Getting Up With Fleas (Trace 7) Read online

  “But the couch wasn’t opened, so Scott was someplace else last night,” I said.

  “I guess so. Or maybe he just didn’t sleep. Maybe he was here writing letters or something.” I followed him over to the dumbwaiter door and noticed that the screw used to lock the door had been removed. Birnbaum pulled the door open and we leaned over, looking inside. All I saw were the ropes in front of me, then peering down, Scott’s body only eight feet below me, hanging from the rope. I wondered why the hell Scott had opened the door in the first place. It didn’t make any sense.

  “We’ve got to go down and take that body down,” I said softly to Birnbaum, “before she looks into this shaft.”

  “Yeah,” he said.

  Behind us, there was a whoop outside, and through the window we saw a black-and-white car with a panel of red-and-blue roof lights roaring into the grounds at high speed.

  “Good,” Birnbaum said. “The cops can take the body down.”

  The cop wasn’t just a cop. He was the duly elected sheriff of Cawonga County. His name was Len Tillis, he was big and fat and very deferential to Clyde Snapp, and while he may have been a genius at winning the hearts of the voters in an election, he didn’t have a brain in his head about evidence because he clambered into the kitchen dumbwaiter without even so much as taking a picture, struggled to unwrap the heavy rope from around Scott’s neck, and then passed the body out to Snapp, who laid it on the stainless-steel food-preparation table, where it looked like a Thanksgiving turkey awaiting cooking.

  “That’s Jack Scott, all right. I seen him on television,” Tillis said, wiping the dust from his hands onto his uniform. “He looks different.”

  “He’s dead now,” I said.

  “Sure is,” Sheriff Tillis said. “So you found the body, Mr. Snapp?”

  “That’s right.”

  “How do you think it got there?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “You have any ideas?” The sheriff looked at Birnbaum and me, and we both shook our heads.

  “Well, it sure as hell ain’t no murder,” the sheriff said, “and it’s a damn funny way to commit suicide. I guess some kind of accident.”

  “It’s a damn funny accident too,” I said, but Sheriff Tillis didn’t respond and I got the feeling that this was as far as he had ever gone in an investigation of a sudden death. I felt sorry for him.

  “Sheriff,” I said.

  “Aaaay-p. What’s your name?”

  “Devlin Tracy.”

  “He’s a private detective from New York City,” Snapp said.

  “A gumshoe, huh?” Sheriff Tillis said. “Don’t imagine this is much of a job for you.” He hooked his thumbs into his belt, although his stomach was so big that I hadn’t thought anything else, even thumbs, could fit there.

  “Don’t imagine,” I said.

  “He came here to protect some people,” Snapp said.

  “You didn’t do much of a job, Tracy,” the sheriff said.

  I nodded at the corpse. “He wasn’t the one I was supposed to protect. Can I make a suggestion, Sheriff?”

  “Just as long as it don’t involve breaking no law. I know how you private dicks are, you know.”

  “It doesn’t. I just wanted to tell you that Mr. Birnbaum and I talked to Scott’s wife upstairs and she didn’t know if he had come back to the room last night or not. We have a hotel full of people and they’re going to have to be told about the death. Why don’t you make arrangements to move the body and then question them? See who saw Scott last. See if he was roaring drunk or something. That might answer your question on how he died.”

  “I don’t need you to tell me how to run my investigation, Shamus,” the sheriff said. He had been watching too much television.

  “You could listen to him, Len,” said Snapp. “He’s a pretty bright fella.”

  “I’ll do it my way. I wanna question the people who are staying here,” Sheriff Tillis said. “But first I’ll have somebody remove this body to the hospital.”

  “Good plan, Sheriff,” I said. “Much better than mine.” Snapp winked at me and I glanced at my watch. It seemed as if I’d been up half a day already, but it was only just past seven-thirty A.M.

  I told Birnbaum, “You ought to let everybody know what’s going on.”

  “Let’s get them down to the dining room. We can tell them all at once,” Birnbaum said. He shook his head. “Then I’ve got to figure out what to do with this film.”

