Rehearsal for Murder

by P. M. Carlson

  “Guess they’re gone,” said Maggie. “I’m going to check.” She started out again.

  “Can’t you just call him and ask?”

  “I tried. Couldn’t find any Buzz Hartfords in any of the directories.”

  “The sitter, then.”

  “Yeah, he told me the agency name. Maybe I will.” But she still led the way around to the opposite, finished wing of the building. At the apartment door she paused, listened, then fiddled a moment with the lock. The door opened quietly.

  No one was there. The apartment was as she had described it: small, two windows onto the airshaft, furnished with cheap new furniture. A brief wall of small kitchen appliances, a door to what was probably a bathroom. Maggie looked in it, checked the closet, then picked up a wastebasket and shook her head.

  “What have you found?” asked Nick, impatient.

  “Nothing,” said Maggie, removing Sarah’s fingers from the wastebasket and putting it down. “And that’s the problem. Muffin had a satchel with the usual kid supplies—paper, crayons, fruit juice, and so forth. And I threw away the note that had this address on it. Threw it right in here.”

  “So Mrs. Golden is neat and cleans up.”

  “Yeah, but it seems maybe too clean.” She frowned.

  He tried to stifle his irritation. “It isn’t necessarily sinister to clean up, you know. Granted, you and I haven’t sighted our own baseboards for months, but out in the real world it is done.”

  She grinned absentmindedly. “Yes, I’ve heard of such bizarre primitive practices too.”

  “On the other hand,” added Nick, “it usually is considered sinister to break and enter.”

  Her eyes darkened but she said evenly, “Yeah, you’re right. Let’s get out of here.”

  As they descended toward the front entrance, they heard a voice from the hall where the workmen were clustered: “Be with you in a sec, Dino. Left my saw on the front stairs.”

  Nick and Maggie hurried back up a flight and through the second-floor halls to the far staircase. Emerging into the side street, Maggie gave a disdainful jab at the insecure doorjamb. “Buzz isn’t very security minded. You could pop that lock with a butter knife.”

  “The local burglars probably aren’t as refined as you. Don’t carry butter knives.”

  “That’s all that saves him.” She stroked Sarah’s drowsy head and sighed. “God, Nick, I’m tired.”

  “Well, why the hell aren’t you home taking a nap?” he erupted. “That’s why we arranged this crazy schedule to begin with, so you’d be rested! Why are you meddling in Buzz’s goddamn affairs here, when you don’t even have time for yourself?”

  “Myself?” Like lightning finding the earth, her frustration answered his. “Which self are you worried about? The cow who spends four or five hours a day nursing your baby? The washerwoman and char? The friend who comes in early to hold your hand when you’re down?”

  “Yeah, full of comfort, aren’t you? A regular madonna!”

  “Look, I’m trying to sympathize, Nick. I’m also trying to earn our mortgage payments and take care of our baby.” She hugged Sarah a little closer.

  “Golly, ma’am, is it a thank-you note you want? What with bathing Sarah and collecting my minuscule check, I clean forgot! I’ll put one in the mail tomorrow. Or do you want one for each of your talented selves? Madonna, mom, and moneymaker?”

  They were standing under filth-encrusted fire escapes and a sliver of ridiculously cheerful blue sky, their voices seething with pent-up outrage. “You’re forgetting one for the moo-cow!” Maggie stormed. “And for the meddler. That’s part of me too, like it or not! And for the ex-mistress. Though I can see why you’d—”

  The pulse in Nick’s temple was seismic. Sarah whimpered. He bellowed, “You’re upsetting her!”

  Maggie glanced down at the baby’s unhappy, crumply face, spun away from him, and strode down the street. Nick wanted to strangle her.

  Her; or maybe himself.

  X

  Friday, late morning

  March 9, 1973

  Susan’s flight was in the afternoon. Calling from a booth at Penn Station, Steve caught her just before she walked out the door. “All packed?” he asked.

  “Long since. Just chewing my nails about this new job!”

  “Don’t worry,” said Steve. “Once you get a concrete problem or two on your desk, you’ll see you can manage.”

  “I hope so. God, I’ll miss you, lover!”

