Hoodwink

by Rhonda Roberts

  It wasn’t black snow; the ground was carpeted with dead bees.

  Then I heard the cries for help. There were people still trapped under one of the fallen grandstands. I instinctively took a step towards them.

  Sirens wailed and a fleet of ambulances and fire trucks pulled up outside the cemetery gates.

  An unbearable metal-on-metal grinding noise issued from the grandstand right in front of us. It tilted forward … over our heads.

  It was getting ready to collapse.

  ‘Forget it, Kannon,’ ordered Honeycutt. ‘You can’t help anyone now. We’ve got to get out of here.’

  We ran.

  The grandstand sagged, then dropped, missing us by inches … demolishing Merlin’s tomb.

  The rescue team poured into the cemetery as we raced for the gates. Lewis Renfrow tried to keep pace.

  ‘Who the hell was that?’ panted Renfrow. He was exhilarated by so much violent destruction.

  ‘It was supposed to be Matz, the Mayan goddess of soldiers,’ Honeycutt replied. ‘But it had to be one of Bumstead’s tricks.’

  ‘That weren’t no trick, buddy,’ said Renfrow. The gangster was pumped full of adrenalin and wanted to talk.

  I searched Renfrow’s exhilarated mug. Should I use this moment to interrogate him?

  Renfrow turned back to Honeycutt, a ghoulish light in his eye. ‘What did that Matz dame mean when she said your brother had been murdered? Was it true?’

  Honeycutt seemed ready to explode.

  I cut in. ‘Lewis, do you have any idea where I can find Earl Curtis?’

  Renfrow wasn’t happy with the change of topic, but was in a sufficiently pleased mood to reply. ‘Yeah, I saw Earl when I was on my way down here. He must’ve decided to go to the other séance —’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ I said quickly.

  ‘Earl took the track down to Dead Horse Canyon,’ replied Renfrow. ‘Where else could he be going?’

  ‘I have to find him,’ I said to Honeycutt. He nodded once and we sprinted back up the slope.

  Renfrow managed to catch up with us at the turn-off to Dead Horse Canyon. ‘Hey,’ he panted to Honeycutt, ‘I’ll come with you.’ He was in the mood for more trouble and in MacVille Park a séance seemed the right place to find it.

  The moonlight lit our way to the canyon floor where hundreds of the black-clad outsiders were gathered around the unlit pyre built on top of Merlin Jones’ murder site. They were chanting in Latin.

  ‘You search the crowd,’ said Honeycutt, scanning around. ‘I’ll take the canyon perimeter.’

  I nodded and he loped off into the shadows, Renfrow at his side.

  I circled once … No sign of Earl anywhere. So I made my way into the centre of the crowd. And stopped.

  They had a goat tethered next to the unlit bonfire. It bleated piteously. Next to it Stanley was having an arm-swinging argument with the black-clad priest holding the flaming torch.

  ‘You can’t do this. You can’t kill a living being and expect there to be no consequences … Not here, not tonight.’

  ‘Merlin has not appeared yet, that means he can’t break through. This goat’s life force will give him the power to rise!’

  The back of my neck prickled. I swung around.

  Earl was just behind me, gazing up at the full yellow moon, mesmerised. The sedatives Dr M had fed him must still be working.

  Then I saw over his shoulder …

  Hellfire!

  Twenty feet straight behind Earl, at the very back of the crowd, crouched the Blight Doll. The moonlight glinted off the machete in its right hand.

  The doll howled with murderous rage, raised the long blade and ran at Earl. The black-clad crowd scattered before the machete-wielding attacker.

  Earl idly turned towards the noise and froze … then bolted past me to the unlit bonfire.

  ‘Can’t intervene, can’t intervene,’ I kept chanting to myself. Earl doesn’t die here. It has to be played out.

  Earl collapsed at the foot of the pyre, sobbing in fear. The doll pounded up, ready to slash the machete down and into his chest.

  Earl screamed, ‘No! No!’ Then wrenched open his shirt and showed the white jaguar tattoo to the menacing black figure. ‘I’m one of yours now, Matz. Don’t hurt me!’

  The machete wavered. ‘You stupid bastard, what are you whining about?’ The voice was female. And familiar. ‘Did you really think you could dump me and get away with it?’

