by Lou Harper
“That’s Chad Morton,” Olly blurted out. “Where did you get this?”
“Who?” Rich asked rather than answered.
“Chad Morton. He’s on Channel 16 News. Well, used to be. I remember he did a piece on Fred’s Trade Post a couple of years ago. But this is an old picture.” He wrinkled his nose. “Hm, I’m pretty sure he’s married.”
Sandy peered over from Rich’s other side. “He sure is. Or was. He passed away.”
Olly raised his brows. “Oh, he did? I didn’t know.”
She nodded. “Heart attack. It was quick.” She glanced back down. “He and Willard Keats—who would’ve thought. I mean, I knew about Willard—it’s an open secret—but I had no idea about Chad Morton.”
Olly leaned closer to the photo and squinted. “How can you tell it’s Willard Keats?”
“The birthmark.” She pointed at the man’s shoulder blade. “It’s in the shape of South America.”
“Ah. I thought it was a smudge.”
“No, it’s definitely a birthmark. I’ve seen it in person.”
Rich had lost patience with the two of them talking across him. “What the hell are you going on about? And who the hell is Willard Keats?”
They both gave him pitying looks. “Willard is an old character actor,” Sandy explained. “You must’ve seen him. He’s in half a dozen movies and TV shows every year.”
“He played the old prisoner with the pet mice in Escape from Hollow Rock,” Olly added. “And the evil dude in Blood Moon Island. You know, the guy with the long white beard, who keeps putting curses on people.”
“Oh, him.” The face of the actor was clear in Rich’s memory, someone he’d seen in tons of supporting roles, never big enough to bother to remember the man’s name.
“You saw him shirtless?” Olly asked Sandy.
She nodded. “We did Death of a Salesman in North Hollywood once. It was a short run, four weeks. We got very good reviews, though. Willard played the main role, of course, and I had a small one as Miss Forsythe. One day I accidentally barged into his dressing room as he was changing and saw the birthmark. We joked about it later. Willard is such an old-fashioned gentleman. You know, the kind who holds doors open for the ladies and such. And he didn’t look down at me either because I was a nobody. We got friendly. I’ve been to his house several times. He doesn’t live far from here, as a matter of fact. Just over at Los Feliz.” Sandy put her hands on her hips and fixed Rich in her sights. “The big question is, where did you get this photo from?”
“I found it.” Rich evaded to buy himself time. He was fairly sure she’d march him straight to the police station if he told her the truth.
“Found it where?” she asked, and her eyes narrowed.
Rich swiftly fabricated a story, tying the fiction together with scraps of truth. “In Chester Kane’s trash. I rode my bike over around midnight, okay? I wanted to talk to him, but nobody opened the door. I was going to leave, but then I saw the trashcan at the curb and went through it. I thought I might find something incriminating, but this was the only thing worth taking, and up till now, I had no idea who these people were.”
She eyed him warily. “Did you tell the police?”
“Are you nuts? I’m already their chief suspect. They probably would’ve locked me up, and then who’d finish your nice hardwood floors?”
She shook her head slowly. “I don’t like it.”
“Don’t worry, sis. I’m sure the cops know their job and will find the killer. It won’t matter if I went through the guy’s trash or not. And this photo couldn’t have anything to do with the murder. You said what’s-his-face, the news guy, died recently, right? I bet Chester had been blackmailing him too, but couldn’t anymore. Dead men don’t pay. Chester must’ve been cleaning house.”
“What if they find your fingerprints?” she asked.
“I wore my riding gloves.” Rich had another argument in his arsenal. “If I went to the cops, I’d have to tell them about your friend Willard, wouldn’t I? And the dead guy would be dragged into it too. The press would have a field day.”
She didn’t seem too happy, but her resolve was clearly crumbling. “All right. For now. But I retain the right to strangle you.” She turned and pointed a finger at Olly. “And you. If the cops ask, you tell them the truth. Don’t cover for my imbecile brother.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Olly replied.
“Good. I need to get ready.” She rushed off in the direction of the bathroom window.
