The precurtain champagne bash was an absolute trip. The big tent billowed in the wind, lightning crackled, thunder boomed and the rain came pounding down on us while an accomplished jazz trio from New Haven played heavenly highlights from the Cole Porter and George Gershwin songbooks, which are as heavenly as heavenly gets.
The weather hadn’t scared off one single person. That’s how much the Sherbourne Playhouse meant to the New York theatrical world. Limos and town cars surrounded the town green for blocks in every direction. Broadway’s top director, Mike Nichols, was there with his wife Diane Sawyer. Meryl Streep and Sigourney Weaver were there. So were Neil Simon, Arthur Miller, Elia Kazan and Stephen Sondheim, each of them accompanied by assorted wives or partners. Jackie O, wearing an eerily serene smile on her eerily lacquered face, arrived with her tall, dark and handsome son, John, who I still say should have just become the next Tom Selleck instead of trying to be an assistant Manhattan D.A. The incomparable husband-wife acting duo of Hume Cronyn and Jessica Tandy showed up. So did that pretty fair husband-wife acting team of Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward. Newman was sixty-eight that year, and I just want to say if I ever live to be that old I want to look as good as he did.
Knowledgeable Broadway critics such as Frank Rich from the New York Times and Howard Kissel from the Daily News made the trip out. So did celebrity critics such as Rex Reed, pretend critics such as Dennis Cunningham from Channel 2 News, and gossip columnists such as Liz Smith and Cindy Adams. Camera crews from Entertainment Tonight and Inside Edition cruised the tent, as did paparazzi by the dozen. Big-time magazine editors such as Tina Brown of the New Yorker and Anna Wintour of Vogue had shown up. So had the likes of Gore Vidal, Dominick Dunne and George Plimpton, who still hadn’t forgiven me for having sex on his pool table during a Brazilian poetry reading back in my bad boy days. Connecticut governor Lowell Weicker and his wife, Claudia, were there to provide the state’s seal of approval.
And, as I’ve discovered is always the case at such an event, a notable celebrity was there whose presence made absolutely no sense whatsoever. In this case it was Long Island’s own Gentleman Gerry Cooney, the former Great White Hope of the heavyweight boxing world, whose career in the ring had ended three years earlier when George Foreman knocked him cold in the second round. Gerry looked trim, fit and very suave in a tux, though not as suave as I did.
Everyone was dressed to the nines. Everyone, that is, except for Kate Hepburn, who showed up just a bit later than everyone else, decked out in a hooded yellow rain slicker, gingham shirt, torn jeans and an ancient pair of Keds sneakers. “By gum, this is a perfect night to see Noël Coward!” she cried out valiantly in that quavering voice of hers, her eyes positively gleaming with excitement. There was no getting around it—fifty-four years after she’d starred on Broadway as Tracy Lord in The Philadelphia Story Kate Hepburn, age eighty-six, was still yare. And still in a class all by herself. Everyone rushed to greet her as the tent billowed and the thunder boomed and the rain poured down.
I had to hand it to Mimi. If there was one thing the former supermodel knew how to do it was pull off a high-profile bash. There was an endless supply of Dom Perignon, waiters everywhere with trays of caviar and chilled shrimp, which thrilled Lulu to no end. There was laughter and genuine excitement in the lightning-charged air.
Which isn’t to say that Mimi, who looked fabulous in a sleeveless silver cocktail dress, seemed to be having much fun herself. She looked so incredibly tense that I grabbed her and whisked her around the dance floor while the trio was playing Gershwin’s “They Can’t Take That Away from Me.”
“You’ve done a fabulous job,” I assured her.
“Do you really think so?” she wondered, her tall, lean body as taut as an ironing board. “I can’t afford to fail at this level, you know. Everyone finds out.”
One of the volunteer ushers ducked inside the tent and announced that the curtain would rise in fifteen minutes, which set off an immediate buzz of anticipation. The assembled luminaries began making their way out of the tent. Many of them paused to help themselves to a complimentary umbrella for the quick dash across the lawn in the pouring rain. Others said the hell with it and just dashed. The musicians and waiters remained behind. The plan was for everyone to return to the tent and resume the party after the curtain—joined by the triumphant cast members.
Inside the little playhouse I could hear the rain pelting down on the roof, but the blue tarps seemed to be holding. The aisles and seats were dry as the high-spirited audience members got settled in with the assistance of the volunteer ushers. So far, so good—although the rain was expected to continue for at least two more hours, by which time I expected the Oscar-winning cast members would need snorkels and fins to get down to their dressing rooms.
But first, they had a show to put on.
Lulu and I watched from the back of the house as the lights went down and the curtain rose, the better to take it all in. Merilee, as Sibyl, was the first of Coward’s honeymooners to appear onstage. Merilee immediately got a huge roar of applause from the audience as she stepped out onto the French hotel terrace. Not only because it was she who’d put this production together but also because she was bravely standing there, holding an umbrella against the rain that was pelting down on her. The tarp over the stage hadn’t held, evidently. As Merilee stood there, regarding the view from the hotel terrace, Marty soon joined her under an umbrella of his own and got a rousing ovation himself. And so they began. I don’t know if the two of them got a lift from the packed house of celebrities or if it was the added challenge of playing the scene while standing in the rain, but they totally nailed it. Marty was dry, wickedly droll and his timing was impeccable. His Elyot was the perfect counterbalance to Merilee’s splendidly simpering Sibyl. But that was Marty, curried mutton scent and all.
The stage lights did flicker a couple of times when the wind really gusted—which made more than a few audience members gasp—but Merilee and Marty paid no attention and, mercifully, the power stayed on.
Soon, the two of them retreated back into their hotel room and, lo and behold, Amanda and Victor emerged onto the neighboring terrace, which called for another ovation for Greg and Dini. It was obvious to me that Dini was still feeling wobbly. She had to clutch her umbrella in both hands to hold it aloft. But Dini Hawes was a trouper to her core. Her voice was strong, her timing razor sharp. I’d heard from Mimi that Doctor Orr had made a black bag house call to the inn that afternoon. I wondered if he’d given her a B12 shot. Greg did his best to help her through it by keeping his arm around her. Since he and Dini were husband and wife in so-called real life Greg was able to turn it into a totally natural, romantic gesture. Somehow, he also became Victor in a way that he hadn’t been before.
Honestly, the four of them were so wonderful that after a few minutes I forgot all about the rain that was pouring down on the stage. Besides, the rain wasn’t that outrageous a distraction while they were standing there on the terrace in act one. They were supposed to be outside. It was raining. So what? The real challenge would be how they coped with act two inside of Amanda’s Paris flat. There was always a chance the rain would stop by then but the intensifying downpours gave little hope of that.
