Hollywood Stuff (22 page)

“May I boil some water for tea?” asked Oh.

“I dnt…” Jane tried to say she didn’t know if there was tea, but only garbled sounds escaped.

“I bring my own,” Oh said, holding up a tea bag he had taken from his pocket. “I take no chances.”

He is pretending not to notice that I can’t speak and that I am about to burst into flames,
Jane thought. Tim walked in, saw Jane trapped at the table, blushing red from scalp to toes, unable to get up and run because she was sitting at a vintage Formica table on a matching vinyl chair and when she rose, her bare legs would beg to stay where they were planted. Jane would have to peel herself off the chair. It was a scene Jane knew Tim must be finding hilarious, but Jane’s discomfort won him over—besides, she knew he’d make her pay later. Tim grabbed a robe out of the downstairs powder room and tossed it to her while he asked Oh how the rest of his night had gone.

“I read some interesting sections in the book I borrowed from Mr. Gleason,” said Oh. “Interesting enough to keep me awake most of the night. And you, Mr. Lowry?”

“No reading for me. I washed dishes with Bobbette and we gossiped about the folks in the big house,” said Tim.

Jane and Oh both looked at Tim expectantly.

“Nothing interesting,” said Tim. “Sorry.”

Jane had wrapped herself in the camel cashmere robe that Jeb provided for his houseguests, and found that as soon as she was covered and comfortable, her words and wits returned. She had a fleeting realization that this must be why bathing suit models were alleged to be bimbos, even though they probably had respectable IQs. It was impossible to speak while wearing a bathing suit. Realizing this was probably the only time she was going to feel any camaraderie with a swimsuit model, she allowed the thought to pass into oblivion.

“Patrick Dryer’s novel was revealing,” said Jane. “Poorly written enough to tell us a great deal.”

“Excuse me,” said Oh, looking at his watch. “I’m sorry to be rude, but I have to keep track of the time. I am meeting Claire at the hospital at noon.”

Jane tried to give her version of what the novel revealed as quickly as possible. She went over the characters and their real-life twins and the scam Sam/Lou had been running.

“I just found the most interesting part that I somehow missed last night. I thought Heck had been left out of the book because I glossed over a chapter about one more writer, a former member of the D Room named Hank. It’s got to be Heck,” said Jane.

“Does it say anything about him going off the deep end?” asked Tim.

Jane shook her head. “Unless there’s another section that I missed, this is it. There’s just a story about him writing some racy material for a party, a comedy roast or something, and it was so well received that he started writing X-rated parodies of television shows, actually getting some produced as softcore porn features. Remember the television show
Thirtysome-thing
? In the book, Hank writes a feature called
3-D Something
and gets an actress he knows to star in it and it becomes a cult classic.”

“I don’t know the television show, but I understand the play on words,” said Oh. “May I see the cigar case you retrieved from the neighbor last night, Mrs. Wheel?”

“Nope,” said Tim, looking up from his BlackBerry. “No
3-D Something
that I can find.”

“Fiction, Timmy. Patrick made up the movie name. Look up Henry Rule and see if you come up with anything, although I’m sure he would have done these under another name,” said Jane. She wrapped the cashmere around her more tightly, standing to get the cigar case for Oh. The robe felt incredible. She wondered how much Jeb might bill her for the cashmere if she stuck it in her suitcase.

Jane took the case out of the drawer where she had tucked it away last night. It was made of brown leather, fashioned to hold three cigars, the top molded to slide snugly into the bottom. She opened it and inhaled the aroma of tobacco and leather before handing it to Oh.

“You are an aficionada, Mrs. Wheel?” asked Oh, sitting down at the table. He took a pair of thin latex gloves from the pocket of his sport coat and carefully removed the two remaining cigars. He took out a magnifier and began examining one of the cigars. He first held it up to the light, then slowly rotated it in his hand as he carefully looked over the surface. After he was satisfied he had seen the entire outer wrapper, he picked up the second cigar and repeated the process.

“And you are checking for…?” asked Tim, looking up from his BlackBerry.

Jane, too, was fascinated by the precision with which Oh conducted his examination. She looked at the second cigar that he laid down next to the first, compared them as well as she could without touching them, then shook her head.

“I give up, too. What is it?”

“Last night I borrowed a book from Mr. Gleason’s library, the only one that had been removed from the shelf recently. It was a book on common poisons. Someone had left a marker on the page where nicotine poisoning was discussed. It occurred to me that Mr. Piccolo might have smoked a cigar that had been laced with an overdose of nicotine, which could have triggered a seizure, an arrhythmia…” Oh let his voice trail off as he picked up the first cigar again. “But I don’t see any evidence of tampering. I was hoping that there might be a small puncture where a syringe might have been used to inject a concentrated dose.”

“Where do you buy an overdose of nicotine?” asked Tim.

