Joan Hess - Arly Hanks 04 (15 page)

-- ==+== --

Plover and I decided to dine on delicacies from the Dairee DeeLishus. Once he returned with greasy cheeseburgers and cherry limeades, we retreated to the back room to sit at the table.

"This Anderson St. James may be our man," Plover said as he unwrapped his burger and lifted the bun to study the few shreds of pale lettuce and a translucent slice of tomato.

I mimicked his motions while I considered his remarks. "Why do you say that?" I asked ever so casually.

"Pretty queer coincidence, his wife and then Kitty Kaye."

"But he didn't murder his wife. He was on location and came home to discover her body. He wasn't even in town."

Plover chewed this over for a while, then said, "The police never caught this so-called maniac. What if St. James came home, murdered his wife, and then notified the authorities?"

"The police there are so incompetent they failed to notice the wounds were still oozing and the body warm? Is that your assessment of a police department blessed with state-of-the-art equipment and training?" I stuffed the cheeseburger in my mouth and chomped furiously. "This has onions, damn it. I told you I didn't want onions."

"Scrape 'em off," said amiable Sergeant Plover. "I ought to scrape you off," I mumbled through a mouthful, not sure whether I hoped he heard me. I pushed the food aside. "Look, I'll call the L.A.P.D. and see what I can find out about the murder last year. There may well be a connection of some sort, but you seem awfully eager to nail Anderson St. James. There's been no suggestion that he has a motive."

"Thus far, no one has a motive -- according to them, anyway. Gwenneth and Frederick squabble, Hal Desmond takes credit for Carlotta's writing, and Fuzzy drinks, but all of them are in it for the money. Murder's inconvenient because it screws up the schedule. Maybe it's a psycho off the highway who aspires to be in the movies. Maybe it's your pimply firebug."

I glumly picked up the cherry limeade and took a sip. "No, I can't see it. I'm convinced he's guilty, but he's been careful not to start any fires that might endanger someone. It's a big leap from burning down a shack to slashing a stranger like that, and that still doesn't explain what happened to Meredith."

"What about the fire in your apartment?"

"Merganser told you about that, did he? How loquacious of him, especially when I asked him not to say anything."

"I was wondering about that, too," Plover said, staring at me over the expanse of a poppyseed bun.

Although there was no smoke, things were beginning to warm up in the back room. I headed for the telephone in the front. "There're a lot of things about me that you don't need to know, Plover," I said from around the doorway.

"That you don't want me to know might be more accurate," he said mildly.

"That I don't want you to know." I picked up the receiver and began what I knew would be a tedious attempt to catch the right detective at the right precinct in a city of numerous million people.

-- ==+== --

"If you don't stop grinning like a mule eating briars, I'm gonna shake you so hard your hair uncurls," Estelle said, advancing across the kitchen.

"Keep it down," said Ruby Bee. She realized she was retreating and told herself to hold her ground before she got backed up against the sink. "It's an official police investigation, and I am under orders not to breathe a single word to anyone about what all happened." Losing her resolve, she dodged around the center island. "I got a whole roomful of hungry customers, and I got better things to do than play games with you. I told you: I crossed my heart and hoped to die."

"I am not some stray grannywoman out of the hills, Rubella Belinda Hanks. We have gone through thick and thin together, and not one time -- not one last living time, mind you -- have I refused to share a confidence with you. Remember when I heard about Lorrie's gallbladder operation? Did I act like Mrs. Mystery and not repeat everything I'd heard, including what she said in the operating room while being anesthetized?"

"And her teaching home ec to innocent high-school girls," Ruby Bee said, smiling just a tad before she caught herself. "This just ain't the time to discuss it, Estelle. Dahlia can't hardly handle the bar, much less take orders from the booths and fix trays for the movie stars to have in their rooms."

The waitress under discussion trudged into the kitchen, her lips pursed in a tight circle and her cheeks puffing in and out. She slammed down a stack of orders, exhaled noisily, and went back through the door, moving so heavily that pots rattled in the cabinet and the soup simmering on the stove sloshed gently.

"What's ailing her?" Estelle demanded.

