by P. J. Conn
"When I last saw Mr. Green, he was at the hospital having a cast put on a broken arm. He was all bruised and scratched up, so nobody doubted he'd been in an accident. You ought to drive a jeep or truck when you come scouting locations, rather than a sedan meant for city streets."
"Excellent advice." Joe was now embarrassed he'd doubted the deputy's identity. Had Casper Green wanted them dead, he would have come himself or sent a goon like Corky Coyne. His head hurt so badly, it was no wonder he wasn't thinking clearly. Everything was muddled around the edges.
The medical technicians carried Brett to the ambulance, one entered first to pull the stretcher up inside, and they carefully shifted Brett to the cot. He had temporary splints on both legs, and he looked as white as the ambulance sheets.
One of the technicians turned his attention to Joe. "You don't look good. Are you in pain?"
"Only my head, but I'm awfully thirsty if you have some water."
"We do." He poured a cup from a Thermos and handed it to Joe.
He had to hold the cup with both hands, but got more to his mouth than in his lap. "Thank you. Now if I could just lay down."
The young man continued his exam as though Joe hadn't spoken. He placed a wet cloth over the tie headband to loosen it before pulling it free. "That's a big lump on the back of your head, and the gash above your brow will require stitches. It would be better if you sat up until we reached the hospital."
"Where are we?" Joe asked. "I'm all turned around, or I'm sure I'd know."
"We're near Lancaster. Did you start out from Palmdale?"
"I wasn't driving, and I really don't know." Joe recognized the names of the towns. They were northwest of Los Angeles, in the Antelope Valley in the western Mojave Desert. He had never been to either place.
"We didn't see any antelope," Joe continued. "Are there any out here?"
"Back when the first settlers arrived, there sure were. Supposed to have been deer and elk too, but most were gone by 1900. One still wanders by every once in awhile though."
"That's good." Lizard Valley was a better description now, but it lacked the necessary Western flavor to draw new residents.
* * *
Mary Margaret rested her hands on her hips, her expression fierce. "Is it impossible for you to stay out of trouble? Maybe I should consider marrying a man who shoots himself out of a cannon for a living."
"He'd be with the circus and travel so often you'd probably forget what he looked like between visits home."
"That might not be such a bad thing."
He loved her red curls, but he seldom saw her spitfire side. It was an awfully cute combination. Of course, she did have a point, since he got beat up rather often. "Did Detective Lynch come with you?"
"No, Lancaster is out of his jurisdiction, as you must know. Did you think he'd come along because he's so fond of you?"
"I could have grown on him. May we go home and make a date to argue tomorrow or the next day?"
She took hold of his chin and stared into his eyes. "Head injuries are serious, Joe. I'd leave you here a day or two, but then you'd have to take a bus to get home, and all that bouncing around wouldn't be good for you."
His head still hurt so badly he didn't need to be reminded, but she was a nurse, after all, and prone to giving medical advice. "Whatever you say, dear."
She kissed his cheek. "That's better. I love you."
"I love you, too." He had to cover a wide yawn. "Is it still Sunday?"
"Late Sunday, but there will be less traffic on the road if we leave now rather than wait until tomorrow morning."
He moved to ease himself off the bed, and she stopped him. "Wait, I'll call for an orderly to bring a wheelchair."
"I don't need a wheelchair."
"Do you want to ride home on the bus?"
He shook his head and instantly regretted it. "No, ma'am, I don't. So if you insist, I'll sit tight."
"I insist."
"Wait, what's happened to Brett Wayne?"
"He's in surgery. Do you want to wait until he comes out?"
"Not really." With two broken legs, Brett wasn't likely to ride for the border, so Joe felt justified in leaving him there. "And Tom Green?"
"He'd left by the time I arrived. Maybe his dad came to get him."
Joe thought Tom would have called a fellow Kappa Sigma brother rather than his murdering father. "I appreciate the fact he told the authorities Brett and I had been hurt. We'd still be sitting out in the desert otherwise."
"I'm not even tempted to throw him a party," she murmured and left to summon an orderly with a wheelchair.
