“Can you think of any way that could’ve happened by accident?”
Mario’s answer is monosyllabic. “No.”
“Could somebody have thrown it at her?” Somehow that doesn’t seem likely. “But how could they be sure they’d hit her just right?”
“And if they missed, the ball bearing could hit somebody else.”
“Maybe it would be easier to hit her if it was shot in some way.”
“That’s what I think happened. Somebody shot it at her. How they did it is another question.”
None of this ever occurred to me as a possibility. I knew there was nothing slippery on the stairs to make Lisette fall, but I never considered that a killer might use some sort of projectile to knock her off balance. “Trixie, Shanelle, and I were in the audience and none of us saw anything flying toward Lisette.”
“My contact told me it’s clear the ball bearing hit the back of her head.”
“So it would have had to come from—”
“Backstage.”
I look across the room at Jason, an inert mound in bed. The ball bearing had to have come from backstage. Where Kimberly insists she was. Where lots of other people were, too, to be fair.
But the one I keep coming back to is Kimberly. Actually, I keep coming back to someone else, too: Junior. He claims he was in his office when Lisette fell, but he could be lying. Don’t forget Violet Honeycutt, either, I order myself. It’s hard to imagine her shooting a ball bearing at Lisette—actually, it’s hard to imagine her shooting anything at anyone except perhaps an insult at a poorly dressed individual—but she had a strong motive to want Lisette gone.
It is obvious now, though, that Tonya could only be guilty if she were in cahoots with somebody else. She was standing on the stage in plain sight.
I clear my throat. “If this is true, Mario, it means Lisette was murdered.”
“Yes. You were right all along about that, as farfetched as it seemed.”
I take a deep breath. I’m too shocked to be pleased. Half the time I was sure I was nuts even to entertain the idea. And now this means there’s a killer on the loose, one who nearly committed a perfect crime. For if I hadn’t found the ball bearing and Mario hadn’t gotten it tested, no one would be asking any questions about how Lisette died.
“The ball bearing is being tested for prints,” Mario goes on. “By the way, I told my contact it was you who found it. But so far nobody else knows.”
I wonder what Warren Longley would think if he found out. Would he hate me more or less? “I almost changed my mind last night,” I tell Mario. “I almost called to ask you to forget about a DNA test.”
“I’m glad you didn’t.” He chuckles. “And just so you know, I’m never going to doubt your instincts again.”
We both fall silent.
“By the way,” he says a second later in a more confidential tone, “I don’t take back a word of what I said to you yesterday. It’s as true now as it was then.”
In bed, Jason shifts. “I have to go,” I say to Mario.
“We’ll talk later,” he says, and clicks off.
I’m just rising from my crouch on the carpet when Jason sits up in bed and frowns at me. His hair is mussed and he’s got stubble on his jaw, but from the penetration of his stare I get the idea he’s fully awake. “What does Mario Suave have to do with police business?” he asks me.
I almost tumble back onto the carpet. “What?”
“You heard me. You just had a conversation with Mario about DNA tests, ball bearings, murder, and Lisette Longley. What does he have to do with that stuff?”
I don’t say anything because I don’t know what to say. I forgot Jason might overhear that conversation. I was sure he’d fallen back asleep.
“Happy?” Jason gets out of bed and approaches me. He’s wearing pajama bottoms and a scowl. “What’s up with that?”
I’m too flustered to give better than a lame reply. “I’m not supposed to say anything.”
“So it’s a secret?” He arches his brows. “You two are keeping secrets?”
I have to tell Jason. I have to explain. So I do. “This information could hurt Mario professionally,” I add at the end. “Hollywood people don’t know about his F.B.I. work. If they did, his career would blow up.”
Jason is standing very close now, looking down at me with intense eyes. “So Hollywood people don’t know this. But you do. How long have you known?”
“He told me on Oahu.”
Clearly that comes as a shock. “Way back then, he told you?”
“He pretty much had to. At one point he pulled out his F.B.I. badge and he knew I saw it.”
