Dreams are today’s answers to tomorrow’s questions.
—Edgar Cayce (attributed)
IT WAS LONG past midnight when I crawled into the tent and zipped up my sleeping bag, exhausted enough to spend the night on a waterproof tarp spread out on the cold, muddy ground.
The night air was damp but fresh and as a I breathed it in, my thoughts returned to Willa Cather’s tragic tale of “Paul’s Case,” and the fact that Norma special ordered a book with that story in it.
Was it actually possible Norma identified with Paul?
As a successful author, she obviously appreciated art and culture. But Norma was also involved in a substance abuse program. Could she have fallen off the wagon into some form of drug or alcohol abuse? Could Norma have stolen the heirloom jewels in a self-destructive moment? Perhaps to pay for drugs? Maybe, like Paul, she refused to consider the consequences of getting caught in order to indulge the pleasure of her obsession.
The very thought made me twist in my sleeping back. No! It makes no sense. Not for the woman I’ve come to know . . .
Outside the tent, around the still crackling fire, Seymour and Brainert weren’t discussing Norma—or anything remotely related to grand theft and cold-blooded murder.
Instead, the pair were playing a version of the game they’d invented back in elementary school. In the fifth grade, the nameless game consisted of Brainert throwing out the title of a comic book or TV show and Seymour twisting said title into something rude, crude, or obscene.
The boys had grown up since then, and they’d cleaned up the game and made it a bit more challenging as well. Nowadays, Brainert threw out the name of a movie, a novel—or in tonight’s case, a Broadway show—and Seymour’s job was to rebrand and transform it.
“Rent by Jonathan David Larson,” Brainert began. “A play that explores social issues like multiculturalism and drug addiction.”
Seymour’s reply came without a moment’s hesitation.
“Kent by Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster. A play that explores the alienated youth of Clark Kent, aka Superman.”
“Wicked,” Brainert fired back. “A play about the life and times of the Wicked Witch of the West.”
“Cricket,” Seymour replied. “A play about the life and times of Jiminy Cricket.”
“Try The Lion King,” Brainert said. “A play about a young cub forced to accept the burden of adulthood and the kinship of the jungle.”
“The Lyin’ Around King, a play about a big fat Garfield of a cat too lazy to even chase mice.”
“Bah, too easy, but I’ve got you this time,” Brainert bragged. “Dear Evan Hansen, a play about a high school misunderstanding that changes an entire town.”
“Dear Charles Manson. And that one is self-explanatory.”
Both men roared with laughter. I covered my head with a pillow. Only then did I hear a familiar and very welcome voice inside my head.
Had enough of those twin boneheads yet, doll?
“You bet, Jack.”
Do you want to get back to the case of the stolen Tears?
“We’re on it, Jack. We found Norma’s trailer. Sooner or later, she’s bound to turn up. She left too many things behind to just abandon them.”
Not your case of the stolen Tears, doll. Mine.
“I guess it’s okay. I can’t fall out of a sleeping bag like I’ve been falling out of bed, can I?”
Then close your eyes . . .
“UP AND AT ’em, Penny!” Jack cried, shaking my ermine-clad shoulder. “We’ve got to cheese it before the coppers arrive.”
The echo of a gunshot had just died away. I opened my eyes and found myself on the floor in a purple room, a bottle of French champagne for a pillow. A second look revealed a corpse sprawled on the carpet beside me—Billy Bastogne, the ice pick that killed him still sticking out of the back of his neck.
“Don’t look,” Jack said as he hauled me to my feet.
“I don’t feel so good,” I replied, wobbly on my dancing shoes.
Jack pushed me through the purple curtains. “We don’t have time for that. Let’s scram.”
Jack was practically carrying me now, my heels just touching the floor.
“What’s the rush?”
“We have to stay one step ahead of the cops, and in hot pursuit of those jewels before the trail goes cold.”
