I’m going to have to take about a one-month break from the blog, as I’m planning a big, ‘ole party at my place that is sucking up all my time. Sorry for the delay. :-(
And on to the tag, at last!
It is apparently Monday morning, and we find Laura and Steele on the way to the office together. Did they meet by chance in the lobby? Does Laura have Fred swing by Steele’s place to pick him up in the mornings? Or did they spend the balance of the reunion weekend in one another’s company?
Steele seems in a particularly chipper mood for someone who had to work over the weekend. “So rewarding,” he gushes.
“So stimulating. What a brain twister that was. A puzzle to test the finest minds.” (That finest mind, presumably, is himself.)
He places his hands on Laura’s shoulders in a familiar way. “And you, Miss Holt, shone brilliantly.” He seems to be praising her as a superior would one of his subordinates … a little patronizing? Or genuinely impressed?
Aw. Let’s not question the man’s motives.
Prince Charming Mr. Steele goes on ahead to the office.
I think she’s pleased, don’t you?
Steele seems to have changed his mind about something. He returns to her side. “You know, I’ve been thinking,” he begins, striking a Napoleonic pose.
“Perhaps we should have a reunion every year!” Steele suggests. I can see where a man like Steele, who seems to be alone in the world, might welcome the diversion of such a gathering, even with sub-par company like the former employees of Havenhurst.
Laura, however, seems dubious.
As they enter the office (Steele holding the door in typical gentlemanly fashion), we hear Murphy’s voice. “Ballistics tests conducted several days after PROVED that the path of the bullet began INSIDE the industrialist’s body.”
Hey! It’s déjà vu all over again. Laura seems a bit shocked, but Mr. Steele is getting a kick out of this, methinks.
“And travelled OUT,” Murph concludes dramatically.
It turns out Murphy is blowing smoke at Bernice. She is suitably impressed. “That’s AMAZING. But how’s it possible?”
Yeah, Murphy. How?
Bernice, a good murder is like a good wine. It should be savored.”
So take the evening. Or the week, for that matter. Allow it to seep into your thoughts, invade your dreams, consider it and ponder it.”
Emulating his new favorite man of mystery, Murphy prepares to exit.
He pauses, looking back at his mentor. He seems … uncertain.
“Is that how it’s done?”
Yes, Mr. Michaels. That is indeed the way it’s done. Mr. Steele is proud.
And the credits roll on their amusement.
It’s kind of interesting that Murphy is suddenly playing Steele’s game – if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em? Does he hope to make himself more attractive to Laura by imitating the man she’s so obviously infatuated with? Or does Murphy perhaps genuinely admire – albeit grudgingly – Steele’s panache and ability to bamboozle people? We’ll never know … but it’s fun to speculate!
Well! This episode does go on, doesn’t it. Let’s wrap this puppy up.
We left Mr. Steele contemplating Alan’s wardrobe.
Now we’re watching somebody fumble through a file cabinet.
“His business was off thirty percent,” Laura tells them. “He let a lot of people go.”
“Murphy, why do people put an elevator in their homes?” Don’t ask Murph hard questions, Laura. You’ll only embarrass him. And Carl – ever heard of a little thing called “personal space?”
“‘Charles Laughton. Witness for the Prosecution,” Steele provides, while thumbling through recipe cards. Still planning that lunch?
“Had a stroke,” he adds.
“Couldn’t walk upstairs.”
Witness for the Prosecution. Tyrone Power, Marlene Dietrich, Charles Laughton. MGM, 1958. Leonard Vole is arrested on suspicion of murdering an elderly acquaintance. He employs an experienced but aging barrister as his defense attorney.
“He’s good,” Carl informs Laura. (So Donald is the only one who doesn’t think our detective is the bees’ knees. Guess who’s not getting a Christmas card from Steele Investigations this year.)
“Oh, brother,” grouses Murphy, silently.
“You know what I think?” Laura says. “I think Alan was a very sick man.”
