Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 126, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 769 & 770, September/October 2005

Farber and the Vanishing Blonde by Gordon Cotler

This new Farber story is set, the author explains, “peripherally in the world of soap opera — oddly, the area of TV in which I have the least experience. My decades in the medium were spent mostly writing movies of the week and long-form pilots... I also have fond memories of my work on comedy and musical shows.” When he wasn’t writing for TV, Mr. Cotler wrote mystery novels, one an Edgar winner and another Edgar nominated.

The voice was strong and clear. Without being particularly loud, it carried unmistakably across the precinct lobby from the duty sergeant’s desk to where Farber was pulling on his windbreaker at the front door.

“That’s about the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” the woman said.

It may have been the statement, it may have been that the speaker was an attractive young woman, or maybe it was that things were slow in Homicide and Farber had too much time on his hands. Whatever the reason, he found himself crossing the lobby with his coat half on, half flapping, while he said, “What’s the stupidest thing you ever heard?” At the inquiring look from her troubled brown eyes he mumbled, “Name’s Farber. I collect stupid things.”

“Not your department, Lieutenant,” the duty sergeant said, warning him off.

“I don’t care whose department it is,” the young woman snapped. Up close, it appeared her perfect nose had been enhanced by cosmetic surgery and her teeth were possibly too good to be true, but the eyes were real and they were appealing. She said, “My roommate’s missing and this man won’t do anything about it. Have you ever heard anything more outrageous?”

“How long is she missing?” Farber said.

“Three hours.”

“That’s why the good sergeant can’t help you. People disappear every day in this city for perfectly innocent reasons — innocent, anyway, in the eyes of the law. Your friend will have to be missing at least forty-eight hours before you can file a report. History tells us it’s probably too soon for you to start worrying.”

The young woman’s eyes blazed. “Is it? She went for a walk with her dog. She loves that dog. He was found tied to a parking meter five blocks from home. He’d been there for at least two hours. No Marsha anywhere. She might leave Buster outside a store for ten or fifteen minutes, but two hours? Not in a million years!”

Farber considered this and indicated a bench on the opposite wall. He said, “I’ll give you five minutes.” He took the girl by the elbow and guided her across the lobby, followed by a quizzical look from the sergeant.

When they were settled, he said, “Tell me about your roommate.”

“Marsha Pembroke. By the way, I’m Faye Gayle.” She rummaged in her purse and produced a photo of an attractive blonde, about twenty-five. “Marsha’s an actress. We both are, except that she’s making it. She has a running part in a soap and she’s out at the studio in Queens two or three days a week. Long days. That’s why when she’s home she takes Buster everywhere she goes.”

“What kind of dog is he?”

“A mutt. Little of this, lot of schnauzer. Small and sad-faced; that’s why she named him Buster. For Buster Keaton. You know, the—”

“I know, the sad-faced clown.” He cut in before she could add, “From your day.”

“Anyway,” the girl went on — she couldn’t have been much over twenty — “they went out around three and when they weren’t back by five I called her boyfriend. Because she’d said she’d be back in half an hour. Mitch — that’s the boyfriend, Mitch Keller — lives and works in a little old building he owns a couple of blocks south of us. He’s a cabinetmaker. Anyway, Mitch said Marsha had dropped by just after three. She seemed to have something on her mind, something really bothering her, and she’d only stayed a few minutes, for which I suspect he was grateful, because Mitch hates to be interrupted when he’s working. Anyway, Marsha can’t stand the sawdust in her nostrils.” The sound of her own voice seemed to soothe the young woman.

“Did she have the dog with her?” Farber said.

“I asked that. Yes.”

“Do you have any idea what might be troubling Marsha?”

“I can guess. I’d noticed it, too. Her show’s coming to the end of a contract period and there’s a question of whether she’ll be renewed for next season. This is her first and she’s heard a rumor that her character is going to be killed off by a falling elevator or a brain embolism. Something. But another rumor has it that her character’s going to get pregnant by one of the cast regulars. That would guarantee her steady employment for God knows how long. It could go either way.”

