Clueless Chase Page 6

  Mitchell edged over to Mary and Betty. “My very first tornado,” he said, trying to ease the fear and anxiety coursing through the lobby. “Earthquakes…many. Tornadoes…not a single one.”

  Mary waited until Milton lit an old-fashioned lamp and placed it on the front counter before she spoke. “Mr. Wyman, you better check on your guests,” Mary said, wondering why no one had thought to bang on their doors and tell them to go to the basement.

  “Monroe Baker was my only guest,” Milton explained, wiping dust off his face. “All of the other rooms were reserved for guests due to arrive tomorrow.” Milton shook his head. “They were arriving to participate in the talent show. Now I’ll have to contact each person and inform them the show has been…cancelled.”

  “Better cancelled due to a tornado rather than murder,” Mary whispered. She looked at Mitchell. The man’s face was glowing in the weak lamplight. “Detective Burbank, what are your plans?”

  Mitchell calmly placed his hands into the pockets of his raincoat. “My plan for tonight is to catch my breath. My plan for tomorrow is to help Sheriff Mables as much as possible. And then…I suppose I’ll travel back to California.”

  “You’re leaving?” Mary asked, surprised. “But…the killer.”

  “Mrs. Holland,” Mitchell replied, “the tornado that just passed through town has either killed the woman I’m searching for or chased her off. I seriously doubt, if she is alive, that she will remain in Pineville.”

  “Why do you say that?” Mary demanded.

  “When daylight breaks your town is going to come out and see what damages the tornado caused and then begin cleaning up. If you were a killer, would you remain in a town, around strange people, that was harmed by a tornado?” Mitchell shook his head. “Tomorrow your town, your people, your community, is going to begin healing from the tornado. A killer, a woman with a strange face, wouldn’t dare remain here. She would stick out like a sore thumb, especially because she knows I’m searching for her.”

  Mary sighed. Mitchell was right. When daylight broke, all of her friends and neighbors—people she knew well—would come out of their homes, unite as a community, and begin cleaning up the mess. A stranger would indeed stand out like a sore thumb. “So…Monroe Baker’s death will go unsolved?” she asked.

  “For now,” Mitchell told Mary in a calm voice. “Rest assured that I’m not going to drop the case, though. I have a few leads in Los Angeles that I still have to chase down. Who knows, maybe I might kick over a stone that will help me solve the case.”

  Mary took Betty’s hand. “I hope so,” she said in a crushed voice. Then she walked Betty outside.

  “Oh my,” Betty cried.

  “Oh my is right,” Mary agreed as her eyes soaked in the damage. Even though the street was dark she could see fallen trees, broken windows, downed power lines, damage to roofs, and even a turned over car parked across the street—Milton Wyman’s car. She turned and focused on the hotel. The front side of the hotel was practically scarred from top to bottom; every window was broken, a few bricks were torn out of place, and the roof appeared badly damaged. “We have a lot of work ahead of us. I just pray no one is hurt or…dead.”

  Betty sighed. “Me, too, Mary,” she said and pointed north. “I need to go home and check on Mother. She was already sleeping in the basement when I left to check on you. Mother has always been afraid of storms. I’m sure she is unharmed, but she must be awful frightened.”

  “I can walk with you,” Mary offered.

  “No, you better go and check on your house,” Betty told Mary. She offered a quick hug, opened her umbrella even though the heavy rain had stopped falling, and wandered away. Mary felt like chasing after her but knew she needed to check on her own house.

  “Want some company?” Mitchell asked.

  “My house is a good walk from here,” Mary warned him.

  “Good,” Mitchell said. “If there are any wounded or trapped people crying out for help we’ll be able to hear them as we walk.”

  Mary grew silent and listened to the winds whispering up and down the street. The winds no longer felt angry or threatening. Instead, they felt tired, like a prisoner being released from a dungeon after being forced to turn a violent table of destruction. “My house is down that way. Ready?”

  “Ready,” Mitchell said and began walking down the street with Mary, dodging fallen trees, downed power lines, and piles of glass. He reached into his front pants pocket, pulled out a pack of Lucky Strikes, and lit one. “Bridget Carson didn’t deserve to die, Mrs. Holland,” he said and took a drag off his cigarette. “She was murdered by a crazy woman after she was cast off to the side by a very arrogant man who is now dead himself.”

