Wound Up In Murder (24 page)

“When I saw Jimmie earlier, he told me he'd thought of something. We couldn't talk at the time and he said he'd leave it in a message on the board.” I described the condition of
the message. “Someone could have torn it off accidentally or not.” I let the words hang there before continuing. “I was just going to talk to Jimmie. But of course, I couldn't because he was being rushed off to the hospital.” I was deliberately trying to be vague, but then I worried that the lieutenant might not get it so I added, “I think he was going to tell me something about Diana Rathman's death and somebody wanted to stop him.”

The lieutenant cocked an eyebrow. “I see what you're doing. You're using one of the magician's tricks and trying to misdirect me. I can assure you, the matter of someone else having added something to the drink will be looked into, but I think he probably added it himself. And if you see the Amazing Dr. Sammy Glickner, tell him I'd like to talk to him.” He gave me a last hard look before he walked away and headed toward the Lodge. The lieutenant had never even asked to see the remnant of the note.

The room I came back to was much more upbeat than the one I'd left. Lucinda had managed to get carriers of coffee and hot water with tea bags, along with some treats. That, coupled with Kevin St. John's news, had lifted everyone's spirits and they were talking about the dance.

The group broke for a quick dinner than came back to the room. They cleared away their knitting and the room turned into a dressing room. Scott mumbled something about meeting us all later when he saw the tables were turned into hair and makeup stations. Madeleine supervised the unloading of the boxes of clothing.

Lucinda decided to handle my transformation. I couldn't see what she was doing with my hair or face and she refused to give me a mirror. She waited while I changed out of the jeans and shirt I'd been wearing and zipped me into the dress we'd picked out.

The apricot silk dress fit perfectly, but felt strange with the fitted bodice and flared skirt. I had drawn the line at wearing panty hose and stuck my bare feet in the cream-colored sling-back shoes. I was glad I'd chosen ones with lower heels. Madeleine helped me put on the long white gloves, and the look was complete. And then Lucinda walked me into the small bathroom off our room and let me see myself in the full-length mirror.

I gasped. I was sure I was seeing somebody else's reflection. She had managed to turn my dark brown hair into a bouffant-style à la Jackie Kennedy. She'd spread some kind of foundation that made my face look flawless, the eye makeup was all Elizabeth Taylor, and she'd finished by adding bold coral lipstick. And the dress, shoes and gloves looked absolutely foreign. It even looked odder when Madeleine hung the chain strap of a beaded evening bag from my arm and showed me she had one, too.

With her love of designer wear, Lucinda was over the top about wearing a real Oleg Cassini silk shift-style dress. I felt all weird, but Lucinda seemed entirely at home in hers. I was astonished at the change in the group. I'd never seen Wanda in anything but loose-fitting pants and floral print tops. It was amazing what a black shift, some hair fluffing and a makeup job could do.

Crystal had managed to tame her black curls into a bouffant style. The white shift was hers, but the blue bolero jacket with the big collar was from Madeleine. I almost wouldn't have recognized her, but the unmatched earrings gave her away.

The others had done up their hair and makeup and added the pieces that Madeleine had brought and were having fun seeing their looks in the mirror. Madeleine had chosen to wear the actual dress she'd worn on her big night out so many
years ago. She'd added a little pouf to her timeless bob hairstyle and had some subtle makeup. We all agreed we looked fabulous and went as a group to Hummingbird Hall.

Scott caught up with us and did a whole lot of double takes as he tried to figure out who was who. His khaki pants and blue oxford cloth shirt would have worked for almost any year the group was celebrating.

The fog seemed to have settled, dropping a silvery curtain over the background. Fleece simply didn't go with what any of us were wearing and we'd all gone jacketless. It made us walk through the grounds much faster.

We picked up speed when we got close to Hummingbird Hall and then rushed to the warmth inside. Kevin St. John was standing just inside the doorway acting as a greeter. He was so friendly to me, I realized he didn't have a clue who I was. He didn't really notice who anyone was; he just wanted to watch everyone as they stopped in awe of how he'd transformed the auditorium.

The seats were gone, and the middle of the room had been turned into a dance floor. A big net had been draped from the open rafters and filled with balloons. A band was setting up on the stage, while canned music played in the background.

