Grand Ole Opry Murders, page 8
“Spite?”
“He overhead Josh telling Amanda that before he died, Merrill Gannett was screwing his sister-in-law Dolly. Pardon the bluntness: That’s the way Josh put it. Other than those tidbits,” Hilary added dryly, “Brian didn’t have too much to say ...
16
SATURDAY MORNING SAW THE vultures descend.
Charlie Lisle would have been willing to bow out of the press conference at the Highway Shack Motel, but Hilary talked to him and got permission to handle it herself. She also phoned Cass and discussed her strategy with him. After she hung up, she told me the deputy reluctantly agreed to let us release the details of the poisoning.
“When the papers stress the impossible crime,” she said, “it might give the murderer a sense of false security—enough so for him to make some kind of mistake.”
There were plenty of other celebrities in the private dining room where the conference was held: Sonny James, Buck Owen, Minnie Pearl, Judy Lynn, Jerry Lee Lewis, and several more, but the Boulder Clan ranked highest in importance in the eyes of the press.
It wasn’t a formal speech-making gathering, but a buffet brunch with journalists and performers eating together at a series of circular dining tables. Reporters took potluck with whichever celebrity happened to be sitting at his table, but a steady stream of writers flowed in our direction.
Hilary explained the story of Amanda’s untraceable poison, as well as the calamity that befell Dolly in Old City Cemetery.
Charlie Lisle sat beside her, looking thoroughly miserable; he didn’t say two words the whole morning. Samson and Brian were there, too, both of them the worse for wear. Josh sat across from me. He was unusually subdued, and he replied to all questions politely but without his customary enthusiasm. One reporter asked him where Pearl was, and he shrugged.
“Guess she must have slept late.”
Actually, no one knew where the blonde was. She hadn’t slept in her room the night before. The last person to see her was Josh, when he dropped her off at the Ryman.
A reporter from GRIT approached the table. He was holding an autograph book. I’d met him Thursday night at the governor’s mansion. He stepped up to Samson, saying he’d promised a niece he would get the signatures of as many celebrities as possible. Samson nodded wearily and asked how he’d like it inscribed, signing the way he was told. He then passed the book along to Brian, who did the same, passing it in turn to Josh.
“Has anybody heard how Dolly’s doing?” the reporter asked.
“Yes,” said Hilary, “she’s out of danger, probably because she only took a sip of the drink. Amanda swallowed a glassful.”
That news pleased me, of course. I’d already been over to the hospital that morning, but wasn’t admitted to her room. However, I’d been assured she probably would be released later that afternoon.
A Time feature writer sat down and asked Josh to describe his feelings on learning his fiancée had been poisoned. It was the tenth time the question had been asked that morning. I slipped out of my seat and crossed the room to a table in a far corner.
“Nice work,” I told Harry MacArthur, the GRIT reporter. “I appreciate the help.”
“No sweat,” he replied, “just give me an exclusive when the story’s ready to break.” He pushed the autograph book across the table to me.
While I examined the signatures, MacArthur said, “I think I know how that poison trick might have been worked.”
I looked at him quizzically. MacArthur, a plodding middle-aged man with lifeless gray hair on a massive skull, seemed the least likely source for an answer to the poisoning problem. But I encouraged him to speak.
“It’s farfetched,” he demurred, smiling. “In fact, I can’t even remember what the stuff was called, but we ran a piece in GRIT some time ago about a poison—”
“An unusual substance?”
“Yeah. If it’s as rare as I remember it being, it’d be pretty tough to figure out how the killer got hold of it in the first place.”
“What’s the name of this drug?”
“I forget. It had a nickname—what the hell was it? I’ll try to remember. Anyhow, the funny thing about it was that it allows a killer to poison his victim days or even weeks before the drug takes effect....
Curiouser and curiouser. I told MacArthur his mystery drug sounded pretty exotic.
“Uh-huh. That’s why we ran the story in our ‘Odd, Strange and Curious’ column. Look, I have to call Williamsport later today. I’ll ask them to find the story and read it over the phone. I’ll make you a copy. Where shall I leave it?”
