“I agree. So what do you think it means?”
“Going back to my research. I’ve been diving into all the history I can find on these early movie stars, like Theda Bara or Rudolph Valentino. I mean Vanessa Manilow's flashback character is supposed to be a Theda Bara type who gets seduced by a Valentino type. My flashback name is even Thea Donovan which I think is pushing it since it’s awfully close to Theda Bara but apparently I get called Althea on occasion so there’s no mistaking me for her. At any rate, most of my focus has been on Bara but there were other people who had interesting lives who made it onto Internet searches and I’m now remembering nuggets I stored away for future use.”
Johnny sighed. “You’re rambling, sweetheart. You don’t have to explain your motives in looking up the stars of silent films. You know I do massive research for a role, so I completely sympathize. What did you find out?”
“Cinnamon the clown died alone and penniless in 1929 in an apartment in Manhattan. She had no family. She never married.” I stopped. “God, that’s so sad. From everything I read; she was brilliant. I’ll bet she’d’ve made it once talkies really got going and probably been a major comedic actress instead of dying by herself in some trashy apartment in Hell’s Kitchen.”
“That is sad. And we’ll do something to honor the woman because we both hate believing anyone creative is ever forgotten. But meantime, what did you find you believe relates back to Colette?”
“Sorry. Digressing. Okay. I remember this tiny piece in an article said that the last troupe of vaudevillians she’d performed with—uh Cinnamon that is— got together to hold the funeral out in Kensico Cemetery and have her buried there and among them was some neighbor whose last name was Asher. I never realized what a ton of celebrities are buried in Kensico. Even today.” My eyes widened. “Oh—My—God. I am so stupid. Kensico Cemetery. Valhalla! Jethro Tull.”
“You lost me. What does Jethro Tull have to do with any of this.”
“Kensico Cemetery is in Valhalla, New York. You may or may not know that Shay’s rather eccentric cousin, Bobby, is a huge classic rock fan. He introduced me to Jethro Tull and I became a super fan as well. Anyway, Jethro Tull recorded a song back in the Seventies called Cold Wind to Valhalla. This particular tune is on the Minstrel in the Gallery album. You can find a couple of videos of it online although I’ve yet to see a live performance anywhere. Okay. Colette was also a fan. Actually she was a fan of pretty much any rock group that existed in the Sixties, Seventies or Eighties. But I even remember chatting about some DVD she'd gotten of Tull in concert. That was the day we had coffee after the Les Miz audition and she told me to come see Hangin'."
Johnny waved at our waiter. “Our 'together-on-screen' schedules are wacky for a while. What time are you filming tomorrow?” he asked me.
“Oh!”
“What?”
“Film. Colette said ‘fill’ and she said what could have been ‘reel’. Like a film reel? I wonder if this Cinnamon made a movie? Although why Colette would care so much that’s all she could think of is beyond me. Anyway, back to your question. I’m filming late. I don’t have a scene scheduled until the afternoon at two.”
“Good. I’m not filming at all tomorrow. I guess they’re saving me for one of those twelve-hour days. We need more wine. Want some cheese to go with it for a little protein brain power?”
“I thought that was supposed to be fish and yes, I would love some cheese and no, I would not like any fish because I can’t stand the stuff unless it’s lobster which really isn’t a fish anyway although I can handle a tuna casserole if there’s very little tuna and a ton of cheese, peppers, mushroom soup and macaroni. Which I don’t eat any more anyway since I’ve been considering going vegetarian.”
“I’m not sure you should have more wine after all. That was another rather large tangent. I’m not even going to ask where the veggie thing came from.”
I shrugged. “Whatever.”
We waited until the waiter had brought us a half-carafe so we’d relax but stay sober, then toasted our brilliance in discovering several clues before downing that first glass which was actually my second—if one was counting.
Johnny mused aloud, “So we have a female clown who used to dress like the male Little Tramp character. We have a Jethro Tull song that Abby Fouchet amazingly recognized and doubtless can sing every lyric—I assume this tune has lyrics and isn’t solely instrumental?”
“Oh, yeah. Yep. Wicked awesome lyrics and Ian Anderson has a very fine flute solo at the beginning. Then his lilting tones are heard. Wanna hear it?”
