Soap Opera Slaughters

by Marvin Kaye

  The Washington incident occurred during our investigation of a murder at Felt Forum. During a dress rehearsal of Macbeth, the actor playing Banquo was shot by the one portraying the infamous Third Murderer, an actor whose identity was being kept secret by the director—who, unfortunately, was the same man playing Banquo.

  Our investigation took two directions. I chased down the facts related to the actual shooting, but Hilary turned scholar and solved the problem simultaneously by examining the three-hundred-and-fifty-year-old dispute over Shakespeare’s mysterious Third Murderer. Her researches took her to The Folger Shakespeare Library in Washington. She never told me her intentions, though, and when I saw Harry making tracks for Amtrak, my eyebrows and suspicions rose, since he was a suspect. I tailed him all the way to D.C. and out of Union Station diagonally across the street to the Commodore Hotel.

  The waitress left Harry continued in a lower key.

  “Truth time, Gene. I would have liked it to be more than a business trip, but the only reason Hilary asked me along was to speed the research at the Folger.”

  “Hard to believe,” I said, biting into my BLT. “Especially since the two of you spent the night together at the Commodore.”

  He gaped at me. “Where’d you come up with that idiotic notion?”

  I didn’t tell him I listened at the door of his room. “I called her long distance, Harry, and she wasn’t registered, but when I phoned your room, guess who answered?”

  “Because we were busy discussing strategy for the next day, that’s all.”

  “At eleven o’clock at night? Doesn’t the library close around five or six?”

  “Gene, we had dinner, we went to a show afterwards. As friends.”

  “Friends and roommates.”

  “No! Damn it, Gene, I was staying at the Commodore, but Hilary wasn’t. A friend of hers at the Folger got her into the docent dormitory for the night If you don’t believe me, check it out for yourself!”

  Feeling sheepish and more than a bit ashamed, I apologized to Harry.

  “It’s Hilary you ought to be telling this,” he grumped, sipping his soda. “Mirabell and Millamant. Die before either one will be the first to say ‘I love you’ to the other...

  “Drop it, Harry. It’s already done with. Ausgespielt.”

  “Why? Because Hilary didn’t phone immediately when I quit?”

  “Partly.”

  “Hasn’t it occurred to you that the lady just needs some time alone? That she might be a bit scared?”

  “Are we talking about the same woman?”

  “Yes, smartass! The same Hilary whose daddy dumped her when she was a little girl. Is it any wonder she’s afraid to trust—”

  “Spare me the simplistics,” I interrupted. “The time comes when you have to start making your own choices. Hilary’s old enough and sure as hell smart enough to write her own scenario by now.”

  “Uh-huh. But what about Lara?”

  I glared. “What about her?”

  “What kind of script do you suppose is unreeling in her head?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Wouldn’t it come better from Lara? Or Hilary, since they seem to share secrets? Just ask them about Cousin Lainie’s involvement with Abel Harrison.”

  “Abel—” I nearly choked on my food. “That’s ridiculous!”

  “Why? Because Abe’s a comical geek and you’re Prince Charming from Central Casting? You’d be surprised how much power that shrimp’s got over who’s hired and fired on ‘Riverday.’”

  “Harry, Lara didn’t audition on a casting couch. Abel owed Hilary a favor.”

  “Undisputed. But not too long ago, Hilary found out there’d be a new male role opening up on the show. Whether you care to believe it or not, she wanted me out and you back. But she’d already called in her marker with Abe on her cousin’s behalf. So she talked to Lara and asked her to pull some strings so I’d get a sympathetic reading for the role of Todd Jennett. Which Lara did. PDQ.”

  “That’s it, Harry? Pretty inconclusive evidence.”

  I agree.” He drained his glass. “We might as well change the subject What do you want me to do this afternoon?”

  Damn Harry! I pushed away my plate, no longer in any mood to finish eating. I spent the next few minutes briefing him and trying to quiet my stomach.

  “MANHATTAN SOUTH, SERGEANT FRANCIS.”

  ‘Inspector Betterman, please.”

  A lengthy pause. I identified myself for Fat Lou’s secretary, waited a while longer, then was greeted by the police inspector’s familiar flat, slightly nasal tones.

