Murder Misread (15 page)

But he’d have to have time
to talk with her, to find out what the trouble was. At the end of
the term he’d probably been distracted, inattentive. The worst
thing he could do right now would be to throw this hideous new
distraction into the mess. So he’d contented himself last night
with tucking his favorite snapshot of her under his pillow. A
foolish schoolboy move, maybe. He’d hoped he could soothe himself
to sleep with the idea of seeing her soon, reassuring her, savoring
that sweet silken body again. But his maverick mind kept cutting
back to uglier things: the gray tweed on the trail, Hines’s flat
questioning voice, Cindy’s taut little smile.

And now, awake at last, he
could see that the image in the mirror had nothing to do with Paul
Newman. Just ordinary Charlie Fielding, his doglike eyes weary and
anxious behind the bravado of his aviator glasses.

He went to the bedroom and
was opening his shirt drawer when the buzz of the doorbell sawed
through the silence. Freeze-frame: Charlie bent, hand stretched
toward the drawer. Then a rapid montage of last night’s fears
tumbling back in. The murderer? Was the murderer at the door?
Because Charlie Fielding, who knew too little, might guess too
much?

Dad, of course, would have
swaggered to the door cool as Bogart, could have stared down a
platoon. But Charlie didn’t get the right genes,
somehow.

Play to your strengths,
Coach Wilhelm had exhorted them. Dry-mouthed, Charlie ticked
through the possibilities. He could run out the back door to the
patio. But no, because then he’d have to pass the front of the
house to get to the street. Well, he could run through the kitchen
into the garage. Leap into the car, gun the motor, and escape that
way.

But to get from the
bedroom to the kitchen and garage, he’d have to cross the front
hall. And anyone standing at the door could see him through the
glass.

He could use a bedroom
window, crawl out through—

But it might not be the
killer. It might be Hines, and trying to escape would be the
dumbest thing he could do.

Charlie pulled his
terrycloth robe tighter and belted it, wishing it were a
bulletproof vest, a suit of armor, a Sherman tank. He pulled his
hockey stick from the back of his closet, licked his dry lips,
squared his shoulders, and swaggered quaking to the
door.

“
Maggie!”

“
Hi, Charlie. Want to join
me for breakfast? Or have you had some already?” She was wearing a
red shirt under a slouchy denim jacket, and her smile was a splash
of sunlight.

“
Breakfast? Uh, sure.” His
knees were wobbly with relief. He hung onto the doorknob as he
stepped back to let her in. “Uh, I mean no, I haven’t had
any.”

“
Fine. I thought I’d go to
Plato’s. They still serve breakfast, right?”

“
Yes. My assistant eats
there sometimes.”

“
My God, Charlie! What in
the world….” She had crossed the tiled entry hall and was staring
into the living room.

Charlie stood his hockey
stick in the corner, took a deep breath, and smoothed back his
hair. Would she like it? “Movie collectibles,” he
explained.

“
God,
it’s wonderful! Such memories!” She bounced toward the fireplace.
It was flanked by bookshelves crowded with lamps, lunch boxes,
dolls, autographed pictures, even a few books. On the walls above
the bookcases, he’d hung framed posters: a fifties
Superman
with George
Reeves, a more recent Clint Eastwood as Dirty Harry,
Rear Window
, and a
couple of smaller Chaplin lobby cards,
Limelight
and
The Kid
. Maggie, at the mantel,
looked over her shoulder at Charlie. “These are real
costumes?”

He’d hung a light blue
pinafore and a cream-colored shirt neatly above the fireplace.
Charlie nodded proudly. “Judy Garland wore the pinafore in
The Wizard of Oz
.”

“
God! That’s practically
sacred! And the shirt?”

“
One of
Valentino’s.
Son of the
Sheik
.”

“
Incredible!” On tiptoes,
she scrutinized the shirt. “Where do you find these wonderful
things?”

He shrugged. “Auction
houses. Ads in collecting periodicals. Place in New York called
Second Hand Rose.”

