Chapter 23

BEN FRANKEL’S POPULAR deli restaurant, called Mr. Ben’s, has been on West Seventy-Second Street between Columbus and Broadway for more than sixty years. A small sign in the front window states it has not changed ownership in six decades. The interior is simple and unembellished—tables and chairs in front, booths in the back, lights in the ceiling. While there is nothing that could pass for décor, it is always immaculate, and the food is wonderful. Most of the regulars who keep the cooks and the waiters and waitresses hopping from seven in the morning through an early dinner hour had gone home when we got there.

We wouldn’t have any trouble getting a table.

Inside, in strong light, I saw that my mysterious escort had thick reddish-brown hair and dark green eyes. His fisherman’s sweater was the color of Devonshire cream. I took all that in at a glance, so he wouldn’t think I was staring at him. I removed his jacket—dark green cashmere, lined in brown silk—from around my shoulders and handed it back to him.

Mr. Ben was bustling over to meet us. Small and compact, with courtly manners and shining silver hair, he had to be over 90, but he still greeted those who came into his restaurant with a welcoming smile, clean and crisp paper menus and a bad joke of the day. I ate here alone, or picked up takeout, twice a week. Mr. Ben thought a young single woman was a crime against nature, but after a few polite refusals, he stopped trying to fix me up with his grandsons.

“Do you know what the definition of a lawyer is?” Mr. Ben asked me.

“No, what?”

“A lawyer is a Jewish boy who can’t stand the sight of blood.”

I laughed, which pleased Mr. Ben.

Kevin Chet Thompson laughed, too. His kindness pleased me.

Mr. Ben showed us to one of the relatively private maroon leather booths at the back. He handed us menus, and winked at me, grinning, with an almost imperceptible nod in Kevin Chet Thompson’s direction. I held my tongue.

“What would you lovely people like to drink?”

“Coffee,” I said. “Extra caffeine.”

“Coffee,” Kevin Chet Thompson said. “As strong as you can make it.”

Mr. Ben signaled the nearest waitress, who brought us two coffees, and extra Sweet’N Low. Then he looked at me. “Turkey breast, maybe? Or stuffed derma? Today the derma is a poem.”

“I’ll take the derma,” I said.

“How’s the brisket?”

“So tender you won’t need a knife,” Mr. Ben said.

“Sold,” said my dinner companion.

Mr. Ben nodded approval, took back the menus and left to give our orders to the kitchen. From across the table, I looked up to find Kevin Chet Thompson staring at me as I put two packets of Sweet’N Low into my coffee cup.

“What?”

“I was three rows behind you at Damon Radford’s funeral,” he said. “You were sitting with a gorgeous blonde who looks like a supermodel.”

Nancy is gorgeous, and she does look like a supermodel. She’s also as generous as she is beautiful, and I’ve never had a better friend. But Kevin Chet Thompson saying she was gorgeous annoyed me.

“Her name is Nancy Cummings, and she’s a lawyer,” I said. “With Newton, Donovan, Lipton and Klein.” That was enough information for him to be able to call her.

“That’s more than I wanted to know,” he said.

“What do you want? You said you’re writing a biography of Kitty Leigh.”

“No, I said I’d been asked to write her biography. I haven’t decided if I’m going to do it. I prefer to write about crime.”

My brain suddenly made the proper connections. “That’s who you are. I read your biography of Earl Rogers, and your book on that cold case investigation, Murder in Vermont.” I stopped because realization smacked me in the face. “Oh, my God.” I rose halfway up out of my seat.

“Don’t go—let me explain.”

I eased back down into the booth. “If you thought I was going to leave, you haven’t tasted Mr. Ben’s stuffed derma.” I sighed. “What do you really want from me?”

“Not what you’re thinking,” he said. “Not exactly.”

“ ‘Not exactly’ is classic man-speak. Tell me in English.”

“My publisher wants me to do Kitty Leigh’s biography. Movie star bios aren’t my thing, but with all of the drama in her life, I agreed to think about it. I met her, talked to her for a few hours. She said she’s willing to cooperate, even though I was clear that if I wrote the book, it wouldn’t be one of those ‘authorized’ whitewash jobs. I’d find out everything about her son’s suicide, her times in rehab, the disappearance of her stepdaughter, all that.”

I wondered if he knew what Damon did to Kitty.

“Before I decided whether or not I would do the bio, Damon Radford was murdered. That interested me a lot more, so I went to his funeral. I saw Kitty’s performance, realized she must have had some kind of relationship with him. And I saw you there . . .”

He smiled at me again. The self-protective part of me wanted him to stop. The leap-before-I-look part of me enjoyed it.

One of Mr. Ben’s waitresses brought us our orders. Kevin Chet Thompson thanked her. I liked that, but I couldn’t help wondering if he was really charming, or if he was being charming because he wanted something from me.

