Who's Kitten Who? (4 page)

Still, that didn’t keep me from picking his brain every time he happened to be covering a homicide investigation I was interested in.

“What brings you here?” he asked jovially. “You’re not on trial, are you?”

As usual, Forrester looked remarkably cool, calm, and collected. It wasn’t just his natural good looks, his gray-blue eyes, and his thick blond hair that softened into a mass of curls at the back of his neck. It wasn’t his preppy style of dress either—the khaki slacks, white button-down shirt, and loose-fitting tweedy jacket that hung from his broad shoulders as if he’d thrown it on as an afterthought. Even more than his appearance, it was the easy self-confidence he naturally exuded. He always looked as if he’d just sailed in from his summerhouse on Nantucket and, underneath his leather Top-Siders, still had sand between his toes.

“Actually,” I replied, “I’m trying to find out whatever I can about Simon Wainwright’s murder. Which I understand is the topic of Falcone’s press conference today—and which I assume is a story you’re covering for
Newsday.
”

“Right on both counts. I guess you didn’t see my article in this morning’s paper.”

“Sorry. I didn’t have time to pick it up.”

“No problem. We don’t know much yet, aside from the fact that the poor guy turned up Saturday morning stuffed into a trunk full of costumes as if he were a toga left over from
Antony and Cleopatra.
”

I cringed at the image. Forrester didn’t seem to notice.

“The results of the autopsy aren’t in yet,” he continued, “but the police think the murder occurred sometime Friday night. There was no rehearsal that evening, so the theater would have been empty.”

“Makes sense.” My mind was already clicking away, picturing a dark, lonely theater late at night, with only two people there: Simon and some nameless, faceless figure with evil intentions. “How did he die? What about the murder weapon?”

“It hasn’t been found yet. Apparently the poor guy was bashed in the back of his head with something heavy. But the cops have yet to locate it or even to determine what it was.

“Y’know, Popper,” Forrester went on breezily, “I thought our paths might cross again. I had a feeling this case would turn out to be your cup of tea.” He was wearing a grin so wide it made the Cheshire Cat look like the Mona Lisa.

“And why is that?” I asked coolly.

“Three reasons, actually. One, because the murder occurred within spitting distance of where you live. Two, because your pal Betty Vandervoort is involved in the same theater group as the victim. And three,” he added, leaning closer, “because you haven’t had a chance to poke around a murder for, what is it, three or four months now? That must be driving you nuts.”

For some reason I had yet to uncover, Forrester Sloan had an uncanny ability to irritate me. Yet it seemed critical to act as if nothing he said fazed me. Especially when I wanted something from him—which was pretty much all the time.

So I laughed. “Cut it out, Forrester. You make it sound as if I’m obsessed with solving murders.”

“Not obsessed, exactly,” he returned. “More like…eternally intrigued.”

“It just so happens I have other things to think about these days,” I shot back. “Important things.”

“Like what?” he asked. “I’m all ears.”

“Like being engaged.”

A look of total shock crossed his face. But his expression quickly melted into one of skepticism. “Uh-huh.”

“You sound as if you don’t believe me.”

“Maybe that’s because I don’t.”

I raised my chin a little higher in the air. “Don’t you think I’m the marrying kind?”

“As a matter of fact, I don’t.”

“Maybe this will help convince you.” I stuck my left hand in his face, figuring the ring I was wearing was bound to make an impression.

He took my hand in his, squinting as he examined it. “Not exactly the Hope diamond, is it?”

“I’m not big on flashy jewelry.” I yanked my hand away. “The point is, I love Nick and he asked me to marry him.”

“On bended knee?”

Even though Forrester’s wheedling tone made me want to smack his nose with my cell phone, I tossed my head haughtily and replied, “Yes, as a matter of fact. His marriage proposal was extremely romantic.”

“Don’t tell me. A quiet, candlelit restaurant, with violins playing the background?”

“A canyon, actually. And it was certainly quiet. In fact, the only sound in the background was the skittering of geckos.”

“Now that’s definitely what I call romantic.” That same annoying grin was back on his face. “Nothing says undying passion like lizards.”

“You don’t seem to be taking any of this very seriously,” I said petulantly. I hated the fact that Forrester always seemed to make me react this way. Almost as much as the fact that I didn’t seem capable of doing anything about it.

“I’m not,” he replied, chuckling. “I know you better than you think I do, Popper. And frankly, I won’t believe this business about you getting married until I see you strolling down the aisle in a long, white dress.”

By this point, I figured, there was probably steam coming out of my nose, just like in the Saturday morning cartoons. “Well, that’s not going to happen, mainly because I don’t expect you to make the guest list.”

