Lone Star (19 page)

Jake lost his buoyant manner, turning sour. “He looks like a juvenile delinquent. A menace to society. And you two…” He stood up. “Women like you,” he looked at Tansi and not at me, “would let a man like that get away with…”

He started to say
murder
but stopped. He fled the room, the sentence unfinished.

***

Mercy and I walked into the Tick Tock Restaurant on North Cahuenga, where the sign in the window promised Home-Cooked Meals. “I have a feeling somebody wants to tell me something,” I’d told Mercy earlier. Polly had phoned, telling me the name of the restaurant and the time. Now I spotted the back of Tommy’s head, and for a second thought Jimmy had arrived: that sandy-colored hair, styled into a gentle pompadour, but, lamentably, the red jacket as well. The red badge of slavery, I thought. Hester Prynne wearing the symbol of sin—and, ironically, love. Tommy, suited up for servile fancy.

Polly, spotting us, waved. “Oh, I’m glad you came, Miss McCambridge.” She turned to Tommy. “This is a pleasure. An Academy Award winner. A Pulitzer Prize winner. Both at our table.” Tommy looked confused. “Awards, Tommy,” she said, irritated. “At the top of their profession.” Polly was dressed in a polka-dot dress with a lime-green sweater, buttoned at the collar. She looked cute-little-girl now, wandering from schoolyard hopscotch. She’d even styled her hair—not cinnamon tonight, but a sensible auburn—into a ponytail.

Of course, we talked about Lydia, and Tommy shared his inanity. “The wages of sin are death.” He spoke in a preachy voice, didactic as all hell. Polly frowned at him and delivered her own practiced line: “I always felt sorry for her—she seemed to be always running into trouble.”

Mercy asked, “Were you surprised at her death?”

A pause. Then Polly spoke in a small voice. “I don’t think about people dying.”

We delayed ordering because Jimmy hadn’t arrived, and eventually Polly, glancing one last time at the doorway, drummed her index finger on the menu. “I don’t think he’s coming.” That made everyone nervous, as though Jimmy were the glue that held everything together. His absence meant vacant lots of stalled conversation.

“Just like him,” Polly griped.

“I sense that you asked me to dinner for a reason.” I waited.

Polly and Tommy looked at each other, and Tommy cleared his throat. “That last dinner we had, you know, well, I…we…think that we left you with some wrong impressions. I said some things…”

“Or,” I said, blithely, “you gave me some very clear impressions.”

“No, the whole thing with Carisa,” Tommy began.

Polly spoke over his words. “Miss Ferber, I know that Tommy slept with Carisa.”

“I told her,” Tommy said. “Detective Cotton told her my prints were there. We had a fight, and I confessed. I lied about going with Jimmy, there. I mean…you know…”

Polly leaned in, nodding. “It’s a sickness.” She sighed. “I sort of suspected it all along, you know.”

“Tell me, Tommy,” I began. “Did you go to Carisa’s apartment the day she was murdered? That night, in fact?”

“Why?” Tommy looked at Polly, who seemed frozen in place.

“You see, the super’s granddaughter said Jimmy was there twice that day, within minutes. Once, she sees him up close. A little later, riding on a bus, she sees him running out the door. Jimmy said he was there once. That second time was you, Tommy, right? Connie, the super’s granddaughter, caught a glimpse of someone that looked like Jimmy—red jacket, the look…”

He nodded, unhappy. “Yes.”

“You went
then
?” Polly blurted at Tommy.

Nervous, looking at Polly, he explained, “I lied to Detective Cotton. Told him I wasn’t there.”

“Why were you there?” Mercy asked.

“Well, she phoned me the day before. She was crazy, you know. She thought she could blackmail me. She was gonna tell Polly I slept with her. You know what she wanted from me? I mean, real crazy. She wanted me to talk to Jimmy—make
him
come to his senses. She wanted him to say he was the father of her baby. Real nutty. So I stupidly went there, you know, to plead my case.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“Nothing. She came to the door, started yelling about Jimmy fighting with her, abusing her, calling her a whore, just minutes before, I guess, and if I thought I was gonna come and abuse her, well, I had another thing coming. She’d call the cops. I got real scared and ran away.”

“Connie thought you ran to a woman waiting for you in a car.”

That stopped him cold. He looked at Polly, nervous. “No,” he stammered. “I parked around the corner.”

“There was no woman?”

Tommy glanced at Polly again. “I just wanted to get away. I thought she’d call the cops. So I ran.”

