Free Dead Seed by William Campbell Gault Page A

I’ll get you a cup of coffee.”
    He came over to take the chair next to mine. I went into the kitchen where Mrs. Casey was eating her breakfast. “Is there enough coffee left for Mr. Grange?” I asked her. Then I saw the decanter was still half full. “Never mind,” I said. “I’ll get it.”
    “No, no!” she said. “It’s cold. I’ll warm it up and bring it out to you in a minute.”
    I felt the side of the decanter. “It’s hot enough.”
    “Please?” she asked.
    Fortney Grange had at least one loyal fan left. “All right,” I said. “But if you’re going to ask for his autograph, be sure to bring the paper and pen with you. I’m sure he didn’t bring either with him.”
    I went back to tell him Mrs. Casey would bring his coffee. I sat down and said, “That was shocking news about your friend.”
    He nodded. “And for the police to suspect me—!”
    “They have to follow all leads,” I explained, “even remote possibilities. Will his funeral be in Los Angeles?”
    “No. He is being cremated here and his ashes sent back to Brooklyn, where his parents are buried. There will be no funeral.” He paused. “He told me he was here Friday night.”
    And that is why you’re here now, I thought. I said, “He was. He and Jan discussed the possibility of her decorating the house he hoped to buy up here.”
    “He knew her?”
    “Only by reputation. He also asked me to alert him if you came home. He had a message for you.” I stopped quickly and took a sip of coffee. I had almost added and Miss Med ford.
    “Some message! He told me he had turned down some parts because they were not worthy of me. That really burned me. Who did he think I was—Sir Laurence Olivier?”
    I was beginning to understand the Vogel-Dahl-Kelly police ploy.
    Mrs. Casey was coming across the lawn now with his coffee. I said, “Here comes a fan who thinks that Olivier couldn’t play your stand-in.”
    She had dressed it in high style, our silver coffeepot with the matching silver sugar bowl and creamer set on a damask napkin on our silver tray. Royalty had come to visit the humble Callahan cottage, and she had been prepared for the occasion.
    “It is so good to see you home again, Mr. Grange,” she told him.
    “Thank you, Mrs. Casey. It’s good to be home.”
    “I was wondering—” she said, and stopped to look doubtfully at me. She was holding a file card and a ballpoint pen.
    “Of course,” he said. “You’re the first person to ask me for my autograph in some time.”
    When she went back to the house, I remembered Vogel’s warning about not being too pushy and decided to ignore it. I said, “I don’t think that was the message he meant. He wouldn’t have considered that a secret message, I’m sure.”
    “You mean he told you something besides those roles that he had turned down?”
    “He never mentioned any roles, only that he had what he called ‘a private thing’ to tell you.”
    He shrugged. “I can’t imagine why he should have said that.”
    Okay, Callahan, get pushier. I said, “It was something that Carl Lacrosse had told him.”
    No reaction in his trained actor’s face. “Oh, that! This Lacrosse is a photographer. He suggested to Sydney that I be included in some crazy idea he had, a montage of old movie personalities.”
    “I see. And that’s why Mrs. Lacrosse was parked out there? She wanted a piece of the action?”
    His face remained bland. “Quite possibly. God, Carol fired that awful woman decades ago!”
    What had become of my former hero? Had this stalwart warrior become the sycophant of a frivolous woman? That was too much to believe.
    He stood up. “Well, Carol and I have a date with the dentist. Thank you for the coffee.”
    “Anytime,” I said. But not too soon, I thought.
    When I took the tray back to the kitchen, Mrs. Casey said, “Aren’t they a beautiful pair, him and Miss Medford?”
    “They certainly are,” I agreed. “They deserve each other.”
    Good-bye, old