Rich wandered back to the porch, his mind spinning. He wasn’t sure why he lied, but a good part of it was still trying to protect his sister. Having a brother arrested for murder surely couldn’t be good publicity even here. And, well, he didn’t want to get arrested for murder. It would be bound to get back to certain people in Chicago, and he didn’t want to give them the satisfaction. Spotting Sandy’s phone gave him an idea. It was unlocked, and, as he expected, he found Willard Keats’s number in seconds.
“You’re up to something,” Olly said. He’d followed him, quiet as a shadow.
Rich was going to lie first, but he changed his mind. He’d been lying enough already. “I bet there’s a website for reverse phone look-up.”
Chapter Ten
Olly sensed in his guts there was something off about Rich’s story, but he couldn’t figure out what. Briefly, he considered Rich being behind the murder, but the idea seemed ludicrous. Rich wasn’t the murdering kind, but plainly someone in need of looking after, in Olly’s estimation. “I’m going with you,” he announced, seeing Rich pick up his motorcycle helmet.
“Like hell you are.” Rich pulled his gloves on.
“If you don’t take me, I’ll tell Sandy what you’re up to.”
It stopped Rich right there. He stared at Olly through the open visor in disbelief. “You wouldn’t.”
Olly crossed his arms and arched his brows. “Try me.”
“Fine.” Rich unbuckled his helmet. “We’ll have to take your toy car, though. I’ve been forbidden to give you a ride on my two-wheeled death trap, as my sister put it.”
“Toy car?” Olly puffed his chest out, ready to defend his vehicle tooth and nail.
But Rich backed down. “I meant to say Batmobile. Unless, you mind driving me back.”
The concession took the wind out of Olly’s sails. “No, not at all,” he fibbed and headed out to the street. The beginnings of a nefarious plan were forming in his head.
Unaware of Olly’s designs on him, Rich folded himself onto the passenger seat. “Do you have pen and paper in this thing somewhere?”
“Ah…I’m pretty sure there’s a pen in the glove compartment. I don’t know about paper.”
Rich opened the compartment and, with a baffled expression, pulled out something red—Olly’s briefs from the other day. He held the item up as if it were an intriguing piece of art. “Is this some fruity thing I don’t know about?”
“Yeah, Fruit of the Loom.” Olly grinned. Technically, they were Andrew Christians, but the pun was too good to miss. “From Sunday, when I stayed over. I’ve totally forgotten. Just stuff them back in there,” he said, pulling off the curb.
Rich did and rooted around some more and produced a Bic and a small notebook. He leafed through the latter. “Shopping lists and addresses?”
Olly glanced sideways. “Ah. Sometimes I make delivery runs for the store. Not often—Roger prefers sending the bigger and older guys. He doesn’t send women either, except Nora, but she could coldcock a horse. Roger’s old-fashioned.”
“I’m glad. You’re too pretty to do house calls.”
Olly sputtered. “I don’t know if I should take it as an insult or a compliment.”
“Your choice,” Rich replied, his attention already on his phone. He kept tapping away on it for the rest of their short ride.
“So what’s your plan?” Olly asked, navigating from one small street to another.
“I dunno, just feel the guy out,” Rich replied.
“But why?”
Rich scratched his left sideburn—it must’ve itched. “No reason, other than curiosity. And that I have nothing better to do with Sandy doing a booty call. We won’t have TV or Internet for at least a few more days.”
Olly had loads of better ideas for killing time, but was waiting for the opportune moment to bring them up. So he said instead, “We should give the picture back to Willard. You’ve seen it—so intimate and tender. Looking at it, I feel like a pervert spying on someone.”
“I bet whoever took the photo was. Spying, I mean,” Rich said.
“You think it was Chester Kane?”
“He was a photographer chasing after celebrities, wasn’t he? It’s not such a big jump from waiting for someone in front of their home to peeping through their bedroom window.”
It was a good point; Chester Kane hadn’t had many moral qualms, that much was already clear.
