Authors: Gregory Mcdonald
“No,” Fletch said. “They’re smarter. They don’t invest in people and make ’em run around a track.”
“That’s true. They are smarter that way.”
“So where did Mister Sills go?”
“He left the country.”
“Ah. Was this a sudden trip, would you say?”
“He packed and left last night. He was plannin’ to go to the race today.”
“A sudden trip. Did he mention which country he’s favoring?”
“France. He mentioned France.”
“And which way was he going?”
“By airplane, Mister Fletcher.”
“I mean, through Miami? New York?”
“Atlanta, I think.”
“Then he’s gone. Left the country.”
“Can’t be sure. Cousin Heath, from Piddle—you know I had a cousin lives in Piddle?—came to see me and got into that Atlanta airport and wasn’t heard from Tuesday noon till Saturday teatime. Said he kept expectin’ somethin’ to happen, and nothin’ did.”
“I’m going to tell people to keep their eye on you, Frizzlewhit.”
“Wish you would. Sometimes it gets lonely down here with the horses.”
“Even you can outrun ’em, huh?”
“Some of ’em are no improvement over stayin’ still.”
“Will Mister Sills call you?”
“Prolly.”
“You might tell him The Blue House was busted this morning. For drugs.”
“Yeah? You had a rave-up down there just yesterday, didn’t you? Nasties and the bedsheet bunch. Saw it on television, I did. What’s going to happen tomorrow?”
“That’s always the question, isn’t it?”
“That’s what makes a horse race.”
“Damn,” said Fletch. “I didn’t think you knew what makes a horse race.”
* * *
And Fletch did not mind telephoning Chief of Detectives Roz Nachman at that early hour. Police stations are supposed to be open for twenty-four-hour-a-day service. If she wasn’t there yet he should be able to leave a message.
But she was there.
“Aren’t you getting any sleep at all, Chief?”
“Thank you for your concern, Mister Fletcher.”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Staging that drug bust this morning. Here at The Blue House. I’m sure I’ll figure out why in a minute. Trying to discover who’s sleeping with whom? You could have asked. You did before.”
“How’s the weather in Key West?”
“Nice.”
“It’s nice here, too.”
“Having John Meade busted in Key West for a few qualudes is not nice of you.”
“John Meade?”
“He could end up with a jail sentence, you know. He’s a big name. Make good headlines for the authorities in Key West.”
“Was he in illegal possession of a controlled substance?”
“That’s why he’s being held.”
“I’m sorry. Loved him in
Easy River.”
“So did he. He won’t be able to use his talents to give you much more pleasure if he’s in the hoosegow.”
“So I’ll see
Easy River
again. It’s on the T.V. all the time. Now—regarding that question you asked? Regarding Steven Peterman’s car?”
“Yes?”
“We had it checked out. The car was in the parking lot on Bonita Beach. A blue Cadillac.” “A rented car?”
“Yes. No damage. Not a scrape. So that’s the end of that great line of investigation.”
“What date did he rent the car?”
There was a long silence from Chief of Detectives Roz Nachman. “That’s a good point. Are you trying to get ahead of me, Mister Fletcher?”
“Would you expect him to keep a damaged car? A damaged rented car?”
“I wonder what date he actually arrived in Florida.”
“I don’t know. I should think you’d know by now.”
“I would, too. Okay …”
“So that line of investigation is still open?”
“We’ll check further.”
“Another thing. You must know that yesterday we had sort of a riot here. A demonstration. Some violence.”
“It was in all the papers. On T.V. Everybody’s name mentioned but your’s. Who are you, Mister Fletcher?”
“Chief, one of these groups might really have been trying to stop this film. I mean, to the point of murder. Gerry Littleford said last night that he had received threatening letters and phone calls—”
“Does he have any of the letters?”
“No. But the riot yesterday—Stella Littleford did
get hurt. Some of these people can be vicious. Insanely vicious.
“Vicious but not smart. I don’t think your average bigoted tub-of-lard is up to getting on location and then making a knife magically appear between the ribs of somebody sitting on a well-lit stage in daylight surrounded by cameras. … Do you, earwig?”
“No.”
“Keep trying, earwig. Things are looking worse and worse for your Ms Moxie Mooney. I need a devil’s advocate.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, all those film experts we hired—they’re coming down pretty heavily on her. That dance she did.”