  “Don’t we believe anymore in ‘the show must go on’?” I asked.

  “I believe in it. I don’t know if the investors do.”

  Ramona Dedley came into the kitchen. She stopped short, just for a moment, when she saw Scott’s body, then walked over to it.

  “I’m really sorry, Mrs. Scott,” Sheriff Tillis said. He took his hat off and held it in his hands.

  Ramona felt around Scott’s throat and lifted his head slightly.

  “Broken neck,” she said.

  “You don’t have to do this, Mrs. Scott,” the sheriff said. He touched her on the shoulder. “We’ll do all this at the hospital.”

  “I’d say he’s been dead at least eight hours. There’s some rigor in the body and a lot of pooling in the lower extremities.”

  “Really, little lady. You ought to go up and lie down. We’ll see to your husband’s remains.”

  Ramona turned as if she saw him for the first time. “Who are you?” she asked.

  “Sheriff Len Tillis at your service, Mrs. Scott. If there’s anything we can do…”

  “Yes. Stop calling me Mrs. Scott. She’s asleep upstairs under sedation. I’m Doctor Ramona Dedley.”

  “You’re a doctor?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re a woman.”

  “With that kind of perception, you’ll have no trouble at all figuring out what happened here,” she said. “I’m going to get dressed,” she told me. “If you need me, just call.”

  “We’re going to have everybody meet in the dining room right away so we can break the news,” I said.

  “If you see anybody, tell them to meet us in the dining room,” Birnbaum said.

  She nodded and left the room.

  “A doctor. I’ll be damned,” Sheriff Tillis said.

  “Len, you are a giant old fool,” Clyde Snapp said. He was cleaning his nails with a pocketknife. “Didn’t you ever hear of a lady doctor?”

  “Aaay-p. Sure I heard of them, Mr. Snapp. I just never met any of them, and pretty ones at that. I’m going to call for the ambulance.” He pronounced it am-byoo-LANCE.

  “Yeah. Do that,” Birnbaum said, and started upstairs.

  I followed him a minute or so later and met Arden Harden coming down the steps to the main floor.

  “What the hell’s going on here? I heard sirens,” he said.

  “Jack Scott’s dead,” I said.

  Harden said, “Really?”

  I nodded and he turned and started back up the stairs at a trot.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’ve got to call my agent.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. I always call my agent when something happens,” he said. “Have to see what my rights are, I guess.”

  “Get back to the dining room right away. There’s a meeting,” I said.

  “Soon as I call my agent,” he called back.

  I walked upstairs slowly, opened McCue’s unlocked door, and went into the bedroom, where he was sprawled out, naked, on top of the sheets.

  I shook him. “Hey, bare-ass, wake up.”

  He fought to open one eye, then fought an even greater battle to focus it. “Trace. Is it cocktail hour already?”

  “There’s an emergency. Get some clothes on and get down to the dining room right away.”

  “What? What emergency?”

  “Just hurry downstairs,” I said. I didn’t feel much like talking to him now and I thought it’d be easier to get him downstairs if I didn’t tell him what
was going on.

  That took care of the third floor. McCue was getting up and Harden knew about it. I was the only other person staying on that floor.

  I walked down a level and saw Birnbaum coming out of Tami Fluffs room. “I got them all on the way,” Birnbaum said. “Will you get Quine and Dahlia downstairs?” he asked. “I want to change.”

  I could understand that. He probably had a special Mets jacket suitable for funerals.

  On the first floor of bedrooms, next to the Scotts’ suite, Quine finally answered my pounding on the door. The silly nit was wearing a long nightshirt and a flannel cap. There was something different about his face, and it took me a moment to realize he wasn’t wearing his false teeth. Why would someone wear false teeth that made him look like a horse? If you were going to wear a plate, why not wear one that made you look human?

  “Err, err, err, err…” Quine started. That didn’t bother me; I had trouble speaking English in the morning too. “What is it, old man? Humph, grumph, err, err, err, err.”

  He sounded like a volcano giving its first-warning rumbles before erupting. Something smelled bad and I realized it was his cologne.

