Mr. O'Nelligan took note. “A bicycle in the nude?"
"Yeah. Obviously quite the headline grabber. It was also the biggest regret of my father's life—the fact that he missed out on all that."
"Although, had he been there, he might have shared his friend's fate."
"That's right,” I said. “For Jojo, it was the end of his career. A few years later, a heart attack led Dad to leave the force and move us to Thelmont to set himself up as a P.I. He figured it was a good location, partway between Hartford and New York."
"And he figured being a private investigator would be a healthier lot?"
"I suppose,” I said. “Though another heart attack finally took him down."
"And then you stepped into your father's shoes."
Not by a longshot, I thought to myself.
We lapsed into silence again. Eventually, I turned on the radio and “Heartbreak Hotel” filled the car.
Mr. O'Nelligan came alive. “Ah, I know this singer! It's Emmet Presley."
"Elvis," I corrected. “Elvis Presley."
"Yes, that's it. I saw him on the Ed Sullivan Show last week. The lad is teeming with energy. Just teeming."
"That music doesn't do much for me. Too twitchy."
"Twitchy? A young man like yourself should be open to such twitchiness."
"I'm thirty-one,” I felt compelled to explain.
"Exactly. A young man poised on the pulse of life. By all means, twitch!"
We continued northward as Elvis moaned on about losing his baby and finding a place called Lonely Street.
* * * *
As planned, Jojo Groom met us at a little diner on the edge of Greenley. He was pretty much as I remembered him—slim and tall, with dark, slicked-back hair (now winged with gray) and a narrow mustache. He was somewhere in his mid fifties. Leaning on a walking cane, he limped over to our booth. The hobbled leg served as an unsettling testament to the dangers of detective work—and of facing down murderers.
"Lee, how's it going, kid?” He shook my hand, then Mr. O'Nelligan's. “And this must be the partner you mentioned."
Mr. O'Nelligan smiled. “I am actually more of an adjutant. Sancho Panza to Mr. Plunkett's Quixote, if you will."
"That's swell,” said Groom without comprehension. He slid in next to my “Sancho” and stared across at me for a few long seconds. I assumed I was being measured against his robust memory of Buster, and coming up yards short.
After reminding me once again what a bull my pop was, Jojo kicked things off. “Okay, not that I know the whole beanhill here, but I'll give you what I got. Our boy Clarence Browley was plenty well off—"
"Hold on.” I pulled out my notepad and started scribbling.
"Stocks and bonds, that kind of action. One of his spare homes is here in Greenley. Nothing too lavish, but fancy enough. He and his wife would spend most of the summer here. Browley liked to throw these dinner parties—small, special-invite deals—and bring in certain types. Tough guys, y'know?"
"Thugs?” I asked.
"Nah. Manly guys. Daring guys. You know, guys who were—” Groom searched for a word. “—accomplished. For example, at one party, I ended up breaking bread with a mountain climber, a big-game hunter, and a matador. Adventurous guys, see?"
I nodded. “So Browley chose you as one of his ‘manly types'?"
Jojo suddenly looked shy. “Oh, you know, on account of my earlier escapades."
"Well, you did take a bullet from King Carroway."
"Four bullets, and one's still in me.” He glanced down at his leg. “Anyway, Browley finally figured out I'm less of a lawman and more of an insurance hawker these days, ‘cause after a couple invites he stopped having me over. But still, his wife Nina's a nice, fun dame and when I ran into her recently, I said I'd try to round up some help. That's where you come in."
I looked up from my notes. “So, Browley was killed at one of these dinner parties?"
"Yeah, well, outside the house,” Jojo said. “Apparently, someone brained him with something heavy. But look, like I told you, I've been out of that circuit for a while now. I'm going to put you onto Nina Browley herself. That's who's Hancocking your paycheck, and she knows all the lowdown. I'll introduce you, then get out of your hair."
Mr. O'Nelligan now joined in, “Would it be advantageous for us to contact the local constabulary?"
"You mean talk to the cops?” Jojo shook his head. “I'll give it to you straight, the local boys aren't too delighted about Nina bringing in hired guns."