“Grocery store, Mr. Lowry. A simple pack of cigarettes would do it, although probably easier with some chewing tobacco. One could soak ten cigarettes, say, in a glass of vodka, and extract enough nicotine to kill someone, particularly someone with any history of heart problems. I spoke to the police this morning and they told me Mr. Piccolo had an episode a few years ago, according to his medical records.”

“Cigarettes and vodka as murder weapons?” said Tim. “I like.”

“What makes you think that Lou Piccolo was murdered?” asked Jane.

Oh shrugged slightly. “So convenient. His friends accepted him as the murderer of Mr. Dryer, then he dies. Very neat. No one seemed terribly sad last night to learn of his death. Even his partner, Ms. Bixby, who had just been through a shock herself, seemed to take it all in stride. I wondered if, perhaps, a member or members of this B Room group might have scripted Mr. Piccolo’s death.”

“Would one loaded cigar be enough to kill someone?” asked Jane.

Oh nodded. “But I don’t think these two have been doctored. And I don’t know how someone could count on the good fortune of having Mr. Piccolo choose the one lethal cigar in his case.”

Jane asked to borrow Oh’s magnifier and leaned in to look at the cigars herself, careful not to touch them in case they did become evidence.

“I think now is when I’m supposed to say ‘aha,’ “ said Jane, holding up the magnifier.

“You’ve found an entry point?” asked Oh, surprised.

“I read the labels. These are Macanudos,” said Jane. “Lou preferred Padróns. He said Padróns were his favorite. Someone who knew him well enough to have access to his cigars would know which one to inject with the nicotine, which one he’d smoke first. If anyone was suspicious and checked the other cigars in his case, they wouldn’t find anything wrong with the Macanudos.”

“Excellent, Mrs. Wheel,” said Oh. “I’ll call the detective I spoke with last night and let him know what to pass along to the medical examiner.”

“ We still don’t know for sure,” said Tim. “And if someone did poison Lou, does that mean Lou didn’t kill Patrick?”

“It doesn’t mean that necessarily, but it always seemed pretty obvious to me that a letter opener was missing from Lou’s office, identical to the one found in Patrick Dryer’s back,” said Jane. “Lou claimed he was a hack writer and Patrick claimed Lou was a thief, but even the world’s worst Hollywood writer would create a better scenario than that. In fact, it makes a lot more sense that someone else would take the letter opener from Lou’s desk in order to frame him.”

“Remember there was a letter opener sold that day at the flea market? The one in Patrick had a tag on it, didn’t it?” asked Tim.

Jane reminded Tim how easy it would be to get a tag off any of the things they had purchased and tie it onto Lou’s letter opener. The B Room went to the flea markets every weekend. They were all shoppers and collectors.

“Besides,” said Jane,” maybe the murder weapon really was the letter opener purchased that day at the market. Maybe Patrick’s murder was spontaneous. Someone saw him there, he told them about the book being published, that person had just bought a beautiful silver letter opener, and lo and behold, the perfect opportunity for its use presented itself. Then,” Jane continued, “either the murderer or someone who wanted to protect the murderer took the opener from Lou’s desk to make it look like it was Piccolo who finally got rid of his ghost and tormentor.”

“And the guy who had been doing all the writing for everyone,” said Tim. “Pretty screwy to kill the goose who was providing the golden eggs.”

Oh carefully replaced the cigars in the case, then peeled off his gloves and tossed them in the trash. Jane shrugged.
Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.
Jane looked at the kitchen clock. Oh was going to have to leave for the hospital to be on time to meet Claire. Tim had scheduled a cooking lesson with Bobbette. Jane needed to get dressed and wrap this case up. She grinned to herself. She loved thinking in detective-speak.

The “leave-behind,” the material you leave for the network executive who has listened to your pitch, should be brief. It has to be catchy, memorable, to the point. Brief is the key. They’ll be upset if you leave them more than one page to throw away.

—
FROM
Hollywood Diary
BY
B
ELINDA
S
T
. G
ERMAINE

Jeb Gleason had suggested that someone other than himself show Jane and Tim around L.A. He would be tied up all day.

Wren Bixby had suggested another meeting to discuss the possibility of
The Scarecrow Murder.
Even though Jane was there as a detective, her story still had movie possibilities.

Skye suggested a massage. Everyone had been through so much, was so stressed out. She thought Ernie could work Jane into his schedule…before or after her own appointment.

Greg and Rick suggested they be left completely alone to finish their current script. Completely alone.

Louise Dietz offered to take Jane shopping.

