Jailbird Detective

by Helen Jacey

  Beatty pondered.

  ‘Reba T. knows Caziel – though she maybe doesn’t know he’s dead – and she employed Shimmer and Rhonda. Caziel and Reba T., the common denominators. Reba T. could want Caziel dead and her little visit today is a bluff. She didn’t like you sniffing around, but why? Caziel peddles porno. Like you said, he might have something on her.’ She held up one of the lipsticks, narrowing her eyes. ‘Fair to surmise he knew Shimmer from their time with Reba T. Maybe he killed the three of them, took pictures of the bodies. Snapshots of a few Hollywood names. Dead, as well. Another nice little earner. That’s his game, right? Some perverted types would cough up for that.’

  I blinked. That seemed plausible. I joined in, excited. ‘If Shimmer trusted Caziel, he could have set up the job. Tricked her. Shimmer was going for a job, and she had to look good. He could have easily found out from her that Rhonda was home alone and visited her afterwards. Tricked her into going with him! But now he’s dead. What can he have done with her?’

  ‘Hold your horses! We don’t know how they all ended up together in that hotel.’ Beatty cautioned. ‘Then again, maybe the killer is not on this table.’

  We both stared at the pattern on the desk. The ticking of the brass clock suddenly became very loud.

  ‘Lyntner said Frank Acker was trouble. But Olive said Darlene liked him.’

  ‘Trouble with Frank, maybe? Sounds like a B movie. Well, let’s assume he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Note I said assume. We can get to him later, if need be.’

  Beatty was clearly wasted on divorce work. She peered at the items. ‘Oh. We’re forgetting. Your cop and his pal.’ She placed her brandy glass down. ‘Multiple possible agendas, and this Lauder fella can use you as a scapegoat. Sure, if he’s in bed with Reba T., he may very well know Rhonda’s whereabouts. Let sleeping dogs lie for the moment. Let me know when he gets back in touch.’

  I nodded. Then…

  ‘Oh, my God!’ The love letter I’d swiped from Lyntner’s office. I plucked it from the purse and handed it to Beatty. It was slightly worse for wear. She scanned it. ‘Lordy, how did you get this?’

  ‘There was mail laying around on the front desk. I couldn’t resist.’

  Beatty finally looked impressed. She waved the floral note. ‘This is the sort of simpering garbage a woman who doesn’t think a whole lot of herself would write.’

  ‘Yeah. She’s head over heels and insecure.’

  ‘Worth checking this Janice out. More engine grease. You should go there tomorrow, with a fresh mind.’

  My mind had raced on. Out of the blue, an idea came to me. Obvious, but daring. The logical conclusion of my fixer role. I looked up.

  ‘The only way I got anywhere with Lyntner and Martell was playing a go-between for an imaginary producer. But what if the producer becomes real? If the movie is a problem for somebody in this inner circle, then maybe we should get word out it’s going ahead.’

  Beatty leant back. ‘Luring out the killers? Interesting move.’

  ‘I can ask somebody to be the producer. But he’d have to think it’s genuine.’

  ‘Don’t tell me. The guy you screwed?’

  I felt myself blushing in response.

  ‘So what’s lover boy’s name?’

  ‘Lyle Vadnay.’

  Lyle was starting out, he had money and he was hungry. Martell was hungry for artistic merit, or so she claimed.

  A match made in heaven.

  59

  Barney Einhorn gave me a big smile with tired eyes. It was nearly the end of the day. We shook hands across the counter. He immediately asked, ‘Something up?’

  ‘Rush hour traffic. So, I got your message,’ I said, distracting him from the fact I had overindulged on the brandy after opening up to Beatty and now was feeling it.

  I asked, ‘Any luck?’

  Barney looked around, making sure nobody was near him. Most of the other clerks were on the telephone.

  ‘Skill and patience, Miss Slate, not luck. I cracked your code. Your Nightshade Club meets every now and then. A very select group.’ He handed me around five newspapers, each with a yellow marker within the pages. ‘I’ve marked the pages. Nothing in the others. Want me to toss them?’

