Dead and Not So Buried

by James L. Conway

  She was wearing a muumuu and eating a bagel when she opened the door. Her dreadlocks were piled on top of her head. “You,” she said, in a tone somewhere between surprise and disgust. “I’m not supposed to talk to you.”

  I handed her the coffee. “Hope you like caramel macchiato.”

  “I prefer mocha, but this will do.” She took the coffee and walked inside. I followed her, closing the door behind me. “Who says you’re not supposed to talk to me?”

  “Police. They told me you were practically a criminal.” We reached the kitchen. Small, but organized. You could tell she liked to cook. She smeared her bagel with a thick gob of cream cheese.

  “Two cops? An attractive dark haired woman with a deepseated hatred of men, and a tall, geeky-looking guy with a bruised chin?”

  “That’s them.”

  “So they told you about Barry. I’m sorry.”

  She shrugged. “Yeah, me too. Want a bagel?”

  “No, thanks.” She didn’t seem too upset, so I said, “You don’t seem too upset.”

  “Barry was an okay boss, but we weren’t friends or anything. He treated me like an employee. Kept his distance, if you know what I mean. Never even asked if I was married. If my folks were alive. If I had kids. Nothing. So, I’m sorry that’s he’s dead. But I’m not about to shed any tears.”

  “Did the cops tell you how he died?”

  “Suspected suicide. They’re still investigating.”

  “Did they ask if Winslow was having money troubles?”

  “Sure. And he was. Lord, that man could spend money. He was always flying the bimbo of the week to some exotic place. Buying her clothing and jewels. And he loved to gamble. Blackjack was his game but loser was his name. I don’t care how much money Paramount paid him, Barry found a way to spend it. I’ll bet I’ve got more money in the bank than he does. Er, did.”

  A Siamese cat poked its head into the room, took one look at me, and beat a hasty retreat. “Winslow had a cat, too,” I said.

  She nodded. “Christy.”

  “As in Christine Cole.”

  “Yeah. He had a thing for the actress. Cute little cat. Wonder what’s going to happen to it?”

  “Winslow have any relatives?”

  “No. I did ask. Parents dead, only child.”

  “Then I guess the pound will get the cat.”

  She grimaced. “I might not have been crazy about Barry, but I did love that cat. Maybe I’ll adopt her.”

  “Did the police tell you about the bones?”

  “What bones?”

  “Christine Cole’s grave was robbed yesterday. Her bones were found in Barry’s bathtub.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit.”

  “Didn’t he write a book about that?”

  “Eternal Love.”

  “Right. That why you came to see him yesterday?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Barry and I may not have been close, and it doesn’t take a blood relative to tell you Barry Winslow was no angel, but he wasn’t the type of man to go poking around in someone’s grave.”

  “That’s why I wanted to talk to you. See, I got the definite impression Barry lied to me yesterday. And that you covered for him.”

  She nodded. “All that Cinerama Dome shit. Yeah, total lie. His agent never called.”

  “Then he was picking up the ransom at three o’clock?”

  She laughed. “The only thing Barry was picking up at three o’clock was Tornado Wallace’s wife’s butt. Barry was banging her in Screening Room 5.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I was there, sweetheart, guarding the door. They met once or twice every week, supposedly to go over her script notes. But if they were dotting i’s and crossing t’s, they were doing it between orgasms.”

  Almost to myself I said, “So Barry couldn’t have picked up the ransom.”

  “Nope. That means he didn’t kidnap the bones either, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then who did?”

  “Probably the same guy who killed him.”

  “And that is ...”

  “A good question.”

  Heaven Sent

  I got to the office a little after nine. Just in time for the first job interview.

  “Do you type?”

  “Eighty words a minute.”

  “Take dictation?”

  “In three languages.”

  “Any of them English?”

  She laughed. “Of course, Mr. Kincaid.”

  Hillary asked, “What are the other two languages?”

  “Spanish and French. I also know Latin, but not too many people dictate in it anymore.”

  Her name was Bridgette O’Reilly. She looked like her name—pretty, with fiery red hair, green eyes, pale skin and rosy cheeks. She was rail thin and had the closed body language of the timid. According to her job application, she was twenty-two and fresh out of college.

