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VERA HAD NEVER LOOKED quite so contrite or quite as irritated as she did when she agreed to make peace with Jennie Bryer. Nonetheless, she agreed with Rosemary that an amount of groveling was in order if they were going to discover what sort of skeletons were hiding in Polly Calahan’s cupboard.
She was even more chagrined when the address she’d wheedled out of one of her contacts at the theater turned out to be a dank, dark flat just a little too close to the wrong side of town.
“Jennie Bryer lives here?” Vera asked, her voice breathy. “I suppose I shouldn’t have given her such a hard time.” Admitting she was wrong wasn’t one of Vera’s strong suits, though when forced to do so, she rose to the occasion admirably.
As they wound their way up a battered, somewhat shaky staircase to the third floor, neither Rosemary nor Vera said anything. Their thoughts, on this occasion, took the same serpentine route from pity-lined sympathy to thankfulness for their good fortunes. The last, they’d keep to themselves, recalling the heat with which Jennie had delivered her comeuppance speech to Vera on the night of the show.
“Well, here goes nothing.” Vera took a deep breath as she raised her hand to knock on Jennie’s door. “I almost hope she isn’t home.”
She was, and they heard a loud thump, the sound of something crashing to the floor, and an unladylike expletive before the door opened to reveal a disheveled and irritated Jennie. An irritated and thoroughly shocked Jennie, who gaped at Vera before pulling the door closed behind her.
“What are you doing here? It wasn’t enough for you to mock my opening night performance in front of the entire cast, but now you’ve decided to come and berate me in my own home?” Jennie’s voice had turned hard and cold, and had she anything whatsoever to do with Mr. Segal’s death, Rosemary would have pegged her as a suspect without a second thought. She looked as though she was capable of committing murder; she might even have been plotting one at that very moment.
Rosemary watched as Vera bit back a sharp retort; it didn’t matter how sorry she might feel for the girl, the fire in her rose to the surface anyway.
“We didn’t come to berate you, Jennie,” she said, her voice more controlled than expected. “I wanted to apologize for what happened the other night. It wasn’t fair of me to treat you disrespectfully. You won the part, fair and square.” It was all she could manage.
Jennie’s eyes narrowed. “You expect me to believe that you came all the way down here to apologize? I know you think I’m some dimwitted fool, but I’m smarter than that, Vera Blackburn.” It appeared Jennie wasn’t going to accept the olive branch, and really, who could blame her?
“You’re right,” Vera made a quick decision and laid her cards on the table. “I’ve come to do more than apologize. We need your help. It’s a matter of life and death. Literally.” Though she could have acted her way out of the situation, there was no need because what Vera had said was the truth. The sincerity in her tone seemed to sway Jennie, or perhaps she was merely intrigued.
“Go on,” she said and waited.
Vera’s eyes flicked towards the door. “It would be better if we discussed the matter somewhere more private.”
“This had better be good.” Jennie’s eyes flashed before she turned and led them into her flat. Upon further inspection, the interior wasn’t quite as bad as the corridor had suggested. Plants littered nearly every surface and, combined with the tapestries that lined the walls to hide cracked plaster, invoked a romantic feel that was quite soothing. Not, of course, that Vera would have voiced the opinion out loud, and Rosemary followed suit if only to appease her dearest friend.
Jennie waved a hand to indicate they should take a seat but didn’t offer any refreshment as would have been the polite thing to do. This wasn’t a social call, and it seemed she wanted to keep it that way.
“My friend Rosemary, here,” Vera said with a hasty wave in Rosemary’s direction, “has a neighbor who is accused of murdering one of his patients.”
“He’s a dentist on Park Road,” Rosemary interjected. “You’ve probably read about him in the newspapers.”
Nodding, Jennie still appeared confused. “I have, but what does that have to do with me? Moreover, why would I want to help a murderer?”
“We’re not asking you to help a murderer,” Vera snapped. “we’re asking you to help exonerate an innocent man. We believe you know his nurse. You might have gone to school with her. Polly Calahan. Does that name ring a bell?”
With wide eyes, Jennie peered at Vera, seeming to enjoy her discomfort. “No,” she said, “I did not go to school with anyone named Polly Calahan. Are we finished here?”
