Anatomy of a Crossword (24 page)

“I never heard that term before,” Harriet admitted. Her tone indicated a good deal of surprise.

“I'm considering entitling the story
‘Exercise Your Hippocampus: Use It or Lose It.'”

“Hippocampus,”
Harriet repeated. “There's a new one on me, too.”

Belle decided that “Gale” was out of the woods. “You mentioned Bartann Welner when I was here before.”

“But you must already know all about him, dearie. With your prior research on word games and everything.”

No
, Belle realized,
Gale's not in the clear yet
. “I'd like to hear his story from you, Harriet, as the most regular of the regulars at
Down & Across
.”

“Am I going to be in your article, too?”

Belle smiled. “Of course, if you wish to be. Or I can always cite you as one who spoke on condition of anonymity.”

“Well, I don't know … Sometimes, fame has a funny way of courting disaster, doesn't it? Just look at what happened to poor Bart … Not that his death could be connected to being a Grand-Slam Winner, despite my little jest about Stan McKenet doing him in … Still, it does give you pause.”

Belle was silent a moment. “I hope you're not seriously suggesting that Bartann Welner might have met with foul play?”

Harriet's brow creased. “Now, that's just an awful notion. I hadn't considered it seriously before. That would make two in one family—”

“Two?” Belle asked.

“Why, his nephew, Chick Darlessen. You must have read about it in the newspapers after you got here. It happened Sunday. His live-in girlfriend shot him, in a beach house in Malibu.”

Belle's surprise at this revelation was so great that she could hardly keep her voice steady. “Chick Darlessen was Bartann Welner's nephew?”

Harriet nodded, then tapped Belle's arm again. “The relationship wasn't mentioned in the obits.” The old lady's frown deepened. “… Come to think of it, Gale, you probably know all about the film Chick was working on, on account of it being based on a true murder that was solved by clues planted in a crossword. I heard that famous puzzle gal is involved—”

“Yes,” Belle interrupted. “I'll be visiting that set later this week.”

Harriet studied her companion; her stare was disconcertingly probing. Belle felt it was time to add to her already gargantuan fib. “Due to the homicide, my editor and I had difficulties arranging interviews. Needless to say, the cast and crew were completely thrown off schedule by the tragedy … And, yes, I've been aware of the film's story line for some time. In fact, it was the coincidence of crosswords being featured in both a movie of the week and a game show that prompted my assignment. Crosswords and those devoted to them are obviously ‘hot' all of a sudden.”

Harriet continued to stare at Belle, who, in turn, continued to warn herself that the journalist “Gale Harmble” would be a complete professional during her various interviews, of which this was surely one. Belle pasted on what she hoped looked like a newsperson's encouraging but practical smile. “Does the name ‘Wanda' mean anything to you, Harriet?”

“You mean Wanda Jorcrof?”

“Yes,” Belle lied.

Harriet sighed. “That's just who Rolly Hoddal was jawing about when you came in. He claims—” Then the words abruptly ceased, and her lips pinched together in a sad and worried line.

“‘He claims'?” Belle prompted, increasing the ‘trust-me' wattage in her wholesome face.

“I told you Rolly's into drugs, and whatever else he can find at a given moment. I've learned not to pay attention to his rantings. Wanda was a contestant on the show. A good contestant, too.”

A noisy commotion at the back of the studio indicated that Gerry Orso was about to begin his promenade through the audience. Belle took an inward breath, and plunged ahead before she lost her momentum. “What about a Max? What can you tell me about him?”

Harriet's eyes narrowed. “Max?” she repeated.

“That's right. My sources tell me there was a Max who also appeared on the show—”

“I never heard of any Max,” Harriet insisted. Then she turned away and began hollering Gerry Orso's name.

CHAPTER 28

The worst traffic in the world is in Boston, right?
Rosco thought, then let out a aggrieved chuckle and shook his head as he reconsidered that foolhardy notion.
How could I have been so naive? Boston worse than L.A., or midtown Manhattan at lunch hour, or any “shore” location on a sunny summer weekend? Heck, I might as well have said the outskirts of Newcastle have serious “vehicular issues
.” He stared at the 110 Freeway's five lanes of traffic. The morning rush had the cars lined up bumper to bumper like a parking lot at a World Series game. And not one of the vehicles had moved from their resting spot for the past eleven minutes, but who was counting?
I mean, what's the point of renting a Mustang?
he continued to grouse.
I could be moving faster on a tricycle
—
a rusted tricycle without tires
.

