Magicide

by Carolyn V. Hamilton

  On the rising slope of desert that led up to the Black Mountains, Seven Hills was a development of gated communities and lavish homes. About six months ago Cheri had ogled over a spread in the magazine, Architectural Las Vegas, of Larissa’s two-story custom home with the usual swimming pool, spa, palms, tile roof, gourmet kitchen, weight room, and elegant living room for entertaining. Two balconies off the second floor took advantage of an expansive view of the Las Vegas Valley that nightly included the lights of famous hotel and casino resorts. The furniture probably cost as much as the house.

  Cheri had shown the article to her sister, who had just moved in with her and Tom, and Bonni was so impressed she let out a slow whistle—she’d never known Bon could whistle like that.

  They parked the car at the curb and walked up a winding stone pathway to the entrance. Cheri had to avoid massive potted cacti lining the high alcove to ring the bell. A minute passed and a Latin maid opened the door. Raymer showed her badge and asked if Larissa was home.

  A moment of fright flashed in the maid’s eyes and her accent thickened. “La Señora not at home.”

  She was about to ask where Larissa was when a man with aquiline features and thick hair that widow-peaked in the center of his forehead appeared. Mid-twenties, dressed in a white tee shirt and white shorts that showed off tan, well-formed legs.

  “Who is it, Maria?”

  She noted his tee shirt had long sleeves that covered his arms all the way past his wrists. Unusual, for hundred-degree weather. Along with his other features, the cleft in his chin immediately identified him to Cheri.

  “Policia. For la Señora.”

  “Never mind. I’ll take care of it,” he said.

  Knowing when she’d been dismissed, the maid disappeared down a hallway.

  The young man stared at the two detectives and sighed. “I’ve been expecting you, but I really didn’t think it would be today. Come in.”

  Peter Parrot, from the popular local children’s television show, Cheri thought. Larissa’s son. Only eight years old the last time she’d seen him in person. A dark-eyed, bright little kid doomed to spend his life struggling to fit into his father’s famous footsteps.

  Peter led them through a beige marbled foyer and into a formal dining room dominated by a table of Honduran mahogany with room to seat twenty dinner guests. He gestured at the morning Las Vegas Post, a magician’s wand, a silver-toned thermos carafe and a ceramic mug, all dwarfed by the acreage of the tabletop.

  “I’m having some coffee,” he said. “Would you like some?”

  “No, thanks,” Pizzarelli said. “We came to see Larissa Beacham-Jones—she would be your mother?”

  “Yes.”

  Cheri saw Pizza’s gaze take in every detail of the dining room and settle on the massive sideboard with glass doors protecting crystal and china. He said, “Is she here?”

  Peter shifted his weight, as if he didn’t know what to do now that he couldn’t occupy his hands with serving them coffee. “You just missed her. She left for the hotel—extra rehearsal this afternoon.”

  Pizzarelli said, “So, maybe you could give us your advice on a few things.”

  Peter’s dark left eyebrow rose. “My advice?”

  “Your professional, magician kind of advice.”

  “That’s curious. I thought you’d want to know if I killed Maxwell.”

  The boy could certainly be direct. But the chill in his voice reminded Cheri he was a professional performer, and all performers were actors of one sort or another. And, actors usually had some hidden personality quirk.

  “What makes you think he was murdered?” she asked.

  For the first time since they’d arrived Peter smiled, but it was automatic, not connected with his eyes. “You’re the police. You wouldn’t be here if it was an accident.” To his credit, Peter had a disarming smile, with perfect, white, even teeth.

  “Was there any reason you might want to kill Maxwell?”

  “Oh, lots of reasons.” The young magician rested his hands on the back of one of the chairs. “Let’s see—he took gross advantage of other people’s talents—he didn’t approve of me—he disowned me because of my relationship choices—he was verbally abusive, among other things, to my mother—he didn’t know the meaning of the word ‘father’—he was a better magician than me—he was an asshole. Pick which one you like.”

  “Since you brought it up,” Pizzarelli said, “Did you kill Maxwell?”

  There was no break in Peter’s professional smile. “No.”

  “Did you have anything to do with his death?”

