Speak Now

by Margaret Dumas

  The two men turned to look at us. “I think we’re about to find out.”

  They approached, the manager speaking first. “Mr. Fairfax, Miss Van Leeuwen, this is Inspector Yahata. He’s in charge of the investigation.”

  So he probably wasn’t fifteen. “Hi,” I said.

  “I understand you’ve already given statements to the uniformed officer,” Yahata said briskly. He gave us each a slight smile. “I hope you don’t mind going over it all again for me.”

  I didn’t imagine it would make much difference if we did mind. The detective seemed to be operating on his own electrical current. He buzzed with energy, from the quick movement with which he produced and opened a small sleek notebook to the overtly curious way his quick gaze shifted from Jack’s face to mine. He raised his eyebrows expectantly and I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a spark fly up from his tousled, spiky hair.

  Jack spoke. “We checked in, we told the concierge it wouldn’t be necessary for him to give us the tour, we decided to freshen up, and we found her.”

  The detective blinked. “You didn’t enter the bathroom?”

  “Not more than a step or two,” I said. “Then Jack stopped me. It was obvious…” I hesitated.

  “Quite,” the detective said crisply. He was taking notes, writing with a thin silver pen while maintaining eye contact with us. I couldn’t help but wonder if that level of multitasking was entirely human. “And you say you don’t know the woman?” he asked.

  “We don’t,” Jack said firmly.

  “No,” I agreed. “Do you know who she is?”

  I think the question startled him. “Not yet. And you didn’t take anything from the room? From any of the rooms?”

  “No,” Jack said. “The bellmen took our luggage to another room, but we hadn’t opened anything yet.”

  The detective nodded and noted.

  “What would we have taken?” I asked. “Is something missing? Do you think she might have been robbed?”

  Again Yahata registered surprise. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to ask him questions. Nobody had ever told me the etiquette of being interrogated. After appearing to think about it for a second, he answered. “Everything is missing.”

  “Her clothes,” the hotel manager supplied. “There aren’t any. She must have walked down the hotel hallway naked before she…” he trailed off, looking over his shoulder towards the bedroom door.

  “So you think it was a suicide,” Jack said.

  “Oh, well—” the manager began.

  “We don’t think anything, yet,” Yahata said.

  “Are there security cameras in the hallway?” I asked.

  A look of annoyance flashed across the hotel manager’s face. “Yes, but—”

  “That will be all for now,” Yahata interrupted him. “Will we be able to reach you at the hotel if we have further questions?”

  “Please,” the manager rushed before we could reply. “Accept my deepest apologies for this…inconvenience. The management would like to express its gratitude for your understanding, and discretion, by insisting that your stay with us be entirely complimentary.”

  Call me cynical, but I think the key word in all of that was “discretion.” The if-you-don’t-go-running-to-the-papers-with-this-thing-we’ll-pick-up-your-hotel-tab kind of discretion. It was probably the man’s job to handle damage control, but I was a little miffed that he assumed we’d need a bribe to keep from dashing off to the nearest media outlet.

  “Thanks,” I said. “We’re just moving to the area, and it might be a couple of months before we find a house.” I gave him a charming smile. “Let alone go through all the paperwork of buying one. You’re very generous.”

  The poor guy looked like he was reliving some fateful moment of his youth when he’d dropped the ball in front of the whole town during the big game. At around three thousand dollars a night, he’d just offered to comp us to the tune of at least $180,000. And that was before the damage we could do with room service. His left eye began to twitch.

  Oh, hell. I can only torture someone for so long. “Never mind,” I patted his arm. “It wasn’t your fault. Let’s just forget the whole thing.” I looked toward the bedroom door. “Or try to.”

  Yahata shut his notebook with a snap. The manager and I both jumped. Jack extended his hand. “Inspector, if there’s anything we can do.”

  “Thank you,” the detective replied. He turned to me. “I hope you find a suitable home, Mrs. Fairfax.” He stressed my married name slightly. It may just have been a random bolt of electricity, but I think his eyes sparked.

