All That Glitters (9 page)

The medical examiner ran a hand through his hair. “You got in two fights with the deceased.”

I tried to choose my words carefully. “When we arrived, Eric had already been drinking. He grabbed Christine's arm in an aggressive and threatening manner. I came to her assistance, and during the course of removing Eric's hand from Christine, he collided with a pillar out front, an accident, really. Miss Brody will confirm my account of what happened. As for our fight later, nearly everyone at the party saw Eric throw the first punch. He was the aggressor, and I was the victim.”

“At some point in the evening, Eric Carville became the victim.” Gus's smile was as warm as a frozen mackerel.

Annabelle crossed her arms. “I don't like the way you're putting the screws to Mr. Donovan.”

“Too fucking bad.” He pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket.

The typing paper he'd taken from my Underwood. I barely remembered what I'd written.

“Listen to this, Sergeant. ‘I disliked the man from the moment we met, but he didn't deserve to die that way. No one deserved a bullet to the head.' ” He handed the page to Annabelle.

I let out a heavy moan. “That's a scene from a novel I'm working on.”

Annabelle's lips moved as she read the sentence. Her forehead wrinkled. “Jake?”

“Those are words spoken by Blackie Doyle.”

Gus's pen hovered above the notepad. “Who's this Doyle guy, and how can I contact him?”

Had this dumb palooka gotten stupid or deaf over the years? “I said it's a scene from the novel I'm writing. Blackie Doyle is a fictional character. Have you read any of my novels?”

Gus and the medical examiner shook their heads. Annabelle blushed. “I've read them all.”

I pointed to the paper in her hand. “See those? Quotation marks. Blackie is jawing with a blond reporter he met.”

Gus scratched his head. “What newspaper does she work for?”

I grabbed his lapels and shouted, “It's a damn novel, moron!”

Annabelle pulled me off Gus, but not before the detective threw a punch that split my lip. “I can pinch you for assault.”

With outstretched arms, Annabelle stood between us. “No one's getting arrested.” She breathed deeply while I snatched the handkerchief from my pocket and pressed it against my mouth.

Gus sucked in gulps of air. “Tell me about the meeting, Jake.”

I blotted my lip and glanced at the blood on the handkerchief. “What meeting?”

Gus chuckled. “Now who's the moron? The meeting with old man Carville.”

I provided a brief summary, without giving away too much information that the Carvilles might not want to read in the papers.

When I finished, Annabelle stared at me a moment. “So you agreed to rewrite Eric Carville's screenplay.”

“Reluctantly.”

“How did Eric take the news?” Gus asked.

“Norman Carville and I didn't come to our agreement until he'd dismissed Eric and the others from the meeting. I don't know when or if Eric was told I'd be helping with the screenplay.”

Annabelle touched my arm. “Jake's not a suspect, Gus, so quit treating him like one.”

I glanced at Annabelle's hand. Was I the only one who recognized how odd her behavior was? Still, now wasn't the time to bring that up.

The doctor studied my clothes. “The deceased was shot at close range, so I expect the killer would have Eric's blood on their clothing.”

“Of course.”

The doctor's gaze dropped below chest level.

Annabelle and Gus followed his eyes. The tuxedo jacket had opened when I shook Gus's lapels.

I glanced at the bloodstain I had tried to remove after we returned to the hotel.

“Is that your blood?” Gus asked. “I mean, if you got in a fight, that would make sense.”

I never should've agreed to assist with the investigation. I couldn't help but chuckle, though I was certain none of them would laugh when I explained.

Gus shot me a glowering stare. “Something funny, Donovan?”

I forced myself to get serious. I touched the stain. “It's Eric's blood, from the bloody nose I gave him. I told you about that.”

Gus pointed to the smudge. “Looks like you tried to get rid of the bloodstain.”

“Of course I did. It's an expensive shirt. Look, I'll be happy to hand over the shirt for analysis when I return to the hotel room.” I studied the three faces. “Or I could hand it over now.” I removed my jacket and tie then the shirt. I handed it to the medical examiner.

I'd gone from consultant to suspect in less than five minutes. I needed to set the cops straight before things got worse for me. “I couldn't have killed Eric. The butler called a cab just after eleven. We left at approximately eleven fifteen. The trip lasted forty minutes. By the time Laura and I returned to our room, your witnesses reported hearing a gunshot. The timeline proves I wasn't anywhere near the Carville Estate when someone drilled Eric.”

Gus chuckled. “Maybe it does, maybe it doesn't.”

Eric's injuries and his blood on my shirt raised suspicions in Gus and the medical examiner's minds, perhaps even Annabelle's. “Laura will tell you.”

