The Man Who Lived by Night (11 page)

Hoag:
I always wondered why he let Tristam do all of the talking. I’m interested in your thoughts on Puppy’s death.

Bartucci:
What about it?

Hoag:
Do you think he was murdered?

Bartucci: (silence)
I never did believe his death was an accident.

Hoag:
You didn’t?

Bartucci:
Because of Puppy’s drug bust, Us was banned from appearing in America, where the major money was and still is. Without tour support, their record sales there slumped considerably. The ban wounded Puppy deeply. He offered to quit the group, let the others go on without him. They wouldn’t hear of it, of course. They were fiercely loyal. Puppy was very, very down those last few weeks. That wasn’t like him—ordinarily he was Mr. Up, Mr. Good Times. The parties, the drugs, the girls—they were always his doing. He was the instigator. That was why Tulip never cared for him. She thought he was a bad influence on T. S., who she was trying to turn into a gent. Puppy, he was a man of uncontrollable appetites, of major highs—and major lows. When a man like that gets down … It was no accident, his death. Puppy took his own life. Suicide. That’s what I’ve always believed. Sad, really. Such a talent. So young.

(end tape)

T
HAT WAS THE DAY
my new suit was ready at Strickland’s, so I stopped off after I finished with Marco and tried it on. It seemed to fit. So did Marco’s explanation of Puppy’s death.

Suicide. It made a lot of sense to me in this case. It certainly made more sense than Tris and Jack’s murder plot. Like Derek had said: Why on earth would any of them have wanted Puppy dead? No reason, at least none that was apparent.

A ghost is brought in partly to keep a celebrity from making a consummate asshole out of himself. To that end, I decided I’d play down the murder theory in Tris’s memoir—allude to it but not dwell on it. If I did, Tris would come off as paranoid and drugged-out. The critics would go after him. The book clubs would steer clear of him. Besides, there was plenty else for us to concentrate on, like Derek’s gayness and his love for Rory. Definite bombshells. There would, I hoped, be more.

Illusion. No one was who they’d seemed to be. That was the Us story. What was Tris Scarr’s story? I didn’t know that yet. He was still peeling away like an onion—layer by layer, and with great difficulty. I was also getting the sinking feeling he was holding out on me, not letting me in on something about himself that was important. I had no idea what it was, or why I had this feeling.

He was the Shadow Man. What glimpses I’d gotten of him outside of his chamber had been few, and creepy. They were always at night, when he prowled the estate like a burnt-out lost soul. Once, I woke up to see him outside my window in the floodlit field behind the house, dressed in soccer shorts and cleats, intently kicking a soccer ball to an invisible goalie. Another night I saw—and heard—him careening through the maze like a human pinball on a Norton Commando 750cc motorcycle, bounding off hedges, splattering gravel. And once, while I was reading late at night by my sitting room fire, I heard the hall doorknob turn, then stop. When I went out in the hall, there was no one there. Only the smell of Gauloises.

He was the Shadow Man. How did the song go? “Don’t come over to my side/You won’t like what you see.” What had he seen? I had to know. It was time to start beating on him. And to talk to Tulip. If only she would return my goddamned calls.

Lulu and I strolled along Savile Row, both of us blinking from the glare. It was the very first sunny afternoon since we’d arrived, and the city seemed completely different. Shiny. Bright. The air was fresh and tangy. The Christmas shoppers were smiling. It wasn’t my London.

I got a haircut at Truefitt’s in Bond Street from a tall, vaguely Indian-looking guy named Christopher. From there we headed over to the Saville Club on Brook Street. It’s a stylishly run-down establishment that has a reciprocal arrangement with the Coffee House, where I sometimes go for lunch in New York. I had a lager and some ham sandwiches at the bar. Lulu had kippers. Then we started back to where we’d left the car. I was still watching for a tail—had been all day as I went from interview to interview. I was not being followed. I was quite sure of it.

It was when we were passing a corner newsstand that I spotted Merilee’s picture—a publicity still from her show—and the screaming afternoon tabloid headline: “MERILEE SHE ROLLS ALONG!” I bought the paper and stood there and read it:

Actress Merilee Nash, here to appear in the sold-out West End revival of
The Philadelphia Story
opposite Anthony Andrews, seems to find London just ‘love-erly.’

The Oscar-winning American star has flown playwright-husband Zachary Byrd’s coop and is snuggling with a tall, unidentified associate of our own Tristam Scarr.

