CHAPTER TWO
‘And no one could enter or exit here without your knowledge?’ Ross asked. The two Private Investigators were standing with Police Commissioner Sparky Randall Loeman in the kitchen. The three were interviewing Bambi’s housekeeper, Pudgy Vanessa.
‘Yes ma’am,’ she replied, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘I’ve been stationed in the kitchen all night helping the chef and waitstaff. Granted, I have wandered in and out to ensure the night runs smoothly, but the kitchen door always remains locked.’ Pudgy pulled at the chain around her neck and a brass key popped out from her ample bosom. ‘You can never be too careful. Ms Bomb has quite a few admirers, if you catch my drift.’
‘Thank you, Ms Vanessa. That’s all for now,’ Larcombe said. The housekeeper nodded and quickly fell into step with the still-bustling kitchen.
‘I’ve got Officer Gillies stationed at the fire escape,’ Loeman said, ‘but it’s in clear view of the living room. There’s no way someone could sneak a giant canvas painting through the party without anyone knowing.’
‘And all party-goers are accounted for?’ Ross asked.
‘They are,’ Loeman replied.
‘The elevator, the kitchen and the fire escape,’ Ross said, going over her notes.
‘The only exits,’ Larcombe mused. ‘What do you want to do Ross?’
Ross watched as one of the waitstaff backed into the kitchen’s saloon door, both their hands balancing silver platters topped with oysters and mini quiche. As the door swung open, the chatter from the party—which had resumed seemingly without complaint—wafted into the kitchen.
‘Interview them, Larcombe. We interview them.’
***
‘Alright,’ Loeman said. He had his reading glasses perched precariously on the bridge of his nose as he read from a list of guests, written in Bambi’s cursive hand. ‘First up, we have a, uh, Pickles Overland.’
Loeman looked expectantly at the PIs. Ross and Larcombe had set up an interview room in one of Bambi’s guest bedrooms. The Private Investigators sat next to one another beside a small fireplace—Ross in a grand velvet seat, and Larcombe balanced on a rickety rocking chair. Larcombe leant back suddenly and his whole body jolted; he glanced at Ross, who ignored him. Loeman just rolled his eyes.
Larcombe planted both feet dramatically on the ground to steady himself.
‘Bring him in,’ he announced.
Pickles Overland strolled into the room, knowing he looked dapper.
‘Mr Overland, how do you do?’ Ross asked.
‘I’m alright,’ Pickles replied. He unbuttoned his jacket before taking a seat in front of the PIs. He looked pointedly at the dwindling fire. ‘A bit cold.’
‘Oh,’ Larcombe said.
When no one moved, Pickles pointed at Larcombe and then at a stoker.
‘You mind?’ Pickles asked.
Larcombe started to open his mouth in protest, but Ross intervened.
‘Mr Overland,’ she said. ‘How do you know Ms Bomb?’
‘Bambi? Sweet, sweet Bambi. Old friend of mine. Met when she was just starting out in L.A.’ Pickles smiled to himself and leant towards Ross. ‘I bank roll films.’
‘So, you’re rich?’ Larcombe asked.
‘Loaded,’ Pickles said.
***
Miki Bellevue twisted a napkin in her satin gloved hands.
‘Am I in trouble?’ she whispered. Her big brown eyes appeared child-like under her glasses.
‘That depends.’ Larcombe asked, ‘Have you done something wrong?’
Miki shook her head.
‘No, no! I’ve just never been questioned before.’
‘Then you’re not in trouble,’ Ross said.
‘We’re just trying to figure out what happened here tonight.’ Larcombe flicked through a few pages in his notepad and placed his pen to his tongue in anticipation.
Miki gulped, before answering, ‘Someone stole a painting.’
Larcombe looked up at her. ‘Yes, we do know that Miss Bellevue, but we need to find out who.’
‘Well, I mean…’ she began.
‘Do you know who, Miss Bellevue?’ Ross asked.
‘Not exactly… but I could make an educated guess.’ She paused.
Larcombe waved a hand. ‘We’ll take the educated guess.’
Miki glanced back at the Police Commissioner, who was standing by the bedroom door, watching the Private Investigators at work.
‘The police are aware that Bambi has a stalker, yes?’ she asked.
Both Ross and Larcombe slowly looked up at Loeman.
Loeman coughed. ‘Well, we are now.’
***
‘She sure does have a stalker,’ Ruby MacRobertson said. The famous playwright was smoking up a storm, even by Ross’s standards. She had a very large summer hat on, despite the fact it was dead winter. Ruby spoke with such vigour that Larcombe was sure it would come flying off at any moment. ‘Bambi was always too nice to the guy. Not saying she deserved it, but I mean—’ Ruby took a drag of her cigarette ‘—why invite the guy to your own Christmas gala?’