Madeleine stopped in front of me and gazed around with her mouth open. Then she grabbed my gloved hand, and we went to the back of the room. She was fascinated by the large glass punch bowl sitting amid the plates of finger sandwiches and bowls of chips and dip.

She wanted to try the punch, which looked like a concoction of ginger ale and frozen strawberries with an island of orange sherbet floating in the middle. I tried to get her a cup of it, which wasn't easy with the gloves.

Scarlett came by. She'd gone for a pleated skirt and a
blouse and pigtails in some sort of a schoolgirl look. I envied her loafers, which looked a lot more comfortable than the sling-backs. She made an odd pair with her husband, who seemed dressed in what people thought professors wore. There were suede patches on the elbows of his jacket and a pipe sticking out of the pocket.

“Isn't this great,” Dotty Night said in her perky tone. She was wearing a skirt and blouse that looked like it might have been left over from the wardrobe of
Bridget and the Bachelor
. Madeleine held up her punch cup as if making a toast before she took her first sip.

There was tapping on a microphone and then Norman Rathman asked if everyone could hear him. He'd taken center stage with his assistant, Sally Winston, standing close by. He welcomed the crowd and raved on about how great the room looked. He called Kevin St. John up onstage. “Here's the man who did it all. Let's give him a round of applause.” Kevin waved to the crowd then took the microphone and did the same thing he'd done at the softball game when he'd said, “Play ball.” Except now he said, “Let the dancing begin.”

The band took the cue and started on their first song. I was surprised to see Dane come in. He stopped near the entrance and surveyed the crowd. Instead of his uniform, he was dressed in clothes to fit in and had slicked back his hair, trying to look very 1963. He made his way into the room and walked right past me. I tapped him on the shoulder. “What are you doing here?” I asked. He turned and had a blank look for a moment before he realized it was me. Even then he kept looking at me, going from the hair, makeup, dress and finally the gloves and the beaded evening bag hanging on my arm.

“In answer to your question, I'm here in a professional capacity. After what happened this afternoon, Lieutenant Borgnine added security,” he said.

“It means he listened to me,” I said and Dane answered with a confused look. I told him about my conversation with his superior earlier. “Does that mean he has someone watching Jimmie Phelps's room at the hospital?”

Dane nodded. “I could have had that assignment, but this seemed like more fun.” This group had no hesitancy about dancing and lots of them were already out on the floor. “Shall we?” he said. “It's a good cover and a way to keep an eye on things.”

I started to protest. In all my professions and schooling, I'd never really learned how to dance. I could get out and gyrate on my own, but when it came to something with organized steps and a partner, like the fox trot or waltz, I really had two left feet. Dane laughed when I told him and assured me he'd teach me as we went. We got the hand part right, but when we started to move, and I tried to follow his steps, I only succeeded in tripping over his feet. Lieutenant Borgnine came in and did the same thing Dane had done. He stopped near the entrance and looked over the crowd. When he saw Dane, there was a disapproving shake of his head. Dane had to be relieved. “Sorry, I guess according to him, it's no dancing on duty,” he said. He let go of my hand and we started to go our separate ways. He looked back. “We have to try this again.”

“Give it up. I'm a hopeless klutz.”

“If I can teach those teens karate, I can certainly teach you the waltz.” He paused and got his teasing smile. “But we do it in bare feet.” He pretended to limp away and we both laughed.

I might not be able to dance with one person, but I could dance with many. So when the hokey pokey line started, I was right there in the front. Madeleine grabbed on behind me and we waved our arms and legs and sang along as the line got longer and snaked around the room.

When the dance ended, Madeleine and I retired to the
side of the room. Her eyes were glowing with happiness. “This is just what I thought a dance would be like. And Bobbie is going to perform, too.” She giggled as she called him by his first name.

She opened her bag and took out a folded-up program. “I found this in the cigar box—it's from the other time I saw him. I was thinking that maybe he would sign it for me and we could take a picture together.” She wanted to show the program to me. I nodded as she pointed out how it listed the baseball game and the concert. There was something else, but her finger obliterated most of it and I just saw the tops of the letters. “It's too bad how it ended,” she said. “It was even mentioned in the newspaper the next day that the fireworks all went off at the same time. I don't know how anybody who was there could ever forget it.”

