"Sit down,” Miranda said, perching on the edge of the tennis court.
I sat on a chair nearby. “So, you want to commit a murder?"
"Yes."
"There's no such thing as a perfect murder,” I sagely advised her.
"You're a screenwriter, Mr. Gloucester. According to my husband, your specialty is crime and mystery."
I nodded. “That's correct. I've never yet worked on a Technicolor picture, and I have no immediate plans to do so."
"My husband says you're very good at what you do. Surely you can think of something?"
"Who's going to die?” I inquired.
She smiled at me coyly. I'd seen the same expression in all of her pictures. It was the only one she did well. It was her I have a naughty secret look.
"Perhaps a young, attractive woman takes a gun and shoots a man to death in the bathroom connected to her bedroom.” She glanced at a white door. It was across from the bed. The white door was closed and it presumably led to a bathroom.
"A young, attractive woman, like say, yourself?"
"Perhaps."
"And a man, like say, your husband?"
She nodded. The coy smile blossomed into something vaguely unnerving.
"Why?"
"Maybe because he deserves it."
I didn't need to ask for any further clarification.
I stared at the white door. The idea of a bathroom appealed. The pot of black coffee had made its way to the departure lounge in my bladder and was pacing about agitatedly.
"It must be a perfect murder,” she added. “I want the woman to get away with it."
I glanced at her. And then back at the white door—such a plain and simple door. I couldn't help myself. I sniffed the air for traces of gunpowder.
"I'm talking about this as a screenplay,” she remarked.
"Oh, really?"
She nodded sincerely. “Yes. I'm writing a script."
"Oh, really?"
She wasn't a good actress, and she was an even worse liar.
"It's a secret,” she said, her accent wavering between California American and her native European. “I haven't told Torrance. I haven't told anyone. And I don't wish you to tell anyone about it, either."
"Why do you want to write a screenplay?"
"Because, for once, I wish to make up my own lines."
I studied her face. It told me absolutely nothing.
"First of all,” I said. “Don't use a gun."
"Why not? I want the girl to shoot the man in the head."
"Guns make too much noise and too much mess. Have her strangle him."
She shook her head. “He's bigger than her. He's stronger than her."
"Hit him in the head with something solid.” I spied a three-foot-long elephant tusk on a side table. “Hit him with something like that ornament over there."
She glanced at the ivory.
"Hit him hard. And while he's unconscious, strangle him."
Her eyes settled on me. “How do you strangle a man, Mr. Gloucester?"
"Put your hands around his neck and squeeze with everything you've got."
She thought about that, and then patted the edge of the bed alongside her. “Show me. Pretend to strangle me."
My brain said no. The rest of me cheerfully accepted the invitation, and I joined her on the edge of the mattress.
She guided my hands to her. “Grip tightly at the sides,” I said, holding her delicately by her neck. Her pale skin was smooth and warm. “Grip as tight as you can."
"Won't he struggle?"
"You knocked him unconscious with the elephant ornament, remember? He's out cold on the floor.” I could feel her pulse. “Grip firmly and hold for as long as you can."
I stared into her eyes. They really were very special. I'd never seen that shade of hazel in any girl's eyes. No wonder men went wild for this woman.
"Have you ever killed a man?” Miranda asked.
"Yes."
"In the war?"
"Yes."
"Did you enjoy killing?"
It was like she was asking me if I liked root beer. I took my hands from her neck. I stood up and walked over to a window. I could see my car waiting for me down in the driveway. “Maybe you should find another screenwriter, Mrs. Taunton."
She came across the room after me, flicking open a silver cigarette case. She put a cigarette between her lips and then passed the case to me. “The killing part seems easy. How does the woman get away with it?"
I slid out a cigarette of my own.
She lit us with her lighter.
I placed the case down on a side table next to a vase. “It has to be plausible."
"Plausible?"
"It has to seem reasonable and likely."
She was standing close enough to me to dance.
"Think of the audience as your jury,” I said. “They're sitting there in the theater, in the dark. They have to absolutely believe everything they're seeing."
She nodded.
"Motive and clues, Mrs. Taunton, that's how the girl gets away with it."
"Call me Miranda."
I decided I would like to do that. “And someone needs to wear those clues and motive."
"You mean I need a fall guy?"
"Yes."
She went to the drinks cart that stood by the bed. She poured brandy into two glasses. She brought the glasses over and gave me one.
"The fall guy has to have a bankable reason to want to kill that man in the bathroom,” I said. “And there need to be clues that lead the police to that fall guy."
"And it has to be plausible?"
"Yes."
I sipped on the brandy. It reminded me that I needed to use a bathroom. It reminded me of the bathroom on the other side of the room and how I'd really like to open that white door. “Why kill him in the bathroom?"
"I have my reasons.” Her right hand held her cigarette and brandy, and the fingers of her left hand ran up my lapel. “What motive would convince a jury?"
"Something they can understand."
"Such as?"
"They're human. What motivates human beings the most?"
"Tell me.” Without taking her eyes away from mine, she took hold of my tie and straightened it. We were close enough to be related.
"Sex,” I answered.
"I like sex."
"Money."
"I like money, too."
