How to Succeed in Murder

by Margaret Dumas

  It also reinforced the fact that I really shouldn’t attempt this sort of thing after a late night of tailing suspects.

  By late afternoon we’d succeeded in amassing a huge pile of upholstery options and thoroughly confusing a very nice saleswoman.

  “Well.” She surveyed the pile. “I wouldn’t have thought of putting the French silk damask in the same room as the tropical monkey print, but I suppose if you’re going for some sort of mid-century Polynesian…”

  She was trying, I had to give her that.

  “I think where we’re going is for a drink,” Simon told her.

  ***

  Twenty minutes later, over the sugared rim of a watermelon martini at the Four Seasons bar, things were looking better.

  “It’s all my fault, darling. I simply shouldn’t have dragged you there. I blame my own monumental boredom as much as your inadequacies as an interior designer.” He sipped. “I shouldn’t have looked to your shopping challenges to distract myself from the vast hollow emptiness of my life.”

  “Perhaps not.” I dug into the silver bowl of nuts between us.

  “Definitely not, darling. Not when there’s a much juicer distraction just staring the both of us in the face.” He waited.

  I’ve spent enough time around actors to know when I’m being prompted for a line.

  “What distraction?”

  “The investigation into the mysterious death of Clara Chen.”

  I’m sure, in Simon’s mind, sinister organ music accompanied his words.

  I knew he’d just moan about not having been invited, so I’d resolved not to mention what Brenda and I had been up to the night before.

  “I’m going to Clara’s funeral on Saturday with Brenda,” I told him. “That’s about the extent of the future investigation.”

  “Right. And what’s Jack up to?” Simon’s raised eyebrows spoke volumes.

  I told him about the bug in the Zakdan software that Mike was exploring. “The problem is, it doesn’t provide a motive for anyone other than Morgan Stokes. And I hardly think—”

  “Not so fast,” Simon interrupted. “It provides a motive for the person who sabotaged the software in the first place.”

  I downed the last of my candy-colored drink. “Jack would point out that we’re not sure the software was sabotaged, and even if it was, the person who did it wouldn’t have known Clara was on to him.”

  “That sounds like Jack,” Simon agreed. “But Jack’s not here, is he? And besides, who knows if the saboteur booby trapped the software somehow to warn him if his bomb had been detected?”

  “Okay.” I nodded to the bartender. I was going to need another drink. “First, let’s avoid the use of the word ‘saboteur’ from here on out, all right?”

  Simon rolled his eyes. “Fine.”

  “And it isn’t a bomb in the software, it’s a bug.” He was perhaps the only person in the greater Bay Area who knew less about computers than I did.

  “Nevertheless,” he persisted. “We should be doing something.”

  “Such as?” Reinforcements arrived, in the form of watermelon flavored vodka. Simon waited until the cocktail waitress was out of earshot. Then he leaned across the small table.

  “Such as going undercover at Zakdan,” he hissed.

  ***

  I told him he was insane. I told him this repeatedly, over more drinks and an order of mixed Asian appetizers. But the more he kept talking, the less insane he sounded. Which probably meant it was time to switch to coffee.

  “But darling, if you just think of it as live theatre, reality-based theatre, a sort of improv in the round…”

  Which did sound kind of interesting. I’d given up any delusions about being an actress years ago, but I’d loved all the workshops and classes I’d taken before realizing I had no talent.

  “And for the things where we’d need a script—for the technical bits and so on—we could enlist Eileen. You know she could give us enough to bluff our way through a couple of meetings…”

  And I knew she felt like she was in a rut these days, so she was likely to agree to the crazy idea.

  “In a company that big, if we just act casual, nobody will take any notice of us. Haven’t you seen How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying? It’s all in the attitude.” There was no stopping Simon’s fevered imagination. “Eileen could give us a plausible cover story, and once we were inside, we could talk to people and figure out what’s really going on, and who might really know something about Clara’s death.”

