Speak Now (13 page)

“Blow by blow,” Brenda said.

Eileen nodded, polished off her drink, and signaled to the waiter for another. I turned around to make sure he’d seen her and caught a flash of something out of the corner of my eye. I wasn’t sure exactly what it was. A sudden motion, someone turning away, maybe, but it bothered me. I scanned the crowd but didn’t see anything beyond the usual activity. I turned back to Eileen with a prickly feeling on the back of my neck.

Brenda pushed her drink, barely touched, toward Eileen. “Here,” she said, “I’m driving.” Eileen took the martini, giving me a highly significant look.

I refused to be diverted from my investigation by a discussion of Brenda’s new car. “When did you meet him?”

She grimaced. “About a month ago.”

Ah ha. That would have been a week before Jack and I had gotten back—which was exactly the timeframe I was worried about. “How did you meet?”

“He came in as a new client. He’s worth over a hundred million, so they sent him to me.” She shrugged. “We had a perfectly normal first consultation. I didn’t really see why he needed to change firms, because his portfolio was doing fine as it was, but I wasn’t going to turn down his business just because of that.”

But if he was Macbeth—or working for Macbeth—he’d have sought Eileen out for reasons other than her skills as a financial manager. And he would have had millions, according to Jack. “How did he behave toward you?” I asked. “Was it obvious he was interested from the beginning?”

“Not really,” she said. “Like I said, it was all perfectly normal, right until the end of the meeting.”

“What happened then?” Brenda asked before I could.

“He asked me out.”

“Just like that?” I asked.

Eileen nodded. “We were standing at the door, and had made an appointment for the following week for me to show him some suggestions I’d come up with, and he said ‘I really don’t want to wait that long to see you again. How about dinner tomorrow?’”

“Smooth,” I accused.

“Nice,” Brenda said.

“Where’s that waiter?” Eileen finished Brenda’s martini and looked around for replacements. I turned to look towards the bar, and that’s when I saw it. At the far end of the bar, on the floor, was a red motorcycle helmet. It was only visible between the legs around it in intermittent flashes, but it was definitely a helmet. I turned around quickly. Would I sound paranoid if I asked Brenda whether she’d noticed a red motorcycle in her rearview mirror?

Eileen continued relating the story of Ben, but I was only able to give her half my attention. I’d remembered the day I’d gone for a run, the day we’d gotten the call from Cece’s kidnappers, and the red motorcycle that had kept pace with me. That day, too, I’d caught a flash of something out of the corner of my eye and thought it had been the biker, carrying his red helmet, watching me.

“He was nice enough, and very attractive, but I should have known there was something weird about him from that first dinner.” That caught my attention.

“What?” I demanded. “What was weird about him?”

Eileen looked startled at the intensity of my interest. “He was a neat freak,” she said. “He kept straightening things on the table, lining up the silverware perfectly, adjusting the angle of the little lampshade on the candle, repositioning the bread basket every time the waiter or I moved it.”

“Maybe he’s obsessive-compulsive,” Brenda suggested.

I’d have to find out from Cece if it was a characteristic of Tom Nelson.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Eileen said. “His apartment was unbelievable.”

“When did you go to his apartment?” I asked sharply.

“Good. More drinks,” Eileen said. When the waiter came back to the table I took the opportunity to glance over to the end of the bar again. The helmet was gone. Was that a good sign or not? Did he know I’d spotted it? Was he still there? Or was I just freaking out for no reason?

“What about his apartment?” Brenda’s question brought me back to the conversation at hand.

“It was perfect,” Eileen said.

“Wait,” I interrupted. “When did you go there? On the first date?”

“Why, are you worried I’ll get a reputation?” Eileen bit into a fresh olive.

“I just want to be clear on the timeline.” They both looked at me like I was crazy, but Eileen shrugged and answered.

“No, it wasn’t on the first date. We went out a couple times. Dinner, drinks, and that play at the Curran. You’d hate it,” she told me, then came back to her story. “So it was the fourth date by the time he invited me over. He cooked.”

“Nice,” Brenda said again.

“You’d think,” Eileen agreed.

“So what was it about his apartment that was weird?” Men in black ski masks hanging out in the dining room, maybe?

“It was just so perfect,” she said. “Hardwood floors you could see yourself in with white rugs and white furniture. Glass and chrome tables with surfaces like mirrors. And you should have seen the kitchen,” she went on. “It looked like you could perform surgery in there. Not a speck on anything.”

“What did you think?” Brenda asked.

She gave us a guilt-wracked look. “I thought, if it got serious, he’d have a hard time adjusting to Anthony.”

