by P. J. Conn
"Not much, but one of his frat brothers partied with Cookie at a Hollywood movie director's house parties."
Leon turned his back to the patio. "Casper Green's son, you mean? I've seen a couple of Green's Westerns, but they don't measure up to what Roy Rogers produces."
"In what way?" Joe asked, relieved Leon hadn't fired him for questioning Stuart.
"He has all the necessary components, wild towns with noisy saloons and over-worked sheriffs, plenty of dusty cowboys, and a greedy rancher, or maybe a banker, who's causing trouble. There has to be a man who'll stand up to the villain, and a beautiful young woman, usually the schoolmarm. But the stories lack heart, and are easy to forget."
Joe feared he'd been part of just such a trite film. He'd wait until the movie came out and Leon recognized him before he'd admit it though. "I know what you mean. There's plenty of action, but not much real content."
"Exactly, and I'm afraid that's what Brett Wayne writes," Leon added.
"Probably. Anyway, I'm working on several promising angles."
"Keep me posted. I've left messages for Detective Lynch, but he doesn't return my calls."
"The police have their own methods, but they aren't chatty about them. They have the resources to find the Thorntons. Let's hope they use them soon."
"I'll say." Leon bent down to turn on the hose, and Joe went on his way.
* * *
Once at the office, Joe studied his bulletin board. If Brett Wayne had written scripts for Casper Green, he might have attended wrap parties and recognized Alice Reyes as Cookie Crumble. She wouldn't have gone in her schoolgirl costume, but she wouldn't have hidden it when it was her one claim to fame. It was an intriguing thought and placed the writer on the growing suspect list.
Staring at the telephone had never prompted any calls, so he drove to the Salvation Army thrift store to look through their art. Perhaps "art" was too generous a term to use, but at the back of the store where the paintings leaned against the wall, he found a California desert scene complete with a towering eucalyptus in the foreground. The frame was battered, but there was an amateurish portrait of a clown in a simple gold frame that would do fine. He carried both works to the cashier.
The cashier made no comment on his purchases, and Joe carried them both to his car. He opened the trunk for a space to work, and switched the frames. He made sure no one was looking, and chucked the garish clown and battered frame in the trash where they surely belonged.
* * *
CC produced a hammer and a picture hanger from his utility closet, and held the painting up for Joe to decide where to place it. In such a small office, there weren't many possibilities.
Joe went out into the hall and came back through his office door. The file cabinet and philodendron were to his left. He had posted his private investigator license beside the window behind his desk, and the bare wall to his right called for attention.
"Let's place it in the middle of the wall, at eye level." He took the painting while CC placed the brass hanger, and then hung it with pride. With the new attractive frame, the painting looked to be worth far more than what he'd paid. It was signed by someone he'd never heard of, but that didn't mean it might not grow in value over the years.
"Looks good, Mr. Ezell," CC said. "Brightens up the place. It's almost like having another window facing the desert."
Joe stood beside him. "It does. I need another hook on the wall behind my desk to hang a bulletin board." He moved to pick it up. "This is just for me, I don't plan to leave it up when clients are here."
CC pulled another picture hook from his pocket. "What about right here even with the window?"
"That's good. Thank you."
The custodian hung the bulletin board on the new hook. "You're welcome. I'm here every day to help, Mr. Ezell. You have a nice day."
Once alone, Joe sat down at his desk and enjoyed simply observing the soft greens, tans, and ambers of his new painting. The artist had added a wisp of cloud in the clear azure sky, and he liked the idea of pretending it was another window into a completely different world. It was the first bit of artwork he'd ever owned, and it gave his office a real touch of class. Inspired, he decided a rug would be nice to have under the two chairs there for clients. He'd have to return to the Salvation Army soon and see what they had that would complement his new painting. He laughed knowing he wasn't the only one relying on the thrift store for their decorating needs.
* * *
Fred Cooper met Joe at the door of his barbershop, invited him in, and locked the door behind him. "I called my aunt Ida and told her it had been too long since I saw her and Mother, and she invited me to come over tonight. I know the way, so I'll drive."
