Damn, there were a lot of bodies.
Three publishers stayed in on the final bidding. And in case you’re wondering, the answer is yes, the answer man
was
worth more than Colin Powell. Of course, there were some legal hurdles to jump. Technically, those five chapters weren’t mine to sell. They belonged to Tuttle’s estate—his mother in Pennsylvania, where his body was being sent for burial. And then there was the Son of Sam law, which says that no one who has been found guilty of a crime may be allowed to profit from that crime. This one was a bit thornier, since Tuttle had never actually been convicted or even so much as charged with any of the killings. One publisher’s lawyer was even floating the theory that the Son of Sam law didn’t apply here. Not that any publisher would care to test this particular theory out by getting sued by the victims’ families. Me neither. I hate going to court. I never know what to wear, and no one ever smiles. Still, these hurdles could be and would be cleared, given enough lawyers and money. And there was no shortage of either of those. There would be a book. A major movie, too. I could even write the screenplay if I chose to. The money was huge. All of it was huge.
The trouble was, I wasn’t sure if I wanted any of it. I was deeply torn. Part of me wanted to get Tuttle’s sorry life story down on paper myself, and get it right. Part of me wanted to turn my back on the whole goddamned thing. Because I didn’t want to live with it any longer. And because, to be honest, I still hadn’t figured out what it all meant. What the so-called moral of this twisted and violent story was. Or if there even was a moral.
So I let the faxes from my agent pile up on my dresser. Didn’t respond to them. Just brooded, which happens to be one of the things I’m best at.
“Maybe I should bail out, Merilee,” I said as I lolled in the tub with my martini, Lulu sprawled mournfully on the tile floor next to me. She still had not gotten over Cassandra’s death. Wouldn’t eat. Wouldn’t even touch Pam’s kippers and eggs, which for Lulu is akin to the Reverend Al Sharpton walking away from a live microphone. “Maybe I should just forget it.”
“Maybe you should at that, darling.”
She was in the bedroom, dressing for dinner. A rare evening off—her director was in the hospital passing a kidney stone, news of which had prompted her to remark, “There is a God.” Opening night of
Wait Until Dark
had been pushed back a week.
“Then again,” I said, “maybe I won’t be able to forget it. If only I hadn’t waited. If only I’d turned him in right away. Cassandra would still be alive. He’d still be alive.…”
“I want you to stop that this instant, mister,” Merilee commanded me, padding into the bathroom in her stockings and white silk camisole. She was searching for her hairbrush. She was always searching for her hairbrush. “You cannot blame yourself for what Tuttle Cash did.”
“Easier said than done, Merilee. I was involved. I was his accomplice. He made me into his accomplice.”
She stood there in the doorway studying me, her golden hair a mass of tangles. “Hate him for it, darling?”
“I don’t love him for it, that’s for damned sure. And now he’s bailed out and left me here to live with the consequences of what he did.”
“Tuttle Cash was not a nice man, darling. You must have figured that out by now.”
I said nothing, just lay there in the hot water feeling limp.
She settled on a comb and went to work with it there in the mirror. “If it’s all of that money that’s bothering you …
“The money’s no problem. I can set up a fund for the families of the victims. No, the money’s the easy part.” I took a sip of my martini. “Possibly it was the roar of the crowd, Merilee.”
“The roar of the crowd, darling?”
“Possibly he missed it so much he’d do
anything
to get it back. Even try to walk on water. Maybe that explains it.” I was silent a moment. “What am I saying? Nothing explains it. Nothing explains why anyone would do anything that sick.”
Merilee lingered there, watching me in the mirror. “I phoned Tansy this afternoon.”
“So did I. She wouldn’t take my call.”
“She took mine.”
“Really?” I glanced up at her. “How did she sound?”
“Hollow and empty, poor thing. I invited her to dinner. She said dinner would be very difficult right now. I do wish there was something we could do for her.”
“I’m afraid she’ll have to do that for herself, Merilee.” I pulled the plug in the tub and climbed out. She handed me a towel. “He wasn’t out of her life. Not really. So there’s a great big empty space there now. It’s up to her to figure out how to fill it. Her and Malachi both.” I was surprised at just how low a profile Malachi had been keeping the past couple of days. He’d shuttered the restaurant, given no interviews. Wouldn’t return my phone calls. I wondered how he was doing.
