Natural Causes Page 4

  “Did he go out west often?”

  “Every week,” the woman said. “His team was out there, near the studio. He’d fly to Hollywood on Sunday night, do the week’s blocking for ‘Phoenix,’ then come back home on Tuesday evening. Of course, I thought all that travel was too hard on him. You know, he was not in the best of health. But Quentin seemed to enjoy it. And, of course, he enjoyed coming back here. Coming home. His roots are in this city. Our family has lived here for generations.”

  “In this house?” I said.

  “Close by.”

  I took a sip of the coffee. It was quite good. “Quentin left for California on Sunday?”

  “No. He made a special trip that Friday night.”

  “Did he call you from L.A.?”

  “He called me when he got in, from the Belle Vista, late Friday night. He always called when he went on a trip. He knew I’d worry if he didn’t.”

  “What did he say?”

  “That the flight had been bumpy, but that he was feeling fine. He said that he would probably be out of touch for a few days and not to worry if he didn’t call again until Monday.”

  “Did he say where he was going to be?”

  “I assumed a series of meetings. I remember that the last thing I said to him was not to forget to take his pills with him if he was going to be away from the hotel.” She stared sadly into her cup. “The last thing he said to me was that he loved me.”

  There was a sound from the hall. We both looked up. Marsha Dover was standing in the kitchen door. She had wrapped herself in a bed-sheet.

  “You should be in bed, Marsha, darling,” Connie said, making her face over into a cold mask.

  “I was all alone up there and I had a bad dream about Quentin.” The girl began to sob. “And I’ve hurt my goddamn feet.”

  “Mr. Stoner told me about that,” the older woman said.

  “Mr. Stoner?” The girl looked right through me, as if she’d never seen me before in her life.

  The mother smiled in vindication. “You see,” she said. She turned back to the girl. “We’ll look after it in the morning, Marsha.”

  “I feel like shit,” the girl said. “Will you come upstairs with me, Connie? I don’t want to be alone. I’m scared I’ll have more bad dreams.”

  “Of course, I will,” the woman said briskly. “Aren’t I always there when you want me to be?”

  “Yes, Connie,” she said in a subdued voice.

  The Dover woman stood up. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave you, Mr. Stoner. My daughter-in-law needs me.”

  She walked over to the door and took Marsha by the hand, as if she were a child. I watched them walk off into the dark house—Marsha trailing her bedsheet behind her—and felt like laughing. But what had seemed funny in the kitchen didn’t seem so funny when I got back to the car. On the way home, I was bothered by the feeling that I should have said something to Marsha Dover—something hopeful or kind. But for the life of me, I couldn’t think of what there was to say.

  6

  JACK MOON called at eight the next morning.

  “Did everything work out last night?” he asked.

  I really didn’t know how to answer him. I was still feeling like a derelict for not having said something to Marsha Dover the night before.

  “Quentin’s mother came over,” I finally said. “The girl was all right when I left.”

  Moon laughed uneasily. “You say that like you think she’s not all right now.”

  “It’s just a feeling.”

  “Well, put your mind to rest. I talked to Connie a few minutes ago, and Marsha’s fine.”

  “Good,” I said.

  “There’s a flight out at eleven. You think you can make it?”

  “I’m already packed.”

  “Great. Would you mind picking me up at home? Liz, my wife, needs the car this morning. The kid has Little League practice—some damn tournament in Fairmount. Some silliness.” But he sounded as if he was going to miss seeing it.

  I told him I’d pick him up.

  At ten I picked Jack up at his house in Hyde Park. It was a modest little two-story with a brick porch and a small yard in front. There was a child’s bike sitting in the middle of the cement walk. I pushed it onto the grass and walked up to the stoop.

  A short, jolly-looking, red-headed woman in a Dartmouth sweatshirt and blue jeans answered the door. “He’ll be right out,” she said cheerfully. “My, you’re tall, aren’t you?”

  “Six three.”

  The woman shook her head. “That’s not what you’re supposed to say.”

  “No?”

  “You’re supposed to say, ‘I try to be.’ That’s what Bogie said to Martha Vickers in The Big Sleep.”

  When I didn’t say anything, the woman looked embarrassed. “I go to a lot of movies,” she said with a shrug.