"Fine. From what I've found, if I broach a subject, and then remain quiet, people will rush to fill the silence with information they wouldn't have volunteered had I questioned them."
Fred kept his Ford sedan in the small parking lot behind his shop, and they exited through the shop's rear door. The car was newer than Joe's Chevy, but that was no surprise. A barber could count on a steady income, and he couldn't. They made their way through the downtown traffic and took the Arroyo Seco Parkway to Pasadena.
Ida Sparks lived in a neighborhood filled with the bungalow homes made popular by the Arts and Crafts movement at the turn of the century. Built of wood and natural stone, her home sat nestled in a slightly overgrown, but welcoming front garden. Fred led the way up the walk and rang the bell. They could hear the musical chime from deep within the house.
Ida came to the door smiling widely and gave Fred a quick hug. She was a slender woman with gray hair, blue eyes, and a lovely pale peach complexion. "So nice to see you, honey. Even if your mother doesn't always remember you, I do. Who's this you've brought with you?"
"I'm Joe Ezell, a friend of Fred's, and he invited me to come along."
"Good. We love to have company. Come right in, the both of you. Your mother is in the living room looking through magazines, something she loves to do. It fills the time for her. You'd probably rather have a beer than tea, but we don't serve alcohol in this house."
Her home was beautifully furnished with fine examples of Stickley furniture, one of the Arts and Crafts movement's most celebrated designers who stressed simplicity, honesty, and truth in his construction and materials. He built solid oak furniture and with the proper care and attention, it might last several centuries. Unfortunately, it wasn't what people were buying after the war when there was a fierce craving for the new and modern.
Fred bent down to give his mother a kiss on the cheek, and her eyes twinkled as she looked up at him. "Is that you, William? It's been much too long since you came to see me."
"William was my father's brother," Fred whispered to Joe. He took a place on the sofa beside his mother and kept her hand in his. "I'm Fred, Mama. Have Kate and Sue been to see you?"
His mother looked to Ida. "Have they been here? I can't seem to recall."
"Yes, they have, Lillian. They like to come by on Sunday after church when they can. I have the tea all ready for us."
As she turned toward the kitchen, Joe offered to help and followed her down the hallway. An array of family portraits were displayed along the wall, weddings, christenings, and graduations were all remembered. Joe stopped in front of a photograph of a man who closely resembled Fred. "Is this Fred's father?" he asked.
Ida stopped and came back to him. "That's his uncle William. This is Fred's father, Paul, here." She tapped her finger on the frame of a photo showing a man with the same black hair and blue eyes, but he wasn't nearly as handsome as his brother.
"I know what you're thinking," Ida remarked. "Clearly William got the looks, but Paul was the better man, and my sister knew it. Paul loved being a family man, and William, well, he never did settle down."
"Is he still living?" Joe inquired.
"Haven't heard from him in a couple of years. At Christmastime, he used to send us delicious fruitcakes filled with pecans a
nd cherries. I miss those, but not him."
Joe followed her into the kitchen, and carried the tea tray out to the living room. Along with the teapot and cups, a plate of lemon cookies beckoned, and Joe waited for Fred to take one first before he sampled them.
"These are delicious!" Joe exclaimed. "My fiancée is a fantastic cook, but she doesn't bake many pastries."
"Everything my aunt bakes is delicious," Fred agreed.
"It's all in how I mix the ingredients," she explained. "Some people are in too big a hurry, and the flavors need to be coaxed to be their best. I'll send both you boys home with some cookies."
"Thank you," Joe replied. "I'd love to share them with my fiancée."
"I always try to get home with your treats Aunt Ida, but I usually eat them on the way," Fred confessed.
"Well, put them in the trunk of your car and you won't be tempted," she exclaimed.
"Why haven't I thought of that?" Fred laughed, and talked about his sisters for a while with his mother. She recalled how much they'd loved going to school. "I made all their pretty dresses."
