by P. J. Conn
"Sure do, thank you." He wrote it down and got the directions. "What time does it start?"
"Usually around 10 o'clock. That's the time we always get there. The caterers must arrive earlier because the food is always laid out."
"Fine. I'll be there, and if you see me, don't let on that we know each other."
"I got it, you'll be working undercover."
"I will. Give me your name and telephone number in case I need them." He held his breath and hoped she wouldn't doubt why he needed them.
"It’s Pamela Smyth, with a y," she responded and also supplied her number.
"Thanks, good-bye." Joe pumped his fist in the air. Sometimes, too seldom, unfortunately, help came from an unexpected source, and he always followed up on it.
Now he needed a white coat like caterers wear. He checked the telephone book, called a local costume place, and reserved one such jacket. He had dark slacks and shoes, so he was all set.
* * *
Mary Margaret wasn't nearly as thrilled with the idea as Joe was. "You think the man who murdered Cookie will be there. How do you plan to approach him? Good evening, sir, would you like a shrimp, and by the way, did you kill Cookie Crumble?"
Joe picked her up and swung her around in his arms. "I'll be more discreet. I'm going to watch how things play out. Tom Green, Casper's son, wouldn't talk with me if I knocked on his frat house door, but he'll be his usual self tonight. All I have to do is pass hors d' oeuvres, watch, and listen."
She stepped out of his arms. "And ask a few questions, I'll bet."
"Sure, but not provocative ones. I mainly want to see who's there."
"What if Casper recognizes you?"
"He'll know I need the money, and won't suspect anything underhanded. What's the worst that could happen? The catering crew might tell their boss I don't belong, but I'll bet they're hired from job to job and won't know who's part of the crew and who isn't."
"You're depending on everything going your way," she argued. "If Casper Green invites pretty girls, I could slip in with the starlets. No one would know the difference."
"True, you're awfully cute, but I'd worry about you drowning in the pool, and then I’d not get anything done." He gave her a quick good-bye kiss and left her cottage before she could insist he take her along. He hadn't given her the address, so she wouldn't be able to show up on her own. Unless Casper Green's address was in the telephone book, and he sure hoped it wasn't.
* * *
While Beverly Hills had wide streets hugging the hills, Joe drove slowly to avoid a crash with anyone coming downhill. Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford had built their mansion, Pickfair, on Summit Drive, and Casper Green lived not too far away. So many celebrities had moved to Beverly Hills, Joe could probably knock on any door and find a movie star who'd not want to know him.
Casper Green's home had a wide circular driveway, and the caterer's truck, with Hollywood Catering in fancy script decorating the side, was parked near the gate to the patio and backyard. Joe dodged the valets and parked on the street. He pulled on his white coat as he neared the truck, and his plan worked even better than expected.
"So you finally decided to show up, did you?" a large man in a white jacket and chef's hat yelled. "We're short a man tonight and need all these trays out on the patio now. Grab a cap and take the crab cakes and get moving!"
"Yes, sir." Joe placed the paper busboy's cap at a jaunty angle, lifted the tray from the rack, and followed the path to the patio with a brisk step. Casper stood near the dimly lit pool house ready to greet his guests. He held a drink and took a sample from each tray passing by. Joe kept his head down and slowed as he came by him.
He lowered his voice, "Care for a crab cake, sir?"
"Sure, these are my favorites." Casper was distracted as the next man came into the patio, and Joe placed his tray on the long table and returned to the truck for another.
Once the hors d' oeuvres were on display, the chef stationed his men on the far side of the table to refill or remove the trays when needed. It was an easy job, and Joe kept his eye on the partygoers as well as the food.
The proportion of pretty girls to the male guests was as lopsided as Lily Montell had described. The men were casually dressed in sport shirts and slacks, while most of girls wore one or two-piece bathing suits. It was a warm September night, but he wondered how they dressed for the winter parties.
He slipped an empty tray under a filled one and rearranged the spacing on the table. The chef saw him and came over.
"Good work, you've got more initiative than most."
"Thank you," Joe called as the chef walked down the long table guiding other men to keep pace with the guests' appetites.