  ‘Sure, thanks.’ Was this the right call? I could always tell Lauder I had put them in the trash.

  Barney grinned. ‘Took a little time. Then, well, yes, I suppose I did get a lucky break. Look.’

  I opened one page where the yellow marker was. Under the In Memoriam column, a small notice had been circled in pencil. Barney leant over and pointed to it. ‘They sound like names. Tinah D. Gesh; Dan. S. Height;Desi. H. Gnath. They are all anagrams of Nightshade. See? I only just got it today, because yesterday a woman telephoned to place an entry, the one for Desi. H. Gnath. I recognized her voice. It bugged me all night. Then I remembered, she’d done exactly the same last month, another In Memoriam. So I narrowed the search and found it. Dan. S. Height.’ Each time, the address is the same. A private address. 36, Briar Lane. It’s in Santa Monica.’

  ‘You’re a genius,’ I said. I was impressed. He should be working for intelligence.

  Barney blushed, all modesty. ‘Just got a memory for voices.’

  ‘Know when the next one is?’

  ‘Tomorrow night. Eight pm.’

  ‘The woman left a name?’ Lauder was leaving me well alone, and I had strict instructions never to call him. Until he returned, he wouldn’t know about the next event.

  ‘Yes. Jane Smith. Has to be phony. And she paid cash, I already checked the receipt.’

  ‘I wonder why it’s such a big secret.’

  ‘Sex shows, gambling joints, cock fights, necromancy. You name it, this town’s got it. Not like they can publicly advertise.’ Barney closed the file and passed it to me. ‘It’s all yours. Be careful. A lot of freaks out there.’

  ‘I will. I can’t thank you enough.’

  Barney came out and we shook hands. It felt sad I wouldn’t see him again, unless I was placing an announcement for a wedding or a funeral.

  I didn’t plan on doing either anytime soon.

  60

  The wind was up at the Veramonte Hotel, causing mayhem. Palms waved frenziedly like tropical dancing girls, waiters zoomed about closing canopies and umbrellas. I handed the keys to the valet and hurried inside.

  I had resisted the temptation of putting on something too glamorous and now I was in the opulent dining room, I instantly regretted it. Buzzing with film industry movers and shakers, the men were dapper, and women were out of this world, dolled up in elegant dresses and ornate hats with feathers, fruit, and fur trimmings. Quite a few women diners wore turbans with elegant stones in the center, like a nosey third eye with which to spy on other diners.

  But it was important for Lyle to see me in a completely new light and for Janice, who I’d go on to next, to open up to me. I’d gone for as bland as I could. As little make-up as possible, just a dusting of powder and a touch of mascara. I wore my pantsuit with a pale gray shirt and pearls.

  I had to face my only reality. While I still lived and breathed, Elvira Slate was a career girl.

  But maybe I had taken bland a little far. As the waiter ushered me towards a row of half-moon booths along the far wall, I was getting noticed. I looked like the office girl called in to take notes at a studio executives’ lunch, not to eat the food.

  Each table was positioned a discreet distance from the others. Low lamps with red shades matched the floral mural on the wall. Other waiters buzzed around, attentive and discreet.

  Lyle had his head in a menu. He looked even better in daylight. His hair was shinier than I remembered and his bone structure more chiseled. Under a pale blue suit, he wore a cream silk shirt that flowed like liquid. His tie was alabaster silk with an abstract peacock design.

  Of course he was born to eat in places like this. ‘Hi,’ I said, brightly.

  He looked up, and gave a half-smile, as he stood up. He shook my
hand. ‘Good to see you again.’ His eyes wandered over my clothes, a look of disappointment mixed with disbelief. Had he really bedded such a frump?

  I sat down at the opposite end of the semicircle.

  Lyle had a flute of champagne and a little dish of green olives. A vintage bottle poked out of a chiller. Interesting move, born of male pride. Ordering and opening a bottle of bubbly before my arrival? The message was clear. He didn’t need to wait for me.

