Cemetery Plot

by Sybil A. Johnson

Follow the road past Mel Torme, then veer right after Marilyn Monroe. Maddison Lockhart looked up from her directions and spotted the red stone marker to her left. Pretty hard to miss Mel. Presumably, if she kept walking straight ahead, she'd find Marilyn.

Maddison had driven down Glendon Avenue countless times without realizing the cemetery was here, tucked away behind the towering office skyscrapers and high-rise condos on Wilshire Boulevard . Pierce Brothers Westwood Village Memorial Park (commonly referred to as Westwood Memorial) was an oasis of tranquility amid the hustle and bustle of West L.A.

Only a hedge separated the intimate cemetery from the theater parking entrance, yet once Maddison had stepped inside the gate, she'd felt as though the outside world were miles away. A blanket of silence settled around her. Maybe this peacefulness explained Grandfather's habit of popping down here on breaks from his nearby store.

Although why Gus (as he preferred to be called) had insisted on meeting her here on such a hot August day-- Panic gripped Maddison's heart. He wasn't trying to tell her something about his health, was he? She shoved the unwelcome thought aside.

As Maddison came abreast of Marilyn Monroe's tomb--set in the mausoleum wall to her left--a young woman in her twenties planted a kiss on the marble above the marker. A shade darker than the surrounding vaults, Marilyn's crypt showcased a variety of lipstick marks. Odd that someone Maddison's age (born so many years after Marilyn's death) should shower the actress with such affection.

Maybe Gus could explain the fascination to her. He'd probably known Marilyn during his acting days, though Maddison didn't remember any stories involving the blonde bombshell. Still, he told so many she couldn't keep track of them all.

Go past Peace, Love, and Remembrance to Walter Matthau. Heat radiated off the pavement. The day was too hot to follow such tedious and cryptic directions. There must be an easier way to find the grave than embarking on this personalized cemetery tour. Maddison crumpled the instructions into the pocket of her capris.

She slipped off her sandals and headed for the shade of a massive gnarled tree. The cool grass provided welcome relief from the heat. A rotund Marilyn Monroe dozed on a nearby bench. Maddison did a double take then shook her head. Took all kinds.

Spotting her destination dead ahead, she picked her way across the lawn, careful not to step on any headstones. Only a few tourists wandered the graves, eyes and cameras trained on the ground.

Maddison stood by Walter Matthau's gravestone and consulted her watch. Right on time, but where was Gus?

The Marilyn impersonator she'd seen on the bench tottered toward her. The woman was waving so vigorously that by the time she'd made it halfway across the lawn, her platinum blonde wig covered her nose. As the would-be look-alike shoved the unruly hairpiece back in place, Maddison scrutinized the wrinkled face. The eyes seemed oddly familiar.

“Gus?” Maddison's voice came out in a squeak.

Now certain of the figure's identity, Maddison rushed forward. Fun was fun, but this time he'd gone too far. She grabbed Gus's arm and pulled him toward her. “This is no place for one of your practical jokes.”

Gus staggered but soon regained his equilibrium. Ignoring the reprimand, he gestured dramatically toward the row of graves on the other side of the road. “That man is an intruder.” His voice boomed across the cemetery. Tourists looked up from their videotaping and frowned.

“Grandfather! Keep your voice down.”

Gus walked across the pavement and pointed at the ground. “That grave. I want you to repossess it.” This time he wasn't trying to be heard in the back row of the theater.

Maddison's gaze followed his finger to a newly engraved headstone. Gus was eccentric, but he'd never shown signs of dementia before. “It's, uh, occupied.”

“Exactly!”

“You want me to evict the current tenant of this grave?”

Gus nodded, his wig threatening to cover his face again.

Didn't seem like one of his pranks. Perhaps this lunacy was temporary. His way of dealing with an unexpected death. “Was he a good friend of yours?” Maddison kept her voice gentle.

“Certainly not. He's trespassing.”

The day she'd feared had come. Gus had finally gone around the bend. “I can't give you the help you need.”

“Why not? Isn't that your job? To repossess things?”

“Sure. Cars, boats, furniture. . .I'll even recover a coffin for you as long as it's empty.”

Gus drew a piece of paper out of his bra and waved it in front of Maddison. “That grave is mine. See!” He jabbed a finger at a line on the form. “There it is in black and white.”