“Later. Much as I love your singing voice, I’m not sure the patrons of the Fontana Inn dining room—all of whom are in cast or crew—are ready for three verses and choruses—or more-—of Cold Wind to Valhalla sung by an entrancing chestnut-haired beauty who is going to have to live at this hotel for the next three weeks.”
I stared at him. “That was quite convoluted. No more wine for you."
“Can we get back to mystery solving please?”
“Sure. Where were we?”
“Cold Wind. Clown. Kensico. Cinnamon.”
I nodded. “Cinnamon. Little Tramp type. No large red rubber noses and big floppy feet and tri-or quad-colored wild hair. White faces though.” I groaned. “I’m so frustrated, Johnny! None of this makes any sense.”
Johnny grinned. “Need a hug?”
“Definitely. Are you sure it wouldn’t offend the sensibilities of the other diners, unlike my singing?”
Instead of responding with words, Johnny rose, took the one step he needed to get to where I was sitting, hoisted me to my feet, then gave me a huge bear hug. Not the most romantic we’ve ever exchanged but I actually felt reassured that we’d able to figure out whatever sense Colette had tried to convey.
“Better?”
“Yeah. Thanks. Hugs always gratefully received.
He winked at me, politely held my chair out so I could plop back down. Then he resumed his own seat. “Believe me, I have another intent in mind for later. Unless the cheap producers stuck you with a roommate. Oh crap. I’ll bet they did since I have one. Nuts. Are we ever going to be alone?”
“We could ask to switch?” I grinned.
“Who’s your roomie?”
“Mandy.”
“I do not think Dusty’s wife would approve of Mandy bunking in with him since he’s my current suitemate. So. Passionate thoughts and passion on hold. Meantime, do you think you could stand to do a bit more surmising over hidden meanings?”
“Sure. Back to Ian Anderson and his flute.”
“Back to Cinnamon. And Colette Currie.”
“Yeah. Why was Colette talking about this lady with her dying breath?”
Johnny exhaled. “If we could figure that out it might just explain why everyone and her cousin or—-as you so graciously put it—her um-mer is bugging you about it.”
“Unfortunately I haven’t the foggiest. I might however, if a certain Johnny Gerard saw fit to flag down that waiter for a little more pie and cheese?”
He blinked. “Abigail Marie. You have just devoured a huge plate of pasta primavera and the biggest salad this side of a fast food bar along with the entire basket of Italian bread you dipped into olive oil like you were drilling in Texas for black gold. You’ve had two glasses of wine and a very large slice of apple pie with a very large slice of cheese and you want more?”
“Hey! Quit monitoring my eating. Besides it was all vegan. Very healthy. Well, maybe not the cheese. Dairy. Damn. I can’t seem to let go of cheese or ice cream in my quest to divest myself of animal products. Which is very odd since I can’t stand milk. Go figure. Where were we?”
“Ordering you more dessert.”
“Ah. How about something lighter? Spumoni? Yeah. That’d work. Oh. Add a cannoli to that.”
Johnny signaled our waiter, who was delighted that I so enjoyed the food at the Marsden Hotel and was making a total glutton of myself. I couldn’t help it. I eat when I
’m nervous. And this whole discussion about Colette and her last words was making me nervous, especially since, knowing Johnny, I was well aware we were about to dive into the suspect pool without a paddle. (Admittedly, as Ivan pointed out to me a week or so ago, I also eat when I’m happy, tired, depressed, celebrating or working off long days rehearsing or nights performing. But I see no need to harp on that. I work out like a fiend dancing and fencing and was about to take up horseback riding and I generally walk everywhere in Manhattan so that food gets metabolized pretty durn fast.)
“Suspects.”
“I knew it.”
“What?”
“Suspects. I knew you’d be ready to start naming names even when we don’t have a real motive.”
“Abby, you’re the one who suggested naming those names in order to possibly figure out that motive!”
“I thought you did?”
“Nope.”
I winked at him. “Fine. Suspects. Let’s start with the biggest—in suspicion, if not in stature, although come to think of it, she is fairly tall."
“Diamond Richards.”
