by Tracy Kiely
Harper blinked at her father; her blue eyes unsure. “Because I knew he wasn’t there,” she said in a small voice. “I was looking for evidence.”
“What kind of evidence?” Donald asked.
Harper glanced again at Gracie before answering. “I wanted to know if he was having an affair,” she said. “I thought if I found evidence, it would help me in the divorce. So one day I took his key and made a copy of it.”
“Did you find anything?” I asked.
Harper shook her head. “No. Nothing. I looked all over that apartment. There wasn’t anything there; no condoms, no tea. I searched his desk, too. All that was there was a copy of his manuscript, a copy of that Yeti play he was trying to produce, and a query letter from a playwright. There were notes for the manuscript all over his desk. There were notes written in the margins of that play he wanted to produce, too. That’s what I don’t get. It really seemed like he was working there.”
“That’s interesting,” I said.
Donald looked at me sharply. “Why is that?” he asked.
“Because when I got there, there wasn’t anything on his desk,” I said. “No manuscript, no play, and no query letter. In fact, there were no work-related papers in his apartment at all.”
“I don’t understand,” Donald said. “Are you saying the killer took the manuscript?”’
I stared at my glass. “I’m not sure,” I said after a minute. “I could see why someone might want to get rid of the book Dan was working on. It sounds as if it was full of stories that might embarrass more than one person. But why would they take the play and a query letter?”
I looked to Harper but she shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said. “It was just your basic query letter asking Dan to read the play and give feedback.”
“Do you remember who it was from?” I asked. “Come on, put that photographic memory to use.”
Harper closed her eyes in concentration. “It was a funny name, I remember that,” she said. After a minute it came to her. “Lockhart,” she said. “It was from a G. Lockhart.”
Before I could say anything, there was a knock on the door. Donald excused himself and went to answer it. We heard male voices in the hallway and then a second later Donald reappeared. Fletcher followed close behind.
Seeing Harper, Fletcher’s face relaxed. “Oh my dear girl,” he said as he crossed the room to stand next to her. “You poor, poor thing. I was horrified when I heard that you’d been arrested. It’s simply absurd! If there is anything you need from me, I hope you will only ask.”
Harper looked up at Fletcher and produced a polite if not slightly perplexed smile. “That’s very kind of you,” she said.
Fletcher took a seat next to her on the couch. “My dear, knowing your mother as I did makes me think of you as part of my own family.”
From my peripheral vision, I saw Donald’s face blanch in revulsion.
“Oh, well, thank you,” Harper said before quickly glancing at her father. Donald stared at Fletcher as if a troll had suddenly sprouted in Harper’s living room.
Fletcher now smiled. “I know you must think me presumptuous,” he said, “and perhaps I am. But I didn’t get to where I am in this life by not stepping forward and speaking my mind. I go after what I want, and right now what I want is to make sure that you don’t go to jail.”
Harper flinched slightly at his words. The movement startled Gracie, who woke with a jerk and began to cry. Harper snuggled her close and tried to soothe her but to no avail. After a minute, she said, “I think she might be hungry. If you’ll excuse me.”
Fletcher watched her leave the room with an expression of approval. “The bond between a mother and her child,” he mused. “There’s nothing quite like it. One of the rare things on this earth that should be protected and treasured.” He suddenly turned to me and asked, “Do you have any children, Mrs. Martini?”
“Does Skippy count?” I asked, nodding my head to where he was sprawled on the floor next to my chair.
Fletcher’s gaze moved to where Skippy lay on the floor belly up and paws in the air. It was a position that Nigel had dubbed the Upside-Down Superman. Fletcher offered an indulgent smile. “Not exactly,” he said.
I looked over at Skippy. “I’d like to see you try and tell him that,” I said.
Fletcher laughed. “Well, you are still young,” he said. “You still have time. I’ve always believed that one of life’s greatest joys is to have a child,” he said.
