Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 46, No. 11, November 1982

All of a sudden a rotund woman dressed in a white blouse and skirt rushed into the circle of protesters. Raising an umbrella she attacked the Reverend, who parried her blows with a sign labelled DOWN WITH VIOLENCE. “How dare you, you self-righteous censors,” berated a fuming Mrs. Hanks. “Stealing Catcher in the Rye and From Here to Eternity was bad enough, but when you take the Bard’s masterpiece, that’s too much.”

Dodging Mrs. Hanks’ blows, I had a sudden inspiration. I pulled her back. “Take it easy now. I know who’s been stealing from your library, and it’s not these people. If you’ll just go back to your desk, I’ll have your books returned, even Hamlet.”

Shocked that I had figured out the latest book to be stolen before she had complained, Mrs. Hanks began to back away. Then, without warning the afternoon air was split by a shotgun blast. At the edge of the circle stood Seth Fuller holding a mean-looking double-barrel.

“When I told you people to get out of here, I meant it,” he snarled.

“The people,” returned Reverend Spiker, “have the right to assemble.”

I stepped forward, pushing Seth’s weapon toward the ground. “But not on private property.” I turned to Seth. “They’re leaving. Now let me have the gun.”

Spiker hesitated for a moment, then looked over Seth’s shoulder. A TV truck from Lexington was just setting up. Like a drill sergeant, he marched his group toward the truck, and while the video tape rolled, he began to preach — to the camera.

I walked Seth past the line at the registration desk and into his office. He pulled out a bottle of Kentucky’s finest bourbon, took a swig, and set it down amidst a pile of bills.

“ ‘Predate that, Sheriff. No telling what could have happened. Might even have ruined my sell-out.”

“It seems like I’m out here quite a lot lately, but since I am here, let me ask you something. Did Fields’ smoke pot?”

“How’d I know? I never saw him with any.”

“How about the Bowser boys? Did you ever see Fields around Tod and Rod?”

Seth sat down. “Why do you ask?”

“I arrested those two for growing the stuff this morning.”

“You suspect them of supplying Fields?”

“Could be more than that.”

Seth stared for a long time into the amber bottle. “Sheriff, something I should have told you before, but frankly I didn’t want to hurt the play’s chances. On the night of the murder, I got tired of writing checks and strolled onto the front porch. It was just before the storm hit. What do I see but Roger Manchester, my star, coming out of Fields’ cottage, steamed.”

That threw me for a loop. I knew Manchester and Fields didn’t get along, but Roger Manchester a murderer? That was like John Wayne fighting World War II for the Nazis. Then again, maybe I’d been so happed up on the Bowsers I hadn’t examined all the angles.

I thanked Seth and walked over to cottage A. Manchester was sitting on the porch like a king on his throne. Between anecdotes he was grinning for the tourists’ camera and signing autographs. The attention seemed to nourish the actor the way a wilted plant comes to life after a summer shower.

“Where would you like your autograph, Sheriff?” he said.

“Could we speak in private, Mr. Manchester?”

“Why not?” He released the hand of a young blond sitting beside him. “If you good people will please excuse me, I have to give a command performance for the law.”

As soon as we were inside, I said, “This is pretty serious. Yesterday you told me that on the night of Fields’ murder you went to bed early. Today, though, I uncovered a witness who saw you come out of Fields’ cabin at approximately the time of his death.”

The glow faded and his head drooped. Manchester turned his back to me and faced the barren fireplace. Finally he spoke. “Sheriff, do you know what it’s like to be Hollywood’s leading man, to be mobbed wherever you go by adoring fans, to have anything or anybody you want? Then, you wake up one day and it’s gone. The big parts aren’t there and neither are the fans. Your life becomes an endless stream of supporting roles to a lot of no-talent pretty-faces in B-movies and guest appearances on late-night television — just because your face shows a few wrinkles and your hair betrays a little grey.”

I wasn’t sure what he was getting at.

“I need this play. If it goes to Broadway, it’s my chance to get back in the limelight.”

“But what about Fields?”

“What can I say about a man who never did anything but a few dirty plays off-Broadway. You know, he even had a replica of a Tony made up and carried it with him everywhere. Well, that nobody was going to ruin it all. I went by his cottage that night merely to discuss some last minute blocking. Out of the blue he told me he was leaving the play — said he’d found a better deal.”

“So you...”

“Left. Furious. What else could I do? You can’t reason with a scoundrel like that.”

“Wait a minute! You just left? Can you prove that?”