McNally's Folly (32 page)

“Dear ones all,” she unoriginally proclaimed as she mounted the steps to the stage. She kissed first me, then Binky. Connie and Priscilla were spared. “Sorry I’m late but I was searching for this crystal decanter.” She held the bottle up for inspection. “Our first prop, as it’s called. You saw it last in the hands of dear Dick Powell pouring me a sweet liqueur in
Broadway Blonde.
I’ve taken the liberty of filling it.”

Given what had happened to her husband this was in the worst possible taste. Also, most of the people she was addressing were not born when
Broadway Blonde
played their local Bijou and who, besides myself and June Alyson, remembered Dick Powell? But every little gesture has a meaning all its own and Desdemona Darling knew them all. Instead of giving the “prop” to our stage manager, Desdemona carried it to her seat and placed it carefully on the floor beside her. She extracted her script and a plastic cup from her leather satchel and cried, “Let the games begin.”

Oh, brother!

I read the lead-ins and the actors read their parts. These folks, who couldn’t keep their mouths shut in church, became tongue-tied stutterers. I didn’t have to worry about Arnie Turnbolt “doing” Peter Lorre. Poor Arnie could only sound like himself and, as the nutty doctor, that was just fine.

In contrast, Desdemona was superb and the more she sampled the “prop” the better she became. The velvet voice of her screen years was also evident as she recited her lines, drawing smiles of pleasure from the cast and crew. The Broadway blonde of a bygone era was still a pro.

We broke after the first act and people got up to stretch, giggle embarrassingly and, I think, regret that they didn’t think to bring along anything stronger than the designer water in plastic liter bottles some toted. I hoped Desdemona had not set a precedent.

Priscilla ran off to observe Hank at close range. Desdemona, I noticed, alighted next to Joe Anderson and the two seemed to be enjoying a private joke.

Binky, Connie and I pow-wowed at the table. “Your job,” I said to Binky, “will be to fill the prop decanter with grapefruit juice as soon as you can get your hands on it.”

“How do I get my hands on it?” Binky wanted to know.

“When it’s empty, she’ll have no further use for it,” Connie answered.

Just when I was beginning to think I could pull the whole thing together and present good amateur theater, Joe Anderson fell out of his chair, Desdemona screamed and the crystal decanter hit the floor and shattered.

Oy vey!

Al Rogoff and I have several places where we rendezvous to converse, and often commiserate, in private. One of them is the parking lot of the Publix supermarket on Sunset Avenue. This Friday afternoon we chose, by prearrangement, the outdoor juice bar in Lake Worth. I picked up a large pineapple juice and Al opted for papaya. Were Desdemona with us, would she have demanded a rum chaser?

We carried our drinks back to the Miata. I don’t like sitting in police cars in public places. It invites rubbernecking.

“One thing I gotta say about your smart-ass friends, Archy. They’re consistent.” Al began chomping on a cigar butt to go with the papaya.

“Poison,” I mourned.

“The same stuff that did in Holmes.”

“How did it get in Joe Anderson’s stomach? Tell me that, Al.”

“The same way it got into Holmes’s glass—osmosis. Look, Archy, the actress says Joe was drinking water from a paper cup he got from the cooler backstage. When his cup was empty she filled it with wine so they could have a drink to the good old days, was the way she put it. And that’s it. Joe Anderson is history. The wine, as you know, was mopped up as soon as you all vacated the theater.”

Vacated? If the theater was on fire they couldn’t have dispersed any quicker—with Priscilla yelling “Jinx, jinx, jinx” all the way to her car.

“The wine was clean, Al,” I said. “We all watched Desdemona consume at least half the decanter before we broke after the first act. So why isn’t she dead?”

“Funny thing, Archy. That’s what she keeps saying. She’s convinced someone is out to get her but they keep missing by a few feet.”

“I never came up against anything like this,” I told my policeman confidant. “Two men poisoned in front of a room full of people and no one knows how it was done.”

“I have to tell you something, Archy. Several people we questioned said that Binky Watrous bragged that he would get Joe Anderson’s job when Joe checked Out. Binky was also present when Holmes got his. The thinking is that maybe Binky got it right the second time.”

The pineapple juice actually soured in my belly. “Al, you can’t honestly believe that Binky...”

“I can’t. But my people aren’t writing it off. Everyone present both times had opportunity—now we discover one of them had opportunity and motive. That’s two strikes against Binky Watrous.”