  I asked, “What was your major?”

  “Religion.” She blushed. “I’m afraid there wasn’t much choice at the convent.”

  Hillary’s mouth dropped open. “You’re a nun?”

  “Sadly, no. When I was still a novice I realized I was too flawed to follow in the way of the Lord.”

  I had to ask. “Flawed? How?”

  She dropped her eyes, embarrassed. “I have needs, Mr. Kincaid. Needs that prayer and meditation alone will not satisfy.”

  Hillary looked confused. “Are you talking about financial needs?”

  Bridgette shook her head, her voice almost a whisper. “Sexual needs.” She raised her head and stared me down. “There’s a fire burning inside me that can only be extinguished by the bodily fluids of a man who is righteous in the eyes of our Lord.”

  The color drained from Hillary’s face. “Well,” she said, “I think that’s all we need to know.” She grabbed Bridgette’s job application and stood up. “Thank you very much, Ms. O’Reilly. We have a few more people to interview, but we’ll inform you as soon as we’ve made a decision.”

  Bridgette’s eyes remained locked on mine. “I do hope we can work together.” She got up, looked at Hillary, smiled sweetly. “Thanks for your time.”

  “Don’t mention it.” As soon as Bridgette stepped into the hall Hillary slammed the door. “That girl is one bead short of a rosary.”

  “Too bad. I always wanted to dictate in Latin. Investigate, investigatis, investigatum.” The phone rang. I was closest, so I answered in my best Latin: “Ave, Imperial Investigations.”

  The voice was female and officious. “I have David Hunter calling Gideon Kincaid.”

  My heart leapt. “David Hunter, the producer, David Hunter?”

  “That’s right. Is Mr. Kincaid available?”

  Holy shit! This was it. My big break. David Hunter must’ve read my book. He wants to buy the movie rights! “You bet I’m available. I mean, I’m him. Gideon Kincaid. And yes, I’m available.”

  “One moment, please.” A click, a brief pause, and he came on the line. “Mr. Kincaid, I need to see you as soon as possible.”

  “Of course, Mr. Hunter. Just tell me when and where.”

  “My office. Warner Brothers, one hour.”

  Yes!

  Guilty Pleasures

  It only took me twelve minutes to get from Sherman Oaks to Burbank. There was a pass waiting for me at the Warner Brothers gate, so after I parked I spent forty-five minutes walking around the lot, fantasizing I graciously accepted the Academy Award for best Screenplay and thanked my seventh-grade English teacher, Mrs. Applegate. Then Universal Studios hired me to write and direct a film that became the highest grossing movie in history. Every man, woman and child in America saw it. Twice. I won my second Oscar, this time for directing.

  “Can I help you?” It was David Hunter’s receptionist, a beautiful young Eurasian.

  “My name’s Gideon Kincaid. I’m expected.”

  “Of course.” She indicated a couch. “If you’
ll take a seat, Mr. Hunter will be right with you.”

  As she picked up the phone to let David Hunter know I was here, I crossed to the plush leather couch and sat down. A copy of the L.A. Times lay on the coffee table. It had a front page story about the suspected suicide of Barry Winslow. Since the Times goes to press before midnight, it hadn’t had time to do anything more than print the official police line. I suspected that by tomorrow the paper’s front pages would be filled with interviews and related stories.

  An object beneath the newspaper caught my eye—the edge of a paperback book. I pulled the paperback free and smiled to see that it was a copy of Rear Entry. Hell, if David Hunter was going to make a movie of my book, he’d naturally spread copies around to help hype it. I picked up the paperback, held it up to the receptionist. “I see you’ve got a copy of my book.”

  “Oh, that’s not ours. It was left here by someone.”

  That surprised me. “Really. Who?”

  Before she could answer, David Hunter’s office door opened. Hunter stepped into the reception area, followed by Stacy and Piccolo. “Her,” the receptionist said, pointing at Stacy.

