The Renewable Virgin Page 2

  Nick Quinlan was a big, hunk-style male with the right haircut and the right mustache. He looked as if he was showing off his bare chest even when he was dressed to the teeth—really gorgeous to look at, if you didn’t mind obviousness. But he couldn’t talk. ‘Hey, make sure I got aholt fore y’leggo, woncha?’

  ‘Ask for some stickum for your fingertips,’ I smiled.

  I’d only recently got to the point where I’d started complaining out loud about Nick. When we first started shooting LeFever, that ox had stepped on just about every line I had. If I had a speech made up of more than one sentence, I had to run them together in a breathy attempt to get everything said before Nick came butting in with his line. But when he did interrupt before I’d finished, I didn’t say anything to the director. I just smiled and kept a stiff upper lip and refused to complain. I was being professional, I was being a trouper, blah blah blah. Until I realized that nobody cared. Nobody even noticed. So from then on, every time Nick cut off one of my lines, I hollered. I hollered loud.

  Right then the director was doing some hollering of his own, so I went back and got in the cab. Out the door, up the steps, hand over the envelope. Look concerned.

  Nick had a line. It was supposed to be, ‘You’d think he’d know better than to write something like this, wouldn’t you?’ It came out, ‘Y’d thank he’d write sumpin bettern this, wooden chew?’

  Flubbed lines are redone in television only if they are flagrantly wrong, like changing the meaning as Nick’s misreading had just done. By then the director had worked with Nick enough to know that once his leading man started out blowing a line in that particular fashion, he’d never get it right. So right then and there the line was changed to read, ‘I wish he hadn’t written this.’ Nick could handle that. In television, everybody was used to disposable writing.

  The next time we tried it somebody who wasn’t supposed to be there wandered into the scene. The fourth attempt was ruined when Nick stumbled as he stepped forward to take the envelope and grabbed my arm to keep from falling—making me fall instead. But the fifth time we got it. Five tries to get what should have been a one-take sequence. Normal for LeFever.

  It was the last shot of the day, so we were free to go. Detective Larch was waiting where I’d left her, leaning against one of the camera vans. She was staring at Nick Quinlan as he stood talking to the director. ‘What’s wrong with him today?’

  ‘Nothing. He’s always like that.’

  She shook her head disbelievingly but made no comment. She started asking me about the last time I saw Rudy Benedict, the night before he died.

  ‘He went home early, with a headache,’ I fudged a little.

  ‘You didn’t see him the next day at all?’

  ‘No. Detective Larch, when did he die exactly? The papers didn’t say.’

  ‘About an hour before his poker buddy found him. You’re sure you didn’t see him that day at all?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure. The last I saw of him was about ten o’clock the night before.’

  ‘What did he talk about?’

  ‘His play. The one you say he wasn’t writing.’

  She sighed. ‘I gave you the wrong impression, didn’t I? I meant he hadn’t really got started on it, he was still doodling around. But he was planning a play, getting ready to write.’

  ‘And you know for a fact that it wasn’t going to be an exposé of any sort. You’re really sure of that, are you?’

  ‘The Captain is sure. He’s told us to look elsewhere for a motive.’

  The Captain, as if there was only one in the entire world. ‘Captain who?’

  ‘Captain Michaels. He’s in charge of the investigation. How did Benedict seem that last time? Upset, nervous …?’

  ‘Just a little headachy. And that wasn’t bad. He’d recently started smoking a pipe, and I think that sometimes bothered him.’

  Detective Larch’s bloodshot eyes stared straight into mine. ‘Headache. You said that before. My God, I must be tireder than I thought. Did he take anything for it?’

  I thought back. ‘No, he—wait a minute. I gave him some, ah, Bromo-Seltzer.’

  At that the policewoman’s entire appearance changed—her face came to life, her body woke up. ‘Bromo-Seltzer. You’re sure it was Bromo-Seltzer?’

  I stared at her, horrified. ‘You mean the stuff I gave him … you’re saying I gave him the poison?’ I could hear my voice rising.

