by Parnell Hall
“You mean for charging a reading fee?”
He waved it away. “That’s just part of it. It’s her whole attitude, you know. It’s not just they were suckers, it’s she treated them like suckers. Treated them with contempt. Made fun of them behind their backs. Called them wannabes, did you know that?”
“She told me.”
“Figures. She told everyone. Except them, of course. Happens to be a derogatory term, one writers would particularly resent.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah, well, you’re not in the business. Trust me on this. The woman was laughin’ at ’em, and rippin’ ’em off. If you were a writer, wouldn’t you wanna kill her?”
I didn’t tell Abe I was a writer. Considering my credentials, I didn’t think he’d be too impressed. Instead I excused myself, went to the pay phone, called the two writers again. What Abe had just told me had boosted their importance up a notch. But they were both still answering machines.
While I was at it, I tried Doug Mark. I didn’t have his number, so I called information to get it. Only they had no listing. Either the number was unlisted, or he didn’t live in Manhattan.
I got back to the table to find Abe Feinstein had moved on to a piece of peach pie.
“You happen to know Doug Mark’s number?”
“Not offhand. I would have it at home.”
“Does he live in Manhattan?”
“As I recall. It’s been a few years.”
“Would that be his home or work number?”
“I’m not sure where he’s working now.”
“You’re not sure he’s working?”
“No.”
“But you’re an agent. Wouldn’t you keep track of where editors are working?”
Abe smiled. “My authors are well placed. They are not looking for publishers. They have them. All near the top of the tree.
“And Doug Mark is not?”
“Are you kidding me? Why do you think Kenny left him? He’s someone you start with, then move on. Kenny went up. Doug Mark didn’t. Whether he’s working now I could not say.”
“But you have his number?”
“Absolutely. Haven’t called the man in years, but his number I will have.”
“Can I call you later and get it?”
“Be my guest.”
“Thanks. And you be mine,” I said, picking up the check.
30.
ELIZABETH ABBOTT APPEARED SHAKEN BY Sherry Pressman’s death, which seemed out of character for the crisp, efficient, on-top-of-everything editor. I wondered if this was perfectly natural, or if the woman had something to hide.
It turned out to be a little of both.
“Shocking, absolutely shocking,” she said. “That someone could do such a thing.”
“You have no idea who that might be?”
“No, of course not. What an idea.”
“How well did you know Sherry Pressman?”
“That’s just it. I hardly knew her at all.”
“She was Kenneth P. Winnington’s publicist.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Didn’t you deal with her on that basis?”
“To an extent,” she said.
And her eyes shifted.
And I caught it. The alert detective. Son of a bitch.
I controlled myself, refrained from dancing up and down. “Did you have any trouble with Sherry Pressman?”
“No, of course not.”
“Of course not?”
“Well, not what you’d call trouble. We didn’t always see eye to eye.”
“Oh?”
She flushed. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Like what?”
“You’re making it sound like we didn’t get along.”
“Did you?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Then what was the problem?”
“There wasn’t any problem. It was just ...”
“Yes?”
“Well, I can’t say I approve of the way she was handling Mr. Winnington.”
“Oh?”
I must say, my one-word responses were working. It seemed the less I said, the more she tried to justify herself.
“Yes, well, I’m sorry to say it, but that’s a fact. It seemed to me for the amount she charged she could have done more.”
“You know how much she charged?”
Elizabeth Abbott flushed again. “I know generally. That is, I have an idea. But what she actually charged him, no, I don’t. I just feel she could have done more.”
“Did you make these feelings known to Mr. Winnington?”
“Why are you asking this?”
“I’m interested in your relationship with the decedent. Apparently there was some friction there.” I smiled. “I am not insinuating that you killed her. I’m just trying to find out the score.”
That statement did not put Elizabeth Abbott at her ease. “That I killed her?”
“I don’t for a moment think you did. Unfortunately, she was killed right after I talked to you.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean the timing is unfortunate. I talked to you, I talked to her, and she dies.”
Elizabeth Abbott shivered.
“Not that I think you’re in any danger,” I put in hastily. “I’m merely talking about the sequence. I saw you, then I called on her. If the police wanted to make something of it, they could suggest you might have followed me to her.”
Her eyes were wide. “Followed you?”
“Yes, of course. You knew I was going to call on Sherry Pressman. You followed me to see if I did. The minute I left, you went in and killed her.”
“What are you saying?”
I put up my hands. “I’m not saying a thing. I know you didn’t do that. I’m telling you how the police can reason. Weren’t they here yesterday talking to you?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Well, didn’t they ask you questions like that?”
“Like what? Did I follow you to her house and kill her? No, they most certainly did not.”
“Uh-huh. Now, the cop who questioned you ...”
“Oh. Him.”
“What about him?”
