Murder on the Yellow Brick Road by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page B

at Judy Garland’s house and nothing had happened. Records of present and former employees were at the studio, and Peese would surely be listed. Andy said he could meet me at the studio if I wished. I said I’d think about it and call him back.
    While I was thinking about it, Cassie James called. She said she wanted to know how the talk with Gable had gone and how I was. I told her about it and the attempt on my life. I had liked the way she moved toward me the last time I was almost done in. Her voice did it over the phone. Then she told me she knew the name of the midget Gunther Wherthman was trying to think of. She gave me Peese’s name, and she said she could get into the personnel records and get an address. That sounded like more fun that meeting Andy Markopulis and I asked where she’d be. She said at home, and invited me over for dinner. I accepted, and she gave me a Santa Monica address and a couple of hours to get to it.
    The pain in my back was almost gone. I decided to take a chance on going home for a shave and bath. An hour later I was shaved and clean, and my teeth weren’t furry anymore. I gulped one of Shelly’s pain pills just in case and went out the door into the evening sun looking for an unfriendly face attached to a big body. None appeared.
    The drive was uneventful. No one tried to kill me, and it was a dead Sunday. Paper blew in the streets. Mexicans with nothing to do sat on the curbs arguing. Anglos with lawns cut the grass.
    KMPC radio said they’d broadcast a “Hollywood on Parade” for Willkie the next day with Conrad Nagel, Edward Arnold, Porter Hall and Arthur Lake. Roosevelt had the clear edge in star power. I turned off the radio and headed for Cassie James.
    Her house was on the beach in Santa Monica. It wasn’t a big money place, but it wasn’t welfare living either. I didn’t know exactly what her job at M.G.M. was or how much she was paid. My estimate jumped when I got out of the car. She had some money.
    The surf rolled in and grumbled, and the sun was cut off halfway on the horizon. She answered the door with a small smile, and I figured out her color code. Today she was wearing a yellow blouse and skirt. She was a woman of solid colors. No stripes, designs or little flowers. It made her seem solid. The house matched. None of the furniture in the living room had a stripe or flower. Even the paintings on the white walls weren’t flowery. She caught me looking at the room instead of at her.
    â€œWhat do you think?”
    â€œIt’s restful,” I said putting my hat on a table near the door and dropping into a sofa to rest. There was plenty of room on the sofa for company. She sat next to me and handed me a card. Neatly written on it in green ink was the name of James Franklin Peese and an address on Main Street. I tucked it in my pocket, and Cassie James moved closer to me.
    â€œHungry?” she said.
    â€œAlways,” I answered, which was nearly the truth.
    I could feel her breath on me and looked into her eyes.
    â€œLet’s skip the game,” she said softly. “I’ve played it a few times. It’s embarrasing, awkward and it makes me feel foolish.”
    She got up and led me into a bedroom. The room was painted yellow. The bed and furniture were black.
    â€œWe’ll eat later,” she said. “It’ll be easier for both of us.”
    She held out her hand for my coat, and I gave it to her. Then she turned her hand down palm up toward my pants and left the room turning down the lights. I took my clothes off, put them on a chair and got into the bed. I worked over a couple of wisecracks in my head in case she came back in an apron with a tray of chicken. She came back without chicken, and I made no cracks. She was dark and beautiful, and came to me softly smelling of mountains. I dropped back with her on top of me. We didn’t talk and moved slowly. It was better than I had imagined and