Kiss of Death

by Linda Palmer

  With affection, I said, “You’re a nut,” and hung up.

  Walter was in the kitchen, getting ready to make scrambled eggs. Magic sat on the stool next to the counter, watching him intently.

  “Use a bigger bowl,” I said. “I’m staying for breakfast, and we’re going to have company.”

  WALTER SET OUT a great spread: eggs, toast, muffins, fresh orange juice, and a Variety Pack of dry cereals, but all Arnold wanted was juice and coffee. The three of us sat at the kitchen table; Walter and I ate quietly while Arnold talked.

  “When I met Ronnie I was in my senior year at Harvard Law. On scholarship. She’d just made her debut.” He glanced at Walter. “That means she was presented to society at a grand ball.”

  “I know,” Walter said. “I’m from West Virginia, not Borneo.”

  Arnold had the grace to look embarrassed. “Sorry. I’m used to explaining things to juries.”

  “No offense taken,” Walter said.

  I refilled Arnold’s coffee mug. “Go on.”

  “I saw her picture in the paper, and must have said something about how beautiful she was. One of my classmates knew her, and introduced us. Much to my amazement, she agreed to go out with me. She didn’t care that I had very little money. She was happy eating pizza and renting videos. We fell in love …”

  Arnold paused for a moment, as though trying to keep his emotions in check. I sat still and silent, letting him take the time he needed. When he continued, his voice was stronger. “I made top grades, Law Review, all that, so after graduation, I had my choice of several major firms. I wanted to do criminal defense, and the best offer for that was in New York. Ronnie urged me to take the opportunity. We got married and she moved here, leaving all her friends and everything familiar and comfortable. She was fascinated by my work—wanted to know everything about the cases I took …”

  There was a dreamy expression on Arnold’s face—a look I would never have associated with that lion of the courtroom. It was as though he was reliving the past in his mind. I saw that he really had loved her. Perhaps, as Nancy feared, he had fallen in love with her again.

  To keep him talking, I said, “I’m not surprised she was interested. Criminal law is an enthralling profession.”

  Arnold snapped back into the present. “It was more than just interested. We’d been married for a year when she confided to me that she had always wanted to become a lawyer. Her father told her that she’d been brainwashed by television shows, and that law wasn’t at all the right career for her.”

  “What did he want her to do?”

  “Nothing.” Arnold’s mouth hardened and his tone turned bitter. “Her father was a king of the leveraged buyout, and did a lot of lavish entertaining while making big deals. He told Ronnie that she’d just waste time in college, because she’d only get married one day and have a husband to take care of. In the meantime, because her mother was dead, he insisted it was Ronnie’s duty to be his hostess.”

  “That’s pretty medieval,” I said.

  “She wasn’t strong enough to go against his wishes—at least not until she married me.” Arnold laughed, but it was a sound without a trace of mirth. “That was her first rebellion. The old man didn’t approve of me—I was poor then, I wasn’t well connected, ‘not of their social set.’ He wouldn’t come to our wedding, and he didn’t come to the hospital when Didi was born. I think marrying me was Ronnie’s revenge on her father for not letting her have the life she wanted. In a way, she tried to have a law career through me, by helping me. She was a wonderful hostess—charmed the partners in the firm where I worked. As I got more important cases, my income grew, and finally I could give her all the material things that she’d turned her back on. I insisted we have live-in help, and that she hire caterers when we gave parties. When I took a high-profile criminal case out of state, I’d have to be gone weeks at a time, and I couldn’t fill her in on the day-to-day business of preparation and trial. Worst of all—and I’ll never forgive myself for this—when Didi started kindergarten, Ronnie told me she wanted to go to law school. I thought she was joking, and treated it that way. I didn’t know how badly I’d hurt her until she got her revenge on me by having an affair. I wouldn’t have known about it, but she told me. I was furious, of course. Told her she broke my heart, that I’d never be able to forgive her. She left me; took Didi and moved back to Boston. At the time, I didn’t put her affair together with her frustrated ambition.”

  “When you divorced, did she try to go to law school?”

