Murder at the Movies (Albert J Tretheway Series) Page 4

  Tretheway spoke to other classes, then to the upper grades of George R. Allan. The club spread to other public schools in the city. It even found a receptive ear in the lower forms of the five high schools. The amount of public support amazed everyone. Short complimentary stories began appearing in the FY Expositor. Churches praised the club. The local radio station donated seven minutes of broadcasting time every school morning from 8:03 to 8:10 following the news. Tretheway, Wan Ho quipped, was thrust into show business.

  The show’s format was simple. Its main feature consisted of one basic traffic rule every day usually read by Tretheway in a voice that came out as stagey but believable. He also conducted pertinent interviews with crossing guards, ambulance drivers, firemen, motorcycle policemen and sometimes local celebrities like the FY Taggers football coach or Mayor Phineas “Fireball” Trutt. The program opened and closed with a transcription of Gracie Fields singing “Look to the Left and Look To The Right and You’ll Never Never Get Run Over.”

  So when Freeman Thake offered the use of his West End theatre to the FY Children’s Safety Club at half price (five cents a head) for a special Saturday matinee of The Wizard of Oz, Tretheway was not surprised at the turnout. They filled all 420 seats. The few brave mothers and fathers who turned up to supervise were not enough. But the staff pitched in.

  Joshua Pike and Lulu Ashcroft ushered children to the bathrooms as well as their seats. Violet Farrago, after closing her ticket booth, shouted at unrulies running up and down the aisles. Freeman Thake himself did his urbane best, herding squealing groups to their destinations. Others volunteered.

  Mayor Trutt, ever mindful of his political image, arrived with his wife Bertha to aid in the crowd control festivities. The glistening chain of office hung from his neck over his stout midsection. Thin coordinated arms and legs stuck out from his body. A shock of white hair topped his beet-red face and large matching nose. Rumours started by his detractors suggested his flamboyant colouring came from the drink. Kinder, more humourous critics said it was from standing too close to flames for too long. Mayor Trutt had in fact earned his nickname “Fireball” by serving for twenty years with the FY Fire Department before he stumbled into the political system. His relationship with fire still bordered on phobia.

  Mrs. Trutt was the woman behind the man. The mayor had achieved his career success by following her advice. Bertha Trutt understood and enjoyed politics. As tall as her husband, a little plumper and a little heavier, she still radiated a charm envied by svelter ladies. She puffed constantly and unaffectedly on Player’s cork tips through a long ebony cigarette holder. As the first lady of Fort York, her pleasant conversations and anecdotes enriched every important Fort York social function. Bertha and Addie had hit it off from their first meeting.

  Addie had begged off the special matinee to prepare Saturday’s dinner. Jake had brought Bartholemew Gum. Wan Ho had volunteered. And Doc Nooner attended in his professional capacity.

  “What’s one more group?” Doc had laughed when Tretheway asked him why he bothered.

  Dr Francis Nooner served as MD for the police, the firemen, city council and the FY Taggers’ football club as well as being the city coroner. His round naturally tonsured head sat atop a round overweight upper body with a round rear end below; all a result of his flagrant disregard for the rules of self-indulgence that he preached to others. Short stocky legs destroyed the illusion of a snowman. His deep booming contagious laugh could easily be heard above the many shrill voices of the audience.

  Competent Nurse Lodestone stood tall and intimidating by the Doc’s side. Her starched white uniform stretched across a torso that wouldn’t have looked out of place on the prow of a Viking ship. She easily carried a large bag bulky with medical tape, salve, bandages, tongue depressors, aspirins and bottles of bright red mercurochrome.

  Tretheway had asked Miles Terminus to give them a hand. He knew that since his mandatory retirement three years ago, time had hung heavy for the quiet spoken former policeman. Terminus had joined the force the same year as Zulp but lacked the Chief’s ambition or luck for advancement. After nineteen years on the force, he had been promoted to First Class Constable; 1919, the year of the Vincent Paradiso incident.