* * *
Mary Margaret had found Joe's car keys under the floor mat and had driven his Chevy to Lancaster. Joe rode in the backseat on the way home. He tried to stay awake to keep her company, but drifted to sleep rather often. He was wide-awake when they reached his apartment building and wished he had a place on the first floor. Number three was available, but he'd marry Mary Margaret and move into her cottage too soon to merit a move now.
He liked having her arm around his waist, and didn't protest as they climbed the stairs to apartment six. "Will you make me breakfast now?" he asked. "I haven't eaten in more than a day."
"Let me check on what you have on hand before I make any promises."
"That isn't encouraging." He sat down in the easy chair in the living room rather than head to bed. He heard her rummaging through the refrigerator, and slamming cabinet doors.
She leaned out of the kitchen doorway. "There isn't anything here to prepare other than toast and coffee."
"That's fine, just make coffee and lots of toast."
She came in and leaned down to kiss him. "You need a good woman to take care of you."
"I'm lucky I found one." He kissed her back. He would have pulled her down across his lap, but the mere thought hurt. "There's jelly, isn't there?"
"Yes, both grape and raspberry. I'll make a variety of toast using them."
"Thanks."
She cut each slice of toast diagonally making two triangles. He usually ate the toast whole, but he thought it was wonderful all the same. He knew people argued about silly things like how a piece of toast or sandwich ought to be cut, but it was a waste of precious time in his view.
"Now that you've rested and had something to eat, tell me how you ended up in a car wreck in the desert. That's a bit much even for you." She'd made a couple of pieces of toast for herself, and covered them with raspberry jam.
Joe whittled the tale down to the facts and related them briefly. "I need to talk with Detective Lynch tomorrow."
"Let's hope he has enough evidence to arrest Casper Green. However, if Casper killed Cookie, he'll go to prison, and it will undoubtedly be the end of your movie career."
He couldn't tell if she were teasing. "The whole point of pretending to be an actor, which seems redundant, was to solve her murder."
"I know, and I can't wait to see Arizona Sunrise. You'll have that screen credit at least. You look so serious, Joe. What are you thinking?"
"How nice it is to be sitting here with you," he responded. "Will you spend the night?"
"I'm tempted to stay and keep an eye on you. Do you want more toast?"
He almost shook his head before he remembered how badly it would hurt. "I'm fine. I'll take the couch, and give you the bed."
"No, absolutely not. You're the invalid and will take the bed." She stood and carried their empty plates into the kitchen. "It's late, and you need to get some sleep."
He was as tired as he had ever been. "Will you be here in the morning to make sure I wake up?"
"Yes, and I'm taking your car to work. You need to stay here and rest for several days before you go to the office."
Joe touched the bandage above his left brow. "I'll bet I don't look too good, and I wouldn't want to scare away new clients."
"There's also that to consider. Good-night, love." She kissed him, eased him out of his chair, and made certain he didn't w
alk into the wall on his way into the bedroom.
* * *
Mary Margaret went to the market early to stock Joe's refrigerator with orange juice, cold cuts, cheese, bacon, eggs, bread, milk, a box of corn flakes, and ginger ale. She put three cans of chicken noodle soup in the cupboard along with a box of Ritz crackers.
She made him a big breakfast, and then gathered up her things. "That should hold you until I come by after work."
Joe was still in his robe and drew her close for a warm, fuzzy hug. "I'll be fine. I need to call Lynch, Gladys Swartz, and Leon Helms. Maybe I'll read some Sherlock Holmes stories in between, and take a nap. That should fill the day."
"If you have any trouble at all, if you become dizzy, or feel faint, call me at the hospital."
"Compared to how I felt yesterday stranded out in the desert, I'm doing real well. Go lavish your attention on your patients today."
She looked at him askance. "I mean it, Joe."
"I promise to behave." He kissed her good-bye, decided it was too early to make any calls, and pulled the Complete Works of Sherlock Holmes from the bookcase. He sat down to read, began to yawn, and would have fallen asleep, had someone not knocked on his door. He struggled to his feet, and pulled his door open only two inches to peer out.