  ‘Celebrating?’ I queried.

  He hesitated, deciding not to share anything with me. ‘Good day for business.’

  ‘Congratulations.’ I said. ‘Look, I left early the other night. Couldn’t sleep. I didn’t want to disturb you.’

  Lyle signaled to a passing waiter for another flute. ‘I’ll just have some water,’ I said. Booze could prove my undoing and I had work to do.

  ‘It’s a free world, the last time I checked. You missed out on my waffles.’

  I changed the subject to our only mutual friend. ‘How’s Troy getting on?’

  ‘Oh, please. Failed to meet my deadline. My fourth deadline. I have a lot of pet causes; bankrolling alcoholics isn’t one of them.’ Lyle swigged some champagne and popped an olive in his mouth. Gone was the smitten boy with too much money, he had another hat on. A shrewd, hard-nosed movie producer hat. And he felt like a stranger. It was weird we’d been intimate. Sober and in the cold light of day, we could be at permanent loggerheads.

  Lyle was just warming up. ‘Sure, he’s talented, but he’s also a festering mass of self-pity. That’s writers for you. Handle with care!’

  ‘Maybe you should go easy. I think he’s got wife trouble.’

  ‘Some feat that he’s even got one to have trouble with.’

  He was already irritating me so it was time to get to the point. ‘Forget I mentioned him.’ I studied the menu, and closed it.

  ‘You’re mad?’ His brown eyes twinkled.

  ‘Not at all. Think what you like. Free world, as you say.’

  ‘Anyway, you know what? Your words kind of left an impression on me. Maybe those wicked ladies are old hat. I’m looking for different stuff now.’

  Troy’s troubles could be my scheme’s gain. I felt an odd pang of guilt.

  The waiter returned with the glass, and asked if we were ready to order. Lyle looked up. ‘We’ll take the special. As it comes.’ The waiter nodded, retreating.

  I smiled falsely, hiding my outrage. ‘Did you just order for me?’

  ‘It’ll be good.’

  Irritation rose in me but I quelled it. This was his invitation, his territory. His wealth gave him a sense of entitlement to make others fall into line. I had to ignore it if I was going to reel him in. ‘Well, I just don’t eat meat.’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘What? I’ll get the menu back.’

  ‘Forget it. I’ll pick at the salad. I really came to talk.’

  ‘And I’m a little tight and happy you rang.’ He took the empty champagne flute, filled it with an inch of bubbly, and refilled his own. ‘1935 vintage. You can’t refuse.’ He flashed me a patronizing smile, raising his glass.

  I raised mine. ‘To a happy lunch.’

  ‘To a happier afternoon?’ He winked. Sex wasn’t going to happen but maybe it wouldn’t hurt if Lyle thought it might.

  We clinked our glasses, locking eyes.

  To Shimmer, Rhonda, Frank and Darlene.

  To Arnold Moss.

  To everyone who will never sit in a place like this.

  I ran my finger around the rim of my glass. ‘I called you because I’ve got a project you might be interested in.’

  ‘What do you mean, a project?’

  ‘A movie project. After meeting you, it occurred to me you could be interested in getting involved. Thing is, it’s top secret.’

  ‘I don’t understand. Are you in the business? Thought you didn’t act?’

  Not that kind of acting.

  ‘I’m an investigator.’

  Lyle somehow contained what could have been a big splutter of expensive champagne. ‘What the hell?’

  ‘I haven’t been looking into you. I’m not working for your wife or anything. Meeting you the other night was as unexpected for me as it was for you. What I’m about to tell you, you can’t tell anyone.’ I lowered my eyes, glancing from side to side.

  ‘Go ahead.’ His body language was tense, arms folded. I’d lost him for the moment.

  ‘It’s a real-life story. A former star, with a secret past. The movie’s going to tell the truth. You just need to express an interest, and I can fix you up with the writer and the star whose life story it is.’

  ‘Who’s the producer?’

