Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 133, No. 5. Whole No. 813, May 2009

Dummy by Brian Muir

Brian Muir may have been in L.A. for two decades, working in movies (as production assistant to Roger Corman and as a writer of screenplays), but he has not forgotten his home state of Oregon. In fact, he began a series in EQMM in 2004 about a Portland private eye whose sex is never explicitly mentioned and he’s now completed a novel-length case for her.

The idiot. I told him to stay away from her. I said, ‘You’re an idiot if you keep seeing this girl. A Grade-A dummy.’ But did he listen? That was a rhetorical question, by the way.”

“Thanks,” came the sarcastic reply from Detective Stockel. He’d seen the blood spatters on the wall.

Stockel and his superior, Detective Perrone, questioned their witness, seated before them as they stood.

“He was infatuated with her,” she continued.

Stockel shot a weary look to Perrone, “Come on, man. The paperwork on this case is going to bury me. How long do we got to stand here and listen to this?”

“Just let her talk,” said Perrone, and that was that.

The woman nodded to Perrone. “Thank you, Detective,” making a “hmph” sound in her throat, muffled as if by too much phlegm.

“I’d like to talk,” she said, pointy chin chittering away. “I want to talk. I’ve kept this bottled up way too long. I realize perhaps I should have come to someone sooner, and I’ll never forgive myself for that. I should have told someone about my son. He’s had ugly thoughts for some time now.”

She blinked large eyes, blue as bird eggs behind round glasses.

“Forgive me for being indelicate,” said Perrone, “but would you say your son has been... unbalanced for some time now?”

She stared up at him without saying anything.

Stockel, impatient: “He means did you always know your boy was a nutjob.”

“You’re a rude man, Detective.”

“Maybe. But I never killed anybody with a screwdriver.”

“Perhaps your mother should have taught you proper manners.”

“Like you did with your boy, you mean?”

“That’s enough, Ray,” chastised Perrone.

Stockel took a breath through his nose.

“Jimmy was a good boy, when he was young,” she continued, hands folded in her lap. “But he was never the sharpest knife in the drawer. His father and I had an act long ago: Mr. & Mrs. Santoni; a little comedy routine, witty banter and such. We played Caesars, did USO tours in the Seventies. We were even on The Mike Douglas Show. See those photographs on the wall over there? See us, posing with Mike and Dinah Shore?” Her head rose on her thin neck, proud.

“Yes, ma’am,” said Perrone. “I think I saw you and Mr. Santoni on Douglas when I was a kid.”

“You should understand that Jimmy’s father and I weren’t married. That was merely our act. He was married to a woman named Margaret, a lovely woman, Jimmy’s mother. I’m not proud of it, Detectives, but Jimmy’s father and I, working together as often as we did, spending so much time alone... we grew quite close, if you catch my meaning.”

Stockel gave another sidelong glance at Perrone, but the older detective didn’t acknowledge it. “We hear this type of thing often, ma’am.”

“Well, that doesn’t make it right, of course. But he and I were in love and he eventually left Margaret for me. I don’t think Jimmy ever forgave him for that. It took the boy and me a long time to reach an understanding, but that’s the way these things go.”

“And Mr. Santoni?” asked Perrone.

“Oh, he died five or six years ago. Unpleasantly.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” interjected Stockel, but his tone was anything but commiserate.

“Thank you,” came the old woman’s flat response.

Perrone surveyed the one-bedroom apartment. The sparse furnishings appeared well-dusted. A painted sign, about 4x4, leaned against one wall. It read: Santoni & Mom.

“I take it that after his father died, Jimmy took over the act and the two of you came up with a new routine,” surmised Perrone.

The old lady slowly turned her head to view the sign. “That’s right, Detective. But truth be told, we’ve never really been able to make a go of it. I’m the first to admit that our comedy is rather antiquated. Perhaps too much so for today’s audiences.”

Her big eyes swept the room as if scanning for eavesdroppers. She lowered her voice to a raspy whisper. “And unfortunately, Jimmy never had the talent of his father.”

“I understand,” said the detective.

The lady raised her voice again, anger creeping into it. “That needn’t be the case, if he’d listen to me when I try to teach him something. I know best. He’s never realized that. The dummy.”

“We got that, ma’am,” said Perrone. “You don’t think your son is very bright.”

“I don’t mean to sound harsh, Detectives. I’m trying to look out for the boy but he’s somewhat... impressionable. Easy to fall in with the wrong types. Take this woman, for instance.”

“You mean the decedent?”

“Mm-hmm. It may be improper to speak ill of the dead, but she was nothing but a hussy, if you ask me. And I told Jimmy so, straight out. Not that he’d listen, of course.”

“Why don’t you tell us how they met.”

