by Nero Blanc
“That’s pretty much what Don Schruko said to me this afternoon,” Rosco replied. “Hoddal must talk a good game … Either that, or he’s everyone’s number one sap and fall guy.”
Harriet ignored him. “And I never met Bartann Welner—face-to-face, that is. I only saw him from the audience. I never spoke to him.” The shaking in Harriet’s thin hands and fingers began to increase. “But I admit that I was a teensy bit suspicious of his success … It seemed too easy for Welner. He was a millisecond too fast on that buzzer … each and every time. It wasn’t logical that a man of his age could piece the words together that quickly … And to completely shut out Wanda Jorcrof? That seemed fishy, too … But he seemed so dear, such a lovely old gentleman, who would have suspected that he was cheating?”
“But if you had nothing to do with rigging the show, how did you figure it out?” Belle asked. “And why the need to see us all of a sudden?”
In a flash, a layer of fog lifted for Rosco. The puzzle was finally falling into place. “Rolly Hoddal was trying to set up another fix, wasn’t he …? He didn’t get his money so he wanted to give it another shot. And he wanted you to play Bartann Welner’s part.”
“Rolly’s very persuasive. He … He …” Harriet looked to Belle, but Belle merely continued to examine her.
“But I thought you mentioned he had problems with substance abuse,” she said dryly.
“Well, you see …” Harriet began, her fingers knit and unknit themselves.
“And why would you agree to participate in such a thing?” Belle persisted. “You certainly don’t need the money. Or were the five husbands a lie, too?”
Harriet released a long sigh, then reached for a tissue and dabbed showily at her eyes. But Rosco saw no sign of tears.
“Were you and Rolly going to cut Don Schruko out of the game this time” he asked, “or was he still expecting his take when he finished up with the Anatomy shoot?”
“I’m not part of anything illegal! That’s what I’m trying to tell you! Yes, Rolly suggested I might be a contestant. And, yes, perhaps, initially, I gave him … well, the wrong idea about my interest … I admit, the excitement was flattering for an old woman like me … But I swear to you I told him in no uncertain terms that I would never participate in his nefarious schemes. Never! And that’s why I asked you two to come here. To explain that I had nothing to do with rigging Down & Across. Not now or in the past … In fact, just yesterday, Rolly and I met, and I tried and tried to persuade him to give up the idea of rigging the show. I told him it would never work a second time.”
Rosco studied Harriet. Her protestations seemed too practiced to be real. “So you’re stating that you rejected Hoddal’s proposal from the start?”
“Yes.”
“Meaning that your decision was to put an end to his entire scheme?”
“Unless Rolly’s ignoring my advice and considering a contestant I know nothing about. I don’t know what he’s up to. He was fit to be tied when he never received a dime from the first fix.” Again, Harriet glanced at Belle and again dabbed at her still-dry eyes. Rosco decided it was time to change tactics. He looked toward his wife, exchanging a private message of complicity.
“Are you sure it was Rolly who called off the fix?” he barked at her. “On your advice? I can’t buy that, Harriet, because from what Don Schruko told me—”
“Rosco,” Belle interrupted. “Can’t you see she’s upset? There’s no need to be harsh—”
“Harsh? These people have perpetrated a million-dollar fraud, and you think I’m being too harsh?” He returned his concentration to Harriet and tried to catch her off guard. “My wife’s been receiving anonymous crosswords. One of them includes the names of everyone on the Down & Across set.” Rosco counted off names on his fingers as he raised his voice. “Stan, Bart, Orso, Matthew, Wanda, Max, and you, Harriet, right in the center of the grid. What can you tell me about that?”
“Rosco …?” Belle repeated as a gentle warning while Rosco abruptly stood.
“I’m annoyed by these people, Belle, I really am.” He glowered down at Harriet. “What can you tell me about those crosswords. And don’t even consider lying. I’m through with that.”
“I … don’t know anything,” Harriet quavered.
“But you recognized my wife the moment you saw her. You’re obviously a puzzle expert. You lied to Belle. You’ve been lying all along. Why? What are you up to? You and Max? How does Max fit into all this?”
“Maxie isn’t involved. You have to believe me.”
“Why? Why should I believe you, Harriet? Tell me one iota of truth that’s come from your mouth. Just one!”