  “Nada.” He gestured around the dining room table. “Have a seat, why don’t you?” He pulled out the chair nearest to Cheri. “Here, detective.”

  She sat down, and rested her hand, holding her digital notebook, on the table. Pizzarelli shook his head, indicating that he preferred to stand.

  Peter picked up the wand from the table and smiled. “If you would be so kind, Mr. Detective. Perhaps you can help me help you in your search for Maxwell’s killer.”

  He handed the wand to Pizzarelli, who regarded it in his hand with child-like curiosity. Suddenly the wand melted, both ends relaxing, making a limp U hanging from his hand. “Hey, I did’n do anything.” His face flushed with suspicion, and he handed it back to Peter.

  When Peter took it, the magic wand immediately returned to its original rigid state. He laughed. “Guess you didn’t hold your mouth right.” He turned to Cheri, laid the wand across his open palm and offered it to her. “Miss, would you care to wave a magic wand?”

  “No thanks. I get it.” Larissa’s son had given no indication that he remembered her, and the thought made her feel more in control.

  “Oh.” Peter’s mouth relaxed in mock disappointment. Then he leaned forward, examining her face with the look of someone who’d seen magic for the first time. “I know you from somewhere. Your—” His eyes circled her head as if he were fascinated by her hair. “voice is familiar. Have I seen you on Cops-Las Vegas?”

  Blood rose to Cheri’s face, but she stared right back at him with her best police smile. “When you were little your mother and I were roommates for a short time. You were in military school for most of that year. I didn’t think you’d remember.”

  His fabulous smile returned. He bowed to Cheri, and when he straightened, he held out a bouquet of plastic flowers.

  “Of course. And now I’m still a child.” Peter set the magic wand and plastic flowers on the table and picked up his coffee cup. “I host a children’s television show and perform at parties and fund-raisers for cancer children. I’m a lost child in an Alice-Does-Wonderland world.”

  Pizzarelli peered closely at Peter’s face. “That’s you on that TV show? You’re the Peter Jones who’s Peter Parrot!”

  “My people do a good job with the costume and make-up, don’t they?”

  “I’ll say. I’d never have guessed. My nephews love that show.”

  Cheri pecked at her digital notebook. “Do you know anyone who might want to kill Maxwell?”

  Peter’s grin became a smirk. “I had nothing to do with my father, and he didn’t have any friends.”

  “So you can’t think of a single person.”

  “Besides every magician in the phone book?”

  Pizzarelli had regained his composure. “Why ‘every magician in the phone book?’”

  “Did I mention my father was an asshole? Let me tell you his best trick. He’d see another magician do an illusion he liked, and he’d have his manager call the guy, offer him, say, two thousand dollars to use the effect. Of course the effect would be worth a lot more than a couple thousand dollars, and the other magician knew that, so he’d say no, he wanted more. Maxwell’s manager would say, no you don’t understand. Maxwell will use the effect, and you can sue him. We’ll see in court how deep your pockets are compared to the most famous magician in the world. Neat trick, huh?”

  Years ago Cheri had heard a rumor like that ab
out Maxwell and wondered if it was the kind of gossip generated by professional jealousy. The intensity in Peter’s clipped words told her he certainly believed it.

  “Where were you last night?”

  “With my mother in the VIP stands. The Dunes Park was jammed. I think everybody who’s anybody in Vegas was there, plus a zillion tourists.” He took a sip of his coffee, set the mug down and adjusted the cuff of his tee shirt on one wrist.

  “Were you both together the entire evening?”

  “Yes.” When he looked up his eyes had the flat expression of a vent’s dummy. “Well, I did take a page in the casino for a few minutes. She went on to our seats without me.”

  “One of Maxwell’s leg shackles was switched at the last minute,” Pizzarelli said. “Would you and Larissa know how to do that?”

  Peter stopped smiling. “That’s the advice you wanted? Of course we’d know how to work with jumpcuffs and leg irons—any magician would. I can tell you how it could be done, but I won’t tell you all my magic secrets.”

  Pizzarelli asked, “Did you visit the green room? Maybe disguised as a food vendor? Make a hamburger delivery?”

