by P. J. Conn
"Thank you. I like cooking with you, but I don't want to tire you," she said.
"I've rested all day. You can trust me with the car tomorrow."
"Let's see how you feel in the morning."
Joe spun her around and kissed her so soundly she had to hang onto him. "My goodness, but that was convincing," she claimed through a sparkling giggle.
He laughed. "It was meant to be."
* * *
Joe drove Mary Margaret to work the next morning with the assurance he'd sit quietly in his office all day. As soon as he'd dropped her off, he began the nearly two hour drive to Lancaster. He drove north through the Simi Valley and then angled west to pass through the Angeles National Forest and the San Gabriel Mountains. When he arrived, he was disappointed not to find Brett Wayne handcuffed to his bed.
"Didn't expect you to come for a visit," Brett murmured. He reached for his glass of water and took a long drink. Both legs were in casts with traction pinning him to the bed like an overturned turtle. "The service here leaves a great deal to be desired, but it's far better than what we encountered in the desert."
Joe pulled up a chair. He'd smoothed his hair down with water, and his bruises were fading. He'd put a fresh band-aid over the stitches above his left brow and didn't think he looked too bad. "I had a good reason for coming. Have the Lancaster police questioned you?"
"No, and I haven't seen any of the sheriff's deputies since the desert. You complained so loudly about being kidnapped, haven't you reported it?"
Joe had expected to be questioned before he checked out of the hospital, but no one had come to interview him. His head was beginning to ache just thinking about it. He had reported the crime to Detective Lynch, however.
"That's not why I'm here. Casper Green is accusing you of murdering Cookie Crumble." He provided the director's account as Lynch had put it.
"What?" Shocked, Brett's glass slipped from his hand and shattered as it hit the pale green linoleum tile. "He's not going to get away with it."
"You did hide her body."
"Only because he forced me to," Brett swore.
"I have the telephone number of one of the extras on Arizona Sunrise. She might know of other young women who've had trouble with Casper. Maybe it's well-known among the actresses who star in his films. Cookie was a stripper, and maybe none of the girls knew she was involved with Casper. If I point it out, they might come forward to testify."
"They wouldn't risk their careers," Brett argued. "Hollywood is flooded with beautiful girls, and a few actually have some talent. The stories about the casting room couch are true."
Joe sat back in his chair. That he'd reported the kidnapping to Lynch would be enough to figure into Cookie's murder. He had been kidnapped in Los Angeles, after all. He'd just ended up in the Antelope Valley. Tiring faster than he'd hoped after the long drive, he stood slowly.
"I need to get back to my office." He handed Brett one of his cards. "Call me if you think of anything else that will reveal how Casper Green typically abuses women."
"Look up who starred in his films, that would be a good place to begin. Victoria Ray starred in Arizona Sunrise. She has a firm foothold in Hollywood, and might talk with you if you ask her nicely. You could give her my name."
"Thanks, I will."
"Why are you trusting me rather than Casper?"
"The bruises on Cookie's arm matched those on Lily's. That's evidence enough for me."
"I'm sick over Cookie's death. I hope you realize that."
"Sure, we're all sick over it. Before I go, do you have the Thorntons' keys?"
"No, they left in such a hurry, they apparently forgot to leave them. I saw they hadn't locked the door behind them, and I went in to look around. The empty apartment prompted so many story ideas I hurried back to my place to work on them. I just closed the door when I left, but couldn't lock it without the key."
"It didn't occur to you to tell Leon that the Thorntons had moved out?"
"No, I thought they would have told him." He covered a wide yawn. "Did you ever see Cookie's act?"
"No. Sorry, I missed it."
"I must have seen her a dozen times and each one was different. She would have been a great actress if she'd had the chance. Everything about this awful mess is so unfair. Westerns appeal to people because the good guys always triumph. Unfortunately, real life doesn't work that way."
