Dead Giveaway (13 page)

“Paul and Grace,” Moira spoke up. “What's in the backpack, Walker?”

Walker handed it to Ellen. “The dye Ellen wanted. And a couple other items for survival in the wild. So fill me in, Moira. What happened?”

While everyone talked at once, Ellen unzipped the backpack and peered inside. Along with the dye were two other packages. She opened the first and discovered a bottle of her favorite
Fumé Blanc,
perfectly chilled. The second package looked like a shoe box and she almost laughed out loud as she lifted the lid and found fluffy white slippers with the face of a bunny on the toes. Just yesterday she'd mentioned that she needed new slippers. Silly and whimsical, these were the sort of thing she adored but would never have considered buying for herself.

“What did he bring you?” As Vanessa tried to peer into the backpack, Ellen closed it quickly.

“Just some things I needed from town.”

“Like what?” Vanessa wasn't the type to give up easily, but Ellen knew everyone would tease her mercilessly if she showed them her new slippers. She glanced at Walker and saw that he was grinning, waiting for her to think up some way out of this awkward situation.

Ellen cleared her throat. “I told you, Vanessa. There's the dye for my mannequins and some alcohol. And then, there's . . . uh . . . something personal I needed.”

Vanessa zeroed in. “What is it, Ellen? You can tell us.”

Ellen noticed that Walker was still grinning and she shot a daggerlike look. “It's nothing, Vanessa. I have a little problem with the hare on my feet.”

“You have
hair
on your feet?” Vanessa glanced down, but Ellen was wearing boots. “That's really gross, Ellen. I hope Walker brought you a good depilatory.”

“Hold it!” Hal stood and held his arms up in a bid for silence. “My child-bride just used a five-syllable word. Cause for celebration.”

“Cut it out, Hal. I know lots of five-syllable words. I even know one that's eleven.
Antidisestablishmentarianism.
So there!”

“I'm impressed, Vanessa. Now spell it.”

While Vanessa sputtered, Ellen glanced at Walker, who was cracking up. “We're going down to pack Johnny's things. Want to come along?”

“Sure.” Walker sobered instantly. He'd heard enough bits and pieces of gossip to put the whole story together, and packing her former lover's possessions was bound to be an ordeal for Ellen.

Jayne spoke up. “Maybe we can find an address or a telephone number. I have to know where to ship Johnny's stuff and I don't have a clue.”

“I guess I'd better help you then,” Vanessa offered. “I learned how to search for clues by watching
Columbo.
”

Marc snorted. “Do you have a rumpled raincoat?”

“What?”

“Never mind, Vanessa.” Marc exchanged a sympathetic glance with Hal. “But if you come across a Sandy Koufax ball, I could sure use it. I know Johnny bought one at the auction last year.”

Vanessa looked puzzled. “What kind of ball was that?”

“A baseball. Sandy Koufax was a pitcher and it's a ball from his perfect game.”

“Okay, Marc.” Vanessa nodded. “I'll look around for a used baseball. But wouldn't you rather have one that's brand-new?”

“This gives me the creeps.” Vanessa shivered a little as they stepped into Johnny's unit.

“What do you think we're going to find?” Marc chuckled. “Johnny's corpse?”

Vanessa turned to him in alarm. “Don't say that! Nobody's heard from Johnny since I saw him with those scary guys.”

“It's all right, Vanessa.” Marc was still grinning. “I told you I showed this unit, and I would have noticed if Johnny's body was here.”

“You didn't open every closet, did you?”

Hal laughed. “If Johnny's body was stuffed in a closet, we wouldn't be able to get within a hundred yards of this place. Relax, child-bride. I guarantee there's no body here.”

“But how can you tell?”

Hal groaned. “Use your head, Vanessa. Have you ever smelled hamburger that's gone bad?”

“Yes, but . . .”

“Let's change the subject,” Walker interrupted, noticing that Ellen was turning pale. “Is the electricity still on? We didn't bring flashlights.”

“Hold on.” Moira patted the wall until she found the switch and the hallway flooded with light. “Does anyone have a game plan?”

Jayne shook her head. “I thought we'd just start stuffing things in boxes.”

Moira shook her head. “That's not the way to do it. I suggest we split up into groups. Do we have packing materials?”

“Johnny said he'd leave boxes and tape in the hall closet.” Jayne opened it and looked inside. “Yup. Everything's here. Even a couple of wardrobe boxes and a dish pack.”

Moira took charge. “There's a lot to do so let's get our uh . . . tails in gear. Jayne and Paul? Why don't you pack up the music rooms since you know about pianos and musical instruments. Ellen and Walker can help you. Grace and I'll take the living room. Marc? You start in on the master bedroom and Laureen and Alan can pack up the kitchen.”

“Why do people always put me in the kitchen?” Laureen complained.

Alan put his arm around her shoulders. “Because you're the expert. You'll know what to pack and what to throw out.”

“That's right,” Moira confirmed. “No insult intended, Laureen, but I wouldn't know a truffle from a trifle and neither would anyone else in this group. Clayton and Rachael can take their pick of the rooms that are left over. And then they can wander around and poke their noses into everything, since they're the lawyers.”

