Peter Gerard & Co.

 

I was right about Peter Gerard: The genuine article was taller than the ersatz model, say about an inch above my six-one. He also had hazel eyes rather than brown, his jaw line was squarer than that of the man who had died, and he smiled more readily. But they both had dirty blond hair and a darker mustache-goatee combo. The resemblance was remarkable.

The weird feeling that I’d met this man before and yet hadn’t distracted me for maybe five seconds from the other stranger in the office. She was a woman in her early twenties with chestnut hair worn in lavish waves around her pretty face. She had full red lips, ample makeup expertly applied, and a perfect nose. Gold earrings in the shape of fish dangled from a pair of delicate lobes, setting off a rich chocolate and gold dress that didn’t come from Wal-Mart.

“This is my executive assistant, Quandra Hall,” Peter Gerard said.

She smiled easily and took my hand for a vigorous shake. This was extraordinarily pleasant while it lasted, but the circumstances kept introductions brief and small talk to a minimum.

“It’s hard to believe an awful thing like this really happened,” Gerard said. He didn’t write very original dialogue for himself in real life. Whereas his double of the night before had a flat Midwest accent, Gerard’s natural voice retained echoes of New Orleans - not as strong as in 221B Bourbon Street, where he exaggerated it, but noticeable. Apparently he had suppressed that regional trace altogether in his other films.

“Then there’s no one who would be particularly joyous to see you deceased?” Mac said, fiddling with a cigar.

“I don’t think so, Mac. But who would I suspect if this were a novel or a film? My wife? No, she loves me. My business partner? No, he doesn’t love me, but he needs me. It’s a mystery to me.”

“I wish you wouldn’t take this so lightly, Peter,” Quandra Hall said, an appealing note of concern in her cool voice. “It’s a miracle that you’re not dead today instead of talking and breathing and smiling like that.”

“The thought had crossed my mind,” her boss replied. “But maybe it’s really no miracle. Maybe whoever killed that poor guy knew just what he was doing - wasn’t after me at all.”

“The victim didn’t seem to have any enemies, either, so far as the police can tell,” I said. I repressed the temptation to blurt out here what I suspected about Double Takes. “I spent the better part of the morning talking with the chief.”

Mac raised an eyebrow. “You surprise me, Jefferson.”

That alone meant the day wouldn’t be a total loss, no matter what happened later.

“Nobody can be loved by everybody,” Quandra said, “not even a charming man like you, Peter. What about Carl Janzig?”

“That was settled long ago.”

“For you it was. Maybe not for him.”

Mac waved his cigar. “This Janzig - the name is familiar. But I can’t quite place him.”

“We were in a theatrical troupe together right out of college,” Gerard said. “After my film Whodunnit? became an unexpected hit, he sued me, claiming I’d stolen an idea he’d told me about years before. My lawyers wanted to settle out of court, but I wouldn’t let them. I wasn’t going to pay blackmail to a leech like that. We let a jury decide. Carl didn’t get a penny.”

“If you don’t call that an enemy, I’d hate to see who shows up at your birthday parties,” I said.

“Carl is greedy or unbalanced or maybe both,” Gerard said. “At least, he was back then. But it’s hard to picture him as a killer.”

“What about all the Sherlockians who were appalled by your movie,” I suggested. “I know it sounds far-fetched, but maybe one of them went over the edge. There are more than a few Looney Tunes in every crowd.”

Quandra looked at her boss. “You did get a lot of hate mail over that movie.”

He shrugged. “I think you’re right, Jeff - it is far-fetched.”

“Do you realize how extraordinary this is, Peter?” Mac boomed. “You’re standing here in my office” - there was too much flotsam and jetsam in the place for three visitors to sit - “discussing possible solutions to ‘your own’ murder! That is a pleasure granted to few.”

“Almost like a movie,” Gerard said with a laugh. But it was a short laugh, strangled at birth when he realized what he’d said. “It wouldn’t make a bad film at that, would it? But if this were a film I wouldn’t just be theorizing and talking about it. I’d investigate. I’d find the murderer, wouldn’t I?”

“Well, if you did, you’d certainly get a lot of publicity,” I said with malice aforethought.

Peter Gerard looked at me with steel in his hazel eyes. “I’ve never been opposed to that. Good press has a lot to do with where I am today. The more I think about it, the more the idea of solving ‘my own’ murder appeals to me.”

Oh, great. I’d really been hoping for that - another damned dime detective on the loose.

“It is only fair to alert you,” said Mac, “that I have the same intention.” And you’re not the only one, Mac. “Welcome to the game!”

Gerard gave a theatrical little bow, but he didn’t seem to me all that happy about sharing the spotlight. After that, nobody said anything for a while until Quandra spoke up with an abrupt change of subject.

“I find this a rather charming town, despite the tragedy last night. I’d really like to see more of it. I was wondering, Mr. Cody, if you might be free to show me around a bit before the lecture?”

“Jeff,” I corrected absently while I pondered the choice before me. I was being offered a chance to talk to Quandra Hall away from her boss and see if maybe she had a different take on this case than she was willing to share in front of him. On the other hand she was a young, attractive, female and I was sort of spoken for, in an unspoken way.

What would Max Cutter do?

“Certainly,” I said. “The Visitors Bureau would be proud of me. How about if I pick you up around six-thirty at your hotel and we’ll grab some dinner?” Dinner at a restaurant should be safe, being a public place and all. This was just business, like interviewing a source. Lynda would understand. Wouldn’t she? Lynda! OMG, she had called me and I hadn’t called her back. I’d better remedy that ASAP.

“Marvelous,” Quandra said. “We’re at the Winfield.”

“Don’t overdress. This is Erin.”

Peter Gerard looked at his watch. “We’d better get back to the Winfield right now. I need to freshen up and make a few calls before the lecture. I’ll have room service. Mac, it was great seeing you again.” He held out a hand.

Mac grabbed it and said, “It has been far too long, Peter.”

“Before you go,” I said, interrupting the love fest, “I have a question.” To me it was the most obvious question of all, and I was shocked that Mac hadn’t already asked it. “How is it that Rodney Stonecipher was here instead of you last night? I mean, why didn’t you show up for the dinner?”

“That’s simple enough. I was never invited. I knew nothing about a dinner last night.”

That was simple, all right - but a bombshell. I gaped at Mac, knowing he’d made all the arrangements with Gerard himself. Or at least I had thought so.

“This appears to be something we should take up with the inimitable Miss Guildenstern,” Mac rumbled. “Unfortunately, she went home with a headache shortly after I took up a little bagpipe practice.”

Mac turned to his old friend. “Peter, I must urge caution this evening especially. If someone were trying to kill you last night, that person might strike again. And a man at a lecture podium would make an excellent target.”