Getting Up With Fleas (Trace 7) Read online

  Ramona nodded. “Yes. I don’t understand.”

  “Think,” Chico said. “Was there dust around his neck from the rope?”

  I could see Ramona thinking, trying to recreate the moment when she had felt Scott’s throat. “Yes,” she said finally.

  “I thought so,” Chico said, and looked smug.

  We heard a telephone ringing. By the time I realized it was the phone in my room, Chico was out the door. I looked at McCue and shrugged.

  He said, “I hate it when women are smarter than me. Don’t you?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” I said. “I’ve never met a woman smarter than me.”

  For some reason, this prompted gales of laughter from Ramona Dedley. I didn’t think it was that funny.

  “Present company included,” I said.

  Ramona thought this was doubly hilarious. I didn’t. I’m getting tired of people thinking I’m dumb, and I’m certainly not going to stay in a roomful of people who feel that way, so I walked over to my room just as Chico was hanging up the telephone.

  “Walter Marks sends his love,” she said.

  “I send him a case of acne,” I said. “Why are you talking to Groucho?”

  “I asked him to find out something for us,” she said.

  “Did he?”

  “Yes.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “A motive for Jack Scott’s murder,” she said.

  “Murder? You sure?”

  “I think so,” she said. “I’ll know when I get a chance to get into some of these rooms.”

  Tony McCue had the telephone number of Biff Birnbaum’s room and I called the producer.

  “Birnbaum,” he answered.

  I dislike, on general principles, people who answer the telephone by reciting their name. I always say “hello.” This is an example of my good manners and my total superiority to anyone who lives or works in California.

  “This is Tracy. Is Sheila there?”

  “Just a minute.” I heard the phone being put down. This man had no telephone manners at all. I didn’t ask to speak to Sheila. I just asked if she was there. He should have answered yes or no.

  “Hello, Tracy,” she said.

  I said, “Let me talk to Birnbaum.” I also said “please” because of my good manners, which everyone always compliments me on. Except Walter Marks’ secretary. To hell with her. If they can’t take a joke, fuck ’em.

  Birnbaum said, “I thought you wanted to talk to Sheila.”

  “No. I just asked if she was there.”

  “Oh. Okay, now what?”

  “I’m up in Tony McCue’s room. Can you and Sheila come up here now and talk to us?”

  “What about?”

  “It’s important,” I said.

  “All right,” he said with a perceptible sigh. “We’re coming right up.”

  McCue and Ramona sat on the sofa as I let the two of them in. Birnbaum was happy and smiling and I thought his Mets jacket ought to have a little Smile face on it. Sheila, though, looked worried.

  “Hi, Tony. Ramona,” Birnbaum said. He nodded to me. “What’s up?” I was standing near the dumbwaiter door, which we had locked up again.

  “I really wanted to talk to Sheila,” I said, “but I thought you ought to be here.”

  “Okay,” he said.

  “I wanted to know what you were really talking about with Jack Scott Friday night on the grounds,” I said to her.

  “I told you. About the budget.”

  “I know that’s what you told me. But now I’d like the truth.”

  “Hold on a minute,” Birnbaum snapped. There was a sharp edge in his voice. “Are you calling Sheila a liar?”

  I shrugged and Sheila said, “I told you the truth.”

  Behind me, through the dumbwaiter door, I could hear noises. That would be Chico working downstairs.

  “Sheila,” I said, “you don’t go out in the middle of a storm to talk about a budget. You sit in your room or the dining room or someplace like that. Mrs. Scott told the sheriff that Jack had to go out and talk to you. That was right after he got a phone call from you. But you told me that he was the one who wanted to talk to you, not vice versa. Come on, Sheila. Let’s make it simple and tell what really happened.”

  “Biff…” She looked at him imploringly.

  He looked at her, me, then back at her again, and finally shrugged and said, “Go ahead.”

  “Friday, when Roddy had the accident,” she said. I nodded, trying to look agreeable, trying to keep her talking. She shook her head. “It wasn’t an accident.”