  “Jack Scott,” I said. “He’s had an accident. Birnbaum has called a meeting right away in the dining room.”

  “Accident, eh? Had one myself yesterday. Hope his wasn’t as bad as that. Cut my leg up real bad.”

  “His was worse. He’s dead,” I said.

  “Dead, eh? Humph, grumph, err, err, err. Be there as soon as I don my trousers. And call my agent.”

  “Just hurry up,” I said.

  I pounded on Dahlia Codwell’s door but got no answer. The door was locked, so I pounded some more. Maybe she was in the shower, I thought, and couldn’t hear me. I went into the dining room and poured myself a drink. Actually, I had gone in for coffee, but I figured it was going to be a long day of dealing with these looneytoons and a drink might start it off better.

  As I stood at the bar, the hotel’s guests started drifting in.

  Harden said to me, as if he thought I would care, “It’s okay. Everything’s all right.”

  “You brought him back to life?”

  “No, but my contract is with the production company, not with him personally. If we make the movie, I stay.”

  “I’ll rest a lot easier now,” I said. “I was really worried about that.”

  When Quine came in, I couldn’t tell if he had called his agent or the wardrobe department because he was wearing jodhpurs and a white shirt with an ascot.

  Tami must have heard about the death because she had on a black dress, presumably suitable for mourning, because its hemline dropped all the way to midthigh.

  Birnbaum was still dressed in his sweatsuit but his eyes were sparkling now and he seemed full of energy. Whatever he drank, I’d like to get some of it.

  Ramona and Sheila came in together.

  They scattered themselves at tables with coffee and watched Birnbaum, who paced back and forth at the side of the room. Behind him, the windows overlooked the grounds leading to the lake.

  “Where’s Dahlia?” he asked me.

  “I’ll try again.” I walked up the flight of steps and pounded on her door again. It opened with a fast pull.

  Dahlia was wearing a bathrobe but was fully made up. Maybe she slept in her makeup. Maybe everyone did.

  “Were you doing all that damned pounding on my door a few minutes ago?” she growled in her husky voice.

  “Yes.”

  “What the hell for? I need some sleep, or hadn’t you morons noticed?”

  I watched her face carefully as I said, “Jack Scott is dead.”

  “Dead?” She looked truly surprised and shocked. Then she threw an arm up, the back of her wrist to her forehead, and I wondered why people did that. What kind of gesture was that anyway? It didn’t exist anywhere except on a stage. But I thought she was really surprised, except that’s the trouble in dealing with actors: you never know when they’re lying.

  “Yes. An accident. Please come down to the dining room. Birnbaum’s called a meeting.”

  “As soon as I call my agent,” she said.

  “Why not let your agent wait ten minutes while you find out what happened, so you really have something to tell him?” I suggested.

  “I’ll think about it while I’m putting my clothes on.”

  “Hurry up. They’re waiting for you.”

  “Don’t think I want you pounding on my door all the time,” she said. “This was an exceptional occasion.”

  “Don’t hold your breath, lady,” I said. I didn’t really mind. She was a boozer, and it isn’t really uncommon for boozers to be nasty when they first wake up.

  I told Birnbaum that she would be down in a minute.

  “Where’s McCue?” he asked.

  “Should be on his way down.”

  McCue came pouring through the dining-room doors. “Fifteen men on a dead man’s chest…

  “Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum…Good morning, my children. Why the long faces?”

  “There’s been a tragedy,” Birnbaum said, dropping the corners of his mouth, trying to look sad.

  “Can’t be an important tragedy,” McCue said. “I feel fine.”

  “Shut up, you self-centered hambone,” Harden yelled out. “Jack Scott’s dead.”

  “How could you tell?” McCue asked.

  “Please,” Birnbaum implored. “Will you sit down, Tony? We have to talk about this.”

  McCue walked over to me near the bar. I scooped some ice cubes into a glass and handed it to him along with the bottle of gin.

  Dahlia Codwell walked in through the door, paused for a moment, then called out, “Oh, God. It’s so awful.” Then she fainted. I wondered if her agent had told her to do that.

