by Thomas King
Thumps kept his mouth shut. There was no sense getting in between Duke’s burger and Rattler’s salad.
“Timing,” said the sheriff. “Maybe they ran out of time.”
“Sure,” said Rattler. “That’s a good plot point. Killer doesn’t want to kill Maslow here in Chinook, but something happens that forces his or her hand.”
Thumps could still taste the grease from the onion rings. He ran his tongue around his mouth and found bits of crusty coating stuck to the back of his teeth.
“Sydney Pearl,” said the sheriff. “Calder Banks. And Gloria Baker-Doyle. Who do you like?”
“It’s whom,” said Rattler. “And in a novel, it would be the character you least suspected.”
“Gloria Baker-Doyle,” said the sheriff. “She seems too sweet to kill anyone.”
“Or it could be the character with the best alibi.”
“Calder Banks,” said Thumps. “He was on a plane to Los Angeles when Nash was killed.”
“Which leaves Sydney Pearl,” said Rattler. “She seems the least likely.”
The sheriff picked at his teeth with a business card. “Course, you could have killed Maslow.”
Rattler smiled. “Me?”
“Sure,” said the sheriff. “Maybe Maslow’s death has nothing to do with Amelia Nash. Maybe all this is really about Trudy Samuels.”
“Okay,” said Rattler, “I’m listening.”
“Let’s say that you and Trudy had a big argument.”
“We did.”
“And she calls you all sorts of names. Tells you that you’re worthless, just another piece of reservation trash.”
“You must have been there.”
“Then she takes off and leaves you to smoulder.”
“Smoulder?” Rattler chuckled. “That’s a great word.”
“Then she goes out to Black Stag and attacks Adele. Ethan pushes her down the stairs.”
“Over the balcony.”
“Right,” said the sheriff, “over the balcony. Adele and Ethan drive her out to Belly Butte and dump the body. But Trudy isn’t dead. She’s badly hurt, can’t drive, so she calls you, and you drive out.”
“She didn’t have a cell,” said Rattler. “And I didn’t have a car.”
“And rather than being grateful, Trudy starts in on you again. About leaving. About taking her stepmother’s money. About betraying her.”
“So I kill her?” Rattler’s expression didn’t change. “Because she hurt my feelings?”
“And somehow Maslow found out,” said the sheriff. “So now she has two great endings for the episode. Adele and Ethan as the evil stepmother and the jealous half-brother. And you as the vengeful killer lashing out at a racist society.”
“A victim of smouldering rage.”
“Exactly,” said Duke.
“It would have made one hell of a program,” said Rattler.
“Yes, it would,” said the sheriff.
“Mind you, my motive for killing Trudy seems a bit shaky. Not to mention the problem with logistics.” Rattler turned around. “What do you think, Mr. DreadfulWater?”
Thumps yawned. “You didn’t kill Trudy, and you didn’t kill Maslow.”
“Well,” said the sheriff, “I’m glad we got that straightened out.”
Rattler wagged a finger at Duke. “Grease.”
Duke dipped his napkin in the lemonade and wiped at the grease spots on the sleeve of his jacket. “Now that’s how you can tell a good burger.”
More cars and trucks had arrived at the drive-in, and the place was almost full. Thumps didn’t recognize anyone, but he guessed that they were people just off work, catching a quick bite, or parents with children, too tired to go home and cook. That was the lure of fast food. Price and speed. Still, Thumps couldn’t imagine eating a meal that had spent most of its life at the bottom of a deep fryer.
“So, whom do you have to replace me,” said Rattler, “as your number one suspect?”
The neon squirrel was in motion again, its legs swinging back and forth, its little arms pumping up and down. Somewhere beyond the run of fast-food restaurants, Thumps could hear an emergency vehicle trying to get somewhere fast.
And then there it was.
Maybe it was Skippy or maybe it was the siren in the evening light, but suddenly, he could see what he had been missing. Or at least part of it.