There was a tap at the bedroom door. Merilee went and opened it.
It was Pam. “Are we decent?”
“Not if we can help it,” I answered, climbing into my shawl-collared silk dressing gown.
“Yes, yes, dear boy. Now then, I was wondering …” She stopped herself, her cheeks flushing a rosy shade of pink. “That is,
we
were wondering—Victor and I—if it might be convenient for the two of us to drive out to the farm tomorrow. Begin making those
arrangements
of which we spoke.”
“Arrangements? What arrangements.”
“I’ve offered them the farm, darling,” Merilee explained. “They’re getting married there.”
“Ah. Excellent idea.”
“Isn’t it, though?” Pam agreed breathlessly. “It’s so romantic there over the holidays.”
“Tomorrow will be fine, Pam,” Merilee told her. “The three of us will join you as soon as we can.”
“Oh, good, good,” she exclaimed, fluttering girlishly. “We’ll, ah, leave first thing in the morning. Dinner will be ready shortly. I assume that will be satisfactory?”
“That will be perfect,” Merilee said.
And with that Pam headed off. I dressed—the navy-blue suit, white broadcloth shirt, red and yellow silk polka-dot bow tie. Merilee already was. Dressed, that is. That silk camisole she’d been modeling was in fact an evening dress. This all became splendidly and erotically clear the second she stepped into her three-inch heels. Which, by the way, did her long shapely calves no harm.
“What do we think of this rather surprising romantic development?” I asked, working on my bow tie in the mirror over the dresser.
“It’s not in the least bit surprising, darling.” Now she was pawing through her jewelry box for her diamond earrings. “They enjoy each other’s company. They’re comfortable with each other. I, for one, am thrilled that it has blossomed into something more.”
“Their age difference doesn’t bother you?”
“Don’t be so Bumsteadian, darling. Cheese Louise.”
“I’ve been missing your quaint little expressions.”
“Evidently that’s not all you’ve been missing,” she said tartly, nudging me out of the mirror so she could put her earrings on.
I nudged her back. “How is it you knew this was going on and I didn’t?”
“Because I’m a woman. Women
sense
things.”
“Things? What things?”
“Feelings, of course. Men don’t. You’re too busy clomping around the house—”
“I do not clomp. I stride purposefully.”
“—Thinking about how wonderful you are. Frankly, darling, it was as plain as the nose on your face. Or at least the nose on mine.” She stood shoulder to shoulder with me in the mirror, examining hers critically. “Is mine getting larger as my face sags or is that just my imagination?”
“Maybe we should invite her out, Merilee.”
“Invite who out, darling?”
“Tansy. For the holidays. It might be good for her to get away for a few days. And I need to talk to her about this book. I won’t do it if she’s against it. I want her to be comfortable with the idea.”
“That’s an excellent idea, darling. She won’t come, but I’ll try. I’ll call her in the morning.”
The doorbell rang now. I heard footsteps. Clomping, if you must know. Followed by a knock at the bedroom door.
“It’s Inspector Feldman and Lieutenant Very, Hoag,” Vic called to me.
“Turn on the lights in the living room, Vic. I’ll be right there.”
Merilee joined me. Lulu did not. Merely moved from the bathroom floor to the bed, whimpering softly. Possibly a dose of cod liver oil was in order.
Merilee and Romaine Very were old friends by now. The lieutenant got a kiss on the cheek, not to mention some highly tactful words about his haircut. As for the Human Hemorrhoid, he got the full star treatment. First the dazzling smile. Then the firm handshake. Then the modest, the just-plain-folks: “Hi, I’m Merilee.”
As if he wouldn’t know. The poor man was pie-eyed and speechless. Her outfit certainly didn’t hurt. “A fan,” he was finally able to croak. “I’m a huge one.”
“Why, thank you, Inspector,” she said graciously, folding herself and her long, silken legs onto the leather settee. “I do hope you’ll come see my new show. Bring a friend. Bring the whole department.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” he assured her. He was regaining his cool. The shooting and smoothing thing was happening. Shooting and smoothing. Shooting and smoothing …
We sat, neither Feldman nor Very so much as noticing me there on the settee next to Merilee. I was used to this. It happens whenever I go anywhere with Merilee. Especially when she’s three-fourths naked.
