Bride of the Rat God by Barbara Hambly Page A

bootlegger. So if they had a quarrel, it would have been on the way over to your place or on the way back.”
    “Who said anything about a quarrel?” Brown demanded fiercely. “Charlie walked Keith out to the car, Keith drove off, then I took Charlie to the train station. I was with him the whole time.”
    “And he didn’t go home to pack a toothbrush?” the cameraman asked. “When did all this take place? The police are gonna want to know. It’s...how far from your place down to the station? Fifteen miles? Seventeen miles?”
    “At a guess,” Norah said firmly, “it took place within fifteen minutes of Mr. Fairbanks leaving the party. He left early, didn’t he? Before midnight?”
    “Before the dancing girls came out, and that was midnight, wasn’t it, Frank, dearest?” Christine sat up and pushed straight the egret-feathered bandeau that bound the dark cascades of her hair. “Of course, if you’re married to Mary Pickford, I suppose you have to leave early.”
    Brown and Fishbein both glanced inquiringly at Norah.
    “It stands to reason,” she said innocently. “Meeting Mr. Fairbanks was the main attraction for Mr. Pelletier at the party, so of course he wouldn’t have consented to leave if Mr. Fairbanks were still there, would he?”
    “Yes, it was just a few minutes after that when I got the phone call,” Brown said thoughtfully. “In fact,” he expanded, “I was called away from seeing Doug and Mary out the door.”
    “Yes, but you and I were together in the library while the dancing girls were still doing their act,” protested Christine, grinding out her cigarette in a gleaming brass ashtray.
    “That was later,” Brown said firmly.
    “It wasn’t, because you came right in from the foyer and pulled me down off the table just as I was showing that skinny redhead how to—”
    “It was later,” Brown said again. “It was after I got back. And you” he added, turning suddenly. “All of you. Since Charlie’s going to be in Vermont for the indefinite future, I’m moving up the location shooting. Day after tomorrow, Santa Fe station, seven-thirty—”
    “Oh, no!” wailed Christine, sitting up in horror and forgetting all about who had been where when. “Seven- thirty! Isn’t there a train that leaves later than that?”
    “Not if we want to get ourselves out to Red Bluff in time to get set up. If Hearst or the Times can get reporters out there for questions, they’ll be doing better than I think they can. Is Norah coming with you?”
    “Of course!” Christine shifted her position on the couch to lean across and grasp Norah’s hand protectively. Like all her gestures, the movement combined glowing theatricality with genuine warmth. Everything Christine did was fifty percent sham, but the other fifty percent, Norah reflected, was pure gold.
    “I wouldn’t stick poor Norah here all by herself, and besides,” she added, reaching up to stroke Black Jasmine’s little round head and have her fingers chewed, “I couldn’t be without my celestial cream cakes for ten days, could I, Jazz darling?”
    “Good,” grunted Brown. “We’ll shoot the courtyard and balcony scenes between you and Blake Fallon in Edendale Monday night. We’d do it tomorrow if I could locate Blake, but God knows which of those gold diggers he’s spending the weekend with. So in the meantime, all of you—not a word to anyone.” He glared around with pale eyes. “Reporters are going to be phoning you, so you tell them the police have forbidden you to disclose anything. Did you remember to call the police, Conrad? Just tell them what you know.” He ticked off the points on fingers like Polish sausages. “Charlie was Keith’s mentor in acting, they were friends, Charlie was happy and cheerful earlier that evening—before, of course, he got that terrible news about his mother—”
    “Father,” Fishbein corrected in an undertone.
    “Father, and had to leave town.”
    “Oh, of course.” Christine