  “You don’t know that for sure,” Birnbaum corrected.

  “Okay. I don’t know that. Biff is right.”

  “Just tell us what you were going to tell us,” I said.

  “When the big stone fell, I was standing on the other side of the clearing. I happened to look up just as it fell and I saw Jack Scott running away from the ledge.” She looked to Birnbaum as if for permission to continue. He nodded again.

  “That’s why I wanted to talk to him. I had to tell him that I had seen him. So I called his room and had him meet me outside.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said I was mistaken, that I couldn’t have seen him because he wasn’t there.”

  “And?” I said.

  “I told him I hadn’t been mistaken. That I had seen him. He got mad at me and said what the hell reason did he have for trying to kill Tony McCue?”

  “That’s what he said? McCue?”

  She nodded. “And I yelled back at him and told him he’d better not be trying to get Biff into any trouble. And then he kind of stomped off.”

  “And what did you do?”

  “I came back and I told Biff about it, and then I was all upset so Biff gave me a couple of sleeping pills and I went to bed. I slept until the morning.”

  “And what did you do, Biff?” I asked.

  He started to answer, then stopped as the door opened and Chico entered.

  “You all know my associate, Miss Mangini,” I said. “You were saying?”

  “I didn’t see Jack that night. So I thought I’d talk to him in the morning. And then in the morning, he was dead. So I didn’t mention it. Nothing against you, Sheila, but I didn’t even know if it really happened.”

  “It did,” Sheila insisted.

  “I know that you believe it did. But by the morning, Jack was dead and I didn’t think it’d serve any purpose to muddy his name that way.”

  Chico leaned against the back of the couch and nodded to me.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “What are you going to do?” Birnbaum asked.

  “For the time being, I’m going to let sleeping dogs lie,” I said.

  “I wish you would,” Birnbaum said. “This movie is going to fold. Without Jack, the investors are pulling out and I’m just going to close it down. There just isn’t any point in making things worse by saying what Jack might have done or tried to do or maybe didn’t try to do but somebody thought he did.”

  “He did,” Sheila said.

  “I want to talk it over with Chico. Maybe it’s not necessary to tell anyone,” I said.

  “That’s what I believe is best,” Birnbaum said. “Come on, Sheila. We’ve got to start making phone calls and heading off everybody before they get here tomorrow.” He left the room with Sheila, as usual, trailing behind him.

  Chico closed the door behind them and waited until they would be well out of earshot.

  “Same down there,” she said. “The dumbwaiter door in Birnbaum’s room was opened and then sealed again.”

  She started as a knock sounded on the door behind her ear. It was Clyde Snapp, who handed Chico a piece of paper, grinned at me, and left.

  “You do good work, Trace,” said Chico after looking at the paper.

  “How’s that?”

  “Tony’s digoxin was loaded with potassium chloride.”

  “Somebody was trying to kill Tony,” Ramona s
aid.

  “It looks that way.”

  “Jack Scott,” Ramona said. “That’s what Sheila just said. She saw him pushing the rock. It was Scott.”

  “Maybe,” Chico said. She showed me the note and it started finally to get a little clearer.

  But only a little.

  33

  Autumn jumps on upstate New York with both feet. It was still early in the evening, but already it was deep dark outside as we sat in the warmly lit dining room. Everyone was there except Pamela Scott. Biff Birnbaum was talking.

  Chico had told me he was a cokehead and now I wondered why I hadn’t noticed it before. His eyes were shiny, kind of manic-looking, and he almost seemed to vibrate with nervous energy.

  “We’ve finally gotten rid of the people from the press,” he said. “I think Tony discouraged them yesterday. Naturally, I don’t approve of his language, but I can certainly understand the provocation.

  “Anyway, Jack’s body has been released to the funeral home and Pamela will be going back to New York City tonight to make arrangements for his funeral.