  “Gene, good to hear from you. Still in Philly with that clown Butler?”

  “Yes. Got a favor to ask. Will it cost, or can you bill me?”

  “Depends. Zug mir.”

  “Information. The WBS leaper.”

  “Classified.”

  “Might be able to help.”

  His friendly tone frosted over. “You back with Hilary?” Though he was her family friend since girlhood, he still resented the time she’d held back data so a murderer she pitied could slip out of town. I reassured him I was no longer with her.

  “Nu, so come on over. You’ll talk. I’ll talk. Maybe.”

  “I’m not in town,” I lied.

  “You’re not?”

  “No. I’ll have to send a messenger.”

  “Who?”

  “Harry Whelan.”

  “Say, what are you trying to pull?” he groused. “You and Whelan, and you expect me to believe Hilary’s not involved, too?”

  “Honest to god, Lou, she isn’t. Trust me.”

  “Sure, sure,” he said with exaggerated courtesy. “Why not? You’ve always been straight with me, haven’t you? Okay, send Whelan over. I won’t promise anything, though, till I hear the questions, f’shtay?’

  “Copacetic.”

  “Now pay attention—your ass is in hock if you don’t give me something back on this one.”

  “Lou, I’ll do what I can.”

  “Do better, T.M. I expect. Period.”

  I had no idea what he meant by “T.M.,” but he hung up before I could ask.

  “Ryan’s Hope,” the soap Kit Yerby now worked on, tapes in an ABC studio within walking distance of WBS and less than a block away from the coffee shop where Harry and I stopped for lunch.

  I escorted Harry to the door of the studio, prompting him on the way as he played back his instructions for questioning Kit Yerby and Fat Lou. The small building looked more like a warehouse than a temple of dreams. I told Harry when and where to get in touch, then left him and continued west till I reached Eleventh Avenue. I turned there and soon found myself back on the block where WBS was situated.

  In the front lobby, the burly guard with the red hailed me and asked how Joanne Carpenter was. I reassured him she’d be all right.

  “Got something to ask you,” I said. “Mind?”

  “Naw,” the guard replied. “Gaw ‘head.”

  “You told me before that a guard got fired after what happened Saturday.”

  “Yeah. Woody.”

  “Old guy with goggly eyes?”

  “Right” He nodded. “Wears thick glasses. He stopped by earlier.”

  “Why?”

  “T’ show off, I guess.” An envious grin. “Brand-new sports coat ‘n’ stuff, y’ know? Must’ve saved a lot of money over the years, now I guess he’s gonna start spending on himself. Why not? He ain’t got family.”

  “Why was Woody fired?”

  “Those bastards upstairs wanted to shake up the rest of the staff, I guess.” His indrawn breath hissed between clenched teeth. “He was on duty when Niven creamed himself on the sidewalk. Woody’s mistake was to tell a Channel 14 newsman that Niven must’ve sneaked into the building. He might as well’ve yelled, ‘C’mon on over and rip us off So they shitcanned Woody the next morning with only a year to retirement.”

  I well remembered the late telecast that shook me out of my goldfish-ga
wking reverie, and I also recalled feeling sorry for the elderly security guard on it whose big mouth probably bought himself a pink slip. That was Woody, and I saw him twice since that evening, though I didn’t quite recognize him the first time. His didn’t register in its proper context till, noticing him walking up the front steps of WBS, I asked Joanne if she knew his name.

  Woody was the shabby derelict I’d seen sitting on a park bench Monday evening on the Brooklyn Heights promenade, his back to the river, his owlish eyes gaping up at the great lighted picture window at the back of Florence McKinley’s apartment

  THERE WAS LESS CHAOS on the sound stage than I’d expected The cameras were taping and Tommy Franklin sat at a writing table on one of the vacant sets scribbling furiously on a lined paper tablet while a production assistant stood by to snatch the finished sheets of dialogue as soon as Franklin was done with them.

  Florence and Lara saw me first and hurried over. I said Joanne Carpenter would survive. Lara was relieved, of course, and Florence did her best to conceal her disappointment

  “Will you be home this evening?” I asked the older actress.

  “Certainly.” She frowned. “Why?”