As Coward’s two couples realize with a mix of shock and horror that they’re honeymooning in neighboring hotel suites the curtain slowly fell on act one. There was an immediate roar of applause from the packed playhouse. A few of the assembled luminaries left their seats to have a cigarette in the lobby or use the restroom but most of them stayed put, which Merilee taught me many years back is a very, very good omen. Behind the curtain, the stagehands went into high gear moving furniture and props around during the intermission so as to transform the hotel terrace into Amanda’s flat.
Mind you, it turned out to be a much longer intermission than anyone had anticipated. And they didn’t have to bother to account for why it was raining inside of Amanda’s flat. Because, as it happened, there was no act two. The show could not go on—and not because of the weather.
But because one of the play’s four stars didn’t survive the intermission.
IT WAS MARTY who found the body.
Lulu and I weren’t far away when he did. We’d gone backstage at the act break. I’ve always enjoyed watching the hubbub of the stagehands changing sets. Coop was all-business as he bossed his crew of able young volunteers through the process of converting the hotel terrace into Amanda’s Paris flat. Up went one backdrop, down came another and, presto, we were indoors looking out a pair of windows at the rooftops of Paris. The sofa, easy chairs and end tables were carried to their marks on the stage floor. Props were placed here and there. True, the rain had not stopped falling on the stage. But Coop cleverly rigged a painter’s drop cloth over the sofa as a decorative canopy, which not only gave the flat a bohemian atelier look but would also serve to keep the actors who were on the sofa dry. Actors who had to move around onstage would simply have to carry an umbrella. The audience wouldn’t mind. In fact, I felt certain they would get a big kick out of it.
Sabrina sat in the wings on a folding chair in her frumpy maid costume and full makeup, watching them work. “I took in act one from here,” she informed me. “I thought it would help me get a feel for the pace. It’s going well, don’t you think?”
“Very well,” I said, noticing that she was trembling slightly. This was her professional stage debut, after all, and that’s no small thing—especially considering how many theatrical giants had made their own debuts on this very stage, including the one who sat out in the house right now wearing Keds. “You’ll be fabulous. And you look terrific in that costume.”
“Thank you,” she said, clamping her plump lower lip firmly between her teeth. “We decided it made sense for me to change into full costume before act one because there isn’t enough room for all three of us in the dressing room at once. Plus Dini gets really locked in and doesn’t like to break her concentration. The twins wanted to go down and visit her but she made them stay in their seats. Mimi’s watching them.”
“Where’s Glenda?”
“She went down to check on how Dini’s feeling. No way Dini can tell her what to do. God, Glenda’s so bossy. I hate Glenda. Don’t you hate Glenda?”
“I don’t hate her, but I’m glad she’s not my mother.”
Mimi joined us there in the wings in her shimmering silver cocktail dress, the twins in tow. Both girls were pouty and glum in their sleeveless blue dresses.
“How come we can’t see Mommy?” Cheyenne asked Sabrina.
“Because she’s trying to stay in character.” Sabrina smiled at her. “You’ll understand when you become actors.”
“I don’t want to be an actor,” Durango said. “I want to be a fire jumper.”
“That’s a pretty dangerous job,” I pointed out.
“I’m not afraid,” she said, crossing her arms before her defiantly.
“Sabrina, could you watch the girls for a sec?” Mimi’s voice had an edge of urgency. “I need to call my plumber to see if he can find us a few more sump pumps really fast.”
“No prob. We’ll watch them swirl the furniture around. It’s like magic.”
I joined Mimi as she darted toward the stage door phone. The door to the courtyard was open despite the windblown torrents because the tropical air was so steamy it was practically suffocating back there.
“It’s getting really nasty downstairs,” Mimi informed me grimly as she reached for the phone. “I’ve never seen the water this deep.”
I started down the spiral staircase toward the dressing rooms to check out the flood conditions for myself. Lulu was with me until she came to a sudden halt halfway down. She could hear the rats scrabbling for higher ground.
“Come on, don’t be such a wuss,” I said to her. “You’re bigger than they are. Most of them, anyhow.”
The dimly lit basement corridor was now a rushing river. The crew had set planks atop cinder blocks just like in the dressing rooms so that it was possible to step your way along. But the water was so deep that it was starting to slosh over the planks. The extremely loud sump pumps were running during intermission but they didn’t seem to be accomplishing a whole lot.
Mimi came down the staircase a moment after me. “Sweet Jesus, it’s like being belowdecks on the Titanic.”
“Any luck on those extra sump pumps?”
“He said he’d see if he could find any. He didn’t sound very optimistic.”
I sloshed my way down the corridor toward the dressing room, Mimi sloshing right along behind me. “You’ll ruin your sandals,” I warned her.
“Good, that’ll give me an excuse to buy a new pair.”
We arrived just in time to witness a sight I would gladly have missed—Marty barreling out of the men’s dressing room wearing a pair of billowing powder blue boxer shorts, heavy brogans, argyle socks and nothing else, his innumerable fat rolls jiggling as he charged straight across the hall into the tiny men’s bathroom. It was a rock-solid certainty that the great Martin Jacob Miller would suffer an uncontrollable case of the shits before and after act one of every performance of every show in which he appeared. The man was famous for it. He slammed the door shut behind him and let out a loud groan, followed by a succession of simply awful bowel eruptions.
Lulu moaned unhappily. Last night it was headless Old Saxophone Joe. Tonight it was rats and Marty’s poop.
Greg was in the men’s dressing room changing into a tweed suit that must have been hot as hell to put on.
I caught his eye through the open doorway and gave him a thumbs-up. “Going great!” I called out.
“Absolutely terrific, Greg!” Mimi chimed in.
He beamed at us gratefully. “Thanks. Feels really, really awesome.”
Mimi and I found Merilee and Dini changing costumes in their dressing room, or trying to. It wasn’t easy with the water rising over the planks. Or with plus-size Glenda crowded in there with them demanding to know how her ashen-faced daughter was feeling. Not great, apparently. Dini’s eyes widened suddenly, and she clamped a hand over her mouth, darting across the hall to the ladies’ room to vomit.
Lulu let out another moan. This was definitely turning into her worst twenty-four hours ever.
“Dini will be fine,” Merilee assured Glenda airily. “She just gets a nervous stomach sometimes.”
“She’s not nervous,” argued Glenda, who was wearing a pastel pink polyester pantsuit and her bone-colored walking shoes for the occasion. “She’s ill. She mustn’t go back out on that stage.”
Merilee steered Glenda toward the door. “She’ll be fine. Now if you’ll please excuse me I have very little time to finish changing.”
“Why, yes, of course.” Glenda moved out into the corridor, the water splish-splashing over her shoes and the cuffs of her pants. But she wasn’t going anywhere. She intended to check on her daughter the instant that Dini emerged from the ladies’ room.
“I’m definitely in the way, too,” Mimi said, sloshing her way toward the spiral staircase. “I’m heading back up.”
“Likewise,” I said, following her. Lulu joined me eagerly.
“How is it playing so far?” Merilee called out to me.
