Fletch’s Moxie

30

Fletch retreated to the small study at the back of The Blue House.

On the front stairs Edith Howell was screaming her rage that the police had taken John Meade away in handcuffs. She was screaming at Frederick Mooney to go do something about it. There had not been a sound from Frederick Mooney. Fletch wasn’t even sure he was in the house. Edith Howell was dressed in blue silk pajamas, blue silk slippers, and a blue silk robe. Her hair was in pin curls and her face clotted with cream. Sy Koller’s head had appeared over the second-floor bannister looking painfully hung-over. Lopez and Gerry Littleford were in the backyard throwing a tennis ball back and forth. Mrs. Lopez was in the kitchen making real coffee, starting breakfast. Neither Geoffrey McKensie nor Moxie had come down.

Fletch did not mind telephoning Five Aces Farm that early in the morning. Horse people are always up early.

The phone rang so long without being answered Fletch sat at the desk.

Finally a man’s voice answered.

“This is Fletcher. May I speak with Mister Sills, please?”

“Not here, Mister Fletcher. This is Max Frizzlewhit.”

“Mornin’, Max. Ted must have been off pretty early. Is there a race somewhere?”

“Yeah, there’s a race. But he’s not at it. I’m just about to go with the trailer. ‘Cept the phone kept ringin’ and ringin’ down here at the stables. One of your horses, too, Mister Fletcher,” Frizzlewhit sped along in his English accent. “Scarlet Pimple-Nickle. Call to wish her luck?”

“Does she have a chance?”

“No. If she had half a chance we would have moved her to the track yesterday. She’s not worth stable fees.”

“Then why are you running her?”

“She needs the exercise.”

“Oh, good.”

“She needs the experience.”

“Will she ever be any good, Max?”

“No.”

“Then why do I own her?”

“Beats me. She may have looked good that week you were here.”

“Never again?”

“And never before, I think.”

“Maybe I brought something out in her.”

“Maybe. You ought to come by more often, Mister Fletcher.”

“To buy more horses?”

“You ought to go to the track.”

“It’s too embarrassing, Max.”

“Maybe if you went to the track ol’ Scarlet Pimple-Nickle would perform for you, keep her eye on the finish instead of on a bunch of horses’ asses.” If only the horses he trained ran as fast as Frizzlewhit talked…

“This horse has an anal fixation, is that it?”

“I’m not sure she’s an actual pervert, Mister Fletcher. It just may be that she’d never seen anything but other horses’ asses.”

“Very understanding of you, Frizzlewhit.”

“Hey, you have to be, in this business. Horses are just like people.”

“No,” Fletch said. “They’re smarter. They don’t invest in people and make ’em run around a track.”

“That’s true. They are smarter that way.”

“So where did Mister Sills go?”

“He left the country.”

“Ah. Was this a sudden trip, would you say?”

“He packed and left last night. He was plannin’ to go to the race today.”

“A sudden trip. Did he mention which country he’s favoring?”

“France. He mentioned France.”

“And which way was he going?”

“By airplane, Mister Fletcher.”

“I mean, through Miami? New York?”

“Atlanta, I think.”

“Then he’s gone. Left the country.”

“Can’t be sure. Cousin Heath, from Piddle—you know I had a cousin lives in Piddle?—came to see me and got into that Atlanta airport and wasn’t heard from Tuesday noon till Saturday teatime. Said he kept expectin’ somethin’ to happen, and nothin’ did.”

“I’m going to tell people to keep their eye on you, Frizzlewhit.”

“Wish you would. Sometimes it gets lonely down here with the horses.”

“Even you can outrun ’em, huh?”

“Some of ’em are no improvement over stayin’ still.”

“Will Mister Sills call you?”

“Prolly.”

“You might tell him The Blue House was busted this morning. For drugs.”

“Yeah? You had a rave-up down there just yesterday, didn’t you? Nasties and the bedsheet bunch. Saw it on television, I did. What’s going to happen tomorrow?”

“That’s always the question, isn’t it?”

“That’s what makes a horse race.”

“Damn,” said Fletch. “I didn’t think you knew what makes a horse race.”