  “I may stop by to report” I paused while she chewed on it before I added the codicil. “If I do, I’ll have a friend with me.”

  “Who? I don’t permit strangers in my home.”

  “This is one time you’re going to have to break the rule.”

  I hadn’t expected her to accept it easily. We wrangled, but I wouldn’t budge or explain, so Florence, consumed with curiosity, or perhaps anxiety, consented on the condition that Lara be there as a witness.

  Lara nodded, but a sudden thought made her frown. “Can you not make it too early, Gene? I’ve got a—” She stopped abruptly.

  “What?”

  “A business appointment” Lara mumbled, avoiding my eyes. Florence suddenly declared that she felt chilly. Lara seized the opportunity to volunteer to fetch her friend a sweater.

  It was a ruse, of course. When Lara was gone, Florence drew me aside. We stepped onto a dusty, seldom-used patio set, where the actress began to pester me for details.

  I hedged. “I don’t have all the facts yet. By tonight, I may.”

  “Good,” she said smugly. “The sooner you expose that bitch, the better.”

  “Who? Joanne?”

  “Who else?” she shrilled, momentarily forgetting where she was. Someone shushed her, and she dropped her voice to a whisper. “Joanne murdered my Eddie, then tried to blame it on me by putting his clothes in my dressing room. When that didn’t work, she poisoned herself today so that’d look like my fault, too!”

  It took an effort of will not to walk away from her, but I didn’t have to endure Florence for long. Discovering that I was in the studio, Mack Joel, the floor director, hurried over to find out Joanne’s condition. When I told him, he seemed genuinely relieved.

  “She’s the sweetest gal in the whole cast,” the stocky director asserted. “Do me a favor, will you? Take the news up to Micki Lipscomb in the ‘Riverday’ office? She’ll have to work out the revised taping run for the next few days.”

  “Sure,” I agreed, glad of a reason to get away from Florence McKinley.

  The business office was empty. I walked in and was about to call to see if anyone was there when the door to Ames’ private sanctum opened. Micki Lipscomb came out

  She was in an extreme state of agitation that seemed worse in contrast to her usual unflappability. Her was pasty white.

  “What’s wrong, Micki?”

  She opened her mouth to answer me, but her lips got no further than a ghastly parody of a grin. Her legs gave out and she began to slump to the floor. I ran and caught her. Easing the tiny woman down, I checked her mouth, loosened restraining clothing, monitored her pulse. She was unconscious, but otherwise seemed okay.

  Stepping around her, I peeked into Ames’ office. It was a mess. The desk top was swept clean. Trophies, papers and memorabilia were scattered over the floor. Prone on the carpet, one cheek pressed against it, lay Joseph Ames. Blood trickling from a wound behind his left ear stained the rug. A few inches away, its edge smeared red, I saw the Emmy statuette Tommy Franklin had been hefting in the air earlier that afternoon.

  I felt for, found an irregular pulse. As I turned, Micki stirred. I got her to a chair, made sure she wouldn’t go into another faint, then handed her the phone and suggested this time she make it an ambulance.

  Nevertheless, she dialed Security. She croaked a few sentences into the instrument, then hung up and looked earnestly into my eyes.

  “Gene,” Micki said, still hoarse, “I didn’t do it!”

  FOUR HOURS LATER, I sat in the cool semigloom of Lara’s unlighted penthouse, sipping scotch and feeling sorry for myself. Which isn’t easy when you’re sampling $75-a-bottle Ballantine’s for the first time in your life.

  I managed to catch Lara before she left the studio. She turned down my dinner invitation, explaining that she had an unbreakable business appointment with Abel Harrison, but promised to meet me sometime after nine at Florence’s. “Here,” she said, handing me the keys to her apartment, “you can freshen up at my place, love. Help yourself to whatever food you find.” She kissed me good-bye and I hailed a taxi, telling myself not to believe Harry, that if he hadn’t opened his big mouth, I wouldn’t have given Lara’s “business appointment” a second thought.

  The doorman accompanied me upstairs to make sure the keys fit, but he recognized me from the morning, anyway. Inside, I opened the parcel of necessaries I’d purchased on Ninth Avenue and went to the bathroom to shower, shave and change clothes.

