“Frederick Mooney.”
“I’d love to see it someday.”
“Gerry Littleford. His wife, Stella. Sy Koller. Edith Howell. The Australian director, Geoffrey McKensie.”
“John Meade?”
“He’s in and out. He’ll be back tonight.”
“Didn’t you just love him in
“Anyone else?”
“Me.”
“I wouldn’t forget you, earwig.”
“Seeing you’re being so reasonable, Chief, would you mind telling me a few things?”
“If I can. Will I see it on Global Cable News?”
“Not if you don’t want.”
“Your loyalties have their priorities, right, Fletcher?”
“What has shown up, so far, on the tapes and films of the murder?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Absolutely nothing. We’ve been up looking at them all night, over and over. Absolutely nothing.”
“That’s impossible.”
“The murder might as well have taken place in an alley in the dark of night, for all the good all those cameras have done us so far. We’re having experts come in to look at the films. Did you know there were experts to look at film? I didn’t.”
“And probably experts at choosing those experts.”
“That’s true.”
“Wouldn’t Sy Koller and Geoff McKensie be able to help? They must be expert at looking at film.”
“Great. Two of our prime suspects you want called in as experts. Peterman fired McKensie, you know.”
“And Koller?”
“Three years ago Sy Koller and Steve Peterman had a fist fight outside a Los Angeles restaurant. Koller had Peterman on the sidewalk and was strangling him when the police arrived. Peterman did not press charges.”
“Everybody loved Peterman. For sure. What were they fighting about?”
“A woman, they said.”
“By the way, Koller says Peterman and Dan Buckley knew each other. That there was some tension between them.”
“You see? You have the makings of a good earwig. Buckley was losing money in some investment Peterman had gotten him into.”
“A lot of money?”
“How do I know what’s a lot of money to these people? I live in a yellow bungalow six miles from the beach.”
“Okay. Point two. This morning Sy Roller said the set for
“We’ve thought of it.”
“I mean, isn’t that the way stages work? The stage set itself creates the illusion. Anything can be built into it. Anything can be made to happen.”
“We’ve looked.”
“The fact that nothing shows up on the tapes and films so far sort of substantiates his theory, doesn’t it? I mean, this thing would have to be rigged by someone who knew where the cameras would be.”
“It’s a good theory.”
“And Roller points out really the only person who would have the time, the expert knowledge, enough control over the set to rig such a thing would be Dan Buckley himself.”
“You notice something?”
“What?”
“Koller seems very anxious to pin Dan Buckley.”
“Maybe so. But maybe he’s right.”
“Last night and again this morning we went over that set millimeter by millimeter.”
“Come on, Chief. What does your average cop know about stage sets? Your average citizen can be fooled by an eight-year-old magician wearing French cuffs.”
“Which is why we have three set designers flying down from New York.”
“Experts.”
“More experts. This case is going to wreck our budget for this year, and next. Of course, having to call Key West long distance doesn’t help the budget any, either.”
“You have film experts coming in and stage set experts.”
“We have.”
“You know what this means…”
“It means property taxes will have to go up in this district. Because a bunch of rich film people visited us, and one of them got murdered.”
“If you need theater experts to solve this crime, then it means this crime must have been committed by a theater expert.”
“Very good, earwig. Especially seeing you’re the only person involved who has nothing to do with theater.”
People were shouting in the front hall of The Blue House.
“I didn’t kill Peterman,” Fletch said. “You should have asked.”
“We’re hiring experts by the planeload, Mister Fletcher,” Chief Roz Nachman said. “And I intend to listen to them. I also intend to keep my mind open to the simple explanation.”
“Which is?”
“I wish I knew. Someone put a knife in Steven Peterman’s back. Granted, it happened under most unusual and complicated circumstances. But it is still a simple crime of violence.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
“Yeah. Next time I call answer the phone.”
There was another shout from the front hall. It sounded like Sy Koller.
“I’ll answer the phone.”
“Nice talking with you,” Roz Nachman said. “Maybe sometime I’ll come down.”
“You might as well,” Fletch said. “Everyone else has.”
“I’ll kill you!”
Fletch hurried through the billiard room and along the corridor to the front hall.
Sy Koller stood halfway down the stairs, facing downward.
Gerry Littleford stood just below him on the stairs, facing upward. He was naked. In his right hand was a carving knife.
Gerry was sexually aroused. Every muscle in his lean body was taut. His skin shone with sweat. He was moving like a panther about to pounce.
He was beautiful.
Koller took a step backward, up the stairs.
“What are you all doing to me?” Gerry asked, softly.
“Gerry, you’ve been working hard,” Koller said. “There’s been strain.”
At the top of the stairs, leaning on the bannister, Geoff McRensie watched. Something in his eyes was turning over like a reel of film.
On the floor of the front hall were Gerry’s red bikini underpants.
“No, no,” said Gerry. “It’s not that. I know it’s not that. I’m black. You all think I’m black.”
Koller laughed nervously. “Gerry, you are black.”
Gerry plunged the knife at Roller’s fat, white legs. Roller jumped up another step. His face was wet with