Murder at the Movies (Albert J Tretheway Series)

  © 1996 A.E. Eddenden

  Academy Chicago Publishers

  363 West Erie Street

  Chicago, Illinois 60610

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the publisher.

  Printed and bound in the U.S.A.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Eddenden, A. E.

  Murder at the movies / A.E. Eddenden

  p. cm.

  ISBN 0-89733-428-0 I. Title.

  PR9199.3.E32M79 1996

  813’.54—dc20 95-50689

  CIP

  To Michael Frederick

  Chapter

  1

  Inspector Albert V. Tretheway loved the movies. So did Jake. Although Tretheway was an astute critic of most films, Jake was the true trivia buff and plodding historian. He’d never seen a movie he didn’t like. And he could recite verbatim passages from his favourites and not so favourites.

  The two of them saw more than their share of movies at the West End, a neighbourhood theatre in, naturally, the west end of Fort York. Every Monday and Thursday the double feature bill with added attractions changed. The addeds were world news, previews, possibly a cartoon and a short subject like The March of Time, Bobby Jones On Golf, Archery With Howard Hill or a Pete Smith specialty. At the Saturday matinee the features were replaced with more suitable adventure films and the news with an edge-of-the-seat serial, usually one of the fifteen episodes.

  This totalled over two hundred feature films a year, not counting Saturdays. Taking into account vacations, sickness, personal preferences (Tretheway disliked Shirley Temple), some seasonal holidays and, in rare instances, business, Tretheway and Jake averaged one hundred movies a year. And 1939 was a bumper year.

  “What’s on tonight?” Tretheway asked. He sat in the warmth of Addie’s kitchen. The standard size chair seemed inadequate for his full 6’5” frame and ample 290 pounds. Spread out before him on the round, dark oak table was the first section of the Monday Fort York Expositor. Jake was leaning against the ice box reading the movie pages.

  “Looks real good,” Jake said. “The Hound Of The Baskervilles. Basil Rathbone, Nigel Bruce from the novel by Conan Doyle.”

  “Sherlock Holmes, my favourite detective,” Tretheway said. “Except for Wan Ho.”

  The two smiled.

  “What’s the other feature?” Tretheway asked.

  “A Laurel and Hardy.”

  “Never made a bad picture in their lives.”

  “Flying Deuces,” Jake read. He checked the wall clock. “It starts in thirty minutes.”

  “Perfect.” Tretheway stood up and stretched. His grey sweatshirt, emblazoned Cleveland Police Games 1937, hiked above his uniform trousers to reveal the striped material of a regulation police-issue collarless shirt. “Just time for a brew, Jake?”

  “No thanks. I’m still full.” Jake rubbed his flat stomach. At 5’8” 145 pounds, he filled up a lot quicker than his boss. “Great dinner, Addie.”

  Adelaide Tretheway smiled. Her back was toward the two men as she stood at the sink washing the dishes. She liked to cook and was good at it; simple, English, stick-to-your-ribs fare. Which was probably why she carried a few extra pounds on her sturdy but shapely figure. She was four years younger than her brother Albert, who would turn thirty-nine this year (easy to remember their mother used to say, as old as the century), but admitted only to four less than that, which made her unofficially the same age as Jake.

  Addie turned from her task. She pushed curly wisps of brown hair touched with ginger away from her forehead with the back of her soapy hand. When she smiled, as she did now, impishly, lips pressed together barely turning up at the edges, it accentuated the permanent laugh lines around her luminous green eyes. Jake saw nothing else in the room.

  “You two,” Addie clucked. “When it comes to the movies, you’re like a couple of kids.”

  “I take it you’re not joining us?” Tretheway said.

  Addie shook her head. “No, thank you.”

  She seldom went with them but they always invited her. They knew she wouldn’t be left alone, what with the half dozen student boarders. Some could be heard now setting the banquet-sized dining room table for tomorrow’s breakfast. Addie ran a comfortably disciplined home-away-from-home for students, mostly from nearby Fort York University. The small but reputable school unleashed about four hundred Arts and Theology graduates on the population of Southern Ontario each year. Its distinguished alumni boasted several cabinet ministers, church and industry leaders, a few professional football players and, Addie’s favourite, Constable Jonathan Small. Jake had joined Fort York’s finest immediately upon graduation, earning the indisputable long time boarder award.