I gave him the room number at the Ramada. He jotted it down, then rose, shook hands, and began to head for another table and its resident cluster of luminaries. But MacArthur stopped and returned to me. “I remember the nickname,” he said.
“What is it?”
He smiled wryly. “You’re gonna love it—shades of Abraham Merritt and Sax Rohmer. It’s called ‘the devil’s timeclock’ ...
He waved cheerfully and walked off.
17
HILARY AND LISLE RODE over to the hospital with me to get Dolly. We stopped off first at the Opry on the manager’s request, and he ran inside while we waited. He was back in less than ten minutes and had an air of grim satisfaction.
Dolly was in the lobby when we arrived, pale but smiling. Her hair was matted, and her eyes were red from lack of sleep, but she still looked lovely. I walked over and embraced her.
“Not here, Gene!” she smiled, jerking her head at the others. “I embarrass easily!” But she gave me a quick kiss just the same.
Her hands were swathed in bandages, and, as she held them up for Charlie Lisle to see, she smiled ruefully.
“I guess,” said Dolly, “I won’t be much good tonight. I don’t think I’ll be able to pick mandolin again for a few days, Charlie.”
“That’s all right,” the manager assured her. “You won’t have to. You’re singing solo tonight!”
I thought she’d faint. Her legs went wobbly and I had to grab her arm to lend support.
“You’re kidding, Charlie! Don’t be cruel!”
“I’m not. Thanks to your scrape with death, you are now hot news, a lot hotter than Pearl. I just had a talk with the agency and network people, and they said to give you the ballad number.”
“Oh, my God!” she exclaimed, panicking. “What am I going to sing? I don’t have any gown to wear!”
“We’ll fix up something,” Lisle replied, “don’t worry about it. You’ll do Amanda’s number. It’s got built-in appeal; Josh was right about that ...
“But look at me!” Dolly wailed, holding up her bandaged hands. “I can’t play!”
“You don’t need to. Just hold those hands up to the camera like you’re doing, and every heart in the country will go out to you,” Lisle said.
The word had reached the press that Dolly was going to be discharged. When we came out of the hospital, she was suddenly surrounded by cameramen and reporters. I’d expected such a scene, of course, but I was surprised by the spontaneous cheer she got. Dolly’s ordeal had endeared her to the press. When she saw the reception waiting for her outside, Dolly smiled uncertainly. I gave her arm a quick squeeze and whispered, “Don’t be afraid, you’ve earned it.” She wrinkled up her nose at me, then faced the press with a merry smile on her lips.
“Now, come on,” she laughed, “don’t photograph me like this! My hair’s a mess, and I look horrible!”
At least five cameramen assured her that she was the epitome of feminine beauty, and she thanked them before turning to answer the questions of an AP correspondent. It took us twenty minutes to get away from there. By that time, Dolly looked positively radiant. But Hilary was not enjoying it, and I began to worry that she might make herself obnoxious again. My fears were justified. As we drove off, she turned to Dolly and asked if she would mind answering a question.
“Not at all. What is it?”
“I’d like to know,” said Hilary, “whether you ever had an affair with Merrill Gannett?”
The atmosphere changed so fast it nearly gave me the bends. I shot Hilary an angry glance, then looked at Dolly in the rear-view mirror. Her face was positively white.
“How dare you suggest that?” she demanded. “Merrill’s been dead for over two years. He was a wonderful man—and he loved my sister!”
“Yes, I’m sure he did,” Hilary said sweetly, “but that’s not who I asked about.”
Dolly said something to her I never would have expected to hear from her mouth, but I didn’t blame her in the least. Then she asked how I could stand working for a woman like Hilary.
“Sometimes,” I replied, “I wonder about that ...
I parked in the Opry lot. Dolly had to get started right away on her number for that night’s broadcast. Lisle wanted to talk to the rest of the Clan.
Inside, Samson greeted Dolly cordially. Josh waved at her in nonchalant fashion, but she ran up to him and gave him a hug.
“Okay, Dolly,” Lisle remarked, “you’ve got a heavy day ahead of you. Go try on some of Amanda’s gowns, see if they’ll fit you.”
“Okay,” she said. “You wait here, I’ll be right back.”
