Anatomy of a Crossword (26 page)

“Ever the detective. Mr. Plain Clothes, is that it?”

Rosco shrugged, then lowered his voice enough to keep the conversation private, but not to appear clandestine or too suspicious. “Let me ask you something, Dean. I realize Lew doesn't want the ‘live ammo' situation made public, and that the near-miss was probably just that, but I'm still curious … How do you think real bullets found their way onto your set.”

The director took a bite of his sandwich and a swig of water before answering. “I have no idea. But I'm very happy to tell you that the damn gun's gone back to it's rightful owners.”

“Do you still have the shells?”

“I left them in my office. Why?”

“Well, as you just noted, I'm a P.I., which makes me curious by nature, I guess.” Rosco bit into his own sandwich. “I'd like to have a look at them, if you don't mind. If we can establish the manufacturer, or some distinctive markings, maybe we can determine where they came from. We'd certainly learn if the pistol range had mistakenly left them in the gun. My guess is that they keep a record of all shells purchased and expended.”

“I see your point. I'll get them for you after lunch, but I'd bet a good portion of my wages that the firing range did not leave bullets in the gun. I've worked with those people on a number of films. They take their business very seriously.”

“Mistakes can happen, but I'm also inclined to believe that a professional range would check and double check a pistol before releasing it … Which brings us back to the possibility of attempted homicide. You know all of these people very well. Do any of them bear a grudge against Dan Millray?”

Ivald shook is head slowly. “I can't imagine that man has a single enemy.”

“Let me take it a step further … If Millray had died, would it have closed down the set and put an end to
Anatomy of a Crossword?”

Ivald released a cynical sigh. “No … You see, after viewing the rushes …” He looked at Rosco for a sign of comprehension, but found none. “Rushes are rough printouts of what was filmed on any given day. It's how we check our work before moving on. At any rate, after seeing the rushes that evening, I decided to go with my first take. So even if Dan had been killed during that initial shot, nothing would have stopped because I would have had all his work in the can. I'm not saying I would have used his actual death scene; there would have been ways to cut around it. I know I'm sounding incredibly hardhearted, but I'm also telling the truth … Actors do die during filming; it's an unfortunate situation, but it's also reality. The older ones can have heart attacks … There are accidents on location or at home, just like our original ‘Rosco' who was very lucky to be merely banged up … But those situations, unhappy though they are, don't curtail production, especially this far into a shoot. Scenes are merely moved … body doubles hired …” Ivald leaned toward Rosco, and also lowered his voice. “Is that what you think's going on? Someone's trying to shut us down?”

“I don't know what to think,” Rosco said, and then changed his approach. “How'd you get involved with this project, Dean? I mean, are you a crossword buff?”

Again, the director took a sip of water before responding. “I guess you could say that. None of these wimpy American puzzles, though. Strictly the
London Times
, for me. No offense, but the puzzles you Yanks create are child's play for an Oxford man.”

“Have you ever tried to construct a puzzle on your own?”

Ivald chuckled heartily. “Oh, you clever boy … I've heard that your wife received a facsimile of her original crossword. Same grid, different clues and solutions. But I plead innocent to the dastardly deed.”

Rosco popped the last remaining crust of his sandwich into his mouth and washed it down with coffee. “Actually, she's received three.” He studied the director's reaction and added, “Your name appeared in the last one. A puzzle that also included the film title,
The Usual Suspects
.”

Ivald laughed again. “And how many other names appeared in this mysterious crossword of yours?”

“What if I were to tell you that yours was the only name?”

The director stood, picked up his empty plate and water bottle, said, “Then I would say you were lying,” and walked out of the commissary.

CHAPTER 30

As Rosco, Belle, and Sara finished their lunches and reentered the still-brilliant afternoon sunshine to retrace the route from the studio commissary to the sound-stage, far across the hills within the vast crisscross of streets that was downtown Burbank, two people were holding an emergency meeting. The place they'd chosen was a rear booth of Tori's Donuteria at the corner of Hollywood and Valhalla. Outside of the bakery/coffee shop, the air was heavy with car exhaust and the odors of pavement, grit, and grime; inside, the plummy scents of sugar, cinnamon, chocolate, vanilla cream, fruit jelly, and mocha icing wafted sweetly across the room. Even the glass carafes of coffee smelled candied and syrupy. The tones of the couple's voices, however, were far from honeyed or serene.

