Speak Now

by Margaret Dumas

  He peered at me. “Forget her. What are you doing? You want to lose your buddy and run away with me?”

  I looked over my shoulder, then back to my husband. “I could do that.” I directed a shooing gesture toward Flank, climbed into the car, wrapped my arms around Jack’s neck, and started to snore.

  “Long day?” he guessed. He’s very clever.

  “How did you know when I’d be leaving? How long have you been here?”

  He pulled out into the traffic with a frown on his face. “I called you.”

  “I know I’m tired, but I don’t think I blacked out an entire conversation.”

  “I talked to Chip half an hour ago. He said your purse was ringing, so he picked it up.”

  “Oh.” I sat back and buckled up.

  “Oh?” Jack said frostily.

  “What?”

  He cleared his throat. “Charley, why didn’t you hear the phone?”

  I was baffled. “I guess I left my purse somewhere.”

  He nodded. “And where did you leave your gun?”

  Oh.

  “Charley, unless you want Flank to stand next to you every minute of the day—which I’d like, by the way—you have to promise to keep your gun within reach.” He took his eyes off the road long enough to give me an I’m-totally-serious look.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Okay?”

  “Okay. Where are you taking me for a nice, quiet dinner?”

  He sighed in a god-give-me-strength sort of way. “Noodles?”

  “Yum.”

  He headed for Mifune in Japantown, and it wasn’t until I was steaming my face over a bowl of soba with big pieces of shrimp tempura floating on top that I remembered Simon was probably somewhere nearby.

  Simon. “Oh!” I yelped. “I can’t believe I haven’t told you what Simon told me this morning. Jack—”

  “Hang on a minute,” Jack said, having slurped a mouthful of noodles in that effortless, completely dignified way that only the truly dedicated noodle-eaters of the world can master. “I need to tell you something, too.”

  I hated it when he sounded that serious. So far that tone of voice had only meant danger and disaster. “What?”

  “Inspector Yahata called today.”

  I stopped swirling my noodles. “They’ve identified the woman? From the tub?”

  He nodded.

  “Who is it?” I asked. “Is there a connection?”

  “Her name didn’t sound familiar to me. I told Yahata I’d ask you. Does the name Nancy Tyler mean anything to you?”

  I must have dropped my chopsticks because I heard what sounded like a very loud crash. I looked at Jack with a weird sort of tunnel-vision. Then I didn’t see him at all. I only saw the pale face and lifeless eyes of a woman who’d written a beautiful play.

  ***

  I honestly don’t remember anything else until we were back at the hotel and Jack was pressing a glass of brandy into my hands. I sipped, then registered Jack’s worried face. I gulped.

  “Inspector Yahata is on his way,” Jack told me.

  I nodded and held out my empty glass. “We should probably call Simon, too.”

  ***

  They arrived within minutes of each other. Jack hadn’t told Simon why he’d called, just that it was an emergency. Although he looked more like himself than when he’d left the theater, and smelled refreshingly of eucalyptus aromatherapy oils, the color drained completely from Simon’s face when Inspector Yahata introduced himself.

  “Bloody hell.” He sank into the nearest chair. “What now?”

  The detective lasered a look at me, which I took as an invitation to explain things. I told Simon about finding the dead woman on our first day back in town. “And now she’s finally been identified,” I said. “Simon, it was Nancy Tyler.”

  Simon let out a sort of strangled cry. He reached blindly for the drink Jack offered. “How?” he asked. “Why?”

  The corners of Inspector Yahata’s mouth went down infinitesimally. “How was with a combination of sedatives, first introduced in powder form with red wine—probably to disguise the taste. Following that, the fatal dose was administered by a hypodermic needle into the back of the right thigh.” He held his notebook at the ready, but he didn’t consult it. “Although the body was discovered nude—” he paused long enough for his eyes to flicker toward Simon— “there was no evidence of a sexual aspect to the crime.”

