Death Was in the Picture (17 page)

“And we’ve got a redhead … man. You see the gams on her!”

“Dex. Please!”

“OK. So … what have we got?”

I just looked at him uncomprehending. He didn’t say anything, so I crossed my arms and looked at him some more.

“C’mon, Kitty: What. Have. We. Got?”

“A mess?” I tried. “A big, disconnected mess?”

“Naw. Geez! Didn’t they teach you the no quit spirit at that college in San Francisco?”

“It wasn’t college. It was high school. And … um … no quit spirit was not a part of the curriculum.”

“Oh fer cryin’ out loud. I gotta draw you a picture? OK then. Picture this, here’s what we’ve got: a foundation for various truths. A foundation on which we may build.”

“You sound like a daisy.”

“This isn’t like following some poor sap’s cheating wife, Kitty,” Dex said, suddenly serious. “It’s not even like tracking down an embezzler or some bum who’s hanging orphan checks. I hate to say this, Kitty, but this feels … it feels bigger than me. Bigger in a way than the both of us.”

I looked at him then. Looked at him closely to check for signs of another joke. What he’d said sounded like a line from a movie, a corny romantic movie at that. But he wasn’t smiling. It wasn’t any joke. And he was right: the thing we were dealing with was so large, I was beginning to get the idea we couldn’t see the whole thing in one glance, even if we had all the facts, which I was fairly certain we did not.

“So what are you saying?” I asked.

“Oh, Kitty, I dunno, you’re right. We got nothin’. Yet. But, hell: it’s a start.”

DETECTIVE WORK IS a series of educated guesses ideally aided by good information from a paying client and resulting in the discovery of the desire of said client’s heart. That’s not a direct quote from my boss, but it’s close enough for the kind of jazz we play around here. Least, that’s the way Dexter Theroux puts things often enough when he feels like having all the answers and doesn’t actually have too many.

Me, I’d put it another way: Detective work is a series of fits and starts put together in moments of sobriety stolen from the demon drink. It comes together at the place where good, blind luck meets up with the angel who guards drunks and small children.

Now, all of that said, the day after the Masquers’ ball was filled from front to back with detective work—real detective work. You could take Dex’s definition or you could take mine and either would apply.

We had the list that Wyndham had made for us the previous day. It needed to be worked through. One of the theories Dex had decided to pursue was that all of this might have happened just because the actor was well known and at the top of his game in a visible profession. Another pet theory suggested that someone had a bone to pick. Either way, Dex figured that for someone to go to all the trouble of framing Wyndham up, there might just be a grudge or two swimming somewhere close by. That’s how he put it, too: “swimming.” And Dex figured there was enough of a chance that it was worth looking for.

So when he headed out to follow some in-person leads, he
gave me Wyndham’s list. He told me to just go down it and call people up on the phone and ask those who were closest to Laird Wyndham what they really felt about him. Did anyone hate him? Had he done somebody wrong? Were there people who were jealous, for one reason or another? People he’d thrown over, passed over or somehow emotionally worked over? Or even, was there someone who would profit from Wyndham’s misfortune? Someone in whose way Wyndham had stood, even accidentally? Dex told me to pay close attention to the sound of their voices. He told me to listen as hard to the things they didn’t say as to the things they did. I wasn’t sure I totally understood him, but I told him I’d give it a try, even if it sounded pretty impossible to do all those things at once. It wasn’t like I had a lot else to do so I set to.

Dex instructed me on how to expand the list Wyndham had given us, asking the listed few if they knew of anyone I should talk to or could think of anyone Wyndham had done wrong and so on. Though these phone calls might not strictly speaking have fallen under my job description, I didn’t mind the extra work. In the first place, it was Laird Wyndham. He was a movie star. That made him interesting from the get-go. In the second place, it could get pretty quiet around the office. It was good to have something to fill the time. I welcomed anything that would let me put off righting all those mixed up files I’d stuffed into the file drawer. That was going to be no fun at all.

Looking over Wyndham’s list, I saw one glaring omission: Wyndham’s wife, Lorena Duvall. I wondered how we were expected to get a full and proper picture of Wyndham’s life if we couldn’t talk to her. But we hadn’t been given a contact number. It was something I was sure belonged at the top of the list.