Pamela Smyth, the red-haired dancehall girl, wore a black polka dot two-piece bathing suit, and looked much prettier than she had wearing thick make-up for the movie. He kept his head down when she came over to say hello.
"I'm just tempted by the crab cakes, I won't give you away," she whispered. "What do you think of the party?"
"It's terrific, but are you interested in any of the men?" he responded.
"Not the ones who could be my father's friends, although the smell of money turns other girl's heads. I'm more sensible." She winked at him and drifted away toward the pool.
Joe saw Lily Montell talking with a nice-looking man who smiled and touched her arm when he spoke. They entered the main house through a side door and weren't followed.
A fair-haired young man joined the girls in the pool, splashing, dipping, and diving beneath them. With no other young men present, he had to be Tom Green. He came out of the water long enough for Joe to judge just how handsome a young man he truly was. He had a sleek, muscular build, and a wicked grin he used often. When he returned to the pool, several of the swimming 'starlets' clustered around him.
Joe kept an eye-out for Brett Wyatt, but he didn't arrive until the party was well underway. He took a few hors d' oeuvres from the far end of the long table and didn't come close enough to recognize Joe. He chatted with others, but kept turned to watch the girls cavort in the water.
Tom Green left the pool holding hands with a pretty brunette in a green bathing suit. They entered the pool house, and stayed there. Joe wondered if that was his usual pattern. Maybe he romanced a different girl at every party, and Cookie had mistakenly believed his flattering lies. A lover's quarrel could have grown violent, and Tom could have called Stuart Helms to ask for his help stowing the body. Maybe both of the young men had been too drunk to think past a refrigerator in a vacant apartment. It was plausible, and he'd add the possibility to his bulletin board when he got to the office in the morning.
There was no sign of Corky from Sherry's. Then again, Cookie wasn't there either. If she'd been the only reason he'd been invited, the bouncer wouldn't come again.
They were nearly down to the last crab cake and bacon-wrapped chicken liver when Joe saw Edwin Mooney, a man whose brother, Curtis, had been a patient at the VA hospital where Mary Margaret worked. Crystal Cavanaugh, a beautiful young woman who knew many of Los Angeles's wealthiest men had described Edwin as a mean drunk. Edwin could have met Cookie there, and Joe would add his name to the bulletin board.
The chef came by to collect his men. They left the remaining food on plates Casper Green supplied, carried the empty trays out to the truck, and slid them into the racks made for them. The chef paid them all two dollars for three hours work, which was generous.
"We've got work for you any time you want it," he told Joe, and slipped him an extra dollar. "Call the office and Sylvia will tell you where we'll be."
"Thank you, I'll do that," Joe replied. He removed the cap and white coat and climbed into his car laughing. It was too late to call Mary Margaret, but he'd take her to dinner tomorrow night and describe every minute detail.
* * *
Friday morning, Joe drove Stuart and his parents to Gladys Swartz’s office. Doreen began to complain soon after she got into the car. "I just
don't feel right about hiring a woman, Leon. Is she any good?"
"She's an excellent attorney," Joe assured her. "She'll argue her clients' cause effectively in court or on the police station steps. Wherever it's needed. Ask her if she wins most of her cases. I'll bet she does."
"Wouldn't a man be more forceful?" Doreen asked.
Leon's patience grew thin. "Let's meet her before we make any judgments, dear. I agree we need the best attorney we can afford, and she may be the wisest choice."
"Well, I hope so," Doreen murmured under her breath.
Striving to appear professional, Joe had dressed in the navy blue suit he saved for weddings and funerals. Gladys Swartz's firm had an impressive set of offices in a building in downtown Los Angeles, and he wanted to look as though he belonged. The receptionist welcomed them warmly and showed them to Gladys' office.
The attorney rose to greet them, and gestured for them to take seats. She was a stunning blonde who wore her hair pulled back in a clip at her nape. Had she worn it falling free, she could easily have been mistaken for Veronica Lake. Her black suit showed off her shapely figure, and her smile disarmed the Helms' family completely.
