The Big Brush-off (5 page)

This was hardly our first fight, but I didn't want to argue with Laura.

I stared at the closed door. “I shouldn't have used the word apologize. I didn't mean it.”

No answer.

I reached for the knob and tried to turn it. She'd locked the bedroom door.

I ran a hand over the back of my neck then jiggled the doorknob again. “Can we talk, please?”

Expecting her to unlock the door any second, I waited, then gave up. “Fine.”

I paced the room, hoping to calm myself, but instead, the frustration grew.

A knock sounded at the door. I jerked it open.

A bellhop stood holding another bouquet of red roses. “Mr. Wilson?”

“Donovan. Jake Donovan, not Wilson.”

“I have flowers for…”

I yanked the flowers from his hand and slammed the door. I set them on the floor beside the locked bedroom door, and the card fell from the bouquet. I reached to stuff it back in the small envelope and noticed the name of the sender: William Powell, the actor Laura dated when I was in Florida. I stuffed the card into the envelope and noticed the sound of a running shower coming from the bathroom.

I made a beeline for the door. I grabbed my fedora from the coatrack, stuffed the hat on my head, and stepped into the corridor.

As the door closed, I glanced down. I was barefoot and in my robe. I lunged for the door; too late. It closed with a click. I smacked my hand against the wall. Damn!

I took a deep breath and knocked. “Laura.” I glanced around the empty hallway. Although I doubted she could hear me through a locked door and running water, I raised my voice, hoping Laura would hear. “Laura, open the door. Please.”

Fortunately locked doors never kept me out for long. I just needed the proper tools to pick the lock. I stuffed my hands in the robe pockets and found them empty, as I expected. I glanced around for something to use.

A tray with dinner dishes sat on a cart one door down. I hurried to the cart and searched for something, anything I could use to pick the lock.

A steak knife was too large. I settled on a long fork that might work. I pressed the tines against the edge of the cart. With considerable effort on my part, the metal began to bend. When I managed a ninety degree angle, I stuck one tine into a pat of butter and carried the fork to the lock.

I studied the lock and wiped my brow with the back of my hand. I slid the bent tine into the keyhole. With the help of the butter, it slid into the opening.

Before I could work to trip the tumbler, the door behind me opened.

A gray-haired woman in a maid's uniform came out, pushing a cart of cleaning supplies. “Good morning.” Her friendly smile faded as she stared at my head.

I'd forgotten about my fedora. I snatched the hat from my head and flashed my most reassuring smile.

She noticed the fork inside the keyhole. “Sir, that's Miss Wilson's room.”

“I'm her husband.”

She moved behind the cart, keeping it between her and me. “Well, Mr. Wilson, what are you doing with a fork in your door?”

Hoping to avoid any unnecessary delay, I didn't correct her about my name. “Isn't it obvious? I got locked out. Why else would I be standing in the hallway in a robe and a hat?”

She grabbed a broom from the cart and gripped the handle like it was a baseball bat. “I was about to ask you that.”

I banged on the door, hoping Laura had stepped out of the shower. “Laura, let me in.”

“You have identification, sir?”

I tried not to shout. “In my robe?”

At the end of the corridor, the elevator door opened. A serious-looking man in a black suit stepped off. He walked toward us and gave me the once-over. “Anything wrong, Flo?”

She breathed a sigh of relief and set the broom back in the cart. “I caught this man trying to break into Miss Wilson's suite with a fork.”

He stared at the fork in the lock. “Step away from the door, please, Mr….”

The maid raised a skeptical eyebrow. “He claims to be Miss Wilson's husband.”

“I'm Hoyt Baker, the house detective, Mr. Wilson…”

“Donovan.”

He cocked his head. “Excuse me?”

“The name's Donovan. Jake Donovan. My wife is the Laura Wilson, and I'm a successful mystery writer. Maybe you've heard of me.”

“Can't say that I have.” He stared at the fork. “A writer of some repute who just happens to know how to pick a lock.”

