deftly taking back his bouquet and hiding it away again. "Now I must go inside and catch my favorite soap opera. Nice to meet you in person, sir." Nodding at Ben, he started up the path to the house.
"Pizza," commented H.J. as she shifted impatiently on her side of the green booth, "never before struck me as the sort of food one savored."
"We've only been sitting in this place about eleven minutes and they only served us six minutes ago." He returned to slicing his wedge of mushroom pizza with knife and fork. "Relax."
"You're also the only person I know who eats pizza with a fork." She wiped at her palm with her crumpled checkered napkin. "Everyone else on the face of the Earth grabs it with their hand."
"I had a real high-class upbringing, sister," he said in his Dead End Kid voice.
"Could you perhaps speed it up? I'm all finished and I would like to get over to the Little Chapel in the Ditch before sundown. We shouldn't even have stopped for lunch now."
"Missing meals isn't good for you." He chewed a bite of pizza, slowly. "And eating too fast causes stress."
"Eating fast doesn't hurt anybody. The whole damn country is devoted to wolfing down their food as rapidly as they can. My Man Chumley, for whom you'll be prostituting your talent tomorrow, boasts that they'll serve you in under two minutes or refund your—"
"Let me change the subject." He cut himself another small bite of pizza. "What do you say to our heading back to Port Jeff and hopping aboard the first available ferry for home?"
"What I say is no."
"Suppose—despite what Mrs. Farber says Dr. Weinberg told her— suppose McAuliffe was murdered, too?"
"At first, when she told us he was dead, I suspected that's what did happen," admitted H.J. "But then I used my powers of reason. See, McAuliffe died way before Rick did. And there is no reason to believe anybody knew two or three days ago that he was hiding something valuable for Rick. They probably still don't know that."
"Be that as it may, the idea of stealing Buggsy out of the coffin makes me uneasy."
"Ben, it isn't even, technically, stealing at all. Because Rick wanted me to have whatever it is he stashed in Buggsy's hollow leg. I mean, his reciting all that clop clop stuff in the Eastport Mall is practically a living will."
Ben said, "Things look to be getting increasingly complicated and dangerous."
"Finish your damn pizza," she advised.
Chapter 8
The foyer of the funeral parlor smelled of flowers and furniture polish. The pink fountain at the center of the small oval room wasn't functioning properly and every few seconds a spurt of scented water shot up almost to the domed, pale green ceiling. Weak, forlorn, organ music was drifting out of two small dangling speakers.
A very old man in a wrinkled black suit was slumped, arms dangling and
eyes shut, in one of the three straight back chairs that lined the far wall. A net shopping bag beside his chair had slumped, too, and spilled three oranges and a tin of deviled ham onto the hardwood flooring.
Tugging at Ben's arm, H.J. led him over to the announcement board on the wall to their right. "C'mon, kick up your pace," she urged in an exasperated whisper. "We're almost to our goal."
"We're almost into the hoosegow for violating a tomb."
"That only applies to Egypt, when you go break into a pyramid." She scanned the listings in white plastic lettering on the board. "There he is—McAuliffe, Reposing Room 3. They didn't give Buggsy any billing."
He leaned closer to her. "Let's go home. I can loan you the $5000."
"It's always a bad mistake to borrow money from a former mate." She shook her head. "Besides, Ben, I really am caught up in the mystery now."
Saying nothing further, he accompanied her down a pale green hallway. She hesitated in the arched doorway to the reposing room. "I can't, from here, see who's in the coffin."
Easing around her, Ben crossed the maroon carpeting and halted beside the metal stand that supported the polished wood coffin. There were no mourners in the small room, the five rows of dark wood benches were empty. Arranged behind the coffin were six small floral wreaths on wooden legs. "This is the right one," he said.
Gingerly, she came into the room to join him. "I should've brought some flowers."
"Custom doesn't require grave robbers to do that."
"It really is McAuliffe?" She was watching her feet, not the occupant of the coffin.
"Appears to be, judging from my childhood memories and from that photo I saw back at the home."
Very slowly, and uneasily, she raised her head, stood on tiptoe and chanced a quick glance. "Oh, Jesus—I don't like to view bodies."
"You should be getting accustomed by now."
"Where's little Buggsy?"
Ben pointed. "Right over there."
The dummy's freckled face was visible on the far side of the coffin, wedged in next to the dead ventriloquist's right side, his red hair bright against the white satin lining.