“Bingo. I don’t buy this ‘napkin under the glass to play a joke on Abby’ line she was trying to sell. She was definitely at the Cameo Theatre during the time Colette was shot and has a great alibi for being at the Cameo Theatre. Although I guess that doesn’t qualify for an alibi. Anyway, she’s number one on the list. I don’t have a reasonable reason for motive but I do not like that woman. I do, however, feel sorry for her son.”
“So, Diamond is numero uno. I’m putting Kenny-Ann and Kaleb Townshend in as two. Or two and three depending upon whether they acted in consort or one of them pulled the trigger and the other didn’t know anything about it.”
“I agree. I’m clueless as to a motive for murder but Kenny-Ann is way too perky and Kaleb’s way too suave.”
I dove into the cannoli that had just arrived. Our waiter hadn’t even blinked hearing Johnny say "pulled the trigger' or me say 'motive for murder.' This guy deserved an amazing tip. “The only others who were way too interested in having me share Colette’s dying declarations were Geoff Murray and Billie-Clare Buchanan who kind of asked together. They were both in that ghastly show.” I paused. “That’s so awful. Colette’s last creative enterprise on this earth was a stupid naked show. I truly wish I’d never seen it. I’d rather remember her doing those episodes on Search For Serenity with me last winter where we were both fighting the contortionist little person who’d just murdered the meth lab operator from the drug cartel who’d kidnapped his sister and were hauling me off to belly dance for them. Angus Burdon was the actor playing the murderer and he’s one of the funniest people on the planet. He had Colette and me laughing so hard the director was ready to lock us both in the meth lab closet. Maybe that’s why they sent my character off to South America never to return once she'd shimmied her way through the entire drug cartel? Endless Time should hire Angus though. We could all stand some good belly laughs on set. Angus does a stand-up routine down in the Village and he always has great material.”
Johnny bit his lip. I wasn’t sure if it was to keep from screaming or letting loose with a few laughs. “That’s good. Try to remember stuff like that instead of either the show, as in Hangin’ or—well—Colette’s dying.”
I smiled. “I intend to. Now, back to suspects. The other person who seemed overly anxious to have me spill the last words was Taylor Mills—Colette’s ex-um-mer. Although he wasn’t obnoxious about it and he did seem to be genuinely grieving.”
Johnny sat back and thought about this for a second. “That could be natural. His wanting to hear what she said. They had been lovers at some point. He’d want to know if Colette was thinking about him in her last moments especially since it appeared he wanted to get back together with her.”
“Maybe.” I hugely exhaled. “I just don’t know. Motive. Jeez. The whole damned Hangin’ cast might have a motive and we’d have no idea because we don’t know what that motive is.”
I finished the cannoli and the spumoni in record time then downed the last few ounces of wine in my glass. “Enough. This is going nowhere and I can’t think straight anymore. I had a very long day simpering and blushing and diving into spittoons and getting riled since the scene with us kissing didn’t happen in sequence and you took off and I had two scenes with Letitia, then getting in cahoots with Dolores so we can get Yolanda to take over the writing so Vanessa won’t come off as a complete air brain. I’m going to my room to sleep and hopefully get enough rest to be a good little actress tomorrow. At least Mandy doesn’t seem like an all-night talker type. She wasn’t last night at any rate. Go away, Gerard. And be sure to tell your roommate I’m really looking forward to our kissing scenes.”
Johnny chuckled. “I think I’ll call his wife instead and tell her that. Good thing she and I are both trusting people who understand when the loves of our lives are making out with someone else more than with us.”
“Well, I’m working on my own jealousy issues. I guess it’s good you don’t have them since I tend to be a little loony when I see you wrapped in Barbie or Mandy’s arms.”
He ignored me. He had a gleam in his eye. “You know what? I’m not staying here tonight after all. Dusty can even have a conjugal visit. Since I’m not filming tomorrow, I’m going to drive back to Manhattan in one of the vans and I’m going to head for the library at NYU, which stays open all night. I plan to research everything I can about Cinnamon because the Internet, while wonderful, doesn’t have all the wisdom of the ages that books generally do. I’m also going to research your friend Colette’s background and try to connect the two.”
“Let me know what you find out? Just don’t call until after eight a.m. tomorrow. I’d rather not start chasing killers until I’ve had my coffee.”
