by Nero Blanc
“Wait here,” Rosco said as he handed Belle his cell phone, “and call the cops. McKenet’s probably armed … be sure to tell them that.”
“But—” Belle began.
“I know what I’m doing, Belle. I’ll be careful.” Then he took off in swift pursuit of McKenet and Wanda.
As Rosco entered the nearly night-dark facility, the noise of the dog combined with Wanda’s numerous entreaties almost, but not quite, drowned out McKenet’s angry shouts. Then there was a pause, not in Gabby’s insistent barks, but in Wanda’s pleas to her wayward pet. McKenet’s voice filled the void with Wanda suddenly arguing back. What the two were fighting about, Rosco couldn’t discern—the words disappeared beneath Gabby’s now quite-anxious yelps. Rosco followed the sounds, circling through the empty rooms in the hopes of taking McKenet unaware. The few windows and doors that hadn’t been boarded up against winter storms provided the sole illumination for his search, but it was scant.
When Rosco finally spotted the pair, they were still separated by one long concrete hallway. McKenet’s back was to the entry of a small changing area. Through the blackness, Rosco could make out that Gabby was now on a leash and bucking and straining and lunging at the producer, her pointed white teeth reflecting what little light there was. Wanda seemed unaware that a third person was approaching. She held the dog back with one hand while the other gesticulated wildly toward McKenet. A stalemate appeared to have been reached. Rosco moved stealthily forward, all the while trying to adjust his eyes to the ever-darkening air.
When he was within eight feet of the doorway and McKenet, Rosco saw the producer begin to reach inside his jacket for what he believed was a weapon. In an instant, Rosco shot forward, propelling himself toward McKenet like a linebacker making a last-gasp tackle on a scoring halfback. He wrapped an arm around McKenet’s shoulders and slammed his body into the steel door jamb. A gasp of air escaped from Stan’s lungs, and a sound of fear echoed from his mouth as he tumbled onto the concrete. Felled by the speed and surprise of Rosco’s attack, McKenet lay on the gritty floor, his face in the dirt, his arms pinned to his sides, while Rosco knelt above him.
The producer winced in pain. Anger had replaced his initial sense of terror. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded. “What do you want?”
“Take it easy, McKenet. The cops are on their way. It’s over. You’ll be charged for the murder of Chick Darlessen.”
“Are you crazy?” was the stuttered reply. McKenet raised his head just enough to glower at Wanda. “She killed Darlessen. Didn’t you hear her? I have it recorded on my Digital Voice Recorder. Who the hell are you?”
In his confusion, Rosco looked from McKenet to Wanda, back to McKenet, and then back again to Wanda who suddenly dropped her dog’s leash. This time Gabby made no effort to escape.
“Who are you?” McKenet demanded for the third time.
Rosco released McKenet, and both men clambered to their feet. “Rosco Polycrates … I’m a private investigator.” He paused again and studied the other two for a moment. “I was hired by Debra Marcollo’s lawyer to look into the Darlessen murder.”
“And you thought I killed him?” Stan said incredulously. “Where would you get such an inane idea?”
Seeing no evidence of the gun he believed the man possessed, Rosco ignored McKenet and turned to Wanda. “You shot Darlessen?”
Wanda’s response was a stricken lowering of her head. “I just went there to talk, that’s all … talk some sense into him. I needed that money. I didn’t mean to … I just lost it.” Then she raised her chin defiantly. “Chick was a pig! He knew I was broke … He was making big money … And he knew what I was going through—that I’d have to give up my house if I didn’t get my share of the winnings … He could have pressured McKenet.” She pointed at the producer. “And he did nothing. Nothing!”
Rosco looked at McKenet for corroboration while Wanda continued her tirade.
“Why couldn’t you air the show, Stanley? I needed that money to survive. You and that creep Orso. You get your jollies stepping on the little people, don’t you? Orso taunting me at the end of the show, digging it in … ‘Looks like you’re Down & Out, Wanda …’ Then you both make me beg for my loser’s share? Come groveling for what amounts to lunch money for you two? You should all rot!”
