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Authors: Julie Smith, Tony Dunbar
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dressed like Dolly Parton, but what did she look like?”
It was the same kind of question O’Rourke and Tarantino had asked her
ad infinitum
and
ad nauseam
. How tall was Dolly? Could she have been a man? Was she black or white?
Thin or fat? Skip had no idea in hell. She thought Dolly had looked fairly tall and could possibly have been a man and she was pretty sure she wasn’t fat, but with the balloon boobs, she couldn’t be positive.
She didn’t know the answer, but she also didn’t quite understand why Marcelle was asking the question. “I really couldn’t tell, Marcelle, but why do you ask? Did someone make a threat on your father’s life?”
Marcelle gasped. Skip had had a few drinks, but there was no mistaking it. “No, of course not. I’m just so mad at the bastard, that’s all. I want to do somethin’ to him.”
“Of course. That’s only natural.”
“Oh, Skippy, didn’t you see anything? I just feel so helpless.” She started sobbing in earnest.
“Oh, Marcelle! Don’t cry. Don’t cry and I’ll tell you something good. Somebody got her on film. He’s bringing the film over in half an hour. Maybe it’ll help jog my memory. Maybe there was something I noticed but I just forgot.”
“Do you think so? Do you really think so?”
She sounded so hopeful Skip was glad she had told her. Later, back on the balcony, she wondered if it had been wise. The film was police business after all, or soon would be. She made herself another drink.
She got bored on the balcony and went inside. Something perverse in her made her put on a Dolly Parton record. Forty-five minutes later she began to think Steinman wasn’t coming. Another fifteen minutes and she was starting to get mad. She phoned Cookie Lamoreaux. Someone answered but couldn’t hear her above the din. She wanted to go to bed.
Finally, when it was nearly midnight, her doorbell rang. She stepped onto the balcony. “Yes?”
“It’s Steve Steinman.”
He didn’t sound like he had on the phone. Normally Skip would simply have buzzed him in, but something about his voice made her nervous. She went down for him, revolver in hand. The outside door was windowed and she could see that the young man outside was the same one she’d encountered at the parade. No one seemed to be with him.
She opened the door, gun at the ready. If possible, Steinman turned paler than he already was. “Oh, no.” He sounded as if he’d lost his last friend, and Skip realized she probably didn’t look the soul of hospitality.
Quickly, she put the .38 away. She was suddenly more alarmed than ever, but not about the possibility of armed intruders. Steinman was a big man, well over six feet and by her best guess well over 200 pounds. At the moment he looked very ill. He stumbled over the threshold and into her arms. She had to brace herself to stay upright. “What is it? What happened?” She managed to get the door closed.
He put a hand to the back of his head. “Somebody hit me. Took the film.”
Automatically, Skip’s hand covered his, touching the lump on the back of his head. She winced. “Can you walk?”
“Let me sit for a minute. Could you get the projector? It’s not mine—I had to rent one.”
Whoever took the film had wanted only that. The rented projector was sitting unmolested outside her door. She lugged it in, settled Steinman on one of the worn, uncovered wooden stairs, and went up to get him a brandy and a couple of aspirin. For a while he just sat and breathed heavily. She was big, but not big enough to get this one upstairs. If he didn’t recover soon, she would have to get help. Charity Hospital would be a madhouse. In fact, if she wanted medical attention tonight, she’d probably have to go to her father, who’d almost certainly be at home, the Rex Ball having been canceled due to the small matter of murder. But asking him for anything would require humbling herself and was therefore impossible.
If she’d been religious she’d
It was the same kind of question O’Rourke and Tarantino had asked her
ad infinitum
and
ad nauseam
. How tall was Dolly? Could she have been a man? Was she black or white?
Thin or fat? Skip had no idea in hell. She thought Dolly had looked fairly tall and could possibly have been a man and she was pretty sure she wasn’t fat, but with the balloon boobs, she couldn’t be positive.
She didn’t know the answer, but she also didn’t quite understand why Marcelle was asking the question. “I really couldn’t tell, Marcelle, but why do you ask? Did someone make a threat on your father’s life?”
Marcelle gasped. Skip had had a few drinks, but there was no mistaking it. “No, of course not. I’m just so mad at the bastard, that’s all. I want to do somethin’ to him.”
“Of course. That’s only natural.”
“Oh, Skippy, didn’t you see anything? I just feel so helpless.” She started sobbing in earnest.
“Oh, Marcelle! Don’t cry. Don’t cry and I’ll tell you something good. Somebody got her on film. He’s bringing the film over in half an hour. Maybe it’ll help jog my memory. Maybe there was something I noticed but I just forgot.”
“Do you think so? Do you really think so?”
She sounded so hopeful Skip was glad she had told her. Later, back on the balcony, she wondered if it had been wise. The film was police business after all, or soon would be. She made herself another drink.
She got bored on the balcony and went inside. Something perverse in her made her put on a Dolly Parton record. Forty-five minutes later she began to think Steinman wasn’t coming. Another fifteen minutes and she was starting to get mad. She phoned Cookie Lamoreaux. Someone answered but couldn’t hear her above the din. She wanted to go to bed.
Finally, when it was nearly midnight, her doorbell rang. She stepped onto the balcony. “Yes?”
“It’s Steve Steinman.”
He didn’t sound like he had on the phone. Normally Skip would simply have buzzed him in, but something about his voice made her nervous. She went down for him, revolver in hand. The outside door was windowed and she could see that the young man outside was the same one she’d encountered at the parade. No one seemed to be with him.
She opened the door, gun at the ready. If possible, Steinman turned paler than he already was. “Oh, no.” He sounded as if he’d lost his last friend, and Skip realized she probably didn’t look the soul of hospitality.
Quickly, she put the .38 away. She was suddenly more alarmed than ever, but not about the possibility of armed intruders. Steinman was a big man, well over six feet and by her best guess well over 200 pounds. At the moment he looked very ill. He stumbled over the threshold and into her arms. She had to brace herself to stay upright. “What is it? What happened?” She managed to get the door closed.
He put a hand to the back of his head. “Somebody hit me. Took the film.”
Automatically, Skip’s hand covered his, touching the lump on the back of his head. She winced. “Can you walk?”
“Let me sit for a minute. Could you get the projector? It’s not mine—I had to rent one.”
Whoever took the film had wanted only that. The rented projector was sitting unmolested outside her door. She lugged it in, settled Steinman on one of the worn, uncovered wooden stairs, and went up to get him a brandy and a couple of aspirin. For a while he just sat and breathed heavily. She was big, but not big enough to get this one upstairs. If he didn’t recover soon, she would have to get help. Charity Hospital would be a madhouse. In fact, if she wanted medical attention tonight, she’d probably have to go to her father, who’d almost certainly be at home, the Rex Ball having been canceled due to the small matter of murder. But asking him for anything would require humbling herself and was therefore impossible.
If she’d been religious she’d
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