This got everyone’s attention.
‘The stalker was here?’ Larcombe asked.
‘He sure was. Walked right through the front door, ate some shrimp and then left.’ Ruby took another puff.
Larcombe and Ross shared a look.
‘Do you know his name?’ Ross asked.
‘His name?’ Ruby laughed. ‘Of course not. He’s hardly famous.’
‘Right,’ Larcombe said.
***
‘Please, please,’ Kizzi Cornwall broadcasted to the small room. ‘I need no introduction.’ Kizzi opened a compact mirror and began applying red lipstick. When no one spoke, the young woman’s face fell. ‘You’re kidding?’ She laughed. ‘I’m Kizzi Cornwall. Acclaimed actress.’
‘Acclaimed actress,’ Larcombe replied out loud, writing it down.
‘Ms Cornwall—’ Ross started.
‘Please, call me Ms Cornwall.’
Ross glanced up at her, restraining every fibre in her being from recoiling.
‘Ms Cornwall. Were you aware that Ms Bomb has a stalker?’
‘A stalker?’ Kizzi appalled, placed a hand to her heart. ‘That bitch.’
Ross, Larcombe and Loeman all looked up from their notepads.
‘I beg your pardon,’ Larcombe said.
‘Bambi told me she didn’t have a stalker! That liar! That deceiver. What has she ever done? I’m the one that deserves the stalker. I’ve only been working longer than she has, been in more movies than she has, slept with more men than she has.’
‘I think we’re getting off topic,’ Larcombe said, his voice slightly raised.
‘I agree,’ Ross said. ‘Do you have any idea who it could be? He was allegedly at the party tonight.’
‘He was here?’ Kizzi asked. ‘This night just keeps getting worse and worse for me, doesn’t it?’
***
‘Now, what’s this I hear about a painting?’ Fifi Cheviot said as she rounded the corner of the bedroom door. The singer winked at Loeman as she walked past. The Police Commissioner was caught by so much surprise he almost dropped to his knees.
‘Pleasure to make your acquaintance,’ Loeman said weakly.
‘Wow.’ Fifi looked Larcombe up and down, ‘Two dashing men? It’s my lucky night.’
Larcombe coughed, choking on air. Ross smiled to herself.
‘Lovely to meet you, Ms Chevoit,’ Ross said.
‘We’re big fans,’ Larcombe managed to wheeze out.
‘Do you know Lofty Robinson?’ Ross asked.
‘Of course, I do. Lofty is a friend of Henri’s. He’s an obscure man, that’s for sure, always a drama. But,’ she shrugged, ‘it’s entertaining.’
‘What do you think of Henri?’ Ross inquired.
‘He’s pretty blunt, I guess. I mean he doesn’t treat Bambi very well but, then again, he’s never treated any girl very well.’
***
‘Did you know anything about the painting that was stolen?’ Ross asked.
Swayze Barkly was picking at his teeth with a toothpick. He snagged a tiny bit of food, which flung into the air and landed on the rug in between him and the Private Investigators. They all stared at it for a moment.
‘Nah, not really,’ Swayze said. He scratched his face, dragged a handkerchief out from his sleeve and picked nose.
Larcombe pulled a face.
‘How would you describe your relationship with Ms Bomb?’ Ross finally said, when it appeared Larcombe still hadn’t recovered from the handkerchief.
‘Relationship? Don’t know her. She’s fine to look at, though,’ Swayze grinned.
‘How did you score an invite then?’ Larcombe asked.
‘Henri and I have been friends for, gosh, too long.’
‘Well, how would you describe Mr High?’
‘Henri? Lucky bastard.’
***
Larcombe was bubbling in his seat.
‘Please, Larcombe, I can feel your desperation from here,’ Ross said.
‘I can’t believe we’re going to interview Chad,’ Larcombe replied.
‘Chad?’ Loeman repeated, looking down at the list of names in his hand.
Larcombe fidgeted.
‘Chad Checkers. The Chad Checkers.’
‘There’s only one Chad Checkers,’ Ross whispered to herself.
‘There’s only one Chad Checkers,’ Larcombe announced.
‘Alright then, I’ll bite. Who’s Chad Checkers?’ Loeman asked, unable to help himself.
‘He’s my favourite actor,’ Larcombe said.
‘He’s Larcombe’s favourite actor,’ Ross echoed wryly.