“What indeed. A walking stereotype. You know how long he’d last in one of my novels?”
“Your novels?”
“I mean one of my authors’ novels. You think I’d let him get away with that?”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t,” I said. “But what did he want to know?”
“The same thing you did. When did I get the phone number? Who did I give it out to? Stuff like that.”
“He didn’t want to know about your relationship with Sherry Pressman?”
“Not really. I must say, he didn’t appear that bright.” She looked at me. “Is that a tactic on his part, do you suppose, to appear stupid? To lull you into a sense of false security?”
“Not that I know of Anyway, did he ask you what you did that afternoon?”
“What I did?”
“After I left. Did he ask you if you went out? Or if you were in all afternoon? Basically, did he ask you for an alibi?”
“An alibi?”
“Yes. Did he ever say what were you doing between the hours of such-and-such and such-and-such?”
“No.”
“He didn’t?”
“No. Why would he? Anyway, I told him I was here all day.”
“You did?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Why?”
“Because I was.”
I hoped Elizabeth Abbott edited better than she spoke. Grace and clarity did not appear to be among her virtues.
“So you told the cop you hadn’t gone out all day, although he didn’t ask you?”
She frowned, “I beg your pardon?”
“Just trying to get things straight in my head. I happen to know this cop. I know he’s not too swift, so I’d like to pin things down. But the point is, you did assu
re him you were here all day?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Fine,” I said. “Now then, it’s been a while since the cop talked to you and you’ve had a chance to think this over. So tell me, can you think of anyone who might have wanted to kill Sherry Pressman?”
“Not at all. It simply makes no sense.”
“Is that how you see it?”
“Absolutely. You must understand, I deal with this sort of thing all the time. In books, I mean. And if I ran across this murder in a manuscript, I would have the author take it out. Why? Because it makes no sense.”
“You don’t think she was killed for the telephone number?”
She shook her head. “It’s the flimsiest of motives. Give me a break. It’s so bad you can’t even state the premise fairly. You say killed for the phone number. But that’s not even it. The idea isn’t that she was killed to get the phone number. The idea—and correct me if I’m wrong—is that the killer already had the phone number, and killed her to cover up that fact.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Aside from being convoluted and stretching credulity, it wouldn’t work.”
“Why not?”
“Because if she was really the source of the phone number, you’re already on to that. You were already investigating the people who might have learned the phone number from her. And you’ve already called on her and asked her who they are. If one of them is a killer, what good does it do that person to kill her? You already have the information.”
“So the killer would have to be someone I don’t know about.”
“How is that possible?” She smiled and shrugged her shoulders. “You see what a fine line of belief you’re drawing here? For the scenario to work, the killer has to know you’re after his name. Know that Sherry Pressman could provide it. Know that Sherry Pressman won’t provide it the first time you talk to her—because otherwise killing her would be totally ineffective—but might provide it at a later date if not silenced. So, for that premise to work, that very faint possibility has to be somehow strong enough to make the killer take action.” She shook her head. “It’s a bad book.”
“It’s not a book.”
“Yes, I know. But it still has to make sense, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, it does,” I said. “Listen, could you do me a favor?”
“What’s that?”
“You know Mr. Winnington’s former editor—what’s-his-name—Doug Mark?”
She frowned. “What about him?”
“Would you happen to have his phone number?”
“Oh. I might. Let me check.”
She flipped the Rolodex around to the M’s, thumbed through it.
“No, it doesn’t seem to be here.”
“Well, thanks anyway.”
“Hang on. I’ll see if my assistant has it.” She picked up the phone, pushed a button. “Kelly? Do me a favor. See if you can find a phone number for Doug Mark. Thanks.” She hung up the phone. “She’ll find it. What do you need it for?”
“Just like to ask him some questions.”
“Oh?”
“Well, we’re looking for anyone who had a reason to resent Mr. Winnington.”
“Are you kidding?”
“Well, wouldn’t Doug Mark fall into that category?”
“Give me a break. Authors change houses all the time. You think he’s the first editor ever got dumped? I’ll give you the phone number, sure, but I think you’re on the wrong track.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “Do you happen to know where Doug Mark is working now?”
“No, I don’t.”
“So it’s possible he isn’t.”
“I suppose so. Why?”
“Might be a little more basis for resentment if the guy can’t even get a job.”
“I suppose,” Elizabeth Abbott said, but her manner showed what she thought of the idea.
A woman came in the door. Young, attractive, in a pale blue pantsuit. She had a piece of paper in her hand.
“Here you are,” she said, holding it out to the editor. “Doug Mark’s number.”
“It’s for him.”
“Oh. Here.”
“Thanks,” I said. I took the paper, looked at it. It was a 212 number. “Is this his home number?”
“That’s right.”
“You don’t have his work number?”
“He’s not working at the moment.”
“Oh?”
