Max Collins - Ask Not

I laughed just a little. “So far you’re just answering your own questions.”

“Touché. All right — do you want to grill me, or should I just tell my tale?”

“Go ahead and start. I’ll jump in as need be.”

He sighed grandly. “Well, I let myself in around eight forty-five that morning. Came up the same back staircase used by the servants.”

“You had a key?”

“Yes. Not many did, but I fixed Flo’s hair on a more-or-less daily basis. Not always so early, mind you — she had a television taping at eleven. Her dressing room is on the third floor, near that hideous Black Room, off the master bedroom — that’s where she always had her hair done. I turned on my curling irons, and just idly walked into the bedroom, never thinking for a moment she would be there.”

“Why? She shared it with her husband, didn’t she?”

“Oh, she hadn’t slept there for years, Nathan. They slept apart, Frank and Flo — don’t let their breakfast broadcasts fool you.” He shook his head. “I knew she was dead, right away.”

“Just with a glance?”

“That’s all it took. She was sitting up in bed, propped up with a pillow against the red headboard. The bed was spotless, as if she’d slipped under the covers and never moved an inch. She was dressed... very peculiarly.”

“Be specific, Julian, please.”

“All right. Well, normally she’d sleep in pajamas and old socks and her makeup would be off and her hair would be washed and just a mess, waiting for my rescue.”

“I see.”

“But she was dressed almost as if she were going out — hair in place, makeup on right down to her false eyelashes. She was in a blue matching peignoir and robe — nothing she would ever wear to bed.”

“She was reading.”

“Was she? That book, Seven Days in May ? She read that months ago. She discussed it with me! And it was laid on her lap so perfectly, so you could read the title... only that was upside down — not in the right position for her to be reading it.”

“Julian, that’s a nice piece of deduction.”

“Thank you, Nathan. You know, it was cold out that morning — we had a real cold snap. But the air-conditioning in the bedroom was on. Why?”

“If it was murder, perhaps to delay decomposition. Make the time of death harder to determine.”

“Well, I guess you put my little deduction to shame, didn’t you, Nathan? Let’s see... is there anything else? The light was on, the overhead light, that is, not the nightstand. There was a water glass at her bedside, and a pill bottle, and her latest drink... but she was positioned in the very middle of that big bed and couldn’t have reached either of them.”

“Keep going. You’re doing fine.”

“I think that’s about all. Oh, I would say rigor mortis had set in. Anyway, her hands were stiff. And there was lipstick on her sleeve. Why would that be there?”

“If she still had her makeup on, and someone changed her clothes after her death, her lipstick might have accidently made that transfer.”

“My, you are a detective.”

“Julian, you called it murder, right out of the gate. Do you have a suspect?”

“Just between us, Nathan?”

“Just between us, Julian.”

“The best possibility would be the husband — isn’t that always the case? Frank Felton’s been unemployed for some time — his various ventures, from Broadway productions to that failed art gallery, exhausted all of his personal funds. And he was facing the possibility of yet another divorce from Flo — and this time there was a prenuptial agreement.”

“But if she were to die before divorcing him, Frank would inherit the town house, I suppose.”

“Oh, yes. And it’s worth three hundred grand easily. Plus, there’s bound to be a big life-insurance policy on a star like Flo — what, another hundred thou or two?”

“Probably. And retirement funds from the TV show.” I mulled that, then said, “But why the charade, putting her in the master bedroom? Can you see Felton dressing her in her bedclothes and carting her from one floor to another?”

“You’ve met the man, haven’t you, Nathan? He was a producer. Those parties he mounted were like little Broadway shows, and were far more successful than those he actually tried to mount. Oh, he’s perfectly capable of that kind of drawing-room farce by way of Hitchcock. And the master bedroom, why that’s perfect — he would want the world to think he and Flo were still a couple, still enjoying connubial relations. The only problem is...”

“Yes?”

“It’s a big one.”

“Okay.”

The hairdresser shrugged. “He lacks the balls.”

“What about this Mark Revell?”

“He’s a very pretty boy, Nathan. And he certainly has balls.”

“Are you... implying something?”

“I am trying to avoid a vulgar term.”

“What term would that be?”

“Fag hag. Vulgar and ugly, but I’m afraid it applies to my late client.”

“How so?”

“Revell’s in his twenties, he’s very handsome, while Flo, lovely lady though she was, was what... fifty? He’s an entertainment editor at a newspaper in Indianapolis, Indiana — do I have to draw you a picture? And somehow he manages to globe-trot with all kinds of famous larger-than-life females. Maureen O’Sullivan, Myrna Loy, Phyllis Diller, none spring chickens. Then there’s Anna Maria Alberghetti, and Mia Farrow, and—”

“They’re young.”

“Yes, but certain women, for various reasons, like to be squired around by handsome, young, non-threatening males.”

“Not Flo.”

“No. Not Flo. You’re correct, Nathan. She was a pistol. She liked her men and she liked them between the sheets and lively. She and Revell went on movie junkets together to Rome, Florence, London, and shared lodgings. They met many times right here in this hotel — a suite on the nineteenth floor.”

Revell was registered at the Regency right now.

Rusk was saying, “I’m sure she and Revell had a gay old time... in the old-fashioned sense, that is. My sense... if I may be frank? Is that Revell may be a switch-hitter.”

“Do you have any reason to think he’s bisexual?”

“Other than instinct? No. But strong show-business women like Flo are often attracted to the type. She dated Johnnie Ray, you know. You were good friends with her, I understand, Nathan...”

“Yeah, and I’ve squired around some famous women, too.”

“Marilyn Monroe, according to what I’ve read. Jayne Mansfield. And who’s that old-time bubble dancer?”

“Sally Rand.” I put my hand on his. “But, Julian? This time? You’ve made the wrong deduction.”

And I patted him gently on the cheek.

He smiled and shrugged. “Can’t blame a guy for trying,” he said.

Was it my imagination, or was the English accent gone?

Half an hour later, Mark Revell was sitting across from me in the same booth. I’d called his room from the bar, and he’d immediately recognized my name. Like Rusk, Flo’s protégé knew of both my reputation in the press and my friendship with Flo Kilgore. He was, as advertised, a handsome young man, under thirty, a sturdy six feet, in a muted glen-plaid suit with three-button jacket and matching vest — Cricketeer, I’d guess — with a gold tie with a single thin black stripe. His hair was brown, his look Ivy League, and he might have been a lost Kennedy brother.

“Yes, I’m an entertainment writer, Mr. Heller, for the Indianapolis News. On extended leave to work with Miss Kilgore... although I guess that’s at an end now, isn’t it?”

Revell sat with his hands folded and wearing an easy, friendly, rather wide smile. He had ordered a Coke and I’d followed his lead.