I returned to the dressing room doorway as Mimi went upstairs. Merilee had changed into her act two costume, a pair of burgundy silk lounging pajamas. Her own. Or I should say mine. She stole them from me years ago because they looked better on her than they did on me.
“Close the door for a sec,” she said to me.
Lulu and I joined her in there. I closed the door.
“Is it satisfactory so far?” she asked me, her eyes searching my face.
“No, can’t say that it is. Great is more like it. But are you okay down here in this flood?”
“What, this?” She let out a snort. “Back in my Keith Orpheum days I had to stand in water up to my thighs when I played Charley’s Aunt in Altoona.”
“Merilee, you’ve never been in Charley’s Aunt. Or Altoona.”
“Have so.” She grinned at me, her eyes bright with excitement. She was a theater creature. She thrived on this kind of chaos.
As I opened the door to leave, Dini emerged from the ladies’ room looking gray and limp.
Glenda was parked right there waiting for her. “How are you feeling, dear?”
“Mother, please go upstairs, will you?” Dini said with exaggerated patience. “I have to change.”
“Forgive me for caring,” Glenda said, stung, as she went up the spiral staircase in a huff.
That was my cue to leave, too. “It’s terrific, Dini.”
“Thank you, Hoagy,” she said softly.
As I started for the staircase with Lulu the men’s room door flew open and Marty came back out in his boxers, huffing and puffing. “Hey, Hoagy, do you think it’s safe to flush the toilet?”
“Is that your way of saying you haven’t?”
“I’m afraid the septic system might be flooded, which means the toilet will overflow and we’ll be standing here with everything I’ve eaten for the past two days floating by. You’ve got to figure the system’s overflowing, right?”
“It’s not something I really choose to give much thought to.”
“Well, stay out of that men’s room, if you want my advice.”
“I wasn’t planning to go in there, but thanks for the tip.”
Marty went across the hall into the men’s dressing room as Lulu and I sloshed back toward the staircase. We hadn’t gone more than a few feet before he roared, “Hoagy, I need a hand now!”
I dashed in there and found Greg lying facedown on the concrete floor between the planks in at least six inches of water. The back of his head was a bloodied mess, as if someone had bashed him repeatedly with a hard object of some kind.
I immediately shoved a plank aside and waded down into the water. Marty did the same. Between the two of us, we were able to pick Greg up and lay him out, facedown, on a plank in his sopping wet tweed suit. He wasn’t conscious.
Marty held his ear to Greg’s nostrils, listening carefully. Or trying to over the roar of the sump pumps. “I don’t think he’s breathing,” he said in a grief-stricken voice. “I’ve taken a lifeguard training course. Should I . . . ?”
“Go for it.”
Marty turned Greg’s head to one side and pressed firmly against his back with both hands, the plank creaking as Marty applied the pressure steadily. Water came streaming out of Greg’s mouth. A lot of water, which meant it was coming from his lungs. But Marty’s exertions didn’t make Greg cough the rest of the water out. Or cough at all. Or so much as stir. Greg just lay there.
I knelt and took a good look into his eyes. They were open wide and glazed over. I know what dead looks like.
Greg Farber was dead.
By now I realized that Merilee and Dini were standing in the doorway, gaping in horror.
“Merilee, you’d better call the police,” I said.
She went rushing off. Dini remained frozen in the doorway, her eyes wide with fright. Until, that is, she suddenly let out a shriek and fainted.
I caught her before she fell and hoisted her into my arms. She was light as a feather. “Don’t touch anything,” I said to Marty, who was still on his knees in the floodwaters, his eyes filling with tears. Lulu, I noticed, had started sniffing her way carefully around, snuffling and snorting. “Just grab your clothes and get out of here, okay? This is a crime scene.”
“Right,” Marty responded grimly.
I carried Dini up the spiral staircase to the stage door area and laid her gently on the floor. Took off my tuxedo jacket, rolled it up and placed it under her head as a pillow. Merilee was on the stage door phone with the police. Mimi was standing next to her weeping, the tears streaming down her face. Glenda was with them—until she caught sight of me tending to Dini and came racing over.
“She’s fainted,” I said. “Shock, I think.”
“We’d better find her some blankets,” Glenda said, immediately turning brisk and professional.
“There are some in my office,” Mimi said, swiping at her eyes.
“You’d better call Doctor Orr, too,” I said.
“And I’ll need that first aid kit,” Glenda said, following Mimi up the service corridor toward her office off of the lobby.
Merilee stood next to me, gripping my hand tightly. Hers was like ice. “Greg is . . . dead?”
I nodded. “Someone bashed him in the head a whole bunch of times, knocked him out and then he drowned. Or at least that’s how it looks.”
Glenda returned quickly, accompanied by Sabrina and the twins. Sabrina was toting an armload of blankets. Glenda had Mimi’s first aid kit.
“Is Mommy okay?” Durango wondered fretfully.
“She’s fine, honey,” Glenda said. “Just had a little shock, that’s all.”
“What kind of a shock?” Cheyenne asked.
Glenda didn’t want to answer her. No one did.
While Sabrina swaddled Dini in blankets Glenda found some ammonia ampules in the first aid kit, broke one open and waved it under Dini’s nose.
Dini stirred, shuddering, and opened her eyes. She let out a gasp and cried out, “No, no, no . . . where’s Greg?”
“It’s okay, Dini.” Glenda cradled her in her arms like a little girl. “Shhh, you’re okay. It’s okay.”
“Where are my babies?”
“We’re right here, Mommy,” Cheyenne said.
Dini put her arms around the twins and squeezed them tight, tears running down her cheeks.
“Mommy, what’s wrong?” Durango asked.
“Where’s Daddy?” Cheyenne asked.
Somehow, Dini managed a reassuring smile. “We’ll talk about it when we’re alone, okay? There are too many people around right now.”
“Why would anyone do such a thing?” Merilee’s green eyes were wide with disbelief. “And how? We were right next door. I didn’t hear a thing, did you?”
I shook my head. “Not with those sump pumps going. Did you, Dini?”
“No.” Dini’s voice was a whisper. “But I was in the ladies’ room being sick.”
And Marty had been in the men’s room coping with his problematic bowel. Just moments earlier, Mimi and I had seen Greg changing into his tweed suit. We’d exchanged a few brief, cheerful words. He’d been alone in the dressing room at the time. Or so it had appeared. Possibly, someone else had been in there with him. Someone who we couldn’t see from the corridor. I had no idea. I only knew that someone, somehow, had managed to slip in there, bash Greg in the head and slip away while he lay facedown on that flooded basement floor. Or make that not slip away, because the odds were excellent that Greg’s killer was still right there with us. It had to be someone who had access to the dressing rooms, didn’t it? That meant a fellow cast member. Or Glenda. Or Mimi. Or possibly one of the stage crew. Unless, that is, we were talking about the wildest of wild cards—R. J. Romero. But how could R.J. have snuck his way downstairs to the dressing rooms and murdered Greg without any of us seeing him? And why would he want to after all of these years? Then again, if R.J. was desperate enough that he’d taken to blackmailing Merilee, was it possible that he was blackmailing Greg, too?