  “Good Lord,” Simon whispered. “The poor woman. She was…” He turned to me. “I can’t…”

  I shook my head. I didn’t trust myself to speak.

  “Why, for God’s sake?” Simon finally demanded. “Why would anyone kill her? And why leave her in a hotel bathtub?” His eyes widened. “Your hotel bathtub.” He looked wildly from me to Jack. “You hadn’t even met her yet. What possible reason…”

  “Yes,” the detective said, when it became clear Simon was incapable of finishing his sentence. “I was wondering about that myself.” The air around him buzzed with the question.

  Jack and I both knew exactly why Nancy had been left in our hotel room. But—given the fact that Jack was under some obligation not to go blabbing to the authorities about whatever clandestine operations he’d once been a part of—helping Inspector Yahata in his investigation was going to be a little tricky. Which is why I let Jack do the talking.

  He was taking his time. When he finally spoke, I realized he was leading the detective in the direction I would have taken if I hadn’t known about Jack’s past.

  “It appears as though someone is trying to terrify my wife,” he stated. “This woman’s death and Cece’s kidnapping must be related in some way.”

  The detective raised his chin. “I’m not generally a believer in coincidences.”

  “The way Charley was set up to find the playwright’s body,” Jack continued. “It indicates the killer knew exactly when we were coming home, where we were staying—”

  Yahata’s personal electrical field began to crackle. “Who knew your travel plans?”

  “Everybody.” Simon sounded surprised that he’d answered. We all looked at him. “The party, remember, darling?” He bit his thumbnail. “Everyone from the Rep knew. Brenda, some people from Eileen’s office…” His eyes wandered, then focused on the detective. “Lots of people.”

  Yahata turned briskly to me. “I’ll need a full list.”

  I nodded with a sinking feeling. Taking the Inspector’s focus off of Jack was going to be a full-time job.

  The detective stayed a while longer, and he and Jack kept talking, but I had trouble focusing on the conversation. When Yahata had gone, and Simon had staggered down into a taxi, I finally let out my breath and gave the tears permission to come. But they didn’t. Maybe I was still in shock.

  Jack held me. “It’s all my fault,” I said eventually. “She’s dead because of me.”

  “Shhhh,” he whispered. “It’s not your fault.” Then, grimly, “It’s mine.”

  ***

  The next day, early, I called Eileen. I knew, as the person who’d made our travel arrangements, she’d be on the top of Yahata’s interrogation list. I told her all about Nancy Tyler.

  It took her a surprisingly short time to start asking questions. “Did you know her?”

  “No. I think Simon was the only one who actually met her in person.”

  “Really?” she said. “How did the police treat him? Do you think they suspect him?”

  “Simon? Why would anyone suspect him?”

  “Maybe I’ve just been married to too many lawyers, but I have the impression that it’s not a bad idea to assume you’re a suspect whenever you talk to the police.”

  “Don’t be silly,” I said. “In that case Jack and I are suspects—and you will be too, and so will everyone else who was at the homecoming party you threw for me.”

  “Maybe,” Eileen said cautiously. “But Simon knew her, and none of the rest of us did.”

  “Oh, come on,” I insist
ed. “Can you really imagine Simon murdering anyone?”

  She thought about it. “Only if they got between him and a marked-down Armani at the Saks men’s sale,” she said. “So did they tell you why it took so long for them to identify the body?”

  “Nobody realized she was missing,” I said. “The only family she had was a sister. She thought Nancy had gone off with her new boyfriend, and she only got worried enough to call the police a couple of days ago when she went to Nancy’s place and found her cat nearly starved to death.”

  “New boyfriend?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Cece went off with her new boyfriend, too, and ended up held hostage.”

  “I know.”

  I heard a quick intake of breath. “Charley,” Eileen said slowly, “when you had all those questions about that guy I was seeing, did you think he was the same one who kidnapped Cece?”

  That was the problem with having a smart friend. “Um…”

  “You did,” she stated. There was a pause. “He might have been.”

