Magicide

by Carolyn V. Hamilton

  If Peter was already lying about him, saying he wanted to blackmail Maxwell, might not the police believe Peter? In every scenario Carter imagined, he did not come out looking good.

  He didn’t voice any of these thoughts to Andrea, who sat with her hands in her lap and her head nodded, as if she’d been lulled to sleep by eating too much chicken and drinking too much wine and riding in a car.

  Maybe I should just give the DVD back to Peter and let him deal with it, Carter thought. Maybe I should destroy the DVD and try to forget the whole thing.

  Before dinner, he’d asked Andrea to stay over tonight and she’d agreed. Now he was too disturbed by the conversation with his parents. He needed time alone to prepare himself mentally for what he had to do. But by the time he pulled the Mustang convertible into the basement garage of his apartment building, he’d changed his mind. He’d say nothing to Andrea about a change of plans. In truth, he found her presence comforting.

  He had met Andrea Vilari two and a half years earlier at a magic convention held at Las Vegas’ Monte Carlo Hotel and Casino. She had just gone to work for a friend of his as a magician’s assistant. He’d been immediately attracted and asked to be introduced. They fell into bed together and they’d been a couple ever since. She quit working for his friend, who wasn’t too pleased at the time but quickly replaced her. She was now officially Carter Cunningham’s assistant, appearing with him when he worked conventions and club dates, both in and out of town. He billed them as “Carter and Company,” Andrea being the “company.” She liked having “her own space” as she called it, and he had finally stopped asking her to move in with him.

  As soon as they entered the apartment, Andrea headed for the bathroom.

  Carter sat down on the side of the bed facing the closet and took off his shoes. He couldn’t stop thinking about Peter’s horrid videotape of Maxwell, and here he was staring into the very closet where he’d secreted it.

  He rose, took off his jacket, opened the sliding mirrored door and reached for a hanger. He raised his eyes to the shelf above the clothes.

  There, tucked between an old slide projector and his ski boots was the flat box with the DVD inside. He stood there, thinking. He had to make a decision. He had to turn it over to the police and suffer their interrogation, or he had to destroy it.

  He hung up his jacket, turned away from the closet, and stopped. Later he wouldn’t have a clue what made him turn around and at that moment pull the box where he’d hidden the damaging DVD. It was as if one minute he was walking away from the closet and the next minute his senses reeled. A cold shadow of disaster overwhelmed him.

  CHAPTER 45

  Friday, August 12, 9:05 a.m.

  Cheri made it a point to arrive at Maxwell’s funeral an hour early, but not because it would be crowded. By coming early, she and Pizzarelli could watch people arrive, move easily among them and eavesdrop on casual, hushed conversations.

  Their early arrival also enabled them to get a parking place close to the entrance to the sand-colored, single-story funeral home. They were even lucky enough to get a spot near a tree where, in another hour, the Explorer would be shaded. This week summer temperatures had reached one hundred and the sun was brutal. No sign yet of the rain predicted for the weekend.

  Wreaths of flowers on tripods with white bows and comforting words in gold letters filled the vestibule of Desert Rose Mortuary and Funeral Home. A wide silver banner on a massive arrangement of yellow mums read, “Remembering Maxwell, Grand Master of Magic.”

  Pizzarelli sniffed. “Smells like a flower shop.”

  “Looks like they moved in a flower shop,” Cheri said. She wondered how long the air conditioning could hold out in the vestibule, a long room decorated with tasteful lighting sconces and soft mauve carpeting that stretched the entire front of the building. With the doors repeatedly opening and more people entering, the temperature was sure to rise.

  On one wall, someone had created an expansive memory board of pictures of Maxwell Beacham-Jones at various stages of his life and career. Cheri and Pizzarelli were drawn to stare in fascination as well as professional interest.