  One cool autumn night on Fort York’s beach strip, a narrow piece of land separating Wellington Square Bay from Lake Ontario, Constable Terminus was patrolling a line of summer cottages, more than half of them empty. He heard glass breaking. Rounding the corner of the nearest cottage, he surprised, then challenged an obvious burglar. The shadowy figure advanced toward Terminus, threatening the policeman with a rifle. After another unheeded warning, the nineteen-year veteran fired his revolver. The .38 calibre bullet, more by chance than skill, bore a neat, bloodless hole between the eyes of the burglar. He dropped his rifle. It turned out to be a hockey stick. Vincent Paradiso, recidivist, second-storey man, pillar of the criminal community was, at the time of his death, out on bail pending an assault charge; hardly a model citizen. Because of this, taking into account Terminus’s undistinguished but clean record, those in power exonerated the policeman. But from that point on, his career turned into a long wait for a pension. He saw no more promotions. Terminus handled the affair well, seldom spoke of it and seemed outwardly contented. Although he spent the rest of his time at an inside desk job, Terminus never lost the lumbering, big-footed gait of a veteran beat policeman, albeit slower and less strong in his later years. He visited the Tretheways’ regularly but seldom played euchre.

  Each of Tretheway’s supplementary volunteer force stationed himself around the theatre to help in any way he could. The enthusiastic shrieks of the young audience stilled somewhat in anticipation when the title and opening credits rolled by, rose to fervent pitch when the tornado struck and changed to loud oohs and aahs when the film switched to technicolour as Dorothy entered the land of the Munchkins. From the time the Wicked Witch of the East was crushed by Dorothy’s falling house to the scene where her sister, the Wicked Witch of the West (‘she’s even worse than the other one’), was gruesomely liquidated, the decibel level varied from loud to screech. During relative lulls, singing scenes especially, excited club members ran up and down the aisles dodging slow-moving adult monitors and ignoring the cries of Violet Farrago. An endless stream of children going to the bathroom, usually walking backwards, added to the ambience. Few young eyes left the screen. And the Witch provoked the most screaming.

  Just past the three-quarter mark, Tretheway, with Jake in tow, sneaked up to the second floor. They paused at the projection booth. Tretheway tapped on the glass panel in the door. He waved. Neil Heavenly mouthed a greeting and waved back. They proceeded to the crying room.

  “I don’t know how he does it,” Tretheway said.

  “Does what?” Jake asked.

  “Sees the same movies over and over again.”

  “I wouldn’t mind.”

  Tretheway shook his head.

  At the end of the upper hall (no balcony) the company that orginally built the theatre had installed a crying room, so called because they thought mothers with crying babies could retire there and not disturb others. It contained two rows of extra wide seats, with ash trays. A pane of thick, soundproof glass separated the patrons from the common folk. Speakers carried the sound. More often the room hosted sympathy cases like people with canes, crutches, casts or hacking coughs. And sometimes friends of Thake trying to get away from it all.

  “Well look who’s here,” Tretheway said.

  “Too many kids.” Wan Ho’s grin was sheepish.

  “Sneaky. Pretty sneaky,” Jake said.

  “That makes three of us.” Wan Ho defended himself.

  Tretheway settled comfortably into one of the seats. The heavy door eased shut, enveloping them in silence. Wan Ho had turned off the sound.

  “Great movie,” Jake said.

  “Not really my cup of tea.” Tretheway wriggled until he found a cigar.

  “The kids sure love it,” Jake said. />
  Wan Ho smiled at Tretheway. “At least we won’t have to worry about this one.”

  “What do you mean?” Tretheway said.

  “Surely our Fan won’t see anything ominous in this movie.”

  “Why?” Tretheway pressed.

  “It’s just a kid’s movie. A silly fairy tale. Not serious,” Wan Ho said.

  “You think Flying Deuces was an epic?” Tretheway said.

  “Well…”

  “You mean he might use The Wizard of Oz?” Jake said.

  “All I’m saying is, keep an open mind.” Tretheway puffed cigar smoke into the small room. Through the glass Frank Morgan recited a silent speech from his Omaha State Fair hot air balloon. “Put yourself in the Fan’s place. What would he do?” Tretheway looked from Jake to Wan Ho. “How could he use this movie?”

  “Okay.” Wan Ho thought for a moment. “We need a death.”

  “Preferably violent,” Jake said.

  “Like in the first two movies.”

