Kenny-Anne reached out and swallowed me in a huge hug. “Abby! Thank you so much for that great story about Colette. And for talking about her and sharing your memories. I was so upset. There was no way I could have gotten up there and opened my mouth at all. You actresses are just amazing with your ability to suck it in! Emotion, I mean.” Kenny-Anne beamed at me and I tried to decide if I’d been complimented or insulted. I decided to go with the former. Best not to make an enemy of Colette’s cousin. Just because this woman didn’t have terrific diplomacy skills didn’t make her a killer.
I smiled. “Thanks. I really hope this was a memory people could keep of Colette—she was very gifted at making others laugh.”
“Well, yes, that is so much better than seeing her as you last saw her.”
No lie.
“So, Kenny-Anne, how long are you staying in Manhattan?” I asked.
“Oh! A long time. Actually, Kaleb and I moved here about two months ago. Oh! I’m so sorry. Where are my manners? This is Kaleb Townshend. My husband. And he knows who you are of course. He loves Endless Time. And of course, being male he just thought the cat fight between you and Letitia was Emmy worthy.” She stated this with a twinge of what I took as either resentment or fear that the pretty boy might love a TV show (or its actresses) more than his brand new wife.
The gorgeous man shook my hand. “She’s not used to introducing me that way, I suppose. We’ve only been married two months.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Townshend. And, congratulations.”
He smiled. “Make it Kaleb. Thank you. It’s been a crazy few months dealing with a wedding and moving and now this tragedy. But Kenny-Anne is right. You made this a better day with your wonderful stories.”
I turned red and couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t sound egotistic or stupid. Johnny jumped in. “What do you do, Kaleb? I mean, for a living?”
“I’m a broker. Loved or hated by clients depending on the news I give them but always in great demand because I do have a way with divining which trades are going to net those clients lots of money, which admittedly also does the same for me. Sadly, I don’t seem to have any of those creative talents you and Ms. Fouchet possess,” he responded. “You are Johnny Gerard, from Endless Time, aren’t you?”
Johnny nodded. “For my sins.”
Kaleb grinned. “Kenny-Anne is only half right about my favorite episode being the fight between Letitia and Vanessa. My real favorite was the day Vanessa and Gregory Noble snuck off to see if they could find remnants of the parachute he’d worn before Carla snipped it and sent him into a coma. That's when Vanessa and Gregory realized they were in love. I'm still furious they sent Vanessa off just before Christmas."
I spent the next few minutes zoning out while Kaleb and Johnny discussed the plots of Endless Time, the Crested Butte theatrical survivalists, and upcoming episodes to be filmed across the Hudson. It wasn’t that I wasn’t interested; I was simply exhausted. I felt I had no great insight to add regarding the world of daytime drama.
Then it came. Kaleb turned to me and sympathetically said, “You must have been through hell, being the person who was at Colette’s side when she died.”
I nodded. My throat tightened. Kaleb continued, “Was she able to speak at all? I mean, could she tell she was dying?”
Johnny’s hand on my shoulder was the only thing that kept me from screaming and running off into the night. I summoned my acting skills and my courage and softly replied, “I honestly don’t believe she knew. And yes, it was horrible. I'm so sorry but will you excuse me now? I see my roommate waving at me, which could mean she’s ready to take off on a junket to some foreign country to film or locate a place to film so I need to get over there and find out if I need to help before she goes.”
I shook Kaleb’s hand again. I shook Kenny-Anne’s. I didn’t wait for a response. I’d told the truth. Shay had been popping over to India or Australia or Liechtenstein or Holland on a moment’s notice in the last year. But she didn’t need my help and I was confident the only reason she was waving was to save me. That’s why we’re best friends.
Chapter 10
I endured three more encounters with persons inquiring as to the substance of any last words or requests Colette Currie had let loose with before dying.
The first encounter was with a handsome but still-overly emotional Taylor Mills, who was what my mother, Minette, still refers to as an “Um-mer.” A term used during an introduction when one is not sure exactly if the person is a live-in lover, a 'friend with benefits’ or a fiancé too lazy to buy the ring and consequently the introduction becomes something along the lines of, “This is Taylor. He was Colette’s Um—mer.”
