Тимоти Уилльямз - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 126, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 769 & 770, September/October 2005

Okay, that was something. Not a lot, but something. There wasn’t much more Farber could learn here. He edged towards the door. “I won’t take up any more of your time. Thanks for the help,” he said.

Farber had sensed that Peck hated to see him go. The writer’s creative juices were simmering. “You going to talk to the boyfriend?” he asked. Real-life plots were dancing in his head. “I’ve never met him, but Marsha Pembroke’s boyfriend would have to have a cast-iron constitution.”

Farber had no intention of staying for a story conference. With a polite warning to Peck to keep himself available, he was out the door.

The two-story taxpayer that housed Mitch Keller’s showroom, workshop, and residence was just off the avenue. A side panel of the van out front read KELLER DESIGNS. Three young men were loading it with sections of what looked like a library wall. Quality work in an upscale hardwood.

“Mr. Keller?” Farber addressed the question to the group. They were three of a kind — artsy-craftsy types; two sported creative beards.

“Mitch is inside,” one of the men said, indicating the building. “But if it’s about work, he’s not seeing customers today.”

Farber flashed his credentials.

“Is this about his girlfriend?” another of the men said. “His fiancee? Mitch is taking some time off. We wouldn’t be working ourselves, but we promised to finish this installation.”

“You guys the entire staff?” Farber asked.

“We’re it,” said the first man. “And we’ll be out of here as soon as we load the van.”

Farber nodded and went into the building. The first room was a showroom. A few artful samples, tastefully displayed: wall units, tables, desks — high-end work. Behind it was an open door to a workroom. Mitch Keller, a wiry guy not yet thirty with big shoulders and a prominent nose, slumped in a folding chair, his feet propped on a worktable. He wore a pained expression and stared at a corner of the room. He made no sign that Farber’s entrance registered.

Once he was in the room, Farber saw the television set in the corner. Marsha Pembroke, vibrantly alive in a clingy cocktail dress, was letting an older man in hospital whites have a piece of her mind. The sound was off, but there was no mistaking the young woman’s sneering contempt and the elderly man’s distress.

After a few moments the scene ended and the show went to a commercial. Keller blinked and turned to Farber. “I think they taped this day before yesterday,” he said in a tight voice. “Willa Wade planting her final land mine.” His mouth worked silently, as though testing what he would say. Then, carefully controlled, “Marsha was one hell of an actress.” Through his heavy brows he shot Farber an appraising look. “You a cop?”

Farber introduced himself. “I won’t keep you long. A few questions,” he said. “To help us in our investigation.”

“We were going to be married in eight weeks. How about that?” Keller’s shoulders were knotted in grief.

Farber made a gesture of sympathy. “Marsha came to see you yesterday afternoon?”

“She dropped by for a few minutes. She didn’t hang around.”

“Because you were working?”

“Matter of fact, I wasn’t. The guys were out on a job and I could have used the company. But she had an appointment and the mutt kept pulling at the leash, so they took off.”

“Who was her appointment with?”

“Beats me.”

“You didn’t ask?”

“I think I did.” His bony face darkened. “But Marsha always set our conversational agenda and she was on another tack — wedding plans. I never asked again. It didn’t seem important. Is it?”

“I don’t know.” Farber moved further into the room and sat on the edge of a half-finished desk. Keep it informal, Bernie, you’ll learn more. “So the two of you talked wedding plans. That can go on for hours, if my experience is typical.”

“There was no ‘hours,’ man. Like I said, Marsha hadn’t set out to see me. I was a convenient stop on her way to an appointment. She was in and out of here in minutes.”

“ ‘Appointment’ goes with ‘dental’ to me. Could she have had a dental appointment?”

“You mean because that’s where the dog was found? I don’t think so. She’d have said. When something hurt, Marsha let you know.” Keller was looking more upset by the minute. “Are we about through here?”

“Almost. Did Marsha express concern to you about her future on the soap opera?”

“Yeah. And I told her she was crazy to worry. Marsha was a fantastic actress. She pulled all the fan mail this season playing that world-class bitch. She touched a nerve, you know what I mean? Why would they write her out of the show? But yeah, she worried. Marsha worried about things she couldn’t control.”

Sylvie Farber had been home for an hour and dinner preparations were well advanced when Bernie walked in. One look at his face told her the day had not gone well, but long experience had taught her not to ask questions — at least until coffee. Tonight she was able to restrain her curiosity about the soap-opera murder until they were in bed, a first, for which she was justly proud.

“So, how’s the case going?” she said as she slipped beneath the covers, adding, in case he needed reminding, “The corpse on the Saw Mill River Parkway.” She made a point of leaving her bed light on.

“You really want to know?” Bernie said, climbing in beside her. And then, in a semi-official tone he hoped would shut off further questions, “The investigation is just getting under way.”

“Zippo, huh?” Sylvie said. “I figured as much. All those intense fans out there in TV-land who can’t stand Willa Wade... I knew this wouldn’t be easy.” She wore an I-told-you-so look.

Bernie was not going to be allowed to sleep until he brought his wife up to speed on the Marsha Pembroke case. He did so rapidly but in full, concluding with, “Trace evidence indicates the body was wrapped in a rug. The victim weighed roughly a hundred and ten pounds. Into a car she went, and out on a parkway that is pretty close to deserted in the middle of the night.”

Sylvie sat bolt upright with a bright idea. “How about checking the toll system for an E-Z Pass match to people in her life?”

“Relax, love, it’s being done. No obvious ties to the victim have been found so far. The perp may have come onto the parkway above the toll station when he discovered that all the side roads were crowded with suburban homes. The parkway is dead quiet at that hour.”

Sylvie was on another tack. “If the killer wasn’t an angry fan—” she began.

“Are you still on that?”

“—then my money’s on that smug head writer,” she continued. “Peck? She may have been heading for his place when her trail dead-ended.”

“She was also pointed towards Times Square, Macy’s, and Battery Park.”

“Bernie, don’t be cute. She was in an affair with Peck — not because of his charm but because of his life-and-death control of the show. He could make Marsha a star or kill off her character. Talk about godlike powers!” Her eyes widened in wonder, then narrowed. “Suppose he wanted to end the affair?”

Sylvie was beginning to percolate with possibilities. “Maybe Marsha threatened to go to his wife—”

“And maybe,” Farber broke in, “you’re lifting this scenario from Life Is for Living.”

“It’s entirely original,” Sylvie said. Suddenly she looked doubtful. “But how did Peck get the body out of that apartment house and to his car, wherever that was?”

“I hate to encourage you, love, but Peck’s building has direct elevator access to the basement garage. At, say, three A.M., he’s got both the elevator and the garage to himself.”