“You haven’t said much,” Mom said once we were out the back and heading away from the TV trucks (you’d think they’d figure it out by now, but I noticed that all but two had left after Denise swept out and drove away—following a brief press conference).
“I don’t have anything to say,” I answered. “I’m sorry the woman’s husband was killed, but it doesn’t have anything to do with me and I don’t believe Patty was the shooter. I’m not even really her lawyer.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it,” my mother said.
We stopped because Steve had found an especially interesting patch of grass to smell and wanted to explore its possibilities. Mom was right; I knew exactly what she’d meant.
“I don’t want to say anything about you and Dad breaking up the act because it’s none of my business,” I blurted out finally. I’d been trying to figure out exactly what I thought about the impending change in their lives, but I didn’t want them to make decisions based on my feelings. I thought I needed to respect theirs.
Apparently I was wrong. “It certainly is your business,” Mom said with a slight chill in her voice. Eydie nudged Steve out of his nose-induced reverie and we started walking again. “You’re part of our family and my being home all the time will affect you the most.”
“You know I love having you around,” I deflected.
Mom waved a hand. “You haven’t actually lived with me since you left for college,” she said. “It’s nice having company. It’s not always great having a roommate.”
“What are you saying? You don’t want to leave the act?” Bruno, the mop-headed lovable giant of the lot, was getting acquainted with a tree and Steve was watching with what appeared to be admiration for his technique. Eydie was far too much a lady to even sneak a glance.
Mom smiled in a way I couldn’t read. “I’m not saying that,” she said. “I’m saying I don’t want to impose on you.”
“You’re not imposing.” Bruno broke up with the tree and we continued in our alternate route, not heading toward West Roosevelt Avenue but toward the park we couldn’t enter once the sun went down, which would be about twenty minutes from now.
“Yes, I am,” Mom insisted. “What if you want to bring some guy home one night?”
“Mom!” Eydie turned around and looked at me. I couldn’t figure out if she was alarmed or annoyed at my impolite outburst.
“Well, you could,” my mother went on, not noticing the neon redness of my cheeks. “Suppose Sam came back with you one night, and—”
“Okay, we’re holding it right there,” I interrupted. “There’s nothing between me and Sam, and this is a subject I am unquestionably not discussing with my mother. Now, why don’t you tell me what’s really bothering you?”
Mom, who can perform but isn’t a great actress, looked away. “Nothing’s bothering me. I’ve made my decision and I’m happy with it.”
And that’s when I knew. “You want to go back on the road with Dad and you don’t know how to back off your stand.”
Her eyelids fluttered. Now I couldn’t tell whether Mom was trying not to show me what she felt or if she was doing a fairly bad performance of a woman struggling with her feelings. “I don’t subscribe to that interpretation at all.”
“That’s not a denial. I’m pretty sure.”
It was just starting to hit twilight and getting harder to see Mom’s expression, but I could tell that she shook her head slightly. “Let’s talk about something else.”
That was the moment my phone vibrated and I saw the email from Denise with Dray’s medical records attached, as she had promised. The last thing I wanted to see was Dray’s medical records, so I sent Denise a text thanking her and forwarded the email, unread, directly to Jamie.
“Do you think that woman today was telling the truth?” Mom asked. It wasn’t the smoothest segue in history, but it did the job.
“I don’t think Patty shot Dray, so anything anybody says that makes it look like she did is going to be met with some skepticism,” I told her. “But Patty’s story is so changeable at this point that I don’t know what she’s hiding either.”
“I believed her,” Mom said.
“Who?”
“Dray Mattone’s wife.”
It took me a moment to absorb that. “You think Patty shot Dray?”
“No, not necessarily. I don’t think this Denise knows who shot her husband. But I believe what she said about him not being able to have children and I believe that she doesn’t think he was having an affair with Patty. I don’t think she was lying.”
“No,” I said, a little relieved. “But she might be mistaken.”
“That’s almost always a possibility with people,” Mom said. I wondered what that meant.
The phone rang. Mom took the leashes for Steve and Eydie and I hung on to the one for Bruno. I’d like it known that I could have handled all three had I been alone. This was simply a convenience.
Jamie was on the other end, which I had sort of expected. “What do you see?” I asked him.
“The medical stuff seems to be legit,” he said. “I’m sending it to a doctor I know just to be sure, but I think so far Denise is telling us the truth.”
“So where does that leave you?” I asked, not wishing to be included on the legal team as anything but a bystander.
“It leaves us with a client who isn’t telling the truth, and that’s never good,” he answered. Jamie wasn’t letting me off the hook. “But that’s not what’s worrying me.”
After all those years in Dad’s sketches I know a setup for a straight line when I hear it. “So what is worrying you?” I asked.
“This is potentially the biggest case of my career and I don’t even know if my client is being charged yet,” Jamie said. “But even that’s not a big deal; we’ll find out what’s going to happen soon enough. No, what’s bothering me is that I don’t know whether Patty is lying or if she’s wrong, and I don’t want to be the one to break the news to her.”