  He closed his eyes against the ugliness of the station, the horror of his worries, and murmured, “Same here. But we’ll see each other again. Somehow.”

  “Sure you can’t play hooky and come see me off?”

  “No, I … well, things have come up. But I wanted to say bon voyage.”

  “Thanks. It’s been good, Steve-o.”

  “It sure has.”

  But hanging up, turning from the brief magical haven of her voice back to the gritty everydayness of the station, Steve was swamped again with the enormity of his problem. It wasn’t just Muffin, though of course he agonized over her. Was she frightened? Were her unknown caretakers kind? Competent at least? But he could do nothing about that. He could just make sure that he got her away as soon as possible, back home. And he must make sure the return was not jeopardized by the police or by stubborn Avery Busby. All that responsibility fell on him. And a mistake could—well, he wouldn’t think about that. In crisis, said the white hunter, best not to think. Precipitate into pure happy action.

  He was home again by eleven. “Have you heard anything?” he asked Elaine. She was sitting in the chair nearest the phone, neatly dressed, her perfect face sagging. Rachel, sympathetic and uncharacteristically quiet, was curled on the sofa, changing position occasionally to shift the weight of her belly. A radio droned in the background.

  “No. Except Daddy’s on his way. What about you?”

  “Nothing. I’ve got our money. And your dad called me too, said he was bringing his.”

  “Yeah.” She passed a hand across her forehead. Her hair straggled across her face; her skin was blotchy. For an instant Steve was pulled out of his own mass of worries to focus on her. His beautiful, impeccable wife, Muffin’s joyful mother, Busby’s elegant daughter—all had disappeared into this tense, exhausted despair.

  “Lainey, honey, it’ll be okay!” Stooping to hug her, he wished he could undo yesterday. If only he hadn’t been with Susan, if only he’d never even met Susan! He held Lainey’s sweet, ravaged head against his shoulder. “Really, honey, we’ll manage! She’ll be back and everything will be fine!”

  “Oh, Steve!” she sobbed. “You know, I keep wondering, maybe I wasn’t meant to have a child!”

  “Oh, Lainey, don’t be silly!” Steve was on the verge of sobs too. He looked at Rachel in appeal.

  “Elaine, you know you’re the world’s best mother,” said Rachel. To Steve she added, “She’s been like this all morning. I wish there were something she could do besides wait.”

  Steve realized that it was true; he at least had had the police to handle, the money to gather. He said, “Now, listen, Lainey. Your dad and I will get her back. Believe me, we will. Your job is to think of what she’ll need when she’s back. I don’t think they’ll mistreat her, but she’ll be pretty confused, and—”

  “But the note said all that about her finger!”

  Damn that note. “They just said that to warn us, honey. And we’re warned, and the police have agreed not to take any action that will endanger her. Really. And the note also said she was cute. Remember?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “So they like her too. They won’t hurt her as long as we do what we’re supposed to do. She’ll be fine. But you should be ready to give her a lot of reassurance when she gets back.”

  “He’s right, Elaine,” said Rachel, seeing his drift. “She’ll need you more than ever.”

  “Yes. I see.” A little determination was coming back into her expression.

&n
bsp; “And it’ll really be up to you,” Steve continued, “because I have to be away at work so much. Especially since I’m not getting much done now.”

  “Oh, Steve!” She touched his arm contritely. “I know you’re worried too.”

  “Yeah, nothing else seems important,” said Steve. “Listen, Rachel, did Elaine mention that the police said not to talk about this?”

  “Yes, but we knew anyway. Listen, I brought over some sandwiches but Elaine hasn’t touched them. You want some lunch?”

  “I haven’t even thought about food. But you’re right, maybe I should have a sandwich.” He paused; they’d all heard the shuffly sound of the mail sliding through the slot. Rachel was closest and reached the hall first. She handed the stack to them.

  There were bills, advertising circulars, and a fat padded envelope. First class. No return address. Steve opened it. Inside was rolled a child’s pajama bag in the shape of a teddy bear, an ugly dusty purple color, with a zipper on its belly and one eye missing. That was all.

  “What is it?” asked Elaine apprehensively.

  “Some kind of symbolic message?” asked Rachel, shaking the padded envelope to be sure no note was enclosed.