Willard Keats’s house was a small but neat stucco thing, hiding behind tall bushes and dwarf palms two blocks east of Hillhurst Avenue. The whole neighborhood sloped down from the hills of Griffith Park to the north. Willard’s street ran east to west, and the house sat on the higher side of the street.
Olly recognized the old actor the moment the door opened. There he stood in linen trousers and blue cotton shirt open at the neck, and a polite expression of query on his face. “Can I help you?” Even for a guy over sixty, he was good looking. His once-black hair had more salt than pepper, and his face was full of lines unaltered by Botox or plastic surgery, but he had a trim figure and a sophisticated air about him.
Olly stood back, waiting for Rich to take the lead, and right on cue, Rich transformed from a semi-grump into a charmer. He aimed a disarming smile at the old actor. “Hi, I’m Richard, Sandy Baker’s brother. Maybe she mentioned me?” At Willard’s tiny nod, he barreled on. “I’m in town helping her with the renovations, and we’re almost done, so I thought of throwing her a surprise housewarming party. She’s just too busy to organize one herself. There’s only one problem: I don’t know any of her friends, or how to go about this whole thing. Sandy talked fondly about you many times, so I thought I’d ask you. I found your address in her address book.” Rich put a hand on Olly’s shoulder and squeezed. It was a familiar gesture, but how familiar was up to interpretations. “This is my friend Olly. He’s helping me with stuff and chauffeuring me around.”
Willard’s reserved expression shifted into joviality. “But of course! I talked to your sister just the other week. She told me all about the house. Come in. Both of you.”
The living room was a couple of decades out of fashion, but cozy and full of sunlight. Old photographs hung on the walls, squatted on mantels and sat on side tables.
Rich went on with his charming-bumbler routine. He was scary good. “Mr. Keats, I can’t tell you how grateful I am. Sandy keeps going on about the time you two were in Death of a Salesman together.”
Willard Keats’s lips took on a self-indulgent curve. “Call me Willard, please. We had nice reviews. I suspected then your sister had a chance of making it in the business. She has tenacity. You see, talent and good looks will take you only so far. They mean nothing without tenacity and luck. I have been short on luck, I’m afraid. Would you believe I was predicted to become a leading man in my youth? One to rival James Stewart.” He made a dismissive gesture. “Alas, nothing came of it. But at least I’ve been working steadily for half a century.”
“You were nominated for an Academy award—best actor in a supporting role in A Farmer’s Daughter,” Rich pointed out.
This surprised Olly—Olly didn’t know about the nomination, and Rich didn’t seem to know anything about Willard Keats half an hour ago. He must’ve looked the old guy up on his phone while Olly had been driving.
“Ah, but I didn’t win,” Willard retorted, though his expression grew more pleased.
“Yeah, but not everyone gets nominated, and there’s always next time,” Rich said.
“Hm, yes. So what is it you think I can help you with?”
Rich pulled out the notebook and pen. “A guest list would be a good start. If you just give me names, I can look the numbers up in Sandy’s address book when she’s not around. She has tons of contacts, but I doubt they’re all friends.”
Willard made a few suggestions, asked a couple of questions, and he and Rich kept chatting back and forth.
Olly’s attention wandered to the photographs surrounding them. They were all casual, no studio publicity shots, but many had big-name actors, usually standing next to Willard and smiling into the camera. Quite a few appeared to be candid shots snapped on the set of one movie or another. Olly racked his brain to identify the films but didn’t do too well. The bulk of the photos were older than him. On a small table, right next to his elbow, stood another on-set photograph, but not quite as old as some of the others. In it, Willard had a fake beard and wore some sort of period costume. Next to him stood a man in street clothes, and in front of them stood a blonde teenage girl, also in costume.
Olly immediately recognized the film. “Blood Moon Island! I love that movie,” he exclaimed, picking up the photo by its silver frame. He looked up at Willard, but mortification washed over him right away. “I’m sorry.”
Willard smiled jovially. “It’s quite all right.”
Emboldened, Olly went on. “Your character was so deliciously evil. You totally stole the film from what’s-his-face.” The most notable quality of the film’s leading man was his naked chest—he tended to lose his shirt a lot. Willard chuckled, and Olly took one last peek at the photo. “I don’t remember the girl. Was she an extra?” Actually, she seemed vaguely familiar.
