Anatomy of a Crossword (19 page)

Rosco drummed his fingers on the table for a moment, then said. “Like who? If Debra didn't kill Chick, who did?”

Mawbry lifted his hands in the air and said facetiously, “I bet it was Max Chugorro, my landscape guy … Yeesh, how the hell do I know who killed the poor sap? That's why I'm asking you to help me out here. The folks who knew Darlessen work on that
Anatomy
set. All I'm suggesting is that you nose around a little … undercover of course. I don't have to tell you that. If anyone realizes you're working for me, they'll clam up pronto.”

Both men were silent for a minute, then Mawbry added, “Listen Rosco, I need your help here. I can't get in to talk to those people. I never met Darlessen, but he was a screenwriter, and a successful one. There must have been plenty of people who wanted him dead. Maybe he stole the script from someone. Happens all the time out here.”

Again Rosco drummed his fingers. “I don't know how it works in California, but in some states the Bar Association doesn't look favorably on members who hire unlicensed P.I.s. It can become a real ethics issue, and bound to catch up to you later on.”

“Ethics?” Mawbry shrugged. “I'll be putting you on as a consultant. You'll be giving me advice, that's all.” He smiled; this time there was nothing forced about the expression, although it remained curiously devoid of either warmth or levity. “There's a way around everything.”

Rosco glanced at his watch, downed what was left of his coffee, and stood. “I'm going to have to think about your proposal, Mr. Mawbry.”

“What? Money? Is that it? I'll be taking care of you personally. Don't let Debra's bank account frighten you off. What's your quote? Because whatever you get in Massachusetts, I'll double it. How's that?” Mawbry pulled a checkbook from his leather case and scribbled a check for two thousand dollars quicker than most people can write their signature.

Rosco raised his hand. “Save it. I'll let you know by tomorrow afternoon. And to be frank with you, Mr. Mawbry—”

“Jillian, please.”

“Jillian … I'm not about to dig up dirt to get a guilty person off the hook. That's not how I work.”

“Well, why don't we just say that Debra's innocent until proven guilty. I think that's how the law reads.”

“Right. It reads the same way in Massachusetts. I'll give it some serious thought and get back to you tomorrow.”

“I've got time. Not too much, though.”

“I'll bear that in mind.”

Rosco walked back down the side of the house toward his car. Max was still working on the sprinkler control box. He had five or six multicolored wires stripped at the ends and was alternately touching them to a “hot” terminal, then watching to see which sprinkler heads popped up and shot water across the front lawn. Rosco stopped and observed him working for a minute.

“It's a microcosm,” Max said without turning to face his visitor, “and I play God. This lawn lives or dies depending on when, and how much, water I give it. If I do it right, it'll live forever; but if I lose control, it'll start dying off piece by piece. The situation's all about control. If someone else mucks around with my box, things begin to die a slow death.” He looked at Rosco. “That's a nice Mustang. What'd she set you back?”

“It's a rental.”

“I thought so. So if you're not a producer, what are you?”

Rosco thought for a second, then realized,
What the heck, this is L.A., I can be anything I want to be
. “I play second base for the Red Sox,” he said, then ambled over to the Mustang without waiting to see Max Chugorro's reaction.

CHAPTER 22

Belle and Rosco didn't have a single moment alone together throughout the remainder of the day. Immediately following his interview with Jillian Mawbry, Rosco had returned to Santa Monica, picked up Sara and Belle, and driven them to Culver City. The moment they arrived at the studio, the production crew swallowed them like barracudas after minnows. After wardrobe and makeup, a half dozen of Sara's scenes were shot; episodes involving Shay, Quint, Carol, Dan, Ginger, and Andy Hofren. The work had necessitated so many takes, retakes, and set and costume changes that both morning and afternoon had been consumed without Rosco ever being able to fully explain to his wife what Mawbry had wanted. It wasn't until the close of the shooting day, when Sara was being entertained at dinner by Dean Ivald, before husband and wife found time to confer. They decided a little distance would be necessary to catch their breath and have a serious, uninterrupted conversation.