  Earl goggled up at the doll, both confused and relieved. ‘Veronica?’

  She tore off her snake-skull headdress to reveal long dark hair and crazed chocolate eyes.

  Veronica Hall.

  But she was due to die of a heart attack today?

  ‘You cheated on me, Earl, you dirty bastard. Did you really think you were going to get away with that? How did you like those cute dolls I sent you? Did you wet your pants like a little boy?’

  ‘Veronica, be reasonable. I’ve always loved you best, sweet cheeks.’ Earl scrabbled backwards … Onto the pyre and away from the machete.

  She followed, climbing up like a predator ready for the kill.

  ‘Don’t bother, Earl! You dumped me and now you’re sneaking around with some blonde slut. I found her yellow hair all over the bed in your bungalow.’

  ‘Veronica, for old times’ sake, don’t do this —’

  ‘So I’m not blonde enough for you, Earl? Well, I got rid of Phyllis fast enough!’

  ‘You dropped that light on Phyllis?’ Earl was shocked.

  ‘I was aiming for you, you moron! But it gave me a good idea … If I just kept eliminating every blonde you were interested in I’d eventually get the slut that took you away from me!’

  ‘But, Veronica …’ Earl scrambled up to the very top of the pyre.

  ‘I got rid of that Mexican tattooist you’ve been seeing in Los Felices too.’ Veronica scoffed, ‘Talk about a bottle-blonde, Earl? She had a heavier beard than you do!’

  Her eyes became slits. ‘And after I’ve done you, I’m going to get rid of that new assistant of yours too! What was her car doing outside your house all last night? Is she the one that turned you away from me?’

  ‘All last night?’ He was stunned. ‘What are you raving about, you frigging lunatic?’ Earl’s voice started off harsh, but when Veronica raised the machete he shrieked, ‘No, Veronica, don’t!’

  A deafening gunshot echoed off the canyon walls.

  The bullet hit Veronica Hall mid torso.

  She fell across Earl, knocking him flat, the machete slicing past his head to lodge deep in the wood. Her blood sprayed, soaking into the pyre and the soil below it.

  Earl screamed then sobbed.

  Beside me Lewis Renfrow was holding the smoking gun. Honeycutt was just behind him.

  Renfrow strolled over to jerk the woman off Earl. He scurried down off the pyre and cowered away from the body.

  ‘Stop blubbering, Curtis,’ snarled Renfrow. ‘Act like a man!’

  Renfrow checked that Veronica was dead, then said with satisfaction, ‘I’ll get my boys down here to take care of her.’ He chuckled. ‘That ball-breaking bitch was always going to give herself a heart attack anyway —’ He paused, caught up in a new thought. ‘Hey, that makes sense … a heart attack. That way we can give her a big funeral and then get onto casting the next Melanie Wilkes without any bad publicity.’

  Earl wailed like a banshee, wrapping his arms around his new protector’s thick neck.

  ‘Don’t worry, Curtis,’ said Renfrow, slapping him hard enough on the back to force out a wheezing cough. ‘I’m investing a boatload of dough in Gone with the Wind, so until it’s in the can I’m gonna take good care of you, buddy.’ He perused Veronica’s slack body with evident approval. ‘I’ll even help you recast. We’ll get someone better … someone nice.’

  As we moved back, the black-clad throng crept closer to the pyre, like spiders returning to their victim.

  The black-clad priest hunched over t
he seeping corpse … speculating. Veronica’s blood had soaked the pyre red.

  ‘No, don’t!’ yelled Stanley, leaping on his back. ‘Not with human blood!’

  The priest fought him off with a savage elbow in the face and thrust his burning torch straight into the pyre.

  The accelerant caught and fingers of flame clawed for the sky … replete with the stench of burning flesh.

  The devotees groaned in anticipation. The death offering had been made.

  In the distance an owl screeched a warning.

  The shadowed floor of the canyon came alive with rustling, scuttling creatures … reptiles, animals … Birds shot into the air and out of the canyon, heading west … towards the fleeing sun.

  Everything was getting the hell out of Dodge.

  A willy-willy carrying ash surged up from the bonfire, turned into a howling whirlwind that bounced off the canyon walls and then went up.

  Straight up.

  Threatening gun-metal grey clouds swirled in from the east. The yellow moon darkened to orange … then red … then blood-red.

