All That Glitters (22 page)

Annabelle's eyes locked on mine. “Let's compile a list.”

After Annabelle and Gus left with the list of people to “
persuade”
to attend, Laura and Mildred accompanied me to the nurses' station. I waited patiently for the white-haired nurse in her sixties to glance up. “My name is Jake Donovan. I believe Norman Carville is in Room E10.” I pointed to the double doors of Emergency Care.

“Visiting hours aren't until—”

“I'm sorry. I have to catch a train in an hour. I just need a few minutes to”—I pretended to swallow a lump in my throat—“say good-bye.”

She studied the three of us a moment. “Are you family?”

“I'm a nephew. My two business associates never met him. They'll wait here.”

Mildred fumed as the nurse accompanied me to the doors and let me through.

I feared I'd find Norman in bed, as sedated and pale as he'd looked lying on the floor at Todd's house. Instead, he sat in a chair, wearing a silk smoking jacket and gazing out the window. “Jake! What a pleasant surprise. Have a seat.”

Hopeful I might learn enough to understand what happened the night of Eric's murder, I pulled up a chair and sat across from him. “How're you feeling?”

“The doctors insist I stay in the hospital a few days, but I can't afford to be away from the set.”

“Your health is more important.”

Norman chuckled. “I love your naïveté.”

Across the street stood thirty or more hunch-shouldered people in a breadline. “You ever think of your legacy, Jake?”

“Can't say that I have.”

“No, I suppose you wouldn't. You're too young.” He hawked up a load of phlegm and coughed into a towel. “The doctors don't realize work is the best medicine. Keeps me from thinking about what happened to Eric.”

I mentally crossed Norman off my list of suspects. No one could act the part of a grieving father that well.

He leaned forward in his chair. “The only thing worse than having a son murdered is the thought his killer might get away with it.”

“At Todd's house you were about to tell me something, a secret you said you hadn't shared with the cops.”

Norman massaged his temple with a trembling hand. “I was?”

“We were sitting in the atrium. You said you didn't want an innocent man to go to jail.”

The old man ran both hands over his face then coughed again. “I don't remember being in the atrium with you.”

“Damn.” Discouraged, I went to the window. The people standing in the breadline needed a break in life, and so did I.

“The doctor said I have something called short-term memory loss. They're optimistic I'll be as good as new in a few days.”

“I don't have a few days.”

“I'm sorry. I wish I could help.” His still-sharp eyes locked on mine and wouldn't let go. “You didn't come here to visit a sick old man, did you?”

“Well—”

“I'm used to being around actors who conceal what they're really thinking. You know who killed Eric, don't you?”

I sat in the chair. “Some hunches, that's all.”

“That's more than the cops have. Can I help?”

I described my plan. It sounded crazy when I explained it to him.

The door opened. The nurse stood in the doorway and tapped her watch. “Your time is up, Mr. Donovan.”

Norman lowered his voice. “You can use the ballroom under one condition.”

“What is it?”

He glanced toward the nurse and whispered, “Help me bust out of this hospital so I can see the look on the killer's face when he confesses.”

While waiting for the first guest to arrive, I paced the ballroom, resisting the urge to order a drink to calm my nerves. The room was laid out the same as the night of the party, white tablecloths over a couple dozen tables. This time place cards were strategically positioned on each of the tables.

Laura moved gracefully in a green chiffon dress. She returned from the bar sipping a glass of red wine. She gave me a kiss then wiped lipstick from my mouth with a hankie. “You're going to dazzle and amaze them all.”

I had to admit my plan had a certain Hollywood flair to it. I'd enjoy revealing Leo as the shooter and grew more confident than ever I could expose anyone else who'd caused Eric's death.

Mildred entered from the foyer, her loud voice bouncing off the ceiling, and crossed to me. “If your scheme doesn't work, how will I go back to New York and explain I wasted my time and their money?” She held my shoulders. “You'll do your best, won't you, Jake?”

“My very best.”

Mildred headed for the bar and ordered a highball—a double.

I couldn't help but chuckle. “Always about Mildred.”

Annabelle was the next to arrive. In a blue floor-length gown, she'd never looked so lovely. Tucked somewhere beneath the dress or in her black purse, no doubt, were handcuffs and a pistol.

I peered into the foyer. “Where's Gus?”

“Persuading a couple of reluctant guests.” She led me a few feet away. She pulled Leo's bankbook from inside the bodice of her dress. “I showed this to the DA. He didn't want to touch it, but he's going to subpoena De Palma's bank records.”

I slipped the bankbook into my jacket pocket as Laura escorted Annabelle to the farthest table in back.

With his usual calm, James, the butler, greeted every guest. Hoping to get a final read on each suspect, I stood at the entrance to the ballroom and welcomed everyone like I was hosting a dinner party.