  “Like Dorothy killing the Witch. Liquidating her,” Jake quoted.

  “Maybe he’s going to melt somebody,” Wan Ho suggested.

  Jake winced.

  “I doubt that,” Tretheway said. “But …” he shrugged.

  Jake and Wan Ho continued their exchange.

  “Don’t forget,” Wan Ho said. “The first witch was killed too.”

  “By a falling house,” Jake said.

  “How about death by tornado?”

  “Or fire. Remember the scarecrow was set on fire.”

  “And in another scene he was torn apart.”

  “And the poppies.”

  “Eh?”

  “The Witch tried to poison them all with the poppies. Put them to sleep.”

  “And how would you like to be dropped by one of those flying monkeys?”

  Jake and Wan Ho looked at each other. Neither smiled.

  “Just a silly fairy tale,” Tretheway repeated.

  “I shouldn’t’ve said that,” Wan Ho said.

  “There’s too many possibilities,” Jake said.

  “And too many movies,” Tretheway said.

  The three stared glumly through the glass. The movie had returned to black and white. Dorothy lay on her bed surrounded by family and friends. Her lips were moving. Wan Ho flicked on the speakers.

  “Oh, Auntie Em. There’s no place like home.”

  Tretheway pushed himself out of the soft seat. “I couldn’t agree more.” He led Jake and Wan Ho out of the crying room.

  Chapter

  5

  About three weeks later in the north end of Fort York, where light industry mixed freely with residences, a house was knocked flat; at least most of it was. It happened around three o’clock in the morning, April 1, a Saturday.

  Abruptly awakened by an approaching roar, Isabella Hamilton, an elderly spinster, scrambled to safety seconds before a massive bulldozer tumbled the concrete block and stucco wall of her basement bedroom about her. She suffered understandable shock, but physically only some minor bruises from being grazed by falling debris. The FYPD inferred that the bulldozer had been stolen from a nearby construction company with sloppy security. Witnesses were hard to come by in this transitional neighbourhood where residents minded their own business. Miss Hamilton went on to say that when the dozer stopped, she heard a high-pitched voice, presumably the driver’s singing. She didn’t recognize the song but was sure it began with the words “Ding Dong.”

  That was enough for Tretheway. He hastily called an unofficial gathering of the professional show folk for the following Sunday. And because of their involvement in The Wizard of Oz screening, and the fact that Addie could use their help in logistics (refreshments and chairs), Tretheway invited Gum, Wan Ho, Doc Nooner and Miles Terminus. Nooner was the only one who couldn’t make it. His Connoisseur Wine and Gourmet Hors D’Oeuvre Club met the first Sunday of each month. The rest of the guests took over the Tretheways’ common room at eight in the evening.

  Apple logs burned in the fireplace. Soft music came from Addie’s kitchen radio. Fred sat beside one of the couches, her head on Jake’s lap. An aura of contentment that would soon disappear pervaded the room.

  Tretheway started slowly. He thanked them all for coming, especially on such short notice, and launched into a general, off-the-cuff dissertation on the importance of movies to small neighbourhood like West End. And about how they influenced some people more than others. His audience reacted politely enough, but most brows remained wrinkled. He followed with a brief, hit-the-high-spots retelling of The Wizard of Oz. He then jumped right in. He laid bare his theory connecting the movie to the bulldozer incident. Audible gasps came from Violet Farrago and Lulu Ashcroft when they realized what Tretheway was saying.

  “You mean,” Violet Farrago said, “that someone purposely tried to push the wall on top of that Miss Hamilton?”

  “It’s only a theory.” Tretheway held both placating hands out in front of him, palms down, fingers spread. “But yes.”

  “But the paper said vandalism,” Lulu said.

  “I believe Chief Zulp’s phrase was…?” Tretheway looked at Wan Ho.

  “‘Extreme but spur of the moment vandalism,’” Wan Ho quoted.

  “And you’re saying, in your opinion, it’s… it’s…” Lulu couldn’t say the word.

  “Murder,” Tretheway finished. “Fortunately only attempted. But still premeditated murder.”

  “Now just a minute, Inspector.” Freeman Thake rose quietly from his seat. “If I understand, you’re saying that someone saw The Wizard of Oz, saw Dorothy’s house fall on the Witch and tried to emulate this?”