“They lied to me,” said Thumps.
“That shouldn’t be a surprise,” said the sheriff. “You got to figure that Pearl knows more about Maslow’s death than she’s telling us.”
“Not about Maslow,” said Thumps.
“Who else is there?” said Rattler.
“You just figured something out,” said the sheriff, “didn’t you?”
“So, let’s share with the rest of the children.”
“Pieces,” said Thumps. “Got to think about it first.”
Thumps looked out the side window. A soft fog had appeared out of nowhere. On the Northern California coast, fog had been an almost daily occurrence, low clouds combining with rising warm air, especially in the morning and then again in the evening, with a burn-off in the afternoon when the sun warmed the ocean and the land. Here on the high plains, it was an advection fog, where warm, wet air flowed over cold ground and created a variation of ground fog.
There had been fog at Clam Beach the night Anna and Callie had been murdered. And for a moment, Thumps was back on the California coast.
Duke held up his sleeve. “You think Macy will notice?”
“Soda water,” said Rattler. “I hear soda water will get it out.”
Duke wiped his hands. “Don’t think too long, DreadfulWater,” he said. “Couple more days, and those television folks are going to fly the coop.”
“And I’ll be back in Barcelona,” said Rattler. “Did you know the actor George Sanders died in Castelldefels? It’s a small beach community just outside Barcelona. He checked into a hotel and killed himself.”
Thumps took the pieces apart one last time and put them back together. Samuels. Maslow. Amelia Nash. Not a perfect fit. “Okay.”
Hockney turned around in his seat. He had a bit of lettuce stuck between his teeth. “Now that’s what I want to hear.”
“Okay?” said Rattler. “As in, ‘Okay, I’ve solved the case’?”
Hockney started the engine. “You can tell us on the way.”
“Not that much to tell,” said Thumps.
Duke eased the cruiser out of the parking lot. “So,” he said, “what’d you all think of Skippy’s?”
“Moving target like that,” said Rattler, as they passed under the dancing squirrel. “I’m surprised no one has shot the little sucker.”
Forty-Three
The front door of Budd’s was locked, and the main floor was dark. Thumps thought he could make out a hint of light on the mezzanine, but it could just as well have been spill from the street.
The lock was an old Yale, and for a moment, Thumps considered trying to pick it. He knew the general principle of deadbolts, and if he had had some of the tools he’d carried when he was a cop, he might have given it a try.
Just for old times.
But that would have required squatting down and working the picks back and forth until his back ached and his thighs burned. A better idea was to walk around to the alley to see if the back door was open.
There were two doors. A small one for employees and a large freight door through which Budd had brought in his merchandise. The small door was open. Thumps closed his eyes and waited for them to adjust. Then he stepped inside. Where he discovered that it didn’t matter if his eyes were open or closed. The room he was in was dead dark. He ran a hand along the wall. Common sense told him that somewhere close to the door, there had to be a light switch.
Up and across. Down and across. Diagonals. No switch. He took two shuffling steps forward and ran into a string or a chain. With his face. He reached up and grabbed it. The light switch. The building was that old
. A single light bulb hanging from the ceiling.
The room was narrow and ended in another door. Thumps swung it open and found himself on the main floor.
Mission accomplished.
He could hear voices above him.
New mission.
As he started up the stairs, Thumps considered how he would start the conversation, what he would say, how far he could run the bluff.
Sydney Pearl was sitting behind her desk, the bottle of Lagavulin 21 ready and waiting, her pearl-handled revolver snug in the shoulder holster. Calder Banks was sitting in a chair, a script in his hands.
“We’re dead in the water,” Calder was saying. “Vegas is dead, but I can make the Key West story work. Possible serial killer on the loose with a tattoo fetish. Lots of innuendo. Graphic visuals with crime-scene recreations. Testimony by experts. Interviews with locals.”
Thumps tried to make his entrance as quiet as possible, but Pearl caught the movement as soon as he cleared the landing.