"Depends on where you're standing," Joe replied. He stopped for a hamburger and large soda before leaving Lancaster. As he left town, he realized he'd not asked Brett about Corky Coyne, but he wasn't going back. It was a shame Corky hadn't been with Cookie on her last day alive. Everything would have ended differently, and Casper might have turned up floating face down in the pool.
* * *
Joe managed the return trip to Los Angeles without incident. Fortified with a large soda from the fountain in the drug store downstairs, he spent the remainder of the day in his office, dozing with his feet propped on his desk. If CC came by, he didn't wake him.
When he picked up Mary Margaret after work, he asked about her day so he'd not have to lie to her about his own. She deserved the truth, of course, but not after the fact when it would only worry her. They ate leftover spaghetti at his place, played a few games of Cribbage, and he took her home in plenty of time for them both to get a good night's rest.
* * *
Wednesday morning, Joe could barely get out of bed, ample proof he'd overdone it the day before. Moving slowly, he showered, dressed, ate some toast with strawberry jelly and got to the office without collapsing.
He'd kept Pamela Smyth's number when she'd told him about the wrap party at Casper Green's and waited until after 10:00 o'clock to call her. "Good morning, this is Joe Ezell, and I'm still working on Cookie Crumble's murder. I wonder if you've heard anything about the way Casper Green treats starlets."
"Other than badly, no," she responded. "But he's no worse than many of the other directors. I'll not mention any names, but one loves to put his hands all over girls, and then swears he's only tickling them when they complain."
Joe took notes as fast as he could write them. "I'm sorry to hear that, but right now, I'm only interested in Casper. Did he ever invite you to his house to read for a part?"
"No, I've just gone to his office on the MGM lot. Maybe he isn't all that found of redheads, although I'm included in the invitations to his parties. What did you think of the one you snuck into?"
"It was a great party," he replied. "Casper's son Tom was there. Do you know him?"
"Do I ever." She began to laugh. "He's cute, and knows how to treat a lady, not that I'd include myself in that refined category, you understand."
"You shouldn't think so little of yourself," he scolded softly. "Do you have Victoria Ray's telephone number? She wasn't on the set the days we shot the saloon fight, but she's done several Westerns with Casper. I'd like to ask her a few questions."
"Sure, I've got her number here somewhere. Give me a minute to find it."
"Take all the time you need." Joe rested the telephone receiver against his cheek. When she came back, he wrote down the number and thanked her.
"Maybe we'll work on another film together," she replied.
"You can never tell," Joe responded, but as far as he was concerned, his film career was over.
He placed a call to Victoria, but no one answered. Perhaps she was at MGM shooting a picture.
His next call came from Neal Sloan. "Phillip is going up to San Francisco tomorrow. I'll make the reservation for your train ticket and hotel. I'll cover all your fees and expenses. I've traveled on the Coast Starlight, and it's a gorgeous trip along the Pacific Ocean through Santa Barbara and on up to San Francisco. Your only chore will be to keep Phillip from seeing you. He stays at the Mark Hopkins, but it's a large hotel, and you can avoid him there. Our new building is also on California Street, so you can use cable cars there and back to the hotel. If Phillip is spending his time elsewhere, it doesn't ma
tter if he goes to museums, or the movies. All I want to know is whether or not he has an additional project. It should only take you Friday and Saturday to discover if it's true, and you can come home on Sunday. What do you say?"
It took the whole day to reach San Francisco, and Joe looked forward to viewing the coast and snoozing the whole way. With his hat pulled low and the collar of his overcoat turned up, Phillip wouldn't recognize him unless he walked up and shook the architect's hand.
"I can clear my schedule," Joe offered agreeably. They went over his out-of-town rate, and he asked for fifty dollars in cash to cover initial expenses.
"I'll messenger the cash to your office, and details of our project in San Francisco. Your ticket will be at Union Station. I hate to think of what you might discover, but under no circumstance is Phillip to suspect you're working for Finegold and me."
"If we should cross paths, I'll convince him I'm searching for a little old lady's lost grandson. I can bore him to tears in a few minutes, and he'll forget me as soon as I'm out of sight."
