Murder on the Yellow Brick Road (2 page)

That explained Hoff's control over the crumbling set, but it didn't explain anything else.

“Why is he in costume?” I said.

“I don't know,” sighed Hoff nervously. “There was no publicity tour or any reason for it.”

“Right,” I said, but I didn't know what was right or what was going on. “Who is he and who killed him?”

I looked at Hoff. His eyes opened a bit as his lower lip raised and his shoulders went up. It was an enormous response of non-information. He didn't know either answer.

“O.K.,” I said giving the body a last look and being careful not to touch anything. “Now, what the hell is going on here?”

Hoff gave an enormous sigh and collapsed into a chair from which he could see the entire lighted set. There was a chair next to him. I sat in it, and for a minute or two we looked at the remains of Munchkin City and the remains of a single military Munchkin. We were just like two old friends enjoying the sunset. All we needed was a couple of beers and the football scores.

“Miss Garland reacted in panic,” Hoff said finally fishing out another Spud and taking a long time to light it. He didn't want to make any mistakes in what he said. He was acting as if his career were on the line, and maybe it was. “She discovered the body and called you.”

“Why me?” I asked.

“She remembered your name from yesterday,” said Hoff, his eyes fixed on the Munchkin to be sure he didn't suddenly rise and walk off. “It had been mentioned at a party. It seems you were spoken highly of by someone at Warner Brothers. We didn't find out she had called you until just after she hung up.”

“Why didn't she call the cops?” I asked, also watching the dead Munchkin.

“She has been working very hard since OZ,” Hoff explained very carefully and slowly as if he were practicing a press release. “I – we – think it has gotten to her, that she needs some rest. She just wasn't thinking too clearly.”

I have learned that it's sometimes a good idea to wait out a client or a suspect until he talks himself out, into a corner or into a frenzy. The corporate Hoff, however, was abusing the privilege of either client or suspect.

“Mr. Hoff …” I began.

“Call me Warren,” he smiled, fishing out another Spud.

“Warren, if you want me to just turn around and leave,” I said, “I'll be happy to do so, and I'll forget I ever saw our little friend over there.” Warren Hoff winced at the words, but I went on. “When I'm gone, you can shovel the body under the road, cart it off somewhere or call the cops. All you'll have to do is pay me $25, my expenses for a day, and say goodby after I confirm all this with Miss Garland. She called me and I'd like to see her before I leave. Now I don't have many principles, but …”

“We know a few things about you,” Hoff interrupted pulling out a small blue notebook from his matching blue jacket. He glanced at the book and spoke.

“You have a reputation for discretion, Mr. Peters …”

“Call me Toby,” I said.

“You know something about M.G.M. and have done some work for us,” he went on. So far it was all true, but he hadn't come to the punch line. Then he did: “And you have a brother, a Lieutenant Philip Pevsner who is a Los Angeles Homicide detective.”

I shook my head and smiled. He noticed.

“Is that information wrong?”

“No, it's right,” I said, “but where you're heading is wrong. You want me to talk to my brother about keeping this quiet, conducting a nice silent publicity-free investigation.”

“Well,” he began, “we …”

“Who is this “we” Warren?” He winced again, probably not too happy that I'd taken up his offer to call him Warren or question his corporate identity. It equalized us too much. The studio was his, but I knew more about death than he did. “I have no influence with my brother, less that none. You see this nose. He's broken it twice when I've gotten in his way. You'd have a hell of a lot more influence with my brother than I would.”

I started to get up. “I'd like to collect some Metro money,” I said, “but I don't see how. No offense, but it's a little late to guard that body and a lot too late for me to ask a favor of my brother.”

Hoff looked confused. The word must have been that I could be bought cheap and easy. Normally, the word was good, but this was out of my league. I'd just spend a quiet afternoon at the Y and then listen to Al Pearce and the Loyola-San Jose State game on KFWB. I'd snuggle up with a bowl of shredded wheat and a Rainer Beer and think about my next weekend date with Carmen, the plump widowed waitress at Levy's. The plan seemed great to me, and I turned my back on the dead Munchkin.

“Wait,” said Hoff touching my arm. “You want to see Judy? I'll take you to her.”

I nodded. Things were going badly for Warren Hoff, and I felt sorry for him, but not too sorry.