  The crowd gaped.

  I gaped too … Bloody what now?

  Whoever or whatever was about to arrive, I wasn’t willing to wait for an introduction. It could be Matz come for another run at Honeycutt.

  I grabbed his shoulder and hauled him further back from the horde. ‘We’re getting out of here, Honeycutt. Now! I’ve had enough of this supernatural bullshit for one night!’

  The storm clouds cracked open and a fork of lightning darted down to strike the burning pyre.

  It exploded into fiery splinters.

  Black-clad watchers shrieked in pain.

  Then everyone was racing for the trail up and out of the canyon, stumbling over those who’d fallen.

  ‘Not that way,’ ordered Honeycutt. ‘I’ve found a better way out.’

  Renfrow followed, half carrying Earl.

  ‘So Veronica Hall was sending Earl the Mayan Blight Dolls,’ said Honeycutt. ‘Because he dumped her for another woman.’

  ‘Yeah, she must’ve found out about the dolls when she was on location, filming Crimson Dawn. Veronica tried to hit him with that light too but got Phyllis instead. I’m pretty sure she was also the one that tried to ram him with the car outside the Selznick house the night of the party.’

  We were sitting in Honeycutt’s Speedster in the Good Shepherd Inn parking lot. It was deserted. I was filling him in on what I’d gleaned from Alphonse Dada and Constance Murchison.

  ‘But I still don’t understand … why did Earl get that jaguar tattoo?’

  ‘It all goes back to Earl’s trip to Paris. He really pissed off Alphonse Dada and, for spite, Dada introduced him to a French con-artist called LeFage. LeFage was present when Earl freaked out over a Blight Doll Veronica had sent him, so he passed that information on to another con-artist who operates in Los Angeles —’

  ‘Let me guess,’ said Honeycutt. ‘LeFage set Earl up with Dr Murchison?’

  I nodded. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Dada was dropping too many hints about Earl and the doctor at dinner. But you still haven’t explained why Earl got that tattoo.’

  ‘Dr Murchison told Earl that the Blight Dolls were being sent by Matz. Murchison must’ve got the idea from either LeFage or from watching Crimson Dawn and then talking to Simon Renfrow. Anyway, she convinced Earl that in a past life he’d been the evil priest that sacrificed the real Obsidian Shield.’

  ‘So the jaguar tattoo was to protect him from the wrath of Obsidian Shield’s goddess … Matz.’

  ‘Yep. That’s right.’

  It all made sense but it didn’t make me any happier. Earl was due to die tomorrow night and now I had absolutely no idea who was behind it.

  Veronica Hall was dead and about to be registered in the annals of Hollywood history as a heart-attack victim, yet another sacrifice on the altar of Gone with the Wind.

  Lewis Renfrow certainly didn’t know about Earl and his wife as yet, and on top of that had invested Mob money in Gone with the Wind. As Renfrow said, he had an interest in keeping Earl alive. So unless Earl and Ruby did something particularly public and stupid over the next twenty hours … which didn’t seem likely after tonight … Renfrow was not our man.

  So who was?

  Honeycutt was staring up at Mount Mortimer again, as though searching for answers engraved in the cliff line.

  ‘Are you okay, Daniel?’ His mind wasn’t on this case, that was for sure. But after what’d happened in Merlin’s crypt tonight, how could it be?

  ‘I’m fine,’ he replied absent-mindedly.

  He wasn’t.

  ‘Do you still think that Matz was a trick?’

  ‘Yes.’ He shrugged tiredly. ‘It was just another scam of Bumstead’s that went badly wrong. That’s all.’ But his face said he wasn’t so sure.

  ‘But, Daniel, how could Bumstead know about what happened to your brother? Everyone thinks you’re Devereaux.’

  No reply.

  I didn’t really expect one. There was no reasonable answer to that question.

  Matz said Kyle had been murdered because he knew too much. ‘Is there any reason to believe your brother’s death wasn’t an accident?’

  ‘No!’ Daniel was too worn down to have this particular conversation. He was silent for a moment then said more gently, ‘Accidents happen … Even terrible ones.’

  ‘And you usually looked after your younger brother?’ I said as softly as I could.

  ‘Oh yes.’ Still, after all those years, there was no mistaking the anger in those two words.

