EQMM, November 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "No operation today, then, after all?” She thought she had asked the question, and maybe she had, except that no one answered sensibly; she couldn't make any sense of what they were saying through the cotton-wool mists in her brain. It didn't seem to matter. She felt deliciously sleepy and heavy. A masked face loomed over her, an injection by the anaesthetist into the back of her hand, and she knew no more.

  * * * *

  The replacement surgeon who had stepped in to cover Mr. Harvey-Pilbeam's list was always popular with the theatre staff. He joked with the sister while scrubbing up and congratulated the anaesthetist on his golf handicap. It was known that he liked to work to music and “Clair de Lune” played softly as he approached the first patient, Mrs. Parker.

  For a moment, when he bent over her, Ivan thought he was hallucinating. And the next instant, with a shock that actually made his heart skip a beat, he remembered that cocktail party ... Harvey-Pilbeam squinting down the cleavage of the delectable Tamsin, and then winking one of those pale-lashed eyelids at Morrison, and giving him an old-fashioned look. Ivan had shrugged it off, putting it down to H-P's jealousy, and thought nothing of it, until now. But—could he possibly have been remembering what Lynda, to whom he had been introduced, briefly, some years ago, looked like? And comparing her with this patient of his, this Mrs. Parker? She did indeed bear a resemblance to Lynda. Except that it was more than a resemblance. Mrs. Parker was Lynda. Ivan's wife.

  No, of course Harvey-Pilbeam could not have engineered this eventuality, ethical questions apart. It was nothing more than Fate, beautiful Fate, intervening by giving Harvey-Pilbeam a bad dose of flu. And going further by nudging his efficient secretary to take upon herself the decision, on his behalf, to request that Mr. Morrison might be willing to take over the list in the emergency, thus delivering to him the patient on the operating table. Ivan felt dizzy for a moment, his hand trembled. Tamsin had read his horoscope that morning and told him Scorpio was in the ascendant and for once it seemed the mumbo-jumbo she believed in might have some semblance of credibility.

  He looked down at the helpless, unconscious woman who was still his wife, changed as she was. She had been beautiful once, before the determination for revenge had soured and aged her and shaped her mouth into a permanently discontented droop. Before the light in her lovely hazel eyes had turned into an avaricious gleam, and her hands had become claws ready to tear to pieces every kind impulse he had ever had. So utterly unlike his warm, generous, and life-enhancing Tamsin.

  So, he thought, picking up the scalpel. To work. For a moment he paused, almost overcome by a juvenile desire to let his hand slip “accidentally” during the operation. But the temptation was momentary. What was he thinking of? Killing her in front of an operating theatre full of witnesses?

  No, that was not the way. Not a gargoyle, either—he was not about to give her grounds to sue him, another opportunity to bleed him dry. Just a little rearrangement of the face in a way that wouldn't leave any room for real complaint of negligence or anything like that, but wouldn't please her at all. Something that Mrs. Parker would have to live with for the rest of her life. A not-so-subtle reminder that her time of playing fast and loose with him had come to an end. An end to her blackmail.

  He took exquisite pleasure in dwelling on what she would feel when she woke up and learned the name of the surgeon who had replaced Mr. Harvey-Pilbeam. His hands were quite steady as he made the first incision.

  Copyright © 2009 by Marjorie Eccles

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Novelette: WHO KILLED FRANKIE ALMOND? by Michael Z. Lewin

  Michael Z. Lewin is well known for his P.I. novels and stories (which include the Albert Samson and the Lunghi family series, both of which have appeared in EQMM) and for his police procedurals (the best-known starring Lt. Leroy Powder). So what a surprise it was to receive from him this classical drawing room whodunit. We think he's done it splendidly, but if you're craving more of the old Mike Lewin, you won't want to miss his latest book, Oh Joe, a thriller set in his hometown of Indianapolis.

  "Red wine or white, Mr. Brett?” Grimm, the butler, showed Brett Kingsley a tray bear-ing several ceramic wine goblets.

  "I'll have white, please, Grimm.” But before reaching for a goblet, Kingsley looked around the room. With a practiced toss of the head he shifted a thatch of golden hair that hung over the left of his bright blue eyes. A moment later the hair fell back to where it had started. “This is an amazing apartment, isn't it?"