“Still. Wow. I’m sure he could’ve made some excuse. But he didn’t. He trusted you with his innermost secrets even when he barely knew you.”
Jason looks away. I know he’s thinking that the connection between Mario and me goes even deeper than he thought.
It’s late enough now that there’s noise in the hotel. I hear the next-door shower start to pound and a squeaky room-service cart rolls past our door.
Jason turns his gaze back to me. “So now the cops think that woman Lisette was murdered?”
“By a ball bearing. Apparently it was used as a projectile.” I leave out that it was shot from backstage. I don’t want to get into that unless I have to.
“It sounded like you had something to do with the DNA test.”
There’s no getting around it. “I was the one who found the ball bearing.”
Very slowly Jason nods. His eyes never leave my face. “So you were right. That woman was murdered.” He steps back and runs a hand through his hair. “At least now Kimberly is off the hook.” When I don’t say anything, he nears me again. “She is, right?”
Again I don’t know what to say. “Of course it’s very unlikely Kimberly murdered Lisette. But the ball bearing was shot from backstage and—”
“Oh, I get it. Now you believe Kimberly was backstage. Now that she could have shot a ball bearing at Lisette, you believe her.”
“You think I’m not being fair.”
“You got that right.”
Jason spins away from me. I feel a terrible hollowness inside, but this still isn’t over.
He turns back to face me again. His eyes are so cold and distant that he doesn’t even look like my Jason anymore. “You know, Happy, I was never going to fall in love with Kimberly. I liked that she was into me, yeah, but that was as far as it was going to go.”
“I believe you.”
“The problem is you and Mario.” He rubs his forehead as if he can’t quite process everything he heard this morning. “It was bad enough when he was just a rich, famous, good-looking Hollywood stud. But now he’s an F.B.I. god, too. How am I supposed to compete with that?”
I step closer to Jason. “You don’t have to compete with that.”
He steps back. “How do you figure? This guy’s half in love with you. This guy who’s got everything. And then there’s you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nobody, and I mean nobody, thought that woman Lisette was murdered. You were the only one. And now you turn out to be right! Even the effing N.Y.P.D. got it wrong. How am I supposed to compete with that?”
I throw out my hands. “Jason, you don’t have to compete with any of this! Just be happy I’ve found something besides wearing a lined bikini that I’m actually good at.”
“You know who else is good at police work, Happy? Mario. He’s so good he works for the F.B.I. That’s another thing you two have in common.” He shakes his head. “It just keeps coming down to the same thing.”
He pauses for such a long moment that dread pools in my stomach. It’s as if we’re at some sort of terrible precipice and if he says another word, we’ll pitch over.
Then he does speak again, saying words I never thought I’d hear. “I don’t think you love me anymore.”
“Jason, that is so not true. I do love you.”
“I don’t think I’m enough
for you. I used to be, but I’m not anymore.”
“Please don’t say that. It’s not true.”
“I have to say it. It’s like the only thing I can think about. And if I’m not enough for you, Happy, then you’re not right for me, either.”
I reach out to him. “Jason—”
He shakes his head and I get the idea he might cry, which he never does. But he manages to go on speaking. “I think we both need some time. I’ve got to fly back to Charlotte today anyway.”
Our next-door neighbor chooses that moment to turn on the TV. For a few seconds until the volume goes down, news blares through the wall. Something about a hit-and-run. Somebody else’s tragedy.
I try to find my voice. “Jason, I really don’t want to say goodbye like this.”
“It’ll be okay.” He steps forward and grabs me in a hug, holding on to me so tightly it almost hurts. His skin is very warm and his heart is pounding. I don’t know how my own heart has managed to keep beating through all of this. I guess it’s stronger than I gave it credit for. “It’ll be okay,” he says again, and I wish I could believe him, but right now I’m not sure anything will ever be all right again.
He pulls back. “And don’t worry. I won’t say anything about Mario. I don’t know why it’s up to me to protect the guy, but I’ll do it.” He lets go of me and a shock of cold air hits my body. “I’m going to take a shower,” he says, and disappears into the bathroom. Moments later it’s our shower water that’s pounding.