It was close to five when I returned to my office. The pile of mail on my desk reminded me of Joe’s last words to me in the McNally Building. “I left your mail on your desk, Archy.” And I still hadn’t gotten around to opening an envelope. I would miss Joe, but he was gone. Binky was very much with us and I was going to make damn sure he stayed with us. But how?

The envelope on top of the pile caught my eye. It was addressed in large printed letters and postmarked from St. Louis, MO. An advertising gimmick, I surmised, and almost tossed it in the wastebasket. Picking it up, I opened it instead.

It was a photograph from an old magazine, yellow with age, but I recognized Desdemona Darling at a glance. The caption read,
DESDEMONA DARLING BEING PRESENTED WITH THE GOLD AND ONYX RING MADE ESPECIALLY FOR HER HIT FILM,
MATA HARI HARRIGAN
, BY STUDIO BOSS MARVIN MASON.

Scribbled in the photo’s white border were the letters
KIRK
.

DeeDee’s blackmailer was trying to tell me something. But how did he know who I was or how to reach me? How did the wine get in Richard Holmes’s glass and Joe Anderson’s stomach? And if Serge Ouspenskaya had left town, who was manipulating the icy fingers that once again began to crawl up my spine?

I felt so light-headed I had to sit for fear of fainting and yrs. truly is not the fainting kind.
Mata Hari Harrigan?
It never played the MoMA but if there was one person who knew more about old movies than Archy McNally, it was Arnold Turnbolt. I reached for the phone.

“Mata Hari Harrigan,”
Arnie shouted. “Where did you dig that one up?”

“Do you know anything about it, Arnie?”

“It’s pure camp, Archy. It was made just before World War Two and Desdemona plays guess what? A spy. The gimmick is her ring, made especially for her by the FBI after they recruit her. Can you believe it, Archy? It had a big onyx stone that she reverses on her finger and with a little pressure the stone opens like a door to release a sleeping potion into the glasses of unsuspecting...” He paused for so long I thought our connection had been broken. “Good God, Archy! Good God! Do you think...”

“Not a word, Arnie. You hear me? Don’t breathe a word of this.”

“But, Archy...”

“Not a word or I’ll tear up your autographed photo of Vera Hruba Ralston in her ice skates.”

I dialed Connie. “Just one question. Is Desdemona Darling still with Madame C?”

“She is. Madame is trying to talk her into staying another night. She’s in a bad way, Archy.”

Connie didn’t say who was in a bad way—Lady Cynthia or Desdemona—and I couldn’t hang on long enough to ask. The time for cogitating was over. I had to act—and fast.

I called the palace and got Al just checking in from his tour. “How much would you give to learn who killed Richard Holmes and Joe Anderson?” I asked the sergeant.

“How much you asking, pal?”

“Assistance in breaking and entering.”

“What?”

“Meet me at the Publix ASAP, Al, and I’ll explain everything. Promise.”

We left Al’s car in the Publix lot and drove to Via Del Lago in the Miata with the top up. To keep Al’s hands clean and his job secure, it was agreed that he would stay in the car and instruct me on how to get into the house. If anyone came down the street Al would duck out of sight. Given the size of a Miata and the size of Al Rogoff, this was easier said than done.

“Go ’round back and try the patio door first,” he instructed.

“Why?”

“Because nine times out of ten it’s the one door people forget to lock.”

And, as is often the case, Al was right.

In the eerie light of a winter sunset I made my way from the patio to the great room, then to the hall where I had watched Connie disappear with my megaphone in happier times. The first door off the hall was the master suite. As soon as I entered I saw the framed photographs on Desdemona’s dressing table. I was hoping the table drawer held her jewelry. If not, I would find that ring if I had to take the place apart.

Something struck me as I approached my target. The photographs. There were four of them. Connie said there were five. One of each husband, not counting Holmes. All four were leading men of the silver screen a half century ago. The missing photo wasn’t the object of my search but when I opened the drawer I saw it lying facedown. When I turned it over I found myself looking at a very young Joe Anderson. It was autographed
Joseph Kirkland “Kirk” Anderson.
Her first husband, the cameraman of her naughty flick and her tormentor. The missing piece of the puzzle slipped into place and the picture was complete. That night, right in this house, what I had failed to remember was that Joe Anderson was saying good night to Desdemona when she nearly passed out, causing Ouspenskaya to rush to her side and Holmes to lock horns with the psychic.