  Mary looked over at Mitchell. “Monroe Baker wasn’t upset over the death of Bridget Carson?” she asked.

  Mitchell shook his head no and helped Mary around a fallen tree. “He was more worried about his own life being in danger,” he explained. “The man showed just how cowardly his heart truly was and that his heroics on screen were fake.”

  “When I called Monroe he didn’t seem scared,” Mary said in a confused voice.

  “Oh, I’m sure he wasn’t scared,” Mitchell agreed, “not after we located a hidden suicide note in Bridget Carson’s bedroom. The note was fake, of course…planted in a jewelry box.” Mitchell pointed to a large piece of broken glass and helped Mary navigate it. “The note seemed to convince Monroe Baker that Bridget Carson actually took her own life. I tried to convince him otherwise, but he was being considered for a new movie and didn’t want to hear any more of the matter, especially since he reported that his stalker had miraculously vanished. All Monroe Baker was interested in was returning back to his normal life and continuing with his acting career.” Mitchell walked past a bruised storefront and continued to talk. “He was passed over for the movie he was being considered for.”

  “Why?”

  “Mr. Walsh, the president of F&P Studios, decided it was better to keep Monroe out of the limelight for a while. Monroe was not very pleased with Mr. Walsh’s decision but what could he do?”

  “Headline a talent show for a good cause and bring his name back into the spotlight,” Mary said in a miserable voice. “Oh, I should have known that lousy man wasn’t headlining my talent show out of the goodness of his heart.”

  Mitchell nodded his head. “Monroe Baker didn’t want to have his face hidden, not even for a minute. He confessed to a close friend that he believed if he headlined your talent show he would become a hero in the eyes of all his fans and that Mr. Walsh would have no choice but to put his face back up on the screen.” Mitchell pointed to a broken tree limb. “Careful.”

  Mary moved around the tree limb. “Monroe arrived in Pineville very scared.”

  Mitchell nodded. “Monroe Baker claimed that his stalker showed up at his home the very day you called him and asked him to headline your talent show. Coincidence? Strange timing? Who knows. What I do know is that Monroe claimed his stalker confessed to killing Bridget Carson and threatened to kill him if he left Los Angeles.”

  Mary grew silent and pondered over the information Mitchell revealed to her. “How did the woman get into his house…uh, mansion?”

  “Exactly,” Mitchell told Mary. He glanced up at the marble black sky and then focused on the street. “There are many entry points to a mansion,” he told Mary. “Monroe claimed his hired…servants…as he called them…kept his mansion securely locked.”

  “Monroe had hired help?” Mary asked. “Well…I guess he would. A person can’t keep a mansion clean by himself and Monroe certainly isn’t the type to scrub his own floors. I really never considered him having hired help.”

  “All the so-called stars have hired help, Mrs. Holland. It’s really more of a status symbol than a necessity. Although, as you mentioned, maintaining a mansion alone would be very difficult. Stars are very lazy people off-set. They like to lounge around the pool, go sailing on their yachts, take vacations, go to fa
ncy parties, that kind of thing. They pretend making a movie is the hardest work in the world and need at least six months to recover.”

  “From the tone of your voice, I take it you don’t like the movie business?” Mary asked and cut down Greenview Avenue.

  Mitchell worked on his Lucky Strike. “I dislike most but not all. You see, the people you see on screen are the opposite in real life. A rare few show decent, honorable affection toward their fellow man. Once a person gets their face on the big screen…their soul goes down a long, dark tunnel.” Mitchell looked at Mary. “I’ve seen people leave Los Angeles defeated and broke, Mrs. Holland. The movie business is, in my view, evil.”

  Mary was surprised to hear a Los Angeles homicide detective speak in such a way. “I never considered…to me a movie was simply a form of entertainment. I never thought about the person behind the screen…my life is always very busy. I guess I just don’t have the time to chase after pointless autographs. And I surely wouldn’t want anyone asking for my autograph. Why, I’d be embarrassed at such a thing. I’m a simple wife who loves her town.”

