This was a unique position in which the Galaxians found themselves; they were turning their talents to good. The same rapacious tenacity with which they tracked star adultery, UFO sightings and arthritis cures would now be lasered into solving a fiendish, not to say heinous, crime. Is it any wonder their sallow cheeks glowed with something similar to health, their dead eyes came to life, or something very like life?
Yoicks and away; Nemesis has nothing on the Weekly Galaxy.
Palindrome Productions occupied the upper floor of a two-story building in downtown Santa Monica. Here were the offices of all the company members except Skeeks, who never had much involved himself in decision making at his firm. And outside, at four that afternoon, the fellow up the telephone pole, with the telephone company hard hat and the telephone equipment dangling from his utility belt and the telephone company identification clipped to his work shirt, had, of course, nothing to do with the phone company at all but was Chauncey Chapperrell of the Weekly Galaxy. Other Galaxians, in California and Florida, were busily rooting into the suspects’ lives, records and garbage cans, but Chauncey hit pay dirt with this conversation:
“Palindrome Productions.”
“Sherry, please.”
“Who shall I say is calling?”
“Mayjune.”
“One moment, please.”
Chauncey, whose usual assignment for the Galaxy was outer space, took the opportunity here to survey the world from a second-story level and found it good. No wonder that UFO aliens come here so often; it’s a fun place when seen from above.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Kent, but Ms. Cohen is unavailable at the moment.”
“She’d better be available. Or should I call the district attorney?”
“One moment, please.”
Chauncey was taping this conversation but he wasn’t listening to it. He was grooving on reality instead, as seen from 15 feet up. It had been a while since he had concentrated so totally on the mother planet.
“Mayjune? What the hell is all this about?”
“I want you to come right over here, Sherry.”
“I’m busy here. Do you have any idea what a mess we have on our hands?”
“It’s nothing next to the mess you will have. Be here in half an hour.” And Mayjune Kent hung up.
So did Chauncey.
After Don Grove’s experience at Dungowrie — the fellow was still in jail, have to do something about that eventually — Boy knew that over the wall was not the way to enter the estate. Not that he was much of a wall-scaler anyway. He was lucky if he could scale a curb.
Fortunately, money makes a fine substitute for muscle. Having hired a burglar known as Rack, Boy now sat comfortably in the rear of the limo piloted by Hubert Portnikuff and waited. Yonder, Rack, shielded from passing curious eyes by Chauncey and Trixie, who were engaged in long and sprightly conversation on the sidewalk in front of him, was dismantling the burglar alarm. Next he would unlock the ornamental iron front gate, override the call-the-police secondary alarm system by the inner door and finally snick open that last barrier.
There, done it. Having repacked his tools into his capaciously pocketed jacket, Rack sauntered away, a tune and a cigarette on his lips, while Trixie and Chauncey strode off in the opposite direction. Boy at last clambered stiffly out of the limo, strolled over to the estate entrance and eased on inside.
Everything in here was familiar from Don Grove’s description. Boy moved past the pool, the palms, the exercise area — phew, carrion — and around to the French doors at the right side, one pair of which stood open to the evening air. Boy inserted himself into the house.
Voices. Female voices, some distance off. Were the servants at home or away? (None lived in, only Mayjune and Skeeks ever actually being in residence here.) Following that peremptory summons from Mayjune, Sherry Cohen had been in here for 20 minutes now. What could they be talking about? Boy needed to know. He filtered through the house like a bad case of tar and nicotine, and the voices gradually grew louder.
There. A sort of Moorish living room, with arches and pillars everywhere, a few low couches and low tables, hanging lamps and a big round doggy bed in the middle of the floor. Peering from the semidarkness behind a pillar, Boy beheld the two women seated near each other, on sofas at right angles, with a low table between them. Boy blinked; they were drinking tea and eating cookies.
Really? The tape Boy had heard of Mayjune’s phone call hadn’t sounded like an invitation to tea. But here they were, just the two of them, murmuring together, munching cookies, sipping tea. Sherry Cohen, on the left, looked softer than when Boy had last seen her, at the house she shared with Bill Terry — and Tommy Little? — in Bel Air. Or if not softer, at least less sure of herself.
And then there was Mayjune. Oh my. The Phantom of the Opera’s sister. If Boy Cartwright had a painting in his attic, that’s what it would look like. How could she be sure where to insert that cookie?
Firmly watching Sherry and not Mayjune, Boy listened:
“More tea?”
“Thank you.”
“Cookie?”
“I shouldn’t.” Pause. “Mayjune?”
“Yes?”
“Why?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You were pretty tough on the phone, but now you just want to sit and have girl talk. I don’t get it.”
“I didn’t want to rush into things. You and I never really got to know each other, Sherry.”
“I always felt you didn’t want to know people.”
“I suppose so. Because of my face.”
An uncomfortable silence; uncomfortable for Boy, anyway.
“Mayjune? Would you come to the point?”
“I suppose, really, that Skeeks was all I needed, not people at all. I took this picture of him at the vet, after they put him in the coffin.”
Boy started, and stood up as straight as it was possible for him to stand. Mayjune handed a color 8 x 10 to Sherry.
“Oh, look at that. He looks, um, like he’s asleep, doesn’t he?”
“Dreaming,” Mayjune said with her version of a poignant smile. “Chasing rabbits.”
“Chasing Nielsen households, you mean.”
“When I saw he’d been poisoned—”
“What?”
“Oh, come on, Sherry, you can’t hide anything from me. Skeeks was murdered, and you did it.”
“That’s... that’s ridiculous!”
“Of course it is. You wouldn’t get what you wanted, anyway.”
“What I wanted?” Guardedly: “What was that?”
“For Tommy Little to take Skeeks’ place. Then Bill would get star billing, and he might stop drinking himself to death. Of course, it would never work. You love Bill too much. You can’t see he really isn’t up to carrying the show.”
“This is crazy!”
“Sherry, I watched you maneuver Tommy Little into place, and I knew you wanted Skeeks off the program. But I never thought you’d resort to murder.”
“Mayjune, he was an animal! You can’t say he — besides, why say it was me? I mean, if it even happened.”
“I didn’t do it, and Bill doesn’t have the guts, and who else is there? You did it for love, Sherry, I know you did, for the love of Bill. But I loved Skeeks, and that’s why you’re going to die now.”
Jumping to her feet, Sherry cried, “What are you talking about? I’m not going to die!”
“We both are, Sherry. Skeeks was the only one in my life. You took him away from me. I have no reason to live.”
“Mayjune! For God’s sake, what have you done?”
“The same poison you used,” Mayjune said, as calm as voice mail. “It’s in the cookies, and the tea. We both have less than half an hour to live.”