"Good. I'll expect your report next week."
"Give me Monday to type up my notes, and I'll talk to you on Tuesday." Joe could use a few days out of town, and he'd earn enough to take Mary Margaret to San Francisco for their honeymoon, if she wanted to go there, of course. No bride should be stuck on a honeymoon somewhere she didn't wish to go.
* * *
Mary Margaret didn't view the trip with Joe's enthusiasm. "Can't you postpone the job for a week or two when you'll be feeling better?"
"No, I have to go when Phillip Fitzgerald is traveling. This will be such an easy job, sweetheart. San Francisco is a civilized city, and you needn't worry I'll hang around the docks after dark."
"Promise?"
"I promise." He meant it too. "I called Leon Helms so he'll know I'm out of town. I also let Gladys Swartz know I'll be away, and will get back on Stuart's case next Monday."
"I always think of it as Cookie Crumble's case," she responded. "Maybe a couple of days away will be a good distraction for you."
"It should be, and I've leads to follow up on next week." He pulled her close. "I'm going to miss you."
She relaxed into his arms. "Show me how much when you come home."
"I'll look forward to it." He thought a sample might be nice, and covered her face with teasing kisses.
* * *
Thursday morning, the Coast Starlight pulled out of Union Station early. Joe found a window seat where he could appreciate the incredible seaside view once they had left Los Angeles proper. He expected Phillip Fitzgerald to find a place in the lounge car where he could sketch, or read, or whatever else the man might wish to do. He'd follow him once they reached San Francisco, but there was no need to trail him on the train.
A pretty young woman in a fur coat sat down beside him. "Please, pretend we're traveling together."
She had puffy pink lips as though she spent hours each day whistling. "Why would I do that?" Joe asked.
"There's a man following me, and I'm avoiding his company," she whispered.
"So you're risking mine?" While his bruises had begun to fade, he still had a Band-Aid over the stitches above his brow, and thought any sensible woman would take one look at him and find another seat.
Her eyes widened slightly as she studied him more closely. "You try anything funny, and I'll call the conductor."
Joe turned to observe the other passengers in their car. There were several men, a family with small children, and two other women traveling alone. "Why not sit with one of the women?"
"I wouldn't wish the creep on anyone else."
"Which man is he?"
"He was in the last car. Maybe he got the hint when I came forward a car."
He handed her his card. "This sounds like a job to me, and I don't come cheap."
"You're a detective?" She handed back the card, called him a most uncomplimentary name, and moved across the aisle to sit beside a young man who welcomed her with a broad smile.
Joe leaned back and closed his eyes. He bet when they reached San Francisco she'd claim to be a little short, and beg to borrow money to cover a taxicab, and hotel. The poor chap would naively come to her rescue. She might then need train fare to Seattle. It would go on and on until she'd taken the sucker for all he was worth. The man had to learn for himself though, so Joe kept his thoughts to himself.
He'd once been easily impressed by a pretty woman. Patty had seemed so damn sincere that most young men would have fallen for her scheme. They'd gone out a few times before she asked for help paying her bills. It hadn't been much, and he'd been glad to pitch in. The next month she claimed she'd used most of her paycheck to cover her mother's medical expenses, and needed help with her rent. Alarm bells went off in his mind with a loud clang. He'd offered to help her go over her income and expenses to discover a way to save for future emergencies.
She'd responded to his sensible offer with such furious anger he'd walked out on her and never looked back. After December 7, 1941, war had been declared, and Los Angeles had been flooded with soldiers and sailors on their way to the Pacific. He bet Patty had had dozens sending her part of their pay every month, and he pitied any man she might have married.
When Mary Margaret had hired him to discover whether or not her boyfriend was faithful, she'd been so cute he had liked her immediately. She was also as level-headed as he was, and when he found her sweetheart had more girls than had toured with the USO, she dropped the man without a blink. While it wasn't usually part of his services, he'd offered amusing comfort, and asked her out before she left his office. It had been the beginning of a beautiful friendship. He grinned and concentrated on the spectacular scenery for the remainder of the trip.