"Leon, I'd invite you in, but I'm not dressed. I do have good news to report. Brett Wayne was at Casper Green's when Cookie died, and said Casper killed her. Gladys will confirm the details, but the charges against Stuart should be dropped soon."
"Really? When no one could find you Saturday, I feared the worse. Stuart has been to the Green's home, but he never said anything about Tom's father. Why would he kill Cookie?"
Joe rested against the door. "Apparently she slept with Tom, but didn't care to sleep with Casper. It will take a while for the whole story to shake out, but it's clear Stuart wasn't involved. Now I had a rough couple of days, and need to rest."
Leon backed away. "Sorry to have bothered you. I just wanted to make certain you were all right. Oh, yes, there's one other thing. I haven't worn these pants in a while, and I found the key to apartment three in the pocket." He pulled it out to show Joe. "The key just came off the ring, and that solves one mystery at least."
"It does. Thank you for checking on me." Joe closed the door as Leon started down the stairs. No need to call him now. It was after nine, and he poured himself a glass of ginger ale before searching through his small notebook for Detective Lynch's telephone number. He sat down, and had just reached for the phone when it rang.
Startled, he let it ring twice, and barely caught himself before answering with Discreet Investigations. "Hello."
"This is Jacob Lynch. I need some answers about your lost weekend. I tried your office first. I'll be at your home in ten minutes. Stay put."
"Yes, sir." Joe looked down at his robe. It was comfortably worn red plaid flannel, and not something he cared to wear while verbally sparing with Detective Lynch. He took several fortifying sips of ginger ale before searching his closet for something comfortable to wear. He pulled on khaki pants, and a dress shirt, and with his slippers considered himself well enough dressed to meet with Lynch.
The detective burst into Joe's apartment the instant the door opened. His suit was a subtle gray plaid. His shirt nearly glowed it was so white, and his vivid maroon silk tie was held in place by a gold clip engraved with his initials. Joe was even more convinced his wife dressed him.
Lynch dismissed the minimally furnished apartment with a quick glance. "Saturday afternoon, Gladys Swartz called me and swore something dreadful must have happened to you. I thought you were probably in some dimly lit bar at the beach."
"Well, there is a lot of sand in the Antelope Valley," Joe replied. "I need to sit down, help yourself to the sofa." He returned to the comforting warmth of his chair, and reached for his glass. "I'm serving ginger ale today. Would you care for some?"
"No." Lynch unbuttoned his jacket and sat down. His leather-covered notebook looked new, and he shuffled through a few pages to find a new one. "Tell me how you managed to disappear, and then reappear so quickly."
"Did Mrs. Swartz tell you I'd come home?"
"She did, which I appreciate, but we don't consider anyone missing after only a few hours. She did point us to Brett Wayne, who also conveniently disappeared. He's in a hospital in Lancaster with two broken legs. Are you taking credit for that?"
"No, certainly not." Joe drew in a deep breath, began with Lily Montell being assaulted by Casper Green, and told the story with more detail than he'd given Mary Margaret. "I think Brett and Tom meant to kill me, or they at least hoped I'd die of exposure before I found a way out of the desert. Even if Brett wasn't a witness to Cookie's murder, he was in Casper's house, heard him confess, and then hid the body for him."
"None of which you can prove," Lynch responded with his usual aloof distain.
"Proof is your department," Joe countered. "The bruises on Lily Montell's arms should match those on Cookie Crumble's, and tie her murder to Casper Green. Have you picked him up? He might be so frightened to learn I've gotten out of the desert alive that he'll be eager to talk."
"I spoke with Mr. Green on Saturday, when looking for you was a good excuse. He was horrified to learn you were missing."
"I introduced myself to him as an actor looking for work, not as a private investigator. Cookie's brother and I had minor parts in Arizona Sunrise, his latest Western. Why would he give a fig about me?"
Lynch flipped back a page in his notebook. "He told me you were a good friend of Brett Wayne, and that he strongly suspected Brett had killed Cookie, and you had helped him hide her body."
