by P. J. Conn
A cello, violin, and flute trio seated at the front of the sanctuary played hauntingly beautiful classical music and set a reverent mood. Undoubtedly members of the LA Philharmonic who'd wanted to pay a musical tribute for a lost friend.
Joe was curious about what members of the orchestra had actually thought of Matteo. Had the cellist playing that afternoon been a close friend, or a fierce rival? There were probably many rivalries among those in the orchestra, and Matteo could have been right in the middle of them.
He waited out front at the appointed time and Constance appeared almost immediately. Dressed in a primly tailored black wool suit and stylish hat, she again made him wonder if she'd presented Matteo with an exciting challenge.
"Are there women playing in the LA Philharmonic?" he asked.
"A few, the harpist is especially fine. Was Matteo involved with one of them, or all, for that matter?"
"Not that I know," Joe replied with an honest shrug. "I need to speak with as many of the orchestra as I possibly can today. Will you introduce me?"
"Of course, I want Matteo's murder solved without delay." She looped her arm through his, and they entered the church and chose a pew toward the rear.
As he watched the church fill, Joe searched for a movie star or two so he could tell Mary Margaret he had seen someone she admired, but he didn't recognize anyone until Fr. Neal Dodd began the service. He was a slim fellow, wore glasses, and had a marvelous resonant voice that easily carried to the back pews.
"Isn't he wonderful?" Constance asked. "He's played the preacher in so many films, It Happened One Night, The Philadelphia Story. Too many to count really."
The woman seated in front of them turned with a warning finger to her lips. "Sorry," Constance whispered.
That an Episcopal priest had founded a Hollywood church and gone on to appear in films struck Joe as something that could only happen here. It also reminded him to check when Arizona Sunrise would be released. He leaned close to Constance to form the words in a bare whisper.
"I've been in a film myself."
"You don't mean it," she mouthed.
Joe nodded, and turned his attention to the service. Paloma Val Verde was seated across the aisle and two rows ahead of them. Her head bobbed as she wept for the man she'd lost. There were quite a few women weeping, some noisily, and he thought the reception following might degenerate into violence even if he kept Constance out of it. However, if the woman who owned the fur coat and hat was in attendance, she had left them at home in her closet.
He looked over his shoulder and saw Detective Lynch standing in the open arched doorway. Joe nodded and Lynch grimaced, apparently aghast to find him there. Joe loved every little wince he could squeeze out of the straitlaced man.
Latecomers were still filing in and moving into open spaces among those already seated. They were all smartly dressed, and perhaps supporters of the orchestra.
The woman Joe had photographed had appeared tall, but without the stiletto heels, she might merely be of average height. He could cross off any petite types from the suspect list, but that still left plenty of women to investigate.
Lost in thought, he heard little of the eulogy delivered by the concertmaster, the first chair violin, who praised Matteo's extraordinary musicianship, but avoided any mention of his character. The music provided by the trio was superb, and Joe relaxed into the exquisite melodies. He didn't notice the lack of a flower-draped coffin until the service ended.
"He's been cremated," Constance murmured. "Maybe they'll hand out little silk pouches of ashes at the door so each of his women will have something to treasure."
Joe wasn't sure whether or not she'd made an attempt at humor, but he was relieved when there was no such shared distribution of the late man's ashes. Constance stayed with him as they followed everyone from the sanctuary into the adjoining the hall. When Paloma Val Verde rushed up to him, he introduced her to Constance.
"I always admired Matteo for his fascinating selection of friends," Constance responded coolly.
It could have been an insult, or perhaps not. Joe thought it probably was and steered the conversation toward the service. "The eulogy was a fitting tribute."
"He was so much more than merely a superb cellist," Paloma insisted.
"Indeed," Constance added. "Excuse me for a minute, I need to speak with another member of the board."
Paloma watched her walk away. "Was she one of Matteo's women?"
Joe doubted there were many women present who might not be described as such. "Let's concentrate on our memories of him, shall we?"