Merilee and friend enjoyed a cozy opening night celebration at the Hungry Horse on Fulham Road, followed by a crawl through neighborhood pubs and a lengthy tête-á-tête outside her rented mews house on Crowell Road in an Austin Mini Cooper registered to the rock star.

Calls to T. S.’s home in Surrey, Gadpole, were in vain. “No comment,” said a spokesman for the legendary rocker, who is reputed to be penning his memoirs for an American publisher. Several calls were placed to husband Byrd in New York. Byrd, Pulitzer Prize-winning author of the play
Labor Day,
was not available.

So that explained our tail that night. A member of the ever-vigilant British tabloid press had been shadowing Merilee. Part of me was relieved. Clearly, I wasn’t in the middle of anything ugly or scary as it had first appeared. Part of me was wounded—the pride part. It’s amazing how fast you can go from being a star to being a “tall, unidentified associate.” Easiest thing in the world. All you have to do is nothing.

I tossed the paper in the trash.

I’d parked the mini on the corner where Clifford Street runs into Savile Row. I’d just started to unlock the car door when it happened. Actually, I didn’t hear the first shot. What I heard, and saw, was the window exploding next to me. I wasn’t quick to react. Just stared like an idiot at the shattered window, wondering how it could have happened. It wasn’t until I heard the boom of a second shot and saw it blow out the back window beside my left elbow that I grabbed Lulu and hit the pavement. A tire popped a few inches from my head. The air hissed out. I could feel it on my ear. Someone was screaming now—a woman across the street. Then tires screeched and someone—whoever it was—sped away. Gone.

Slowly, I got to my feet. My hands were cut up from diving into broken glass, but otherwise I was okay.

Lulu wasn’t.

If there’s a sadder-faced creature in this world than a basset hound with a broken foreleg, I’ve yet to see it.

Merilee had made up a special bed for her in the mews house out of a crate and cushions, and placed it before the fireplace, which had a blaze going in it. There Lulu lay, bandaged, drugged, mournful. The gunshot had made a clean break. The vet had set it and kept her overnight at the pet hospital for observation. I had spent it tossing and shivering on the short love seat in Merilee’s living room, wondering what I’d gotten myself into and eavesdropping as she assured Zack on her bedside phone that the tabloid story was a gross exaggeration and that she and I meant absolutely nothing to each other.

That wasn’t what her green eyes had said when she bandaged up my hands in her tiny bathroom.

She was padding around in the kitchen now in old jeans, a Viyella shirt, and ragg socks, assembling Lulu’s favorite meal—her mommy’s tuna casserole. The kitchen was bright and high tech and the biggest room in the miniature house. The adjoining living room was barely big enough for the love seat and two companion armchairs, all of them of Fifties Moderne mustard-colored vinyl. I was busy in there entertaining Farley Root, a gawky, apologetic police investigator in his mid-thirties, with uncombed red hair, buckteeth, and an Adam’s apple the size of a musk-melon. He wore a nile green three-piece polyester suit and had, possibly, the worst case of razor burn on his neck I’d ever seen. He looked like he shaved with a John Deere. He was perched on the love seat, sipping tea and trying hard to act cool even though the famous Merilee Nash was right there in the kitchen. He was also trying hard not to claw at his raw, itchy neck. He was failing at both.

Merilee came in with the teapot. “A warm-up, Inspector?”

He gulped some air. “Thank you, miss. Please. And I’m not actually an—”

“So what’s this about, Inspector?” I asked. “More questions?”

A uniformed constable at the scene had already asked me the routine questions. He’d gotten the routine answers. I’d told him I had no idea why anyone had shot at me. The streets, we’d agreed, weren’t safe anywhere anymore.

“Yessir,” replied Root, pulling out a small notepad. “Sorry to bother you, Mr. Hoag. Just a few other matters I was interesting in pursuing. And, please, I’m not actually an—“

“No problem. And make it Hoagy.”

“As in Carmichael?”

“As in the cheese steak.”

He frowned. “Very well, Hoagy.” He shifted on the love seat, gulped some more air. “It has come to our attention since you were questioned yesterday that you … you and Miss Nash, I mean … are perhaps in the midst of what could be called a domestic situation of a somewhat … uh …”

“Do you mean those awful tabloid stories?” Merilee asked, from the kitchen.