"You were a fine seamstress, and they always looked real cute." He waited for his mother to swallow the last bite of a cookie before he mentioned meeting a man who looked just like him. He nodded to Joe and took the photograph the detective offered.
"His name is Phillip Fitzgerald, and he's an architect. He was also born on November 11, 1911."
His mother studied the photo. "Are you sure this isn't William?"
"Positive. Do you remember the night I was born, Mama?"
Lillian turned to Ida who was seated on her left. "He was such a beautiful baby."
"Yes, he was," Ida agreed. "Don't press your mother for anything more." Her tone was pleasant, but her stern expression made it a curt order rather than a polite request. "All your babies were beautiful, but Sue was especially cute with all her curls."
Joe sat back in his chair. They needed to speak with Ida alone, but it would probably be a waste of time. The pride in her posture had stiffened, and she'd keep whatever she knew to herself. Clearly she knew something Fred ought to know.
They stayed nearly an hour, and Fred and Joe left with bags of cookies to take home. Fred promised to come back soon and bring his family. "I should be a better son," he murmured as he started his car.
"My parents died before the war, and I'd love to be able to visit them."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to complain. My aunt Ida knows more than she's telling."
"I got the same impression. Would she talk with you if you came alone?" Joe asked.
"Probably not. If you're wondering about my uncle William, he more closely resembled my grandfather than my father did. So while I might be said to look like my uncle, it's really my grandfather looking back at me in the mirror. I heard jokes about it growing up, but I've always known which man was my father."
Joe wondered if he really did.
Chapter 9
Mary Margaret prepared an incredibly tasty potato leek soup for dinner with freshly baked cornbread. They saved the lemon cookies for dessert. "Let's say you were a midwife and delivered one of your sister's babies," Joe began. "Would you recall details of that night years later?"
"Of course, I would," she insisted. "Emotion-charged events cling in our memories. That's why soldiers have such a difficult time forgetting bloody war battles. Were you interviewing a particularly forgetful midwife today?"
He told her about his visit with Fred to his aunt Ida. "She was very warm and charming until Fred asked about the night he was born. She closed up like the proverbial clam, as though she'd been insulted. To add to the fun, Fred looks more like his uncle William than his father, but he calls it merely a family resemblance."
"Oh, this is getting exciting," she exclaimed. "Will you please pass the butter? Thank you. I'll bet Ida recalls everything about Fred's birth, the time of day, the weather, how difficult or easy the birth might have been, and how Fred's father behaved. Some men are thrilled by the prospect of having a son, other men faint dead away. That means the midwife has two patients, not one."
"The birth of twins would be doubly difficult to forget, wouldn't it?" he asked.
"Yes, indeed. What are the chances Uncle William could have had an affair with Fred's twin's mother? It might be possible, but unlikely the boys would be born on the same day and resemble each other so closely."
"Highly unlikely," he agreed. He had a second bowl of soup and another piece of cornbread. "What makes the food you prepare taste so good?"
She reached for his hand. "It's the love you're tasting, my dear. Every delectable bite is a taste of love."
He squeezed her fingers and grew certain he'd died and gone to heaven.
* * *
Wednesday morning, Leon Helms ran up the stairs to knock on Joe's apartment door. He gasped and sputtered, "Stuart has been arrested for Cookie Crumble's murder! What should we do?"
Joe had been ready to leave for his office, and was fully dressed this time. "Come in. I'll call a bail bondsman I know. He's an expert at this sort of thing."
"How can you be so calm? Detective Lynch arrested Stuart for murder!"
"Do you believe he did it?" Joe asked.
"No, but he's my son. Who's going to believe me?"
"I believe you." Joe assured him. In his view, Stuart was a possibility, but a dim one when there were so many other suspects. An hour later, they were seated in Lou King's office. They'd stopped at Leon's bank on the way, and he had a thousand dollars cash in his wallet.
The bail bondsman exuded a quiet strength. In a bespoke gray suit, a white dress shirt, and a colorful silk tie, he proved himself to be a successful businessman without uttering a word.