As I stood there, my mind racing, Marty came slowly and heavily up the spiral staircase, puffing on a Lucky Strike. He’d changed into a rumpled polo shirt, shorts and his cheese-scented flip-flops. His shoulders were slumped, his eyes vacant.
And Mimi returned from her office, her eyes red and swollen. As she dabbed at them with a tissue I noticed that the knuckles of her right hand were scraped raw. The scrapes looked to be fresh. “Doctor Orr lives right around the corner,” she said in a calm voice, mindful of the twins. “He’ll be right over.”
Two Sherbourne police cars pulled up outside the stage door. The wind-driven rain had begun to let up. The thunder was moving off into the distance, growing steadily more muted.
Mimi turned to Merilee and said, “I hate to say these words out loud but the curtain for act two should have gone up seven minutes ago. Our house is getting restless. Someone’s got to tell them that there will be no act two. We have to send them home.”
“I’ll do it,” Merilee said unhesitatingly. “Just let me change out of these pajamas.”
“Nobody will notice or care.” I led her by the hand out onto the stage and left her there facing the curtain while Lulu and I made our way into the wings.
She stood there collecting herself for a moment, then instructed a stagehand to raise the curtain. Everyone in the audience automatically started to applaud until they realized that Merilee was standing alone there onstage with her arms raised in the air, pleading for silence. “I’m sorry to have to tell you that the show cannot go on,” she informed them in a strong, clear voice. “Greg Farber is . . . Greg is dead.”
Screams and gasps of horror showered down upon her. Again she held her arms up, pleading for silence.
“Our prayers go out to Dini and their girls.” The twins still hadn’t been told. They were currently being distracted backstage by Dini and Glenda. “I want to thank each and every one of you for coming. But now I’m afraid I have to say good night. Have a safe trip home.”
“Isn’t there anything we can do?” someone called out.
“No, there isn’t. Thank you. Please, just go home. Allow me to assure you that we’ll refund your donations.”
“You . . . will . . . not!” thundered the unmistakable voice of Katharine the Great, which pretty much put the kibosh on that idea. “We’re saving this place no matter what!”
“Kate’s right!”
“We don’t want our money back!”
“But what happened?”
“Did he have a heart attack?”
“It was very unexpected,” Merilee said. “I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you right now. Thank you and good night.”
She gestured for the stagehand to lower the curtain, then rejoined Lulu and me in the wings as we listened to the grief-stricken voices on the other side of the curtain. The excited ones, too, because the playhouse was full of media people, and while the theatrical legends would eventually stream home in their limos and town cars, the assembled reporters, photographers and TV camera crews would mob the stage door demanding answers. After all, Greg Farber, a major Hollywood movie star, had just died backstage in the middle of a gala stage benefit. Cause of death: unknown.
And until they did know they weren’t going anywhere.
We weren’t going anywhere either. Not until the Sherbourne Police had sent for a homicide team from the Connecticut State Police’s Major Crime Squad. Not until the investigators had arrived, been thoroughly briefed and written down the names and contact information of every performer, stagehand, usher, family member and ex-husband who’d been in the theater at the time of Greg’s death. Criminal background checks would have to be run on everyone. Preliminary questioning would have to be conducted. Hours. We’d be there for hours.
Meanwhile, there was Dini to attend to. Doctor Orr turned out to be young and sunburned, as if he spent a lot of time out on the water in a sailboat. When he arrived he carried Dini down the service runway into Mimi’s office and stretched her out on the sofa. It was a narrow, cluttered office with room enough for the sofa, a desk, a couple of chairs and not much else.
Dini was not doing real well. In fact, she was on the verge of hysterics. Doctor Orr rummaged around in his black bag and injected her with a sedative. Mimi fought back more tears as she stood there watching him. Marty was slumped in her desk chair dragging on a Lucky Strike and blowing the smoke out of an open window. Glenda was crowded in there with the twins, trying—and failing—to keep them distracted. The girls were alarmed by their mother’s condition.
“Is Mommy okay?” Durango wanted to know.
“She’s just a little bit upset right now,” Glenda assured her.
“Why?” Cheyenne demanded.
“She’ll be fine. Isn’t that right, Doctor?”
“Absolutely fine,” he said.
“What about Daddy? Where’s Daddy?”
No one in the office responded. No one knew what to say.
I nudged Lulu with my sodden patent leather shoe. She glowered at me. I glowered back. I’m bigger. She went over to the twins and rolled over on her back so they could pat her belly.
“Hey, Lulu!” exclaimed Cheyenne.
Both girls fell to their knees and began petting her and tugging at her ears.
Glenda nodded to me gratefully.
“The sedative I’ve given her should relax her for a good eight hours.” Doctor Orr snapped his bag shut. “I’ll be in touch in the morning.”
“Doctor, did you get the results back from Dini’s blood work?” I asked.
He studied me cooly. “I’m sorry, you are . . . ?”
“Stewart Hoag, the author,” Mimi said. “Merilee’s ex-husband.”
“Why, yes, of course. I’m a huge fan of your work, Mr. Hoag. Absolutely loved The World According to Garp.”
“Thank you. I’m sure John Irving will be pleased to hear that.”
“My mistake, sorry. Yes, I did get the results, but I don’t believe in discussing such matters with anyone but my patient.” He turned to Glenda and said, “Best thing right now is to get her into bed. She’s not flying to Savannah tonight.”
“I’ve just phoned her agent,” Mimi said. “The business end of things is being seen to. I also spoke to the housekeeper at the beach house. She said the owners won’t be back until next week. Dini and the girls are welcome to stay on for a few more days.”
“Good.” Doctor Orr looked at Glenda. “Are you okay to drive?”
“I’m perfectly fine. And the car’s parked not twenty feet from the stage door.”
“Mimi, do you think you can snag a burly stagehand to carry Dini out to their car? She’s gone to sleep.”
“Hell, I can do that,” Marty said, stirring from the desk chair.
“If the Sherbourne police at the stage door give you any trouble just tell them that I said she’s in no condition to answer questions until tomorrow morning.”
I said, “Doctor, if the media scene out back is anything like I’m imagining—and I’m guessing it’s ten times worse—Marty’s going to need a police escort to and from the car. And Glenda will need one to the beach house.”
He peered at me, his eyes narrowing fractionally. “Why do I get the feeling you’ve been through this sort of thing before, Mr. Hoag?”
“Only because I have.”
“In that case, I’ll accompany Mr. Miller and speak to the chief of police.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Glenda said.
Marty gently picked slender little Dini up off of the sofa and said, “Okay, girls, we’re heading out to the car with your mom and your grandma. You ready to rumble?”
