"In those cases,” said Rushton, “they were never called upon as witnesses because there was no arrest. This time, it was different."
"Where did you catch them?"
"In their room at the Billesley Manor Hotel. They'd driven there to count their takings. It wasn't just the jewelry shops that suffered, you see. The pair of them are accomplished pickpockets as well. They mingled with the crowd at the theatre in search of victims. People are off guard in that sort of situation. After the matinée, the manager had a number of complaints from people who'd been robbed."
"They seem to have followed a pattern,” said Cyrus.
"That was their mistake, sir. It all started with the Shakespeare Express. They hit a different town each time but always pretended to go to a matinée here."
"And they were arrested in a hotel?"
"In bed together, as it happens."
Mary Anne was scandalized. “A brother and sister?"
"Incest is the one thing we can't charge them with, Mrs. Hillier. In reality, they're not related and their real names are nothing like the ones they gave to you.” He got to his feet. “Well, I'll detain you no longer. Now that I know you won't speak up on their behalf, I'll be on my way. Thank you for your help."
"She picked the wrong dupes this time,” said Cyrus, crossing to open the door for him. “I began to suspect that something about Rosalind Walker was not quite right when she pumped us for information. She wanted to know exactly where we could be found. What clinched it for me was her little ambush at the theatre."
"Ambush?"
"The lobby was packed to the rafters, Sergeant. She'd never have found me in that crowd. Knowing that I was bound to buy a program, Rosalind lurked by the counter where they were being sold. When she pounced on me, I knew something fishy was going on."
"You're something of a detective yourself, sir."
"I take no credit. Shakespeare must do that."
"Why?"
"When I watched the second half of the play this afternoon, something suddenly clicked at the back of my mind. It was a speech of Ulysses about Cressida."
Rushton was mystified. “Who are they?"
"Characters in the play. Cressida has just greeted a succession of strangers with a familiarity that appalls Ulysses. I was reminded of the way that Rosalind—or whatever her name is—fell on us at Paddington Station. She was altogether too open and friendly."
"That's what I liked about her,” said Mary Anne.
"I was taken in myself at first. Then Ulysses spoke up."
"What did he say?” asked the detective.
"'O these encounterers, so glib of tongue,
That give accosting welcome ere it comes,
And wide unclasp the tables of their thoughts
To every ticklish reader.’”
"That sounds like her, Professor. She could talk the hind leg off a donkey. ‘Glib of tongue’ sums her up perfectly."
"In short, she was thoroughly un-English. A clear danger sign."
"I didn't see it,” said Mary Anne, shaken by the turn of events. “Both of them fooled me. I feel such an idiot."
Cyrus chuckled. “I don't,” he said. “It was rather exciting to be caught up in this crime spree and to play a small part in convicting the villains. Their problem was that they chose the wrong profession."
"Did they?"
"Yes, honey. They were both such accomplished actors that they could easily have made a living on the stage. Instead of using the Shakespeare Express as a base for their crimes,” he pointed out, “they could have caught it to come to work here in Stratford."
(c)2007 by Edward Marston
[Back to Table of Contents]
THE GOOD DAUGHTER by Melodie Johnson Howe
For the past several years novelist Melodie Johnson Howe has been contributing a short-story-length series exclusively to EQMM, featuring Hollywood actress Diana Poole. The author knows of what she writes; she was herself, as she sometimes says, “one of the last Hollywood starlets,” appearing with actors such as Clint Eastwood.
* * * *
Art by Laurie Harden
* * * *
"Diana, tell Kyra how beautiful she looks,” Monique Lancer told me.
Kyra, Monique's daughter, fought back tears as she glared at her reflection in the bedroom mirror. I sat in a silk slipper chair sipping wine.
"It won't do any good, Diana,” Kyra snapped. “I'm not wearing this stupid dress.” A small figure of a winged angel was tattooed on the curve of her young breast.
"Tell her, Diana."