“Did you see a woman?”

He shrugged. He was starting to sweat.

“So you lied to Detective Cotton?” Mercy said.

“Are you going to tell him I was there?”

“No,” I said. “You are.”

“But he’ll think I murdered her.”

In the awful silence that followed, Polly spoke up, her voice laced with venom. “Well, did you?”

Chapter 17

Irritable, suffering from the lack of a good night’s sleep, I wandered the
Giant
soundstage aimlessly, avoiding entreaties by Warner’s staff that I rest, read magazines, have coffee. When I spotted Detective Cotton, who was lolling near a stairwell, jotting something into a small loose-leaf notebook, I grunted, got his attention. I wasn’t happy with my own attitude, to be sure. Certainly the law had no obligation to fill me in on every myriad detail of the case; certainly not. I was a civilian, an East Coast interloper no less; and, frankly, a little too nosy sometimes. Yet Cotton
had
confided, or seemed to. He
had
proffered information and seemed to respect me as a confidante. No, I told myself, I feared I’d misread him. I’d thought I might like him. But now I was back to disliking the self-assured, smug warden of the law. He nodded at me, still intent on his jottings.

“Sir,” I said, drawing myself up to my imagined height. “Good morning.”

“Miss Ferber, a pleasant surprise.”

“I don’t know what’s pleasant about it.”

He tucked the pad into a side pocket of his sports jacket. “Something wrong?”

“Frankly, yes. You see, Detective Cotton, when we had that little
tête-à-tête
in my suite, I thought we’d established a rapport that suggested trust and—” I stopped. The look on his face was slack-jawed, almost comical, a little like that of an excessively loose-flapped hound dog.

“Madam, I did share with you. Honestly.”

“I sense that you mete out morsels of information to designated parties with the hope that one will spark some reaction.”

He laughed. “Miss Ferber, I’m not that complicated.”

“You deny it?”

He looked away, and then back at me. “All right, a little. It’s a technique an old-timer taught me. But must I share every idle speculation I have or every trial balloon I send up?”

“Yes.”

He laughed. “What are we really talking about here?”

I decided to shift the subject slightly. “I have information for you.”

“That’s why I’m here.” He waited.

“I know you’ve been told that James Dean made two appearances at Carisa’s apartment the evening she died, one just before the murder…”

“Or,” he interrupted, smiling, “
during
the murder.”

“I learned last night that you’ve been lied to. Tommy Dwyer, who, as you know, dresses like Jimmy, admitted to me that
he
made a visit to the apartment. It seems to me you would have garnered that information from him earlier.”

Cotton laughed. “Miss Ferber, I must tell you that I just assumed all along Tommy was lying to me when he said he wasn’t there. He’s a shifty, unreliable man, not too bright, and he doesn’t know how to lie persuasively. Given Connie Zuniga’s spotty eyewitness account, I figured it was him running out of the building.”

“And you did nothing about it?”

“Are you sure of that?”

“Well, no. But…”

“Look, it was just a matter of time before Tommy confessed. I’ve talked to him, and another investigator talked to him, and we were convinced the third go-round would crack that obvious lie.”

“But this is a bit of evidence that suggests Jimmy is telling the truth.”

“Yes, true. Jimmy was there earlier and not
then
. Tommy, maybe seven or so. But that doesn’t mean he didn’t return a little later—James Dean, that is.” He paused. “Thank you.”

I nodded. “And I take it you’re not convinced that Lydia Plummer’s death ends this case.”

“Not a bit. That’s a lot of baloney.”

“Baloney?”

He smiled. “You don’t like the word, Miss Ferber? I know everyone around here is ecstatic about her death. People in Jack Warner’s office—not the head man, yet—are placing a large blotted period at the end of the sentence. That’s why I’m here today. To remind everyone, including the killer who might be lurking here, that it ain’t over till it’s over. Let me say this. Lydia Plummer did not kill Carisa Krausse.”

“You can say that with conviction?”

He touched his gut. “I know it here. Street savvy. Years of flatfooting it on L.A. streets, even Skid Row where Carisa lived—a place you seem to like to visit occasionally. Lydia’s death is convenient, not only for the murderer, but for the studio. But it’s not convenient for me. Look, Miss Ferber, Lydia, in her last weeks, was unfocused, a shambles, a weeper, a spurned lover, a bumbling soul, strung out on drugs. When I interviewed her—twice, in fact—she talked of James Dean, their affair, and she had a lot of vicious things to say about Carisa, vitriol I’ve rarely heard about a victim, frankly. And salty, too, a fishwife’s harangue. It struck me as odd, that diatribe, because murderers usually try to temper their dislike of their victims to the police. She didn’t.”