  Arnold shook his head. “I’d made her feel ridiculous for wanting to. She plunged back into the social whirl, entertaining again for her father. Joined the charity committees he asked her to. When the old man died, she inherited a fortune.”

  Before I could frame a tactful version of the question, Walter asked boldly, “Who inherits her money?”

  “Didi. Everything is in an unbreakable trust, to be administered by Ronnie’s personal attorney, in Boston.” Arnold stiffened and glared at Walter. “I’m a wealthy man. Are you implying that I might have killed my wife for her money?”

  “Just asking,” Walter said calmly. “The police think they got the killer, but the question about you is prob’ly gonna occur to Miss Cummings’s lawyer.”

  Arnold’s voice was close to a snarl. “I’ll be happy to show him my bank statements.” He tamped his anger down and added, “When Ronnie and I divorced, she took nothing from me, and I took nothing from her. However, I insisted it be put in writing that I was to pay all of Didi’s expenses—personal and educational—through graduate school, if she wants to go. In a week or so, Ronnie’s will is going to be a matter of public record. You can read it for yourself. And I’ll make our divorce papers available to anyone. I will gain nothing from Ronnie’s death, nor from Didi’s trust.”

  To get things back on a cordial footing, I said, “From what I’ve seen, you’re a wonderful father.”

  That seemed to mollify Arnold. “I love my daughter more than anything in the world,” he said. “Naturally, I was very happy when she and her mother moved back to New York. Ronnie and I had long ago gotten over our hard feelings and become friends again. I bought an apartment for them in my building.” Arnold’s face flushed with embarrassment. “Morgan, I’m ashamed to say this, but with Didi and Ronnie back in my life, I was unkind to Nancy. I loved Nancy …”

  I caught the past tense. “Loved? You don’t love Nancy anymore?”

  “It’s complicated.” He shifted in his seat and looked uncomfortable. “I didn’t stop loving Nancy, but—I’m not proud of this—I found myself falling in love with Ronnie again, too.”

  “That’s crap!” Walter said. To me, he added, “Excuse my language.”

  Arnold stood up. “I behaved atrociously to Nancy before … before Ronnie was killed. But please believe that I never meant to hurt her. Right now, I have to focus on getting Didi through this, but if there’s anything that I can do for Nancy, all you have to do is let me know.”

  “I will,” I said.

  Politely, Walter stood up. Arnold gave him a curt goodbye nod, and squeezed my hand lightly.

  When I returned from showing Arnold to the front door, Walter was clearing the kitchen table. “What do you think?” I asked.

  “After the personal things he told us about her, Veronica Rose isn’t just a victim anymore. I feel kinda sorry for her.”

  “Me, too. Maybe she behaved the way she did because she never got to live her own life.”

  “Or she wasn’t strong enough to tell her father and husband to go to hell,” Walter said. “You know Arnold Rose. Did you believe that—how he felt about his wife?”

  “I’m furious at him for hurting Nancy, but I think he’s sincere about his feelings.”

  “Yeah, I believed him, too. But just for the record, I don’t buy it that a man can be in love with two women at the same time. Your friend Nancy’s well rid of that guy.”

  Chapter 25

  I STILL HADN
’T heard from Matt when Link Ramsey arrived in my office. As always, his unruly nut brown hair looked as though it would need a trim in another day. That was the impression it always gave; I wondered how he managed to keep it in precisely that state.

  There was a devilish gleam in Link’s dark chocolate eyes. “I told Betty if she gave us a half hour of privacy, I’d let her tie me up and discipline me.”

  I laughed at that ridiculous image. “You’re safe with Betty, but be careful. One day somebody might take you up on one of your crazy proposals.”

  “I like living on the edge.” Link held up the takeout bag he was carrying. “Betty told me about your favorite deli. She said you like egg salad on whole wheat with mustard, mayo, and lettuce. Hold the pickles and chips. I brought cole slaw and potato salad.”

  As Link unpacked our picnic lunch, I cleared space on the desk. “I got us a couple of cold sodas from the machine.”