“Warren, if you want my advice, call the cops and say you just found the body?”

There was a plea on his face, but the look on mine cooled it. He shrugged enormously again and led the way out past the coffee spill, away from the seaport and back into the light. He didn't say anything, didn't even pause to light a Spud. The temperature was about 70, but sweat stains were showing under the armpits of his jacket. I wondered if he was high enough in the company to have a couple of extra suits in his office.

I couldn't figure out if Hoff was so confused that he was lost or if he knew a super short-cut to wherever we were going. We dodged a truckload of balsa lamp posts, stepped through a small town street which I recognized as Andy Hardy's Carvel and backed up as an assorted group of convicts and Apache Indians hurried past.

We finally stopped at a row of doors leading into a squat wooden building.

“Judy starts working in Ziegfield Girl tomorrow,” Hoff explained, his hand hovering over the door handle. “She's got a tough schedule, and we don't want her bothered too much about this.”

“I'll just kiss her hand, get her autograph on my back and leave,” I assured him.

“You know what I mean,” he said.

“I know what you mean,” I answered. I wanted to put my hand on his shoulder and tell him to take it easy. There were plenty of jobs at Columbia and 20th Century for a good M.G.M. reject.

“And I used to play football,” he said softly.

“That a fact?” I said not knowing what to say. The statement didn't seem to make sense, but I had the odd feeling that I understood why he was saying it. I didn't exactly like him, but I was closer to understanding him. He knocked at the wooden door and a feminine voice said, “Who is it?”

It wasn't Judy Garland's voice.

“Warren,” said Warren Hoff. His voice had dropped two octaves to confident baritone. The woman told us to come in, and Warren underwent a transformation as he pushed the door open. He became a different man, taller, smiling and full of quiet confidence.

When we entered the room, I found out what the transformation was all about. Before us, in the dressing room, stood a dark beautiful woman. She was wearing a black sweater, a knit skirt and a slight smile behind the most perfect soft mouth that I had ever seen. Her eyes were narrow, almost Oriental. For some reason there was a tape measure around her neck. I found out the reason when Warren Hoff introduced us.

“Cassie James, this is Toby Peters, the man Miss Garland called,” he said. I noticed that Judy had become Miss Garland. “Cassie is a costume designer and a friend of Miss Garland's.”

Cassie James extended her right hand, and I took it. It was firm, warm and tender. Up close she was a few years older than she had looked from the doorway. I guessed her to be about 35, a perfect 35. I released her hand before she could see the excitement building in me. The same hormonal response was bursting out through Warren Hoff's pores.

“Is Miss Garland here, Cassie?” Hoff said showing a beautiful double row of near-white teeth. He was clearly a Kolynos toothpaste man. What was their ad? “Now you can make your teeth look their romantic best.”

I never knew what I was brushing my teeth with. I used samples the drug company salesmen gave to Sheldon Minck, the dentist I shared my office with.

“Judy took a … something to calm her nerves,” Cassie James explained softly. “I think she's sleeping.”

“No, I'm not.”

The voice came from the other side of a high backed flower decorated sofa in the corner. Judy Garland sat up and looked sleepily at the three of us.

Cassie James stepped over to her and took her hand.

“This is Mr. Peters, Judy,” she explained, “the man you called.”

The name rang a bell, and she brushed some of the sleep from her eyes. She stood up and tried a weak smile, but I could see that something had gotten to her, probably the dead Munchkin. She was several things I didn't expect. I had seen the little girl in The Wizard of Oz. It was the same person, but she was not a little girl. She was also shorter than I expected, no more than 5′2″ and her clothes were definitely not little girl's clothes. She wore a white fluffy dress with a big patent leather belt and her hair was built up on her head to make her look taller or older or both.

“Mr. Peters,” she said taking my hands. The voice belonged to a more familiar Dorothy of Kansas, but it was filled with sadness and pleading. I wanted to hold her and tell her everything was going to be all right. If she cried, and she looked as if she might, I probably would have turned into a fool running around looking for a handkerchief.

From the corner of my eye I could see Hoff sliding his way to Cassie James' side. He was looking at Judy Garland, but the body warmth was going to Cassie James. I didn't feel sorry for my pal Warren anymore.

