Periwinkle Lies

By B. Eugene Ellison

In Periwinkle Lies, a young executive on assignment at an exclusive resort is drawn into a lethal game of deception when he helps a beautiful and mysterious woman who claims to be in search of her past. Periwinkle Lies is a tale of secrets, lies, murder and intrigue as Jim Kirkwood, a self-indulgent, self-confident executive is unwittingly drawn into a search for truth. Influenced by his infatuation for a beautiful young woman a psychotic forgotten silent film star, Jim pieces together a story of misery, money and unsolved murders. An act of cold-blooded murder marks the beginning of the finale of a diabolical conspiracy, a clandestine plot that could be derailed by a thirty-one year old letter. Jim stays one step ahead of the conspiracy until time runs out, placing all parties at deaths door.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Dec 9, 2002
• ISBN: 9781469725239

B. Eugene Ellison

B. Eugene Ellison, FSA Scot., lives in Knoxville, TN. with his wife Susan. After a career in Engineering, Gene now enjoys: writing, painting and travel. The Rings of the Templars is his second Jim Kirkwood adventure novel.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1 

Sandy Springs, Georgia

Thursday

August 16, 1982

The afternoon sun was all but gone. Only the faint edge of its aureole remained above the pines, marking the end of a less than perfect day. In an unfocused state of mind, I leaned against the railing of the small veranda that projected from my upstairs study and watched the inevitable process of day surrendering to the night. In the distant, toward downtown Atlanta, a flash of lightning, hidden in a towering celestial plume, silently proclaimed the approach of badly needed rain. The thunder dissipated over the distance to a faint rumble.

The tranquility I longed for chilled in a tall glass of ice, garnished by three drams of fifteen-year-old Glenmorangie scotch. Its energy rekindled my diminished spirits. I have never been afraid to openly admit that I am a perfectionist, cold and calculating, with few friends at the top. Colleagues both fear and respect me, often at the same time. I am forever balancing today’s deadlines against tomorrow’s commitments, the reality of time, and the weaknesses and shortcomings of others, then doing what needs to be done. No matter whom it hurts. There are few second chances.

August 16th was no exception. As the senior executive in charge of all technical services, I am no stranger to both success and frustration but seldom do I accept failure. Failure, more often than not, is due to the incompetence of others and not welcome in my world. A single step forward and two steps back defined a disappointing day. By that standard, that Thursday had been a disaster. It started with the news of a three-day delay in the shipping of the desulphurization unit for the Fina Oil refinery in Longview, Texas and ended with reports of groundwater infiltrating the sub core beneath the primary footers of the Main Processing Building at the International Paper Mill in South Carolina. Even lunch was a fiasco. While inhaling a lavishly garnished Polish dog, the fillings hit the table like a road kill, some of which I wore back to the office.

After another drink of Glenmorangie, I drew in a deep breath and slowly let it out. Tomorrow—tomorrow will be a better day. I embraced that thought as a fact, then set my mind to making the real world nothing but a dream, pushing it from my presence, scolding it as if it was a rebellious puppy. This moment, this solitude, was my only concern: the stillness, my veranda and my drink.

As I embraced the invincible peace that I had fabricated for myself, the muffled sound of the telephone ringing in the study snapped me back to reality. Reluctantly I left the privacy of my sanctuary, blindly following the beckoning of the bell. Slowly lifting the receiver, I delivered an expressionless hello to the yet unidentified intruder.

May I speak to Mr. James Kirkwood? came through with astounding clarity. It was a woman’s voice: warm, soft and almost familiar. Her request was timid. So timid, it gave the impression that she was seeking permission or forgiveness rather than asking a simple question.

What can I do for you?

Good afternoon, Mr. Kirkwood, she paused. My name is Jana Williams. I’m a paralegal with the law firm of Sillman, McCarthy and Giroux. She paused as if to allow the magnitude of her statement to overwhelm me. It did not. We represent the estate of Mrs. Mary O’Brian. Again pausing from what sounded like a well-rehearsed beginning. I’m calling long distance. I hope I’m not disturbing you.

Not much, I replied with a hint of sarcasm. I was already tiring of the interruption. Where are you calling long distance from, Ms. Williams?