  Moon came out the door, dragging a kid on a leather valise.

  “Ride’s over,” he said and gave the boy a pat on the butt. The boy hopped off and grinned at his father.

  “Ho-kay,” Jack said, running both hands down the front of his suit coat. “Got everything, right?”

  “Everything I need,” the wife said affectionately.

  They kissed and then Jack bent over and kissed the boy.

  “Have you two met?” he said as he stood up.

  “We compared heights,” the woman said with a grin.

  Jack gave her a confused look, then made a face at me, as if to say, “That’s the way she always is.”

  “This is my wife Liz. Liz, Harry Stoner.”

  We shook hands.

  “What about me?” the little boy said, tugging at his father’s pants leg.

  “You?” Jack said, staring at him. “What about you?”

  “I’m Nick,” the boy said.

  “I’m Harry.”

  “You a real detective?”

  I glanced at his mother and said, “I try to be.”

  She laughed. “Take good care of my boy, Harry.”

  She herded her son back in the house, and Jack and I walked down to the car.

  “Shit,” he said as he got in. “The kid’s going to be mad because I didn’t make his game. That sort of thing’s important to kids.”

  “To fathers, too,” I said.

  “It’s a dog’s life, ain’t it?” he said morosely. “I’m in New York or L.A. three or four days out of every week. I tried to get Frank to transfer me to one of the coasts. But...no dice.”

  “How come?”

  “United’s office is here in the city. A multibillion dollar corporation and they don’t even have a New York or L.A. branch. Not even a storefront.” He settled back on the car seat and sighed. “Oh, well. There’ll be other games, I guess.”

  He didn’t say another word on the trip to the airport. In fact, it wasn’t until we were airborne, somewhere over Indiana, that he shook off his melancholy and began to warm up. He was an odd man—a lot softer and a lot more the United type than he’d pretended to be. I wondered if he knew that about himself or if it was something he didn’t want to know. If he didn’t, it was a shame, because it was a large part of his charm.

  “I’m sorry about Marsha,” he said. “I don’t really know her, and I never pegged her for a loon. A dumb hick, yes. A drunk, for sure. But not a psycho.”

  “She didn’t even remember that you had called,” I said dryly.

  He shook his head. “Ah, Quentin. What the hell do you think he saw in her?”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “I mean beyond the T & A,” Moon said. “How far can that take you, anyway?”

  “You knew the man. I didn’t.”

  “Yeah, I guess. But Marsha...she never quite fit into the grand scheme. I could see him marrying that body. But living with what was inside it—I don’t know how he did it. Most of Quentin’s prize possessions didn’t talk dirty or throw up on the rug.” He stared out the tiny window at the green, jigsawed earth. “She’ll crack up on
e of these days. Right over the edge.”

  “Quentin’s mother said that he’d loved the girl.”

  Jack shook his head again. “Quentin didn’t know what the word meant. It was all self with him. You know the sin of lust? Lust of the flesh? Lust of the eyes? Pride of life? That was all Quentin knew about love or anything else. He was a creature of lust and doubt.” Moon laughed. “Listen to me, I sound like the late Father O’Malley, my seventh-grade religion teacher. That’s what comes of a Catholic boyhood. And that’s why Nick goes to public school. What the hell, maybe he did love her. Maybe having to put up with all that shit was a kind of love. Or penance for not being able to love. You might talk to Helen about that. She’s fairly shrewd about other people. And then she didn’t have to count Quentin’s pills for him or clean up his messes. You should talk to Walt Mack, his breakdown man, too.”

  “I’ll want to talk to them both,” I said. “And I’ll also want to talk to the cops.”

  “I think we’ve worked something out on that score,” Jack said. “It’s going to have to be confidential, but there’s a guy named Sy Goldblum in the Hollywood Division who’s willing to fill you in on things.”

  I smiled at him. “How’d you manage that?”

  “Just a little soap and elbow grease. Frank arranged it. He’s been in the business a long time, and he’s got a lot of pull.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “We’re an impressive outfit,” Jack said. “We’ve got you booked into the Westwood Marquis. I’ll be there, too. Walt and Helen are at the Belle Vista, holding a panicky meeting to decide what to do about ‘Phoenix.’ We’ve got to find another head writer this week. I’ll have to sit in on some of the meetings. But I’ll be around in case you need me. And I’ll make sure that Helen and Walt are available at some point or other to talk to you.”