  “And…Well, there’s no easy way to say this, especially to people I’ve come to regard as my friends, but we’re closing down the film. I’ve spent the better part of the day talking with the investors and there’s too much resistance to going ahead with the project without Jack. Even if we were to start shooting, I’m afraid we’d run out of money along the way and the project would just go on a shelf somewhere. I don’t want you people to have to put in that kind of time and perhaps wind up not getting paid. Sheila and I have tried to contact everybody, but we’ll be staying here through tomorrow in case some crew people didn’t get our message and show up anyway.”

  I looked around the room. Tami Fluff looked heartbroken, but that was to be expected, I guess. After all, this was going to be her first straight starring role and now it had been shot out from under her. Arden Harden looked puzzled, and I guessed he was probably trying to figure out what his union contract guaranteed him. He’d be burning up the telephone line to his agent before the hour was up.

  Dahlia Codwell seemed to be taking it in stride. She had never liked the idea of playing the star’s mother; she might have figured that if she milked a lot of publicity from this disaster, she might be hired up pretty quick for another role.

  And then there was Roddy Quine. He was looking around the room, smiling insipidly, and I wondered if he knew at all what was going on.

  Tony McCue walked from our table to the bar, turned, and hoisted his glass in a mock salute. “To Corridors of Death. Rest in peace.” He looked around behind the bar for a moment, then called out to Clyde Snapp, who was standing near the door, “Where’s the ice?”

  “Sorry. Machine’s broken.”

  Tony shook his head. Then he grabbed an empty glass from the bar and said, “I’m going to get Pamela. She ought to be here with us.”

  “No,” Birnbaum said, but Tony was already going out through the dining room door.

  He came back five minutes later with Pamela Scott, still wearing black. This time his glass was filled with ice, and he went to the bar and splashed gin into it as Pamela Scott stood by his side. Her face was pale; there was a slight discoloration alongside her left eye.

  “Is there a drumroll?” McCue said. He looked around. “All right. No drums. Turn down the house lights anyway.” He looked toward Clyde, who turned the dimmer switch, and the dining room grew darker.

  Tony looked at Mrs. Scott and said, “We’re all heartbroken, Pamela, that this weekend has turned out to be such a tragedy. Biff, as you know, is closing down the film and we guess that’s the right thing to do. But I know I’m speaking for everyone when I say we had all looked forward to working with your husband and we all thought we could have made a wonderful film here. Of course, the loss of a film is nothing compared to your personal loss, because there will be other days…other films. But we all wanted you to know how we felt.” He leaned over, kissed Pamela on the cheek, then raised his glass above his head. “To the memory of Jack Scott, America’s Boy Next Door.”

  He sipped his drink, then drained it and, holding the glass in one hand, escorted Pamela to Biff Birnbaum’s table.

  He seated her and walked back to our table. Just as he pulled out the chair to sit down, he froze in position.

  Almost in slow motion, the glass he had drunk from dropped from his hand onto the floor. McCue clapped both hands to his chest. A look of pain wrinkled his face, and suddenly from his lips came a long deep groan, a sound that seemed to come from within a cave.

  He doubled over, in obvious pain, then crumpled and fell into a heap on the floor.

  Chico screamed. I jumped up and so did Ramona.

  “What happened?” a voice called out.

  “McCue. He’s sick,” I yelled.

  Ramona knelt alongside him. Her body was over his as expertly she probed into his throat with her fingers, looking for a pulse. She stood up and looked around the dimmed room in total confusion.

  “Tony’s dead,” she said. “He’s dead.”

  Pamela screamed. People looked from one to another as if trying to find someone who would say it wasn’t so, that it was all a mistake.

  I reached down, picked up McCue’s glass, and sniffed it. Most of the liquid and some of the ice had spilled onto the floor.

  “This smell funny to you?” I asked Ramona.

  She took the glass and smelled it, then touched her tongue to it.

  “He’s been poisoned,” she said. “That’s potassium chloride.”

  “Where’d he get that drink?” I said.

  “He made it himself,” Harden said. “I saw him.”

  I turned away for a split second. “But the ice. There wasn’t any ice at the bar.”

