The Renewable Virgin (10 page)

‘What about those letters I had photocopied? Anything there?'

She sighed. ‘Not really, just a sort of side issue. Look—you can help. There's no way the Captain is going to let me sit in your attic for the next few months. You said you were going to give the summer over to reading Rudy's papers?'

‘Yes, that's what I plan to do.'

‘Then how about reading for anything specifically out of the ordinary? Help us out.'

‘But it's all fiction, Marian—television scripts, plot outlines, something the industry calls story treatments …'

‘I know. But maybe one of those plot outlines will tell you something. Or maybe a letter got misfiled. You never know. Will you do it? Will you watch for anything the least bit unusual?'

‘Well, of course I'll do it. It's just that I don't think anything will come of it.'

We left it at that. Friday had been a hectic day for me; I didn't even have a chance to read my mail until breakfast early Saturday morning before Marian's flight. Once again I had no premonition, no anticipation of disaster. The letter was from my publisher.

We have just learned that Walter Cullingham, Ltd., plans to publish Richard Ormsby's biography of Lord Lucan on October tenth, a month before we will be ready to release your
Life of Lucan
. Cullingham plans simultaneous British and American editions; and our source informs us that while the book is not quite in the coffee-table mode, it is lavishly illustrated and written in Ormsby's usual breezy style.

While Ormsby's book will undoubtedly cut into our immediate sales, we feel there is no long-range need for concern. We expect your
Life of Lucan
to be a steady seller over the years that will outlast the initial impact of Ormsby's version. We were surprised that no word of his work-in-progress had reached us; but we understand Ormsby had once planned a BBC television series about the Crimean War which he had to abandon as unfeasible. Then rather than waste the research he'd had done, he put together a hasty biography of one of the participants. The fact that Ormsby calls his book
Lord Look-on
should give us a fair indication of the profundity of his work.

These things happen, unfortunately. But let me repeat that we feel the long-range reception will be in our favor.

The next thing I knew I was on my knees on the floor fighting for breath. I heard Marian Larch's voice as from a great distance, demanding to know what was wrong. She forced me to lie on the sofa, although I didn't feel faint. It was just that
breathing
had suddenly become so difficult.

Some time evidently passed, because the next time I was fully aware of my surroundings, the Morrisseys were there; Marian must have called them. Drew stood around looking helpless, but Roberta was fussily taking over, apparently under the impression that lowering my body temperature was the thing to do: ice cubes on my wrists, cool wet wash cloths on the back of my neck. Oddly, it did seem to help.

I sat up and apologized for creating such a fuss. When they all wanted to know what had caused it, I just pointed to the letter I'd dropped on the floor.

The Morrisseys understood immediately. Marian Larch had some notion of what it meant; but not being a scholar herself, she couldn't quite appreciate the way fourteen years' work on my part had been neatly undercut by a pop historian whose specialty was providing simplistic explanations of complex matters. Through his use of television, Richard Ormsby had made his face and name familiar to people who hadn't looked at a history book since high school. How could I compete with that?

Drew, the eternal optimist, jumped on the one bright note in my publisher's letter. ‘He doesn't seem at all worried about the long-range sales, Fiona,' he said. ‘You and Ormsby won't be selling to the same market—he writes for the dabblers, the amateurs. Yours is the study that will become the standard—perhaps even the definitive work. In the long run you won't have anything to worry about.'

‘Drew,' I said, ‘I'm sixty-two years old. I may not be around for the long run.'

He didn't have anything to say to that.

Marian Larch missed her flight because of my little fit; that meant she had to stay over until Monday, as there were only two flights a day out of Washburn—one eastward, one west—and none on Sundays. She kept watching me the whole weekend, trying to get me to eat when I didn't want to eat, or talk when I wanted silence.

‘You just had an anxiety attack,' she said kindly. ‘Like a pressure valve letting off steam. It'll be all right.'

Anxiety attack
—a fancy name for getting news so shocking it literally takes your breath away.