Stan McKenet raised his right hand. In it was a crumpled envelope. He opened it, removed a cashier’s check, and handed it to Rosco. “I was trying to give this to her. It’s a check for her twenty-five thousand dollars. The consolation prize she would have won if the show was aired. I just wanted her off my back.” He shook his head. “And you thought I was pulling a gun, is that it?”
“It looked like that from the rear. I wasn’t about to stop and ask questions.”
McKenet dusted the grit from his handsome suit, then glanced in dismay at his ruined wingtips. “I’m going to be honest with you here, fella. I have no intention of airing that blessed show—ever. Why should I? Why should I pay out a million bucks to some distant relative of Bartann Welner’s who wouldn’t know a crossword puzzle from a checkered flag? They don’t deserve jack. Neither did Darlessen, as far as that goes, and I don’t mind saying it … Look, I was here to dispose of Wanda once and for all, okay? Call it hush money if you want, I don’t care. But she’s the only person who could make my life miserable for not airing that show, so I decided to buy her off … I don’t need my life being any more miserable than it already is.” Stan pulled a small Sony recording device from his breast pocket. “I have all of this on my DVR. I record everything anyone says to me. This is L.A., fella, I cover myself. Like you, I like to hang onto evidence.”
Rosco nodded slowly. “Right … Did you know the Bartann Welner shows were rigged?” he asked after a moment.
McKenet stared at him in disbelief mixed with horror. He quickly turned off his Digital Voice Recorder. “What?” he demanded. The word wobbled in his throat. “What do you mean, rigged? Down & Across has never been rigged. Never. Don’t make accusations you can’t back up. I’ll have a lawyer down your throat before you know it.”
“Rolly Hoddal stole the correct answers from your office. He teamed up with Bartann Welner and Don Schruko, and they fixed the shows.”
“I knew it! I knew it!” Wanda began to rant again. She turned toward McKenet with hate in her eyes. “There’s no way that old coot could have beaten me. I didn’t win a single round in the Grand-Slam. It had to be fixed. I want my money! I want the whole million. He didn’t beat me. I was cheated!”
But the sound of police sirens broke in on her outburst; and with the blaring wail moving ever closer, Wanda began to sob, as her frightened dog whimpered beside her.
Crossing the pavement under police escort, Wanda noticed Belle standing beside one of the cruisers. “You’re Annabella Graham, aren’t you?” she asked in surprise. “You’re the crossword editor …”
When Belle nodded, Wanda glanced back at Rosco who was walking beside Stan McKenet. In Rosco’s left hand was a dog leash, at his feet was a confused and shivering Gabby. “And he’s …” Wanda began, then stopped herself. “Yeah, I’ve read about you two … And … you’ve got a dog, don’t you?”
As Belle again nodded, Wanda pointed toward Gabby. “See that she gets a good home. Could you do that for me? Please?”
CHAPTER 41
“Sadie Hawkins Day. That’s what we called February twenty-ninth when I was a kid, Big Al,” Martha Leonetti pronounced as she approached the booth while balancing an armload of four steaming platters. This was the real Martha speaking—not an actress pretending to be Martha—meaning that “Big Al” and the rest of the Breakfast Bunch were each the genuine article: laugh lines, frown lines, a few unwanted, extra pounds, and all. While Lawson’s coffee shop-cum-diner-cum-all-around-local-hangout was the original—in all its homey and unglamorous glory. “It’s the one day, every four years, when a woman gets to ask a man to marry her,” she continued. “You lookin’ to get lucky tomorrow?” Th
e place was bustling, the business as brisk as the Massachusetts weather, and that was despite the five inches of freshly fallen snow that sat atop the three feet that wouldn’t be melting until sometime in April.
“Whoa, hold on there, Martha,” Al Lever protested, “You gotta clear any marriage proposals you’re aiming at me with the wife I already have.”
“I don’t see where anybody’s asking you, Al. Just giving you a little history lesson, that’s all.” With a flourish, she placed the plates of goodies in front of her patrons and made her customary proclamations: “Poached egg with rye toast, no butter, for Mrs. Briephs; waffles with extra blueberry sauce and double whipped cream for the Puzzle Gal; Spanish omelette and french fries—extra order and extra crispy—for Big Al; grilled cheese and bacon for Mr. Cute-buns, Rosco.”
