Killer Riff

by Sheryl J. Anderson

  “Deep down, she hates me. But she’s had to pretend otherwise so long, she forgets.” He tried to put a mocking tone on it, but there was genuine hurt in his voice.

  “Why would she hate you?”

  “She resents the time and energy her father put into my family instead of putting it into his own.”

  “Sounds like a legitimate gripe,” Kyle offered.

  Adam smiled with effort. “Maybe it’s as simple as the fact that my family’s more fun.”

  “At least, maybe your mother was more fun,” I said.

  Kyle’s eyebrows arched, but Adam’s face stiffened. “I’m not going to dignify that.”

  “So you’re also not going to tell me how long your mother’s been sleeping with Gray Benedek?”

  I might as well have stabbed him with my fork. He sat stock still for a long time, then stood, easing his chair out from the table. I thought I’d misjudged the reaction I’d get until I saw how white his knuckles were where he gripped the top of the chair. “That’s more than one question. Good night.”

  Adam walked briskly from the dining area, head down slightly to avoid eye contact with the patrons. I started to rise and follow him, but Kyle caught my hand and shook his head. I glanced around to note the number of diners who were looking in our direction, wondering if anything tip-worthy had happened, as Kyle urged, “Let him go. That’s as much as you’re going to get out of him tonight.”

  “Why?” I protested, but I sat back down.

  “You crossed the line.”

  “With him? How?”

  “A man never likes to think about, much less talk about, his mother having sex.” Kyle squinted, as though he were banishing a relevant thought from his own head. “It’s just wrong.”

  I smoothed the napkin back in my lap. “How about thinking about your mother committing murder?”

  Kyle’s squint intensified. “Not as common an issue. You believe his mother did it?”

  “If the election for murderer were held today, I think she’d win. Do you think he did it?”

  “Why would I have an opinion?”

  “Because you were questioning him.”

  Kyle pulled one of those lopsided-smile expressions men make instead of rolling their eyes. “I was asking him a few questions. There’s a difference.”

  “I don’t think he could tell. I’m not sure I could, either.”

  Kyle picked up his knife again. I wasn’t sure if he was thinking about questioning Adam or about to start questioning me. “I don’t know,” he said after a moment. “Guess I’m just wired to ask questions.”

  “Yeah, so am I.” I hated how defensive it sounded, one of those comments that you wind up hoping maybe someone else said and it just bounced into your conversation through a trick of acoustics so it can be laughed off and moved past.

  But Kyle wasn’t laughing. He was looking at me with such intensity that for once I wasn’t thinking about the color of his eyes, I was just hoping he’d blink. “Yeah, I know,” he said slowly and regretfully.

  My stomach started to slither toward my toes. Were we going to have this conversation now? Here? Yes, we needed to have it, but I’d been hoping that somehow we’d get away with squeezing in a few fun and carefree dates and enjoy being back together before we had to confront the nitty-gritty of where things had gone wrong between us previously and how/if we were going to be able to avoid those land mines this time around.

  But this was difficult territory. I was more than caught between a rock and a hard place, I was pinned between the man of my dreams and the job of my dreams. And while I have no problem apologizing for something when I genuinely feel I’m at fault, I couldn’t apologize for being in a position that most women I knew would envy. Yet I felt as though Kyle were waiting for me to say I was sorry or that I’d been wrong or stubborn or prideful or any of those other lovely things women get called when they stand their ground. Not that I wanted to turn this into some sort of political manifesto, but—

  “I’m sorry.”

  It took me a moment to get the lobbyist in my head to stop ranting and listen to what Kyle was saying. I was tempted to ask him to repeat it, just to be sure I’d heard it right, but I didn’t want to appear to be enjoying it too much. “For what?” I asked.

  The waiter came then, with that exquisite timing waiters have. I’ve long suspected that even the most elegant restaurants have an infrared surveillance system that runs back to the kitchen, so the waiters can gather around the monitors with glee and watch until, “Table six is about to propose! Get their soup out there now and spoil that moment!”