"I suppose we should." She dabbed at her eyes with a lace-trimmed hanky. She'd worn a simple black dress rather than come in the more colorful peasant apparel she had worn to his office. Her hair curled in soft ringlets over her shoulders, rather than being in an upswept style bedecked with fresh roses.
"Oh, there's someone who bought one of my paintings." She waved. "Wish me luck. I might be able to inspire her to buy another."
"Yes, don't miss the opportunity." As Paloma walked away, Joe noticed the cellist who had played for the service standing alone. He made his way through the crowd to him. "Your music was perfect for the day."
"Thank you, it took a while to cull through Matteo's favorites to make our choices. I'm Sean Dermot." He extended his hand. Slightly-built with dark-hair, rimless glasses showed off his brown eyes. More personable than charismatic as Matteo had been, Joe thought women might find him attractive in a subtle boyish way.
"Joe Ezell." Sean had a firm grip, which was predictable he supposed. "I imagine Matteo must have owned a very fine cello."
"A Stradivarius, while I play one created by a twentieth century master, Gregorio Grisales. It's equally fine. Most people cannot discern any difference when they are played."
"Really? Are they equally expensive?"
Sean laughed, and caught himself when others looked his way. "Of course not. At auction, the opening bid on Matteo's Stradivarius would be several hundred thousand dollars."
"Who will own it now?"
"Probably his wife."
Shocked, Joe stared in confusion. "I didn't realize he was married." His clients hadn't either.
"Veronica is actually his ex-wife, but they've remained close."
Seeking the distraught widow, Joe glanced over the crowd. "Is she here?"
"No, she lives in New York, and when I called to offer condolences, she was too distraught over Matteo's death to make the trip."
"His tragic loss must be difficult for all who loved him and his music." Joe handed Sean one of his business cards. "I'm a private detective, and I've been asked to look into the case."
Sean frowned as he studied it. "Won't the police be able to catch whomever killed Matteo?"
"There is always that hope."
"How do you go about catching a murderer?" Sean asked. He slipped Joe's card into his jacket pocket.
"It depends on the situation," Joe replied.
"Like all of life. Will you excuse me, I need to cultivate the members of the LA Philharmonic board." He rolled his eyes, as though it were an onerous duty he'd prefer to avoid.
"I understand." Joe watched Sean weave his way through those gathered near the buffet tables and stop at Constance Remson's side. He seemed a much better match for the elegant woman than the more flamboyant Matteo had been. Mary Margaret had fallen in love with him, however, so there was no point in questioning anyone's romantic tastes.
Constance Remson spoke only a few words with Sean before she rejoined Joe. "It seems members of the orchestra are keeping to their groups. Whom would you like to meet first, shall we begin with the woodwinds, brass, percussion, or strings?"
"I've met Sean Dermot, how about the rest of the strings." All were coolly pleasant, rather than forthcoming with revealing opinions of the cellist. By the time the reception drew to a close, he had given business cards to most of those present, and hoped to hear from some of them soon. He'd also gotten Fr. Neal
Dodd's autograph on the back of one of his cards for Mary Margaret.
* * *
Once home, he changed his clothes, and set out to question the residents of Matteo's second apartment on La Peer Drive. With a sandstone façade and shutter framed windows, it housed six units. The manager lived in number one.
Florence Hayes had a charming English accent. Clad in a flowered dress, sweater, and laced oxfords, she could have easily played the part of the mother in any film shot in the British isles. "Come on in, love. I could use a scotch and soda by this time in the afternoon. How about you?"
Joe always let the person he wished to question set a leisurely pace if they so desired. "I would love one." She showed him into a comfortably furnished living room. He sat on the sofa and glanced through a garden magazine devoted to roses while he waited.
She soon returned with a drink for him in a cut-crystal glass and one for herself.
The club chair to his right was her favorite perch. "I often drink peppermint tea in the afternoons, but when the topic is murder, scotch and soda seem more fitting."
"Indeed it does." He'd set the tone when he had introduced himself at her door. He removed the photo he'd been showing from his pocket. "Does this woman look familiar?"