  "Have you not been here before, sir?” Grimm knew full well that Kingsley had been in the penthouse several times during his brief period as Ms. Victoria's lover. But perhaps Victoria had made the young actor use the servants’ entrance. Victoria Nation planned her life meticulously, ran it to a strict timetable, and had a firm idea of what was what.

  "I never got to appreciate the fabulous views,” Brett said, gesturing to the living room's outlook over the Hudson River. “It is only New Jersey, but from this distance it looks wild and inviting."

  "Indeed, Mr. Brett,” Grimm said.

  "And I've certainly never been here on a momentous occasion like this one. I'm so glad that Victoria's been able to let bygones be bygones. I was worried there for a while."

  You are the one who got ditched, Grimm thought, recognizing that Kingsley was implying a different story. Victoria had confided her disappointment that the gorgeous young actor had turned out to be neither sophisticated nor a quick learner. “I daresay he'd be better if I scripted it for him,” she'd said, “but who has the time? He is history, Grimm. Life is too short."

  However, Grimm said only, “Ms. Victoria has never been one to let her personal life get in the way of business decisions."

  "She's a special woman."

  "That she is.” Grimm offered Kingsley the tray.

  "Hey, these are funny-looking wineglasses,” Brett said as he took one. He rotated it in his hand. Each goblet bore a pottery face. The eye and hair colors were similar to his own, but there was little definition in the features.

  "If you would prefer to imbibe from a different vessel, I can find you an alternative, Mr. Brett."

  "No, no. I was just saying.” Kingsley took a sip. “Nothing funny about that."

  "Ms. Victoria wants you all to have the best,” Grimm said. Then he turned to another guest who had joined them. “Wine, Ms. Lorelei?"

  Lorelei Penfold had certainly been in Victoria's living room before, if not for a meeting with such serious implications. Small and dark, Lorelei was a writer of television scripts, although she hoped that the night would leave her in charge of a team of lesser writers who would do the actual work of putting words onto pages. “I really shouldn't do anything to fuddle my mind, Grimm,” she said.

  "No, Ms. Lorelei?"

  "But I'm going to.” Lorelei was known for intuitive scripts backed by meticulous research. “Or am I? Yes, I am. It's not like I'm going to have to make any decisions tonight. That's all being done for us elsewhere. So, by God, I will have a glass, of the red, thank you."

  And, by God, she took a goblet.

  Brett used the moment to tap Grimm on the shoulder. “Hey, Grimm, when is Victoria intending to grace us with her presence? Considering that it's her shindig, I expected her to be here once the guests began to arrive."

  "The mistress will be with us as soon as she can, Mr. Brett.” With the slightest of bows Grimm left the actor and the writer alone.

  "Do you think she is his mistress?” Brett asked Lorelei as Grimm moved out of hearing.

  "Who? The butler?” Lorelei studied Grimm's back.

  "Victoria has ... Well, she has a great appetite for life."

  Lorelei turned back to Brett and raised her eyebrows. Her expression said, Well, you ought to know if anyone does.

  "Oh, stop it,” he said with an embarrassed laugh, and he changed the subject. “Victoria found him in a cardboard box, you know."

  "She what?"

  "He was begging on the str
eet when she spotted him.” Brett mimicked Victoria as he said, “'I saw in an instant that, scrubbed up, he would be exactly what I require a butler to look like. And then, when I heard him speak and he turned out to be English, well, what choice did I have but to acquire him? But don't tell anybody he was a beggar. He's such a sensitive soul.' So here he is, Victoria's secret."

  "If there's one thing to be said about Victoria Nation,” Lorelei said, “it's that she knows how to get what she wants.” Lorelei drank deeply from her wine.

  "Grimm is good-looking, in a fatherly kind of way,” Brett said.

  "And she sure likes them good-looking,” Lorelei said, the drink affecting her already. “As you should know."

  "Does everybody know she and I were together?” Brett was suddenly flustered at the thought that the manner of the relationship's end might also be common gossip.

  "Of course we do, Brett. This is television."