Annabelle cocked her head. “Would she lie for you, Jake?”

Probably. “No. Check with the cabbie. He'll confirm the time he picked us up and dropped us off at the hotel. The elevator operator and the desk clerk will tell you what time we rode the elevator to our suite.”

“We'll talk to everyone.” Gus stared at me unblinking.

Annabelle held up both hands. “Everything you say makes sense.”

“You gotta be kidding.” Gus's lip curled in disgust. “What crime scene have you been in?”

“I'm in charge here, and Jake Donovan isn't a suspect.” Annabelle ran a hand over her face. “A suicide of a movie studio executive is bound to hit the papers. A murder would be a goddamn sensation. By this time tomorrow, the brass will be crawling up our asses. We can't afford to screw this up, but pressure comes with the territory. We have to get things right. Okay, Jake?”

“Of course. I just want you to have all the information.”

Gus savored my unease with a deep breath. “You've been
most
helpful.”

“Thanks, Jake.” Annabelle led me to the door.

“Yeah, thanks.” Gus's voice contained more than a hint of swagger.

We headed down the stairs. Annabelle stopped halfway and glanced back at Gus, who stood, smug, at the top of the landing. She spoke in a soft voice: “In case, you know, we have any other questions, you're not leaving town any time soon, are you?”

“Sergeant—”

“Annabelle.”

“I told you the truth, the whole truth.”

“I have no doubt, but with such a high-profile case, we'll have to check out everything.”

Laura approached the foot of the stairs. Her eyes widened at my chest beneath the tuxedo jacket. I buttoned my jacket. “I'll be around and will be happy to answer any questions that come up. I'm staying at the Hollywood Hotel until Laura's picture is finished.”

Annabelle stared at Laura. “Let me guess. You two are…”

“Engaged.”

“Engaged?” Her eyes narrowed into slits. “I had no idea.”

On the way down the stairs, I replayed the mistakes I'd made in the crime scene examination with Annabelle, Gus, and the medical examiner. I'd proved Eric Carville's death wasn't a suicide, but moments later, I'd aroused everyone's suspicions.

The weight of being a suspect in a murder investigation felt like a pallet of bricks on my shoulders. The timeline proved I couldn't have committed the murder, but I'd seen plenty of cases where cops stretched little details like that to fit their theory and make an arrest.

Laura would insist I get a lawyer, but I didn't trust meat-wagon chasers. The only way out of this mess was to dust off my detective skills and clear my name. I had to find out who wasted Eric before the cops, led by Detective Gus Connolly, threw me in the clink.

It wasn't just my future in jeopardy. What kind of acting career would Laura have if she married a man charged with the murder of a studio executive?

Someone at the party was bold enough to kill Eric and clever enough to convince the cops Eric shot himself. They had nearly succeeded.

Bold and clever described most actors and nearly everyone at the Carville Estate the night of the shooting. I had to find out who, and it wouldn't be easy. Nearly everyone who had attended was wealthy, powerful, and influential. I had to learn more about those who might have had a motive to drill the youngest Carville. And I had to start now.

I reached the foot of the stairs as Laura stepped into the foyer. She touched my swollen lip and studied my blood on her finger. “You've got some explaining to do. You can start by telling me why you're not wearing a shirt.”

Before I could even begin to explain, James, the butler, approached, carrying a tray of half-empty bottles of booze. His limp appeared more noticeable than when we first met; and now that I had a closer look, I noticed he held an air of bitterness. I suspected his resentment, like the arrogant resentment of a couple of Englishmen I knew during the war, dated back to when the colonists told his ancestors to kiss off. “Miss Wilson, Mr. Donovan, Mr. Carville senior asked that you visit with him by the pool before you leave.”

“Certainly.” I held Laura's arm then paused. “A moment, James?”

His voice cracked a bit as he set the tray on a table. “Yes, Mr. Donovan?”

“How long have you been with Mr. Carville?”

His carefully calm demeanor wavered. He reached for a bottle and swallowed a shot of whiskey. “From the beginning.”

What exactly did that mean? “One more thing. I'd like a list of everyone who attended the party.”

“I already furnished that to the lady detective.” He pointed up the stairs with the bottle.

“Sergeant Church needs one for her file. She asked me to make sure everyone in attendance gives statements, so I'll need a copy of the list, too. It's grunt work, but I agreed to help. If it's too much trouble…”

“No trouble at all, Mr. Donovan.” He sipped again and set the bottle on the tray. “One moment.”

While Laura tapped her foot, the butler straightened his toupee and disappeared into the kitchen. He returned and handed me four sheets of typed names and addresses. Without checking the list, I folded the pages, tucked them inside my jacket pocket, and thanked him.