When she was gone, Lisle asked me to get Brian. I walked over to the men’s dressing room and found him tuning up his bass. I said the manager needed to see him right away, and he accompanied me to the backstage corridor where the other men waited.
Lisle nodded at Brian, then said, “Gentlemen, we’ve got a real problem with the group slot for tonight. If we can’t find Pearl, we’re going to have to give up the air time.”
“Christ,” Josh spat, “we worked so hard to get it!”
“What’ll they fill in with if we drop out?” Samson asked.
“There must be fifty-five acts right now on the network standby list just waiting for the other fifty-four entertainers to drop dead!” said Lisle.
“Why can’t Dolly and the three of us do the number?” Josh asked. “We’ve done it before.”
The manager shook his head. “Dolly’s hands are all cut up. She can’t play. But she’s going to do the solo ballad instead of Pearl.”
That brought a spate of objections, mostly from Josh.
“What if Pearl shows up?” he challenged. “She makes a better appearance.”
“Josh,” said Lisle, patronizingly, “Dolly has more appeal in her left earlobe than Pearl does in her whole overinflated body.”
“Yeah? You’re such a good judge of femininity! Well, you’re forgetting one little thing, Charlie—the sponsor wants Pearl to do the solo.”
“Not anymore, dear boy,” Lisle smiled smugly. “Today, Dolly has headline appeal and Pearl is—”
He didn’t get to finish the sentence. A scream cut him off. We whirled in the direction of the sound. It was followed by a piercing wail. “Dolly!” I shouted and started off down the corridor. Somehow Josh got ahead of me; rounding the corner, I saw Dolly staring into the open door of Amanda’s dressing room. Josh shoved Dolly aside roughly and strode inside. She clutched the jamb with one bandaged hand, slumping against the door frame.
When she saw me, Dolly fell into my arms, sobbing convulsively. I felt her go limp. She had fainted.
In the dressing room, Josh stood over the body of Pearl Boulder. I could tell it was Pearl by the clothes she’d worn the night before and by the color of her hair. I would never have recognized her face. Most of it had been shot away.
18
“IT’S A GODDAMED EPIDEMIC!” Cass growled, slamming the door. He strode over to the cot in the corner and sat heavily upon it. The combined pressure of trying to cope with the Boulder Clan mess and also to handle Nashville’s carnival season madness was wearing the deputy down.
He’d spent plenty of time talking to the Clan. Now that he had finished, Cass asked Hilary and me to step inside the fatal dressing room. She sat in a chair near the makeup mirror while I remained standing, leaning against the wall near the door.
“This time,” the deputy told us, “we’ve got tabs on the whole rotten bunch ... and a hell of a lot of good it does!”
“Would you mind running it down for me?” Hilary asked. “We were in the middle of it, so I suppose you have us clocked, too.”
Cass nodded. “Uh-huh. You know about Dolly since you dropped her off last night at the station house and later picked her up.”
“The thing I wonder about,” I said, “is whether Dolly’s near-poisoning directly set up Pearl’s shooting.”
“How do you mean?” the deputy asked.
“Maybe because Dolly took the flask, the killer had to resort to a pistol. The liquor may have been meant for Pearl in the first place.”
Hilary was staring impatiently at me; I asked her what was wrong, and she told me I was. I thought of a few things I’d like to tell her, but decided to keep it civilized for Cass’s sake.
“Okay,” he continued, “the M.E. figures the murder took place sometime between 10:00 P.M. and midnight. Now here’s the rundown on everyone’s whereabouts during that time.”
He handed Hilary a notebook with a timetable scribbled in it. I looked over her shoulder and read it, ignoring the entries pertaining to myself and Hilary.
BRIAN LUCAS: Arrived Tootsie’s 9:12 P.M. with Samson Boulder. Left Tootsie’s 12:45 A.M. Returned Ramada Inn.
There was a note in Cass’s handwriting:
Tootsie’s back door faces Opry. Not under constant surveillance.
I asked the deputy about it.
“We had three men assigned, one for each vehicle, and a fourth for Lisle—that was all I could spare. When all of you converged on Tootsie’s, they were able to stake out both exits, but not before.”
So Brian wasn’t eliminated. I continued to read the timetable.