She stopped abruptly as Norman Rathman took the stage and announced the singer. Bobbie took the microphone and the band began. It was the first time I'd seen him perform, and he was very entertaining. He had all the moves down, crunching forward when he seemed overcome with emotion, pumping his arm for emphasis and of course reaching out to the audience and then pulling his arm in and holding it as he did a final crescendo.

The audience loved him and began to sway to the music. Madeleine looked like she was going to float away. Personally, I wanted a cup of punch and left the swooning Delacorte sister for the food table.

I got my cup of the sweet concoction and considered going back to my spot, but didn't feel like pushing through the crowd. I looked at the clock and noted with dismay that it was almost eleven. Time was running out. Sammy wouldn't really take off, would he?

Bobbie had saved his biggest hit for last, which was also
his first hit from 1963. I thought the lyrics were pretty dumb, but I guess it was a different time.

Look into my eyes, honey. You can see I mean what I say,

Words can lie, baby, but you know it's true when I look this way.

Remember the eyes have it when I tell you you're the one.

Remember the eyes have it, you're my moon and sun.

I tuned out the rest of the words as I was joined at the food table by Scarlett and her husband. I offered her a cup of punch but she shook her head. Her husband picked up one of the finger sandwiches and said it might help her headache before he turned to me. “Any more word about Jimmie Phelps? I hope he recovers; he's the real thing.” Scarlett fumbled in her purse as Bobbie got to the end of his song. Norman Rathman and Kevin St. John came up on the stage. There was thunderous applause as Bobbie took a bow then held up a punch cup as a toast to the audience. The applause continued as he went to the edge of the stage and out the exit. Suddenly I thought of something so ridiculous it couldn't possibly be true.

I crossed the auditorium and went out a side door. The fog had thickened and everything outside the area right around me was veiled in dense white moisture. Being dark made it even harder to see. But I had spent so much time at Vista Del Mar, I knew my way around by feel. I followed the building to the stage exit. A light above the door illuminated the immediate area shining onto the paved roadway which was edged by a low retaining wall.

Bobbie had left the area, but as I'd hoped, he had left something behind on the ledge of the wall. The light reflected off the glass punch cup and the cloudy amber liquid inside. Now all I had to do was grab it somehow without touching it. I looked around for something to use. I'd balked about the evening bag but now saw it could come in handy. I opened the metal clasp and pulled the lining inside wide, kind of like when a snake got ready to swallow something big. Next I got rid of the liquid by using the purse to knock
the cup on the side and then began to try to get the purse to swallow the cup.

“Sorry, I didn't mean to be a litterbug,” Bobbie said, stepping out of the fog. He held out his hand. “Give me the cup and I'll get rid of it.”

I tried to think fast. “It's a souvenir for my friend Madeleine. She's your biggest fan.”

“I can give her a much better souvenir of the Bobberino than that.” He continued to hold out his hand and gestured with his fingers impatiently.

“No, I think I'll keep this.” I'd managed to get the purse all the way around the cup and started to walk away, but he grabbed my arm and tried to pull the purse off it.

“Somebody else is going to figure it out,” I said, “Bobbie, or whatever your real name is.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” he said. He seemed uncertain what to do next.

“Diana Rathman figured out you were an imposter, didn't she? And you were afraid she was going to let everybody know. There would be no Vegas lounge show. And there would go your gig at the Pebble Beach resort. They wouldn't be happy about being deceived and could press charges against you for fraud. You'd have to pay back everything they'd paid you and maybe there'd be some jail time.”

All the good nature had drained from his face, and he looked pale beneath the tan. “She came here to rekindle some old romance with Bobbie. It's not the first time one of his women has showed up. It's never been a problem. They do all the talking, reminiscing about their trysts. I was willing to go along with Diana's plan for the weekend. I'd just keep to generic comments and let her fill in the blanks.” His face had grown hard. “I thought I'd been so careful about researching Bobbie's shows. I don't know how I missed the
thing about the fireworks disaster at Candlestick Park. I thought saying they were beautiful was a safe response. I didn't even know I'd made a mistake until later.”

He paused for a moment. “We'd arranged to meet that night on the q.t. I'm expecting maybe a walk on the beach followed by some cuddling and she lays into me about those fireworks and how my comment made her suspicious. I thought I could talk my way out. You know, said my memory wasn't what it used to be. She cut me off and said the jig was up. That when she saw me at that newsreel thing, she knew for sure I wasn't Bobbie.

