Soap on a Rope Page 6

  “He knew Silas Lamb?” I settled on a stool, stunned to know that Lizzy’s father was mentored by the greatest magician ever—next to Harry Houdini.

  “Nelson could play the young innocent real well. When he wasn’t the Masked Dangler, he acted as a part-time assistant for Silas. He worked for him until he knew all the great man’s secrets, which ended up as a two-way street. Silas learned Nelson was the Masked Dangler.

  Lizzy appeared dazed when she said, “How do you know that, Grams?”

  “Just happened to overhear an argument between them when Silas stopped by the house one evening. Silas was soon to leave on a world tour culminating in making the Eiffel Tower disappear. Evidently Nelson thought it was the perfect time to threaten to reveal all of Silas’ illusions unless Silas paid him to keep quiet.”

  I was confused. “But Silas had something on Nelson. He knew he was the Masked Dangler.”

  “Exposing Nelson would only result in less revenue at the dangling events. Part of the reason for his popularity was the mysteriousness. But exposing Silas’ secrets would destroy his world tour and end his career.”

  A blip was on my radar screen. “When did this happen relative to the last dangle in paradise?”

  Grams smiled at me. “I knew you’d ask that. Two nights after their argument, Nelson was shot in the arena—not in the arena—in the shoulder in the arena. And yes, I suspected Silas but didn’t say anything to the police because it would have exposed Nelson as a blackmailer. My son wasn’t hurt badly and was adamant that I keep my mouth shut about everything.”

  I pressed my finger under my chin and closed my gaping mouth. “Did any one suspect Silas?”

  “No reason to. As far as anyone knew, Silas was Nelson’s mentor and there were no problems between them. Silas split for Europe the following day to start his tour.”

  She honked again. Grams had a lot of wind for a small woman.

  “Nelson was in the hospital overnight. The discharging doctor told him not to operate any heavy machinery. So being his only friend and his mother, I drove him on his errands the next day. He was hot to get to The First Bank of Starfish Cove. He ordered me to sit in the lobby while he met with the manager. My son thought he was so clever.”

  I reached over and closed Lizzy’s mouth with my one-finger chin-lift.

  “He was up to something. I pretended to search for the bank’s powder room. That’s when I happened to overhear Nelson talking to the manager—wasn’t easy cause the office door was closed and I had to press my ear against it.” Grams shook her head. “Two million was wired to Nelson’s account right after the shooting!”

  “Silas?” I asked.

  Grams nodded. “Had to be. Silas couldn’t let Nelson go public with his secrets and probably thought that by paying off, Nelson wouldn’t suspect he was the shooter. At age twenty-one my son had a small fortune and an army of locals who hated him for his attitude. Remember that was back when a million bucks was still a million bucks. Nelson covered it by bragging about inheriting a fortune and lording it over folks. The rest is history.”

  The circle in this tale was closing. “I’ve seen stories that Silas died under suspicious circumstances doing a trick.”

  “His first international performance became his last. Silas’ most remarkable illusion was cutting himself in half. This time the stunt was more successful than he expected. He died on stage at the London Coliseum.”

  Grams studied her gloves unable to face us for long minutes. Finally she looked up. “The investigation revealed someone tampered with Silas’ props probably before they were shipped overseas. My son told me he was afraid Silas would make another attempt on his life when he returned from Europe.”

  A huge tear rolled out of her eye. “A child is a mother’s greatest pleasure but can also be her greatest burden.”

  The bell over the door jangled.

  I squinted, the glare of sunlight caused my eyes to water. The hazy figure looked like Lizzy coming in—but it couldn’t be because she was standing next to me.

  Our visitor dashed from the door to Grams. She lifted the elderly lady from her seat with one hand. “Oh Grams! I am so sorry for you!”

  Lizzy ran around the counter and joined the hug-a-thon. “Pam! My sweet baby sister—why does it take something so awful to bring us together? I missed you!”

  The three ladies wept, but in my professional opinion it was more about reuniting than the loss of Nelson Dingler.

