Murder at the Movies (Albert J Tretheway Series) Read online

  Tretheway focused the flashlight on the rear of the structure. A low wall separated the pool from three metal banded, large oaken casks. They were covered. An arrangement of blinds assured light control for the product. The dogs continued barking.

  Tretheway and Jake exchanged nods without speaking. They skirted the pool carefully. Tretheway stopped in front of the first barrel. “Get the light.” He pointed with the flashlight at the ceiling.

  Jake grasped a piece of string hanging from an overhead exposed light bulb and jerked forty watts into life. The dogs’ barking lowered to growls. Tretheway had little trouble lifing the heavy circular lid from the cask. A stench of fermenting grapes overpowered the chemical smell of the pool. The weak light showed foaming wine to the barrel’s brim. Bubbles and numerous grapes floated on the disturbed surface.

  “Nothing here,” Tretheway said.

  Jake hesitated. “You sure?” He looked around. “Shouldn’t we poke a rake or hoe handle into it?”

  “I think not. If there was anything there we’d see it.”

  Tretheway went on to the next barrel. It took longer than the first but he finally one-handed the awkward lid upwards. More fermenting grape fumes.

  “You could get high just smelling this stuff,”

  The contents resembled those of the first barrel.

  Tretheway pointed to the third one. “Two down.”

  “One to go,” Jake stammered.

  Tretheway yanked at the last lid. It didn’t budge. He put the flashlight in his pocket and tried again with both hands to no avail. “It’s stuck. Gimme a hand.”

  Jake went to the opposite side of the barrel. They both pulled. Still nothing budged.

  “Must be the suction,” Jake said.

  “Get over here,” Tretheway ordered.

  Jake moved over beside his boss. The two wrapped their hands around the ample handle. Beside Trethe-way’s hands, Jake’s looked juvenile.

  “Okay,” Tretheway said. “On three.”

  Jake braced himself.

  “One, two …”

  On three, they heaved together. A wet, lip-smacking whooshing sound, not unlike a giant drain unclogging, rent the small interior of the greenhouse. The barrel rocked, sloshing homemade wine over its sides. Tretheway and Jake stumbled backwards holding the unstuck lid between them. The dogs ran away yelping.

  Edging forward, Tretheway peered apprehensively into the barrel, its contents still eddying from side to side. Jake peeked around his boss’s shoulder. What first appeared to be a melon bobbing in a sea of grapes turned out to be the head of D.W. Clarence facing upwards, floating aimlessly, eyes mercifully closed. On either side, his hands rose out of the murky liquid, fingers crooked, palms up, in what must have been one last futile attempt to unseat the jammed lid. Grapes riding in the swishing wine swam in and out of his mouth which was locked open as if in a final bubbly scream.

  “Gawd,” Jake said.

  “I think King Richard has murdered the Duke of Clarence,” Tretheway said.

  He replaced the lid. The dogs returned, whimpering. Outside the wind rose.

  The rest of Sunday night/Monday morning passed in a busy blur. Black and white cruisers, unmarked detective cars, a Black Maria with extra uniforms and a FY Expo press car crowded into the Clarence’s roomy driveway behind Jake’s Pontiac. Doc Nooner arrived in his FY Coroner’s black panel truck with Nurse Lode-stone driving. Zulp came last with customary sirens. He took charge immediately. A search began.

  Uniforms and plainclothesmen alike combed the area around the Clarence house, including part of the woods. Men followed the slippery tortuous trails or crashed through the underbrush where there were no paths. They hunted into the wet bottom land of the ravine where riled swarms of mosquitoes attacked them and the swampy creek bed soaked their feet, in some instances siphoning off their heavy boots.

  Zulp had set up the Clarences’ outer kitchen as his command post. The generous-sized muddy footprints of reporting policemen soon covered the hardwood floors. Fortunately Mrs Clarence wasn’t there. After a brief question period, which revealed nothing new, she and her maid had retired. Mrs Clarence lay now on the luxurious queen-size bed in her own bedroom. Nurse Lodestone watched over her sedated rest. An exhausted Mr Moto and Popsie snored and snuffled on the satin bedspread beside their mistress.

