"I haven't done anything," Shelly insisted, shoving his glasses back on his nose just as they were about to tumble into his lap.
"Violet Gonsenelli," I said, closing my eyes and regretting my words.
"Violet Gon… I haven't… she… I, we need a receptionist," Shelly said, pleading his case to the indifferent Jeremy and Gunther.
"That's it," I said, raising my voice. "That's it. People are dying out there. Some maniac may be trying to kill Clark Gable. Hell, he may be trying to kill me too. Let's, for God's sake, try to make some sense around here."
Gunther sat in the rocker. Shelly considered a rejoinder and changed his mind. Jeremy put his pencil in his pocket, folded his notebook, and said, "The police are watching Mr. Varney, who appears to be one of the final two remaining witnesses to the events that took place on the night Spelling's father died."
"Final two?" asked Shelly.
"I'm the other one," I said.
"Ah, good," said Shelly, sitting back with a satisfied smile.
"While we may assume that you are capable of defending yourself under reasonable circumstances," said Jeremy, "these circumstances are not reasonable and I suggest we take turns watching you from a discreet but alert distance."
Jeremy looked at each of us for comments. We had none, so he went on: "We have a series of poorly written poetic clues which present obscure hints to the identity of the next victim of Mr. SpeJJing."
"Ah ha," said Shelly.
Jeremy ignored him.
"Also present in these versified notes are allusions to a threat to Clark Gable, who has also been telephoned by the would-be poet," Jeremy said. "Couple this with the suggestion that something will take place, perhaps a final murder or two, where the stars meet tomorrow. Conclusion?"
"We're dealing with a nut," I said.
"Or we are dealing with a killer who is leading you someplace, Toby," Jeremy went on. "He is a step or two ahead of you, turning his head, luring you forth with a wave of the finger, a clue, a murder. Where is he leading you to, Toby? Where and why?"
"Jeremy, no offense, but we've got plenty of questions. What we need are answers," I said.
"The stars," Gunther said suddenly. "Under the stars. And what was it Juanita prophesied, the grove. The Academy Awards are being given tomorrow night at the Coconut Grove."
"Poetically appropriate," said Jeremy.
"I don't get it," said Shelly, pouring himself a fourth, fifth, or sixth glass of iced saft.
"Looks like our poet Spelling wants an audience for his next murder," I said. "He plans to kill someone at the Academy Awards dinner."
"It makes sense," said Jeremy.
"Who?" asked Shelly, ignoring the blue stain on his jacket from a dripping glass of saft. "Kill who? Why?"
"Lionel Varney," I said. "Varney'll be at the Academy Awards dinner."
"Then I suggest we say good-bye to Clark Gable, allow him to leave as he plans, and hope the police will do their job," Jeremy said, rising.
"I'll call Phil and tell him," I said.
"In case we are wrong, Toby," Gunther said, moving toward us as I stood, "may I suggest you remain as inconspicuous as possible."
"I'll go for a ride in the desert or catch a double feature," I said. "Or I…"
"I've got it," Shelly said, putting aside his glass of Mrs. Plaut's five-star saft and looking at us with a sappy smile. "Dental care for dentures. Special care of dentures for the stars. Discretion guaranteed. Newsletter on the latest denture research and inventions. I'll get a consultant. The West-mores. Well? What do you think?"
Neither Gunther nor Jeremy responded so I was stuck with humoring Shelly. "It has possibilities. Why don't you work out the details, put them on paper, see if there're any flaws, and then move ahead."
"No," Shelly said. "Inspiration. Came to me all at once. Perfect."
"Like your ideas for animal dentistry and tinted teeth," I said.
"Yeah, but even better," said Shelly. "Like, like I don't know. Magic. Maybe even God."
"If God is interested in such inspiration," said Jeremy seriously, "then he either has a sense of humor which is truly unfathomable, or free will is no longer a tenable concept."
"Yes," said Shelly gleefully. "You've got it."
"Shelly," I warned.
"Okay, okay, I'll discuss it with Mildred and Violet," he said, actually rubbing his chubby cigar-stained hands together. "Separately."
Gunther had hurried to the front porch, looking, I was sure, for Mame Stoltz before Clark Gable stole her heart away.
Jeremy stood silent, head cocked to one side until Shelly was finished and said, "Would you like me to stay with Gable tonight?"
"No," I said. "I'll do it. Maybe I can persuade him to join me at some desert motel or…"
Shelly was just standing there, working out the details, mumbling things like "It'll work" and "Low overhead. Maybe even work with Mark Marvel on the fourth floor. Therapy for celebrity denture-wearers. Learn to love your dentures."
Jeremy was holding out his hand to me. He opened it. There was a key in the massive palm.
"Van Nuys," he said. "Address is on the key. I'm remodeling the apartments, upgrading when I'm finished. That's the model. One bedroom. Everything including running water."
I took the key.
"Thanks, Jeremy," I said.
"I'll see you in the morning, Toby," Shelly said, waddling past us and into the afternoon.
"Alice would like to move," Jeremy said.
"Move?"
"To San Antonio. We both have relatives, and with the current market I can get a reasonable price for the Farraday and my other property and devote the remainder of my life to poetry."
"You can do that in Los Angeles," I said.
He shook his head and put a hand on my shoulder. "I cannot," he said. "Alice believes that you may eventually get me hurt or even killed. I've already committed one murder because of our association and…"
"That was an accident," I said in a whisper, looking around to be sure we hadn't been heard.
"I can deceive my mind but never my soul. Toby, Alice is right. We have Natasha. It would be nice if she had a father."
"I won't ask you for help anymore, Jeremy," I said, crossing my heart. "Promise."
"But I will offer or volunteer."
"I'll move out of the Faraday, other side of town. You can't really be thinking about leaving because of me."
"No," he said, removing his hand from my shoulder. "There are other reasons, private reasons. I've shared one public one with you, the one that touches our friendship. I'm not a young man."
"Saft?" said Mrs. Plaut, staggering into the day room with the weight of a fresh gallon of liquid in a pitcher balanced on a tray she was carrying.
Jeremy moved quickly to take the tray and place it on the table.
"Everyone's gone," she said, looking around.
"Miss Stoltz and the man who looks like Clark Gable are on the front porch smoking," I said.
Mrs. Plaut nodded knowingly.
"I think I put a touch too much gin in the saft," she said to us brightly.
"How much gin was in-?"
"One fifth to three-quarters of a gallon," she said. "Agnes Smeed's recipe. At least she was Agnes Smeed before she married Reed Clixco. I always thought it would be more interesting if he took her name when they married so he could be Reed Smeed, but, alas, that idea was long before its time which has not yet come except for the occasional suffragette and her passive concubine."
"I must be going, Toby," Jeremy said. "Perhaps I can catch Dr. Minck before he tries to drive. He drank at least a gallon of Mrs. Plaut's refreshing saft."
"We'll talk later, Jeremy," I said.
He nodded, shook Mrs. Plaut's hand, and went in search of Shelly.
"All in all a good tea party," Mrs. Plaut said, pouring herself a glass of saft.
"All in all," I agreed, pouring myself a glass.