Kiss of Death

by Linda Palmer

  I introduced Arnold to Walter. Walter stood up, and while they were shaking hands and doing the “how-do-you-do” routine, I took a good look at Arnold under the strong living room light. As always, his clothes were an elegant study in black and gray. During the week he wore black suits and pale gray shirts, or pale gray suits and dark gray shirts, always with silk neckties that matched the shirts. On weekends he wore gray slacks, gray cashmere jackets, and black cashmere sweaters. Usually, Arnold’s complexion was ruddy, but tonight it was sallow. Deep worry lines etched his face, but he also looked generally better than when I’d seen him several weeks ago. He’d lost a few pounds, and his abdomen was decidedly trimmer.

  A last detail I noticed was that Arnold’s thinning black hair seemed darker than previously. I wondered if he was dying it. I probably wouldn’t have noted the change, except for the bright overhead light from the crystal chandelier that had come with the apartment—one of the fixtures I hated. I’d joked to Nancy and Penny that I’d replace them as soon as I had time to figure out what my own taste was. I’d gone from living in a boarding school, to a college dorm, to camping in jungles, and finally to this fully furnished apartment. I told my friends, and myself, that since I’d moved into the Dakota, I’d been too busy to pick out my own things. But I’d begun to realize that wasn’t the entire truth. I’d gone to Bobby Novello because I suspected that the missing pieces of my past might be keeping me from moving forward.

  I said, “Sit down, Arnold, please.” I gestured to the couch opposite Walter. “Can I get you something to drink? Scotch? Or wine?”

  “No, thank you, Morgan.” He sat down, and I sat next to him. “I can only stay a few minutes. My housekeeper is with Didi, but I don’t want to be away for long.”

  “Of course not.”

  Walter was smiling pleasantly, but behind his round, owlish glasses he was studying Arnold as though his glasses were a microscope.

  “I really just came to tell you how sorry I am that I was abrupt today.” Suddenly, he asked, “How is Nancy?”

  “Strong,” I said. “She’s hanging on.”

  “I want to help her, but I don’t know what to do.”

  “She didn’t kill Veronica. You believe her, don’t you?”

  Just as Cynthia Ruddy had, Arnold hesitated, then: “If she says that she didn’t do it, of course I believe her. I understand that she’s dismissed Cynthia as her attorney. Do you know why?”

  I replied with the excuse Nancy had invented. “To save your firm embarrassment.” I added, “She was thinking of you.”

  Arnold nodded. “Hmmm. I see. Then I’ll get her another attorney—the best in the country. I’ll pay all the fees. Whatever happened in that room, I’m sure it wasn’t murder . No matter how things look, Veronica’s death couldn’t have been intentional. I don’t want Nancy’s life destroyed, too.”

  “She has a new lawyer. Kent Wayne.”

  “Wayne?” A sudden flush colored Arnold’s cheeks. “That unscrupulous—” With a sharp intake of breath, he managed to rein in his burst of emotion. “Whatever I think of the man is unimportant. He’s an excellent defense counsel. As much as I hate to admit it, he’s one of the most capable on the eastern seaboard. In these dire circumstances, he’s probably the best chance Nancy—he’s a good choice.” Arnold stood up. In response, Walter and I got to our feet, too.

  “I’ve got to get back to Didi,” Arnold said. He took my hands. “Will you accept my apology about this afternoon?”

  “Of course. I know what you’re going through.”

  “Thank you.” He released my hands, said good night to Walter, and started to go.

  “Oh, Arnold. You know I’m very fond of Didi.”

  “She likes you, too,” he said, smiling.

  “I’d like to see her. I could invite her to come to the studio—”

  His smile vanished. Suddenly his voice was sharp as the crack of a whip. “No!”

  “No?”

  “I meant not right away. It’s too soon for Didi to see anyone.” As quickly as he’d flared to anger, he softened his tone. “Now, I really have to go. Call me, Morgan—let me know what I can do to help Nancy.”

  I followed Arnold to the front door and locked it behind him. Returning to the living room, I told Walter, “When I first met Didi, Arnold was delighted to have me get to know her. Now he’s acting like a dragon guarding a cave from me.”

