by P. J. Conn
Anxious to hear the whole story, Joe leaned forward, and remained quiet rather than interrupt with questions she'd not had time to answer. Her hair curled around her cheeks, and without the dramatic make-up she wore at Sherry's, she looked years younger. Clearly she was a finer actress than she thought if she could turn herself into the sophisticated Lily Montell at will.
"I should have asked if you'd like something to drink."
"No, thank you," he assured her. "May I bring you something?"
She handed him a glass with melting ice cubes in the bottom. "Water would be good."
The kitchen was off the living room, and he added more ice cubes, and filled the glass with water from the sink. Just to satisfy his curiosity, he opened the refrigerator, and was grateful it contained only the makings for meals and condiments. He hurried back to her.
"How did the audition go?" he asked.
"In the beginning, quite well. Casper sent a taxi to bring me to his home, and I thought it wouldn't take long and had the man wait. I read the part of a guest at a wedding who makes small talk with the young man seated beside her before the ceremony begins. When the minister asks if anyone has a reason why the couple shouldn't marry, the young man next to me was to leap to his feet and insist he and the bride were already wed.
"A fight breaks out between the man and the groom. The bride sorts out her feelings, and leaves on her honeymoon with the man she'd previously wed. My character comforts the jilted groom, but I had no more lines.
"Casper complimented me and gave me the part." She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. "It was a comedy, and Casper's manner was so friendly, I didn't expect him to suddenly turn amorous. When he pulled me into his arms, I laughed and pushed him away, but he tightened his hold on me. I told him to let me go as forcefully as I could, but instead he slid his hands around my throat and frightened me so badly I kicked him hard in the shins.
"He punched me as he let me go and told me if I ever spoke a word to anyone about what had happened between us that afternoon, I could forget the movie role. I no longer wanted it, and took the taxi home."
"Last night, the ladies at Sherry's didn't know where you were."
"When I got home, I called the manager and told him I was ill and needed a few days off. Perhaps he told them later."
Joe thought of the crime photographer, but he wasn't ready to call Detective Lynch. "What do you think the chances are that Casper Green tried the same tactics with Cookie Crumble?"
"The thought terrified me, and that's why I fought him so hard."
"Would you object to having a photographer come and take photographs of your bruises?"
She took a sip of water, but it didn't ease her raspy voice. "Not at all. Casper grabbed me, and hit me with his left hand. Not many men are left-handed. Cookie's bruises might prove she'd also been hit by a left-handed man."
"It would be important evidence if they do." He used her telephone to call Pete Foster and ask him if he had time to take photos that would be vital in a murder case. Greatly intrigued, Pete said he'd close the shop and be right over.
"I'm so sorry this happened to you," Joe told her. "It makes me wonder how many other young actresses were afraid to complain when Casper Green took advantage of them."
"If they valued their careers, they probably went along with his advances," she responded. "I'd not thought of Cookie as being particularly principled, and the price may have been her life."
"Could your friend have known what Casper really wanted?"
She looked away. "I'd like to believe he didn't, but I shed a lot of tears over it last night. Maybe nothing he's told me is true."
Rather than volunteer to check on him for her, Joe remained silent until Pete arrived.
* * *
The photographer set down his equipment bag, took one look at Lily, and winced. "Shouldn't you be in a hospital?"
"Is my face really that bad?" she asked. "I'm avoiding mirrors."
"I'm sorry," Pete responded. "I don't want to make you feel any worse than you already do. The light is good where you're seated. Let's take a couple to show your neck and face, and then a few close-ups on your neck. That bruise will fade first, and the point is to document your injuries, isn't it?"
"It is," Joe answered.
Lily sat still for the photos, and then loosened the belt on her robe. She sloughed it off her shoulders to reveal deep purple bruises in her upper arms. "Get these too, please."
Pete took several more photos. "Did you make a police report?"
"We will soon," Joe assured him.
