All That Glitters (8 page)

A mid-fifties medical examiner with thin gray hair and bags under his eyes sat on the floor, examining the deceased's fingernails. He paused. “Who're you?”

Annabelle's face glowed. “Jake Donovan used to be one of the most brilliant Pinkertons I ever worked with.”

“Jake Donovan.” The medical examiner let go of Eric's hand. “The mystery writer.” He threw up his hands. “Only in Hollywood.”

Annabelle slipped a protective arm in mine. “Mr. Donovan's current occupation has nothing to do with his crime scene qualificat
ions.”

“I hope you know what you're doing, Detective.” The doctor failed to hide a sneer.

Gus snickered, and Annabelle silenced him with a stare. “Fill him in, Gus.”

I cleared my throat, and Annabelle's arm fell away from mine. Her clingy behavior reminded me of the old days and why things hadn't worked out between us.

Gus pulled a notepad from his pocket. “I'll give you the short version so you can get back to your Hollywood pals. The cause of death is suicide.”

“Whoa.” The medical examiner held up one hand. “Where did you go to med school? Last I checked, cause of death was in my job description.”

I knew Annabelle and Gus well enough to realize they wanted me to confirm their preliminary suicide opinion. As painful as that might be for the Carville family, suicide would be the ideal resolution for Carville Studios.

Gus shrugged halfheartedly and opened his notebook. “The deceased is Eric Carville, age thirty-one. Gunshot wound to the right temple. Several witnesses report he drinks too much and retires around midnight. He moved back into the house a year earlier when his old man suffered a heart attack, so he couldn't be all bad. Anyways, no one saw anyone follow him or enter this room after that.”

While he spoke, Annabelle kept her eyes on me. A shiver of unease shot down my spine, but I focused on Gus's recap of the crime scene.

He pointed to the desk. “He leaves a suicide note in the typewriter, pours himself a drink, removes his clothes, and plops down, waiting to work up the courage to end his life. The butler and several others confirm shortly after midnight they heard a single gunshot.” He snapped the notepad closed.

“What do you think, Jake. This a suicide?” Her stifling attention made me regret coming. LAPD didn't need my assistance on the case. Annabelle had just wanted to see me again. How could I get out of this?

When she flashed an adoring smile, a bead of sweat slid down the center of my back. Time to straighten her out. “Annabelle, may I have a moment?”

“Of course.”

In the corridor, she coyly leaned against the wall, like a shy girl waiting for a football star to ask her to dance. Either she carried a ten-year torch for me, or she was crazy. Maybe both.

“Annabelle, you don't need me…here.”

“Oh, Jake, I've made you uncomforta
ble.” She smoothed her suit coat as profession
alism appeared for the first time. “I haven't seen you in quite a while. I know you have a relationship with one of the stars of Carville Studios's biggest new pictures, Laura Wilson. And I'm happy for you.”

“You are?”

“Of course I am. Shortly after I arrived at the crime scene, I interviewed Norman Carville. He dropped your name when he told me he hired you to help with his latest movie. I figured your knowledge of the Carvilles, their studio, the acting profession, and your detective background make you the perfect person to help Gus and me get to the truth. Now, if your feelings about our past might interfere with your objectivity, then we should end this right now.”

She almost had me until that last comment. My feelings about our past? Was she crazy? “I'd be happy to help. I just wanted to clear the air.”

“Consider the air cleared.” With a flip of her hair she dismissed my concerns and yanked open the bedroom door.

Inside, I set aside Annabelle's behavior and went to work. I stepped around the medical examiner and studied the pistol in Eric's hand, a common Colt .45. His finger was on the trigger, but the killer could've placed it there. I peered inside the open nightstand drawer.

I removed a handkerchief from my pocket and lifted a glass from the drawer. I sniffed along the rim. Detecting the fresh aroma of hooch and a thin film at the bottom, I set the glass beside the other. “Eric poured two drinks tonight, one for himself and one for a guest.”

Annabelle shook her head. “Gus totally missed this.”

He jotted an entry in his notepad without attempting to hide a sneer.

The rumpled sheets suggested Eric had enjoyed a romp in the hay. I had no idea who he'd been sleeping with. That would take grunt work. I was here to make sure Annabelle and Gus hadn't missed anything, and my work was nearly done. “After the body is moved, you might want to examine the sheets for recent activity. I suspect that will explain what Eric was doing after he left the party.”

For the first time, Gus wasn't acting like I was a rock in his shoe. He shook his head. “You think a skirt shot him? No offense, Sergeant.”

I shrugged. “It could still be suicide. Maybe he wanted to go out with a bang.”

Gus bellowed with laughter. When Annabelle stepped toward him with a cold, disapproving glare, he wiped the grin from his mug.