  Frowning, Walter shook his head. “It’s not about you. I was watching that fella. He appreciated your concern for the girl. It was when you mentioned having her up to your studio that he got real upset.”

  I closed my mind and replayed the conversation in my head, as though it was an exchange in a scene from one of our shows.

  “You’re right,” I said. “I wonder why he’s so against her visiting again.”

  “That goes on the list of questions that need answers.”

  “Matt’s convinced he’s arrested Veronica Rose’s killer. As far as he’s concerned, his job is done, but I know he’s wrong. I can’t leave Nancy’s fate solely in the hands of a defense attorney, no matter how good he’s supposed to be.”

  “Finding the real killer’s the one sure way to clear your friend.” Walter stood up, stretched, and rotated a kink out of his neck. “I wanna do some research on the dead woman. Show me where to plug in my computer.”

  “Use mine,” I said. “I’ll make us fresh coffee.”

  While Walter rode the Internet through public records and the New York and Boston newspaper archives, I worked at the kitchen table on white legal pads, roughing out future story. I needed to get far enough ahead in my work to take a few days off to go investigating.

  COPIES OF THE New York Times and the New York Post were delivered to my door before dawn every morning. On this Sunday, the Times had the usual headlines about the Middle East, but when I picked up the Post I was shocked to see Nancy’s photograph staring at me from the front page, under the headline “Lawyer Accused of Murder.” My stomach muscles clenched in distress as I realized that in Nancy’s awful situation, it was probable that every aspect of her private life would be turned into entertainment reading for millions of strangers.

  Fur brushed against my ankle. I looked down to see Magic peering outside, poised to go exploring. “No, no. Not out there.” I steered him gently back into the apartment and closed the door.

  Returning to the paper, I followed the headlines to the story on page three. There was a photograph of Veronica Rose, looking stunning in gown and jewels, taken at an art museum gala she had chaired in Boston earlier this year. At the bottom right-hand corner of the page was a smaller photo of Arnold, with the somewhat snide caption: “Object of their affections.” The Times had the story, too, with pictures of Nancy and Veronica, but the text was written less sensationally and appeared at the back of Section A, in their New York Report section under the headline: “Wife of Prominent Attorney Found Dead.”

  SUNDAY EVENING, WALTER got up from the computer. A scowl of disgust creased his broad face, and his drooping gray mustache seemed to bristle. “The late Mrs. Rose was a husband stealer,” he announced.

  That piqued my interest. “What husband did she steal?”

  Walter corrected me. “Husbands, plural. An investment banker named George Reynolds and Ralph Hartley. Hartley’s CEO of a Massachusetts utilities company. There might be more, but these happened during the last fourteen months.”

  He handed me printouts of several newspaper articles and social columns. Reading the material, I saw that the Boston Chronicle’s gossip columnist, Cathy Chatsworth, had managed to get the most vivid details of the moral frailties of the socially elite.

  “Cathy Chatsworth—that has to be a made-up name,” I said, “but she’s probably got a phone.”

  Boston Information gave me a number for her, but it turned out to be for her voice mail number at the Boston Chronicle. I left a message, but then called the newspaper’s switchboard operator, and asked her to try to ca
ll the columnist at home and deliver a message.

  Half an hour later, Cathy Chatsworth called me back. Judging from her accent, she was either British or pretentious. After identifying herself, the Boston columnist said, “So, you want to do a TV movie about dear Veronica’s murder?”

  That had not been the message. I’d told the operator to give her my name and tell her that I produced a television show. The columnist had jumped to the wrong conclusion. I didn’t want to lie to her, but Nancy’s life was at stake, and this woman might be able to help her. Before I could frame an ambiguous answer, she got to what was clearly her point of interest. “You pay consultants, don’t you?”

  “Absolutely. Consultants are well compensated. You’ll be paid for background information, and again if the movie is produced. If our company produces it, of course you’ll get an on-screen credit.”

  On her end of the line I heard a gasp. “Oh, no! You can’t use my name! My involvement must be strictly confidential—but I will expect to be paid.”