"There are others, Mrs. Taunton, but those two are the most compelling."
She was still holding my tie. She was still staring into my eyes. To hell with it, what was I waiting for? The traffic signal was green.
I grabbed her and I kissed her.
The kiss wasn't entirely reciprocated. She drew away from it. She looked confused. Or was it me who was confused? I don't know. I honestly could never figure women out. Anyway, I'd kissed her, and now the kiss was over, and a respectable distance had once again opened up between us.
I apologized. I stubbed out my cigarette in an ashtray. I stood my empty brandy glass next to it, and I left. I found my way back to the front door and back to my car.
As I drove back to my apartment, I realized I had left fingerprints on the brandy glass and on her cigarette case. I had smoked a cigarette and left it in her ashtray. Threads from my clothes probably lay strewn on her bed. Servants had seen me arrive. They'd seen my car parked in the drive. They'd seen me come and go from her bedroom.
Was I the fall guy?
Was her screenplay already in production before I set foot into it? Was my visit to her house and to her bedroom just a setup—the establishing of clues to connect me to her dead husband? And that's absolutely what had to be in that bathroom, behind that white door. She was no more writing a screenplay than I was composing an opera.
I almost drove off the road.
And then clarity came. It was like a soothing wave at Malibu on a Sunday afternoon. I had no motive. None whatsoever. TT was the last man I'd ever want to kill. It would be the most
stupid idea in the world. My boss was my ticket to success in the movie business. Any juror with a reasonable brain in their head would see that.
And besides, there was no way my fingerprints could be on her gun. None whatsoever. When I got home, I immediately checked that my gun was still under the bed. Yes it was, right there where I'd left it. I dragged it out and hid it under the floorboards.
With the tank of agitated black coffee finally dealt with, I filled the bathtub with ice water and then lay in it and smoked like a poet.
Miranda was a bitch, but I had fallen for her. Fallen bad. She had most likely murdered her husband, and all I could do was think about those eyes of hers, and how I had held her in my arms, and how I wanted to hold her for as long as I could.
TT's passing would draw few tears. On the contrary, there'd be a queue to spit on his grave. They'd be selling tickets. The show would run for a month. You make a lot of enemies in the motion picture business, in case you hadn't heard.
How many lives had Torrance Taunton soiled? How many young girls had he taken up to that office of his for private interviews, with the curtains drawn and the door locked? How many young wretches with their hearts set on stardom had he patted the heads of? And for every sixty girls who went through his office, maybe one of them would be lucky enough to get anything more than a screen test.
And he hadn't stopped after his marriage to Miranda. The day after their honeymoon ended, he went straight back up into that office of his and went right back to work.
I should have shot the sonofabitch myself. I had killed men on the battlefield for less noble reasons. I drained the remains of the gin bottle and threw it at the wall. I felt like burning my brain.
I wished she wasn't so damn beautiful. I wished she wasn't so damn wantable. I wished I hadn't fallen in love with her.
I wished she'd told TT about those stupid remarks I made about her at that party. He'd have fired me in a heartbeat—tar and feathers at the city limits.
I would never have seen her again, and I could have hated her for having ruined my career. And then I could have moved back to Nebraska and sold cement like my brother, until I got so drunk one night I finally shot my head off from the boredom.
The telephone rang.
I climbed out of the bathtub and went and answered it. It was seven p.m. I expected it to be the police. It wasn't. It was Miranda. She sounded distressed. She said she needed help, and could I come quickly. Naturally, I went. As fast as I could.
* * * *
ACT THREE
A maid met me at the door. She had orders to direct me to Mrs. Taunton's bedroom. I told her I knew the way. It was a three-minute walk from the front door and I walked it in one. I had no idea what I was going to find when I got there. If Miranda had truly shot TT, there'd be a hideous mess. I hoped the bathroom floor was tiled.
TT was an obese man. With some effort, Miranda and I could probably drag him out of the house, but not without the servants noticing—and not without leaving a trail across the floorboards, the rugs, and the carpets. One decent whiff and any bloodhound would be beside itself. And what to do with the body? It would be like hiding a piano.
There was no time to find a fall guy. Cheap screenwriter rhetoric was out the window—this wasn't a movie, this was real life. Besides, I didn't fancy framing some innocent schmuck and sending him to an appointment with an executioner.
I was a screenwriter. I was meant to be creative—now was the time to start proving it. And even before I put my hand on her bedroom door handle, I had decided we'd play it as an accident.
Torrance Taunton had been trying to impress his wife with his gun. The man was legendary for his arrogance and flashy manner. He had been fooling around in the bedroom and it went off.
There'd be a problem, though, if she'd shot him in the back of the head. If that was the case, then it was her who had the gun and was fooling around. No, even better, Torrance wanted Miranda to play a killer in a new movie. He was insistent that she hold the gun and get used to how it felt. She didn't know it was loaded. It went off.
Either way, it was a tragic accident. Miranda was meant to be an actress. Now was her time to start proving it.
I opened the bedroom door and went in.
Miranda was standing by the window. She'd probably watched as I arrived. She extinguished a cigarette. She was dressed in a red bathrobe. She walked toward me and looked like the girl of my dreams. I forgot all about a dead body. I threw my jacket on the floor.
