Tina was aptly named, as she immediately made one think of all variations on the word “tiny.” Her given name, Max knew, was Christina, but the nickname fit her perfectly.
Petite, diminutive, waiflike, she couldn’t have weighed ninety-five pounds sopping wet and wearing a towel, despite the obvious implants to which Jake had referred: she had the exaggerated sort of bosom seen on mermaid figureheads of old whaling ships. A perfectly formed woman-child in miniature. Max imagined that for an actress her stature might be a drawback, as she would forever be cast as the ingénue, or even the voluptuous teenage daughter. A sort of curse of The Flying Nun.
Although Max knew she was thirty-three, she could pass for sixteen. A rather sultry and vixenish sixteen, hair coiled provocatively on her breasts and eyes outlined Cleopatra-style, but still. She had cinched the waist of her blue polka-dot dress with a wide red belt to accentuate her figure; around her short slender neck she wore a nautical-themed blue scarf. He wondered idly if she had to shop in the girls’ departments at clothing stores, for while the wearer of the dress was provocative by nature, it seemed the dress itself was rather childish. But she had somehow managed to find ruby red heels to compensate for her short stature, and those surely had not come from the children’s department.
There’s no place like home, Max thought idly.
There were many such young women in his parish, girls who seemed to have leap-vaulted straight from childhood to middle age, not bothering to stop to enjoy adolescence—if, he acknowledged, “enjoy” and “adolescence” were terms to be used in the same breath. He wondered what his Owen would be like as a teenager. Right now he was the most agreeable baby on the planet, too young to have formed opinions in opposition to those of his clueless parents, or to worry about anything except his next meal. Long may it last, Max prayed.
As for Tina Calvert, she was eyeing Max up and down, not bothering to be subtle in her obvious appreciation. Max was used to it. He smiled genially.
This, her returning smile seemed to say, was more like it. She even put away her emery board to focus on this vision before her. She widened her eyes, saying, “The last person to have questioned me about Margot was some policewoman. She was not half so interesting.” Probable meaning: I couldn’t manipulate her, and I did try. Max smiled to himself. Sergeant Essex would not have stood for a moment of nonsense from this woman. How very tiresome for Tina. “But I’ve told all I know, and she wrote it all down. Every word. You could just read her notes. Then we could move on to something more exciting to talk about. I mean, poor old Margot and all that. But it wasn’t all that unexpected, was it? Her dying like that, I mean.”
“Really?” said Max. “Why do you say that?”
“Don’t I know you from somewhere?” she asked. Not, Max felt, because she was being evasive, but because Margot Browne and her murder simply didn’t interest Tina as a topic for long. It was difficult to bring Tina into focus as a suspect, in fact. For her to have killed Margot, or to have had anything to do with her death, would have required an outward shift in focus—a turning away from the self of which Max already felt Tina to be incapable.
Of course if her intense self-interest were threatened, Margot might have needed, in Tina’s view, to be disposed of. A minor inconvenience, merely: someone to be edited off the playlist.
“Were we in a play together or something?” she wondered aloud. “Although, I don’t think I’d have forgotten you.” She returned his unwavering smile with a practiced, perky one of her own. Max imagined “perky” was Tina’s default setting. It went with the tiny waist and the rather elfin features, the upturned nose. Now she swung one leg over another, jiggling a shoe off the toes of one foot, as if impatient to hear what he had to say—which he very much doubted: after only a few minutes in her company, he imagined any conversation that did not center on Tina and her doings would not be a conversation worth having, in Tina’s opinion. He already felt her attention drifting away, her eyes looking at a point over his shoulder. Her face held a vague expression of concern, but he imagined she might only be trying to recall if she’d screwed the top back onto her bottle of nail varnish.
“Well, Ms. Calvert,” he began. “Thank you for being willing to take the time to talk with me.”
“Don’t mention it,” she said, returning her gaze to meet his. “Pleasure, I’m sure.” She spoke in an American accent, a drawl he was attempting to pinpoint geographically. Finally, he asked, “Houston?”
“Wow,” she said. “You’re good. Or did the police tell you?”
He shook his head. In fact, the file on Tina only gave her birthplace, which was Kentucky. But he’d spent time in Houston, seconded to follow a case of antiquities fraud: a papyrus for sale that had been stolen from the British Museum—a papyrus that turned out to be fake. The museum had not been as grateful for this discovery as they might have been.
“When I think of what I’ve paid voice coaches to get rid of that accent,” she fussed.
“I do regret the occasion that prompts this conversation, however.”
“Huh?”
“Margot. Margot Browne. Her death.”
“Oh.” That.
“As I’m sure you can appreciate, the police are gravely concerned to have had this matter turn up in their bailiwick. I’ve been asked in an unofficial capacity to talk with the people closest to Margot, to try to get some sense of who she was and how this might have happened to her.” This was of course balderdash but no one so far had really questioned it, the possible exception being Maurice. Maurice, Max had decided, was altogether a more inquisitive sort than the others he had spoken with—more perceptive, more other-focused, more there.