“Who makes that decision?”

“The head writer, I’d guess. Clinton Peck. A real pain in the butt, according to Marsha.”

“Could she have tied up the dog and gone to see Peck?”

“That passed through my mind. She was headed south and Peck’s office is maybe a dozen blocks south of where she left the dog. I phoned the office and got a machine.” She shook her head impatiently. “But why would she leave Buster?”

“She wouldn’t have if she took a taxi, but suppose she jumped on a bus? No dogs allowed on city buses.”

“It’s true, there’s a bus stop next to where Buster was left. But it still doesn’t add up. To leave Buster...” She trailed off in doubt. Then, “I just brought him home. The poor thing is a total wreck.”

“How did you learn where the dog was?”

“Didn’t I mention that? I had a call from Marsha’s dentist — he’s mine, too, Paul Chastney. He has a street-entrance office on Seventy-third Street, five blocks south of us. He went out for something or other around three-thirty and spotted Buster tied up practically at his door. He assumed Marsha was on errands in the neighborhood. When he closed the office at five-thirty, the dog was still there. That’s when he called our home number.”

“You know this dentist well?”

“Paul?” Her cheeks colored. “We both do. Actresses have a lot of corrective dental work. Plenty of time to become friendly with the man who performs the magic. Paul’s young, the three of us hang out once in a while.”

“And Marsha didn’t have an appointment this afternoon?”

“Paul says no. She didn’t even poke her head in to say hi. Wouldn’t you expect that when she was right there?”

Farber fell silent. Nothing he could do now would be of any help. If Marsha Pembroke had met with foul play, the deed was already done. But she was an actress, probably impulsive and possibly irresponsible. She could be anywhere. Missing people usually turn up unharmed. That’s why the police, he reminded himself, let a good chunk of time pass before they get involved. The odds were that she was okay. He tried to look reassuring.

Sylvie Farber owned and operated a suburban bookstore, but when she took her lunch break in the book-lined stockroom she invariably spent it watching television. Her husband teased her mercilessly over this habit. “A fine example you set your customers,” he was fond of saying.

Sylvie’s defense was always the same. “Would you rather I got egg salad on the merchandise? And can we change the subject?”

The subject came up again tonight. As they finished dinner — weeknight dinners were at the kitchen table — Bernie pulled out the photograph of Marsha Pembroke that her roommate had pressed on him. “Do you ever watch the soap opera Life Is for Living?”

Sylvie put down her coffee cup. “Bernie, are we launched on another session of ‘Bash the Philistine’?”

“No, I’m calling on you for expert testimony.” He showed her the picture. “Have you ever seen this woman?”

Sylvie barely glanced at the print. “The bitch,” she said at once. Then, “I mean the character she plays. Willa something. She’s new this season but she’s already wrecked a marriage and broken up an engaged couple. Willa goes for the jugular.” She looked squarely at her husband. “Don’t tell me she’s making trouble in the real world?”

“She may be more troubled than trouble. She seems to have taken a five-block stroll this afternoon and then vanished into thin air.”

Sylvie wriggled forward in her chair. “Tell me,” she breathed. In the chorus of crime groupies Sylvie was a soloist.

Rather than wait till she had nagged it out of him, Bernie told her everything he knew about the missing actress.

“What are the odds on foul play?” Sylvie asked.

“Against a national model of probability? Highly unlikely.”

“I don’t care about national models.”

“If we narrow it down to people who leave their dog tied up in the street for—” he consulted his watch — “it’s now four hours, I’d say there’s a fair chance Ms. Pembroke is in serious trouble.”

Sylvie examined her husband’s grim expression. He said, “She’s gotten through a few scrapes as Willa. Let’s see if she can do it as Marsha.”

But real life proved too tough for Marsha Pembroke. Her body turned up the next morning on a shoulder of the Saw Mill River Parkway about ten minutes north of the city. Whoever had broken her neck the previous afternoon had waited till night to dump the body. “At least his choice of location narrows the field of suspects,” Farber said when he got off the phone.

“It does? How?” Sylvie said.

“The perp had to have access to a car.”