She moved along the
bookcase, grinning as she recognized each toy. “A batmobile! I love
it! And hey, you’re all set for the beach, aren’t you?” She
gestured at the inflated vinyl
Jaws
shark and at the bright sand pail featuring Snow
White and the seven dwarfs. “Oh, what’s this?”

“
A music box. Here, I’ll
wind it up for you.” He turned the little key carefully and set it
down again. Mickey and Minnie danced to the tinkling tune of “Yes,
Sir, That’s My Baby.”

Maggie laughed. “I’m going
to have to bring the kids to see all this! But I sent them off
early with Liz because I wanted to talk to you before we hit campus
this morning.” She glanced at him, the side lighting from the big
glass patio doors picking out the strong bones of her cheek and
jaw. “Hey, look, don’t let me hold you up. Why don’t you get
dressed and I’ll just browse around until you’re ready?”

“
Fine.”

Charlie hurried back into
the bedroom. Surprising woman, Maggie. He was pleased at her
reaction to his collection. Some people said, “God, you mean this
trash is worth money?” and proceeded to tell him about all the
childhood nightlights and lunch boxes they’d thrown out. Maggie
seemed to understand instinctively, like Lorraine, like Deanna. Of
course Maggie was married to an actor, that probably helped.
Charlie fished his left shoe from under the bed and decided he
would ask her about some of his ideas about Tal. She was sensible,
not close-mouthed like Sergeant Hines. He wished he knew what Hines
was thinking.

When he returned to the
living room Maggie was lounging in his leather recliner, thumbing
through a Laurel and Hardy book. The ankle of one long blue-jeaned
leg rested on her other knee, the book braced on her thigh. Her
bright smile flashed. “Two questions.”

“
Okay.” He shrugged into
the light jacket he was carrying.

She stood up and returned
the book to its place in one fluid motion. “I figured out what most
of the things are. But what’s the hat?”

He followed her finger. A
spiffy 1940s style fedora. He said, “Al Pacino’s hat from
The Godfather
.”

“
Amazing. Half of Nick’s
friends were extras in that. That was quite a movie.”

“
Yeah, I was glad to find
that hat. Should go up in value too. The costumes seem to climb the
fastest. That pinafore is worth hundreds already.” He met her blue
eyes. “You had another question?”

“
Yeah. All of this stuff
is connected with films.” She flapped a hand at the bookcases.
“Where are the films?”

He hesitated. They were
pirated for the most part, illegal, and he could never risk showing
her his secret collection. But she seemed sympathetic; he could let
her see the room. He said, “On sixteen millimeter, mostly. I’m
getting a good collection.” He jerked his thumb at the third
bedroom. “Do you want to see?”

“
Sure.” She followed him
eagerly. A floor-to-ceiling bookcase was filled in part with his
books on film and video, but for the most part with his pirated
films. A screen and a large television on a fireproof filing
cabinet faced a scuffed sofa. Hastily he picked up a sock from the
sofa and a couple of magazines from the floor and stowed them on
the shelves. Maggie said, “This is impressive.”

Charlie found himself
grinning with pride. “It’s not all on display.” He unlocked the
file cabinet and pulled a thick book from the top drawer. “This is
my inventory.”

“
God, you’re
well-organized.” She thumbed through it, then glanced around the
room, head cocked like a robin’s, looking at everything.

“
Yeah. When Lorraine moved
out I thought about getting a smaller place. Then I moved a TV in
here, and the rest gradually accumulated.” He locked the cabinet,
remembering. “This room used to be Lorraine’s office.”

“
Lorraine.”

“
My ex-wife. You wouldn’t
have known her. She teaches at Queens now.” He stepped back into
the hall and switched off the light as she followed. “She picked
out this house. Liked the patio. But it’s pretty comfortable for a
bachelor too.”

“
Yeah. Nice place. Hey,
I’m starving! Let’s go eat, okay?”

He followed her black
Camaro into the valley and up the next hill. College Avenue was
near the top. She swerved suddenly onto a side street and parked.
There was a second available slot a few spaces up. They got out and
walked the half-block to Plato’s.

