by Parnell Hall
“You don’t know his last name?”
“No.”
“How long ago was this?”
“A while back. Six months. A year.”
“This Dexter—is he an actor?”
“Yeah.”
“You recall anything he was in, I could get his name from?”
“No. But we know some of the same people. He’ll probably be at the party.”
The looks the others flashed her were somewhat short of kind. They didn’t want me at the party. And now, everyone in the room, me included, knew I was gonna be there.
“All right,” I said. “I don’t want to keep you, but I do want to take down your home phone numbers in case I think of anything I forgot to ask.”
I wrote down the phone numbers, folded my notebook, and stuck it in my jacket pocket. “Fine,” I said. “I don’t know that I’ll have to call you, but I may. In case I do, I’m a detective, Hastings.”
I have to admit, I swallowed the “a” so it sounded like I said, “I’m Detective Hastings,” as in cop.
“All right,” I said. “Thanks for your time. How do I get out of here?”
Claude was on his feet. “I’ll run him down,” he said.
The director got up. “All right, everybody. Take five, and we’ll run it again.”
Claude seemed eager to get away. He led me out to the elevator, opened the cage door.
I stepped into the elevator and turned around. As it started down, I saw the redhead come out into the foyer. It seemed to me she gave us a look before heading for the women’s room.
Claude and I clanked down into the night. I wondered if Claude had had any reason for wanting to take me down.
He did. He turned to me, and his face spoke volumes.
“Sir?” he said.
It’s not often people call me sir, but I was glad he did. If he’d called me officer, I’d have felt bad about not correcting him.
“Yes,” I said casually. If he wanted to tell me something, I didn’t want to frighten him.
He took a breath. “Ah, what you said—about them finding the taxicab.”
“Yes?”
“Do you think they’ll find it?”
“I’m sure they will.”
He bit his lip. “I have a problem.”
“What’s that?”
“What I told the officer on the phone.”
“Oh?”
He ducked his head in what I was sure was his patented goofily handsome way. It probably worked well with the women, but I wasn’t impressed. I waited.
“And with what I just told you,” he said.
“What’s your problem?”
“The bit about the taxicab.”
“What about it?”
“I left something out.”
I felt if I were a cop, my face would harden about now. I attempted a steely gaze. Thank god no one I know was looking, or they’d have been on the floor.
But it seemed to work on him. He started fidgeting, ducking his head again.
I was wondering how to prompt him when the elevator hit the ground. That jolted both of us. He let go of the control, but he didn’t open the gate.
“What’d you leave out?” I said.
One more head duck. “The part about Sherry getting out of the cab. That was true. The thing is, I didn’t take the cab up to my place. I got out of the cab with her.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“You paid off the cab there?”
“That’s right.”
“You got out with Sherry Fontaine?”
“Yes.”
“Why’d you do that?”
He ducked his head again. “Sherry Fontaine was a very attractive woman. I was going to go up to her apartment.”
“I see,” I said.
“But I didn’t,” he added quickly.
“You didn’t?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“She didn’t want me to.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. I know, I know. I’m explaining it badly. See, I misread the situation. I thought she wanted me to, but she didn’t. See, we’d been working together, and she’d been kind of coming on to me. At least I thought she had. And she was in such high spirits last night. And then we went home alone, and I just naturally thought. . . Well, I was wrong. Anyway, we got to her place and I got out and paid off the cab. I started walking across the street with her, and she said, “Where do you think you’re going?” I said, “I’m walking you home.” She said, “I’m a big girl, I can walk myself.” I started to say something and she said, “Good night.” Real final, like that.
“Then she laughed at me. A teasing kind of way. I’ll never forget it. It was the last time I ever saw her and she gave me that laugh. Then she turned around and walked in.”
“What did you do?”
“Walked over to Broadway and caught the bus.”
“Then there’s no record of you ever getting home. You live alone?”
“Yeah.”
“Why didn’t you mention this before?”
He ducked his head again. It flashed on me if I were a more aggressive person, I’d have punched him in the chin.
“I didn’t think it mattered. And I didn’t think anyone would know. Then you mentioned talkin’ to the cabby. Then I knew I was sunk.”
“That’s not the question. The question is, why didn’t you mention it?”
“Oh,” he said. He ducked his head again. I felt my hand forming a fist.
“Well,” he said. “You see, Audrey”—He jerked his thumb upstairs—“the redhead? Well, she and I have been seeing each other. But she wasn’t at rehearsal last night and I rode home with Sherry. She was miffed enough about that. I didn’t want to have to admit I’d gotten out of the cab.”
“I see,” I said. “Tell me. You and Sherry—aside from last night—was there anything going on?”
“No. Not at all.”
“You ever been up to her apartment?”
“Never.”
“Then your fingerprints wouldn’t be there.”
He frowned.
“Would they?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Well, which is it, yes or no?”