  I wasn’t sure about that, but I thought Simon was right about being able to talk to people. Morgan Stokes didn’t think Clara had told anyone else about the pattern of technical problems she’d noticed, but how could he be sure? For that matter, she might have told more people about her engagement, and her imminent promotion.

  I doubted many of Morgan’s employees would feel comfortable chatting with him about his girlfriend’s death. He was their boss, after all. But those same employees might spill their guts at the water cooler with a harmless temp who was going to be gone in a few weeks. One thing I’d learned in the theatre—gossip will out. And how different could an office be?

  “Okay, that’s enough.” I signaled for the check. “This is all starting to sound perfectly logical, which means it’s time for us to call a cab and go home.”

  “But, Charley—”

  “No but Charleys. You shouldn’t drive.”

  “Well, that’s not in dispute, darling. But—”

  I held up my hand. “Okay. I’ll think about it.”

  “Promise?” His eyes lit up.

  “I promise.”

  “Will you talk to Jack?”

  Ah. Um. Well. “I’ll have to think about that.”

  Chapter Twelve

  I did think about discussing Simon’s idea with Jack. Really. But he’d made it abundantly clear that, in the absence of any more data, he didn’t think there was anything to investigate. And I had a fairly strong sense that he might not see the immediate benefits of the let’s-go-undercover-to-gather-data scheme.

  So, somehow, the subject didn’t come up.

  ***

  I spent most of the next day reading bad plays in preparation for Friday’s meeting at the Rep. I couldn’t imagine what Chip had endured in order to come up with the fifteen he’d sent over, because they were uniformly awful. Never mind the one about the strip club—the absolute worst had to be an excruciating coming-of-age story written by a precocious eleven-year-old.

  In blank verse, no less.

  I had thought that the stack of manuscripts, while not giving me much hope for the future of the American stage, would at least serve to distract me from dwelling on the idea of infiltrating Zakdan to unmask Clara Chen’s killer. But the plan kept percolating in the back of my mind.

  Simon’s enthusiasm had infected me, and it stuck even after the vodka was out of my system. I liked the notion of reality theatre. And the thought of being able to get some useful information for the investigation was very satisfying.

  The more I thought about it, the more I thought we should do it. And soon. The office was bound to still be buzzing about Clara Chen’s death—every person there would have a theory about why she died. And I was guessing that “because she slipped” would be fairly low down on the list.

  I wanted to hear those theories. If we could get the inside scoop on who really knew about the software bug she’d discovered, and who really knew she was about to be promoted and given all that stock, we’d find ourselves with a list of suspects.

  I pictured myself striding into Inspector Yahata’s office—Did he have an office? Or was he at a desk in a big open room with lots of people and yelling and phones ringing? Anyway, staging issues aside, I’d stride in and present him with an amazing lead, or some sort of incontrovertible evidence. And then he’d look at me, and…

  Oh.

  He’d look at me and I’d get that feeling of being a bug under a magnifying glass,
sizzling slightly while he examined me. I was getting a little fried just thinking about it. Then he’d tell me, quite calmly, that by messing with the chain of custody or something I’d ruined whatever chance the authorities had ever had to bring the killer to trial.

  Maybe I’d better stick to the plays.

  Or to finding something to go with my candlestick.

  ***

  “Early” does not mean the same thing to me that it does to my husband. So on Friday morning Jack was long gone by the time I had showered and made the bed.

  This was my morning ritual. I may not be big on housework, but I took a lot of pride in smoothing a fresh set of Frette sheets on the bed every morning, pulling up the duvet and arranging all the pillows just so. I bundled the old sheets and tossed them down a laundry chute, where eventually they were found and dealt with by the cleaning service that Eileen had arranged to come in once a week.

  As a result, the hallway linen closet always contained neatly folded bundles that smelled vaguely of lavender, and I got a soothing glow just opening the door every morning. I’d have to remember to mention this to Brenda. She’d be thrilled at any evidence of domesticity.

