Cold Wind to Valhalla (Abby Fouchet Mysteries Book 3)

by Flo Fitzpatrick

  “Screenplay?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know. That portion does seem to be missing. But still . . . Daniel Asher? This is not a coincidence. And look at the name of the movie. The January Sun. That’s a phrase from The Snow Man. The poem by our other old friend Wallace Stevens. Call me crazy or romantic or psychic or whatever you want, but I’d say this also tells us we’re in the right place. I wonder if Cinnamon could really have been a part owner in this studio?”

  “Well, she might have been a silent partner. You yourself told me that there were women who were directing and producing early movies but most of the money was still in the hands of men.”

  “ 'Twas ever thus. And apparently, there’s a lot more research to be done, but I’m not sure how one unearths old records of ownership for the studios.” I shook my head. “Did you find anything in the desks?” I asked.

  “Nope. I’ve been through every drawer that’s still part of the desk and a few on the floor as well. Nothing yet.”

  “Hmm. Maybe we should start thinking like spies.”

  Johnny grinned. “Well, you're the agent for FITS, Ms. Manilow. So, what's the plan?"

  I closed my eyes. For a moment I could have sworn I heard something—or someone—singing. An old disco number sung by Diana Ross. "Upside Down." A ghost giving me a clue? I opened my eyes. “Uh . . . we have to imagine outside the box. Where do people put things they don’t want found if all they’ve got are pieces of office furniture? I’ll bet they’d avoid sticking stuff in a desk drawer itself.”

  He snapped his fingers. “Yes! They’d hide under the desk or one of its drawers. If a hidden panel wasn't already there, they’d tape or glue the item. You’re sharp today!" He raised one eyebrow. "Or are you getting visions or hearing music from folks who are no longer with us?"

  “Don't ask.”

  We ran back to the middle of the room to search the two desks that held the most promise. I didn’t want to say anything to Johnny but I could have sworn I did feel a presence urging me on. Crazy. Ghosts? I'm a firm believer in their existence after my month spent in a spooky Czech castle but the whole concept wasn't something I wanted to delve into in the middle of searching a building that might well be teaming with the spirits of lives past. I felt pretty certain though that some energy, some force was guiding me. Colette? Or Cinnamon. Didn't matter. I was in that mind-set of justice and feeling I owed them both. I'd take whatever guidance they could offer.

  I squatted under the desk I’d chosen. Peered up through layers of filth and ash—and found it.

  Chapter 28

  “What is it?”

  “Other than old and dirty, I’m not sure.”

  Johnny gave me a boost off the floor. “Ready to take a look?”

  “Yes and no. If it’s not a patent for the latest and most exciting brilliant new filming device of Nineteen-Seventeen or, better still, a DVD of Cinnamon’s Greatest Movie Hits, Volume Two, I’m not sure I want to see it.”

  We stared down at the package I’d unearthed from the bottom of the desk drawer. It was wrapped in some kind of oilcloth, which was undoubtedly a better preservative than all the plastics and so-called waterproof fabrics from the last sixty years or more. I started shivering. “Here, Johnny. You take it. You open it.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. I don’t want to drop it and my hands aren’t terribly steady right now.”

  Johnny took the package and slowly unwrapped what seemed to be layers upon layers of the oilcloth stuff. “It’s a book.”

  “What?”

  “Wallace Stevens. Harmonium. In amazing shape after who knows how many years under that desk.” He gently opened the book to the first page. “Abby, this book belonged to our girl.”

  “To Cinnamon? Are you serious?”

  “Absolutely. There’s a bookplate on the title page. This book is the property of Gabrielle Garrity. November 15, 1929.”

  “November fifteenth? Wait. That’s . . . that’s a few days after she died. That makes no sense."

  Johnny stated, “That’s the date though. Ready to sift through and look for clues?”

  “Can we do this outside? The rot in here is pretty intense but the light isn’t. And my lungs are ready to breath real air again.”

  “Got it. Why don’t you take the book and I’ll grab all of the posters and we’ll head back to the van.”