“Mr. DreadfulWater,” she said. “I thought we had seen the last of you.”
“Hey, Thumps,” said Calder. “Help me out. Maybe you can talk some sense to Sydney.”
“Mr. Banks thinks that we ought to drop the Amelia Nash story and go with Key West,” said Pearl.
Thumps had decided on the direct approach to see whether he could shake Pearl just a little.
“You lied to me.”
No luck. The woman sat behind her desk as still as a mountain.
“I lie all the time,” she said. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
“The Obsidian Murders. Both you and Maslow lied to me.”
“Oh,” said Pearl. “That.”
“Maslow didn’t have a file on the case,” said Thumps. “You don’t have a file on the case.”
“I assure you,” said Pearl, “that case was going to be our premiere episode for next season.”
“Sure,” said Thumps. “But Maslow hadn’t even started doing the research, had she? I should have seen it. No calls to Key West. No calls to Northern California. What she had was me.”
“Is that the serial killings?” said Calder. “The ones with the stones?”
“Shut up, Calder,” said Pearl.
“What was the idea?” said Thumps. “Pull me in on the Samuels case. We all get to be buddies, and I’d tell you everything I know about the murders?”
“You know more about that case than anyone,” said Pearl. “Nina was sure you’d want to help.”
“Shit.”
“That’s low, Sydney,” said Calder. “Even for you.”
Thumps held his anger in check. “And then there’s Amelia Nash.”
“Sure,” said Calder, “but without Nina and what she knew, Nash is a dead story.”
Thumps ignored Calder. “The meeting you were to have with Nash the night she was killed. What was it about?”
“I told you,” said Pearl. “Contract technicalities.”
“As in whether Nash could have you and Maslow removed from the production and replaced with Donny Berlin and his production company?”
Calder made a noise in his throat. “What?”
“You’re guessing, Mr. DreadfulWater,” said Pearl.
“Did I guess right?”
“Amelia was going to dump you guys?” said Calder.
“You’re an unpleasant surprise, Mr. DreadfulWater,” said Pearl. “But, yes, you are correct. Amelia wanted Berlin’s pissant company to take over the show.”
“And you couldn’t let that happen.”
“Donny had this grand idea that he had the horsepower to move into prime time, that Amelia had the juice to stamp her pretty little foot and head office would roll over on their collective backs.”
“Star power.”
“Sure,” said Pearl, “but the head office suits aren’t idiots. Donny’s track record was like a demolition derby. L.A. wasn’t going to let him near the production.”
“And if I were to call head office?”
“Be my guest,” said Pearl. “Amelia had already tried that little ploy. She had been in touch with Los Angeles the day before with her little scheme. I talked to head office that morning and called the meeting that night to set the two of them straight.”
“So you didn’t kill them?”
“Hey,” said Calder, “that’s a shitty suggestion.”
Pearl’s face was aglow with pleasure. She took the .38 out of the holster and set it next to the bottle. “What a lovely thought,” she said. “But no, I didn’t kill them. Producers don’t murder the help. We just make their lives miserable.”
Thumps rocked back on his heels, took his hands out of his pockets, and turned to Calder. “So I guess that leaves you.”
“Me.” Calder’s smile was instant and brilliant.
“If Berlin and Nash were trying to dump the producers,” said Thumps, “it stands to reason that they would want to dump you as well.”
“Dump me?” Calder’s face slowly lost colour. “That’s crazy.”
“Berlin wanted control of the production. That would mean the talent as well.”
“Amelia wouldn’t have dumped me,” said Calder. “I was the talent. She was just a pretty face. She understood that.”
Thumps turned back to Pearl. “Let’s say that you’re right, that Berlin and Nash were never going to get control of the production. Okay. But what were the chances that they could convince head office to replace Calder with Berlin?”
Pearl’s face softened. “Better,” she said. “If Amelia had pushed hard enough, she might have been able to get that.”