  McCue said, “Quick somebody. Make her a martini.”

  But nobody went over to help her and she revived herself.

  27

  “I know we’re all shocked by the tragedy,” Biff Birnbaum said. “Nobody knows how it happened.”

  “How what happened, old chap?” Roddy Quine said.

  “Jack was found dead this morning, hanging from the rope in the dumbwaiter shaft,” Birnbaum said.

  “How’d it happen?” Quine asked.

  “He just said nobody knows how it happened,” Harden snapped. “Damn fool.”

  “It was some kind of tragic accident,” Birnbaum said. “Apparently Jack suffered a broken neck and died. Mrs. Scott is now under sedation from Doctor Dedley.”

  I noticed Clyde Snapp and Sheriff Tillis enter the room and stand quietly in the back.

  “The sheriff is here,” Birnbaum said, “and perhaps he’ll be able to throw a little light on the death for us after he completes his investigation. I know you’ll all cooperate.”

  “What about the filming?” Dahlia Codwell asked, apparently recovered from her attack of grief.

  “This is no time to talk business,” Birnbaum said, then began to talk business. “I don’t know what the investors will decide, and so the fate of the film is up to them. As you know, this film is being developed with private money, and if that money leaves, then the film will have to be scrapped.”

  “If it goes ahead, I’m in the contract. My agent told me,” Harden said.

  “As I said, that’ll be up to the investors. The rest of the cast and crew are supposed to be here on Monday, and I’m just going to let them come ahead. It’s my plan to keep shooting until the money we have on hand runs out. That may force anybody who’s wavering to stay in, rather than back out and lose everything he’s put up till then.”

  “Only a fool throws good money after bad,” McCue whispered to me at the bar.

  “Another thing,” Birnbaum said. “As soon as word of this gets out, I’m sure we’re going to be bombarded by press people.” He looked toward the entrance. “Mr. Snapp, will you be sure to keep the guards on the gate and make sure they allow no one in except those of us who are connected with the film? A
nd, of course, the police.”

  Snapp nodded.

  “I think it would be best,” Birnbaum said, “if I made all the statements to the press. This is a tragedy. Let’s don’t make it a travesty by everybody sounding off to the media, if you don’t mind. We owe it to poor Pamela not to make her husband’s death into a circus. And I know you’ll all cooperate with Sheriff Tillis, who’s in the back of the room.”

  Tillis had been quietly looking over the room. Now he hitched up his belt and walked toward Birnbaum.

  The producer said, “One final thing. Jack Scott was my friend and my partner for ten years. I thought of him as a brother, the brother I never had when I was growing up on the streets of New York. In his memory, I’m thinking of starting a Jack Scott scholarship.”

  “For somebody who wants to be a talk-show host,” McCue whispered to me.

  “And I’ll talk to you all about that more as my plans crystallize,” Birnbaum said. “Now, here’s Sheriff Tillis.”

  “All’s I want to do is find out how this accident happened,” the sheriff said. “So I want to talk to you one at a time. I’d appreciate it if you just stay around the hotel or the dining room here so that you’re nearby when I need you.” He looked around and chuckled. “Heh, heh. Don’t want to have to send no sheriffs posse after you. Might think you was trying to escape.” He chuckled again, then looked at Birnbaum. “And count on it, Mr. Biffbaum, you can put the name of Sheriff Len Tillis down for a donation to that Jack Scott scholarship. Mark me down for ten dollars.”

  “Jesus, is this guy for real?” McCue asked me.

  “He gets worse,” I said.

  An ambulance came and went with Scott’s body as the sheriff questioned everybody who was staying in the hotel. At Snapp’s suggestion, he let me sit in on the questioning.

  “Never can tell, Len. He might help.”

  “I doubt it, Mr. Snapp, but for you, I’ll give it a try.”

  The Hollywood people drifted in and out of the dining room as Tillis questioned them. I filled my glass a half-dozen times because what Tillis may have lacked in intelligence, he made up for in tenacity, asking the same questions over and over again, making voluminous word-for-word notes on an old writing tablet provided by Snapp.