* * *
When the Coast Starlight train arrived in San Francisco that evening, Phillip Fitzgerald hailed a taxicab to ride to the Mark Hopkins Hotel. Joe carried his small valise and hopped on a cable car to the Nob Hill hotel. He strode through the three-arched entryway and up to the impressive mahogany registration desk. They had his reservation, and as he signed in, he looked up.
"I have a meeting with Phillip Fitzgerald scheduled for the morning. Has he already checked in?"
"Yes, he has, Mr. Ezell, about fifteen minutes ago."
"Great, thank you." He didn't need a bellhop to carry his bag and made his way up to his fifth floor room on his own. The elegantly furnished room had twin-sized beds, and the tall windows provided a stunning view of the bay. The hotel had suites costing five times what his room did, but he doubted any offered a better view.
He unpacked what little he had brought, a couple of fresh shirts, underwear, socks, and a second pair of pants. He'd also included a copy of Mickey Spillane's detective novel, I, the Jury. He ordered a steak dinner from room service, kicked off his shoes and sat down on the bed. With his back propped on pillows against the headboard he had a comfortable pose to read. Immediately caught up private detective Mike Hammer's quest to punish the man who'd killed his best friend, the waiter from room service had to knock twice to get his attention.
* * *
Friday morning, Joe awoke at 7:00 a.m. His goal was to leave the hotel and find a place to observe the Fitzgerald, Finegold and Sloan building before Phillip arrived. There was a café conveniently located across the street from the project. He entered, took a table by the front window, and ordered a breakfast of bacon and eggs. He'd bought a copy if the San Francisco Chronicle and opened it to form a screen while he waited for Phillip to appear.
He had just finished the last bite of his hash-browns when Phillip Fitzgerald arrived in a taxicab. The architect entered the gate in the chain link fence surrounding the lot, and was met by a burly man who appeared to be the construction foreman. An illustrated sign out front advertised the coming structure as the future home of professional offices and exclusive shops. With handsome modern lines and the planned landscaping, it would be an appealing addition to the city. Men were installing windows on
the six-story building.
"More coffee, hon?" his waitress asked.
"Yes, thank you." Joe kept his attention on the two men as they walked along the front of the new building. The foreman waved his arms in sweeping gestures, and Phillip nodded as though he were pleased with the progress being made.
Joe paid his bill and left the café. He strolled down the street and stopped often to observe the construction site. He was surprised when Phillip soon came back through the gate, and walked in the opposite direction of their hotel. Joe followed him from across the street, and Phillip didn't once glance over his shoulder, so clearly he wasn't worried about being followed.
Three blocks from his professional project, he turned into a magnificent stone church that looked as though it could have survived the 1906 earthquake that destroyed much of San Francisco. Joe took out his notebook to note the time, and jotted down the address of St. Edmund's Episcopal church. Phillip hadn't impressed him as a man who would lose himself in prayer, and when he didn't soon reappear, Joe risked mounting the steps, and pulled open one of the tall front doors.
He found a beautiful sanctuary with vibrant stained glass windows and a colorful altarpiece of Saint Edmund that could have come from Europe. The pews were empty, and it was eerily quiet, but the sound of hammering could be heard in the distance. He went back outside and circled the church. A stonewall enclosed the courtyard but he was tall enough to peek over.
A small construction crew was working on a one story wooden building that looked as though it were intended for Sunday school classrooms. Phillip had removed his jacket and shirt to work beside a man framing a door.
Joe walked back to the sidewalk. If Phillip were volunteering his time to design and build a Sunday school, why wouldn't he have told his partners? Was it so unlike him to do a good deed that no one would have believed him?
A woman parked her Chevrolet at the curb and opened the trunk to remove two flower-filled buckets. "Could you help me take these inside?" she called to him.
