Do you ever have one of those days where you wish you could hit a rewind button and start over? Not only had I bungled my detective work, making myself look like Inspector Clouseau instead of Nero Wolfe, but I had lied to and offended a young woman who had done nothing to me, and ruined any chance of talking to Samantha’s fellow actors. I also likely put Samantha onto my trail, turning the tables on myself. And to top it off, Henri was in the hospital.
I wanted to crawl into a cave and hibernate.
I holed up in my condo instead. A thunderous storm had drenched the city, then quickly rolled eastward, leaving a pleasant touch of moisture in the cool evening air but it didn’t refresh me. I changed from my pseudo-Hollywood producer slacks and dress shirt to a T-shirt and shorts. I grabbed a beer and sat watching reruns of Gilligan’s Island. After three episodes, I wondered what so many other astute people have wondered over the years: If the Professor could make a radio out of a coconut, why couldn’t he fix a hole in the boat and get them off the island?
I flipped through the channels until I found a classic film noir, Sweet Smell of Success, considered by many to be the best film noir movie ever. It played in the background while I grabbed some chips, salsa, and another beer.
Sweet Smell of Success switched to Mildred Pierce, with Joan Crawford. Another classic film, but I wasn’t in the mood for Joan’s onscreen tragedies. I searched around but couldn’t find the remote. But I did see the note Deuce had written me the night they brought me home from the hospital. It was still attached to the notepad.
I smiled as I reread it. That was a few days ago. Now, the cut on my head itched like a bad sunburn. But the stitches were about to come out, and my ribs were feeling slightly better, so I thought I might as well sever all reminders of that ghastly night. I tore the page off the notepad, crumpled it, and tossed it on the coffee table.
On the next page of the pad were more scribbled notes. I didn’t recognize the handwriting at first, but as I read a bit, I realized that this was the notepad I’d taken from Ned’s house and this must be Ned’s writing. I flipped through the pages until I came to my own notes concerning Ned’s real estate transactions.
On the top of that sheet was a handwritten list of websites. Hmm, I hadn’t noticed seeing them before. They all seemed related to movies. With a curiosity born of frustration with my lack of progress, I went into my home office and booted up the computer. After a few clicks, I was on the Internet. I typed in the address of the first website on the list.
A colorful page sprung up, displaying all kinds of information about films of the 1940’s. I read with enthusiasm, clicking from page to page, and actor to actor. Once I’d exhausted the information from the website, I typed in another address, and this time, the website was all about movie posters.
Humphrey Bogart movies were among the listed items, and I found The Maltese Falcon poster that Ned had owned and that was now at Henri’s store. It was among four styles originally printed and was thought to be fairly rare.
Ned had obviously been doing some research and must have found a copy of the poster this way. I wondered how much he’d had to pay for it.
I visited a few more websites that were listed on the notepad, reading more on classic movies and old posters. A couple of sites dedicated to Oscar trivia caught my eye as well. I took the quizzes and did fairly well. Too bad having a brain full of Hollywood trivia didn’t pay the bills.
The movie on television ended, and I glanced at the computer clock. It was almost midnight. I had completely lost track of the time.
I shut down the computer and tumbled into bed, hoping that tomorrow I could salvage the pieces of my investigation.
*****
I was in the shower the next morning, fantasizing that I’d won the Best Actor Oscar for my performance as The Great Detective, and in the middle of thanking everyone from Humphrey Bogart’s spirit to my non-existent agent, it hit me. I’d missed it last night when I was on the computer, but I was almost positive about it now.
I hopped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around my waist, and hurried to the phone, dripping water all over the carpet as I went.
I dialed Henri’s cell phone and hoped that Evaline would pick up. I chided myself for forgetting Henri's notes when I left his shop. After four rings, I was sent to voice mail.
“Damn it!” I tossed the phone down and threw on a pair of jeans and a shirt.
I didn’t bother with breakfast, but flew out the door, down the stairs and to the garage. In fifteen minutes, I was sprinting into the ICU, where Evaline was perched by Henri’s bed, a Bible in her hands. She was quietly reading from the Psalms.
“It keeps him calm,” she said, looking up from the book. “It keeps me calm, too.”
I pulled up a chair beside her and surveyed Henri. He didn’t seem as pale, but he’d taken on a grizzled look with his stubbly jaw and matted hair. He did seem peaceful however, with his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm.
“Evaline, I need to get into the store,” I said. “Henri has something there that I need. I think he was going to give it to me the other day, but by the time I showed up at the shop, he’d already been attacked.”
Evaline closed the Bible and swiveled in the chair so she was facing me directly. “But I cannot leave my Henri. What if he wakes up? He will need me.”
I reached out and grasped her hand. “I know. That’s very important, and I wouldn’t be asking if this weren’t important as well. It won’t take very long.”
