Death Was in the Picture (5 page)

He chatted with her for a while. He didn’t have anything else to do and he stood there, drink in hand, and felt her gently nudging him around until he was facing in the other direction. He was aware of it because he’d positioned himself in such a way that he had the front door in sight at all times. A habit with him. He liked to see who was coming and going. And now he did not. Now he faced the rear of the bungalow and he could see the two closed doors. The operation was so subtle that Dex felt another man might not have noticed these machinations at all. But he
is
a detective. And he was on a job.

These are the things he told me and, of course, by the time he did, he had reason to figure he’d been right. I believed him, too. It’s been my experience that men who spent time in the trenches and came back to tell about it have a way of seeing things that others can’t. Maybe that’s how these few survived.

Dex couldn’t remember the things Rhoda said, only that none of the words were important. What
was
important: the way her eyes pushed toward one of the closed bedroom doors every so often. The way she seemed aware of her surroundings: like that skinny stray cat. She didn’t look around, but Dex had the feeling that she was aware of everything that was going on.

After a while—and it couldn’t have been very long, perhaps only a few minutes after he’d gone in—Wyndham came out of the room looking as though he needed a shower. He did not, Dex told me carefully, appear disheveled or in any way frightened or excited. He went back to the bar, then back to the phone, and Dex thought no more about the incident. Until later.

Dex had a sense that, once Wyndham had rejoined the party, his date was finished with him. She stayed and chatted a bit longer but after a while, over Dex’s weak protestations that he’d get it, she made as though to get herself another drink,
then faded back into the party. Dex watched her go without regret.

He went back to observing. Dex enjoys watching people and this was a good place for it. There was a wide spectrum of people in attendance. To Dex, they seemed to represent all walks, from men in sober business suits to women in next to nothing at all. It seemed to him that, throughout the evening, he’d caught glimpses of studio heads, actors, agents and others from all branches of the entertainment industry and perhaps even representatives from local government, but it was hard to be sure about a thing like that. Men like that don’t wear signs.

As far as Dex could see, there was a single thing that connected the group: almost to a one, they wore their entitlement and privilege like a badge. They were beautiful and affluent and careless and well fed. In the confines of these rooms it was possible to believe in a world where the county borders were not patrolled by Los Angeles policemen to keep transients out. It was possible not to think about soup lines and the crowds of men waiting for handfuls of jobs at construction sites every morning. It was possible, but Dex didn’t make that choice. He maintained his position, kept his eye on Laird Wyndham—now back on the phone—wrapped his hand around his bourbon and did a slow burn.

Later Dex would figure perhaps another half hour passed before a scream broke over the din of the party. The band stopped on a gasp and the silence that filled the wake of the music seemed louder than the dance tune they’d been playing.

“Oh my God,” a woman’s shrill lament. “Oh my loving God, someone help me.”

Without even thinking about it, Dex unsnapped his holster, making sure he could get his gun clear in a hurry. At the same time, he moved toward the source of the sound: a bedroom at the back of the bungalow.

The door was open now, light spilling onto the carpet in the
hall like a puddle of blood. People seemed to be moving both in and out of the room. Fear was a rising tide. Dex could smell it, could even taste a bit of it himself.

The cause of that tide was apparent even from the doorway. Dex did not recognize the girl on the bed in that first fast look, but he saw all he needed to make his decision.

He was not at first certain she was dead, but it was clear that she was damaged. Her head was on a pillow, but at an unnatural angle. And she was absolutely still.

Rhoda Darrow pushed her way through the gawping throng and into the room and took command. She picked up the girl’s wrist, took her pulse, shook her head.

“She’s gone,” Rhoda said. There was sadness in her voice; concern. But Dex thought he tasted artifice; saccharine on the tongue.

And then, “Where is Laird Wyndham?” It was Rhoda who said the words, but Dex heard them repeated through the bungalow, like a stereophonic echo from all corners. In seconds it was apparent that he wasn’t there.

“What did you do then?” I asked, wide-eyed.

“I left,” he said, inspecting the end of his index finger.

“You left?”

“Sure. There was nothing I could do, Kitty. The girl had checked out. Anyway, I figured I’d been hired to keep my eye on Wyndham and once I realized he’d vamoosed, I figured I was duty bound to follow him.”