The silence that followed his last sentence was a long one. I knew what Jamie was saying and I specifically did not want to hear it. Mom and I walked half a block with the dogs, and actually had to stop once for Steve.
“I don’t know her nearly as well as you do, Kay,” Jamie finally said.
“Actually it’s pretty close,” I answered. “I’ve known Patty only a little over a month. I like her and I don’t think she shot Dray, but it’s not like we have a long-standing friendship that’s much deeper than an interest in getting work for her parrot. Don’t make me go to her house tomorrow and tell her she’s not carrying Dray’s baby, Jamie. Because that leads to all sorts of questions that I’m not close enough to her to ask.”
Mom’s lips pursed a little at what she was hearing, but she kept walking the two “original” dogs and I stayed astride with her and Bruno.
“It’s better if it comes from another woman,” Jamie attempted.
“And that’s not the least bit sexist,” I said. This was two lawyers talking, mind you. Well, one and a half.
“I’m not saying I’m squeamish about it,” he countered. “I’ve had to say much worse things to clients, believe me. I’m saying I think we’ll get better information from our client if she talks to you than if she talks to me. Remember, when she was first detained by the cops, the first person she called was you.”
No wonder the man was a good defense attorney; he could argue. “Tell you what,” I said. “Patty’s coming to my office tomorrow to pick up Barney. Suppose you just happened to be there when she arrived. We could tell her together.”
“Nice try, but the whole argument I just made was about Patty trusting you more than me,” Jamie said. Mom, the dogs, and I had reached the back gate and were heading back toward the door to go inside. The dogs would take a couple of laps first, but Mom was already climbing the stairs to the back deck. “I’m happy to consult with you after you talk to her. You can record it and send me the file if you
want. But my presence in the room is going to hurt more than it’s going to help. So what do you say?”
“I’d tell you, but I don’t use that kind of language.”
Jamie laughed. “I thought you’d see it my way.”
“Did I miss the law school class in being a major jerk?” I asked.
“Yeah, but I still have my notes if you want them.”
We disconnected the call after I promised Jamie I’d report to him after talking to Patty the next day, a proposition that was already beginning to create uncomfortable feelings in my stomach. Then I called Consuelo at home to confirm the time Patty was coming to pick up Barney and asked her not to let Patty leave before I got there to talk to her. Consuelo, being one of the most efficient people on the planet, did not question my scheduling or my motive; she just said she’d make sure everything worked out.
I searched my incoming emails for a query about representing a cat and found one for a black-and-white female named Oreo, who looked promising. I forwarded it to Consuelo.
I considered asking her to talk to Patty about the baby but decided that was the coward’s way out. Then I remembered that I am in fact a coward and considered it again. But unfortunately, what Jamie had said made sense. I was stuck with the job.
Dad was in the living room and in a better mood when I coaxed the dogs inside with the word treat, which Eydie knows and the other two will simply follow her anywhere. I gave them some dessert, each in a separate bowl so everybody got what was coming to them, and sat down to relax on the sofa with my parents and a bottle of wine.
There’s something wrong with that last clause.
“I think the producer guy killed that actor,” Dad said, unsolicited. “I’ve been thinking about the case, and he was the one whose motive would have been purely financial. It’s usually about money when the crime is premeditated.”
Since we clearly weren’t going to talk about Mom and Dad’s professional future tonight—which was actually fine with me in my current state of exhaustion—we were apparently going to solve Dray’s murder. As long as I didn’t have to do it myself, that was okay. There wasn’t anything special on television.
“There are all sorts of things wrong with that theory,” I told Dad. “First, we don’t know the murder was premeditated. Someone could have walked into the trailer, gotten into an argument with Dray, and shot him in a moment of rage.”
“Still fits the producer.” Dad is an armchair sleuth who thinks he can do it for real; I am an agent to cats, dogs, parrots, and the occasional ferret.
“Okay, so let’s look at the other problem here. Les Mannix is losing money because Dray is dead. His show is in danger of cancellation and he might be out of a job. That’s a terrible motivation to kill someone.”
Mom looked up from her cup of tea. “She has a good point, Jay.” Mom listens and absorbs everything and then pretends she’s not really involved in anything unpleasant until such time as she can contribute the missing piece.
“You think because the actor is dead the producers lose money?” Dad was ignoring Mom’s comment, never a wise tactic. “They take out insurance policies on all those big stars in case something happens. I’ll bet they’re coming out way ahead on this.”
I’ll admit that hadn’t occurred to me, but I persisted. “There might have been some problems with Dray’s last contract negotiations, but Mannix said they’d been exaggerated, and anyway, the contract was signed. There was no upside to killing Dray. If he wanted, Mannix could have just refused a new contract or fired him.”
“Your source on that is the suspect.” Dad was in full Sam Spade mode now. “You can’t rely on information you can’t verify.”
“When I left the act, I went to college and majored in history,” I reminded him. “You’re aware I didn’t run away and enroll in the police academy?”
“You’re her lawyer,” he said. “You have to provide a reasonable alternative to the crime.”