  In a bitter tone, Peter said, “Didn’t you get it? Maxwell and I were estranged. He would never allow me anywhere near the back of the stage. I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

  “One of the guys who was supposed to be in the roller coaster car—a fat guy—ate a burger, got sick, and substituted his wife in his seat. We’re told that would throw off the timing of the car’s speed.”

  Two furrows appeared on Peter’s forehead. “Yes, it would. The guy ate a hamburger? Anyway, we were in the VIP stands. We were never anywhere near the green room.”

  Cheri said, “So, you and your father didn’t get along.”

  “Not—at—all.” Peter emphasized each word. “It’s one of the reasons I shortened my last name to Jones. I didn’t want anything to do with him or his fame or his magic. We never spoke.” Peter reached for the carafe of coffee, the sleeve of his tee shirt stretched back from his wrist, and Cheri saw a cross-cross of welted scars.

  Pizzarelli circled the table. “Were you jealous of your father’s protégé, Dayan Franklyn?”

  Peter’s hand spasmed, and some of the coffee spilled onto the lace tablecloth. “Damn.”

  Was that pain Cheri saw on Peter’s face? He turned to look at his questioner, and instantly his expression became passive. But his response was curt. “No.”

  Cheri looked at her notebook again. “Do you know where we can find Dayan Franklyn?”

  “At Maxwell’s?”

  “Did you know Dayan? Have you ever met him?” Pizzarelli pressed.

  “I sort of know him,” Peter mumbled. “We met for coffee the day before the performance.” His eyes bored into the coffee mug and his voice had taken on a tone that made her suspect he wouldn’t tell them the entire truth.

  “You sort of know him. How was his mood? What did you talk about?”

  Peter took a deep breath. “I gave him a present for good luck. He’s becoming a good magician. He was assisting in the roller coaster effect at the Dunes Park, but he wouldn’t tell me in what capacity. He was so excited, like a little kid at his first birthday party. He said I’d be really proud of him. I was happy for him.”

  Cheri made a circular motion in the air with her digital notebook. “Let’s go over that again. You sort of know him, but you gave him a present?”

  “What kind of present?” Pizzarelli asked.

  Ignoring the questions, Peter said, “I gave him the video of my first magic performance.” His face took on a dreamy expression. “It was a card trick. The one where the magician plunges a hypodermic needle into the top of the card deck and removes all the red ink from the cards. Only black cards are left. I was nine years old—my audience was really impressed.”

  “Speaking of video,” she said, “Do you know anything about a DVD supposedly made of Maxwell in a magic ritual?”

  An antique clock in the dining room chimed the half hour. Peter said, “This carafe’s empty. I’ll be right back.” He rose abruptly from the table, grabbed the carafe and headed for the kitchen.

  Cheri exchanged glances with Pizzarelli and neither spoke. When Peter returned with the refilled carafe, he announced, “Carter Cunningham has that DVD.”

  Cheri managed to conceal her surprise. “You’ve seen it?”

  “Yes.” Peter’s voiced lowered in disgust. “Maxwell performs his annual ritual up on Sunrise Mountain to rejuvenate his magical powers. Only this time he went too far.”

  “He couldn’t have been alone. Who held the camera?”

  “I’m not sure…I think maybe it could have been Dayan....” After speaking the name of his father’s protégé, further words seemed trapped in his throat.

  “So how’d he go ‘too far?’” Pizzarelli asked.

  Beads of sweat on Peter’s tanned forehead highlighted the widow’s peak. Was he nervous about what he’d seen on the DVD? Was he jealous that Dayan Franklyn had been there and not him? Or was it from the steam of the coffee cup that, with both hands, he held close to his mouth?

  “Not my place to talk about it,” he mumbled, talking into the mug. “Go get it and judge for yourselves.”

  “How did Carter Cunningham come to have it? Was he involved in the ritual?” Cheri asked.

  His fingers tremored as he set the coffee mug carefully on the table before he replied. “Carter wasn’t there. Dayan gave it to me, but I don’t think Maxwell knew he did. I couldn’t keep it here.” He made a rolling gesture with his head and eyes. “What if my mother found it? So I gave it to Carter⎯my best friend⎯for safekeeping.”

