Several Deaths Later t-2 Read online

He was doing his best to peer down the slight opening in her terry-cloth gown, wondrously wound up and ashamed of himself at the same time.

  While he was looking at her, she was looking at him and then she said, "You're Tobin, the critic! You're one of them!"

  "One of them?"

  "One of the panel. 'Celebrity Circle.' "

  "Ah. Yes."

  "So's he. So was he, I mean."

  Then, lust and alcohol receding, Tobin began to have some sense of what was going on here. "In your cabin," he said.

  "Yes."

  "There's a dead man."

  "Yes."

  "Stabbed, I believe you said. Or implied."

  "Yes."

  "And he's-or was, as you said-on the panel."

  "Yes."

  "My God."

  "Exactly," she said, holding her bloody hands out to him as if she wanted him to take them. "And it's not as if he's just another passenger. He's a celebrity. Or was."

  The way she said "celebrity"-so dreamily-told him far more than he should have known about her. This glimpse into her both excited and depressed him.

  Then, inevitably, he asked, "Who is he?"

  "I didn't tell you?"

  "No."

  "Ken."

  "Ken Norris?"

  "Yes. 'High Rise.'"

  Terrible show, thought Tobin, realizing the curse of being a critic. The poor bastard had just been stabbed and here Tobin was reviewing his show.

  "Do you think they'll believe me?" she said again.

  "I think so."

  "You sounded so much surer before."

  "Why don't we go have a look and then I'll call for the captain?"

  "God," she said, "Aberdeen will never believe this." He decided, for the moment, not to ask who Aberdeen might be.

  5

  11:34 P.M.

  Following the murder of his partner, Richard Dunphy-they'd done a TV movie review show together-Tobin had found himself essentially unemployed. The company that owned the show had been sold and the new owner didn't like TV movie review shows at all. "That's sissy stuff," he'd said on the day he'd announced "World Wrestling Wrap-up" as Tobin's replacement-and so Tobin was dispatched to that limbo of late payments, bounced checks, and toadying-to-lessers called "free-lance." There were pieces, and good pieces, if he did say so, for American Film and Cinema and Esquire; there were less good pieces, but far more lucrative, for Parade ("Sally Fields' Seven Rules for Being a Good Mother"), and then there was the celebrity circuit.

  While Tobin and Dunphy had hardly been famous, at least not exactly, their movie show had played on more than three hundred stations around the country, making it successful, so successful that Tobin's agent was certain that "any day now, babe, we'll be connecting with some moneymen who'll want to not only give you your own show but actually spend some bucks. Truly." Tobin's agent was named Phil Annis, a name that led to all sorts of jokes, in his case deserved. "In the meantime, though," Phil had said, which was how he always preceded news he knew Tobin would hate. "In the meantime, though, I've made a deal with Cartwright Productions for you to appear on all their basic cable shows. Not much bread, but really good exposure." Cartwright, which Tobin had only dimly heard of, turned out to own five shows: "Celebrity Gardener" (Tobin pretended to be planting roses), "Celebrity Handyman" (Tobin pretended to be building a fancy bookcase, nearly taking off a finger with a SKIL saw), "Celebrity Fitness" (Tobin was seen walking past St. Patrick's Cathedral as the camera grabbed a tight shot of his $250 walking shoes), and "Celebrity Confessions" (a show for which Tobin contrived a tale of being kidnapped at age eight and then left to wander in dark and deep woods for two days before Mommy and Daddy in the family Buick found him alive).

  All this nonsense went on for six months before Phil stumbled onto "Celebrity Circle," which was known in some uncharitable quarters as "Celebrity Circle Jerk" and which, if not exactly Hallmark Hall of Fame, was actually a successful show, one of the most successful of all syndicated game shows.