"Wait. We don't—” I wanted to declare that Mr. O'Nelligan and I carried no guns, but Groom cut me off.
"And stay clear of Handleman, their chief snooper. Nina says he's particularly nasty.” Jojo clapped his hands. “Okay, gents, ready to rocket?"
Can't say that I was.
* * * *
3.
Nina Browley met us at the door in a Japanese kimono, a large cocktail in one hand and a machete in the other. Some people certainly know how to make a first impression.
"My detective!” she cried out tipsily. She looked to be halfway through her thirties, blonde, with a nice face presently distorted by alcohol. “You are my detective, aren't you?"
Without waiting for an answer, she put the drink and the weapon down on a hallway table and pulled Mr. O'Nelligan inside.
"Sorry for the machete,” she raced on. “It belonged to my husband. I was out back in the garden attacking the weeds. You need to be thorough, don't you? Weeds are evil. Evil! Clarence always said so. I'm an idiot with gardens, but Clarence was clever and now you're here to avenge him."
"Begging your pardon, madam,” said Mr. O'Nelligan, “but I'm not the detective. Mr. Plunkett here is your man."
I entered the hallway with Jojo Groom. Nina looked me over and turned to Jojo. “But the other one is much more distinguished. And he's English like Sherlock Holmes."
"Irish!” said Mr. O'Nelligan. “I'm solidly Irish, madam."
Groom, true to his word, made brief introductions and promptly left. We stood alone now with the swaying Mrs. Browley.
"This is the last chance for Clarence, don't you see?” She began to cry. “The police have given up. Somebody killed my husband and is getting away with it."
She gave way now to trembling sobs. I was completely at a loss on how to proceed when another woman entered the hallway and put her arms around Mrs. Browley. This one was younger, probably in her twenties, very petite with wavy brown hair.
"There now, Nina,” she comforted. “I know it's hard. Everyone knows it's terribly hard."
Her presence had a calming effect and Nina, after several deep sighs, stifled her crying.
"Let's all go sit in the living room,” Nina said softly, “and I'll tell you everything."
I was hesitant. “Well, perhaps now's not the most convenient—"
"No, I'll be fine. You're thinking I'm too blitzed, but I'll fix myself, you'll see. Paige, bring them inside. I'm going to order up one of my soothers. It's a special concoction—orange juice, paprika, and coffee. It always straightens me out."
Nina moved off in one direction as the girl called Paige led us in another. The living room we settled into was, like the exterior of the house, pretty much as Jojo had described it—not too lavish, but fancy enough. An Oriental rug, plush sofas, and shelves filled with crystal ornaments gave the space style.
The young woman sat across from us. “Please don't judge Nina too harshly. After all, she's been through so much."
"Without question,” agreed Mr. O'Nelligan. “To have her husband so cruelly slain must be a great hardship."
Paige nodded. “All month I've tried to get her to stay down in the city, but she keeps coming back up here. She says she needs to find answers. Of course, I understand. Clarence died in her arms, you know."
No, we didn't know. There was little, in fact, that we did know about this case. I got out my notepad.
"You're a friend of Mrs. Browley's?” I asked.
"I am. My name'
s Paige Simmons, since you're taking notes."
"Were you here the night Mr. Browley died?"
"Yes. I was staying over. We all were, but I think Nina would be the first to tell you that I'd make a lousy suspect."
"These are just preliminary notes."
She smiled gently. “I don't mean to be defensive. It's just that the police detectives before you were so harsh. Anyway, I guess I'm what they call an ‘aspiring actress.’ More aspiring than actress, I'm afraid. I know the Browleys in Manhattan. They come here to Greenley in the summer and have people up on the weekends."
Nina Browley now entered, a cup in her hand, and seated herself beside Paige. “This is my second dose. I downed the first one, and I'm already feeling steadier."
I had to admit she seemed a bit more sedate.
"I'm so glad you're here,” she went on. “I told everyone that I was going to pay for the best investigator out there. The absolute very best. I had some prospects lined up, but then Jojo told me, ‘Get Plunkett. Plunkett's the one.’”
Swell. “Mrs. Browley, please tell us about that night."