  ***

  Jack installed me on the sofa in our new suite and poured me a large Glenfiddich on the rocks. I drank it gratefully and watched him pour another for himself. “Jack, have you ever seen a dead person before?”

  His face remained neutral as he sat next to me. “Yes.”

  I’d thought so. He’d been too calm back there for this to have been his first. “How? I mean, under what circumstances?”

  “Sad,” he said evenly. “Sad circumstances.”

  I leaned my head back on his arm and didn’t say anything for a while. “I’m glad this room is a little different from the other one. It won’t seem so…” I couldn’t think of a word that didn’t seem melodramatic, so I gave up.

  Jack wrapped his arms around me. “Still a nice view, though.”

  The room was pretty much the same in layout. A central living room with two bed/bath combinations, one on either side. But the color scheme was different, various shades of blue, and the furniture was more chic townhouse than gentlemen’s club.

  “This wasn’t exactly the welcome home I’d imagined.”

  “Aren’t bad starts supposed to be good luck?” Jack asked. “I’m sure I’ve heard that somewhere.”

  “You’re such a good liar.” I craned my head around to look at the pile of presents that had been transferred to our new room after a thorough examination by the police. “Are you hungry? It looks like there’s something to eat.” I got up to investigate.

  There was the inevitable fruit basket from the hotel management, and a bottle of Tattinger on now-melted ice from Eileen. A bunch of roses was from the gang at the theater. A gorgeous orchid had a note from my friend Brenda. A cheerful bouquet of brightly decorated cookies on stems filled a flower pot. I opened the card that was stuck in among them.

  Charley,

  I expect you and your husband for brunch on Sunday. A car will pick you up at 11:00.

  Suddenly the whisky hit and I felt the floor go out from under me. The note was from my Uncle Harry. It wasn’t signed, but it didn’t have to be. Harry was the only person I knew who could make a brunch date sound as casual as a mandatory court appearance. It wasn’t an invitation—it was a command.

  Damn.

  I felt Jack approach me from behind and I took a deep breath. “Want a cookie?” I asked, tucking the note away and hoping my voice wasn’t too tight.

  He slipped his hands around my waist. “No.”

  “How about some warm champagne?”

  He pulled me closer. “Not now.”

  I leaned back against him and closed my eyes. “To hell with him,” I murmured.

  “To hell with who?” Jack asked, exploring my earlobe with his tongue.

  “Never mind.” To hell with Harry, I thought. And his investigators. And while I was at it, to hell with dead bodies, electric-shock detectives, insecure hotel managers, and everything else except Jack’s slow swaying motion.

  We stayed like that for a while, then Jack lifted me up, carried me to one of the bedrooms, and did his damnedest to make me forget the past few hours.

  It nearly worked. At one point I actually heard bells. How bridal, I thought absently. They were persistent, though, and after a while began to be irritating.

  “Jack,” I whispered. “Jack!”

  “Hmrft?”

  “Do you hear bells?”

  He paused, breathing heavily. “It’s th
e doorbell. Someone won’t go away.”

  The ringing started again, this time accompanied by voices. Voices I recognized. “Hey!” I tried to disentangle myself from my husband and the bedclothes.

  “Pumpkin…wait…no…” Jack protested.

  “Jack, I know them. They won’t go away until the cops come.” The ringing and calling was now accompanied by heavy banging on the door. I grabbed a hotel robe off a hook in the closet. “And I’ve had enough cops today. Besides,” I threw another robe at him. “Don’t you want to meet my friends?”

  Chapter 2

  I opened the door, shouting “Shut up, shut up, for the love of God!” as they came tumbling through in a tangle of arms, legs, coats, and champagne bottles. It was chaos worthy of the Marx brothers.

  “Darling! You are here! I was convinced they got it wrong! I couldn’t think you’d have gotten back and not called us all instantly!” This was shouted by Simon, the artistic director of the Rep and the most dramatic man I’d ever known—which is saying something. He grabbed me by both shoulders, bent me backwards in an elaborate dip, and kissed me with great flourish. He tasted distinctly of Veuve Clicquot.