“Can we take Lulu with us?” Durango wanted to know.
“I’m afraid not,” Merilee said. “But she’ll come visit you tomorrow.”
“You promise?” Cheyenne pleaded.
“I promise,” Merilee said.
I opened the door and Marty carried Dini up the corridor toward the stage entrance with Glenda and the girls following close behind. After the doctor had murmured a sympathetic good night to Mimi he hurried after them.
I caught up with him, matching him stride for stride. “Is it Lyme disease, Doctor?”
He let out a weary sigh. “Mr. Hoag, like I said . . .”
“Let me put it another way. When you initially examined Dini Hawes for her flu-like symptoms and took blood samples did she request that you test her for a certain medical condition that you were a bit surprised to hear her mention?”
He glanced at me sidelong. “I won’t discuss that with you either.”
“So she did, didn’t she?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to. Your eyes just said it for you.”
Those eyes glared at me disapprovingly. “You’re a bit of a sneaky customer, aren’t you?”
“I don’t mean to be. It’s just that I’ve spent the past several years hanging around with the wrong sort of people.”
“What sort of people would that be?”
“Famous people.”
BY THE TIME Marty carried Dini out to the car and a young Sherbourne cop had escorted him back, a half-dozen uniformed Connecticut State troopers from Troop F in Westbrook had arrived on the scene in their silver Ford Crown Vics to establish a perimeter around the playhouse. Politely but firmly, they muscled the mob of media people and celebrity gawkers behind it.
Meanwhile, we sat around on folding chairs on the wet stage waiting for the homicide investigators from the Major Crime Squad, who had to come from their headquarters in Meriden. A lieutenant and his sergeant pulled up twenty minutes later, followed closely by a pair of blue and white cube vans packed full of crime scene technicians wearing navy blue Windbreakers.
The lieutenant was a chesty fireplug with dark, hooded eyes and a head of mountainous, elaborately layered black hair that was reminiscent of John Travolta from his Saturday Night Fever disco heyday. He wore a cheap, shiny black suit that bore a striking resemblance to the cheap, shiny black suit that Pete Tedone, the fixer, had worn. In fact, he bore a striking resemblance to Pete Tedone, possibly because he was Pete’s younger brother, Carmine.
This was made clear to me when Carmine Tedone pulled me aside for a private word after he’d been brought up to speed on who everyone was—not that he had the slightest trouble recognizing Merilee or Marty.
I tugged at my ear. “So that would make Frank Tedone of the Organized Crime Task Force . . .”
“My cousin, same as he is Pete’s.”
“Just out of curiosity, Lieutenant, is there anyone in the Connecticut State Police who isn’t named Tedone?”
“Oh, sure. There’s Bartuccas by the dozen, although we’re all related by marriage a couple of generations back. You see my sergeant over there?”
I followed his gaze to the tall, gangly young plainclothesman who was giving instructions to a pair of troopers in uniform. He, too, wore a cheap, shiny black suit. Possibly they bought them in bulk—like rolls of paper towels.
“He’s a Bartucca. My wife’s cousin’s boy, Angelo.” Tedone called him over and said, “Sergeant, there’s a tavern across the street from the stage door. Find out who went in and out during the time frame of the murder. The bartender will remember if anyone he didn’t know stopped in. Or if he saw a car idling by the stage door that took off lickety split.”
“Right, Loo,” Sergeant Bartucca said.
“Oh, hey, and ask him . . .” Tedone opened a file folder so that I could see it was his brother Pete’s file on R. J. Romero, complete with mug shots. “Ask him if this guy looks familiar.”
“You got it, Loo.” He went loping off with the file.
Lieutenant Tedone approached Mimi now and said, “Mrs. Whitfield, do you generally have someone guarding the stage door during performances?”
“This is a summer playhouse, Lieutenant. Not the Belasco Theater.”
“So someone could have wandered in and out unnoticed while the first act was under way?”
“Yes, they could have.”
“I’m told that you’ve let the audience go home.”
“I couldn’t exactly ask the likes of Governor Weicker and Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis to remain in their seats for half the night, could I?”
“Still, there’s a chance that one of them saw or heard something. Have you got a complete list of their names?”
“Of course.”
“Were there any no-shows?”
“Not one. The house was packed.”
“Did anyone leave their seat while act one was in progress and not come back?”
“No one,” I said. “I was standing in the back of the house. If anyone had left I’d have seen him. And if anyone had tried to slip backstage Sabrina would have seen him from her perch in the wings. Lieutenant, you don’t honestly think that Greg was done in by Hume Cronyn, do you?”
“There’s no call to take that attitude with me. I’m just covering my bases.” He glanced down at a small notepad in his hand. “That would be Sabrina Meyer?”
Sabrina still had on her frumpy maid’s costume and gray wig. The police hadn’t let her go downstairs to change. She looked at him warily. “Yes . . . ?”
“You were seated in that chair over there during act one?”
“Yes, I was.”
“Did you see anyone go downstairs to the dressing rooms during the first act? Think hard. It could be important.”
“No, I didn’t,” Sabrina said without hesitation.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to stay over tonight, Miss Meyer. We’ll need your formal witness statement in the morning. And maybe you’ll remember something when you’ve had a chance to sleep on it. A trooper will escort you back to the Sherbourne Inn.”
“Can I go downstairs and change first? I don’t usually look like this, you know. And my shoulder bag’s down there.”
“Of course.” He gestured for a trooper to go with her. “Do you mind if my man searches your bag?”
“For what?”
“The weapon that was used.”
“Do you classify a tampon as a weapon?” On Tedone’s stone-faced reaction Sabrina said, “No, I don’t mind.”
She and the trooper left the stage together.
Tedone consulted his notepad again. “Martin Jacob Miller . . .”
Marty gulped nervously. “Jeez, you sound like Darth Vader. Call me Marty, will you?”
Tedone smiled faintly. “I understand it was you who found Mr. Farber’s body in the men’s dressing room. And that you immediately called out to Mr. Hoag, who joined you in there.”
“Along with Lulu,” I added.
Tedone frowned at me. “Lulu . . . ?”
She let out a low whoop at my feet.
“Oh, right. Your pooch. How about the three of us . . . ?”
“Four of us.”
“Four of us go down to the dressing rooms and you show me how it all happened?”
Marty climbed to his feet. “Whatever you say.”
“Would you like me to join you, Lieutenant?” Merilee asked. “I was right next-door with Dini.”
“Not necessary, Miss Nash. I understand she’s not feeling very well.”
“Not at all well,” Merilee said with a sad shake of her head. “Doctor Orr sedated her and sent her home to the beach house they’ve been renting on Point O’Woods.”
“I’ll keep a couple of cars parked outside of her house tonight. Make sure none of those tabloid creeps bother her.”
“That’s very considerate of you.”