“So I have heard,” I replied diplomatically. I couldn’t remember if Fletcher had children of his own and didn’t think it polite to ask. I needn’t have worried. Fletcher was apparently in a sharing mood. “I never had any children,” he said. “Although I wanted to. Very badly, in fact.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
Fletcher smiled sadly. “So am I. I came close to settling down a couple of times, but unfortunately, I had to end it. The women I considered marrying had very different ideas of motherhood from myself.”
“Oh, I see,” I said, when in fact I had no idea what he was talking about.
Fletcher nodded at me as if we understood each other. “I thought you might,” he said. “Mothers are meant to stay home with their babies. This new trend of mothers going back to work is appalling. It’s why our country is in the mess it’s in today. Children need to come home every day to a house that is clean, orderly, and smells of freshly baked cookies.”
I began to wonder if Fletcher Levin had recently had a stroke.
“Mothers are the ones who instill their children with a sense of right and wrong,” he continued. “They teach them manners and how to act in polite society.”
“And what do fathers do exactly?” I asked.
Fletcher stared at me in surprise. “Why, they provide a home and put food on the table,” he said. “A man’s job is to provide a home. A woman’s job is to run it. That’s the kind of environment that produces well-adjusted children.”
I arched an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize there was only one way to raise a child,” I said.
Fletcher sniffed. “Well, there is if you want to raise a decent member of society.”
Harper returned just then, saving me from making what I’m sure Fletcher would consider a very indecent suggestion. “She’s asleep,” Harper said as she sat back down on the couch. “Thank God she’s too little to understand what’s happening.”
Fletcher leaned over and took Harper’s hand in his. I saw Donald’s jaw clench. “My dear,” Fletcher said, “what can I do to help? Do you need a lawyer? Money? I’m more than happy to help in any way.”
Harper smiled politely and shook her head. “That’s very kind of you, Fletcher, but I think I’m fine. My father has retained a lawyer and he’s confident in our case.”
“Well, you know where to reach me, if you need anything,” Fletcher said. “In the meantime, take care of that beautiful baby. I’ll be in touch.” He said his good-byes to the rest of us, and Donald walked him to the door. He returned a moment later and sank wearily into a chair.
“Fletcher Levin has got to be the greatest pocket of untapped natural gas known to man,” he said.
forty-six
Later that night, Nigel and I went to the Eugene O’Neill Theater, but this time we went after Peggy’s play had ended. I had called Peggy earlier and arranged to meet her backstage. “So why do you want to talk to Brooke?” Peggy asked me when she saw me.
“I just wanted to ask her a few questions about Dan,” I said.
Peggy folded her arms over her chest and raised her eyebrow. “Gee, thanks for clearing that up,” she said. “I was really confused before, but now it all makes sense.”
“Sarcasm isn’t attractive on you, Peggy,” I said.
“Really? Well, gosh darn it. There goes my day. However, I could say the same thing about you and pig-headed secrecy
,” she countered.
I laughed. “Peg, I swear I’ll tell you everything, but I want to talk to Brooke first.”
Peggy uncrossed her arms with a frustrated sigh. “Fine,” she said. “She’s in her dressing room. It’s down the hall on the right.”
“Thanks, Peg. I owe you one,” I said.
Peggy rolled her eyes. “You really need to learn how to count,” she huffed.
“Who is it?” Brooke called out after I’d knocked on her door.
“It’s Nic and Nigel Martini,” I said. Nigel nudged me and shot me a meaningful look. “And Skippy,” I added. Nigel nodded approvingly.
There was a pause and then the sound of movement. A minute later, Brooke called out, “Come on in.” I opened the door. Brooke sat at her dressing table, facing the mirror. She wore a peach-colored silk robe that was knotted at the waist. Her blond hair was pulled back into a low ponytail. She was in the process of wiping off her stage makeup. Nigel and I weren’t her only company. Mark sat on a small couch to her left. He wore jeans, a blue blazer, and what appeared to be the faint remnants of Brooke’s lipstick on his mouth.