I circled the bed. “Perhaps a woman did plug him. Then again, someone may have been waiting until Eric and the lady finished doing the deed. After she left, Eric might have fallen asleep with the cigarette smoldering in the ashtray. The killer could've come in and plugged Eric while he slept. Or maybe it
was
suicide.”

I stepped in front of the desk and read the “suicide note.”

Life is no longer worth living. I appologize for any hurt this will cause my father, brother, or anyone else. E.

“He misspelled apologize.” I leaned closer to the typewriter, paying particular attention to the alignment of the page. “Either of you do much typing?”

Gus shrugged. “Reports, that type of thing.”

Annabelle shook her head. “The same.”

“Doctor?”

“I probably type more than they do.” The medical examiner crossed his arms. “What are you getting at?”

“I type nearly every day, sometimes a dozen or more pages. If I stop before I get to the end of the page, and roll the paper out, I have to pay close attention to align the page when I roll it back in. I make sure the margins are perfectly straight and the last line is level before I can continue.”

Gus groaned. “Enough already!”

“My point is, the note wasn't typed on this typewriter.”

Gus rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on.”

“Are you sure?” Annabelle's eyes widened as if I'd discovered the Holy Grail. Was I the only one to notice her creepy behavior?

I faced the three of them. “This is an Underwood typewriter, like mine. Very popular. If I were to hit the backspace, I'd be over the E on the paper. If the letter was typed on this Underwood and I hit the shift lock and typed a capital E, the letter would be perfectly aligned with the one typed earlier. The E would appear the same, only darker because it would have two layers of ink.” I pointed to the E on the page. “But if I do that now, I'm certain it will be slightly off, proving someone typed this on another typewriter then rolled it into this one and tried to make it look as if Eric typed the note.”

The medical examiner removed his gloves and set them in his black bag. “Very impressive. I may have to read one of your books.”

Gus shrugged. “Only one way to be sure.”

“Go ahead.” Annabelle stopped breathing. “Let's find out whether you're right.”

“You sure? If I'm right, you've got a murder on your hands, one for which Hollywood will want quick answers.”

Annabelle nodded. “Do it.”

I pressed the shift-lock lever and tapped the e on the keyboard. The new letter on the page was slightly above and to the right of the first E.

Gus let out a whistle. “Son of a bitch. Someone tried to make us think Eric's death was a suicide.”

It had almost worked.

Annabelle closed the bedroom door. “I don't want this to leave the room. As far as reporters are concerned, this is still a possible suicide. Maybe the killer will relax and make a mistake. Anything else, Jake?”

I walked around the room one more time, stopping at the nightstand drawer. “If I were investigating this, I'd want to know whether the piece came from this drawer, or if it was the killer's. I'd also examine the rooms on the other side of these walls. Find out whether anyone might've been listening between midnight and one.”

Annabelle smiled. “That's wonderful, Jake. Can I call you…if I think of any more questions?”

I didn't want to see or talk to her again. She gave me the creeps. “I'm going to be busy working on a novel and a screenplay, but I'll do what I can.”

The medical examiner moved closer to the body.

“Something wrong?” Annabelle asked.

He rubbed his forehead. “I'd accept your theory, Mr. Donovan, but it conflicts with the obvious physical evidence. I don't think Eric was asleep when he was shot. He appears to have put up a fight.” He pointed to the bruise under Eric's left eye and the abrasions on his knuckles.

I stood beside the bed and studied Eric's face. “I did that…earlier in the evening.”

The two homicide detectives and the medical examiner stared at me for several seconds. The only sound was the ticking of the clock on the dresser.

Don't say anything stupid, Laura had warned me, but I had to tell the truth. They either already knew Eric and I had fought, or they'd find out and wonder why I'd kept quiet. “There's blood on the right nostril. We got in a fight earlier. I bruised his eye and bloodied his nose. Half the party saw punches thrown.”

Gus smiled with glee. “So you two didn't like each other?”

“I barely knew the guy. We first met yesterday at the train station.”

The medical examiner lifted Eric's hand and studied his bloody knuckles. “You don't appear injured.”

“I got the best of it.”

Gus furrowed his brow. “So, after the fight you left and went back to the hotel. What time was that?”

“You're getting ahead of yourself. After we fought, I met with Norman Carville. The first half of the meeting included Todd Carville, Christine Brody, Roland Harper, Laura, and Eric.

The medical examiner pointed to Eric's ear. “The deceased has a recent abrasion at the top of the ear. Most of the blood was cleaned away, but the abrasion is still visible. You know anything about this injury, Donovan?”

My identity had gone from Mr. Donovan to Donovan in minutes. Reluctantly, I explained. “That happened earlier in the evening when I arrived with Christine Brody.”

“Christine Brody!” Gus rubbed his forehead. “I thought you and Laura Wilson were an item.”

Annabelle's eyes narrowed as if she was waiting for my answer.

“Laura was already coming to the party. Christine is Laura's costar. She needed an escort. I did her a favor, professional courtesy.”