Murder at the Movies (2 page)

At the inner lobby doors, Freeman Thake tore their tickets in half with his usual flourish and greeted them officially.

“Good evening, gentlemen.”

“Freeman,” Tretheway responded. Jake nodded.

Freeman Thake owned and supervised, on a random rotation basis, three neighbourhood movie houses in the Fort York area. The West End was his favourite. He lived with his family in a substantial older home on Melrose Avenue, an affluent street in the city's east
end. His success in business was due to his knowledge of people. He knew instinctively when to chide, praise, cajole, argue, sympathize and sometimes even discipline his charges. Thake's dark, sparkling eyes showed an interest in questions most folks considered rhetorical. He charmed his female patrons, puffed up the men and opened doors gracefully for both with no sense of toadying. Overall, he exuded an aura of well-tailored, shoe-shined cleanliness. His jaw was strong, his face deeply tanned, but his very thick, curly black hair, peppered with grey, made his head appear too large for his short smallish frame.

“We're just in time,” Jake said.

“Four minutes to curtain,” Thake announced.

“Enjoy your adventure.” He held the doors open. Tretheway and Jake stepped into semi-darkness.

Lulu Ashcroft took over where Thake left off. They followed her and the meandering bright circle from her flashlight over the thick, silent carpeting of the inner lobby. Jake couldn't help but notice the way the cloth of her suit strained across her quivering rear. She was a big girl with a large chest and, unfortunately, a large everything else, including her waist. Three times a week she enjoyed home-baked beans with heavy brown bread accompanied in the inclement weather by hot rum. She spoke in a soft, lilting, occupational whisper.

They marched past the first aisle where Lulu's fellow usher, Joshua Pike, saluted them with his flashlight and the customary mock bow from the waist that he always gave his favourite regulars. His perpetual blinding smile showed plainly in the dim light. Pike
winked at Lulu. She led her two patrons around the corner of the second aisle and stopped almost immediately.

“I saved your seats,” Lulu whispered. Her light illuminated the first seat in the back row.

“Thanks Lulu,” Tretheway said. He let Jake go in first, then wriggled comfortably into the jumbo seat.

A few years ago, Thake had replaced some of the worn or vandalized aisle seats with what a convincing theatre furniture salesman had called “love seats.” They hadn't worked out. The patrons of the West End frowned on their suggested function and those who would have liked to use them were too embarrassed to do it. But one love seat was perfect for one big man.

There was a dark stain on the stuccoed wall behind the seat where Tretheway's brilliantined head had rested during numerous past performances. Tretheway jammed his bowler, upside down, between the two seats, and emptied the large bag of candy into the hat. They seldom ate them all. At any time of year in the Tretheway house, colourful, misshapen balls of stuck-together gum drops could be seen in Addie's candy dishes. The two men settled down, their overcoats and accessories piled warmly on their laps.

The lights dimmed. Foot shuffling and squirming stopped. Conversations ceased expectantly. Suddenly the screen came to life. The large HR trademark faded into the title,
The Flying Deuces
. “Dance Of The Cuckoos” bounced from the speakers. Stan and Ollie sat in a sophisticated, Paris sidewalk cafe exchanging confidences over a glass of milk with two straws …

Tretheway and Jake melted into their celluloid world.

They were outside the show and halfway down the block when Tretheway realized he didn't have his bowler. He stopped.

“Where's my hat?”

“What?” Jake stopped.

“My bowler. I don't have it.”

“Did you have it when we left the show?”

Tretheway thought for a moment. “Damn. I must've left it on the seat.”

Neither spoke right away. A fresh wind whistled around them. Jake knew what was coming.

“Just nip back there and see if they've found it,” Tretheway said.

Jake trotted back to the theatre muttering to himself about why he was always the one that had to nip back. When he re-emerged ten minutes later, Tretheway was nowhere in sight. Other pedestrians tramped briskly toward their warm hearths. Jake looked both ways. Tretheway stepped out of the darkened beauty parlour doorway where he had taken refuge from the chill. He'd wrapped his silk scarf over his head and tied it under his double chins. Jake thought he resembled a very large, nineteenth-century peasant woman.

“Did you get it?” Tretheway asked.

“No. They can't find it.”

“What do you mean they can't find it?”

“They're still looking. Probably rolled under the seats.”

“With the candy?”

“I guess so.”

Tretheway shook his head. “My favourite hat.”

“It'll turn up somewhere.” Jake's words were prophetic.

They trudged home in silence. Tretheway sulked. Visions of Addie's hot chocolate danced in Jake's head.

L
ife carried on for the next few weeks just about the way it always did in Fort York, despite ominous war clouds gathering on the other side of the world. People who lived in the long shadows of such events tended to shift their worries to more mundane matters: ice falling dangerously close to shoppers from the city hall roof or the lopsided trimming of stately elms and maples on Aberdeen Avenue. Or they sought escape. Books worked. Vicarious radio adventures helped. But nothing transported anyone quicker or more effectively in time and place than the motion picture.

During the rest of the month, Tretheway and Jake were distracted from the real world by movies that included
Bulldog Drummond In Africa, Brother Rat, If I Were King, Ninotchka, Alexander's Ragtime Band, Girls On Probation
and
Goodbye Mr Chips
. On January 29, a Sunday,
about twelve feature films since
Flying Deuces,
Tretheway received an unusual phone call. Or at least Addie did.