  I’ve seen Eileen go through childbirth and four divorces. She doesn’t get hysterical. The worse things get, the more she freezes into a big, calm, block of ice. About this time in the conversation she could have given the Titanic a nasty bump.

  “Leenie? Are you all right?”

  “Certainly,” she said. “I’m simply taking a moment to absorb the fact that there appears to be a serial criminal, who has killed at least once, roaming freely around the city and targeting women connected to you. That’s all.”

  Oh. That’s all.

  Chapter 21

  The police were a constant presence at the theater for the first few days following the identification of our playwright’s body. They questioned everybody. Judging by the number of interviews, they were especially interested in what Simon had to say. Although it could have just seemed that way to me because Eileen had suggested him as their favorite suspect. She quietly lined up a lawyer for him just in case.

  As far as I could tell, the authorities had made no progress towards finding Nancy Tyler’s killer. They speculated that the murderer might have sneaked into the suite behind a maid or a bellman who had delivered the assorted homecoming presents during the day, and done something to the lock in order to bring the body in unobserved some time later. Either that or he’d stolen a passkey. And she might have been only unconscious when he brought her to the room. She might have still been clothed. The fatal dose might have been injected somewhere else or right there in the tub. There were no clues.

  Inspector Yahata finally made arrangements for us to view the tapes from the lobby security cameras, but they didn’t show anyone suspicious. Jack and I spent an afternoon watching the grainy black-and-white images. People came and went in jerky motions, but Jack recognized no one, and I thought everyone looked equally sinister.

  There was no security tape of our hallway. The camera that was supposed to film it had developed mechanical problems about an hour before we checked in. Like Yahata, I’m not a big believer in coincidences.

  Flank was joined at the theater by three more bodyguards. My clever story about him being my personal trainer had never seen the light of day. After learning about the playwright’s murder, the cast and crew were more than happy to accept the existence of a security force at the theater.

  The next time I saw him, I told Inspector Yahata about Brian’s disappearance. He listened with intense politeness but didn’t seem terribly interested in pursuing the matter. I didn’t blame him. I wasn’t so sure there was anything suspicious about Brian’s disappearance anymore. Eventually I’d gotten around to showing his resignation note to Martha, who’d admitted the possibility that the handwriting was her ex-boyfriend’s hurried scrawl. Then she’d burst into tears and I’d had to send her home for some therapeutic time at her knitting machine. Or her cauldron. Whatever.

  Nancy Tyler’s sister flew the body back to Boston to be buried in the family plot. When I got in touch with her, to see if there was anything I could do, she asked if she and her husband could come see Nancy’s play on opening night. Life went on.

  ***

  After two weeks of rehearsals, I wanted to slap the entire cast. Olivia, playing the mother at top volume as a semi-hysterical neurotic attention-seeking bitch, wasn’t acting. And Victor, although he played the father nicely, was clinging to his script like a life preserver.

  When I’d coaxed him into going paperless for one tiny bit where he only had one line, he’d completely frozen, then, turning red under everyone’s critical gaze, had hissed “Line!” at Lisa. Her tone dripping with condescension, she’d given him the line, “Hello, Anna.” Victor had stormed off to his dressing room, trailing a surprisingly versatile string of obscenities behind him. Lisa had looked from his retreating back to me and shrugged.

  “I’ve heard worse,” she said. I instantly labeled her a treasure.

  I suspected Victor was drinking. And I suspected Paul, playing the love interest, was on drugs.

  “Perhaps he’s just excitable,” Simon protested when I shared my thoughts with him. We were seated in the dark orchestra seats, comparing notes on the first run-through of Act One.

  “Excitable? He sweated and twitched his way through three scenes this morning, then came back after a break absolutely fine.” I scribbled furiously in the margin of my script. “A complete personality change in the space of a ten-minute break has got to scream drug use, don’t you think?” That’s the way it had always been with Cece, anyway.

  “Assuming you’re right, what should we do?” Simon asked.

