stretched a bit more than even death called for. In that second of reflection, Jane was ashamed to admit that she was judging a dead man, but she couldn’t stop herself from thinking,
How vain.
In the next second, the scream escaped and Jane yelled loud and louder. Even though Jane was familiar with the bodies that cropped up around her when bargain-hunting, she still felt woozy enough to turn and take Jeb’s arm for a moment. But there was no arm. No Jeb. Across the garage she could see the B Room scurrying away, cutting against the crowd coming in answer to Jane’s call for help, with Jeb following behind them, his arms outstretched, hurrying them along. Back, Jane guessed, to the henhouse.
8
Its not that everyone’s dishonest. Really. Its more like they’ve lived their own version of the truth so long that they now believe it
is
the truth. I mean, I’m guessing that most Hollywood showbiz types would pass a lie detector test. Until somebody invents a bona fide, fool-proof bullshit detector, the people in the “entertainment industry” are safe.
— FROM
Hollywood Diary
BY B ELINDA S T . G ERMAINE
Jane was given a chair and a bottle of water and a cold towel and, from a kind anonymous soul, a vending machine package of cookies. In turn, she gave a police detective her name and address and described how she had pulled out the stack of autograph books and discovered the dead man. A few feet to her left, Jane could see the proprietor of this particular table, wringing her hands, answering another set of questions from another police officer, and, most probably, wondering if Jane was still interested in those autograph books and if she was going to be allowed to sell them.
Because a policeman reporting to the superior officer who was taking Jane’s statement announced he had found his wallet and ID, but not spoken Lou Piccolo’s name out loud, the police officer did not ask Jane if she had any connection to the dead man. He merely asked her if she had ever seen him before.
“No,” she answered honestly.
If the officer had asked her if she knew Lou Piccolo, she would have to explain who she was and how she happened to be in L.A. and how she was connected to the dead man in front of her. However, as long as the name was not spoken, she rationalized that she had no obligation to bring up any confusing and problematic connection to the man who, it now became sickeningly clear, had been stabbed to death with a classic daggerlike letter opener, flea market price tag still attached. Police had been dispatched throughout the flea market with elaborate descriptions of the weapon to see if any vendor recognized the dagger as one he or she had sold, and, if so, did they remember the purchaser well enough to give a description?
Jane was rather pleased to note that she was now being ignored. Had this been Kankakee, Illinois, where she was quite well recognized as someone with a penchant for uncovering bodies rolled up in Oriental rugs or walking into crime scenes littered with garage sale detritus, or had it been Evanston, Illinois, where she was known to walk into more than one murder plot, she might have garnered unwanted attention. Here in sunny Pasadena, she was just another hapless tourist at the flea market, who instead of cool bargains found the stuff of which nightmares are made.
The market was a tricky place to close down. Although the police had spread out through the perimeter of the flea market area and set up checkpoints at the exits to the parking garage, so many shoppers had strolled through and come and gone throughout the morning, the giant roster of names and addresses and phone numbers seemed like so much make-work to Jane. It had to be done. Of course. But Jane thought she ought to at least try to make their work a bit more efficient.
“Officer?” Jane asked.
“It’s Detective Dooley, Mrs. Wheel,” he said, not looking up from his notepad.
“I believe the dagger is actually a letter
How vain.
In the next second, the scream escaped and Jane yelled loud and louder. Even though Jane was familiar with the bodies that cropped up around her when bargain-hunting, she still felt woozy enough to turn and take Jeb’s arm for a moment. But there was no arm. No Jeb. Across the garage she could see the B Room scurrying away, cutting against the crowd coming in answer to Jane’s call for help, with Jeb following behind them, his arms outstretched, hurrying them along. Back, Jane guessed, to the henhouse.
8
Its not that everyone’s dishonest. Really. Its more like they’ve lived their own version of the truth so long that they now believe it
is
the truth. I mean, I’m guessing that most Hollywood showbiz types would pass a lie detector test. Until somebody invents a bona fide, fool-proof bullshit detector, the people in the “entertainment industry” are safe.
— FROM
Hollywood Diary
BY B ELINDA S T . G ERMAINE
Jane was given a chair and a bottle of water and a cold towel and, from a kind anonymous soul, a vending machine package of cookies. In turn, she gave a police detective her name and address and described how she had pulled out the stack of autograph books and discovered the dead man. A few feet to her left, Jane could see the proprietor of this particular table, wringing her hands, answering another set of questions from another police officer, and, most probably, wondering if Jane was still interested in those autograph books and if she was going to be allowed to sell them.
Because a policeman reporting to the superior officer who was taking Jane’s statement announced he had found his wallet and ID, but not spoken Lou Piccolo’s name out loud, the police officer did not ask Jane if she had any connection to the dead man. He merely asked her if she had ever seen him before.
“No,” she answered honestly.
If the officer had asked her if she knew Lou Piccolo, she would have to explain who she was and how she happened to be in L.A. and how she was connected to the dead man in front of her. However, as long as the name was not spoken, she rationalized that she had no obligation to bring up any confusing and problematic connection to the man who, it now became sickeningly clear, had been stabbed to death with a classic daggerlike letter opener, flea market price tag still attached. Police had been dispatched throughout the flea market with elaborate descriptions of the weapon to see if any vendor recognized the dagger as one he or she had sold, and, if so, did they remember the purchaser well enough to give a description?
Jane was rather pleased to note that she was now being ignored. Had this been Kankakee, Illinois, where she was quite well recognized as someone with a penchant for uncovering bodies rolled up in Oriental rugs or walking into crime scenes littered with garage sale detritus, or had it been Evanston, Illinois, where she was known to walk into more than one murder plot, she might have garnered unwanted attention. Here in sunny Pasadena, she was just another hapless tourist at the flea market, who instead of cool bargains found the stuff of which nightmares are made.
The market was a tricky place to close down. Although the police had spread out through the perimeter of the flea market area and set up checkpoints at the exits to the parking garage, so many shoppers had strolled through and come and gone throughout the morning, the giant roster of names and addresses and phone numbers seemed like so much make-work to Jane. It had to be done. Of course. But Jane thought she ought to at least try to make their work a bit more efficient.
“Officer?” Jane asked.
“It’s Detective Dooley, Mrs. Wheel,” he said, not looking up from his notepad.
“I believe the dagger is actually a letter
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