  “However you want to work it, that’s fine,” I said. “But I wonder if you actually have any information about Veronica Rose’s personal life that might shed some light on her murder.”

  “I thought they caught the killer.”

  “The investigation is ongoing,” I said. That was the truth, in that I was continuing to investigate, even if the police were not.

  “Hmmmmm. This is delicious. If your movie needs suspects, there certainly were people who wanted her dead. Four in particular. Interested?”

  I certainly was! We made a date to meet for lunch the next day in Boston.

  Replacing the receiver, I turned to Walter. “Now we have a place to start.”

  Chapter 19

  AT A QUARTER to nine on Monday morning, Penny Cavanaugh, Brandi Flynn, and I got out of a cab in front of 100 Centre Street, the Manhattan Criminal Courts Building.

  The seventeen-story art deco courthouse has a steel frame and a granite and limestone facade. Four towers in front, with a jail behind, the taller tower looks like an ancient Babylonian temple. The building is stepped, and the windows are set in vertical bands, alternating with stone supports. Tall brass and glass entrance doors, both stationary and revolving, are bookended by a pair of huge, freestanding granite columns. A thick, rounded brass railing going up the steps from the street separated those entering the building from those exiting.

  Brandi started to go up on the downside, but I caught the strap on her shoulder bag and steered her back to the right-hand section of the divide.

  “Remember what we learned in school: ‘Keep to the right when passing.’”

  “I never did get that one right,” she said. “But I aced sex ed.”

  This morning, Brandi had dressed down from her usual flamboyant style, and wore a simple black dress with long sleeves. She called it her going-to-court outfit, but the plunging V neckline and the wide gold belt around her waist were classic Brandi. Penny was quietly elegant in a beige suit and a chocolate brown silk blouse the same color as her hair. In their separate ways, they were stylish, but in my navy blazer, red skirt, and white blouse, I just looked patriotic. Maybe because I’d been poor for most of my life, fashion wasn’t my thing.

  The marble lobby was two stories high, with a hanging clock marking the center. There were handsome art deco lighting fixtures, metal doors, and two grand staircases with ornamental railings.

  After we passed through the security check, an armed guard pointed us toward the staircase up to the courtroom. So many people swarmed through the lobby and elbowed their way up the stairs that I had a mental image of us as three salmon fighting our way upstream.

  We made it, and found the door we sought. A removable sign announced that the Honorable George Dayton would be presiding inside. Still five minutes early, we pushed the door open and went in.

  The air in the courtroom was filled with the hum of many low conversations, but none of the people here were smiling. In contrast to the grandeur below, this room where Nancy’s immediate fate would be decided was almost stark, with unembellished paneling.

  Penny, Brandi, and I found places in the second row behind the railing that separated friends, relatives, and observers from prosecutors, defense attorneys, and clients.

  Two rectangular wooden tables, with chairs behind them, faced the judge’s bench. One table was reserved for defense attorneys and their clients, and the other for the prosecutors. About four feet of space separated the two sides. Above the judge’s bench, in large brass letters affixed to the wall, were the words, IN GOD WE TRUST. I trusted in God, too, but I still wanted Nancy to have the best lawyer money could rent.

  Just as we sat down, the court officer stood up.

  “All rise,” he said.

  Everyone in the courtroom obeyed, and a man with a thick pelt of pewter gray hair covering his bulbous head entered from a door behind the raised judicial bench. He was so corpulent that his black robe clung to his body instead of swirling around it. As he took his place, the court officer signaled that all of us could resume our seats, handed the judge a sheaf of papers, and announced Docket number 13759, the People versus Nancy Susan Cummings.

  A door—not the one from which the judge had entered—opened behind the bench. Nancy emerged, accompanied by Kent Wayne. She was pale, and her hair looked like it could use a shampoo, but it was combed, and I could tell she’d been allowed to apply some makeup. She looked around the courtroom, saw us, and managed a brave smile.

  Nancy and Wayne made their way to the table on the left while an angular woman with short dark hair cut in a shag style moved up to stand behind the table on the right.