“Oh, it’s my niece, Katie. She was visiting on the set, and we borrowed a dress for her from wardrobe.”
“Ah, of course.” Olly now saw the family resemblance—more with the man in front of him than the one in the picture wearing a fake beard. He cautiously put the picture down, doing his best to position it as it had been before.
Willard had already turned away, and soon he and Rich concluded their business. Olly had no clue what Rich hoped to achieve with the charade, but he wasn’t going to butt in.
They had said their good-byes and were half out the door when Rich turned back. “Uhm, there’s one more thing. It’s kinda embarrassing.”
Willard’s arched brows conveyed polite interest. “Yes?”
“You know the photographer who was murdered last night? Chester Kane?” Rich asked.
Willard’s expression stiffened. “I’ve seen something on the news.”
“Well, here’s the beef. The guy tried to blackmail my sister, but I intercepted his letter. The whole thing was ridiculous, and it wouldn’t have gotten him anywhere, but I didn’t want Sandy to worry. So I figured out where the guy lives…lived, and stupidly went there to give him a piece of my mind. One of the neighbors saw me. And now the police think I might have been the one to bash the guy’s head in.”
“Did you?”
“Of course not!”
“Well then, what could I possibly do for you?” Impatience seeped into Willard’s voice, and he moved to herd them out the door.
Rich, however, stood his ground. “I thought you might know more about this Kane guy. Could he have been blackmailing others too?”
Willard swatted the question away with a gesture of his hand. “I wouldn’t possibly know. I admit I’ve seen the man around. He’d been plying his trade for a long time, but I’ve never been famous enough to attract the attention of the paparazzi. Certainly not worth blackmailing.”
“You could’ve heard rumors.”
“If I have—and I assure you I haven’t—I certainly wouldn’t share them.”
Rich bowed his head. “Of course, sorry. Stupid idea. Thank you for all the help. May I call on you again later in case I need to ask a question? About the party.”
“If you wish,” Willard replied with a professional courtesy. “Good night.” He
closed the door.
“You didn’t bring up the photo—it could’ve put Willard in a spot,” Olly said, getting into the car.
“It didn’t seem right. Who am I to judge the old guy? It couldn’t have been easy for him.” Rich shoved the notepad back into the glove compartment.
From the corner of his eye, Olly saw Rich pause with his fingers brushing against red fabric before slamming the compartment shut. “True. The longer you stay in the closet, the harder it is to come out.” Olly pushed the key into the ignition but didn’t turn it.
“How would you know what it’s like? You’ve never been there.” Rich sounded angry.
“I have imagination.” Olly decided to tackle the situation head-on. “Are you still undecided about yourself?” Olly let go of the key and stretched his hand out to touch Rich on the arm. Lightly.
Rich didn’t pull away. “It’s not easy, you know,” he said quietly.
Olly squeezed Rich’s arm. “Maybe it is. What do you want? Deep down.”
Rich looked at the fingers on his biceps, covered them with his own and gently peeled them off. He held them and studied them before meeting Olly’s gaze. “I want you.” His words rustled.
Olly leaned in and pressed his lips to Rich’s in the briefest of kisses. “Come home with me. I’ll drive you back to Sandy’s in the morning.”
“Don’t you have roommates?”
“Teag works nights, won’t be home till two a.m. the earliest. There’s a fifty-fifty chance Dylan’s home, but I can convince him to leave for a few hours.” Dylan had already met a potential sugar daddy since the mishap at Ombre, and if things went well for Dylan, Olly would be looking for a new roommate soon. Although, knowing Dylan, it would probably fall through. Either way, Olly didn’t want to think about Dylan’s sexploits right now. He put a hand on one of Rich’s thighs, slipping it down between both. “I could show you my tattoo again,” he said in a low, sultry voice. “You might appreciate it better now, sober. I could tell you all the things Wade did to me after he finished inking me. Every dirty little detail.”