  Mitchell smiled. He respected Mary’s attitude. “I’m glad to hear that,” he said, “because a woman of your beauty and charm would dazzle Los Angeles.”

  Mary felt her cheeks turn red. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me,” Mitchell told Mary, walking with her down Greenview Avenue. He looked to his left and right and spotted some badly damaged storefronts. “I never had children, Mrs. Holland. Earlier I was thinking that if I had been given a daughter she might have been like you.”

  Mary heard sadness in Mitchell’s voice. “You and your wife are unable to have children?” she asked and softly touched her stomach. She understood Mitchell’s pain.

  “My wife is dead,” Mitchell told Mary in a sorrowful voice. He tossed away his Lucky Strike and looked sideways at a fallen tree. “My wife died when I was thirty-five. We were married for ten years when she went home to be with Jesus. When she died I swore to her that I would never love another woman and would go to my grave with her in my heart.”

  Mary felt tears well up in her eyes. “That’s very…noble,” she told Mitchell, fighting back the tears.

  “And lonely.” Mitchell sighed. “The cancer my wife was suffering with prevented her from having children. If…we had managed to have a child…perhaps the loneliness wouldn’t be so terrible. Going home to an empty living room is…depressing.” Mitchell lowered his head. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Holland. I don’t mean to bother you with my problems. I was sent to Tennessee to catch a killer. I mustn’t let my mind wander off course.”

  “Don’t be sorry,” Mary told him, feeling a warm affection for the man—the way a daughter would feel toward a kind uncle or brother. “My husband and I can’t…we can’t have any children either,” she continued. “At times the house I live in seems very big and very empty. And now that my darling John is away flying dangerous bombing missions over Europe…well, the emptiness just seems so much more.” Mary looked at a fallen tree. “I try and keep busy with the newspaper. My husband owns the newspaper and left me in charge…which I’m not so sure was smart of him.” Mitchell smiled. “And I sure had an adventure a while back…but I can’t really go into details, I’m afraid.”

  Mary moved a piece of broken glass off the sidewalk she and Mitchell were walking down. Suddenly her mind was no longer on Monroe Baker. Instead, she found herself wondering about the man walking next to her. He seems so…broken inside, Mary thought to herself but didn’t voice her words. Instead, she heard a cry for help coming from down the street.

  “Oh my,” Mary said, “there’s someone calling for help.”

  “Let’s not waste any time,” Mitchell told Mary and got his legs moving.

  Mitchell and Mary ran down Greenview Avenue, following the sound. They crossed over to Maple Lane into a residential neighborhood lined with cozy homes that were now wounded and torn from the tornado and ran up to a brown Studebaker Champion that had been smashed through by a heavy tree limb.

  “Hello?” Mitchell called out, trying to peer into the car. “Hello…is anyone in the car?”

  Mary ran up to Mitchell and began trying to see into the car. She didn’t see the dark shadow slip around the front hood. “Don’t move,” a deadly voice hissed.

  Mary froze. She turned her head and saw a woman wearing a long black raincoat. The woman’s head was covered with a black hood, making it impossible to see her face. What Mary did see was the gun the woman was aiming straight at Mitchell. “It’s you,” Mary said.

  Mitchell slowly leaned up from the damaged car. “I thought you would have left town.”

  The woman glared at Mary and Mitchell with angry eyes. “I was nearly killed,” she growled. “I broke out a store window and managed to find safety just before the tornado struck.” She kept her gun aimed at Mary. “I saw you enter the hotel. I was watching from across the street. After the tornado struck, I made my way back to the hotel and waited. When I saw the sheriff leave, I waited.” She quickly glanced around to make sure no one was in the vicinity. Most people were still in their homes, afraid to come out. She had to hurry. “I waited until you two walked away from the hotel without your friend,” she told Mary.

  “Why?” Mary demanded.

  The woman narrowed her eyes. “All I want is the photo,” she informed Mary. “I don’t want to hurt you. I didn’t want to hurt Monroe, but he threatened me. I had to kill him.”

  “Just like you killed Bridget Carson?” Mitchell asked.