  At least our waiter presented our salads with a special flair and a bright smile, but maybe that was because he was trying to figure out how important we were, given that both Crowley boys had shown up here because of us. I half expected him to take a demo CD out of his shirt pocket and ask us to get it to Adam or Jordan or both, but I was anxious to return to the conversation. I even refused the freshly ground pepper, though I was sure my salad would benefit.

  “For what?” I reminded Kyle gently as the waiter finally moved away. I’m usually on the offering end of apologies, so I don’t have much practice at eliciting them gracefully from others.

  “For telling you to leave this alone, then nosing around in it myself.”

  I’d been expecting something slightly more profound that reflected on the state of our relationship, but this was still a very positive step. Our central problem was that he didn’t approve of what I did and I didn’t want to stop doing it. While I’d apologized for stepping on his toes or the toes of his colleagues, this was the first time he’d seriously acknowledged the irresistible pull of an unanswered question.

  “Thank you,” I said. It would have been gracious to stop there, but yeah, like I was capable of that. “How much nosing around did you do?”

  “Just took another look at the file.”

  I felt a little thrill, vaguely victorious. Was he actually getting drawn in to a case he had sworn was not a case? Had I persuaded him, or was he caught by information I didn’t have yet? I took a moment to poke at my salad so I didn’t appear too eager to ask, “And …?”

  He frowned. “Some of the statements were a little odd. No one could pinpoint any indication that Elliott was suicidal, but no one seemed shocked by the possibility, either.”

  I leaned in, my enthusiasm getting the better of me. “But don’t you think that’s an instance of people accepting the reason that’s presented in the moment, because there’s no overt sign of foul play?”

  His smile stiffened. “You talking about the police or the family?”

  “The family.” I took a deep breath, trying to pace myself. “I mean no disrespect to the officers involved. And I see how it looked like suicide to them and it was polite to call it an accident so everyone could save face. But the family—they buy into that explanation in their grief, then when their heads start to clear, they’re doing the same thing we’re doing, looking at who had access and motive and opportunity and—”

  Kyle held up his hand, and I skidded to a stop. I wasn’t sure what I’d said wrong, so I forced myself to stay quiet until he finally asked, “We?”

  I could have kicked myself for poor pronoun selection. As delightful as the image was, “I know we’re not going all Jerry Bruckheimer here and teaming up,” I said with an overly bright smile. “I was just pointing out that we’re both responding to the same things. Great minds and all that.”

  “You’re good at what you do,” he said, which struck me as a hopeful beginning.

  “Thank you.”

  “And I’m good at what I do.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “And they’re two different things.”

  “Yes, they are.”

  “And they should stay two different things.”

  From discussion to negotiation in less than three seconds. I would’ve been impressed if it hadn’t made me nervous. Where was he headed? “Yes, they should,”
I said this time, though I said it a little more warily.

  “Cool,” he said, tucking into his salad.

  I stared at the top of his head for a moment before it dawned on me that, as far as he was concerned, that was the end of the discussion. Only I’m genetically incapable of letting things go that easily. The fact that he felt the need to point out to me that there was a difference between being a police detective and being a journalist either meant that he was writing for Sesame Street on the side or that he felt I had not been respecting boundaries.

  “Cool?” I asked, a little sharply.

  He looked up at me with a worried smile. “Okay, if we’re going to argue, let’s not do it here.”

  “I don’t want to argue,” I said, which was true. I wanted this to work. But not according to terms dictated to me. “I want to discuss. Reasonably. Maturely. Quietly.”

  The smile slid up his face into an irresistible grin. “Man, you’ve changed.”

  I had to laugh. “Now you’re being a jerk.”

  “You only call me a jerk when I’m getting too close to the truth,” he pointed out.

  “Imagine what I’ll call you when you get it completely right.”