  After taking a breath to calm himself, he said, “Well, that's all in the past now."

  "And,” Lorelei said, “Victoria is with Andrew these days, isn't she?"

  "Andrew?” Brett was surprised. “You mean Andrew Stark? But he's ... forty if he's a day."

  "Only a twenty-five-year-old could say something like that."

  "Oh, sorry, Lorelei, I didn't mean that forty is old. Well, not old old."

  "Old but not old old? I'm not sure I understand the distinction. Perhaps I'll research it. But age aside, you do have to agree that Andrew is good-looking."

  "Do I?"

  "Oh yes." Lorelei felt a bit of a flush and fanned herself with a hand. “And he has such a melodic laugh. Plus those ‘I can make your bells ring’ eyes."

  "He does?"

  "Oh yes."

  "And what kind of eyes do I have?"

  "Why Brett, I never thought you'd ask."

  "What? Oh. Me. Oh, sorry. I didn't mean—"

  Lorelei laughed at the consternation she had caused the young actor. Her own laugh was harsh and not melodic at all. But then she was not an actor, she was a writer. And writers’ lives are harsh.

  Brett only got his composure back when he noticed another woman enter the room and head their way. “Oh, here's Nancy."

  "Where?” Lorelei said. She turned to look. “I do not socialize with Nancy Oliver."

  "What?” Brett was puzzled.

  "I think my language was plain, Brett. I do not socialize with that woman."

  "But if Frankie Almond goes to series..."

  "I will work with Nancy, but I will not socialize with her.” Lorelei downed her drink. “Where did Grimm get to? Ah.” She pivoted on the balls of her feet, for she was athletic, and she left Brett to Nancy's tender mercies.

  "Was it something I said?” Nancy said as she arrived.

  "I don't know,” Brett said. “Was it?"

  Nancy looked dismissively after Lorelei as the little writer beat a retreat. Nancy Oliver, a director, would supervise the direction of all the individual episodes of Frankie Almond, if the series was picked up by the network.

  The reason for the dinner party was to mark that success or failure. In the afternoon Victoria had been learning the network's final decision. And the guests included all the people at the very heart of the project—actor, writer, and director of the pilot episode that had been so well received. These people, along with Victoria, the producer, had the most to gain from the future of Frankie Almond, Private Eye, if there was to be a future for him.

  "Why won't Lorelei socialize with you?” Brett asked.

  Nancy tossed her red hair and fixed Brett with her green eyes. “Well, my little sugar plum, I'd guess that it's because Lorelei is a sexless, repellent little slug. But you'll socialize with me, won't you, darling?” Nancy stepped closer to him.

  "Hey, hey, keep your hands to yourself.” But more quietly Brett added, “People might see."

  "I'm a director, darling,” Nancy said. “We're positively expected to grope our actors. Especially the cute ones."

  "But I don't want to upset Victoria by rubbing her nose in it. Not if FrankieAlmond is going to series. I couldn't afford to be dumped from it."

  "That's not going to happen, schnookums."

  "But until we're sure ... It wouldn't be the first pilot that went to series with a different lead actor. And when I broke up with her, I told her it was because I needed time on my own."

  "Darling Brett, you're so innocent,” Nancy said. “I told Victoria about us days ago."

  "You what?"

  "She'd have done the same thing if she'd taken away my lovely lover."

  Dramatically, Brett clutched his head in his hands. Victoria had dumped him but it was at about the same time that Nancy had approached him. “Am I nothing more than a trophy for you, Nancy? Are you doing nothing more with me than score points off Victoria? I couldn't bear that. Because I love you. I do. It's the real thing, and for me it's forever."

  "Of course it is, darling. Me too. Now, tell me, have you found out anything? From Grimm, perhaps?"

  "Nobody knows. We're all waiting for Victoria."

  "I'll bet my mascara that woman was nothing but an office temp called Vicki where she came from—complete with the little circle dotting her i. But because she has that English accent and knows the difference between a two-shot and a crossfade, all the network people think she's God's gift."

  "The TV movies she did were very successful."

  "Well, I'm not saying that she doesn't have a knack for hiring people whose work makes her look good.” Nancy held a hand up, miming a mirror. “And my direction can make just about anybody look good, don't you think?"