Joe thought of an appropriately inventive string of scalding obscenities but simply savored them in his mind. "Casper's son, Tom, had taken Cookie to his home in Beverly Hills the day she died. He knows his dad killed her, and he's the one who helped Brett hide her body."
"I spoke with Brett Wayne on the telephone," Lynch offered. "He's a writer, remember, and earns his living telling tales. When you two were stranded in the desert, didn't it occur to you that he might not be telling the truth?"
"No, he was in too much pain to lie. Have you questioned Tom? Both he and Brett are guilty of kidnapping me, and I've got the lump on the back of my head to prove it. We all could have died in the accident, and our bodies wouldn't have been found for weeks."
"Tom," Lynch replied, "backs his father's story. It seems he brought Cookie home to swim on more than one occasion. The day she died, Brett offered to give her a ride home. Tom swears she was alive and well when he and his father last saw her."
"That makes no sense," Joe responded. "If Tom had nothing to do with the murder, why would be help Brett kidnap me?"
"He said he thought it was a practical joke."
Joe couldn't comb his hair without hurting himself, and it stuck up like black feathers. There was a square bandage above his left brow, and the whole side of his face was bruised. He was too weak to leave his apartment, and Tom's comment was the last straw.
"Do I look as though I were involved in a practical joke? With two broken legs, Brett Wayne doesn't either."
Lynch spoke slowly to make his point. "The three of you were in a car wreck, Mr. Ezell. Your injuries could have stemmed from that."
"Let's see," Joe recounted. "Casper Green roughed up Lily Montell when she refused to sleep with him. That could well have been his pattern. She was luckier than Cookie Crumble and got away. She telephoned me, and I called Gladys Swartz because she's representing Stuart Helms, who has no idea what happened to Cookie. I told Mrs. Swartz I intended to speak with Brett, and would get right back to her. That's when I 'disappeared'.
"Brett and Tom can't possibly be friends, so why would he call the kid to help him play a practical joke on me? I was out cold when they put me in the trunk of Brett's car. That doesn't sound like a practical joke either. Tom hasn't impressed me as being too dim to notice something so obvious as an unconscious man. He helped
Brett because his father told him he had to."
Lynch nodded. "Maybe. Mrs. Swartz should have a field day with that account when Stuart Helms comes to trial. It might even create sufficient reasonable doubt for a not guilty verdict." He stood and turned toward the door. "Stick with cases involving philandering husbands, where you won't overstep your talents."
Joe was too angry to tell him to get out before he had gone. He gave himself a few minutes to calm down before calling Gladys Swartz. She was equally upset by Lynch's failure to believe Joe's account of how Cookie had died.
"Right after you left us on Saturday, Bernice, or Lily Montell, reported Casper Green's assault. An officer came to her place to take the report, but he wouldn't have been from homicide where Lynch works. Casper should have been picked up for questioning by now. I'll make a quick call and see what's happening there."
"Thanks, Gladys. There have to be other girls who were too worried about their film careers to report Casper, and I'll bet he's pressured a great many to sleep with him."
Joe hung up and when he thought of how often MGM turned out a film, and how many Casper Green had directed, he knew he had his work cut out for him. However, all he had to do was find one young woman who'd tell the truth about Casper Green and Detective Lynch would have to listen.
Chapter 16
By the time Mary Margaret came by that evening with the groceries to prepare spaghetti for dinner, Joe was nearly beside himself. He related his conversation with Detective Lynch. "I didn't believe it was possible to dislike him more than I already did, but he's reached a whole new level on the abomination scale. Gladys called to let me know the police questioned and released Casper Green without charging him. I doubt they will investigate Lilly Montell's report of an assault any further."
"That's distressing. Do you feel well enough to put the pot of water on the stove?" Not knowing what Joe might own, she'd brought her own cooking gear and utensils.
He wasn't ready to let go of Detective Lynch's endless shortcomings. "Sure I do, and Lynch should land in very hot water when the truth is readily known." He filled the pot with water, and griped the handles tightly to give it a practice lift before he turned to the stove. Refusing to appear weak in front of his beloved, he drew in a deep breath, and carried the pot the three steps to the stove.