Christine arrived on William Powell's arm. She acted as if I wasn't there, no doubt fearing her personal life would become public before the night was over.

Powell shook my hand. “I'm probably one of the few people looking forward to this evening. I'll be taking notes so I'll be prepared when filming starts on
The Thin Man
. Unfortunately, Christine doesn't share my enthusiasm for tonight's activities.”

Christine passed by, and Powell gave me a slashing gesture to his throat.

Laura greeted both with kisses and led Hollywood's newest couple to their seats.

Minutes later, Roland Harper arrived, impeccably dressed as always, smiling like he'd come to a Hollywood premiere. He grabbed a drink from the bar and worked the guests, shaking men's hands and complimenting women on their evening wear.

James greeted Sonny and his mother, Angie, who looked demure in an orange dress the shade of autumn leaves. Her son wore long pants for a change. He grinned and nudged me in the ribs as he went by.

Pat Lonigan handed James his straw hat then stopped beside me. “What's this about, Jake?”

“Tomorrow's headline.”

He patted me on the shoulder and headed for the bar. With a tall drink, he found his place on the opposite side of the room from a table reserved for Louella Parsons.

When Louella arrived, everyone seemed to freeze in mid-sentence. The maker and breaker of so many Hollywood careers squeezed my hands then winked. “I take it the party will be over before my nine o'clock deadline.”

“That's the plan.” I showed her to a table at the front of the room.

“Good luck.” She pulled a notepad and pen from her purse. “I really mean that.”

I returned to the ballroom entrance and straightened my tie. I had on the same tux I wore the night of the party, but without a bloodstained shirt. Everyone was dressed in formal wear as they had been that night. Drinks flowed, but little else was the same.

I was counting on those responsible for Eric's murder believing that I knew each and every detail of the plot and that I would reveal the details with or without their cooperation. With more than one person responsible, I relied on them pointing fingers at others to make themselves look like minor players in the crime.

Just before seven, Slick Ray Gambino and Leo De Palma arrived, looking like they'd rather be anywhere else.

Behind them stood the reason they came, Detective Gus Connolly. He wore a tux he probably hadn't worn in years.

I shook Gambino's hand. “I never thanked you for the loan of the Chevrolet.”

“It's yours as long as you need it.”

Hopefully, that wouldn't be much longer. I held out my hand to Leo. “You ever find your wallet?”

He slapped my hand away.

Gambino pushed him away from me. “Relax, goombah.”

Leo smoothed the lapels on his jacket and sneered as he followed his boss inside.

I nodded to James, who disappeared into the kitchen and returned with Todd and Norman Carville. The old man shuffled beside his son, until he reached the doorway. There, he assumed the bearing of a studio head. He clapped me on the back. “Even if this doesn't work, at least you talked my way out of the hospital.”

“It'll work.” I placed the odds at less than fifty-fifty.

Todd appeared to relish the accountant appearance, no doubt benefiting from other people underestim
ating him. I'd come to learn more of his true nature, his abhorrence of those less fortunate, and his love for the “finer” things in life that only money could provide. He followed Norman into the ballroom to a spattering of applause. He escorted his father to the front of the room, where the old man sat beside Louella Parsons.

At the entrance to the room, Laura straightened my tie and kissed my cheek. “Please be careful, darling.”

Like me, she was certain Eric's killer was present. A murderer, even a cornered one, wouldn't give up. I didn't want anyone hurt, including myself, so inside my tux I'd slipped a .38 I'd brought from New York. If that wasn't enough, Annabelle and Gus were ready to apprehend the killer.

I summoned Blackie Doyle's swagger; okay, maybe it was Jake Donovan's swagger all along. I winked at Laura and led her into the ballroom. The buzz quieted as she sat beside Mildred.

I made my way to the front of the room. “May I have your attention, please? Some of you know me as a mystery writer. Some of you know me as a former Pinkerton detective. Most of you don't know me at all.”

A few chuckles rippled through the guests. I strolled between the tables, seeking to exude an air of supreme confidence.

The flush on Christine's face made her look like her blood was ready to boil. “What the hell is this all about?”

A balding man at the next table slid his chair back and stood. “Yeah. A couple of cops show up at my house and twist my arm to attend a party at the Carvilles'. What gives?”

“I'm helping the police solve Eric Carville's murder. You have any objection to that?”

He meekly shook his head and sat.

“Are we suspects?” Roland Harper asked.

“All your questions will be answered.” I glanced at my watch. “For the evening's entertainment, within the hour, I'll reveal the identity of the killer, who's sitting at one of these tables.”

I forced myself not to stare at Leo, as a murmur swept through the crowd. Now I had their attention. William Powell held up a glass in a silent salute then downed the booze in one gulp.

