Murder Makes a Comeback

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 2

At Camelot: Fresh from her third divorce, Robin’s sister, Vivian Dumas, was often a houseguest at Camelot, despite her own lovely home being barely an hour’s drive away. No longer in show business, Vivian had long ago wisely realized her theatrical accomplishments had reached their deserved zenith when she’d made the chorus. Nevertheless, she’d never lost her love of the theatrical, nor her taste for glamour.

Through heavily mascara-beaded lashes, Vivian watched as scurrying servants hung hundreds of elaborate, colorful costumes upon racks which had been wheeled into the smaller of two ballrooms off the Great Hall, which was to be used as a dressing area for guests who arrived sans costume – racks crammed with glittering, sparkling fantasies.

“Lizzie, come see! Some of these look quite scandalous,” Viv giggled to her approaching older sister, Elizabeth Hall, noticing her slightly slowed step yet, just as silently, admiring her matching hair dye; now, both were topped in a rich sable brown and, Viv was sure, looked years younger.

Though both Viv and Lizzie were in their fifties, only a few years older than their kid sister, Robin, all three felt they were still just girls. And, to a man of A.J.’s 77 years, no doubt they were. Both knew exactly what they were wearing, and it wasn’t from the ready-made racks of A.J.’s collection, some of which – horrors! – were rented from the film studio where he still housed offices for his Galaxy Productions. Unspoken, was the discomfort both felt at being unescorted for the party. Despite the contradiction of thirty years of unwedded bliss with Robin, A.J.’s moralistic philosophy forbade at Camelot (for others) anything but the propriety of separate sleeping quarters, had either of them attended with a mere boyfriend. Therefore, both had opted, reluctantly, to just come alone. And with the party’s chosen theme, ”Legends or Lovers,” it was obvious, if unsaid, both would, necessarily, attend as “legends.”

“Miss Dumas has asked for you both to please join her in the library,” announced A.J.’s male secretary.

“Thank you, Francis,” Viv responded, though looking not at him, rather, invisible bits of lint she painstakingly removed from her skirt. “Did she say why?”

“I believe it’s to be a surprise,” he replied in an even cool tone.

Their tiny high heels clicked across the gleaming marble tiles of the vast floor of the Great Hall. Neither could imagine what might be in store for them from their generous Robin. Nothing had ever been denied their undying ambitions for material goods. What could it be?

Viv was glad to see Lizzie looking so well, especially considering the strain of raising Did, her neurotic only child from her first of three failed marriages. Lizzie, too, had attempted a film career. She’d had several small, yet noteworthy roles in a few films (Though often awarded more to curry favor with Robin sand A.J. than for her true talents). And, to everyone’s surprise, she’d actually revealed a promising talent, only no one particularly cared, least of all the lazy-minded Lizzie. And, as with Viv, she, too, was content to live in the shadow of her kid sister’s money. Nevertheless, the sisters had remained a loving trio.

Through the massive oak doors with their heavy ornamentation of Gibbons carvings, Robin strained to hear the chatter of her approaching sisters as they were led by Francis into the library. She wished she could be more fond of Francis, but despite his occasional (and forced) Cheshire Cat smile, she found him merely cold and officious.

After a quick, generous slug of bourbon, Robin replaced the bottle in her hidden cache deep in the recesses of the library shelves, which always seemed a safe enough place. After all, A.J. seldom read anything other than and occasional detective novel, preferring, otherwise, to scrutinize the numerous newspapers and magazines he owned. Robin had booze hidden all over the house, but the library was her favorite spot. She liked its cool, slightly musty air, the subtle sparkle of color which the tiny sliver of invading sunlight played upon the various colored bindings and gilt edges, as it filtered its way through the lace curtains. She felt like a tiny Alice in her own Wonderland, with its thousands of volumes lining its walls, from floor to its two-storied ceiling. A nice place to have a drink.

Viv and Lizzie joined her, as Francis, with a slight sniff of ill-concealed disapproval, bid them a good afternoon and left.