“No, I’m the bird’s agent,” I countered. “Her actual lawyer needs to provide a vigorous defense, not to solve the crime. And since I’m not her actual lawyer, the only thing I need to do—other than simply representing the parrot and making sure he’s not being cheated by a major television network—is what the lawyer I called in to defend Patty asks me to do.”
“It’s an interesting question,” Dad protested. “Don’t you ever think about who really shot this Mattone guy?”
I remembered that one of the things Jamie had asked me to do was contact Heather Alizondo and I had not been able to do that during the day, so I chose that moment (because I was losing the argument) to get out my phone and text Heather with the message I have a quick question. Do you have time to talk? I am fully aware many people would have sent Quik?: Can U talk?, but I have a loyalty to the English language. I even know the difference between you’re and your. I am old school.
“What are you doing?” Dad asked.
“Contacting the director.” Now I had to think of a reason that Heather and I should talk, since she’d already told me she didn’t need Barney again for this episode. We hadn’t actually formed much of a bond, so I couldn’t pretend to ask for studio gossip about the fate of Dead City, especially since the director wouldn’t know that much anyway and I’d already gotten much of that from Les Mannix earlier today.
That was earlier today, right? It seemed like a week ago, but a week ago Dray Mattone had still been alive and my biggest concern was whether a Siamese cat would sit still long enough to pose for an Internet ad for litter.
“Why?” Dad asked.
“Stuff.” What would an agent for a day player (someone who is not a regular needed on set every time there is filming) who happened to be a parrot want to talk to the episode director about?
Sure. What’s up? The reply from Heather was far too prompt. I needed a good lie.
“What stuff?” Dad asked, looking suspicious.
“Dad, Jamie asked me to talk to Heather about Dray’s murder and I need an excuse to talk to her. What should I say?” My father, who can be a slight pain at times, it also a softhearted and kind man who can make up a scenario in milliseconds.
“You have a choice,” he answered. “Either tell her you’re concerned about Barney’s performance and want to see if she needs retakes…”
“She’ll say no and the conversation is over,” I told him. “What’s the or?”
“Or you can tell her Barney has come down with a bird flu and you want to make sure the rest of the crew wasn’t exposed.” Dad is great at coming up with melodramatic, unrealistic ideas that end up working when you’re sure they won’t.
I’m not superstitious by nature. I know showbiz people are supposed to believe in various hexes and curses, and maybe that’s one of the reasons I never really identified with the performers onstage even when I was one of them. On the other hand, I do believe in karma, and giving Barney an imaginary disease was not something I wanted responsibility for doing.
“I’m asking her about the retakes,” I told my parents. “It gets the conversation going and that’s all I really need right now.”
“No,” Dad answered as I sent Heather the appropriate text. “You’re going to need a segue or the conversation will end too quickly.”
“So what’s the segue?” I asked.
Sure enough, I got a text from Heather reading, No probs. B did great. No need for retakes. I didn’t see how talking like that was going to help anything.
“You got me,” Dad said.
But I’ve been dealing with showbiz people, especially directors, for a long time. And I know one thing: There is nothing they like better on this planet than talking about themselves, preferably from a position of authority or experience. I texted back to Heather: Really wanted to talk to you about directing. Would you mind terribly? In retrospect, I thought the terribly was probably selling it too hard, as Dad would say. But it got the proper response: Sure! Lunch tomorrow? It would probably be her last day of filming, so
that was a really nice gesture. I felt like a heel soliciting it under false pretenses.
That didn’t stop me from agreeing, of course.
I told Dad what I’d sent back and the response I’d gotten. He walked over and gave me a warm hug.
“I always knew there was some of me in you,” he said.
I went to bed soon after, and it was only nine o’clock. This had been a long day, and tomorrow wasn’t looking any shorter.
Just before I turned off the light, I got a text from Consuelo that simply read: Thank you!
CHAPTER TWENTY
Consuelo had already put Barney and Maisie in the same cage when I arrived at my office the next morning. They were getting along famously, probably because they knew they’d have to face Consuelo if they didn’t.
She spent five minutes thanking me for the connection to Oreo, whose owner she had already sent an email. Then we got down to business.
“You got a fax from Giant Productions,” she told me as I settled in with a cup of coffee, giving her the one I’d bought for her. “They’re asking for Bagels’s vaccination records, so I’m guessing they want to hire him. Should I send that stuff out to them?”
“Not until I get a deal memo, no,” I told her. “They can have what they want when they confirm they’re hiring Bagels. I’ll call them in a minute.”
“No you won’t,” Consuelo answered. “Because you got another call from Sergeant Bostwick and he wants you to call him back.” She handed me the note that she’d scribbled down on an old coffee receipt as if she thought I didn’t believe her.
“Did he say why?” I asked.
“I just take the messages,” Consuelo said, sitting at her desk under Maisie’s cage. “I don’t interfere with the running of the business.” This was her subtle way of letting me know she wants more responsibility.
Bostwick sounded distracted when he picked up the phone, like he was looking at something interesting on his computer screen or a member of the Yankees had just walked by his desk. My bet was on the former possibility. “What’s going on?” he asked.
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