She searched my eyes. “Okay. If it means that much to you, we will go to the shop.”
“Thank you,” I murmured.
Evaline gathered up a purse the size of a grocery sack, laid the Bible on a small nightstand by the bed, and followed me to my car. I drove us from St. Anthony’s to the shop and parked around back by the alley entrance.
“I set the alarm,” I said. "Do you know the code?"
“I think so,” Evaline nodded as we walked to the back door.
I hoped she did know the code because I didn't want to see any police at the store again.
“Let me find the right key,” Evaline paused by the back door. She dug around in her purse. I thought she’d be able to find Texas in that bag by the time she extracted a set of keys. She fanned them out, and finally selected one.
“Here it is,” she said as she inserted it into the lock.
The door opened with a squeak and we stepped through a tiny hallway and into the back workroom area. The room was hot and stuffy, and I immediately began to sweat. Loud beeps pierced the silence. Evaline rushed to the alarm, pressed a few buttons, and the beeping stopped.
“Oh, my Henri loves this place,” she mused, her eyes brimming with tears.
I hadn’t been aware of the toll this was taking on her. Her eyes seemed more concave, and weary lines etched the soft skin on her face.
“Everything will be fine.” I put my arm around her shoulder, trying to comfort her.
After a small moment of tears, Evaline pulled a handkerchief from her purse – she found this right away – dabbed her eyes, and pushed me into the store.
“I’m fine. Go. Find what you need.”
I rushed to the counter and found Henri’s notes. I perused them quickly and found exactly what I thought I would find: Information about the Oscar statuette, its weight, the reel of film with 8 slots, and details about an award for Luise Rainer. Best Supporting Actress, 1937. The very same description for the same Oscar had been in Ned's scribbled notes.
“Bingo,” I said, grabbing the notes.
“Just that?” Evaline came around behind me. “Take them.”
“Are you sure?”
She nodded her head vigorously. “It will be fine. You can return it when Henri is better.”
“Thank you.” I leaned down and planted a kiss on her cheek. She blushed as shyly as a teenager.
“Let’s lock up,” she said. “I must get back to my Henri.”
*****
I drove Evaline back to the hospital and sat with her for a while, but my mind was on the folder that sat on the back seat of the 4-Runner. I was sure I was onto something, but a piece or two were missing.
When it seemed like a polite amount of time had passed, I thanked Evaline for her time, and left.
I nearly ran to the car, jumped in, and defied all traffic laws for speeding as I raced home. I parked on the street and ran up the front porch steps just as Deuce came out of his condo.
“Hey, where’s the fire?” he asked. He had on slacks and a nice shirt, a sure sign that he was on his way to work.
“What?” I asked him.
“That’s what Bob says whenever I’m in a hurry.”
“Oh, yeah.” I chuckled. “I finally got a break on the case. That’s what I’m going to check on.”
“Cool.” Deuce pulled the hood of his coat over his head. “It’s gray out here.”
I was headed up the stairs, but I stopped with one foot in midair.
“What?”
“It’s gray.” Deuce pointed at the sky, which had turned overcast in the last hour. “It might rain.”
“Yeah, it might.”
I waved goodbye and continued up the stairs to my place.
I let myself in, grabbed a soda from the refrigerator, and plopped down at the kitchen table. I spread out Henri’s notes and read through them carefully. When I was finished, one more brick in the proverbial wall of this case was in place.
Elbows on the table, I stared out the small, square kitchen window that overlooked the backyard. If what I was thinking was true, another question remained. How had Ned gotten the poster?
It all seemed too crazy to be believed.
Menacing clouds formed in the sky. They rolled around, as if they were mulling over the decision whether to rain or not. A bolt of lightning flashed in the distance. The wind was picking up and the branches on the big oak trees in the yard were swaying.
Deuce was right. It was definitely gray out.
I sat up.
Some tidbit of a clue hovered around in my brain, just out of grasp of my conscious retrieval. It was right there, so close I could almost touch it. What had I missed?
I went to the living room and again looked at the notepad that I’d taken from Ned’s house. I flipped through his notes until I found it.
A list of colors. Including “gray”, with a circle around it.
I grabbed Ned’s real estate files and my notes. The connection hit me like a bullet. I rushed into the other room, searched the Internet for a number, picked up the phone and dialed.
“Edna? It’s...” I paused. “Philip Marlowe,” I said, hoping that was the same name I’d used when I’d met her in Conifer. When she didn’t react, I said, “I met you at your place and we talked about your father’s house.”
“Oh, yes. You’re the young man who was interested in architecture. How are you?”
“I’m fine, thanks. I was doing some research about the neighborhood around 210 Madison, and I have a question for you.”
“Yes?”
“What was your father’s name?”
“Gray. Robert Gray. But he went by Frank.”