Richard Ormsby was a youngish, blond, upper-class Englishman who was carefully articulate and consciously charming. He was one of those ‘popularizers' who have sprung up in just about every discipline lately. I'd watched him several times at the Morrisseys', always on BBC mini-series (horrid neologism). At first Ormsby had won cautious praise from historians for creating a new interest in a subject that usually evoked nothing but groans from the non-readers around us. But then it became clear that Ormsby was marketing
himself
, and even that faint praise disappeared.

He'd followed the usual procedure in such matters—first the TV series, then the book based on it. All ballyhooed by means of press interviews and frequent appearances on television and radio talk shows. Ormsby was more a media personality than a historian, but his efforts were well-funded. He did virtually none of his own research, hiring professionals rather than depend upon graduate students whose work would have to be checked. Both television series and book were then written up in a chatty, informal style that reduced momentous decisions and actions to one-dimensional matters that could be understood with a minimum of effort. My publisher had said that Ormsby's proposed series on the Crimean War hadn't worked out and rather than waste the research, he'd tossed off a book about Lord Lucan. I was certain the only reason he'd chosen Lucan was the lack of competition. In well over a hundred years no one had yet published a biography of the man; maybe Ormsby had heard about the woman in Ohio who'd just finished a study of Lucan's life, maybe he hadn't. Somehow I didn't think it would have made any difference.

You spend years learning and working toward a goal and doing your best to create something of quality—and some glib, pretty, young person comes along and with a laugh and a wave of his hand
dismisses your life
. And not only is he allowed to get away with it, he's rewarded for doing so. Richard Ormsby was everything I hated about contemporary life—the cheapening, cashing-in quality that polluted everything it touched.

Some of this I tried to explain to Marian Larch. There were rivalries in all fields, of course; but I could think of a lot of people I'd rather be in competition with instead of Richard Ormsby. I didn't doubt for one minute that mine was the superior book; but hustle and hype had invaded the study of history, and I could be hurt by it.

Marian caught the one eastbound flight Monday morning. Tuesday's mail brought another letter from my publisher, this one gently informing me that the History Book Club had decided to distribute Ormsby's book instead of mine.

CHAPTER 5

MARIAN LARCH

Captain Michaels had a standard way of dealing with lack of progress in a case, and that was to yell at people who couldn't yell back. The day after Fiona Benedict went back to Ohio, he let us have it with both barrels. He called in those of us assigned to the Rudy Benedict murder and gave us a dressing-down that I stopped listening to after the first ten seconds because it was so foolish. Abusive language wouldn't create new leads for us.

He ended with his usual unhelpful instruction:
Get out there and scrounge
. I did what I usually did in such instances—I swapped interviewees with another investigator. Ivan Malecki would go talk to Kelly Ingram while I gave Nathan Pinking a try. Ivan allowed as how he wouldn't mind too much.

Pinking had just got back from London and quickly let me know he was doing me a big favor by fitting me into his busy, busy schedule. We were in his office on West Fifty-fourth, a suite that was smaller than I'd expected. A framed photograph on his desk showed a woman and three teenaged girls. All four looked happy.

Pinking's file said he was fifty-one, but he looked a lot younger. I'd never seen the man before and his face startled me a little. It was the eyebrows you noticed first. The right one was straight and ordinary, just an eyebrow. But the left one was bushy and greatly arched. It made the eye under it look larger—no, the left eye
was
larger than the right. The nose also had that same kind of lopsidedness; the right nostril looked normal, the left one was fleshy and flared. Same difference in the two sides of the mouth. The left side of the upper lip lifted and seemed more curved than the right; the lower lip was full only on the left, and it drooped a little. Nathan Pinking had two halves of two perfectly good faces that just happened not to fit together. I resisted drawing conclusions about the proper Dr. Jekyll right side and the sensuous Mr. Hyde left.

‘I don't know what this is for,' Pinking said. ‘I've already told everything I know to that other detective, Ivan somebody.'

‘Ivan Malecki. Just a couple of questions, Mr. Pinking. How long had you been buying scripts from Rudy Benedict?'

‘Oh God, years.'

‘Can you be more precise?'

He looked annoyed, but jabbed a finger at the box on his desk. ‘Tansy, bring in Rudy Benedict's file.'