Florence removed her glasses and polished them on her skirt before taking a close look. "Veronica da Milano has often stayed in her ex-husband's apartment. As I recall, she's worn a pretty fur coat in winter, but this woman could be anyone. Sorry." She handed him the photo.
"Veronica called me yesterday, to say she'd be coming to Los Angeles when she could bear to. She asked me not to allow anyone else to enter Matteo's apartment until she can go through his things. She didn't want anyone taking something she might treasure as a mere souvenir."
"Was she calling from New York?"
"That's where she lives, so I suppose so. Matteo stayed with her when he was there. For a divorced couple, they maintained a very close relationship, but that was their business, not mine." She gave a thoughtful nod and sipped her drink.
"From what I understand, Matteo might have had other friends stay here."
"Now that he's dead, I don't feel obligated to protect his reputation, but those friends were all female, and very beautiful I should add. A time or two he introduced me to a lady friend, but they came and went so often, I didn't make a note of their names. I wish I had as it might be a help to you now."
"I appreciate that you've told me about Veronica. If she arrives for a stay soon, will you give me a call? I'd love to meet her."
"Of course I will. She must want to have Matteo's killer caught more than anyone. If you ever saw them together, it was plain she loved him still. He spread his charm too thinly for my tastes, but she adored him. May he rest in peace."
"Amen," Joe replied. He stayed another few minutes to finish his drink, and Florence offered a tidbit about each of the residents of the building, amusing gossip, but unfortunately not helpful in his investigation.
Rod Cole, a veterinarian, lived in apartment two. A large man with a booming voice, he took Joe's card, but stood wedged in his doorway rather than invite him in as Florence had.
"I barely knew the man," Rod offered. "Florence told me he'd been murdered, or I'd not have known. Thank God he didn't die here. We don't need any howling ghosts disturbing our sleep."
"God forbid," Joe agreed, although he thought it a weird observation. He offered the photo. "Matteo often had female guests stay here. Do you recognize this woman?"
Rod pulled his glasses from his shirt pocket and studied the photograph. "Looks like a dyed ermine coat to me. The weasels' fur turns white in winter, so if you see a woman in a white fur coat, it's undoubtedly ermine. The fur is fine for trimming royal robes, but white is impractical for most use, and the pelts are often dyed."
"Thank you. I'll make a note of that. What about the woman? Is there anything familiar about her?"
"Saturday, my clinic closes at two o'clock. Other days I'm there until after six, come home, and spend the evening in. Matteo could have marched a dozen women past my door, and I'd not have seen them."
Joe slid the photo back into his pocket. "If anything occurs to you later, don't hesitate to call me."
"I will." He stepped back and closed his door.
Florence had described the resident of number three as Suzanne Ritter, a fashion designer, but she wasn't in. Joe took the stairs to the second floor, and knocked at apartment four.
Felix O'Dell came to the door carrying a dictionary, and he turned away to set it aside. "I'm a teacher, but I don't spell nearly as well as my wife, and she isn't home. What can I do for you?"
Joe explained the reason for his visit and showed him the photo. "Do you recognize her?"
He took a quick glance of the photo. "Who could? She's dressed like an Eskimo. That's odd for Los Angeles, don't you think?"
"Others have the same observation. Mr. da Milano often had guests staying here. Did you ever meet any of them?"
"We love classical music, but we're elementary school teachers, and we don't run with the LA Philharmonic crowd."
Matteo would have had expensive tastes, and Joe readily grasped his meaning. "Thank you for your time, if your wife recalls anything about Matteo, please ask her to call me."
"I'll do that."
From Florence's report, Thomas Roach, a car salesman, rented apartment five. He also wasn't home. Matteo had rented number six. Maybe it was only a coincidence that he also had an end unit here too, but he could have preferred not to have neighbors on both sides. Joe doubted he'd learn anything from Susan Ritter, unless she'd dated Matteo, but he'd make the effort to see her soon and hope Thomas Roach would also be in.