Tina confirmed his impression of her disinterest by saying, “I don’t really see why you’d bother. I mean, someone might have been doing her a favor, you ask me, darlin’. But the chances are huge she simply got trashed and, deciding she was done for, jumped overboard.”
“Well, how interesting,” said Max, returning her perky smile with one of his own. “Why do you feel that is true?”
A shrug, accompanied by a little grimace that might, on anyone else, have expressed pity. Max thought she was probably an appalling actress, trying to mimic emotions she clearly did not—perhaps could not—feel. The very definition, he recalled, of a psychopath, someone able to don a cloak of normalcy just long enough to get what he or she wanted from someone else. “She was washed up, done for in the business. She was wasted half the time. And going broke, or so I heard.”
“From whom did you hear that?”
“Oh, I can’t be expected to remember everything, can I? I have enough trouble memorizing my lines.”
Max didn’t doubt that for a moment. She looked down, examining the ankle emerging from the dangling shoe. She had slender calves that he was clearly being invited to admire. He kept his gaze steadfastly on her face. Annoyed by his obstinate refusal to play along, she shoved the foot back in the shoe and placed both her feet firmly on the ground.
“It was just some gossip at a party in Malibu,” she went on sulkily. “Romero was going to cast her in a small part in an upcoming film of his. A pity casting. You know—throwing a dog a bone. The film was all crewed up, ready to go. She turned it down! Got all huffy drama-queenish with him; gave him a bunch of grief that she wasn’t being offered the lead. She said she needed the cash. As if that was ever going to happen—her getting the lead role. The lead was already cast, that’s what CDs are for, anyway—that’s like, casting directors?” she added helpfully. Max nodded to show he was following. “But that was beside the point.” A brief pause here while Tina held out one hand to inspect her blood-red manicure. “Margot was about a hundred thousand years too old for the role. There are Egyptian mummies more qualified.”
“I imagine that’s difficult for a talented actress. The whole age-and-beauty thing. The industry does seem to be skewed in favor of younger women. It’s strange that men don’t seem to face the same barriers.”
Finally he’d arrived at a topic that roused her attention. She leaned forward, one finger tapping her knee for emphasis. “Tell me about it. Robert Redford might be stuffed like a hunting trophy one day and they’ll still cast him in favor of an actress the same age. Half his age, even. I’m lucky I look so young … or so some people say.”
Bat, bat went the eyelashes, the cupid’s-bow lips curling into a simper. This was clearly Max’s cue to exclaim gallantly over her youthful appearance, but he decided to let that opportunity pass. When he said nothing and began searching his pockets for his notebook, she added crossly, “Besides. Whoever said Margot was a talented actress?”
“A seasoned actress might be a better expression,” said Max.
That got a laugh out of her, a shrieking giggle that seemed to ricochet off the sparkling floor-to-ceiling windows of her room. “Seasoned,” she said. “That’s rich. Like a side of marinated beef, yes she was.”
“You didn’t like her, did you?”
“You try liking someone who hates you. I’m not trying out for sainthood here.”
“Hates? What did she have to hate you for?”
“Oh, puh-leeze.” He had earned a “what a doofus” stare. “She and Romero were an item once, but not for long. Nothing ever seemed to last for long with Margot, if the gossip is true. Which it is. Either she’d get bored and move on or they would, the men—in most cases, they would.”
“I don’t follow,” said Max, all guileless wonder. He could guess why, but he wanted to hear her spin things out for him. “Why would she hate you?”
She looked down at herself, at the sheer perfection of her tiny body, as if this explained everything. Since Max didn’t seem to be taking the bait, she said, very slowly and carefully, explaining the ways of the world to a child, “Because she was jeal-ous. Of course she was jealous. We were so happy together, Romero and I. So perfect a couple in every way—way more perfect than Brad and Angelina ever were, with all those freaking kids hanging off them all the time. The world could see that we were so happy. And here was old, worn-out, schlumpy Margot. The old bag who had missed her chance with Romero long ago and was now too old for it, past it all. Bitter and angry. She probably cried herself to sleep at night, wishing she were in my place.”
Jesus wept. That would of course be Tina’s view of things but Max was still exasperated to hear this judgment on Margot pronounced like … well, like the gospel truth. Besides, this description of endless bliss was rather at odds with what he’d heard from Romero himself.
Max thought he could almost bring himself to pity Tina in her turn, but that was another opportunity he was going to let go by.
“Tell me about that night, the night she disappeared.”