The beach in Malibu was the place they chose. A long stretch of sand and the steady thump of waves breaking on the shore had always featured in their weightier discussions; and although California wasn't coastal Massachusetts, it would do in a pinch. Especially in the dark of early evening, when the lights spreading oceanside might be mistaken as emanating from weathered New England shingle cottages and not from modern hot tub-equipped decks.

“What do you say we swing by Darlessen's house?” Rosco suggested as they made a left from the P.C.H. onto Malibu Cove.

“We won't be able to go in, will we?” Belle asked. “What I mean is, Mawbry didn't give you a heads-up on investigating the place, did he? Or keys?”

“I only told him I'd
consider
his request, Belle. Nothing more. Meaning: No keys. The police will have cordoned off the bungalow, but no one's going to stop us from taking a stroll on the beach below it. And since this is L.A., maybe we'll pick up some vibes.”

“Sounds good to me—I think,” Belle answered, then she released a small and rueful chuckle. “The scene of the crime. What a charming place for a date.”

“Lucky we're already married.”

Belle chortled briefly again. “And that you're such a romantic guy.”

“Dude.”

“What?”

“Dude. That's what I am out here. From what I've been able to pick up from Jillian Mawbry and others, no male is simply a
guy
. He's gotta be ‘big guy.' Or he's a
dude
, a
hunk
, a
bod—”

“A
bod?
Dream on, honey lamb.”

“Thank you for your expression of support.”

“Don't mention it. Don't worry, if I had any problems with your
bod
, you would have heard about it a long time ago.”

This lighthearted moment ended abruptly as Chick Darlessen's and Debra Marcollo's home came into view. Yellow crime-scene tape festooned the cedar walls making the place look like a giant gift box wrapped in yard upon yard of a particularly garish ribbon. Rosco passed the house and parked farther along the sandy lane. Then he and Belle sat in silence before stepping onto the roadway.

“What a sad sight,” Belle murmured as Rosco's professional gaze began assessing entrances, exits, approaches, the proximity of neighbors, and Mawbry's account of why only Debra Marcollo's prints had been found on the murder weapon.

“A ‘reasonable doubt,'” he muttered under his breath, and Belle echoed the phrase. It was obvious that neither of them was comfortable with the present situation.

In the dim light, they instinctively reached their hands toward one another and they began moving toward the building where Chick Darlessen had been murdered. “I've got to tell you that I'm not at all happy about what you told me about this Jillian Mawbry character,” Belle finally admitted. “He sounds like he's simply out to make a name for himself.”

“You won't get any argument from me on that count.”

“Meaning you could be ‘consulting' on the part of the guilty person, Rosco. You'd be defending a murderer—”

“If she
did
kill Chick,” Rosco repsonded. “That's the question … because if she
didn't …”

Belle released a trouble sigh. “You've always been on the right side, Rosco. You've never willingly protected or abetted an unjust—”

“Right, but what if Debra's telling the truth, as Mawbry sort of seems to believe?”

“‘Sort of seems to believe?' I think you're proving my point … And, ‘I don't know why I did it,' sure sounds like a confession of homicide to me.”

“Which is what the police believe and the prosecution will likely hammer home. And it's the lifeguard's interpretation.”

Belle shook her head. “You heard the rumors that flew around the set yesterday, Rosco. Every one of them pointed to the fact that Debra had plenty of reasons to despise Chick.”

“Rumors and hearsay are not the same as conclusive evidence when it comes to homicide.”

“I realize that, but abused women often—”

“That story's circumstantial, Belle. Mawbry wasn't talking about an abusive situation.”

She swiftly countered. “It sounds to me as if he spent most of his time discussing himself and his own motives for wanting this case, and how badly he needs it to succeed.”

Rosco didn't respond for a moment.
“Succeed
was not one of Mawbry's words;
elongate
would be more like it. Look, I'm not suggesting Mawbry's an angel. In fact, I'd say he was more like a carrion bird, but I keep returning to this ‘reasonable doubt' thing—”

“Which he said is only a tactic to sway the jury.”