Rosco's intention, after completing his interview with Debra Marcollo, had been to take the 110 to the number 10 Freeway and be at the studio in Culver City by 9:30, well before Belle arrived with Sara.
Well, fat chance. Forget it. The hour had come and gone a lot longer than eleven minutes ago
.

While Rosco balefully studied the semis, pickups, SUVs, luxury sedans, low-riders, and ordinary four-wheels-as-simple-transportation within his field of vision, he reflected on the Marcollo visit. He'd spent nearly an hour with her in the Los Angeles County Jail on Bauchet Street, and although their conversation hadn't shed much new light on who might have killed Chick Darlessen, Rosco was surprised at how calm and reasonable she'd appeared. Jillian Mawbry had painted her as potentially problematic, but Rosco's impression had been quite different. Perhaps three days in the cooler had given her time to reflect on things, or at least to get her act together.

Naturally, like everyone else incarcerated in the L.A. County Jail, she'd insisted she was innocent of all charges, and did a credible job of maintaining that the off-duty lifeguard had completely misinterpreted her when she'd sobbed, “I don't know why I did it.” She'd also stated that the Malibu police had browbeaten her into making other remarks she hadn't intended—or that had then been taken out of context. Finally, she'd proceeded to run down a list of folks who'd had strained relationships with Darlessen: from Lance diRusa, her ex-boyfriend to Dan Millray, of all people. No one had been left out of the act.

Debra had also insisted—vehemently—that she'd been sound asleep when Chick had been killed, and that it was only the explosion of gunshots that had awakened her. She'd explained that Chick had deserted her for some of his Pacific Palisades buddies, and that in his absence, she'd polished off a bottle of wine, “maybe a little more”, then locked herself in the bungalow's single bedroom where she'd fallen into a self-pitying and irate slumber. When the noise had assailed her troubled dreams, she hadn't been able to identify it at first. Then she'd grabbed her robe, rushed into Chick's office where she'd seen him lying in a pool of blood with the gun resting on the desk. Her only thought had been to escape from a murderer who she'd assumed was still lurking somewhere in the house. Debra had further described an incident with a prowler a few days earlier, which had been the motive for Chick supplying some rudimentary target practice, thus establishing her fingerprints on the pistol.

A lot of the tale sounded awfully convenient to Rosco, but all in all, he was inclined to believe Debra's story. For that reason alone, he considered his visit to the county jail to be worthwhile. But what seemed to clinch her protestation of innocence was this: Debra had maintained that Darlessen had opened a brand-new box of .38 caliber shells when he'd taken her down to the ocean for their practice session. He'd fired off a full cylinder and so had Debra, twelve rounds in all. The police report stated that five bullets had been retrieved from Chick's body, and one from the wall of his office, bringing the count to eighteen—which should have left another eighteen shells remaining in the box of thirty-six. However, the report also indicated that the forensic team found only twelve shells in the box. So if Debra was telling the truth about how much ammunition had been expended into the Malibu surf, then six .38 caliber shells were missing, a number that just happened to coincide with the amount found in Andy Hofren's prop gun.

A man in a large Mercedes-Benz, directly behind the Mustang, began leaning on the car's horn. The shrill noise cut into Rosco's eardrums and brought his mind leapfrogging back to the here and now. The traffic remained at a dead stop, and the piercing sound of the horn was having less than no effect on improving traffic flow. Surprise, surprise. However that didn't keep Mr. Impatient from continuing to express his dissatisfaction with the fact that life wasn't treating him with the appropriate deference and homage he expected, given the sticker price of his automobile.

Rosco stepped from the Mustang and walked back to the Mercedes.

“Would you mind not doing that? You're giving me a headache.”

“You tell him, Pancho!” a squat and broad-shouldered man in a nearby Toyota shouted, and then laughed. “Give 'im hell!”

