By the time Joanna and Paul awoke the next morning, Uncle Gene was gone. He’d left a hazelnut loaf cake and a note on the dining room table. “Won’t be home for dinner. Love, Uncle Gene.”
“It’s like he knows the memoir rats him out,” Joanna said, tossing the note back on the table. She pulled aside the barkcloth drapes and opened a window. The sky was nearly blue enough to taste, and the rain-scented air smelled better than any perfume.
“If it did, it doesn’t matter now that it’s disappeared. This cake is really good, though.” Paul had cut a thick slice and was eating it standing at the table.
“I hate to ask Mary Pat if Roscoe got a hold of the memoir somehow, but I suppose I should.” Reluctantly, she turned from the window. “I’ll make coffee.” She pushed up her kimono’s sleeves and passed through to the kitchen. “That cake looks homemade. I wonder where he’s been? I thought he and Melba were on the outs.”
“Maybe just a stalemate.” Paul wiped crumbs from his fingers. “We know he’s been somewhere with an accomplished pastry chef and enough baked goods that he was willing to leave some with us.”
“Know any bakeries run by crime rings?”
“Now, that’s an idea.” He pulled out a chair and stretched out his legs.
The day was already beginning to heat up, and Paul hadn’t bothered to put on a robe, but sat shirtless in boxer shorts. It was amazing how quickly Joanna had become used to having a half-naked man sitting around. When she’d chosen 1940s hibiscus-print linen to upholster the dining room chairs, she’d never considered this kind of occupant.
Kettle on, she pushed her fingers through his hair and kissed the top of his head. He wrapped his free arm around her waist. “What time do you have to be at the job site?”
“I’m milling a few pieces in the shop this morning. What about you? Is Apple working today? You were up late.”
She slowly detached herself and crossed to the kitchen to spoon ground coffee into a French press. “She has today off.”
“Was the script as good as you’d hoped?”
“It was a noir-ish story with a tortured hero who dies in the end. If what I hear is right, the main plot mirrors a real life murder.”
“Did the newspaper articles help?”
“They did. The newspaper said that the screenwriter’s sister, an actress named Brigid Blackburn, was killed when she confronted a burglar. If Starlit Wonder reflects what really happened, then Brigid was having an affair with David Sipriano. When Sipriano wanted out, Brigid threatened to tell his wife, so Sipriano killed her.” She pulled two mugs from the cupboard. When she’d lived alone, she drank from dainty tea and coffee cups in a mix of patterns. With Paul, it had seemed right to keep an eye out at thrift shops for handmade ceramic mugs in organic shapes. She liked the change.
“You said the tortured hero dies in the end.”
“That part is make believe. In the script, Sipriano is poisoned by his lover’s brother. In real life, he died of a heart attack.”
“Are you going to tell the detective?”
“I could.” She’d thought about it. “I’m not sure he’d care, though. I mean, a movie from sixty years ago? A movie that was never even released to the public? It’s a stretch. He wasn’t even interested in the memoir until he found out someone had kept it from him. He says he’s all about solving a homicide by looking at who had the means to kill. Not by motive.”
“But you want to get to the bottom of the motive.”
Something in his tone of voice made her turn around. He didn’t want her fooling around in this murder case. She knew it. But he accepted it. Maybe she wasn’t so bad at this marriage thing after all. She was being honest with him, and he was listening.
“Yes. I do. How do you feel about that?”
“I’d feel a lot better if you talked to the police about what you’ve learned. Let them take care of anything risky.”
She smiled. “Thank you. I’ll call Detective Roscoe. It can’t hurt.”
He sat up and leaned forward. “Besides, there are the dresses. You need to stay in touch with Stroden’s sister. No telling if she’ll decide to sell.”
Joanna poured boiling water over the coffee grounds. “You’re right. You should have seen the gold evening gown. Silk across the bodice, but a chiffon skirt so soft it would make a baby’s bum feel like sandpaper.” Remembering, she sighed. “Will you cut me a slice of the cake?” On second thought, she glanced at the clock. “Better not make it too thick. Maybe Roscoe will meet me for breakfast.”
