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Authors: William Campbell Gault
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said. “The same as I am. Grange, right?”
“No. I doubt if he has it.”
“Miss Medford?”
“Maybe.”
“And why?”
“Who knows? Why did they park outside her house? Why did Miss Medford run to Solvang? You’ll have to ask her that.”
“Oh, sure! Through the filter of about half a dozen of the most expensive lawyers in town. But you know her.”
“The district attorney could ask her,” I pointed out. “There’s enough circumstantial evidence to make it a logical inquiry.”
“He could ask her attorneys. If he had their kind of clout, do you think he would settle for being a DA? Hell, I’ve had him go after Kelly time after time. Nothing!”
Kelly, Kelly, Kelly. The man was an obsession with Bernie.
“I’ll try,” I said. “It will take some tact.”
He nodded. “And that sure isn’t one of your strong points. But who else do we have?”
I stood up. “Thanks a lot.”
He smiled. “I apologize. You have tact when you need it. Luck, buddy.”
There were so many questions. But who had the answers? It was possible that Sidney Morgenstern had, but he was dead. Carl Lacrosse had the same information, but where was he? The lovers had some of the answers, but they weren’t talking. Kelly and Mrs. Lacrosse? That would be getting blood out of a stone. Our last best hope seemed to be Joel Lacrosse. I hoped Corey would get to him.
Mrs. Casey made me an omelet for lunch. I phoned the Medford house after lunch. Charles told me they still were not accepting calls. Not even from their friends and neighbors; the runners had turned into hiders.
I put on my own running clothes and went out for a slow six miles. I came home and showered and sat out in back with a magazine where I could watch the Medford sanctuary.
No soothing music came from the house, no clack of croquet balls from the lawn. I built another scenario in my mind:
The opening scene was a suite at the Biltmore; the characters were an aging but still handsome movie star and his distinguished and still honest agent. They were arguing. The agent had brought some news that would get his client out of trouble if the client was willing to stand up and fight. The actor said he was tired of fighting.
There were some angry words between them. The agent accused the actor of being a papier-mâché hero, an imitation macho man. The actor claimed that the macho-man image had not been his choice; he could have gone on to more serious parts if he’d had an agent who refused to let him be typed.
The actor storms out of the suite and the scene changes. The agent is walking on the beach at night, a contemplative man. (Now we go into voice-over.) He wonders if he had really done right by his client. Had it been his fault that the actor spent so much money so fast that they couldn’t wait for the serious parts? And how many really serious films had the studios made in those days? He knew what actors thought of agents. One of his more cynical clients had explained it to him—changing agents was like changing deck chairs on the Titanic.
Then, from the shadows of a shack near the beach, a shrouded and ominous figure picks up a large rock and—
And Jan asked, “What are you dreaming about? You were mumbling.”
I looked up to see her smiling down at me. “I was dreaming about my youth,” I told her. “You sound happy.”
“With reason. I finally found a client with impeccable taste.”
Impeccable taste meant Jan’s taste. I didn’t put the thought into words, getting some practice on my tact. “Is it time for a drink?”
“I’ll make them,” she said. “I’m not tired today. I didn’t have to spend my time dickering with impossible people.”
We sat in our deck chairs, sipping martinis, within view of the quiet house next door. “And your day?” she asked.
“Fruitless.”
“You didn’t learn anything ? ”
“I learned what I already knew, that people lie. I guess that’s what tact is, isn’t it—learning to lie
“No. I doubt if he has it.”
“Miss Medford?”
“Maybe.”
“And why?”
“Who knows? Why did they park outside her house? Why did Miss Medford run to Solvang? You’ll have to ask her that.”
“Oh, sure! Through the filter of about half a dozen of the most expensive lawyers in town. But you know her.”
“The district attorney could ask her,” I pointed out. “There’s enough circumstantial evidence to make it a logical inquiry.”
“He could ask her attorneys. If he had their kind of clout, do you think he would settle for being a DA? Hell, I’ve had him go after Kelly time after time. Nothing!”
Kelly, Kelly, Kelly. The man was an obsession with Bernie.
“I’ll try,” I said. “It will take some tact.”
He nodded. “And that sure isn’t one of your strong points. But who else do we have?”
I stood up. “Thanks a lot.”
He smiled. “I apologize. You have tact when you need it. Luck, buddy.”
There were so many questions. But who had the answers? It was possible that Sidney Morgenstern had, but he was dead. Carl Lacrosse had the same information, but where was he? The lovers had some of the answers, but they weren’t talking. Kelly and Mrs. Lacrosse? That would be getting blood out of a stone. Our last best hope seemed to be Joel Lacrosse. I hoped Corey would get to him.
Mrs. Casey made me an omelet for lunch. I phoned the Medford house after lunch. Charles told me they still were not accepting calls. Not even from their friends and neighbors; the runners had turned into hiders.
I put on my own running clothes and went out for a slow six miles. I came home and showered and sat out in back with a magazine where I could watch the Medford sanctuary.
No soothing music came from the house, no clack of croquet balls from the lawn. I built another scenario in my mind:
The opening scene was a suite at the Biltmore; the characters were an aging but still handsome movie star and his distinguished and still honest agent. They were arguing. The agent had brought some news that would get his client out of trouble if the client was willing to stand up and fight. The actor said he was tired of fighting.
There were some angry words between them. The agent accused the actor of being a papier-mâché hero, an imitation macho man. The actor claimed that the macho-man image had not been his choice; he could have gone on to more serious parts if he’d had an agent who refused to let him be typed.
The actor storms out of the suite and the scene changes. The agent is walking on the beach at night, a contemplative man. (Now we go into voice-over.) He wonders if he had really done right by his client. Had it been his fault that the actor spent so much money so fast that they couldn’t wait for the serious parts? And how many really serious films had the studios made in those days? He knew what actors thought of agents. One of his more cynical clients had explained it to him—changing agents was like changing deck chairs on the Titanic.
Then, from the shadows of a shack near the beach, a shrouded and ominous figure picks up a large rock and—
And Jan asked, “What are you dreaming about? You were mumbling.”
I looked up to see her smiling down at me. “I was dreaming about my youth,” I told her. “You sound happy.”
“With reason. I finally found a client with impeccable taste.”
Impeccable taste meant Jan’s taste. I didn’t put the thought into words, getting some practice on my tact. “Is it time for a drink?”
“I’ll make them,” she said. “I’m not tired today. I didn’t have to spend my time dickering with impossible people.”
We sat in our deck chairs, sipping martinis, within view of the quiet house next door. “And your day?” she asked.
“Fruitless.”
“You didn’t learn anything ? ”
“I learned what I already knew, that people lie. I guess that’s what tact is, isn’t it—learning to lie
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