Joe provided her with the few known details of the crime. "I've found no trace of the Thorntons who'd rented the apartment. If the police have found them, they haven't told us, and there's been no mention of the case in the newspapers."
"So the authorities appear to be stymied," she mused thoughtfully. "Tell me about your arrest, Stuart. Were you taken off the USC campus?"
Stuart and his father had worn their best suits. The younger man sat up in his chair, and adjusted his jacket for a better fit. "Yes. They were wearing LAPD uniforms, and I've never been so scared. I know nothing about Cookie's death, but how can I prove it?"
Gladys kept the surface of her desk free of clutter and took no notes as they spoke. "Do you have an alibi for the weekend she died?"
"That's the problem," Stuart complained. "Cookie performed last at Sherry's on Saturday night. Her body was found the following Wednesday. Because her time of death isn't certain, I need alibis for several days. My fraternity brothers will swear I was at the house that weekend, but all of us come and go, and that's not good enough, is it?"
"You're assumed to be innocent, Stuart, and the prosecution must prove you're guilty. Is the location of the body all they have?"
"I don't know," he exclaimed. "If they arrested me, they must know something I don't."
"I sincerely doubt it." Gladys sat forward. "I'll go with you to the arraignment this afternoon, and you'll plead, 'Not Guilty.' That's all you'll say. During the discovery phase, the DA must let us see all of his evidence. Detective Lynch is involved in the case?"
Joe answered, "He is. After what he did to Hal, I'd hoped to never see him again."
"We'll collapse him like a folding chair," the attorney responded. She pulled a sheet of paper from her desk drawer and handed it to Leon. "These are my rates. Would you care to study it a minute? My fees are comparable to other attorneys handling criminal cases."
Leon scanned the sheet hurriedly. "This isn't the time to scrimp. Thank you for offering to represent my son. We can't bear the thought of him spending another hour in jail, let alone serve time in prison for a crime he didn't commit."
"Wait a minute," Doreen asked, sitting forward. "How many of your cases have you won?"
Understanding her concern, Gladys smiled rather than be insulted. "All of them, because I'm always thorough and well-prepared."
"All right then," Doreen responded. "Where do we sign?"
Joe bit his lip rather than laugh out loud, but Gladys Swartz had easily convinced them of her interest and concern for their son. He'd had the photo he'd taken of Stuart developed at Pete's Cameras, and handed it to Gladys in a brown envelope.
"Stuart was assaulted by one of the other men in the holding cell. If he's not safe for an hour in the central jail, then he shouldn't be forced to return there and face further abuse while he awaits a trail."
Gladys studied the photo. "Excellent shot with the jail in the background. Your black eye is evidence of the altercation, Stuart. May I assume you didn't start it?"
"Of course, he wouldn't," Doreen exclaimed.
"I can answer for myself, Mom. Yes, you may. Eugene made some snide remark about having to share a cell with a college kid and socked me in the eye before I could dodge out of the way."
"I'll use this," Gladys assured them.
"Do you think I can go back to my classes at USC?" Stuart asked.
"Yes, if you live at home, and don't hang out at the fraternity house. You must look like a serious student, not one who loves to party. I hope to have the charges dismissed, and you shouldn't lose a whole semester because you weren't in class for a week or two. Why don't you go to lunch, and I'll meet you at the courthouse at two o'clock."
"I don't think I can eat," Doreen responded.
"Then we'll go to Bullock's, and do a bit of shopping," Leon suggested. He took her hand as they left their chairs, and guided her toward the door. Stuart followed.
"Thank you," Joe paused to say, and Gladys responded with one of her beautiful smiles. He didn't need to spend any time shopping, and told Leon he'd go to lunch and meet them later.
"May I go with you?" Stuart asked. "I don't care how scared I get, I'm still hungry."
"Be at the courthouse early," Leon warned.
"Of course, I will," Stuart promised.
Joe intended to see that he did. He took Stuart to a deli nearby and ordered corned-beef on rye. Stuart went with pastrami. The place was crowded, and they had to sit at a small table placed against the wall.