“I'm sorry if I've caused you any trouble Mr. Peters,” Judy Garland continued, that near sob in her voice, “but I panicked. You know how that can happen? I … Cassie and I saw him lying there, and I just turned and ran to the nearest phone and called information. They gave me your office, and a Dr. Minck told me you were at Warner Brothers and I just …” She shrugged, gulping in air and led me to the sofa. We sat while she held both of my hands tightly and looked into my eyes. My God, there was a tear forming in one eye. In another second, I'd be lost.

“You knew the dead man?” I asked.

She shook her head in a decided, sad no.

“To tell the truth Mr. Peters,” she said softly, “I … I didn't even like most of the little people who worked on the film. They like to be called little people you know, not midgets or dwarfs.”

“I didn't know that,” I said noticing that Cassie James was listening to our conversation with concern and that Hoff was so close to her I couldn't tell if they were touching. “Why didn't you like them?”

“Oh,” she said, “I didn't dislike all of them, just some of them. One especially who kept touching me and asking for dates and saying things … I.”

“O.K., O.K.” I said. “You saw the dead Munchkin, and you felt glad and guilty. I've seen a few dead ones, and my first reaction was always, I'm glad it's not me. The second reaction is to feel queasy in the stomach. Cops, hospital people and some soldiers get used to it, but the rest of us feel lucky, sick and guilty.”

“I guess it was something like that,” she said taking a deep breath. “Mr. Peters,” she began and then turned her head toward Cassie James. “Cassie, could I please talk to Mr. Peters alone for a minute?”

Cassie James showed a slight smile of perfect teeth and an understanding turn of her head as she lead a pleased and confident looking Hoff outside and closed the door behind her. Hoff was one hell of an actor for a PR man. Inside he was filled with fear for his six-figure job, but to look at him now you'd think he was William Powell.

My attention turned back to Judy Garland, who was watching my face.

“She's beautiful isn't she?” the girl-woman said.

I thought about lying, pretending I didn't know what she was talking about, but I also felt that I didn't have to.

“She is,” I said.

“I wish I could be beautiful like that,” she sighed.

“You are beautiful, and you'll get better,” I said.

“Mr. Peters, I am not a fool.” Her voice was stronger now, waking up. “I'm a plain 18 year old girl who can sing. As my mother says, I've got the talent, but not the looks. I'm playing a woman for the first time in Ziegfield Girls, and we start shooting tomorrow. You know who I'll be with in that picture? Lana Turner and Hedy Lamarr. Any beauty I've got has to be put there by make-up, lights and experts.”

“You're underrating yourself,” I said, uncomfortable with the role of confidant to a teenager. Besides, who was I to give advice on beauty? On a good day, I could pass for the steady loser in tank town five rounders.

She looked at me steadily, and almost whispered, “I got a call to go to that set. Someone called this room and told me Mr. Mayer wanted me to get over there fast for some publicity shots with Wendel Willkie.”

“Wendel Willkie?” I said. “He's in …”

“Camden, New Jersey,” she finished.“I know that now, but I didn't until I saw the newspaper. Cassie checked. No one from Mr. Mayer's office told me to go to that stage. No one from publicity called me to go to that stage. Mr. Peters, someone just wanted me to be the one who found that body. Why would they do that?”

Her big brown eyes were examining my face for an answer. I didn't have answers, only questions.

“Was the voice male or female?”

“Male, but a little high I think. I didn't pay too much attention at the time.”

“O.K.,” I said, “did you recognize it, the voice.”

“I don't think so.”

“He called you here?” She said yes.

In a few minutes I discovered that Cassie James had been in the dressing room with her when the call came, that Cassie had not talked to the caller, that she had accompanied Judy to the Munchkin set and they both had discovered the body. According to Judy, Cassie James was a good friend and a kind of mother figure for her, though Cassie James didn't look motherly to me. Judy's own mother, I picked up from a few remarks, was not the girl's favorite person. It seemed reasonable, or so I told myself and Judy Garland, that I should talk to Cassie James before I decided what to do. In the course of the few minutes we talked whatever she had taken wore off. She stood up and moved to the door, telling me that she felt well enough to go back to a Ziegfield set where they were rehearsing around her.