  It was astonishing that Simon could plant a kiss on me without interrupting his own stream of words. “Charley, you can’t possibly have intended to skulk back into town without a suitable greeting, can you? And what in the hell are you doing in a bathrobe at this hour? Not that you don’t pull it off admirably, darling, but it’s the absolute shank of the evening and your entourage—”

  “Charley!” Brenda pushed Simon aside and threw her arms around me. “I can’t believe you’re back! Why didn’t you say something? You haven’t called in weeks! I’ve missed you so much!” She squeezed me, whispering in my ear. “Is everything all right? Are you okay?” She pulled back to give me a searching look.

  “I’m fine,” I reassured her, squeezing her hands. “In fact—”

  “Well, you could have called,” Eileen asserted, standing off to one side. “Oh be quiet, Simon!” This in an attempt to still the running commentary on how I looked, how he looked, and what a lovely pile of presents was over on the table. Surprisingly, it worked. Simon grinned amiably and stopped talking.

  “Of course,” Eileen continued, “I saw your flight had gotten in all right from the airline’s web site, but a phone call wouldn’t have killed you.” She looked at me severely.

  “I’m sorry, sweetie,” I said. “But we just barely got settled in the room, which is fabulous and thank you so much—” she waved the gratitude away “—and with one thing and another I haven’t had a moment, and I’m so sorry—”

  Eileen waved again, impatiently. “You know I’m not angry,” she said. “I was just worried that everything might not have gone smoothly.”

  Somehow, I didn’t have it in me to tell her how spectacularly unsmoothly it had gone. I decided the story of the woman in the bathtub could wait. I really didn’t want to talk about it any more that night. In fact, I never wanted to think about it again.

  “Who’s ‘we’?” Brenda asked. “You said ‘we’ just got to the hotel, and with one thing and another…”

  “And who’s this?” Simon asked, catching sight of Jack as he came out of the bedroom tying his robe. “And is he one thing or another?” He crossed his arms and gave Jack an appraising look.

  Eileen slapped him lightly on the arm and hissed “Behave! I told you she was bringing a friend.”

  “Some friend,” he murmured.

  Jack crossed the room to stand behind me, his arms around my shoulders, and there was a moment when all my friends were speechless. Unprecedented. Jack broke the silence.

  “Hi.”

  Then, of course, they all talked at once.

  “And who might you be?” Simon.

  “Hello,” with hand extended, “you must be…” Eileen.

  “Hi! I’m Brenda!”

  “I don’t believe Charley mentioned you.” Simon.

  “Are you and Charley…?” Brenda.

  I tried to shut them up and failed, so I simply shouted over them. I pointed to each, calling off their names in turn. “Eileen, you remember I told you about her? She arranged the car and hotel? She’s my financial manager?” And she looked great. Tall and slim with wavy dark hair and dark eyes. Usually her style was businesslike verging on frumpy, but tonight she looked positively stylish in a crisp white shirt with a turned-up collar and black silk pants above high-heeled sandals.

  “And this is Simon?” I continued. “From the theater? Simon, shut up and say hello!” Simon paused long enough to toss his head, sending a ripple through his blond, well-cut hair. He had the long, lean, aristocratic look of an Englishman to the manor born, but I’d met his parents in London and I could only conclude that his high cheekbones were a fluke. Simon enjoyed describing himself as “omnisexual,” and he lingered as he shook Jack’s hand, asking “Wherever did Charley find you?”

  Jack looked at me. “Well—”

  “Later!” I interrupted, and pushed Brenda in front of Simon. “This is Brenda.” I could have continued by saying “the nicest woman in the world” and I didn’t only because she would just have gotten self-conscious. But she was.

  Brenda and her mother had been the closest thing I’d had to a real family after my parents had died, and there’s still nobody who can touch Mrs. Gee for the pure comfort of sticky rice wrapped in bamboo leaves.