I’d have thought we’ve pretty well established that, Laura. Alan was a sociopath at the very least.
When the door opens … surprise! Somehow the whole crowd has materialized behind her. Sneaky devils.
“What are you doing?” Donald asks. Laura isn’t inclined to share her theories with him.
The door closes. Inexplicably, Laura makes a peace sign … or V for Victory sign? as the door slides shut.
Laura presses the UP button.
Then checks the walls.
Makes jazz hands!
Finally, she looks heavenward, presumably asking for guidance.
What’s this? Some sort of grate in the ceiling?
Aha! That’s Laura’s “I’ve got this thing figured out” look.
We get a look at a very neatly taped outline of the corpse. Really, it must have taken Donald hours to create that little homage.
“Best murder,” she says. Wait. Isn’t this where we came in?
“A man gets on an elevator. He’s all alone.”
“It makes no stops, but when the doors open, he’s dead.”
Aw, Laura. That was Alan’s best murder story. You couldn’t come up with one of your own?
Now we get a voiceover as the crime is recreated in flashback.
There’s creepy Alan pressing the elevator button.
“Sometime during the day, he must have taken the belt from Sandy’s robe,” Laura’s voice continues as we see Alan not taking the belt from Sandy’s robe.
Alan gets into the elevator, closes the door. “It was already attached to the elevator cables, and sitting on top of the vent.”
Alan pulls out his tool.
Hey! Get your mind out of the gutter!
“Now, I don’t know what he used, but he pulled it through the vent,” Laura explains.
“And he must have transferred MY fingerprint to the elevator button.”
Wait … what? Is that even possible?
“And then he hooked it up into a noose. He put it around his neck …”
“… and then pressed UP.”
Apparently we’re not going to see the actual demise. This was a primetime network show.
“As the elevator rose, the cable jerked the belt tight, breaking his neck,” Laura concludes. “Only that wasn’t good enough. Suicide wasn’t what he had in mind.”
Really? Then it was a pretty dumb idea to rig up this self-hanging contraption.
“So he set it up so the noose would tear. That way, by the time the elevator reached the second floor, the cable would have pulled the belt back up through the vent.”
Dead Alan again.
“In every way it looked like a murder,” Donald adds.
“Why, Laura?” Sandy wants to know. “Why would he do something like that?”
Laura’s got the answer!
“A hospital.” Murphy has his thinking cap on!
Okay, here’s a problem. If Sandy was Alan’s mistress, wouldn’t she notice if he went missing for several months. And when he returned, wouldn’t she say, “Hey, Alan! What’s up with the massive weight loss?”
Well, but obviously it’s a ghost dog, like the ghost servants who cooked Mr. Steele’s breakfast and removed the funeral spray-like floral arrangements from the drawing room. Pay attention, Donald.
“When a man knows he won’t be able to take care of it, he’d probably find it another home,” Laura concludes.
He rests a hand gently on Carl’s inner thigh. I feel a new romance starting! “Why would he DO that to us?”
Carl has the answer!
“Alan was always letting us know he was better than us. He invited us here for one final, joke.”
“A last vanity, so to speak. Something to remember him by.” Oh, there you are, Mr. Steele. I thought perhaps you’d gone home.
Murphy is belatedly chivalric. “Laura, they might not have found out for years. You could have been convicted of murder. That’s no joke.”
“He said if we didn’t solve the murder, he’d explain it to us before we left.”
She opens Alan’s appointment book. “The elevator servicemen are coming on Monday. I’m sure they’re checking the cables. It’s just like him. They’ve have found the belt.”
And doubtless just thrown it away. Because elevator servicemen aren’t detectives or police or anybody who would know or give a damn about dead Alan and his slightly bumbling former colleagues.
Anybody else get the feeling the writer of this episode got a little sloppy about the denouement?
Next up … the tag!
Kind of a short one this time. Too many irons in the fire!
We find Steele still on a mission! When his Laura is in trouble, he can jog those stairs pretty quickly.
He’s in one of the rooms – Alan’s?