Whatever he was, he was clearly upset that he had not been at Colette’s side during those final moments. He whisked me over to a cloak room away from prying eyes and, with deep-set eyes reddened from copious sessions of sobbing and tissue dabbing, inquired, “Did Colette say anything?”
“About what?” I shot back with what might have been more than a trace of acid in my tone.
“Anything. Mainly me I guess, although that sounds selfish but I would kind of hope her last thoughts would have been of me. Do you know I called her that day to tell her I’d gotten cast as James Thunder Early in Dreamgirls? I was really thrilled that she’d gotten the callback for Deena and I hoped we could get back together. She was nice over the phone but I wonder now if she was upset that we’d be on the road with the show for the next eight months. I loved her. I’m still not sure why she broke it off. It was after her mother’s funeral a few months ago. She just kept pulling away. Did she say anything? Anything at all?”
I looked directly into his eyes and lied. Partly because I didn’t want to get into the real last words and partly because he did sound sincere and I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. “I’m so sorry, Taylor. What little she said was so strained and so soft that it didn’t really come out coherently. And I didn’t know anything about you so if she'd said ‘Taylor’ I probably would have thought she was delirious and asking about the wardrobe tailor who’d fixed what passed for costumes for the Hangin’ cast."
A huge sigh issued from Taylor. He appeared completely deflated. Whether this was due to Colette possibly ignoring him during a romantic last gasp at life or his general frustration that I hadn’t given him any words of wisdom, I had no idea. I suddenly felt a huge amount of sympathy for him, but I stuck him on the suspect list on general principles.
“Abby, can’t you tell me anything at all? It’s very important. She mentioned during our conversation that she was going to talk to you about something after the show. She sounded anxious to see you.”
“Not really. I mean, she did say she wanted to ask me something but then she ran off backstage and then . . . well . . . after that it’s kind of a blur.” Turn the tables time. “Do you know what she wanted to ask me?”
“Something to do with silent movies. She said you’d mentioned your soap was supposed to be doing a few episodes with flashbacks to the early days of filmmaking. Is that right?”
That, at least, I could talk about. “Yeah. We are. I wonder if she wanted me to chat with the casting director about auditioning for one of the roles?”
Taylor shook his head. “I honestly don’t think that was it. She was researching something. I don’t know. I just hoped she said something. I’d like to grant her last wishes even though we broke up. Does that make sense?” His eyes filled with tears.
I now felt like a heel, a rat and a sociopathic monster for not spilling everything Colette had said to me. He seemed genuinely distressed that Colette was gone and he seemed genuinely distressed that he couldn’t do anything to bring whatever Colette’s last hope or desire had been to fulfillment.
I came close to repeating the few words I’d heard but Johnny suddenly appeared at my side and squeezed my elbow. I was instantly cognizant of what that squeeze meant. “Possible Suspect!” Taylor was also an actor (as was the majority of
the crowd) and I might be witnessing a damned fine exhibition of his talent. So I simply smiled and repeated softly, “I’m truly sorry. There’s simply nothing to tell.”
He sighed, “well, thanks anyway,” before trotting off to chat with the casting director who'd apparently wanted Colette for that Dreamgirls tour.
The second skirmish came when Diamond Richards, with son Omar in tow, dressed all in black as though she were the grieving widow from a 1950's melodrama, complete with a black veil that covered her face and nearly reached the floor in back, accosted me about ten minutes later as I was sitting with Shay and Ivan at a small table near the front of the mansion. Ivan had gone to the refreshment table to get a cup of hot tea which he'd just set down in front of me and I was preparing to take a comforting sip when Diamond planted herself at my side. Her tone was as melodramatic as her Woman in Mourning ensemble. “You’ve got to tell what Colette said, Abby! You and everyone else is in danger until you give it up.”