  In the small greenhouse, activity occurred in relays. Zulp had already been and gone. Wan Ho had made his examination. Now two burly ambulance attendants moved the offending barrel off to one side. One half-tipped the cask as the other extricated the sodden body of D.W. Clarence, spilling most of the fermented wine over himself and the floor. Some splashed onto the baggy pants and dress shoes of Doc Nooner.

  “Sorry, Doc,” one attendant said.

  “I’ve had worse,” Doc Nooner replied.

  “At least you can’t smell the chlorine any more,” the other attendant said.

  They wrestled D.W. onto a waiting stretcher. Doc Nooner bent over and studied the body as best he could under the conditions. He took only minutes.

  “Take him to the shop,” he told the attendants. “Can’t do any more here.”

  The doctor pushed and excused himself past several detectives dusting for fingerprints on obvious handholds around the pool.

  “Any luck?” he asked one of them.

  The detective shook his head. “Nothing yet.”

  Outside the greenhouse, Doc Nooner had to walk by the Expo reporter and photographer who stood sullenly together.

  “What’s going on, Doc?” the reporter asked.

  The photographer’s speed graphic flashed. Doc Nooner jumped.

  “They won’t let us in,” the reporter said.

  “Say we make them nervous,” the photographer said.

  “No kidding.” Doc Nooner rubbed his eyes. He continued up the incline toward the main house following an irregular path already made by police boots in the soft lawn. In the outer kitchen he found Chief Zulp, head in hands, listening to Tretheway finish his Tower of London theory. Jake and Wan Ho stood off to one side.

  Zulp looked up at Doc Nooner’s arrival. “Well?” he said.

  “Can’t tell ’til we cut him up,” Doc Nooner said.

  Jake winced.

  “But I’d say offhand death by drowning. Looks like someone shut him up in the full barrel.”

  “Drowned in Malmsey wine?” Wan Ho asked.

  “I don’t think it’s Malmsey,” Tretheway said.

  “But it was Malmsey in the movie,” Jake said.

  “And the Malmsey bottle on the porch,” Wan Ho said.

  “If it had been Malmsey wine in the barrel,” Tretheway explained, “he wouldn’t’ve needed the bottle to make his point.”

  “I see,” Zulp said. It was obvious from his expression that he didn’t see.

  “What the hell is everyone talking about?” Doc Nooner asked.

  “Did you see The Tower of London?” Tretheway asked.

  Nooner shook his head.

  “Richard III…” Tretheway began.

  “Just a moment.” Zulp stood up. “I’ll take it from there. Get it straight in my own mind.” This was true, but Zulp also thought he was losing control of the meeting. He clasped his workingman’s hands behind him. “This has to do with Tretheway’s movie theory. I’ve heard them all. The horse, the big bird, wicked witch, Gunga Din and the French army thing.” He rose up and down on the balls of his feet a few times. “Now I’m not saying I accept this theory completely. Serious flaws. Flights of fancy.”

  Tretheway stared straight ahead.

  Zulp unclasped his hands. He lowered his eyes. A tired look passed over his weathered features. “But we don’t have anything else,” he said quietly. “Just these dumb movies.”

  No one spoke. Outside sounds intruded. Policemen’s boots clomped up and down the porch steps. A vehicle crunched out of the driveway. Muffled shouts came from those still searching.

  “The Tower of London,” Tretheway pro
mpted.

  “Right.” Zulp looked up. He pushed his lower lip out. One hand played with the loose folds of skin under his chin. “In The Tower of London Richard III murdered a number of people. For the throne. Including the Duke of Clarence. Drowned him. In a vat of Malmsey wine.” He glanced at Tretheway before continuing. Tretheway nodded. “Now. The theory is that our perpetrator saw this movie. Got inspired. Picked someone called Clarence. Secluded area. Wore a crown. Pretended to be a cripple. Hunchback. Left the Malmsey wine bottle. And you know the rest.” Zulp looked at Tretheway again.

  “Couldn’t’ve done better myself,” Tretheway said.

  Zulp smiled.

  “Just a minute,” Doc Nooner said. “Where would he get a crown?”

  “Military museum,” Tretheway said.

  “Remember the robbery?” Wan Ho asked Nooner.

  “Horsborough’ll be glad to get it back,” Jake said.