Los Angeles, California, Mr. Kirkwood, she stated with what came across as a strong sense of pride. Her tone projected the expectation that I would be impressed. Less timid than before she continued, Mr. Kirkwood, I have been given the unpleasant task of informing you of the recent passing of Mrs. Mary O’Brian and to let you know that before her death, she named you as one of the heirs to her estate.

My mind raced. Mary—O’Brian? I repeated. My god, Mary O’Brian was a name that I had all but pushed from my memory. Well, I’ll be damned! There was silence on the line. I realized how crass that must have sounded. Before she could answer I continued, I’m truly sorry to hear that. I really didn’t know her that well, but—I liked her. I rambled as I tried to sound sincere and personable. A charm that admittedly I can turn on and off at will. How tragic—what happened to her? How and when did she die?

As the young woman related the chain of meaningless events that led up to Mary’s death, my mind spiraled back; it had been only a scant six months, not even that, but it seemed like a lifetime, back to the beautiful Amy Addams and that crazy old lady, back to Sea Island and the Cloister. Listening to Jana’s brief but detailed story, I sensed her underlying hope that she would find someone who cared more about Mary than what he would get out of her death. As she continued, I remembered.

It had been like a runaway roller coaster. I had stumbled through the final chapter of a bizarre story that had taken sixty years to unfold. The events that brought three strangers together had been set into motion decades ago, beginning on a chilly February night in 1922. The chain of events that followed destroyed the career of a beautiful young screen star, her life and many believed her sanity. Its fallout threatened the entire movie industry. By 1937, few remembered the actresses and less cared. By 1982, when I met Mary, she was a mere footnote of despair in Hollywood lore and legend, lost for all practical purposes forever, forgotten except for an unexplained but carefully placed .38 caliber bullet and a sixty-year-old unsolved murder. I would soon learn that it was not over.

Mr. Kirkwood— The sound of my name brought me back to the present. At Mrs. O’Brian’s request the actual contents of her last will and testament will be kept secret until the probate hearing. The hearing is a week from Wednesday at the Santa Monica County Courthouse. Her lawyer has asked that you attend if possible.

I really don’t think so. I live in Atlanta, Georgia and—I don’t expect that you’re going to pay my way.

No. I don’t think there are any provisions for an expense like that.

There was a pause. Well, I won’t be there.

It is only a request.

By the way, what did she leave me? Tell me; I won’t say a word.

I’m sorry, Mr. Kirkwood, I don’t know. To my knowledge, only her lawyer and Mrs. O’Brian knew what was in her final will. Besides, our firm is under court order not to divulge the contents of the will until the hearing.

What the hell! I guess you’ll just have to let me know what happens; now you promise.

Yes, yes, of course we will Mr. Kirkwood. After a long pause she continued more timid than before, I need to get some additional information from you, if you don’t mind?

After answering a few general questions about myself, just for the record and giving Jana my mailing address and office phone number, I wished her farewell and hung up. I had decided to play along. What did I have to lose? Without question, I am too smart to fall for some absurd scam. Those are for losers and the weak of mind.

No sooner had the hand piece hit the cradle than a voice came from the bottom of the stairs, Anything important, Honey?

I measured my response carefully, No—No, just someone trying to sell me something. I smiled to myself. Surely, I wasn’t totally wrong in that little white lie. I waited for a follow-up: nothing. Much to my surprise, Susan seemed satisfied. That wasn’t like her; she was a woman of insatiable curiosity. I knew she would bring it up again.

In a mental vacuum, I made my way back to the veranda and eased into one of the overstuffed deck chairs. The leaves rustled in the brisk wind as the hot night air rushed like an eager bride to the rapidly approaching storm. Lightning closely followed by rolling thunder filled the sky with brilliant fire. My mind filled with a thousand memories: all out of order. Sipping my watered down scotch, I began remembering a legend that almost was. I remembered Amy, the smell of her hair and the pungent smell of gun smoke. I wondered about the truth and if Mary had carried it to her grave, the truth that would complicate the present and transform the lives of the few who unknowingly had uncovered her secrets and the deadly games of others. I wondered, now that she was dead, if the initials M.M.M. would again be associated with money, misery and murder.

