Black Is the Fashion for Dying by Jonathan Latimer Page A

the first opening. There he cut towards the interior of the stage, slowing to an awkward shuffling walk. Lorrance continued to follow him, carefully keeping three paces behind. He saw they had come out onto the camp set, fully illuminated as though for a take, but with actors, extras and stage hands clustered about it in knots of various sizes. He saw the largest knot contained most of the principals, Lisa Carson, Ashton Graves, Trabert and Phil Alton, all in costume, grouped around an enormous dead tiger at the jungle’s edge; and an instant later saw Gordon, Blake and a studio policeman standing by the campfire in front of the tents. The low mutter of conversation filling the stage died as he followed Karl to the campfire.
    Rubbery face twisted from the exertion of running, Karl halted in front of Gordon, gasped ominously, “If this is a joke, Josh …”
    Gordon’s expression became stony. “No joke, Fatso.”
    â€œShe’s really dead?”
    â€œEven deader than her last picture.”
    â€œOh, God!” Karl’s mouth fell open, his jaws trembled, his skin grew blotchy as the blood drained away. “What will Benjy say?” His eyes, shadowed by the homburg’s brim, were glazed.
    â€œWhy don’t you give him a jingle?”
    Karl ignored this, or else didn’t hear it. “What—how did it happen?” he asked, still shaking. His voice came out a frog’s croak.
    He was genuinely upset for once, Lorrance saw. Really shaken. Apparently the electronic banks had no circuits designed to cope with death.
    Gordon said, “All I know is she’s got two slugs in her gut.”
    â€œOh, God!” Karl exclaimed again. His eyes rolled inwards, showing discolored whites. “The picture! Two million dollars!”
    â€œSay! That’s not bad.” Gordon swung to Blake, smiling wolfishly. “For her tombstone, Dick. ‘Here lies two million dollars.’”
    Blake, his ordinarily sardonic face white and drawn, could only shake his head. He looked as though he was going to be sick. A few feet away the studio policeman watched blankly.
    With an almost visible effort, Karl got himself under control. He stared at Gordon. “I don’t understand your attitude, Josh.”
    â€œNo, you wouldn’t,” Gordon said angrily. “Like you wouldn’t maybe think it was tough on Caresse.”
    â€œI do, I—I’m terribly shocked—for Caresse.” Karl hesitated. “It was—an accident?”
    â€œGo see for yourself.”
    â€œNo!”
    â€œHave you read your contract, Fatso?”
    â€œI? Contract?”
    â€œYou’re in charge of the studio, aren’t you?” Gordon smiled thinly. “Nothing’s been touched.”
    â€œBut this isn’t—” Karl broke off, then nodded twice as though answering some inner question. “The police?” he asked. “Has anybody—?”
    â€œNot yet.”
    â€œT. J.” Karl spoke without turning his head, his voice normal now. “Get the police. Tell them there’s been an accident.”
    â€œOr a murder,” Gordon said.
    â€œMurder!” Lorrance heard himself bleat, his voice high-pitched and shaky. “But how … for murder? I never—”
    â€œI’ll do it,” Gordon said contemptuously. “I got a drag with the police.” He started to walk away. “My cook’s brother-in-law works in the dog pound.”
    Blake followed him, still looking sick. Lorrance heard him say, “Lisa. Do you think we should—” and then Karl spoke.
    â€œGet hold of yourself, T. J.”
    â€œI’m trying, Karl. But this is—awful.”
    Nodding, Karl said, “Maybe we can salvage something out of it.” The banks were operating again. “Make an announcement.” He scowled thoughtfully. “There’s been an accident. Miss Garnet is dead. The police have been