“It was perhaps a month ago. We’d been out trying to pick up new bookings. I realize we don’t have the clout to fill a showroom — like his father and I used to — but we’re very comfortable in the smaller venues. At any rate, we were interviewing at hotel casinos and lounges. We traveled to Henderson and went up to Reno. That’s where Jimmy met her.”

Perrone consulted his notes. “Serena Mayes. Cocktail waitress at the Mule Kick Saloon.”

The old woman pshawed. “Cocktail waitress. By day perhaps, but at night she drove down here to Vegas to work in one of those ‘gentlemen’s clubs.’ ” She made finger quotes, not so much with her fingers but her whole hands, flopping in the air like limp, tired birds.

“She was a stripper,” finished Stockel.

“Slut,” she said. “Pardon my language, but I could tell she wasn’t right from the start. After we’d auditioned for the manager, Jimmy and I were having lunch in the saloon — a very nice establishment, by the way — when the two of them locked eyes, Jimmy and the girl. I could see the sparks immediately, and admittedly she’s got the most vibrant green eyes...” She stopped, reconsidered. “Well, she had the most vibrant eyes, before...”

“Before the screwdriver, you mean.” Crow’s-feet tickled the corners of Stockel’s eyes as he held back a smile. “I understand it was a Phillips head.”

“You seem to be taking perverse delight in this, Detective.”

“Don’t mind him, ma’am,” said Perrone. “Please, continue.”

The old woman kept staring up at Stockel, unblinking.

Perrone said, “Say you’re sorry, Ray.”

“I’m sorry, Ray,” replied Stockel.

“HA!” burst out the old woman, her thin lips not even cracking a grin. “The dust on that one’s a foot thick, Detective. That wouldn’t even make it into the act I did with Jimmy’s father.”

“That’s why I went into police work. I got no sense of humor,” said Stockel.

Perrone interjected, “If you could, ma’am, tell us what happened with Jimmy and Serena.”

She cleared her throat. “Of course. Shortly after they met, he began making trips to Reno to see her at the saloon. And when she drove down here to dance at the club on weekends, he’d go in to see her, spending all of his hard-earned money on her. Spending all of OUR hard-earned money.”

“So he was a customer,” said Perrone.

“I suppose that’s what you would call it. But he and the girl got along outside her work as well. They often saw each other during the day, went to UNLV ball-games, that sort of thing. But I’ve no doubt her intentions were improper.”

“She was just after money, is that what you mean?”

The old woman nodded, her head bobbing pistonlike on her brittle neck. “It may not look like it, but we do have a little bit socked away for emergency. I didn’t want her getting her hands on it. I voiced my opinion, but Jimmy wouldn’t listen. Honestly, Detective, though I didn’t care for her, it was the girl I was trying to help.”

“How’s that?”

“As I said, my son has issues. With women, I mean. There have been incidents of violence in the past. I’m not proud to admit it, but there it is. He’s got a police record for domestic violence and stalking.”

Perrone made a note. “Thank you for your candor, Mrs. Santoni. I’ll look into that.”

Stockel stared down at the woman, her white hair like soft yarn. “Just curious. If you knew he might hurt her, why didn’t you try to stop him?”

“Detective, look at me. I’m obviously in no physical condition to prevent my son from...”

“What I meant was, why didn’t you try to talk him out of it at least?”

“Oh, but I did. He and I argued about it on more than one occasion. He said nasty things to me, vile things. That’s not the way I raised him.”

” ’Course not.”

“At any rate, things came to a head yesterday. He informed me that she was coming over to spend the night. I forbade it. After all, I live here, too. He may be a grown man, but I have a right to say who can or cannot sleep under this roof. And I’ll be darned if I’m going to have them doing their dirty business on the other side of the wall while I’m trying to sleep.”

She looked up, blinking once, deliberately. Stockel swore he could actually hear her eyelids punctuate her statement. He lifted his hands, palms open in surrender.

Perrone said, “So when you laid down the law, what did your son do?”

“He locked me up. Can you believe it? He intended to have her over and rub my nose in it. I’ll be darned if that little dummy was going to disrespect ME like that. Let’s be clear that this was not about my distaste for the girl. This was about a boy respecting his mother.”

Stockel couldn’t resist a dig. “Yeah, but his real mom divorced his dad. You’re more like a... stepmom. Not his REAL mom.”

“Let her finish the story, Ray.”

“She’s the one that brought it up. The thing about respect, I mean. I thought she was all about making sure the girl didn’t get hurt.”

Mrs. Santoni barked, “I DIDn’t want her to get hurt! That’s why I confronted him. Confronted them. It was an embarrassing situation, to be sure...”

She raised a hand to her face, the wisp of a handkerchief looped around a finger.

Perrone calmed her. “Just take us through it step-by-step, ma’am.”

“Well... when the lights went down and the two of them started... to do their... I heard what they were saying, what they were doing...” She described it to them, as delicately as she could, sniffling. “I realize I’m old-fashioned, but back in my day, that sort of thing wasn’t done, not by respectable people.”