Maddison grabbed the document. Written on the deed was the cemetery name along with plot and grave numbers. She examined the headstone again and glanced at the two surrounding it. Although they were all marked with the birth and death dates of the occupants, the plot identification numbers weren't written on the stones.

“Are you sure this is the plot listed on this deed?”

“He told me it was.”

“He?”

“Lew. The man who sold it to me.”

Now they were getting somewhere. “What company does Lew work for? Maybe we can clear this up with a phone call.” She dug her cell phone out of her waist pack.

“Company?”

Maddison had a bad feeling about this. “You did go to a licensed cemetery broker, didn't you?”

Gus looked so stunned, she half expected him to crumple to the ground.

“Gus? Are you okay?”

Still he didn't answer. She wanted to shake him, to provoke some response from him. Anything to make sure he hadn't suffered a stroke or similar attack.

“I only paid fifteen for it. That's a bargain.”

No slurred speech. No evidence of a seizure. At least he was talking now, though she didn't understand why he felt the need to justify his purchase. Unless-- “We're talking fifteen hundred, right?”

He shook his head. “Thousand.”

“You paid fifteen thousand dollars for a grave? Where did you get the money?”

“Do you know how hard it is to get in here these days? Any available slot is snapped up like that.”

The way Gus was talking, they might be discussing a country club membership instead of a final resting place. But perhaps that's how he viewed his purchase--as admission into the ultimate country club.

In any case, the cemetery owners must keep track of their “members.” They should be able to consult their records and point her to the correct burial plot.

“I'm sure it's all a misunderstanding. Let me check into it for you.”

“Thanks, Maddie.”

As Gus turned toward the entrance, Maddison called after him. “Why are you dressed like Marilyn?”

“Rehearsing, my dear. Just rehearsing.” He headed down the path, dress swishing around his chubby legs.

Half an hour later, Maddison stormed out of the cemetery office, itching for a fight. A fake deed pointing to a nonexistent plot. That's what Gus had purchased. Indignation raged through Maddison. How could anyone defraud an eighty-four-year-old man? Gus wasn't rich. Between social security and his movie memorabilia store, he barely eked out a living. Fifteen thousand dollars was a fortune to him. Who knew what he'd sold to get that kind of money.

Suddenly, Maddison felt a hand grip her right shoulder. Instinct and years of martial arts training took over.

Flinging all her anger and frustration into her response, Maddison jammed her right leg back into her attacker's knee; at the same time, she sent her right elbow back and up. She felt a leg buckle, followed by the crunch of teeth as a falling chin collided with her elbow.

Before her assailant could respond, she pounded her fist into his groin and, with a slight step to line herself up, rammed her right foot back in a solid kick--straight into the solar plexus.

She felt the breath whoosh out of him. Then came a grunt and a satisfying thud. Stepping forward, she pivoted into a fighting stance, daring him to come after her again.

Sprawled on the ground was a man about Maddison's age, his butt resting on a headstone. Anguish contorted his face. “Pack quite a wallop for such a pixie,” he gasped.

Maddison lowered her hands and grinned sheepishly. “Sorry. Are you all right?” Perhaps she'd overreacted. Still, he had grabbed her without warning. And what had he called her? A pixie ? “You shouldn't pounce on someone that way.” A note of irritation crept into her voice.

The man winced as he dragged himself to his feet. “Believe me, I won't make that mistake twice.” He leaned forward to hand her a business card, then stepped back out of reach. “I overheard your conversation. I have a client with the same problem.”

Maddison examined the card: Lawford Emery, Private Investigator. “Now, Mr. Emery, what were you saying about a client?”

“Call me Ford, please.”

From his back pocket he produced a deed that appeared identical to the one Gus had given her. At least her grandfather hadn't been the only one taken in by the scam artist. Immediately, she chastised herself for feeling so relieved that there had been another victim.

Maddison handed back the document. “What can I do for you?”

“I'd like to talk to your grandfather. See what he can tell me about the guy who sold him the plot.”

“I don't know how much help he'll be.”

“He might know more than he realizes.”

Maddison fingered the P.I.'s business card. The cases did seem to be linked. Working with him might be her best shot at catching the scumbag and recovering the money. “I want to be involved in the investigation.”