"Wait a minute," Lily raised a hand. "I want this to be about what happened to Cookie rather than what happened to me."
"It will be, but we need to do this right. May I use your telephone again to call Stuart's attorney? She'll know how we should proceed."
"Sure, go ahead," Lily responded.
Joe made a quick call to Gladys Swartz and described Lily's injuries. "We've taken photos, and her bruises may match those Cookie suffered. What should we do next?"
"Give me the address, and I'll be there within the hour."
He provided directions and turned to Lily. "Gladys will be over soon."
She glanced around her living room. "I didn't plan on entertaining company."
"Everything looks fine," Pete assured her. "I'll wait to see if the attorney wants more photos."
"Good plan," Joe agreed. "If you feel like taking a nap, Lily, go ahead, and I'll wake you when Mrs. Swartz arrives."
"Give me a hand up, please."
Joe offered a light hold on her fingertips and eased her to her feet. "Can you make it on your own?"
"Sure, there's nothing wrong with my feet."
Pete waited until Lily had closed her bedroom door before he whispered, "Is she a stripper?"
"She is, and a very fine one, but because of it some people will dismiss her testimony out of hand. We can't allow that to happen."
When Gladys arrived, she urged Joe not to wake Lily as yet. "We want to offer the DA a suspect so compelling the charges against Stuart Helms will be dropped." She took a place on the sofa, and opened her briefcase. She removed a pad of paper and a pen. "Tell me how your investigation has gone thus far."
Joe pulled his notebook from his pocket. He'd reviewed his notes so often he knew them by heart. "Cookie spent a lot of time with Casper Green's son, Tom, who often came to Sherry's to see her act. Lily had been invited to Casper Green's parties, and he asked her to bring Cookie. He might have seen her at Sherry's, or heard about her from his son. Either way, Cookie wanted to be a movie star, and she would have been thrilled at an introduction to a director. He could have asked her to come to his home to read for a part, just as he did with Lily."
Gladys nodded thoughtfully. "Tom might have objected, or maybe he and his father routinely shared pretty girls." Pete had been introduced as a photographer, and when he gasped, she directed her next remark to him.
"From the morning Cookie Crumble was found dead, this hasn't been a pretty story. I want you to stay a while longer in case more photos are needed, but you can't say a word to anyone about this discussion. Is that clear? You can't entertain your girlfriend with even a mention of Cookie Crumble, or brag to your friends about meeting a stripper."
"Yes, ma'am. I understand."
Gladys waited a moment to make certain she'd been clear. "You saw the crime scene, Joe. What bruises did you see on Cookie?"
"There was a clear handprint on her right arm, but the way she was folded in half, I couldn't see more. Lily is alive, and it's far easier to examine the vivid bruises on her."
"Would you call her now, please?"
Joe knocked lightly on her door, and she covered a wide yawn as she joined them. She handed Gladys one of her publicity photos. "This is how I look as Lily Montell. My real name is Bernice Ross."
"Very elegant costume and pose, Bernice," the attorney responded. She studied the young woman's injuries, and asked about the photos taken. "
You need to make a police report, but you're much too weak to visit the station. We'll call and request an officer come here to take your statement."
Lily drew in a deep breath. "Go ahead, I've nothing to lose."
Gladys leaned close. "No, you've a great deal to lose. You're a lovely young woman, and can't perform your act in your present battered condition. If you suffer any permanent damage, your career could be jeopardized. Don't pretend to be strong if you feel like crying."
"I'm as miserable as I look," Lily responded, "and couldn't pretend to be otherwise."
"Did the taxi driver notice your injuries as you left Casper Green's?" Joe asked.
"I kept my head down, and I don't believe so. He wasn't the friendly, talkative sort, and I was only a fare to him, nothing more."
"Do you remember the taxi company? Was it a Yellow Cab?"
"I'm sorry, no. I was thinking about being in a movie when he picked me up, and too hurt to care on the way home."