I move through the next hour in a daze. Under overcast skies, Jason and I find a Starbucks and share a somber breakfast. He refuses my offer to accompany him to the airport, which I agree would be pointless, but that means I’m forced to stand outside the Sofitel and watch a taxicab take him away. I return to my apartment to find it empty, although Trixie and Shanelle come back moments later pumped after completing a three-mile run.
I burst into tears the moment I see them. My tale comes out in dribs and drabs, between pacing and sobs. I keep to myself the fact that Mario is with the F.B.I.; it’s bad enough I shared it once today and it should go no further. Eventually I sink onto a chair. “I know I’ve been dazzled by Mario and I know I’ve had my doubts about my marriage. But that doesn’t mean I want it to end.”
“Jason doesn’t want it to end, either,” Shanelle says. “He’s just thrown by how tight you and Mario are.”
“Every marriage has its rough patches,” Trixie says.
Shanelle looks thoughtful. “I know you’ve always got a plan, girl, and you like to stick to it, but maybe you can change some things up. You could move to Charlotte before Rachel goes overseas. Your mom would stay with her, I’m sure.”
“That would drive Rachel crazy,” I say.
“Maybe,” Trixie allows. “But it would show Jason how important he is to you.”
At what cost, though? I’d lose out on the last few months of my daughter going to high school. Of the last few months of her living at home. It’s hard not to burst into a fresh round of waterworks when I contemplate that bleak picture. Jason has admitted how hard it is for him to be away from Rachel and I’ve secretly been relieved that I haven’t yet had to share that pain.
But then again, I have to keep my priorities straight.
“Both of you are right,” I say. “I want to stay married to Jason and if that requires sacrifice, so be it.”
I’ve just finished making that portentous declaration when my phone vibrates with a text. I race across the apartment to pick it up. “It’s from Jason,” I report. It feels like a positive sign that he’s texting me at this moment.
“And?” Trixie murmurs a moment later.
I sniffle. Then I smile. “He says he loves me.”
Shanelle grabs me in another hug. We three have done a lot of that this morning. Her eyes are misty when she pulls back. “Trust in that, girl. It got you this far. And text him that you love him, too.”
I make quick work of that assignment.
“It’ll be fine,” Trixie assures me. “And in the meanwhile, you’ve got us. You’ve got us afterward, too, matter of fact.”
“And now why don’t I make a fresh pot of coffee,” Shanelle suggests, which launches us into the next topic of discussion. Murder.
I get a round of high fives for calling that one. Trixie’s eyes widen when I describe how I found the ball bearing. “I wonder if Lisette’s ghost was in the orchestra pit with you when you found it,” she breathes. “Maybe she led you to it. Maybe her ghost bumped into the music stand so you’d bend down to pick everything up and find the ball bearing that killed her.”
“You’re giving me the creeps, Trix,” Shanelle says, “and I don’t even believe in ghosts.” She turns to me. “Sorry for doubting you, girl.”
“No worries. I doubted me, too.”
“Whoever killed Lisette did a dang fine job of making it look like an accident,” Shanelle goes on. “You honestly think Kimberly could pull that off?”
“I’ve been asking myself that very same question. And you know what? That girl is pretty conniving. I bet she tried everything in the book to seduce Jason.”
“Not that it worked,” Shanelle points out. “Anyway, I don’t think Kimberly’s your killer. Seems to me she’s got too few brain cells.” She lowers her voice. “Reminds me of a certain hairdresser we all know.”
“Why are you always so mean to Cynthia?” Trixie cries. “If she had a good mom like we all did, she would’ve been a beauty queen, too. And who knows how many pageants she might’ve won.”
“Speaking of moms,” I say, “I wonder how my mom’s shoot went.” I call her to find out, but not before confirming with Dream Angel’s publicity department that she and Bennie have tickets to tonight’s preview. “Your fur’s supposed to be repaired by later today, so you should be able to wear it to the theater,” I tell her when I get her on the phone.