  The woman threw her gun at Mitchell. “Bridget…was stealing Monroe away from me,” she hissed. “She had to die!”

  Mitchell nodded. “Of course she did,” he said in a calm voice. “Now, why don’t you hand me the gun you’re holding, and we can talk about this nice and calmly.”

  “Don’t patronize me!” the woman barked. She pointed her gun back at Mary. “Monroe hid the photo. All I wanted was the photo, but he refused to give it to me. That’s when…I threatened to kill him.” She glanced around again. “I showed him a photo of Bridget floating in her pool. The photo scared him.”

  “Why would the photo scare him?” Mitchell asked.

  “Because,” the woman explained in a clever voice, “I added his body into the photo, standing right next to the pool looking down at Bridget Carson. You see, Detective, a woman can do some very interesting tricks with photos if she is patient enough.”

  Mitchell slowly eased toward Mary. “I’m listening.”

  “Monroe refused to give me the photo he had of us sitting in the back of his mansion beside the pool.” The woman shook her head. “I accidentally signed my real name to the photo without thinking. You see, I was using a fake name with Monroe but the day he showed me the photo we were at his mansion. Oh, he was so charming, and we were laughing. He asked me to sign the photo and I did so without thinking…I was always so swept away in his charm.”

  “Why did you try and get the photo?” Mary asked, confused. “If you killed Bridget Carson—”

  “Monroe was going to be the next victim,” the woman hissed. “He belonged to me…no other woman could have him!” She steadied her voice. “Monroe gave my description to the police but failed to produce my real name. I guess he didn’t notice the name I signed on the photograph. I had to get the photo back before I killed him. If the police located the photo and found my real name, they would track me down and begin questioning me. I couldn’t allow that.”

  Mary struggled to understand the woman’s reasoning. “How…or why…did you show up on the very day I called Monroe to ask him to headline my talent show?”

  The woman grinned. “I overheard every word Monroe spoke to you, Mrs. Holland. There is a hidden hallway in the mansion Monroe lived in. No one knows about it. The hallway runs right behind the den. Monroe believed I had decided to leave him alone. He didn’t know I was watching his every move.”

  Mary glanced at Mitchell, who shook his head. “Ma’am, you need to
be admitted to a mental facility,” he said in a concerned voice. “You’re not well.”

  “Oh, yes I am. I’m very well,” the woman growled at Mitchell. “I’m very well indeed. That’s why I presented myself to Monroe on the very day he decided to partake in your pathetic talent show, Mrs. Holland. I couldn’t let Monroe leave town. I had already planned his day to die. All I needed was the photo.” She glanced around; no one was in sight. “Monroe refused to give me the photo. He knew I wouldn’t kill him…not then, anyway. I needed time to devise a plan. I assumed a simple threat would suffice but I was wrong. Monroe was a bit more stubborn than I anticipated.” The woman looked back at Detective Burbank. “I warned him to stay away from the cops, but he didn’t. Instead, the cops tried to set a trap for me. They sent you to follow Monroe hoping I would show up.”

  “Yes, that’s true,” Mitchell confessed. “My boss is catching a lot of flack from F&P Studios. A certain Mr. Walsh is demanding we find the person who killed Bridget Carson.”

  The woman grinned. “Oh, is he?”

  Mary stared at the woman with curious eyes. Who was this woman standing in the darkness aiming a gun at her?

  Mitchell wasn’t too sure of the woman himself. “Mr. Walsh is becoming very impatient.”

  “Good.” The woman let out a sick laugh and looked at Mary. “Now, give me the photo and I’ll leave you unharmed.”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t have the photo you’re searching for,” Mary told her. “Monroe never mentioned any of his problems to me. He did request I locate him a car to use. He claimed he wanted to drive to Chattanooga and visit his parents.”

  “Liar!” the woman snapped. “You’re lying! Monroe’s parents don’t live anywhere near Chattanooga!”

  “I know that,” Mary snapped back. “It was clear that Monroe was scared and was trying to plan some kind of an escape route. He was so scared he couldn’t keep his lies from becoming twisted around the truth.” Mary shook her head in anger. “I’m not a stupid woman. I knew Monroe was lying to me.”