05 Thanksgiving Angels, page 13
“Thank you, Miss Allcutt.” Rotondo returned to Mrs. Pinkerton, and I returned to my notes.
I don’t know how long we were in that room, but by the time the detective had finished with us, we’d all pretty much told him the same thing. We’d left the séance room, started walking through the hallway to the drawing room, heard a piercing scream, looked up, and we’d seen Mrs. Winkworth fall to the parquet flooring. No one had anything else to add, and a couple of people—the men, naturally—hadn’t even seen that much, because they’d been talking to each other.
We then went into the drawing room, and Detective Rotondo told all the persons whom he’d already interviewed that they could leave, either to go to their rooms or to head home. Chloe seemed to want to cling to Harvey, but Harvey gently suggested she go upstairs and lie down, telling her he’d be with her shortly. Harvey was a real gentleman.
“Will all the people who were upstairs at the time of Mrs. Winkworth’s fall, please go with Officer Ludlow. He’ll keep an eye on you until I can interview each of you.”
I should have, but hadn’t, expected Lola de la Monica to kick up a fuss about that, but she didn’t get very far. Rotondo rounded on her with that special, eyebrow-lowered glower of his, and she sort of shrank into herself. Harvey stepped up, took her arm and said, “Come along with me, Lola.”
She gazed upon him with adoring eyes. He clearly didn’t find her adoration charming, but at least she went quietly, along with Riki Saito and Mr. Mann, who had a hangdog expression on his face.
I’d expected the throng from the drawing room to take a long time to sort through, but Detective Rotondo did it in a snap. He just asked if anyone had anything to say about the evening’s doings, and if anyone knew why Mrs. Winkworth might have been shoved to her death.
Except for one or two people telling the detective that she’d been a hateful woman, no one had anything of a useful nature to provide. Mrs. Hanratty did say, “I don’t know anyone who really liked her, but I never thought anyone would hate her enough to . . . to kill her.” She started sniffling again, and Monty put his arm around her.
“It’s all right, Mother. Everything will be all right.”
I hoped he was right about that.
“Very well,” said the detective. “You can all leave or do whatever you need to do.” He turned a jaded eye upon Ernie and me. “You two, come with me.”
“What about me, Sam?” asked Daisy. I got the impression she wanted to be in on the action as much as I did.
“You go home. You’ve already given your statement, and if I need to talk to you again, I know where to find you.”
Not a precisely lover-like speech, and Daisy didn’t appreciate it. “Darn you, Sam Rotondo, I want to listen! I know those people better than you do. I can probably help.”
But Detective Rotondo was firm. “Go home, Daisy,” he said in a measured voice.
I sensed a seething volcano underlying the words, however, and I guess Daisy did, too, because she huffed and said, “Oh, all right, but you’d better tell me everything the next time you come to dinner, Sam Rotondo.”
Rolling his eyes very much as Ernie did, the detective said, “Fine.” Then he turned his back on his fiancée and walked back to the dining room where the main suspects—at least in my mind—lurked.
When Ernie and I entered the room behind Detective Rotondo, we found Lola de la Monica having a perfect snit at poor Officer Ludlow. Harvey was attempting to subdue her; Mr. Mann stood in a corner of the room, looking on, appalled; and Riki Saito was futilely attempting to pull the crazed woman away from Ludlow. Ludlow, while trying to dodge her sharp, red fingernails without decking her, attempted to exert control. He lost.
Finally, Ernie and Rotondo each went to one side of the idiotic woman, grabbed an arm, and drew her bodily away from Officer Ludlow, whose countenance bore evidence of Lola’s lethal fingernails.
“Sit,” commanded Rotondo as he and Ernie wrestled her into a chair. “Stay.”
He sounded as if he were giving commands to a dog. I regret to say my mind offered up the word “bitch” in reaction to his words, but I didn’t let on.
“Want me to cuff her?” asked Officer Ludlow.
“Cuff! Cuff? What is this cuff? Don’t hurt me! Stop! Stop!”