  “It’d be a different story if Nelson Eddy was in the movie.” Jake winked at Tretheway.

  “Or Charles Boyer,” Tretheway said.

  Addie ignored their remarks. “Better wrap up,” she said. “It’s below freezing.”

  Tretheway looked out the back window. “But no wind to speak of.”

  “Shall I warm up the car?” Jake asked.

  “I think not.” Tretheway stood up and drained his Molson’s Blue. “Great night for shank’s mare.” He pushed out through the swinging door on his way to the hall closet.

  “For polar bears maybe,” Jake grumbled to Addie.

  “The walk’ll do you good,” she said.

  Bright moonlight threw Mutt and Jeff shadows of Tretheway and Jake across the unshovelled sidewalks as their stout police boots crunched coldly on the snow. They both wore long, heavy greatcoats. Jake’s woolen muffler, wrapped several times around his neck, matched his mitts, hand knit by Addie. A toque pulled low over his ears made up the set. Tretheway’s bowler, set dead level on his head, and his white silk scarf were more fashionable than protective. Black leather senior officer’s gloves warmed his hands. The West End Theatre was a frosty, good half mile from the Tretheway house.

  “Invigorating.” Tretheway’s breath hung frozen in the January air.

  Cold, Jake thought. Every three or four steps he had to take an extra hop skip to keep up with his boss’s giant strides.

  The two stopped dutifully at each residential intersection and looked both ways before crossing the street. “In case any children are watching,” Tretheway would say. Not long ago, as Inspector of the Traffic Division, FYPD, he’d founded a safety club for public school children. “Set an example,” he’d explain.

  They turned automatically into the candy store on King Street not far from the show. Tretheway bought his usual bag of multi-coloured, hard gum drops, which he always paid for even though Jake shared about ten percent of them. At the box office, Tretheway clicked down his quarter on the cold, black marble counter.

  “How do the flicks look tonight, Vi?”

  “You’ll love ’em,” Violet said. “Specially the Sherlock Holmes.”

  Violet Farrago had been the ticket lady as long as Tretheway could remember. And he remembered her as always middle-aged. She was a tall girl, wide through the torso, birdy legs, naturally frizzy blonde hair, a ready smile and a loud generous laugh. Her normal speaking voice had risen in decibels over the years as her hearing worsened. Violet’s glittering, warm grey eyes bulged intently at moving lips during conversations. She had little patience for men with bushy moustaches or beards or for anyone who mumbled.

  “Where’s your friend?” she asked Tretheway.

  “Hi, Vi.” Jake emerged from behind his boss and pushed his twenty-five cents forward. “That’s a cold one tonight.”
<
br />   “Pardon?”

  In addition to having a moustache, Jake tended to mumble. He raised his voice. “I said it’s cold out.”

  “It ain’t summer.”

  Tretheway and Jake pushed through the foyer doors. Their footsteps resounded on the terrazo floor as they walked up the slight incline under the theatre’s high, vaulted, intricately ribbed ceiling muralled with scenes of naked cherubs gambolling against a background of fleecy clouds and unnaturally blue skies. On both walls plaster oblongs framed posters of coming attractions. The projectionist crossed their path on his way upstairs. Neil Heavenly stopped biting his nails long enough to nod cordially. Tretheway and Jake waved back.

  At the inner lobby doors, Freeman Thake tore their tickets in half with his usual flourish and greeted them officially.

  “Good evening, gentlemen.”

  “Freeman,” Tretheway responded. Jake nodded.