  Brenda hadn’t changed, I saw with relief. She was still slightly plump, her glasses still slid down her nose, she still wore her long straight hair in a clip at the back of her neck, and she still dressed in loose, flowing clothes. She looked wonderful.

  “It’s great to meet you,” Jack said. “Charley’s told me so much about you.” If I hadn’t known better I’d have believed him.

  Then they were off again, firing questions on top of each other, only certain words—“Boyfriend?” “American?” “Staying?”—emerging from the babble.

  “Hey, hey, hey!” I yelled, finally audible after the last shout. “Everybody, just calm down!” I straightened my robe, pulling the belt tighter for added dignity. “Sheesh, you’d think I’d never had a man in my room before!”

  “Well, darling—” Simon began, but stopped when I gave him a look.

  “Everybody,” I announced serenely, “this is Jack.” Before they could start up again, I added the phrase I’d been rehearsing for two days. “Jack is my husband.”

  A moment’s stunned silence and then—pandemonium.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Darling, what can you mean?”

  “Husband? You got married?”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “You got married!”

  “You are serious!”

  “Darling!”

  Jack was great, answering three streams of questions while being pulled and pushed into one set of arms after another. Finally he landed in mine and I held on.

  “Okay, everybody! Everybody!” I tried to bring order to the chaos. “Thank you! Thank you!” One last kiss from a tearful Brenda and they finally calmed down. “And now,” I paused, “go away!”

  I must have sagged a bit because Eileen snapped into action. “Of course you’re exhausted, and of course we should go,” she said, brushing her lips past my cheek. “We’ll have plenty of time to hear all about everything when you’ve had a chance to get some rest.”

  “Um,” Simon looked awkward, and not just because a weep ing Brenda was wiping her glasses on his shirttail. “What about…” he looked heavenward.

  “What about…shit!” Eileen’s hand flew to her mouth. “The party!”

  “What party?” I asked.

  Brenda gulped hugely and stopped crying. “The party!”

  “Hello?” I said, getting a little nervous. “Don’t tell me more people are about to start banging on the door.”

  “Certainly not,” Simon said smoothly. “They’re all upstairs.” He registered my look of incomprehension. “I
n the bar…” Patiently… “the Top of the Mark?” He pointed up.

  Oh, good God. “Who? How many?”

  Simon shrugged. “Everybody.”

  Eileen assumed command. “Well, never mind. It was a stupid idea. We just thought a little welcome home thing. Of course we didn’t know…” she trailed off and looked at Jack, who was observing the exchange with obvious amusement. “But it doesn’t matter. It was thoughtless of us, and you’re tired, so we’ll just…” A crease appeared between her brows.

  “We’ll just pop upstairs and explain, and…” Simon waved his hands magically. “Everything will be fine.”

  Brenda said “I’m sure everyone will understand.”

  I looked at Jack. He shrugged. “As long as we’re up…”

  I kissed him loudly on the cheek. “You’re wonderful.” Then, to Eileen, “Give us five minutes to throw on some clothes.”

  ***

  Simon hadn’t been exaggerating. Everybody was there. From the Rep, there was Martha the costume designer, Chip the stage manager, and Paris the set designer. There were also older friends, writers and editors from the literary magazine Brenda and I had started after college, artists I’d come in contact with when Eileen and I had briefly had a gallery in the Mission district, and one or two lawyers and accountants from Eileen’s firm that I’d gotten to know over the years.

  The Top of the Mark, as its name implies, is on the top floor of the hotel. It has windows on all sides and each view is better than the last, but the spectacle of the city at night was lost on me as I popped from one table to another, exchanging polite air kisses with some and warm hugs with others, completely forgetting how tired I’d been and totally losing track of time.

  “Charley, has Simon filled you in on the new play?” Chip got right to the point as soon as we’d said hello. He was in his late twenties and it appeared he hadn’t managed to get much of a life since I’d seen him last, although I had heard he’d gotten an assistant, which might help. He was intense and focused and cared deeply about the Rep. Other people were chatting and enjoying the music of Hi Neighbor, the three-piece jazz combo, but Chip wanted to get down to work.