… and starts rummaging through his drawers (that joke just never gets old).
Well, look! Murphy has followed him. Going to apologize, Mr. Michaels? Beg for your job back?
Nope. He’s just going to slouch and pout. Meanwhile, Mr. Steele is getting impatient.
“It’s staring us in the face, damn it!” he growls.
Murphy remains impassive. “Do you know what you’re looking for?”
“I’ve no idea.” Refreshing honesty, Mr. Steele. “Something. Anything that seems out of place. Alan’s room is the only one we haven’t been through. Closet, closet, closet.”
Murphy points toward the closet. Have you been here before, Murph?
“The man had excellent taste,” he notes. “A little conservative. Someone should have told him that herringbone is out.”
Interested in learning more about herringbone? Well, who wouldn’t be! Here’s GQ with all the need-to-know info: http://www.gq.com/style/blogs/the-gq-eye/2013/11/dropping-knowledge-herringbone.html
Murphy sits down, apparently to weep (my guess is he has a closet full of herringbone at home). Laura comes in. Steele continues his sartorial lecture.
“Houndstooth is au courant. Actually, Murphy, a trained eye can learn a great deal from a man’s clothes. We dress for what we are.”
“Silk suits, custom made, and by and large, always in style.”
Well, except for that appalling herringbone blunder.
Laura seems to be getting a migraine as Steele continues to make observations about Alan’s sense of style. “A man who lost a great deal of weight, I would think.”
“He went from a size 44 to a 38 – with no stops in between. Hmm.”
Laura seems a little more interested, now.
Laura and Murphy exchange looks. “He’s done it again, hasn’t he?” Murphy asks.
“Hmm?” Mr. Steele has no time for Murphy’s blathering. “Did what?”
“We’ve gone about this thing all wrong!
We’ve dissected everyone …
… but the one person we should have been looking at from the start!”
Murphy finds her performance gripping. “Alan!”
“Alan?” Mr. Steele tries to be patient with dunderheaded Murphy. “Don’t be absurd. The man’s dead.”
“The others are calling the police,” Laura tells Murphy. “Getting ready to leave. We have to stop them!”
Looks like Steele may beef up his own wardrobe. Well, at least he’ll get something out of the weekend.
“Well, maybe not.”
After a slightly confusing cut …
… we find our Mr. Steele twiddling and dozing in the dining room.
A bit of aimless wandering. It seems to have gotten dark. Wonder what they all have done for the past four and a half hours since Donald protested his innocence. How long does it take Murphy to process fingerprints? And how does he even do it? Does he just eyeball ‘em?
All the suspects, sans Murphy, seem to have gathered in the dining room. Perhaps to gnaw on the floral centerpiece, since besides Mr. Steele’s magical breakfast, I don’t think any of them have eaten anything since they got here.
Speaking of Murph … here he comes! He makes a slightly ominous silhouette.
Well, he looks glum. Perhaps he found his OWN prints at the crime scene. He launches into his scientific dissertation on forensic technique.
Donald puts on his glasses, the better to see Murphy’s grim visage.
“There was one very good print on the STOP button. It was a perfect match,” Murphy continues.
Not sure why a fingerprint on the stop button is definitive proof of the murderer’s identity … maybe if the print were on Alan’s dead neck.
Steele is delighted! “Then we have it. Our murderer. A fingerprint is a good as a signed confession.”
“Caught in the vise of irrefutable evidence!”
Oh, he’s getting wound up now.
Sandy seems to be wondering if he’s going off the rails.
Steele continues, driving the point home. “No denials …”
“… no counter accusations will set this killer free!”
Laura begins to wonder when Mr. Steele is going to conclude this soliloquoy.
Perhaps sensing he’s losing his audience, Steele wraps it up. “So. Please, Murphy. Tell us: Whose print is it?”
Well! That’s an unexpected twist.
Steele looks down at Laura. “Laura?”
stunned mildly interested.
The scene fades to black ….
