Edward Tarrant let the receiver clatter back into place, knowing that the phone call from Sasha Vogelby signaled the opening curtain of an imminent and all-important performance. He needed to remember that knowledge was power. In this case, right now, he had the balance of both.
He knew Avery Morgan was dead. Trey Welliver clearly had no idea what happened, though thank heaven the boy had shown up with the news. Sasha didn’t know, or she certainly would have asked him about it. College police were not in the picture. Even though the Morgan House was owned by the board, it was out of their campus-only jurisdiction.
Edward prayed with all his being that Avery’s death was an accident. That soon, today, they’d confirm that, and this would all be over.
But certainly Avery Morgan’s death was why the Boston Police detectives were now at his door. The damn homicide detectives, which seemed to put the lie to his hopes of an accidental drowning.
Because of that, he’d sicced the deferential but persuasive Sasha on them, stalling. He needed to regroup, yet again, even though he’d spent hours the night before staring, alone, at his—their—bedroom ceiling, plotting moves and strategies and outcomes.
He could not afford to have Adams Bay involved in a scandal. And he, personally, could not afford to be its cause. The terrifying possibility that Avery’s death might detonate both bombshells was what kept him restless, awake, and calculating the damage.
He pressed his fingers to his forehead, trying to hold in his brains. He’d steeled himself for a flood of phone calls after last night’s TV newscasts, even as shallow and unrevealing as they were—her name had not been used—but thank God for summer break and the diaspora of most faculty and staff. There’d been only a brief snippet in the Globe and Register, and again no name. Maybe the press was also waiting for the word on suicide.
He paused, considering. Then contemplated the uncomfortable reality that he actually wished a “friend” had killed herself. But had she?
A wine-fueled Avery herself had divulged to him that her star was on the wane in what she called Tinseltown, and gushed her intense gratitude for the sinecure that Adams Bay—and Edward—offered. Apparently, though Avery hadn’t elaborated much, there’d been some embezzlement blowup with the head of the studio, with Avery a casualty. An innocent casualty, she’d wailed, hanging on to his arm. Had she truly been distraught? Depressed? In danger? He’d thought she was simply being dramatic.
He realized he was still standing behind his desk, staring at the now-silent phone. Where the hell was Manderley? Of all the days for his assistant to be late. But maybe for the best. Keep her out of this. No need to have her spreading rumors among her little friends.
Sasha would have taken the cops into her office by now, and stalled them with whatever prattle. But she couldn’t stall forever. His “meeting” would have to end. And soon. They were the cops, after all. Homicide cops.
But he needed time. He needed to write a statement of sympathy for Adams Bay president Reginald P. Buchholz to issue, soon as they could reach him in the south of France, where he summered with his family.
Family.
If only Edward had gone with them this year as usual, the dutiful son-in-law, right after spring semester’s end. But no, this year he’d stayed in town, and then … Avery.
Problem was, the moment he contacted Reg Buchholz about Avery’s death, Brinn would also have to know all about it, and ask him all about her, thinking she was being compassionate and wifely, and possibly insist on coming back to Boston. He’d been so exquisitely delighted that Brinn Buchholz Tarrant had agreed to leave him behind for the summer. And now this.
Did Avery have family? The question saddened him, somehow, with a pang of conscience. He had no idea.
Why did Avery Morgan die? How?
The next time his phone rang, shrill and strident, it would signal the beginning of the endgame. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for the attack and defense ahead. He was a firefighter. He’d put this one out, too.
JAKE BROGAN
“Look at this.” Jake kept his voice low as he showed the cell phone screen to DeLuca. They were sitting—they’d had no option—on a foofy couch in Sasha Vogelby’s office. She’d left them, bustling out for coffee. Jake tried to refuse, telegraphing they wouldn’t be around long enough to drink coffee. But D accepted, and turned out that was for the better. Jake used the downtime—Tick tock, he thought, imagining Edward Tarrant’s “meeting”—to dig further into Avery Morgan. After finding her on Google this morning, he’d checked her bio on the various Hollywood sites. Now he was following up her connection with Untitled Studios. “About our victim,” he continued.