Sylvie had been about to leave for work when Farber took the call. “Poor Willa,” she said now, no longer in a hurry. “Although some of her followers will say, ‘Good riddance, she had it coming.’ ”

“Maybe Willa did, but hey, remember? It was Marsha Pembroke who was murdered.”

“Some people get so deep into those soaps they don’t recognize the difference.” She was struck by a thought. “You think she might have been done in by a righteous viewer?”

“I hope not. From what you tell me, we’d have to grill half the show’s fans. There’s a good team on this from the Two-Four. While they do the pick-and-shovel work, I’m going to start where Marsha’s trail ended.”

“Where the dog was tied up? Outside the dentist’s office?”

“Exactly.” He was flipping through his notebook. “Dr. Paul Chastney.”

“I’ll bet he’s tall and dark, with a strong chin and a thick head of hair. Right out of the soaps.” Sylvie shivered with anticipation.

Dr. Chastney was tall enough and not bad-looking, but his chin, Farber decided, was a shade too weak to make it on the soaps. He had just finished with a patient when Farber showed up and short-stopped the next patient from taking the chair in the sleek state-of-the-art surgery. “I won’t be long,” he promised, flashing his badge and closing the door to the waiting room.

“This is about Marsha Pembroke, isn’t it?” said Dr. Chastney. “Faye Gayle phoned me with the news. She sounded totally shattered. What a hideous business. And a tragic end to a promising career.” He sounded more dutiful than regretful.

“Yes, a tragedy,” Farber said, and got down to business. “As I heard it, Marsha tied her dog to a parking meter practically at your door, but she didn’t come into the office.”

“Why would she? She didn’t have an appointment.”

“I understood you two had a personal relationship.”

“Yes, we’re casual friends. But a visit during office hours...” His gesture made clear that would never do.

“Then how did you discover the dog?”

“I park my car at the curb and have to feed the damn meter once an hour. My assistant usually does it, but she’s been out ill the past couple of days. I saw Buster on two meter-feeding expeditions and then I called the girls’ number.”

“Which you got from your files or off the top of your head?”

A sly grin. “You mean, how close am I to those two women?”

“I was too flip. You don’t have to answer that.”

“I don’t mind. Caps are the best friend to a dentist’s retirement account. When you’re in someone’s mouth an hour a week for X number of weeks you’ve established an intimate relationship. Does that answer your question?”

“Graphically. Is there anything you can think of that might help us in our investigation?”

The doctor considered this request. “Marsha was a strong woman, a confrontational woman. And damn good-looking. I’m not surprised that she got herself in a jam of some sort. Whatever it was, it had nothing to do with me. And now if you’ll excuse me, I have a patient waiting to be tormented.”

Dr. Chastney was certainly not in deep mourning for his lost friend.

Clinton Peck’s office turned out to be a bare-walled studio apartment in a faceless residential high-rise near Lincoln Center. It was furnished with a large desk, a computer, a row of metal file drawers, and a studio couch. It had all the charm of a monk’s cell. “You don’t live here, do you?” Farber asked. He had phoned ahead that he was coming.

“Good God, no,” Peck replied. “I come in two or three times a week to meet my muse.” Ruefully, “She doesn’t always show up. I’m a country boy. Northern Westchester.” “Boy” was stretching it past hyperbole; he was fifty-plus, pudgy, in need of a shave, and unkempt. At that, come to think of it, he was something like an overripe boy.

Farber said, “My apologies for catching you at a bad time — losing an actress. I’d guess you’ve got your work cut out for you writing her out of the show.”

“Not at all, the work’s basically done. It’s a damn shame about Marsha. I hardly knew her but she was a good little actress.”

“How will you dispose of the character she plays?”

Peck considered for a moment. “This is not yet for public consumption, but in due course it will be revealed that Willa Wade has been hideously scarred by an angry rival who threw acid in her face. She will be bandaged to the eyebrows for months and eventually revealed as a new actress. One bob-nosed young blonde looks pretty much like the next.”

Farber’s professionalism surged. “Acid wouldn’t change the structure of the face.”