Interesting. Her accent seemed to be slipping some. Did I detect traces of New York in her tone as well as Detective Rotondo’s? Might they have known each other back east? Could they possibly—I told myself to get a grip on my nerves. Rotondo and de la Monica hated each other; that much was obvious. And New York City’s a big place. Hardly anyone there knows anyone else. I remember that much from when I lived in Boston, which isn’t nearly as big as NYC, but the same anonymous conditions prevail there, too.
“Shut the hell up, you,” said Ernie, loudly, not mincing his own words. “You’re the one doing the hurting. You should be locked up for attacking an officer of the law.” He pressed down hard on her shoulders. “Want me to tie her down, Detective?”
“No!” Lola screamed. Then she started sobbing as if someone had just cut off one of her ears or something. What a blooming idiot!
Harvey walked over to the chair in which she struggled, looking angrier than I’d ever seen him, Harvey being in general a mild-mannered fellow.
“Lola,” he said. “This isn’t helping anyone, least of all yourself. Calm down, answer the policeman’s questions, and you can go home.”
She gazed up at Harvey with beseeching eyes. “Oh, but Mr. Nash. How can you be so cruel. My life is ruined!”
Ernie, Rotondo, and I all exchanged a glance and then turned our attention to Harvey, who still seemed irked.
“You’re the only one who has control over your life, Lola. You chose to create a fuss, and you’re reaping your rewards now. Don’t blame anyone else if you think your life is ruined, because you’re the only one to blame.”
“Oh, no, no, no!” she whispered, and then she dissolved into tears once more.
Ernie and the detective still held on to her arms, in case she decided to fight again, but gradually they let up on her. I expected she’d have bruises in the morning, but they were no more than she deserved.
“Are you going to sit still and behave now?” asked Rotondo of the sobbing actress.
She only nodded and subsided more deeply into the chair, which was not overstuffed or anything, but rather a straight-backed dining room chair. She must have been uncomfortable, but at that point I didn’t give a rap.
Then she lifted her head, and I realized she’d been putting on an act the entire time. Her eyes were as dry as mine, darn her! I had to admit, however, that she’d proved herself to be a good actress. When I glanced at Officer Ludlow and saw him dabbing at bleeding scratch marks with his handkerchief, my brief admiration for Miss Lola de la Monica’s acting talents underwent a downward plunge.
“Why, you weren’t even crying! You were faking it all the time!” I told her, truly angry.
She smirked at me. “I was frightened,” she said, her Spanish accent back in place.
“Nuts! You’re a maniac!”
Lola commenced pouting.
Giving her a furious glare, I went to Officer Ludlow and put a hand on his arm. “And look what you did to this poor man!” I asked him, “Would you like to wash those scratches with warm water and soap? I’m sure there’s iodine in a medicine cabinet somewhere.”
“Oh, for cripes’ sake,” muttered Ernie.
“Miss Allcutt, get away from my officer,” growled Detective Rotondo.
I whirled around and blasted both men with my fiercest frown. “Not until this poor man takes care of his wounds. Why, I’ve read that human scratches are worse than cat scratches!” With what I hoped was an expression of supreme contempt, I added, “Although in this case, I doubt there’s much difference.”
Rotondo muttered, “Christ,” reminding me—again—of Ernie.
“Better let her look after the officer, Detective. Once she gets the bit between her teeth, there’s no stopping her.”
“But there won’t be anyone to take notes,” Rotondo pointed out.
“They’ll be back,” said Ernie with his characteristic insouciance.
“Dammit—”
“It’s not worth arguing with her,” said Ernie, interrupting the detective.
Rigid with fury now, I said to both men, “That’s right.” I turned to Ludlow. “Come with me right this minute.”
Ludlow cast a pleading look at his superior officer. Rotondo gave one curt nod. Ha! I’d known I’d prevail. Well . . . I’d hoped I’d prevail, at any rate.
Looking at Lola, I commanded, “And you stay right where you are. If you cut up any more stupid larks, Mr. Templeton will tie you to that chair.”
I peeked at Ernie, hoping he wouldn’t defy me.
He only shrugged. “Whatever you say.”
How very . . . Ernie-like of him.