I began replacing the pieces of the puzzle that fear, confusion and time had dislodged. It began, at least for me, early on the morning of January 24, 1982, Super Bowl Sunday. That morning, football was the last thing on my mind. I was about to be drawn into a tale of deceit. I would soon become an unwilling dancer in a demented waltz, a waltz in which all the dancers were a little bit mad, a deadly waltz that began spinning anew five weeks before the referee’s whistle signaled the start of the game: five weeks before kickoff 1982. Everything began to change the week before Christmas 1981.

CHAPTER 2 

Downtown Lincoln, NE

Wednesday, 5:59 PM

December 18, 1981

Bill Lambert sat quietly behind the co-anchors’ desk reading the day’s final copy. He was calm and detached. The usual, controlled chaos that existed just before an evening broadcast was rapidly spinning out of control. The problem was next to him. The prima donna neophyte sitting on his left was more trouble than she was worth. Her pseudo celebrity status and lack of professionalism fueled the smallest issue into a firefight. He smiled to himself: in his twenty years of broadcasting, he had seen them come and he had seen them go; she would be no exception.

Behind the lights, the phones were still ringing with updates. Newsroom staffers scrambled at a near frantic pace as computer data was checked and rechecked. It was almost airtime.

At exactly thirty seconds before Bill and Leta were scheduled to go on the air, the director’s forewarning resonated through Studio 2.

Places, everyone!—Heads up!—Let’s get ready, people! Lights up! During the remaining twenty-five seconds of final adjustments, Bill reached into the inside pocket of his blue-gray sports jacket and with a slow deliberate gesture withdrew his gold Cross pen. Slowly he turned the barrel, exposing the ballpoint. Nonchalantly, he made a note in the margin on page three, then reversed the process just as the assistant director began his silent hand signals; five—four—three—two—one—then a pointing finger put KOLN-Channel 10, Lincoln, Nebraska on the air.

Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Today is December 18, and this is Action 10’s Heartland News. My name is Leta Powell Berry.

And I’m Bill Lambert; thank you for joining us. The top story of the day is the weather.

With that statement, Bill passed control back to his co-anchor, the former Miss Nebraska and first runner-up to Miss America, Just one week before Christmas, nature is poised to wreak havoc on the heartland of America. A level-five blizzard is racing east across the central plains and covering everything in its path. Karney has received six inches of snow in the last three hours with wind gusts topping forty miles per hour. Our weather bureau in Grand Island is measuring more than three inches and counting.

On queue, Bill picked up the story. Every point east of the Plate is bracing for the first major Canadian clipper of the year. Let’s go to Jerry Tidwell in the Action 10 Weather Center—

Waverly, NE

Wednesday, 6:05 PM

December 18, 1981

Sandy Gibson left her car running as she hurried through the lightly falling snow toward Mr. Joe’s. It was after six o’clock and she did not want to be late for church, not tonight, not if she could help it.

Monday morning she had dropped off her powder blue skirt at Joe’s cleaners, not that it really needed cleaning, just a fresh pressing of the pleats. She had decided Sunday to wear it tonight along with her white cardigan sweater. The two together made her feel pretty. All she wanted was to make a good impression on Jeff, the single, good-looking man who had recently joined their Bible study group. If she had only remembered to pick up the skirt Tuesday, as she had planned, she would not be late now. Maybe being a little late wouldn’t hurt, she rationalized to herself; If I’m late, he can’t help but notice me.

Taking care not to lose her footing as she ran across the two inches of new fallen snow that covered the sidewalk, Sandy exploded into Carry’s Pioneer Cleaners. Standing behind the divided counter with a half smile, half-amazed look on his face stood Joseph Carry.

Joseph was a soft, kind man of 59 years with steel blue eyes. Slight in statue, he stood just less than five foot three. His delicate frame carried less than 120 pounds. His kind eyes brightly shown from a face etched by worry that made him look ten years older than he was. Joe always wore a plain white shirt buttoned at the neck. Over it, a gray, sleeveless sweater vest that was several sizes too large. Tonight was no exception.

As Sandy tussled her jet-black hair to dislodge unwelcome snowflakes Joe spoke softly, Well hello my dear Ms. Sandy. I sure didn’t expect to see you tonight, especially on a night like this. Bet you’re here for your blue pleated skirt?

Yes! Yes, that’s the one. I meant to get by yesterday but got tied up at the office.

Are you still working for Bruce?

