by Thomas King
“Along with Mr. Rattler,” said Gloria.
“Better pay for the jacket,” said Calder. “I think I’ll wear it tomorrow.”
Thumps stayed in the office and listened to Archie ring up the sale and close the store. He thought about reading Maslow’s research, but his heart wasn’t in it. And he didn’t expect to find much there. Maslow was secretive. From what he knew of the woman, she wasn’t going to leave important pieces of information lying around where anyone could find them. She’d keep the critical information safe in her head.
“Still hot?” Archie went to the filing cabinets and shook the Thermos.
“No.”
“So what was that all about?”
“What do you mean?”
“Amateur hour,” said the little Greek. “Not like you letting civilians in on a police investigation. Hell, you don’t even trust me.”
Thumps tried a shrug. “Extra sets of eyes help. They knew Maslow.”
“Bullshit,” said Archie. “You know something. There’s a reason you brought them here tonight and let them see the evidence.”
“Not evidence,” said Thumps. “Just a bunch of phone records.”
“Okay, so don’t tell me.”
“What did you find out about the local calls?”
“Oh, and I should share that with you?”
“Archie . . .”
Archie sighed and shook his head. “Lots of back and forth to the Malice Aforethought folk. Maslow and Sydney Pearl talked all the time. Calls to the Samuels place. Bunch of calls to an unlisted cellphone. Probably a burner. That could be interesting.”
“Anything else?”
“She made one call to the motor vehicle office here in town.”
“Motor vehicles?”
“And a couple of calls to Salgado Motors.”
It took a moment for everything to fall into place. Thumps hadn’t seen it. It was right there in front of him and he hadn’t seen it. “Shit.”
“Aha,” said Archie. “You do know something.”
“I need a road map.”
Archie rummaged through a drawer. “What are we looking at?”
Thumps lay the map on the library table. There it was. He’d have to double-check the date and time, but he was reasonably sure he knew what had happened to Trudy Samuels. Which meant that Maslow knew. She had known all along.
Everything else had been a set-up. From the beginning.
“You always do this,” said Archie. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”
“Could be wrong,” said Thumps.
“This isn’t a movie. You don’t have to wait until the end to solve the case.”
“Still a lot of pieces missing.”
“Even Raymond Chandler gave his readers clues.” Archie scowled. “So what’s the plan?”
“Go home,” said Thumps. “Crawl into bed. Sleep in until noon. Wake up to world peace.”
“That’s not a plan.” Archie turned off the lights and left Thumps standing alone in the dark. “That’s just wishful thinking.”
Thirty-Eight
Thumps didn’t go to bed. He stayed up and read Nina Maslow’s research files on Trudy Samuels and Amelia Nash. And he didn’t sleep in until noon. He was at Al’s early the next morning when Alvera opened the door.
“World come to an end?” Al grumped in behind the counter and fired up the grill. “Hope this isn’t going to become a habit.”
“What?”
“Body’s entitled to a little peace and quiet to start off the day.” Al turned on the coffee machine.
“You run a café.” Thumps found his favourite stool. “The whole purpose of a café is to get people to come in and eat.”
“Sure,” said Al. “Just not first thing.”
“What time do you think the sheriff gets up?”
“You want to call him?”
“Maybe.”
Al started smiling as though she had just heard a funny joke. “If you’re dumb enough to call Duke at this hour, I’ll lend you my phone.”
Thumps watched the coffee drip into the pot. So this is what Al’s was like first thing in the morning. No coffee. No food.
“You solve anything yet?”
“Can I put my order in now?”
“I know what your order is,” said Al. “The question is whether or not you’ll get it.”
“I’m diabetic. I have to eat at regular intervals.”
“You really have to stick yourself with a needle after every meal?”
Thumps gestured to the pot. “Coffee’s almost ready.”
Al took a metal bowl from the refrigerator and dumped a pile of shredded potatoes on the grill. “I figure the blond hunk did it.”
