“You have to trust me a little. We’ll be watching. But it will be from a building across the street from the Ming Bazaar. Cameras only. No sharpshooters. What I want to stress to you now is that you shouldn’t wait. I’ve known kidnappers to get nervous, to ... ah ... do stupid things, when it got close to the deadline and the ransom wasn’t there yet.”
“Oh. I didn’t realize. I thought … well, it’s only a quarter to four. You know, with the money just sitting there, what if someone else got it by mistake?”
“It’s a risk. But these fellows have thought of it too. I imagine they’re ready to pick it up almost as soon as you’re safely out of sight. And they did choose a rather shabby bear. Not likely to be pounced on by eager grannies looking for birthday presents.”
“Well, okay, thanks for telling me.”
“Fine.” Lugano continued to stride beside him. Steve stopped. They were only two blocks south of Canal Street now. “Um—we shouldn’t be together, should we?”
“We won’t be. Just thought I’d give you a little moral support.”
“Well, thanks. But I’d really feel a lot better if you weren’t there.”
“Of course. Go ahead, then. Don’t be nervous. We’ll have our eye on you.” He crossed the street.
Don’t be nervous. Steve walked on, heart galloping. This was not supposed to be happening! He had invented the details of the ransom drop casually, choosing the Ming Bazaar on Canal Street only because he’d bought the pajama bag there, a week ago. Now, suddenly, everything depended on his ability to improvise a plan from this chance decision.
Venezuela will be like this, he told himself. José Santos will have to keep a cool head. Analyze.
Okay, given number one: Lugano was watching.
Which led to given number two: He had to put this bear onto the shelf with the others. Could he remove the money somehow first? But as he turned onto Canal, even in the crowd, he felt exposed. High-powered binoculars were trained on him at this very moment. He walked stiffly along, self-conscious, awkward as a kid giving a speech. No, removing the money was not an option. If only he’d thought of it back at the office! If only he’d—
Too late now. Analyze, Santos.
Given number three: The money, because it was in the bear and could not be removed in view of the police, had to be left in an open-air stall on Canal Street. If only he had another bear! But that was not an option.
And yet—he suddenly saw a slim hope. There was one other purple bear, stuffed fat with crumpled newspaper, on a low shelf. Could he move it up? No, not with Lugano’s eyes fixed on him. But maybe he could take the second bear. After all, a real kidnapper might find two bears confusing, right? That’s what he’d tell Lugano if he asked: he was trying to avoid confusion. He showed his bear to the Chinese proprietor as he entered. “Can I exchange this? I didn’t notice the eye was gone.”
The proprietor, in the middle of a sale to three young black women, gave a curt nod. Steve, still feeling the police eyes on him, set the bear in its place with exaggerated movements. Then, subtly, he removed its two-eyed twin from the lower shelf and squeezed it into his briefcase. It was wildly unlikely—but maybe he could exchange it again somehow later. The proprietor eyed him as he left but didn’t complain.
Half a block away, across the street, was a bar. He dodged inside, sat down near the street window, and ordered a bourbon.
His heart was pounding like a jackhammer. Could he really survive this life of adventure? Was his doctor right about middle age? Did he really belong in Venezuela?
Come on, Steve, he told himself sternly. It all depends on who you are. And he’d found he was definitely not a staid middle-aged commuting investment counselor. Hadn’t he?
He sipped his bourbon and stared morosely across the street. Half a million dollars stared back, one-eyed.
The rehearsal loft still gloomed with the shadows of Daphne’s grief. Nick shoved up the window sash with some primitive notion of letting in the sunshine, but of course it didn’t help. Derek’s way was better. Methodically the little Englishman was sorting through the rehearsal props—toy crowns, canes, water pistols. Nick joined him. “Can I help?”
“Just keeping busy,” said Derek. “I don’t know what you Americans do with rehearsal props when you’re done. There are so many regulations. But I thought sorting things wouldn’t hurt.”
“True.” Nick could remember sorting things, too, after Lisette died; a good way to direct the energy of helpless rage, to keep yourself from screaming and smashing down walls—to keep yourself from thinking very much.