Meanwhile, I’d work with what I had.

Before I could get started, Mustard came in with a lot of noise and plunked himself into the waiting room chair. He looked at me without saying anything.

“What’s up?” I asked when it became obvious Mustard wasn’t about to volunteer anything.

“Been following up on those thugs what roughed Dex up yesterday.”

“It was a bit more than a roughing, I’d say, Mustard. You make it sound like he got a light sandpapering.”

“OK, so he had a whole carpentry team work on him,” he said a bit hotly. “I didn’t say they were teaching him the Lindy Hop.”

“More like they were fittin’ him for a pine overcoat. So no luck, huh?”

Mustard shook his head. “At this point I’m not even sure Xander Dean is the guy’s real name.”

“Who makes up ‘Xander Dean’ though? It’s not like Joe Blow or something.”

“Either way,” Mustard said, “I can’t find him. He just seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth. Come from nowhere, gone back to nowhere. Dean seemed on the level, though. I would never have sent him to Dex if he didn’t.”

“I know that, Mustard. Dex knows it, too. These things happen that way sometimes.”

“Not to me, they don’t,” he shook his head as though trying to clear it, then headed down a different track. “I’m going to get to the bottom of it, though. I’ll talk to the Chicago contacts what sent him to me. I’ve got a hunch something’s going on, Kitty. Something I don’t know about. But it stinks like last week’s catch of the day.”

“But why would he do that, Mustard? Why would he hire Dex, rough him up when Dex quit on him, then disappear? It doesn’t add up.”

Mustard shook his head. “Whatever it is, we’ll get to the bottom of it. You’ll see.”

After Mustard left I forced my mind off his business and onto my own. I had a list of people that needed phoning and
lots of questions to ask them, though I soon discovered that just being on a list wasn’t enough to ensure participation. Despite the things that had been said about him in the newspapers since his arrest, the people on the list that Laird Wyndham had supplied to Dex were disinclined to be completely candid about him, at least to me. I could feel them holding back. This made sense, though. It was Wyndham’s list. So I ended up talking with his immediate support people—the girl who did his hair, the man who captained his boat, the woman who attended to his wardrobe. These were people fairly close to Wyndham who depended on him for their living. Talking to them you got the idea that people as famous as Wyndham didn’t have friends so much as they had people they employed, only maybe they’d forgotten the difference.

On the other hand, the man who looked after Wyndham’s horses sounded a little dodgy.

“Things isn’t always what they seems to be. I’m not sayin’ it’s agin the law, mind. Not of man, though perhaps of God,” was all he’d say in his smoke-stained voice. But he said it several times in similar ways.

When I couldn’t budge him to say more, I made a note. If things didn’t go well for Wyndham, this was someone we’d be able to talk to when more time had passed. I’d sensed that there were moments the man had been close to telling me something and I figured maybe Dex or even Mustard could have pushed it all the way home. But I lacked the experience—and probably the necessary weight—to move him.

I had more luck with people whose contact information I got from those on the original list when I’d asked, “Do you know anyone close to Mr. Wyndham I could talk to? Someone who might have the kind of information I’m looking for?” Maybe because this next layer weren’t in Wyndham’s inner circle—less loyal, further from the warmth of his direct sun—a few of them were quite willing to speak their minds.

“I never really thought he was all he said he was,” sniffed a thin-voiced woman who had been employed by Wyndham’s wife when she still lived in the city. She was now working as a nanny in Hancock Park. “I always felt he had the potential for violence.”

My ears perked up at that. “You did? Did you see him … Did you ever see him shouting at Mrs. Wyndham? Or threatening her? Perhaps you saw him threaten her?”

“No, no. Nothing like that,” she said hastily. “He’s actually a very quiet-voiced man. No, I never heard him shout, per se … I just… it’s just that… I always somehow knew …”

“What, Miss Laverntine?” I pressed. “What did you know?”

“Well Miss Duvall—Mr. Wyndham’s wife—she had a somewhat delicate constitution. A lovely woman. Mr. Wyndham would never do anything
overt
you understand? Nothing you could even point right at. But it seemed to me sometimes that he’d push her.”