“It seems that she and Bobbie were drinking champagne on the sidelines when those blanking fireworks exploded. He was so startled he squeezed the glass in his hand and it broke. He got a couple of weird cuts that left scars she said were kind of shaped like a two. When she saw my hand and there were no scars, she said she knew for sure.

“I tried to calm her down, but she just went off. It turns out she had more in mind than a weekend fling with Bobbie. She kept saying something about wanting to take the road not taken or something. She was hysterical that I'd ruined everything. She said I wasn't going to get away with taking over Bobbie's life and she was going to ruin me.

“I tried to reason with her. I really did, but she just walked off saying, there was no use to me wasting my breath. She went rushing down some path and I followed her. The silk streamer fell out of her pocket and I picked it up. She must have realized she'd gone the wrong way because she stopped. When I caught up with her . . .” His voice trailed off and I filled in the rest.

“You realized that Jimmie Phelps caught the remark about the fireworks, too, and he was going to tell me. You already had the caffeine pills. I saw them the night you had the headache and needed aspirin. I'm guessing it was a
last-minute try after you tore the note off the message board.” I wondered if I should add that he'd made a mistake by not taking the whole message down. I'd recognized that the curve, dot, and curve were the tops of the
f
,
i
and
r
in
fireworks
when Madeleine had put her finger over most of the word while she showed me the old program. I decided to keep it to myself. I knew what I needed to do was get out of there, but I really wanted to get the rest of the story.

“So then who are you?” I asked, taking a step away at the same time.

“Frankie Listorie. Bobbie's cousin,” he said.

“What did you do with the real Bobbie Listorie?” I asked, backing away a little more.

“Nothing. I didn't do nothing to him. He's in a home. He doesn't even know that he's Bobbie Listorie anymore. All my life, people have been saying I looked just like him. I didn't have a dimple in my chin, but a few bucks to a plastic surgeon and I did.” His voice turned harsh. “You don't know what it's like to be told that your voice is better than his, but he gets all the fame. We started out as a duo and then some music executive blew in Bobbie's ear and said he was the talent and he should lose me. So when the opportunity presented itself, I took it.” He looked directly at me. “You heard them applauding for me. Nobody has complained once. I got the pipes.”

“Now that I know how much it means to you,” I said, trying to sound upbeat. “It will be our little secret.” Before I could move, he'd stepped behind me. I felt something poking through the thin material into my back. It felt like the muzzle of a gun.

“Now I'm finally getting my due. I don't care what I have to do to keep it. The spotlight is finally mine.” He pushed against my back. “I think it's time for us to get out of here and take a little ride.”

He didn't have to say the rest. I got it. There would only be
one of us at the end of the ride, and it wasn't going to be me. What was it they always warned people who were grabbed? Don't leave the location. Maybe I could stall. “Aren't you curious how I figured it out? It might be useful in the future.”

“Yeah, now that you mention it. I should know where I screwed up.” I could feel the pressure against my back give up a little.

“That night you had the headache. Something seemed off to me. I thought it was because you were in sweats, but tonight something one of my retreaters said made me think of that night again, and then when I heard the line in your song about the eyes don't lie, I got it. It didn't register then and you put on the tinted glasses so quickly. The dimple isn't the only difference. You have blue eyes, not Bobbie's famous green eyes. It's all in the contacts, isn't it?”

“Good to know,” he said. I could tell by the pause after that he was going back to his plan. I tried to think of a means of escape and I heard the door to the stage open and the sound of applause and people chanting “Bobbie.”

“You can't leave them hanging like that. They've been clapping and chanting for five minutes,” Kevin St. John said. “You need to do an encore.” There was a pause and Kevin said, “Oh,” apparently seeing Bobbie wasn't alone.

“Sorry to interrupt you and your lady,” Kevin faltered. In this outfit from the back, he didn't recognize me and it must have looked like Bobbie and I were having a moment. The manager said something about leaving the romance for later and coming back inside. By then I wasn't listening, but instead thinking. Bobbie/Frankie had turned to face Kevin and was distracted.

My mind flitted through possible escapes, hopefully without me being shot. And something Sammy had said about human nature came to mind and I made a move.