“Hello, Mark,” I said. “I hope we’re not interrupting.”
Mark produced an affable smile. “Not at all,” he said. “I was just going over some notes on the play with Brooke.” His gaze dropped to Skippy and his mouth dropped open a bit. “Dear God,” he said. “Is that a dog?”
Nigel glanced down at Skippy. “Well, that’s the rumor, anyway,” he said. “His name is Skippy.”
Mark tore his gaze from Skippy and glanced up at Nigel, his face incredulous. “Bullshit,” he said.
Nigel laughed. “I kid you not.” Skippy ambled over to Mark and stuck his nose in his crotch. “I think he likes you,” Nigel said as Mark stared down in surprise at Skippy’s enormous head.
“Yeah, funny, I got the same impression,” Mark said.
Brooke put down her facecloth and turned around to face us. “I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess that you two aren’t here to compliment me on my performance tonight,” she said with an easy smile.
“Sadly, no,” I said. “Although, I’m sure you performed brilliantly.”
Brooke raised an eyebrow, silently inviting me to continue.
“I wanted to ask you about Dan Trados,” I said.
Brooke picked her facecloth back up and resumed washing her face. “What about him?”
“Well, I understand that he was writing a book when he died,” I said. “Among other things, he was going to include interesting theater anecdotes.”
Brooke briefly glanced at me in the mirror before turning her attention back to wiping off her makeup. “Okay,” she said in a bored voice.
“Apparently one of his stories was about you.”
This time Brooke’s gaze stayed on mine. “Oh?” she said. “Is that so?”
Mark sat up straighter on the couch; no small feat considering that Skippy’s head was still buried in his lap.
I nodded. “Something about an accident on the set of Annie?”
Brooke’s eyes narrowed. “What about it?”
I affected a disinterested shrug. “Well, it isn’t a very flattering story,” I said.
“Nasty, unfounded gossip rarely is,” she countered.
“Is that what the story is?” I asked. “Unfounded gossip?”
Brooke undid her ponytail and shook it out. Picking up a hairbrush, she began to brush out her long mane. “I can only assume you are referring to that bitch Sally Martin and her ridiculous story that I pushed her off a stage. I did no such thing. Sally fell. Plain and simple. She fell, and she then tried to blame me. If someone says otherwise, then they are lying.”
“Why would Sally make up such a story?” I asked.
Brooke continued to brush her hair. “Because she knew the director was going to replace her with me. She’d missed a few performances due to a cold or something and I had to take over. I nailed it. The director decided that I should be in the lead when we opened on Broadway. Sally found out about it before they could tell her and she flipped out. She threw herself off that damn stage and tried to make it seem like I pushed her. But I never touched her.”
“Evidently Dan had found someone who says you did,” I said.
Brooke scoffed. “You mean he found a liar.”
“Why would someone lie about that?” I asked.
Brooke slammed her brush down on the table. “How the hell should I know? Maybe they like the notoriety, maybe they have an axe to grind, or maybe somebody bribed them to say it.”
“Somebody like Dan?” I asked.
Brooke smirked. “You said it, honey, not me.”
I crossed my arms and leaned back against the door. “Why would Dan bribe someone to confirm a story like that?” I asked.
Brooke pulled her hair back up and secured it with a hair tie. “Well, I guess you’d have to ask Dan that, wouldn’t you?” She opened her eyes as if suddenly struck by a thought. “Oh, that’s right,” she said with an insincere smile. “You can’t. Pity.”
“Oh, I didn’t say that I didn’t know why Dan wanted the story,” I said bluffing. “I only wondered if he’d gotten around to telling you about it yet.”
Brooke’s smile vanished. She slowly turned around in her chair.
“Brooke,” Mark said in a warning voice.
“Shut up, Mark,” Brooke snapped. “Exactly what are you saying, Mrs. Martini?” she asked, her voice low.