  The plane made a grinding noise and lurched. I flinched and Moon laughed.

  “Take it easy, Harry,” he said. “This is a 727—the safest plane in the skies. That was just the ailerons being lowered.”

  “Wasn’t it a 727 that went down in New Orleans?” I said.

  “It got hit by lightning in a hurricane, for chrissake. I thought you detectives were supposed to be tough guys.”

  “On the ground, Jack. Not in midair.”

  “White knuckle city, huh?” He leaned back in the seat. “I used to be like that—a couple of years ago. But I’ve logged so many air miles now that I look for the seatbelt when I go to the john at home. You’ll get used to it. And if you don’t...” He pointed at the air sickness bag tucked in the back flap of the seat in front of us. “This is my best suit, Harry. So don’t wait for the light to go on, you know? They don’t have one for Vomiting and No Vomiting.”

  “I’ll manage,” I said.

  7

  WE LANDED at LAX at three-thirty Cincinnati time. After kissing the ground, I followed Jack to the luggage pick-up, where we got our bags. Then we took a cab north on the San Diego Freeway to Westwood. The Marquis was located across from UCLA on Hilgard. It was a swanky, modern-looking place with a smoked glass elevator tube running from the street to the lobby entrance—a matter of a few feet. When I asked the black doorman why they’d bothered to install an elevator that only went up one short flight, he grinned toothily and said, “Some people like to ride rather than walk.”

  I wanted to try the elevator, but Moon made me climb the stairs to the lobby. Inside, the Marquis was surprisingly old-fashioned and ornate. The walls were wainscotted in walnut; handsome oriental rugs were scattered on the hardwood floors. There was some very busy wallpaper by the elevators, but for the most part, the lobby was as trig and traditional as a seven-layer wedding cake.

  We settled into two suites on the seventh floor. My suite consisted of two apartment-sized rooms, with two TV’s—a big one in the living room and a slightly smaller one on a stand by the beds—four phones, including a wall unit mounted by the toilet; a wet bar, refrigerator, and dining table off the living room; two desks; six chairs; two king-sized mattresses; and so many mirrors on the walls that I could have rented the place out as a funhouse. I saw myself everywhere I looked, from bath to bar. The mirrors made the rooms look larger, although they were plenty large as it was. They also duplicated every item in sight; and in a couple of spots, where the mirrors were set across from each other, they created an endless perspective of replication, like the famous shot in Citizen Kane. The suite was an egotist’s delight, but it made me dizzy and a little sick to my stomach.

  Jack seemed pleased with the accommodations. “Can’t say we don’t treat you right,” he said proprietarily and waved his arm, which waved again in the mirrors.

  “Just don’t move around a lot,” I said, shutting my eyes.

  “You’re probably still motion sick from the flight.”

  “Yeah, well, the decor isn’t helping things. Who designed this place? Narcissus?”

  Jack laughed. “This place and most of Bel-Air.”

  “Could we get a drink, Jack?” I said. “Preferably in some dark and quiet place?”

  “I think they cover the mirrors in the hotel bar until after the sun has set. I believe that’s the law in this town.”

  “Fine. Let’s go.”

  “You go ahead. I’ll meet you in a few minutes. I want to call Liz and let her know that the insurance check won’t be coming this trip. I also want to get in touch with Helen Rose.”

  “You might call your cop friend, too.”

  “Check.”

  I wandered down to the Marquis bar, which was relatively dark and barlike, and ordered a double Scotch. I was working on my second round when Jack showed up. He’d changed from his suit into a pair of slacks and a sporty, short-sleeved shirt.

  “When in Rome,” he said, pulling up a chair. “God, I love L.A. It’s the only place in the world where you can be yourself and everybody else at the same time.”

  A waiter came up and Jack ordered a martini.

  “And don’t put any fruit in it, O.K.?”

  The waiter smiled.

  “You’ve got to watch that around here,” Jack said. “You order a Tom Collins and they put half a cantaloupe in it as a garnish. Christ, they’re proud of their produce.”