Vera looked helplessly at Rosemary, who watched as realization dawned on her friend’s face. She might have been charitable to Jennie for absolutely no reason, and it made her want to gag right there in the girl’s flat.
“Wait for just a second,” Rosemary said as Vera rose to leave. “Do you have a pencil and a piece of paper?” she asked Jennie, who rolled her eyes, nodded, and went to fetch what Rosemary had requested.
Squinting, Rosemary thought back to her encounter with Dr. Redberry’s nurse. She recalled every nuance of Polly’s face, and then put pencil to paper and began to sketch. To Vera, who had limited artistic ability, it looked like scribbling, but slowly Polly’s face began to emerge from the page.
Finally, Rosemary held the drawing up for Jennie to see. Eyes narrowed, Jennie’s mouth set into a thin line.
“Yes, I know her, but her name isn’t Polly. It’s Marianna Lancaster.” She swallowed hard and sat back in her chair. “I think it’s about time for a G&T, don’t you agree?” Jennie’s demeanor had changed, and it set the hairs on the back of Rosemary’s neck bristling.
The girl rose and began to mix up their cocktails, drawing out the suspense while Rosemary and Vera waited with bated breath. Suddenly, she wasn’t Jennie Bryer anymore; she was an entertainer with a story to tell.
“Marianna Lancaster was one of the most talented girls in our class. She could have been a star, but she had an ego and a sense of entitlement even bigger than yours.” Jennie shot Vera a cold look, which Vera returned in kind.
“We were doing a run of Macbeth, and she got passed over for the part of Hecate.” One more pointed look set Vera’s blood boiling. “She didn’t take the rejection well. First, she spread a rumor that the girl who got the part—Bethany King was her name—had traded favors to get cast. Then, when that didn’t have the effect she expected, Marianna gaslighted the poor girl. She short-sheeted her bed; she put peroxide in her shampoo bottle; and she lurked outside her bedroom window at night, scratching at the frame and making noises until poor Bethany was so tired she took a tumble down the dormitory staircase. At least, that was the story our housemother told the police.”
Jennie tipped up her glass and took a healthy drink as if she needed fortification to continue.
“The housemother and Marianna had some sort of connection, and we always believed she knew exactly what was going on because Marianna was never punished for anything she did. The rest of us knew the fall was no accident.”
Hearing certain similarities in Jennie’s tale, Vera had gone silent, so Rosemary asked, “You mean it was murder?”
“Marianna pushed her, plain and simple. Bethany died because someone was so jealous of her talent and beauty that they couldn’t allow her to live. That is what I call a tragedy. Rest assured, if Marianna were backed into a corner, she wouldn’t hesitate to do something drastic. You said she’s this Dr. Redberry’s nurse?”
“Yes, that’s correct. Although, not a very good one, by all accounts.”
“I believe you’ll find, if you check her credentials, that she has no training outside acting the part. It’s just a hunch, but I’d be willing to bet a month’s rent I’m right,” Jennie said.
Rosemary allowed the information to sink in. Now that she understood Polly’s history, it wasn’t hard to see that the oddities in her demeanor were intentional. She had duped not only Dr. Redberry, but Max and Rosemary as well. “None of us even suspected that Polly—or, rather, Marianna—had anything to do with the murder. She appeared detached and—well, indifferent, I suppose.”
“That’s exactly how she acted after Bethany’s death. We all mourned for the girl, but Marianna pretended she’d never existed in the first place. She’s dangerous, but she’s also unwilling to face the consequences of her actions. Psychotic, I believe it’s called.”
“Thank you, Jennie,” Vera said reluctantly. “We appreciate you telling us about Marianna. I realize you could have turned us away, but you didn’t. I have to say I respect that. Why don’t we call a truce?”
Jennie’s big blue eyes widened, and then narrowed into slits. “I’d rather eat dirt, Vera Blackburn. Now get out of my flat and forget my address.” She ushered the pair back out into the hallway and slammed the door behind them.
“Well, I suppose you still have an arch-nemesis, then,” Rosemary commented wryly as she and Vera made their way back downstairs to where Wadsworth was waiting with the car.
Vera scowled. “It’s a good thing she had useful information, or this time, I’d have made sure to break her nose.” The threat was an empty one and delivered without the heat of conviction. “What now?”
“Now, I think I have to call Max and tell him what we’ve learned.”