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “I don’t actually have proof he’s on anything.”

  “Although that would explain the sleeves,” Simon said reflectively.

  “What sleeves?”

  “I, ah, suggested to Martha that we might want to show a little bicep on the boy. Costume-wise, you know.”

  “Uh huh.” I knew.

  “But she said he had tattoos. Not period, of course, so it was either sleeves or makeup, and sleeves are easier.”

  “And hide things like track marks,” I said.

  “Well, darling, what are we going to do?”

  I thought about it, then sighed. “I think, for the first time in my life, I’m going to ask my cousin Cece for advice.”

  “Good Lord,” he said. “I think I just saw a pig fly up to the balcony. Perhaps it was fleeing hell, which has just frozen over. Or—”

  “Shut up and tell me about the advance ticket sales.”

  The news had been full of the story of the murdered play wright for a few days, and, in a sad commentary on our society, that had sold a lot of tickets. Although it had never been mentioned that I had discovered Nancy’s body in my hotel room—I suspected Harry’s influence had something to do with that omission—it had been repeatedly reported that a play written by the murdered woman was in production by the Rep. Curiosity being what it is, we were now close to sold out for the first few weeks of the run.

  Which was scheduled to begin in exactly one month. Which accounted for the squeezed-accordion feeling I had in my chest most of the time.

  “How are things with the rest of the cast?” Simon asked. “It’s clear you loath Olivia and Victor, and you think Paul’s a junkie, but aside from that?”

  I squinted at the stage, now blissfully free of actors. “Sally’s fine when she’s on, but she’s a kid.” I shrugged. “She gets bored waiting around so she goes looking for trouble.”

  “And,” Simon’s voice took on a reverent tone, “how is The Girl?”

  “Regan?”

  “The very one.”

  “She’s…” I hated, absolutely hated, to say it. “She’s great.”

  Simon patted my hand. “Don’t worry, darling. I’m sure she’s bad at something.”

  ***

  I’d gotten into the habit of walking to the theater in the mornings with Flank, and usually Jack picked me up at night. But he called around
eight and said he and Mike were going to work late, so Flank would drive me home. The staff of bodyguards may have increased, but Flank was still pretty much stuck to me. At least it cut down on the conversational burden.

  I was too tired to think straight when I got back to the hotel. I curled up on the sofa, considered ordering room service, and worried about Jack.

  He’d been spending most of his time with Mike, and if anyone asked I told them he was working on the business plan for the computer start-up. Of course that was a lie. He and Mike were hunting for the killer.

  Jack remained the irritatingly strong and silent type when it came to the investigation. At first I expected him to come home any day announcing he’d captured the killer and made the world safe again—or at least as safe as it had ever been. But no announcements were forthcoming. It was maddening how little he told me about it all. I’d come to expect only a few frustrated words now and then, followed by a quick change of subject.

  As time went on, I became more and more convinced the truth was they’d found nothing. Which meant, once again, that the killer would have to find us.

  I must have fallen asleep because Jack woke me up when he unlocked the hotel door.

  “Sorry, Pumpkin, I thought you’d be in bed by now.”

  It was only eleven, but I’d been coming home so tired lately that I’d drop off regardless of the time. The catch was, I’d wake up at about three every morning and obsess for a few hours about the pace at which the actors were coming up to speed, the safety of everyone I knew, the three pounds I’d gained, who might be carrying on Macbeth’s work, whether my husband had ever killed anyone, and anything else that popped into my head.

  I referred to that as my thinking time.

  “What’s happened?” I moved my legs to make room for Jack on the sofa.

  “Hang on.” He stuck his head into the second bedroom, where Flank was at his post, and told him he could leave for the night. I heard a response that may have been “okey dokey,” but probably wasn’t.

  When we were alone Jack sank down next to me and pulled my feet onto his lap. “How’d it go at the theater today?”

  “The usual. Tears, obscenities, possible drug abuse…all in Act One.” I stretched. “What about you?”