"Small problem," Joe assured her. "I know Casper's address, and I'll find which taxi company took a fare there yesterday, with a return trip to this address. If there's any question, we want to have proof you were there."
"Casper will say it's all lies, won't he?" Lily asked. "He could accuse me of attempting to extort money from him."
"Let's not borrow trouble," Gladys urged.
Joe understood Lily's concern. She was a stripper after all, and had been a frequent visitor to parties at the Green home. "I've had my suspicions about Brett Wayne. He lives in apartment one in my building, right across from apartment three where Cookie's body was found. He's written film scripts for Casper Green, and he could have known apartment three was empty, stowed the body there for Casper, and believed the murder would be blamed on the missing couple, the Thorntons."
"Brett comes to Sherry's and to Casper Green's," Lily added. "He's rather bashful, and doesn't bother anyone at either place. Could he know if Casper killed Cookie?"
"Why don't I have a chat with him and see?" Joe replied. "You should go ahead and make a police report. I made a note of Lily's number, and I'll check in with you here in an hour or so."
"Be careful," Gladys warned. "If Brett appears dangerous, call the police right away."
"I will," Joe promised.
Pete Foster left with him. "Abby lives in your building. Do you think she's safe?"
Joe paused with him on the front walk. "She and Brett never showed a particle of interest in each other, so I wouldn't worry. Remember you're not to breathe a whisper of what you heard or saw today, especially not to Abby, who lives so close to the crime scene."
"My lips are sealed. I'll get the photos developed this afternoon."
"Thanks, Pete." As he drove home, Joe considered ways to approach Brett Wayne. The screenwriter knew Lilly Montell, and should be sympathetic to her story. It was a way to begin, and then all he'd have to do was watch and listen to Brett's response.
* * *
Brett came to his door, and greeted Joe warmly. Joe didn't expect to be invited in, and immediately launched into his spiel. "You know Lily Montell from Sherry's?"
"Sure, she has that great 1920's siren act."
"That's her. Casper Green asked her to come to his home to read for a part in an upcoming movie, but what he really wanted was sex. When she refused, he beat her up. Do you think the same thing could have happened to Cookie Crumble?"
Brett spent most of his time indoors, but what faint tan he had instantly paled to a ghostly white. He shook his head, and sagged against the doorframe. "Have you asked anyone else about Casper?"
"Not yet," Joe lied. "You know him, and I wanted your opinion first."
The writer made a quick glance toward the patio, to reassure himself they were alone. "Come in, this is too upsetting to discuss out here." He stepped aside to let Joe enter his apartment first.
There were stacks of movie scripts on the sofa and chairs just as Brett had once described. Joe waited for him to clear a place to sit, and didn't see the lamp coming before it connected with the back of his head. His knees hit the carpet first, and he was out cold before his cheek smacked the floor.
Chapter 14
Joe awoke in the trunk of a car, which was bad enough, and to make matters worse, his wrists were so tightly bound his fingers were growing numb. He cursed as he hadn't since he'd left the Coast Guard, and he blamed himself for turning his back on Brett Wayne when he believed him to be complicit in Cookie's murder.
They were traveling on a road with more bumps and potholes than smooth pavement and bursts of pain shot through his skull with an excruciating rhythm. He felt sick to his stomach, which might have been from the cramped quarters, or he had suffered a concussion. He opted for the latter.
Mary Margaret wouldn't worry when he failed to pick her up after work. She'd simply assume a job had filled his afternoon, and that she'd hear from him later.
He'd told Gladys and Lily he'd be in touch soon, and they'd known where he was bound when he'd left them. They would have expected to hear from him in an hour or two, and when they didn't, Gladys would surely have called his office to check on him. When no one answered, she'd probably called the police and sent them to Brett Wayne's apartment. It was unlikely the police would follow up and look for him when he'd only been missing a couple of hours though.