Jane blew a farewell kiss to Tim, who was wearing an apron identical to Bobbette’s and was listening to her lecture on making the perfect croissant. Jane sat outside, watching for Louise to wind her way down the driveway. She thought it would be better if they just took off and Louise didn’t get a chance to receive her daily instructions from Jeb.
Not that he wouldn’t have already called her and told her where to take me, what to tell me.
Ah well, fair is fair. Jane had given Tim his instructions, too. As soon as Jeb left the house, Tim was to search through every nook and cranny, paying particular attention to the desk drawers in the study to see if he could find an early 1900s arts and crafts silver letter opener. Jane knew that Jeb had been in Lou’s office. He had gone in there to make calls when they hurried back from lunch. When Jane returned later to look around, a letter opener was missing from Lou’s desk. It was possible that Cynda or whoever had taken it or moved it, but unlikely. The assistants waltzed in and out of the office, waiting for their own careers to begin. They hadn’t seemed particularly invested in any dramas that were playing out within Bix Pix Flix.

Jeb had taken the scalpel from the hosptial, he said, because he feared Lou might be coming after him next after Patrick. Highly unlikely that he really believed that, or that he thought he would be effectively arming himself with the tiny blade.
Maybe he just likes shiny sharp objects.

Louise drove her Prius around the circle drive and stopped it directly in front of Jane. She was wearing well-tailored charcoal gray slacks, a soft cotton, blue button-down shirt, and comfortable low-heeled shoes. Shopping clothes. Her hair was pulled back from her face and she smiled at Jane with the most carefree attitude Jane had seen from any of the B Room since her arrival. Either Louise was the best actress of them all, or she really believed that with Patrick and Lou gone, the trouble was behind them. Despite her cheerful mood and positive attitude, her greeting was serious business.

“Memorial service for Lou is set for Friday,” she said, gesturing to the cell phone that lay on the car seat. “I just got a call from his sister. She’s the only family member coming for it.”

Jane wondered if the medical examiner would be releasing Lou’s body by then. No matter, really, if they were just setting up a friends-and-family memorial. On the other hand, Jane found herself struggling not to mention the possibility that Lou Piccolo had been murdered. Would that affect the eulogy? The eulogizers?

“Was this left up to you to arrange?” asked Jane. “I would have thought Bix—”

“Yeah, Bix is taking care of the details. Place. Food. Format. She just asked if I could make a few calls. Lou’s sister said that high cholesterol and high blood pressure run in the Piccolo family, although she didn’t know Lou had it. I heard about fifteen minutes of her health history before I got another call that saved me.”

Jane would bet the other call was from Jeb. She wasn’t ready to trust all of her hunches, but there was something so intimate and immediate in the way Louise looked up at the second-floor window of the house when she was turning the car out of the driveway. As if it were the real ending to a conversation. Jane followed Louise’s eyes and saw Jeb, in his royal robe, standing in the window watching them leave. She wondered where he had told Louise to take her.

“How about Long Beach?” asked Louise. “It’s a beautiful day for a drive and I know some great little places.”

“Actually, I was thinking I’d really like to concentrate on the area around here. You know, since I’m here and toying with showbiz, I’d like to stay close to the heart of the action. I read about some vintage clothing stores, thought we might scout a little jewelry, maybe some Bakelite?” Jane did not want to end up a freeway or so away from Jeb’s. If Oh called, if Tim needed her, she wanted…what? To come to the rescue?

“Great,” said Louise. “I am always up for jewelry.”

Jane had seen the look when Louise was on the hunt in Pasadena. Jewelry was definitely one of her passions.

“Maybe we’ll do a little trip down Sunset. I’d like to hit Minna’s and you’ll like Rumor B. Then we’ll swing back this way and stop in at Ozzie Dots and Wacko. Those’ll give you a taste of what’s out here. Anything special you’re looking for?” asked Louise.

“Everything,” answered Jane. “I just won’t know it until I see it.”

That was always the truth.

Their first stop was a place on Sunset called The Way We Were. Jane loved everything about the shop, the crowded shelves, the wooden floors that made a creaky old dime-store sound when you walked on them, and the wire bins of billiard balls. What was it about round shapes, spheres, that made Jane go a little weak in the knees? Even as a child, she had loved brightly colored rubber balls—for bouncing, for playing, yes, but more for the way they looked when they were all nested into a box under her bed. Maybe Nellie was right—maybe Jane had been peculiar right from the get-go. The only negative about The Wa y We Were that Jane discerned was the fact that the title song would now be implanted in her head until an equally tenacious melody reared its catchy refrain.

Jane’s tell when she went into shopping/buying/lusting mode was humming. She hummed through flea markets, house sales, not so much in auctions, since the auctioneer provided such an interesting background theme, but certainly she provided her own music in antique stores and malls. Now the searing Streisand” Memories…” begged to be released in her own off-key humming. She tried to keep it low.