"It's this movie thing," Ruby Bee said as she opened the oven door to peek at the cherry cobbler, which was bubbling perfectly as usual. "She was all fired up about her role, but now that Miss Kaye's been murdered, Dahlia's afraid the movie people'll pack up and go home without -- "

"Murdered? Miss Kaye was murdered?"

Ruby Bee banged the oven door. "You heard me, even though you weren't supposed to. I swear, you've got more ways of worming things out of folks than a robin hopping around in the wet grass. I guess there's no point in not telling you what that deputy told me, but we can't tell another soul."

"I solemnly swear," Estelle said soberly, then scooted around the corner and grabbed Ruby Bee's arm. "But I think this is a real opportunity for us, don't you? You and I are going to be the ones to take trays to the movie stars and maybe hear them talking to each other about what happened. That nice Mr. Meredith may be married, but he was right friendly at the bar the other night, and I figure he might -- "

"Hush," Ruby Bee ordered. She could smell the cobbler, but she could smell something else that was liable to have Arly kicking up stumps. Again. She thought about saying as much to Estelle, but the cobbler was done and the soup was boiling and all sorts of folks were bellowing in the barroom. "Help me dish up these orders," she said briskly. "Let's get through the rush hour, and then we'll settle down over sherry and discuss the case."

-- ==+== --

"Because I'm busy reading this," Darla Jean said, her face hidden behind the cover of a confession magazine. She was lying on her bed, the pillows squashed behind her head. The magazine trembled as she flipped to the next page. "This is what I want to do, so there's no reason for you all to hang around in the doorway staring at me like I'd turned pea green or something."

"Oh, come on, Darla Jean," Heather wheedle, "I'll buy you a soda. If you're afraid to go to the Dee-Lishus, I'll see if I can get my ma's car and we can go someplace in Farberville."

"Why would I be afraid to go to the Dee-Lishus?"

Heather made a face at Traci, who wasn't being any help. "I just thought you might not want to run into Dwayne."

The magazine stayed in place. "He's my boyfriend, ain't he?"

" 'Course he is," Heather said, her mouth as dry as cotton.

"Then why should I be afraid to run into him?"

Withering under Heather's glare, Traci licked her lips and said, "Because of your date with Frederick Marland, Darla Jean. Dwayne might not like that."

"It wasn't a date. I gave him a ride into Farberville, that's all. He bought suntan oil at the drugstore on Thurber Street, and we came right back." She lowered the magazine just enough to look at them, and it wasn't anywhere near a friendly look. "You got problems with that?"

Heather and Traci assured her that they didn't, but once they were walking along the road, they agreed that they did, since Heather had tried to call at ten and Traci had noticed Mrs. McIlhaney's car wasn't in the driveway when she and her parents had returned home from a tent revival. The preacher had been real long-winded, and it had been well after midnight before the final "Hallelujah!" had died down and everyone felt sufficiently saved for the night.

Chapter 10

"WILD CHERRY WINE" (REVISED 5/24)

6 CONTINUED:

COOTER

I thank you kindly, but I reckon I'll pass on the pie. I came to see if my fiancée wanted to take a stroll and enjoy the cool night air.

CLOSE-up as Loretta stares at the floor. CAMERA WIDENS as Zachery crosses to her and pulls her to her feet.

ZACHERY

(jovially)

'Course she does, Cooter. It's time you two got to know each other better. Why, you'll be hitched afore you know it. Martha would have been so proud, may she rest in peace.

COOTER

Amen. May she rest in peace.

(CONTINUED)

-- ==+== --

Hal Desmond twisted the gold chain around his neck and scowled at his watch, then switched to a conspiratorial smile. "Arly, honey," he said, "I realize you're doing your job, and I'm sure you're damn good at it. The thing is, the day is almost gone and I'm up to my ass in revisions. Carlotta thinks she does the writing, but she's an amateur and I've been in the industry for thirty years."

We'd done name, rank, and serial number, and ascertained he'd formed Glittertown Productions, Inc., only a year ago. Before that, he'd been involved in "numerous projects, hard to say, deals that soared, deals that soured, but hey -- that's the business, you gotta love it."