Rosco raised his hands as the others exploded in convivial laughter. “I had nothing to do with that line in the movie, Martha,” he said. “It was all my charming wife’s doing. A real comedienne, she is.”
“But Ivald told Belle he was keeping it in his final cut, right?” Martha countered. She raised an eyebrow as she spoke. An authority when it came to expressions of arch disbelief, her blonde beehive also appeared to rise to new heights of skepticism.
Rosco made a mock grimace. “Yeah, well …”
“So, Cute-buns, you’ll remain.”
“Better you than me, buddy,” Al Lever chortled as he speared a forkful of home fries.
“You keep munchin’ that stuff, Al, you’re gonna’ get your own nickname, and cute’s gonna have nothin’ to do with it.”
“We shouldn’t have told you about that line,” Belle said, still chuckling. “We should have waited until the show airs next month. That way it would have been a big surprise.”
“What other surprises do you three have in store?” Al asked suspiciously. “Besides the Hollywood tans you’re all flaunting in our wintry faces?”
“I guess you’ll have to wait and see, won’t you?” Belle answered with a mischievous grin.
“That’s what I’m afraid of. That I’m going to be the laughingstock of the Newcastle Police Department—if not the entire town.”
“Oh, Albert, you mustn’t mind Belle,” Sara soothed. “Jes Nadema played your character very respectfully, and with a deft touch that portrayed a sensitive but turbulent inner-life. Don’t you agree, Rosco?”
“Right, Sara … Except for the ‘fat-suit,’ the costume gang made you look huge, Al. Pretty unattractive, actually.”
“What?” Lever’s voice rose in indignation. “Jes Nadema wore a ‘fat-suit’? He played me in a ‘fat-suit’?”
“Rosco!” Belle chided. “Don’t say that … That’s not true, Al; Jes wasn’t given any additional padding.”
“Well, they didn’t need to,” Rosco tossed in. “Have you seen that guy lately, Al? You know how these ex-wrestlers blow up once they stop working out. Man, he looks like a moose now.” Rosco was laughing in spite of himself.
“Stop it, Rosco. Leave Al alone. None of that’s true, and you know it. Jes is still in great shape. No one in town’s going to tease you when they see the movie, Al. In fact, they’re going to be impressed.”
Martha returned with a pot of coffee and filled the four cups. “So it was Shay Henley who was constructing those puzzles, all along … Did she ever tell you why?”
It was Sara who answered. Her tone had not yet fully abandoned its haughty, Hollywood-diva quality. “Her behavior is consistent with the Actor’s Studio approach, Martha. Professional performers go to great lengths in order to assume the shape and color of their roles—to make the characters truly live. In fact, Shay shared the technique with me. I found it an enormous help in preparing my own part … Of course, I was playing myself.”
“What’s the technique?” Al asked, “making up crosswords?”
“Goodness, no Albert! You misunderstood, entirely! You see, in order to create a believable character, one must ‘inhabit’ the role. One must literally ‘become’ that person; in Miss Henley’s case, that would be Belle. So, in doing her her ‘homework,’ if you will, Shay attempted to turn herself into a crossword constructor, hoping that the activity would help her better understand her—or Belle’s—motivations in certain scenes. Shay went so far as to visit the Down & Across tapings, incognito naturally, for two weeks prior to our filming of Anatomy.”
“Unfortunately,” Belle added, “Shay had a difficult time creating new grids; as a result, she decided to use the one I constructed and insert new words.”
“But why didn’t she tell you what she was up to?” Martha asked.
Rosco shook his head as he replied. “One reason is that we never point-blank asked her … She also told us she wanted to see how long it would take us to figure it out. Just another case of Hollywood high jinks. In fact, the What’s In A Name? crossword that had Belle champing at the bit was pure coincidence … The ENID that my dear wife believed was a major mystery player turned out to be Shay’s mom—as well as Sir Geraint’s wife.”
“But she let Don Schruko in on her secret, right?” Al wondered aloud.
Belle smiled ruefully as she nodded. “She told nearly everybody! The entire cast was in on the joke! And since everyone knew the puzzles were harmless, they were just waiting to see how long it would take for me to catch on.”