“Really, sir,” I began, “she was an actress. Remember that.”

“Now ain’t that a beautiful epitaph for her. You know, she would have appreciated the line.” He stuffed his notebook into a side pocket. “Miss Ferber, the fact of the matter is my staff verified her somewhat lame alibi for that night. After she left the cocktail party. So, as of a couple days ago, I knew it was impossible that Lydia killed Carisa. She wasn’t in two places at one time.”

“Well…”

“I’m sorry. I suppose I should have phoned you.”

“There’s no need to be sarcastic, Detective.”

“Sometimes there is.” He smirked. “You know that.”

I actually smiled. “At times there is. So what happens next? You’re drawing in the wagons around Jimmy, no?”

He was ready to leave, but then paused, moved closer, an intimate’s closeness. “So far he’s the one with the motive.”

“Think of it, Detective Cotton. Why would James Dean risk everything he’s built up? He’s not a stupid boy, truly. Killing Carisa would draw attention to him. He’s the one who was the object of her madness, the target of her flood of letters—even to Jack Warner’s office. He knew that. So he kills her, and you come swooping down, waving the letters like battle pennants. He had nothing to gain and everything to lose by killing her.”

“Well, for one thing,” he said, leaning back against the wall, “your boy seems to believe he has a charmed life. I know all the stories about his manic car racing in the hills. I know all about his nightlife. He’s a risk taker. He lacks common sense. If Jack Warner wasn’t on my back, he’d be making bail right around now. But so be it.”

“He can be a foolish young man.”

“Miss Ferber, I agree with you about something. He, or someone else, never
planned
the murder. No one went there with knife or gun or evil intent. This crime smacks of impulse, of anger. A quarrel, heated words hurled back and forth. Tempers flare. She’d a temper, we’ve been told. And Dean’s temper is legendary. So they fight. In a moment of fury Dean, or someone else, hurls the Aztlan statue with such an impact that it knocks Carisa off balance. She trips and hits her head. She dies. Unplanned, unscripted. Anger, Miss Ferber. This is a scenario into which most people can fit themselves at one time or another. It’s just that the person we fling things at usually doesn’t die. And that’s murder. Or, at least, manslaughter.”

I was tired. Standing too long in that hallway, a pain in my shoulder blades; my feet ached. “True,” I admitted.

“All I’m saying is that James Dean is suspect number one. That’s a given. Murder by anger or murder by smugness. Take your pick. His touch is all over that apartment.”

“Was Lydia Plummer murdered?”

“Not according to the Medical Examiner. She’d been dead a couple hours before Max Kohl found her. We documented that. He’s not part of this.” He turned to go. “Gotta run.”

I thought of something. “One last thing. Lydia’s letter to Carisa. The one in which she threatened her. You haven’t mentioned
that
letter. When Lydia called me, she was frenzied about that letter. She regretted sending it, feared its contents were known.”

Detective Cotton stopped moving. “What are you talking about?”

I explained what Lydia had said, how she was afraid of what would happen if anyone found the letter.

“Are you sure? Miss Ferber, we found no such letter. Jimmy’s letter, yes. Are you sure she wasn’t talking about that threatening letter?”

“Yes, I’m sure she said
she
wrote a letter, which, from what she said, I assumed you’d found and confronted her with. And I thought you purposely omitted mention of when you and I spoke.”

He still looked baffled. “There was no such letter, Miss Ferber. I think you misunderstood her. She was hopped up, boozed up, incoherent, and slipping deeper into some narcotic bliss.” He saw the look on my face. “I’m not withholding information from you. We found no threatening letter from Lydia. James Dean’s letter was threatening enough.”

But watching him leave, I was not so sure. I knew what I’d heard that fateful night. Lydia may have been rambling, but her words were clear.

I sat for an hour in the Blue Room with the producers and Stevens, nothing important, just idle time spent to make me feel important. Jake Geyser sat at my right hand, a little too close, leaning in, confiding, but looking cowed. Near the end, Tansi joined us, slipping Jake a sheaf of messages. When the room cleared, Tansi whispered, “A minute, Edna.” I waited for Jake to leave, but he stayed at her side. “Edna,” Tansi said, “you will not believe how that detective browbeat Jake.”