“So? There’s medicine and there’s soap opera medicine,” Peck snapped. “Look, I’m the head writer. I create the character and story arcs — the show’s bible. I do a bit of editing, but four underlings flesh out the daily episodes.”

“Where are they?”

“At home. Through the magic of the Internet we rarely need to meet.”

“So the show is not in trouble.”

“Not nearly. I could slap a blond wig on Marsha Pembroke’s roommate and she’d make an acceptable Willa.”

Farber’s eyes widened. “You know Faye Gayle?”

“I rarely remember actresses we don’t hire, but this one has stuck in my head.”

“Why is that?”

“She read for Willa the same day Marsha Pembroke did. It came out that they were roommates, a rare occurrence at castings. We liked both readings.”

“Who’s ‘we’?”

“The casting committee — producer, the casting woman, and your humble servant.”

“I would guess that you’re the five-hundred-pound gorilla.”

“That’s what Marsha figured. She called me here later that day to say how much she enjoyed reading for me, how ‘challenging’ it had been. That was nervy enough. Then, somehow, she let it be known — ever so delicately — that if she got the part sexual favors would follow.” He had been swiveling in his desk chair, but now he leaned forward across the desk. “I thought, ‘This is what Willa would do. Marsha Pembroke is Willa to the bone.’ So she got the role.”

He leaned back in the chair, having sailed through the hard part, and said, “Of course I claimed no sexual favors. Yes, there’s a certain amount of that in this line of work. If you’re in footwear you get shoes. In show business...” He shrugged. “But I’m a family man.”

“Without that phone call, would Faye Gayle have gotten the part?”

“She might very well have. But Marsha cut her roommate off at the pass. It was cold, it was calculating, it was pure Willa Wade.”

Having established a conversational bond, Farber asked the question that had brought him here. “Did Marsha come to see you yesterday afternoon?”

Again Peck leaned forward, his elbows on the desk. “No,” he said firmly. “What would make you think she had?”

“She was headed in this direction when she disappeared. She stopped at her boyfriend’s and at her dentist’s office and then the trail ended. I thought she might have come here. To find out if her contract was being picked up. And maybe to couple that question with a renewal of her previous generous offer.”

“Marsha was not here yesterday.”

“Something tells me I’m close. How about day before yesterday?”

“No.”

“We can play twenty questions or you can tell me. When was she here?”

Grudgingly, “Four or five days ago.”

“To discuss her contract?”

“She wanted to talk about her part. The direction it was taking. Bernard Shaw had it right when he said, ‘Hell is an actor talking seriously about his work.’ I kept it vague with Marsha. I told her nothing. Once you open up to one actor, none of them will leave you alone.”

“But after meeting with Marsha, did your decision about her future go into the — what do you call it? — the bible?” Peck went tight-lipped. “You might as well tell me. I can always get it from your quartet of gospel writers.”

“We decided to renew her contract. We had considered dumping her, but the story possibilities were just too tempting to dismiss. Willa Wade is the eye of a hurricane on Life Is for Living, an energy source too valuable to kill off.”

Okay, that was something. Not a lot, but something. There wasn’t much more Farber could learn here. He edged towards the door. “I won’t take up any more of your time. Thanks for the help,” he said.

Farber had sensed that Peck hated to see him go. The writer’s creative juices were simmering. “You going to talk to the boyfriend?” he asked. Real-life plots were dancing in his head. “I’ve never met him, but Marsha Pembroke’s boyfriend would have to have a cast-iron constitution.”

Farber had no intention of staying for a story conference. With a polite warning to Peck to keep himself available, he was out the door.

The two-story taxpayer that housed Mitch Keller’s showroom, workshop, and residence was just off the avenue. A side panel of the van out front read KELLER DESIGNS. Three young men were loading it with sections of what looked like a library wall. Quality work in an upscale hardwood.

“Mr. Keller?” Farber addressed the question to the group. They were three of a kind — artsy-craftsy types; two sported creative beards.

“Mitch is inside,” one of the men said, indicating the building. “But if it’s about work, he’s not seeing customers today.”