“In that case, maybe I’ll use my press pass to sneak in.” He tapped the laminated picture ID hanging from his neck. “It’s amazing the places this thing gets you into. But don’t worry. If I do crash your wedding, I promise I’ll bring you and your lucky fiancé a nice wedding gift. A blender, maybe, or even an ice cream maker.”

“Very thoughtful. But I already have a blender.”

“Then maybe I’ll bring you something else. Like information about the murder investigation.”

His words grabbed my attention. “What do you know, Forrester?” I demanded.

“Like I said, not much. At least, not yet. But whatever I do find out, I promise I’ll have it engraved and wrapped in silver paper with a big white bow.”

“No, seriously. The reason I’m here is that I promised Betty I’d find out whatever I could about Simon Wainwright’s murder. She’s really broken up about it. Would you help me?”

“I’ve already said I would.” Looking at me with what I was certain was great amusement, he added, “On one condition.”

“What’s the condition?”

“That if and when your engagement gets called off, you’ll let me take you out on a real date.”

My eyebrows shot up to my hairline. “What makes you think my engagement will get called off?” I asked as indignantly as I possibly could.

He laughed again. Actually, it was more like a smirk accompanied by a few throaty sounds. Whatever it was, it was certainly a lot more irritating than a normal laugh. “Like I said, I know you,” he replied simply.

I folded my arms across my chest. “Okay, Forrester. I agree that if—
if
—I ever call off my engagement to Nick, I’ll go out on a real date with you.”

“Or if he calls it off,” he interjected. “Let’s be clear about that.”

As if
that
would ever happen, I thought.

“Either one of us, then. But you’d better buy yourself some warm socks, because that’ll be the same day hell freezes over. In return for agreeing to this ridiculous occurrence that will absolutely, positively never happen, you’ll tell me everything you learn about Simon Wainwright’s murder. Deal?”

“Deal,” he agreed. “Whenever I find out something about the case, you’ll be the first to know. But at the moment, I have a few other important things to figure out.”

“Like what?” I asked, even though I knew that was exactly how he wanted me to respond.

“Like which restaurant I’ll take you to on our first date.”

With that, I really did hit him with my cell phone, jabbing him in the ribs harder than I’d intended. I suppose it was childish. But somehow I just couldn’t help myself.

Given the fact that it only made him laugh, I wished I hadn’t bothered.

Chapter 4

“Animals are such agreeable friends—they ask no questions, they pass no criticisms.”

—George Eliot

I
hung around the courthouse just long enough to catch the first few minutes of Lieutenant Falcone’s press conference. That was all it took to confirm my hunch that the police didn’t have a clue about who had killed Simon Wainwright. At least, not yet.

Then I hurried home to change my clothes and pick up Betty and Winston for Simon’s wake. As Derek had claimed, the sad gathering would give everyone a chance to pay their respects and, hopefully, get some closure. But I also saw it as an opportunity to find out more about Simon’s friends, his enemies, and perhaps even some of his enemies who had disguised themselves as friends.

I pulled up in front of Betty’s house, expecting to park my VW and dash inside to retrieve her and Winston. But I’d barely stopped the car before she came running out.

“Let’s go,” she said, yanking her seat belt over her black blazer.

“Isn’t Winston coming?” I asked, surprised.

She just shook her head. It was only then that I noticed the pink patches on her cheeks.

I didn’t say anything. She didn’t either. We drove the entire length of the driveway and turned onto Minnesauke Lane without speaking.

In fact, I was debating whether to switch on the radio or make a comment about the lovely spring weather when she volunteered, “Winston and I just had an argument.” After a moment’s hesitation, she added, “He thinks I should drop out of the Port Players.”

“No way!” I cried. “Why?”

“Because he feels it’s not safe,” Betty replied. “This morning I mentioned that given the circumstances of Simon’s death, as well as his life, it seems likely that he was murdered by someone who’s involved with the theater company. Winston was beside himself when he learned there could be a killer in the cast. He said he’s worried sick that something will happen to me, but…”

Her voice trailed off. Then she turned to me and said, “Jessica, you have to do everything you can to solve Simon’s murder—the sooner, the better. I can’t drop out of the Port Players! Winston is right, of course. It’s terrifying to think that Simon’s murderer could be someone I know, even someone standing onstage right next to me! But being in the theater again after all these years is simply too important to me.”

She sighed. “Then again, Winston is important to me too. We’re getting married in less than three weeks. I don’t want to spend every minute between now and the wedding being angry at each other.”