  “That’s right,” Tretheway said.

  “Come, come Inspector,” Thake argued. “What about the bulldozer? You can’t plan that?”

  “True,” Tretheway said. “But it is all part of his technique. His targets of opportunity approach. I’m convinced he planned something else. His own vehicle perhaps. I’ve seen the Hamilton home. Concrete blocks. Not too substantial. Wouldn’t take much to knock it over. But when you’re practically handed a bulldozer,” Tretheway poked his stubby index finger in the air, “much more efficient. And spectacular.” Thake sat down muttering.

  “But what about the noise?” Violet asked.

  “It’s a noisy area,” Tretheway said. “Close to Stelfy. Not too many homes.” He mentioned that there were no witnesses. “Also, it’s a tight-lipped neighbourhood.”

  Joshua Pike entered the discussion. “Just how do you explain the singing?” He stretched as tall as his short legs would allow. Both hands rested on the chair in front of him, taking the weight off his bunioned feet. From the waist up, he was a big man. His prominent teeth, set in a jutting lantern jaw, showed pleasantly as he spoke. “The song? The one that started ‘Ding Dong’?”

  “Remember the song the Munchkins sang in the movie?” Tretheway asked.

  Joshua shook his large head.

  “‘Ding Dong, the Witch Is Dead,’” Tretheway reminded

  Lulu and Violet inhaled loudly again.

  “In the paper it said a high-pitched voice,” Joshua said. “Does this suggest a woman was driving the bulldozer?”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Tretheway said. “More likely an attempt by our Fan to imitate a Munchkin.”

  “Isn’t that taxing the imagination just a bit?” Miles Terminus said. “Couldn’t it still be a coincidence?”

  “Too many coincidences, Miles,” Tretheway said. “And I’ll give you one more. The name of the woman almost killed by the falling house was Hamilton. The name of the actress who plays the Witch in the movie was also Hamilton. Margaret Hamilton.”

  “That could still be a coincidence,” Lulu said.

  “I agree,” Thake said. “After all, it was just one movie. And just one … ah … misadventure.”

  Tretheway sighed. He shook his head. “No. This is the third. There were two other movies. And, as you say, misadventures.”

  Tret
heway waited for the facts to sink in during the stunned lull that followed.

  “I’ll make some tea,” Addie said. She left.

  “I’ll help,” Gum said following Addie to the kitchen.

  Tretheway went on to explain about Flying Deuces and Only Angels Have Wings.

  “I can understand your surprise,” he concluded. “The stolen horse and derby never made the paper. And the condor plan was aborted. You have not been privy to all the facts.” He nodded at Jake and Wan Ho. “We have. The three incidents alone are mere stories. Even amusing. But in my opinion, connected together they foretell a pattern of escalating danger. Even murder.”

  They all resumed or re-arranged themselves in their seats. Chairs creaked. A kettle whistled in the kitchen. Neil Heavenly raised his hand.

  “Yes, Neil,” Tretheway said.

  “There’s one question nobody’s asked,” he said. “But I think it’s important.”

  “I can guess what it is,” Tretheway said. “But go ahead.”

  Neil Heavenly stood up. His curly, reddish brown forelock bounced boyishly on his freckled brow. He looked younger than twenty-seven. According to Thake, Neil had driven his battered pickup truck out of the depressed prairies about four years ago, heading for a more affluent Southern Ontario. He’d held a number of jobs, one of them as a projectionist. Thake hired him and had never regretted it. Although small in stature, Heavenly easily hefted the numerous unwieldy cans of film and hopped nimbly around the complicated projector. He was habitually early on the job and usually the last to leave the theatre. His knowledge of cinematic history rivalled Jake’s. He lived alone, lifted weights and bit his nails to the quick.

  “Why?” Neil Heavenly asked. He pushed his hands self-consciously into his pockets. “Why is this person doing all these mysterious deeds?”

  “That’s the one,” Tretheway said. “Good question. And I can give you a straightforward answer.”

  Jake and Wan Ho exchanged puzzled looks.

  “I don’t know,” Tretheway said. “I have absolutely no idea why our Fan is doing what he’s doing.”