“What dance?”
“Didn’t you see her? Thought you were there.” “What dance?”
“Just before the, you know, murder. Moxie Mooney got up from her chair and did a little dance. She was showing Dan Buckley some little dance step she did in
A Broadway Hit.”
“In her bathrobe?”
“Make-up robe, dressing gown, whatever you want to call it. It’s terrycloth. We have it. I should think it would be too big for her.”
“So she couldn’t have done it.”
“So she could have. After she did her little dance step, she went back to her own chair, crossing behind where Peterman and Buckley were sitting.”
“She crossed behind them.”
“Yes. Behind. It’s in all the videotapes. In fact, it looks a little unnatural. From where she finished her dance, she could have walked directly back to her chair, or behind Peterman and Buckley. She chose to walk behind them.”
“Oh, God.”
“The experts have drawn lines all over the stage floor. They talk in cubes. Do you understand that?”
“No.”
“Neither do I. Upshot of it is they said it would have been more direct, and more natural for her to walk in front of the men. It looks a little unnatural to me. But, keep tryin’, earwig. Believe me, I’d rather find some group of crazies guilty of murder than Moxie Mooney. This is not the way I want to become a famous detective.”
“Are there any other leads you’re following?”
“Sure. But let me keep a few secrets, will you? Again I warn you, Fletcher: don’t you and Ms Mooney leave Key West, except to come back here.”
“I hear you.”
“Some people were a little nervous when you went sailing yesterday.” “You know about that?”
“The Coast Guard did a helicopter over you.”
“Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes. They said you were real cute together. Said it was just like watching a movie.”
“Cats will bark before I ever accept an invitation to stay in your house again, Mister What’s-your-name Fletcher,” Edith Howell stated at breakfast.
“What Katz?” asked Sy Koller. “Sam Katz or Jock Katz?”
They were crowded at the white iron framed glass table on the cistern in the backyard of The Blue House. Moxie had not yet come down to breakfast.
“A riot out of control one morning. People throwing rocks at the house. Bopping poor Stella with a bottle. Why didn’t you call the police?”
“Jock Katz always barked,” Sy Koller said. “He barked all the time.”
“A police raid this morning, at dawn. They
came right into my bedroom while I was sleeping! I threw my aspirin bottle at the damned cop. Hit him, too, right on the cheek.”
“Sam Katz never barked. Sam was a pussy cat.”
“And they yank John off and charge him with being in possession of medicine, or something…”
“Are you saying we were raided by the police this morning?” Frederick Mooney asked.
“We were, Freddy.” Edith put her hand on his. “Isn’t it terrible?”
Mooney extricated his hand to deal with the grapefruit. “Never heard a thing.”
“They swarmed all over the house, Freddy,” Edith said.
“Like roaches,” grinned Gerry Littleford.
“You mean they entered and searched my bed-room while I slept?” Freddy asked.
“Yes, dear,” commiserated Edith.
“How forward of them,” said Freddy. “I trust I was sleeping well.”
“I’m sure you were sleeping handsomely, dear.”
Lopez poured orange juice into Fletch’s glass. “Global Cable News is on the phone.”
“Tell them I’ll call them back, please.”
“Fletcher,” Edith Howell asked, “do you realize one of your houseguests is in the hospital and another is in prison?”
“We’re dropping like flies,” Koller said through a mouthful of scrambled egg.
“Roaches,” said Gerry Littleford.
“You Yanks don’t see the comic side of anything,” Geoff McKensie said.
Sy Koller stopped chewing and stared at him.
Moxie appeared in her bikini with a light, white open linen top.
“Good morning, sweets,” Edith gushed.
Gerry Littleford squeezed against Sy Koller to make room for her.
Fletch hitched his chair sideways. One leg stuck in a crack. Looking down, he jumped the chair leg out of the crack. On top of the cistern was a half-meter cut square. East and west on the square were hinged lift-rings.
“Did you sleep?” Mooney asked his daughter. “I hear there was a disturbance.”
Lopez was back with a fresh pot and poured Moxie’s coffee.
“Anybody know how these old cisterns work?” asked Fletch.
“Might as well get it over,” Moxie said. She sipped her black coffee.
“I’ve heard from the producers.” She gave Fletch a long, solemn look, warning him not to correct her. “The production is cancelled.”