“Looks great,” he said.

“Tastes better.”

Mr. Ben came over to watch as each of us took a bite of our respective derma and brisket. The food was every bit as good as promised, and we praised it sincerely. With a satisfied smile on his face, the proud old man left to go make sure other diners were happy with their meals.

“Alone at last,” Kevin Chet Thompson said.

“But we’re not alone.”

He looked up from his brisket, glanced over at Mr. Ben then asked, “Is he coming back to have dessert with us?”

“I meant Damon is at this table with us. Isn’t he?”

“Here’s the situation,” he said. “I’m considering writing a book about the murder of a man who seemed to have everything, including somebody who wanted to kill him. You’re part of the story.”

“A very small part,” I said.

“A very important part.”

“Because I’m a suspect?” I asked.

“Because he left you half of his estate.”

“How do you know that?”

“Wills are a matter of public record.”

“You’re lying to me. That’s not how you know because the will isn’t public record yet. There are a lot of odd bits I’ve had to learn in order to write a show with accuracy, and at what point wills are made public happens to be one of them. Damon’s won’t be available to examine for another couple of days. So, who told you about me? Was it his lawyer, Seligman? The truth.”

“I know Teresa Radford socially,” he admitted. “I went to see her, to talk about her ex-husband, and she told me about the will.”

“If you and I are going to talk about anything—or even finish dinner together—I want you to promise not to lie to me again. And a lie of omission is just as bad as far as I’m concerned. It’s not only dishonest, it’s insulting.”

“You’re tough,” he said.

“I’m waiting for your promise.”

“I promise not to lie to you again. And I’m sorry.”

“I can just imagine what Teresa told you about me,” I said. I put my fork down and sat back against the upholstered booth. “She thinks Damon and I were having a secret romance.” I sat up straight and looked him directly in the eyes. “Damon and I absolutely were not romantically involved.”

“But you must have been important to him, or why would he have—”

“I don’t expect you to believe me,” I said. “No one else seems to. But the truth is I haven’t the slightest idea why Damon put me in his will. He knew I despised him.”

He thought about that for a few bites, then said, “If we can figure out why he left you the money, it might lead us to the person who killed him.”

We? Us?

“Did Teresa tell you about all of the terms of the will?” I asked. “I mean, do you know that my so-called inheritance comes with a string attached? More like a garrote.”

“I like that word, garrote.”

“I did too, until I felt this one around my neck. I don’t know if I’m going to take the money, but I have to live for the next six months to be eligible to collect.”

I didn’t add that someone had already tried to run me down in the street, before I even knew about the will. I realized that other than Nancy Cummings, and Penny Cavanaugh, and maybe Penny’s irritating nephew, I had no idea who in this world I could trust. I didn’t know this man sitting across from me . . .

“What are you thinking?”

“If the situation I’m in was a story line on Love of My Life, the continuing character—me—wouldn’t know whether the new character who just entered the story—that’s you—was going to turn out to be a good guy or a bad guy.”

“Say you were writing this—how does your lady decide?”

“Time decides,” I said. “The year before last I created a murder story that became a big hit with the fans and was all over the media.”

“I remember reading about it. That was yours? ‘Who Killed Jack . . . somebody?’ ”

“ ‘Who killed Jason Archer?’ The character of Archer was a longtime villain on the show. When the actor told us he didn’t want to sign a new contract, we decided to give him a fantastic send-off story. Not even the actors could figure out which of the characters murdered him. Only the producer and I knew. But when the identity of the killer was finally revealed, it was a different character than the one I had originally planned. I made the change, and then, of course, I had to change the motive. The first actor chosen as the killer had become too popular with the audience. We couldn’t waste that asset, so a less popular cast member took the fall.”

“Convicted by a jury of the fans.” He was smiling at me.

“Life is tough,” I said. “On screen and off.”

“Statistically speaking, if a homicide isn’t solved in the first forty-eight hours—and this one hasn’t been—there’s a good chance it won’t be. The murder rate keeps rising, but the number of cops stays the same. Work with me, Morgan. With what you already know and what I can dig up, we have a better chance than the police of finding out who killed Radford. I’d like to prove you didn’t do it.”

“Why? You don’t even know me.”

“Call it instinct,” he said.

“Are you going to write a book about Damon’s murder?”

“Truth? I haven’t decided yet. But finding out who did it and writing the book aren’t necessarily a package deal,” he said. “I need to think about whether I want to give a year of my life to poking into Damon Radford’s secrets.”

“I need to think about this, too.”

“Tell you what—let me take you to dinner tomorrow night. You can give me your answer then. If you say ‘yes,’ I’ll buy you two desserts.”