All That Glitters (24 page)

“Angie wants us to believe she fired the shot, put the .45 in Eric's hand, hurried to the foot of the bed, and rolled the note into the typewriter, then rushed out of the room and disappeared into Norman's office, yet the butler didn't see her.”

“She or James must be lying.”

Laura slapped a ten-dollar bill on the table. “A sawbuck says they're both lying.”

My thought exactly. I handed Annabelle the notepad. “By the way, check the original note. The killer misspelled apologize. Angie spelled it correctly.”

Annabelle sank into a chair. “You couldn't let well enough alone, could you, Jake?”

Laura grabbed the ten.

I followed her into the corridor. “Angie Burkheart didn't kill Eric Carville.”

“Because she knows how to spell apologize?”

“Because she couldn't have done all those things she said she did after she shot Eric and then gotten away without anyone seeing her. No one saw her because she never returned to the Carville Estate that night.”

“Aren't you going to argue that to Annabelle and Gus?”

“They'll figure it out.” I set my hat on my head, and we headed for the lobby.

“There's a twinkle in your eye.”

“There is?” I opened the door. Across the lobby, Mildred jumped to her feet.

Laura whispered,
”Jake Donovan, if you know who killed Eric, I insist you tell me right this minute!”

I kissed Laura's cheek. “And spoil the fun when you figure out the real killer before anyone else?”

Laura stared out the window as we drove from the police station. “Angie never asked about Sonny.”

I hadn't noticed.

Her head snapped toward me. “She's not worried because she knows he's going to be taken care of.”

“Excellent point, dear.”

From the backseat, Mildred spoke for the first time since we'd left. “Are you suggesting the woman who confessed to shooting Eric didn't do it?”

“That's what he's saying,” Laura answered. “I'm starting to believe him.”

Mildred let out a mooselike groan. “This changes everything!”

We rode a moment in silence. In the rearview mirror, I could see Mildred drumming her fingers on the seat beside her. “Why would she confess to a murder she didn't commit?”

“An excellent question!” I quoted a Blackie Doyle line from my last novel: “ ‘I intend to find out the answer before the night is through.' ”

Laura checked her watch. “Jake, the night is almost through. It's nearly midnight.”

“I'm starved!” Mildred held a hand over her stomach. “I haven't eaten since…I don't want to think about it.”

“You like omelets?” One of my specialties.

“I'll take anything right now.”

Laura glanced in the rearview mirror, pretending to fix her hair. “We've picked up a tail.”

I grinned. “It's about time.”

James, wearing a flannel robe and black slippers but not his toupee, answered our knock at the Carville front door. “Do you realize it's after midnight?”

“Hollywood operates on its own time.” I handed him my fedora.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” He stepped back and let us inside.

“For now, we're here to see you.”

The butler froze. “Me?”

Laughter came from the kitchen.

“We're not the only ones up.”

James followed us into the kitchen. Cigar smoke hovered over the table where Norman Carville and Sonny Burkheart sat. Sonny wore yellow pajamas two sizes too large. The old man, in a silk robe, held a stogie.

Mildred coughed and waved away smoke.

“Sir”—James reached for the cigar—“your doctor would be quite angry with you.”

“It's mine.” Sonny grabbed the cigar and took a puff.

Norman laughed. “Nice try, kid.” He ruffled the boy's hair, took the cigar, and crushed it in the ashtray on the table. “Neither of us could sleep, so we came downstairs for a late snack.”

“You doing okay?” Laura sat beside Sonny.

“I'm worried about Ma.”

Laura patted his hand. “Jake and I stopped by to see her. She's doing okay.”

I rubbed my hands together. “Maybe omelets will make everyone feel better. I can whip up a mean omelet, can't I, dear?”

“Jake's an excellent cook. Comes from being a bachelor until well into your thirties, right, dear?”

“Not well into. But credit for my omelet skills goes to Dashiell Hammett. He taught me how to prepare eggs properly when we shared an apartment near the Pinkerton office in Omaha.” I opened the icebox, removed a dozen eggs, milk, butter, and Swiss cheese, and set the items on the counter beside the stove.

I rummaged through the cupboards. I found what I needed: a whisk, a bowl the size of a picnic basket, and a cast-iron skillet big enough to cook two omelets at the same time. “Maybe we should wake up Todd. He might be hungry, too.”