We met by the bed. We went straight into each other's arms. I held her body against mine.
The kiss was back on. Any respectability between us was dropped. I kissed her, and this time she didn't back away. Her lipstick smeared my lips.
She slipped off my tie and unbuttoned my shirt. She looked into my eyes with those eyes of hers and breathed out a question. “You do want me, don't you?"
"You know damn well I do. I've wanted you since I first laid eyes on you."
She kissed me again. She got me out of my shirt and threw it onto the bed. She unzipped my pants.
I pulled open her bathrobe.
And then her mood changed. She stepped back. She went dour.
"What's wrong?” I remembered the white door.
She closed her bathrobe. “You're a man who speaks plainly."
"Yes."
"I've heard rumors about my husband."
I nodded.
"I've heard dirty, vile rumors."
"You want the truth?"
She nodded.
I knew she already knew the answer. She was looking for confirmation. Probably no one else ever had the guts to give it to her. “It's all true. And probably a whole lot more you haven't heard, and would never want to. Your husband abused people, Mrs. Taunton. Women—a lot of young women. That they probably consented to it makes it even sadder."
Her expression didn't change. She turned and walked toward the bathroom door. “We'd better go in there."
I followed after her.
She opened the white door and stood back. She didn't want to look inside.
I had seen dead men before, and this was one I had no reservations about looking at.
I walked into the bathroom. It was a smaller room than I had anticipated. It was plain and ordinary—just a bathtub, a hand basin, and a john. There was no dead body. There was no body at all in that bathroom.
That wasn't what I had expected.
I heard Miranda speak. She was behind me. Her voice was ice. “Go to hell.” Something hard struck the back of my head.
Blackness.
I regained partial consciousness a moment later. I could barely open my eyes. I couldn't move. I was lying facedown on the bathroom floor. The tiles were cold. I could feel a set of hands throttling my neck. They were small, delicate hands. The grip was tight. Miranda was straddling my back. Her hands were strangling me for all she was worth. I could feel her breath stroking my ears.
"Torrance will arrive home in the next five minutes,” she rasped. “The first thing he will do is come up to my room with a martini and a hard-on. I will hand him the elephant's tusk, and then run screaming from the room."
She tightened her grip. I imagined she was gritting her teeth and that the veins were standing out on her forehead.
"We will be taken to the police station. I will be in tears. My husband caught me with my lover. My lover was hiding half-dressed in the bathroom attached to my bedroom. My husband, jealous with rage, hit my lover in the head with an ornament. It knocked my lover to the floor, and then my husband strangled him. I ran from the room, screaming for help. The servants, who had known of my lover's comings and goings this day, telephoned for the police."
The simplicity of her plan was perfect.
"Is that plausible enough for you, Jack Gloucester?"
I was in no position to debate it.
"My husband will get the gas chamber,” she snarled. “And then he can join you in the afterlife."
Before I
died, I allowed myself a succession of quick thoughts: One, I at least died for a reasonable cause. Two, Miranda was a much better actress than I had ever given her credit for and demonstrable proof that hell hath indeed no fury . . . And three, I hoped there was an afterlife, because I'd sorely love to know if she got away with it.
Copyright © 2010 Stephen Ross
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Novelette: TRUCK CEMETERY by Ruth Francisco
Ruth Francisco broke onto the mystery scene to glowing reviews. Of her mystery novel Good Morning, Darkness (2004), PW said: “Following her much-praised first novel, Confessions of a Deathmaiden (2003), Francisco delivers another outstanding stand-alone . . . one of the year's best mysteries.” The author then took a different direction with her writing, producing the mainstream novel The Secret Memoirs of Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis.
Parked along Highway 19, two miles south of Mulletville, on a four-acre meadow on the edge of a pine forest, sit sixteen rusty trucks parked in a semicircle. Reddish brown, like the iron-rich soil where they were made. Not a speck of paint on any one of them. Most are old Ford trucks from 1936 to 1960, two are Dodges, one an REO Speed Wagon from 1939. The windshields are smashed, the windows gone, the seats—bare rusty springs with scraps of foam and vinyl—filled with leaves, sticks, and pine needles, nests for rodents and reptiles. Some have missing tires. On others the sheet metal, which has rusted completely through, is cracked and bent. Passion vines grow up around the axles and cabs, while saplings of slash pine and turkey oak push up through the floorboards. When rainwater overflows the nearby pond, alligators have been known to slither from under broken fenders into clumps of dry palmetto scrub.
Sixteen trucks arranged in a semicircle like Stonehenge.
The trucks once worked the Crocker farm, hauling men to tap turpentine pines and cut timber, later to work potato fields and hog pens. Old man Harvey Crocker never traded in his trucks, but ran them until they broke down, parking the wrecks on this lot to use for parts. When Crocker got too feeble to work the farm, his son moved the sixteen trucks into a semicircle.
There is something purposeful about their dereliction. A serenity. Both timeless and a searing reminder of the cruel relentlessness of time. Dinosaurs of rust, extinct yet fascinating.
EQMM, May 2010 Page 14