In the ballroom, I led Laura toward the French doors.

She whispered. “Are you going to tell me about your missing shirt and swollen lip?”

“Of course. Just not right now, darling.”

Her face reddened as we stepped outside. “Don't ‘darling' me.”

The old man leaned on his cane as he stood on the red-tiled pool deck, gazing through the morning haze at the Hollywood Hills below. He shuffled his feet and faced us. The change in his appearance since our meeting was extraordinary. His face was a pasty white and his hair gray and lusterless. His dull eyes had lost their earlier intensity.

He'd lost a son since I last saw him, but the transformation reminded me how difficult it was to believe Hollywood types. From the time we stepped off the train, everyone seemed to be an actor.

“Mr. Donovan, Laura.” His hand shook as he pointed toward a table with a large yellow umbrella. Norman braced himself and eased into one of the wrought-iron chairs.

I pulled out another chair for Laura. We sat and waited to learn why we'd been summoned.

Laura squeezed his hand. “How are you holding up?”

“Better than Todd. He's taking it hard.”

“Were they close?” My question elicited a kick under the table from Laura, but my quest to gather information had to start somewhere.

Norman cocked his head. “They were as close as any two brothers I've ever known.”

I found that hard to believe after seeing the two argue when Christine and I had arrived at the party. Still, brothers often bickered.

His face hardened, regaining some of his earlier strength. “I want to thank you for helping the police investigate Eric's death. Suicide is impossible to understand.”

I risked a quick glance at Laura. So was murder. I'd let Annabelle or Gus break the news.

Norman's gaze dropped to my undershirt. “What happened to your shirt?”

“It's a long story.” I wasn't about to offer any details.

He shrugged. “The studio will be closed today, of course, but tomorrow we'll be back to making movies.”

Laura's mouth dropped. We both thought the same thing. One day?

“Eric would've wanted it that way.” Norman massaged his forehead. “I know it'll be difficult to work with this cloud over the studio, but actors and crew need to get paid. We've made commitments and have schedules to keep. I suppose it might seem a bit insensitive….”

Hollywood was like so many exotic cultures I struggled to comprehend. The city's customs and traditions seemed so strange and inexplicable to me and most other outsiders. Perhaps the old man merely wanted to put his son's death behind him. Most people reacted that way, but something about the decision troubled me. Something I couldn't quite wrap my fatigued mind around.

Norman cleared his throat. “There's a movie to be made, and every day we're shut down is revenue lost. I trust you'll be able to furnish a revised scene or two by the morning, Mr. Donovan.”

I needed rest, food, and a steaming hot shower. “I'll spend the day on it.”

“Thank you.”

The French doors opened and Todd marched toward us. He stopped in front of his old man and set both hands on his hips. His earlier grief had vanished. “You're reopening the studio in the morning? You insensitive bastard. What will people think?”

Norman banged the table with his fist. “Running a studio calls for making tough decisions. Until now, I thought you possessed that quality. Apparently I was mistaken.”

“Don't make this about me. The press is going to nail your ass to the wall, you know.”

“Wouldn't be the first time.” Norman struggled to his feet. “I understand how you feel, but—”

“No…no, you don't.” Todd tossed aside a chair, which skidded across the tile and nearly fell into the pool. He hurried toward the house and disappeared inside.

Norman eased himself back into his chair. “I…I don't understand. Todd more than anyone should grasp the financial cost of shutting down the studio, even for a day.”

Todd wasn't acting like a bean counter. He was acting like a man who'd just lost his brother. His behavior appeared more plausible than his father's.

I returned the chair to the table. I was on Todd's side on this one, and he was right about how the press would handle the decision to resume studio activities so soon.

Laura patted his hand. “Everyone grieves differently. Todd will come around.”

“You're very kind.” The old man coughed again. He covered his mouth with a handkerchief.

“Let me get James,” I said.

“Nonsense. I'm fine.”

Laura patted his hand again. We said our good-byes and left the old man by the pool.

Inside the ballroom, Laura called the butler over and asked him to check on Norman.

Reaching the foyer, I snapped my fingers when I recalled what had bothered me so much about how the old man wanted to put his son's death behind him.

“What is it?” Laura asked.

I stopped beside the bench near the front door and lowered my voice. “In our meeting last night, the old man said, ‘I'll take care of my son. After tonight, Eric won't cause you any more problems.' ”

Laura stopped blinking. “Are you…are you suggesting this sweet, grieving old man shot his son?” She burst out laughing.

“First off, he's not a sweet old man, he's a controlling bastard.”