  But "Circle" was having a problem-it seemed to have peaked. Ratings while still very high were not reflecting "all that demographic and psychographic shit they worry about so much" (in the words of Phil Annis) and as a result the show went in search of a gimmick, which turned out to be a "very special two weeks of 'Celebrity Circle,'" a cruise aboard the St. Michael, "the world's most glamorous ship filled with the world's most glamorous stars-your very favorites from your very favorite shows including a brand-new addition- everybody's very favorite movie critic!" (all this from the publicity handout) and then two paragraphs about Tobin and all the wonderful things he'd done with his life.

  The pay wasn't a great deal over scale but for once

  Phil was right about it being "important exposure" and for another thing the cruise was in fact a great one, loaded with women, food, sun, and a certain deference paid him because he was after all that most enviable of American entities, a celebrity.

  All he had to do was show up to tape nine segments in the jerry-rigged studio on the main deck and the rest of the time he was free to do whatever he could get away with-if he could spare the time from viewing.

  Presently, that seemed to consist of helping out a delicious-looking but definitely strange young woman who kept muttering about someone called Aberdeen.

  He was very officious, actually. He came in and clipped on the lights and then made a very manly show of not being disturbed at all over the sight of the blood-soaked body.

  He knelt down next to it-knowing she was watching him from behind-the way his hero Alan Ladd might have-and said, as if it needed to be said, "Stabbed."

  "Yes."

  "And you didn't argue?"

  "No."

  "You were in the bathroom?"

  "Yes."

  "Just freshening up?"

  "A shower. This was going to be very special."

  "I see."

  "I'd dated football players before and one U.S. senator but never a network star."

  "Ah." What sins "dated" hid.

  "And so while you were taking a shower, getting ready for-"

  "While I was taking a shower, getting ready for-"

  "— the killer came in and-"

  "— and hid in the closet."

  "The closet?"

  She nodded to the louvered doors. "There."

  "How do you know?"

  "Because I saw him. Or her."

  "Him or her?"

  She described the getup. "It was supposed to look like a he but it could have been a she. You know?"

  "You didn't tell me about the closet before."

  "I forgot."

  "Is there anything else you forgot?"

  "You really think they're going to blame me, don't you?"

  For the first time, he noticed how vulnerable she looked. Much younger, and sweet in a midwestern way. By now the blood on her hands and arms had caked. She still held them away from her body as if she did not want them at all.

  "I just think you need to get your story straight," he said, softly.

  "You're really nice."

  Standing up, knees cracking, turning his face away from what had been the handsome towheaded body of Ken Norris, he said, "You mean for a critic."

  She smiled. "My father never forgave you for the crack you made about John Wayne."

  "All I said was that Wayne made the mistake of confusing his politics with his art. He was a very good actor, actually."

  "My father said he wanted to punch you."

  "Be sure to invite me to your next family reunion."

  Then he stared at her a moment. She stood on one side of the body, he on the other. "I have to ask this."

  "Oh, God."

  "Did you kill him?"

  And she began instantly to cry, soft midwestern-girl tears, and all her lusciousness trembled beneath her white terry-cloth robe and he found himself feeling like a shit again.

  "I had to ask."

  She kept crying. "I know."

  "Do you n
eed some Kleenex?"

  "Please."

  So he went and got her some Kleenex from the bathroom, which still smelled of steam and perfume, and brought her back a pink handful and said, "Now I'll have to call the captain."

  "Will you stay here with me?"

  "Yes."

  "I really didn't kill him."

  "I know."

  "I was going to write Aberdeen all about it."

  "Who's Aberdeen?"

  "A woman at the insurance company."

  "Ah."

  "But now I don't even care about that."

  She stared down at the body of Ken Norris. "He said he'd just finished a pilot and would probably be on CBS next season."

  Tobin tried hard not to frown. What a seducer's ploy that had been. "Probably be on CBS next season." He could hear the deep-voiced Norris saying exactly that, that line of lines uttered by thousands of TV has-beens daily to wives, children, creditors, eager midwestern girls, and themselves. Most especially-and desperately-to themselves.

  Tobin went and called the captain.

  6

  WEDNESDAY: 12:32 A.M.

  "And you believe her?"

  "Yes," Tobin said. "You hesitated a moment."