She must have recognized Joe, or “Kirk,” the moment he walked into the house that night. Her acting expertise had carried her through the evening but one can only imagine what Joe had said to her in parting.

Joe knew Desdemona wanted him dead but got her husband instead. That’s why he wanted out of the show. He sent me the clipping to tell me how she had done it. He told me twice the last time we spoke that he had left the mail on my desk. If I had seen it that day, maybe Joe would still be alive.

I heard a sound behind me and turned, expecting to see Al Rogoff. It was Desdemona Darling, and she was holding a gun pointed straight at me. “I’ve killed two men to protect my secret and they say there’s never a second without a third. I have a permit for the gun and you are an intruder. I’ll say I didn’t notice your car parked on the street.”

She was as calm, cool and collected as only the criminally insane can be. “Joe was your husband,” I said, still holding the photograph.

“Number one. He was sore when I left him for a more advantageous union. That’s why Joe never made it out west. He didn’t know how to wheel and deal.”

“Did Richard know who Joe was, too?”

“Sure. I told him. That’s why Richard wanted me to dump Mr. Ouspenskaya.”

“When did Joe start sending you the letters?”

“Not long after I left him. Now tell me what you’re doing here.”

“Strange, I was going to ask you that.”

An indication of her frenzied state of mind was that she told me. “Cynthia wanted me to stay with her another night. I came here to get a change of clothes and spotted your car. Tough luck, Archy.”

“I’m here because I got a communication from Kirk. It mentioned a ring from a film called
Mata Hari Harrigan.
”

“Kirk won’t be sending any more letters, and Archy won’t be reading any more letters.” Her blue eyes were like glass and from across the room I could see the sweat beading her forehead. Desdemona needed a drink and I needed time.

“I now know how you put the poison in the wineglass at Lady Cynthia’s party. With your
Mata Hari Harrigan
ring.”

She let out a howl. “That’s how I did it. But I didn’t want to do it. I went to see Joe after the party and pleaded with him to give me the film. He refused. He was still jealous because I left him and became famous. So jealous. He said he would keep the film as long as he lived and keep me guessing when he would give it to the tabloids. So he had to die, right?”

“But how did you know Joe would take that glass?”

She shook her head and for a moment I thought she was going to drop the gun—she didn’t. “Oh, it got all screwed up. Just when I got the stuff in the glass Cynthia came back from her rounds and took it off the table and put it on her tray along with four others. What could I do? I ask you, what could I do? Scream? Anyone could have gotten it and poor Richard did.”

“But even if you kept the glass how did you know Joe would take it off your tray?”

“Oh, that was easy, too. Cynthia let them select a glass from her tray. I handed them out from my tray, one at a time. I would keep my eye on the right glass and when I got to Joe I would give it to him. But it got all screwed up. All screwed up.”

“Joe knew it was meant for him,” I said.

“Sure he did. I went to see him again. He showed me the can of film. He said I could have it and he would keep his mouth shut if I married him.”

“Married him?” I was incredulous.

“Sure. He still loved me. Maybe that’s hard for you to believe, but he did. He was crazy jealous all these years and he still wanted me.”

“So how did you poison him at the theater?”

She laughed and was beginning to sway on her feet. “You’re all a bunch of fools. I drank that wine and made sure everyone saw me drinking it, including Kirk, or Joe as you call him. Before the break I filled my cup for the last time and put the poison in the decanter. Then I poured one for Joe. Neat, eh?”

“And Joe was foolish enough to drink it?”

“Why not? He saw me drinking from the decanter and I was fine. So when I suggested a toast to our wedding, he went for it. Poor Joe.”

“You agreed to marry him?”

“How else was I going to get him to take a drink?”

Poor Joe, is right. For fifty years he had been so besotted with love and jealous rage for the starlet he had won and lost he failed to see that she had turned into an oversized egomaniac with a severe drinking problem.

When he thought he had won her back, did he regret the letter he had left on my desk? After making his final rounds on Thursday, he knew I still had not read my mail. Had he planned to come to the office early the next morning and remove the incriminating epistle before my arrival? Probably. Had Desdemona let Joe live she would have been in the clear and I wouldn’t be staring down the barrel of a loaded gun.