Clearly emboldened by the house dick, Flo shook her head. “I've seen crazy things in the twenty years I've worked here, Mr. Whoever You Are. You're making your way to the top of my list.”

I held up one hand. “Just give me thirty seconds.”

“I said, step away from the door.” Baker slid one hand inside his coat jacket as if reaching for a gun.

I hadn't noticed a bulge in his jacket. I ignored the man and jiggled the fork. I tried again and the tumbler turned. I threw open the door. “I'll grab my wallet so I can prove who I am.”

I set the fedora on my head, cinched my robe, and stepped into the room.

The house dick and maid followed. Flo took a long breath. “A lot of damn roses. I suppose Miss Wilson expects me to keep them filled with water.”

I nodded. “I know.”

The bedroom door opened. Laura was in her robe, with a towel around her hair, no makeup on her face. She ignored her appearance, cinched her robe, and walked into the room like a Hollywood diva she clearly was not. “What's going on?”

The house detective tipped his hat. “You must be Miss Wilson.”

“I am.” She ignored me, obviously still angry.

Baker pointed at me. “We caught this man trying to pick your lock. He claims to be your husband.”

“Good heavens!” One hand went to Laura's neck. “My husband?”

For the most part I enjoyed being married to an actress, especially a talented comedian. Not this time, not when she was still upset with me.

Laura folded her arms. “I've never seen this man before.”

The maid clapped her hands. “I told you!”

Baker grabbed my elbow and tugged me toward the door. “You're coming with me.”

“Wait!” Laura finally ended her charade. She explained everything, including our spat.

When the detective and maid left, I closed the door, hearing Flo mumble something about a typical Hollywood couple.

Laura and I stared at each other.

I burst into laughter. “I guess I deserved that.”

Laura laughed. Before I could make an apology for my crack about all the flowers, she apologized.

“Darling, how could I expect you to concentrate on your career when every time you came into the room there's evidence of my recent success? Fame is fleeting. I hope when my career hits a bump in the road you'll be more understanding than I was. Can you ever forgive me?”

I wrapped my arms around her. “You deserve every rose, every card.”

I nodded toward the latest addition. “Your friend William Powell sent you roses.”

She picked them up and set them on the table. “How thoughtful.”

“Aren't you going to read the card?”

Laura shrugged. “Why don't you save me time and tell me what it says?”

“I didn't read it.”

She pulled the card from the envelope and smiled as she read. “Bill, you are a naughty boy.”

“Very funny.”

Laura set the card on the coffee table. Her playful expression vanished as she led me to the couch. “Darling, I did some thinking in the shower. When you moved to Florida without me, you became one of the most successful mystery writers in the country. Since you and I got together, your career has suffered. Maybe Mildred's right, I'm not good for your career.”

“Go back further, when I decided to give writing a go, wanting to be the next Dashiell Hammett. You offered your encouragement and advice. Then I got the crazy idea of leaving Mickey and writing full-time and you encouraged me. I never would've succeeded if not for you.”

“Darling, do you really feel that way?”

“Of course I do, because it's the truth.”

She blinked away tears. “When we left New York for Hollywood, you left something behind, your ambition, so you could help make me a star. Worst of all, I let it happen. I'll never be able to repay your generosity, your caring.”

I held her hand. “I did what I wanted to do.”

“I know.” She stared at her hands. “Mildred's right about one thing, you have to get away from New York and regain a focus on your writing.”

I nodded. “You're right.”

Laura jumped to her feet. Her eyes sparkled. “We should leave today.”

“What about Gino? He's taking a couple days off.”

“Darling, you're doing it again. Put yourself at the top of the list for a change. Besides, Gino's your friend. He'll understand.”

“Where would you suggest we go?”

“Isn't it obvious?”

Not to me. I shrugged.

“Hanover, Pennsylvania!”

Hanover?

Smiling, Laura spun in a circle, like a little girl in the middle of a toy store. “The way you described Hanover, it's the perfect place to get away from city life. You'll get a fresh, relaxing start there, I just know it!”

