Goodnight Sometimes Means Goodbye (Wrong Flight Home, #2)

by Noel J. Hadley

  “Detective Hurley,” I said, trying not to sound out of breath as I turned a corner and started down the third staircase. “What can I do for you?”

  “You haven't been taking my calls, Chamberlain.” Detective Hurley was the short fat officer of the Mello-Hurley duo, and his voice growled. Actually, he sounded a lot like Joe Pesci on the phone. I considered bringing up how I loved him in My Cousin Vinny, but then didn't.

  “Bummer, I've been sitting around for days anxiously hoping and waiting. It seems like you and my mother only call when I'm in the shower. Don't you want to know how I knew it was you?”

  “Like I give a shit. You gonna be on that flight home tomorrow morning?”

  “You know I am. I was kind of hoping that you and Detective Mello might dress like limo drivers and hold up a sign that says CHAMBERLAIN on it.”

  “The only thing I'll be holding up, if I have it my way, is a pair of cuffs and a warrant for your arrest. I've got another bed and breakfast playdate all worked out for you, just as soon as you come back into my jurisdiction.”

  “You really do know how to show a girl a good time.”

  “Just tell me one thing. Are you still in New York?” He read off Leah's Brownstone address.

  “I'm not in Boston, if that's what you mean.”

  “Stop being an ass-wipe and answer my question.”

  “I thought I just did. As much as I'm enjoying this interview, if you'd like more in-depth answers, be sure to give Mrs. Fox a call.”

  “You know, I finally figured out what this smart-assery is all about. You're just a regular good old-fashioned self-entitled cop hater, aren't you?”

  “Detective Hurley, with all due respect to your rank and service, I get this feeling that you wouldn't take the job if it meant you had to conduct yourself in a manner worthy of being liked.”

  “If I find that you've skipped out on New York.....”

  “First of all, I'd never skip with anyone else but you or Mello, and.....”

  “Let's not and say we did.”

  “We both know you called simply to match my phone with the nearest cell tower.”

  Hurley made a shrugging sound.

  “And besides, if you didn't call the press and tip them off on my location....”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Then you must not keep up on the news,” I said.

  “You're not making any sense, Chamberlain.”

  I finished my journey down the final staircase, and just before opening the front door I said: “Just watch the news. Pretty much any network will do,” and hung up the phone.

  25

  CHESTER HAMILTON THE THIRD was keeping the press occupied when I opened the door.

  “In fact, I have been giving shelter to a refugee on the run from the mob,” he said in his typical parrot squabble. “Sure, maybe my life was in danger. And I can confirm that strange things have indeed been happening at my humble Brownstone apartment complex. But it’s the least I could do as a citizen of this great city and the earth. Are we not all human? Do we not all bleed?”

  First one camera turned on me, clicked its shutter, and by the time I closed the door every other pair of eyes on the street followed suit. All six syllables of my first and last name were pronounced by several reporters and cameramen in varying intervals. I spotted an NBC truck in the street and on a handheld microphone, the acronyms CNN, and was thrilled to see Anderson Cooper in the ranks. A double-take confirmed my sighting. Anderson Cooper in the flesh. I suddenly felt the urge to sneeze, but stopped myself. Josephine was going to kill me.

  “I'm Chester Hamilton the Third!” Chester Hamilton the Third cried with an added dosage of desperation. But nobody heard him.

  I opened my mouth to say this or that, despite not having a clue how I'd end with that, much less how this would begin it, and was interrupted by the arrival of one of Chester's tenants. Camera shutters, which had never stopped clapping since my arrival, snapped in even faster repetitions now that the president’s wife appeared at my side. Apparently the people of New York knew their adopted daughter well.

  I whispered into her ear. “You really don't have to do this. Don't commit career suicide again on my account.”

