“You best eat something,” Shanelle tells me. She turns toward the cooktop, where I see she’s made an omelet. “If I had to face a bunch of lawyers, I’d want protein inside me. Here, eat this one. You’ve got to get out of here faster than we do,” and she slides the omelet onto a plate and holds it in my direction.
“I’ll pour you coffee while you get your robe,” Trixie offers, and spins away to do just that.
The toaster pings and up pops an English muffin. “You’re going to eat that, too, girl,” Shanelle calls after me, and I don’t put up a fight. I’m not even sure I could, because I’m pretty darn teary at the moment.
It’s not because of Mario, either. It’s because my BFFs are giving me TLC. They know I need it and they’re dishing it out in the form of eggs, English muffins, and caffeine.
By the time I’m wearing my robe—a soft knit in charcoal gray that’s deliciously swishy—and have settled at the glass dining table by the floor-to-ceiling windows, I’m able to speak without my voice quavering. “I don’t know what I’d do without you two.”
Trixie rubs my back. “You’ll never have to find out.”
“No, you won’t, girl.” Shanelle shakes her head vigorously. “Men may come and men may go, but your girlfriends, now they are eternal.”
I hoist my coffee mug for a group toast. “Amen to that.” I slice into the omelet, which is piping hot and stuffed with ham, green onions, and mushrooms. New Yorkers probably don’t cook in these matchbox-size kitchens but we three Queens On A Budget do, even though we have a per diem. “Just so you know, I have sworn off Mario. I even made a New Year’s resolution to stop following him, which is why I didn’t know he was here in New York.”
Trixie sits down next to me. “Well, you can’t expect all thoughts of him to disappear overnight.”
“And he’s probably harder to forget than most men,” Shanelle allows.
I shake my head. “I can’t believe I have so many setbacks, though.”
“It takes time,” Shanelle says. “So let’s help by talking about something else.” She heads back toward the kitchen, presumably to whip up another omelet. “Where’s this appointment of yours, anyway?”
“Near Rockefeller Center.” The stage manager gave me clearance to be late. She’s the one who tracks whether people show up when they’re supposed to.
“I’ve never been called upon to give testimony.” Trixie sounds more than a little awestruck.
“It’s not testimony, really. It’s a testimonial. I’m supposed to give what they call ‘character evidence’ about Mr. Cantwell. Since I’m in New York and so are his lawyers, he thought the timing was perfect.”
I try to sound matter-of-fact although really I’m nervous. The Ms. America pageant owner, the illustrious Sebastian Cantwell, is facing felony charges. He’s accused of inventing losses in the pageant so he could pay lower taxes on his other businesses. It’s kind of mysterious to me—plus, it doesn’t sound all that bad—but apparently it’s tax fraud. And not the misdemeanor kind, either.
I’m torn about the whole thing. I like Mr. Cantwell and there’s no question that the Ms. America pageant—not to mention the mongo prize money—has opened up the world to me. He’s also been a big supporter of my sleuthing, not exactly from the get-go, when he himself made my suspects list, but since then.
But I know something Mr. Cantwell doesn’t: that Mario is secretly a part-time F.B.I. agent who investigates financial wrongdoing in the entertainment biz and that it was he who brought this particular mischief to light. Mario believes my beloved pageant owner is Guilty with a capital G.
You know I find it nearly impossible to believe Mario’s got that wrong. Plus, even if I weren’t a cop’s daughter I wouldn’t approve of people breaking the law.
“I don’t know about this ‘character evidence’ business,” Shanelle says from the cooktop. “Seems to me a jury won’t care how many people testify that Mr. C’s a nice guy if they see solid evidence that he committed tax fraud.”
“I’m told it sways jurors.” I finish my omelet. I know I’m not supposed to rely on food to make me feel better, but sometimes it just does.
“Do you think it’ll actually go to trial?” Trixie asks me.