“May I offer you gentlemen a martini?” I said. Merilee and I were still working our way through our pitcher.
“A scotch would go down pretty good,” said Feldman.
“I heard that,” Very chimed in.
I poured them each two fingers of the Singleton. We drank, the smell of Pam’s braised pork tenderloin with fresh sage wafting toward us from the kitchen.
“We turned up the typewriter, dude,” Very announced into his glass.
“Where was it, Lieutenant?”
“His place,” Feldman answered sharply. “Where else?”
“I had assumed … I thought you searched his place right away.”
“Oh, we searched it, all right.” Feldman’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. “Same day the Cassandra Dee killing went down. We went over it fiber by fiber. Came up empty. No typewriter on the premises.”
Merilee and I exchanged a confused look. I said, “I’m afraid I don’t understand. Where did you—?”
“Typewriter wasn’t
in
the house,” Very explained. “It was in that woodshed out in the garden.”
“We missed it first time around,” Feldman said, biting the words off angrily.
I guess I knew how the man felt. I had missed it, too. Hadn’t even thought to look out in the woodshed when I searched the place. True, I’m an amateur, but why split hairs? It made sense—that part did, anyway. “What I can’t figure out is where he wrote it. The last chapter, I mean.”
Now it was Very and Feldman who exchanged a look.
“What are you talking about, dude?”
“He killed Cassandra at about three in the afternoon. He stole Luz’s car at around eight for that final drive to Cambridge. That means he must have written it some time in between, right?”
“Right …” Feldman said doubtfully.
“Where did he write it? He didn’t go home. He didn’t go to the restaurant. He couldn’t have—you were watching both places.”
“What about Luz’s place?” Merilee wondered.
“She says no,” Very replied.
“She could be lying,” Feldman said.
“She could be,” I conceded. “Only
how
did he write it? He only had a few short hours. I’m a professional writer, gentlemen. I couldn’t have banged out something that good that fast. Especially under such extreme circumstances. Plus it’s so clean. Not so much as a single typo. And here’s another question: Say he did write it before he drove to Cambridge—”
“He
did,”
Feldman interrupted. “That’s a fact.”
“Okay, then how did he get the typewriter back in the woodshed?” I asked. “You were watching the place. You had men stationed there. How did he do it?”
Very and Feldman both froze. This hadn’t occurred to them.
“Dig, there must be a simple explanation.” Very tugged at his little tuft of beard. “If we trip on it a minute, I’m sure it’ll come to us.”
“Aw, Christ,” Feldman said disgustedly. “Here you two pineapples go again, circling over this thing in your helicopter. Pay attention to the facts, will you? The man’s dead. The man won’t kill anymore. The man won’t—”
“Wait, I know what he did!” Merilee broke in excitedly. “He had already written it—
before
he killed Cassandra. It’s all a work of fiction. None of it actually happened the way he described it.”
“That’s a promising theory, Miss Nash.” Feldman spoke politely, trying not to stare at her legs. “Only it did go down the way he described it. Cassandra Dee
was
in Bergdorf that day. Sales clerk in the Prada boutique, salty old broad named Madelyn Horowitz, recognized her right off, even with her hair tied back. Lots of the ladies did. One of them even asked her for her autograph.”
“What time was this?” I asked.
“Noon, maybe,” he replied.
“Did she spot Tuttle, too?” I asked.
“That’s a negative. He must have hit on her out front when she came out.”
Very said, “Except, he distinctly mentions seeing her in a designer boutique with only one name. How would the man know that unless he was inside?”
“It’s tres chic to go by one name these days, Lieutenant,” Merilee said. “There’s Prada. There’s Fendi, Kenzo, Krizia …”
“Safe guess on his part, in other words.” Feldman took a sip of his scotch. “I figure he was playing with her. Pretending to give himself up to her. And she played right along.”
“If only she’d called us,” Very said glumly. “She’d still be alive if she’d called us.”
I said, “She was picturing banner headlines, Lieutenant. Not herself dead. No reporter thinks that way. Not if they’re any good.” I stared down into my empty glass. “Odd how Tuttle didn’t say good-bye, don’t you think? Here he was, hours from his own suicide, yet there’s nothing in his final chapter reflecting that. Or in his letter. It’s all very upbeat and enthusiastic. Not so much as a hint that he was about to blow his brains out.”