And we’re back! Laura looks a little peeved. Being accused of murder by your business partner will do that for you.
Mr. Steele offers his associate silent support.
‘”I’m sorry,” says Murph.
Laura is shaken, but unbowed. “I was never in that elevator.”
Aw, look at Mr. Steele being all protective.
“I have only two things to say,” Steele begins authoritatively.
“I have known Laura Holt …”
… erm …
“I don’t what even to think how long I’ve known Laura Holt.”
Nice save, Mr. Steele!
And I can say, without fear of repudiation…”
Repudiation? You’re going to have Murphy running for his dictionary again.
“…that this woman is incapable of any foul play against Alan Grievey or anyone else.”
Right, Mr. Steele!
Right, Mr. Steele?
Now is NOT the time to waver, mister.
Keep dancing, Mr. Steele!
Steele’s going to get to the bottom of this, by God! He will exonerate his Laura!
He pauses at the door to exchange a quiet word with Murph.
“I also want to say …”
Laura looks puzzled …
… then weirded out. Is it because of Steele’s presumption at firing Murphy … or is she touched that he’s so adamant in her defense?
An uncomfortable silence falls over the room. Alan throws a fun party!
Murphy turns and follows Remington out the door …
Abruptly, Donald has had enough.
“I’m beginning to think we’re making a big mistake. Perhaps we SHOULD call the police.”
Anybody else remember how Ann Marie used to say that to her boyfriend?
Well, this is a little corny. But still.
“What are we DOING?” NotDonaldHollinger asks.
“Whoever did this is toying with us.”
“They’re doing exactly what you said they would do. Planting evidence, manipulating us. Well, enough is enough. I’m going.”
He packs! (A pink shirt. Is that significant?)
There’s that word again. Good thing Murphy isn’t around to get all confused again.
Brilliant deduction! Yet another crack detective with killer instincts.
“Seems to be flirting with the idea,” Steele confirms.
Wait. I thought you played detective every day. Isn’t that what you do for a living?
“I also have problems with playing sitting duck for a murderer.”
Eureka! The case is solved! And the murderer is …
Well, that’s an unexpected twist!
Don gets touchy feely with Murphy. “I’ll make it a point to stop off at the police on my way home.”
Wait a second – what’s that on top of Don’s suitcase?
“It’s a .38. The one I saw in Carl’s room.”
(He knows the same one because it’s got “Use This to Kill Alan” written on the grip in sharpie.)
And here we go again.
“This is getting very boring,” Steele assess. (I’m inclined to agree.)
“Have Murphy give one of them the gun, and let’s be done with it.”
Murphy can get a job as a referee for the World Wrestling Federation after this case.
“Of COURSE it was you!” Carl says. “You planted a gun in my suitcase, you let Murphy see it, then you took it back to KILL ALAN!”
Donald looks a little worried. “None of you believe that. You know I wouldn’t kill Alan, don’t you?”
Oh, ho! Now it’s getting interesting. This Alan was quite the play-ah!
“How when you were back at Havenhurst, he used to make you do all his dirty work for him. Took credit for all your accomplishments. Used to tell jokes about you behind your back – sometimes to your face.”
Well, that’s just mean.
“Sure, sure, but that was ALAN,” Donald insists. “I mean, I admired Alan. And I’ll tell you something else. I LIKED being the second guy through the door- As long as that first guy was Alan.”
Now we know who Donald really was in this office.
Screech continues. “Alan was very good. Sure, he could ride roughshod over your feelings. But we were a team. If he were here, he’d tell you that.”
(Anybody else think they’re subtly suggesting Don was in love with Alan?)
“Team, huh,” Carl mocks. “That’s why when he left Havenhurst, he didn’t take you with him. Stole every client your agency had and left you the king of NOTHING.”
Wait. Havenhurst was DONALD’S agency? He was the clueless, weak-willed boss whose employees ran roughshod over him? Guess he isn’t Screech after all.
He’s WKRP’s Mr. Carlson.