I could see the sense in that. “So where did he go?”

Dex looked sheepish. “I don’t know.”

“C’mon, Dex. You’re no palooka. How could you have lost him?”

“By the time I figured he’d left the party and went after him, he had disappeared without a trace.”

I rolled my eyes at the bit of drama, but prepared to move on. “So you went back to the party?”

Dex shook his head. “Naw. I checked the hotel grounds pretty good: from the parking lot to the pool, all the bars, the lobby. No sign of Wyndham and no one had seen him. By then I was getting a bad feeling about the whole business and, since the guy I was tailing had up and disappeared, I figured I’d just get the hell out of there. Sort it all out with the client in the morning.”

“Except, of course, by morning, Wyndham had been arrested.”

Dex ran his hands through his hair again. But all he said was, “Right.”

“OK, Dex: I don’t understand. I mean, look at you,” I pointed at him with my thumb and he knew I meant the whole package: he had apparently decided to drink himself stupid at his office rather than someplace else. And though yesterday he’d been sunny and sober, today it was like he couldn’t get the alcohol into himself fast enough.

“I don’ know Kitty … it’s just that…”—he hesitated, as though grappling with the words—”like I said, the whole business was kinda fishy from the get-go, wouldn’t you say?”

“I don’t know if I
would
say that.”

“And the whole thing just leaves a bad taste in my mouth.”

“Worse than that furniture polish you call bourbon?”

“Much worse. And it would take more than a pint of Jack to wash this away.”

“Judging by the state of you, it looks like you’d be willing to see how much it
would
take.”

Dex went all quiet again for a while. I could see him working things out in his head. I felt a little sorry for him. I do when he’s like that; when the drink is close on him but not quite there. He can still see the shape of things then, still see how things are. But the checks and balances are injured. He can put the pieces together, but they don’t always add up.

“Well, time to face the music, I guess,” he said finally. “Get Xander Dean on the phone for me, will you?”

Back at my desk, I dialed the number the big man had left the day before. I let it ring a dozen or more times before I decided to try later. Determined to let Dex ripen in whatever juices he was brewing, I busied myself with various housekeeping chores in the outer office. At three that afternoon I went out for the late edition of the newspaper from the vendor who always sold his papers just a few steps from the front door of our building.

S
TARLET
S
LAIN,
the headline of the
Los Angeles Courier
blared, and then, beneath it in slightly smaller letters:
LAIRD WYNDHAM’S LATEST ROLE: MURDERER?

“Sad business, huh Miss Pangborn?” the elevator operator shook his head when he noticed the paper in my hand. “I just saw him in
Lake Country Cowboy
a month or so ago. I would never have suspected anything. He seemed like such a nice guy.” I just looked at the young man, but didn’t say anything. What was there to say?

Back at the office I brought the paper straight in to Dex. “Is this her?” I said pointing to a studio photograph of a young woman on the cover of the
Courier.
The paper said her name was Fleur MacKenzie. She looked breathtaking. And now she was dead.

“Yeah, that’s her all right,” Dex said, taking the paper. “But you wouldn’t have known it if she was standing here next to this photo when she was alive. I’m guessin’ this was taken a few years ago.”

I took the paper from Dex and, uninvited, plopped myself back in the chair opposite his desk. He didn’t stop me. We both knew he wasn’t in reading condition and he trusted me to hit the highlights.

As I settled in I realized that there were lots of highlights here Dex probably wouldn’t even want to hear about—not just now, anyway. In his current state he was likely to rush out and
hurt something. He’s a man who loves many things, and not all of them stuff you and I would agree with. But, at heart, he’s a man who loves the truth.

From the first, I suspected I’d find no truth in the
Los Angeles Courier.
Even so, my heart sank as I read. I’d been completely in the thrall of Laird Wyndham, motion picture star. Over the years I’d spent so many hours with him in darkened theaters. I’d seen him ride into a sunset on the back of a noble steed, the virtue of the girl he loved intact due his own diligence. I’d seen him conquer corporate iniquity and overcome human greed and outdistance human hatred. I’d seen him die, gloriously and with honor. In over a dozen films I’d seen him spit in the face of all that is dark in the human heart and stand up for all that is good and gallant. I loved him for it. I loved him for what he’d helped me to believe.