George Zikakis spotted
Charlie and lumbered over to meet him, his round mustached face set
in lines of sorrow. “Terrible, terrible!” he exclaimed. “I can’t
believe it! Tal Chandler… he was like a brother, that man! A
brother!”

“
Yes. Yes, he was.”
Charlie allowed his shoulders to be clapped in hearty
commiseration. Then he said, “Maggie, this is George Zikakis. Owner
of Plato’s. This is Maggie Ryan. She’s here to work with me this
summer.”

George pumped Maggie’s
hand. “Good, good! But I’m sorry you came at such a sad time.” He
waved them into a booth and beckoned a waitress.

“
You were a friend of
Tal’s too?” Maggie asked.

“
Of course! He came here
often. Always with a happy story. Or a compliment for old George’s
cooking.” He thumped his ample chest. “And my heart aches. A fine
man! It’s the drugs, you know,” he added darkly. “These young
people, they’re crazy on drugs. I tell the police to lock them up.
It’s illegal, right? But they say they have to wait until they
commit a crime. And then you see, they can’t find them! A fine man
like Tal… and all they do is come in here, ask questions! Who did
you see, what did you see, was there anything unusual?” He took the
mugs of coffee from the waitress’s tray and placed them in front of
Charlie and Maggie. “But the problem is, it’s not unusual! Crime is
usual now! I told the police, even here we aren’t safe! A fine man
like Professor Chandler… terrible!”

“
So none of you saw
anything odd?” asked Maggie.

“
Nothing. I was in the
kitchen, you know, didn’t even see Charlie here come in yesterday.
In the kitchen it’s very busy. Sometimes I look out the window.
Yesterday was a pretty day. But I didn’t see anything unusual. You
want pancakes? Eggs?”

“
Scrambled,” said Maggie.
“With extra toast and a large orange juice.”

“
I’ll have the same.”
Charlie nodded. The coffee was hot and strong, George’s
pride.

“
Good appetites,” said
George approvingly.

“
Good food here,” replied
Maggie. He beamed. She added, “So about yesterday, no one on the
street saw anything unusual? Anyone hurrying?”

“
Nothing. Only Jack at the
shoe store across the street, he saw that lady professor running.
He noticed because she was in a suit, not jogging
clothes.”

“
Nora
Peterson?”

“
Yes, that one. And then a
few minutes later Jack heard the shouts, that girl who found him.
And Jack said some stranger flew out of the door here and went to
help her.”

“
That was Maggie,” said
Charlie.

“
You? It was you? I’m glad
to meet you!” said George. “In that case you know what happened
next.” He tapped his pad. “So maybe the old fat Greek should go
scramble some eggs, eh? Maybe he should stop gossiping?”

“
We all want to find out
what happened to Tal Chandler,” Maggie said.

“
Yes. A wonderful,
wonderful man.” Shaking his head lugubriously, George shuffled back
to the kitchen.

Maggie drank some coffee
and said, “So Nora running was unusual.”

“
Maybe. But that’s what we
all do when we think we’re late, right?” Charlie observed. “I was
running myself, yesterday morning.”

“
You sure were!” Maggie
grinned, then sobered. “Have you been thinking about what enemies
Tal might have had? Or you?”

“
Hard to think about
anything else.” Charlie picked up his mug of coffee and discovered
that he’d drunk it already. “But I can’t really pin down anything
definite. Two general possibilities. It could have been—but I
shouldn’t make accusations.”

“
Right, we’re just
thinking aloud. General possibilities.”

“
Yes. Well, it could have
been his wife.”

“
Mm. Any special reason
you say that?”

“
Just… well, there are
family conflicts sometimes.” Aunt Babs crying. Dad, stiff with
disgust, walking out the door. Nine-year-old Charlie sobbing,
“Wait, wait!”

“
True,” said Maggie,
watching him. “Did you know of any problems between Tal and
Anne?”

He pulled his thoughts
back to the present. “No. But it’s hard to know people really well.
And I was thinking that she could have been there earlier than we
saw her.”