“I think we can work something out.”

“I'll see what I can do.”

Several hours and many phone calls later, Maddison had checked up on Ford to her satisfaction. Happy to have such a competent investigator on her side, she arranged to meet him later that day at her grandfather's store.

***

Maddison hurried into Movie Memories , a veritable history of film with its selection of books and vintage movie posters, photographs, and magazines. Back when she was growing up, the store had been a gathering spot for Hollywood bit players. A place they could come to swap stories and relive their glory days. One by one, the old-timers had disappeared. Today Gus kept them alive by recounting their tales.

The store was empty of customers for the moment. Dressed now in slacks and shirt, Gus stood with his back to her, fiddling with something behind the counter.

“Gus.”

Not even a twitch in response. Maddison called his name, louder this time. When he turned around she realized her mistake. “I'm sorry, Cyrus. I thought you were my grandfather. Is he here?”

Cyrus chuckled. “Guess every old geezer looks the same to you youngsters.” He yelled into the back of the store: “Hey, Gus! Maddie's here.” Cyrus leaned against the counter and patted her hand. “It's a good thing you're doing. Looking into this cemetery business.”

Maddison leaned forward and whispered, “He's not still dressed like Marilyn, is he?”

“Heavens no, my dear. The service isn't until Friday.”

How could she have forgotten? Gus attended Marilyn Monroe's memorial service every year, though dressing up like the screen goddess was something new for him.

“How is he, really?”

“No one likes to be scammed, but he's been through worse. Let me know if there's anything I can do.”

Maddison kissed Cyrus on the cheek. “You're a doll.”

Just then, Gus emerged from the back room wearing a red smoking jacket, an unlit cigar in his hand. “Can't leave you alone for a minute can I, Cy?”

“If she weren't your granddaughter. . .I've got to get going. See you later, love.” Cyrus blew Maddison a kiss and lumbered out the door.

Gus tapped the cigar on the counter. “Have you found that shyster, Lew, yet?”

Before she could reply, Ford entered the store. After introductions had been made, Maddison got down to business. “Have you thought any more about the man who sold you the plot? Lew, was it?”

Gus twirled the cigar between his fingers. “I'm afraid I'm not much help. I'd recognize him if I saw him again, but.” His face brightened. “I do remember his last name, though.”

“What is it?” Maddison and Ford chorused.

“Carroll. Lewis Carroll.”

Maddison saw her disappointment reflected in Ford's face. “Like the writer?” She finally ventured.

Gus stopped fiddling with his cigar and stared at her. “Hadn't thought of that.”

Ford wrote down the information in his notebook. “Somehow I doubt if this name is any more real than the one he gave my client. But I'll check it out.”

They peppered Gus with questions, but he could provide few details. A bogus name and a useless description would do little to help them track down the con man.

In desperation, Maddison surveyed the store, seeking some way to jumpstart her grandfather's memory. The bin of black-and-white celebrity headshots captured her attention. Quickly, she rifled through them, producing her own Identikit. Feature by feature, she pieced together a portrait of the suspect. Eyes like Errol Flynn's. Chin like Clark Gable's. Ears like William Powell's. . . Before long, she had a stack of pictures and notes.

Now they had something more concrete to go on. Maddison kissed Gus on the cheek. “You did good, Gus. I'll return these to you as soon as I can.”

“Keep them as long as you need to.”

Maddison carefully placed the photos in a folder, which she tucked under her arm. After a few minutes of aimless conversation, Maddison and Ford exited the store, leaving Gus behind to lock up.

Side by side, they headed down the sidewalk in companionable silence. Finally, Ford spoke. “That was a good idea. The photos.”

“Gus always did relate better to movie stars.”

“I bet he has a lot of good stories. I know my grandfather did. Used to listen to him for hours.”

“How long has he been gone?”

“A while now.” Ford pulled out a well-worn photo from his wallet and handed it to Maddison. “We're screening a couple of his films at the theater around the corner next week, if you're interested. Sort of a tribute.”

She smiled at the black-and-white snapshot of a handsome man about Ford's age leaning against a fence, fedora set at a jaunty angle. “I can see the family resemblance.” She handed back the photo. “You must miss him. I don't know what I'd do without my grandfather.”