That was all Harriet could take. She broke down in earnest and sobbed into her tissue. Belle crossed over and place an arm around the older woman. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him, Harriet.”
“I’m not finished with her, Belle. She knows a lot more than she’s letting on.”
“No … No,” Harriet whimpered. “That’s all there is … And I swear I’ve done nothing illegal. Maybe I shouldn’t have listened to Rolly … or … or I should have gone to Stan McKenet right away—”
“Nothing?” Rosco almost shouted. “A man has been murdered, and the wrong person locked up for it. Do you know what that means, Harriet? It means that a killer is walking around free. And that killer is somehow involved with both Down & Across and Anatomy—if you give any credence to that crossword. And you know what, Harriet? I’ve got a little bug inside of me; and that little bug is saying, ‘Harriet Tammalong knows exactly who killed Chick Darlessen.’”
“It’s Rolly who knows!” she whined. “He found out. It has nothing to do with me! Nothing!”
Belle removed her arm from Harriet’s shoulder, stepped in front of her and looked down at the old lady’s tear-stained face. “Who killed Darlessen?”
“Stanley … Stan McKenet did.”
Rosco stared at Harriet. “The producer? Why? Because he didn’t want to make the million dollar pay-off? Is that your theory? Which would mean that he might have killed Bartann Welner on top of it.”
“No … Rolly … This is all Rolly’s reasoning … He’s certain Stan didn’t kill Bartann because if that had been the case, he would never have attempted to rig the show a second time. He would have been far too frightened … Rolly feels Welner died of natural causes, but that the incident prompted Stanley’s decision to eliminate Chick Darlessen as well.”
“Why would Rolly believe such nonsense?” Rosco demanded. “McKenet’s a businessman. He makes those sizable payments to every Grand-Slam Winner. It’s part of his show’s budget. I don’t buy greed as a motive.”
Harriet shook her head. “I know … It does seem unusual. That’s why I didn’t believe Rolly when he first mentioned it. I thought he was just being his usual paranoid self. But people get into financial scrapes all the time. Maybe Stanley’s a gambler and lost a bunch at a casino …” She shook her head again. “All I can tell you is that Rolly has a key to the production office. That’s how he steals the answers to the contests … And he swears he heard Stanley gloating over Darlessen’s death—and pledging to remove Wanda, as well.”
“Wanda Jorcrof?” Belle asked. “Why?”
“Because she’s been pushing Stan to air the Grand-Slam show she lost to Bartann Welner. She has no money, and she desperately needs her twenty-five thousand dollar consolation prize. But Stanley wants to bury the segment. He’s afraid another Welner relative will appear on the scene. Rolly insists Stanley is going to silence Wanda.” Harriet took a deep breath.
“I assume Rolly has warned Wanda,” Belle said.
“He did,” Harriet replied in a thin and weary voice. “But she refused to believe him. Insisted his brain cells were misfiring … which is one of Rolly’s problems. He does tend to see little green men with crazy hairdos on occasion …”
This time Belle sighed. “Why didn’t you tell me you knew I was Belle Graham? Why did you propagate all those
lies?”
“You’re the one who started it,” Harriet countered swiftly. Her tone was edgy and combative.
Rosco stared hard at the older woman. “I’m not getting a good read on this story of yours, Harriet—”
“Fine. Don’t believe me. But if you want to learn who killed Chick Darlessen, it’s Rolly Hoddal you should be talking to.”
A stalemate fell upon the room until Harriet suddenly burst out with an anxious, “And now Rolly’s private address book’s been stolen from his dressing room. That’s why he phoned me. He’s beyond paranoid—”
“I thought he called you because I spoke to Don Schruko,” Rosco interjected.
“That, too,” Harriet countered. “But this other situation’s more important … Because, Rolly’s certain Stan McKenet took the address book, which lists Wanda’s current residence out at Zuma Beach. See, she had to move because Stan wasn’t coming up with her payment and she fell way behind on her West Hollywood rental. Rolly was the only one who had her present information. I should have never given it to him. She asked me not to pass it on to anyone, but Rolly wanted to send her a card. He wanted to send her some money.”
Belle and Rosco looked at each other. Harriet’s tall tale wasn’t sitting well with either of them. “And why are you telling us this?” Belle asked.