D had clicked off his own phone, stashed it in his jacket pocket.
“What?” D squinted at Jake’s screen. “My eyes are going. Gonna need cheaters, so says Kat. But what does she know?”
“She’s a doctor. Just saying,” Jake said, taking back his cell. DeLuca’s clandestine relationship with medical examiner Kat McMahan was as under the radar as Jake’s with Jane. Their mutually assured destruction had ensured mutual silence about their professionally improper liaisons, Jake’s with a member of the dreaded media, DeLuca’s with a law enforcement colleague. “Anyway, seems like there was a big embezzlement scandal at the studio where Avery Morgan freelanced. Untitled, remember? From the quotes the feds out there gave, sounds like there was a confidential informant. What if the informant was Avery Morgan?”
D examined his fingernails, moving his hands closer to his eyes, then farther away. “That’s why she moved here, you think?”
“Could be.” Jake stared at the screen on his cell. What’d they do before they could run someone’s life history from their phones? It was either amazing, getting a pile of work done without even going into the squad, or it sucked, since you were expected to be on the job every second of every day. Still. He’d much rather have the instant access.
He checked his watch. Almost noon. California cops would be on the job now, but the US Attorney types not until nine West Coast time. They’d know the deets about this. And they’d have to supply them.
“Talk about a code of silence,” Jake said. “What if it wasn’t someone in The Reserve who Avery Morgan ratted out? What if it was someone in Hollywood?”
“Avery Morgan?” Sasha Vogelby appeared in her doorway, holding a white ceramic mug in each hand.
“You know her?” Jake stood. Now was as good a time as any. He took the offered mug of coffee, signaled D to do the same. Best not to give someone bad news when they could scald themselves in reaction.
“Well, who doesn’t?” Big smile from Vogelby, opened arms. “She’s a joy, a complete joy. Her students adore her.”
“She a professor here?” DeLuca was playing dumb, Jake knew. They were well aware she was a visiting adjunct. The two of them had instantly found her on the college’s summer program site.
“Visiting. An adjunct.” Vogelby, smiling, raised a correcting finger. “I’m the head of the Drama Department. As you can see.”
She walked toward her desk, gestured at the engraved nameplate, and then at a row of framed movie posters along a red-painted wall. “Yes, that’s me. Ah, I know, once an actor, always an actor. But, alas, when the parts became, shall we say, fewer and farther between? I devoted my life to teaching the ‘younger’ generation. Acting, and costuming, and stagecraft.”
“Terrific,” Jake said.
“Yeah,” DeLuca said. Took a sip of coffee. They both put their cups on the low table in front of the couch.
Vogelby blinked at them, silent. Then her eyes narrowed. “Why were you talking about Avery?” Her hand flew to her lips. “Oh. You’re homicide detectives.”
She lowered herself into her chair, then instantly stood again. The chair rolled back, banging against the metal bookcase behind her, its motion teetering some slender glass figurines lined up in front of the books. One crashed to the floor and rolled out of sight under the desk.
Vogelby did not go after it, but stared at the two of them.
“Is she…?” The woman’s voice had dropped to a whisper. “Was she…?”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Jake said. In all the years, he’d never come up with a better response than the now-cliché. “I’m sorry” wasn’t personal enough, “it’s terrible” was too emotional, a simple “yes” could sound insensitive.
Plus, this stage of an investigation was always tricky. The ME had deemed Morgan’s death a drowning, but not homicide—yet—which meant there weren’t really “suspects.” But some tests were still pending, including for drugs, so homicide was still on the table. Which meant everyone was a suspect.
Sasha Vogelby had covered her mouth with both hands, as if to prevent herself from saying something, or maybe to keep her emotions in. She sank into her chair, staring into the middle distance, past Jake and D and past the open office door.
“It was my idea, inviting her to Adams Bay.” Vogelby sighed, rested her forehead on splayed fingers. Looked up at them through an array of knobby silver rings. “How? Did she die? Where? When?”
