Her body was Twiggy-style, stuffed with two strategically placed olives. Thin legs, hips unpronounced even in the hot pants she favored, bottom tightly packed and cute but undeniably sparse—on the whole her build was decidedly fragile, rather than voluptuous. It would have taken two of her to begin construction on one Raquel Welch.
So, naturally—go figure it!—-Zelda Quinn became a top TV sex symbol!
Not that this was any stranger than the vehicle which transported Zelda to stardom. It started out as a quite ordinary midafternoon recipe show aimed at the young housewife. A low-budget, one-girl program, for which Zelda had been selected to demonstrate the preparation of fairly standard dishes because it was felt she was low-key enough for the plain Janes to identify with her.
When Zelda goofed on the very first show, leaving the almonds out of the String Beans Almondine and humming a little tune because—as she explained to her audience—“I always sin for my supper,” the producers put it down to opening night nervousness and excused her. But the following week she neglected to grease the pan for her Apple Pandowdy, and the week after that she announced that one of her greatest pleasures was “getting scrod in Boston.” By then her bosses were looking frantically around for a replacement.
They stopped looking when the mail began pouring in. Zelda’s flubs, far from turning viewers off, were building an audience. The young housewives, it seemed, were only the smallest part of that audience. Two other groups made up the bulk of it. The first group was older women. They saw Zelda as the epitome of the inept young bride, and she brought out all their authoritarian motherliness. Her mistakes were confirmation of their life-style. Each time she messed up a dish, it gave them an ego boost. She left them with the feeling of wanting to pat her on the cheek and take over preparing the dinner for her.
The second group consisted of men—mostly single men. Their response was fantastic. Evidently there were a lot of bachelors who fancied themselves gourmet cooks. Zelda was living proof of male superiority in the culinary art. Her little girl sexiness sparked a mass love-in. Letter after letter invited her to dinner with the men offering to do the cooking, and many of the recipes mentioned smacked of the aphrodisiac.
Her show was switched over to prime time and the ratings zoomed upwards. A poll revealed that now over half her audience were single men. More surprisingly, they rated Zelda one of the sexiest girls on TV.
Regina Blue could understand it. Watching Zelda Quinn’s show on her TV set two nights after her return to New York from Bilbao, Regina reflected that many times a girl’s sex appeal was in direct proportion to how much it built up a man’s self-concept of his masculinity. Zelda’s confused, fluttery personality, abetted by hot pants and a tight sweater that showed the outlines of the nipples of her small, bra-less breasts, would definitely make a man feel protective and manly in relationship to her. Zelda was capitalizing on the image most loathed by Women’s Lib.
The question in Regina’s mind was whether that image was strictly put on for TV or was a reflection of Zelda’s true personality. Regina’s reason for being interested, of course, was that Zelda Quinn’s name appeared on the list which the dying Faith Venable had indicated would reveal her murderer.
Could Zelda Quinn be the killer? Regina had been assuming that the murderer was a man. Faith had said “Brother,” and the voice Regina had heard from the shower had sounded like a man’s voice. Still, with the bathroom door closed and the water running, she could have been mistaken. It could have been a deep female voice. Zelda Quinn had a very husky voice for a girl. But why would Faith have called her “Brother?” Regina sighed. She just wasn’t sure she could identify the voice even if she did hear it again. Too much had happened in between.
But there was also another possibility. “Brother” and the murderer might not be the same person. Dwight Venable had gotten in and out of Regina's apartment undetected by her. The killer might have done the same. The killer might have been a woman. The killer just might be Zelda Quinn!
When the broadcast was over, Regina turned off the TV set and left her apartment. She was on her way to interview Zelda Quinn in person. The TV star had readily agreed to the meeting when Regina had called her earlier that day. If she was the murderess, Zelda was smart enough to be cooperative, to act as if she had nothing to hide.
Zelda still had her poncho on when Regina arrived. She greeted the redhead in a flurry of friendly confusion, ushering Regina into the living-room, trying to wriggle free of the poncho, take Regina’s coat, and talk, all at the same time. “I wanted to make us some martinis, but I can never remember whether to shake or stir.” Zelda’s voice came out muffled from somewhere inside the folds of the poncho.
Regina hung up her coat; Regina helped Zelda out of the poncho; Regina mixed the martinis. Zelda had that effect on people. She seemed so muddled and helpless that they always ended up doing things for her that she had started to do for them.
Finally seated and sipping her drink, Regina got right to the point. “You were a disciple of Faith Venables?” she said.
“Faith who? . . . Oh! You mean Sister Faith. The Mantra Lady.”
“That’s right. She gave you a mantra, didn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“How did you happen to go to her in the first place?”
“This man I met suggested it. You see, I have this problem remembering things and he thought Transcen—-whatchamacallit could help me.”
“Who was the man?” Regina asked.
“Oh, dear! Now what was his name?” Zelda pondered. “I remember that when we were introduced I thought he was telling me his religion. I said he must be devoted to it, and he asked me why, and I said because people didn’t usually tell you their religion the first time you met them, and he said no, it wasn’t his religion, it was his name. Gee!” Zelda frowned. “It I could just think of what religion it was. . . .”
“Jewish? Lutheran? Catholic?” Regina tried to be helpful.
“Judah? No. Luther? That wasn’t it. Catherine? No, that’s a girl’s name.” Zelda bit her lip. “Calvin!” she exclaimed suddenly. “That’s it! Something Calvin. . . . Or was it Calvin Something? . . .”
“Not Calvin Cabot!” Regina stared at the girl.
“That’s it! Calvin Cabot. That’s his name. How did you know?”
Regina didn’t answer. Her mind was racing. Calvin Cabot! Faith’s guardian! The man who had retained ATOMICS to prove Dwight Venables innocence! He was definitely involved in the case! How deeply involved? Regina filed the question away for future consideration.
“Was Sister Faith any help with your memory problem?” Regina asked Zelda.
Before Zelda could answer, the doorbell rang and she went to answer it. She returned white-faced and trembling, an unopened telegram clutched in her hand. “I’m so scared,” she confessed. “You never know what kind of bad news—”
“Maybe it’s not bad news. Why not just open it and find out,” Regina suggested.
“I’m too frightened!”
“Here. Let me.” Regina opened the telegram. “Okay if I read it?”
Still shaking, Zelda nodded.
“ZELDA STOP DON’T FORGET TO TAKE BIRTH CONTROL PILL STOP,” Regina read. The message was signed ZELDA.
“Is that all?” Zelda breathed easy. “What a relief!”
“I don’t get it,” Regina said. “If you sent the telegram to yourself, why be so apprehensive?”
“I forgot I sent it.”
“Oh.” Regina considered the answer. “Well, I guess you’d better do what it says,” she decided.