DOLLY BOULDER: Arrived 9:55 P.M. precinct H.Q. Picked up same 11:33 P.M. Returned to Ramada Inn 11:58 P.M.
JOSH BOULDER: Left Lisle’s home for Stern’s Bar and Grill in company of deceased. Left Stern’s 10 P.M. for Grand Ole Opry. Arrived 10:08 P.M. Deceased entered back door of Opry. Walked to Tootsie’s Orchid Lounge. Arrived 10:12 P.M. Left 10:39 P.M., walked to Grand Ole Opry. Entered 10:43 P.M. Left 11:03 P.M. Drove to Ramada Inn; went to room for rest of night.
CHARLES LISLE: Unobserved leaving home all night.
SAMSON BOULDER: Arrived Tootsie’s 9:12 P.M. with Brian Lucas. Thrown out of Tootsie’s 11:26 P.M. Walked to Pussycat Club 11:29 P.M. arrival.
There was another note in the margin:
Pussycat—three exits. Insufficient surveillance. Thrown out of Pussycat 11:58 P.M.
There were several other similar entries. Samson ended up in the VW sleeping it off by 2:15.
“So,” said Hilary, studying the timetable, “the field really hasn’t been narrowed down.”
Cass shook his head. “Josh is the most likely choice at this point. He was actually observed entering the Opry, where he stayed for some time. Yet Samson and Lucas can’t be eliminated either.”
“Hold it a minute before we go on from Josh,”
Hilary said. “Did he give any reason for going to the Opry?”
“Uh-huh. The first time he claims Pearl got an anonymous phone call asking her to drop by. The second time, he was impatient to find Pearl, but he claims that she was nowhere in sight ...
“Which is probably a fabrication,” said Hilary. “Either he killed her, or he found the body and was too scared to report it.”
Cass agreed to the possibilities, but remarked that Charlie Lisle bugged him more than anyone else in the case at that point.
“Why him?” I asked.
“Because he seems to be a hundred percent in the clear—yet he went ahead and gave the solo to Dolly this morning, even though Pearl hadn’t yet been found. Sound suspicious?”
“Possibly,” Hilary mused. “Of course, a killer who can murder people with undetectable poison and slip notes under doors without being seen might not have much trouble firing a pistol by proxy.”
Cass gave her a sour look.
“How reliable,” I asked, “is the man you assigned to cover Lisle?”
“He’s A-OK,” Cass stated, “but Lisle’s home is big. It’s not inconceivable that he could have slipped out without being seen—it’s pretty dark in that neck of the woods; only he couldn’t have taken his car ...
We talked a while longer, but nothing new was revealed.
Hilary and I discussed the case later over lunch at the Spanola where I had an excellent omelette made with baby cactus. Hilary sipped a Margarita and avoided food on the theory that her brain functions better when her body is cheated of sustenance.
“The thing that worries me,” I said, “is that the attempt on Dolly may not have been an accident—in which case, the killer will try again.”
“That’s definitely a possibility,” Hilary nodded. “The trouble is none of the motives seem to tally. Anyone who wanted Amanda dead wouldn’t go after Pearl and Dolly, too, would they?”
“Why not?” I asked, spearing a green tube of cactus flesh. “If one of the men wanted the solo spot—”
“Oh, come on, Gene, do you really think anyone would embark on a mass-murder spree just for three minutes of air time?”
“It’s possible.”
“Sure, it’s possible,” she said, licking the salt that rimmed the glass, “but it’s not probable—yet any other motives I can think of won’t wash.”
“Such as?”
“Say, for instance, that Samson hated Pearl enough to kill her. All right, but he seemed to get along well with Dolly and Amanda.”
“One may smile and smile and be a villain.”
“Mmm-hmm, but I don’t think Samson’s that subtle. Lisle, on the other hand, supposedly hates women, but he wouldn’t let that interfere with his professional decisions.”
“Last night,” I remarked, “I tried to chart out the means and opportunity for everybody involved. I didn’t get very far.”
“Well,” said Hilary, “at least they’ve got the bullets that killed Pearl. I wonder who has a license for a gun? Shooting was a mistake—it could trip up the killer by pure, run-of-the-mill police work.”