  It was bound to be freezing at the theater, so I pulled on a pair of jeans and a fluffy Eileen Fisher sweater. I went down to the kitchen carrying my shoes. I’d found the echoing sound of heels in the empty hallways to be a little unnerving lately, so I’d taken to wandering around in my socks.

  Maybe we should have a house rule that people need to remove their shoes when they come in? That would be easier than finding rugs to muffle all the hardwood floors in the place. I turned the possibility over in my mind as I poured the coffee Jack had left in the pot.

  Then I got distracted by a plate of healthy looking muffins on the kitchen island.

  I blinked. Had Jack gone out to a bakery? Probably not, because if he had, he’d have gone to the Patisserie on Union Street and I didn’t think they produced anything like the brown globular specimens before me.

  Then I noticed the bowl. It was freshly washed and drying in the dish rack. And it was accompanied by a measuring cup, a spoon, and a muffin tin.

  Good lord, my husband had baked muffins this morning.

  I approached them with caution, and picked one up. It was heavy. I sniffed it. Definitely healthy stuff in there. I took an experimental nibble. As I thought, it would take gobs of butter and jam to make it edible.

  I opened the refrigerator and located a butter dish. Interesting. The pale yellow rectangle was pristine. Jack hadn’t used it. Likewise, the jar of jam was still sealed. I took another sip of coffee and smiled to myself. I was a detective already. I could reconstruct Jack’s actions this morning perfectly. He’d made dietetically virtuous muffins and eaten them plain. I lifted the napkin off the plate and counted. Ten, and the muffin tin held twelve. He’d eaten two of them plain.

  Further self-congratulation was delayed by the sound of the doorbell ringing.

  “Simon?” The kitchen is at the back of the house, so I yelled as I went down the hall to the front door. “Is that you? You’re early.”

  I opened the door. “And you’re not alone.”

  ***

  “Charley!” Before I knew what I was looking at, I was swept aside by a six-foot-four, bald, chocolate-skinned set designer. “This place is huge, girl! Why haven’t you done shit-all with it?” He performed the by-now-standard routine of opening doors and looking into empty rooms while criticizing me.

  “Hi, Paris,” I greeted him in return. “I thought you were going to…Paris?”

  “I was.” He began to unwind a lengthy scarf from around his neck. It looked like it might take some time. “I am. But Simon told me you were in crisis, so I decided to give you my housewarming present early.” He nodded to someone over my shoulder.

  I turned to find Simon struggling to maneuver an uncooperative piece of furniture through the door. There must have been someone on the other end of it, but I couldn’t see who. “Lord, this is heavy,” Simon gasped. “Paris, a little help, please?”

  I looked back at Paris, who handed me an armful of scarf and said, “Think about a coat rack,” before lending a hand.

  The gigantic slab of wood was finally angled through the doorway. When they turned it around and set it down I finally saw who my third guest was. Chip. And I finally realized what the furniture was.

  “A table!” I ran my fingers along the richly polished surface. “It’s gorgeous!”

  “It’s a handcrafted, solid cherry, artisanal dining room table in a modified Arts and Crafts style,” Paris informed me. “Built by my very own Gabriel as a gift from us to you. And by the looks of things, not a minute too soon.”

  I ignored his last comment and hugged him. “Thank you! It’s perfect!”

  “Of course it is,” Paris agreed.

  “And it’s heavy,” Chip volunteered.

  “Oh, thanks for bringing it,” I said. “And, um…” I looked at the dining room door.

  “Yes, darling.” Simon gave me a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. “We’ll take it the rest of the way.”

  Chip was a lot smaller than the other two men. Fidgety and kind of squirrelly. Not what you’d look for in a mover of large furnishings. But he grabbed an end and hoisted, and the three of them got the thing into the dining room.