  Freeman Thake owned and supervised, on a random rotation basis, three neighbourhood movie houses in the Fort York area. The West End was his favourite. He lived with his family in a substantial older home on Melrose Avenue, an affluent street in the city’s east end. His success in business was due to his knowledge of people. He knew instinctively when to chide, praise, cajole, argue, sympathize and sometimes even discipline his charges. Thake’s dark, sparkling eyes showed an interest in questions most folks considered rhetorical. He charmed his female patrons, puffed up the men and opened doors gracefully for both with no sense of toadying. Overall, he exuded an aura of well-tailored, shoe-shined cleanliness. His jaw was strong, his face deeply tanned, but his very thick, curly black hair, peppered with grey, made his head appear too large for his short smallish frame.

  “We’re just in time,” Jake said.

  “Four minutes to curtain,” Thake announced.

  “Enjoy your adventure.” He held the doors open. Tretheway and Jake stepped into semi-darkness.

  Lulu Ashcroft took over where Thake left off. They followed her and the meandering bright circle from her flashlight over the thick, silent carpeting of the inner lobby. Jake couldn’t help but notice the way the cloth of her suit strained across her quivering rear. She was a big girl with a large chest and, unfortunately, a large everything else, including her waist. Three times a week she enjoyed home-baked beans with heavy brown bread accompanied in the inclement weather by hot rum. She spoke in a soft, lilting, occupational whisper.

  They marched past the first aisle where Lulu’s fellow usher, Joshua Pike, saluted them with his flashlight and the customary mock bow from the waist that he always gave his favourite regulars. His perpetual blinding smile showed plainly in the dim light. Pike winked at Lulu. She led her two patrons around the corner of the second aisle and stopped almost immediately.

  “I saved your seats,” Lulu whispered. Her light illuminated the first seat in the back row.

  “Thanks Lulu,” Tretheway said. He let Jake go in first, then wriggled comfortably into the jumbo seat.

  A few years ago, Thake had replaced some of the worn or vandalized aisle seats with what a convincing theatre furniture salesman had called “love seats.” They hadn’t worked out. The patrons of the West End frowned on their suggested function and those who would have liked to use them were too embarrassed to do it. But one love seat was perfect for one big man.

  There was a dark stain on the stuccoed wall behind the seat where Tretheway’s brilliantined head had rested during numerous past performances. Tretheway jammed his bowler, upside down, between the two seats, and emptied the large bag of candy into the hat. They seldom ate them all. At any time of year in the Tretheway house, colourful, misshapen balls of stuck-together gum drops could be seen in Addie’s candy dishes. The two men settled down, their overcoats and accessories piled warmly on their laps.

  The lights dimmed. Foot shuffling and squirming stopped. Conversations ceased expectantly. Suddenly the screen came to life. The large HR trademark faded into the title, The Flying Deuces. “Dance Of The Cuckoos” bounced from the speakers. Stan and Ollie sat in a sophisticated, Paris sidewalk cafe exchanging confidences over a glass of milk with two straws …

  Tretheway and Jake melted into their celluloid world.

  They were outside the show and halfway down the block when Tretheway realized he didn’t have his bowler. He stopped.

  “Where’s my hat?”

  “What?” Jake stopped.

  “My bowler. I don’t have it.”

  “Did you have it when we left the show?”

  Tretheway thought for a moment. “Damn. I must’ve left it on the seat.”

  Neither spoke right away. A fresh wind whistled around them. Jake knew what was coming.

  “Just nip back there and see if they’ve found it,” Tretheway said.

  Jake trotted back to the theatre muttering to himself about why he was always the one that had to nip back. When he re-emerged ten minutes later, Tretheway was nowhere in sight. Other pedestrians tramped briskly toward their warm hearths. Jake looked both ways. Tretheway stepped out of the darkened beauty parlour doorway where he had taken refuge from the chill. He’d wrapped his silk scarf over his head and tied it under his double chins. Jake thought he resembled a very large, nineteenth-century peasant woman.

  “Did you get it?” Tretheway asked.

  “No. They can’t find it.”

  “What do you mean they can’t find it?”

  “They’re still looking. Probably rolled under the seats.”

  “With the candy?”

  “I guess so.”

  Tretheway shook his head. “My favourite hat.”

  “It’ll turn up somewhere.” Jake’s words were prophetic.

