twenty-one

We arrived in due time at the theater. It took several minutes longer than necessary to alight from the carriage as we were stopped by several tourists who thought Skippy was one of the horses from Equus. Nigel saw no reason to dissuade them of this and offered to pose for pictures.

By the time we made our way into the theater, Peggy was just finishing her post-play review with the cast. Mark was sitting on a bench next to Brooke, who was taking notes in a thick leather-bound journal. Jeremy stood off to one side, leaning against a doorjamb, surreptitiously checking his phone. In spite of his stage makeup, his complexion was haggard. A woman I didn’t recognize stood next to him. Based on her blond wig and costume, I guessed that she was Nina’s understudy, Molly.

Hearing our entrance, Peggy looked back and waved us over. As we approached, her gaze dropped to Skippy; seconds later, her jaw followed suit. “Dear God, is that a dog?” she asked.

Nigel put his fingers over his lips. “Yes,” he said in a hushed voice, “but we haven’t told him yet. We’re waiting until he’s older.”

Peggy rolled her eyes as she scratched Skippy’s ears. “Well, speaking of telling people unpleasant truths, I haven’t told the cast about Dan yet,” she said in a low voice. “Do you think I should do it now?”

“Might as well,” I said. “The press is bound to find out sooner rather than later.”

Peggy nodded at me and then raised her voice to the cast. “One last thing, everyone,” she said. “I’m afraid I have a bit of bad news to share.” All eyes focused on Peggy. I tried to gauge everyone’s expression as Peggy made the announcement. “Dan Trados died last night.”

Brooke let out a little gasp and covered her mouth with her hand. Her journal slipped off her lap and fell to the floor. Mark immediately leaned over and picked it up. He handed it back to her and wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulders. Jeremy blinked several times but said nothing. Nina’s understudy, Molly, glanced around at the others before saying, “He’s that theater critic with Vanity Fair, right?” She was made up to look like a woman in her late fifties, but based on her voice and movements, I guessed she was far younger.

Peggy nodded. “Yes, Molly. That’s him.”

Molly’s eyes grew wide. “Holy shit. What happened?”

Peggy glanced at me before answering. “It’s unclear,” she said. “The police haven’t said—”

“The police!” Brooke cried out, the journal once again sliding out of her hands and landing on the floor with a thud. This time, Mark did not retrieve it. “Why are the police involved?” she asked.

“Well,” began Peggy, “it seems that … well, apparently …” She stopped and looked helplessly at me.

“The police haven’t determined how Mr. Trados died yet,” I said, taking a step forward.

Mark looked over at me, his gaze wary. “But the police are involved,” he said slowly. “Meaning that …” He paused and glanced at Brooke. Brooke’s posture was rigid; her gaze riveted to the stage floor.

“Meaning that the police suspect foul play,” I finished.

Molly suddenly let out a low whistle. “Holy shit,” she said. “Does Nina know?”

“I don’t know,” I answered. “Why do you ask?”

Molly’s eyes narrowed as she studied me. “I’m sorry, but who are you?” she asked.

“Nic Martini,” I answered. “I went to school with Peggy and Harper Trados. Why did you ask about Nina?”

Molly paused and seemed to consider her answer. “Oh, no reason, really. I mean, it’s just that she was pretty angry with him last night. About that review he wrote … and everything.” She stopped and blinked. “I mean, I would have been, too … I didn’t mean to imply … I just wondered if …” Molly paused again and took a deep breath. “You know what? I’m just going to stop talking now.”

Next to her, Jeremy rolled his eyes. “You think?” he muttered. Molly’s cheeks flushed crimson and she stared at her feet.

“I don’t know what Nina knows,” Peggy said. “Obviously, she didn’t say anything to me about it when she called me this morning.” Turning to me, Peggy asked, “Did you want to say anything else?”

I shook my head. “No. I imagine the police will get in touch with everyone themselves.”

Brooke gave a startled shudder. “Why would the police want to talk to any of us?” she asked. “What could we possibly have to do with Dan’s death? Are you saying that we are somehow suspects?”

I tried to smile reassuringly, but based on the panic in Brooke’s wide eyes, it wasn’t working. “I’m not saying any such thing,” I said. “I just happen to know the detective in charge of the case. Actually, she’s my old partner. And Detective Garcia is very thorough. I expect she’ll want to talk with everyone who had any kind of interaction with Dan last night.”

Jeremy stared at me with an expression of mild horror. “Wait. You’re a detective?” he sputtered.

“Ex-detective,” I clarified.

Based on the way Jeremy suddenly went pale and abruptly sat down in a nearby chair, the distinction did not seem to mollify him.