  Tobin shrugged. "You asked me an absolute question that required an absolute answer." He nodded back to the room where Ken Norris's body lay, and where Cindy sat with a dour steward. Tobin smiled. "Absolute answers take a little longer."

  "She's very nice-looking."

  "Believe it or not, Captain," Tobin said, knowing what the large, white-haired man in the perfectly tailored white uniform was implying, "I've been around nice-looking women before."

  They leaned against the railing and watched the silver sea sprawl in the moonlight. The night noises had largely subsided-most people were drunk and passed out, fornicating, or simply sleeping. Tobin watched the horizon line. Easy to imagine that the entire planet was water. That this was a little world unto itself, that there was no other world at all.

  "Perhaps he tried something on her and she didn't like it. It could always be self-defense."

  "You want an answer right away," Tobin said, "and I understand that. You want to greet your passengers in the morning with the news that, yes, there has been a murder but no, the murderer is not at large. In fact, she's in custody and everything is wonderful."

  "I don't want panic. I don't want the cruise ruined."

  Tobin said, angrily, "I don't want to see a woman charged with something she didn't do."

  "Then you really believe somebody was in the closet?"

  "If she says so."

  "Then who would it have been?" The captain caught himself and laughed. "I guess that would fall under the general heading of stupid questions, wouldn't it? If we knew who was in the closet, then we'd know the killer."

  "Not necessarily."

  "What?"

  "She didn't say this person was the killer. She just said he or she was in the closet."

  "What's the difference?"

  Tobin, dragging on his cigarillo and thinking that it wasn't really smoking if you didn't inhale, said, "I'd say there's a good chance that that's the killer-the person in the closet-but we don't know that for sure."

  "Then what else would he or she have been doing in the closet?"

  "I don't know."

  Capt. Robert Hackett, who had the outsize, handsome features of a Roman senator, said, "You really think she's innocent?"

  "You talked to her. Do you really think she killed him?"

  "Yes."

  "God, really?"

  "Who else would have done it?"

  "The person in the closet."

  The captain shook his head. "You really believe there was somebody in the closet?" Before Tobin could respond, Hackett said, "I'd better go tell the other cast members what's going on. There are three of them in the lounge."

  Tobin said, "Do you mind if I go with you?"

  "No." Then he nodded to the room. "Maybe you'd want to take the young lady for a stroll along the deck while we remove the body. Then we can go down to the lounge. You might tell her we'll get her a different room for the rest of the voyage."

  He started back toward the cabin and then paused. "I still think she did it, Mr. Tobin. I don't believe a word about the person in the closet. Not a word.”

  7

  12:54 A.M.

  The small lounge was got up art deco, with a smoky, neon ambience long on mirrors, shadows, and black-and-white floor paneling. On the small dance floor a couple in matching Hawaiian shirts performed something fat and slow and melancholy, something very middle-aged that both stunned and saddened Tobin. It was not so much a dance as some simple but profound animal reassurance that if all else failed, they at least had each other. To the right of the bar was a small section of pink love seats and overstuffed chairs and tables of glass and chrome. Behind this was the bar where a thin man in a severe black dinner jacket from the thirties wiped drinking glasses as if he were doing something far beneath his dignity. His glowering gaze grew only more hostile when he saw Tobin and Captain Hackett.

  The party, such as it was, lay in the area of the love seats, where three members of "Celebrity Circuit" sat luxuriating in the adoration of some very drunk passengers.

  The three members were Kevin Anderson, the blond All-American sort whose canceled series had been "Night Patrol," about an undercover cop; next to him was Susan Richards, a true dark beauty whose canceled series had been "Galloway House," a nighttime soap opera about a very wealthy Irish family; and Todd Ames, the smooth, gray-haired character actor (invariably he played the handsome cad, a more virile George Sanders) whose canceled series had been "Killer's Call," about a professional killer who stalked other professional killers.