“Because Wanda’s in danger.”
“And why should we believe that,” Belle persevered, “when Wanda’s evidently willing to shake it all off?”
“Don’t then!” Harriet all but screamed. “Don’t believe a word I’m saying! It’s no skin off my nose, is it? Let another person die. Who cares? But don’t say I didn’t do my duty and warn the only folks who could help her.”
“What folks might those be?” Belle asked.
“Why, you two, obviously. That’s what you do, isn’t it? Investigate criminal cases. That’s why you met with Jillian Mawbry.”
“And where is Ms. Jorcrof hiding?” Rosco asked. His tone was beleaguered, but it also held a modicum of cynical amusement, as if he were suddenly willing to follow Harriet Tammalong’s lead.
“I have the address right here. She’s out by Zuma Beach.” Harriet handed Belle a slip of paper while maintaining a steady disregard of Rosco. “You’ll be saving a life, Belle,” she said.
Back in the Mustang and driving west on the 101 Freeway, Belle turned to Rosco. “Do you think we should reconsider roaring off in hot pursuit of Wanda … because of what Harriet said Rolly said? What I mean is, do you think we’re putting ourselves in jeopardy? Neither one of us quite believed Harriet’s protestations of innocence back there.”
“No, we didn’t,” Rosco interjected slowly. “But she’s a smart cookie. I’d say she knows a lot more about rigging Down & Across than she’s sharing. But I think she’s far too savvy, and long in the tooth, to get mixed up in a murder—or try to set us up for one.”
“But whoever stole Rolly’s address book may very well be on his way to Wanda’s right now. And if that’s who killed Chick—”
“Then that person’s dangerous. No question about it. But I still don’t believe Harriet’s setting us up.”
“So her motive for having us hunt up Wanda Jorcrof is altruism, just like she said?” Belle asked.
“Now see, that’s the Grand-Slam million-dollar question, isn’t it?” was Rosco’s reply. “Down … and across.”
CHAPTER 40
The drive to Zuma Beach and Wanda Jorcrof’s one-room rental above a detached garage took Rosco and Belle west on the 101 Freeway to Malibu Canyon Road, which led them to the Pacific Coast Highway and the ocean. They followed the P.C.H. north for eleven miles until they turned briefly inland to a tiny surf-worshipping community that sat across the highway from Zuma’s broad stretch of sand.
By the time they arrived at 6262 Ebbtide Way, the sun was already low in the sky, bathing the roadway, houses, and distant mountaintops in a heavy golden glow. As they pulled up to the curb, they were greeted by the sight of a teenage boy washing a late-model brown Volvo station wagon in the driveway fronting the garage. His surfboard leaned against a nearby wooden gate and had clearly been hosed down long before he’d decided to tackle the car. Rosco and Belle stepped from the Mustang as the kid looked up. “Nice ‘stang, dude,” he said with genuine admiration. “What’re ya running, five-point-oh?”
“Running?” Rosco asked.
The boy craned his neck to look around Belle at the car—or more specifically, the chrome emblem attached to the front fender. “Yeah, runnin’, dude. Like in engine? Displacement? Horsies? Where’re you from, outer space?”
“No. Massachusetts.” Rosco said a little more sternly than he needed to, but his intensity seemed to elude the young man.
“Yeah, dude, that’s the kinda wheels I need. I’m tired of this wagon my old man bought me. Safety, that’s what he’s always yammerin’ about, but this thing makes me look like I’m, like, twenty-five, or something.”
“Ancient. Yeah, I can dig that,” Rosco said as Belle interrupted in a tone that sounded inadvertently schoolmarmish and prim.
“We’re looking for a Ms. Jorcrof.”
“Oh, yeah, Wanda … Like, what’s up with her anyways? Like, everybody’s tryin’ to find Wanda today.”
“Everybody?”
“Yeah, like, some dude in a suit was just here—drivin’, like, a black Jag … Not a roadster, but, like, one of those sedans my granny has—and she’s like, fifty, dude.”
“What’d this guy in the Jag look like?” Rosco asked, wincing slightly as he said the final word.
“Like? I don’t know … like, he looked like a guy in a suit, like an agent, maybe.”