Paul complied. As he laid the slice on a plate, he said, “Maybe the detective can tell you whether the jewels made it back to their owner.”
“Good point.” Some things she might not want to know.
Detective Roscoe refused Joanna’s invitation to breakfast, but said lunch was all right. They made a date for Fuller’s Coffee Shop. Mary Pat and Callie had both mentioned the diner as somewhere Bradley Stroden regularly ate. If nothing else, Joanna could sit for a while and soak in the atmosphere. Maybe it would inspire her. If luck held, she might even run into one of Stroden’s friends.
Fuller’s was that kind of place. It seemed to have emerged from the earth the same time Portland’s first resident pitched camp, and it had hummed along in a miasma of hash browns and thin coffee ever since. The coffee shop was a true lunch counter. It had no tables—simply a snaking of counter fronted with vinyl-topped stools bolted to the floor. At Fuller’s, to read the menu was to cross the portal to a world where the Monte Cristo reigned supreme and the waitress had your prune juice and oatmeal ready before you sat down.
Joanna set her purse at her feet and flipped over the coffee mug in front of her. The waitress filled her cup without asking and pulled over a dish of single-serve creamers.
“Know what you’d like?”
“What do you recommend?” Joanna didn’t miss the waitress’s quick once-over that pegged her as a newbie.
“I’ll leave you with the menu.” She slid a laminated sheet next to the coffee cup and crossed the counter to greet a man in a well-worn John Deere T-shirt.
“You might try the chicken fried steak,” the man sitting to Joanna’s left said.
“Which one?” the woman to his left asked. “The chicken or the beef?”
“They have chicken fried steak that’s chicken?” Joanna said.
“Oh, Fuller’s got laughed at when they put it on the menu,” the man said. “But they say it outsells the beef version two to one.”
The waitress returned. “Decided yet?”
“I’ll have the chicken fried steak,” Joanna said. “The one with chicken.”
“Coming up.” The waitress snatched up the menu and took a pitcher of iced tea to the far counter. A fan above the kitchen rustled a calendar near the cash register.
Joanna turned to the man. “Do you eat here often?”
The woman next to him snorted. Her skin was aged and colorless, but her eyes shone mink brown. “Is every day considered often?”
“How else am I going to keep my cholesterol numbers up?” the man said.
“I wonder if you ever met Bradley Stroden. He used to come here.”
“Bradley.” The man shoveled pancakes into his mouth. Once he’d swallowed, he said, “It’s been a while. Used to come in most every day for lunch, what, Linda? Twenty years ago?”
“Twenty, thirty,” she said. “When he had the studio next door. Why? You know him?”
Good grief. If they’d been eating here that long, it was a miracle they weren’t trailing oxygen tanks. “A bit. I have a vintage clothing store. I know he used to work for Edith Head.” In response to their blank looks, she added, “The Hollywood costume designer.”
“Bradley loved his dresses,” the woman said. “You should be talking to Howard. He’s the movie man.”
“Best boy,” the man said.
“Whatever that is,” his friend added.
With one hand, the waitress slid a platter of beige and brown food in front of Joanna while snatching a ticket from the rounder in front of the cook with the other.
“Does Howard come here?” Joanna asked. She’d heard his name, she was sure, if not from Mary Pat than from Callie.
“He’s right over there.”
Joanna followed the man’s finger to a plump, bald man making short work of a stack of toast and a yellow mound of scrambled eggs across the room. He wore suspenders marked with inches like a yardstick.
She was figuring out how to approach him, when the man in the John Deere T-shirt said, “Hey, Howard. Get your plate and step over here. Lady wants to talk to you about the movies.” He pushed away his plate and stepped down from the stool. He hitched up his pants, which, despite regular diner meals, were loose. “You can have my seat.”
Howard didn’t need a second invitation. The paper napkin tucked into his collar as a bib fluttered as he carried his food to the seat next to Joanna’s. “You a fan of old movies?”
Joanna recalled Callie asking her almost exactly the same thing. “Well, yes. A fan of the costuming, especially. Did you know Bradley Stroden?”
“Eat up,” Howard said, nodding at her platter. “The gravy’s nasty when it cools.” He laughed, a classic hee hee hee.