“No. He’s between jobs.”
“How do you know that?”
“He told me.”
“Kelly,” Elizabeth Abbott said. “When did you speak to Doug Mark?”
“Sometime last week.”
“When last week?” I said.
She looked at me, frowned. Looked back at the editor. “Elizabeth?”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m a private detective. You’re aware that a publicist named Sherry Pressman was killed?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Well, I’m investigating it. That’s why I need Doug Mark’s number. If you spoke to him last week, I’d like to know why and I’d like to know when. I’m not nosy, it’s my job. It may have absolutely nothing to do with anything, but I’d appreciate your help.” I turned to Elizabeth Abbott. “Is that putting it fairly?”
“I think so. Kelly, if you know anything that might help ...”
“Yes, of course,” Kelly said. “I just don’t remember. Let me think. Friday the mechanical on the cover came in. So it wasn’t then. Thursday—what happened Thursday? No, it wasn’t last week, it was this week. It was Monday.”
“You talked to him Monday?”
“That’s right. Monday afternoon.”
“Did you call him or did he call you?”
“Huh? Oh, no, it wasn’t on the phone. It was here.”
Elizabeth Abbott and I both said, “Here?” I know it happens in the movies a lot, people speaking in unison, but it’s not that common in real life.
“That’s right,” Kelly said.
“What was Doug Mark doing here?” I said.
“I don’t know. He said he just dropped in.” Kelly turned to Elizabeth Abbott. “Didn’t he tell you?”
“Me? No. I didn’t see him. I didn’t even know he was here.”
“That’s funny,” Kelly said. “I thought he came to see you.”
“Well, he didn’t. Why did you think that?”
“Because that’s where I saw him.”
“Where?”
“Coming out of your office.”
31.
DOUG MARK WAS A TALL, thin man with a face so lopsided he gave the impression he was just on the brink of falling over. This was even more remarkable in that he was sitting down. He had ushered me into the living room of his modest Chelsea apartment, gestured to the couch, and then taken the easy chair opposite.
“What can I do for you?”
I was tempted to say, “You could tilt your head a little to the left so I could see you straight on,” but figured that would not be tactful. “It’s about Sherry Pressman.”
“So you said on the phone. I told you I knew nothing about it, and you came anyway. I don’t mean to be rude, but why are you here?”
“Sherry Pressman was Kenneth P. Winnington’s publicist.”
“Yes, she was.”
“And you were Kenneth P. Winnington’s editor.”
“I was five years ago. I can’t see why that matters now.”
“Are you familiar with Mr. Winnington’s wife?”
His eyes widened. “Oh,” he said, “there’s a way to put it. Familiar. Do you know how many meanings that has? Are you familiar with the connotations of that word?”
“I’m not asking if you knew her in the biblical sense. I’m asking if you knew her at all.”
He smiled what was, of course, a lopsided smile. “Very good,” he said. “Very well put. I think you’ll find Kenny married after we parted company.”
“Then you never met hi
s wife?”
“Didn’t I just answer that?”
“No, you didn’t. For someone who’s so precise with words, I would think you’d know that.”
He smiled again. “Good point. Are you a lawyer? No, you said you were a detective. Well, whatever you are, that’s a very good point.”
“I’m flattered,” I said. “But you still haven’t answered the question.”
“Whether I’d met his wife? Or, since we’re being precise, whether I’d ever met his wife. See, the ever, supposedly a clarifying word, actually muddies the issue. It means I have to consider is it possible she was at some dinner party I was at, or perhaps some even more unlikely instance that had nothing to do with anything. Do you see what I mean?”
“I certainly do. Mr. Mark, a burglar caught red-handed with the family jewels could not blather more inanely. Now, would you like to congratulate me on that verbal construction, or would you like to answer the question?”
“I have never to my knowledge met his wife. I wasn’t invited to the wedding. I recall seeing her picture in the paper. Pictures can be very misleading, but she appeared young and attractive.” He cocked his head, which almost gave me vertigo. “Was there anything else?”
“Yes. Have you called Mr. Winnington lately?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Kenneth P. Winnington. Have you called him on the phone?”
“What has any of this to do with the death of this publicist?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking questions.”
“Yes, but you must have a reason for asking. Pardon me, but what the hell is going on?”
“I’d be happy to tell you if you’d just answer the question. Have you called the Winnington residence at any time in the last month?”
“Of course not. Why would I?”
“I don’t know. But someone did.”
“What do you mean?”
“Mrs. Winnington has been receiving crank phone calls. Death threats.”
“Death threats?”
“That’s right.”
“That’s why you wanted to know if I knew his wife? You were asking me if I made death threats over the phone?”
“Did you?”
“I most certainly did not. Why in the world would I do a thing like that?”
“Because her husband dumped you.”
He blinked and his mouth hung open.