  Which was why Honeycutt blamed himself for Kyle’s death … And why he was so protective of me.

  To Honeycutt, I was his responsibility. Just like Kyle.

  Silence.

  I didn’t know how to comfort him. I’d already said too much on this subject tonight.

  Sensing my pity, Daniel snapped, ‘We’ve got to work out what to do next, Kannon, not waste time trying to unscramble what happened in Bumstead’s rigged séance!’

  I studied his tired, tense face … maybe it was better to leave it alone for now.

  The case, and the field of suspects, was wide open once again.

  ‘Well, the only thing I can think of, Honeycutt, is to check Phyllis’ appointment book. Susan’s schedule is downright useless so I want to find out what Earl’s really got booked in for tomorrow. Other than that, I’ll have to wait until Earl’s killer comes for him tomorrow night.’

  ‘You mean tonight,’ said Daniel.

  I groaned.

  It was 3 am by the time I crawled up Phyllis’ front stairs. The place stank of unemptied garbage bins, fetid canal mud and worse. Someone had used the pavement next to the canal as a toilet.

  I was at a standstill. Honeycutt was distracted and I’d run out of suspects.

  Earl had been buried at the studio — chances were that someone from the studio had put him there. So I’d come back to Phyllis’ house to check the appointment book she kept for Earl, hoping it would give me a clue.

  The phone was ringing as I stepped through the front door. It was Honeycutt.

  ‘Have you found it yet?’

  ‘No. I just arrived.’ I scanned around the lounge room. ‘Wait a minute.’

  ‘What?’

  Everything was still roughly in place but enough had been moved a fraction for me to know someone had been here. Phyllis was long gone so who’d want to search her house?

  Or rather, my house.

  I checked the bedroom and the kitchen; it was the same there — everything was just a touch out of place. Could it have been Veronica Hall rifling for proof of a sexual relationship with Earl? Possibly, but the careful work didn’t seem to fit with Veronica’s flamboyantly destructive methods.

  Then I remembered the man that Benny had mentioned yesterday at the studio … The grey-haired older male who I’d assumed was my NTA supervisor — Foster Brigham.

  The next-door neighbour
said a man of the same description had come here knocking on the door. Whoever he was, had he given up trying to find me and broken in instead?

  But why was this guy interested in me in the first place? And who was he?

  I was desperate for another lead on who would murder Earl — could this man be it?

  I grabbed Phyllis’ appointment book off the kitchen table and picked up the receiver again. ‘I’ve got the book here.’ I flicked through to the right day. ‘Earl starts filming at 8 am tomorrow. He’s working on the Atlanta train depot scene until 6 pm, then he has two hours pencilled in for a meeting with Selznick and Jennings.’ I turned the page. ‘But that’s all she’s listed.’

  I studied the lounge room. Exactly what had my stealthy visitor been searching for?

  ‘Okay, Kannon,’ said Honeycutt. ‘I’m back at the hotel now so come home.’

  I deflected that. ‘How did you go with Earl?’

  ‘Earl’s tucked up nice and safe at Ceiba House with Gilbert and Gilbert’s new shotgun.’

  I yawned into the receiver. ‘Honeycutt, I think I’m too tired to drive. Why don’t we both grab some sleep and meet at the studio at 7 am?’

  Silence.

  I yawned again. ‘I’m out on my feet, Honeycutt. I just want to get some sleep while I can. I need to be fresh for tomorrow.’

  Accusing silence.

  I could almost feel his suspicion radiating from the receiver.

  ‘Why do I get the feeling you’re lying to me again, Kannon?’ The tone was not friendly.

  ‘I’ve never lied to you, Honeycutt, so I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Honeycutt still hadn’t seen the doll figure Veronica had carved into the driver’s door on my old Ford. In the morning I’d scratch it out completely and dent it. If Honeycutt asked I’d tell him I ran into something.

  ‘Oh give it a rest, Honeycutt. I’m too tired to argue with you about it now!’

  ‘Okay, Kannon, maybe my instincts are off at the moment. I’ll see you at the studio at 7 am.’

  I lay down on top of Phyllis’ unmade bed with the loaded revolver next to my pillow and hoped the intruder would come back for an interview in person.

  Finally I drifted off to sleep, but woke up bathed in an icy sweat about an hour later.