Murder at the Movies (13 page)

Mr and Mrs D.W. Clarence had lived in the house for twenty-five childless years, contributing as little as possible to business or society. The couple owned two spoiled Pomeranians. D.W. walked them every night at ten o'clock, rain or shine.

“It's the first one on your left,” Jake said from the back seat of Wan Ho's squad car. “The one with the lights on.”

They had driven past the university and were heading back around the loop. Tretheway had used the time to discuss high spots in
The Tower of London
. Wan Ho turned left through the open wrought-iron gates and up the driveway. The tires crunched on the
gravel as he slowed to a stop. Wan Ho jumped out of the car with Jake close behind.

“Very impressive,” Wan Ho said, studying the imposing façade of the Clarence house.

“And big,” Jake said.

Tretheway grunted, noisily uprooting himself from the poorly sprung passenger seat. He sweated freely. The day had been humid and darkness had brought no relief. High clouds formed. Leaves hung motionless, upside down, asking for rain.

“Let's get in there,” Tretheway said. “I think they're waiting for us.”

He could clearly see Mrs Clarence in the well-lit living room, glowering through the leaded casement windows at the three of them. A maid stood in the background wringing her hands. After introducing themselves through the locked screen door, the trio was ushered inside where Mrs Clarence repeated her story in more detail.

“But his face, Mrs Clarence,” Tretheway asked when she had finished. “You say you didn't see his face.”

“No,” Mrs Clarence said emphatically. She made untidy waving motions around her face. “His hair was all over. Adele saw him.”

Tretheway glanced at the maid. She nodded her head vigorously.

“But you did say him,” Tretheway said to Mrs Clarence. “A man.”

“Yes.” This time not so emphatically.

Tretheway grunted. “What was he wearing?”

“Black, nondescript clothing. He was bent over. Horribly deformed.” Mrs Clarence shuddered. “He limped when he ran away.”

“Perhaps we should look outside,” Wan Ho suggested.

“Right,” Tretheway agreed.

“I'm sure the prowler will be gone by now,” Jake assured Mrs Clarence.

“I'm more worried about D.W. My husband. He should be back by now.”

“Let's have a look,” Tretheway said.

On their way to the back door, Mrs Clarence showed them where she had first seen the prowler. “He was right there.” She pointed out the window. “You can see where he put the bottle.”

Tretheway led the way onto the spacious back porch. He squatted down and examined the bottle without touching it.

“
A Product of Madeira
. Malmsey Wine,” he read aloud. “Is your husband by any chance into wine-making?” He hoped for a No.

“Why, yes.”

Tretheway straightened up. “On the premises?”

“There are three vats by the swimming pool. In the greenhouse.”

“Do you suppose it's Malmsey wine?” Jake asked Tretheway.

“Why do you ask?” Mrs Clarence said.

“I don't think it matters,” Tretheway said to Jake. “He's made his point again.”

“Who's made his point?” Mrs Clarence said.

“Listen.” The maid spoke for the first time.

“What?” Mrs Clarence said.

No one spoke or moved. A beginning hot breeze rustled the leaves. Crickets chirped. A streetcar bell clanged blocks away. Then a dog barked, or really yapped.

“It's Mr Moto,” Mrs Clarence said.

“Or Popsie,” the maid said.

“Who?” Tretheway asked.

“It's our dogs,” Mrs Clarence said. “Down there.” She pointed to the barely discernible greenhouse on the edge of light, where the cut grass merged with the natural ravine.

“Sergeant,” Tretheway ordered. “You stay with the ladies.” He started off the porch.

“Shouldn't we call for another car?” Jake asked.

The ladies looked alarmed. Tretheway glared at Jake. “Not just yet.” Then he smiled at Mrs Clarence. “The Constable and I can handle a simple prowler.” He turned back to Jake. “Gimme the flashlight.”

Jake handed his boss the three cell lantern, thankful he had remembered it.

Wan Ho stayed on the porch and watched the wavering light as Tretheway and Jake carefully trod down the sloping sward, their shadows growing grotesquely toward the darkness. The feeble moonlight outlined the shape of the greenhouse. It appeared much smaller and less picturesque up close. The peeling paint of the metal frame and the filthy glass showed up even at night. Close to the only entrance, they found Mr Moto and Popsie. The dogs were growling over something on the ground. Tretheway pushed the dogs apart roughly with his heavy police boot. “Get away.” He considered any dog under twenty pounds untrustworthy. They stopped growling.

“What is it?” asked Jake.

Tretheway shone the light on the objects the dogs had been quarreling over. The crown glittered with reflections while the black woolly hairpiece absorbed most of the illumination.

“I'll wager they belong to Richard III,” Tretheway said.

Jake reached down to pick them up, then thought better of it. He looked at Tretheway.

Tretheway shook his head. “Leave them for Wan Ho,” he said. “We'd better get in there.”

“Right,” Jake said.

Tretheway pulled open the door of the greenhouse. The dogs scampered in and started barking again.

Inside, the damp smell of stale, chlorinated water wrinkled both their noses. Tretheway bounced the light around the interior. Wet stains spotted the narrow ledge bordering the pool. Water dripped somewhere. A tall rack containing half grown annual seedlings stood in one corner beside several carelessly stacked garden tools. There were no chairs.

“Sure ain't Hollywood,” Jake said.

Tretheway tried a light switch on the wall. Nothing happened. “Great.”

