Jaine Austen 2 - Last Writes (20 page)

“I left a message. He was out at a screenwriting class.”

“Jeez,” Kandi groaned. “Our tax dollars at work.”

“Look, I’ve got to go. Talk to you later.”

“Thanks, Jaine,” she said, with a catch in her voice. “I knew you’d come through for me.”

I hung up, praying that I would.

Chapter Twenty-Five

I
drove over to Wells’s modest ivy-covered cottage in Santa Monica. And I do mean modest. The house hadn’t seen a coat of paint in at least thirty years.

Wells answered the door in—I kid you not—a smoking jacket. With a silk ascot tied around his neck. I thought I’d died and been reincarnated in a Noel Coward play.

“Jaine, dear,” he said, “how lovely to see you. Come in.”

He led me into his living room. I’d thought Dale’s house was a tad on the shabby side. But this place made Dale’s look like something out of
Architectural Digest
. In spite of the dim lighting, I could see water stains on the ceiling and holes in the carpeting. I don’t know what Wells was doing with his weekly paycheck, but it certainly wasn’t earmarked for home improvements. Those water stains were older than I was.

“What can I get you to drink?” he asked, once I was settled on a rumpsprung sofa.

“Nothing, thank you. I’m fine.”

The sofa was one of those low-slung Danish Modern models, so popular in the fifties. Now, a half a century later, with most of its padding shot to hell, it was practically grazing the floor. I sat doubled over, my knees jutting into my chest. I’d probably need a crane to haul myself out of it.

“So how can I help you, my dear? You said on the phone it was a matter of utmost importance.”

“I wanted to know about the accident on the set of
That Darn Hamlet
.”

“Ah. The Hamlet sitcom. The network said Americans weren’t ready for an Elizabethan sitcom. Sadly, they were right. But I still feel certain that if they’d only given us a chance, we would’ve eventually found our audience.”

He shook his head, bemoaning his—and America’s—loss. Then, finally, he remembered I’d asked him a question.

“So, what was it you wanted to know?”

“The accident on the show, did it have anything to do with a falling light?”

“Why, yes. It hadn’t occurred to me until now, but it was just like what happened to you the other day. Which reminds me—how are you feeling, my dear?”

“Just fine.”

“Are you sure? I know an excellent podiatrist if you need one.”

“No, really. I’m okay. Tell me more about the accident.”

“There’s not much to tell. An overhead light fell. It just missed one of the crew members.”

“Did they ever find out if it was really an accident? Were the wires frayed, or did someone cut them?”

His silvery brows wrinkled in thought. “I’m afraid I don’t remember. But I think I’ve got a clipping about it in my scrapbook. I’ll go get it.”

He walked out of the room, limping slightly. His feet were probably hurting again. At that moment I realized how much effort it must have taken for him to show up at work every day.

I heard him rattling around in the hall closet.

“Thanks so much for helping me out like this,” I called out.

“My pleasure, my dear,” he said, shuffling back into the room with a huge old-fashioned ribbon-bound scrapbook. As he set it down on the coffee table, dust flew from its pages.

He flipped through the pages until he found what he was looking for.

“Here it is,” Wells said, pointing to a faded clipping.

Near Fatal Accident on Sitcom Set.

The article told how an overhead light fell on the set of
That Darn Hamlet
, nearly missing one of the cameramen. Police said in all likelihood it was an accident, but they could not rule out the possibility of foul play. No arrests were made.

They couldn’t rule out foul play. Which meant maybe there
had
been foul play. And maybe Stan was the foul player.

“As long as it’s out,” Wells said, “may I show you my scrapbook?”

Oh, God, no. The last thing I wanted to do was look at his humungous scrapbook. Really, I’d seen smaller carry-on luggage. But he smiled at me so hopefully, I just couldn’t say no.

“Sounds great,” I said.

And for the next hour I sat by his side, my knees stabbing my chest, looking at the highlights of Wells Dumont’s theatrical career. I saw a picture of him at his first job, working as an acrobat in the circus. (“Just like Cary Grant started out,” he beamed.) I saw him working as a magician (“Dumont the Great”), as a clown (Dumont the Silly), and as a spear carrier in an opera.