“This is nuts!” Calder was almost shouting. “No one was going to dump me.”
Thumps waited for Calder to take a breath. “I’m guessing that Berlin or Nash or both of them told you what they were planning to do, at the party.”
“Very interesting,” said Pearl.
“Come on, Sydney,” said Calder. “You’re not going to listen to this shit.”
“You probably thought it was a joke at first. It would have taken a little time to sink in. And then you would have realized that she was serious and that your career was at risk.”
“I was a star.” Calder was out of his chair. “I was a fucking star!”
“Maybe you went to Nash’s room to try to talk some sense into her. By then you would have been furious. Streets of San Francisco was your big chance, and they were going to take it away.”
“Donny shot Amelia,” said Calder. “Then he shot himself.”
Thumps shook his head. “Berlin had a blood alcohol of .30. Nash was shot twice. Once in the head. Once in the heart. Precision. I doubt that Berlin was even conscious, and if he was, there was no way he could have made those shots.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You tried to talk to Nash, get her to change her mind, but she was drunk and mean. What did she tell you? That you couldn’t cut it? That you were past your prime? That she wasn’t going to do Streets with you?”
“I was on a plane.” Calder had control of his voice now.
Thumps nodded. “The coroner set the time of death at between seven and eleven.”
“My flight left at 7:15,” said Calder. “And it takes twenty minutes to get to the airport from the Wynn.”
“I’m sure it does,” said Thumps. “But you got lucky. The flight was delayed, wasn’t it? That was why Maslow made those calls to WestAir. It wasn’t to check on flights; it was to check to see if your flight that night had left on time.”
Calder was quick. Quicker than Thumps would have imagined. He reached across the desk and grabbed the gun before either Pearl or Thumps could move.
“Christ, Calder,” said Pearl. “What are you doing?”
“Shut up, Sydney.”
“You killed Donny and Amelia?”
“I didn’t kill anyone,” said Calder. “It was their fault. That show was mine.”
“And you killed Maslow?”
Thumps could feel the fatigue return. It was late. He should check his blood sugars. “But then she figured it out.”
“She found out that my flight had been delayed. She would have checked the cabs. I gave the guy a good tip to get me to the airport fast. Would he remember me? Sure, I got that kind of face. I couldn’t take the chance. She should have let it go. Berlin, Nash, Maslow. They should have let it go.”
Pearl leaned back in her chair and put her hands in her lap. “So now what?”
“New script,” said Calder. “You killed Berlin and Nash. Maslow found out, and you killed her. Mr. DreadfulWater figured it out and came here to confront you. You shot him.”
“I need a drink.” Pearl reached for the Lagavulin and cracked the cap. “I’ve been saving this for a special occasion.”
Calder pointed the gun at Thumps’s chest. “I tried to stop you. We struggled, and the gun went off, killing you.”
Pearl took a sip of the whisky. “God, Calder,” she said, “that is the dumbest plot I’ve ever heard.”
“It won’t work,” said Thumps.
“You think not?” said Calder.
“Four reasons,” said Thumps. “First, no one will believe it.”
“They don’t have to believe it,” said Calder. “It will be my word against two dead people. Nash and Berlin were trying to replace Pearl. Pearl had a key to the room. She was the one who found the bodies.”
“Second,” said Thumps, “your jacket.”
“My jacket?”
“At the dealership,” said Thumps. “The spots on your sleeve. Grease and blood look a lot alike. But when the sheriff tests the jacket, he’ll find that it’s splatter.”
Calder shrugged. “Jackets can disappear.”
“Three,” said Thumps, looking at Pearl, “the pistol doesn’t have real bullets.”
“What?”
“I was a cop,” said Thumps. “Pearl showed me the gun when we first met. The weight and balance were off.”
“Bravo,” said Pearl.
Calder looked at the pistol. “You’re bluffing.” Then he aimed the gun at Thumps and pulled the trigger.