I paused with the cup halfway toward my mouth and turned to face her. I couldn’t think of one single retort. Shay, who is often quicker than I in coming up with cute retorts, especially at inappropriate moments, smiled sweetly, ignored Diamond and addressed Omar, “Yo! Didn’t recognize you without your baton, kid. Held up anybody lately? Or just led a few parades?”
Diamond tried to freeze Ms. Martin with a “How dare you speak to my precious baby that way,” stare but Shay wasn’t having it. She kept the smile but turned so she could directly face Diamond. “Have you come up with a plausible reason for someone to write words on a napkin and send your baby boy out to terrify my roommate, Ms. Richards? And if not, why? You know exactly who asked you to find out about Colette’s last words. Tell us now or there will be consequences.” A fierce scowl accompanied the last phrase. It changed Shay’s normally attractive visage into a sight only witnessed perching on the outer architecture of French cathedrals.
Diamond gasped, then quickly grabbed her baby boy and literally ran out of the mansion.
I tried not to choke on my own laughter as I watched the rapid sprint of Diamond Richards and son toward the exit. “‘There will be consequences?’ Whoa, howdy! Let’s call Yolanda and give her that marvelously original dialogue."
Shay winked. “It was effective though, wasn’t it? That idiot has no clue who she’s dealing with. And poor Omar would be better off as a ward of the state—any state—than living with his bimbo mother.”
I sobered. “What worries me is that whoever paid for the Corvette Diamond was last seen cruising through lower Manhattan in might very well have a lot of clues about who he’s dealing with and he knows where to find me and if he was willing to shoot Colette, assuming he’s the one who shot her, who knows what he’ll do to me?”
Shay and Ivan both stared at me. “You have not only butchered the English language but you’ve turned it into nonsense. What are you talking about?”
“I don’t know. I do know I’m considering taking out a huge ad in some tabloid that says ‘Colette Currie didn’t say a bloody thing so leave Abby Fouchet alone and everyone get back to whatever sleazy activities you were doubtless doing before you began this ridiculous quest to solve a riddle that doesn’t exist.’”
“Won't fly.” Johnny plopped into the empty chair Diamond had vacated. "One had to remember that the attention span of the average tabloid reader is about four words tops."
“Hey, Johnny. So, you heard all that?” I asked.
“I did. And I repeat—too long for an ad but maybe someone could interview you and make it into an article. Jayce Cracknell still owes both of us for all the dirt he came up with when we were doing Boundaries. Although I don’t believe it’d do a bit of good. Denying knowledge, that is.”
“Why?”
“Because I have just learned that one of the idiot reporters who was there the night Colette died managed to get a statement about you and Colette’s last words. Some ridiculously young police officer spilled all. He has since been granted leave without pay for an indeterminate amount of time until he learns to keep his mouth zipped at crime scenes and any and all Irish pubs as well.”
“Oh doo-doo,” I moaned.
“Yep. The statement is in today’s Metro Quest and I use the term idiot for the reporter because I know this creep and he’s even more idiotic than most of the jokers who write that kind of trash.” Johnny held up a journalistic rag I wouldn’t use to pick up doggie leavings, assuming I have a dog, which I don’t but would love to get. “Ready?”
Ivan and Shay moaned along with me. Ivan then nodded, “Go ahead.”
Johnny coughed. “I shall skip over the unbelievably tawdry use of verbiage this loser has the nerve to call prose and get right to the part that should prove problematic for our Abby. Graham Sumner needs to take a course in basic writing—preferably at the nearest kindergarten. How he ever got hired anywhere in this city—even at lowest of the low Metro Quest— is the decade’s biggest puzzle and scandal.”
I glared at him. “Will you get on with it, already? Talk about too long!”
He glared back. “Fine. ‘Reliable sources told this intrepid reporter’— jeez, what crap! Anyway, “told this intrepid reporter that Colette Currie did indeed whisper sweet nothings into the ears of the tempestuous actress Abby Fouchet, star of Endless Time, as Currie lay dying in her arms backstage at the Cameo. What she said remains a mystery for the ages. The lovely Abby, aka Vanessa Manilow, isn’t telling.’”
“Oh double digit dookey-do dang-dang!” I stood up.