  They trudged home in silence. Tretheway sulked. Visions of Addie’s hot chocolate danced in Jake’s head.

  Chapter

  2

  Life carried on for the next few weeks just about the way it always did in Fort York, despite ominous war clouds gathering on the other side of the world. People who lived in the long shadows of such events tended to shift their worries to more mundane matters: ice falling dangerously close to shoppers from the city hall roof or the lopsided trimming of stately elms and maples on Aberdeen Avenue. Or they sought escape. Books worked. Vicarious radio adventures helped. But nothing transported anyone quicker or more effectively in time and place than the motion picture.

  During the rest of the month, Tretheway and Jake were distracted from the real world by movies that included Bulldog Drummond In Africa, Brother Rat, If I Were King, Ninotchka, Alexander’s Ragtime Band, Girls On Probation and Goodbye Mr Chips. On January 29, a Sunday, about twelve feature films since Flying Deuces, Tretheway received an unusual phone call. Or at least Addie did.

  “That was Mrs Whiteside,” Addie announced. She crossed the parlour to her half of the settee.

  “Who?” Jake shared the maroon love seat with Addie. He had been twiddling the dial searching for the “Chase and Sanborn Hour” which, according to the FY Expo radio log, was supposed to follow the Jello program featuring Jack Benny. Tretheway half reclined in his oversized easy chair, reading the newspaper.

  A small but adequate fire crackled in the fireplace. Light from its flames flickered along the dark body of Fred, the misnamed neighbour’s dog, stretched out on the hearth. She was staying overnight. Shadows from the fringed lamps writhed on the walls. If you listened carefully, you could hear the winter wind dodging through the tall pines in the front yard. Everyone was sipping tea.

  “You remember Mrs Whiteside,” Addie continued. “A nice refined neighbour lady. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. A widow. Her husband was killed about a year ago.”

  “I remember that.” Jake found his radio program. The mellifluous voice of Don Ameche filled the room. Jake turned the volume down. “Wasn’t it a plane crash?”

  “That’s right,” Addie said. “He went down over Lake Ontario. They never found him.” She looked at her brother. “You remember Albert?”

  Tretheway grunted.
He was reading a FY Expo pessimistic news item about the imminent fall of Barcelona.

  “What did she want, Addie?” Jake asked.

  “She just received a troublesome phone call.”

  “Oh?”

  “The voice said, among other things, ‘Your husband’s in the garage.’”

  “But I thought he was dead.”

  “He is.”

  Tretheway stirred. “Why didn’t she call the police?” he said from behind his paper.

  “She did in a way,” Addie hedged. “I said you and Jake might…”

  “Addie.” Tretheway put his paper down. “I meant the police station. I don’t make house calls.”

  “But it’s so close by,” Addie persisted.

  “What did she find in the garage?” Jake asked.

  “The poor soul’s too afraid to look.”

  Tretheway pushed himself upright. “So you expect me to leave a warm room, on a good radio night, go out in the middle of winter …”

  “Albert, she’s my friend.”

  “All right, all right.” Tretheway gulped down his tea. “Tell her we’re on our way.”

  Addie refilled her own cup. “She’s expecting you.”

  Tretheway glared at his sister.

  “I’ll get the coats.” Jake jumped up from the settee.

  Old, hard-packed snow covered the roads. The temperature had not strayed above freezing for two weeks and the wind, so comforting to hear when one was in front of a hospitable fire, became an enemy outdoors. Jake’s toque, mitt and muffler set served him well but Tretheway found it necessary to cup his gloved hands over his ears now and then because his donegal tweed peak cap, even pulled low, left his ear lobes unprotected. He’d never found his bowler

  The walk through the deserted streets took a good fifteen minutes. Addie used the word neighbour loosely. Mrs Whiteside lived five long blocks away.

  “I think this is the house,” Jake said. “That must be Mrs Whiteside.” He pointed to a stooped, apprehensive shadow peering through the sheer curtains of the front window. Mrs Whiteside had the door open before they had climbed the verandah steps. Wind chimes jingled overhead. Tretheway and Jake pushed gratefully into the warm hall.