Murder on the Yellow Brick Road Read Free

don’t see how. No offense, but it’s a little late to guard that body and a lot too late for me to ask a favor of my brother.”
    Hoff looked confused. The word must have been that I could be bought cheap and easy. Normally, the word was good, but this was out of my league. I’d just spend a quiet afternoon at the Y and then listen to Al Pearce and the Loyola-San Jose State game on KFWB. I’d snuggle up with a bowl of shredded wheat and a Rainer Beer and think about my next weekend date with Carmen, the plump widowed waitress at Levy’s. The plan seemed great to me, and I turned my back on the dead Munchkin.
    â€œWait,” said Hoff touching my arm. “You want to see Judy? I’ll take you to her.”
    I nodded. Things were going badly for Warren Hoff, and I felt sorry for him, but not too sorry.
    â€œWarren, if you want my advice, call the cops and say you just found the body?”
    There was a plea on his face, but the look on mine cooled it. He shrugged enormously again and led the way out past the coffee spill, away from the seaport and back into the light. He didn’t say anything, didn’t even pause to light a Spud. The temperature was about 70, but sweat stains were showing under the armpits of his jacket. I wondered if he was high enough in the company to have a couple of extra suits in his office.
    I couldn’t figure out if Hoff was so confused that he was lost or if he knew a super short-cut to wherever we were going. We dodged a truckload of balsa lamp posts, stepped through a small town street which I recognized as Andy Hardy’s Carvel and backed up as an assorted group of convicts and Apache Indians hurried past.
    We finally stopped at a row of doors leading into a squat wooden building.
    â€œJudy starts working in Ziegfield Girl tomorrow,” Hoff explained, his hand hovering over the door handle. “She’s got a tough schedule, and we don’t want her bothered too much about this.”
    â€œI’ll just kiss her hand, get her autograph on my back and leave,” I assured him.
    â€œYou know what I mean,” he said.
    â€œI know what you mean,” I answered. I wanted to put my hand on his shoulder and tell him to take it easy. There were plenty of jobs at Columbia and 20th Century for a good M.G.M. reject.
    â€œAnd I used to play football,” he said softly.
    â€œThat a fact?” I said not knowing what to say. The statement didn’t seem to make sense, but I had the odd feeling that I understood why he was saying it. I didn’t exactly like him, but I was closer to understanding him. He knocked at the wooden door and a feminine voice said, “Who is it?”
    It wasn’t Judy Garland’s voice.
    â€œWarren,” said Warren Hoff. His voice had dropped two octaves to confident baritone. The woman told us to come in, and Warren underwent a transformation as he pushed the door open. He became a different man, taller, smiling and full of quiet confidence.
    When we entered the room, I found out what the transformation was all about. Before us, in the dressing room, stood a dark beautiful woman. She was wearing a black sweater, a knit skirt and a slight smile behind the most perfect soft mouth that I had ever seen. Her eyes were narrow, almost Oriental. For some reason there was a tape measure around her neck. I found out the reason when Warren Hoff introduced us.
    â€œCassie James, this is Toby Peters, the man Miss Garland called,” he said. I noticed that Judy had become Miss Garland. “Cassie is a costume designer and a friend of Miss Garland’s.”
    Cassie James extended her right hand, and I took it. It was firm, warm and tender. Up close she was a few years older than she had looked from the doorway. I guessed her to be about 35, a perfect 35. I released her hand before she could see the excitement building in me. The same hormonal response was bursting out through Warren Hoff’s