  The styptic Lara loaned me that morning ought to have tipped me off. Women don’t use it that much, I’m told. When I opened her medicine chest, I discovered one whole shelf loaded with men’s toiletry articles.

  And what the hell did you expect, Lancelot and Elaine? I chided myself. You’ve been in Lara’s life a grand total of two point five days.

  True, but why did it have to be that twerp Abel Harrison? A down, a total nebbish, and come to think of it, wasn’t he married?

  But Abel handled the casting for “Riverday” and had valuable West Coast contacts, too.

  The doorbell rang. I glanced at my watch, squinting in the dimness to see the numbers. Harry was right on time with his report. I flicked on the hall light, put my eye to the peephole—and felt a sudden surge of joy well up within.

  She broke the date!

  I swung the door wide, stepped onto the threshold and, despite the fact that Lara was carrying a large brown paper bag, threw my arms around her, package and all. Our lips met.

  I froze in midkiss.

  Taking a backward step, Hilary said matter-of-factly, “You obviously mistook me for Lainie.” Saying nothing, I waited for the inevitable barbed comment, but it didn’t come. She merely apologized for not phoning on ahead, then asked if she could enter with a politeness that held no trace of sarcasm. A bit numb, I stepped aside and she walked in.

  She no longer wore a business suit, but instead had on a summery green halter top with slacks of a deeper shade of the same color. Uncustomarily casual for her, but flattering.

  She took the paper bag to the dining area, put it on the table and began to remove several white cardboard cartons from it. “Hope you don’t think it’s presumptuous,” she said, “but Harry said you’d be waiting here for him around six, and I’m only too familiar with the usual state of Lainie’s larder. So I took the liberty of picking up dinner from Uncle Wong’s.”

  “But where’s Harry?”

  “Oh, he couldn’t make it. I promised him I’d relay the information you asked him to root out. Okay?”

  It wasn’t really, but I had to admit there was nothing decent in Lara’s refrigerator, and I was hungry. I was also curious to see how long Hilary could keep up the sweetness-and-light bit.

  “Okay,” I nodded. “Let’s eat.”

  She knew Lara�
�s kitchen better than I, so Hilary got bowls and spoons and ladled out Winter Melon Soup, my favorite. She sat down and began to talk as we ate.

  “Harry says Kit Yerby was taping all morning at ‘Ryan’s Hope’ and has witnesses to prove it. On Saturday, when Niven died, she was at a soap opera festival, just like me and Lara, so you can totally write off Kit”

  “Okay,” I said, sipping soup, “now how’d Harry do with Lou Betterman?”

  “Remarkably well.” She patted her lips with a napkin, then ticked off points on her fingers. “First, the reason they know Niven fell from the roof, not out of a window, is that they found tar on his feet and matching gouges on the roof. Second, Florence, Joanne Carpenter and Ira Powell have no verifiable alibis.”

  “I think, just the same, Gene, I’d count out Powell. I can’t picture him in drag fixing Joanne’s medicine.” A suggestion spoken without the least condescension. She was beginning to make me nervous. I wasn’t used to Hilary this way.

  “Okay,” I prompted, “go on. Anything else?”

  “Yes. Saturday, Tommy Franklin was home working on the ‘Riverday’ ‘Bible’ he gave to Ames in synopsized form this afternoon. He’s been updating it constantly for months.”

  “Is his alibi tight?”

  “Seems to be. While he was working there was a friend in the other room watching TV. Umberto, the show’s hair stylist. You’ve met him?”

  “Sure have. Is that the lot?”

  “No.” She held up a hand to put the conversation on standby while she opened a container of spring rolls. After they were distributed and condiments put on the table, Hilary produced two bottles of Kirin, removed their caps and poured, adjusting the beads to the heights we each preferred. She was taking too long, so I knew her next item was important. Another time, I might’ve nagged her to get to it, but if she chose not to be her usual smug, didactic self, out of respect for the effort at self-control, the least I could do was keep my mouth in neutral.

  After a long swallow of beer, Hilary said, “Lou found Niven’s clothes at the studio over the weekend. A bloody shirt, slacks, socks, a pair of shoes. The forensic team’s picking the stuff to pieces.”