  “Right in the center…yes.” I directed, dashing in ahead of them to pick up the candlestick, which had remained in the middle of the floor. “Or…” I looked at the table once it was positioned. “Maybe no. Maybe we should angle—”

  “No.” Paris buffed a fingerprint away with the sleeve of his long grey coat. “It goes straight down the center of the room. Dead center lengthwise with the middle of the fireplace, and dead center widthwise with the middle of the bay window.” He made karate-chopping arm movements to illustrate this axis of perfection. “At least, until you get a sideboard or something that would balance it.”

  “Or chairs, maybe?” Chip looked around the room.

  “I have something better!” I placed my perfect candlestick in the center—dead center—of the table, and stood back to take in the effect.

  “Yes, darling,” Simon murmured. “Much more original than chairs.”

  ***

  So, instead of meeting to pick the remaining play for next season in the chilly offices of the Rep, we found ourselves having an early lunch on Union Street.

  We wound up at Betelnut, sharing a dozen or so small plates of things like chili calamari, hoisin pork in pancakes, and green papaya salad. And since the bar specializes in Asian beers…well.

  At one point I remembered my manners and thanked Paris again for the table. “Did Gabriel really make it himself?” I knew Paris’ partner was some sort of cabinet maker, but I hadn’t realized the extent of his talent.

  “Designed it and made it,” Paris informed me, not without a touch of pride.

  “Could he make more things?” I asked. “I mean, the house is pretty big, and I haven’t really—”

  Simon’s snort cut off the rest of my words. I gave him a squinty-eyed look, and he took a sudden interest in a red lacquer bowl on a small shelf behind me.

  “Girl, do you know how long it takes to make a piece of furniture like that?” Paris always brought out the remaining Texas notes in his voice when he wanted to make a point.

  “A long time?”

  “Let me put it this way—your babies would be having babies by the time he was through furnishing that house.”

  What the hell was it with people and babies these days?

  I took a deep swallow of Tsingtao. “Never mind.”

  ***

  Predictably, it was the single-minded Chip who brought us back to the purpose of the get-together, and it was the borderline-workaholic Chip who stayed back at the house with Simon and me after Paris left us with “I don’t care what show y’all decide to put on next year, as long as it has nice juicy sets.”

  So the three of us got comfortable
and indulged in a heated debate about the relative merits—or lack thereof—of the fifteen manuscripts we’d read.

  Which is how Jack found us.

  “Pumpkin, should I ask why you’re in bed with two men?”

  This is not something I’d ever expected to hear my husband say, and particularly in such a casual tone. But since the only place in the house to get comfortable was the bed, we’d ended up having our meeting there.

  “Jack!” Chip sprinted off the duvet and came close to standing at attention. Despite the fact that he’d merely been sitting, fully clothed, at the foot of the bed, he blushed furiously.

  “Hi, Jack.” Simon, who had been lounging on his stomach with his head in his hands, merely rolled to his side and gave a finger wave.

  “You’re home early,” I said. I was sitting cross-legged with my back against the headboard.

  “Apparently.” He came over and put his finger under my chin to tilt my face toward him. “Maybe I should come home early more often.” He kissed me.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t leave in the first place,” I smiled.

  He looked at Simon. “But then how would you get any work done?”

  “There’s this new thing called a chair that I’ve heard is all the rage,” Simon told him. “I’ve been trying to convince Charley to try one out.”

  “It’s a thought,” Jack said.

  “Really, Jack,” Chip volunteered. “We were only talking…”

  Jack turned to give him a friendly clap on the shoulder. “Really, Chip, if I thought anything different you’d be dead by now.”

  Chip attempted a grin. It didn’t come out quite right.

  “Oh, don’t be silly.” I eyed my husband. “Give us your opinion on these plays—would you rather spend the evening with an albino in a snowstorm who’s dealing with feelings of invisibility, or a young boy confronting his junior high angst against the backdrop of highly competitive slam poetry?”

  Jack cleared his throat. “I think I’ll leave that to the professionals.”