“A theatrical agent?”
“No, dude, like the X-Files. Like a suit and tie agent.”
Since the Jaguar, which was clearly Stan McKenet’s, was nowhere in sight, Rosco surmised that Wanda Jorcrof probably wasn’t around either. “I gather Wanda’s not here. Do you know where she went?”
“Yeah, like, I told the other dude, she, like, took Gabby over to the beach.”
“Gabby?” Belle asked.
“Like, her dog, dude?”
Belle wasn’t exactly sure that she qualified as a “dude,” but she let the comment pass. “What kind of dog is Gabby?” Her assumption, at this point, was that the boy might be better qualified to describe a dog than a woman or man.
“She’s like, kind of, like, a poodle mixed with something else. Gray fur that’s kinda curly and matted. Looks like a Rastafarian on a bad hair day.”
“Big?”
“Nah, small … like, thirty pounds, max.”
“Thanks,” Rosco said, and turned back to the Mustang.
“Hey, you dudes can, like, get to the beach by walking down that little road over there.” The boy pointed to his right. “I mean, like, that’s how Wanda goes, so, maybe you’d, like, run into her. Besides, it’s faster. The guy in the Jag wouldn’t take my word for it—figured I was gonna like rip off his car or something. A sedan? Get real. Like, dude, who would want it?”
“Great. Thank you.”
Figuring the Mustang was Hertz’s problem and not theirs, Belle and Rosco opted to walk. After about fifty yards, the lane dead-ended at the P.C.H. They jogged across the highway, and entered a large, empty parking lot. The winter winds had coated the surface with a layer of sand, and shallow drifts had formed against the curbs and the concrete road barriers. In summer, there wouldn’t be a parking space available, but now, in February, at the close of the day, it was an eerie, empty slate. Standing in the extended dark shadow of the facility’s deserted ticket booth, Belle and Rosco scanned the area, but both pavement and beach appeared devoid of human life. Stretching for miles in both directions, sand and sea were no longer the rosy gold of sunset but a soft pewter color that would soon turn leaden and chilly.
“I’d feel a whole lot better if you went back to the Mustang and waited,” Rosco said in a quiet tone. “You can talk to your new buddy—dude”.<
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“Why? I don’t think we, like, have much in common.”
Rosco smiled, but his mouth was tight and worried. “We’ve got a killer around here somewhere, Belle. It’s getting dark, and I’d rather you didn’t get into the line of fire when he pops up.”
“And what about you? Don’t I get to worry about you?”
“Worry all you like, but do it back at the Mustang … I’m a professional. I can handle McKenet.”
“I don’t doubt that, but you’ve never seen him, Rosco. You can’t identify him. I can—”
Belle’s protest was curtailed as a compact gray dog darted down the beach toward a long, low-slung cinder block picnic/changing/restroom facility at the far end of the parking area. In the animal’s wake was a woman who appeared to be in her late fifties. Her hair was a chopped, dark gray, and she was clad in a gray sweatshirt with gray sweatpants. In the waning light, her skin also appeared gray. She hurried after the dog shouting, “Gabby! Gabby! Come! Bad girl! Bad girl!”
Belle mouthed a hushed.
“Wanda.”
Gabby was clearly into a game of chase; she continued to race along the beach, a blur of fur flying along, seemingly suspended a foot above the surface of the sand. Gray Wanda was no match for her pet; she ran and stumbled after the dog, entreating Gabby to return, but the dog seemed intent upon reaching the empty building. Despite its ghostly appearance, it must have contained some remnant of beach-food pleasures that had arrested the animal’s keen sense of smell.
“That must be him!” Belle suddenly gasped as she pointed toward a Jaguar sedan that was rolling slowly into the lot. Invisible within the shadow of the wooden ticket office, the couple watched the driver silently emerge from his car. “It’s McKenet.”
At that moment, Gabby, barking loudly, barreled through an open door of the beach facility while Wanda, clearly winded, reached its broad concrete deck, and McKenet spotted his prey. He called out Wanda’s name, but the sound of the dog’s echoing yaps and yips drowned out his words. Oblivious to McKenet’s presence, Wanda proceeded into the building; and the producer in his gleaming two-toned wingtips and expertly tailored suit hurried after her.
