plants. Not that he knew much about plants at all, but he recognised these plants for sure. Marty’s parents had shifted some years ago to live in Vermont. Mrs Hislop had joined the local Hydrangea Society of Vermont, and was an active member. The perfume was not overpowering, you could almost say therapeutic to the senses. Their colour was almost surreal, an intangible shade of heavenly blue that darkened on the outside of the petals. The flower heads were immense. Quite a stunning display!
“Now where were we? Ah yes,” said the informative Mrs Cavallaro. Cradling her tea cup and saucer in her lap, she spoke on, “The red car that Mrs Femmer drove around from daylight to dusk, and I might add with Billy in tow as well. Never out of it, the pair of them! Mr Femmer purchased the car for her not long before Billy came on the scene. Now what was the car again, yes, I recall. It was a Ford Mustang. All over red with white wall tyres. Thought she was the ace of spades, driving up and down North Beaumont all day long.” Mrs Cavallaro ended at this juncture to sip her tea.
“Really!” said the interested Marty.
“As I said in my statement, many moons ago of course,” chuckled Mrs Cavallaro, “I did see the car pass by here late in the afternoon, about a quarter to six. It was travelling at a heck of a pace too, I might add Chief Inspector – Marty – sorry, I forgot,” finished Mrs Cavallaro with a apologetic gesture of her delicately shaped right hand.
Marty decided to throw a question at the “know it all” woman sitting before him.
“Can you be quite sure that it was definitely the red Mustang you saw? It must have been getting dark for you to see the car clearly.” enquired Marty in a curious tone.
“I can assure you that I saw the red Mustang.” The tone became brittle. “I was in the front garden. It was summer, and the sun had not set. I heard the vehicle coming up the street. I looked up and saw the car hurtle by like a flash of lightning. I unfortunately did not discern the driver, but it could only have been Mrs Femmer, it was her automobile, after all,” retorted Mrs Cavallaro with a firmness to her ladylike voice. “I will prove it to you. Ever since I was 21, when my father gave me a diary, I have religiously kept a record of events. Now, if you will just pardon me for a moment, I will get the diary for 1965 from the bookcase.” said the ‘fastidious record keeper’.
Rising to her feet with the aid of the walking stick, Peggy Cavallaro walked over to the mahogany bookcase. Opening the glass doors, she selected a diary and brought it back to the sofa. Sitting down again, she flipped through the pages and got the date in question. Bringing the diary over to Marty, and holding it with one hand, she said with great pleasure, “There you are, told you so! It’s all there, the date and time, as I stated before.”
Marty saw the flamboyant style handwritten entry recording the time and the red Mustang “hurtling up” North Beaumont. Marty nodded his head in consent with Mrs Cavallaro.
This satisfied her dented ego! Hmmmm, considered Marty. Was this woman correct in her statement or was there a subtle suggestion of placing Mrs Femmer in an awkward position? Yes, it could have been Marjorie Femmer at the wheel OR it could have been Max Femmer OR even someone else. It was feasible, after all. Max Femmer undoubtedly had an extra set of car keys and went out in the car himself. Or, was it another person altogether? Marty had yet to find this out.
Marty took the bull by the horns, so to speak, and asked in his most charming speech, “Oh, do you think that Mrs Femmer would be out at that time, surely Mr Femmer would have been home by then? But, I guess you know more about the neighbours than I would Mrs Cavallaro.”
This bait was taken by the wealthy woman who replied with relish in a sophisticated attitude, “Oh yes, it’s quite possible that Marjorie Femmer could have been behind that steering wheel. You see,” Mrs Cavallaro leaning forward in Marty’s direction said quietly, “she was a law unto herself.” Drawing her frame back into the comfortable sofa, Mrs Cavallaro gave Marty a wink with her right blue eye.
Marty raised his eyebrows and answered in a lowered tone, “Is that so, well I never!” Marty focused his attention on Mrs Cavallaro more intently. She loved this play on words and proceeded to reveal more secrets.
“You see Detective Chief Inspector, I know Marjorie Femmer better than anyone else in Hollywood. I know for a fact that Mrs Femmer was nothing more than a little gold digger when she arrived in town. Twelve years of age. Ran away from home and landed at Hal Roach Studios demanding work. Dear Mr Roach Senior, that is, not Junior, took her in and gave a roof over her head. Done herself up to look a right tart, could pass as being seventeen! Threw herself at any man that would have her. Late nights every night of the week. Loved to frolic with the men. Had to be escorted home, paralytic. Quite disgusting, no shame at all that woman,” tutted Mrs Cavallaro. On she went like a steam roller out of control, “Poor Max rescued her from the gutter, and tried to make something of Marjorie. After some bit acting, Mr Roach gave her the role of leading lady in a film. Well, do you know how she repaid his generosity?” Mrs Cavallaro paused, her blue soulless eyes were piercing into Marty’s face. “Got herself blind drunk onset. Loves the whiskey, always has! They could only make half the film before Marjorie was carried off in a drunken stupor. It did upset dear Mr Roach a lot. They had to sack her you know, yes, quite shameful the whole thing. Max thought the world of her, always buying Marjorie gifts.”
Marty was aware that the “Mrs Femmer” had been dropped in favour of just “Marjorie”. Mrs Cavallaro clearly did not approve of Mrs Marjorie Femmer, one little bit. “Black as she is painted”, as his mother used to say. Marty wondered what part Peggy Cavallaro played in having Mrs Femmer dismissed from the studio. Quite a big part! Marty mused to himself.
Interrupting herself, Mrs Cavallaro said pleasantly, “More tea, Detective Chief Inspector?”
“Yes please, I will.” replied Marty.
“Help yourself to a cake or biscuit too, don’t be shy.” Mrs Cavallaro grinned at Marty. Peggy Cavallaro was sizing up the man opposite her with some disapproval.
Brought up by the back of his pants, this one, thought Mrs Cavallaro as she gave Marty a “once over” examination.
CHAPTER seven
Having poured Marty another cup of the aromatic smelling tea, Mrs Cavallaro went on with her discourse.
“Then Max bought her that red Mustang. Raced all over the place in it. You could guarantee that she would be out gallivanting anywhere people could see her. Once Marjorie had Billy with her, there was no stopping her then. Telling the whole neighbourhood that Billy was her adopted son, dragging the little boy into the shopping mall, the gas station and the bowling alley she loved to frequent. Out from daylight to dusk, the pair of them.” Mrs Cavallaro dropped her head and shook it with a look of contempt. On she went without pausing for breath, “Hardly ever had any food in the house, always forgetting groceries. Sugar or milk or meat to cook for dear Max. Quite disorganised. If it wasn’t for Max, she wouldn’t have a house to live in. A spendthrift, useless with money. Oh, yes, Max had his hands full with her, mark my words!” said the emphatic Mrs Cavallaro.
Marty began to feel a distinct dislike for this woman. Mrs Cavallaro liked to hold the floor and enjoyed an assembly of listeners, namely Marty on this opportunity.
“I was Mr Hal Roach Senior’s personal secretary for many years. He relied on me to arrange meetings, complete reports, discussing what the cast, producers and directors were up to. I had to keep him informed of everything, so I had to have eyes in the back of my head Detective Ch—Marty” completed Mrs Cavallaro with a superior raising of her well coiffeured head.
Yeah