Rachael laughed. “That's your conception of lawyers? People who poke their noses into everything?”

“Well, I didn't mean it quite that way.” Moira grinned. “Vanessa and Hal? You'd better take the den. There's a lot to pack in there. And if anyone finds a clue to Johnny's whereabouts, just holler.”

Grace looked impressed. “You're really organized, aren't you, Moira?”

“Just used to directing my work crews. Is everyone set?”

Hal pulled Vanessa toward the den. “Come on, we'd better get started.”

“But they never start with the den on
Columbo!
”

Hal propelled her through the door. “Johnny practically lived in that room. If he left an address or a telephone number, it might be in there.”

“Oh.” Vanessa looked slightly mollified, but she turned to deliver a parting shot. “At least we didn't get the kitchen. Laureen'll probably dig through the garbage to find out what Johnny had for his last meal.”

Laureen started to sputter and Alan put his arm around her. “Easy, honey. Vanessa's just jealous, that's all.”

“Of what?”

“Of you. You've got a husband who's crazy about you. That's more than she'll ever have. And she's too young and too stupid to understand why.”

Laureen looked up at him suspiciously. “Do you really think she's jealous of me?”

“Of course. All she has going for her is her looks. You've got that plus a lot more.”

Grace looked pleased as Laureen and Alan headed for the kitchen. “How sweet! They're actually holding hands. Think Laureen's finally forgiven him?”

“Maybe.” Rachael shrugged. “And maybe not, but it's a good sign. Come on, Clay. I'm beginning to think Vanessa's right. Something really could have happened to Johnny. Let's start with the bathrooms.”

“The Harris case. Good thinking, honey.”

“Hold it a second.” Moira stopped them. “What's the Harris case?”

“It got a lot of press last fall in the scandal sheets,” Clayton explained. “Harris was a doctor in Boston. His wife's friends got worried when she didn't show up for her bridge club a couple of weeks in a row and called the police. Dr. Harris told them that his wife had packed up all her clothes and left while he was at the hospital. He said he was so embarrassed that he hadn't told anyone. Since it was common knowledge that Mrs. Harris had been involved with several other men, the police were ready to file a missing person report and close their investigation.”

Rachael picked up on the story. “Then some smart woman detective searched the house and found his wife's contacts in a bathroom drawer.”

“That was the turning point.” Clayton took over the story. “The optometrist confirmed that Mrs. Harris was too vain to wear glasses and she was legally blind without her contact lenses. It was so unlikely she would leave them behind that the police reopened their investigation.”

“Did they eventually locate Mrs. Harris?” Paul asked.

“Oh, yes.” Rachael nodded. “Dr. Harris had used some kind of acid to dissolve her flesh. Her skeleton was hanging in his lab at the hospital.”

Jayne stuck close to Paul as they entered the huge music room. Even though she was sure they wouldn't find Johnny's skeleton, the Harris story had still unnerved her. Then Paul flicked on the lights and the sight of Johnny's collection took her mind off her concern. He had twenty museum-quality pieces in his studio, all set off with spotlights.

“Look at this!” Walker walked over to the huge upright mahogany cabinet in the center of the room. “It's awfully big. Did people actually have these in their homes?”

Jayne shook her head. “They were usually in restaurants or hotel lobbies. Do you want me to show you how it works?”

Walker nodded and Jayne flicked the switch. The two antique lamps on either side of the mahogany cabinet began to glow and the doors in the center slid open to expose a full-size piano keyboard. “This is an orchestrion. It mechanically replicates the sound of an entire orchestra. The music is recorded on a roll, just like a player piano, and those little levers behind the glass activate the whole thing. I think it plays a Strauss waltz, but I don't remember which one.”

Ellen laughed in delight as the orchestrion began to play. “
Tales from the Vienna Woods.
I never could play that last part right.”

“You played the piano?” Jayne turned to her in surprise.

“I
tried
to play the piano,” Ellen corrected. “I was so awful that I finally convinced my mother that lessons were a waste of money.”

“Were you awful on purpose?”

“Of course not!” Ellen stopped and looked slightly guilty. “Well . . . maybe I didn't exactly apply myself. It made me mad when I had to stay inside to practice. My mother was raised in the old school. She believed a girl should learn to embroider, play a musical instrument, and draw. I managed to learn how to draw, but that's only one out of three.”

“That's not a bad average.” Walker'd been around long enough to realize that Ellen had made a career out of selling herself short. “As Marc would say, they sure won't kick you out of the majors for batting three thirty-three.”

“He's right, Ellen, honey.” Jayne waited until the music had stopped, then flicked a switch and another set of lamps on the piece next to the orchestrion began to glow. It looked like an ordinary piano, but a glass case containing three violins was built in above the keyboard. “This one's called a Hupfeld Phonolizst-Violina. It's not quite as impressive as the orchestrion, but it's really very complicated. See those mechanical arms holding the violin bows? Now watch. And listen.”

They were all silent as the mechanical arms began to draw the bows across the strings. Ellen sighed enviously. “Isn't that wonderful? It never makes a mistake. What is it playing?”

