Bodies In Bedlam by Richard S. Prather

Author:Richard S. Prather [Prather, Richard S.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2014-04-01T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

ON THE WAY OUT to Wandra Price's house in the Valley I tried to figure out where she fitted into the murder picture. She'd been present at the studio party, with Garvey Mace waiting for her outside, and she was among those missing from the Magna lot after Brane's death. Tough boy Mace was keeping a protective wing around her and had offered me five grand to keep her clean—and had also told me to stay the hell away from her. But there was too much tying her into this thing; I had to see her.

She'd made a spectacular rise in Hollywood, I knew that much. Magna had picked her out of a department store or somewhere similar, tested her, liked what she had, and started training her, grooming her for the top. She'd made only one picture, Shadow of Love, but already she was drawing down a fat salary with automatic boosts if the studio picked up her options. It looked as if she were all set, barring trouble.

I wondered if Brane had somehow got his hooks into her, too, and it suddenly occurred to me that so far the only people that I knew Brane had blackmailed had been women. If that meant anything, you could have fooled me.

Wandra lived in a house that was modest for the district, and I parked in the middle of a graveled drive that swept around in back of the house. I went up and pushed the button that set off the chimes inside. Nobody used plain old doorbells any more, apparently.

I glanced at my watch as I heard the click of what sounded like high heels inside the house. It was three-thirty in the afternoon.

The door opened about two feet and someone looked out at me. I couldn't tell who it was for sure, as her face was in shadows, but she wasn't dressed for me.

She wore a thin robe that hadn't been designed to keep her warm, and I could see open-toed sandals like slippers with heels under the hem of the robe. The outline of the legs was eye-catching, and the hips and waist were wonderful, but I lost interest when I came to breasts like potato pancakes, and remembered I was a sleuth. If this was the gal who'd tossed the faint night before last, no wonder they hadn't jiggled.

"Well?" she asked in a pleasant low voice.

"Good afternoon. You're Miss Price?"

"What do you want?"

"I'm Shell Scott. I'd like very much to talk to you, if you don't mind."

"I don't believe we have anything to talk about, Mr. Scott."

"It's about Roger Brane."

"So?"

"You are Miss Price, aren't you? The movie star?"

"Yes. What has that to do with you? Please state your business, Mr. Scott." She edged back farther behind the door, but I didn't mind as long as she didn't close it altogether.

I said, "The day after Roger Brane was murdered, some of the Magna employees didn't show up, or else went home early. I think there could be a connection.

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