“I do, miss,” he replied, relieved. “I don’t mean to pry into your personal lives, but the press reports were followed by a shooting incident. One could draw the conclusion that—”

“My husband is in New York, if that’s what you’re wondering,” she said. “Hoagy and I were once married, and we remain friends. That’s all there is to the story. He’s here now because of what happened to Lulu.”

Lulu stirred in her bed at the sound of her name. Almost.

“Makes perfect sense, miss,” said Root. “I-I do appreciate your candor, and being so understanding of my situation. I’m … allow me to assure you I’ve no interest in bothering you or invading your—”

“We understand,” I assured him.

“Thank you, Hoagy,” he said. “If I may take a bit more of your time … There was also this matter of the mini’s owner. You say you’re presently in the employ of …”

“Tristam Scarr. I’m helping him do his memoirs.”

“You’re a writer?”

I tugged at my ear. “Yes, I am.”

“Any connection there, do you think?”

“My being a writer?”

He swallowed. “Do you think the shooting might have had to do with the work you’re doing for Mr. Scarr?”

“I don’t see how. It’s just a collection of anecdotes about the old days, his views on his life. As I said yesterday, Inspector, I really can’t think of anyone in London who would want me dead.”

“I understand. And I’m not actually an—”

“But I will call you if I think of anything.”

“Thank you, sir. Appreciate that. And I’ll ring you if we turn up anything, though I can’t say I’m optimistic.”

“Not getting anywhere?”

“No one who witnessed the attack seems able to identify precisely from where the shots originated, or to give us any description of who fired them. I’m afraid we don’t even know so much as what kind of weapon was used.” Root glanced at his notepad. “You mentioned you believe it was not a handgun.”

“It sounded more like shotgun to me. It boomed.”

“As does a large caliber handgun, such as a three-fifty-seven Magnum,” Root pointed out.

“Could have been one of those,” I conceded. “I would have thought you’d find a bullet, no?”

He shook his head. “The two that shattered the mini windows passed directly through the passenger-side windows as well. The one that clipped your hound here glanced off of the front tire and then passed underneath. As you had parked at an intersection, all three then proceeded on down Savile Row. They did not break any storefront glass. They do not appear to have glanced off any nearby buildings. We’ve found no glance marks. We’re still searching, of course. However, it’s a long street. And if the bullets happened to lodge in a pile of rubbish or in the side of a passing lorry, well, they may never be found.”

“No spent cartridges anywhere?”

“No, sir. Whoever shot at you was neat and careful. Fired from their car, most likely. Gone before anyone really took notice of them.”

“I don’t imagine it was buckshot,” I said. “Even if he’d had it on full choke there’d still be some pellet marks in the side of the car. From hitting Lulu, I mean.”

Root nodded. “We’re examining it. Nothing so far.” •

“I don’t suppose anyone mentioned seeing a puff of smoke.”

“Smoke? No. Why?”

“Just wondered.”

Root tucked his notepad away in his coat pocket. “Yes, well, sorry to have troubled you.”

“No trouble at all.”

He struggled to his feet and lurched into the kitchen with his teacup. “Thank you so much for the tea, Miss Nash. It’s been an honor to meet you. I’ve admired your work in films for many years.”

“Why, thank you, Inspector,” she said brightly.

He cleared his throat. “Actually, I’m not an—”

“You know, Inspector, I have an idea you might benefit from,” I told him, as I steered him toward the front door. “Personally, I mean.”

“Sir?”

“Talc.” I fingered my neck. “Clear that rash right up. Floris makes one with a very light scent, number eighty-nine.”

Root craned his neck uncomfortably. “Rather ugly business this. Can’t seem to shake it. Number eighty-nine? Just may give it a go.”

“Do you use an electric razor?”

“I do.”

“They’re murder.”

“That they are. Good-bye, then.”

“Good-bye, Inspector.”

I knelt at Lulu’s bed and scratched her ears. She treated me to her most profoundly pained look. A definite ten on the hankie meter.

“If you’re trying to make me feel guilty,” I told her, “you can stop now.”

For that I got a whimper. A very weak whimper.

The casserole was bubbling away now in the kitchen. Merilee makes her tuna casserole with sautéed shallots and mushrooms, a touch of sherry, and a thick topping of melted Gruyère. She tasted it, frowned, and added a touch more sherry. I sipped the Laphroaig I’d gone out for. It was strong and smoky. Possibly too smoky for me. I told Merilee I’d be taking Lulu back to Gadpole with me after she’d eaten.