  I paused in the doorway of the old Harmony Pictures studio. “Johnny, I really do feel them. Not just Cinnamon Garrity. I have this very strong sense of all the performers and craftsmen and ingenious inventors who worked here. A reminder that great things were done here. A lot of really creative men and women spent their days trying to get an infant industry off the ground.”

  Johnny set the posters back down and gently reached for my hand. “Well, either the Dumas spook genes are contagious or I have more romantic Irish blood than I knew. I feel them too. It’s truly sad all this can’t be renovated. Turned into a museum. Unfortunately, most of these old buildings are too far gone. I’m amazed the roof is still on this place. I suppose this studio was in slightly better shape sixty years or so ago since it was simply abandoned and not burned.”

  “I wonder when exactly it was abandoned. And why the heck someone put that book under the desk. It obviously wasn’t Cinnamon unless she decided to haunt the place and had afterlife kinetic skills down to a fine art."

  Johnny smiled. “I’m not that crazy a romantic. I can’t exactly picture the ghost of our girl drifting from Manhattan to Fort Lee to hide a book of poetry.”

  “Well, someone did. A someone who also wrote her name and date. The only other explanation is that she got the year wrong but why hide the book?” I stopped and took a deep breath. “Wow. Real air. Very nice.”

  Johnny ignored me. Since we were stationary again he’d taken the opportunity to sneak another peek at the book. “This is interesting. On the page that has the text of The Snow Man, there’s a scrap of paper. A bookmark?”

  “And that’s interesting—why?”

  “Because there’s a word written on the paper. Charlie.”

  “Who the hell is Charlie?”

  “Like I know?”

  We stared at each other. “No last name? No other scraps of paper?” I asked.

  Johnny gently shook the pages of the book. Nothing floated to the ground. “Nope. That’s it. Just Charlie.”

  “Wait. How about on the first page? Not the title page but the inside cover. Anything there?”

  Johnny opened the first page and I peered over his shoulder. I pointed. “It’s really faint but there appears to be an address on that inside flap or whatever it’s actually called.”

  “I’m going to need glasses by the time this little excursion is finished,” Johnny stated. “Can you read it?”

  “Would you angle it under the sun a bit more?”

  He did. I squinted. “Says ‘to Charlie with all my love.’ And there’s an address. The street is West Forty-sixth. But I can only see the first two numbers of the actual address. Looks like a four and a five.” I inhaled. “Just like Colette’s address, which also starts with a four and five and it’s on Forty-sixth Street.”

  Johnny stared at me. “Which further proves that this book really did belong to Gabrielle Garrity and that Gabrielle was in love with someone named Charlie. And that Colette found out about this book or the movie. Perhaps because of something that was hidden in her apartment that used to belong to Cinnamon? Is that assuming too much?”

  “Much as I hate assuming anything I think we’re on fairly solid ground with the whole Cinnamon silent movie thingee. Nothing else Colette said to me makes sense and we do seem to be following clues that lead to other clues which wouldn’t be the case if the theory was totally wrong in the first place.”

  “I’m going to ignore how you stated that and agree with you partially because I don’t have any better ideas and I’m really curious to find out what really happened to Cinnamon and whether her murder
was somehow related to that of Colette.”

  “Well, come on then, chauffeur. I say it’s back to Manhattan and a little road trip to Colette’s apartment again. I guess we need Gordon to get permission from someone to let us in? Which reminds me, do you think Gordon can tell us yet who inherits?”

  “I’ll ask him.” Johnny reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone.

  I stayed silent while Johnny punched in the numbers. He shook his head and whispered, “It’s going to voice mail. I guess they’re still at The Cloisters and he doesn’t want to answer.”

  “Well, that’s very considerate of him thinking of the tourists, but annoying for us.”

  “Come on. Let’s book it back to the city. We can try again after we’re over the bridge. We can keep calling every fifteen minutes or so. If we don’t get him, we'll head up to The Cloisters and we can hunt down the elusive detective.”

  I grumbled, “If my roommate hasn’t absconded with him to some hourly-rate hotel for a wild afternoon of passion.”

  Johnny’s eyebrows shot up. “Are they at that stage?”