Jane had worked her way down one aisle of the store, finding several items to touch, but only two to keep. She caressed two sets of paper dolls. June Allyson and Cyd Charisse. They were expensive, but if she could get a discount for buying them both, it would be worth it. Both had been partially cut, but June’s folder had three intact sheets. One had dresses and two were accessories—hats, shoes, scarves, handbags—the most difficult to cut out. Jane and Tim, when they were in first grade, had played long hours of paper dolls. Tim had been a master with a scissors even at six years old. Jane knew these sets were less desirable to a collector than they would be if they had been left entirely uncut, but she didn’t care about the condition. All she knew was that if she and Tim weren’t busy crime-solving tonight, they would be arguing over who got to be June and who got to be Cyd.

Louise hadn’t moved from the first jewelry display counter. Jane appreciated her method. Louise was a side-to-side-up-down shopper. She carefully canvassed the cases before calling for help, so she made efficient use of the salesclerk’s time while not missing a single item. Jane admired the discipline. Tim called Jane’s technique “wild-eyes.” Even though she could walk down an aisle from beginning to end, Jane’s eyes darted all over the place. She was a reflexive looker—one item led her to another, and only with the greatest effort could she systematically scan a shelf.

Louise found two unsigned costume jewelry pins for a good price. She thought one might be an unsigned Chanel.

“More likely a knockoff, but a good one. See the center? Poured glass. The little stones on the sides are all prong-set. It’s nice. Good color.” She held it up to the light and turned it slightly. They both watched it cast its rainbow onto the wooden floorboards.

With the exception of Tim, Jane didn’t like shopping with other people. Often they wanted to show her everything, hold up each item they saw for her approval. Or worse, they wanted to ask her why she was looking at whatever.
What is it? What would you do with it? Where would you put it? Why do you like it?
It was in the middle of that type of questioning that Jane understood the impulse to murder. She had told Detective Oh that it was probably helpful careerwise that she could put herself in the mind of a killer now and then. He hadn’t seemed amused or convinced.

Louise didn’t talk or ask questions. She merely smiled at Jane in that dreamy way that said she was happy and she was happy that Jane was happy and wasn’t being lost in this stuff so happy? She was tipsy, well on her way to drunk, as was Jane. Stuff was the newest drug, the acceptable drink before five.

Jane might have forgotten all about Patrick Dryer and Lou Piccolo and lost herself in Picker Life 101 for the morning had she not turned a corner and found herself face-to-face with a six-foot-tall, faded, but still colorful wooden cigar-store Indian. His hands were carved so that they could hold a removable tray. On it, the owner of the antiques store had set several other pieces of politically incorrect kitsch. Squaw and Brave salt and pepper shakers, a small ceramic cup with an Indian chief figure attached with the words the big chief ‘s cigars hand-painted on the cup, and several old cigar boxes.

Lou Piccolo could not have sent a more striking reminder. And Jane, watching her drunk-with-love-of-stuff companion pay for her jewelry, figured she should strike while Louise seemed the most vulnerable.

“Let’s stash our stuff in the trunk. I want to take you to a great place that has an amazing collection of movie memorabilia and oh wait…are you interested in books? First editions? Because I have…” Louise began rummaging through her purse looking for a business card with the address of their next stop.

“Lou Piccolo collected first editions, right?” asked Jane.

“Yes. First editions and Depression glass. Vinyl records and, let’s see, he liked vintage telephones, too,” said Louise. “Lots of other stuff, too. I think maybe the first time I met Lou was at the flea market. Bix brought him to one of our Sundays.”

Jane knew that if you can establish the common ground of collecting…the thrill of the hunt and all…you can get someone to talk and talk. Collectors loved their stuff, but they loved their stories about how they got it even more. And everyone collected the stories.

“Lou was a good shopper. He liked to get under the tables, go through the boxes. I went to a couple of old house sales with him and he could find things squirreled away in cupboards and then make the people holding the sale feel like he had just done them the biggest favor in the world—hauling out the trash for them. Then we’d get to the car and he’d show me an old adding machine, a Victor with Bakelite handle and keys, buried at the bottom of a box of scrap paper and office supplies that the people just missed. He never really lied about what he found and wanted to buy, but he sold the idea of it as something worthless, paid a buck for an alleged box of junk, and walked out shaking his head. Lou was a good actor.”

“So Lou was a digger?”

“Exactly. Under the tables, basements, attics, under beds.”

“Was he a killer?” asked Jane.

Louise only hesitated for a second. If she was preparing to lie or talk from a B Room script, she, too, was a good actor.

“Maybe he killed Patrick. He had a temper. He and Jeb used to fight like crazy, but that was just jealousy. Territorial pawing of the ground and all that. I mean, Patrick was a pretty slimy guy, and God knows…Damn it, I should have turned there. Okay, I’ll go around the block.” Louise turned down a narrow street. “They used to shoot exteriors for
Southpaw and Lefty
around here. See that alley? That was where Sandy drove, like he was heading home, in the opening credits?”