I nodded. After all, I was no stranger to the tension that seemed to seep into even the best of relationships in the weeks before a marriage ceremony. In fact, I was beginning to think we needed a medical term for it: Pre-Wedding Syndrome, or PWS.

The difficulties Betty and Winston were having only made it clearer than ever that that I had serious work to do. Opening night was a mere two weeks away. If Betty’s theory was correct, if Simon’s murderer really was someone who was involved with this production, it would be that much harder to determine his or her identity once rehearsals were over and the run of
She’s Flying High
ended. Not only for me, but also for the police.

And solving this crime was crucial if I was going to keep things rosy between Betty and Winston—not to mention protecting my dear friend from an unknown killer. Which meant I needed to put everything I had into finding out who had murdered Simon.

With or without Nick’s support.

The Bingham Brothers’ Funeral Parlor occupied a rambling hundred-year-old building that had originally been a charming Victorian home. The three-story building had a big, friendly porch, a frosted oval-shaped window set into the front door, and stained-glass panels framing the windows. I liked the fact that the people who had known Simon Wainwright would be able to say good-bye to him in such a warm, homey place.

The scene outside, however, was anything but warm and homey. So many people had turned out for the wake that the parking lot was full. Drivers were fighting for spaces, with some abandoning their cars in nonexistent spots and even on the lawn. As for the cars, they were an interesting mix of Mercedeses, BMWs, flashy sports cars, and broken-down jalopies that looked as if they might need to be towed away. I figured the diversity reflected those who’d made it in show biz versus those who had yet to get their big break. I also spotted a few limousines, their drivers congregating near a fence where they smoked and chatted as they idly watched the crowd.

As Betty and I walked arm in arm toward the front door, I realized that it wasn’t only the parking lot that was filled to capacity. The sprawling Victorian building was so packed that people actually spilled out onto the lawn. It was a warm spring day, with the oppressive humidity that was guaranteed to characterize the next several months already in evidence. But the sun was nowhere to be seen, hiding somewhere in a sky filled with gloomy gray clouds.

We wove through the crowd, murmuring “Excuse me” over and over again as we tried to get inside. Something struck me as out of the ordinary: Many of the mourners were wearing outfits better suited to a stage than a wake. A man with bright orange-red hair sported an outrageous kelly green plaid suit. If it hadn’t been for his black velvet armband, I would have thought he was here to audition his vaudeville act. Several of the women wore long black gowns, some with trains and others decorated with sequins or feathers or fringe that made Aziza Zorn’s outfit from the day before look positively drab. I wondered if they’d bought them in a department store or rented them from a costume shop.

“I guess a lot of the people who came here today are in the theater,” I commented to Betty as soon as we squeezed through the doorway. So many people were crammed inside, standing around and chatting animatedly, that I felt as if I were crashing a cocktail party.

“Simon had developed quite a name for himself,” she replied. “His career was about to take off. Which makes this whole thing even harder to…” Her voice trailed off, ending with a choking sound.

“Are you all right?” I asked anxiously, putting my arm around her shoulders.

“I’m so sorry.” Sniffling, Betty scrounged around inside her purse for a tissue. “I thought I’d be able to handle this better.”

“You have no reason to apologize!” I assured her. “I know how fond of Simon you were.” Glancing around, I added, “So were a lot of people.”

She wiped her eyes. “Maybe I should take a minute to pull myself together. If you don’t mind, I’m going to pop into the ladies’ room.”

“Take your time, Betty.”

After she disappeared into the throng, I glanced around the front room of the funeral parlor, wondering how to occupy myself while I was on my own. I’m not generally that good at large gatherings, and the fact that this one was a wake made it even more difficult than usual.

But I was curious about whether I’d see anyone I recognized. I immediately spotted Aziza Zorn, who was draped in black and standing alone in a corner, looking mournful. Derek Albright, the director, stood with a group that included some familiar-looking faces I was certain belonged to cast and crew members I’d seen at the theater the day before.

I also noticed a man in an ill-fitting sports coat hovering in the corner, scanning the crowd. One of Falcone’s men, I figured. No doubt he was just as anxious as I was to see if anyone interesting had turned up to say good-bye to Simon Wainwright.

I decided to head in a different direction. Beyond the front room was the main room, which was separated from the entryway by large double doors that were wide open. People were milling around in there as well. I wandered inside and, as I’d suspected, discovered that Simon Wainwright’s body was lying in an open casket. The room was covered with flowers, bouquets and wreaths and elaborate sprays that filled the air with a sickly-sweet smell.