  Chico said, “He must have gotten the ice in Mrs. Scott’s room.” She looked toward Pamela, and as she did, Birnbaum got up and started walking toward the door. I reached out a hand to stop him, but he pushed me away.

  “Where are you going?” I said.

  “I have to go to the bathroom.”

  “It can’t wait?”

  Chico said, “I’m going to Mrs. Scott’s room and get the rest of that ice. Mr. Snapp, you’d better call the sheriff. There’s been a murder here.”

  “I’ve got to go now,” Birnbaum said. He pulled away from me and ran toward the dining-room door, but Snapp stepped in his way.

  “I don’t think anybody ought to leave just now,” Clyde said.

  Birnbaum stopped short, then turned around. His shoulders dropped.

  I heard a scream and turned to see Pamela Scott standing at her table.

  “You idiot,” she yelled at Birnbaum. “You moronic murderous idiot.”

  “You two should have gotten rid of the chemicals,” I said.

  “Jesus Christ. What chemicals?” Harden asked.

  “The stuff they were going to use to poison McCue. Before they killed Scott,” I said.

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  Pamela was weeping. Dahlia Codwell stepped over and put an arm around her. Quine was looking back and forth at each speaker as if he were watching the doubles finals at Wimbledon.

  There was silence for a moment and into it I said, “They came here planning to poison McCue. And they killed Scott too.”

  It was silent again except for Pamela, who said softly, “It’s true. It’s true.”

  “Don’t say a thing,” Birnbaum yelled. “This is all nonsense.”

  “We know it all,” Chico said. “You made a mistake with the dumbwaiter rope. It shows you lowered Scott’s body from your room.”

  “You drug-headed jackass,” Pamela Scott shouted as Sheriff Len Tillis came into the dining room.

  “You heard enough, Sheriff?” I asked.

  He nodded. “More than enough.”

  Pamela wiped her eyes, took a deep breath, and stared across the room at Birnbaum. “Why didn’t you get rid of the chemicals?” she said.


  “I did,” he said.

  “But Tony…”

  She looked at the body on the floor, which slowly uncurled in the dim light, stretched, yawned, and then got to his feet.

  Tony McCue was grinning widely. “Tennis anyone?” he called.

  “Holy shit,” Arden Harden exclaimed. “This is just like a fucking movie.”

  “Yeah?” Birnbaum said. “Well, it ain’t over yet.” He moved quickly, diving into Sheriff Tillis, hammering the bigger man to the ground. Before anyone could move toward him, he was on his feet again, with Tillis’ revolver in his hand, waving it back and forth at all of us.

  “I’m getting out of here,” he said. “Nobody better try to follow me. Anybody sticks their head out that door, I’m going to blow it off.”

  Still holding the gun on us, he backed out through the sliding doors of the dining room, then turned and ran for the hotel’s front door.

  Tillis lumbered to his feet. “Don’t worry, folks. He won’t get far. I’ll have the roads flooded with troopers in five minutes.”

  Chico snapped, “Bulldookie.” She grabbed her purse and ran for the front door. I followed her and I could feel people coming up behind me.

  We got out to the front steps of the building. Birnbaum’s gray Cadillac was ripping down the driveway toward the gate of the hotel grounds, open again now that the press had left.

  Chico reached into her purse and came out with a long-barreled revolver. She dropped the purse at her feet and, with two hands on the grip, aimed the revolver toward Birnbaum’s fleeing car. There was a wild look in her eye, sort of a Charlie’s Angel possessed by the devil.

  “You’re supposed to shout, Freeze,” I said.

  “Shut up,” she snapped.

  And then she fired. And then again. And again, squeezing off the shots as rapidly as she could. The driveway lights showed puffs of dirt kicking up around the Cadillac as bullets hit the ground. Chico was grunting as she fired; she sounded like Chris Evert-Lloyd returning a serve.

  Then the Cadillac lurched and swerved out of control, just before it reached the gate, and slammed nose-first into one of the stone gate columns.