“Calder Banks?”
“Pays more attention to his looks than most women I know.”
“What about Tobias Rattler?”
“Next thing,” said Al, “you’ll be thinking that Toby killed that Maslow woman as well.”
The coffee pot wasn’t that far away. If he stretched, Thumps could lean across the counter and grab it. “Could be Sydney Pearl killed Maslow,” said Thumps. “Or Gloria Baker-Doyle. Sometimes it’s the quiet ones who turn out to be the most dangerous.”
“I’ll show you dangerous,” said Al, “if you touch that pot before it’s done dripping.”
For many years, Al had had a bell attached to the front door so that every time someone came in, the bell would ding-ding. Most times you couldn’t hear the bell over the noise of the grill and the customers. But today, with the café empty, the bell sounded like an alarm.
“Morning.” Sydney Pearl shut the door behind her. “I was hoping I’d find you here.”
“You found him,” said Al. “But he’s no smarter than he was the other day.”
Pearl slid onto a stool. “Is that true?”
“Mostly.”
“But you’ve figured out a number of things, haven’t you?” Pearl took a menu from the holder. “Mind if I join you for breakfast?”
“Free café,” said Thumps.
“Were Nina’s files of any use?”
“She had a knack for research.”
“She loved it,” said Pearl. “You know those puzzles that don’t have a picture, where all the pieces are exactly the same size and shape, and if you put it together, you wind up with a monotone spiral?”
Thumps tried to imagine a puzzle with no reference points. Why would anyone make such a thing? Why would anyone want to put such a riddle together?
“Don’t do puzzles.”
“Never?” Pearl seemed surprised. “You used to be a cop. Surely crimes are a lot like puzzles.”
Thumps shook his head. “With a puzzle, all the pieces are in the box. As long as you don’t lose a piece, you’ll be able to put it together.”
“And crimes are not that orderly.”
“Amelia Nash.”
“Ah,” said Pearl. “You read the file on Amelia.”
“She was to be this season’s final episode.”
“She was,” said Pearl.
“Okay.” Al wandered down from the grill and grabbed the pot. “Iron’s hot. You two want breakfast?”
“The usual,” Thumps shouted back.
“Just toast and coffee for me,” said Pearl.
“That ain’t breakfast.” Al poured two cups. “Try again.”
“And one egg scrambled.”
“Eat some of his potatoes,” Al told Pearl. “He’s diabetic and is in denial.”
Pearl waited until Al had returned to the front of the café.
“Why the interest in Amelia Nash? You’re supposed to be trying to find out who killed Nina.”
“Why would Maslow want to do an episode on a case that had been solved? You’re not solving anything. You’re just going through the motions.” Thumps wrapped his hands around the cup. “Like one of the old Columbo mysteries where you know who did it and waste an hour and a half watching the detective in the rumpled raincoat figure
it out.”
“Procedurals can be good television,” said Pearl.
“Maybe for the middle of the season,” said Thumps, “but not for the final episode. Nash is too flat. There are no surprises. Maslow was all about surprises.”
Pearl poured some cream into her coffee until it was the colour of warm toast. “Do you know much about the lives of celebrities?”
“Sex, drugs, and rock and roll?”
“A lot depends on when you hit it big. If it happens when you’re young, it’s real easy to go off the rails.”
“Amelia Nash.”
“Amelia Nash,” said Pearl. “She was a rocket. Talented. Beautiful. Desperately young and stupid. Donny Berlin was fifteen years older. No longer young and not so talented.”
“But still stupid.”
“And abusive,” said Pearl. “We all tried to warn Amelia off Berlin. For all the good it did.”
“He beat her?”
“Only when he was drunk or on drugs.” Pearl leaned forward on her elbows. “We were in Vegas for the academy’s annual benefit gala. We were celebrating. Our new series had just gotten picked up. Amelia Nash and Calder Banks. We were supposed to fly directly from Vegas to San Francisco to begin prep.”
