“Maybe we should contact Gilbert’s lawyer first.”
“That would help. And, Al, you don’t have to tell Oscar Eberhart I fed you this one.”
“I’ll say it came to me in a dream,” Al laughed.
Remembering my invitation to Arnie Turnbolt I asked, “You free tomorrow night, Al?”
“I pulled a double, so I got twenty-four hours off. Why?”
“Drop in the Pelican and I’ll buy you a round. Might as well make it a party.
“I just might, pal. Thanks.”
Twenty-Six
“The girl is the victim,” Ursi said, handing me a glass of juice. “She came down here to elope with the man she loves and her mother followed her and tried to stop her. The stepfather has a girlfriend and he talked the daughter into the murder, but it was him who pulled the trigger. It’s all in the morning paper.”
Jamie, at table with his coffee, waved the headline in my face.
Gillian had officially plagiarized my early account of her plight.
Could I sue? “I think I’ll have your fruit cup, Ursi, coffee and rye toast.”
“That’s it?” she wondered.
“That’s it,” I said, determined to drop a few pounds before summer’s end. I was feeling the accumulated effects of yesterday’s pizza and last night’s roast beef extravaganza. Not wishing to rehash Sabrina’s murder over my dismal breakfast, I turned to Jamie. “What other news is there, Jamie?”
“They say Troy Appleton is about to announce his candidacy for the Senate,” Jamie read aloud.
“How nice,” I observed over my fruit cup.
“Harry Schuyler, who had a stroke, is on the mend and expected to go back to his summer place up north in a week.”
“More good news,” I said.
“Richard Cranston has been named our ambassador to the Court of St.
James,” Jamie rattled off.
“And his wife has a new hairdo,” Ursi got in. “Cut very short and layered close to the scalp. Very fetching, they say.”
Virginia Cranston will be reaching for a wig when she sees that photo of the accused in today’s paper.
I called Bianca from my office to tell her of father’s brilliant clarification of the late Mrs. Gilbert’s will.
“So I was right. He did it,” she gloated.
“Easy, Bianca. Easy. This just means the police now have a good reason to open the case. I’m sure they’ll want your testimony as they gather the facts.”
I’ll leave them a forwarding address,” she said.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“I’m moving, Archy. I’m going to Coconut Grove with Brandon. He says it’s wild down there, like Haight- Ashbury in the sixties.”
“Does Binky know this?”
“Sure. He’s taking me to the Pelican tonight for a farewell drink. Why don’t you come?”
“Oh, I’ll be there,” I told her, ‘and so will your other neighbor, Al Rogoff.”
“A party!” she said gaily. “My trailer will be up for grabs and Binky is giving Hermioni Rutherford your name as a potential tenant.”
Me, Binky, and Al Rogoff living in a row like cabbages? For this Binky Watrous deserved to die. Could I talk him into using his microwave oven for a hair dryer? Yes, that’s how I would do it.
“Why don’t you call your girl, Archy? I’d like to meet her before I go,” Bianca urged.
“She’s busy,” I said.
“Don’t worry. I won’t squeal on you.”
The girl was out of control. “Okay. Maybe she’s not busy.”
I must say we were a happy group that night at the Pelican. Of course Bianca berated Al Rogoff for not believing her, and Connie was on my case for not calling her back last Sunday. But that aside, we ordered our frozen daiquiris, martinis, beers, and one rum and Coke, happily concocted and served by Simon Pettibone, then bent our elbows in a toast to friendship.
The girls looked splendid in jeans and the guys summery in chinos, white ducks, and shorts. The shorts, I’m happy to say, were on Arnie Turnbolt, not Al Rogoff.
Binky, his bandaged fingers reduced to two Band-Aids, spoke of running down to Coconut Grove to check out the scene. Connie and Bianca seemed to hit it off and giggled a lot over very little. Arnie Turnbolt told us he’s dating Virginia Cranston’s hairdresser.
Priscilla, exotic in a black sheath that began well below her neck and ended well above her knees, joined the party between making her appointed rounds. And dear Jasmine Pettibone once again brought around a tray of shrimp for us to nibble on.
“Any news from California?” I asked Mrs. Pettibone.
“Nothing, Archy. Still not a word from my cousin and his daughter is frantic,” she told us.
“Sorry I never got around to checking out Henry Peavey,” Al apologized.
“But I will when I get back to work.”
“What’s this about Henry Peavey?” Arnie exclaimed.
We all stared at him. “You know who Henry Peavey is?” I asked.
“Of course I know who Henry Peavey is,” Arnie said. “Doesn’t everyone?”
Tell us,” Mrs. Pettibone begged. Tell us who he is.”
Mr. Pettibone paused in the midst of shaking a dry Manhattan, his hands frozen in midair. Priscilla pretended not to see a diner beckoning for her. Mrs. Pettibone put down her tray of shrimp. Al, Binky, Connie, Bianca, and I all circled around Arnie as he dramatically expounded:
“On the morning of February 2,1922, the Los Angeles police were summoned to 404 Alvarado Street, Bungalow B. There, they found two executives of Paramount Pictures burning papers in the fireplace, the film star Mabel Normand frantically searching through drawers, unidentified men simply milling around, one of whom had come with a case of bootleg gin and Hollywood’s most popular and talented director, William Desmond Taylor, dead on the living room floor with a bullet hole in his back.
“In the kitchen, Taylor’s valet, Henry Peavey, was washing dishes.”