  Six of their seven fans were about the sort you expected to find-decent enough people, Tobin supposed, from Des Moines or Baltimore or Spokane, stocks and bond people, or retail people, or medical people-but caught up in a very silly moment, that of treating has-been Hollywood types as if they were something special, as if they were golden people not plagued by age or illness or failed relationships or poverty. And maybe that's what it was all about, anyway- maybe that's what people from Des Moines or Baltimore or Spokane wanted to believe, that out there in Hollywood was this different, better species, one safe from the sag of jowl, the loss of money, the specter of surgery. Maybe it was somehow comforting to believe in this species.

  There was a couple, a husband and wife; two men who wore a few hundred pounds of gold chains around their necks; and two very young and very drunk girls who seemed to be serving as snacks for the two men with the great tonnage of gold chains.

  Only one man seemed unimpressed with the three stars. He sat a bit to the left, sipping at a beer not from a long slender glass but directly from the bottle. There was a certain quiet defiance in the gesture but then there was a quiet defiance about the man, period. He wore a sedate western suit-no spangles or piping-a Stetson that sat parked on what was obviously a black toupee, and a gigantic wedding ring. He watched. He listened. He didn't smile and he didn't talk. He did only those two things. He watched. He listened. Captain Hackett and Tobin pushed past him to the three stars.

  "Look," said one of the very young girls. "It's that film guy!"

  "Tobin!" said her friend.

  Husband poked wife and wife poked husband. "It's Tobin," whispered wife.

  "The film guy," whispered husband.

  Captain Hackett said to the three stars, "I wondered if we might talk with you."

  "What's up?" Kevin Anderson grinned drunkenly. "Did Tobin lose his temper and throw somebody overboard?"

  Tobin wanted to make an obscene gesture but decided that would only underscore Anderson's point. Tobin was tired of True Temper Tales. He had long ago quit throwing tantrums. For the most part, anyway.

  "I'm afraid this is more serious than that," Captain Hackett said.

  "Aw, come on," one of the chain-encumbered men said. "Todd was going to te
ll us which of the 'The Pendergasts' guys is a fag."

  "Yeah, which one?" said his buddy.

  The captain turned to the fans and said, with the expansive courtliness of one long accustomed to appeasing those he considers beneath him, "I know what an inconvenience this is-getting people like this dragged away from you. But I'll tell you what. If you'll let me have them for just ten minutes…" And here he made a gesture the pope would have envied, a sweeping kind of thing that bestowed freedom on these people. "Then if they'd like to come back and spend some more time here in the lounge, the drinks will be on me. How's that?"

  "Ten minutes and no more?" asked the eager husband.

  "And no more," promised the captain.

  Then he indicated to the three confused-looking stars a private party room at the end of the lounge. He quietly asked a steward who had been helping the bartender to go get two other passengers.

  "It's-that red-haired guy, isn't it?" one of the hairy, golden-chained men called out as the group started to the party room. "He's the fag, isn't he?”

  Nothing looks lonelier than a room meant for festivity when nothing festive is going on.

  The party room was long and narrow, with beautifully flocked red wallpaper, a dry bar along the west wall, a sensational view of the moon-tipped ocean, and a jukebox, Tobin noted, loaded with as diverse a play list as any forty-year-old drunk could hope for-Sam the Sham amp; The Pharaohs, Dan Fogelberg, Judy Collins, Firefall, David Bowie, Jackson Browne, Hank Williams (the real one, not the fat-ass no-talent bully boy son living off the old man's rep), Madonna, Michael Jackson, and Patti Page.

  The captain, still in the grand style, saw that his guests had the drinks they chose. Tobin had a diet 7-Up.

  "Something terrible happened, didn't it?" Susan Richards said. Though she invariably played the beautiful bad woman, off-camera she was often overwrought, her looks somewhat wasted on her unspoken anxieties. She sighed and sounded sorry for herself. "I thought getting out of LA was going to make me feel better. And now this."

  Todd Ames slid an arm around her. "We don't know what happened yet, Susan. Maybe it's not as bad as it would seem. No sense borrowing trouble." As he spoke, he took note of his sleek, gray-haired good looks in the window.