“I understand how it may have shocked you, ma’am. I believe in some states it’s still considered illegal.”

“As well it should be.”

“So, when you heard them, what did you do?”

“I started pounding and hollering and raising a ruckus, until Jimmy finally let me out. The poor girl seemed so confused, as if she didn’t even know I lived here, as if Jimmy were keeping it a secret, like it was some perverse little game. I said to her, ‘Get your clothes and get out.’ She glared at Jimmy and asked, ‘What’s going on?’ Jimmy said, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll take care of this.’ Then he and I began arguing.”

“What did the girl do?”

“She went to put on her clothes in the corner. I think I remember her shouting at him again, ‘What the HELL is going on?’ Or something like that. I wanted her out of the apartment, for her own safety, of course. As I said, I know how Jimmy can be when his blood is up.”

“And you weren’t concerned for your own safety?” asked Perrone.

Her head swiveled back and forth. “No. Though he shouts and berates, he’s never raised a hand to me. At least, not until tonight.”

“Tell us,” urged Perrone.

“I reiterated that I wanted the girl out of here. He shouted something like, ‘You never want me to have anyone! You don’t want me to be happy!’ As if I would deny him his life. As I said, the boy is delusional. Anyway, we kept arguing back and forth, the poor girl having to listen to the whole thing, until finally Jimmy grabbed the screwdriver. His face was... I’ve never seen him like that, the pure anger, the rage. He stepped toward me, shouting — and I’ll never forget this — He said, ‘I’ll take you apart piece by piece!’ Can you imagine such a grisly notion?”

“Hard to believe,” straight-faced Stockel.

The old woman ignored him and pressed on. “He stood over me, raising that screwdriver, red in the face, spittle flying from his mouth. I have to admit I was frightened to death, but I stood my ground. As calmly as I could I said, ‘Jimmy, you don’t want to do this. Please send the girl away and we’ll get you the help you need.’ He stared at me with his eyes so huge, still intending to use the screwdriver. Then I heard the girl in the corner shout, ‘You’re messed up!’, though she peppered it with some very unladylike language. Something seemed to snap in Jimmy. He turned and rushed toward her, stabbing her over and over. I shouted for him to stop, but he didn’t. Not until he’d tuckered himself out. That poor, poor girl.”

Perrone glanced across the room. Serena Mayes was dead on the floor, slick with blood, eyes gouged out. Crime-scene investigators continued their examination of the room.

“One of the neighbors must have called nine-one-one. All the noise and everything.” She coughed, a deep throaty rumble, too big to be coming from such a tiny thing.

Stockel decided to play good cop. “Would you like a glass of water for that cough, ma’am?”

“Is that some sort of joke about our act, Detective?”

“No joke, ma’am. I told you before, I’ve got no sense of humor. If I did, I wouldn’t be so irritated standing here talking to you.”

Stockel turned to his older, more patient partner. “Really, man, how long are we going to play this game? He’s the one we’ve got to talk to.”

He jabbed a stubby finger at Jimmy, the young man with the blood-spattered shirt and the stone-frozen grin on his face, sitting before them.

“We ARE talking to him,” said Perrone. “And he’s been quite helpful.”

“Thank you, Detective. Thank you for understanding,” said the old woman sitting on Jimmy’s lap.

“We’ll make sure your son gets the help he needs,” comforted Perrone.

“Thank you.”

Stockel rolled his eyes.

Perrone got the attention of a uniformed officer near the door.

The cop came over, placed an arm on Jimmy’s shoulder.

“Take him downtown and park him in interrogation room three,” said Perrone. “I’ll be there when I can. Have Doc Wozer take a crack. Be sure he knows the kid won’t respond to questions, but his mother’s plenty talkative.”

The officer scrunched his eyebrows, baffled.

Stockel translated, “Tell Doc to talk to the dummy.”

At that, the old wooden woman stared at him with eyelids at half-mast, affecting a glare. Jimmy did the same, a scowl affixed to his visage in mimicry of his mother-puppet.

“You’re an unpleasant man, Detective,” said the ventriloquist’s dummy.

“You said that already,” replied Stockel. Then he stared Jimmy in the eye. “You’re not half bad at that, kid. Too bad you’re nuts.”

Jimmy carried the wooden Mrs. Santoni in the crook of his arm as he was led away by the officer and out the door.

“There goes one disturbed individual,” sadly intoned Perrone.

Stockel crossed to an old wooden steamer trunk on the table, one end of it decorated with peeling decals from various ports of call, its leather carrying strap cracked with age. He lifted the lid, looked inside at the red velvet lining. “He should’ve kept her locked up.” Then he pondered, “You think they’ll let him take her to the joint with him?”

“That’d be something,” said Perrone.

Stockel once again surveyed the crime scene and shook his head. “Man... the paperwork.”

©2009 by Brian Muir