“I just wondered if Dan had gotten around to offering you a choice,” I said.
Brooke’s eyes narrowed. “A choice?” she repeated.
I nodded. “Yes. A choice between having the story published and perhaps … doing Dan a favor?” I cocked my head a bit to the right when I said this last bit. I hoped it implied a come on, we all know what happened here attitude rather than the truth, which was a here goes nothing Hail Mary.
Brooke glared at me. “Yes, all right, yes,” she finally hissed. “Dan wanted me to do some play he’d found, and yes he threatened to publish that damn story about me pushing Sally off the stage if I didn’t do it. I told him to go to hell.”
“What was Dan’s reaction?”
Brooke’s glance slid away from mine briefly and landed on Mark. She blinked and looked back at me. “If I remember correctly, he laughed,” she said.
“Really? How odd,” I said slowly as I pushed myself off the wall. “Well, I appreciate your taking the time to talk to me.”
Brooke blinked at me in surprise. “That’s it? That’s all you wanted to know?”
I smiled. “Well, I do have one more question, if you don’t mind.”
“What?”
“That night at Fletcher’s afterparty, you spilled your drink on Dan.”
“Yes, so?” said Brooke.
“Was it deliberate?” I asked.
Brooke let out a small laugh. “Oh, it most certainly was.”
“Because he was flirting with you?”
Brooke blinked at me like I was an idiot. “Well, yes. Not only was he flirting with me, but he was doing it right in front of Nina. I mean, talk about arrogance.”
“Why would Nina care?” I asked.
“Because they were having an affair, of course.”
I sat back in my chair. “Oh? How did you find out about that?” I asked. “I didn’t realize that you and Nina were that close.”
Brooke rolled her eyes. “You’re kidding, right? It was common knowledge. A child of five could have figured it out.”
“I see. Well, you’ve been very helpful,” I said sincerely. “I won’t take up anymore of your time.”
Brooke glanced to Mark before smiling and saying, “Of course. I’m glad I could help.”
Nigel and I were quiet when we left Brooke’s dressing room. “Well, I fina
lly think I understand everything,” I said.
Nigel looked down at me. “You do?” he asked.
“I do.”
He looked at me expectantly for a moment. Slowly his eyes narrowed. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?” he asked.
I smiled up at him. “You mean you haven’t figured it out?”
Nigel made a rude noise. “I hate it when you do that,” he huffed.
I laughed and snaked my arm through his. “Don’t mope,” I said. “I’ll tell you everything. And then I need to call Marcy.”
Nigel gave a low whistle of approval when I finished telling him my theory. He pulled me into a tight embrace, saying, “Have I ever told you how sexy your brain is?” he said.
“Not recently,” I admitted.
“Then let me rectify that,” he said with a grin.
Marcy was a little less effusive when I told her my theory some time later, but she finally agreed to my idea. Once she was on board, I had one more call to make. I crossed my fingers and hoped to hell that Peggy would agree.
forty-seven
“Nic, you know I love Peggy, but I don’t think I’m up for this,” Harper said to me the next day as we made our way into Eugene O’Neill Theater. “Besides, I just saw the play. Why can’t she just tell us what she changed?”
“Harper, come on,” I said. “She tweaked a scene and wants our opinion on whether it works or not. She said that it really changes the play.”
“But why us?” Harper asked. “I mean, we’re not playwrights.”
I rolled my eyes. “Because she trusts us,” I said. “She just wants our input.”
It was all a lie, of course, but it was imperative that Harper didn’t know the real reason we were watching a rehearsal of Peggy’s play. I needed to see her honest reaction.
Once we were inside the theater, Peggy ran over to us. Her color was high and she seemed to have trouble staying still. “Are you okay?” I asked, peering at her face.
“Sure, never better,” Peggy squeaked before she began to nervously chew on her thumbnail.
“Peggy, for God’s sake, calm down,” I said, giving her a hard stare. “It’s just a rehearsal.”