A voice said it would and I had to smile. ‘Tansy?'

Pinking grinned mechanically. ‘They're all called Tansy or Tawny or Silky these days.'

Or Kelly
. ‘Benedict was on the last year of his contract with you, is that right?'

‘Yeah, but I would have renewed. Benedict was a good reliable dialogue man.'

‘But would
he
have renewed? He was planning to write a play.'

He snorted. ‘Look, Detective, uh—'

‘Larch.'

‘Yeah, well, Benedict had been threatening to quit television and write for the stage almost as long as I knew him. Ten, twelve years. But it was all talk. He'd never have gone through with it.'

‘He'd started. Notes, some plot outlines.'

Pinking shook his head. ‘Security blanket. He was always making notes for things he never got around to writing.'

‘You sound as if you knew him pretty well.'

‘I did.'

Just then pretty blonde Tansy came in looking perplexed. ‘Mr. Pinking, the Rudy Benedict folder isn't in the filing cabinet.'

‘Bull. Look again.'

Tansy faded out of the room with a whispered
Yes, sir
and I said, ‘How long have you known Leonard Zoff, Mr. Pinking?'

His eyes narrowed. ‘Too long. Twenty-five years at least. Why do you ask?'

‘Did Zoff ever represent Rudy Benedict in his negotiations with you?'

‘Zoff doesn't handle writers. He's an actors' agent.'

‘Who was Benedict's agent?'

But Pinking had quickly had his fill of answering questions. ‘Funny thing—I forget. You'll have to see your friend Ivan for that. He asked the same question.'

Tansy came back in. ‘Mr. Pinking, the Rudy Benedict file just isn't there. And Mr. Cameron is here to see you.'

Pinking gave her a look that would have melted a steel girder. ‘You're just full of good news, aren't you? Tell Cameron to wait.' He waved her out. ‘Now look, Ms, uh, I don't know anything about Benedict's murder. I can't even think of a reason why anyone would want him dead. It was probably a mistake—that stuff must have been meant for Kelly Ingram. She's a much more logical target.'

I explained about the Lysco-Seltzer crystals in Rudy Benedict's sink and emphasized that Benedict was the ‘right' victim. ‘Why do you say Kelly is a more logical target?'

‘Because of who she is. A very sexy, very visible young woman about that far away from being a star.' He held thumb and forefinger a centimeter apart. ‘Women like that are natural magnets. It's a special quality they have.'

And men like Pinking were always there to cash in on that quality. ‘Still, the cyanide was not meant for her. It—'

I was interrupted by the door bursting open. An angry man I'd never seen before came shooting into the room as if fired from a slingshot. ‘Goddamn it, Pinking, I will not sit there cooling my heels awaiting your pleasure! You go too far. You—' He broke off, seeing me for the first time.

He was a lean, black-haired man in his forties with the strangest eyes I'd ever seen. The blue of the irises was so faint as to be virtually colorless, making him appear from a certain angle as if he had no irises at all. It gave him an outer-space look. Not spaced out—just other-worldly.

‘I'm sorry, Mr. Pinking, I couldn't keep him out,' came Tansy's faint voice. She was waved out again.

Pinking obviously wasn't going to introduce us so I said, ‘I'm Marian Larch, with the New York Detective Bureau.'

Pinking's laugh had a needling edge to it. ‘That's right, Cameron. I'm being grilled by the police.'

Good manners struggled with anger, and manners won. ‘Ted Cameron,' he said, offering a hand. ‘Sorry I burst in on you.'

I shook his hand and said, ‘That's all right, Mr. Cameron, I was about finished anyway.' Pinking had already made that clear. ‘Are you in television?'

‘I advertise on television.' He didn't sound particularly proud of it.

‘Cameron is
LeFever
's new sponsor,' Pinking said with a barely concealed smugness I didn't quite understand. ‘Or rather his company is. Cameron Enterprises.'

Oho, one of
those
Camerons. Sportswear, sporting goods, radios, other things I couldn't remember. Cosmetics. ‘Then this isn't your maiden voyage?'