Farber flashed his credentials.

“Is this about his girlfriend?” another of the men said. “His fiancee? Mitch is taking some time off. We wouldn’t be working ourselves, but we promised to finish this installation.”

“You guys the entire staff?” Farber asked.

“We’re it,” said the first man. “And we’ll be out of here as soon as we load the van.”

Farber nodded and went into the building. The first room was a showroom. A few artful samples, tastefully displayed: wall units, tables, desks — high-end work. Behind it was an open door to a workroom. Mitch Keller, a wiry guy not yet thirty with big shoulders and a prominent nose, slumped in a folding chair, his feet propped on a worktable. He wore a pained expression and stared at a corner of the room. He made no sign that Farber’s entrance registered.

Once he was in the room, Farber saw the television set in the corner. Marsha Pembroke, vibrantly alive in a clingy cocktail dress, was letting an older man in hospital whites have a piece of her mind. The sound was off, but there was no mistaking the young woman’s sneering contempt and the elderly man’s distress.

After a few moments the scene ended and the show went to a commercial. Keller blinked and turned to Farber. “I think they taped this day before yesterday,” he said in a tight voice. “Willa Wade planting her final land mine.” His mouth worked silently, as though testing what he would say. Then, carefully controlled, “Marsha was one hell of an actress.” Through his heavy brows he shot Farber an appraising look. “You a cop?”

Farber introduced himself. “I won’t keep you long. A few questions,” he said. “To help us in our investigation.”

“We were going to be married in eight weeks. How about that?” Keller’s shoulders were knotted in grief.

Farber made a gesture of sympathy. “Marsha came to see you yesterday afternoon?”

“She dropped by for a few minutes. She didn’t hang around.”

“Because you were working?”

“Matter of fact, I wasn’t. The guys were out on a job and I could have used the company. But she had an appointment and the mutt kept pulling at the leash, so they took off.”

“Who was her appointment with?”

“Beats me.”

“You didn’t ask?”

“I think I did.” His bony face darkened. “But Marsha always set our conversational agenda and she was on another tack — wedding plans. I never asked again. It didn’t seem important. Is it?”

“I don’t know.” Farber moved further into the room and sat on the edge of a half-finished desk. Keep it informal, Bernie, you’ll learn more. “So the two of you talked wedding plans. That can go on for hours, if my experience is typical.”

“There was no ‘hours,’ man. Like I said, Marsha hadn’t set out to see me. I was a convenient stop on her way to an appointment. She was in and out of here in minutes.”

“ ‘Appointment’ goes with ‘dental’ to me. Could she have had a dental appointment?”

“You mean because that’s where the dog was found? I don’t think so. She’d have said. When something hurt, Marsha let you know.” Keller was looking more upset by the minute. “Are we about through here?”

“Almost. Did Marsha express concern to you about her future on the soap opera?”

“Yeah. And I told her she was crazy to worry. Marsha was a fantastic actress. She pulled all the fan mail this season playing that world-class bitch. She touched a nerve, you know what I mean? Why would they write her out of the show? But yeah, she worried. Marsha worried about things she couldn’t control.”

Sylvie Farber had been home for an hour and dinner preparations were well advanced when Bernie walked in. One look at his face told her the day had not gone well, but long experience had taught her not to ask questions — at least until coffee. Tonight she was able to restrain her curiosity about the soap-opera murder until they were in bed, a first, for which she was justly proud.

“So, how’s the case going?” she said as she slipped beneath the covers, adding, in case he needed reminding, “The corpse on the Saw Mill River Parkway.” She made a point of leaving her bed light on.

“You really want to know?” Bernie said, climbing in beside her. And then, in a semi-official tone he hoped would shut off further questions, “The investigation is just getting under way.”

“Zippo, huh?” Sylvie said. “I figured as much. All those intense fans out there in TV-land who can’t stand Willa Wade... I knew this wouldn’t be easy.” She wore an I-told-you-so look.