  “Did you talk to the cop?”

  “Yeah. He’s going to meet us here for a drink in an hour. And we’re supposed to have supper with Helen tonight at the Belle Vista. She’s really in a bitchy mood. She took Quentin’s death as a personal insult, as if he’d deserted to The Other Side.”

  “She’s pretty involved in the show?”

  “Is the Pope Polish?” he said. “It’s her whole life. Not a healthy situation. But she doesn’t have much else going for her. Three or four divorces. A movie career that fizzled out. She eats, drinks, and dreams ‘Phoenix.’”

  “How about Quentin? How involved was he?”

  “Not as much,” Jack said. “It was his livelihood, and he took a businesslike interest in it. And, of course, he was vain about the drivel he wrote. But not as vain as the worst of them—like Walt. Let’s not talk about Walt, O.K.?”

  “Quentin’s mother mentioned something about a new project he was working on. You don’t know anything about that, do you?”

  “Was it a TV thing?”

  “That’s what she thought.”

  “Beats the hell out of me,” Jack said. “It wasn’t for us, I can tell you that much. And if it wasn’t for us, it wasn’t for daytime. Quentin had a little rider in his contract that gave us an exclusive option on his services as long as he was working on ‘Phoenix.’ And he loved that half a mil too much to queer the deal.” Moon scratched his beard. “It’d be interesting, though, if he had been fishing around.”

  “How’s that?”

  “There’s been some friction on the team. The usual back-stabbing and chicanery. I’ll tell you, Harry, when the stakes get this high, it’s amazing what people will do to keep their Mercs and Corniches coming in.”

  “I
thought Dover had family money. That’s the impression his mother gave me.”

  “I don’t know,” Jack said. “I don’t think so. He certainly didn’t give us that impression when we hired him. He seemed desperate for the job. Of course, all the writers act that way. The company counts on it. In a business where the quality factor tends to be on the low side, a healthy greed is the next best thing to a healthy sense of self-esteem. You can always count on greed. And, then, it breeds its own screwy ethic and its own aesthetics, for that matter. Learning that ethics is what this business is all about.”

  “Where did Quentin get his practice?”

  “He worked some in nighttime television before hiring on with us. I’ve got a dossier on him, if you want to see it. He had his share of screen credits. Nothing major. Just solid, workmanlike stuff.”

  “Do you know how he started out?”

  “I probably do,” Jack said. “I’ve heard several different versions of his life story over the years. Let’s see if I can make up a composite.” He took a sip of his drink and put the glass down gently on a paper coaster. “Quentin either went to the Yale Drama School or to Harvard or to Northwestern, depending on whom he was talking to. Sometimes, he went to all three and was booted out of each for some adorable, boyish prank in which one was meant to see, like the glimmer of a flame, the hard, gemlike genius that was to erupt into ‘Phoenix.’ After the college years, he spent some lean times either as an actor or a playwright or a novelist. Once again, the big picture depended on his audience. But the features were usually the same. He had a tough go of it. His hard, gemlike genius went unappreciated. But he persevered, insinuating himself, somehow, into the world of the very rich, where he charmed his way from estate to estate, all the while picking up the polish and skills that were to make him such a shrewd judge of human nature—as in the case of his wife. He did, in fact, seem to know an awful lot of gossip about some very rich people, which came in handy on the show. But I never quite treated his worldly wisdom as genuine. I don’t know why, but Quentin never really impressed me as a truth-teller. Even his lies were lies. Anyway, to pick up the saga again, Quentin made his way to Hollywood on the stomach of a well-known actress. Or was it on the back of a rich Broadway producer? Or on the petticoat of the Broadway producer’s wife? In rare instances, it was on the merits of a screenplay he had written about an actress, a Broadway producer, and the producer’s wife. Quentin was a great one for threesomes. The screenplay, which I’ve seen by the way, was a transparent version of A Double Life, and it was never optioned or produced. In spite of this paradox, Quentin’s fortunes were on the rise. He was soon writing scripts for TV serials. It was tough making do on a couple hundred grand—he actually said that to me once—but he kept at it, hoping for a break. And two years ago, the break came in the person of Helen Rose, who hired the great bag of wind as head writer on ‘Phoenix.’