“Bennie thought something was up last night when we went out for dinner and all I had on was that red sweater from Chico’s.”
“You’re lucky it was such a warm day.” I’m still peeved that my mom never told Bennie she almost lost the fur he gave her.
“I made us go out to dinner at 5:30 so it wouldn’t be too cold. By the way, that hussy Kimberly is supposed to show me the photos in about an hour. Want to help pick out the good ones?”
“I would, but I have to get to the theater.” I received another summons from Junior. I wonder what he wants now. Maybe for me to buy him more fancy tea.
“I’ll get that Kimberly to show you the photos later,” my mom says. “I wouldn’t mind if you made sure your father sees them when they’re all printed up. Especially the ones of me and Bennie.”
“So you’re still using Bennie to tweak Pop? Didn’t you think about that at least a little yesterday, like I asked you to?”
“So you won’t do it. Fine. I’ll ask Rachel.”
I shake my head. It’s hopeless.
I don’t even bring up the wrenching discussion Jason and I had this morning. If my mother knew there were trouble in my marriage, she’d make a beeline for St. Patrick’s Cathedral to pray that God split us asunder. Even though divorce is against Catholic doctrine, she’s opined more than once that the Almighty would make an exception in my case.
Given my fashion-show rendezvous this morning—which has both Trixie and Shanelle green with envy—I dress carefully. I don’t have anything with me that Violet Honeycutt would admire, but I can attempt understated yet chic. I choose an all-black, long-sleeved, bateau-neck dress with ruching at the side and back seams. It fits like a dream. With stilettos and my new asymmetrical earrings, my hair loose and my makeup meticulously applied, I feel confident heading out the door.
“Please tell Tonya we’ll be there very soon,” Trixie calls as I depart. As opening night nears, Tonya is fretting about her beauty-queen stride and has requested an emergency refresher course. Of course all three of us are delighted to oblige, but it’s clear Tonya especially longs f
or Trixie’s reassuring presence.
I find our star in her dressing room wearing jeans, a black turtleneck, and a wool scarf even though she’s indoors. I perch on her pink settee to tell her my BFFs will join her shortly.
“No rush,” she whispers. “Sorry about this”—she gestures to the scarf—“but I’m trying to protect my throat. I gargle with salt twice a day and I’m drinking tea with honey pretty much nonstop. I’m so terrified I’ll get sick and lose my voice for opening night.”
In which case her stand-in would fill in for her. Sort of like Sherry Phillips providing Sebastian Cantwell with the testimonial I flubbed, although that was hardly the biggest opportunity of my career. Nevertheless, I feel Tonya’s pain. “Just relax. You’ll be fine.”
She twists open a lipstick and tests the color on the inside of her wrist. “Did you notice the cops are back? They’re crawling all over the stage. What’s that all about, do you think?”
I know, of course, but I feel I shouldn’t say. It’s probably not yet public information that Lisette’s death is now considered a homicide. “Maybe just wrapping up loose ends,” I suggest. Then I get an idea. “By the way, I heard the weirdest gossip the other day that Lisette and Kimberly were at each other’s throats. Did you ever see—”
“Oh, my God, yes!” Tonya hisses. “For a while it was a catfight every day of the week. But that’s because Lisette kept trying to get Kimberly fired.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“Are you kidding me?” I screech. “Why?”
“Because Lisette hated the publicity photos Kimberly took of her. I never saw them, so I don’t know if they were really bad or if it was just Lisette being Lisette. But she insisted they be redone and not by Kimberly. Jerry had to do them. He took my shots and he is extremely good.”
“Did that settle it?”
“It should have, but you know what Lisette was like.” Tonya re-caps the lipstick. “Even after her second photo session, when she found a photo she loved, she was still trying to get Kimberly fired. I heard all about it from Jody in publicity. You know her?”
I don’t, but I know it’s the publicity department that hires—and presumably fires—the show’s photographers.
Ms America and the Brouhaha on Broadway Page 25