“Now, before you try to guess,” warned Robin, smiling, “it’s not something you can take home with you; it’s something – or, rather, someone – who’s come home, to us!” Robin’s pale pink tapered nails arched gracefully, as her knuckles smartly rapped on the library door connecting to the study, and in walked a very pale, somewhat frail and elderly man of martinet manner. However, despite his tight yellowing smile and bright pinpoints of bloodshot hazel eyes, his heavily lined mask of a face wore a look of perpetual appraisal; the attempted divertissements of neatly slicked-back curly wisps of hair on top and a small pointy waxed moustache below only further punctuated this effect.

“Maestro!” they both cheered. “Oh, how wonderful! It’s been so, so long! So good to see you again!” And so on, though they cried with sincere happiness.

Robin added, “And Mischa’s going to be our houseguest for awhile. And, as far as I’m concerned, I hope, forever!” she gushed, though not completely truthfully.

Mischa Orloff had been their dear friend, despite their great age differences, since their childhood, when their mother had somehow scraped together the funds needed for them to study at his “Orloff School of the Dance.” The school had only then been recently founded, after Mischa had abandoned his promising, but unprofitable, ballet troupe. At the time, everyone sympathized with just how painful, though, necessary, such a sacrifice must have been for him. Everyone, that is, except perhaps that troupe of brilliant dances themselves, left stranded in Prague, without pay, thousands of miles from their native countries, when Mischa just departed with the disappointing box office takings. Nevertheless, New York, its three little Brooklyn girls included, had welcomed his egocentric personality as yet one more contribution to the city’s tapestry of artists and exiled genius.

Years later, after Mischa school collapsed under the brunt of poor management and insufficient capital, Robin made it a point to use his supervision in her films whenever possible. Usually, his task was a minor one, most often merely choreographing extras in a ballroom sequence. However, Robin did make one musical, “Pretty Peggy O’Neill,” a costly failure, though dear to A.J.’s heart, since it featured Robin as he liked to think of her: a Cupid’s bow-mouthed innocent with long sausage curls and a borrowed Mary Pickford-ish mischievousness. The picture wasn’t really bad, but audiences found out of step with current tastes, and, worse, it stretched credibility to watch, as one critic pointed out, “An over-thirty actress playing what was basically a child’s role.” Robin had done it for A.J., happy to offer Mischa an important role in the production. But now, if the fraying of Mischa’s Russian-styled shirt cuffs were any indication, he’d fallen on hard times.

“I’ve thought of you so often,” Lizzie lied, having always avoided memories of her earlier ambition to be a performer.

A warm profusion of hugs and kisses (hands, then cheeks), sandwiched with girlish squeals that permeated even the thick stone walls holding those teak shelves. Unavoidably, the girls’ minds brimmed with childhood memories, as Mischa held them close and tenderly thought of… the new California-based “Orloff School of the Dance,” which he hoped to bankroll with Robin’s money, though he hadn’t told her yet. Since Mischa was to be a houseguest, there would be time later to reminisce and, thereby, feel young again. As Mischa with his now-girlish trio left chattering from the library into the adjacent Great Hall, Mischa spied the long monastic table set with a dozen Ming bowls, brimming with pieces of a gigantic jig-saw puzzle.

“Oh, that’s A.J.’s idea, to pass the time,” explained Robin. “We always gather here at five o’clock to a cocktail before dinner, at six.”

“Oh, A.J. loves anything in the puzzle line,” added Viv. “Riddles, word games, games of logic, you name it!”

Lizzie heard the soft purr of the motor as the shiny Rolls limo rode into view up the mile-long driveway. Moments later, Willis, Robin’s handsome chauffeur, resplendent in aubergine livery, opened the car door for the lovely elfin young woman, Lizzie Hall’s daughter, Didi.“Oh, Lizzie, she looks lovely as ever,” said Robin, with a trace of relief. She was glad to see what had once been the more visible scars, of eyes revealing fright and bewilderment, were now but the lovely wide-eyed features of a girl who had, at last, successfully crossed the threshold to womanhood. Robin had reason to be concerned. After all, the past few months back East had been the longest time Didi had spent successfully outside the various mental institutions, clinics, and rest homes that had plagued her since 1933, just after her sixteenth birthday. Seventeen terribly tortured years for a Didi that never seemed quite as normal as she did now.