"One of your team was murdered," I said politely. "My job is to determine who did it. Yes, I'm doing my job."

"I have to tell you, when you tilt your head like that, there's something there. I can't quite put my finger on it, but it's there. You're Capricorn, aren't you? Hiding fiery passion behind those dark, appraising eyes?"

Plover had been summoned to the barracks. As irritated as I was with him, I rather wished he were straddling the chair and harrumphing under his breath. "No, I'm not a Capricorn, and all I'm hiding is an urge to transport you to the sheriff's department to continue this," I said, less politely. "We might be there until midnight."

"Yo, take it easy. No harm intended." Hal lit a cigarette and tried to find a comfortable position in the chair. There wasn't one, naturally, and eventually he conceded and gave me another smile, this one intending to be apologetic (but too toothy for my taste). "I can't deny it's in my blood. I'm possessed by it. I see a sunrise -- I see opening credits. I see a beautiful woman -- I see a leading lady. Even my wet dreams are in Technicolor. The other day I was telling Brando, that -- "

"Mr. Desmond," I said, "could we please continue with your statement concerning the events of the past three days? I have other people to interview and calls to make. From what I've heard thus far, everything was proceeding as scheduled. All of the company except for you and St. James arrived in the van in the middle of the afternoon. Why did the two of you come on a later flight?"

"Couldn't shake loose. Had a lunch lined up that was too important to pass up, even though the guy's a swish. Anderson had to do a little last-minute shopping. I picked him up and we tore out to LAX with ten minutes to spare.

Carlotta made sure there was a rental car waiting for us at the airport in whatever that town was, and a map and thermos of martinis on the front seat. She's not a sexual fantasy, but I gotta admit she's professional."

"What about the others? I've heard several times how professional Meredith and Miss Kaye were."

"We're all professionals, even those two little hayseed lovers. Fuzzy requires a baby-sitter, but as long as he stays off the juice during work hours, he does a good job ... for nonunion. We're one big happy family at Glittertown Productions, Inc., and that's why we can make tight little movies that earn a solid profit."

"How much does a movie like Tanya Makes the Team earn?" I asked. I admit it had nothing to do with the investigation, but I, along with most of the popcorn eaters of the world, was intrigued by Hollywood and its hypnotic aura of fame and fortune.

"It should have pulled in two or three million," Hal said proudly. "We did that baby on less than two hundred thou, which isn't even peanuts in the industry -- it's the shells that were scattered in the sawdust after the circus split. The trick is to lock up the distribution early in the game. We're talking the foreign rights, the video, the cable deal, even the novelization, although we haven't had much luck there. I'm on the track of a little outfit in Peoria or someplace that wants to do a line of comic books."

"Like the Classic Comics?"

He dropped his cigarette on the floor and ground it out with his heel. "Like that, yeah. Listen, doll, I've got so much work to do that I'll be up all night, so let me run through it. Anderson and I arrived here before dark. We stashed our stuff, met the others in the barroom, had a few laughs with the locals, and went to bed. The next morning Carlotta, Fuzzy, and I made the grand tour of most of the sites. After lunch, jet lag caught up with me and I took a nap while Carlotta finished up on her own and pulled everybody together to distribute the schedule. We ate, then I went back to my room to meditate so I'd be vibrating with intensity this morning when we started rolling. I channel all my energy so it's like a friggin' laser beam. You ever meditate?"

"I don't even mediate," I said absently, making a few notes, including one about a few laughs with the locals. One local in particular came to mind ... one with a badge and an adolescent mentality.

"Meditation's hot these days. You should give it a try. Tell you what -- you come by my room later tonight, and I'll share my expertise with you. We'll get really, really comfortable and loose, then -- "

"I don't think so, but I'll keep it in mind, Mr. Desmond. Neither Meredith nor Miss Kaye did anything out of the ordinary? They didn't mention seeing someone they knew, or having plans to go somewhere?"

"Naw, but I was preoccupied with the production. I don't much mingle with the others; it stifles me. I prefer to isolate myself, and if I want companionship, I take a quick look around and find someone who's fresh and exciting." He winked at me, in case I'd been out to (make that "doing") lunch and missed his hint.