  “This is great,” I said, dividing the paper napkins and plastic forks.

  Link pulled one of the visitor’s chairs up to the edge of the desk, opened our sodas, and unwrapped the corned beef on rye he’d brought for himself.

  After we’d each taken a bite of our sandwiches, I asked, “What did you want to talk to me about? Betty said it was personal.”

  He took a swallow of soda and set the can down on the napkin I’d folded to use as a coaster. “Nancy Cummings. How’s it going with her?”

  “She’s still the number one suspect, but some other people are being looked at.”

  Link grinned at me. “Looked at by you, I bet.” He took another swallow of soda. “I like Nance,” he said, “but even if I didn’t, I’d care about this mess because she’s your best friend. According to the papers, the cops think Nancy killed Veronica Rose out of jealousy. Maybe they got the theory right, but the killer wrong.”

  My pulse rate jumped. I put down my sandwich and looked at Link with hope. “What do you know?”

  “When Veronica Rose came up to the studio that day, I pegged her right away as a scalp collector—the kind of dame who wants men to fall for her just to feed her ego.”

  “Betty got that impression, too.”

  “I wouldn’t tell you what I’m about to if the woman hadn’t been killed, but in the couple of weeks before she died, I saw her with somebody who wasn’t Arnold Rose. They were way out of her high-rent neighborhood, and she and the guy had that ‘we just had sex’ look.”

  I was getting excited at the prospect of having another suspect. “Describe him.”

  Link shook his head. “No need. We know him. It was your resurrected actor, Jay Garwood.”

  “Jay! I remember Betty telling me that when Veronica was up here, turning on the charm, he’d reacted to her—how did Betty put it?—like a hungry dog looking at a steak, I think she said.”

  “Yeah, I was there. That’s a pretty good description. I didn’t think anything about it, until I saw the two of them together, and I still wouldn’t have given it a thought except that she was killed.” Link added, “Not that just seeing them together proves anything.”

  “No, but this is information I didn’t have before. Jay didn’t say anything about their having become friends. Or whatever they were. Just between us, what do you think of him?”

  “He’s okay—knows his lines, and doesn’t get in my key light.” Link flashed his alpha-male grin. “At least, he didn’t do it more than once.”

  “Have you spent any time with him out of the studio?”

  “No. He didn’t socialize with the cast, and I realized why when I saw him out with Veronica Rose. They were sucking face as if they thought they’d be dead the next day. A week later, he shows up for blocking wearing a gold Rolex watch. He sure didn’t buy it with his tax refund.”

  “You think Veronica gave it to him?”

  “I’m as sure as I am about the sun rising in the east.”

  After lunch, Link went back to his dressing room.

  “Where can I find Jay Garwood?” I asked Betty.

  She consulted her Master List, which tracked each of the actors during any days they were at the studio. It made it possible to know where everyone was at all times.

  “He’s in Makeup,” Betty said, “getting covered in fake blood for that new flashback scene—the one where he’s in the guerrilla prison camp. They’re taping the scene at two.”

  It was 1:15; allowing time for him to go through the final blocking before tape rolled, I’d have about twenty minutes alone with him.

  Makeup was located next to Costume, on the far side of the twenty-sixth floor from my office. I made my way past our two stages, 35 and 37, and saw set people putting the finishing touches on the jungle prison on Stage 35. Stage 37, dressed as Sylvia’s design showroom, was being lighted. Link and Eva, who played Sylvia, were running lines for the comedy scene we’d tape after the jungle flashback.

  I hadn’t written the scene in which Link goes to Sylvia’s dress salon to buy a formal gown for the new woman in his character’s life—a new associate writer had—but it was one of my favorite scenes this week. All I’d had to do with this script was revise a few of Link’s lines to make them more specific to his quirky character.

  Jay Garwood was alone in the Makeup room, standing up in front of the long, brightly lighted mirror, looking into it and mouthing his lines.

  If I hadn’t known he’d been made up to look like the only survivor of a plane crash, on seeing him I’d have immediately called for an ambulance.