“I'm not.” Todd entered, wearing a purple smoking jacket and wiping sleep from his eye. “What the hell is going on?”

“Seems like none of us can sleep. I'm making omelets for everyone.” I counted heads. “Seven. To be safe, I'll make enough for nine. You never know who else might show up.”

I removed another dozen eggs from the icebox. “Has everyone met Mildred?” I made the introductions.

A buzzer sounded in the foyer. James let out a groan and limped from the room. He returned with Annabelle and Gus.

I chuckled. “I guess you two know everyone. Pull up a chair. I was about to start cooking.”

“Sounds good.” Gus took a chair beside Norman, while Annabelle sat next to Mildred.

As if preparing to get started on the eggs, I loosened my tie. I unbuttoned my jacket, in case I had to draw my .38. “I could use a couple of volunteers. Plates and silverware?”

Sonny's hand shot up.

“Anyone up to grating cheese?”

Laura took the Swiss cheese, and I handed her a grater and a small bowl. “Two cups should be enough.”

James showed Sonny where everything was kept. The kid set the plates on a counter beside the stove and returned to his chair between Norman and Mildred.

The old man's earlier smile vanished. “Why are you all really here? You have Eric's killer behind bars, don't you?” He patted Sonny's hand. “Sorry, son.”

Annabelle cleared her throat. “Seems Jake doesn't believe Angie Burkheart's confession.”

Sonny swallowed hard. “Is that right, Mr. Donovan?”

“Confessions are sometimes funny things. They can be like this.” I held up an egg. “Neat, tidy, and solid, yet with one tiny crack”—I tapped the egg against the rim and the insides dropped into the bowl—“the whole thing falls apart.”

Todd paced the room. “This is absurd. Everything was settled hours ago. I'm going to bed.”

I held up one hand. “You'll miss the fun of finding out who really killed your brother.”

Norman grabbed his son's arm. “Sit down.”

Todd remained standing. “Listen, wise guy, I don't like your theatrics. You—”

“We're in Hollywood. Theatrics are expected.” I set the pan on the stove and turned the burner just below medium.

Todd shook his head. “Are we going through this again? You think the killer, the real killer, is in this room, don't you? Just tell us who shot Eric so we can all go to bed.”

“Have it your way. The man who shot your brother”—I grabbed two more eggs and paused for dramatic effect—“is Leo De Palma, known in Chicago as Leo the Barber.”

Mildred nudged Annabelle. “He's friends with Al Capone.”

I studied the faces in the room while I finished cracking the first dozen eggs, added milk, and whisked. “The secret to a good omelet is whisking the eggs. A good beating gets air into the mixture so the omelet will come out light and fluffy.”

Norman's face puffed up, and he pointed to Annabelle. “If what Jake says is true, why are you sitting on your butts? Go arrest this mobster.”

I placed butter in the pan and waited for the temperature in the skillet to rise. I suspected in the next few minutes a few people's temperatures would go up as well.

A grin swept over Laura's face. Her eyes danced. “Oh, oh…”

As I'd expected she would, Laura had guessed the identity of the person who paid Leo to kill Eric. I smiled at the others. “She can't wait to taste my omelet.”

I winked at Laura, who handed me the cheese. I poured the egg mixture into the pan, two yellow circles, one on each side. At just the right moment, I sprinkled cheese on half of each.

The butler's face reddened, like an overdue deliveryman with two flat tires. “I'm enjoying the show, Mr. Donovan, really I am, but this is ludicrous. Leo De Palma wasn't here the night of the party. Check the guest list I furnished you.”

“Oh, but he was.” With a spatula, I folded each omelet over. “And you, more than anyone, know that. You're the one who left the back gate unlocked, not for Angie Burkheart, but for Leo. You kept the staff busy while you let him in the kitchen and up the stairs to Eric's room.”

His voice quivered. “I would never—”

“You heard the fatal shot, but you didn't run up the stairs right away like you said. You waited for Leo to come down to make sure he got away without being seen.”

The only sound in the kitchen was the eggs sizzling in the skillet.

Norman's face paled. “James, this can't be true.”

I finished the eggs and slid them onto plates. “Oh, it's true all right.”

Norman scratched his head. “I've never known James to lie.”