  “I have no idea. Shay and I haven’t had a chance to do any girl talk for the last couple of weeks. They could be engaged by this time.”

  “Having known Gordon Clark for about seven years and your roommate for—what? Two years? I seriously doubt we’ll see the banns posted anytime soon.”

  I grinned at him. “Well, Clark is yet a mystery, but as you know, Shay has a tendency to get engaged, then disengaged, about every six months so anything’s possible. I'm still not sure she ever officially ended it with Fuji and I'm not sure he thinks it’s off either since he calls about once a month to ask if she's home."

  “We should take bets on who breaks whose heart first. I mean, between Shay and Gordon.

  "Watch. They'll shock us both and elope next week. Which would be fine with me since that way I wouldn't have to wear whatever outrageous outfit Shay would doubtless dream up for a maid of honor."

  We chatted about friends and engagements and all the great sights to see at The Cloisters for the drive back to Manhattan which was fun but didn’t get us any closer to finding out who Charlie was or whether Cinnamon Garrity had left clues in Colette’s apartment that were not in old books about movies. We called Gordon about two seconds after we were off the George Washington Bridge, eager to get the keys and the permission to check out that building.

  This time Johnny got an answer but it wasn’t one that would help us. I watched Johnny nod and say, “Right. I get it. Sure. Okay. Be in touch.” I couldn’t stand it.

  “So? Can we check out Colette’s place?”

  “Not today.”

  “Why not?”

  Johnny’s expression was grim. “Because Gordon is no longer at The Cloisters. Gordon is at the Cameo Theatre investigating another shooting.”

  “What! Who? I can’t believe this. What happened?”

  “Someone entered the theatre about forty minutes after a brunch matinee performance of Hangin’ was over, took out a gun and shot Diamond Richards.”

  “Oh my God! Is she . . .? Is she?”

  Johnny shook his head. “She’s not. She’s in critical condition over at Roosevelt Hospital.”

  “Whoa. This is . . . I don’t know. Scary. Awful.” I paused before adding, “Unexpected.”

  “Unexpected?”

  “Yeah. She’s on our suspect list for Colette’s murder. I sure didn’t expect her to also get shot. And why is she alive?” I paused again. “Wait. That didn’t sound right, did it? I’m not trying to imply I would prefer she were dead. I meant, was the shooter a really bad shot? Did someone scare him or her away? Did Diamond duck at the right moment? Or was this another scare-a-person off shooting gone wrong? Am I making any sense?”

  Johnny tentatively asked, “Want to take a different road trip?”

  “If you mean to the Cameo, I guess the answer would be yes although I’d pretty much promised myself never to go inside that place voluntarily for the next fifteen years or more.”

  “I do mean the Cameo and I do understand. However, Gordon said we could go inside if we wanted since the crime techs have finished doing what crime techs do in real life and if we were very, very careful.”

  “Isn’t that kind of against police procedure?” I asked.

  “I did not ask and I don't want to know. I guess since I've been the unofficial investigator for the whole Senator Edge scandal I could use the whole district attorney's office card bit."

  "And what’s my official capacity?”

  “Uh. Gorgeous girlfriend?"

  “I like it. I'm not sure anyone else will buy it but I appreciate both the adjective and the noun." I grinned.

  “Well, we may not have to use any excuses anyway. With luck we'll be the only ones there."

  “Which brings up the question. Were there any witnesses?”

  “No. Gordon said Diamond was closing up the bar and counting receipts. Most of the actors had either gone or were in their dressing rooms. Stage manager, box office, light crew. No one saw a thing.”

  “Just like with Colette.”

  “Well, apart from the fact—”

  “That she died and Diamond didn’t. I know. Do you think with this shooting, New York’s finest will look a little closer into Colette’s death and not rush to say ‘unintentional’ on the homicide aspect? Gordon’s been the only one so far who’s agreed with us that she was murdered.”

  “We’ll ask him what the current consensus of opinion is. But I’d imagine the gang at One Police Plaza might now be reconsidering the original ‘shooter meant to scare’ theory.”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “Not that it helps. They don’t have suspects either. I personally think our gang of five is closer to a who than the detectives.”

