The Case of the Angry Actress: A Masao Masuto Mystery by Howard Fast Page B

windows. As she leaves the house, she sees Tulley’s car swing out of the driveway to the right. It’s parked on Benedict Canyon Road, where the killer picked up her own car and drove off, just as cool as a cucumber. Apparently, she knocked off Tulley and then walked through the sliding doors into the garden, like a lady should, got into Tulley’s car and took off.”
    â€œFingerprints on the gun?”
    â€œAre you kidding?” Beckman said.
    â€œWhat do you think?”
    â€œWhat should I think? If Mrs. Tulley let him have it, how did she get around to the other side of a locked door in all of ten seconds, and who drove Tulley’s car out and down almost to Lexington? They all seem to have heard the car start, and the maid saw it swing out of the driveway. Mrs. Tulley left the maid upstairs so that accounts for her. The cook is an old Mexican lady, and Doc had to give her the real thing, not a placebo. So what is left?”
    â€œSpeculation,” Masuto said thoughtfully. “Fascinating speculation.”
    â€œYou put the two broads together?” Beckman asked.
    â€œAt least the two deaths,” Masuto replied. “The poor Chief wanted so desperately not to have a murder in Beverly Hills.”
    â€œCome in,” Lenore Tulley said in reply to Masuto’s knock. She was not in bed, but sitting by the window, fully dressed and smoking a cigarette. Unlike the rest of the house, Mrs. Tulley’s bedroom was aggressively nonmodern, with a mahagony four-poster bed, a large hooked rug, dotted Swiss curtains, and two very fine and expensive early American chests. While Masuto’s knowledge of furniture and decor was by no means encyclopedic or wholly discriminating, he was possessed of good taste and he recognized that while the room was odd, or at least at odds with the rest of the house, it was neither vulgar nor pretentious.
    â€œMy hair used to be brown,” Lenore Tulley said evenly. “I graduated Smith, class of ’56. I am not a bona fide California product, and the furniture in this room was in my room in Connecticut when I was a kid. I am frightened but not grief-stricken, Sergeant. Let me make that plain. It is an ugly thing—and very upsetting too—to have your husband murdered while you are forced to stand on the wrong side of a locked door and do nothing about it. Believe me, if it were possible, I would have saved my husband’s life. I disliked him intensely, but I had no desire to see him murdered. If I do any weeping, it is only for myself. One never really recovers from a murder, does one?”
    â€œThat all depends,” Masuto said, smiling slightly. “The victim never recovers, does he? The murderer sometimes recovers, I suppose. The innocent bystander—well—tell me, if you disliked Mike Tulley so, why did you remain married to him?”
    She shrugged. “That’s almost too complex to unravel. We separated twice. I am very wealthy—much more than he—but more recently. My father died last year, and I inherited a great deal. There’s a community property law in this state. I was not in love with anyone else. I am neurotic as hell and I see an analyst five times a week, and in this rotten social blister called Los Angeles, there’s a certain value in being married to a TV star. There’s no other status out here. Also, Mike made divorce a rough thing—”
    â€œThen generally speaking, his death benefits and liberates you,” Masuto said softly, not knowing what reaction this would evoke from her.
    But she only shrugged and nodded. “If you want to look at it that way. I suppose poor Mike made it a little easier for me. I don’t know.”
    â€œAnd the murder—can you talk about it now?”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œDr. Baxter said you were hysterical.”
    â€œSo I was upset. That idiot doctor of yours gave me a couple of aspirin. He partakes of a general