“Disappeared, is it now? I mean, clearly, she got rat-faced drunk and jumped or fell off the yacht. I don’t see what all the fuss is about. The wonder is she lasted as long as she did—she’d been like that the whole trip. Just draping herself over Romero, trying to make him feel guilty, and drinking like she had a hollow leg. That’s what my daddy used to call it. He’d say someone drank like they had a hollow leg. He was so funny, my daddy. I get my acting chops from him.”
He tried again to break through the impenetrable mass of ego that was Tina Calvert, feeling like a man in need of a battering ram. “Was there anything special about that particular night? Did anything out of the ordinary happen?”
She considered. After a moment she offered, rather grandly, “There was a big fuss coming from the galley. But that wasn’t unusual. The chef is, like, super high maintenance. Carries on when he can’t find his favorite paring knife or something. It’s a small ship, as these things go. I mean, we were in an enclosed space. So we could always hear the tantrums.”
“This was worse than usual?”
“Sort of. Yeah. I guess. Romero had to go have a word with him. Not for the first time. These chef types—they can be so temperamental.”
Like actors? “What exactly could you hear him complaining about?”
“I don’t know, do I?” She laughed. “I don’t speak much French—I never saw the point of foreign languages when the whole world speaks English. But you could tell he was angry. Something about the glasses was wrong.”
“The glasses? The drinking glasses?”
“Uh huh. I guess. Any more questions? I have an appointment for a manicure in an hour.” Catching herself at last, and perhaps realizing this was a frivolous comment to make given the occasion, she added: “Life must go on. I have to look good for the party. The local film premiere? You never know who might be there. See and be seen. You know.” But she ruined even such a lame excuse with that cupid’s-bow smirk.
Max’s one remaining question, he supposed, was what an obviously intelligent and evidently successful man like Romero was doing hanging about with such a nincompoop as Tina. But that was, he conceded, an unchristian and unworthy thought. It was his job as a vicar to find the good in everyone. It was always there, even if in some cases one had to dig a little deeper. He merely thanked her for her time, pretending she had been wonderfully helpful.
Which in fact she had been, as things later turned out, but without intending to be.
* * *
Max found the director lounging by the indoor pool. An opened bottle of champagne was swaddled in a white cloth in a silver cooler at his elbow, alongside a stack of scripts. He was perusing one intently when Max approached.
“The dreck they send me these days,” said Romero. “You wouldn’t believe it. Albino bank robbers. Two of them—twins, no less. Good grief.”
“I thought that had been done already.” Max pulled up a chair and went straight to the point. “When we spoke earlier you indicated you had a fling with Margot in London,” he said. “A fling that didn’t work out because she played the field too much.”
“I said I barely knew her,” Romero shot back. “We dated.”
“I’m not going to parse terms with you. You had a relationship, but Margot was not known for monogamy, except perhaps of the serial kind. Who else was she with, do you know? Who did she leave you for? We’re trying to reconstruct as much of her past as we can.”
Romero shrugged. “If you’re going down the list of paramours, or even husbands, good luck to you.” He rolled his eyes in an upward glance, as if straining to remember the old days. Max had the sense he remembered too well. Indeed, Romero quickly caved in and confirmed that impression, for Romero, unlike some of the people he directed, was a terrible actor.
“Some nob,” he said. “I’ve no idea who it was—she wouldn’t say. But she dropped me pretty quickly when she spotted greener pastures. I was nobody much—then.”
How that must have rankled, thought Max. “So she didn’t play the field so much as simply leave you for someone else.”
A sullen shrug, and a “Whatever,” like a sulky teenager. Romero pulled on his upper lip, scrunching up and smoothing his luxuriant mustaches. “What can I say? She had appalling taste in men. Present company excluded, of course.”
“There was some manner of disturbance in the galley the night of the murder,” said Max, taking a different tack. “What was that about?”
“God knows,” said Romero. “I really don’t. The chef is French—Algerian, actually—and even when he’s speaking English I have the devil’s own time understanding him. He is also volatile in a thoroughly Gallic way. A perfectionist. They all are, the good chefs. So I put up with him. And I pay him a small fortune.” The director took a sip of champagne, eyeing over the rim of the glass a young woman in a bikini entering the pool area. “If she’d work on her posture she’d be a stunner,” he said. “She needs to learn to walk more on the balls of her feet.”
“Try to remember,” Max said. “It could be important. It’s the only thing I’ve found so far that was a bit out of order that night—out of the usual. Tina said that whatever the chef was talking about, it had to do with a glass or glasses. Possibly a pair of glasses?”
Romero stared at him, his brow furrowed and his head cocked to one side. “Oh!” he said finally, with a laugh. “That’s right. He was ranting about some dish that had been spoiled. Something to do with the powdered sugar. Something the sous-chef, I guess, put on a pastry or in a pastry. Or something.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Glace,” he said. “Sucre glace, is what she heard. I guess literally the translation would be sugared glaze. But it’s what we Americans call powdered or confectioner’s sugar.”
“And we Brits call icing sugar,” said Max. “Got it.”