The Mercedes' driver reached under his seat and pulled out a .357 Magnum. It was a huge gun. “You want a headache? I'll give you a headache. Get back in that piece of junk Ford, you jerk.”

Instinctively, Rosco raised his hands and took a couple of steps backward while a tall Hispanic man stepped from a pickup truck directly behind the Mercedes and ambled toward the open window. He noticed the driver was pointing a pistol at Rosco, so he eased his grass-stained canvas work vest away from his hip to reveal his own revolver and a gold LAPD detective's shield.

“Give me the gun, sir,” the officer said in a tone that sounded as if he'd been weaned on the original
Dragnet
.

The man in the Mercedes began to stutter. “Hey … I mean … I mean … a man's … got a right to protect himself, right? I paid for this gun. It's mine.”

“Give me the gun, sir.”

“But … I …”

“Give me the gun, sir.”

“He started it.”

“Give me the gun, sir.”

Rosco noted that the detective's inflection never varied. Nor did his stance. If the man decided on a sideline as an actor, each of his “takes” would have made a production's continuity department smile with relief.

The driver of the Mercedes swore under his breath, and reluctantly handed the .357 to the detective, who then looked at Rosco and said, “The traffic's beginning to move up ahead, sir. Please return to your vehicle. And please, sir, don't step out of a car on the freeway again.” Following that stentorian directive, the detective refocused on the owner of the Mercedes and .357 Magnum. “Driver's license and registration, please, sir.”

“Hey, a man's got a right to protect himself,” he insisted as he handed over the documents. “That clown in the Mustang came after me. Didn't you hear his accent? He doesn't even live here. I'll bet that car's a rental. I got a right to protect myself. I own that gun. It's mine.”

“When the traffic eases, sir, please pull your vehicle to the side of the highway … And please have your pistol permit ready for inspection.”

“What? What are you talking about? What permit? You can't do this to me, you lousy—” He pulled out his cell phone. “I'm calling my lawyer.”

“Just pull your vehicle off to the side of the highway, sir.”

Rosco returned to the Mustang as the car in front of him began inching forward. When the congestion magically cleared, and he picked up speed, he could see Mr. Impatient in the mirror desperately punching numbers into his cell phone while steering his car to the side of the road. The sight brought a quick grin to Rosco's face. Being stuck in traffic definitely had its pluses on occasion.

The remainder of the ride to Culver City proved uneventful, and he pulled into the studio a little bit after 10:30. Sara and Belle had arrived forty-five minutes earlier.

“We were beginning to worry about you,” Belle said. “Sara's already in make-up having her hair done, and Lew Groslir wants to have a word with us in his office.”

“What's it all about this time?”

“One way to find out.”

Don Schruko informed them that they wouldn't be “rolling film” on Sara for another fifteen minutes, so Belle and Rosco headed toward Lew's office, Rosco using the time to bring his wife up to speed on what he'd learned from Debra Marcollo.

Belle's response was a laconic, “That's quite a list of suspects she supplied … But at least we know Bart Welner didn't shoot his nephew. Dead people seldom commit murder nowadays.”

“Lucky thing.”

“Isn't it, though?”

During their conversation, Belle made no further reference to the previous evening's encounter with Harriet Tammalong as Rosco's reply to the Rolly Hoddal/Wanda Jorcrof information had been an expected, but no less irritating, “This is homicide we're dealing with, Belle. People who take it into their heads to kill other folks aren't always as nice or honest as they seem.”
How could anyone respond to a fatuous observation like that? Belle thought. On the other hand, it was a point well worth remembering
.

“Wow, that was some scare, yesterday,” Lew announced the moment the couple was seated in front of his desk. “Thank heavens Schruko kept it under his hat until Dean finished his takes. Otherwise, everyone would have freaked out.”

“You're talking about the real bullets?” Rosco said in a tone that was half-question, half-statement.

“Yeah. That could have been a real disaster. And listen,” Lew pointed a finger and wagged it meaningfully between Belle and Rosco, “let's keep this little dust-up between the three of us—and Ivald and Schruko, of course. It won't help morale if the entire set learns about it.”