  “Carter’s no longer your best friend?”

  “We had a bit of a falling-out.” His perfect mouth slumped into a pout. “When I thought about how damaging the DVD would be if the press got hold of it, I asked for it back. I’d decided to destroy it. Yes, I hated my father, but magic scandal hurts all of us. Carter didn’t want to give it back. I think he was planning to blackmail Maxwell with it.”

  “That incriminating, huh?” Cheri asked.

  She figured Pizza had probably come to the same conclusion as her—that Dayan Franklyn and Peter Jones could be boyfriend-boyfriend—when he rested both hands on the table, leaned into Peter’s face, and said bluntly, “How about you hit on Carter sexually and he turned you down?”

  An angry flash darkened Peter’s eyes. Cheri had the absurd thought that if Peter Parrot had a beak, their fingers would be in real danger. Then the anger disappeared, to be replaced with a professional vacancy. He flashed his brilliant smile at them in a defiant manner. “It was not like that. I’m loyal to Dayan.”

  Bingo, she thought.

  As if he could no longer look them in the face, his gaze moved to the magic wand and newspaper. “You’re the police. You get the DVD from Carter. You’ll see you’re right about one thing—Maxwell wasn’t alone.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Tuesday, August 9, 2:45 p.m.

  The address they found for Carter Cunningham turned out to be the entire thirty-sixth floor of Worthington Place. Flashed badges and they were past the 24-hour gate guard and rolling into the circular drive and porte cochere of the main entrance. No parking lot for the peons, Cheri noted. You had to valet.

  Pizzarelli whistled as he rolled the Explorer to a stop. “The rich sure know how to spend money.”

  Two pseudo-Mediterranean-style towers loomed above them, a third still under construction. Circular decorative pots twice the size of trash cans held exotic plants, and the three young valet guys had black uniforms overly-trimmed in gold braid.

  Too hot for the desert, Cheri thought. Their designers probably lived in New York and the only desert they’d seen had been on television.

  Wide marble steps led to brass and beveled glass doors that opened into a lobby that reminded her of the Four Seasons. They found the concierge, whose manner was polite, but whose expression radiated bo
redom.

  More flashing of badges. The names the concierge provided for the occupants of the thirty-sixth floor penthouse were Samuel A. and Dawn Cunningham.

  “Parents, you think?” Pizzarelli speculated. “Or mucho dinero in magic.”

  “I know Dawn Cunningham,” Cheri said. “She danced with Larissa in the show at the MGM. I wondered when Peter said he was best friends with Carter Cunningham, if that was her son.”

  “And you didn’t ask?”

  “Didn’t seem relevant to the case.”

  The concierge rang the condominium and reached Mrs. Cunningham, who gave him permission to send up the detectives up. They entered the elevator and Cheri’s thoughts centered on the woman they were about to interview. A woman she hadn’t seen in over a decade. A woman who she suspected knew much more about her past than she would wish.

  Like Larissa, Dawn had faded out of Cheri’s life after she’d graduated from college and gone into police work. During the time she’d lived with Larissa, she’d felt Dawn didn’t like her. Cheri had envied the glamorous, carefree life of the showgirls, but Dawn had envied Cheri’s student status, her determination to get into a long-term career, something you didn’t have to give up when the knees went. Never mind that she’d worked two jobs to pay for tuition. They had never warmed to each other, and their mutual friendship with Larissa hadn’t made any difference. Now Dawn Cunningham’s face was instantly recognizable; it was all over bus stop real estate posters.

  The elevator ride to the top of Worthington Place was a quick, silent whisper. At the thirty-sixth floor the elevator doors opened directly into the marble-tiled entry foyer of the penthouse condominium. A library table on the opposite wall held a crystal vase of orange mums. Above the mums, a huge Leroy Neiman with a simple black frame dominated the entry. The oil depicted Las Vegas showgirls in the artist’s usual style of startling, all-over-the-place colors.

  Cheri immediately recognized the well-coifed woman who met them. The real estate broker wore an aqua linen sheath that showcased a slim frame, and explained that she’d just stopped home briefly between lunch and an important closing, so the detectives were lucky to catch her.