Fifty-six

I showed Addy several group photos. She shook her head at the larger gatherings of twenty-plus people, claiming it was hard to make out their faces.

I swiped my phone screen. “How about this one? There are only four men and two women—” I pointed at a strikingly handsome young man with golden hair and a cleft chin who occupied center stage. “You must remember him, right?”

“That’s Ace,” Addy said, expression guarded. “I don’t recall his last name. He was an actor, quite good-looking, as you can see. Also very full of himself. He was always dreaming up projects that he could star in—plays, television shows, movies. I admit the man was charismatic.”

“And popular with the ladies?”

Addy’s brow furrowed. “A little too popular, Clare, if you take my meaning. Thankfully, I was immune to his charm offensive.”

“So, Ace was the one who was murdered?”

Addy didn’t even blink. “That’s what I heard. I was gone by then, of course, living in Los Angeles. She Slays Me was in development.”

“How did you find out about the death? Did someone from the group tell you?”

“I can’t actually remember how I found out. Probably a newspaper report.”

“The LA papers?” I said. “Why would they bother with what would have essentially been a local New York police blotter report?”

“Well, I know I didn’t hear it from anyone in the group. I didn’t keep in touch with anyone—including Ace’s young friend.”

I perked up. “Young friend?”

“Or maybe he was a relative? Ace and this young man were close. His name was Bobby…something. He was tall, and a bit rough around the edges. Long hair. Generally scruffy. A little too bohemian for my taste.”

“How do you define too bohemian?” Esther asked.

“A hippie throwback. The boy wore shirts with holes in the armpits and he didn’t bathe enough.”

I went back to a larger group photo. “Can you see Bobby in this crowd?”

“There he is. The skinny young kid with the long, stringy hair. And that man on the right is…was Peter.”

“Was?” I said.

“Yes, Peter and I dated very briefly. He had a day job at a Wall Street firm where his father was a partner. He was quite romantic about the bohemian history of Greenwich Village, but he was writing an odd sort of novel. I didn’t get it. A philosophical book about golf. Can you imagine?”

“Sure,” Esther said. “Like The Legend of Bagger Vance.”

“I suppose,” Addy said. “I read his obituary in the Times two years ago. He made it to the board of directors of his father’s company.” She shook her head. “He never did finish that book about golf.”

“Are you in this picture?” I asked, swiping back to the smaller group with the actor Ace at center stage.

Addy pointed to a slender young woman with high cheekbones and a light brown ponytail. “That’s me—goodness, I was so young.”

“And who is this?” I asked, pointing to the second woman in the photo, a little heavier with frizzy dark hair. It was hard to see her face. She was half turned from the camera, putting up a hand, as if she didn’t want to have her picture taken.

Addy shrugged and shook her head. “I don’t recall.”

“Do you remember any of the women?” I asked.

“No one stands out.”

“Madame mentioned one young woman who left the group in tears, never to return.”

She looked away a moment, toward the cathedral windows with the panoramic view. “That must have been after I left.”

“Do you see Mr. Van Dyne?” Esther asked.

“Jensen was always behind the camera,” Addy replied. “He was the only one of us who owned one.”

I showed her more photos but got nowhere. Addy said she didn’t even remember the big, middle-aged Italian-looking man with the walrus mustache who was lurking in the background.

“I’m sorry there are no photos of Jensen,” Esther lamented. “I would love to see what he looked like in his prime.”

Esther’s tone was affectionate, which is why Addy’s harsh reply felt almost hurtful—

“I wouldn’t foster too many romantic notions about the man, if I were you, Esther. Despite his initial success, Jensen Van Dyne was, in the end, just a cup of coffee.”

Esther blinked. “Excuse me?”

“It’s a baseball term. I learned it while doing research for the ‘Seventh Inning Stretcher’ episode of She Slays Me. ‘A cup of coffee’ refers to a player who was in the major leagues only for as long as it took to drink a cup of the beverage you peddle. My agent would call someone like that a one-hit wonder. It’s a tragedy, but after the success of his first short story, Jensen never published again.”

I could see that Addy’s comment, along with her tone, infuriated Esther. I didn’t know how much until her next words.

“Well, that’s about to change,” she said sharply. “Jensen Van Dyne has a brand-new contract with a very enthusiastic publisher!”