Thus was almost everybody at breakfast fired. Geoffrey McKensie had already been fired.
Mooney did not permit the silence to last too long. “Is that the production of
Midsummer Night’s Dream,
daughter?”
“O.L.!” she said in exasperation.
“That’s too bad.” Mooney’s eyes ran up the banyan tree. “I was rather hoping to be offered a part.”
“But why?” Edith had caught her breath. “Everything was going so well.” Moxie snorted. “Well, at least I think so, and I’m sure John would back
me up, if he weren’t in jail for medicine. My part was the best I’ve had in a long time. I was doing so well at it. With the help of dear Sy, of course.”
“Who did you speak to?” Gerry Littleford asked.
“Didn’t quite catch the name,” Moxie answered. “It was a legitimate phone call.”
Sy Koller asked: “Why did they call you?”
“I just happened to answer the phone.” Moxie Mooney was lying well. “We’re all relieved of our contracts as of today.”
“Fired,” Gerry Littleford said.
“Ah, the vicissitudes of this business,” consoled Mooney.
“But it’s not fair!” said Edith. “I sublet my apartment in New York. I gave up a perfectly good legitimate theater offer. Where will I go, what will I do? Freddy!”
“Yes?” Mooney answered formally, stiff-arming being called upon.
“Well, McKensie,” Sy Koller looked the man straight in the eyes. “Looks like your suit against Jumping Cow Productions won’t be much good to you now.”
“Damed fools.” McKensie had reddened beneath his tan. “Too cheap to take a few days proper mourning for the director’s wife yet when a few congenital idiots wrap themselves in bedsheets and throw a few rocks at a house, they collapse and cancel the production, losing everything they’ve invested in it!”
“Are such things insured?” Fletch asked.
“You’ve got to look on the comic side of things,
McKensie,” Sy Koller said. Koller was not laughing, or smiling, or looking at all pleased.
“It’s the bad publicity that killed it,” Moxie said. “The man said.”
“There’s no such thing as bad publicity,” said Edith Howell. “Especially these days. Any publicity is good. The more the better. Murder, riots, raids. Why we’ve been top of the news three days running! And the film isn’t even made yet. Freddy, tell them there’s no such thing as bad publicity.”
“It’s not only the bad publicity,” Moxie said. “The press has begun to refer to
Midsummer Night’s Madness
as a badly-written, cheaply-produced exploitation picture. The film will never live down its reputation now.”
“Even if you use my script,” McKensie said. “Even if I direct. I don’t want anything to do with it.”
Koller smiled. “And thus dies a lawsuit. We all heard you say that, McKensie. We’re all witnesses.”
Gerry Littleford asked, quietly, “Are they saying this picture exploits the race issue?”
Moxie took a deep breath. “Yes. Of course. Somebody must have gotten ahold of a script. Gratuitous violence, in black and white and color.”
“Everyone can do with a bit of a rest, I’m sure,” said Mooney. “It’s been a trying time.”
“Freddy! Not me!” squeaked Edith. “You have no idea of my income the last year or two! I don’t have your money, Freddy!”
“Indeed not,” agreed Mooney.
No one was eating. Moxie had eaten nothing. Koller, McKensie and Littleford had stopped eating,
and food was left on their plates. Mooney, however, had cleaned his plate twice.
Mooney blinked his eyes brightly at the group. “Anyone for a drink?”
“Hair of the dog,” Koller said to his plate.
“Eye opener,” said McKensie.
“Anything,” said Edith Howell. “Damn all cows, jumping or otherwise, and their milk!”
“Trying times,” said Mooney.
Gerry Littleford said: “Well…whoever was trying to stop this production… succeeded.”
“If John Meade turns State’s Evidence,” Fletch asked carefully, “will you drop whatever charges there are outstanding against him?”
He did not know where the police station in Key West was, so he had taken a taxi. He also wanted to be there before too many papers had been filled in regarding Meade, and before too many newspapers had been filled in regarding Meade.
Sergeant Hennings had appeared as soon as Fletch asked the desk man if he could see him.
Apparently the sergeant did not rate an office, maybe not even a desk.
They were sitting on a bench at the side of the police station lobby.
“What evidence?” Sergeant Hennings asked.
“He doesn’t have it yet,” Fletch answered. “Be-cause I haven’t given it to him yet.”
“Evidence about what?”