When, moments later, they reached her car, Ford talked while Maddison fished her keys out of her pocket. “Why don't I take care of the pictures? I know someone who can put together a composite for us right away. Then we can circulate the sketch and see if anyone recognizes the guy.”

Ford's suggestion made sense, especially since Maddison knew no one who could produce the drawing. “Tell you what. I'll check out this Lewis character while you take care of the composite.” Maddison handed over the folder. “This friend of yours is good?”

“Don't worry. I'll make sure the job's done right.”

The next afternoon, Maddison sat at the desk in her office while Ford leaned against a nearby wall, hands stuffed in his pockets. She studied the sketch Ford had just given her. So this was what a con man looked like, she thought. Friendly face. Trustworthy eyes. Probably necessary attributes for someone in his line of work.

Maddison placed the sketch on the desk. “Too bad we don't know his name.”

“No luck with the one Gus gave you, huh?”

“Not unless this guy--” she tapped the drawing “--is a sixty-five-year-old auto mechanic from Pacoima.”

“Only if he's discovered the fountain of youth. Looks thirty, tops.”

“What do we do when we find him? Do you think the statements of Gus and your client will be enough?”

“To convict, you mean?” Ford shrugged. “If we need more evidence, I'm sure we can get it. Phones can be tapped. People encouraged to confess.”

“I won't do anything illegal.”

“It's not my first choice, either. But what if it's the only way to get justice for Gus? Isn't that the most important thing?”

“We have to catch the guy first.”

Ford picked up the sketch. “Can I borrow your copier?”

Maddison pointed at a machine located in a corner of the office. “Help yourself.”

She was mapping out a battle plan for identifying the con man when the phone rang. All she heard at first was a jumble of sounds. Gradually she made out a few words, then phrases. Finally, Maddison understood what the caller was telling her. “Hang on, Gus.” She covered the receiver with her hand. “Ford, quick. Come over here. Gus saw our guy on TV.”

Maddison pushed the SPEAKER button on the telephone base. “Ford's here with me. What were you saying?”

Ford leaned over the desk, hands clutching its sides, head cocked in a listening attitude.

Gus's excited voice came over the speakerphone. “Cyrus is talking to his agent now.” They heard a muffled conversation in the background, then Gus came back on the line. “Good news. I have an appointment with the shyster later today.”

Maddison was about to protest when Ford cut in. “Confronting him is not a good idea, Gus. Let me handle it.”

“Don't worry. I've got Charlie McCarthy.”

Ford looked at Maddison, a question written on his face. She hunched over the phone. “A baseball bat won't be very useful if he has a gun.”

“He's an actor. If there's anyone I know how to deal with, it's actors. Gotta run, Maddie. I'll let you know what happens.”

“Grandfather! Wait! Where are--” A dial tone told her Gus had hung up. Maddison's stomach did flip-flops. She stared at the phone then looked up at Ford. “What do we do now? He didn't even tell us the guy's name.”

***

Late that evening, Maddison cupped her hands around her eyes and peered through the window of Movie Memories . The streetlight behind her illuminated the storefront, but failed to penetrate the darkened interior. No movement inside. Not even a flicker of light. She rattled the doorknob. Locked.

She'd so hoped Gus would be here. Ever since he'd declared his intention of meeting with the con man, she'd been searching for her grandfather, but both he and Cyrus seemed to have vanished into thin air.

Maddison pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the display window. When she heard her name a few minutes later, she spun around and greeted Ford as he strode toward her. “Any luck?”

He shook his head. “I called all the agents I could find. No one knew anything about an appointment. You?”

“I've looked everywhere.”

Ford's gaze swept the storefront, settling on a narrow passageway between the memorabilia shop and the nail salon next to it. “Did you try the back door?”

Visions of Gus lying bruised and battered behind the store propelled Maddison forward. She sped down the alleyway, Ford close on her heels. The store's back door stood wide open, but instead of a welcoming light inside, the interior was pitch black. A bad feeling in the pit of her stomach, Maddison reached in and groped for the light switch.

Light flooded the room, revealing a gruesome scene. A man's body rested face-up on the floor, a pool of blood forming a halo around his head. A blood-covered baseball bat lay nearby.

Maddison shrank away from the sight, then heaved a sigh of relief when she realized a stranger was lying there and not her grandfather or Cyrus.