  ‘Nobody yet. That’s the whole point. It could be you.’

  ‘What?’ Lyle folded his arms, looked puzzled.

  ‘First, swear on your life not to breathe a word.’

  ‘All right. I swear.’

  ‘Tatiana Spark wants to make her true life story. A version of events that is apparently incredible. But she got cold feet when a bad thing happened.’

  Lyle put his glass down. ‘Tatiana Spark. Did you ever see Saint Augustine?’

  I said I hadn’t. ‘I met the writer. Martell Grainger. I mentioned to Martell that I knew someone already interested. I had to jump in quick to reserve the space, if you see what I mean. I didn’t name you, so you don’t have to go any further, but the opportunity is there.’

  ‘Martell Grainger, huh? Apparently she’s a piece of work.’

  ‘And very talented.’ According to Martell, I could have said.

  ‘How did you hear about it, anyway?’

  I looked him directly in the eye and said Darlene Heymann had told me, before she died. Lyle absorbed this, giving nothing away. After a while, he said, ‘I’m yet to meet the Heymann Brothers. I heard about the daughter dying.’

  ‘It’s tragic. Darlene was going to direct, but now I guess it’s an open field.’ I sipped my water, meeting his eyes over my glass.

  ‘You sure hid your cards the other night.’

  I looked at him. ‘Don’t be sore. If you’re interested, I’ll put you in touch with Martell and Spark’s attorney. But hurry, the clock’s ticking. Might have been snapped up already.’

  ‘All right.’ Lyle leant back, still studying me. ‘Set the meeting up.’

  ‘Okay. Remember, it’s hush-hush. Wait to hear from me and don’t go jumping any guns. Promise?’

  I didn’t want anyone drugging and killing Lyle Vadnay. They’d have to get past me first.

  ‘Fine. I swear. I don’t want any competition anyway. So what kind of fee are you looking at?’

  What? I had no idea what to say. I blurted out the first words that came into my head. ‘Ten…’

  ‘Come on! Call it five, fair and square?

  ‘Er…’ I stuttered, out of my depth.

  Incredibly, Lyle took it as if I was negotiating. ‘All right, meet you in the middle – seven! No more. Done?’

  ‘Sure. Done.’ I said.

  Here I was, utterly clueless, brokering a movie deal for a star, a writer, and a producer. I didn’t even own a bank account and probably never would.

  Lyle slid around the booth to sit closer to me. He cupped his fingers gently over my hand, lying on the seat. I let him, liking the contact. Nobody could see our touch.

  Careful. You need to keep a low profile.

  I was on fire inside but this time I would resist him.

  After lunch, I excused myself, telling Lyle I would get the ball rolling. On my way out, I went to an empty payphone booth in the long row in the hotel lobby. I quickly dialed the number for Falaise Investigations. Beatty came on the line.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Veramonte Hotel.’

  ‘Not bad.’

  ‘The producer is game.’

  ‘So you pulled it off. That’s something.’ I smiled to myself. ‘I negotiated seven-something as a fee. I have no idea what that means.’

  ‘M
eans you want this movie made, and fast,’ chuckled Beatty. I reminded her I had no bank account. ‘Mine’s good.’ she said.

  She reminded me to tread carefully, that all communication had to be through me. ‘If somebody in that circle killed to stop the project prematurely, this could put you in the line of fire.’

  I said I’d make sure nobody else was at risk.

  ‘You know, maybe I should pop by Martell first to keep her warm, now that Lyle’s in. Then I’ll head out to Janice. What do you think?’

  ‘Okay. But could be the lover is small fry.’

  It would be another long day.

  61

  The cold wind had died down to a warm and pleasant breeze.

  A long line of expensive cars lined the side of Perpetua’s front drive. The cream of the motorcar crop.

  I rang the bell and looked around, taking in the neighborhood’s genteel vista.

  Phyllis opened the door, wiping her hands on a cloth. She looked frazzled. ‘You here for the pool party, too, Miss?’ She shot my clothes a doubtful look.