But at least poor Officer Ludlow got his wounds attended to.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
* * *
It didn’t take me more than ten minutes to haul the policeman to the kitchen, wash his wounds with warm sudsy water, and fetch the bottle of iodine kept in the downstairs bathroom. He looked sort of like a red-and-pink zebra when I was through with him, but at least he wouldn’t catch any sort of vile infection from that awful woman’s pointy red fingernails.
Huh. Lulu LaBelle had pointy red fingernails, too, but she’d never do anything so awful as scratch the face of another human being with them. Lola de la Monica had by that time shrunk to the rank of a couple of the more beastly criminals I’d met since I’d been hired to work for Ernie.
When I opened the dining room door, everyone turned to look at us. Ernie and Rotondo smirked, and I’m sorry to report that Ernie snickered.
“She got you good, huh?”
“If you’re talking about me, Ernest Templeton, let me tell you that I’m the one who saved this poor man from possible infection from the wounds inflicted by that person.” I cast a look of scorn upon Lola, who gave every indication that she didn’t give half a whit what I thought of her.
“All right, all right,” said Rotondo peevishly. “Let’s get back to work here. Mr. Nash, why don’t you tell us what you were doing upstairs at the time Mrs. Winkworth met her death.”
Met her death, eh? It was more like she met the floor.
I forgot all about Mrs. Winkworth when Harvey didn’t speak at once. In actual fact, when I glanced up from my notebook and peered at him, he seemed rather put out and embarrassed by the detective’s question. Well, well, what did this mean? I couldn’t believe Harvey was a murderer, but there was clearly something he felt uncomfortable divulging to us.
After several fraught seconds, Harvey said, “I don’t believe my actions would be of any assistance to you in the solution of this problem, Detective Rotondo.”
Giving Harvey an exceptional imitation of my mother’s most intimidating, imperious glare, Rotondo said, “The reason we ask questions and expect people to answer them honestly is that we’re trained to sort the wheat from the chaff. If you don’t choose to answer my questions here, I’ll be glad to take you down to the station and continue your interrogation there.”
Harvey glanced down at his feet, frowning. I could tell he was uncomfortable about telling everyone what he’d been doing while upstairs, and I couldn’t account for his hesitancy. Which went to show that Rotondo was absolutely correct: one needed all the facts before one could reach a valid conclusion.
Because I couldn’t seem to help myself, I said, “Please, Harvey. I know you weren’t doing anything wrong, but if you’d just tell the detective what you were doing, we could move this questioning stuff along.”
All three men in nominal charge of the proceedings—Rotondo, Ludlow, and Ernie—frowned at me.
“Keep your mouth shut and take notes, Mercy,” said Ernie. “If you don’t, the police are going to kick us both out of here, and then what do you think your mother would do to you?”
He had a good point. “I’m sorry,” I said, although I still pleaded with Harvey, using my best begging glance.
With a gigantic sigh, Harvey said, “Very well. Although it has no bearing whatsoever on what happened to Mrs. Winkworth, I’ll tell you what I was doing. Miss de la Monica and I were . . . chatting.”
Lola sat up suddenly in her chair and threw a chilling gaze at Harvey, who didn’t seem to notice. My goodness, what did this mean?
“About what?” asked Rotondo, wasting no words.
“Now that,” said Harvey, “truly has nothing to do with the matter at hand. I don’t believe you need to know what we were talking about.”
“Certainly not,” said Lola, her tone as frosty as her expression.
“For God’s sake, let us be the judges of that, will you?” bellowed Rotondo. “Can’t you get it into your heads that we need all the facts? All of them? Not just the dribs and drabs you think might be pertinent? Now what the devil were the two of you talking about?”
I don’t know about Harvey or Lola, but I’d have spilled the beans right then and there. Detective Rotondo could be quite formidable when he chose to be. I wondered how he and Daisy got along when there were no murder mysteries to solve. Quite well, I supposed, or they’d never have become an engaged couple. They certainly didn’t seem to suit each other, at least not in my mind, but the scene of a murder was probably not the best place in which to observe normal human interactions.
“No,” said Lola. “No, no, no. I will not tell anyone about our conversation.”