  Pam was a miniature of Lizzy with pixie-cut honey-brown hair and the same amber eyes as her grandmother and sister. The diminutive gal kept her nurse’s strength hidden under a pale blue T-shirt, black yoga pants, and white Sketchers. The strap of a gym bag crossed over her shoulder.

  “You must be Olive. Finally we meet!” If possible her smile was even wider than Lizzy’s. Pam embraced me in slender muscular arms.

  She glanced around the shop. One would never guess she was here to sort through her father’s last days. “Nice. I like it. Very feminine. Thanks for sending me the cold cream. I shared it with a few friends and now have a dozen orders for you to fill. The entire staff of the E.R. is crazy for Nonna’s cream.”

  Pam grabbed Lizzy in a one-handed hug and continued to study our shop. A frown formed on her brow. “Too bad you don’t have a table by the window. We could sit while we talk and watch the cars go by.”

  Maybe Ivy was right. Should we reconsider tableside beverage service? I shuddered.

  Releasing her grip on her sister Pam pulled a stool over. The four of us grouped near the counter.

  “Without coloring the story,” Pam said, “give me the specifics about our father’s demise. I’ll come to my own conclusions.”

  She was the complete opposite of Lizzy who dealt in whimsy and suppositions. Pam hit the ground running like the triage nurse she was. I expected her to pull a blood pressure bracelet from her bag and cuff us.

  “Your father was found hanging by his feet from the chandelier in his apartment,” Grams said. “The medical examiner says he had a stroke from the blood rushing to his head.”

  Pam peered at Grams as if the older woman spoke a foreign language. “Why was he hanging upside down?”

  “I think he was murdered. Lots of reasons—robbery, revenge, hobbies.” Grams held up three fingers going for four.

  “Hobbies?” Pam looked dumbfounded.

  “We never told you about Nelson’s secret life,” Grams said, lowering her voice.

  Pam put her finger to her grandmother’s lips. “Just the facts. We’ll get to that later.”

  “Pam, you won’t understand unless you get some background,” I said, giving her my professional psychologist look. “I can understand you want to layout your own chart for your father but trust me—you can’t do it without his full history.

  Walking behind the counter I pulled out the copy of the Silverfish Gazette. “You have to know what we’re dealing with.” I pointed to the magician’s ad.

  Grams stepped away from the cluster of stools. She adjusted her leprechaun dress, handed her fedora to Lizzy. “See that ad? In his younger years, your father was the Masked Dangler, he also dabbled in blackmail.”

  “You are so bed-panning me,” Pam laugh-snorted. “My father—our father—wouldn’t risk his life at any age. He was a misogynistic coward. If he were here, I’d tell him that to his face.”

  Pam gave me the squint eye. “And the medical examiner said—”

  “Natural by unnatural causes.”

  “I’m not believing this. Grams, tell me again.” Pam rubbed her forehead. “Don’t leave anything out.”

  Grams recited her son’s history. I could pretty much deliver the story by heart.

  Pam stepped to the front window. She stood in silence with her back to us. Then suddenly spun on her rubber heels. “Okay. I’m in. Let’s track down this magician.” She checked her watch. “The sign on your door says three, but can you close early? The sooner the better.”

  They all looked
at me for an okay. “Sure. We can close now. It’s not like it’s the first time. I just hope it’s the last.”

  Chapter 13

  “It’s down here somewhere, maybe in the next alley,” Grams mumbled. We let her drive because she had the biggest car. It was a mistake. The Edsel took the corners like a Barcalounger—up the curb and down the curb. One large green trashcan survived, the rest rolled over in the alley like bowling pins as she hit them bing, bang, bong.

  “That’s it!” Grams barked. “Ain’t been here since Nelson—” She brushed her cheek with her left hand, her gloved right gripped the skinny steering wheel—the size of a hula-hoop. Looking over her shoulder, Grams turned the wheel twice and zipped the Edsel into a space I could have sworn wouldn’t fit a compact car.

  I stepped onto the sidewalk with the trio of Dinglers at my side. Eyeing the steps that led down below street level I wondered how the place remained for so long after the many hurricanes and floods—routine for the area.

  Pausing at the head of the stairs I admired the antique sign over the door. The Sheet Metal Workers and Hair Dressers Union radiated the aura of 1930s workers’ social hall.