  “Too late,” her fingers interlocked with mine. She had changed into jeans and a ribbed tank top, both skin tight and black, with a shiny leather jacket as a means to accessorize, and probably utilized the entire journey down all eight staircases adding volume to her hair. Stage actors knew how to throw that costume on at autobahn speeds. “If you think about it, Romeo and Juliet committed suicide only four days after their initial meeting.”

  “Good point,” I said.

  “I'm Chester Hamilton the Third!” Still nobody was listening.

  “Bravery hasn't always been my strong suit. I considered Wikipedia and thought, what the hell? And besides, I couldn't refuse Anderson Cooper.” She grinned, and turned now to face the flashing cameras with a smile bright enough to light the Cohan Theater. And the way she spoke with each member of the press, you could have sworn she was my agent. “Joshua will only be taking a few questions.” She eyed Anderson. “Mr. Cooper.”

  If Josephine was watching this, and I was almost certain she was, my murder was being plotted. Kitty Wells sprung to life in my pants pocket. I ignored it. Josephine probably wanted to let me know how she was planning to do it. But she was wrong about what she'd said earlier. If even sneezing to a yes or no question ended in my homicide, having my interview with Anderson Cooper was worth it.

  “I'm Chester Hamilton the Third! I'm Chester Hamilton the Third!”

  26

  SUFFICE TO SAY LEAH'S CAREER probably wasn't ruined. Not by my hand. Not yet, at least. And it was probably too early to tell, but our little press conference may have done more good for my ongoing nationwide tour than bad, evidenced by two brides who called me up to apologize for canceling and letting me know my services were still desired later that year. Then again, I was fired from two other weddings, having failed to match the murder story with my mug until now. Or maybe they just weren't fans of New York's favorite daughter, Leah Bishop. That probably wasn't the case.

  Anyhow, next came the tens-of-thousands of hits on my website (on top of its already heavy traffic) and the dozens of couples writing e-mails with wedding dates, all excited to work with me, that is, if I were available. And I was. I could have had the following summer booked right then and there had I wanted to. I added several hundred Facebook friends to my roster and posted half a dozen pictures of Leah Bishop, one on the steps of the New York City Library, another in Saint Patrick, and yet another in her dressing room, and so on. My phone was swamped. As always, half of those calls came from my mother disguised in a Beatles song, Your Mother Should Know, which I finally answered.

  What I remember of the remaining hours leading up to Leah's first of two final performances was nothing short of spectacular, not because of all those phone calls or e-mails or Mother or my ability to finally explore social networking again. I had Leah to share them with. From the press conference on, much like the hours following Greenberg at the party, she never left my side until the George Cohan Theater, when she shut the door of her dressing room on my nose to strip down and change into costume, despite my attempts to convince her that I was purely a professional in these areas. She wasn't convinced. Then again, I hadn't yet brought out my secret weapon, the grin of a Chamberlain. But just like any nuclear bomb, you wait until it’s absolutely necessary to use it.

  Despite everything that was still to come, it was a good day.

  27

  PENNY'S CAB PULLED UP to the George Cohan Theater at precisely 6:25pm, an entire hour and thirty-five minutes before show time. I knew it was her because she’d updated me every few minutes from the moment her plane touched down, alternating between dramatic text messages and phone calls, about how the pilot took too long towing in and the taxi driver was taking the scenic route and if they started the show without her s
he might as well end up as one of those corpses on the next episode of Law and Order: SVU; typical Penny attitude.

  I said: “Welcome to New York.”

  I opened the cab door, but I don’t think she heard me. Already the steep incline of Broadway’s skyscrapers, its mixed bag of sights and sounds, and far more importantly the actual George Cohan Theater, had pushed her over the cliff of sensory overload. I was stunned too. She’d managed to dress herself in an ivory blouse and a loose fitting black skirt, with knee-high grey socks and sidesaddle shoes. Thick rimmed glasses and braided pig-tails made her simultaneously nerdy and gorgeous. I was mostly thrilled that she didn’t wear one of her Harry Potter or Jabba slave costumes.

  I said the next thing that came to my mind. “You look amazing, as always.”

