Toni had waited almost fifteen minutes for a cab, and then it was an independent, one without the heavy grill between the front and back seats that some taxi companies provided. Still, mercifully, its air-conditioning worked. She gave the driver Suzanne Landis’s address, then settled back against the vinyl seat, cracked and worn, trying not to think about Suzanne’s phone call.
The cab made an abrupt stop for a light, throwing her forward against the front seat. The driver mumbled something that could have been an apology or a curse.
“Think nothing of it,” she mumbled back.
The cabbie’s heavy-lidded gaze met hers through the rear-view mirror. “Hey, ain’t you that actress?” His voice was smothered by a heavy Brooklyn accent. “Ya know, the one what’s just come on Beekman Place? Alexander—”
“Alexandra Bradshaw.”
“Yeah, that’s it. Bradshaw.” He took a sharp left into Central Park South. “I known it was you right away.” He turned around briefly, apparently for confirmation.
In no mood for conversation, Toni merely nodded.
“Yer eyes,” the driver continued. He didn’t appear to be put off by his passenger’s silence. “I’d know them eyes anywhere.”
“Thank you.” She assumed that was a compliment.
He turned the cab onto Fifth Avenue, heading downtown. “So, are ya gonna marry that guy, or what?”
“Excuse me?” For a moment she was startled by his question. Then she realized he was referring to Alexandra, to an episode that aired two months before. “I’m not sure myself. You’ll have to watch the show next month.”
Marry the guy? Wait till he saw her almost killed by the exploding car.
“I don’t miss a one of ’em. Tape it on my DVR.”
“I see.” It gave Toni a warm feeling to know there were real fans among the viewers, people who cared about her character. Besides, working in television, as opposed to the theater, it was doubly reassuring because she didn’t have that “sound that says love,” the applause of an audience, for reassurance.
“I always liked that show, but then you came on, and it got even better.”
Nice timing, Mister …. She looked at his identification posted on the back of the seat. Novotny. Get to like my character just when she’s about to die.
“Actually, I don’t watch much teevee, ya know.” He then listed the dozen or so programs that were exceptions. She liked being recognized, but if she lost her role on Beekman Place now, it wouldn’t do much for her standing as an actress.
The cab jerked to the curb in front of Suzanne’s house, and the driver’s hand reached for the meter flag.
Toni thought of something. “Would you mind waiting? I won’t be more than a minute or two. You can keep the meter running.”
“For you, doll, no sweat.” He threw the gear shift into Park.
As Toni ascended the stairs, she felt relieved the driver was right out front, and, unless she missed her guess, eyeing her every step. A safety factor of sorts. If Suzanne was home, Toni would state her business and wait outside in plain view of the cabbie. She didn’t feel threatened by Suzanne, per se. Especially at the woman’s own home. In the middle of the afternoon. Even with her limited memory of that Wednesday night, Toni found it difficult to imagine Suzanne murdering her husband. Or her, for that matter. Yet, one could never be too careful.
The original facade of the town house was no longer in evidence. According to Craig, he’d made some radical changes at Suzanne’s behest. Now, white brick covered the narrow three-story structure, with tightly-shuttered windows, two per floor, relieving the starkness. Black wrought-iron railings braced the limestone steps leading to the door. She approached the outer door, where a rectangle of glass partnered two smaller triangular panes, and pressed the brass bell.
As she waited, she recalled the single time she’d been inside the house, about two years before, for an informal party. She remembered the layout of the rooms on the first floor: a central hallway, a living room, a den. On the other side of the hall, a dining room, kitchen, and butler’s pantry. Unless the interior had been altered as well.
Pressing the bell again, she stretched slightly to peer through the lower triangular pane. A small vestibule separated the outer door from the inner one, which she could clearly see had been left wide open. What appeared to be a house key protruded from the lock.
Beyond the doorway, a Parson’s table sat against the side wall. On it stood a large bowl of summer flowers. She assumed Suzanne was home. The evidence seemed to indicate she’d entered—perhaps in a hurry, judging by the key—and at the moment either couldn’t or wouldn’t answer the bell. Why? Had she seen Toni get out of the cab and come up the steps? If she were truly avoiding her, why had she left the inner door open? Furthermore, why avoid her if she wanted payment for those photos?
She waited a while longer, ringing the bell at intervals, wondering if the cabbie was becoming impatient. She glanced toward the street again. Several minutes must have passed since they pulled up at the curb. The driver, slouched behind the wheel, seemed in no hurry to be off.
Finally, her own patience spent, she closed her hand around the brass knob and gave it a turn. It moved smoothly under her touch, and the door opened.
She raised her voice and called. “Suzanne?”
Silence.
She entered the vestibule slowly, looked around cautiously and called out again. Except for the low hum of an air conditioner, the house remained totally silent.
She sensed something was wrong. Terribly wrong. Her skin felt as if an army of ants paraded across it. She passed through the open doorway, and as if in a trance, proceeded into the dim house. Through the living room. Into the den. She stopped, the silence clawing at her.
Impossibly, the daylight seemed to fade. Darkness enveloped her. The same darkness that hid Craig the night he was killed. She hadn’t been able to see him. She remembered that now. Something happened, and the lights had crashed off without warning. She’d crawled to the wall, dragged an electrical cord over to it, found a socket, and pushed the plug into the slot. Light flashed on, exposing the debris of tripods, cameras, and umbrellas. Then she’d seen Craig. He lay on his back, his polo shirt soaked with his own blood.
She screamed.
The sound of her voice, echoing through the quiet house, shook Toni out of her trance. As strangely as it had disappeared, daylight returned to the room. Just three feet beyond her, a knife protruding from her back, lay Suzanne Landis, her lifeless eyes fixed on the intricate pattern in the oriental carpet.