Before continuing his eulogy, Ted Flax cleared his throat and let his gaze sweep the crowd gathered to pay their last respects to his partner. Used to wearing casual clothing on unbearably hot days like this, when the humidity threatened to equal the temperature, he felt as if he were strangling in the dark suit and tie that befitted the occasion.
“Craig Landis was a man who enjoyed life thoroughly,” he said. “A perfectionist, he raised the art of photography to its highest level. Although he was often copied, no one ever equaled his style or innovation.”
Why had this thankless task fallen to him in the first place? Never close, he and Craig had been bound together only by their working relationship. They’d had little in common beyond ambition and a desire to live well. Even their backgrounds were different. Craig, upper middle class, was educated at a private four-year college. He, on the other hand, was born to a woman frail in both mind and body and a father who worked sporadically as a traveling salesman and who stuck it out in the small Pennsylvania town only until Ted reached his mid-teens.
There had been no fancy education for him. After serving two miserable years in the Marines, he’d attended the local community college which taught him most of what he needed to know about photography. Then, ten years later, through hard work and talent, he got a job on the New York Post, where he met his dearly departed colleague, Craig Landis. When Craig offered to put up three-fourths of the money for a partnership, he’d recognized a good deal when he saw it.
Ted let his gaze roam over the stricken family members who sat approximately six feet in front of the lectern. He saw Craig’s parents, who’d put up most of the money that enabled them to open their studio. He’d have to have his lawyer check the original contract to be sure the unequal split in profits no longer existed, that it expired with Craig’s death.
There, too, sat Suzanne, the grieving widow, who stared back at him in a trance-like state. If only she’d known half of what Craig did behind her back, she would have needed double the tranquilizers she’d undoubtedly taken before the service.
When she’d asked him to deliver the eulogy, he couldn’t refuse. How would it have looked—his partner murdered, and everyone closely associated with him under suspicion? For that reason alone he’d said yes.
He pasted a somber look on his face. “Craig will be remembered in so many ways. Those of us who knew him as a creative artist will especially miss him. His dedication to his craft made us all strive that much harder to reach perfection. Fortunately, he will live on through his work. He will also be missed by many others: his beloved wife, Suzanne, with whom he shared his love, his parents who raised him to be the caring and dedicated man he grew to be, the actors and crafts people with whom he worked on Beekman Place. He loved that show and everyone associated with it.”
Having been carried away by the flowery rhetoric, Ted forced himself to pause. He couldn’t believe his own words. He’d composed them late the night before while downing half a dozen shots of tequila. All that love and dedication crap made him want to laugh. However, no one here had come to hear the truth about Landis.
* * *
Leo Krueger felt the muscles in his stomach tighten. Listening to Flax lionize his partner made him want to regurgitate the ham and eggs he’d eaten that morning at the Waldorf with the show’s writers. Forget all that talk about love. He could set the record straight on that. As if he didn’t know Landis was a snake and a lowlife. The man’s demise was a service to mankind.
He shifted his weight on the narrow seat of the folding chair and pulled at the knot in his tie. He felt as if he were sitting in a sauna. Beside him, his daughter Veronica sat stiffly, her overly made-up face set in what Leo decided must be a permanent pout. Too bad. Let her blame him all she wanted. He’d only done what any father would do if he’d caught his daughter posing like that. If he hadn’t gone back to the television studio for the script he’d left behind that day, he might never have found out.
He pulled a couple of Gaviscon tablets out of his pocket and swallowed them. He’d never wanted children to begin with. Dealing with actors all day had convinced him of that. But his wife—the last one, he vowed—went ahead and got pregnant anyway. As little control as he had over her, he had even less over the kid. Just like her mother—too willful. That’s why he’d used whatever persuasive powers he had with the writers to create a small part on the show for Veronica. To keep a close eye on her. Which, as it turned out, hadn’t been close enough.
Just the thought of Landis posing her like that deepened the scowl on Leo’s face. “Provocative” didn’t begin to cover it. No way did he see that kind of trash as art. And that wasn’t all he’d discovered. Even someone with a poor sense of smell would have noticed the pungent aroma of marijuana. Plus, who knew what else they’d done once her clothes were off? When he’d told her mother, she demanded he do something. An order not to be taken lightly, since her brother was a powerful mogul in Hollywood and could, with the wave of a hand, send Leo’s career spiraling down into the toilet. Landis, the worm, refused to be intimidated.
“She’s eighteen, Leo,” Landis said. “Legal age. So I’m warning you, back off.”
“She’s sixteen, you pervert. I’ll have you arrested for rape.”
As it turned out, that hadn’t been necessary. Angry and frustrated, Leo had blackened Veronica’s eye, although he hadn’t meant to hit her so hard. Good thing he’d stopped though. With his strength, he might have killed her.
He cast a sidelong glance at his daughter. She had few morals, but she didn’t deserve to be killed. Then his gaze returned to the elaborate casket resting on wide straps above the open grave. Landis, of course, was another matter altogether.