She took a long sip of soother and began. “It was about a month ago, August 18, a Saturday. Clarence liked to have these dinner gatherings. He called them his ‘glory tables’ where men of a certain ilk would be invited."
"Men of daring, you might say?"
"Yes, well put. We had three ‘men of daring’ that night: a fighter pilot, a boxing champ, and a gunslinger."
"A gunslinger?"
"I'm being cavalier. It was Tom Durker, the film actor."
"The one from the westerns?"
"Yes. Of course, Tom's brand of daring exists chiefly on the movie screen. Still, he does personify American ruggedness. And he's passably handsome."
"Very handsome!” Paige amended. “And such steely eyes."
"They're not steely, Paige dear, just narrow,” Nina said.
I pushed on. “And the other men?"
"There's Captain Webster Sands. He was a pilot in the big war, leading missions over Berlin and such. Quite the ace. And then there's Polecat Pobenski."
"What's a Polecat Pobenski?"
"David Pobenski, up-and-coming middleweight fighter. Or was, I should say. He was slated to go to the Olympics in Australia as part of the U.S. boxing team, but he injured his hand. The doctors don't think it will ever mend right."
"No spouses accompanied any of them?"
"David's not married. Captain Sands is divorced, and Tom Durker has a nice little wife who he left back home."
"Any other guests?"
"Just those three,” Nina said. “And Paige here to help keep me from sinking in all that maleness. Right now, Durker's off in Hollywood, tied up making a new movie, but I've asked the other two to meet you tomorrow. Pobenski's taking the train up from New Jersey and Captain Sands will be flying in from Philadelphia."
"So only you six were in the house that evening?"
"Well, of course, we had our cook, Mrs. Leroy, who we bring up from the city. And two local girls, the Daley Sisters, to help serve."
"So, that evening..."
"We had cocktails, followed by dinner around nine thirty. Then everyone split up into smaller groups for cards and conversation. At about twenty minutes of twelve, several of us saw Clarence leave the house, carrying one of his swords. He was in an agitated state, but no one knew why."
"His swords?"
"Yes, my husband was a great one for swords. And battle axes. And paintings of warriors and Vikings. Most of that stuff is back in Manhattan, but some of it has found its way here.” Nina indicated a pair of crossed daggers on the wall behind me. “So, as Clarence was heading out, he called for Ajax, but Ajax was sleeping somewhere."
My pages were filling up fast. “Ajax?"
"Our German shepherd. I left him home this trip."
Mr. O'Nelligan perked up. “Aha! Ajax! Named for the hero of the Iliad. Homer describes him as being of colossal stature."
Nina shrugged. “Well, he is a big dog."
A woman in an apron entered the room, carrying a coffeepot. She was firmly into her fifties, slim but solid, with a no-nonsense air. “More soother, Mrs. Browley?"
"Yes, it's doing wonders.” Nina extended her mug for a refill. “Mrs. Leroy, this is Mr. Plunkett. He's come to solve things. Isn't that comforting?"
The cook appraised me with one glance. “Yes, ma'am. Comforting.” She clearly was not dazzled by my potential.
"Oh, and that's Mr. O'Nelligan,” Nina said. “He's a Scotsman."
"Please, it's Irish!” the wronged Hibernian pleaded. “I'm an Irishman from scalp to soles."
Our hostess smiled innocently. “Would anyone else like some soother? You don't have to be pickled to enjoy it."
We all declined, and the cook exited.
"Anyway, Clarence went out alone,” Nina said. “At twelve, I led everyone in a raid on the refrigerator. Midnight snacks, you know. It was then, just after we entered the kitchen, that Tom Durker saw my husband outside the window. Clarence was tapping with his sword, though as soon as he was seen, he hurried away. Tom asked if we should go find him, but I said, ‘Don't bother.’ I figured if Clarence wanted to play games, then let him. About ten minutes later, I changed my mind, grabbed a flashlight, and went by myself to look for him."
"No one offered to join you?” I asked.
"Some nice Merlot had just been opened, so everyone was distracted. And, of course, I never would have imagined anything dangerous...” She trailed off and lowered her eyes.
"Please, go on,” I coached.