“You think so?”

“We're going there anyway for the memorial service.”

My thoughts returned to the town I hadn't expected to see again. Ten years ago, Hanover could have been on a magazine cover as Small Town, USA. The place was a quiet hamlet where people listened to bands play in a town square. I stayed at the Hanover Inn, a quiet place run by a friendly man and his two kids.

Hanover was the perfect place to write, but once I returned I wouldn't be able to resist looking into Katie's murder. Years ago I'd left the crime unsolved and never liked the taste that left in my mouth.

I could write novels, but I'd never shake my interest in solving cases others couldn't or wouldn't. “What about your studio? Maybe I should go to Hanover and you should catch a flight to Hollywood and finalize your next movie deal with your manager.”

Laura cocked her head. “Why do you say that?”

“What do you mean?”

“Last night before we left for Gino's, Paul called while you were in the shower.”

Her manager, Paul Sawyer, was an arrogant fop of a man. If you weren't in “the business,” as Paul called it, he ignored you like you were invisible. I despised the worm, but he helped make her a star.

“He wants me on the next flight to California to help wrap up the details of my next picture.”

“Then you should go.”

“I told him you and I need some time together. Besides, the studio encouraged me to take time off between films. I'm not expected back for two weeks.”

I studied her face. “What will you do while I'm writing?”

“I could shop and…”

“Shop? You're used to shopping in New York and Beverly Hills.”

“Darling, don't be such a snob.” She pulled me to my feet. “Let's pack.”

I grabbed the phone. “I better call Gino and break the news to him.”

“Darling, I think you should tell him face-to-face.”

Laura was right, as usual. I hung up.

Two hours later, showered, shaved, and dressed in casual trousers and a comfortable blue cotton shirt, I set more of our bags beside the front door of the hotel suite. While Laura finished dressing, I called the front desk for a bellhop to help with the luggage and ordered a pot of coffee. Of course, we'd have to stop by Gino's and break the news to him before heading to Grand Central Station.

I returned to the bedroom and grabbed the last of the suitcases. As I walked by the rose table, one of the bags jostled it. A vase with a dozen red roses toppled over. Roses and water spilled onto the table, along with a handwritten card.

I set the bags down and returned the roses to the vases. A thorn punctured my thumb. “Damn.”

Laura returned from the bedroom with a towel and wiped up the water.

I picked up the card that slid from the small white envelope and read the handwritten note.
Congratulations on wrapping up your latest movie. Hope we can work together soon, Clark.

“Clark? Not Clark Gable.”

“No, Lewis and Clark.” Laura stuffed the card back in the envelope.

It was hard to believe how famous Laura had become since our high-school days in Queens. “Your next movie is going to be with Clark Gable?”

She shrugged. “He's just being nice.”

“Guys that good-looking shouldn't be nice.”

“Nothing's been decided yet. The studio would have to loan me out to MGM.”

“Why wouldn't they? Co-starring with Gable would make you an even bigger star than you already are. You can't go to Hanover.”

“Of course I can.” She began to remove the card that accompanied each bouquet of flowers.

“You have to go back to Hollywood and close the deal.”

“I thought we already settled this. We're going to Hanover.”

Maybe I had set aside my career for Laura's the past two years. But I couldn't let her make the same mistake on my account. She'd regret it. Maybe not now, but soon and forever. “Laura.”

A knock sounded at the door.

Laura finished gathering the flower cards. “Would you get that, dear? It must be the bellhop. And give him a nice tip.”

“Don't worry, I have plenty of nickels.” I winked.

As I went to the door, a familiar voice came from the corridor. “Vice squad. All right you two, get your clothes on and open the door.”

I couldn't help but smile at Gino's voice. I opened the door.

Wearing a tan bush shirt, trousers, and a straw hat, Gino marched past me and tossed his hat on a rack beside the front door. “Do you know there's butter dripping from your doorknob?” He gazed around the room at all the roses Laura had received. “Looks like a wedding…or funeral.”