Derek said, “Ken Martin should be here in half an hour or so.”
“Good.” Nick turned to the pile of rehearsal costumes: long shabby skirts, wigs, top hats, gloves. He arranged them more neatly in their box. There were the large men’s gloves, used first by King William IV and later by Albert to symbolize their deaths. In the corner, Queen Victoria’s long slender pair. Straightening them, images flashed into his mind: Daphne’s dark arms around Jaymie; dark arms pulling Ramona into the shadows.
And here were the water pistols, the double shots that had not killed Queen Victoria. Bang, bang.
The phone shrilled in the hall, jolting him from his musings. “I’m expecting a call,” he told Derek, and bounded out to answer it.
“She’s there,” announced Maggie as soon as she heard his voice. “I’ll call Elaine Bradford and then come right in and tell you about everything.”
“No!” Nick was vehement. “You’ve been set up, Maggie. Don’t get in any deeper. Did they see you at the daycare center?”
“No. I got sunglasses and a huge blue plastic sun hat on sale at a place called Aline’s, and put Sarah in the shopping bag. Then I sauntered past the windows. Luckily no one asked why my shopping bag was wriggling.”
“Not bad. Now, the call to Elaine Bradford will be from a man.”
“Well, be quick, man. Muffin is sitting in a corner, past crying. Big eyes just staring at this hostile world. They look like good people at the center, but she’s out of their reach. I wish I could have asked about her, but of course I didn’t.”
“I’ll hurry. Directions?”
“The center is right next door to the church. Red brick, colonial-style.” She gave the address and Elaine’s number.
“Okay,” said Nick. “And be extra careful on the subway because—”
“Sure. Now call!” she said urgently, and hung up. Uneasy because he had not been able to tell her about Callie’s death, but anxious to help the sad little girl in Douglaston, he dialed quickly.
“Hello?” Anxiety crackled across the line.
“Mrs. Bradford?” Nick found himself sinking into character one last time: courtly, British, Gladstonian.
“Yes, this is Mrs. Bradford.”
“This is Mr. Merrypebble.” It was Lord Clarendon’s nickname for Gladstone. “I’m most happy to inform you that everything has been resolved. Your daughter is at the day-care center in Douglaston. It’s next-door to the church on Main Street, red brick, colonial-style.”
“You mean I can—I can get her now?”
“As soon as you wish, Mrs. Bradford. The people there have nothing to do with our business. Best not to ask too many questions.”
The woman’s relieved sob pierced through his role to a deeper reality of love, pain, gratitude. “Oh—oh, thank you, thank you!”
He swallowed, pulled the tatters of his invention about him again. “I served to the best of my ability,” said Merrypebble gravely as the line went dead.
And make-believe or not, it was not a bad final scene for Gladstone, Nick decided. The Grand Old Man would approve.
Steve was on his fifth bourbon.
It had been over an hour since he’d delivered the ransom. Every time a customer approached the store across the street, he’d stiffen. José Santos, jungle-tough and city-smooth, preparing to arrange a cool deal for half a million. Keen as a jaguar stalking his prey.
He
’d thought of a plan. Not ideal, but José Santos—and jaguars—knew there was little in this world that was ideal. The secret was to keep alert, keep trying, stay ready to improvise.
What he’d do was this: First, he’d move out of this bar and farther down the street, hugging the buildings to stay out of sight of the monitoring police, moving nearer the subway stop. A coffee shop, say. Then he’d find someone to help him. A regular solid-citizen type, a Good Samaritan type. He wouldn’t ask much. He’d just explain that he’d bought this very special color of bear for his little girl, and had just noticed that its ear was torn. Actually he’d surreptitiously torn it himself a few moments ago. Just a little. And he’d explain to the Good Sam that he’d sprained his ankle and had trouble crossing streets rapidly, had just noticed the tear, and would the Good Sam please go across and exchange the bear for him?
And the clever part was this: The Good Sam would notice that the only identical bear had only one eye, would decide not to exchange it, and would come back to the coffee shop with the original toy and lots of advice about how he could easily mend the little tear in the ear. The police, of course, would follow—discreetly—thinking that the bear the Good Sam was carrying held the ransom. Meanwhile Steve, aka José Santos, would be slipping behind their backs across the street to purchase the ransom bear and disappear into the subways.