“Anyway, it was YOU who stole my clients, not him. As SOON as Alan heard about it, he called me.”
“I couldn’t kill Alan,” Donald persists, apparently prepared to swallow anyone who contradicts him. “I counted Alan Grievey among my closest personal friends. I remember this one case that we were on together – me doing the legwork, Alan handling the client relationships, dinner and whatnot. The firm that hired us said it, ‘You two are a hell of a team.'”
Well, THAT sounds familiar.
We left Mr. Steele and Laura making a hasty exit.
Mr. Steele leads the way into the kitchen, presumably to rustle up some lunch. Laura follows with a declaration.
Oh? I think it’s working reasonably well. And if it’s not, that’s hardly Mr. Steele’s fault. He’s said everything you told him to, Laura.
And anyway, as any good flim-flam man knows, all they really have to do is stall a bit longer.
“Besides, only five more hours until nightfall. So long as everyone can stay alive until then.”
Is that a cookie jar? Or a decorative dog food container. Laura seems ready to tell him why he’s wrong, wrong, wrong, until –
Wait! What this, a woman’s scream? It seems to be coming from upstairs!
Steele and Laura take off in search of the screamer.
So do Starsky and Hutch Don and Carl.
It’s another mad scramble up the winding staircase. Well, except for Mr. Steele.
He pauses on the landing, winded. “Seems like we’ve been doing an awful lot of this today.”
The foursome arrive in a room upstairs to find Sandy in Murphy’s arms. So you’ve finally made your move, eh, Murph? You sly dog.
“I followed her up,” Murphy explains. “And I startled her.”
I’ll just bet you did, Mr. Michaels. (Is that what the kids are calling it these days?)
He hands a piece of cloth to Laura. “Here. Looks like a perfect match to the fibers. She was trying to get rid of it.”
“For what it’s worth,” Murphy says, “I think she’s innocent.”
Hm. “Innocent” isn’t the first word that comes to mind with regard to Sandy.
Carl’s not buyin’ it.
“Sandy’s right,” Donald follows up. “How do we know where those fibers came from? How do we know Carl didn’t come up here, take ‘em from the robe, set her up?”
And they’re at it again.
This is one of those male dominance things, isn’t it.
All this pointless tussling reminds me of this:
“Now,” Steele recommences. “Where were we, gentlemen?”
“I’m only trying to get at the truth. You can plant fibers, Carl. You can start fights. But there’s nobody here with motive to kill Alan except YOU.”
Something tells me that may not be strictly true.
“Oh really? You wanna tell em, Sandy? Or shall I?” Carl addresses Sandy. She doesn’t know what he’s talking about.
“I’m talking about a motive for murder. I’m talking about your husband. And Alan. And about living here.”
Toto, I don’t think we’re in Kansas any more.
Explain yourself, Carl.
“I was the first one here Friday,” Carl tells them. “Wanted to talk to Alan about a loan. A little restitution, if you know what I mean. But Alan couldn’t talk. He wasn’t alone. Sandy was already here. No car out front, no suitcases, an awful lot of clothes for just a weekend. Who are you kidding, Sandy? You didn’t slip away for a reunion. How long have you been here?”
Sandy … smiles?
“Good, old Carl. Always could smell other people’s dirt a mile away. Been here for years. Been here … five days. I don’t suppose it’s any secret that Alan and I-
Play pinochle together? Have a brother-sister vaudeville act? So many possibilities!
“But I decided that I wanted to get married. And Alan wanted no part of marriage. So along comes Robin Maxwell. Wealthy, powerful, aggressive, everything that Alan was … except Alan.”
Don and Murphy are riveted.
Laura looks uncomfortable. Steele still looks indifferent.
“Well, three months after the wedding, I told myself I’d had too much to drink … then I poured myself another.
“Some women knit, some women do needlepoint – I did Alan Grievey.”
Uh, oh. I think you’ve blown it with Murphy, Sandy. He thought you were a nice girl!
Steele, on the other hand, seems to be pondering the possibilities this opens up.