“I guess these things often settle beforehand, and we all know Mr. Cantwell wouldn’t want that kind of publicity, but you never know.”
Shanelle returns to the table with an omelet for Trixie and sits down to enjoy her coffee. She’s wearing navy menswear-inspired pajamas with white piping and has her Afro pulled back by a white jersey head wrap. “Either of you two been online yet this morning?” she asks. “Lisette is all over the news, no surprise.”
“What do the articles say?” Trixie asks.
“They all get the facts pretty much right.” Shanelle sips her coffee. “Lisette doesn’t come off that well. There’s a lot about how she was a musical theater novice, quote unquote.”
“Implying she didn’t know how things work on Broadway,” I say.
“I hate to say it,” Trixie murmurs, “but it was Lisette’s fault she was up on that staircase.”
“None of the articles say that flat out, but it sure comes across. There are a few quotes about how she interrupted the preview twice and was screaming at Oliver for everybody to see.” Shanelle harrumphs. “Don’t get me started on him. He’s got some quote where he talks about how talented Lisette was and how deeply he’s grieving for her. But we all know how much truth there is to that.”
“He needs to make sure Lisette’s father doesn’t get ticked off and pull his money from the production,” I observe. My, oh my, can I be cynical.
Trixie shakes her head. “So much for Oliver being Mr. Straight Talk. It seems like you can’t trust half the things he says.”
“Apparently he set up a distress hotline for everybody who witnessed Lisette’s fall,” Shanelle says. “As if he’s concerned, which we all know he’s not.” She shakes her head in obvious disgust at Oliver’s hypocrisy. “Oh, and get this. Somebody in the cast or crew did tweet a photo of Lisette all in a heap. The photo I saw online was definitely taken by somebody on stage.”
“There’ll be hell to pay for that.” I rise and carry my plate and mug to the kitchen to load them in the dishwasher. “Now I do have to hurry. Thanks for the fab omelet, Shanelle.”
She pads after me into the kitchen. “Time to make one for me.”
I exit the kitchen to the sound of Shanelle whisking eggs in a bowl. My outfit choice for the day is easy because I settled on it before I went to bed. I’ll wear my slim knit skirt with gray ombré stripes, a closefitting charcoal-colored pullover, black tights, and my chunky boots for easy traipsing about Manhattan. Since I should’ve washed my hair but didn’t, I’ll contain it in a side ponytail, careful not to tie it too tight and to place the elastic behind my earlobe, to avoid the common mistakes with that style.
I feel like a real New Yorker as I take the subway to Rockefeller Center. Once I emerge above ground, the morning rush is over, but the streets and wide sidewalks are still crowded, at least by Cleveland standards. The light snow that fell earlier has melted, leaving the pavement damp. Between the towering buildings and the gloomy sky, it’s all beige and gray, as if the only colors God created were neutrals.
On the sidewalk by the subway is a man bundled in a parka and red wool cap selling roasted chestnuts from a cart. They have such a wonderful distinctive smell. They make me think of Christmas, not that I had a happy one this last year.
Of course, it was the first Christmas after my parents’ divorce, so how happy could it be? Instead of us all together on Christmas Eve for our traditional family feast of pork chops, mashed potatoes, and green beans, Jason, Rachel, and I ate with my mom and Bennie at her house, where I grew up. Presumably Pop spent the evening with his lady friend Maggie (whom I very much hope does not become his fiancée) because we ran into them later at midnight Mass. Naturally, we didn’t sit together. It would have been awkward if we did, but it was awkward, anyway.
It was just all so awkward. And that’s not even getting into the vague unease between Jason and me. An undercurrent of sadness ran through the entire season. My mother was subdued and you know how unusual that is. She put up only a spindly two-foot-tall Christmas tree, a tragic-looking pine if ever I’d seen one; she declared she’d had enough of fruitcake in Winona; and she baked only one batch of Christmas cookies. “Who’s going to eat them?” she wanted to know.
Pop wouldn’t be around to over-indulge.