“That was Mrs Whiteside,” Addie announced. She crossed the parlour to her half of the settee.

“Who?” Jake shared the maroon love seat with Addie. He had been twiddling the dial searching for the “Chase and Sanborn Hour” which, according to the FY Expo radio log, was supposed to follow the Jello program featuring Jack Benny. Tretheway half reclined in his oversized easy chair, reading the newspaper.

A small but adequate fire crackled in the fireplace. Light from its flames flickered along the dark body of Fred, the misnamed neighbour's dog, stretched out on the hearth. She was staying overnight. Shadows from the fringed lamps writhed on the walls. If you listened carefully, you could hear the winter wind dodging through the tall pines in the front yard. Everyone was sipping tea.

“You remember Mrs Whiteside,” Addie continued. “A nice refined neighbour lady. Wouldn't hurt a fly. A widow. Her husband was killed about a year ago.”

“I remember that.” Jake found his radio program. The mellifluous voice of Don Ameche filled the room. Jake turned the volume down. “Wasn't it a plane crash?”

“That's right,” Addie said. “He went down over Lake Ontario. They never found him.” She looked at her brother. “You remember Albert?”

Tretheway grunted. He was reading a
FY Expo
pessimistic news item about the imminent fall of Barcelona.

“What did she want, Addie?” Jake asked.

“She just received a troublesome phone call.”

“Oh?”

“The voice said, among other things, ‘Your husband's in the garage.'”

“But I thought he was dead.”

“He is.”

Tretheway stirred. “Why didn't she call the police?” he said from behind his paper.

“She did in a way,” Addie hedged. “I said you and Jake might…”

“Addie.” Tretheway put his paper down. “I meant the police station. I don't make house calls.”

“But it's so close by,” Addie persisted.

“What did she find in the garage?” Jake asked.

“The poor soul's too afraid to look.”

Tretheway pushed himself upright. “So you expect me to leave a warm room, on a good radio night, go out in the middle of winter …”

“Albert, she's my friend.”

“All right, all right.” Tretheway gulped down his tea. “Tell her we're on our way.”

Addie refilled her own cup. “She's expecting you.”

Tretheway glared at his sister.

“I'll get the coats.” Jake jumped up from the settee.

Old, hard-packed snow covered the roads. The temperature had not strayed above freezing for two weeks and the wind, so comforting to hear when one was in front of a hospitable fire, became an enemy outdoors. Jake's toque, mitt and muffler set served him well but
Tretheway found it necessary to cup his gloved hands over his ears now and then because his donegal tweed peak cap, even pulled low, left his ear lobes unprotected. He'd never found his bowler

The walk through the deserted streets took a good fifteen minutes. Addie used the word neighbour loosely. Mrs Whiteside lived five long blocks away.

“I think this is the house,” Jake said. “That must be Mrs Whiteside.” He pointed to a stooped, apprehensive shadow peering through the sheer curtains of the front window. Mrs Whiteside had the door open before they had climbed the verandah steps. Wind chimes jingled overhead. Tretheway and Jake pushed gratefully into the warm hall.

“We'll leave our coats on, Mrs Whiteside.” Tretheway removed his cap. “Just tell us about the phone call.”

Mrs Whiteside spoke quietly. “It was a man, I think.” Her brow wrinkled. She crossed her arms underneath a black cashmere cardigan that hung over her narrow shoulders. “He asked me if I believe in reincarnation.”

“Reincarnation?” Tretheway repeated.

Mrs Whiteside nodded. “I thought it was some sort of religious call. So I said, ‘I don't answer questions like that over the telephone.'”

“Quite right,” Jake

“Then the voice said…” Mrs Whiteside hesitated, “…what I told Addie.”

“Which was?” Tretheway prompted.

Mrs Whiteside looked out the window. Jake followed her gaze nervously.

“‘Your husband is in the garage.'”

Outside the chimes continued their wind song.

“Mrs Whiteside.” Tretheway paused. “I don't want to bring up any unpleasant memories, but wasn't your husband killed about a year ago?”

“Yes. He was.” Her eyes filled. “A plane crash. In the lake.”

“Could he still be alive?”

“No. Everyone agreed. The Coast Guard. All the rescue people. The insurance company.” She took a deep breath. “He went down with his aircraft.”

“Yet nobody ever found him?”

“No.” Her brow wrinkled again.

“One more thing,” Tretheway went on. “Do you have a car?”

“No. I sold it after my husband …”

“Then the garage is empty?”

“Yes. Except for the usual odds and ends. Garden tools, garbage cans, pots. And my bicycle.”

Jake smiled. He remembered wondering how anyone could ride such an old black clunker around the neighbourhood and still look so elegant.

“We'll take it from here,” Tretheway said. “I'm sure it's just a prank. A sick prank. There's a lot of funny people out there.” He clapped his cap back on. “Let's go, Jake.”

“I do appreciate you coming over like this,” Mrs Whiteside said.

“Don't worry,” Jake said. He held the door open for Tretheway, then followed his boss into the cold night.