  Johnny glanced at me, amused. “Gang of five?”

  “Yeah. You, Gordon, me, Shay and Ivan. The latter two haven’t exactly been doing a lot of detecting or theorizing but they’ve each come up with interesting ideas when our gang has gotten together and pondered the whys, whos, hows etcetera.”

  Our discussion had brought us to the Cameo Theatre. Johnny found a spot to park the van a block down the street and we slowly headed toward the entrance, spotting at least five photographers and reporters from various New York papers that lived on and off line. I shivered.

  “Johnny, call me a wimp and a washout, but I’m not playing gorgeous girlfriend today.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “No. Maybe I’m still reacting from the ghosts at the old studio lots but I keep seeing Colette. Speaking to me. Trying to talk. Dying in my arms. I can’t do this again. Not in that theatre. Not today.”

  He nodded. “I understand. I do. Want the keys to the van or do you want to wait for me in that diner across the street?”

  I managed a smile. “I’m a wimp but I’m still Abby Fouchet, ghost-listener, second-sight visionary and downer of all things carbohydrate. Diner.”

  Chapter 29

  The diner I’d chosen as my hunker down and wait spot while Johnny explored the Cameo and hopefully unearthed something useful about Diamond’s shooting was one of those places that only exist in film noir movies from the Nineteen-Fifties. Actually, it wasn’t a diner. It was a pub called McCartney’s. A good Irish pub with a mirror behind the bar, cracked vinyl booths, cracked vinyl bar stools and a waiter old enough to have starred in a few of those movies himself.

  “What’ll it be fer ya, lass?”

  “Fish n’ chips, with a big bottle of malt vinegar and an even bigger Irish Rickey.”

  He beamed at me. “Good choice. Fer both.”

  He toddled off but was back with the drink and a basket of soda bread in less than two minutes. An Irish Rickey is potent so I sipped instead of chugged even though my hands were still shaking. Merely being across the street from Colette’s murder scene was making my entire body feel like I was in the middle of a blizzard wearing a bikini. I.E.—cold as ice.


  Three sips in and I felt a bit better. I settled back in the booth and began to contemplate the whys of Diamond Richards being shot. Random attack to steal bar earnings? A scare tactic because she was a lousy mother and the local PTA had pledged to teach parents they couldn’t send their kids out to harass actresses with baton tips? Perhaps a threat warning Ms. Richards to keep her mouth shut about that mysterious napkin that had sent that kid out to harass etc.etc. Or a deliberate attempt on her life. If that last why was the case, was it because Diamond knew something she hadn’t bothered to tell the police, or anyone else, about the night Colette was murdered? I swirled all these theories around in my head and came up with nothing concrete. Speculation. That was all I had. And possibly stupid speculation at that.

  My food arrived along with a second Irish Rickey. My waiter smiled at me. “You were lookin’ a bit peaked, lass. I t’ought you might be wantin’ more whiskey with the meal especially as yer glass is empty. This one's on me because ya brighten up the place.”

  I grinned at him. “You, sir, are a sweet flatterer, an excellent observer, and a very fine waiter. Thank you so much! What’s your name?”

  “Colin Garrity. At yer service.”

  I sat up straight. “Garrity? Really? That’s interesting.”

  “And why is that? ‘Tis an old and foin name to be sure, but why interestin’?”

  “Oh. This is kind of crazy but I’m doing research into a lady clown who went by the name of Cinnamon but her real name was Gabrielle Garrity.”

  Colin shot me a strange look. “T’at is interestin’. Yer the second young lady who’s brought up the name in the last t’ree months.”

  “What? Who? Who else brought her up?”

  “A girl about yer age. Maybe a bit older. Hard ta tell with you kids. Black girl. Tall and sort of exotically beautiful; she was. She said she worked across the street in that theatre. The one’s been playin’ t’at awful trash show for weeks now. Never gave her name.”

  “It’s got to be her! Colette. She did work at the Cameo Theatre. And you’re right. The show is trash.” I paused then tentatively asked, “So. What did she want to know?”