“You go on back in,” the singer said to Kevin. “I'll be there in a minute.” Much as I knew that he wanted to go back in and do an encore, I also knew he was set on erasing me from the scene.

As soon as Kevin was back inside, the singer turned forward, and he saw that his gun was pointed at no one. “Hey,” the fake Bobbie yelled, starting to run down the path after me, or so he thought. I had thought of Sammy's story about the falling fire escape and that it was human nature to go forward to try to escape getting hit, when the right thing to do was go sideways. And that was what I had done. I stepped off the path and slipped behind one of the Monterey pines. In the darkness and fog, I was invisible, not that Bobbie/Frankie even looked as he ran down the path.

I was pretty sure he was going to keep to the plan to get out of Vista Del Mar with or without me and was headed to his car. I didn't want to try to stop him myself. I needed help. I went through the brush to the front of the building. Lieutenant Borgnine was still standing just inside the door. His expression darkened when he saw me.

“I know who you're looking for,” I said. “And I know where he is.” The lieutenant's face came to life.

“Finally, you're showing some sense.”

“We have to hurry, though, he's trying to make a run for it.” I rushed to the door and the rumpled cop caught up with me. “Follow me.”

Bobbie/Frankie would stick to the path that wound through the grounds, but I knew a shortcut. I actually grabbed the lieutenant's hand and pulled him off the path. The heels weren't going to do and I kicked them off before taking him through the underbrush.

I could only imagine what was happening to Madeleine's
beautiful dress as it caught on bushes while we serpentined through the trees. I had too much adrenaline pumping to feel any pain from my bare feet stepping on twigs, dried pine needles and who knew what else.

We finally came out in the small parking lot near the Lodge. I looked over a line of cars around Madeleine's golf cart, but there was no one.

The lieutenant had long since pulled away from my hand and looked around the empty parking lot with a grumble. “You're doing it again. This is some kind of diversion, so the Amazing Dr. Sammy Glickner can do a disappearing act.”

Just then there were footsteps on the paved road, and a moment later, Bobbie/Frankie came into the parking lot and sprinted toward a light-colored Corvette.

“Not staying for your encore,” I said, stepping out of the darkness.

“There you are,” he said angrily. The gun was still in his hand and he waved it in my direction. “Get in the car.” I took a few steps and then a noise behind me made me turn back. The low lights around the edge of the parking area were enough to see that Lieutenant Borgnine had stepped behind the singer and had him in a choke hold. After a moment, the singer dropped to the ground unconscious and the gun fell from his hand.

“We're not supposed to use a choke hold, but seeing that he had a gun aimed at you, it was the best alternative.” He looked at the figure on the ground. “He'll come to in a minute,” Borgnine said. He leaned over the fallen singer and pulled his hands behind him, handcuffing him.

The rumpled bulldog-shaped cop shook his head at me. “Ms. Feldstein, you deceived me. You said you were taking me to Dr. Glickner.”

“No,” I protested. “I said I was taking you to who you were after—that's Diana Rathman's killer, isn't it?”

There were more grumbling sounds as he said something about evidence.

It turned out not to be a problem. When Bobbie/Frankie came to, he was escorted to the backseat of a cop car. Before the cruiser could drive away, he began to spill his guts, and Lieutenant Borgnine got an earful. Apparently the singer wanted everyone to know that the crowd at the dance had been chanting and cheering for him—Frankie Listorie. So there was no need to get his DNA off the punch cup I still had in my purse and see that it didn't match the real Bobbie's DNA on Madeleine's ancient champagne glass she'd snagged as a souvenir. He admitted to strangling Diana. He repeated pretty much what he'd told me, but the kicker was when he insisted it was really some kind of self-defense because she was looking to kill his career. The lieutenant tapped on the side of the car and told the officer to take him downtown.

Eventually, the DA charged him with Diana's murder, malicious intent for spiking Jimmie's drink, and fraud for masquerading as his cousin. He ended up making a plea deal and looked forward to being locked up for a long time. I wondered if they had prison talent shows.

But in the present, I peeled back the soiled white glove and looked at my watch. It was five minutes to midnight. “You wanted to see Dr. Glickner?” I said to Lieutenant Borgnine, who was headed to his car.