I added more butter to the skillet, gave the eggs a quick stir, and poured more of the mixture into the pan. “Because the person behind the plot promised you something, didn't they, James? Money or even this house, perhaps, after Norman Carville is gone.”

The butler flinched, and I had my answer. “This house, this mansion. Owning this place would be the only accomplishment in your life that might have impressed your old man. The Carville Estate, the home you lived in and loved for nearly two decades but only worked in as a mere employee. You hated being just a butler, instead of a successful song-and-dance man who spent half his life in the theater and deserved such a fabulous estate.”

“No.” James spoke in a whisper barely loud enough to be heard. He held on to the edge of a chair then sat with the others, staring across the room at nothing in particular.

“Gosh!” Sonny stared at James. “The butler really did do it.”

I tried not to smile. “James and I know the identity of the person responsible for Eric's murder.” I set one of the omelets in front of Mildred. “It wasn't you.”

I placed the second in front of Sonny. “It wasn't you.”

While everyone looked at each other, I finished two more omelets. I slid them onto plates and carried them to the table. I placed one in front of Gus. “It wasn't you.”

Sonny set down his fork. “Why would Ma confess, Mr. Donovan?”

Angie had become so dependent upon rich, powerful Todd Carville that he'd convinced her to confess to a murder she didn't commit. “Because the killer promised your mother you'd become a big star at Carville Studios. And she believed him.” I stared unblinking in front of Todd. “After all, he is a Carville.”

Todd's eyes narrowed into slits. “You're saying I killed my brother?”

I held the omelet out to Todd. “It was you.”

Todd's head looked ready to explode. “You're mad!”

Greed, lust for power, and disdain for his half brother drove Todd to eliminate Eric. If Eric had inherited the studio, Todd's importance in Hollywood and his financial clout would have dwindled. With Eric out of the way, he could run the studio like a business or dispose of it to someone with unlimited funds, someone like Gambino, or Al Capone.

I handed Todd's omelet to Norman. “Of course, Todd, you neglected to tell Angie that after your father passes away, you intend to sell Carville Studios. You negotiated with Slick Ray Gambino, but Leo got you a better deal with Al Capone.”

Todd's sneer turned into a confident smirk. “This sounds like a plot in one of your cheap pulp mysteries.”

Mildred choked on her egg. “Pulp mysteries…
I…I…” She coughed and tried to clear her throat.

I poured her a glass of milk, and she gulped it down.

Todd continued. “Your theory, a fanciful whodunit to be sure, is pure fiction.”

“Brother killing brother?” I winked at Sonny. “I'm thinking more of a Shakespearean plot, don't you think?”

The young man sat with his mouth open. Like everyone in the room, he was assessing whether Todd was capable of plotting his brother's murder.

“Unlike my brother”—Todd thrust out his chin—“I didn't frequent Gambino's club.”

Laura jumped off her chair. “Oh, please, Jake, may I?”

“Of course.”

Laura stood in front of Todd. “You were at Gambino's club two nights after Leo De Palma shot your brother. Jake and I were across the street in this dreadful old jalopy.” When she paused, I encouraged her to continue. “That night you weren't working on a deal to sell the studio. Gambino was out of town. You weren't paying off your brother's gambling debts. You were paying De Palma the second of two payments of five grand. Blood money to kill your brother—”

“Eric was never my brother.” Todd's eyes blazed. “He was the unfortunate result of my father's lust for my nanny, and he wanted to run a studio?”

While eggs sizzled in the pan, Laura continued showing her disdain for Todd. “You paid Leo to kill Eric, because you didn't have the balls to blow his brains out yourself. Pardon my French.”

I kissed Laura's hand and led her back to the chair. “Nicely done, but you forgot one final item.” I faced Todd. “You left Gambino's club and drove to Angie Burkheart's. You told her if the police didn't arrest me for Eric's murder, she might have to confess and spend a few years in the pen. You promised her movie deals for Sonny, money, perhaps even marriage.”

Norman's face paled. His voice trembled. “You killed your brother and arranged to sell the studio to the mob? Do you hate me that much?”

“No, no, he's making up this whole crazy scenario. That's what he does. He writes fiction.” Todd backed against the wall. “Angie Burkheart killed Eric. You all heard her confess.”