  I turned to the group and whispered, “We might not get a warm welcome here—and not just because they’re a reclusive bunch.”

  Pam rubbed her forehead. “Why not? I don’t get it. I guess I’m a bit overwhelmed with everything I’ve learned in the past few hours. These magicians don’t know Father was the Masked Dangler.”

  “His death has been all over the media so they know he died in the position similar to a dangle and that the Masked Dangler was challenged to compete at the Magician’s Fusion event. They may be worried about being suspects in his death. Harry Whodunit, in particular.”

  Pam shook her head, like clearing cobwebs. “Let’s go find out.”

  “It might be better if none of you used your real names.”

  “I have nothing to hide,” Grams shook her head. “It’s these quackers that have something to do with Nelson’s demise.”

  Grams’ gang clomped down the weathered stone steps with me in the lead. Pam struggled to help her stubborn grandmother. Lizzy brought up the rear.

  A firm believer in acting first and apologizing later, I didn’t bother to knock—just yanked the heavy wooden door open. It groaned in protest.

  We stepped inside. The room was dimly lit and smelled of mold and cigars. My stomach roiled.

  Before I could adjust my eyes to the darkness, my shoe caught on the edge of a carpet and I pitched forward breaking my fall with the flat of my hands. My face pressed against a ratty oriental rug loaded with years of dirty tricks. I scrambled to my feet spitting and sputtering.

  The buzz of magician conversation fell into silence. All eyes were on us—or so it seemed. It took a minute to adjust to the gritty darkness. I blinked and then studied the room and its occupants.

  Leather armchairs lit by the glow of mismatched Arts and Crafts style lamps held men in black—ranging in age from old to very old. Magazines were stacked on a coffee table the size of a coffin. Ashtrays littered end tables.

  The wall to our right was lined with framed photos of guys pulling rabbits from hats, grasping fluttering doves, or holding hands with a Vanna White assistant. Below each frame hung a cheesy brass plaque with born and died dates. We’d stepped into an outtake from the Adams Family.

  A jaggedy row of weak footlights illuminated a small stage at the back of the room. Were they auditioning new members? From what I could see they needed some young blood. The whippersnappers in the place were probably Vaudeville alumni.

  A flickering spotlight cast a beam on an oversized dartboard hanging near the stage.

  Plastered on the target was a large tattered photo of the Masked Dangler, shoes up.

  Two senior men approached us. One wore a black tie ensemble and appeared ready to go on stage. The other wore a formal T-shirt printed with the faded image of a tuxedo and appeared ready to perform on a street corner.

  “Can we help you?” Black Tie asked. He smirked. We were clearly no threat as demonstrated by my entrance.

  “What he really means,” T-Shirt said, “is can we help you out the door? This is a private club.”

  “We’re looking for Harry Whodunit,” I said.

  T-shirt’s face contorted into a crooked smile as he talked out of the side of his mouth. “Don’t recognize the name. Is he a sheet metal worker or a hair dresser?”

  This guy could rile a Buddhist monk. “He’s a magician.”

  “Black Tie snorted. “You’re in the wrong place if you’re looking for a magician.”

  Grams piped up. “Listen, sonny, I was living in this burg when you were just a gleam in your daddy’s eye. I don’t care what your sign says. This is the Magician’s Hat and I work for the Gazette. Whodunit placed an ad with us so when we decided we wanted a magician for a party, I thought of him and figured this is the place to find him.”

  Black Tie straightened up like Grams had just whacked him with her gigantic purse.

  All the magicians within earshot turned their attention our way.

  She took a step forward into his personal space. “Don’t try to shine on me. My boy used to hang out here years ago.”

  “Your b…boy,” Black Tie sputtered. “Who’s that?”

  “Nelson Dingler.”

  “I remember him. Nasty piece of work.” T-shirt continued to speak out of the side of his mouth. “He quit coming around after Silas bought the farm. Guess his mentor

  cashing out doing a trick crushed his drive to make magic a career. Probably the smart move anyway. We’re all hand-to-mouth and he’s a big shot businessman. Well, was a big shot businessman. Sorry for your loss, lady.”