“Just doing my job,” he said, coloring slightly.
As we made our way toward the spiral staircase we ran into Sabrina, who’d ditched her costume and wig for a tank top and linen shorts, brushed out her gorgeous golden ringlets and reclaimed her shoulder bag. She waved goodbye to us as she started for the stage door with her uniformed escort, who’d been rendered gaga by her transformation.
The sump pumps were going full blast down in the dimly lit corridor. The water level had gone down by two or three inches now that the rain had let up. Two crime scene technicians were taking Polaroid shots of the murder scene in the men’s dressing room. One of the technicians was photographing Greg, who remained draped facedown over the plank just as we’d left him. The other was photographing the numerous sets of wet, dirty shoe prints that were all over the other planks.
Tedone asked the technicians to excuse us for a moment. They squeezed their way past us out into the corridor, leaving us crowded in there with Greg’s body, Lulu’s mackerel breath and Marty’s curried mutton scent.
If Tedone was bothered by any of it he didn’t let on. Just stood there staring down at Greg. “I was told you found him between the planks.”
“We did,” I said. “He was lying facedown in six inches of water with the back of his head bashed in. He wasn’t moving. We were afraid he’d drown.”
“So we lifted him up onto that plank,” Marty said, nodding.
“Talk me through the moments leading up to that.”
“It was the intermission between acts one and two,” I said. “Everyone was in high gear. Stagehands were changing the set. Actors were changing their costumes. Meanwhile, the rain was coming down in torrents. I came down here to check on the flooding situation with Mimi, who was getting concerned.”
“Did you see or speak to the victim?”
I nodded. “When Mimi and I were out in the corridor. The dressing room door was open and he—”
“Why wasn’t it closed?”
“Because it was hot as hell in here,” Marty said. “And Greg was changing into that heavy tweed suit.”
“How did he seem to you?” Tedone asked me.
“Raring to go. He really aced act one. Or at least I thought he did.”
“He totally did,” Marty agreed. “Impressed the hell out of me.”
“Were you in here changing your costume, too?” Tedone asked him.
“Briefly, until I had to use the men’s john right across the hall. I get an uncontrollable case of the shits before and after act one of every performance I ever give. I’m somewhat legendary for it, kind of like the way Bill Russell used to throw up before every Celtics game.”
Tedone looked at him with his mouth open for a moment before he turned back to me and said, “So the victim was alone in here when you and Mrs. Whitfield spoke to him from the corridor?”
“I assumed he was, but I can’t say for sure. Someone else could have been in here. Don’t ask me who. I wouldn’t know. I also looked in on Merilee. She was afraid the show wasn’t going well, what with the rain pouring down onto the stage and all. She was also concerned about Dini, who’s been quite ill. In fact, Dini went into the ladies’ room and threw up while I was there. Her mother, Glenda, didn’t want her to go back out there for act two. Glenda’s a retired school nurse. But Dini was determined to keep going.”
“Dini’s a trouper,” Marty said admiringly. “She’d go out there with a broken bone sticking out of her leg.”
“Merilee and Dini needed to change costumes, so Glenda started back upstairs. Mimi had already gone back up. I was just about to go up myself when Marty called out to me that he’d found Greg.”
“I’d just returned from the men’s john,” Marty explained.
“About how long were you in the john?” Tedone asked him.
“Five minutes, maybe. Long enough to smoke my way through a cigarette. I found Greg just like Hoagy said—lying facedown between the boards in all of that water with his head bleeding. I took a lifeguard course once. After we pulled him up onto that plank I did what I was taught to do. The water came pouring out of his lungs, but he didn’t cough or show any response at all. And his eyes . . .” Marty trailed off, shaking his head. “The dude was dead.”
Tedone studied Greg’s head wounds more closely. “Those are some nasty blows. Three, maybe four. Wonder what we’re looking at in terms of a weapon.”
Lulu let out a whoop from under one of the dressing tables.
“Why is she doing that?” Tedone asked me.
“Because she thinks she’s found the weapon.”
“How would she know that?”
“I can’t help you there. She doesn’t always tell me everything.”
He let out a sigh. “Yeah, right. Pete warned me that you were an uno.”
“Meaning . . . ?”
“One of a kind.”
“He said that? I’m flattered.”
“Being candid, I don’t think he meant it as a form of flattery.” Tedone moved over toward Lulu, who was sniffing delicately at a red brick on the floor that had been submerged in the floodwaters and was only now becoming visible. It was a brick stamped TUTTLE 1924, which indicated who’d made it and when. They used to do that with bricks. “We’ll bag and tag it. Check it for blood, hair, fingerprints . . .”
“Lieutenant, let’s say someone did smash Greg over the head with that brick,” I said. “Assuming he was alive but unconscious when he pitched over, facedown, into the floodwaters . . .”
“He was still alive. Marty just said that he had water in his lungs.”
“How many minutes would it take for someone in his condition to drown?”
“That’s a question for the medical examiner, not me. I’d strictly be speculating.”
“So speculate.”
“We’re talking multiple subdermal hematomas, possible skull fractures . . .” Tedone shoved his lower lip in and out. “I’d guess maybe three minutes. Why are you asking?”
“Just curious.”
“Curious,” he repeated, raising his chin at me doubtfully.
Marty let out a sudden sob, his eyes filling with tears. “Poor son of a bitch. He had it all going on. Dini, the twins, his career. Who’d want to do this to him?”
“That’s what I’m here to find out,” Tedone responded.
Marty glanced at him sharply. “Are you good at your job?”
“I’m good at my job,” he assured him with quiet confidence. “And I’m sorry for your loss. Thanks for your help. You can get dressed now if you want.”
Marty frowned at him. “I am dressed.”
“Then in that case let’s go back upstairs.” Tedone started out of the dressing room into the corridor, pausing to look inside of the men’s room. “How come you didn’t flush the toilet?”
“I was afraid the septic tank would be flooded and it would overflow into the corridor. Do you think it would have?”
“Could be, but I’m a homicide investigator, not a plumber, remember?” Next he had a look in the ladies’ room, where there were traces of vomit on the floor next to the toilet. His jaw muscles tightened. “Marty, I have to ask you to stay over tonight same as Miss Meyer.”
“Absolutely, Lieutenant. Whatever you say.”
After we’d made our way back up the spiral staircase Tedone grabbed one of the troopers who was on the stage door and told him to escort Marty past the horde of media people and onlookers to the Sherbourne Inn. Off they went.
Another trooper came in clutching several Styrofoam take-out cups of hot coffee from the Backstage Tavern. “Lieutenant, Sergeant Bartucca told me to tell you the bartender didn’t see anybody other than his regulars tonight,” he reported as Tedone took a coffee container from him. “And no one was idling outside of the stage door.”