  “You look appropriately awful,” I said with a smile.

  “Thanks. You want me?”

  “Where are the makeup twins?” I asked, referring to the identical sisters in their fifties, former models, who were in charge of makeup for the show.

  “When they finished with me, they went to lunch,” he said.

  It seemed odd that he hadn’t turned around to face me since I’d come into the room. I was having my conversation with his reflection.

  “I wanted to talk to you, Jay.”

  “Yeah?” I heard a note of strain in his voice and saw him transfer his script to his left hand while he wiped his right hand down the side of his slacks. It was a nervous gesture, denoting sweaty palms. He’d turned slightly away from me, but I could observe what he was doing in the mirror.

  I perched on the chair next to where he was standing. “Sit down a minute, okay?”

  With all the enthusiasm of a teenage boy called into the principal’s office, Jay Garwood turned away from the mirror and sat down in the canvas-back chair, where he started to fidget.

  “So, what can I do for you?” He’d made his tone casual, but I saw the look of worry in his eyes.

  “It’s what I want to do for you, Jay,” I said.

  He brightened. “I’m getting the Armani suits?”

  “No—at least, not immediately. I’ll have to see what I can do about the costume budget. No, I came to offer you my sympathy. This must be a painful time for you.”

  In his chair, Jay Garwood suddenly became very still. “Sympathy?”

  “About the death of Veronica Rose. This must be a difficult time—because I heard you two had been seeing each other.”

  “That’s not true—where’d you hear that?” he demanded.

  “Just around … I mean, I thought someone said you two were dating—”

  “No! I didn’t know her. The only time I was ever with her was that day she came up to the studio with her kid.”

  “Oh, then whoever thought they saw you together must have been mistaken. I guess I was worried about you for nothing.”

  “That’s okay. Are we still having lunch tomorrow, to discuss my wardrobe?”

  I got up. “It turns out that I won’t have time tomorrow, Jay. We’ll discuss this next week.” But we’ll talk about more than your suits.

  I said goodbye, wished him luck with the scene he was about to tape, and left the Makeup room.

  Outside in the corridor I reviewed what had just happened. I
believed Link, which meant that Jay Garwood had just looked straight into my eyes and lied.

  Back in my office, I was about to dial Walter to tell him to put Jay Garwood at the top of our list of suspects when Betty buzzed me.

  “Your private detective friend is on line one,” she said.

  I picked up the receiver to hear Bobby Novello say, “I just found the man in the van.”

  Chapter 26

  HEARING BOBBY SAY that he’d found the monster from my childhood made my insides lurch in shock.

  “Can you talk?” he asked.

  Two more lights on my phone console flashed. Outside at her desk, Betty was being kept busy. “Yes,” I said. Short of a catastrophe, Betty never interrupted me when I was on a personal call. “Tell me.”

  “I’ll give you the detailed report in writing, but the shorthand version is that I tracked him halfway around the world. After Sheriff Maysfield got you away from Ray Wilson, the creep disappeared completely for two years.”

  Like a snake vanishes down its hole.

  “There wasn’t any trace of him until he surfaced in San Pedro, California, at the Port of Los Angeles,” Bobby said. “He was calling himself Raymond Woods then, and worked on cargo ships sailing the Far East routes. Did that for thirteen years, and most of the time he was out of the country. Back in San Pedro, he suddenly disappeared, and surfaced a year later, in Oklahoma, using the name Ray Wyatt. Tended bar for a while—that’s when his fingerprints entered the system again. Three weeks after he started, he was fired for drinking on the job and left Oklahoma. He probably wandered around the country, doing odd jobs in the underground economy, never lighting in one place long enough to show up on the official radar. Finally, a little more than a year ago, he stopped moving around. That’s when his Social Security number popped up.”

  I had the sensation that my stomach was filled with ice water. Cold perspiration dampened my hairline; I felt it beading on the top of my skull. My hands—one holding the receiver and one on my desk—were clenched so hard the knuckles were white. I forced my voice to sound calm as I asked the most important question in this conversation: “Where is he now?”