“The Streets of San Francisco,” said Thumps, as though he were talking to himself. “His big break.”
“Not just his,” said Pearl. “I was part of the production team. Maslow too. We all had a stake in the show.”
“But Nash was the star.”
“She was.”
“Not Calder.”
“Not Calder,” said Pearl. “And you know what they say.”
“No star,” said Thumps, “no show.”
“Exactly,” said Pearl.
Thumps picked at a chip on the side of the coffee cup. “Maslow didn’t think it was a murder-suicide.”
“Nina had a sixth sense for stuff like this,” said Pearl. “She was smart, curious, mysterious, secretive.”
Al arrived with the food, and she had taken the liberty of moving some of Thumps’s potatoes onto Pearl’s plate.
“And don’t be complaining,” she warned. “Can’t have you dying in my café.”
“If I begin to feel faint,” said Thumps, “I’ll try to crawl out to the curb.”
Al wiped her hands on her apron and walked back to the grill. “Barely enough room in the place for the paying customers. Can’t have a dead body taking up one of my stools.”
Pearl picked at her eggs for a while. If she was going to fill in any of the blanks, she was taking her time.
“The gun Berlin used to kill Nash was a Maxim 9. Berlin had bought it at the Vegas gun show the day before.”
Pearl shrugged. “Berlin was a gun nut. Offered to buy my .38 just because Tom Selleck had given it to me.”
“The Maxim has a built-in suppressor. Police figure that’s why no one heard the shots.”
“Makes sense.”
“But here’s the odd part,” said Thumps. “Nash was shot twice.”
Pearl’s expression didn’t change.
“Once in the chest,” said Thumps. “Once in the head.”
“And that’s significant?”
“Maybe,” said Thumps. “Maybe not. You know what Berlin’s blood alcohol level was?”
“Why don’t you tell me.”
“It was .30,” said Thumps. “Most people pass out around .25.”
“You’ve been very busy,” said Pearl.
“Who found the bodies?”
“If you’ve read Nina’s notes,” said Pearl, “you already know the answer to that question.”
Thumps nodded. “You did. At 11:10.”
“And your point is?”
“The coroner set the time of death between seven and eleven.”
“You know why I have that bottle on my desk?”
Thumps was tired of being polite with the woman. “Recovering alcoholic?”
“Good guess,” said Pearl. “It’s a prop. Like the gun. People look at the two of them together and figure they should give me a wide berth. Gives me space.”
“And the Honda?”
“I’ll tell you that story when I know you better.” Pearl set her fork next to her plate. “But you want to know what I was doing in Nash’s room.”
“I do.”
“I went there for a meeting,” said Pearl. “Contract technicalities.”
“At eleven at night?”
“Show biz,” said Pearl.
“But when you got there, Berlin and Nash were already dead.”
“They were.”
“So who let you in?”
Pearl smiled. “That was very good, Mr. DreadfulWater. Do you know much about the lives of celebrities? Do you know what producers really do?”
“Nope.”
“Celebrities are children.”
“And producers are parents?”
“Simplistic,” said Pearl, “but true. They’re petulant, self-centred, destructive, stupid. One of my jobs is to make sure that they are where they’re supposed to be and that they do what they’re supposed to do.”
“You had a key to Nash’s room.”
“Yes,” said Pearl. “I had a key. And when Amelia didn’t answer, I let myself in.”
“Where was Maslow?”
“I had left her at the bar downstairs.”
“And Calder?”
“On an early plane back to L.A.”
Thumps arranged all the pieces in his head. He could see a vague pattern. Maslow would have seen it too.
“What was the meeting about?”
“All of this is quite a lot of fun,” said Pearl, “but do you have any proof that Vegas was anything more than a murder-suicide?”
“No,” said Thumps.
