“No.” Sy Koller was munching his sandwich. “I know they knew each other. Before. How else do you think Steve Peterman got Buckley to tape his show on location? Buckley doesn’t cart himself around to every film location, you know.”
Fletch asked, “What else do you know?”
“Well, I know Peterman was to have dinner with Buckley. To discuss business. I’m pretty sure they had done business together. Buckley kept referring to some aluminum mine in Canada, throwing significant looks at Peterman, and Peterman kept smiling and changing the topic of conversation.”
“That would be nice.” Fletch looked at each of them. “If it were Dan Buckley.”
“Sure,” Sy Koller said. “Tell me this: who else could have rigged his own set? I speak as a director.” He looked at Geoffrey McKensie for confirmation. “A director is responsible for everything that happens on a set. He’s the only one who really understands everything on a set, what everything is for, how everything works. As a director I say—take a simple, open set like the one for The Dan Buckley Show and get a knife to fall accurately enough and with enough force to get into somebody’s back and kill him—that’s not easy. You can’t rig that in two minutes flat. It had to be Dan Buckley.”
“Or someone on his crew,” said Meade.
“Did the knife fall?” asked Fletch.
Koller said, “I don’t know. Obviously it came from somewhere with force. I was thinking about this all night. I’m sure I could rig that set to put a knife in somebody’s back.” Generously, he turned to McKensie. “I’m sure Geoff here could, too. But I couldn’t figure the best way to do it after thinking about it all night.” Summarily, he said: “I think Buckley’s the only one who could have had that set primed and working for him yesterday. To kill Peterman.”
In the digestive silence, the amplified voice of a tour guide wafted over the back wall. “… Mooneys, famous father and famous daughter, being questioned by police regarding the murder yesterday of somebody on the set of The Dan Buckley Show. The old man doesn’t seem too upset. Hour ago I saw him downtown crossin’ the street from Sloppy Joe’s to Captain Tony’s…
“Aw, turn it off,” McKensie said. “Makes me sick.”
Edith Howell again was pointing her nose at the back of The Blue House. “At least,” she said, “it’s nice to get away from hotel living for a few days.”
13
Fletch pushed open the door with his foot and carried the tray into his mid-day darkened bed-room. On the tray were a few cut sandwiches, a pitcher of orange juice and a glass. He placed the tray on the bedside table.
Moxie was an X on the bed. She had removed her bikini top.
“I didn’t kill Steve,” she said.
“We have to find who did, Moxie. You’re seriously implicated. Or, you’re going to be. Once the facts come out. I mean, about your funny financial dealings with Peterman.”
“‘Financial dealings’. I didn’t even understand them. I trusted the bastard, Fletch.” She groaned. “Millions of dollars in debt.”
“I know you didn’t understand them. I under-stand you had to trust someone. Either you had to be a creative person, or a business person. You had an opportunity to throw yourself one hundred percent into your creative life, and it was good for everybody that you did.”
“Don’t judges and people like the I.R.S. understand that sort of thing? It’s not hard to understand.”
“Not in this country, anyway. In this country, everything is a business. Being creative is a business. Except you don’t have any executive staff, board of directors, business training or experience to fall back on. That’s all your fault, you see, because being creative here is really being nothing. In America, a creative person is only as good as his income. When you sign something, it signifies you understand what you’re signing. And you’re solely responsible for what you’ve signed.”
“But Goddamn it, it happens all the time. You read about it—”
“So you have to protect yourself.”
“So Steve Peterman was supposed to protect me.”
“So maybe he screwed you.”
“And that’s what happens all the time. Jeez, Fletch.”
“Ignorance is no defense in the law, they say. More to the point, it’s almost impossible to prove you didn’t know what you didn’t know. Playing dumb is a courtroom cliche.”
“Courtroom! O-oh. You had to use that word, didn’t you?”
“Sorry.” He sat on the bed. “Trouble is, you see, you did understand something. You arrived in Steve Peterman’s office, during his absence, and went through his books. Two weeks later, sitting next to you, he gets stabbed to death.”
There was a long silence in the darkened room. Her eyes roamed the ceiling. She sighed. “Looks bad.”
“Moxie, I have a friend in New York, a good friend, who is both a lawyer and a Certified Public Accountant. I believe in this person. He’ll need your written permission, but I’d like him to review your books in Steve Peterman’s office. So we’ll know how much financial trouble you’re really in.”
“What does it matter? They’re going to try me for murder.”
“There’s a chance—a small chance—you read the books all wrong. That Steve represented you well. That you have no complaints. That you had no motive to murder him.”
“Fat chance.”
“It’s worth a shot. And if the news is bad, it’s proven you did have a motive to murder him—”
“Don’t tell me. Just lead me to the execution chamber.”
“—then at least we’ll know that. We have to move fast on this. I expect the authorities will want a look at those books, too. We want to beat them to it.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Sign this piece of paper.” He took a paper from the pocket of his shorts and unfolded it. “Giving my friend, Marty Satterlee, permission to review your financial accounts.” He took a pen from another pocket.
“Okay.” She sat up and signed the paper on his knee.
“I’ll call him immediately and send a messenger up to New York with your written permission.”
“Send a messenger to New York?”
“There must be someone in Key West who wouldn’t mind a free ride to the big city and back.”
“Wow. Sounds like you’re in the movie business.”
“No,” Fletch said. “This is serious business.”
She lay back on the bed. The back of her hand was on her brow. “Bunch of savages downstairs,” she said.
“You seemed glad enough to see them.”
“I never thought—until Edith gave me those pastoral eyes—they’d all think I murdered Steve. If they think I murdered someone, why are they so eager to come stay in the same house with me?”
“I don’t know,” Fletch said. “Maybe because they’re friends.” Moxie snorted. “Well, their being here is a gesture of support.”
“When I want support,” Moxie said, “I’ll buy a girdle.”
“No need for that yet, old thing.” His hand passed over her breasts and stomach and hips. “But you might work on it.” He picked up the plate of sandwiches. “Cream cheese and olive?”
“No. I just want a nap.”
He put down the plate. “Orange juice?”
“No.”
“Want company?”
“Just want to sleep. Stop thinkin’. Stop painin’.”
“Okay. Hey, Moxie, that Roz Nachman—re-member who she is?”
“Yeah. The Chief of Detectives.”
“She’s one smart, tough woman, I think. I expect we can have some faith in her.”
“Okay,” Moxie said. “If you say so.”