  Stacy glared at me as Hunter stepped forward, hand extended. “Mr. Kincaid, David Hunter.” We shook. David Hunter was short, no more than five seven or eight, about thirty pounds overweight. He was bald, with a pudgy face, and long, flat ears. His deep-set brown eyes sat beneath bushy black eyebrows. The individual parts might not sound all that appealing but somehow Hunter made it work. He radiated confidence. Intelligence. And his personality filled the room. Talk about charisma.

  “I think you know Detectives Wilson and Piccolo,” he said.

  Wilson was Stacy’s last name. She had never taken mine. She said it diminished a woman to change her name just because she married a pair of balls. I should have known then I was headed for trouble.

  “Come in, please,” Hunter said, leading the way into his office.

  As I followed him, Stacy and Piccolo fell in step next to me. “I finished Chapter Three,” Stacy hissed in a whisper.

  “Asshole,” Piccolo added needlessly.

  Hunter, hearing none of this, said, “Thanks for coming over on such short notice, Mr. Kincaid.” His voice was somber.

  “Please, call me Gideon.” I glanced at Stacy and Piccolo. “I get the feeling you didn’t ask me here to option my book.”

  “I didn’t know you wrote a book,” Hunter said.

  “Paperback trash,” Stacy sniped.

  “That’s a matter of opinion,” I sniped back.

  “Well, I’ll be sure to read it,” Hunter said, “as soon as you get Jennifer back.”

  Then I realized: “Another kidnapping.”

  Piccolo said, “Mr. Hunter’s poodle. She was kidnapped from his house during a party last night.”

  David Hunter’s poodle was almost as famous as he was. Whenever Hunter had his picture taken for an article or was videotaped for an interview, Jennifer was invariably sitting on his lap or curled up in his arms. So, Hunter was a little eccentric. His movies had grossed over a billion dollars. He was allowed.

  “A ransom note was left,” Stacy said, “demanding that you deliver the money.”

  Déjà vu all over again.

  Stacy handed me the note. My business card was paper clipped to the top.

  IF YOU WANT TO SEE JENNIFER AGAIN, HAVE GIDEON BRING $2,000,000 IN USED $100 BILLS TO THE DRAGON FLIGHT RIDE AT MAGIC LAND. TODAY, 3:55 P.M. NO TRICKS. NO COPS. OR I’LL COOK AND EAT HER.

  “Mr. Hunter,” I said. “The note says ‘no cops.’ Just out of curiosity, why’d you ignore the warning?”

  “I didn’t. I made the mistake of showing the ransom demand to studio security, and they called the police.”

  “Professional courtesy,” Piccolo said.

  “Professional insubordination,” snapped Hunter. “I told them not to. And if anything happens to Jennifer, it will be professional unemployment.”

  I glanced at the note again, at the time for the ransom drop. “Three fifty-five. That’s a funny time. Why three fifty-five and not four o’clock?”

  “What difference does it make?” Piccolo said. “Three forty-five. Three fifty-five. He’s just trying to jerk our chains.”

  I looked at Stacy. “I guess this officially makes Barry Winslow’s high fall a murder investigation.”

  Stacy nodded, “Yep.”

  An angry Hunter started to pace. “First he steals a corpse, now a dog. What kind of sick bastard are we dealing with?”

  “No way of knowing,” Stacy said. “But we’ll be following Gideon. When the kidnapper picks up the ransom, we’ll arrest him.”

  “No way,” I said. “You saw the note. No tricks. No cops. If he spots you on my tail he’ll kill the dog.”

  Piccolo sneered. “He won’t spot us.”

  “That’s right,” David said, “because you won’t be there. I want Jennifer back and I won’t authorize any action that could jeopardize her safety.”

  “We’re the police, not studio security,” Piccolo said, trying to sound tough, but coming off more like Mayberry’s Barney Fife. “You don’t tell us what we can and can’t do.”

  Hunter looked at Stacy. “Is he always this stupid?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  Piccolo took a step toward me, but Stacy moved between us.

  “Mr. Hunter,” she said in her most conciliatory tone, “if you don’t want us to follow Mr. Kincaid, we won’t. But I’d like to emphasize that the kidnapper is a dangerous man. He killed Barry Winslow yesterday. Threw him off a twenty-eighth story balcony. And he’s obviously got an agenda. He’s not just after Jennifer, or your two million dollars. I’m afraid he might be after you. The best way to make sure he doesn’t hurt you is to catch him. And the best way to catch him is to follow Gideon.”