* * *

And Fletch did not mind telephoning Chief of Detectives Roz Nachman at that early hour. Police stations are supposed to be open for twenty-four-hour-a-day service. If she wasn’t there yet he should be able to leave a message.

But she was there.

“Aren’t you getting any sleep at all, Chief?”

“Thank you for your concern, Mister Fletcher.”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Staging that drug bust this morning. Here at The Blue House. I’m sure I’ll figure out why in a minute. Trying to discover who’s sleeping with whom? You could have asked. You did before.”

“How’s the weather in Key West?”

“Nice.”

“It’s nice here, too.”

“Having John Meade busted in Key West for a few qualudes is not nice of you.”

“John Meade?”

“He could end up with a jail sentence, you know. He’s a big name. Make good headlines for the authorities in Key West.”

“Was he in illegal possession of a controlled substance?”

“That’s why he’s being held.”

“I’m sorry. Loved him in Easy River.”

“So did he. He won’t be able to use his talents to give you much more pleasure if he’s in the hoosegow.”

“So I’ll see Easy River again. It’s on the T.V. all the time. Now—regarding that question you asked? Regarding Steven Peterman’s car?”

“Yes?”

“We had it checked out. The car was in the parking lot on Bonita Beach. A blue Cadillac.” “A rented car?”

“Yes. No damage. Not a scrape. So that’s the end of that great line of investigation.”

“What date did he rent the car?”

There was a long silence from Chief of Detectives Roz Nachman. “That’s a good point. Are you trying to get ahead of me, Mister Fletcher?”

“Would you expect him to keep a damaged car? A damaged rented car?”

“I wonder what date he actually arrived in Florida.”

“I don’t know. I should think you’d know by now.”

“I would, too. Okay …”

“So that line of investigation is still open?”

“We’ll check further.”

“Another thing. You must know that yesterday we had sort of a riot here. A demonstration. Some violence.”

“It was in all the papers. On T.V. Everybody’s name mentioned but your’s. Who are you, Mister Fletcher?”

“Chief, one of these groups might really have been trying to stop this film. I mean, to the point of murder. Gerry Littleford said last night that he had received threatening letters and phone calls—”

“Does he have any of the letters?”

“No. But the riot yesterday—Stella Littleford did get hurt. Some of these people can be vicious. Insanely vicious.

“Vicious but not smart. I don’t think your average bigoted tub-of-lard is up to getting on location and then making a knife magically appear between the ribs of somebody sitting on a well-lit stage in daylight surrounded by cameras. … Do you, earwig?”

“No.”

“Keep trying, earwig. Things are looking worse and worse for your Ms Moxie Mooney. I need a devil’s advocate.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, all those film experts we hired—they’re coming down pretty heavily on her. That dance she did.”

“What dance?”

“Didn’t you see her? Thought you were there.” “What dance?”

“Just before the, you know, murder. Moxie Mooney got up from her chair and did a little dance. She was showing Dan Buckley some little dance step she did in A Broadway Hit.”

“In her bathrobe?”

“Make-up robe, dressing gown, whatever you want to call it. It’s terrycloth. We have it. I should think it would be too big for her.”

“So she couldn’t have done it.”

“So she could have. After she did her little dance step, she went back to her own chair, crossing behind where Peterman and Buckley were sitting.”

“She crossed behind them.”

“Yes. Behind. It’s in all the videotapes. In fact, it looks a little unnatural. From where she finished her dance, she could have walked directly back to her chair, or behind Peterman and Buckley. She chose to walk behind them.”

“Oh, God.”

“The experts have drawn lines all over the stage floor. They talk in cubes. Do you understand that?”

“No.”

“Neither do I. Upshot of it is they said it would have been more direct, and more natural for her to walk in front of the men. It looks a little unnatural to me. But, keep tryin’, earwig. Believe me, I’d rather find some group of crazies guilty of murder than Moxie Mooney. This is not the way I want to become a famous detective.”

“Are there any other leads you’re following?”

“Sure. But let me keep a few secrets, will you? Again I warn you, Fletcher: don’t you and Ms Mooney leave Key West, except to come back here.”

“I hear you.”

“Some people were a little nervous when you went sailing yesterday.” “You know about that?”

“The Coast Guard did a helicopter over you.”

“Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes. They said you were real cute together. Said it was just like watching a movie.”