“We’re investigating,” Jake said. “Please be assured—”
“Are the rest of us in danger?” Vogelby’s eyes widened. She sat up straighter, reached for her phone. “I need to alert—”
“We’ll do the alerting, thank you, ma’am,” Jake said.
“That’s why we need to talk to the dean.” DeLuca looked at his watch.
“If that’s who you’re about to call, feel free,” Jake added. “If it isn’t, please wait.”
“I feel so guilty.” Vogelby took her hand away from the phone, was almost talking to herself.
“Ma’am?”
“It was supposed to be a fabulous experience. And now it’s a tragedy.” Vogelby took a deep breath, as if pulling it all in, the sorrow and the surprise. “All the students adored her. They were always coming to her house for parties, and gatherings. Script readings. Rehearsals. She gets that lovely home, and the pool.” She stopped. “Got, I mean.”
“So you’ve been there,” Jake said. “When were you last at her house?”
“You certainly can’t think…” Vogelby stood, her head dropped back and her eyes raised to the ceiling. Then she fluffed her silver curls and touched the glasses on top of her head, adjusting. Cleared her throat. “I’m sorry. I know you must ask, officers.”
“‘Detectives.’” DeLuca could never resist the correction, even in times like this. Jake ignored him, as always.
“So when were you last there?” Jake persisted.
“Oh my goodness, I could check.” She selected a stack of papers on one corner of the desk, flipped through the pages. “I’m sure there’s a record of…” She looked at the two detectives with an apologetic half-smile. “I’m so sorry, I’m not trying to be difficult. I simply am—devastated. Upset. Concerned. And … a little, discombobulated, I’m afraid. Forgive me.”
“Did she have any students who were special friends?” DeLuca asked.
“Or any she complained about?” Jake added. Discombobulation was the perfect time to ask questions. The less a subject or witness was focused, the more off balance and uncalculating, the more honest and uncrafted an answer they might give.
She looked up from her papers, frowning.
“What?”
“Who would go visit her? Is that typical, for a professor to have parties?”
“Adjunct,” Vogelby said, glancing at DeLuca.
“Adjunct.” Jake smiled, oh-so-patient. “So, you said parties? How did students get invited, do you know? Which ones?”
Vogelby’s back stiffened. “We’re meticulous about privacy here at Adams Bay.” She put down her papers. “I’d certainly need to ask for parental permission before we released any student’s name.”
“Not if they’re over eighteen,” Jake said. Not threatening, simply providing a fact. “And certainly not if they’re over twenty-one.”
“I’ll have to think about that,” Vogelby said.
“We’ll wait,” DeLuca said.
Her shoulders dropped, her mouth twisting in thought, the red lipstick changing shape. After a beat, she picked up the phone, waited, poked three numbers. Waited. “Mr. Tarrant?” she asked, her voice blank and emotionless. “Are you free?”
She paused, listening, nodding, at one point glancing at Jake and D. She put down the phone without saying goodbye. “Mr. Tarrant knows about Avery,” she said. “There are—things to take care of, as you might imagine,” she added. “Family.”
Jake raised his eyebrows, couldn’t hold back his skepticism. Who’d told Tarrant? But he’d honestly been surprised the buzz had been contained even this long. Though reporters had to wait for next of kin and Kat’s determination whether suicide was the cause of death, the spreading rumors about Avery Morgan would be impossible to prevent. Problem was, if it was murder, the killer would now be regrouping, creating alibis and getting stories straight. Exactly what Jake could not allow to happen.
“We don’t need to ‘imagine.’” He stood. Enough of her stalling. “And you’ll need to give us her family information.”
“As a result,” Vogelby went on, as if Jake hadn’t said a word, “Mr. Tarrant says, please leave a card, and he’ll contact you. As soon as possible.”
“When?” D asked, draping one arm across the back of the couch, signaling he wasn’t planning to leave.
“How about now?” Jake said. “Now is better.”