And … yada yada yada, her husband got wise to his wife cheating, hired Alan to tail her to find out who is … er … tailing her.
Sandy continues her long and not-all-that-interesting confession. “So I had nowhere to go. I came here. I figured a girl could do a lot worse. But Alan didn’t want me around. Said what’s the point in having a mistress if you’ve got to come home to her every night? Told me I had to be out of here by Monday. Sure, I hated Alan Grievey. But I DIDN’T kill him.”
Laura is unimpressed by this whole sordid episode. “Well. There are still fingerprints to be dealt with,” she reminds them.
Steele concurs. “Miss Holt is quite right. Let’s not jump to any conclusions.” Right! They’ve still got three-and-a-half hours to kill before sunset!
Murphy goes to get his print kit, while seemingly practicing his little turn on the catwalk. And with that, I’ll leave you with Right Said Fred.
The suspects have gathered in the dining room. This is where Michael McKean reveals that they ALL did it, right?
“Can I ask where these came from?” Donald demands.
Um … is that a booger?
Carl says he found them. “On Alan’s body. On his NECK, to be precise.”
Sandy wants a closer look. “Mr. Steele? With your permission?”
“I have a theory!” Carl proclaims, getting up to expound.
Sandy’s not buyin’ it.
Carl continues his dissertation. “Those are threads. Pieces of fabric.
Fabric that must have unraveled, been strained.”
“Now, we know Alan’s neck was broken. I think whoever broke it used a rope, or a sash, or something made with those fibers to do it.”
Gosh. If his jacket were just a little more rumpled, he’d be this guy!
Now Laura’s killer instincts come into play. “So you’re suggesting we look for whatever these threads came from?”
“Rip the place apart if we have to,” Carl demands. “But if you find the source of those threads, you’ve found your killer.”
Don ain’t buyin’ it.
“Right, Carl, we’ll rip the house apart.”
“And give YOU time to hide the gun.”
I thought we’d pretty well established that the gun is ALREADY hidden.
“Of course! You got here, you realized you couldn’t shoot him without everyone hearing it, so you broke his neck, then you HID the gun.”
Oh, dear. Can’t we all just get along?
“Any thoughts about lunch?”
There goes Laura, assaulting the man again. Good thing her fingernails are short and blunt!
“A little levity,” Steele explains.
See? Laura thinks it’s very funny.
“Gun or no gun,” Steele continues, “it seems clear to me that Carl might be onto something.”
Just one question:
“Does this mean we all have to run up the stairs again?”
Not a fan of exercise, Mr. Steele? I’m reminded of a comment Pierce Brosnan made about his dread of having to get in shape for another Bond performance: “I’m going to have to do all that running again. And the gym is such a bore.” I agree, Mr. B!
Laura takes pity.
“Might I make a suggestion, sir?”
Why don’t we all take a break? Murphy needs to fingerprint everyone so he can have something to compare with the prints he took off the elevator.”
Looks like the rest of the group is ALL on board with that suggestion.
Those of you who wish to look for the source of the fibers, can.”
She returns to Steele.
“And those who wish to have a little chat can.”
Steele grabs the lifeline. “Splendid suggestion, Miss Holt.”
“We’ll all- regroup in an hour,” he concludes, striking a muscle man pose to emphasize his authority.
And off they go. To chat.
When we return to our detective convention …
Donald and Laura have found their way to the kitchen, which is deserted. So Mr. Steele DID have to make his own breakfast. As they enter, Donald is expressing his surprise at how the weekend has turned out.
“I figured we’d see some slides of the company picnic, maybe tell stories about the 78 Christmas party …”
Laura comes in behind him, giving a backward glance. Is she afraid they are being followed? They begin to root around for coffee beans.
“Well, good old Alan always did have a sense of the theatrical,” Laura comments as she digs in Alan’s drawers.
“Lots of dog food,” Donald says, “But no coffee.”
A new mystery! WHERE IS THE DOG?