“I'm tellin' ya, Harriet. This situation looks bad for us. It looks real bad. We need to think about layin' low. I've been in jail. Three very long years. I never want to go back.”

“Let's remember that we're in a public place, Rolly,” was the steely and whispered response. “There's no reason to broadcast our concerns to all and sundry. A perfect crime requires perfect secrecy. And a certain sotto voce tone.”

“I'm not as dumb as I look, you know,” Hoddal shot back in his own subdued tone. He ran a hand across his head as he spoke. Minus the toupee he wore for “public appearances” he was almost completely bald; what little hair remained was a graying fringe that resembled a monk's tonsorial cut. Only Rolly's closest friends would have recognized him as the warm-up comedian from
Down & Across
, and even they might have been fooled. Oddly, his true self had become his best disguise. Hoddal repeated his latest complaint.

In answer, Harriet Tammalong merely gazed at him, and her silence made him more jittery, causing his shoulders to jounce up and down in swift, squirming spasms and his fingers, tip-tapping along the table's sticky surface, to clench and unclench as if he were a musician stretching his muscles before commencing to play. “That clown Rolly Hoddal … that's what everyone thinks. Like I haven't got a brain between my ears. Like I'm clueless or something. I mean, I know what Valhalla is. Not the street outside of this dump. Where we are, I mean. Where
you
insisted on meeting.”

Harriet remained mute, but she did wrap her hands around the paper cup of coffee. The way she cradled it made it look as though she were cold.

“I mean, come on … How could I not learn junk like Valhalla and stuff? I've been doing the
Down & Across
gig for practically ever, ya know.” The shoulders shivered; the face exploded in a series of tics and winks and ill-considered grins. “Valhalla—eight letters, Germanic myth. It means ‘hall of the slain' … ‘hall of the slain,' for Pete's sake! Okay, gods for four letters: Odin, wife Frigg … Thor, stepson Ullr—”

“No one's doubting your intelligence, Rolly,” Harriet interrupted, but Hoddal was on a tear, and it wasn't caused by the caffeine in his untouched coffee or a sugar high induced by his two doughnuts from which he'd nibbled only the icing. He knocked a hand loudly against his head, not once but three times.

“And who did old Odin listen to? His two pet ravens, that's who.
Hugin
, that means thought, and
Munin
, meaning memory … And while we're on the subject of memory:
Mnemosyne
, Greek word; she was Mom of the Muses. Clio … four letters, represents history, Thalia, comedy, Erato, poetry—”

“Enough, Rolly!” Harriet ordered. Still maintaining her quiescent tone, the words became a hiss.

“The Muses' pop was Zeus … also four letters. Other, Greek gods … Four letters—”

Harriet Tammalong reached out one tiny hand and grabbed Rolly Hoddal's quivering arm. “I'm telling you to stop this gibberish right now! You're only attracting attention.”

The suddenness of her action startled the words from his mouth, but not for long. “And I'm telling you I know who that dame is! The one you said was your ‘niece'—”

“Yes. You told me already,” the vehement hiss continued, “Belle Graham.
The
Belle Graham.”

“Which you should have known, Harriet! The minute you spotted her! You being a crossword junkie and all.”

Harriet raised a wry eyebrow. “Interesting turn of phrase for you, Rolly.” Then she calmly changed the subject, leaning forward until her face was no more than a foot from Hoddal's. “Who's to say I didn't recognize her?”

“Your ‘niece' is what you told Orso and Matthew—”

“Naughty me for telling a lie.”

The comic's face clouded in confused and baffled thought. “So, you knew who she was?”

“From the moment I watched her board the studio bus Wednesday, a week ago … Gale Harmble was what she called herself. I found it convenient to play along, the same way I did last night.”

