The puzzlement morphed into confusion laced with just a hint of annoyance. “I’m afraid I’m not following you at all.”
“This isn’t a bad performance either, Mr. Wellington.”
“Look,” he said, with a note of exasperation. “Is this a joke or something?”
“No joke. Although it might be a little funny if murder weren’t involved.”
Hands on his hips. Perturbation now. “Who are you and what’s this all about?”
The kid with the Bissell sweeper kept at his work, but he wasn’t missing a word.
“Me, you’ve already met,” I said. “We almost did battle over a pocket watch, on Manitou Island. These are my colleagues. Wallace Schanno, former sheriff of Tamarack County, Minnesota. Trinky Pollard, formerly with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. And this is Henry Meloux, the real father of the real Henry Wellington. As for what this is about, Mr. Ellsworth, it’s about the attempt made on Henry’s life the day after I spoke with you in the Wellington mansion on Manitou Island.”
His brow furrowed. He eyed me in a threatening way. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”
Trinky Pollard said, “You can talk to us, or you can talk to one of my friends in the RCMP.”
He hesitated. “You’re talking about that crazy recluse on the island out there in the bay, right?”
We stared at him.
“I have no relationship whatsoever with Henry Wellington. All I know about the man is what I read in the papers. If you want to call your RCMP friend, fine. When he gets here, I’ll ask him to charge you with harassment. Good night.”
He turned away.
“Does this mean we don’t get an autograph?” I said.
He slammed the door behind him.
“Is it him?” Schanno asked.
“I don’t know, Wally. I thought if it was, I could bluff it out of him.”
“He had me convinced,” Schanno said.
“Either he’s telling the truth or he’s a very good actor.”
The kid with the Bissell snorted.
Pollard turned his way. “You know him?”
The kid looked up at us and feigned surprise. “What?”
Pollard walked toward him. “Do you know Preston Ellsworth?”
The kid watched her approach and thought about it. “Oh yeah, I know him,” he said with a smirk.
“Was he lying?”
“Hey, I don’t-”
Pollard was very close to him now. “Was he lying?”
The kid leaned on the handle of his Bissell. “What you just witnessed was a performance.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“Here’s something else for you. He drives a Ferrari. He does seasonal melodrama for a living, but he drives a Ferrari. How do you figure that?”
“Yes,” Pollard agreed. “How do you figure that? I think we’ll go back and talk to Mr. Ellsworth further.”
The kid shrugged-no big deal to him-and went back to cleaning the lobby. “Through that doorway and down the hall. His dressing room’s on the right. His name’s on the door,” he said without looking at us again.
The door was unlocked, and we went in without knocking. Ellsworth was at his dressing table. He’d removed his sport coat and was in his T-shirt. He was in the process of wiping cold cream off his face when he saw us in the mirror. He was clearly startled, then angry.
He swung toward us. “What the hell do you think you’re doing here?”
“We came to congratulate you on a pretty good performance,” I said. “And to get the truth from you.”
“If you don’t get out of here, I’m calling the police.”
“Fine,” Pollard said. “And when you do, maybe you can explain to them how an actor in local theater gets the kind of money it takes to buy a Ferrari. And if the police aren’t interested, I have friends with the CRA who’d love to follow up on that.”
“I pay my taxes.”
By that time, I’d had enough. I was on him in two long strides. I grabbed a handful of his T-shirt, bunched it at his throat, and shoved him against the back of his chair. I put my face an inch from his. I could smell the greasepaint, the cold cream, the ghost of whiskey on his breath. His eyes bloomed with surprise and fear.
“I’m tired of being fucked around,” I said. “That goon Morrissey followed me back to Minnesota and tried to kill my friend Henry. Morrissey’s dead, but I want to know if there are going to be any others trying to make sure the killing gets done. I swear to God, what I’m about to do to you isn’t a performance you’ll soon forget. You want that face to be in shape for the stage tomorrow night, you’ll answer my questions now. Who hired you?”
Ellsworth gave me no answer. I lifted him out of the chair and slammed him against the wall. The drywall behind him crunched.
“I can’t tell you,” he squawked.
“Can’t?”
“Breach of contract. If I tell you, I lose everything.”
“Everything’s already lost, pal. The gig is over. We’re busting Wellington wide open, and I’ve got no problem busting you open first. Who hired you?”
“Wellington,” he said.
“Henry Wellington?”
“Yes.”
I eased up a bit, let him off the wall. “Tell me about it.”
“Six years ago. He called me to the island and laid out what he wanted.”
“Which was?”
“Somebody to be him.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. He offered me a deal I’d have been a fool to turn down. But there was a stipulation. I could never reveal the agreement, never tell anyone about my role.”
“His idea to be so eccentric?”
“More or less. He said he’d been compared to Howard Hughes all his life. No reason to stop now. He thought it would be a good way to keep people at a distance. So I studied Hughes.”
“He’s okay with this character?”
“I assume. Once I signed the agreement, I never saw him again.”
Meloux walked forward. Ellsworth shifted his eyes toward the old man.
“What was he like?” Henry said.
Ellsworth thought a moment. “Rather cold. Unhappy.”
Meloux nodded.
“Who pays you?” I asked.
“I get a monthly amount deposited into my bank account. A retainer. And for each performance, I get something additional.”
“How often do you perform?”
“A couple of times a month, usually. I make an appearance at twilight for the benefit of the gawkers. Every once in a while, like when you showed up, I’m called to make a special appearance. I use the darkened room and the mask bit to keep people from looking too closely.”
“Wellington’s never on the island?”
“As far as I know, he hasn’t set foot there in six years.”
“Where is he?”
“I haven’t the foggiest.”
“You know his brother, Rupert?”
“I know who he is. I’ve never met him.”
“The money that’s deposited in your account, where does it come from?”