Sure, it wasn’t perfect. It depended a lot on the reactions of a stranger. But Steve could read people pretty well. Look how well the arrangements with Maggie and Mrs. Golden had worked. It was only cantankerous Avery Busby who had caused a problem by pulling in the police; but even that was not irreparable. He’d already successfully laundered the marked bills. Steve would prevail yet.
And the helpful stranger would not be in bad trouble. The police would probably follow the fellow to the coffee shop, watch him look around for the long-gone Steve, eventually follow him home. Muffin would be back with Elaine soon, of course, and then they’d close in on the Good Sam. At that point they’d probably discover the mistake, or at least when they checked the fellow’s alibi. They’d realize then that Steve had been behind it. But Steve didn’t care. He’d always known they’d figure it out eventually; what he needed was time to catch the plane safely. By the time they’d worked out what he’d done, he would have disappeared without a trace. All he needed now was a few hours.
The Good Sam could furnish him with a few hours.
He paid his tab and moved, not too fast, into the street again, hugging the building facades. He had to cross a street; police eyes might see him, unless—He could improve his chances a little: he waited in the shelter of the building until he saw a small knot of customers pause at the shop across the street, then crossed as swiftly as he could without attracting attention, keeping to the side of the crosswalk that should be invisible from fifth-floor windows. Unless Lugano’s people had broken their pledge and were hanging out the windows, they wouldn’t see him. Fine. Half a block now, not even that, to the coffee shop. He’d pick some sympathetic person who didn’t seem to be in a hurry, and—
Maggie. Emerging phoenixlike from the subway stairs ahead.
José Santos didn’t stop to plan. The limp returned instantly, instinctively, quicker than thought. He hid his steely eyes behind a frank, open, boy-next-door gaze, noticed without surprise that she veered toward him, and said, “Oh, damn!”
“Well! Buzz!” she exclaimed in greeting. The baby was strapped to her breast, half asleep.
He looked up from the bear in innocent surprise. “Maggie! How are you? Hey, I didn’t have a chance to thank you for helping me out!”
She patted the baby’s back thoughtfully, studying him. “Don’t thank me. Muffin is a darling. How is she?”
“Fine. Tip-top. Listen, could you by any chance do me another favor? And Muffin too?”
“I’d love to do something for Muffin. But I am in a hurry right now.” Still, he could see the curiosity in the deep blue eyes.
“Well, it’s still the damn ankle. I bought Muffin this bear pajama bag. See the store over there?” He pointed out the Chinese shopkeeper. “She loves this crazy color, so she should like it. And it’s a good price. But I didn’t notice, the ear has a little tear. I want to exchange it, but the ankle keeps throbbing. The doctor was right, I should have stuck with the crutch. But I hated it.” He grimaced, waiting for her sympathetic response.
“I see. You want me to run this bear across the street and exchange it for one in better shape?” She took the fuzzy toy from him and inspected it. “Ugly little fellow.” Sarah, despite her mother’s comment, made a drowsy grab for it.
“Yeah, if it hadn’t been that Muffin loves this color, I wouldn’t have looked twice either. Listen, would you mind if I sat down?” He gestured at the coffee shop.
“Tell you what,” Maggie said. “Your ankle needs a rest, and I’m in a hurry to take Sarah to her dad. Why don’t you stay there while I take her, and then on my way back to the subway I’ll exchange the bear and then bring it to you in the coffee shop? Shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.”
“Maggie, I just hope I can pay you back someday, somehow! You’re a regular Good Samaritan!”
Her radiant smile beamed full on him. “Hey, glad to help, Buzz!” She tucked the bear in her briefcase and flew away down the street.
