CHAPTER

thirty-nine

The more I considered it, the likelier it seemed: There would have come a night when you worked late, sipped wine over dinner, chatted long after the meal. Garrett would have offered a fat Cohiba cigar from the box on the side table, and you’d have downed a snifter of brandy while you smoked. It would have been the most natural thing in the world for Garrett to say the hell with it, don’t drive tonight, there’s plenty of space in the house.

I couldn’t imagine you sleeping in gold and pink splendor, but bedrooms lined the corridors. In any one of them, you might have left behind a tell-tale sign. You might have carelessly mislaid the microcassette Brooklyn Pierce had begged me to return.

I’d wandered the Big House before, enjoying its rambling spaciousness, but I hadn’t searched it. I’d fingered ornaments because their textures seemed to demand a caress, but I’d drawn the line at grubbing in cabinet corners while keeping furtive watch for housekeepers and maintenance staff. Now, successfully avoiding all onlookers, I investigated six different bedrooms before taking a break during which I peered out a low window and took note of the car parked below.

Beige and gold, the cruiser crouched like a waiting lion in the driveway. The shield emblazoned on the hood displayed the palindrome-like initials of the Dennis Port Police Department.

Quickly descending a flight of stairs, I crossed hallways and shot down corridors like a bullet with barely a thought for my trajectory till I arrived in the corner of the tiny room over the Great Room, marveling at my speed and lack of hesitation, thinking that if my heart would stop pounding in my ears, I’d make a better eavesdropper. Detective Snow’s voice was less distinct than Caroline’s. His words slid into one another, eliding into a strange foreign-sounding tongue. I shifted my position, inched slightly to the left, nearer the bookshelf, seeking the sweet spot, straining with concentration until the rumbling noises sorted themselves into words and sentences.

Garrett, calm and bell-like, resonant: “Sorry, I don’t remember. That would be Wednesday night?”

A noise from Snow, a grunt of assent.

“I don’t believe I saw him after our Tuesday session, but my assistant keeps my schedule if you want to check.”

“You didn’t meet with him later, for dinner or drinks? He wasn’t staying here? On the property?”

“No.”

“It’s just his neighbors aren’t sure whether or not his car was parked at the house Tuesday night.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

I missed a sentence or two after that, caught only a word here, a word there. Had the speakers moved to another location? Should I risk moving? Just as I started to take the first of three prospective steps toward the window, a complete sentence rang out.

“Was Blake working on anything else while he was here?”

A murmur from Garrett, no specific words, but a tone of demurral, disavowal. I wouldn’t know, I don’t know, something in that vein.

“He didn’t speak to you about any other project? Some kind of exposé?”

The next thing I heard was a rumbling squawk as though a chair were being pushed back. I imagined Detective Snow lurching unsteadily to his feet, his complexion gray and sickly.

Garrett: “Is it important? Where Teddy was on Wednesday night?”

In the burst of speech that followed, the only words I caught were “wondering why,” “that stretch of road,” “deserted,” and “that’s all.” Then Garrett chimed in with something that sounded vaguely cheerful. Snow’s response included “follow up,” and “routine.”

The clack of footsteps signaled the end of the interview, so I turned to leave the room. Remembering too well the wild panic the enclosed space had engendered when I’d eavesdropped on Garrett and Caroline, I’d left the door ajar. Darren Kalver stood like a pale scarecrow in the shadows and a faint smile played on his lips.

“Quite a view from that window,” he said when he caught my eye.

I had no idea how long he’d been standing there, no idea how he could have approached so silently.

“Yes, it’s lovely.” My face set into a sculpted mask as I waited for him to move aside so I could scuttle past. He planted himself in the doorway, watching me with speculative eyes.

Weeks ago, Teddy, I might have melted into tears at his gaze or run off like a mouse caught eating the cheese. But I was Garrett’s favorite now. A new and steely confidence ran in my veins, and I could stare down the likes of a personal assistant. The deadlock was broken by a burst of classical piano that I didn’t recognize as the ringtone of his cell until he swooped it from a pocket and tucked it to his ear.

“Cranberry Hill Theater. Garrett Malcolm’s office. How may I help you?”

He rolled his pale-lashed eyes when he heard the response. “Wayne, I’m so sorry. Yes, it was a terrible mix-up and I’m so sorry. I know. I know. Yes, you had every reason to expect the meeting as scheduled. I absolutely sympathize, and I know you need to get the documents ready, but he’s rehearsing full time, and you know how he gets.”

Kalver backed out of the doorway and shot me a look that said, Go away and stop listening. When I didn’t, he pivoted and lowered his voice. “Wayne, you know I’m in your corner. No, look, I did not cancel on you. I don’t know what happened and I promise I’ll try to wedge you in, but I think you should be prepared to wait till after we open. I know. I’m really sorry.”

He shoved the phone angrily into his pocket. His tone changed from sugary syrup to steel as he pointed a finger at my face. “You haven’t been playing private secretary, have you?”

“What do you mean?”

“They blame me. And they ought to blame you.”

His pale flap of hair was ridiculous and his accusation so transparently unfair, I decided not to dignify it with a response.

“He’s got important decisions to make, about the future of this theater. They want to cross the t’s on the trust, but Mal postpones every damn meeting. All he wants to do is direct and act. Artists!” He uttered the word like a curse.

“Is that the conservation trust?” For a moment I thought anger would overcome his customary discretion, but he recalled his position too quickly. And mine. And sought to reestablish the balance of power.

“What are you doing up here?” he demanded.

I kept to the offensive. “When can I interview you about your boss?”

“I’m a confidential assistant. I think that precludes interviews.”

“And how did you get your job?”

“I applied for it.”

“Does the board have any say in the selection of plays?”

“The Cranberry Hill Board? Are you kidding? If they did, we’d do nonstop musicals. Malcolm keeps all the power. And if you’d let him get out of bed occasionally, he might exercise it.”

I tried to summon a withering response. Failed, edged past him, and walked steadily down the hall to the bedroom, my bedroom. I was still there, hands poised at the keyboard, when Garrett cracked the door to tell me dinner would be late. I smiled and thanked him. And waited, but he didn’t mention Kalver catching me in the act of eavesdropping. Nor did he mention Snow’s visit.

I considered bringing it up during pre-dinner drinks, but Kalver was telling some pointless story about last year’s production of Love’s Labor’s Lost. I thought about it during the soup course, but the stage manager and the lighting designer were reminiscing about Hamlets they’d enjoyed in England and Australia, and Hamlets they’d despised in Spain and Germany, and could even the best translation of Shakepeare ever be said to truly work? I speculated about it during the entire endless meal, about casually announcing that I’d noticed a police cruiser parked in the driveway and had someone neglected to pay a traffic fine? The crème brûleé was tasteless in my mouth, the coffee bitter. Garrett said nothing, I said nothing, and our silence sprouted and grew like ivy creeping up a stout brick wall.