“Then there’s your answer,” said Pearl. “You’re coming to the shoot today, aren’t you? Watch Malice Aforethought solve the Samuels case?”
“Already know what happened to Trudy Samuels,” said Thumps.
“Really.”
“Maslow figured it out months ago,” said Thumps. “Both of you have known all along.”
“Then you can do the interview,” said Pearl.
“That’s not going to happen.”
“Hear me out,” said Pearl. “Calder’s an actor. He hasn’t got a cop’s mind. He doesn’t know what to ask or how to ask it. So, we’ll block the scene and do one rehearsal with you in the lead. Calder can watch. Then when we do the actual shoot, it will be Calder on camera.”
“Don’t think so.”
Pearl waited as though she hadn’t heard the answer. “The Obsidian Murders was going to be next season’s premiere episode. Now we may not have a show next year. I hate to see all that research go to waste. You understand what I’m saying?”
“You’re blackmailing me.”
“I told you I’d give you Nina’s research.” Pearl’s eyes were slits. “I’ll keep that promise. But I need you to do this for me.”
“What if I’m wrong?”
“You don’t strike me as a man who enjoys being wrong.” Pearl gestured at Thumps’s plate. “You going to finish those potatoes?”
“Help yourself.” Thumps pushed the plate over and slid off the stool.
“What about Nina?” said Pearl. “Do you know who killed her?”
“Maybe,” said Thumps.
“Ah,” said Pearl. “Curious, mysterious, secretive. Just like Nina.”
Thumps slipped his jacket on. “What happened to smart?”
Pearl held up a forkful of hash browns. “That,” she said, “remains to be seen.”
Thirty-Nine
The lights were on at the sheriff’s office. Duke Hockney was behind his desk. Tobias Rattler was sitting across from him. Both men were bent over a board.
“Checkers?”
Duke waved a hand but didn’t take his eyes off the game.
“You’re playing checkers?”
“Sheriff Hockney is teaching me how to play,”
said Rattler.
“He’s learning fast,” said Duke. “Help yourself to the coffee.”
Duke’s old percolator was back on its table.
“You fixed it?”
“Lime deposit,” said Duke. “Macy caught the problem.”
“So it wasn’t terminal.” Thumps tried not to sound disappointed.
“Overnight in vinegar,” said the sheriff, “and it’s good as new.”
Thumps wondered if the vinegar would change the taste or the texture of the sheriff’s coffee. He couldn’t imagine that anything could make it worse.
“Try a cup,” said Duke. “It’s got real bite now.”
“I thought Toby was under arrest.”
“He is,” said the sheriff.
“I’m on temporary furlough,” said Rattler. “For good behaviour.”
“However,” said Duke, “if he keeps beating me, I’m going to throw him back in a cell.”
“It’s not as difficult as chess or go,” said Rattler, “but it has its moments.”
Duke leaned back and yawned. “You’re up early.”
“You know what they say,” said Thumps. “Early birds. Worms.”
Duke moved one of his pieces onto the end line and turned it into a king. “You find any worms?”
“In England,” said Rattler, “they call this game ‘draughts.’”
Thumps looked at the board. He remembered something about men, kings, flying kings, king’s row, and how men could only move forward in a particular manner, but kings could move freely around the board.
“Morgan Freeman and Tim Robbins played checkers in The Shawshank Redemption.”
“The prison yard,” said Rattler. “Right?”
“Damn it, DreadfulWater,” said Duke, “you two are messing with my concentration.”
“You got evidence bags?”
“I’m a police officer,” said Duke. “Of course I have evidence bags.”
“I need one.”
“You got some evidence I should know about?” The sheriff took his finger off the piece.
“Nope.”
“Then why do you need the bag?”
“It’s for an experiment,” said Thumps.
“Sort of like a school project?”
“Something like that.”
Duke waved a hand at the filing cabinets. “Second cabinet from the left, two drawers down.”
“Thanks.”