I edged over to take a look at the man I’d already become so focused on yet had never actually met. In fact, I’d never even seen his picture. Peering into his casket, I saw that he was extremely good-looking, with light-brown hair and attractive features. Still, it was hard to imagine him as full of life as I knew he had been.

My eyes filled with tears, and I was about to move away when a man standing nearby commented, “He looks very peaceful, doesn’t he?”

I thought he was talking to me. But before I had a chance to respond, I heard a woman respond, “Very peaceful.” She snorted, then added, “To look at him, you’d never guess what was really going on.”

“Gloria, this isn’t exactly the time and place,” the man said crossly.

I took a step sideways, as if I were trying to make room for them. In reality, I wanted to see who they were, this duo who not only lacked diplomacy but also seemed to know something about the details of Simon’s life.

The man and the woman were both in their late forties or early fifties, I estimated. Even though they were holding hands, the strain between them was obvious. The man was dressed in an expensive-looking suit that fit him so well I wondered if it had been custom-made. The woman was also well-heeled, but in a much more obvious way. She, too, wore a suit, but hers looked as if it had been created by some high-priced designer. Chanel, maybe, although I was hardly an expert in garments that cost more than three months’ take-home pay. Her dark, meticulously coiffed hair, worn in a short pageboy, was tastefully streaked with silvery highlights.

But it was her jewelry that made me wonder if she and her escort were among the visitors who had arrived in one of the limousines parked outside. On her left hand, she wore a diamond that looked like a boulder compared to the pebble I had on mine. On the same finger, she also wore a wide gold wedding band that was studded with more impressively large diamonds. Around her neck was a string of large black beads I recognized as Tahitian black pearls. As for the gold bracelet dangling from her wrist, the diamonds were so voluminous I was surprised she could lift her arm.

“He does look peaceful,” I commented, determined to hone in on their conversation. “Goodness, what a tragedy!”

The woman looked at me curiously and frowned. “I don’t think I know you. Were you one of Simon’s
suburban
acquaintances?”

“He and I were in the same theater company,” I replied, ignoring her condescending tone.

“Ah.” She sniffed. “An aspiring actress.”

“You’re with the Port Players?” Her husband sounded genuinely interested.

“That’s right,” I replied. “At least, for this production. What I mean is, it’s my first time onstage.”

“Really? And what prompted this sudden interest in the theater?” he asked.

“Actually, the reason I got involved is that a friend of mine who’s in the company asked me,” I explained. “Otherwise, I never would have attempted acting, much less singing and dancing. I don’t really think I’ve got what you’d call star quality.”

“I’m curious,” the man continued. “Which cast member convinced you to join?”

“Betty Vandervoort,” I replied. “She and I live on the same property in Joshua’s Hollow. She’s in the main house and I’m in the cottage. Which means she’s my landlady as well as my friend.”

“No wonder you couldn’t say no,” he said, smiling. “What role are you playing?”

“Anita Snook, Amelia Earhart’s first flying teacher.”

“That’s a good role. Not a major one, but at least you have a few lines. It sounds like a great way to get started.”

Just then, a cell phone burst into song. As I was wondering who was insensitive enough to keep a cell phone turned on in a funeral home, the shiny woman snapped open her beige purse. It was emblazoned with the name
Prada
in large enough letters that just about anyone would be able to read it, even without glasses.

“Damn,” she muttered, pulling out her phone and checking the caller-ID screen. “I thought everyone knew I was coming to a wake today.”

“Apparently not,” her escort muttered, looking embarrassed.

“Yes, Harvey, what is it?” she snapped into the phone, stomping toward the other end of the coffin and stopping when she reached Simon’s feet.

“You’ll have to excuse my wife,” the man apologized, stepping away from the coffin to allow other people to drift over to pay their respects. “She’s been under a lot of stress lately.”

I moved away, following him. “People express their grief in different ways.”

He laughed. “You’re much too kind.”

“It sounds as if you and your wife were close to Simon.”

“We were business associates,” he said. “Not that we weren’t fond of him. We both were. But we were planning to produce
She’s Flying High
on Broadway.” He extended his hand. “I’m Sheldon Stone. And that’s my wife, Gloria.”

My eyebrows shot up involuntarily. Even I recognized those names. Sheldon and Gloria Stone weren’t just Broadway producers. They were
the
Broadway producers. Long before I’d joined the theater world, Betty had talked my ear off about how influential the couple was. At the moment, they had no fewer than four phenomenal hits on and off Broadway.

“It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Stone,” I said sincerely, wanting him to know I knew who he was. “I’m Jessica Popper.”