Monique squeezed my hand; it was a cold, bony reminder that she was one of the most powerful agents in Hollywood. And she had just gotten me a role in a movie with the hot new young actor Jimmy Whitelaw. I had ten lines and had just finished shooting my part. I knew I was on treacherous ground. Not only was I being inserted into the middle of an argument between a mother and daughter, but I was also being commanded to lie. I needed work, so I considered what it would morally cost me to tell a sixteen-year-old girl that she didn't look ridiculous in an evening gown when she did. The gown was a pink strapless affair with a huge ruffled skirt that swept the floor. Scarlett O'Hara going to a 1950s prom came to mind. Except for the tattoo on her breast. While I was trying to find the right complimentary words without sounding like a sycophant, Kyra turned her hard little face on her mother.
"Who is this birthday party for? You or me?"
"You, darling, I've already been sixteen. I see no problem with having some of my friends here."
"You don't have friends. You have famous clients."
"Diana is my friend."
"She's hoping you'll take her on as a client. Why don't you tell her what you told me? She's too old!” Now Kyra glared at me.
"I said it would be difficult to take Diana on because there are so few roles for women on the verge of middle age."
On the verge? They went on this way, talking about me as if I weren't there. Just to make sure, I checked my reflection in the mirror. Yes, I was in Kyra's bedroom sitting in the blue silk slipper chair, my long legs crossed, wearing a black suit that showed off my fleshy curves and determinedly blond hair. I could hear guests arriving in the foyer below.
Monique, thin as a sliver of ice, thrust a pink barrette into her daughter's harshly dyed black hair. The severe color turned Kyra's flawless pale skin a dead white.
I took more wine. I was drinking too much. I was drinking in place of good acting roles, in place of sex, in place of a man in my bed, in place of letting go of my dead husband. I was avoiding the void.
Kyra screamed the name “Jimmy Whitelaw!” drawing my attention back to mother and daughter.
"That's who this party is for. Jimmy Whitelaw. Not me! You're just using me."
Jimmy had the enormous ego of a very little man. When I had worked with him he had to stand on what the crew calls an apple box to make him taller. We all had to pretend he didn't have to stand on it. Jimmy loved call girls. He bragged about having them dress in retro ‘fifties-style cheerleader outfits or prom gowns. I looked at Kyra wearing her pink pouf of a ball gown. My heart sank.
"Is this dress you're forcing her to wear about Jimmy Whitelaw?” I asked Monique.
"He's taken a liking to Kyra. Who wouldn't?” She fluffed her daughter's hair. Kyra recoiled from her mother's touch.
"He doesn't like women,” I said.
"I knew he was a creep,” Kyra said.
"Be quiet,” her mother said, and then stared me down. “He likes women, Diana."
"He's short,” Kyra snapped.
"I know the production company paid to have him surrounded by three prostitutes on the set. It's amazing what keeps the costs of making movies so high and my salary so low."
"You got that part thanks to me. And so what if he likes call girls?"
"He likes them dressed the way you've dressed Kyra."
"You want me to go to bed with him! You think that will get him as a client,” Kyra fumed.
But no tears of a mother's betrayal showed in her eyes. They could have been fighting over, well, a dress.
"It's not as if you're a virgin. You might as well get something for it instead of giving it away free."
"You can't tell me what to do with my body."
"Oh, for God's sake, you call sex ‘hooking up.’ Having sex means nothing to you. And, I might add, who pays the bills? Who keeps your way of life going?"
As mother and daughter began to go at one another again I picked up my wineglass and purse. At the bedroom door I said:
"Kyra, that's the ugliest gown I have ever seen. Don't wear it. If you do, you'll regret it your entire life."
I walked out of the bedroom. Pausing on the long curve of stairs, I peered down at the famous guests mingling in the marble foyer. There was an overabundance of facelifts. The pulled skin on the women and men shined synthetically in the light of the crystal chandelier. The stars who were invited to Kyra's Sweet Sixteen birthday party were dimming. Monique Lancer's clients were getting old. She needed young blood. She needed Jimmy Whitelaw.
"Diana.” Monique grabbed my arm. “Don't you ever tell my daughter what to do. And she's not some innocent child, either."
"And she's not some deal you're hawking, either."