Rotondo pinned her with his dark, dark eyes and growled, “I wasn’t asking you.” He turned back to Harvey. “However, you’d better tell me what your conversation involved, or you’ll come down to the station until you do.”
“Oh, for God’s—All right, all right. We were discussing Lola’s employment with the Nash Studio.”
“The last time I was in Miss de la Monica’s company, I thought her days in the industry were numbered. Quite frankly, I was surprised to see her here tonight,” said Rotondo.
I wanted to tell him we were all surprised to see her here tonight, but I held my tongue, mainly because I didn’t want to be kicked out of the room. This was getting interesting.
“Yes,” said Harvey. “That’s what we were talking about. Miss de la Monica’s services are no longer required by the Nash Studio. Her contract is not being renewed. When an actor or actress is under contract with a studio, he or she can’t easily be dismissed from the contract. The most efficient way to get rid of a nuisance like Lola is not to renew her contract.”
“No!” screeched Lola. “No, no, no, no! You can’t fire me!”
“I just said that,” muttered Harvey. “We’re not firing you. We’re not renewing your contract.”
“You must renew my contract!” Lola screamed. “I’m a star! I’m important!”
“You’re also a pain in the ass,” said Rotondo bluntly. “Which is why nobody wants to work with you any longer, from everything I’ve gathered about your career. Not to mention what I saw on the set of The Fire at Sunset.”
“Pig!” cried Lola, leaping to her feet and heading at Rotondo with her claws bared.
Ernie, bless his heart, stuck out a foot and tripped her. She went sprawling onto the dining room carpet and commenced beating her fists on the floor and drumming her toes. I don’t believe I’d ever seen an adult human being in a full-blown tantrum before. It was something to behold.
Because I felt like it, I lifted the roses out of a handy vase and dumped the water on to Lola’s head. She leaped to her feet, spluttering and screeching.
“Oh, be quiet,” I said, whapping her claw-like hand aside with the vase. She’d been going to rake my own personal face with those talons of hers, and I didn’t feel like treating her with kid gloves. In fact, if I’d had a poker handy, I’d probably have bashed her head in with it. Violent, I know, but can you blame me?
Coming up from behind, Ernie put his arms around her and held her fast, pinning her own arms to her sides. She made a fairly dramatic spectacle, what with her eye makeup streaking her cheeks, her face flaming, and her hair in sopping disarray. She tried to kick Ernie’s shins, but didn’t have much luck, since she had to kick backward.
“That’s enough of that,” said Rotondo. He turned to Ludlow. “Cuff her and stick her in the patrol car. She can spend the night in a cell for attacking an officer of the law.”
“No!” Lola screamed again.
“And if you have to,” Rotondo said, watching Lola’s attempts to cripple Ernie with the heels of her gorgeous shoes, “tie her feet, too.”
“You can’t lay a finger on me!” she howled, sounding like a banshee on an Irish moor. Not that I’ve ever heard a banshee. I have been on an Irish moor. But that’s not pertinent to this case. I only mention it.
This time, however, no one paid her any mind. Ludlow, with Ernie’s help, got her hands behind her back, and the officer clicked a pair of handcuffs on her. They’d been hanging from his belt before being put to such good use. Eyeing her feet, which were now doing more damage to Ernie’s person because she’d managed to whirl around, Ludlow knelt, grabbed one aimed foot, and Lola went down for the second time that evening, this time with quite a whump. It must have knocked the breath out of her, because she quit screaming.
“Got anything to bind her legs together with?” Rotondo asked, aiming the question at me.
“A couple of napkins tied together should work,” said I, and promptly acquired two such articles. Ludlow had managed to snag her other ankle and now held both of them firmly together and pressed to the dining room carpet. He made quick work of the knotted-together napkins I handed him, and Lola couldn’t move.
Unfortunately, she could still scream, and as soon as she recovered her breath, she did. I covered my ears and looked around for another vase of flowers, but Ernie solved the Lola noise-making problem with his own handkerchief, which he tied around her head like a gag, so she could only gurgle.
Then Ludlow and Ernie had to carry her out to the waiting police vehicle, which had been parked before the front door. No one said a single word until the two men returned.