“No.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
He waved it away. “No, no, I was never there. It’s just. . .” He looked at me with sheepdog eyes. “Well, does it have to come out? Does Audrey have to know?”
“That’s between you and her,” I said.
“How about tomorrow, when I make my statement?”
“I would advise you to tell the truth.”
“You mean what I just told you?”
“If it was the truth, yeah.”
“What will they do to me?”
“What do you mean?”
“For not telling them this on the phone.”
Frankly, what I hoped they’d do would be elevate him to Suspect Number One, knocking yours truly down to the second position.
“Nothing,” I said. “You weren’t under oath. You didn’t sign anything. They may be pissed off, and they may give you a hard time, but they can’t do anything.”
He didn’t seem convinced. “Uh huh.”
I wasn’t in the mood to try to cheer him up. “Look,” I said, “you better get this elevator back upstairs before your friends wonder what you’re confessing to.”
That snapped him out of it. I could see thoughts of the redhead flash in his eyes.
“Yeah, right,” he said.
He slid the cage door open. I stepped out, and the elevator started back up.
I watched it go.
Well, that was interesting. The case wasn’t twenty-four hours old, and one of the people who’d known Sherry had already lied to the police.
Of course, it could have been just as he’d said. He could have tried to make a move on Sherry, and then not wanted the redhead to know about it. And from the look
she’d given us when we’d gone down in the elevator, I could understand that. Yeah, he could have done that, all right.
He also could have walked about a bit, gotten pissed off at being rejected, gone back, gone upstairs, rung her bell and strangled her.
27.
I DRESSED DOWN FOR THE party so I’d blend in, so I wouldn’t look like a cop. I wore jeans and a short-sleeve blue sports shirt, and left the suit and tie at home. I didn’t know it till I got there, but I also should have taken off ten to fifteen years.
It was a modern high-rise in the East 70s. The guy who came to the door looked young enough to be my son, assuming I’d knocked up my highschool sweetheart. He didn’t step aside and let me in. Instead, he looked at me as if I were from another planet.
“Yes?” he said.
Fortunately, I knew the magic word. “I’m Stanley Hastings,” I said. “I’m a friend of Marshall Crane and Walter Shelby.”
His face went through a transformation. Suddenly he was all smiles. “Pleased to meet you,” he said. “Do come in.” He grabbed my hand, pumped it up and down. “I’m Steve Muldoon. Walter and Marshall are already here, if you can find them.”
Stepping into the apartment, I knew what he meant. It was a huge layout, and it was mobbed. The lighting was dim and atmospheric, but still bright enough for me to tell that I was virtually the oldest one there.
Which explained Steve Muldoon’s sudden cordiality. Bein’ so ancient, and knowin’ Walter and Marshall and all, had to make me a producer, director or money man. Not the worst thing to be taken for at a party of young aspiring actors.
Fortunately, the doorbell rang again before my young host, who was obviously preparing to do so, could run through his list of stage credits. I escaped and threaded my way through the throng.
The apartment seemed to consist of a large living room, connected to a large dining room connected to the kitchen. That was in one direction. In the other was a hallway, leading off presumably to the bedrooms. In yet another was a door leading off into what appeared to be a game room. It was hard to tell, looking through the crush of people, but it seemed to me I saw the corner of a pool table.
I figured somewhere in all this there had to be a table with drinks, and after a little research I spotted it on one side of the dining room. I figured I would look more natural with a glass in my hand, so I threaded my way over there and poured myself a diet Coke.
I turned around to find the redhead standing there in front of me. Up close, I could see her face was covered with a light sprinkling of freckles. On her they were kind of cute.
She also had green eyes. Somehow, that didn’t surprise me.
“Hello,” she said. “Mr.. . . Hastings, is it?”
“Stanley,” I said. “And you’re. . .?”
“Audrey.”
“Right. Audrey,” I said. “Are the others here?”
“Claude and Miranda are. And Walter and Marshall. Jill’s not here yet, but she’s expected. You seen anyone yet?”
“Just you.”
“Uh huh,” she said.
“Well, nice party,” I said.
“Yeah, isn’t it? What did you talk about?”
“What?”
“Last night. When Claude took you down in the elevator. What did you talk about?”
“I don’t know. I guess we talked about the case.”
“Claude was gone a long time. Walter sent me out to look for him.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. And he still hadn’t come up yet. So I figured you must have been talking about something.”
“I suppose we were, but I doubt if it was important.”
“Uh huh,” she said. “Claude went downtown and made a statement today. To the cops.”
“Yeah. He said he was going to.”
“Were you there?”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“Uh huh.”
“Why? Did Claude say I was there?”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“The police didn’t ask me for my statement.”
“Sure. ’Cause you weren’t there that night.”
“So,” she said. “You won’t tell me what you and Claude talked about?”
“Absolutely not.”
That jarred her. She’d expected a subtle evasion or deflection. The flat denial caught her by surprise.
“Well, why not?”