Rolly waited for Harriet to say more, but she merely returned to her coffee, dipping a cruller daintily into the creamy surface and then taking petite bites of the warm, and soggy dough. “I don't know why you prefer those gooey, iced things, Rolly. You can't taste the doughnut for all the sugar. Me, I like the real goods.”

“We're playin' with fire here, Harriet! Her hubby's a private eye, you know?”

Harriet Tammalong didn't respond; her half-smile remained inscrutable.

“And he's here in L.A., with her! And they're both working on crossword stuff, just like they did in—” Rolly's eyelids began to twitch so rapidly and skittishly, it was a wonder he could see past them. “Why didn't you tell me last week? Why didn't you warn me?”

Again, there was no reply from Harriet.

“It's too close for comfort, I'm tellin' ya … Why, before you know it—” The comic's words broke off again. He gazed morosely across the shop's narrow aisle and out the window. “Valhalla,” he muttered under his breath. “Wednesday … So, you knew …” Then his voice grew more insistent—more panicky, too. “Besides, why did the Graham dame come back to see
Down & Across?”

“Enjoyment?”

“Get real, Harriet.”

“It's a very popular game show, Rolly. You know as well as I do that the ratings are—”

But Hoddal cut her off. “Me? Ya want to know what I think?”

“Of course I do. You're running this show, right?”

“I think someone's suspicious.”

“Let's dispense with real names, why don't we, Rol?”

“Cuz they're going after Wanda!”

“Names.”

“I heard it with my own ears, Harriet! Heard Stan telling—”

“Stop it at once!” Harriet made another swipe at Hoddal's arm, but he leapt backward in his seat while his flying sleeve made unfortunate contact with the white paper plate upon which his uneaten doughnuts rested. The plate and its contents went spinning toward the floor.

“Now, that's just a shame, Rolly. Wasting good food like that.”

The comic stared at the linoleum squares nearest his chair as if trying to recall what the circular, brownish objects were while Harriet Tammalong regarded him. Her eyes narrowed, and her face took on a pinched and cunning look. “The husband—Rosco Polycrates—also met with Jillian Mawbry.” Despite her prior command that Hoddal dispense with actual names, Harriet seemed to be getting true pleasure in producing hers.

Rolly's head jerked up. “Who's that? I know that name—”

“The lawyer, Jillian Mawbry. And the lawyer for Chick Darlessen's girlfriend,
ex
-girlfriend, I should say.” Again, there was genuine relish in naming the screenwriter.

The comic turned bug-eyed. “How do you know that?”

“A little birdie told me.”

“When?” Rolly demanded. “When did Mawbry—”

“Yesterday is what I heard.”

Rolly Hoddal's neck seemed to shrink down into his shoulders until it all but disappeared. “I don't like this, Harriet. I don't like this one bit. Someone's onto us, for sure.”

Harriet didn't reply immediately; instead, she dipped her cruller in her cooling coffee. “It's not possible, Rolly … And it's not
going
to be possible if we keep our wits about us. You came to me with this scheme, remember? Now, maybe you're right about a potential problem with Wanda; however, you had no cause to mention your concerns last night, especially considering our surprise visitor. Not to mention running the risk of having Orso or McKenet see us talking. Your behavior created a very awkward situation.”

Rolly's response was an aggrieved: “I had my eye on Gerry and Stan, don't you worry about that, but I didn't know who your ‘niece' was, then, did I?”

Harriet paused to think. “No, you didn't. But that still doesn't excuse you from blabbing—”

“I wasn't blabbing, Harriet! I was being subtle.”

“Like a brick stuffed into a sock.” Harriet's expression turned more manipulative and mean, and with the change, her crafty smile broadened. “By the by, the Graham girl asked me if I knew who Wanda was.”

Rolly yelped.

“Max, too.”

“Oh, geez … oh, geez … She's onto—”

“Of course, I denied knowing anyone named Max … Wanda was another story—that I couldn't deny.”

But Rolly, in his fear, was no longer listening. “What I was saying back then, Harriet … that's not gibberish, that Valhalla stuff … those gods and things, they're in crossword puzzles all the time. Odin … Woden, the guy was called, too. That's where we get our word Wednesday from … Woden's day—”