  Steve unzipped the bear. Inside it was a paper, covered with cut-out newspaper letters as before.

  Money goes in here. Unmarked hundreds and five hundreds. Bear bag goes next to other bears on shelf at Ming Bazaar on Canal Street before 5 pm today. If no police show we’ll ring with news of Muffin before 6. If anyone causes trouble you know what will happen.

  Steve looked at Elaine. For the first time there seemed to be a glimmer of hope in her eyes. But all she said was, “Daddy will be here any minute.”

  Nick felt like a grasshopper’s uncle.

  Oblivious to people passing on the sidewalk, he trudged on, wrapped in confused shame. Who’s who and what’s what, Gladstone’s rantipoling wife used to ask when things were bewildering. What was Maggie’s problem? Where had that lightning bitterness come from? For that matter, where had his own come from? It was easy enough to say that his friend had died, his job—no, more than a job, his current obsession—was lost. Easy to say anyone would feel glum. But why lash out at Maggie? She’d offered support. Not exactly comfort; there was no comfort at a time like this. But she’d come. And he’d attacked her for it.

  Love versus duty. At the rate he was going he’d end up with neither. No conflict because nothing worthwhile would remain in his life.

  Somehow he’d lost touch with her. It wasn’t just grief at Ramona’s death. Nor the bitterness of losing the exhilarating work—that happened all too often in his bumpy profession. If there was anything he’d learned to cope with, it was being out of work. No, the problem was newer—and more profound—than that.

  The problem was Sarah.

  Her arrival had turned his life jagged: new peaks of unexpected joy, new chasms of frustration. He and Maggie had both wanted her; they both adored her. And they’d both been muddling along pretty well, he’d thought, sharing the sleeplessness and dirty laundry with good-humored grousing, building on the sturdy bond that had linked and enriched them both for years. They enjoyed Sarah, enjoyed each other’s enjoyment. Watching Maggie nurse her, the two of them floating in that state of euphoric communion, he was filled with powerful new emotions. Love, pride, and more. He’d thought that Maggie shared those feelings.

  But she’d called herself a moo-cow.

  So it was more complicated than he’d thought, for her too.

  Moo-cow. What had he missed? They’d always shared a quick instinctive comprehension, reading each other with ease even when no one else could follow. Like the Dr. Rank scene: little games that symbolized a deeper oneness. Sarah had curtailed all those things. Games. Talk. Music. Sex.

  God, was that his problem? Sulking because he missed his nookie?

  Gladstone had wrestled with that problem too. An energetic, lusty man, he’d struggled to maintain lofty moral standards, as Victorian as Victoria herself. But his beloved rantipoling wife had borne eight children in a constant cycle of pregnancy, nursing, tending children in their illnesses. The relished marriage bed had soon created its own restraints. Gladstone’s answer to the frustration had been to enjoy the children, to work harder, to preach to prostitutes, to become prime minister of the world’s most powerful nation. The People’s William, they called him. The Grand Old Man.

  And Nick’s answer? He’d lost his job. Attacked his wife. What a neat guy. The Grand Old Prick.

  His unguided feet had brought him back to the rehearsal building. He should check to see if Derek had posted a note about the meeting with Ramona’s partner. He opened the door and plodded up the stairs.

  Working up a part, you looked carefully at every word your character said, at every word he reacted to, at every word said about him, for clues to the deeper currents that motivated him. There had been words, all right. Meddler, he’d called her. Well, okay, they were too busy now to waste worries on someone else’s child, but that wasn’t the real problem. Maggie’s curiosity and lively sense of responsibility had always been part of the joy of living with her. Calling her meddler didn’t mean that he wanted a change, just that he was irritated. No news there. The kind of quibble that could usually be settled quickly, rationally.

  Madonna, though—there was a word to unpack. He’d called her madonna too. What had he meant? Beautiful, yes. Nurturing. Comforting.

  And asexual, of course. With her baby a unit, whole and holy.

  No need for little Joseph, who hovered anxiously in the background, wearing his sainthood like the afterthought it was.