  With startling quickness, his hand shot across the table to take mine. “I’ve missed you, and I want this to work, but you’ve got to understand where I’m coming from, what was making me crazy, and it’s all about the jobs.”

  I didn’t even realize how upset I was until my vision clouded. I opened my eyes really wide in the hopes that the tears wouldn’t spill over and nodded. “Okay, then. You do your thing and I do mine and never the twain shall meet.”

  He released my hand so abruptly, I almost dunked my cuff in the boat of raspberry vinaigrette. “They will meet, I know that. Sometimes. But we don’t have to force them to. And we can put some extra effort into carving out a work-free zone in our lives. Starting now.”

  As fabulous as this was, I was completely unprepared—emotionally or conversationally. Clearly, Kyle had put a lot of thought into this in the time we’d been apart; that alone was moving and exciting. But the fact that he was also willing to make elbow room for the chief sore spot of our first go-round, my journalistic investigations, was startling. Delightful, but unexpected.

  Which meant I was totally unprepared for sitting here over a lovely dinner and talking about anything and everything but work. While we’d been apart, I’d thrown myself into my work more than ever, to keep myself busy. What else was there to talk about?

  He seemed to have a similar problem, since he started the conversation by filling me in on his partner, Ben. I responded by bringing him up to speed on Tricia and Cassady. Then we progressed to the books we’d read and the movies we’d seen since we’d last seen each other. Slowly, we started to relax and move toward each other with a comfort that surprised and pleased me.

  Two hours later, I drifted into my apartment, trying to sustain the feeling of comfort and relaxation and quell any sense of expectation. Still, my heart was racing as I turned to ask him if he wanted a drink. But he wasn’t right behind me. He was still near the door, watching me with an odd expression on his face.

  “Aren’t you coming in?” I asked quietly.

  He gestured for me to walk back to him as he asked, “Do you remember the first time we kissed?” I nodded as he continued, “Right here.” He pulled me to him, kissing me as I concentrated really hard on not swooning.

  To steady myself, I snaked my arms around him and tried to draw him into the room, but he resisted. Reluctantly, I stepped back. “What?”

  He ran his thumb along my cheekbone, and I could feel the flush rising under his touch. “We’re starting over. From this spot. And taking our time.” And he kissed me one more time, gently but tantalizingly and walked out. Leaving me there to marvel at his self-control. Which led me to examine my own lack of self-control. Which led me to consider what happens when people lose control or what they’ll do to maintain control. Which somehow led me to wonder where, at that moment, Adam Crowley might be.

  9

  What is at the root of the American obsession with celebrity? We built a whole industry to create stars, and now we’ve built one to tear them down at every possible opportunity, critiquing their weight and their clothes, their lack of fidelity and their lack of underwear, their sexual orientation, the people they date, marry, and divorce (not necessarily in that order), the way they raise their children, the causes they embrace, even the pets they choose. We want them to be perfect and larger than life, yet we ache for the moments that they prove to be only human and we get to pounce and proclaim to the nation, “See, this one may be rich and beautiful and talented, but she has wretched taste in evening gowns and worse taste in men!”

  And we don’t limit it to actors. Rock stars. Designers. Athletes. Politicians. Rich kids with no clear contribution to society. We blur the lines and offer them all intense scrutiny, scathing criticism, and gleeful satisfaction when they tumble from the pedestals we put them on. Why?

  Somewhere around two a.m., half dozing in front of Turner Classic Movies, which was showing the Mason-Garland A Star Is Born, I decided it was a vestige of our Puritan heritage: Those who elevate themselves have committed the sins of pride and vanity and must be brought down.

  At four, waking with a start as Dana Wynter screamed at Kevin McCarthy in Invasion of the Body Snatchers, I decided it was an outgrowth of our innate distrust of people who seem so completely different from us.

  At six, when my fitful dreaming had melded with The Spy Who Came in from the Cold, turning it into a story about trying to get Jordan to switch recording labels, I decided it was time to get up.