I smiled. “Because you’re all witnesses in one way or another. And since we don’t know who did this, strange as it seems, that makes you all suspects in one way or another. So what we wanna do is get your stories individually and compare them, to see if there are any discrepancies. We’re certainly not gonna tell one of you what another one of you said.”
She looked at me. “Are you kidding? About us being suspects?”
“Only half. Somebody killed her, and we have to find out who. Until we get a lead, we have to consider all possibilities. Now, I know that sounds absurd to you, but try to see it from my point of view.”
She exhaled. “Jesus Christ.”
“Hey, don’t let me spoil your party. I’m actually here chasing down other leads. So, what about this Dexter fellow? Is he here yet?”
“I don’t know him. Jill does. You’ll have to wait till she gets here.”
“I see,” I said. “If you spot her, let me know.”
She gave me a look, then turned and threaded her way through the crowd.
I watched her go.
So, there was a very jealous woman. Shrewd, hard, calculating, and possessive. And she had every reason to think Sherry Fontaine was making a play for her man.
I turned around and bumped into Walter Shelby. He had the understudy in tow.
“Enjoying the party?” he said.
I smiled, “It’s not exactly my style, but I’m getting along.”
“You seen Al Pacino yet?”
“Is he here?”
“He’s rumored to be here. Miranda here’s all excited. So far, no one’s seen him.”
I felt a rapport talking to Walter Shelby. He seemed more my age somehow, but maybe that was just the bald spot. I’m sure he was at least ten years my junior.
And the understudy, Miranda, at least ten years his. He had his arm around her, and I wondered if they were an item. More than that, I wondered if they had been an item before last night. Back when Sherry Fontaine was still alive.
Walter was looking me over, and his eyes were sort of twinkling. “Do you have a cover?” he said. “So that we don’t blow it?”
“I’m Stanley Hastings,” I said. “I’m a friend of yours and Marshall Crane.”
“Where do we know you from?”
“I’m vaguely connected to the movies, but I like to keep a low profile, so you’re not supposed to talk about it.”
“Hey, I like that,” he said. “And what movie are you vaguely connected with that I’m not supposed to talk about?”
I shrugged. “You might let it drop that I’ve worked with Arnold Schwarzenegger.”
He smiled, shook his head. “You know, you got a sense of humor for a cop.”
“I’m not a cop,” I told him. “I’m a person vaguely connected with the movies.”
“Right, right,” he said with a big wink. “The soul of discretion. We’ll put it around.”
He moved off with the understudy in tow.
I must say I resented him. Sherry Fontaine’s death meant nothing to him. As far as he was concerned, it was just fun and games. An acting opportunity. Just good theatre.
Unless that’s what he wanted me to think. Unless his act was simply that, an act.
I turned around to find Claude bearing down on me.
“I saw Audrey talking to you.”
“That’s right.”
“What did she want?”
“Wanted to know what we were talking about when you took me down in the elevator.”
“What did you tell her?”
“That we were discussing the case in general, but I couldn’t go into specifics, because until the murderer is caught everyone’s a suspect, and I have to get their stories individually.”
He frowned.
“What’s the matter?”
“I’m trying to remember if that jibes with what I told her.”
“Why wouldn’t it?”
“I don’t know.”
“What I said was so general, it should jibe with anything.”
He frowned. Thinking obviously wasn’t one of his strong points. “I guess so. What do you mean, we’re all suspects?”
“I wouldn’t take it personally. Until we figure out who did it, everyone’s a suspect. So, you make your statement today?”
“Yeah.”
“They give you any trouble?”
“They sure did. The cop who questioned me—the bull-necked one—”
“Sergeant Thurman?” I loved saying it—as if I knew the whole damn police force.
“Yeah, that’s him. He was pissed as hell. Wanted to know why I didn’t mention getting out of the cab before.”
“What’d you tell him?”
“That I didn’t think it mattered, and I didn’t want my girlfriend to know I’d done it.”
Great. Two conflicting reasons. Couldn’t the guy just have picked one?
“That satisfy him?”
“No, it didn’t. He was most abusive.”
“Yeah. I’ll bet. He ask you why you were telling him now?”
“Yeah.”
“Whaddya say?”
“I didn’t know if it was important or not, but thinking it over I didn’t want to do anything that might screw up his investigation.”
“Not a bad answer. You mention talking to me?”
“No. Should I have?”
“Not at all,” I told him. “Much better to let him think you made that decision on your own.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“You thought right.”
Well, that was a relief. It hadn’t even occurred to me to tell him not to mention me to the cops. Well, actually, it had occurred to me, but not until I was on my way home from the rehearsal, when it was too late to do me any good. I had his phone number, and I could have called him up to suggest he didn’t mention me, but I thought that might be a little much, even for him, getting a special phone call just to tell him that. Even an intellect as slow as his might get suspicious. I figured it better just to let him blunder through. Apparently, for once I figured right.
