“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.
His eyes tightened as he thought back. “I met Flo earlier this year, in June I believe, on a press junket for reporters covering the film industry.”
“Where was that exactly?”
His smile broadened and his eyes looked up into the pleasant memory. “We were in Salzburg on the set of The Sound of Music. I caught her arm when she stumbled, getting onto the press bus, and I said, ‘Well, hello!’ You know, in a way that said I recognized her as a celebrity. ‘You know who I am,’ she said. ‘Who are you? Besides my savior.’ We just hit it off like that, joking, giggling. We had drinks that night and the rest is history.”
“History of what? A love affair?”
He frowned, shifted in the booth, almost but not quite offended by my bluntness. “Oh, you don’t understand, Mr. Heller. It was definitely not a love affair, or anyway not a physical one. She was just this sweet funny lady, my bestest friend in the world. We talked on the phone every day.”
Not in Dallas they hadn’t. That was how I’d wound up in bed with her, one last time.
He was shaking his head slightly. “She was so soft, so romantic. Did you ever see her angry? I never did. I think the only conversations we had that were serious at all were about the Kennedy project.”
“You knew about the Ruby trip?”
“Oh, yes. I didn’t know she was planning to meet up with you, though.”
I didn’t bother explaining the accidental nature of that.
He was saying, “I know Mr. Felton thinks Flo and I were an item, but really we just liked each other, liked to be together, to ditch the pressures of this crazy old world and just go.”
“Like to Rome and London.”
He shifted in his seat, his smile one-sided now. “Mr. Heller, it was strictly platonic. There was a flirty aspect to it, sure, but there was no good-night kiss when I dropped her off. It just wasn’t that kind of relationship. Not even close. I had other girls. She knew that.”
Did he? I wondered.
I gestured skyward, to the heaven that was the Regency. “I understood that you and Flo sometimes met in your hotel suite.”
“No. Maybe briefly for business, but not in the way you mean. After all, we were co-workers, Mr. Heller. I was involved in the Kennedy project, too.”
“Did you see her the Sunday she died? Did she share any materials with you from the Dallas trip?”
“I called her in the afternoon. She never said much about the Kennedy investigation on the phone, for obvious reasons. No, I don’t have any idea what happened in Dallas.”