  At six-thirty, while I was in the shower, Tricia left me a giggly voice mail announcing that she’d just gotten home from her night out with Jordan and she’d call me when she woke up, and I decided that we have a hardwired biological response to fame: The bird with the brightest plumage gets its pick of mates.

  At ten, Gray Benedek told me it was all about drama. “People love a good story, and in Western culture, we’re trained to expect a three-act structure, which generally means a rise and a fall and then a second chance if it’s a happy ending. Or not, if it’s a tragedy. Aristotle to Shakespeare to Entertainment Tonight. You with me?” he asked as he put his left elbow behind his head.

  When I had called Gray, I’d hardly expected to find myself discussing dramaturgy with him an hour later. And when he had agreed to talk to me and suggested I come by his studio, I’d been thrilled at the prospect of getting to watch Gray Benedek at work producing an album as a happy by-product of the interview. However, the studio in his exquisite Central Park West home to which I was summoned was not his recording lair, but an extra room in his apartment dedicated to yoga.

  Never mind that this “extra room” was nearly the size of my entire apartment and had a view that people sit on waiting lists for decades to get. Never mind that one of the sex symbols of my adolescence was stretched out on the floor at my feet, sweaty and magnificent in a snug T-shirt and snugger gym shorts. It was all intoxicating in its own way, but what unnerved me most was his cheery invitation to join him.

  I declined as politely as possible. I’ve tried yoga. More than once. The idea that you can work out and chill out at the same time is pretty intriguing, but I’m beginning to think that some people are congenitally unable to relax at the level required by yoga—and I’m one of them. I breathe, I twist, I submit, but I finish the session more worked up than worked out. Neither my body nor my mind will relax enough for me to get to that meditative place where serenity and good posture reside.

  Gray Benedek had no such problem. He moved through a variety of poses as though doing choreography to a song I couldn’t hear, not getting out of breath or losing his place, even while speaking to me. It was equally impressive and irritating, and I made a mental note to try another yoga class. Just one more.

  I had come looking for some confirmation of his relationsh
ip with Claire Crowley and what he knew about the existence of the Hotel Tapes. So, of course, I had told him on the phone that I was writing an article about Olivia and would be very interested in talking to him since he’d been so close to her all her life.

  Now, standing over him, I was having an extremely difficult time concentrating. Yes, Adam and Jordan were stars, but Gray Benedek was a megastar. An icon from my past. And even better-looking up close than my glimpse of him in the theater hallway had suggested he might be. I’d felt quite professional while his assistant, a very intense young man who looked more like an MBA candidate than a rock star’s right hand, led me down the hardwood hallway lined with museum-quality abstracts.

  But as soon as I shook Benedek’s hand, I got a trifle starstruck and even stammered when he greeted me. To cover, I’d made a joke about his blowing all my theories about the social constructs of fame. But instead of laughing it off, he’d suggested his own interpretation, ending with the drama statement. Not at all what I’d expected.

  “And it’s in your hands,” he continued now, “to decide whether this one’s a comedy or a tragedy.”

  Not what I’d expected there, either. “I’m not sure I follow.”

  “You can portray Olivia as the broken little girl who can’t overcome the shadow of her famous father, especially since she’s surrounded by people with similar issues. Or you can portray her as a young woman who’s making her own path, missteps and all, and going to succeed at it,” he said crisply.

  “Which one do you think she is?”

  “Ah, there’s the catch. I don’t see her—or much in life, in fact—in those simplistic terms. But there’s no way my complex point of view can be accommodated by the glossy web you’re spinning, so why bother getting into it?”

  When the Big Bad Wolf leapt out of bed and revealed himself to Little Red Riding Hood, was her first reaction disappointment? For a moment there, I’d thought I was going to get a memorable, intellectual discussion with Gray Benedek as he offered his unique worldview, shaped by an education as a classical pianist that had strayed into a life as rock royalty. Instead, I was getting sandbagged.