I winked at Mildred, who followed my every move. “Let's get started.”

I began by describing the events that had occurred after Laura and I left the party. An intoxicated Eric climbed the stairs to his room and waited for a woman, who joined him a short while later.

Everyone in the ballroom gazed around, trying to guess the woman's identity. I skipped the details of the rendezvous, except for describing the two glasses. As I weaved through the tables, I explained how the killer planted a suicide note and put one of the glasses in the drawer before shooting a sleeping Eric Carville.

James was standing in the doorway. I stopped beside Todd's table and gestured toward the butler's place card. “James, please have a seat. Tonight you're a guest, like everyone else.” I resisted the urge to point to him and shout,
The butler did it!
“What time did you discover the body?”

His normally calm appearance vanished as he sat beside Todd and rattled off information like a tommy gun spitting lead. “I was in the kitchen supervising the staff cleanup. At midnight, a bang came from upstairs. I could tell it was a gunshot because it sounded the same as a stage prop I used back in my acting days. I ran up the back stairs.” He grabbed a glass in front of him and downed half the water. “I'm sorry, I'm rambling, aren't I?”

In my mind, the butler wasn't a suspect. Still, I felt certain he'd lied about Christine being the woman who'd slipped into Eric's bed the night of the party. “You're doing fine.”

“The door to Eric's room was open, and I…I…Eric was dead.” He set the glass down. “I told all of this to the police.”

I tried to sound reassuring. “Of course you did, but how did you know he was dead? Did you check for a pulse?”

“I…I should have. I must've been in shock. I'm not sure how long I stood like that. The next thing I remember, Todd burst in, let out a cry, and fell to his knees, shouting to the Lord.”

Todd? Sounded like a scene from a movie. Todd's arrival in Eric's room so quickly had aroused my suspicions from the start. “Where were you when you heard the gunshot?” I turned to Todd.

Todd spoke in a whisper, and the room quieted. “I'd just finished a dance with Angie. I knew right away it was a gunshot. I dashed up the stairs off the foyer. James was standing in the doorway like some statue.”

I shrugged. “Well, he is a butler.”

Todd ignored my attempt at disarming humor. “I brushed past James and”—his voice cracked—“and found Eric.”

“It must've been horrible to see your brother that way.”

He wiped a tear with a folded napkin. “He'd been shot in the temple. In his hand was the Colt .45 he kept in his nightstand. I knew then his death was a suicide.”

“Why would your brother want to kill himself?”

“His career, and the studio's future, was riding on the success of
Midnight Wedding
. Apparently, everyone had problems with the script he wrote. Including you.”

“Did he seem depressed to you?” At the party Eric danced and drank too much, which seemed to be in character for him, according to nearly everyone.

“As the start of filming neared, my brother grew increasingly morose, keeping to himself, drinking until he passed out. He was well on his way that night.”

That was true. “The police ruled out suicide. Who do you think murdered your brother?”

“I still believe Eric killed himself.”

I turned to a table behind Todd's. Christine's heel tapped below her chair, no doubt worried what questions I might ask her. She stared at her drink. With her forehead wrinkled like an accordion, she barely resembled the flashy Hollywood star I'd first met at Union Station.

In the past twenty-four hours I'd concluded as many as three people might have been involved in Eric's death: the shooter, the person who ordered the hit, and perhaps a third person who helped the killer get in, get out, and get away.

Ignoring a second drink, William Powell sat beside Christine, holding her hand and offering words of comfort. What a guy.

I couldn't imagine her involvement, but I couldn't afford to go easy on her. “You sensed something in Eric others didn't, am I right?”

Christine's glower felt like a noose tightening around my neck. “Why don't you quit flapping your gums and say what's on your mind?”

“Okay.” I crossed my arms. “Were you in love with Eric Carville?”

Christine snorted laughter. “Me? In love? Come on. During the past year, we went out a few times and had some laughs. Behind his abrasive exterior, Eric was terribly insecure, like a little boy, really. Most people only noticed the coarse side, but if I avoided abrasive men in Hollywood, I might as well be a nun.”

Most of the guests laughed.

I wasn't one of them. “Would you describe the last time you saw Eric alive?”

“I…I'm not certain. One minute Eric was downing whiskey shots, the next he disappeared. I assumed he was out on the deck, heaving over the railing or in a john somewhere.” She held William Powell's hand. “I was dancing when I heard shouts coming from upstairs. The music stopped, and…I don't remember much after that.”

I didn't want to embarrass her, but I needed an answer to a critical question. “Were you aware Eric kept a gun in his nightstand drawer?”

Christine defiantly thrust out her jaw. “Yes.”

At his table, Pat Lonigan set his notepad open in front of him. He hadn't written anything yet and wasn't likely to unless I uncovered something to write about.