Rehearsal for Murder (Maggie Ryan) (3 page)

“Look, Ramona—” he murmured, coaxing.

The door banged.

“Jesus, Nick!” It was Maggie, the baby strapped in the carrier, the briefcase clutched in her hand, the blue eyes darkening as she took in the scene.

Ramona jumped back guiltily. “God! Your wife!” She wasn’t quite able to keep the satisfaction from her voice, though, and Nick realized without surprise that she’d deliberately set up this awkwardness.

But he was more interested in Maggie’s urgent words. “Nick, I got your test result from Dr. Rank today!” She sounded alarmed, too alarmed to have noticed Ramona.

Dr. Rank? Of course. Nick’s tone echoed hers. “My test result? Was it … favorable?”

A slow shake of her head. “Still positive! Certainty!”

“Absolute certainty?” groaned Nick.

“Yes. Oh, Nick, sleep well!”

Ramona was bewildered. “Test? Certainty?”

Maggie’s eyes, blue pools of anxiety, turned to her for the first time. “Hepatitis,” she explained in a tragic tone.

“Hepatitis!” Ramona sprang back in dismay.

Maggie nodded. “Infectious,” she added helpfully.

Ramona wasted no sympathy on Nick. “Hepatitis! Damn, Nick, you’ve exposed us all! How could you be so goddamn selfish?” She was still backing away from him.

“Oh, it hasn’t been all that bad for him,” soothed Maggie.

“Not bad! Are you kidding? Hepatitis lays you flat! I had a friend who was in bed six months! And her skin turned yellow! My God, Nick, why didn’t you say something? That’s about the lowest … You’ve been rehearsing with us a week! And God, why didn’t you make me stop horsing around just now? Why didn’t—” She stopped abruptly, back against the wall, staring at him, then added slowly, “You’re not yellow. And you’ve been bouncing around …” Her big eyes switched to Maggie. They revealed a war of disbelief and rage and laughter. “You knew?”

“Oh, shucks,” said Maggie, grinning at her. “She’s found us out, Nick.”

“My God!” Laughter won and Ramona hooted in giddy relief. “Hepatitis! God! I’ll have to remember that if I ever meet Simon’s tart! Nick, you clown, I ought to can you! Lucky for you you’re a damn good Gladstone and Prince of Wales. And you make me laugh. And so does your goddamn wife.” Still giggling, she turned to Maggie. “Hey, are we even now?”

“All even. You gave me a bad moment too.” Maggie had expertly unbuckled the baby carrier and was helping Nick strap it on. Nick the kangaroo. Best-seller from Fisher-Price. His tiny daughter opened drowsy dark eyes, noted his presence and Maggie’s, and crumpled again into sleep against his chest. Balm of my age, most best, most dearest. Effortlessly she had seized control of his life.

Maggie turned back to Ramona. “Did Nick do something bad today?”

Under the friendly searching gaze, Ramona grew abruptly serious. “You mean, to deserve such a mean joke?”

“Sure, I deserved it,” said Nick. “I was pretending to be a woolly mammoth and almost knocked her down.”

But Ramona’s mood had shifted. “No, she’s right, Nick. I’ve been doing the great bitch-star routine today. I always thought I was too grown-up for that game. Haven’t been this childish since I was sixteen! It’s just that everything—No, you didn’t deserve it. Nobody deserved it. It’s nothing to do with the show, nothing to do with you. It’s just Simon.”

“Is there some way we can help?” asked Maggie.

“You? Mr. and Mrs. Happy Wedlock? Salt in the wound,” said Ramona bitterly. “Still goddamn soul mates, aren’t you? I’d forgotten what it’s like.”

So had I, thought Nick, till Dr. Rank. No time these days for souls. Or bodies, for that matter.

Maggie was hugging Ramona. “God, it must hurt!” Ramona let herself relax in the lanky arms a moment. Maggie could have that effect on people, Nick knew. Her vitality and lively compassion had often in the past been a source of strength to him too. But in a moment Ramona drew a deep breath and objected, “You can’t know, kid. You’ve never been divorced, right?”

“Not in a law court, no. Even so, I’ve been totaled a couple of times.”