He looked back at the main house. Even through the mottled windows of the greenhouse Tretheway could make out Wan Ho on the back porch. The detective stood in a circle of yellow light, hand shielding his eyes, like some ancient sailor in search of whales, peering into the darkness that had swallowed his two colleagues. His charges huddled behind him.

Tretheway focused the flashlight on the rear of the structure. A low wall separated the pool from three metal banded, large oaken casks. They were covered. An arrangement of blinds assured light control for the product. The dogs continued barking.

Tretheway and Jake exchanged nods without speaking. They skirted the pool carefully. Tretheway
stopped in front of the first barrel. “Get the light.” He pointed with the flashlight at the ceiling.

Jake grasped a piece of string hanging from an overhead exposed light bulb and jerked forty watts into life. The dogs' barking lowered to growls. Tretheway had little trouble lifing the heavy circular lid from the cask. A stench of fermenting grapes overpowered the chemical smell of the pool. The weak light showed foaming wine to the barrel's brim. Bubbles and numerous grapes floated on the disturbed surface.

“Nothing here,” Tretheway said.

Jake hesitated. “You sure?” He looked around. “Shouldn't we poke a rake or hoe handle into it?”

“I think not. If there was anything there we'd see it.”

Tretheway went on to the next barrel. It took longer than the first but he finally one-handed the awkward lid upwards. More fermenting grape fumes.

“You could get high just smelling this stuff,”

The contents resembled those of the first barrel.

Tretheway pointed to the third one. “Two down.”

“One to go,” Jake stammered.

Tretheway yanked at the last lid. It didn't budge. He put the flashlight in his pocket and tried again with both hands to no avail. “It's stuck. Gimme a hand.”

Jake went to the opposite side of the barrel. They both pulled. Still nothing budged.

“Must be the suction,” Jake said.

“Get over here,” Tretheway ordered.

Jake moved over beside his boss. The two wrapped their hands around the ample handle. Beside Trethe-way's hands, Jake's looked juvenile.

“Okay,” Tretheway said. “On three.”

Jake braced himself.

“One, two …”

On
three,
they heaved together. A wet, lip-smacking whooshing sound, not unlike a giant drain unclogging, rent the small interior of the greenhouse. The barrel rocked, sloshing homemade wine over its sides. Tretheway and Jake stumbled backwards holding the unstuck lid between them. The dogs ran away yelping.

Edging forward, Tretheway peered apprehensively into the barrel, its contents still eddying from side to side. Jake peeked around his boss's shoulder. What first appeared to be a melon bobbing in a sea of grapes turned out to be the head of D.W. Clarence facing upwards, floating aimlessly, eyes mercifully closed. On either side, his hands rose out of the murky liquid, fingers crooked, palms up, in what must have been one last futile attempt to unseat the jammed lid. Grapes riding in the swishing wine swam in and out of his mouth which was locked open as if in a final bubbly scream.

“Gawd,” Jake said.

“I think King Richard has murdered the Duke of Clarence,” Tretheway said.

He replaced the lid. The dogs returned, whimpering. Outside the wind rose.

The rest of Sunday night/Monday morning passed in a busy blur. Black and white cruisers, unmarked detective cars, a Black Maria with extra uniforms and a
FY Expo
press car crowded into the Clarence's roomy
driveway behind Jake's Pontiac. Doc Nooner arrived in his FY Coroner's black panel truck with Nurse Lode-stone driving. Zulp came last with customary sirens. He took charge immediately. A search began.

Uniforms and plainclothesmen alike combed the area around the Clarence house, including part of the woods. Men followed the slippery tortuous trails or crashed through the underbrush where there were no paths. They hunted into the wet bottom land of the ravine where riled swarms of mosquitoes attacked them and the swampy creek bed soaked their feet, in some instances siphoning off their heavy boots.

Zulp had set up the Clarences' outer kitchen as his command post. The generous-sized muddy footprints of reporting policemen soon covered the hardwood floors. Fortunately Mrs Clarence wasn't there. After a brief question period, which revealed nothing new, she and her maid had retired. Mrs Clarence lay now on the luxurious queen-size bed in her own bedroom. Nurse Lodestone watched over her sedated rest. An exhausted Mr Moto and Popsie snored and snuffled on the satin bedspread beside their mistress.

In the small greenhouse, activity occurred in relays. Zulp had already been and gone. Wan Ho had made his examination. Now two burly ambulance attendants moved the offending barrel off to one side. One half-tipped the cask as the other extricated the sodden body of D.W. Clarence, spilling most of the fermented wine over himself and the floor. Some splashed onto the baggy pants and dress shoes of Doc Nooner.

“Sorry, Doc,” one attendant said.

“
I've
had worse,” Doc Nooner replied.

“At least you can't smell the chlorine any more,” the other attendant said.

They wrestled D.W. onto a waiting stretcher. Doc Nooner bent over and studied the body as best he could under the conditions. He took only minutes.

“Take him to the shop,” he told the attendants. “Can't do any more here.”

The doctor pushed and excused himself past several detectives dusting for fingerprints on obvious handholds around the pool.

“Any luck?” he asked one of them.

The detective shook his head. “Nothing yet.”

Outside the greenhouse, Doc Nooner had to walk by the
Expo
reporter and photographer who stood sullenly together.

“What's going on, Doc?” the reporter asked.

The photographer's speed graphic flashed. Doc Nooner jumped.

“They won't let us in,” the reporter said.