  ‘Take it easy, take it easy,’ Detective Larch said hastily, her own voice rising. ‘Let’s get it straight first. Are you absolutely positive it was Bromo-Seltzer you gave him? Take your time. Think back.’

  I took my time and I thought back. I remembered the sample coming in the mail, in a box that was … yellow, not blue. ‘No, it wasn’t Bromo-Seltzer! It was some new product, something for headache and upset stomach. I don’t remember what it’s called, it was just something that came in the mail. A sample.’

  ‘Did you take any of it?’

  ‘No, it just came that day. Was that it? Was—’

  ‘Ms Ingram, try to remember the brand name. Take your time.’

  I looked at her closely. She knew the brand but was being very careful not to tell me. Trying not to damage her evidence by putting words in my mouth, I suppose. Evidence for what?

  ‘Think,’ the detective said.

  It came to me. ‘Lysco-Seltzer,’ I said. ‘Rhymes with disco. Detective Larch. Give me a straight answer—please. Was that what killed Rudy?’

  The expression on her face told me the answer before she could say anything. She reached out and touched my arm. ‘I’m sorry. You all right?’

  ‘No, I am not all right,’ I said numbly. ‘I was the one who gave Rudy … somebody wanted me to take that…’ I just stood there and shuddered. ‘My God, it’s like the Tylenol murders all over again! Some nut out to poison the whole world—’

  ‘No, wait a minute, it can’t be the same as that,’ she scowled. ‘The Tylenol killer substituted capsules full of poison for the headache medicine and then put the bottles back on drugstore shelves. That’s entirely different from getting hold of sample bottles going through the mail. Besides, we’ve got all these new safety packaging regulations now. Your Lysco-Seltzer—there was a seal over the mouth of the bottle, wasn’t there?’

  ‘I don’t know, I never opened it. It just came in the mail.’

  ‘Well, did it have a—what do they call it—a film-sealed cap? Or one of those plastic envelope-type things around the whole bottle?’

  I visualized the bottle. ‘No. No, it didn’t have anything like that. But if there wasn’t any seal inside, Rudy would have noticed, he must have.’

  ‘He could have noticed and not thought anything about it. The bottle came from you, not from a drugstore. He probably just thought you’d already opened it yourself.’

  ‘Oh Jeez.’ The camera van had packed up and gone, and Detective Larch and I were left standing on a public sidewalk—not the best place in the world to find out someone had mailed you some poison and you’d passed it on to a friend. ‘I need a drink. In fact I need two drinks.’

  ‘So do I,’ the policewoman muttered. ‘Come on.’ She grabbed my arm and steered me down the street toward a welcoming watering place.

  By the time we’d finished our second drink the detective and I were calling each other by our first names (hers was Marian). She told me a half-empty bottle of Lysco-Seltzer had been found on Rudy’s kitchen cabinet. But instead of headache medicine the small plastic bottle had held cyanide crystals.

  ‘That’s the part that doesn’t make sense,’ Marian Larch said. ‘Cyanide is fast-acting, damned fast. Matter of minutes. Yet he didn’t die until nearly twenty-four hours later. Did you actually see him take it?’

  ‘No, he said he’d wait until he got home. He just dropped the bottle in his pocket and left.’

  ‘Ah.’ She nodded her head. ‘Then when he got home … perhaps he forgot he had the stuff and took a medicine of his own. Or
…’ She must have seen a giveaway expression on my face because she said, ‘You know something you’re not telling, Kelly.’

  On the whole I am more truthful than your average person. Out of necessity. I don’t seem to be able to get away with much when it comes to fabricating off-camera. I know people who lie as easily as they breathe and nobody ever calls them on it. But me—the least little fib I tell catches up with me. Like now.

  ‘I don’t think he really had a headache the night he was with me,’ I admitted, feeling sheepish. ‘I just told him he did.’

  Marian’s eyebrows rose. ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Rudy was either in a suggestible mood or else he was looking for an excuse to split. I just said don’t you have a headache, and he said yes I do, and that was it.’

  ‘You wanted to get rid of him?’

  ‘Well, not really get rid of him, I just wanted him to go home, you know.’

  ‘What’s the difference?’

  ‘I didn’t want him to stay that night, that’s all.’