  “But what about the wine?” Doc Nooner persisted.

  “Don’t you find it rather fortuitous that D.W. Clarence was a winemaker?”

  “Not really,” Tretheway said. “I make wine. You make wine. I’ll bet half the people running around these grounds make wine. And suppose he didn’t. Then our Fan goes on to another Clarence. Or someone called Duke. Or even another movie.”

  “You mean he just picks these movies arbitrarily? And the people?” Nooner asked. “No rhyme or reason?”

  “I think so,” Tretheway said. “At least so far.”

  “But why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Doc Nooner shook his head. “You’re telling me there’s no motive?”

  “I didn’t say that. I think there’s a very strong, powerful motive driving our Fan.”

  “Oh?”

  Everyone looked at Tretheway.

  “We just don’t know what it is.”

  “Dammit, Tretheway,” Zulp spluttered.

  “Hear me out, Chief.” Tretheway held up his hand. “In your words, we don’t have much else.”

  Zulp grumbled, but stopped spluttering.

  “I think the murders and even the pranks are all camouflage. Red herring country. Bewilderment time. The Fan has the freedom to pick any victim and any movie and meld the two together because he’s not bound by any motive.” Tretheway spoke to Wan Ho. “I’ll wager you’ve found no connections between the victims?”

  “Not really,” Wan Ho admitted.

  “I mean, they’re not all Orangemen? Or streetcar conductors? Electricians? They’re not related? Or have the same hobby?”

  Wan Ho shook his head.

  “And the films are also picked out of the air,” Tretheway went on. “No common link. They’re chosen to suit the circumstances. To suit the Fan.” He began pacing around the kitchen. Everyone waited. He stopped at the screen door and stared out. In the distance, flashlights of the searching policemen resembled giant fireflies flitting erratically in the hazy darkness.

  “However,” Tretheway said to the night, “that’s all going to change.” He turned from the door. “If I were a betting man, I’d say the next movie will be the climax. The finale. A golden opportunity for us to catch him.”

  “Why will this one be different?” Wan Ho asked.

  “Because this one will have a motive,” Tretheway answered. “I still don’t know what. It’s almost irrelevant. The important thing is, that this time the Fan will not have the freedom of choice. For anything. I’m convinced the next victim was chosen months, maybe even years ago. And the movie picked out well ahead of time. The others,” he waved his big hands in the air, “all leading up to the biggy. He’s locked in.”

  “But we still don’t know why?” Zulp asked.

  “Not yet,” Tretheway said.

  “Or who the victim is?” Wan Ho asked.

  “No.”

  “Or the Fan?” Jake asked.

  “No.”

  “And we don’t even know what movie,” Zulp said.

  “On that I can make an educated guess,” Tretheway said.

  Everyone looked at him again.

  “Well?” Zulp said.

  “With your permission, Chief,” Tretheway said. “I’d like to suggest a meeting. At our place. It’s important. Just to set the stage.”

  “When?” Zulp asked.

  Tretheway checked the single digit Bank Of Commerce calendar hanging in the Clarences’ kitchen. “Today’s the ninth. How about next Sunday? The sixteenth?”

  “Why always Sunday?” Zulp asked. His favourite radio show broadcast on Sunday night.

  “Because I want to invite Freeman Thake and his West End crew,” Tretheway explained. “That’s their only night off.”

  Zulp grumbled. “Anyone else?”

  Tretheway looked around the room. “Everyone here. And anyone who goes to the movies with us. Like Terminus and Gum. We’d better include Horsborough. And of course Addie.”

  “Then we can discuss your educated guess?” Wan Ho said.

  “Or anyone’s,” Tretheway answered.

  Zulp brightened. “Sort of a pick-your-movie night?”

  Tretheway frowned. “Sort of.”

  “Good thinking.” Zulp jumped up. “That’s it, then. Back to work. Promised the boys some pictures. Your Chief-in-action kind of thing. We protect. Seven-thirtyish?”

  “What?”

  “Next Sunday,” Zulp said to Tretheway. “Around half past seven.”

  “Right,” Tretheway said.

  Zulp marched outdoors.