“
Sonata in C major,
by Mozart,” Paul said. “It was the composer's first mature violin-piano sonata.”

When the piece was over, Walker turned to Jayne and asked for one more. “These instruments are really something.”

Jayne led them over to the lovely grand piano in the corner. “This is my favorite. The owners of the piano would hire a popular virtuoso to come to their home to give a little concert. The piano recorded it on a punch roll and the owners kept it to play whenever they wanted. I guess you could say that it's the great-grandpappy of the tape recorder.”

Walker examined the piano carefully. “I see how it works. Hey, Jayne! There's a shipping label on the side telling the movers to deliver it to your studio.”

Jayne's mouth dropped open. “My studio? But why?”

“There's something written on the roll.” Ellen peered down at it. “It says,
Listen to this, Jayne
.”

Jayne switched on the piano, which began to play a one-fingered melody. She looked at Paul and frowned. “What is it?”

Paul listened for a moment and then he shook his head. “I have never heard it before. Perhaps it is an original written by Johnny.”

“It's not very good,” Ellen pointed out, making a face. “If that's the best Johnny could do, I'm glad he hired you to write his songs.”

Jayne switched off the piano and ran her fingers over its glossy surface, an amazed smile on her face. “I just can't believe a gift like this. It's incredible!”

Walker knelt to look under the piano. “It's on a dolly. I think we can move it by ourselves if we get a little help. What do you say, Jayne? Shall we wheel it up to your studio right now?”

“Let's wait until tomorrow. It'll be easier in the daylight. This is so exciting!”

Paul glanced at this watch. “We had better begin the packing. The others will be finished before we have started.”

Jayne shrugged. Paul was right; she knew they had to get to work, but it was so damn typical of him to remind her. There were times when she liked to play hooky from her obligations. She knew she'd have to make up the time by working harder, but it was worth it. It was a basic difference in their personalities. Jayne sighed as she walked over to a standard player piano and looked through the box for a suitable roll. “Why don't you two start boxing the stuff in Johnny's practice room? And I'll put on the ‘Maple Leaf Rag' to work by.”

“Great.” Walker nodded and headed for the alcove in time to Joplin's bouncy tune. “Come on, Ellen, let's go.”

As soon as they were alone, Paul turned to Jayne. “I will now take the cow by her horn. You are angry because I reminded you of the work to be done?”

“Take the bull by the horns,” Jayne corrected him. “And yes, I'm madder than a wet hen. We've got all week to do this packing and I was having such a good time showing off Johnny's collection. You've got a problem, Paul. You never did learn how to kick back and have fun!”

“Norwegians are by nature a humorless people.” Paul looked very serious. “We eat lutefisk and enjoy it.”

Jayne stared at him for a moment and then doubled over in laughter. “You made a joke, Paul! I never heard you make a joke before!”

“Does this mean that you have forgiven me for suggesting the work?”

“I guess so.” Jayne blew the dust off an old metronome and put it in the box. “Why aren't you packing, Paul? I thought you were so hot to work.”

Paul crossed the room and knelt down beside her. “Perhaps you have convinced me to boot back and have fun.”

“Kick back.” Jayne corrected him automatically. “And you don't know how to have fun.”

Paul didn't bother to reply. He just lifted her to her feet and whirled her around the room until the “Maple Leaf Rag” had finished with a crashing finale.

“Was that not fun, Jayne?” Paul's voice was loud in the sudden silence.

Jayne laughed as she reached for another carton and opened it. “I take it all back. By the way, I need a rhyme for a song I'm writing. Can you help me out when we get home?”

“Of course.” Paul glanced over at her, but she was busy filling the carton.
When we get home.
Was that Jayne's way of asking him to come back into her life? Or was it just a turn of phrase?

 

 

Ellen sighed as she took a stack of sheet music from the shelf and handed it to Walker. It was “Lonesome Hours,” one of Johnny's early hits. Seeing Johnny's familiar smile on the cover made her feel like crying. She'd been so sure he loved her. And she'd been so wrong.

“Do you want me to do this, Ellen?” Walker's voice was gentle. “You could start on the stuff in the closet.”

“No.” Ellen picked up another stack of music and flipped it over so she didn't have to look at Johnny's picture. The closet would be even worse. Johnny kept his working clothes there, all the sequined shirts and satin tuxedos he'd worn for his performances. There would be the lingering scent of his expensive cologne and she'd have to fold them and pack them and try not to imagine how he'd looked when he'd sung her favorite songs.

Walker looked up at Ellen as he assembled the next carton. Perhaps she was trying to exorcise ghosts by helping to pack Johnny's things, but it wasn't working. “Why don't you take a break and see how Laureen's doing in the kitchen? I can finish up in here.”

Ellen shook her head. She knew Walker was trying to spare her, but the kitchen would be even worse. They'd sipped coffee together at Johnny's kitchen table out of matching mugs. And shared take-out Chinese they'd picked up in town and reheated in his microwave. The silver chopsticks he'd given her for her birthday were still in the drawer by the stove, and the special rice bowl with her name on the side was in the cupboard. No, she didn't want to set foot in the kitchen.