“You got that right,” Shay added. “You’re in it deep, girl. ‘Danger, danger, Will Robinson’ and everyone around the planet!”
“I’m not even worried about the danger. Right now I’m worried about how Barbie and Mandy are going to act. Especially Barbie since whatshername who was playing Carla got dumped last season so Letitia’s character got tons more airtime. And then there's Mike! I mean, he’s only the director who has to deal with jealousy on set. Not to mention Yolanda who was kind enough to ask me back as Vanessa. I may be unemployed by the end of the day and Yolanda, Barbie and Mike make never speak to me again. I was barely a credit rolling by six months ago and suddenly I'm coming back 'the star'? Even Mandy gets way more air time than I normally do and is not going to be pleased. I may fly home to Texas like tonight.”
Ivan stared at me as though I’d lost whatever marbles I might have brought with me this evening. Shay and Johnny nodded. They've been in film and theatre long enough to realize the import of little words like ‘star’ when one is working with divas —even normally nice divas. Agents don't deal with that on a day-to-day basis unless someone in his or her 'stable' is one of those divas.
Johnny snorted, “You’re both nuts. Barbie and Mandy are simply happy to be on the show and they’ve been slandered enough in fan magazines to know that tabloids lie.” He winked. “Hey, if anyone should be offended, it’s me. Not a mention of Gregory Noble anywhere.” Then he frowned. “ I am, however, extremely worried that Abby is about to be stalked until she spills the secrets Colette relayed to her. Uh oh. Look out. Eleven o’clock— incoming.” He pointed to the two people calmly approaching our table. The third invasion, assuming two people can be considered an invasion, and in this instance I did use that term because my space was definitely being invaded. Not to mention my privacy.
The two were the performers I’d last seen way too much of in Hangin’. I stared at the brown hair and blue eyes both possessed and tried to forget they’d been naked at that last appearance. At least they did a nice job of disguising their angst and impatience over the desire to hear Colette’s statements to me. Introductions came first.
“I’m Geoff Murray and this is Billie-Clare Buchanan.
“Right. I remember y’all from—your show.”
Beams. Show me an actor who’s out to get something, even by murder and I can stop them in their tracks simply by mentioning a performance even if that mention is all it is and not a single word of praise is
spoken. It’s a great trick when you’re put on the spot after a show and you have no desire to tell the truth.
“Thanks!” came from Billie-Clare. “We love your show too. It’s the best soap on TV."
I smiled politely, thought to myself that since half the soaps on TV had been cancelled over the last few years that was faint praise, then said “Thank you.”
Insincerity time was over. Now came the fencing match. Geoff started with a soft attaque. Just a few words about my story over the dead hookers and the melodrama in Texas and how much they’d enjoyed hearing about Colette in the role of the London flower circa late 1890s. I parried, asking them if it was true Hangin’ was slated for a Broadway run? Billie-Clare added a marche by stating that it appeared the show would not go on to Broadway but they were scheduled for at least two more months at the Cameo and they’d had a great cast party planned to celebrate the holdover. Before I could parry by congratulating them—one actor to another—Geoff executed a battement, also known as a beat. In fencing, this occurs when one fencer attempts to knock his opponent’s blade aside.
“So, Abby, we’d love to help you investigate what Colette said in those”—slight choking sob—”precious final moments. We know she’d never have tried to put you into danger and we’d really be glad to solve the mystery of her killer so you don’t have to worry about it.”
I’m not the world’s best fencer—either with a blade or with words—but the spirit of Italian fencing master Camillo Agrippa suddenly possessed me. I casually delivered the carton noir or black card, which can get a fencer tossed from competition. “Folks, just because some loser from a nasty nearly illiterate rag in Manhattan says something is so doesn’t make it the truth. Plus, even if Colette had revealed the existence of a newly discovered Shakespeare folio of The Scottish Play to me I’d keep it to myself before I’d let the likes of the—curious— not to mention any possible killers— hear a single syllable. But thanks so much for your concern.”
Cold Wind to Valhalla (Abby Fouchet Mysteries Book 3) Page 6