‘Even for you, Larcombe,’ Loeman said, shaking his head, ‘you seem unusually enthusiastic about this guy.’
Larcombe smiled.
‘What can I say?’ he said. ‘He’s perfect.’
At that moment, Chad Checkers walked in. He casually leant against the doorframe.
‘Hi, I’m Chad. Chad Checkers.’
‘Perfect,’ Larcombe whispered. He was glowing.
***
It was after midnight and Bambi’s personal chef, Wallenby Murray, was greeting guests. Traditionally, Chef Murray would come out halfway through the gala, but this year hadn’t gone to plan. Bambi’s housekeeper Pudgy Vanessa had told him to continue the night as best as possible, despite the police presence. So, he was making the rounds with Bambi’s tired friends.
Bambi was agitated. She stood next to her husband, a very drunk looking Henri. Unable to contain her annoyance—and not getting the right kind of attention from Henri—Bambi peppered over to the buffet table. Her best friend Trepheena Plum was filling up a napkin with cold hors d'oeuvres.
‘Phee Phee, this night is turning out to be a real bummer,’ Bambi sighed. Trepheena looked up at her friend and nodded.
‘You’re right,’ she said, mouth full of food. Chef Murray wandered over to the table, hoping to have a word with Bambi. Trepheena pointed a spring roll at her friend. ‘You should complain.’
‘About the food?’ Bambi asked, looking at the spring roll.
‘I made this,’ Chef Murray cried, offended. He turned on his heels and stormed back to the kitchen.
‘Great,’ Bambi said, throwing her hands in the air.
‘No,’ Trepheena laughed. ‘You should complain about... you know.’
Bambi knew.
‘Urgh. Why? What does he have to do with a stolen painting?’
‘Well, for starters, he’s obviously stalking you. He was here tonight. It’s like he couldn’t stay away if he tried.’
Bambi rolled her eyes. ‘My love, trust me. Mickey Pound is not my stalker.’
‘Does he show up when he’s not invited?’ Trepheena asked, licking her food-covered fingers. Bambi pulled a face at Trepheena.
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Does he always know what you’re doing?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where you are?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who you’re with?’
‘Yes.’
‘Didn’t he follow you from L.A. to New York?’
‘Yes.’
Trepheena paused. ‘Wasn’t he at your wedding?’
‘Okay,’ Bambi said, exasperated. ‘I get your point.’
Officer Clive Faversham came into the sitting room. The guests’ murmurs quietened.
‘Lofty Robinson? They want to speak with you again,’ he announced.
Lofty stood, straightening his suit. He took a theatrical breath and wiped a tear from his eye.
‘If they must put me through this again,’ he said, voice shaking.
Miki Bellevue placed a reassuring hand on Lofty’s elbow as he walked past, heading for the guest bedroom.
‘You know who I’m really sick of?’ Bambi said. ‘Could he hog the limelight anymore?’
‘Why don’t you like him?’ Trepheena giggled. ‘He’s amusing.’
‘He gives me the willies,’ Bambi said. ‘Phee Phee, can you keep a secret?’
‘Obviously,’ Trepheena replied.
‘I never liked that painting.’
***
‘She never liked that painting,’ Trepheena told the PIs.
‘Interesting,’ Ross said.
‘And she has a stalker,’ Trepheena said.
‘You don’t say,’ Larcombe smiled.
***
‘I’m not happy, Larcombe,’ Ross said.
‘I can tell, Ross,’ he replied.
Ross was pacing the guest bedroom. She had discarded her notepad and was instead drawing a mental picture. Larcombe hung back and watched her. The Police Commissioner, having grown impatient with the slow pace of the PIs detective work, had given up long ago and re-joined the party guests.
‘How did the thief remove the painting without notice,’ she asked, ‘and without an opportunity to escape?’
‘Million-dollar question,’ Larcombe said.
‘Are they still at the party?’
‘The thief or the painting?’ Larcombe asked.
‘Good point.’
Ross went back to her pacing.
‘When do you think the Police Commissioner will hear back from the mayor’s office?’
‘He said you’ll be the first to know. Why are you so hung up on the mayor missing the gala anyway?’
‘I don’t know, Larcombe, but whenever I hear Bambino’s name, trouble always follows.’
A bloodcurdling scream echoed through the apartment, interrupting the Private Investigators. They shared a look.
‘The kitchen,’ they said.
Private Eyes: Flesh and Bone is written by Olivia Hides and will be published serially throughout the year. Flesh and Bone is a prequel to the Private Eyes novel series. Olivia has previously published Orbitus and Clouds Behind the Moon on the Antithesis Journal Blog.