* * *
Joe took Mary Margaret to the Jumpin' Plate for a couple of the best hamburgers in Los Angeles before they went to the movies. He reminded her who Fr. Neal Dodd was before he handed her the autographed card. "He was the only celebrity I saw, but apparently whenever a script calls for a preacher, he gets the part."
"I know who he is!" she exclaimed. "He played Jimmy Stewart's father in It's A Wonderful Life, and when his character dies, Jimmy has to give up his dreams of travel and work in the family's bank." She slipped the card into her purse. "Thank you. I suppose now that you're in the movies, we'll be able to collect quite a few impressive autographs."
"Having a few seconds of dialog in Arizona Sunrise isn't really being in the movies. I can't expect much more for the Roy Rogers film that's coming up either."
"It's a start," she assured him. "Maybe I should sign with your agent and play the part of the nurse whenever there's one in the script."
He laughed with her. "It's not nearly as much fun as it looks when you see the finished film, but if you're serious, I'll be happy to introduce you to Archibald Sutton."
"I'm not serious, but thank you for being so supportive. You're going to make such a wonderful husband, Joe," she exclaimed.
"Let's hope so."
"Oh, I do have news. Do you remember the chaplain from Georgia's memorial, Luke Hatcher?"
"Tall thin guy with dark hair?"
"Yes, that's him. He's rented Amy Hudson's cottage and moved in this afternoon."
"Really? He should be quiet, rather than rowdy, shouldn't he?"
"He's a Presbyterian minister, not a monk, but I doubt he'll host wild parties."
"Let's hope not, unless he includes us." He checked his watch, and they finished the last bites of their meal to make it to the theater on time.
When the previews began, Arizona Sunrise flashed across the screen. Among the many fast shots of the action, there was a brief focus on Joe and Max at the saloon bar. Joe had wanted to look like a tough cowboy, but his glance was menacingly mean.
"Joe!" Mary Margaret squealed.
"Let's talk about it later," he whispered. They'd come to see Life With Father, a comedy starring William Powell as an 1880's stockbroker who seeks to impose the strict efficiency of his Wall Street office on hi
s family. His wife, played by Irene Dunn, ran their home beautifully and managed their four rambunctious sons without his absurd interference, which made for all the fun.
While the rest of the audience laughed as each of the stockbroker's pompous edicts went awry, the shot of Joe in the previews kept repeating in his mind. Leaning on the bar, he'd appeared not merely mean, but cynical and world-weary, as though he'd seen the worst from life. With Mary Margaret's enthusiastic recommendation, her mother and family were sure to see Arizona Sunrise and take an instant dislike to him.
After the film, he said so as they shared a banana split at Miss Lucy's Ice Cream Parlor.
"Please don't worry. We barely saw you, Joe, and I thought you looked determined rather than dangerous."
Strawberry ice cream failed to lift his mood as it usually did. "I still hope your mother hates Westerns and doesn't go to see it."
"As a matter of fact, she loves Westerns, and she's been looking forward to seeing you on the big screen."
Dread nearly choked him. "God help us."
"Joe!" she scolded. "You're making a big thing out of nothing. Let's change the subject. How is your murder investigation going?"
"Not much better than my movie career, I'm afraid." He gave her a quick rundown on the people he'd met, including Luigi Albano, who knew a lot about shoes, but had supplied little in the way of useful information.
"Apparently, Matteo kept the second apartment as a place for guests, which included his ex-wife, Veronica, who lives in New York City. She owns a fur coat, but it's unlikely she's the woman I photographed."
"Was she at the funeral?"
"No, although there were plenty of other weeping women."
Mary Margaret swallowed a spoonful of banana before speaking in an excited hush, "Do you suppose she could have flown out from New York, killed Matteo, and caught a return flight home all in the same day?"
"It may be possible, but if they were still so close they visited each other often, it's doubtful she'd harbor such a murderous level of hatred."
"I don't know. Maybe she'd hoped he'd come back to her, and when she realized he never would, she couldn't bear to let any other woman have him."