Outside the Lilac Garden, I saw that women and their faux-celebrity dance partners were fleeing the other flower-themed alcoves in various states of undress—the gunshot had frightened them into a panic, which was no doubt the intent of the woman who’d pulled the trigger. I knew it was a woman, because as Jack dragged me past the bubbling fountain, the memories came flooding back.
“Jack, Phyllis Harmon double-crossed you—”
“She thinks she did,” Jack replied. “But I was on to her scheme as soon as she started feeding me information.”
“Then you knew that her employer is—”
“Harry Amsterdam, the original owner of the Tears of Valentino. Old Harry sent Phyllis to retrieve those diamonds. She thought she was playing me for a sucker, but I was on to her trick.”
“Phyllis still got away with the jewels.”
The jagged scar on Jack’s chin darkened. “I never figured she’d rub out Billy Bastogne the coldhearted way she did—or take pot shots at me with a heater when I tried to snag her. I’ve got to say, that dame is full of surprises.”
“What did you think would happen,” I asked.
“I figured Phyllis would play the femme fatale and try to con the Tears out of me once I got my hands on them. But I thought wrong. Phyllis didn’t trust me to get the goods. She must have been here all along, spying on you. When she knew Billy had the jewels, she made her move with that ice pick.”
Still huddled against Jack’s firm body, I shuddered. “What a horrible way to die.”
“I never saw a pleasant way yet,” Jack cynically replied.
“Why didn’t Phyllis approach Billy herself?”
“Because Billy would be wise to her. He knew Phyllis was friends with Thelma Dice, the woman Billy murdered. He also knew Phyllis worked for Harry Amsterdam, so Billy would naturally be suspicious of her, figuring Phyllis would want to retrieve those diamonds for her boss.”
Jack shook his head. “Phyllis Harmon couldn’t do it herself. She needed me—and you—as much as I needed her inside dope, maybe as much as I need her now.”
“Why in the world do you need Phyllis Harmon now, after all she’s done to double-cross you?”
“Because she is the only link I have to those jewels. And because Phyllis is going to lead me to Harry Amsterdam.”
We’d already crossed the empty dance floor—the sound of gunshots had ended the party in a hurry. The bandshell had been abandoned, too, the musicians gone so fast they left their instruments behind.
I was a little steadier now, and Jack released me. From the street I heard a frantic blast of a police whistle, and the howl of approaching sirens.
“In here,” Jack said, pushing me through the waiters’ door that led to the wine cellar. We descended a short flight of wooden stairs and crossed a murky basement with a rough concrete floor, its walls lined with racks of champagne.
Jack found the cellar’s back door, and we emerged in an alley half a block away from the Moondance entrance.
A police car, its siren whining, zipped by on the main avenue. We emerged from the alley a moment later. Jack offered me his arm and we calmly walked by the commotion at the women’s-only nightclub, just another fashionable couple on an evening stroll.
“Where to now, Jack?”
The detective adjusted his bow tie with his free hand. With the other he held me close.
“Phyllis figured gunshots would put me off. She was wrong. So many Nazis took shots at me I got used to it. I stuck on her tail and she didn’t even know it. Before I came back for you, I followed Phyllis out the door. I didn’t have time to grab her before she hopped into a taxi, but I got close enough to hear the address she gave the driver.”
“Where is she going?”
“Seventy-eight Hester Street. It’s in Little Italy. A place called Luca’s, she said.”
“Why there?”
“I’m pretty sure Phyllis is delivering the goods to her boss. And you know what that means, don’t you?”
“No, I don’t.”
“It means that the rest is easy, doll, a downhill ride on a fast sled.”
“Hmm,” I grunted noncommittally.
“We’re going to visit the elusive Harry Amsterdam, we’re going to shake him down for those Tears, we’re going to deliver the jewels to the Queen of the Nile, and then Syble Zane is going to pay up.”
Jack grinned, and some of those hard edges on his face melted away.
“I’m feeling good about this, baby, and you should be all smiles, too.”
“Why?”
“You’re one step closer to that dinner at Sardi’s.”