Ford gestured toward the man. “Does he look familiar to you?”

Maddison stepped forward, but couldn't bring herself to do more than glance at the man's face.

Ford knelt down next to the body. “Do you know who this is? It's the man in the sketch.”

As his words sank in, Maddison's gaze focused on the baseball bat and she whispered, “Grandfather, what have you done?”

***

Early the next morning, Maddison walked up the path to Gus's well-kept bungalow. She wasn't happy about invading her grandfather's privacy, but she'd run out of ideas. An entry in his address book or a message on his answering machine might suggest a new place to look for the fugitive.

Before she stepped onto the porch, Maddison surveyed the busy street. No signs of a stakeout. Curious since the police had made it clear yesterday they considered Gus their prime suspect.

She hated to admit it, but the evidence was piling up against him. He owned the murder weapon and knew the victim. Most damning of all, a witness had seen Gus in the alley not long before Maddison and Ford discovered the body.

At first, Maddison had questioned Ford's identification of the dead man since she saw little resemblance between him and the sketch. But a fake cemetery deed in the victim's pocket had convinced her Ford was right.

Unable to put off her intrusion any longer, Maddison unlocked the door and stepped inside. A small desk in the living room held the answering machine she'd bought for Gus several weeks ago. When she saw the number of messages on the display, she swore under her breath. Didn't look like Gus had checked them since she'd installed the device. Listening to the messages was going to take forever.

She had just pressed the PLAY button when she heard a creak followed by a bang coming from the back of the house. On tiptoe Maddison sidled around the door of her grandfather's bedroom. A pudgy intruder sporting absurdly bushy hair was halfway through the window. The figure pushed his arms against the windowsill, filling the air with grunts and groans, but producing little movement.

“Grandfather! Where have you been? I've been worried sick. Don't you know the police are looking for you?”

“Why do you think I'm stuck in a window? Stop asking questions and help me out.”

Maddison grabbed Gus's arms. After several minutes of effort and one final prodigious tug, Gus popped free and both of them tumbled to the floor. Once she'd caught her breath, Maddison disentangled herself and helped her grandfather to stand.

“Why didn't you use your key? Don't tell me you lo--” Maddison watched in alarm as Gus turned pale and collapsed onto the bed. “What is it? Are you all right?”

He pointed toward the doorway and whispered, “Is someone else here?”

A disembodied voice drifted in from the living room.

“That's just the answering machine. If you actually listened to your messages. . .”

“Don't see why I need that new-fangled contrap--” Suddenly, Gus sat bolt upright. “Wait a minute. That's him. Lew. The guy who sold me the grave.”

They hurried into the living room where Maddison turned up the volume on the answering machine. “. . .hope you guys can call it even. Sorry about the money, but you've got it back now so no hard feelings, okay?”

As soon as she'd listened to the time and day stamp on the message, Maddison hit the STOP button. “That was left yesterday right after you set up the meeting. Didn't he mention it when you saw him? And what was that about money?”

“He never kept the appointment. Haven't seen hide nor hair of my money, either.”

“But he was found in your store.”

“Don't know anything about that. Wasn't near the place.”

“Then how'd you know about the police?”

“Cy told me the guy was dead. He thought it would be a good idea for me to lay low until we figure out what's going on.”

After replaying the message, Maddison sank down on the desk chair and tried to make sense of the phone call. Up until now she'd been sure this was a simple case of fraud. But, according to what she'd just heard, the caller had been hired to play a prank on Gus.

She turned to look at her grandfather. “Any idea what he meant by settling an old score? Is there something you haven't told me?”

At first Gus shook his head then, after a few moments, his mouth dropped open and he stared at Maddison. “No. Couldn't be. That was over forty years ago.”

“What are you talking about?”

Gus handed her an old photograph he pulled out of a desk drawer. “You know I don't go in for practical jokes that hurt people, but I had a family to support.”

Maddison stared at the decades-old snapshot. Something about it seemed vaguely familiar.

“That's me on the right with Wally, a friend of mine in the old days. I was hired to play a joke on him. Supposed to be fun, only no one realized how scared he was of the water. He had a heart attack and almost drowned. Was never the same after that.” Gus hung his head and lowered his voice. “I'm not proud of it, but I needed the money.”