  There was Maxwell as a five-year-old, cutting up for his mother’s camera. Several career pictures showed him with other celebrities—Cher, Penn & Teller, Elton John, Siegfried and Roy, George Carlin, Tina Turner. Cheri was surprised to find herself impressed with the magnitude of what Maxwell had accomplished—no matter how—in the world of entertainment. Her heart constricted as her mind flooded with memories. Unexpectedly pressure in her sinuses signaled tears ready to erupt.

  She blinked several times and turned away from the pictures to find Pizzarelli staring past her at the beveled-glass double front doors. When she followed his gaze she saw Larissa and Peter enter.

  Larissa wore black, even though she had been Maxwell’s ex for several years. Designer black—of course—Cheri noted. Larissa’s suit, perfectly cut, outlined her figure in classic taste. Delicate black lace swaddled her face, wrapped around her chin, gathered to the top of a small black hat, and waterfalled down her back.

  “C’mon, Pizza, we should pay our respects.” Cheri walked toward Larissa and extended her hand.

  The veil provided a dark gauze effect that made her unable to judge Larissa’s expression. “It’s good of you to come, luv,” Larissa whispered. Her voice was a drugged monotone. “This is m’ son, Peter.” She seemed to have forgotten that they’d already met.

  “Hello.” Pizzarelli shook Peter’s hand. Peter had not bothered with black; he wore tan slacks and a burgundy silk shirt.

  “Thank you for coming,” Peter said, and steered his mother in another direction.

  “That was short.”

  “Would you want to talk to detectives at a funeral? It’s all right. We’ll get back to him.”

  More people arrived, jamming the flower-festooned lobby. They spotted Edmund Meiner and Robert Digbee and celebrities from both Las Vegas and Hollywood. Today, this was the place to be seen. Tomorrow all the names of the famous attendees would appear in celebrity print and Internet columns.

  Sam and Dawn Cunningham entered, smiling and shaking hands with friends. Cheri would have said hello if she could have made her way through the throng to reach them.

  The funeral home’s air conditioning strained at its peak, the air in the lobby sickly warm from the multitude of bodies and scents of flowers and pricey perfumes. People still outside found their entry blocked by a wall of bodies.

  Cheri and Pizzarelli shoved their way to fresh air, where more contemporaries and fans of Maxwell milled about on the sidewalk and spilled off the curb into the street.

  The Desert Rose Mortuary and Funeral Home was well-equipped for celebrity funerals. Loudspeakers along the tiled roofline allowed those who could not get into the building to hear the memorial service. Past a line of parked limousines—their drivers having retreated to shade at the side of the building—Cheri spotted television vans. All the major networks plus the Entertainment and Travel Channels were represented.

  “There must be a thousand people here,” Pizzarelli said. “Incredible turn-out for the most hated magician in the business.”

  “Not everybody was privileged to that information, and when there’s an opportunity to be seen, nobody cares,” she said. “Besides, Maxwell was good for Vegas. His shows always sold out. Did you ever see him in person?”

  “Never had the pleasure.”

  “You had to get tickets months in advance. He had a lot of fans.”

  This was evidenced by the sniffles and wails and weeping when the service began. Many onlookers outside held single white roses. She thought she read somewhere that that was the symbol for Maxwell’s fan club. Maybe Tom had told her that.

  Tom. She sneaked a peak at her watch. Right now he and Bon should be meeting with the school counselor. She’d given Bon a list of questions to ask, especially about homework. She also wanted to know what the school’s practice was for keeping track of stude
nts in the classroom. How was Tom able to get away with skipping classes without any reprimand? How could she help the situation?

  She should have gone to the appointment herself, or changed it. But she needed to be at Maxwell’s funeral. And Bon was his aunt. The school couldn’t think less of her as a mother, since she’d sent a close relative.

  She forced herself not to think about how Bonni might have dressed for the appointment, about what impression her less-than-conservative clothing choices would make. She forced her attention back to her job, to the funeral service.

  Robert Digbee, introduced as Robert the Great, gave the eulogy. Wayne Newton’s trio of back-up singers provided vocal harmonies and a former-jazz-singer-turned-Nevada-state-politician led the throng in hymns. Several men, including the mayor of Las Vegas, spoke in glowing terms about how they had known Maxwell Beacham-Jones.