He came to my house on Christmas Day, of course with Maggie in tow. On the surface, except for Maggie’s presence and my mother’s absence, it was the same as ever. Rachel and I stuffed a chicken and roasted it with all the fixings; Pop and Jason shoveled snow and watched basketball; we oohed and aahed as we opened gifts; we kept the tree lit the entire day; and we played Monopoly. This year, Rachel won. I usually do, probably because I’m the most competitive, but Rachel has gotten very strategic and she was also lucky rolling the dice. Usually I’m the lucky one, but sometimes, I can’t put my finger on why, I have the oddest feeling that’s changing.
A few steps later I reach 30 Rockefeller Plaza, that iconic piece of American real estate. My spirits lift. Towering above me is the mighty beige stone structure famous long before the sitcom 30 Rock hit the airwaves. This is the home of NBC. This is where Jimmy Fallon and lots of other stars and newspeople show up to work. Nearly at the top is the Rainbow Room. I hope Trixie, Shanelle, and I can sneak in a cocktail there at some point.
My cell phone rings. I don’t have a fun ring tone like I usually do, just a businesslike buzz. Yet another sign that I’m out of kilter. “Rachel!” I cry. There’s nothing I like better than hearing from my daughter. But that doesn’t stop me from ruining the mood. “Why aren’t you in class?”
“Don’t get on me, Mom. I’ve got study hall from ten to eleven on Fridays. Where are you?”
I barely have the word “center” out of my mouth before Rachel starts pelting me with facts. “Do you know Rockefeller Center is a National Historic Landmark? And it took almost the entire 1930s to construct the original buildings? They’re Art Deco, you know.”
“You’re better than a tour guide.”
“I did some research online. You know you should’ve let me come along.”
This is a typical refrain. “I would love to have you here, Rach, but you can’t ditch school.”
Silence. Then: “So do you remember how I was telling you that I thought Madison would flake out as head of the prom committee? She did. This morning.”
Madison is the most popular girl at Rachel’s high school. She and my daughter have had their share of run-ins. “You’re kidding me! What happened?”
“I think it has to do with J.T.”
“That new boy who transferred in? What does he have to do with it?”
“She likes him. And he thinks everybody who does anything extra for school is an idiot. So she’s off the committee now.”
I haven’t met this J.T., but already I don’t like him. “Well, Madison should think for herself.”
Rachel is silent, which surprises me. Usually she’s ready to rip Madison.
“So are you going to put yourself up to head the committee?” I ask. “I love the ideas you have for prom.”
“I don’t know.”
“Why not? Over Christmas it was all you could talk about.”
“That is so not true! I’ve never been that into prom.”
“You’re right. That’s not really what I meant to say.” I think fast, suddenly aware that this prom business is the real reason for Rachel’s call. “So are people mad at Madison for quitting the committee?”
“No. I think most people understand.”
I wait for her to say more.
Eventually she obliges. “It is true that pretty much everybody on the committee is kind of annoying.”
“You’re not annoying and you’re on it.”
“I don’t know. Lots of people may think I am. And maybe they’re right.”
This is the first I’ve ever heard Rachel talk this way. Mother and daughter have a few things in common and one of them is confidence. Another is that both of us are joiners. Rachel’s enthusiasm is one of the many things I love about her. “Well,” I say, “I think you’d be great heading the committee. And after all, the only thing standing between the prom and total lameness is you.”
Again she’s silent.
“What do people think of J.T.?” I ask a few seconds later, when what I really want to ask is: What do you think of J.T.?
“He’s pretty hot,” she says instantly.
“Does he play a sport?”
“Basketball.”
So most likely he’s tall. Tall and hot and athletic, and after only a few weeks at the school he’s a mover and a shaker. “At least there’s one school activity he doesn’t despise.”
“Sports are different, Mom,” my daughter informs me.
My phone buzzes. “Your father’s calling, Rach,” I tell my daughter.