“That's right. That's what he told me … But he also alluded to the fact that he believed it to be a legitimate defense … Which brings me back full circle to the notion that Debra might be telling the truth.”

“I don't know, Rosco. ‘The gun … just went off' doesn't seem like a statement issued by an innocent person—”

“No, it doesn't … But our legal system is based on the premise of innocent until proven guilty, a point made by Mawbry.”

Again, neither spoke for several long minutes. Around them, the sand continued to cool while the waves, lit here and there by high-wattage deck illumination, glowed an eerie and veiny green as they rose into the night sky and then crashed down upon the shore.

“It sounds as if you've decided to accept Jillian Mawbry's offer,” Belle said at length, and Rosco's reply was equally slow in coming.

He shrugged. “Hey, you know me, I'm intrigued. I don't see how I can refuse.”

“By saying, ‘Thanks, but no thanks, Mr. Mawbry'?” Belle quipped before reverting to her serious mode. “Well, if Debra didn't kill her boyfriend, then who did?”

“I guess that's what I'm going to attempt to discover.” Rosco paused and looked up at Darlessen's dark and deserted house. “Unfortunately, if Debra
does
turn out to be the guilty party, then I'm stuck between a rock and a hard place.”

“What do you mean?”

“If I discover conclusive proof that Debra did kill Chick, I'll be under a confidentiality agreement, and therefore, unable to take what I've learned to the police.”

“Do you think that's what Mawbry has up his sleeve? He's only putting you on knowing you'd probably ask questions anyway? Do you think he's really trying to handcuff you? Trying to silence you?”

“I guess time will tell.”

CHAPTER 23

By Wednesday morning, a sense of a new beginning had been established for the cast and crew of
Anatomy of a Crossword
. Having managed to make it through all of Tuesday without a single accident, death, or similar calamity befalling them, the players showed up bright and early with relatively uplifted and buoyant attitudes. No one spoke any longer about a “jinxed set,” while Sara's performances of the previous two days had everyone wondering if the Nan DeDero “mishap” hadn't been a blessing in disguise: no more flubbed lines, no more temperamental outbursts, no more rude comments to “lowly” second assistant directors, no more sniping at the makeup women because of their own “tacky” hair styles and acrylic fingernails, and no more lengthy monologues consisting of every four letter word in the book. Even Lew Groslir had settled down and had opted to invite Belle and Rosco into his private studio office to present his version of an apology.

“I hope you're not upset with my little outburst on Monday,” he began, but as neither Belle nor Rosco responded with anything more than minuscule shrugs, he continued with a hurried and clearly rehearsed, “Of course, I was devastated by Chick's death, like everyone else—absolutely devastated. I guess that's why you might have considered my behavior somewhat … irrational. But that's the TV business.” He chuckled slightly. “The pressure can be astronomical. Only the strong survive, that's what I like to say.” Lew directed his next round of statements at Belle. “I'm sure you're feeling a lot of pressure as well, and I want to say that as far as I'm concerned, you're handling it wonderfully. You're very good at controlling your emotions, and I have yet to hear one negative thing about you. Not one. Believe it or not, people seem to like you.”

“That's reassuring,” Belle answered in a droll tone.

“I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'd like to see us all on a little friendlier turf from here on out. I think it'll make for a much smoother shoot.”

“I have to tell you, Lew,” Rosco said as his eyes narrowed, “that I'm one of those husbands who gets—in your words—‘somewhat irrational' when people fail to treat his wife with a certain amount of respect.”

“And am I ever with you on that point, Rosco! Absolutely. I have no patience with rude behavior. None whatsoever. That's why I'm happy to see our cast and crew getting along with Belle here. Hollywood can be a cruel place if the powers that be take it into their minds to go after you … Well then …” Lew slapped the palms of his hands on his thighs, glanced at his watch, and stood. “Now that we've gotten that little problem straightened out, I'm afraid I have a meeting in Burbank in half an hour. So I'll leave you two love birds to enjoy the rest of the day's shoot. Be sure to close the door when you leave.” Lew turned and walked out of the room.