He had no idea how long he'd been unconscious, and stuck in a dark car trunk, he couldn't tell whether it was still daytime, or if night had fallen. Maybe not enough time had passed for Gladys to grow concerned about him. She could still be plotting strategy with Lily and only occasionally glance at her watch. With his hands behind his back, his watch was of no use even if there had been some light filtering into the trunk to see it.
There should be a tire iron close enough to reach if he wiggled a bit, but added to the bouncing road, his head ached too badly to try. Instead, he concentrated on the knots tying his wrists. The Coast Guard had taught him more knots than a Boy Scout knew, but Brett had used what felt like clothesline around his hands, and the knot was too small to untie with clumsy numb fingers. He tried anyway, and jerked as best he could to create enough slack to pull his hands free.
He awoke with a start when the car stopped, and realized he'd passed out again. He could hear voices, two men were talking, probably Brett and Casper. This wasn't a movie where an extra could play dead, and then jump to his feet at the end of the scene. He hoped they realized it before he came to any further harm. Grasping surprise as a weapon, when they unlocked the trunk, he played dead, but he'd had a fast glimpse at the night sky.
"You said you just knocked him out. Did you kill him?"
Brett reached into the trunk to check the pulse in Joe's throat. "No, his heart is still beating. Let's just leave him here. We're too far out of town for him to get home on his own, and there's no one around to rescue him. Help me get him out of the trunk."
Joe went limp and the two men struggled to pull him out and place him on the ground. From what he heard, they intended to abandon him. It wasn't much of a plan, and he waited without so much as a twitch for them to realize they needed to untie his hands.
"We could back the car over him."
"No! Let's just leave him be. If he dies of exposure, no one can say it's murder, but if there are tire tracks running across his chest, they will come looking for us."
"We should untie his hands."
"You have a knife?"
"No, can't you just untie the knots you made, Brett?"
"They're too tight to loosen. Look in the glove box. There might be a pocket knife in there."
Brett's cohort opened the passenger door, and rustled around in the old maps, and half-empty cigarette packs. "Found one, but the blades don't look too sharp."
"I'm not trying to slit his throat." Brett had to saw the blade back and forth on the clothesline, and he was sweating when he at last cut through. He closed the knife, and threw the cut cord into the open trunk. "All right, let's get out of here."
Feeling dizzy, he stood back and leaned against Brett's Ford sedan. "Which of you killed Cookie?" he asked. "The law will go easier on the first one to tell the truth."
Tom was badly shaken, and his voice became a muffled whine, "Cookie was a lot of fun, I would never have hurt her."
"Really?" Joe asked. "Guess that leaves you, Brett, but I didn't think you had it in you."
Brett looked up from the dirt where he lay. He coughed and sputtered, "I'm no murderer."
Joe looked around. They were so far out in the desert, there were no lights twinkling in the distance. "Pardon me if I don't believe you, but I do appreciate your refusal to run over me a few times before you left me out here all by my lonesome." He stuck to the back of the car to keep from swaying and give away what poor shape he was actually in. His head ached so badly he was sure his skull had to be cracked.
"What did you hit me with, Brett? A baseball bat?" he asked.
"No, it was just a wrought-iron lamp."
"Is that all?" Joe looked up at the sky. Here, away from the light of town, the stars shown with a fiery brilliance. It was a spectacular sight, but this was no time to name constellations. He drew in a deep breath. "Do you really expect me to believe neither of you had anything to do with Cookie's death, and that you drove me out here simply for a bit of fun?"
Neither replied. Tom sniffed as though struggling to hold back tears, and Brett lay right where he'd fallen. "This could be a Laurel and Hardy comedy," Joe observed, "and there doesn't appear to be a brain between you two, which is fortunate for me, of course. Now we're going back into LA, and you're going to tell Detective Lynch how this miserable ride came about. I'll warn you now, he usually has plans for Saturday night, and he won't be pleased to be called into the station."