“But they had no idea how serious and pertinent you believed the crosswords were.” Martha finished Belle’s thought. “And now … Shay and Max Chugorro are an item … I can’t wait to see how the movie mags handle that juicy tidbit.”
“I’m sure he’ll be listed as an up-and-coming screenwriter, and not the ‘Marquis de Sod.’”
“Wait. Wait,” Al protested, “I didn’t hear anything about this Max person and Shay Henley. When did all that happen?”
“If you’d show up on time for breakfast once in a while,” Rosco joked, “you wouldn’t miss half our conversation … Max Chugorro was the guy Shay believed was stalking her, but, in fact, all he wanted to do was get his latest screenplay into her hands. When he followed her home, he was trying to find out where she lived.”
“Screenplay?”
“It’s a biopic about one of Pancho Villa’s mistresses. Max figured if he could get a star like Shay Henley to agree to do the lead, he’d get a studio deal in a flash.”
Martha let out with a hearty chuckle. “Old Maxie didn’t realize he was going to get Ms. Henley’s bod in the bargain.”
“Well, she fell in love with the script,” was Belle’s diplomatic response.
“Hah! She fell in love with something … Only time will tell if it was the script or not.” Martha walked over to the cash register to take another customer’s money, then immediately returned. “And the Nan DeDero ‘accident’?”
“As far as anyone can tell, that’s all it was,” Belle answered. “As of now, Don Schruko isn’t admitting to foul play.”
“Of course, if Schruko did arrange Nan’s accident, he needed to have assistance,” Rosco said, directing the comment toward Al Lever. “As it stands, the Los Angeles County District Attorney has become very interested in the rigging of Down & Across, so we’ll have to wait and see what comes out of that investigation. Apparently, Rolly Hoddal’s talking up a storm in an effort to save his own skin—which, naturally, means implicating Schruko … If things get too hot, whoever was aiding and abetting on Anatomy may come out of the woodwork.”
“And what about poor Harriet Tammalong? Is she in the clear?” Lever asked.
“Poor Harriet?” Belle said with a small laugh. “Al, she was in the middle of perpetrating a million-dollar fraud.”
Rosco polished off a healthy bite of grilled cheese sandwich. “It does look as if Harriet’s going to dodge the bullet, though, Al. It’s up to Stan McKenet and Gerry Orso to push a case against her, but right now, the less publicity the better as far as they’re concerned. The show is on very thin ice with the sponsors as it is.”
Lever pointed one of his
french fries at Rosco. “Speaking of dodging bullets, Poly-crates, what happened to the six .38 rounds that were missing from Darlessen’s box of shells?”
“Apparently, Wanda believed she and Chick were alone in the house when she decided to confront him. As soon as she heard Debra in the other room, she reloaded the gun and hid behind a filing cabinet—meaning that if Debra had discovered the murderer still on the property … Well, who knows what might have happened. Obviously, Wanda wasn’t thinking too lucidly at that point … At any rate, the police report placed the gun and the box with the twelve remaining shells on their evidence list. No mention was made of the weapon being reloaded; and I had no access to the LAPD evidence room. Any official files I saw came through Mawbry, but LAPD considered him nothing more than a sleazy ambulance chaser, so the details they supplied were sketchy, at best.”
“Well, he did save Marcollo’s bacon,” Al observed.
Sara suddenly and unexpectedly sighed. “A sad story, all around, if you consider the number of lives affected.”
“That’s what murder cases are about,” was Lever’s sobering response.
“And so much conniving,” Sara continued, “and selfishness. And greed.”
“The chance to snag a million dollars can bring out the worst in some folks,” Al concluded in the same pensive tone.
“But there was a good deal of kindness, too,” Belle added gently. “Shay and Dan … they’re fine people. And there were many, many others.”
It was Martha who dispelled the impending gloom as she again returned from the cash register. “So, how’s that new pooch of yours working out?”
“Gabby? Oh, she and Kit are establishing their own routine,” Belle said with a small smile. “But they’re having a little trouble determining who’s going to be the alpha dog. Rosco seems reluctant to give up the position.”