  Judge Dayton peered over the papers in his hand and said, “Mr. Wayne, always a pleasure to see you.” His tone was unmistakably sarcastic. “How does your client plead?”

  In the rich baritone of an experienced orator, Wayne replied, “Not guilty, your honor.”

  “What a surprise.” Judge Dayton turned to the prosecution table. “Ms. Robbins, I don’t suppose I need to ask, but just for the record, how do the People feel about bail?”

  “We ask for remand, your honor. Ms. Cummings viciously murdered her romantic rival.”

  That set off a heated exchange between the two attorneys, but the judge quickly cut it off. “Enough! If Ms. Cummings did the deed, then the deed is done. Presumably the State isn’t claiming she’s a danger to others.”

  “Your honor—”

  “Save it for the trial, Ms. Robbins. Bail is set at one million dollars, cash or bond.”

  With a sharp bang of the judge’s gavel Nancy’s bail hearing was over. I checked my watch. It had taken all of three minutes. The court officer called out the next docket number, another set of lawyer-and-client emerged from the door to the holding cells, and a young man with a bald spot the size of a yarmulke replaced the woman at the prosecutor’s table.

  Brandi was shocked. “It happened so fast!”

  “This is what it’s usually like,” I said. “Last year, when the storyline had Link Ramsey on trial, I studied the routine so I’d get it right for the show.”

  Awestruck, Brandi said, “Boy, writers sure have to learn a lot of stuff.”

  Penny gently poked me on the arm. “That lawyer is waving at you.”

  I looked up and saw that Nancy and Wayne had moved over to the far side of the courtroom. He was gesturing for me to join them.

  Penny and Brandi came with me. I introduced Wayne to Penny and Brandi, and Nancy hugged us all.

  “Thank you for being here,” she said.

  I asked Wayne, “Can Nancy leave now?”

  “My favorite bail bondsman is waiting outside in the hall. If someone can give him a hundred thousand dollars—”

  I was about to volunteer, but Nancy stopped me. “I have it. Will your man take a check?”

  Wayne nodded. “Certified.”

  Nancy squeezed my hand. “Kent told me that you offered—”

  “Forget it,” I said.
I didn’t want Nancy to thank me for being willing to pay her bail. It was money I never expected to have, and hadn’t earned. Gratitude wasn’t merited. “You’re getting out of here soon. I hope you don’t mind my taking off, but there’s someone I need to see right away. I can’t tell you anything yet, but this person may have information that’ll help you.”

  “I need all the help I can get,” Nancy said ruefully. She gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. “Go!”

  “We’ll stay with Nancy,” Penny said. Brandi nodded in agreement.

  FROM THE BACK of the taxi taking me to the airport, I used my cell phone. The first call was to Walter, to let him know that Nancy would be released today. Next, I dialed the office.

  “You’ve got a dozen messages,” Betty said, “but only four need immediate attention. In order of time stamp arrival: first, Eva wants to cut her hair.”

  I thought for a moment. Eva played the role of Sylvia, Evan Duran’s sister, a very attractive and vital older woman. With her stepchildren grown, Sylvia had just left full-time homemaking and started a fashion design business. A shorter style would fit her character in that storyline. “Tell her yes, and remind me to add some dialogue about Sylvia’s new look. What’s next?”

  “Jay Garwood wants a change of wardrobe.”

  “To what?”

  “Armani suits. He says he thinks his character should be dressing better than Link’s.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I said.

  “So what else is new?”

  “Tell Jay we’ll talk about wardrobe on Friday. We’ll have lunch together in my office then.”

  “He’ll like that,” Betty said. “He’s becoming a bit of a diva.”

  “Thanks for the tip. I’ll have to stop that before it gets out of hand. What else?”

  “Clarice just found out she’s pregnant.”

  “Oops!”

  “Oops is right,” Betty said. “She told me she and her husband weren’t planning to start a family for another year. Now she’s worried because she knows you can’t write a baby into the Jillian-Gareth storyline, at least not in the next several months. She’s afraid you’re going to fire her.”