  “I heard somebody in the crowd refer to him as ‘bee jay’,” Cheri whispered.

  “That’s for ‘blow-job’” Pizzarelli said.

  She glowered at him. “How do you know that?”

  He raised and lowered his round shoulders. “I dunno. Guess I read it somewhere in the tabs.”

  “I don’t read tabloids.”

  “Maybe you should.”

  “Oh, here they go with the Broken Wand ceremony,” she whispered.

  His eyes continued to scan the crowd. “What’s that?”

  “They break a magic wand over the casket of the dead magician. It originated at Houdini’s funeral in 1926.”

  “How d’you know that?”

  The smile she gave him was pure Cheshire cat. “I’ve been reading Tom’s books about magic.”

  The funeral service ended and they lingered to watch both celebrities and wanna-bes take advantage of the circumstances to mingle, shake hands, network, and smile sadly for the nearest cameras. Cheri watched everyone coming out of the building while Pizzarelli scanned the loitering sidewalk crowd.

  “The usual subjects accounted for,” he said. “The ex-wife, the estranged son, the technical consultant, the personal coordinator, the ex-girl friend...man what a piece of work she is. Whatever happened to the days when women were women and men stayed men?”

  “One person missing,” she said.

  “Yup.”

  “No sign of Dayan Franklyn.”

  CHAPTER 46

  Friday, August 12, 10:20 a.m.

  Regine watched the Broken Wand Ceremony and listened with disgust to the wonderful things everybody said about Maxwell. Profusions of praise. So much abundant tribute. Was the entire world one big farce? she wondered. Nothing was what it appeared to be—nothing was real. Except her broken arm and the problem she would have if she didn’t find that DVD for Guido. This was real.

  When she’d introduced Maxwell to Guido, she’d had no idea how far things would go. She couldn’t figure out why Maxwell had had to borrow money to produce the show in the first place—he made millions every year. What did he do with it? What happened to it all?

  Now she was in the middle of something that could end her career, her world, her life. Guido had been a friend for years, but he was no one to fool around with. She had no illusions about his ability to separate business from friendship.

  Height gave her the advantage of being able to scan the funeral crowd from above the heads of almost everyone else. She spotted the two detectives who had come to see her.

  “What are they doing here?” she muttered. “Can’t they let people mourn in peace?” That was wishful thinking, just like wishing the DVD Guido wanted would fall into her hands.

  The hymns led by the trio of singers and the politician provided a fitting background to her dark mood. If Robert Digbee or Edmund Meiner didn’t have the DVD, who did? It had to be someone close to Maxwell. That ruled out his son, Peter, and probably the ex-wife, as well. There were no other girl friends that she knew of. Who would be close enough to Maxwell to be able to video a private magic ritual, with or without his permission?

  All of a sudden it came to her—his protégé, Dayan Franklyn. The man with the golden mouth. With keen eyes she swept the crowd again but didn’t see him. One would expect him to be weeping and wailing at the foot of the casket, bemoaning the loss of his mentor and financial sponsor, or weeping and wailing in front of a television camera.

  So, where was the ungrateful SOB?

  Well, there were ways to find him. She would hire a PI. Anything to get that DVD.

  A cold shudder passed between her shoulder blades and she cradled her broken arm more tightly; she could almost feel Guido’s breath on the back of her neck, whispering words she never wanted to hear.

  CHAPTER 47

  Friday, August 12, 10:40 a.m.

  “Whoa,” said Pizzarelli. “Look at this.”

  He directed Cheri’s attention to Peter Jones, who had just come out of the building and appeared to be having words with Carter Cunningham. The girl friend, Andrea Villari, clutched Carter’s arm. Peter’s body shielded his mother. A tangible cloud of tension engulfed them, so palpable she almost thought she saw heat coming from it.

  Cheri didn’t know if she moved toward the altercation in her capacity as a police official, or because some magnetic force compelled her to its destructive center. Pizzarelli followed. Silently she gave thanks that enough of a crowd remained to cloak their movements. They could observe and see how the confrontation played out.