Bernie was not going to be allowed to sleep until he brought his wife up to speed on the Marsha Pembroke case. He did so rapidly but in full, concluding with, “Trace evidence indicates the body was wrapped in a rug. The victim weighed roughly a hundred and ten pounds. Into a car she went, and out on a parkway that is pretty close to deserted in the middle of the night.”

Sylvie sat bolt upright with a bright idea. “How about checking the toll system for an E-Z Pass match to people in her life?”

“Relax, love, it’s being done. No obvious ties to the victim have been found so far. The perp may have come onto the parkway above the toll station when he discovered that all the side roads were crowded with suburban homes. The parkway is dead quiet at that hour.”

Sylvie was on another tack. “If the killer wasn’t an angry fan—” she began.

“Are you still on that?”

“—then my money’s on that smug head writer,” she continued. “Peck? She may have been heading for his place when her trail dead-ended.”

“She was also pointed towards Times Square, Macy’s, and Battery Park.”

“Bernie, don’t be cute. She was in an affair with Peck — not because of his charm but because of his life-and-death control of the show. He could make Marsha a star or kill off her character. Talk about godlike powers!” Her eyes widened in wonder, then narrowed. “Suppose he wanted to end the affair?”

Sylvie was beginning to percolate with possibilities. “Maybe Marsha threatened to go to his wife—”

“And maybe,” Farber broke in, “you’re lifting this scenario from Life Is for Living.”

“It’s entirely original,” Sylvie said. Suddenly she looked doubtful. “But how did Peck get the body out of that apartment house and to his car, wherever that was?”

“I hate to encourage you, love, but Peck’s building has direct elevator access to the basement garage. At, say, three A.M., he’s got both the elevator and the garage to himself.”

“Then you agree with me...?” Sylvie was pleased.

“You may be on to something,” Bernie said. It was that or there would be no sleep for either of them. “Good work, love.” He reached across her to the light. “And good night.”

The following evening Bernie got home well before his wife. By the time Sylvie opened the front door he had chilled two glasses in the freezer and filled a pitcher to the brim with ice in anticipation of a celebratory round of his widely respected martinis.

“You’ve solved the soap-opera murder,” Sylvie said, even before her coat was off.

“With a full confession.” They were in the kitchen, where he had assembled gin, vermouth, and olives for the sacred ceremony.

“A confession. That was fast,” Sylvie said, wriggling out of her coat and throwing it over the back of a chair. “The killer must have done something really dumb.”

“Don’t they all?” Bernie said. “That’s why we cops usually win.”

“Peck. It had to be Peck. Come on. Give.”

Bernie didn’t have to be coaxed. “The Saw Mill River Parkway did him in,” he began. “He was smart enough to avoid the toll station, but dumb enough to drive on the Parkway at all. An alert Westchester patrol car ticketed him at four-fifteen A.M.”

“For what?”

“Driving on a parkway with commercial plates. There’s a law against that.”

“Not Peck. Then who—?”

“Mitch Keller, in his van, ‘Keller Designs.’ ”

“The man she was engaged to? For heaven’s sake, why?”

“Call it the persuasiveness of the medium. The poor sap watched his girl three afternoons a week wrecking homes and wreaking havoc. A seed was planted and it took. He began to wonder whether she had more Willa Wade in her than the role called for. The suspicions finally broke into the open. He accused Marsha of having an affair with someone, anyone, probably her dentist. Marsha could give as good as she got and the argument escalated into a shoving match. The final shove from Mitch sent her falling backwards against a vise clamped to a worktable. The M.E. thinks the blow to the head killed her almost instantly.”

“Not a pretty way to go,” Sylvie breathed.

“Mitch was left with a dead fiancee and a live dog. He hid the body and walked Buster a few blocks south to the dentist’s office. With a hope and a prayer.”

“Was Marsha having an affair with that dentist?”

“Who knows? And does it matter? The perception was enough for Mitch.”

Sylvie sank into the chair beside her coat. “The power of make-believe. Awesome.”

Bernie held up the gin bottle. “A toast to good police work?”

Sylvie said, “I thought you’d never ask.”

Copyright (c); 2005 by Gordon Cotler.