Joanna obeyed. The chicken fried steak’s skin was crispy and salty, and the gravy was rich with mushroom-like flavor. “Delicious.”
“So much better than the beef one.” He pondered that a moment while he tore off a corner of his toast with his teeth. “Yes, I knew Bradley. Poor man. At least he went quickly. Or so it sounded, anyway. Murder.” He shook his head. “Still can’t believe it.”
“You must have known him from the old days in California.”
“And here.” He placed a business card on the counter between them. “Handyman Howard,” it read. “No problem too big or too small.”
“Thank you, I’m Joanna.” She had her own resident handyman, lucky for her.
“When I had a job downtown, I used to drop by the studio or meet Bradley here,” Howard said. “Now I live in a condo in the Pearl.” He looked out the window as if seeing the block for the first time. “Isn’t it nuts? Neighborhood used to be all warehouses. Now it’s full of nose-in-the-air condos.” He shook his head. “Who’d have believed it?”
“The city has changed so much.”
He applied himself again to his scrambled eggs. “No joke. I got myself a job in one of the buildings, though, with a rent-free apartment thrown in. I tried to convince Bradley and Mary Pat to sell their pile on the hill and come join me, but they weren’t having any.”
Joanna couldn’t imagine Bradley Stroden giving up his Memphis sofa suite or antique ceramics to pare down to what would fit into a condominium. “I wonder, when you were both in Hollywood, did you happen to be around when Starlit Wonder was filmed?”
Howard choked on his eggs. He gulped ice water and cleared his throat. “Starlit Wonder?” His voice came out high-pitched. He coughed. “Starlit Wonder?” he repeated, this time more clearly.
“Yes. Mr. Stroden told me he had a story about the film in his memoir.”
“He did, did he?” Howard tapped his fork on the counter before dropping it on his plate. “I guess it’s all right now. But, still. I’m surprised.”
“So, there is a story. I talked with Callie Rampton, and she said the movie was about a real-life murder.”
“Callie’s talking now, too, huh?”
Joanna nodded once but didn’t speak. She willed him to continue.
“You know, I told Bradley that story in the first place. Made him promise to keep it secret. He always did love a good piece of inside news.”
“Was it the screenwriter? Did you hear it from him?”
“I did. Barely knew the man. As best boy, you get thrown into lots of situations. The director sent me out to deal with a lighting problem, and I ran into the screenwriter behind the set. That was strange all by itself.”
“The screenwriter wasn’t usually on the set?”
“Everything okay here?” the waitress asked.
“A-okay, Barbie,” Howard said.
She splashed coffee in their cups before moving on.
“Nope. It’s rare you see them. Blackburn was sitting where he could hear but not see and seemed to be mouthing words along with the cast. Strangest thing I’ve ever seen.” He shook his head. “On the verge of tears, even. “
Breakfast forgotten, Joanna stayed silent, letting Howard relive the moment.
“I asked him if he was all right. He said just one word. ‘Brigid.’”
“Brigid,” Joanna repeated. “That was his sister’s name.”
“Uh huh. That’s when he told me what he said was the real story behind Starlit Wonder. Which was basically the story of his sister’s murder. With the ending changed, of course. The movie ended with the producer drinking poison. Big Sip—that’s what we called him—”
Joanna nodded.
“—died of a heart attack years later. The poison bit must have been a threat. Part of Blackburn’s revenge.”
She lowered her voice. “Howard, if I were you, I wouldn’t tell anyone about this story.”
“I haven’t. Until now. Well, I told Bradley, but that was fifty years ago.”
“I have a hunch Mr. Stroden was murdered because of it. Be careful.”
“No kidding. Because of Starlit Wonder?”
“Someone might want to bury that story for good. I’m not sure who.” She poked at her breakfast. “Callie said that the Sip was a real womanizer.”
Howard snorted. “She should know. She was married to the guy.”
Joanna’s eyes widened. “Married to him? She didn’t tell me that.”
Howard nodded beyond her. “Hey, that gentleman seems to be looking for you.”
Joanna spun on the stool to face the door. In came Detective Roscoe.