“Yes, she looks just fine, doesn’t she?” Lizzie asked, allowing herself a rare maternal moment of satisfaction, pleased to perceive Didi had covered her remaining face freckles with a becoming dusting of powder.

Once out of the car, Didi Hall stretched as only an attractive woman of a totally unself-conscious thirty-three years can; almost balletic, thought Mischa. Robin instructed the servants to have Didi’s things immediately sent to “the Princess Room,” a small, elegantly feminine suite on the main floor, with French doors of etched glass that overlooked the rose garden. A giant golden bell sounded from its tower far beyond the vast sprawling wings, an appendage to the house, as Didi went directly to the Great Hall, where guests, on signal, were now beginning to assemble for cocktails.

Cocktails at Camelot were always a curiously sober affair. A.J., though himself a tea-toatler (perhaps that being a part of the problem) only allowed his guests one (And only one) cocktail before dinner, usually sherry. Yet, perhaps thinking it was some grand tradition, he still observed a “cocktail hour.” It was not always an amusing task to feign enjoying one’s sole drink for an hour’s time, though this, nevertheless, had long been the custom, and maybe partly due to A.J.’s concern over what, in rare candid moments, he coined, “Robin’s little problem.” Booze. Tonight, only a very light repast would be served, due to the gigantic party to follow later.

The bell had clearly sounded five. Wherever a guest happened to be, they’d hear that loud, clear bell and know it was time to gather in the Great Hall. That was expected, without exceptions. Until that time, however, A.J. and Robin always encouraged their guests to roam quite freely, unrestricted by the regimen of any planned afternoon activities.

The Great Hall was a cold stone room with a gigantic fireplace beneath its suffocating vaulted ceiling, already overly festooned with medieval flags of once bright colors that arched and dipped menacingly below from their lofty darkness. Along with the monastic table and its gigantic jig-saw puzzle, there were a few uncomfortable pieces of furniture, as well as armor, swords, shields, a large and exquisitely-worked silver and gold embroidered altar frontal, hung as a tapestry, and a beautifully carved floor-to-ceiling cabinet, which displayed an eclectic assortment of attractively arranged weapons – guns, swords, a mace, a cross-bow, etc. A noisily roaring fire, often necessary y even in the so-called warmed months, helped offset the pervasive damp chill that seemed to permeate from the massive stone walls. Many guests had discreetly remarked among themselves how the room resembled a gigantic crypt. With cruel kindness, a tray-bearing servant appeared to serve small and tepid glasses of an unexciting sherry. One, each.

*

By the time their plane landed, Lynn knew she was attracted to the handsome, young man chatting beside her. He knew nothing about her, just liked her on instinct; the thought pleased her.

“Do you have to run off right away?” he asked. “I know nothing about Chicago, but won’t you join me for dinner?”

Within an hour, he had checked into his hotel and, since they were now hungry, at her suggestion he left her luggage with his, and they were off for cocktails and dinner. Together they discovered “Tony’s,” a tiny Italian restaurant with checkered oilcloths on the tables and dripping candles in straw-bottom wine bottles.

“What brings you back to Chicago, if you’ve been living all this time in New York?” he asked.

“Not much. I just wanted to get away, see some… uh, relatives, nothing very interesting. But, please, tell me about you…,” she countered. And he did.

*

“I don’t know how long I’ll stay in Chicago,” explained Lynn, now that he’d reverted the topic back to her. “I just had to get away.”

“From New York?” Martin chuckled. “Sounds like you’ve got a bad case of ‘island fever.’ But, Lynn, how can I see you again?”

“Since you don’t know yet where you’ll be staying, why not leave me your uncle’s name and address. I’ll write you. Actually,” she giggled, “I had been already toying with the idea of visiting California myself, but I didn’t want you to think I was chasing after you.”

“Chase me, chase me!” he joked, taking her hands in his. Then, his arms about her waist, they walked slowly back through the Chicago streets and its varied neighborhoods, not wishing to share their time with even a cab driver. Supposedly, they were returning to Martin’s hotel for Lynn’s luggage. They knew better.

Once a top reviewer, his name long-forgotten, this was from his last review. After publication, A.J. bought the paper and closed it down. It was rumored he later worked at a gas station, and died young.