“What's the second thing?” Her laughter turned into a smirk.

“Second…I don't remember. When the old man said it, the words gave me the creeps.”

“Come on.” She opened the door. “You need some rest so you can think clearly.”

She was right about needing rest, but I'd seen too many murders committed by family members to dismiss the idea that Norman might have killed his own son.

Outside, Todd sat on a wrought-iron bench puffing on a cigarette. Old habits like smoking are hard to break, especially when one loses a brother.

Laura wanted to console him. That was her nature. Unlike me, who enjoyed the honesty that emotion brought most people. One thing seemed clear. Todd preferred to be alone.

My new nemesis, Detective Gus Connolly, appeared even more arrogant than he did when he stuffed my shirt into an evidence bag. He stood beside a police car, chatting with a barely-able-to-shave uniformed officer. Hopefully not about me. At least Annabelle wasn't around.

Gus yanked opened the rear door of the car and swept his hand inside. “Officer Debbs will return you to the hotel. Might as well get used to the back of a cop car, Donovan.”

Arrogant bastard. “I'd rather walk.”

“No, he wouldn't.” Laura stepped forward and reached for the open door.

“I'll give you a lift.” Todd rose, tossed his cigarette on the driveway and squashed it with his shoe.

“Oh, Todd.” Laura held up a hand.”We wouldn't want to impose.”

What? “Yes we would.”

“Follow me.” Todd led us around the side of the house and stopped in front of a four-car garage. He raised the heavy door and pointed to one of four expensive rides, a new red Ford Roadster with its distinctive swept-back grille. “You want me to put the top up?”

“If it's not too much trouble.” The last thing I wanted was another windswept ride to the hotel.

“Don't be silly. I love convertibles.” Laura smacked my arm. “Where's your sense of adventure?”

I'd left a desire for adventure somewhere in New York. I craved peace and calm, though I expected little of either over the next several days.

I opened the passenger door for Laura. She sat beside Todd while I climbed in back, admiring the plush tan leather seats and gleaming wood finish.

The car rumbled to life, and Todd backed it out of the garage. He turned onto the circular drive and glanced toward Gus. “I thought the detectives wanted your help. Why's he being a jerk?”

“He and I have a past.” The roadster effortlessly grabbed each turn, but when we pulled onto the winding curves of the road, I pressed my feet against the floorboard as the speedometer began to climb.

Todd barely braked. “I'm sorry for my behavior back at the house. I lost my temper with my father. He's making a terrible mistake, but more than that, reopening the studio before the funeral isn't right. Still, I shouldn't have expressed my frustrations to him. He's not well.”

I held my tongue. Norman Carville
was
still a mean, manipulative bastard
.
Still, I had to learn more about Todd before eliminating him as a suspect. Could he have killed his brother?

“You have every right to be concerned.” Laura seemed oblivious to the wind whipping through her hair or the squeal of the tires at every curve. I knew she was sore because I'd yet to explain my missing shirt.

I let out a sigh of relief when we finally left the hills. I studied Todd. Perhaps it was his slight build and his quiet demeanor of an accountant, but I found it hard to picture him running a studio. Eric, handsome with flashy white teeth, had looked the part of a studio big shot and clearly loved the movie business. I wondered if they'd been as close as their father said they'd been.

I didn't have anything to lose by asking. “Were you and your brother close?”

Laura's head snapped toward me.

Todd ran one hand over the back of his neck. “Eric and I were half brothers.”

I didn't know that, and from Laura's expression, she didn't either. I wanted to learn more. “So Eric—”

“Let's not talk about Eric.” Todd downshifted, and we came to a railroad crossing where a bell clanged and a barricade arm blocked our path.

The train rumbled by while he ranted about his father's decision to reopen the studio in the morning.

The door to one of the boxcars was open. Two men wearing old clothes and needing shaves waved as the car passed us.

Todd shook his head, his jaw tightening like it had earlier when he'd confronted his father. “Damn Okies.”

I hadn't expected such direct bigotry from someone in his position. Did grief excuse a man's prejudices or reveal them?

The men's presence again reminded me of the Depression but apparently reminded Todd of something else.

Laura cocked her head. “People are out of work all over the country.”

Todd let out a sigh. “Okies, uneducated and lazy, are flooding California, crowding our schools and hospitals.”

I braced for an explosion from Laura. She opened her mouth, like she wanted to set the man straight, but bit her lip as the barricade arm rose and the warning bell grew silent.

Todd drove over the train tracks, and his eyes brightened like he was out for a Sunday drive. “You both could use some breakfast. There's a diner around the corner from your hotel that makes perfect eggs.”