“Got it, thanks.” Tedone removed the plastic lid and took a grateful gulp, smacking his lips loudly, which immediately prompted Lulu to let out a sour grunt of disapproval. Merilee has an intense aversion to lip smackers that Lulu picked up from her. She’s picked up a lot of her mommy’s little aversions. People who pop their gum. People who click their forks against their teeth. People who say the word snot.
Another Crown Vic pulled up outside of the stage door now tailed closely by a low-profile ambulance, as in no siren, no blinking lights, no prominent markings. A jowly, middle-aged man in surgical scrubs got out of the Crown Vic, pausing to grab a doctor’s bag from the backseat.
“This would be the chief medical examiner of the state of Connecticut,” Tedone informed me. “Ordinarily, he sends his deputy to crime scenes. He only comes himself when it’s a big one—which this is, in case you had any doubts.”
“I didn’t.”
“The guy driving the ambulance is one of his assistants. Actually, we call them ‘deaners’ out here. Don’t ask me why.”
“Wasn’t planning to.”
The deaner, a tall, powerfully built young man who was also in scrubs, got out of the ambulance and joined his boss. Tedone went out and spoke to both men for a moment, paying no heed to the TV news cameras and lights and the reporters who were shouting questions at him from behind the perimeter. After they’d finished speaking, the deaner fetched a pair of oversize aluminum briefcases from the passenger seat of the ambulance. A trooper led the two men inside and downstairs to the dressing room.
Tedone returned to me and took a gulp of his coffee before he looked me up and down as if he were studying me for the first time. “I was hoping we’d get a chance to talk privately for a moment about R. J. Romero. Pete’s brought me up to speed on his blackmail scheme. Also what he did to that poor rooster. Guy sounds like a real lowlife.”
“Only because he is one.”
“I understand he shares a history with the victim. The entire cast, for that matter. Could we be looking at one and the same case?”
“You’re asking me my opinion?”
“If you don’t mind,” he replied, turning a bit testy.
“It did occur to me. R.J. resented the hell out of Greg’s success. Thought he was a total stiff and that it should be him up there on the big screen, making all of those millions and living the sweet life. And here Greg was, smack dab in Sherbourne starring in a huge benefit performance in front of all of these theatrical legends. That had to piss R.J. off. But did it piss him off enough to kill Greg in cold blood without making so much as a sound? Because none of us heard an argument of any kind coming out of that dressing room.”
“The sump pumps were running,” Tedone pointed out.
“True enough. Maybe they could have masked the sound. But they couldn’t have made him invisible. How did he kill Greg without someone seeing him slip in and out? It would involve split-second timing and an incredible amount of luck. And we’re talking about a man whose luck has run out. He’s a drugged-out mess.”
“He’s also an actor, isn’t he?”
“And your point is . . . ?”
“Maybe he was wearing a disguise. It’s a possibility, isn’t it?”
“It is and it isn’t. Let’s say R.J. hatched a clever scheme to disguise himself as, say, Louise the frumpy maid, wig and all. You’re right, he would have been totally unrecognizable. But he still couldn’t have pulled it off.”
“Why not?”
“Because Lulu would have been on him in a flash. She was up close and personal with Romero at the brass mill last night and in the parking lot at Walmart today. The sleazy bastard also paid a visit to Merilee’s farm last night and beheaded the aforementioned Old Saxophone Joe. Trust me, if he had shown up anywhere near those dressing rooms tonight Lulu would have started barking her head off as soon as she got one whiff of him.”
“You have a lot of faith in your dog’s nose.”
“Everyone has to believe in something, Lieutenant. I believe in Lulu’s nose. Romero wasn’t here tonight. In fact, I’ll bet he’s been hiding out from the rain somewhere and doesn’t know a thing about this.”
He glanced at his watch. It was nearly ten o’clock. “So you think he’ll be waiting for you at that gate at eleven o’clock?”
“Absolutely. He’s still on the run and he still needs that money.”
“And are you still planning to pay him off?”
“I’m planning to show up.”
“That’s a big no. I want you to steer clear of that scene, understand?”
“Not even a little.”
“We’re reeling him in. I intend to question him about Farber’s murder, then hand him over to my cousin Frank for the B & B Building Supply robbery.”
“You can’t do that, Lieutenant.”
He raised an eyebrow at me. “And why not?”
“Because if you take him in for questioning he’ll lawyer up and claim that Merilee was driving the car that night. He’ll destroy her career. Your brother Pete did explain all of this, didn’t he?”
“Relax. You got nothing to worry about.”
“I have everything to worry about. The media will absolutely feast on this story.”
“And I said relax. Romero won’t be talking to anybody.”
“Not acceptable. I told Pete I won’t stand for anything ‘unfortunate’ happening to him while he’s in police custody.”
“And nothing will. The man’s a junkie. That means we can tuck him away in isolation for at least twenty-four hours. Maybe even forty-eight. He won’t be talking to a lawyer. He won’t be talking to anyone. He’ll just disappear while we try to sort this mess out. Can you deal with that?”
I considered it for a moment. “Yes, I can deal with that.”
“Good.” Tedone gulped down some more of his coffee. “There’s still one more suspect who we haven’t talked about.”
“And who would that be?”
He looked at me with those dark, hooded eyes of his. “You.”
“Why on earth would I want to kill Greg?”
“Maybe he’d taken up on the sly with your wife.”
“Ex-wife. And he hadn’t.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because Merilee and I don’t keep things like that from one another. It’s the secret to a happy former marriage. Besides, Greg would never do something like that to Dini. Or me, for that matter. We were friends. If he’d fallen madly in love with Merilee he would have told me.”
“You make him sound like a stand-up guy.”
“Only because he was one.”
“How about the guy he was sharing the dressing room with?”
“Marty? What about him?”
“How’d the two of them get along?”
“They were never tight. Greg was the steady, buttoned-down type. Marty’s a total wild man. But they were cordial, and respected each other’s work. If you’re asking me why Marty would want him dead I haven’t got a reason for you. Besides, Marty was in the john when it happened, remember?”
“How could I forget? I’m still smelling it.”
“May I ask you a procedural question, Lieutenant?”
“What is it?”
“When the M.E. performs the autopsy on Greg, will he do a workup of his blood?”
“Sure. Standard procedure.”
“What will he test him for?”
“Alcohol and drugs, typically. Also any prescription meds that might point to an ongoing medical condition of some kind. Why are you asking?”
“Can you request that he run a specific test that may not be part of his standard autopsy procedure?”
“And why would I want to do that?”
“Because it might be the key to this entire case.”
Lieutenant Carmine Tedone glared at me impatiently. “Are you going to tell me what it is or do I have to beg you?”
He didn’t have to beg me.