Neither detective seems concerned by the lack of a canine presence. Donald, however, has something on his mind:
“Laura, can I be honest with you? I’ve been watching that Mr. Steele of yours, and while it’s certainly not my place to say … ”
“I don’t really think he’s all he’s cracked up to be.”
Laura is a little irked, methinks.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it’s nothing I can put my finger on. It’s just a feeling I get.”
Wow! Apparently Don has killer instincts, too!
Steele and Carl are having their little (one-sided) talk.
“Look, Mr. Steele, all I’m asking for is a chance,” Carl grovels.
“A chance to prove myself. To show you what I can do.”
“And when’s a better chance gonna come along than this?”
“Hey, nobody’s kidding anybody here, right? I’m down on my luck. You know it; I know it. I mean, the repo business is not exactly a growth industry.” Mr. Steele seems a little indifferent to Repo Man’s plight.
Repo Man. Harry Dean Stanton, Emilio Estevez, Universal Pictures, 1984. Young punk Otto becomes a repo man after helping to steal a car, and stumbles into a world of wackiness as a result. Here’s the trailer!
He said able-bodied.
Heh heh heh heh.
“And Murphy Michaels is more than adequate-”
Maybe Carl can be Fred’s relief man. We know he can drive.
Carl will not be deterred.
Is that a come-on?
Apparently it is. Inappropriate touching, Carl.
“I know how to crack this case. And I know how to make it stick.”
He reaches into his pocket …
… withdraws a small packet.
Wait a second. Is he offering our Mr. Steele drugs?
Just say no!
“It’s right there,” Carl teases. “The answer to this case is right there.”
The deal goes down. Oh, Mr. Steele! You’ve fallen in with bad companions.
Steele begins to conduct a detailed examination …
Back to Carl’s bedroom, where Murphy seems to have been directed to “assume the position.”
(Now bend over and cough?)
“No gun,” he declares.
Uh, oh. The room looks like it’s been trashed by a 70s rock band.
Rock bands used to trash hotel rooms, you know. http://www.rockworldmagazine.com/history-of-hotel-room-trashing/
“Must’ve stashed it somewhere else in the house,” Donald deduces.
Just when it looks like the mystery will never be solved, here comes their fearless leader. “The scene of the crime!” Steele pronounces.
(Huh? I thought the elevator was the scene of the crime, Mr. Steele.)
Steele explains. “I have no need to tell you people that the scene of the crime is often the best single source of conclusive evidence.”
If nothing else, Mr. Steele has an excellent memory for lines. Maybe he should become an actor.
“Precisely.” Not to mention indubitably, unequivocally, and incontrovertibly.
Everybody’s ready to check it out. Steele knows where this headed, and heads them off with a brisk whistle.
“We’ll ALL check it, hmm?”
A moment later …
Gee, it gets a bit crowded when the whole gang crams into an elevator. And for their next trick:
Each master detective pursues the investigation in his or her unique way.
Which is to say, they all look around randomly. Carl is getting uncomfortably up close and personal with Laura, while Murphy seems to have formed an inappropriate relationship with one wall of the car. Don wants to know what he’s up to.
“Dusting for prints,” the well-equipped Mr. Michales responds.
Honestly, the sexual tension between these two is palpable, isn’t it?
Murphy isn’t about to share his toys, by the way. So:
He suggests to Laura that they get some coffee. (Yet another man trying to get close to Miss Holt?)
leans over and presses the door close button.
Oh-ho! What’s this? Looks like Sandy would like to have some quality time with Mr. Michaels in the elevator. She wants a ride. Up and down.
“Murphy, listen,” she insists. “Forget about the dusting for a minute. I need your help.”
“What are you talking about?” See, here’s the thing. Murph just doesn’t have those killer instincts.
Sandy presses … her case. “I didn’t kill Alan. But I just know that any time now, somebody’s going to find something that makes it look like I did.”
perplexed stunned indifferent. Good heavens, Murphy. What large hands you have. No wonder Sandy wants some alone time …