  But he wasn’t Joseph! No sirree. Not Nick the red-blooded. Hell, the Army had made a man of him long since. And the theatre too, for that matter. Three beer commercials, right? And a pickup-truck spot. On televisions all over the nation, Nick’s flickering image was an emblem of masculinity. Any day now they’d be asking him to carry Scarlett O’Hara up those stairs. Or maybe be the next Tarzan. Beating his hairy chest. Snacking on raw tiger. Uprooting trees.

  Attacking his wife.

  Damn.

  Madonna, he’d sneered. Because she was so involved with Sarah that she’d forgotten him? Or because something in him was reluctant to defile one so sacred as a mother?

  Mm. Better leave that one for now, Nick old man.

  But her other words had been pretty weighty too. Moo-cow, she’d said. Ex-mistress. He didn’t like that “ex.” What the hell was happening to them?

  For minutes he’d been staring at something, unseeing. He focused on it: Derek’s note, scotch-taped to the locked door of the loft. Four fifteen, it said. Ramona’s partner, Ken Martin, would bring final paychecks. He glanced at his watch. A little over five hours.

  Nick turned to the phone and called his downstairs neighbor.

  “You want me to put your blasted dog out again?” she demanded. Julia was nearly seventy, feisty and bracing as a splash of astringent. She tried hard to hide her fondness for Maggie and Nick and Sarah and even the blasted dog.

  “No. I need advice, Julia.”

  She picked up the seriousness in his voice instantly. “Maggie told me Ramona Ricci died. I’m so sorry, Nick. Your job too.”

  “Yeah. But this is a different problem. I think it’s different. Julia, when you had your babies, your marriage didn’t disintegrate.”

  “The wind’s blowing that way, is it?” she asked thoughtfully.

  “Well, did it?”

  “Not exactly. But I disintegrated, and so did Vic. Temporarily. Took us months to notice what was happening to the other one.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Silly to have honeymoons after weddings and not after babies, you know. Just as much happens to you. ’Course, it’s hard to get away from the blasted baby. Nursing and all that. And even if you find an hour, home’s no good. Too much work to be done. Distracting.”

  “Right,” he agreed glumly. “So there’s no answer?”

  “Sure there’
s an answer. First, you’re both exhausted and you will be for a while. So don’t dream up any fancy theories about problems that can be explained by being bone-tired.”

  “Yeah, I see.”

  “For the rest, talking and hugging is the answer, as usual. The difficulty is finding time for it. You have to schedule it. A little honeymoon, in small weekly doses. Vic and I used to trade time with my cousin. Do you have anyone you can trade with?”

  “We don’t have many friends with kids. But I’ll find someone.”

  “Good. Now, for the immediate problem. Do you have any money?”

  “Some. Final paycheck today.”

  “You know I don’t babysit,” warned the fiercely independent Julia.

  “Hey, I’m not that much of a clod. But I had to ask someone who’d understand. We’ll find someone to trade with.”

  “You know, though,” said Julia, who admired Dorothy Parker, “I’ve always dreamed of staying in the Algonquin. Even if it means playing nanny a few hours. One time only. Sunday afternoon would do.”

  “Julia, you’re such a hustler!”

  She chuckled and hung up. Nick made his arrangements and then sat down on the steps to study hisBack Stage. He started a list of casting directors he could visit before four, and was debating which one to try first when he heard voices.

  “Take it easy!” That was Daphne. “Look, the light’s off, see? It’s over, honey.”

  “Oh, God! What’ll I do?” Voice breaking, Jaymie ran up a few steps, staring at the darkened transom of the rehearsal loft. Then she noticed Nick.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Are the others coming? Will we start again?” asked Jaymie, bright-eyed.

  “No.” He gestured at Derek’s note. “Final paychecks.”

  “Oh, God.” Jaymie ran up the remaining distance lightly, read it, and sagged onto the steps. Daphne hurried to her and was pushed away.

  “Can I help?” Nick asked her uneasily.

  “No.” Daphne glanced sadly at Jaymie, then descended a few steps to sit near Nick. “God, I don’t have time for this crock! Gotta dress for the hearing, meet the kids—and suddenly Miss Chicago here freaks out. She’s coked up. Suddenly got the idea there might be a rehearsal after all. Came charging over. She feels awful.”