Joe waited until he'd taken several bites of the delicious sandwich before he spoke. "You come across as a clean-cut kid, and Mrs. Swartz will make a good case for your remaining free on bail."
Stuart nodded and continued to eat his savory sandwich.
"Last night, I went to Casper Green's wrap party for Arizona Sunrise. There were lots of pretty girls, but Tom was the only young man there. What kind of car was he driving when he and Cookie picked you up to go to El Vaquero?"
Stuart had to take a swallow of water before he replied. "He had his father's Cadillac. The studio sends someone to pick-up Mr. Green when they're shooting a film, so most days he doesn't need the car, and Tom drives it. Why do you ask?"
"Cookie was often picked up at Sherry's by a young man driving a Cadillac; it's likely it was Tom."
"So? That doesn't mean he killed her," Stuart argued. "Why would he? There are plenty of girls vying for his attention."
"Because his father is a director, or for his looks and charm?"
"Probably both. If you've seen Tom, you know how good-looking he is. He's a Kappa Sig at USC, and his father is a movie director. What's not to like?"
"Good point. If he finds girls easy to get, how does he treat them?"
"How should I know? I've never been on a date with him."
"Cut the attitude, Stuart," Joe cautioned. "Your father hired me to solve Cookie's murder, and if I have to look under every rock to do so, I'll head out to the Irwindale Quarry and get busy."
Stuart regarded Joe with a befuddled look. "It all comes back to the refrigerator, doesn't it? Shouldn't Mrs. Swartz pin the crime on the Thorntons? Why haven't the police found them?"
"An excellent tactic I'm sure she'll use." Joe glanced at his watch, and finished the last bite of his sandwich. "Let's wash up in the restroom so we don't look like we ate as well as we did for lunch."
Stuart came along, took a glimpse at his shiny chin, and saw the need to clean up. "I hope I don't throw up in court," he murmured.
Joe slapped him on the back. "You'll do fine."
* * *
They met his parents outside the assigned courtroom, and Gladys Swartz joined them soon after. She carried a black briefcase and with her easy confidence, looked thoroughly at home in the courthouse.
"Just listen, Stuart, and don't react to
whatever the prosecutor says," she reminded him.
"I understand," he promised.
Joe held the door, and their small parade entered the courtroom with Gladys leading. She whispered, "Don't worry, this judge likes to grant bail when the case calls for it." When Stuart's name was called, she stood beside him.
"The charge is murder in the first degree," the judge announced. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Swartz, it's always a pleasure to see you in our courtroom. What is your plea, Mr. Helms?"
Stuart swallowed hard. "Not guilty, sir."
The prosecutor was a chubby young fellow, who wiped the perspiration from his brow with his handkerchief, and shuffled the papers in front of him. He described Stuart as a serious threat to the community and requested bail be denied.
"What are your thoughts, Mrs. Swartz?"
"Stuart Helms's home and family are in Los Angeles. He is a student in good standing at USC. He has no previous arrests, and the bail already set is appropriate. May I approach the bench?"
"Of course."
She handed him the photograph showing Stuart's black eye. "The defendant was assaulted within minutes of his arrest by another man held in detention. He should not be placed at further risk by a return to a jail where clearly he isn't safe."
The judge showed the photograph to the prosecutor, but didn't allow him time to comment. "I agree, Mrs. Swartz, defendant is released on the current bail bond." He checked his calendar to set a preliminary hearing several weeks away. "You understand you must be here, Mr. Helms?"
"Yes, sir. I will be."
As they left the courtroom, Gladys hesitated and spoke softly to the prosecutor. "You don't have a case, better drop it now rather than look like a fool at the preliminary hearing."
The man's eyes narrowed. "You'll be the one looking foolish, Mrs. Swartz."
She smiled. "Not even possible."
Joe had heard what she'd said and tried not to laugh as the prosecutor waddled by again whipping his brow.
Chapter 11
Joe became so involved in telling Mary Margaret about the last couple of days, he ate most of his French fries before he tasted his hamburger. The Jumpin' Plate was crowded on a Friday night, but they were in a booth where they could talk without having to shout.