  She smiled wryly. ‘Gotta ask you this, Kelly. Were you sleeping with him?’

  I shook my head. ‘Not yet. But that’s where we were heading, kind of. That night, the last time I saw him—well, I had a long, tight shooting schedule the next day and I just wanted to get to bed and sleep. I didn’t want to have to say no to Rudy if he decided to make his move then. Besides, I like to say when myself, not wait to be asked. It was no big deal, I was only trying to avoid hurt feelings. Just not that night.’

  Marian nodded, understanding. ‘So by the time he got back to his own place he may have decided his headache had cleared up by itself or whatever. But then the next night, right before his poker game—yes, that would do it. The next night he did have a headache, a real one. So he opened the Lysco-Seltzer …’

  ‘And it killed him.’

  The next day was Friday, which meant we had to wrap the week’s episode by six o’clock or else go into overtime and Nathan Pinking simply did not believe in overtime. He would put a mystery on the air with the mystery unsolved rather than go into overtime. He would tape ‘The End’ after only four acts of Hamlet rather than go into overtime. We’d finished all the indoor shots, so the whole day was spent rushing from one outdoor location to another. I had to make one wardrobe change on the run, in the back seat of a taxi, while the make-up woman frantically tried to restore order to my face and hair—all because that ass Nick Quinlan had taken the only limo the budget provided that week. The cab-driver loved it.

  But I was damned grateful for the frantic pace because it kept me from thinking about that weirdo out there who’d sent me cyanide crystals disguised as Lysco-Seltzer, rhymes with disco. But I wasn’t going to let it get to me, I wasn’t even going to think about it until the day’s work was finished, not even then, not until tomorrow when I was rested and more up to tangling with the notion that I was somebody’s intended murder victim.

  ‘Go home!’ the director screeched joyfully, and we were finished. My feet hurt and my shoulders ached and I was really dragging, and I couldn’t even draw any satisfaction from thoughts of a job well done, thenkyew. It had all been mechanical stuff, concentrate on getting it right the first time, the director had said, just don’t make mistakes, leave the Emmy performances for next week. That idiot Nick made several flubs of the sort that should have been reshot but we didn’t have time. So that week’s episode was going to go out even shaggier-looking than usual.

  I was turning down the associate producer’s invitation to dinner (pleading exhaustion and wondering why he couldn’t tell I was dead just by looking at me) when Detective Marian Larch materialized in front of me. The Captain wanted to see me, she said.

  ‘Can’t it wait until tomorrow?’ I complained. ‘I’m bushed, Marian. What does he want to see me about?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said, perhaps truthfully. ‘He just told me to bring you in.’

  ‘Bring me in!’ I shouted, outraged. ‘Am I so desperate a character your Captain had to send a police detective to bring me in?!’

  She stared at me, amused. ‘God, you’re prickly tonight. It’s just a phrase, Kelly. Doesn’t mean a thing.’

  ‘I told you I was bushed,’ I muttered.

  ‘Yes, you did, and I’m sorry about this. But it has to be done. Look, I checked out this nice, shiny police car to come get you. Tell you what. I’ll wait for you, and when Captain Michaels is finished I’ll drive you home. Deal?’

  ‘No, it’s not a “deal”—it’s coercion,’ I grumbled but started to climb into the front seat. Then I remembered the man whose dinner invitation I’d been declining when Marian Larch showed up and turned to say goodbye. He’d disappeared.

  Marian and I didn’t talk during the drive to the Headquarters building at Police Plaza. She took me up to Captain Michael’s office in the Detective Bureau and did a fast vanishing act. Michaels was sitting behind what looked like a brand new desk. He was an overweight, fiftyish man who looked first at my breasts and then at my face. ‘Siddown, Ms Ingram.’

  Why, thank you for your gracious invitation, sir. I sat. ‘What is it you want, Captain?’

  ‘That story you told Detective Larch last night,’ he said. ‘I want you to tell it to me.’

  That story? ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I’ll ask the questions. Start with the last time you saw Rudy Benedict.’ He was actually looking down his nose at me.