“Where's he now?”

“Don't know. Lost touch years ago.”

“Someone took a long time to get back at you. Do you remember anyone being upset at the time?”

“Cy wasn't too pleased with me. The only rift we've ever had. But he forgave me long ago.”

“I don't understand any of this. Why come after you now?” Maddison placed the photo on the desk. “We need to figure out who hired the actor. Find him and we'll have our killer.”

***

Westwood Cemetery buzzed with activity. Maddison stood by the office, watching the steady flow of mourners enter the memorial park. Some hovered around the graves while others headed straight for the chapel. A small group clustered near the vaults diagonally across the lawn from where she stood.

When she spotted Ford near the entrance, Maddison breathed a sigh of relief. He weaved his way through the swarm of people, dodging parked cars and narrowly avoiding a man carrying a large flower arrangement. Ford nodded toward the crowd. “What's going on? Big funeral today?”

“Marilyn Monroe's memorial service. Happens every year at this time.”

“Weird.” He examined the throng, then turned his attention back to Maddison. “You said on the phone you needed my help. Did you find Gus?”

She motioned Ford to bend down and whispered into his ear: “We know who's behind this cemetery business.”

Ford straightened up. “Of course we do. The guy's dead. You saw his body.”

“No. Gus thinks his friend, Cyrus, hired the actor to pull a prank, then killed him when he no longer wanted to play along. Cyrus denies it, of course.”

“Do you believe him?”

“I don't know what to think. Cyrus called me, scared out of his wits. Says he saw the killer leave the store then went in and found the body. He sounded sincere.”

“Has he gone to the police?”

Maddison shook her head. “He didn't even want to meet me, but when I insisted, he finally agreed to come here. Guess he feels safe in this crowd. I was hoping you could help me persuade him to talk to the police.”

Suddenly, Maddison ducked behind Ford. “Oh crap! He didn't see me, did he?”

Ford scanned the crowd. “Who?”

“Gus. I thought I'd convinced him to stay away. He doesn't know I'm meeting Cyrus. I've never seen my grandfather so angry. I'm afraid he'll do something stupid.”

“Where is he?”

Maddison pointed toward the entrance. “Over there. Dang! I lost him.” She craned her neck and jumped up and down a few times. “I can't see above this crowd. What do I do now? Cyrus is expecting to meet me in the urn garden any minute. Gus's presence will screw up everything.”

“You go after your grandfather and I'll take care of Cyrus. What does he look like?”

“He's about Gus's age. Disguised as an impersonator--in a bright blue dress.”

“Shouldn't be too hard to spot. Can't be too many octogenarian Marilyns here today. Say, isn't that Gus over there? Near those vaults?” Ford nodded across the lawn at the tall structures next to Marilyn's tomb.

Maddison hurried in the direction he'd indicated while Ford made a beeline for the columbarium. She quickly lost sight of him in the crowd that was surging toward the chapel where the service was about to begin. Within minutes, the rest of the cemetery appeared deserted.

Her stomach tied in knots, she poked her head inside each gated area. Occasionally, she glanced toward the other side of the graveyard, but flower wreaths and a series of hedges and stone walls obscured her view. Unable to stand the suspense for another minute, Maddison abandoned her search and headed across the lawn. She'd waited long enough. She had to know what was going on in the urn garden.

Maddison passed through the archway that marked the entrance to the columbarium. As soon as she'd rounded the corner, she discovered Ford bending over an unmoving mass of bright blue lying on the ground.

Her façade cracked, allowing her suppressed anger to seep through. “If you've hurt him. . .” Maddison rushed forward and shoved Ford aside. She knelt by the inert form, searching for signs of life. The old man's pulse was steady and his chest expanded and contracted at regular intervals.

After giving silent thanks that Cyrus was still alive, she leapt to her feet and yelled after Ford who was already halfway to the urn garden's entrance. “Did you really think you'd get away with it?”

Ford stopped then slowly turned around to face her. “What's wrong with you? You're wasting time. Or is there some reason you don't want me to get the police?” Not bothering to wait for a reply, he continued his progress toward the entrance.

Suddenly, a wild cry rent the air and Gus burst from behind a stone wall, ramming his forehead into Ford's nose. With a howl of pain, Ford staggered back and, turning away from his assailant, clutched his bloody nose with both hands.