I pulled away from her. Jimmy Whitelaw rushed up the stairs. Not recognizing me, his gaze quickly shifted to the top of the landing and Kyra's door. “Is that her room?” he asked Monique. Anticipation made his voice higher.
She nodded. He continued up the steps and slipped into the bedroom. The deal was done.
"I'm going home."
Standing under the portico, I asked the valet for my car. He stared at me as if I were crazy.
"Sorry, ma'am. We have all these limos coming in. It'll be awhile."
"I'll wait."
I stood there greeting people I knew and being avoided by others whom I also knew. You're never sure why you're being shunned in Hollywood; that's what makes it so insidious. I gave up waiting and walked around the side of the house.
Under the enormous marquee a rap group was performing. The noise was deafening and had all the rhythm of an Uzi. Bodyguards with guns tucked under their heavy leather jackets surrounded the stage, protecting the rappers from the famous white audience. I walked across the lawn to the infinity pool; it looked like it was spilling Monique's purified sewage over the hills of Hollywood. The rapper's sounds filled the rich night air, leaving no room for any other sound. There were guards placed around the property. Most of the men securing the party were moonlighting LAPD officers. There was only one who looked comfortable in his suit. He stood by the pool, hands in his pants pockets, looking out at the city lights.
"You a detective?” I asked, trying to talk over the music.
"What?” His dark eyes assessed me like a piece of evidence. He stepped closer in order to hear me.
I repeated my question.
"Yes. How did you know?"
"You look like you're used to wearing a suit."
He laughed. His dark hair was cut short and graying at the temples. He had a high forehead and a nose that looked like it had taken a punch. Men, I thought ruefully. Give them a bashed nose and it only makes them look more intriguing. The music thumped and pestered.
"I didn't know detectives moonlighted. I thought it was mostly motorcycle cops."
"I need the money. Ex-wife. Actually, three ex-wives."
"I can't hear. Did you say three?"
He nodded sheepishly. Then cupped his mouth with his hand and spoke into my ear. “Should I know who you are?” His warm breath tickled my neck. His crooked smile came easily.
"No."
"But I have seen you in the movies."
"Probably. You just didn't know it was me."
"And who is me?"
"What?"
"Your name?” he yelled.
"Diana Poole."
He repeated my name, trying to place me. “I have seen you. But you're right, I didn't know it was you. Do you want to know who I am?"
"Not if you're somebody."
"Just a detective."
"You could be a singing detective."
"Who?"
"A singing ... Never mind,” I shouted. “What's your name?"
"My name? Leo Heath."
"You lied."
"What?"
"You lied! You wrote a book that was made into a movie."
"Did you read it?” He looked surprised.
"No."
"See the movie?"
"No. I read for a part in the movie. I didn't get it. You earned a ton of money. What are you doing moonlighting?"
"As I said, I have three ex-wives."
"Write another book."
"What?"
"Write another book!” I screamed. The music stopped.
My words hung in the air. My ears rang. We laughed.
"I can't,” he said in his normal voice, which was surprisingly soft and intimate. I wondered if the tone of his voice made it easier for him to extract the truth from criminals and victims.
"Why can't you?"
"I have writer's block. Hey, where are you going?"
"You're too famous for me. Besides, my ears are ringing and I want to go home,” I said, trying to ignore my body's response to his.
"And where is that?"
"Malibu."
"You must have three very wealthy ex-husbands.” He grinned.
"Very perceptive.” I returned his smile.
I looked up at the glowing lamp in Kyra's bedroom window and decided I couldn't leave just yet. Somebody had to look after her.
The foyer was empty. All the guests were in the backyard. I went up the stairs and knocked on her door. There was no answer. I went in. The room was empty. Just the pink promlike gown on the floor, the bodice collapsed into its full skirt. The skirt billowed out on the carpet as if it had just parachuted to earth.
Monique swept in. “Where is Kyra?” she demanded.
"I don't know."
"What are you doing in here?"
"I came to see if she was all right. Is that why you're here?"
"Have you seen Jimmy Whitelaw?"
"No."