“Okay, you talk to him. You should totally move to Charlotte now.”
“I am not moving to Charlotte until you go overseas this summer. We’ve already settled this.”
“Talk about lame. All right, catch you later,” and Rachel hangs up.
My daughter is of the mind that she should be allowed to live alone for her last semester of high school while I join her father in Charlotte. This is not happening. In fact, on those occasions when Rachel can’t have parental supervision, like this week, she gets grandparental supervision. Since my mother is about to land at LaGuardia, Pop is moving into the house until I get home from New York.
“I’m calling to say I can’t talk till later, babe,” Jason tells me. At least he’s calling me babe, which is rare these days. Maybe it’s a reaction to my I love you text. “I’ve been on the track since six and I don’t know when I’m getting off. It’s crazy.”
“You want to hear crazy? Wait till I tell you what’s going on here,” and I relay the details of Lisette’s untimely demise. As I finish speaking, I realize how close it is to my 11 a.m. appointment. I point myself in the direction of the law firm and try to tamp down my nerves.
“At least it wasn’t murder this time,” Jason says.
I guess I’m silent a beat too long.
“It wasn’t, was it?” Jason says.
“Probably not, but part of me has to wonder.” I say this even though I’d kind of enjoy no sleuthing responsibilities. I don’t want to be a shirker, but it would be nice not to have to track down a homicidal perp every month.
“Happy,” Jason says, and even though there’s lots of traffic I catch the warning in his voice. “I do not want to spend the weekend trying to track down some killer who probably doesn’t exist.”
“Don’t worry. We won’t be.”
“It’s gonna be busy enough with my shoots and your Broadway thing.”
He’s got that right. “Not to mention my mother and Bennie.”
“Man, I forgot about that. But she shouldn’t be a problem. Bennie will be around to entertain her.”
“Except she’s not that into him. So she’ll need entertaining from us, too.”
Jason sighs.
“You put up with a lot of drama,” I tell him. “You know I love you for it.”
“I love you, too, Happy.”
It is on that reassuring note that we end the call. I try to hasten my pace but that’s tricky given how crowded the sidewalks are. At one point there are so many pedestrians that despite my best efforts I’m forced to walk underneath a ladder propped against a building. That doesn’t help my already fraught nerves.
Finally I enter the skyscraper housing Moran, Holt, Chambers, Larsen and Webster. The building is as tall as 30 Rock and kind of gothic, which does not render it inviting. I stride across the forbidding lobby and tell myself I’m a pro at this sort of thing. After all, isn’t this pretty much like a preliminary interview in pageant competition? I’ve done those a million times. They require major homework: developing opinions on the controversial issues of the day and practicing a few get-out-of-trouble-fast one-liners. And it’s high stakes: if you do badly, you lose your chance at the tiara. And the judges are trying to trip you up. The lawyers told me today’s meeting is “strictly informational.” Only if Mr. Cantwell’s case goes to trial must they prepare me for so-called “opposing counsel.” So today’s session really shouldn’t be stressful at all.
Except that it is. Partly that’s because I have an inferiority complex when it comes to highly educated people like these lawyers, a side effect of being nearly 35 and still minus a bachelor’s degree. Also, I know what Mr. Cantwell wants me to say versus what Mario wants me to say. Neither of them will be present to hear me, but I’ll be aware of them just the same.
This skyscraper might be gothic in style, but I feel catapulted to a space-age future when I step off the elevator on Floor 58. I conclude instantly that Moran, Holt is not a purveyor of low-cost legal representation. Sleek, minimalist, uber modern: their offices are luxurious in an incredibly spare—and intimidating—way. My heels click across a white marble floor to a shiny black reception desk behind which perches a young Asian woman. She takes note of my identity and appointment time but does not deign to smile upon me.
I settle upon a severely chic silver settee to await my grilling. As I set my cell phone to silent mode, noise and motion across the reception area grab my attention.
I glance up to lock eyes with Mario.