Before the P.I. could recover from the attack, Maddison was alongside him. As her eyes locked with his, she grabbed his right shoulder and thrust her right hip against his, knocking him off balance. For a split second she wavered--until she remembered Ford's betrayal.

With renewed purpose, Maddison seized his right hand with her left. Then, in one swift movement, she flung her right arm across his throat and swept her right leg behind his knee, swinging her leg against his as hard as she could.

Ford's legs flew out from under him and he fell backwards, landing with a thump on the ground, his right arm still in Maddison's grip.

In a final gesture of contempt, Maddison kicked him in the ribs and, placing her foot on top of his heaving chest, glared down into his surprised face.

Ford closed his eyes and groaned. “You're crazy.” Once he'd mustered his strength (and Maddison had removed her foot from his chest), he propped himself up on his elbows and jerked his head forward. “Have they gone round the bend, too?”

Maddison looked over her shoulder to where Gus and Cyrus were crowing over their performances.

Gus executed a brief soft-shoe routine before helping Cyrus to his feet. “Did you see that, Cy? Did it just like Maddie taught me.”

An impish grin on his face, Cyrus brushed off his dress and donned the wig Gus handed him. “What about my fainting spell? Convincing, wasn't it?”

When they'd finished congratulating each other, they looked over at Maddison for approval. She couldn't help grinning. “Good job, guys. Gus, why don't you go and check the tape. The police should find it interesting.”

Still visibly suffering, Ford eased himself to a sitting position. “This was a setup? You wasted your time, you know. I'm not responsible for any of this.”

“You're lying.”

Before Maddison could continue, Gus handed her a tiny video camera he'd retrieved from a flowerpot resting on a nearby wall. She played the tape for Ford on the built-in screen. When he tried to look away, Maddison shoved the camera in his face and forced him to watch.

“If you're so innocent, why did you attack Cyrus when he accused you of being the murderer? You even admitted the truth to him. You can't deny it. It's all right here on the tape.”

“I was just playing along. You heard him yourself. We were acting.”

“You're a con man and a murderer.”

“Then why haven't you gone to the police? I'll tell you why. Other than the word of a delusional old man who'd do anything for a friend, you've got nothing. I didn't even know the guy who died.”

Gus and Cyrus protested simultaneously: “Don't talk that way about my friend!” and “Delusional, my foot! I saw you.”

Maddison gestured for the two of them to be quiet. “You hired him to pull a prank in retaliation for the one Gus pulled on your grandfather years ago.”

Ford started and laughed nervously. “You've got quite the imagination.”

“You're the one with the fictitious client.”

“So you know about that.” The cockiness had disappeared from his voice and Ford no longer looked as confident as he had moments ago. “You have no real proof.”

“What I don't understand is why go after a harmless old man after all these years?”

Anger twisted Ford's face into an ugly expression. “Harmless? He ruined my grandfather's career. He would have been the next Olivier, if it hadn't been for Gus.”

Gus snorted. “The next Olivier? Wally?”

“Minor leads in B-movies. Not exactly Oscar material,” Maddison said.

“He never got the chance to show what he could do. Gus saw to that. Every day I spent with my grandfather, I saw firsthand how that stupid practical joke had ruined his life. When I found your name in his journal. . .,” Ford glared at Gus, “. . .well, I just wanted to give you a taste of your own medicine. You owed him.”

“Why did you let me get involved? Weren't you afraid I'd figure out the truth?” Maddison asked.

“You would have looked into it anyway. If I pretended to help, I figured I could produce bogus evidence and point you in the wrong direction. It was working, too, until Gus saw that stupid actor on TV.”

“Did you have to kill him?”

“He gave me no choice. He was afraid Gus would finger him for fraud. When he realized I had no intention of returning the money, he threatened to go to the police.”

Later, after she gave her statement to the police, Maddison searched the cemetery for her grandfather. She found him in the alcove labeled “Sanctuary of Tranquility,” only steps away from Marilyn's grave.

“I don't think you're going to get your money back, Gus, but at least you don't have to worry about a murder charge.”

Gus patted Maddison on the arm. “Not your fault, Maddie. You did all you could.” He pointed to an empty slot near the top of the alcove. “How much do you think that one's going for?”