  “It’s too late to be polite!” Peter’s voice rose. “I know you have it and I want it back.”

  Carter glanced around, clearly wishing to avoid a scene. “We can discuss this later,” he murmured.

  Several people near them had stopped and shamelessly watched to see what would happen next. The TV cameras hadn’t yet discovered the row.

  “No! You’ll give it back to me. I’m coming to your apartment to get it.”

  Larissa’s black veils shook, and Cheri couldn’t hear if she said anything.

  “Dammit, Peter. Stop this. Something’s happened. I don’t have it.”

  Peter’s face twisted in contempt. “I don’t believe you. You planned to blackmail my father. Now you want to blackmail Dayan.”

  “Come to the apartment. We can talk it over there.”

  It was as if Peter hadn’t heard him. “It’s mine. You have no right to keep it!”

  “I told you. I don’t have it,” Carter said, his voice tight. “And we need to talk about it, somewhere else.” Shielding Andrea from Peter’s wrath, he turned away.

  Hard veins spidered Peter’s neck. He grabbed Carter’s shoulder, throwing him off balance. “We are talking about it!” he shouted.

  Close now, Cheri and Pizzarelli heard every word. To her left, a man Cheri recognized advanced, a reporter who had noticed the action. He waved over a channel 8 news camera. Uh oh. Film at eleven.

  In an attempt to shake him off, Carter elbowed Peter. Larissa gave a little cry and stepped backwards, bumping into two people who instinctively reached out to steady her.

  Enraged, Peter pulled back his arm and swung at Carter. His closed fist caught the other man just below his jaw.

  Andrea screamed and grabbed the arm of the cameraman. He scowled, his footage ruined by the jiggling camera.

  Carter’s eyes flashed anger. He lunged and seized Peter around the chest. Simultaneously he twisted his body, positioned his right foot behind Peter’s left, and wrestled Peter to the ground.

  When he straightened Peter sprang for his legs. Carter stumbled, and his body slammed into the cameraman.

  The expletive that came out of the cameraman’s mouth was lost in the hysteria of surprised voices surrounding them.

  Pizzarelli shouted, “Whoa! Enough already.”

  He placed his hands on Peter’s shoulders and dragged him upward by his burgundy silk shirt. As the fabric lifted away from his wrists, Cheri saw the kind of scars that told her Peter had a lot more serious problems than a misplaced DVD.

  She stepped in front of the cameraman, in
his face now, purposely blocking the lens.

  Pizzarelli handcuffed Peter and they hustled him toward the Explorer. The exertion of the physical argument had drained the energy out of everything about Peter except his face. When another newsman appeared in front of him, he glared straight into the camera.

  Carter followed. “Officers, I don’t want to press any charges.”

  Cheri stared at him. “He attacked you.”

  “It’s all a misunderstanding,” he said, smiling. One hand tugged at the hair atop his collar. “Peter and I are old friends. He’s under a lot of stress right now. I don’t blame him for what happened.”

  “Peter gave you the DVD to keep Larissa from finding it,” Cheri said. “That’s what you were fighting about. I heard you tell Peter, something’s happened, you no longer have it. Would you care to tell me what happened to it?”

  He rubbed his hand at the back of his shirt collar. “I-I don’t know. It was on my closet shelf. Now it’s…gone.”

  “Gone where, d’ya think?” Pizzarelli asked.

  Carter snarled, “I have no idea.”

  CHAPTER 48

  Friday, August 12, 11:50 a.m.

  After the funeral Larissa begged Dawn to stay with her for the afternoon.

  Peter, having been released by Pizzarelli when Carter refused to press charges, was sullen and silent, and after that embarrassingly public altercation with Carter, Dawn thought it was a good idea.

  She followed the two of them to their Seven Hills house, where she pulled up next to Peter’s Lexus in the wide driveway.

  Peter jumped out of the car, came around and opened the passenger door to help Larissa out.