"But Stuart would never have strangled a woman, let alone stuffed her into a refrigerator in one of our apartments!" Leon exclaimed. "That's just absurd."
Lou nodded sympathetically. "I made a call soon after you contacted me, and Stuart's bail has been set at five thousand dollars. I charge ten percent for the bond, and it's not refundable. Do you need time to think about it?"
"What's the alternative?" Leon asked, nearly in tears.
Lou flashed a disarming smile. "Stuart will remain in jail until the arraignment, Friday afternoon, and the judge could decide he'll stay there throughout the trial."
"His mother wants Stuart home, and so do I."
"Then we'll go ahead with the bond." Lou had the paperwork readied, and Leon signed with a shaky hand. He counted out five hundred dollar bills, and laid them on Lou's desk.
Lou swept the money into his top drawer. "You'll need to have an attorney at the arraignment. Do you know a criminal attorney?" he asked.
"No, of course not. No one in my family has ever been arrested, not even for unpaid parking tickets." He turned to Joe. "What should we do?"
"Gladys Swartz did an excellent job for one of my clients. Let's call and see if she's available," Joe suggested.
"Mrs. Swartz is a fine defense attorney," Lou agreed, "but she's very particular about the cases she accepts. I have a list of other excellent attorneys should she not be available."
"Do you mind if we call from here?" Joe asked.
"Not at all. Use the first office down the hall." He stood and led the way to an office slightly smaller than his own. It was decorated with pale blue walls and a navy blue carpet that imbued the room with a peaceful sense of calm.
Joe waited until Lou had left to close the door and call his friend Hal Marten. "I hate to bother you at work, but my landlord's son has been arrested. Would you give me Gladys's office number?"
"Is this the Cookie Crumble case?" Hal asked.
"Yes, and Detective Lynch has gone for an easy arrest rather than search for the actual killer."
Hal described the detective with some well-chosen words before supplying the telephone number. "That's Gladys's office. If she can't take the case, perhaps someone else in her firm can."
"Thank you, Hal."
J
oe drew in a deep breath. Leon wore khaki slacks and a lavender Hawaiian shirt with lime green palm trees. "That's a terrific shirt, but you'll want to wear a suit to meet with an attorney and whenever Stuart has to be in court. Judges are big on respect, and they might regard it as too casual for the courtroom."
Leon looked down, noticed his buttons were misaligned and quickly fixed them. "I grabbed the first shirt in the closet, but I understand. I should look like an upstanding citizen to emphasize Stuart comes from a good home."
"That's it." Joe dialed Gladys's number, a secretary answered, and he had to wait for the attorney to come on the line. He and Mary Margaret had gone to dinner with her and Hal, so they had met. He reminded her he was Hal's golf buddy before he explained Leon Helm's desperate need for an attorney.
"The need is always desperate," she responded, a sly smile in her voice. "Thank you for thinking of me. Arrange for bail today, and I can meet Stuart and his father Friday morning. We'll plan for the afternoon arraignment then."
Joe put his hand over the phone to check with Leon, who said he would be available whenever necessary. "Fine, we'll be there. Thank you." Joe hung up and leaned against the desk. "How is Doreen taking this?"
"Not at all well, as you may imagine. She's lying on the sofa with a cold compress on her eyes. Do you think you can find who really killed Cookie before Stuart has to go on trial?"
Joe thought of his bulletin board. He had plenty of suspects, but doubted anyone would confess spontaneously. "I'm closing in on them, Leon."
"Good. I'm trying not to cry because it would be so unmanly, but I sure feel like it."
"I understand." Joe gripped Leon's shoulder. "Stuart will be released soon. Think about how happy Doreen will be to see him."
"Yes, that's a good thought. Thank you."
* * *
Stuart joined them after having spent only one morning in jail, but he looked much the worse for the wear. "Did Detective Lynch or one of his men give you that black eye?" Joe asked.
"No, sir, it was a man in the holding cell with me. He took exception with his fists to the fact that I'm a college student. His name was Eugene something or other."