Chapter 14
Abby (as Vanessa): “What are you doing in the saloon at this hour, Mr. Davies. (Shines flashlight directly at him.)
Dusty (as Gil): Ms. Manilow! I didn’t see you. (Well, duh, dude. How could you when you’re sneaking around a dark room after midnight? Come on, writers— better dialogue, puhle-eeze. Yolanda! Where are you? Help!)
Vanessa: “Stay where you are! Don’t you realize this is still a crime scene? You can’t be here contaminating the evidence. Not to mention; you’re a suspect. This is insane! You’ve got to leave now before Gregory Noble and his squad return.”
(Gil takes a few strides toward Vanessa.)
Gil :“Vanessa. I didn’t come here tonight to contaminate anything. I came because I had to see you.”
Vanessa: (Catches her breath.) (And how precisely does one do that? With a butterfly net or a baseball mitt? Isn’t that like rolling one’s eyes? A near physical impossibility. Focus, Abby.) “Why did you have to see me—Gil? Did you found out anything about your great-grandfather? Did he know Isaac Silverman back in 1917? Is it at all possible he was implicated in stealing those patents?” Pause. “Or worse. Did you know Isaac? My God, Gil, if you’re up to your neck in this, I can’t help you. Everyone is looking for those patents. If you stole them, now’s the time to admit it.”
Gil: “I don’t want to talk about patents. I don’t give a rat’s backside about patents. But, since you’ve asked, yes, I found out that Gilberto did indeed know Isaac and yes, I knew Isaac when he was quite old and yes, I even had business dealings with him, but none of that matters. Not tonight. Dammit, Vanessa, don’t you know I’ve been intrigued by you ever since the day we met? You’re not some law officer to me. You’re an enticing, beautiful woman and I’m tired of playing this game of cop and witness. Or worse, cop and suspect.”
Vanessa: (Quietly, almost in desperation, trying to convince herself as much as Gil) (Not even going to go there with my opinion on that bit of stage direction, writers, but do I need to remind you I’m an actress with a brain who can figure out the meaning behind the words, assuming the words aren’t completely inane? Don’t give me the inane stage direction. Let the director
provide the motivation in case I’m too stupid to figure it out myself, which I’m not.) “Stop! Gil. We are cop and possible suspect. Well, not cop. I still don’t know how you found out I’m with the Fierce Intelligence Task Service." (FITS? Are y'all kidding?) "But I can’t forget my duties, especially in the middle of a case—no matter how much I might want to try. This is sheer lunacy. I met you two days ago when you were hauled in for questioning—in a murder! We can’t have a relationship!” (Poo on that. This is a soap. The minute the words, “we can’t have a relationship” are spoken everyone and his Aunt Susie are going to get the picture that a relationship is exactly what’s coming and a roll around the floor, bed, train compartment or grassy picnic spot is quickly slapped into next week's script. The only question is when the rolling will begin and whether Vanessa Manilow is about to forget her feelings for Gregory Noble and fall for a murderer or an innocent guy who’s going to get killed before the final credits roll. I can already see the headlines in the fan magazines. “Is Vanessa Manilow going out on a honkin’ big limb with a bigger chainsaw and get down and dirty with one of the suspects in Isaac Silverman’s murder?” Well, that’s more than a headline but it’s the right question.)
Gil: (Smiling ruefully) “We Davies men always seem to get involved with women we’re not supposed to. In my great-grandfather Gilberto’s day, it was with that actress, the vamp Thea Donovan. He told me they used to meet in this very room at Fontana Inn. They arranged their assignations here. She was very beautiful and very wild, he said. And he adored her. As to her feelings? No one really knows for sure to this day. And that doesn’t matter either. What matters is what I’m feeling for you—right now.”
(Gil moves toward Vanessa as he says this until he is standing just across from her. As he stares down into her eyes, then leans down to kiss her, the scene dissolves into 1917 and Gil and Vanessa become Gilberto Davies and Thea Donovan. They are locked in an embrace. Finally, they pull apart. Both are breathless.)
Cold Wind to Valhalla (Abby Fouchet Mysteries Book 3) Page 9