IT WAS AFTER midnight by the time I followed Merilee’s Jag home to the farm, both of us taking Joshua Town Road slowly and carefully so as to steer around the small branches and other bits of windblown debris that had come down during the storm. When we arrived I went directly to the chapel, opened the windows and got out of my sodden shoes, socks and tuxedo pants. Stripped off my tuxedo shirt, put on a T-shirt and jeans, then went inside the house and opened every window and screen door. We did not appear to have suffered a power outage. The VCR under the TV in the parlor wasn’t blinking 12:00 12:00 12:00, and the electric clocks were keeping the same time as Grandfather’s Benrus.
I grabbed a flashlight, went back outside and took a quick tour of the property. The chickens had tucked themselves safely inside the barn during the storm and were just now starting to venture back out into their wire coop. I saw no major tree limbs down anywhere. No damage to any of the structures. I went back into the house and found Merilee seated at the kitchen table in an old flannel shirt, staring off into space, blown away. Lulu was seated in front of the refrigerator staring at it intently. I gave her an anchovy, then got the Macallan out of the cupboard and poured two generous jolts into a couple of vintage bar glasses, placing one in front of Merilee. It took her a moment to notice it there. When she did she reached for it and took a sip. My glass was already empty by then. I was refilling it when the business line rang. I’d made sure I gave the number to Lieutenant Tedone before we left.
“Wanted to let you know that we picked up that human scum Romero,” he informed me in a tired-sounding voice. “He was waiting there for you at eleven o’clock just like you said he’d be. For what it’s worth, he seemed genuinely shocked to hear that Greg Farber had been murdered. Unless, that is, he’s one hell of an actor.”
“I understand he was once considered one.”
“We’ve arrested him on the grand theft charge and stuck him in isolation. We’ll keep him tucked away there for as long as we can.”
“And I have your word that no harm will come to him?”
“You have my word. But whatever happens after he makes bail is on you, understand? You can pay him off and pray he’ll go away, but he won’t. Not with this Farber murder on every front page across America. As soon as he lawyers up he’ll start blabbing about Miss Nash and won’t stop for as long as he has an audience. It’s not too late to wise up and take my brother Pete’s advice. It’s what I’d do if I were in your shoes. I’m talking to you man to man.” He waited for me to respond. When I didn’t he said, “But you’re not going to, are you? Suit yourself. Good night.”
I hung up the phone, got a slab of bacon out of the refrigerator and cut several thick slices. Placed them on the stove in the large Lodge cast iron skillet. Got some fresh eggs out. Dug a loaf of crusty French bread from the bread box. Also my manuscript, which I returned to its designated safe haven in the freezer chest in the mudroom with the venison leg.
“What did you mean?” Merilee asked me quietly.
“When?”
“When you said, ‘And I have your word that no harm will come to him?’ Come to whom?”
“They picked up R.J. tonight. He’s a lowlife addict on the run. He and Greg were classmates who never liked each other. You know how the police like to wrap everything into a nice, neat package. I was concerned they might try to beat a confession out of him.”
Merilee let out a snort. “What a great, big bucket of applesauce.”
“I’ve missed your quaint little expressions.”
“You, sir, are not telling me the real story.”
“You’re right, I’m not. But I will.”
“When?”
“When this is over.”
“This will never be over,” she said miserably.
“Yes, it will.”
“Hoagy, Greg was murdered tonight.”
“Trust me, I haven’t forgotten. But R.J. didn’t do it.”
When the bacon slices were ready I laid them on paper towels and cracked the eggs into the pan. There was a full glass bottle of Salem Valley Farms whole milk in the refrigerator. I poured us each a glass. Tore off two hunks from the baguette. Slid the eggs onto two plates sunny-side up along with the bacon and the bread and set one plate in front of her. She immediately began to eat. That’s one thing I’ve always loved about my ex-wife. No matter how upset she is, she never loses her appetite. I ate mine standing at the sink. Certain meals taste better standing up. Bacon and eggs in the middle of the night happens to be one of them.
“The media will show up here tomorrow by the carload,” I said as I munched on a mouthful of bread. “We ought to call the resident trooper in the morning and ask him to station a man at the foot of the driveway.”
“Agreed.”
She also agreed that our dirty dishes could wait until morning. That’s another thing I’ve always loved about my ex-wife.
“Lulu and I will be heading out to the chapel now,” I said. “Get yourself some sleep, okay?”
“I don’t think I can.” She glanced at me uneasily. “Darling, would you consider . . . ?”
“Would I consider what?”
“Would you stretch out with me for a little while and hold me?”
I didn’t go in her bedroom very often. Had no reason to. I’d never slept in there. Didn’t know if any other man had either. It was none of my business. Now that the tropical storm had passed the air had started to cool in the predawn hours. Her room had cross-ventilation. With the windows open wide there was a welcome, freshening breeze.
Merilee slid under the sheet and cotton blanket, still wearing her flannel shirt, and stretched out on her back, exhausted. I stretched out on top of the covers next to her. She rolled onto her hip and rested her head on my chest as Lulu curled up at our feet, her tail thumping.
“I keep thinking I should be crying for Greg and Dini and those sweet little girls who just lost their father,” she confessed. “But I can’t seem to muster any tears.”
“They’ll come.”
“When?”
“When we figure out why it happened.”
“How are you holding up?”
“This won’t come as news to you but I don’t like very many people. I liked Greg. He was one of the good guys.”
“I’m sorry that you lost him, darling. The older we get the harder it is to find real friends. People whom we can really open up to, be ourselves . . .” She lay there quietly for a moment. “Poor Dini.”
“What’ll happen to her Julia Roberts project in Savannah?”
“They’ll either wait a few weeks for her or they’ll recast the part first thing tomorrow morning. It’ll depend.”
“On what?”
“On whether someone else is available first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Yours is a cold business, Merilee.”
“Yours isn’t much warmer.”
“No, it’s not,” I acknowledged, stroking her long, golden hair. Remembering the feel and the scent of her. Beginning to ache inside. This was where I belonged every night, not out in the chapel. We belonged together. But it wasn’t to be. Or at least it wasn’t until she decided it was.
And so I lay there, listening to the wheels spin inside of my head. How had Greg’s killer managed to pull it off in the crowded confines of those basement dressing rooms without being seen? I lay there, wondering, as a gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the apple trees. I was still wondering when I heard the first of the predawn birds start to warble and chirp. And then . . . then I heard a rooster crow. Quasimodo. God bless Mr. MacGowan. Good friends are hard to find. So are good neighbors.
Merilee cocked her head slightly on my chest, the better to hear him. “Is it my imagination or does Old Saxophone Joe sound different this morning?”
“Different as in . . . ?”
“Hoarse. Do roosters get laryngitis?”
Quasimodo crowed again. No getting around it. He definitely had a hoarse crow.
“He does sound a bit like Tom Waits today, now that you mention it. Maybe it was the storm last night.”
“What would the storm have to do with it?”
“Merilee, I’m a city slicker, remember? I don’t know from roosters.”
She let out a yawn. “I think I might sleep now,” she said before she proceeded to fall into a deep, peaceful slumber.
Me, I didn’t sleep.