Before I could reply, Gino's brow narrowed as he noticed the bags beside the door and frowned. “You going somewheres?”

Laura didn't look like she would be much help breaking the news to Gino, as she turned away from our friend and crossed the room. How could I explain the change in plans to our old friend?

Gino muttered under his breath. His narrow gaze went from the bags to me. He folded both arms across his chest. “Spill it, Donovan. What's with the bags? You don't need suitcases for Coney Island.”

Laura spoke in the soothing voice she used while breaking up arguments between Gino and me when we were kids. “Something came up.”

Gino glanced around the room. “You moving to a bigger suite to accommodate more flowers?”

Laura laughed.

Gino slipped a flask from his back pocket and took a swallow. “Where're you going, California, Hawaii…Paris?”

Our friend was sore and had a right to be. He rarely took time off from work and now we were giving him the brush-off. “I'm sorry, it's just…”

Gino took another swallow. “Well, as long as you're sorry.”

Laura and I still hadn't resolved whether she would return to Hollywood or accompany me. “Laura's returning to Hollywood…”

She stomped her foot. “I am not!”

“…and I'm going to Hanover, Pennsylvania.”

Laura set her hands on her hips. “We're both going to Hanover.”

“You two've been in town for two weeks and we've barely seen each other. I took two days off. I could understand if you had to get back to Tinseltown so Laura could start a new picture, but what's in Hanover that's so damn important?”

When I tried to gather my thoughts, he marched toward the door.

“Give me a minute and I'll explain.” I followed him.

A knock sounded. Gino yanked open the door and stepped aside.

The young bellhop who'd delivered the roses William Powell sent wore an eager-to-please look and stood with a cart for the luggage and a tray with coffee, cream, and sugar. The kid slapped a stack of mail in my hand. “Sweet shoes, Mr. Donovan.”

“Thanks.” I handed the letters to Laura and nudged enough vases aside on the flower table to set the tray down. Even without checking, I knew they were fan letters.

I took Gino's arm and eased him away from the door before closing it. “Don't leave until you hear me out.”

A sheepish look spread across Laura's face, and she set the letters on the flower table. “Darling, what are we going to do with all these roses? Gino, could you use some of these flowers at your restaurant?”

“Secondhand flowers?” Gino poured coffee into a cup and added a splash of booze. “Yeah, sure. That makes everything square.”

I just wanted to explain. “Damn it, Gino. Pipe down a minute and listen.”

The bellhop's eyes widened, and he began to load the bags onto the cart.

“Okay, I guess I better listen when Jake Donovan uses a four-letter word.” Gino pulled a chair from the rose table and sat. “But hurry it up. If I'm not going to Coney Island, there's work I can do back at the restaurant. So, what's in Hanover?”

I began from the beginning. “Hanover was the site of my last Pinkerton case.”

Gino snapped his fingers. “Your last Pinkerton case. The unsolved murder of the teenage girl.”

“I told you about that?”

Laura shook her head. “Jake never told me until today.”

I explained the visit from Mary Caldwell and the decision to go back for the memorial service on Sunday.

The bellhop finished loading the bags onto the cart. “The dead girl have a boyfriend? It's always the boyfriend.” He stood beside the cart and held out his hand.

I slapped a dollar into his hand, then handed him another. “Oh, and we'd like these flowers delivered to Gino's Restaurant in Queens.”

“All of them?” The kid stared at the two bills in his hand. “This is for the bags, right?”

“Jake's a cheap bastard.” Gino pulled a sawbuck from his wallet. He stuffed the bill into the bellhop's hand. “Take care of the flowers. They're secondhand.”

Gino rose and downed the rest of the coffee. “So you're going back to solve the murder.”

I shook my head. “No, I'm going to work on my novel until the memorial service.”

“Now I know you're just messing with me.” Gino chuckled.

He headed for the door, set his hat on his head, and smoothed the brim. “Even if you're going to Hanover to write, you'll find a way to solve the murder.”