“But you’re not forty.”

“Not yet.”

“Well, that makes it worse when your marriage is disintegrating. If yours lasts that long, you’ll see. Oh, some days I’m almost glad it’s ending. Glad to get out and conquer the world before it slips by. Other days I feel worthless. Old. Jealous of people like you. Wondering where all our magic went. What I did wrong.”

Maggie patted her shoulder. “Nothing, probably.”

“I know that with my head. He’s crazy. But inside, you know, you’re suffering and you think, ‘I must have done something to deserve this.’” She moved away, started pulling on her flame-red pantsuit and stylish Italian stack-soled boots. “When I was young and dumb and about to throw my life away, my best friend shoved me into a room and locked the door. I yelled and screamed. In the morning she came in and told me I was a good kid, but she’d had to slap me on the wrist because I’d forgotten. And then she gave me cocoa and everything was okay.”

“You’re a good kid,” said Nick, “but I’m afraid we forgot to bring the cocoa.”

Ramona looked at him in surprise. “God! You’re right! It’s the same stupid game I’m playing, isn’t it?”

“We play all kinds of games when we hurt.”

“Mm.” She adjusted the flared pant legs over her boots before glancing back at him. “Someone said Maggie was your second wife.”

“Yes.”

“You must know what it’s like, then, Nick. Divorce.”

“Not exactly. My first wife died.”

“Oh, I’m sorry! That’s different.”

“Yeah, maybe. But anytime you’re rooted psychologically in another person, any kind of end has to hurt.”

“You don’t say.”

“Sigmund F. O’Connor, part-time shrink, at your service,” said Nick cheerfully in a thick Viennese accent. “In your case, madam, I prescribe cocoa.”

She was laughing again. “Clown!”

“Insight of the day. Free introductory sample.”

“But you’re right, you know. I’ve got to stop taking it out on you people. This business of ours is hard enough on the ego. One day you’re applauded, the next you’re on welfare. All your self-doubts thriving like leeches. And then this thing of Simon’s.” She shook her head fretfully.

“You won’t have to worry about welfare, Ramona. You’re still famous.”

She stubbed out the cigarette, lips thin. “Still famous. Yes, indeed. Let’s get out of here.”

Nick held her wrap for her, a cape lined with blond fur. “Where’s your date?”

“Not far. We’re meeting at L’Etoile on Spring Street.”

“Mind if we come along partway? We’re going to Canal.”

Ramona locked up and they descended the metal stairs of the old factory building and walked out into the dusk. It had stopped drizzling but was still damply unpleasant. Nick adjusted the flap around his sleeping daughter’s head. Maggie, curious as always, asked Ramona, “What did you mean in there? About still famous?”

In the dim light Ramona looked downy, her dark eyes and dimples youthful in the frill of pale fur. After a moment she said, “Well, kid, Nick might remember. You’re too young. But in ’fifty-five everyone loved me. A new Garland, they said. An elfin Merman. Et cetera. I was famous. Turned down lots of great parts becaus
e
Devi
l
ran two and a half years. After that there were TV specials, and one film. It would have done better but the cutesy photography didn’t work. Hell, I could have done better with a Brownie! Anyway, on to more TV, a splashy tour for the GI’s in Saigon, a couple of nightclub spots. And somewhere along the line I slipped from ‘famous’ to ‘still famous.’ The next step isn’t hard to see.”

The truth of her analysis was too obvious to debate. Maggie said, “So you bought yourself this show.”

“Right. All that’s left of the film money. I was very prudent, you see, investing it for my favorite charity or for retirement, in case Simon had a reversal or something. But then my agent brought me an offer for a frozen-food commercial. My God, that’s what I was doing in ’fifty-four!” She gave a short harsh laugh. “And here I am, parading around like the great bitch-goddess. What kind of goddess sells frozen peas?”

“The Jolly Green Midget?” offered Nick.

“Yeah, laugh if you want. But I decided if I was ever going to have decent parts again, I’d better get to work and create my own luck. This is it. Ramona’s big gamble. I’m betting it all.”

“Scary. But necessary,” said Maggie, impressed.

“It’s a great part,” said Nick.