Uh-huh, almost five years now, It was a job she truly loved. She had started working as a secretary/receptionist for Bruce Brandy part time during high school and had been with him ever since. B & C Associates of Lincoln had been a small two man architectural firm just off O Street back then but now with five architects, it was almost more than she could handle.

Sandy tried not to show her frenzy, Can you believe this weather? All this and I’m running late for church! She emphasized late hoping Joe would move faster than his usual deliberate pace. Her words failed to inspire any noticeable change in his unhurried manner. He smiled as he turned and started the motorized rack of plastic covered garments, carefully watching the names that tracked past him.

I got your Christmas card yesterday. He continued their conversation over his right shoulder. It was very beautiful. Thank you for the thought. Margo would have loved it.

A moment of sadness gripped Sandy as she remembered making out the card last Saturday afternoon. She knew that this would be her old friends first Christmas without his beloved wife. Sandy had practically grown up in the Carry home. His only daughter, Darlene and she had been best friends throughout high school. Joseph had been like a second father to her. Margo, his wife of thirty-three years, died suddenly in May after a brief illness. Her pancreatic cancer was discovered in March, she died in less than three months. Her death hit the small town of Waverly hard. It was especially hard on Joe and Darlene. Memory of the card was vivid in her mind. She had addressed it to Mr. and Mrs. Joe Carry before redoing the envelope.

You know, Mr. Carry, everyone misses Margo at church. She was such a guiding light to all of us. Both nodded their heads in agreement. How is Darlene getting along? We’ll have to get together now that she is home for the holidays.

Joseph stepped back to the counter with the blue skirt and hung it over the chrome bar that spanned between the divided counters. She’s doing okay, I guess. It’s hard to tell. She’s a lot like her mother, keeps a lot inside and— he paused, well, you know Dar.

He collected his thoughts before forcing a weak smile back to his face. I’m sorry you missed her. She was here earlier, said she’d try to stop back before I close. She was going to do some shopping in Lincoln. I’ll tell her to call you. His demeanor softened as he lowered his eyes; Christmas just isn’t the same this year. Margo made it special for everyone. It was her way of giving back all the love she felt. I can never thank you and everyone else for your kindness.

Sandy reached out and touched the old man’s hand. If there is anything I can do please let me know. You know you can count on me. He thanked her with a silent smile.

How much do I owe you? I really have to be going.

Let’s see: $2.45.

Sandy handed him a five and he returned her change. Merry Christmas, Mr. Carry. I’ll see you soon!

Gripped by his emotions, he was unable to offer his season’s greeting in return before she was out the door. As Joseph watched the young woman’s car pull away, he felt alone. Neither this Christmas nor anything else would ever be the same again. In silence, he watched the snowfall and wondered if he should close the shop a little early tonight.

Twenty-five miles north of Lincoln, NE

Wednesday, 6:06 PM

December 18, 1981

Just ahead of the snowstorm’s force, one hundred and seven passengers on board United Flight 547 began their rocky descent from twenty-six thousand feet to Lincoln’s Municipal Airport. At 1700 feet, the only thing the well-dressed man seated in 3A could see from his window was the reflection of the landing lights illuminating the thick clouds that engulfed the aircraft. Jason Lawrence Payne was the name on his ticket, one of many names that he often used. He checked his watch and remembered to set it to Central Time.

As the aircraft banked hard to the left on its final approach he calmly reviewed his plan for the evening. Every aspect had been mentally rehearsed until there was no chance of error. The only unknown was the girl. There was a very remote chance that she might be there. Either way, he was ready. Jason closed his eyes and allowed a slight smile of confidence to cross his face. His smile softened as he felt the Boeing 727-200 touch down on Runway 35 Right. Within seconds, the three Pratt & Whitney engines slipped into their reverse mode augmenting the hydraulic braking system, bringing the aircraft to a controlled taxi speed of sixty miles per hour.

The gate area was brightly lit, like a hundred other gates he had entered before. Jason moved like a ghost virtually unnoticed through the sea of welcomes erupting for returning loved ones and friends, past searching eyes impatiently waiting for those who would follow him, past children and grandparents, husbands and wives who were already in the embrace of their returning travelers. His only thought was to retrieve the metallic briefcase he had checked in Atlanta and to get on with the business at hand.