"What can you tell me about the murder of Anderson St. James's wife? I gather it took place while you all were on location?"

He lit another cigarette and exhaled at length. His eyes were as mine were reputed to be: dark and appraising. "That's right, we were making Satan's Sisters in some podunk in Nevada. You ever caught that?" I shook my head. "Try it sometime; it puts me in tears every time I watch it. Anyway, we were close enough to Vegas that I didn't have to pay hardship wages. You been to Vegas? Now, there's a place you'd enjoy, Arly, and lemme tell you, I'm always welcome at Caesar's. Limo, suite, champagne, fruit, a front table for the shows -- the whole number. How about it one of these days, you and me?"

I held in a shudder as I imagined sharing a suite with him, champagne and fruit be damned. A few weeks ago I'd been grousing about my floundering social life. Since then, I'd been invited to make sparks with a fire fighter, call a handsome actor by a diminutive, and go to Vegas with a social disease. Plover was huffing around, to be sure, but he hadn't trudged into the sunset. If I wasn't careful, my dance card would be full.

"I've been to Vegas," I said. "Let's return to the subject of the St. James murder, shall we?"

"I can get tickets to Wayne Newton just like that, he said, snapping his fingers. When I stared, he resumed toying with the gold chain and flicking ashes on my floor. "Right, right. Can't waste time until this mess is resolved, but don't hesitate to give me a call if you change your mind . Like I said, we're shooting in this podunk, and it's going like satin. Gwenneth's screwing up her lines and missing her marks, but what else is new, and nobody's worried because we're well under budget and the light at the end of the tunnel's as green as a hundred-dollar bill. We do the final wrap, get so soused that I'm thinking Carlotta looks like Monroe -- maybe better -- and call it a night. The next morning Fuzzy, the Merediths, and Gwenneth decide to continue the party in Vegas. I give Frederick and Anderson a ride back to L.A. in my Mercedes, and we have a helluva time, laughing and drinking and discussing some of the seriously bizarre scenes involving holy water. Talk about your symbolism -- "

"And then?" I said, wondering why the mention of holy water was evoking such a smirk. A large population gave it mystical significance, but I'd never heard any hint of its ability to intoxicate or induce hallucinations.

"I dropped Anderson off, and was backing over his hibiscus when he came running out of the house. Looked like a -- I don't know -- one of your stars of The Night of the Living Dead. I'm talking the original in black and white, not the remakes. He was yelling about the ambulance and the police, that kinda thing. Frederick took a fast look inside while I tried to calm down my blubbery buddy. Before I could say Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, we had police and medics all over the place."

"There was never any suggestion that Anderson was involved?"

"From what I heard, she'd been dead since the middle of the night." He gave the chain a yank. "Like Kitty, I guess. Damn, she was class, real class. We're gonna miss her. Carlotta's trying to do the revisions as we speak. The footage we did this morning will work, even if Meredith's in Mexico by now. We were planning to dub his voice in later, anyway."

"Wait a minute," I said, determined to remain focused despite these abrupt tangential flights. "There's no way Anderson could have had anything to do with his wife's murder, right?"

"Lodging in Podunkville was tight, worse than here. We all had to share rooms, and I swore to the police that he was snoring across from me all night. It was a kind of a tragedy, because there was this little blond waitress in the coffee shop who thought she had talent and was more than willing to prove it. Problem was, she had this truck-driver boyfriend who might have shown up at her place, and -- "

"I think this will do for the moment, Mr. Desmond," I said hastily. "When you get back to the motel, would you ask" -- I consulted the list -- "Fuzzy Indigo to come to the PD?"

"I'll do anything for you, darling. Look, here's my card, and I'm going to put my private number on the back so you won't have to go through the service. Night or day, you give me a buzz and I'll send you a first-class ticket to Vegas. There'll be a limo at the airport and anything you want -- and I mean it -- in the suite. You name it, Hal Desmond can get it."

He dropped a card on my desk, leered for a minute, and left before I could produce an appropriately couched remark that might have alluded (but very delicately, I'm sure) to castration and a dull knife.