She continued in a more subdued manner. “I walked down to the Roost, Clarence's getaway place, thinking that's where he'd probably gone. It's the little building on our property just over the hill. It's not so far, but you can't see it from the house. I found him there sprawled on his back, just outside the open door. His sword lay under him, just useless. His forehead was all blood.” She touched her own forehead in a gesture that I frankly found chilling. “And, though I didn't know it at the time, the back of his head was, well, the blow had..."
Paige reached over and took her friend's hand. “She's had to tell this so many times, over and over again, for the police."
"But Mr. Plunkett needs to hear it,” Nina said. “Clarence had been struck twice on the head. Once in front, once in back. Hard. The weapon was never found. I knelt down and tried to cradle him. I asked who did this to him, but I couldn't make out what he said. Then he raised his hand and pointed up here. You have to understand, it took his last spark of life to do it. He pointed and I asked if it was someone from the house. Then he said it. Clearly. He said, ‘Yes.’ A minute later, he was gone. I cried out for help and people came soon after."
Her narrative conveyed, Nina Browley now seemed to deflate. The alcohol and the emotion—and perhaps the paprika-laced soother—had combined to bring her to a state of exhaustion.
"That's the gist of it, Mr. Plunkett,” she said heavily. “If there's anything else, perhaps tomorrow..."
"Certainly. We'll be staying for the next few days at the Greenley Inn. We'll come by to see you again tomorrow morning, say ten o'clock?"
Nina waved a hand at us, presumably in assent. Her eyes slid closed and she spoke as if to herself, “The police say it was just some unknown robber. That no one from the house could have done it. But Clarence said ‘yes.’ He said ‘yes.’”
Paige led us back to the front door. “Nina's a fun, energetic person, but she can be pretty up-and-down, even at the best of times. This ordeal has just pushed her to the brink. She's been wound up all afternoon about your coming and, unfortunately, got herself snockered."
"We understand,” Mr. O'Nelligan said. “Just one more question before we part, Miss Simmons. Why do the police believe it's impossible for someone from the house to have killed Mr. Browley?"
"Because we were all together in the kitchen during that fifteen minute period when he was attacked."
"Fifteen minut
es?” I asked.
"Yes,” Paige said. “The time between when Clarence was seen at the kitchen window up to the time when Nina found him by the Roost. It was only fifteen minutes. But I suppose that's enough time to kill somebody, isn't it?"
* * * *
4.
On the drive to the inn, we talked things over.
"What do you make of our Mrs. Browley?” Mr. O'Nelligan asked.
"Seems like a living rolling coaster."
"Ah! You do have a touch of the poet in you, Lee. Of course, what we observed must be seen in the light of her situation. The murder of one's spouse would be a devastating thing. And, too, she was in the grip of strong drink."
"Sure, but Paige said it was par for the course, didn't she?"
"And what do you make of Miss Paige Simmons?"
"She seems like a nice sincere girl."
"But an actress."
"Can't an actress be a nice girl?” I asked.
"Certainly. I have known several virtuous ingénues from my own time before the footlights."
"That's right, you were an actor yourself."
"For a short spell. But, unfortunately, my parts in New York were mostly of the ‘stage Irish’ variety. Deplorable caricatures dripping whiskey and sentimentality. I had to utter the phrase ‘saints preserve us’ so many times, I nearly choked."
I laughed. “Well, you're safe from the footlights now."
"I am. But what I meant to convey is that Miss Simmons is by vocation an actress and, thus, presumably capable of putting on a facade."
"So you think she isn't so nice and sincere?"
"I don't mean that. I was merely saying that we should be nimble in our interpretations."
I decided to come clean. “You see, Mr. O'Nelligan, that's my problem—I'm not all that nimble. The deduction part of things is where I fall flat. I can take down the facts, all neat and legible, but as far as interpreting them, well, I'm no Buster."
"Nor should you be! You're your own man, Lee Plunkett. And ‘neat and legible’ is a fine place to start things out. By all means, herd in those facts. Then peer at them in the light of reason and see what rises to the surface. But may I make a suggestion?” Mr. O'Nelligan smoothed his beard. “It's about your notebook..."
AHMM, July-August 2009 Page 20