It was 6:17 and everything was on schedule. In fact, there was time to spare. He checked his watch again. With the uncertainty of winter travel, he had allowed for a margin of error that, so far, had not been called on. His rendezvous was scheduled for 7:00 p.m., 43 minutes away. He did not want to be late. Checking his watch again, he quickened his pace.

From the top of the escalator that led to the baggage claim area below, he surveyed the entire airport. Looking back to the upper floor, he set the layout to memory. It was simple; three gates at either end of a second floor open corridor. Between were the airport offices, a restaurant, a bar and a number of unidentified doors. The two centrally located escalators provided the transition between the departure level and the lower operations area. Ahead and below him, to the right of the escalator, were two baggage return conveyor loops. Along the inside wall were the airline ticket counters and directly before him, along the outside glass wall, were four cubicles assigned to rental car companies. Above and to the left, suspended as if in flight, were two vintage aircraft. The red bi-plane he recognized as a 1918 Curtis Jenny JN-4D; the other, a yellow one, was unknown to him.

Jason patiently waited for his single bag to arrive at carousel two. It took the expected ten minutes. It took an equal amount of time for him to work his way to the front of the rental car line.

Good evening, my name is Parker; Don Parker. I believe you have a reservation for me. Jason smiled as he offered the corresponding drivers license and American Express card, then turned slowly away from the pleasant, slightly overweight woman in her late fifties and surveyed the faces of those who were close enough to overhear their conversation.

After a few moments of silently filling out the contract Grace Baumeister asked, Where will you be staying tonight, Mr. Parker?

I’ve got pressing business with an old friend. I’ll be returning the car tonight.

Okay, but not too late. I hear that it’s going to get much worse before morning; maybe eight to ten inches of snow. Someone said that there’s even a chance that they will close the airport if it gets too bad.

Jason smiled without saying a word. As he waited, he watched the snow falling beyond the glass behind her. The fact that he must not waste time was becoming more obvious with each flake.

Want the insurance?

No, I feel real lucky tonight. His smile brought a smile to her face.

In silence, Grace finished the necessary paperwork by hand and slid it and the keys across the counter to the tall, brown-haired man whose chiseled features accented a less than handsome face. Carefully he checked the top of the contract to make sure his signature would match the name he had given. He liked keeping names and places simple. DON PARKER, DALLAS was one of his favorites. Everything was correct. As Jason looked over the contract, she said in a tired expressionless voice, You need to initial here—here—and here—then sign here.

As Jason signed the contract, he commented, Did you know that in Chicago all contracts are generated by computer?

Yeah, heard that. There is some talk of it here but we’re such a small operation, it’ll probably never happen.

Oh, it will, believe me. I’m an expert in the computers. It won’t be long. He returned the rental form to her.

Need a map?

No, I know the way.

Nine minutes later, he turned left out of the airport then east on Cornhusker Highway. His destination was fifteen miles outside of the city limits of Lincoln.

Downtown Los Angeles, CA

Wednesday, 4:58 PM

December 18, 1981

The rain hammered against the glass on the twenty-first floor of the Western Building that stood eighty-four stories above Hill Street and Wilshire Blvd. Time seemed to be in suspended animation as the minute hand of the brass-encased clock on the rosewood credenza stopped two clicks short of twelve. It was almost five o’clock, almost seven o’clock in Lincoln.

For over an hour, the slender, well-dressed man in his late thirties had waited. Chances were that he would have to wait at least another hour or two before word would come. That was, if everything went as planned. The minute hand moved another spot. After months of planning it came down to waiting; it was all about timing. First the innocent, then the pry, then the patsy: the plan was perfect, developed with the skill and precision of a military campaign.

Suddenly the silence of the office split wide open like a ripe melon falling from a tall truck by the ringing of the phone. It was his private line. It was too early. Something was wrong. With a catlike quickness, the receiver was snatched from its cradle in the middle of the second ring. A slight hesitation, then Yes—this is Duck.

It’s just me. Have you heard anything yet?

Hell no! I’ll call you as soon as I do. What if he’s trying to call right now?

Calm down, you know it’s too early. You really need to get a grip. There was a long pause. Did you check to see if the plane arrived on time? The caller did not wait for an answer. Well I did—and it did. Take it easy. I don’t like waiting either. Let me know the moment you hear something.

Sure, sure, now get off the line. There