“Did you steal something from the guy?”
“No, nothing like that,” she assured him. “It’s only that, well, I’ve known Buzz somewhat longer than I let on to you.” Her eyes avoided his. “I was living with him, we were lovers for about six months.”
“He’s a recluse. How’d—”
“A relative of his really did introduce us because Buzz was looking for some help on the panel. That led to the rest of it,” she explained. “But I really have been his assistant. I started drawing Rick the Rascal before Buzz and I ever became close — and I’ve kept on.”
“So what happened? How’d you get here?”
“Just a minute.” She held up her good hand. “I think I had also better tell you that I’m actually getting five hundred dollars per panel. I told you two hundred because I wanted you to think I’d only just started — and that sounded more like a starting salary.”
He went over, feet dragging some, and sat in an armchair. “Why am I drawing it?”
“Well, when I decided the romance was over and I wanted to move out, Buzz was really very nice about everything,” she told him. “He said I could keep on being his assistant even if I wasn’t going to live with him any more. So now all I have to do is visit his place in Beverly Hills once a week — as I did today — to talk about gag ideas and turn in the finished drawings.”
“Your wrist is really sprained?”
“Well, of course. That happened while I was moving out. I took a fall when I was toting a couple of heavy suitcases down to the car,” she said. “I wanted to move back in with you anyway, and since you’re such a terrific artist and could help out, why, that was an extra bonus for me.”
“I would’ve helped you, you know, even if you’d arrived fully clothed and told me the straight truth right off.”
She looked directly at him. “I really did start off intending to be honest with you. But somehow inventing things is more fun.” She stood up, lifting her portfolio off the sofa. “I’ll move out tonight if you want.”
He shook his head. “No, I’d like you to stay.” He stood and moved closer to her. “But try to control your imagination, huh?”
“I will, honest.” Smiling, she kissed him.
On the day before Thanksgiving, Wes was in his office at Sparey Art, getting ready for an early departure. He was standing next to his desk, tucking a bottle of Casey’s favorite California chardonnay into his attaché case, when Mike Filchock entered unannounced.
“Sit down,” he advised, holding up a folded newspaper in his left hand.
“Don’t have much time, Mike. I promised Casey I’d—”
“Park and listen.” He put his hand on Wes’s shoulder and urged him down into his desk chair. He perched on the edge of the desk. His orange lumberjack jacket gave off a mildew scent.
“What’s wrong? Trouble with Glickman in Remission?”
“We’re calling it No Worse Than a Bad Cold now, but that’s beside the point.” Unfurling the newspaper, he spread it out on the desktop. “I assume you haven’t seen today’s news sheet?”
“Nope, why?”
Mike’s stubby finger jabbed at a story just below the fold. The headline read CARTOONIST KIN IN BIZARRE FRAUD.
“This is about Buzz Beckworth,” Wes realized before reading the accompanying story.
“Exactly.” Mike snatched up the paper. “I’ve perused the yarn several times and added to my store of knowledge by listening to newscasts while racing hither to Studio City,” he explained. “I’ll give you a lucid summary.”
“Hey, I’m capable of reading a—”
“Pay attention now.” The writer thrust the newspaper up under his arm. “Buzz Beckworth is dead.”
“Damn. Was he murdered?”
“Thus far the authorities think it was natural causes. But the fact I’d like you to dwell on is this, old buddy — Buzz has been dead, the coroner estimates, since October thirtieth or thereabouts.”
Wes straightened up, frowning. “Hey, that can’t be right. Casey was over there just the day before yesterday, turning in the week’s work,” he told his friend. “And she got a check for three thousand dollars, signed by Beckworth. I saw the damn thing.”
Nodding, Mike said, “All part of the bizarre fraud.”
“Do they mention her in this thing?” He reached toward the paper.
Mike maintained his hold on it. “No, nobody seems to know about her yet. Now stop heckling and listen to my narration,” he suggested. “Okay, a nephew of Buzz Beckworth’s was apparently one of the few people the old recluse allowed into his manse. On or about October thirtieth of this present year, this lad found his uncle deceased, probably from a heart attack. The old gent was the prime source of this fellow’s income. He runs a shabby comic book company down in—”
“Pomeroy.” He shot to his feet. “His name is Roy Pomeroy, isn’t it?”
“It is, yep. Know him?”
“No, but he publishes Bertha the Biker.”
“Ah yes, that collection of hen scratches that Casey McLeod claims is cartooning. That’s the Pomeroy in question, sure enough.”
Wes drifted over to his drawing board, looked down unseeingly at the storyboard tacked there. “Go on.”
“Roy decided that if he could stow his uncle’s body someplace around there, he ought to be able to turn a pretty penny for awhile,” said Mike. “He did a lot of the old gent’s banking for him anyway. The income on the Rick the Rascal property — daily newspaper panel, comic books, TV, toys, and such — comes to about two hundred thousand per month.”
“A tidy sum.”
“And that’d go mostly to charity once Buzz officially passed on to glory,” Mike went on. “By doing a little simple forgery, Roy Pomeroy — a melodious name, isn’t it? — Roy Pomeroy diverted a fair amount of that monthly loot out of Uncle Buzz’s accounts and into his own pockets. I am supposing that dear Casey got her fair share.”
Wes sank down into his drawing board chair, resting his elbows on the slanting board. “But Roy had a big problem. In order to maintain the illusion that Buzz was still alive, somebody had to keep drawing the damned panel.”
“When Buzz shuffled off, he was probably a few weeks ahead. That gave Roy a little lead time to dig up a sub to ghost the stuff for him. He needed, keep in mind, a ghost who wasn’t annoyingly honest,” Mike elaborated. “I’m certain Casey was the first person he thought of to do the job for him.”
“But she knew she wasn’t up to drawing anything like that.” Wes shook his head. “Those penciled samples she passed off on me as her own were probably drawn by Buzz right before he died.”
“My guess, too. Roy offered her money, three thousand a week or probably more, if she’d turn out Rick the Rascal for him.”
“And she realized immediately that I’d be the perfect person actually to do the job.”
“This latest yarn she handed you, old chum, about being Buzz’s lover, wasn’t true either.”
“How’d they tumble to what Roy was up to?”
“Chance. The fellow who comes around every two months to service the air-conditioning system dropped by yesterday while Roy was out. He let himself into the basement with the key Buzz had given him, and while he was attending to his chores, he noticed a strange odor. He poked around until he found the corpse where it’d been stashed.”
“And Roy hasn’t implicated Casey at all?”
“He’s claiming he produced the fake panels by tracing parts of old drawings and combining them in new ways. That—”
“The checks she showed me. Those’ll link her to—”