Read The Case of the Angry Actress: A Masao Masuto Mystery for Free Online

it.”
    â€œPerhaps whether I want it or not, it’ll find me.”
    â€œPerhaps.”
    In school, on being asked his mother’s name—that is, her maiden name—Masuto’s son had once replied, “Katherine Asuki.” Masuto was distressed when he heard about it, as he always was when he noticed any sense or action of inferiority on the part of his children. Her name was Kati or Katy, depending on how far the Anglicization went, and now Masuto pulled up at the loading walk of the Food Giant Supermarket, leaned out of the car and shouted, “Hey, Kati—I’m here!”
    It was one of the very few aggressive, extroverted actions he indulged in, and he only did it because he detested supermarkets. Now Kati came rushing out with her cart, exclaiming as always, “Why do you embarrass me so? They will think we are people of no manners whatsoever.”
    â€œLet them,” he said, stowing the bags into the car. “Come—in with you and off.” She would not drive. He drove to his house and she apologized for interrupting his work so often.
    â€œToday I have nothing to do,” he said. “The chief gave it to me. Today, tomorrow—so that he will be able to tell the press and everyone else that poor Mr. Greenberg died of a heart attack. If it had happened in Culver City or in West-wood or in Hollywood, that would be something else. Not in Beverly Hills—and least of all north of Wilshire Boulevard. So today I will prove there was no murder, and tomorrow I will go to the funeral and the next day we will all have a picnic at my uncle’s farm.”
    â€œThat’s very nice, but you’re teasing me, aren’t you?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhere were you this morning?”
    â€œWith a rabbi,” he said.
    â€œA rabbi? That’s a Jewish priest, isn’t it?” He burst out laughing, and she said plaintively, “Why must you laugh at me? I don’t pretend to know all these things. You knew I was an old-fashioned girl when you married me. Now you’re sorry you married me.”
    â€œIf you are such an old-fashioned girl,” he said, “then why do you allow me to carry the bundles into the house?”
    â€œBecause I try to learn the things you teach me,” she said sweetly.
    The lady at the Screen Actors Guild had that quality of faded beauty that is so abundant in Hollywood and so occasional in the rest of the country. She was in her late sixties, Masuto judged, but with the bone structure of a star and the practiced dignity of at least a bit-part player. He seemed to remember having seen her in this film or that, and he wished he could refer to one of them with any certainty and thereby win her wholehearted cooperation. But he knew that if he faked a memory of her playing opposite Mary Pickford she would be insulted, and if he made it Joan Crawford, she would inform him that she had never been an actress. Things turned out that way for him.
    When he showed her his badge, she studied him curiously and challengingly. It was plain that she did not approve of Oriental policemen or trust in geographic accidents of birth. Irritated a little, she wondered what she could do for him.
    â€œYou do keep membership records from year to year?”
    â€œNot for the public,” she informed him.
    â€œI am not the public. I am Detective Sergeant Masuto, of the Beverly Hills Police Force. I told you that. I showed you my badge.”
    â€œHave you a warrant?”
    â€œNo, I have no warrant. I don’t want to pry into your records. I want one simple fact. I want the address of an actress who may or may not belong to the Guild.”
    â€œThis is Hollywood, not Beverly Hills. I think I should call the police here—”
    â€œMy dear lady,” Masuto said softly, “I do not get angry or provoked, but if you insist on interfering, you will end up by being quite uncomfortable. Now listen to me. Eleven