“Yeah, Victoria from birth to death. It’ll prove I’m not just a decaying ingenue. I can play a wider range.”

“Good idea.”

“Derek’s idea of doing it music-hall style is cute, I think. But of course everything seems to be rock these days.”

“
The Fantastick
s
is still going strong.”

“Well, if I win, we’ll all be set for a while. And if it flops, I suppose we’ll meet again in the unemployment lines.”

“The true New York Actor’s Club.”

“Right. Well, that’s show biz. Here’s my corner.” Ramona indicated the lighted restaurant sign at the end of the block.

“We’ll walk you down.”

“Absolutely not! You’ve done enough. Slapped me on the wrist and listened to me.”

“Next time we’ll bring the cocoa too.”

“No next time. I’ll reform. Last thing I want to do is hurt this show!” She shook her head soberly. “God, I’ve got a lot of fences to mend.”

Nick remembered the pulsing rage in the atmosphere and had to agree. “We all love the show. People won’t be difficult.”

“Hope not. Well, see you tomorrow, Nick.” She grinned suddenly. “And congratulations!”

“On what?”

“On your quick recovery from hepatitis.”

They laughed and parted. Maggie peered at her daughter, nestled against Nick’s chest. “How’re you doing
,
chouchoute
?
”

Nick looked down at the baby and observed proudly, “She’s sleeping.”

“Amazing child! What will she think of next?”

“A prodigy, all right.” He put an arm around Maggie’s shoulders. “Risky, that hepatitis bit.”

“So was everything else. Ignoring it would have insulted her, right? As for acting hurt and jealous—well, that might be what she wanted tonight, but she would’ve hated herself tomorrow.”

“That’s true. Up until today she’s been pretty reasonable. Put the show first. I haven’t seen this cruel streak before.”

“Yeah, you always said she was a good sport. So I decided to risk it. Hey, we’re pretty good, aren’t we? The old improvisation team.”

“You’ve missed it too?”

She walked a few steps in uneasy silence. “I guess I haven’t had time to notice it was gone.”

A lot of things you haven’t had time to notice, love. Nick quelled his resentment and said, “Sarah takes a lot of energy. But it’s been weeks since we’ve talked about anything besides who does dinner or who takes her to the pediatrician.”

“Well, things are still shaking down.”

“It’s been five months!”

“But she changes every day! And you’re working now, and—”

Two explosions burst through the clatter and rumble of the city dusk. Little Sarah stirred and whimpered. Maggie said doubtfully, “Backfire?”

“Maybe.” They looked at each other a second, then turned and ran back to the corner where they had left Ramona. A few people had paused on the sidewalks to peer toward the middle of the block. A woman, not Ramona, was standing there in the light of the streetlamp, screaming. As they ran toward her, a coatless woman in a miniskirt began to soothe her.

“What happened?” Nick asked them.

“Don’t know,” said the miniskirted woman. “There were shots, and I heard Carlotta screaming, so I came out. She was running away from that building. But she’s not hurt, I can see that.”

A scaffold covered the sidewalk in front of the building she indicated, and plywood blocked most of the facade. Maggie had disappeared into the black shadows under the scaffold. “Nick!” she called. “Get an ambulance!”

There was no arguing with the urgency in her voice. Nick sprinted the half-block to the restaurant, despite Sarah’s complaints about the jouncing, and grabbed the phone by the register. The headwaiter stopped protesting when he heard Nick’s request for the police and an ambulance.

Nick ran back to the scaffold, murmuring distracted explanations to the indignant Sarah. One of the plywood sheets was split, and the blackness of the gutted building loomed beyond. When he shielded his eyes from the glare of the streetlight, he could see Maggie in the shadows, kneeling. And more.

Sprawled on her back on the dirty cement floor, Ramona Ricci lay very still, a dark stain spreading across the pale fur of the cape rumpled beneath her.

II

Tuesday night

March 6, 1973

“How bad is it?” he asked.

“Bad.” Maggie was kneeling beside her, pressing her red scarf against Ramona’s side. “She’s in shock. Blinked a couple of times when I yelled for you, but her eyes haven’t opened since.”