And I wasn’t alone, hadn’t thought I was alone. So many others—millions of others—loved him for that golden light he helped shine on humanity. I would never have thought it could be different.

Yet here I was, curled into the big chair in Dex’s office, not even at first aware of the tears that rolled down my cheeks as I read.

“It’s like it’s not about him at all,” I said at length.

“How so?” Dex asked. I tried not to notice when he poured another couple of fingers of bourbon into his glass. The hard liquor slid over the ice and glinted with a mean promise.

“The man in this article,” I said slowly, considering my words, “the man they describe here. He’s a monster.”

Dex didn’t answer right away, just heaved a big sigh and took a hit of bourbon, like he was hoping the drink would add clarity. I’m guessing it did not. Finally he grunted. I took that to mean he wanted me to explain myself.

“It’s just the way they talk about him. Here,” I said, “listen
to this: ‘When the news vaults are considered, very little is known about Laird Wyndham, beyond the most basic of studio-provided information.’ See? What does that mean, Dex? They’ve been writing about him constantly for as long as I’ve been old enough to read a newspaper. And now—suddenly—they don’t know anything about him. I don’t understand.”

“Maybe they’re trying to distance themselves from all the nice things they said in the past.”

“I get it,” I said grumpily. “Now that the chips are down, they’re not sure which way they’re going to land.”

Dex cracked a smile. “Listen, Kitty: you’re the one who went to the big fancy school up in Frisco, not me. But I’m pretty sure you’ve mixed up those metaphors pretty good.”

“Well, you know what I mean, Dex. Anyway, it says here the MacKenzie girl was a starlet,” I said, getting back to it. “And lookit: they even used the word ‘dewy.’ I don’t think I’ve ever seen that word in a sentence before.”

Dex snorted. “Well, it don’t fit the girl I saw, that’s for sure. It might have once. It didn’t anymore. Last night she didn’t look dewy so much as soaked. Leastwise,” he added, “when she was alive, I mean.”

“‘Dewy,’” I tried it out on my tongue. “It wouldn’t fit a lot of people, I’m guessing. Wouldn’t fit you, Dex,” I laughed.

“I was dewy once,” Dex said. “Woke up one morning on someone’s lawn.” He looked at me closely. Squinted. “Guess it would kinda fit you, though.”

“Huh,” I said, lobbing the sports section at his head before I settled back into my reading. He caught it deftly, nodded thanks and bent to it. I was glad to see his hand-eye coordination had recovered. Despite the fact that he was drinking again. Or maybe because of it.

The rest of the article about the MacKenzie girl was more of the same. I moved on not knowing much more about Fleur MacKenzie than I had going in. Obviously the reporter hadn’t
either, but had just shuffled the information available into various patterns in an effort to fill out his allotted space.

I moved on to a piece about Wyndham’s background, and here things got a bit more interesting. From the looks of things, the reporter had been so busy digging up dirt on the actor he hadn’t bothered spending much time on the girl. Perhaps that would come tomorrow. Meanwhile there was enough material on Laird Wyndham to keep Hollywood tongues wagging for the next two weeks.

For starters, I read, he hadn’t been born Laird Wyndham. “Oh dear.” I read: “‘Charles Richard Dickey.’”

“What’s that?” Dex said, looking up.

“Wyndham’s real name: Charles Richard Dickey.”

“Chuck Dick Dickey?” Dex smirked. “That ain’t good. Sounds like a clown throwing up.”

“And he’s not from Boston,” I went on.

“Sure he is,” Dex said. “Old Boston family. Tea parties and stuff. I remember reading that much myself.”

I shook my head. “Uh-uh. Orchard Street. Lower East Side. Manhattan.”

“Means nothin’ to me,” Dex said.

“Me neither. But the way they’re saying it here,” I tapped the paper in my lap, “not good.”

“Well, I don’t care. And I figure you don’t care, am I right?”

I nodded agreement. “I don’t care. And if changing your name meant you were a murderer, why … everyone in Hollywood would be in the hoosegow.”