  "I just hope the network people think she's got whatever knack they want,” Brett said. "Frankie Almond would be perfect for me just now."

  "Well, Cuddles, I daresay we could all use a top-ten show to beef up our résumés."

  "Not to mention our bank accounts."

  Nancy sighed deeply. “Oh, you're not going to turn out to be one of those pretty boys who thinks with his checkbook, are you?"

  But before Brett could answer, Grimm appeared. “Wine, Ms. Nancy?"

  "What are these funny wineglasses, Grimm?"

  "Ms. Victoria's sister in Yorkshire runs a pottery and Ms. Victoria commissioned a special set of goblets for tonight's event."

  "What's this face on the side? A gargoyle?"

  "I believe the significance is meant to be a little closer to home, Ms. Nancy."

  "Whatever. But I do prefer to see what I'm drinking, through glass. After all, wine comes in bottles. The people who make it ought to know."

  "Are you requesting to drink from the bottle, Ms. Nancy?"

  "Please don't be a smartass, Grimm."

  "Of course not, Ms. Nancy.” Grimm bowed in deference.

  "Oh, don't mind me. I'm just edgy. Victoria probably knew about FrankieAlmond last week. It would be just like her to keep us all waiting, and guessing, for dramatic effect."

  "Her business is drama, Ms. Nancy,” Grimm said.

  "Well, it's mine too. That doesn't mean I can't separate what's on screen from what's off."

  "I'm sure Ms. Victoria will let everyone know as soon as she can, Ms. Nancy."

  "I'm glad you're sure."

  But while this exchange was taking place, Brett's attention was elsewhere. A new guest had entered the room by a door leading from the interior of the penthouse. Brett took Nancy's elbow and whispered, “If you really believe that Victoria already knows, maybe Andrew will know, too. They're together now, you know."

  The new arrival was Andrew Stark, the old old actor of perhaps forty and Victoria Nation's current squeeze. He approached Brett and Nancy, although he was probably attracted more by Grimm's drinks tray than the company.

  Once Nancy was sure that Andrew was within hearing distance she said, “You know, Grimm, it wouldn't surprise me in the least to learn that Victoria was making us wait on purpose. Everyone knows that she has a terrible sadistic side."

  But Grimm kne
w that Nancy's remark was not, in fact, addressed to him.

  So did Andrew. “Oh, very nice, Nancy,” Andrew said. “And you're one to talk."

  "Do tell us, Andrew. What are you doing here tonight? Playing the part of the empress's consort? Because if she'd had you serving the drinks as well, she could have gotten away with paying only one salary instead of two. And aren't producers meant to have a grasp of basic economics?"

  "You make a rattlesnake seem like a teddy bear,” Andrew said.

  "And you're sweet, too,” Nancy said. “But, compliments aside, you are about the last person I expected to see at the Fate of Frankie Almond event."

  "I don't doubt that," Andrew said, fixing Nancy with a hostile stare.

  "I do so wish I could say it was a pleasant surprise to see your fading features. Mind you, I could say it if someone was paying my rent and buying my clothes. One can say so many unlikely things when you're being paid. But being an ac-tor, you know that perfectly well."

  "There's a window over there, Nancy. Maybe it opens."

  "And charming with it. But I shall leave you with Brett. You boys have so much in common. You could swap notes. On technique, perhaps.” Nancy left the men together to study the sunset over the Hudson.

  "Mirror, mirror on the wall,” Andrew said, “who's the most viperous slut of all?"

  "Stop,” Brett said. "Stop it.I don't think that's what she's like. Not really. I know there's a bit of a hard veneer, but—"

  "Hello? Were you here just now or not?” Andrew shook his head. “Was I imagining her part in that conversation? Pure poison."

  "She just gets started and can't help the way it comes out."

  Andrew stared at him.

  "And she is a wonderful director."

  Andrew sucked his lips before saying, “She certainly manages to make you look good, I'll say that for her."

  Brett was uncomfortable, so he fell back on the most reliable method of changing subjects, asking the person you're with to talk about himself. “I haven't seen you around for a while—not that I catch everything that's going on out there. Have you been working?"