  Chapter

  10

  The investigation strengthened Tretheway’s theory. No connections surfaced between D.W. Clarence and the other victims or between The Tower of London and the other movies. The unharmed crown was returned to a grateful Basil Horsborough and the wig, a commonplace theatrical prop offering no clues, filed in the police lab. No unaccounted fingerprints were found. Thousands of bootprints did nothing but establish a police presence. The prowler escaped. By the time the weekend rolled around, little progress had been made in solving any of the homicides; or, in the coined words of the FY Expo, the Movie Murders.

  Addie, though balking at the short notice Tretheway had given her, soon jumped enthusiastically into the spirit of the Sunday meeting. She arranged for plenty of fresh bread, three-year-old cheddar cheese, pastrami, corn beef, onion buns, tea, ice, ginger beer (and of course dandelion wine), plus all the nibbles necessary for a successful get-together. Late Sunday afternoon all stood ready. A giant yellow cake (Tretheway’s favourite) cooled on the kitchen window sill waiting for a generous slathering of Addie’s special yellow icing. Twelve Molson Blue quarts chilled in an ice-filled wash tub on the back porch. Mounds of sandwiches awaited attack on platters with side dishes of lettuce, tomatoes, green onions and radishes plucked from Addie’s vegetable patch. Fresh cut flowers from Tretheway’s garden filled the common room. Vibrant colours of delphiniums, summer phlox, salvia and snap dragons played background to the heady bouquet of nicotiana and crushed sassafrass leaves. A misleading party ambience prevailed.

  The invitees began arriving shortly before Zulp’s seven-thirtyish pronouncement. Freeman Thake made the first entrance, a stylish one, wheeling his ’38 maroon Buick Roadmaster up the Tretheways’ driveway. He’d called for his employees on the way. Lulu Ashcroft and Joshua Pike were picked up together in front of their apartment building where they each rented a bachelor (rumour said they visited often). The two ushers shared the spacious back seat with Neil Heavenly. Violet Farrago sat in the front seat beside her boss offering occasional loud advice about speed limits and stop signs. Addie watched approvingly from the house as Thake spun around the car opening doors for his staff.

  Miles Terminus and Bartholemew Gum walked over together. Fred the Labrador followed them into the house. Chief Zulp was chaffeured to the affair in his official, city-crested black limo. “Thank goodness, no sirens,” Addie said. Doc Nooner called Wan Ho for a ride at the last minute. Wan Ho had the feeling that the doctor was dodgin
g Nurse Lodestone but said nothing. Basil Horsborough came by bicycle, a black one.

  “You’ve all been briefed about this meeting,” Tretheway began.

  The murmur of chitchat subsided. Everyone sat comfortably, forming a loose group facing Tretheway in the common room. Some had open stone ginger beer bottles beside them, others had tea or coffee. Large bowls of popcorn or potato chips were placed within reach of all.

  “And I’m sure you’ve heard of Chief Zulp’s suggestion about selecting your own movie. Now I know you’ve heard this at different times. Some later than others. So if you haven’t had enough time, don’t worry about it. What I’d like to do …”

  Doc Nooner jumped up. “Son of Frankenstein,” he interrupted. Most people nodded and smiled.

  “Hold it, Doc.” Tretheway held both hands out in his all-lanes-stop position.

  Doc Nooner sat down.

  “What I’d like to do first,” Tretheway began again, “is show you how we arrived at our choice. Lead you down the path we followed. Sergeant Wan Ho, Constable Small and I have talked at length about this. Studied it from different angles. And come up with a movie. A logical one.” Tretheway paused and studied faces. He hurried back into his explanation when it appeared Zulp was going to ask a question.

  “Guideline number one. It must be a spectacular. Not an ordinary movie. A real special. One that would appeal to our Fan’s sense of the theatrical. Particularly for a finale. Definitely not a B movie. Two. It must be one that hasn’t been shown before. A new movie. Therefore, number three, it must be heavily promoted. Advertised to the point that everyone is aware of the general story line months before it’s shown. And number four, it must be shown at the West End.”

  Freeman Thake stood up. He seemed agitated.

  “What is it, Freeman?” Tretheway asked.

  “You’ve just described Gone with the Wind,” Thake said.

  “That’s the one,” Tretheway said.