“Here’s my very first review,” Wells said, pointing to a yellowed clipping.
“Wells Dumont as The Irate Husband lent a comic touch to the proceedings.”

I waded through pictures of Wells as Hamlet, Othello, Macbeth, and Felix Unger in a British production of
The Odd Couple
.

Somewhere between Macbeth and Felix, I came across a publicity photo of a delicate young woman dressed in Elizabethan garb.

“That was my wife, Jessica.”

“How beautiful she was.”

“It was taken in Stratford-upon-Avon. That’s where we met, on a production of
Macbeth
. Ever since then,
Macbeth
has been my favorite play.”

He stared at the picture of the lovely young woman, her large eyes gazing into the distance. Then he sighed and turned the page.

We plowed our way through what seemed like a million more pictures and press clippings. Finally, we came to the last page. On it was pasted an obituary:
Jessica Dumont, British Stage Actress, Dead at 63.

The middle-aged woman smiling out from her obituary picture was every bit as lovely as she had been in her twenties.

“How sad that she died so young,” I said. “How did it happen?”

“Heart attack.” Wells brushed an imaginary speck of dust from his wife’s picture.

“She’d gone to lunch with friends. They ate at a restaurant in Malibu, next to some brush area. Somehow a snake had gotten into her car. She was driving back home and discovered it. That’s what the doctors said probably gave her the heart attack.”

His eyes misted over.

“It’s just not the same without her,” he said, struggling to hold back the tears.

Then he shut the scrapbook abruptly.

“Well,” he said, forcing a smile. “I’ve kept you here way too long, my dear. I’m so glad you stopped by.”

“Me, too,” I said. And, strangely enough, I meant it.

They say that when you get old, you find yourself telling your life story over and over again. I don’t know why. Maybe to make sense of your days on earth before they slip away. Wells had obviously needed someone to share his memories with. And, in the end, I was happy to do it.

Somehow I managed to dredge myself out of the sofa. Wells walked me to the door and waved good-bye.

He stood there in the doorway, a frail old man in a stained smoking jacket, with nothing left from his glory days except his fabulous head of hair.

As I headed down the path to the Corolla, I wondered why so many people struggle so hard to get into show business. So far, all I’d seen behind the cameras was grief and heartbreak.

It was after eleven when I got home. Which meant all the good parking spots were taken. And the bad ones, too. That’s one of the negatives of living in a quaint Beverly Hills duplex: Lots of character, but no garage.

Usually I manage to find a spot somewhere on the street, but that night I was stuck parking two blocks away.

I got out of the Corolla and headed back to my apartment, walking briskly, my head held high, to let any potential muggers/rapists/Avon salesladies know that I was one tough cookie.

True, Beverly Hills isn’t exactly a hotbed of crime. But I never like walking alone after dark. And I was especially uneasy, knowing that just the other day someone had tried to kill me. What if that same person was lurking behind a tree ready to pounce? What if he/she’d been following me all night just waiting for his/her chance to do me in? If I planned on being a detective, I chided myself, I really had to start looking for bad guys tailing me in my rearview mirror.

By now, convinced that a hardened killer was stalking me, I abandoned my head-held-high-tough-girl pose and broke into a scaredy-cat trot.

As I panted down the street, I told myself I was being silly. No one was going to come lurching out from behind a tree. But as luck would have it, just as I reached my duplex, someone
did
come lurching out from behind a tree. A short guy in a sweatsuit. I couldn’t see him clearly in the dark, but it looked an awful lot like Stan.

“Jaine? Is that you?”

“Don’t come any closer,” I said, my voice squeaky with fear. “I’ve got a can of mace.”

Frantically I rummaged through my purse. Indeed I did have a can of mace. I’d bought it years ago at a YWCA self-defense class. Finally I found it. I whipped it out, but it didn’t stop my stalker. He took a step closer. I sprayed. Funny, it smelled just like mouthwash. Damn. It
was
mouthwash. I’d grabbed my Binaca by mistake!

“Calm down, Jaine. It’s only me.”

My would-be murderer stepped out of the shadows, and I saw that it wasn’t Stan, but Detective Incorvia.

“Detective Incorvia,” I said, flooded with relief. “What are you doing here?”

“Actually,” he said, “I came to drop this off in your mailbox.”