  Hunter looked at me. “What do you think?”

  “Let me answer by asking a few questions. Did you know Barry Winslow?”

  “No.”

  “Did he ever work for you?”

  “Not that I remember. I’ve used a lot of writers over the years, and I’ll have one of my assistants check the files, but I don’t think Winslow and I ever worked together.”

  “And we’ve never worked together before?”

  “No.”

  “Or met before?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  I shook my head. “Somehow we’re all related in this thing. Winslow. You. Me. This feels like a vendetta. Someone is getting even with us for perceived wrongs we’ve committed against him.”

  Hunter grunted. “Everybody in this town’s got a grudge against someone.”

  “But this guy’s gone postal,” I said. “Even though none of us knew each other, there has to be a common denominator that can lead us to the killer.”

  “I’m sure there is,” Hunter said. “But we’ve got a three fifty-five deadline. It’s already eleven o’clock. I’ve got to get two million bucks in cash and you’ve got a ninety minute drive to Magic Land, so if you don’t mind, I’d like to postpone the Murder She Wrote crap until after you’ve recovered Jennifer.”

  “Fine,” I said.

  “Now,” he said. “Back to my first question. Do we allow the police to follow you?”

  “No,” I said. “Our only chance to get Jennifer back is to follow the ransom note’s instructions. No tricks. No cops.”

  Stacy drilled me with her eyes. If looks could kill, I was bagged and tagged.

  I’m Going To

  Magic Land!

  Even hardboiled detectives have parents. And when I was ten, mine took me on a vacation to Southern California. We lived in Milwaukee. I was an only child and my parents ran a corner grocery store. Not much profit in comic books and Cokes so it took Dad three years to save for the trip.

  We flew to L.A. on United. A smiling stewardess pinned a shiny pair of wings to my shirt. Dad spent the flight trying to figure out how to use the super 8 movie camera borrowed from our next door neighbor.
Mom got drunk on screwdrivers. Funny what you remember.

  We went to the beach, took a tour of a Hollywood studio then spent three glorious days in amusement park central, Anaheim, California. Day one was Disneyland. We went on the Teacups, Peter Pan’s Flight, Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride, and the Matterhorn. I climbed trees on Tom Sawyer’s Island, explored Atlantis on the Submarine, and drove my first car at Autopia. Day two was Knotts Berry Farm. I loved the Ghost Town and Jungle Island, but my favorite the Corkscrew. A rollercoaster with two 360-degree flips. Day three was Magic Land. My favorite. We rode the Gargoyle Maze, Dragon Flight and Tooth Fairy Ride. Watched the Big Foot Vs. The Abominable Snowman show. And the Magical Zoo was awesome. The animatronic Cyclops, Centaurs, Dragons, Unicorns and Winged Lions were so lifelike you’d swear they were real.

  It was the greatest vacation of my life and I flew home with a suitcase full of souvenirs and a lifetime’s worth of memories.

  Two weeks later, my parents were murdered. Shot to death during a robbery at the store. The killer was never caught. I was shipped out to live with my Uncle Phil in Glendale.

  If I’m hardboiled, that’s when I was first dropped into the bubbling water.

  “The whole thing’s confusing,” Hillary said. “I mean, how’d the killer get Winslow to call you?”

  “We’ll never be sure,” I said. “But I’d guess he put a gun to his head and said, ‘Call me or die.’”

  Hillary and I were in my car, driving east on the 5 about two miles from the Magic Land exit. It was three o’clock, and we were flying along at sixty miles an hour.

  “So the killer forces Winslow to call you and then watches from the balcony for your car to arrive?”

  “When he sees me pull up, he throws Winslow off the balcony.”

  “Wow. Talk about your cold-blooded murderers.”

  Suddenly all the cars ahead of me slammed on their brakes. I did, too, skidding to a stop millimeters from the Dodge Grand Caravan in front of me. “Jesus Christ, now what?”