“Why?”

Both Tansi and Jake seemed eager to relate the story. Cotton had come on like some gung-ho commando during an interview with Jake that morning. Detective Cotton had largely treated Jake with kid gloves in earlier interviews, Jake told me, as was just. After all, given his position as an assistant to Jack Warner himself, he deserved respect. His voice was high and whiny. “I announced I am a law-abiding citizen of this republic.” Yes, I thought, a republic called Warner Bros. Studio. “He just kept yelling at me, hurling question after question. It was maddening.”

“I walked in on it,” Tansi said. “By mistake. I stood in the doorway and heard Cotton call Jake a bold-faced liar.”

Jake blanched, perhaps as he had when Cotton threw the accusation his way. Now people didn’t call Jake Geyser a liar. Behind his back, yes. His staff doubtless mocked his aristocratic demeanor, his overweening ego, his tweedy sartorial nonsense, and, more so, his unbalanced defense of all things Warner.

Tansi was shaking her head. “Imagine.”

I turned to Jake. “Had you lied?”

Jake’s careful voice broke. “I
had
to.”

“What lie are we talking about?”

There was anger in his tone. “I misrepresented the times I went to Carisa’s apartment. I was actually there—a bunch of times, negotiating a deal that she had no intention of accepting. It was like a game to her.”

“That’s hardly a grievous lie,” I said, encouraging him.

Tansi touched my sleeve. “Wait.”

“I lied when I said Carisa was contemplating an offer of money. The truth is, Warner gave her a lump sum the day before, but I was told to keep it a secret. But she didn’t give me the signed paper guaranteeing silence. She tricked me. I’m not built for this stuff.”

“Even I didn’t know,” noted Tansi.

“Why keep that a secret?” I stared into his pale face.

“Warner wanted to see how she’d react. Whether she’d follow up with more demands. More letters. Which she did—the morning she died. Another letter. I kept going there. She wouldn’t pick up her phone most times, and I had to deliver a bag of cash.”

“Good God,” I said.

“I know, I know. I’m like an Al Capone runner.”

“And Detective Cotton found out?”

He bit his lip. “The police found the money hidden under a pile of magazines. I lied about the money, said she was considering it.”

“Well, this hardly seems the stuff of massive deception. Why would Cotton assault you today?”

Tansi and Jake looked at each other, conspiratorially. I didn’t like the new linkage. I much more preferred Tansi as Jake’s adversary and my own boon companion. In fact, I much more preferred the Tansi I knew years before, back in Manhattan days, Tansi at Barnard, spirited, fun-loving, cynical; not so wired and taut. And Jake, well, I never liked him and less so now, a man in authority with no moral center.

What he said next proved it. “He went crazy today because I stupidly lied to him again.” He glanced at Tansi, and she half-smiled, encouraging. “I told him Lydia had confessed to me that she killed Carisa.”

“What? My God. Why?”

“I know it was stupid. Tansi and I were talking about how everything was hunky-dory now, Jimmy free of accusation, but Cotton said he didn’t believe Lydia killed Carisa. So I said, well, she had a last talk with me, and she hinted that she’d done it. It was dumb, and I regretted it immediately. But Cotton lost it, really. He said he’d have me up on charges, that I was a fool; that I could lose my job lying to a cop.”

I was stunned. “Why would you even think to lie like that?”

“For a second I thought, why not? It’s over anyway. She
did
do it. I’m respected here. They’ll believe me.”

I shook my head. Who in this glitter Hollywood had a brain?

“And besides,” I added, “I agree with Detective Cotton. Lydia Plummer had nothing to do with Carisa’s death.”

Tansi gasped. “How can you say that?”

“I just did.”

“Proof, Miss Ferber?” Jake asked.

“I don’t have proof. But it’s what I know.”

“Edna, you’re being…stubborn,” Tansi said. And I almost laughed. Tansi seemed ready to say “ridiculous.” It’s a word I suspected Tansi used a lot.
Oh, this is ridiculous. Can anything be more ridiculous than this?

I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t like the convenience of Lydia’s death. Too many people are using her dying to forget the case.”

“Maybe they have a reason.” Jake defied me.

“Oh, I don’t think so.”

Tansi was not liking this exchange. “Edna, I know you got involved in this because of Jimmy. We
all
want to help Jimmy, but now he’s
helped
. He had his army of supporters, and they came through beautifully. You, me, Jake, Mercy, Tommy, the others. The Warner office.”