  “Stop complementing me, Joshua. I know you’ve got the uncontrollable hots for me, but I have a boyfriend.”

  “It will be difficult, but I’ll try.”

  “Now let me at her,” she said.

  “You're not going to kill her or anything, are you?”

  “I'm only her number one fan, Jeez.”

  “I believe you.” I held a single arm out and smiled.

  “What happened to your eye?”

  “I got in the way of one of her fans.”

  “You've got that right. I’m apt to give you another.”

  “Right this way.” I kept my arm extended.

  Penny accepted it.

  28

  I HAD MADE A RESOUNDING PROMISE to Mrs. Isla Elliot, crossed my heart and hoped to die, that I wouldn't leave her alone with her number one fan for a second, not before the curtain anyways (pre-show mantra and all that), which went according to plan up until the point when the Beach Boys sang Wouldn't It Be Nice on my iPhone.

  “It's Elise. I should probably take this.”

  From the table, where her make-up artist Alvin was presently applying the paste, Leah shot me those double-barrel shotgun eyes of hers that screamed of such horrible things like Bataan Death March and Kamikaze if I left the two of them alone. I stepped into the hall and closed the door anyways. Even from outside Penny's muffled voice followed me. Of course, so did Leah's eyes.

  I said: “Elise, Queen of my castle. What can I do for you?”

  “Tonight is Leah Bishop’s last performance of REPUBLICAN BLUE.”

  “You've been reading up on her.”

  “I did a Google search. And apparently the only way to keep up with you nowadays is on CNN. I saw your little press conference. Is she your spokesperson now?”

  “It wasn't exactly planned.”

  “She's beautiful, as always. I'm assuming you'll be in attendance tonight.”

  “Yes, mam.”

  “Are you there with her now?”

  “I'm backstage. Penny's here keeping her company.”

  “Well, lucky you.”

  “The Jealous Lover type isn't the right face for you, Elise.”

  “Joshua, I don't want us to end like this.”

  “With me attending the last performance of an old high school friend in her life-defining role or you shacking up with a politician on the night of your sister’s wedding?”

  “That's not fair.”

  “It never is.”

  “Apartments are small in New York. Let me guess, there was no room for you in the inn, which only left space for her bed.”

  “I slept in her tub, actually. And last night on the couch with her gay roommate.”

  Elise kept silent.

  I said: “Actually, I've got a monkey fist for a neck.”

  A burst of relief and laughter exploded from Elise's end of the phone, not in any way mocking. I immediately recognized the tone. It came from that teenage girl I used to know, back in the days when she made dramatic attempts at vying for my attention.

  “Did you really sleep with her gay roommate?”

  “He wears boxers that depict bananas being peeled.”

  Elise tried not to laugh. “Now I'm really jealous.”

  “It seemed so much more comfortable than the subway.”

  “And he didn't make a move on you?”

  “I don't know if I should feel relieved or hurt.”

  “I'm very sorry for how I came across. You're right. I trust you.”

  “I'll need to see our chiropractor as soon as I get back.”

  “How about I give you a massage instead?”

  When the door of Miss Bishop’s dressing room opened, the President’s wife was standing there with a lockdown of a stare. Her thick coating of make-up wasn't completely finished yet. Alvin, he was of Latino descent, impatiently slapped a hand on his waist near the bulb-lined mirror, and Leah spoke through an index finger that, when matched with those killer eyes of hers, said, You left me alone with her, and now you're going to die.

  “That would be nice.” I said to my wife, simultaneously smiling at Leah.

  If Leah wanted to smile back, she tried effortlessly not to, and succeeded.

  “I guess I called because I've been thinking a lot about you. And I wanted you to know that, despite everything, I love you. I have this feeling that I'll spend the rest of my life trying to convince you of that.”

  “I'm glad you called.” I looked at Leah as I spoke, still smiling.

  Elise said: “I was hoping to hear the same from you.”

  Leah's eyes softened now as curiosity filled the spaces reserved for her anger.