  Sorry my eye. Grams told us the local magicians hated Nelson because of his mean nature. “Back to Whodunit,” I said. “Is he around?”

  T-shirt glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the dartboard. “You ladies looking to hire a magician? He reached in the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a business card. “Name’s Bottom—Bart Bottom. I’m available for weddings and funerals. I do a mean strip for bachelorette parties.”

  Now that was a visual. “Maybe he thought I wouldn’t notice he had avoided answering my question. I slipped the card in my pocket, cooties and all. “What’s with the picture on the dartboard?”

  “That’s magician business, not your business.”

  Maybe it wasn’t the dartboard that Bart Bottom looked at. A body slouched in a chair near it, a copy of Variety covering his face. Either he was practicing reading in the dark or hiding. It was time to turn the entertainment over to Lizzy and get on with the investigation.

  I gave my partner a subtle wink. “Lizzy, you can best explain what we need for our show.”

  Without hesitation Lizzy ran with it. She pushed her long curls away from her face. She licked her bottom lip and did that thing she does with her eyes. Men turn into dodos when she does the lip-eye thing. It’s her secret weapon.

  With a faint nod Pam reined in Grams. I was free to snoop.

  Bottom, Black Tie, and the rest of the magicians—all except the Variety guy—focused on Lizzy as she put her hands on her hips, re-licked her lips, and threw in a wiggle. Even in the dim light she had them enthralled.

  I inched my way over to the Variety reader and sat on the arm of his chair.

  He didn’t budge, so I tugged at his magazine.

  The guy peeked at me nervously over the top of the pages. He was young—much younger than his cohorts—and telegraphed vulnerability to intimidation.

  “Harry Whodunit?”

  “Who’s asking?” he said, his Poirot mustache loosened on one side. His Buddy Holly glasses had no lenses.

  “I have a few questions. Suggest you keep the paper up, wouldn’t want your colleagues getting the wrong impression—you look scared stupid. Or maybe that should be you look scared, stupid.”

  Harry pouted, sending his moustache into his lap. “You’
ve no right to question me. Nothing wrong in a little advertising.”

  I was right. He was afraid his ad would connect him with Dingler’s dangling death.

  He pointed his chin at the rest of Grams’ gang. “Isn’t that Lizzy Kelly? Ain’t she a Dingler? Is that why you’re poking around?”

  Clarity smacked him in the face. His eyes popped so large his Buddy Holly’s slid down his nose. “Dingler was the Dangler! My daddy was right!”

  I put my hand on his shoulder pinning him to his seat. “I didn’t say Dingler was the Dangler. Your ad may have incited someone to commit a dangling-type homicide and the police might think that makes you an accessory. If you want us to keep you out of it, you need to begin cooperating right now starting with who’s your daddy?”

  Harry’s complexion went from chalky to red. I pushed the right button.

  “My daddy doesn’t have anything to do with it. These old guys are always talking about the Masked Dangler like he thought he was better than any magician ever.” He shrugged. I wondered if he was real. Maybe I could bring him out of hiding. It was just one darn ad.”

  “Let’s go outside and get us some privacy. My friends have questions for you.”

  “I’ve seen that old lady before. She’s a tough cookie. I’d rather just talk to you.”

  “They’re my posse—they get to decide whether we call in the cops. That ad could cost you more than a couple of bucks.” I stood aside and motioned him to precede me.

  I gave Lizzy my enough look and she shut off her flirting with a twitch of her nose. A quick nod to Grams and Pam and they understood we had our man.

  Grams waved off Lizzy’s fan club and headed up the stairs, followed by Pam and Lizzy.

  As Harry and I stepped out the door, a phlegmy voice called from the dimness. “Hey Marchmain! How about paying your tab?”

  Rex Marchmain was the person Nancy warned us about!

  Harry stopped so suddenly I almost slammed into him. I said, “Is Rex Marchmain your father?”

  He turned around and said, “Be back after I take care of my bill. The skinny dude in black dashed past me into the Hat. This wasn’t about paying his tab the magician was pulling a vanishing act.