  I couldn’t believe this guy. His body posture, his tone of voice—he was behaving as if he thought that was the way tough guys were supposed to act. Jimmy Cagney nasty. I did what he said; I told the ‘story’ again.

  ‘And your sample of Lysco-Seltzer came in the mail when?’ Captain Michaels asked.

  ‘The same day I gave it to Rudy. I hadn’t even taken it out of the mailing box yet.’

  ‘There was no mailing box in Benedict’s apartment—just the sample bottle. How do you account for that?’

  ‘I don’t think I have to account for it,’ I protested. ‘Come on, Captain, what is this? I probably threw the box away myself, when I gave Rudy the sample bottle.’

  ‘Probably. Don’t you remember?’

  ‘No, I don’t remember. Why should I? Do you remember every box and envelope you throw away?’

  ‘I’m asking the questions.’ He sounded like a man afraid of losing the initiative. ‘How do you dispose of your trash?’

  ‘My trash?’

  ‘Yes, lady, your trash. How do you get rid of it?’

  ‘I throw it down the waste chute in the apartment building.’

  ‘How often?’

  ‘As often as I need to. I don’t have a schedule.’

  ‘You throw out your own trash, do you?’

  ‘Sometimes. The cleaning service takes care of most of it.’

  ‘What about the Lysco-Seltzer mailing box? When did you put that down the chute?’

  ‘You mean the one I don’t remember throwing away at all? Gee, Captain, I really couldn’t say.’

  He glared at me coldly for a few moments, doing nothing to relieve the tension. Here I was a potential murder victim and he was showing about as much concern for my welfare as he would for Public Enemy Number One. ‘Why haven’t I been given police protection?’ I demanded abruptly. ‘That stuff was sent to me, not to Rudy. It was sheer accident that he took it instead of me.’

  ‘Was it?’

  ‘What do you mean, was it? Of course it was! Somebody mails you poison, they don’t expect you to pass it on to somebody else.’

  ‘If it was sent to you.’

  ‘What “if”? What are you talking about?’

  ‘The stuff that came in the mail could have been exactly what the sample label said it was—Lysco-Seltzer, a patent medicine. We don’t know when the cyanide was substituted. It’s an old ploy, claiming to be the intended victim. Lots of killers have used it.’

  That made me see red. That really made me see red. To come off a rotten day like the one I’d just ha
d and have to sit there and listen to some fat cop hinting that I’d deliberately given Rudy cyanide—then it suddenly hit me what I was being accused of and I was scared. I mean I was scared. ‘You can’t be serious … why would I want to … and where would I get the … you can’t be serious!’

  Captain Michaels came around from behind his new desk and leaned over me, all muscle and authority and don’t-mess-with-me, the bully. His breath stank. ‘I’m dead serious, lady, and don’t you forget it. You could be the intended victim or you could just be putting on an act. I gotta know a hell of a lot more before I can say which. So why don’t you start by telling me about your enemies? Who would want to kill you? Why are you such a threat?’

  Right then I felt more threatened than threatening, but at least Michaels was asking the kind of question I thought he should have started off asking. So I did my best to tell him what he wanted to know. I named all the people who might have a grudge against me, such as a couple of dozen actresses I had beat out for the role I was playing in LeFever. It all sounded kind of superficial in that place, full of gun-toting men and women who dealt with professional criminals every day of their lives. But I had to admit Captain Michaels didn’t make me feel dumb; he listened carefully, taking notes and asking questions once in a while. Had he deliberately set out to scare me at first just to make sure I’d cooperate later? It went on and on and on.

  Finally Michaels decided he’d heard all he needed to hear, and he did something I’d never have expected. He apologized. ‘Sorry to put you through this when you’re obviously tired. We wanted to talk to you first thing this morning.’ He grinned. ‘We couldn’t find you.’

  Couldn’t find me? Oh, sure. I’d spent the day rushing from one part of town to another. I made one of those subverbal sounds that can mean anything.

  ‘I’ll get someone to drive you home,’ the Captain said.

  ‘Detective Larch said she’d wait for me.’

  He nodded and thanked me for coming in. So was he a good guy or a bad guy? I was too tired to decide.