Her narrow face tightened into anger. “She didn't wear the dress. One of the guests said they saw Kyra outside standing by herself. She was wearing jeans and a sweater. Damn her."
"For a moment I thought you might be worried about her."
"I'm disappointed in you, Diana. I thought you were more sophisticated than you really are."
"You call prostituting your daughter sophistication?"
Her thin body tensed. “I don't know what you're referring to. I suggest that you never repeat that lie to anyone else."
In our world, it's usually the lie that becomes the truth. That's because we don't call it a lie. We call it hype. And hype in our world is morality-free. But I had to give Monique credit at how quickly and brazenly she had turned the truth into a lie. That's just pure power.
"I guess I'll be looking for another agent,” I said.
"Good luck.” She didn't mean it. She slammed the door on her way out.
I sat down in the blue slipper chair and faced the mirror. Well, I just blew another connection. I gave my reflection a congratulatory smile. There was some wine left in the bottle, but no glass. I took a drink and stared at the gown.
So Kyra didn't wear it. She had defied her mother. Maybe there was hope, I thought, as I watched a pink ruffle edging the hem of the gown change color. I peered closer. It turned a deeper pink. Then it turned red. The red color grew darker and began to glisten as it oozed free of the hem, forming a small rivulet of blood on the blue wool carpet. I lifted up the skirt. Jimmy Whitelaw was curled into a fetal position. Blood matted the front of his expensive white shirt. His once cocky eyes were now a cloudy blue. I let the skirt flutter back down over him. Maybe Kyra had more than defied her mother.
Had I just experienced a sense of hope? What had it felt like? I couldn't reme
mber.
I walked out of the bedroom and out the front door of the house. I asked the valet if he had my car.
"Oh, sorry. What kind was it?"
"Old green Jag."
He disappeared in the darkness, quickly returning with it. I drove away.
I stopped at the Ralph's Market in Hollywood to pick up some milk and coffee. I needed them. But I needed to do something normal and mundane even more. I had just witnessed a mother selling off her daughter. I had just discovered the dead body of Jimmy Whitelaw. And what did I do? Leave the party. Oh, Diana.
My hands shook as I ground my mocha java beans. I recognized an actress I had recently met. We had both been up for a dog-food commercial. Neither one of us had got it. I attempted a smile but it wasn't in me. And she looked as if I had discovered her doing something she shouldn't have been doing. As if being alone in a market at night picking up a few normal, mundane things to keep her sad, lonely life together wasn't something I should see. Avoiding me, she ducked down another aisle.
I paid the cashier and walked back to my car. As I put the grocery bag in the backseat I noticed my trunk was ajar. I opened it and looked in. Nothing but a flat spare tire and a pink barrette. I picked up the barrette. It was the same one Monique had fastened in her daughter's hair.
I ran through the parking lot out to the sidewalk. As I looked up the street the lights of the oncoming cars momentarily blinded me. Then I saw Kyra. She was sitting on a bus bench wearing a wool cap pulled low. There was no mistaking her upturned nose and pointed chin. I sat down next to her.
"Go away, Diana. I'm not going home."
"You forgot your barrette. What if I hadn't stopped here but drove all the way to Malibu? What would you have done?"
"Hitched my way up the coast. He tried to rape me. I'm not a virgin, but that doesn't mean I have to allow myself to be raped. Even for my mother. He had his arm on my throat and every time I lifted my head I choked. I felt the gun in his pocket. I didn't even think. I just took it and shot. I hated him. I hate my mother."
Tears glistened on her cheeks. I tried to put my arm around her.
She stiffened at my touch. “I just stood there waiting for people to run up to my bedroom because of the noise the gun made, but nobody did. I guess that fake rap group my mother hired was too loud. I couldn't look at Jimmy's body. I put that stupid gown over him. Then I got dressed and went downstairs and wandered through the party. I really didn't know that many people. Except that they were famous. I saw you talking to a man. You looked happy, Diana. Everyone looked like they were having a good time. Then I walked down our driveway until I saw your car. I tried the trunk. It was open, and I got in.” She snuffled back more tears.
EQMM, August 2007 Page 5
