“Where’s Freddy?” Edith asked. “Getting as drunk as he can as fast as he can, I expect.”
“Maybe.”
“Oh, I know my Freddy,” said Edith. “I wouldn’t have that man for all his millions. Scrambled eggs for brains.”
“You’d get employed faster, Edith, as Mrs Frederick Mooney,” Sy Koller said.
All the people carrying luggage were trying to get around the person not carrying luggage. Edith Howell centered herself nicely in the front hall.
“I don’t think Freddy’s the great actor people make him out to be, either,” said Edith. “In Time, Gentlemen, Time, he jumped on my every line. Most annoying. ’Course I knew how much he wanted to get back to his dressing room for a drink.”
Fletch watched them go through the process of leaving. It was as if they were leaving a hotel. Edith Howell jabbered to John Meade about getting to Miami, over those bridges, before dark. The Littlefords said they had to go back to Vanderbilt Beach where they had left luggage. Sy Koller was grumbling that he supposed he had to go back to Bonita Beach to oversee the shutting down of the Midsummer Nights Madness location. “If I don’t at least go through the motions,” Sy said, “I suppose I’ll never get employed again.” Stella Littleford carried her bandaged head stiffly and said nothing. Only John Meade shook hands and said good bye and said thank you.
Before getting into the car Gerry Littleford said, “Oh, yeah. Fletch. Someone called. With an English accent. Didn’t catch the name. Talked fast. I didn’t know where you were. He said to tell you Scarlet something-or-other, Pumpernickle? won a twenty-five thousand dollar purse.”
“No foolin’.”
“Didn’t know you were into horse racing.”
“Didn’t know Scarlet Pimple-Nickel was either.”
If he were a doorman, they might have tipped him. As it was, they all drive off in two cars, discouraged for the moment, Fletch believed, but only for the moment, nevertheless sure that on some tomorrow the right material and the right people would come together and they would create an unreality more credible than reality, and be paid, and be applauded.
39
This time after knocking on Frederick Mooney’s bedroom door, Fletch waited to be invited in. There was no response. He knocked again.
He opened the door.
Frederick Mooney was on his back on the bed. On the bedside table were a drinking glass and one of the bottles, three-quarters full.
Fletch closed the door and went to the bedside. “Mister Mooney?”
He shook the man’s arm. “Oh, come on. I don’t need a final act.”
He sniffed the bottle on the bedside table. Cognac
“Come on,” said Fletch. “I’m sure you can also hold your breath and play dead longer than anyone else who’s ever been on the stage.”
On the bed the other side of Mooney was an empty tablet bottle. The cap was off. Fletch reached over Mooney and picked up the bottle. The label was for prescription sleeping tablets.
“Mister Mooney!” Fletch said. “You set the stage nicely. Now let’s go.”
He shook him again. “Jeez,” Fletch said. “Do I believe it?”
He felt for the pulse in Mooney’s wrist. There was none. Frederick Mooney was not breathing at all.
“O.L.!” Fletch dropped Mooney’s hand. “God-damn it, now you’re not acting at all!”
A curtain of wetness slipped down over Fletch’s eyes. The afternoon light from the windows was bright.
On the desk were two envelopes and an open note. Fletch went to the desk. The two envelopes were sealed. One said, Ms Marilyn Mooney; the other, The Authorities.
The open note was to him.
Fletcher,
“If I may ask you to do us one more favor? Please deliver these notes as addressed.
The letter to the authorities describes how and why I killed Steven Peterman in such detail that they will have no choice but to believe me. My doctor will testify that I have been tea-total since I developed a heart problem more than three years ago, and I have provided the authorities with his name.
The letter to Marilyn cannot explain all. Perhaps you can help her to understand. It says I have enjoyed spending these weeks with her, watching her, applauding her, loving her from behind the curtain, as it were. I am also telling her that I am leaving her enough money so that she certainly should be able to pay off all these financial charges against her, however great, and maybe have enough left over for a quiet, non-working weekend sometime in her life.
I am reminded now of all the thousands of nights I have left some theater somewhere, tired to the bones, and walked alone to some hotel, only perchance to sleep, wondering as I walked why such talents, such expertise, such energy is spent creating an illusion for a handful of people, for a few hours. What for? One can suspend reality, but never conquer it.
Thanks for having me.
Frederick Mooney
40
In the quiet house, Fletch went back downstairs, along the corridor, through the billiard room and into the small library at the back of the house.
He sat at the desk.
He called Chief of Detectives Roz Nachman’s telephone number and left the message asking her to return the call immediately upon her arrival.
He called Miami and enquired about the airplane he had chartered. It had already left. He asked the dispatcher to radio the pilot that now Fletch would need the airplane for a return flight to Fort Myers.
Then, for the first time, Fletch remembered that days before he had abandoned a rented car at Fort Myers airport. His luggage was still in the car.
Then he called Washington, D.C. Now was the time to see if Global Cable News would listen to just any barefoot boy with cheek who happened to have a story.
A woman answered, saying, “Good afternoon. Global News. May I help you?”
“Hello,” Fletch said. “My name is Armistad…”