  “I love you too.”

  “Whatever happens?” Elise said.

  I pronounced it with confidence: “Whatever happens.”

  Except after we hung up it occurred to me that I couldn't be completely sure which of the two women I'd actually spoken that promise to.

  29

  “OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! Oh my god!” I was afraid that Penny might self-combust into a fiery ball of flames the second she left Isla Elliot's dressing room.

  I said: “Are you okay? You sure you can go on?”

  And another thing, Penny appeared to be having a difficult time breathing too. “I could dip her hand in guacamole and use it as a tortilla dipping bowl.”

  “Please tell me you didn't say that to her, when the two of you were alone.”

  Penny squealed.

  30

  STILL THIRTY MINUTES UNTIL CURTAINS, we left Leah alone to have all her M&M’s in order and settled in the downstairs lounge, the old watering hole. I ordered an Apple Martini for Penny, a single shot of Johnnie Walker Black Label for myself, and since Richie was out of work (technically, so was I), a Cosmopolitan. All three drinks demanded thirty plus dollars from my Visa card.

  Meanwhile, Penny was on sensory overload. She scanned the walls containing dozens of framed photographs detailing the various performances that the George M. Cohan Theater had presented through the years and the stars that accompanied them, and did so almost frantically. I recognized Judy Garland and John Lithgow in a couple of them. Plopping down next to Richie on the couch, Penny didn’t look so good.

  “I think I have to throw up,” she said, rocking her body in an uneasy motion.

  “Do I need to help you to the bathroom?”

  “No. I’ll be alright.” More rocking. “I can't believe I just met the president's wife. I’m just so nervous for her.”

  “I think she’ll do alright.”

  “How does she do it, night after night? How does she not eat herself up?”

  “I don’t know. Ask Richie. He’s a stage actor.”

  Richie opened his mouth to say something, but Penny had other matters on her mind. “Is it true? Did she really throw up in your mouth?”

  Richie’s eyes widened as he waited for my response.

  I turned to Richie. “In Boston, she sort of…. threw up…. in my mouth.”

  “Oh girl,” he tucked his head into a hand.

  “Tell me everything you know about her,” Penny said.

  “Like, is she a natural blond?”

  “Bra size, what kind of cereal s
he eats for breakfast, how she rolls her toilet paper, anything, I don’t care. What did the two of you do since you’ve been here, for starters?”

  “We haven’t had a whole lot of time together.” I sipped casually from my Johnnie Walker.

  “I don’t care if you had fifteen minutes and she was on the other side of the door taking a crapper. I want details. Toot volume, all of it.”

  “Well, let’s see.” I took the time to cross one leg over the other, in hopes of relaxing her. “She’d never been to the main branch of the New York City Library before, surprisingly, or Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. So I took her there.”

  “What did the two of you do?” She gripped my leg.

  “We talked…. about stuff.”

  “What sort of stuff?”

  “Life stuff, Penny, you were pretty much on your best behavior in Leah’s dressing room, with a few hiccups. You were polite, charming, and exceedingly cultured, I think. Then again, I was on the phone the whole time.”

  Penny squeezed my wrist. “And when next I’m in her presence again, I’ll be all of those things, just as I promised.” She made breathing look like an exhausting activity. I thought she might even hyperventilate. “You should have seen me on the plane.”

  “If it’s anything like that drama in the taxi, I can imagine. Are you sure you’re okay to go on?”

  “Yes.” She collected herself with a deep exhale through the nose and a wave of both hands, what looked to be some sort of yoga pose. “I promised I’d be on my best behavior.” There was another yoga breath and pose. “And I shall. Please, go on.”

  “She took me to the Empire State Building, but the lines were too long. Let’s see, what else?”

  “Wait, hold on.” Richie cut in. “She took you to the Empire State Building?”

  “That’s right.”

  “To the top?”

  “No. The line was probably three hours long, and I didn’t really want to stay. Long story, I kind of have this fear of elevators, and…”