He held up a large manila envelope.

“It’s my script,” he said. “
Kung Fu Cop
. I was hoping you could read it and give me notes.”

“I’m sorry, Detective Incorvia, but I make it a principle never to read scripts with the words ‘Kung Fu’ and ‘Cop’ in the same title.”

Okay, so I didn’t really say that. What I said was, “Sure. I’d be happy to.”

“Did you get my message?” I asked.

“Yes, what’s up?”

“I’m pretty sure Stan Miller is Quinn’s killer. Last week, he was seen buying a box of rat poison.”

“I know,” he said. “We got a phone call from the owner of Beverly Hardware. Not only that, we found the box in the commissary dumpster. Stan’s fingerprints were all over it.”

“What about Audrey? Were her prints on the box, too?”

“No,” he shook his head. “Nobody’s prints were on the box. Nobody except Stan.”

“And guess what?” I said. “I’m pretty sure he’s the one who cut the wires on the klieg light.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” And I told him about the “accident” on the set of
That Darn Hamlet
.

“Wow,” Incorvia said when I was through. “It was the same kind of accident that happened to you the other night?”

“The exact same kind.”

“And Stan was a lighting guy on the show?”

I nodded solemnly.

“It sure looks like Stan’s our guy,” he said.

It sure did, didn’t it?

YOU’VE GOT MAIL!

TO: Jausten

FROM: Daddyo

SUBJECT: You’re going to laugh when you hear this!

Sweetcakes, you’re not going to believe this. The funniest thing just happened. I found that bottle of “love oil” in your mom’s car. It was stuck way under the passenger seat. Anyhow, here’s the funny part. It turns out it isn’t love oil, after all. It’s
Clove
Oil. It was an old bottle and the “C” on the label had worn off. It turns out your mom was using it after her trips to the dentist. Isn’t that a hoot? Your mom’s still a little miffed at me for “embarrassing” her on national TV. I guess I’m going to have to make it up to her somehow.

TO: Jausten

FROM: Shoptillyoudrop

SUBJECT: The Love Boat

Wonderful news, darling! Mr. Koskovalis has decided not to press charges! Which means Daddy is a free man!

And guess where Daddy is taking me? On a two-week cruise to the Carribean! He managed to get us last-minute tickets. Outer berths, with a verandah! So I guess you and I won’t be roomies, after all. Not this time, anyway.

Send my best to Cookie, and give your darling kitty Zoloft a kiss for me.

Love, Mom

PS. Don’t be mad, but I gave your phone number to Ernie Lindstrom.

Chapter Twenty-Six

T
he cops arrested Stan on Friday, in the middle of a rewrite session. I’ll never forget the look in his eyes as they read him his rights. Like a dog abandoned on the freeway. Puzzled, panicked, utterly bewildered. And in that moment, I knew—as sure as I knew that fudge was fattening—that Stan was innocent.

Yes, I know. Just last night I was convinced he was a cold-blooded killer, but if you’d seen him with that dazed look in his eyes, you’d know he couldn’t possibly have killed anyone.

The cops led him out of the room—not handcuffed, thank goodness. Before he left, he took one last gulp from his Evian/gin bottle and stumbled over the threshold. See what I mean? The man had trouble walking from point A to point B; he simply couldn’t have masterminded a murder.

The minute he was gone, Audrey reached for the phone and called her attorney. As always, her face was a mask. I couldn’t tell whether she was overwhelmed with despair or glad to be rid of him. Kandi and I got up to go, to give her some privacy, but she gestured for us to stay. Quickly, efficiently, she told her attorney what had happened, and ordered him to line up the best defense team in town.

As I watched her on the phone, coolly dispensing instructions, I could easily picture Audrey as the killer. I remembered the “Q” I’d seen written in her appointment book on the date of the murder. It would be just like Audrey to allot a tidy time slot in her appointment book to remind herself she had a murder to commit:

Lunch at Spago.

Network meeting.

Kill Quinn.

Bikini wax.

So what if her fingerprints weren’t on the box of poison? She could’ve wiped them off. Or worn gloves. Or used a whole other box of poison, for that matter.

Needless to say, I didn’t contribute much to the rewrite session. Audrey was lucky I didn’t haul her in on a citizen’s arrest.