“Push her?”

“Yes. Cow her, in a way. I don’t know how else to explain it. There was just something so big about Mr. Wyndham. And something so small in his wife. So delicate. She’s a lovely woman,” she said again, “inside and out. But I think he made her feel… less.”

“They’re still married,” I pointed out.

“Well, it’s not like that would make any difference, the way he always carried on. Married. Not married. I can’t imagine he cared either way. That’s the thing, you understand. There was a
bigness
about him.”

“A bigness.”

“Yes,” I could hear her struggle to explain. “Almost as though his life was larger than other people’s. Larger than, say, yours or mine. It was as though, the rules that apply to me and you? They didn’t apply for Mr. Wyndham. He made his own rules. Always.”

“Maybe that’s how you get to be a star,” I ventured.

“Maybe,” she allowed. “But it’s not the easiest thing to live with, I can tell you that for sure. I can tell you another thing, as well,” there was a definite catch in her voice now, “I
loved
Mrs. Wyndham. I love her still. And married to
that beast,
poor thing. And him running around and leaving her alone to rot. Always out on that yacht of his with his
friends.
What… what will she be doing now without me?”

Miss Laverntine didn’t seem to have much in real information to add to what I knew and I ended the conversation not long after. Still, in a certain way, I felt as though I’d learned a lot. A picture of Laird Wyndham was emerging that differed quite sharply from the one he presented to the world, the one he had crafted for me and Dex to see.

Even so, it was a big jump from arrogant movie star to killer, one I couldn’t quite make. Was Laird Wyndham capable of being thoughtless? A jerk? Of hurting people’s feelings? Of riding roughshod over their hearts? Absolutely. Was he capable of murder? That was something else again. I thought about what I’d tell Dex. I made my notes. And then I moved on.

THOUGH THINGS HAD not been going swimmingly with my telephone calls from the start, they got worse from there. The fact was simple: it was not a good week to talk about Laird Wyndham. Those that were close to him and cared about him had been listening to the radio and reading the papers. They weren’t about to let their guard down. Those that didn’t like him knew he was safely out of the way and made no bones about talking badly about him. Neither picture felt authentic. Neither extreme rang true.

I was glad when, deep into the day, Dex called to say he’d paid another visit to Wyndham and had gotten a more complete list from him as well as permission to go out to Oxnard to talk to his wife.

“So call Mustard and get me a machine for tomorrow morning, please.”

“He was just here an hour or so ago,” I said.

“Well, call him anyway. Wyndham said she doesn’t have a phone. So I thought I’d just drive out there and take my chances that I’ll catch her home. From the sound of things, she doesn’t venture very far out.”

My eyes widened at this, but I didn’t say anything. It hadn’t taken long to realize that movie stars seem different from you and me because … well, because they are different. The only thing regular about them might be their bowels, and I wasn’t in a position to vouch for that.

“Sure, Dex, sure,” I said. “But what do you want me to do for the rest of the day?”

“Rest of what day?” Dex said. “It’s six o’clock already. Pack it up.”

It had been a long day and I’d gotten a lot accomplished. Between partying with movie stars the night before and trying to get a picture of Wyndham on the phone all day, I was exhausted, plain and simple: emotionally, physically, plus I was discovering that this whole shamus business was maybe a bit tougher than it looked when executed by a half-sozzled expert.

At dinner that night, Marjorie presented her boarders with baked fish, creamed vegetables and scalloped potatoes. It was a feast and I raised my eyebrows at her even while I enjoyed every tiny bite while she did nothing but beam her lady-of-the-manor smile at me. I knew she had a secret, but I couldn’t discern what it was.

Dessert was cherry whip, which I suspected meant we’d have scrambled eggs with our breakfast in the morning. Marjorie wouldn’t like to waste the egg yolks when she’d used the whites for the whip. I like cherry whip just fine, but it’s not one of my favorites. Perfectly good canned cherries whipped into a froth with gelatin and egg whites. It always seems a little empty, like there should be something more to it than just cherries and air.

As was our habit when I was at home, I moved into the kitchen with Marjorie to help with the washing up after our meal.