Steve really did stumble as he limped into the coffee shop. Maybe he should get some caffeine. He was weak with nervous excitement, thrilled at how smoothly the José Santos side of him was taking over, overcoming obstacles. Steve Bradford would never have been so ruthless. Steve Bradford’s plan involved a bystander who could prove himself innocent within hours. Not so Maggie. In one smooth, instinctive reaction Santos had added an inspired touch to the crude plan: the same unknown person who would be identified as the kidnapper by the Montessori staff was now picking up the ransom! It would create not just hours, but days of confusion! Steve congratulated himself.
Or rather, he congratulated José Santos.
Of course it was frustrating to have to wait for Maggie to take her baby to wherever she was going; but even so, this idea was brilliant.
In the coffee shop he ordered a cup, black.
Ramona’s lawyer, Ken Martin, turned out to be a tubby, red-faced giant who would have looked more appropriate in jeans driving a pickup truck in rural Appalachia than in his Manhattan lawyer’s pinstripes. It was clear from his sour expression that he hadn’t wanted to bring Simon Jenkins, who stood bristling at his side. “Now, just wait here, Simon,” he soothed the glaring Jenkins. “This won’t take long.”
“Don’t give them a thing!” Jenkins’s voice was blurred with grief or drink. Probably both, Nick decided.
“Just what we have to,” Martin agreed. “Now, sit down, Simon. We’ll be done soon.”
Nick glanced around the loft. Everyone was here except for Daphne and Jaymie. Too many sorrows today. He was suddenly very eager to be done with this, to start something new, to get away so he could grieve in quietness.
Martin addressed them crisply, his concise phrasing at odds with his comfortable farmer’s voice. “I know we are all deeply upset, so I’ll try to make the situation clear in brief. I have your checks. They are the last obligation that the producers have to you. You have already completed the last obligation you have to the producers. We wish you well. Are there any questions?”
Edith voiced the secret wild hope that they all had. “Mr. Martin, this is such a good show. Ramona believed in it. Don’t you think, with the right replacement, she’d want us to go on?”
Jenkins started to erupt but was stopped by Martin’s imperious hand. “The right replacement?” Martin bellowed. “For Ramona Ricci? My God, there is no one on this earth who could replace her!”
Taken aback by the unexpected attack, Edith could only gape at him. Martin drew a deep breath that traveled the long length of his pudgy shirtfront. He continued calmly, efficient again, “The producing corporation exists only to produce a musical,Victo
ria R, starring Ramona Ricci. So you see, a different legal entity would have to be created in order to do what you suggest. We can’t do that now.”
“You don’t think she’d want it to go on?” faltered Edith.
“What I think and what you think is irrelevant,” Martin rumbled. “In fact, what Ramona wanted is irrelevant. There is no suggestion in any legal document that this show is to continue. Are there any other questions?”
Derek pushed a strand of pale hair from his eyes and asked incredulously, “Nothing in the will either?”
This time even the massive Martin was unable to keep Jenkins in his seat. “You greedy little bastards! Isn’t it enough that you killed her? You want to take all her money too?”
Derek was short, pale, usually self-effacing, but today he leaped to his feet so angrily that Nick and Larry both grabbed at him to restrain the little Englishman, an enraged bull terrier charging unflinchingly at the snarling Great Dane. “If anyone in this bloody room killed her, it was you, Simon Jenkins! You think I didn’t hear about your plots to keep her off the stage? Your affairs that broke her heart? And when she tumbled to your little games, you had the bloody guns already planted for your revenge, didn’t you?”
Ken Martin had grasped Jenkins’s arm with both hands and was hauling him away from the livid Englishman, but Jenkins raged on. “Damn right I wanted to keep her away from the likes of you!” he stormed. “You think it’s easy for a man to see his wife run off to mingle with scum like you people? Ramona is a star! A goddess! She doesn’t need to wallow in the mud, doing a trashy two-bit show like this! I tried to tell her you only wanted her money. Tried to reason. But there was something—” Suddenly he seemed to run out of energy. Martin dragged him back to his chair, and Jenkins allowed himself to be pushed down, shaking his head, looking mystified at the scuffed floor as Martin made motherly clucking noises. “It was like a fire in her,” Jenkins murmured plaintively to Martin. “I’d think it had been put out, that I’d made her happy, and then it would flare up again.”
Rehearsal for Murder Page 18