“Ouch.” I adored Eileen’s nine-year-old son, but I had to admit he was a neat-freak’s nightmare.

“Yeah,” Eileen said. “So I just spent the evening trying not to spill anything or let my glass make a mark on his furniture.” She finished her third martini. “I swear to God, when I used the bathroom I flushed four times.” She giggled, then looked surprised.

“So did you spend the night?” I asked.

She shook her head. “He didn’t ask. That was another weird thing. In all this time he’d only given me pecks on the cheek or forehead. Nothing else. No moves whatsoever.” She looked a little mournful. “Even though I got a new haircut and all those new clothes.”

“You look fantastic,” Brenda assured her. “He’s probably gay.”

“Absolutely,” I agreed loyally. “It’s obvious he was either gay or a lunatic. Otherwise he’d have been all over you.” But I wondered. Cece had never explicitly said she’d had sex with Tom Nelson. I’d just assumed that, since they’d moved in together, they’d been intimate. Something else I’d have to check on. I was beginning to regret not bringing a little notebook.

“Thanks, guys.” Eileen straightened up. “You’re right. He was a nut case.”

“What finally convinced you?” Brenda asked. “Did he want to spit-shine your boots or something?”

“No,” Eileen shook her head. “Can I have that?” She pointed at Brenda’s second barely-touched martini.

Brenda slid the drink towards her. “What happened?”

Eileen took an olive and sucked on it. “I made a move.”

“That night?” I asked. “At his place?”

“At his place, but it wasn’t until the next time.” She dunked the olive back in the drink. “Even though Anthony’s with his dad this month, I didn’t want to invite Ben over to my place. I mean, of course I’d told him about Anthony, but it’s one thing to hear ‘I have a son’ in the abstract, and another to see the PlayStation-hooked-to-the-TV, model-airplane-parts-everywhere, train-set-in-the-dining-room reality.” She looked to us for understanding. We understood. A man has to be eased into these situations.

“So you went back to his place…” I prodded.

“Saturday night,” she said. “After dinner.”

“And you made a move?” Brenda probed.

“I did,” she admitted. “We were talking on the couch, and I…pounced.”

“What happened?” Brenda asked.

“Well, we’re kissing, and then we’re taking each other’s clothes off, and I figured he’d move into the bedroom, but no.”

“No?”

“No. Instead he pulls me down onto the floor.”

“That can be nice,” Brenda said, then looked embarrassed.

“Most things can be nice,” I said. “What did he do then?”

“It’s not what he did,” Eileen cringed. “It’s what he said.”

“What?” Brenda asked.

Eileen swigged the last of the martini. “He said ‘Try not to get the rug messy.’”

“Eeeyyuu.” Brenda made a face.

“You’re kidding,” I said.

Eileen raised her right hand. “I swear.”

“What did you do?” I asked.

“What could I do? I gathered up my clothes, and what was left of my dignity, and I left. Are you going to finish that?” She pointed to my martini.

I took the last swallow. “Yep. You’ve had enough anyway. It’s a school night.”

She sighed heavily. “Is it me?”

“No!” we protested. And we took her home and tucked her in, telling her all the while how fabulous she was and how much better off she was without a pathologically clean boyfriend.

Privately, I thought there were worse things than bad boyfriends. There were too-good-to-be-true boyfriends who turned out to be kidnappers. Maybe Eileen had been luckier than she would ever know.

Chapter 15

When I woke up the next day Jack had already left for the gym. He’d promised not to play racquetball until his shoulder was fully healed, but apparently there were other ways he could find to torture himself.

I hadn’t told him about Eileen’s suspicious boyfriend. My going-for-a-drink-with-the-girls outfit had been a little more effective than I’d bargained for, and I hadn’t had a chance to say much of anything at all. Now that I thought about it, I wasn’t sure how to introduce the topic without revealing that I was interrogating my friends. If he knew what I was up to, Jack would probably tell me to let him handle the situation, and that was a conversation I’d rather not have.

I sifted through everything Eileen had told us about Ben. Point one, he was rich. That fit. Point two, although he’d asked her out, he’d waited for her to make the first move. I had to remember to ask Cece whether that matched her experience with her perfect boyfriend. Although the thought of probing into Cece’s sex life was not an appealing one.

And then there was the obsessive cleanliness thing—unless it had been an act. But why? If Ben was working for Macbeth, and trying to get as close to Eileen as Tom Nelson had to Cece, the behavior had worked against him. Why would Macbeth hire someone with habits that would drive his intended victim away? How could Macbeth hire anyone from solitary confinement anyway?

The whole mental exercise began to seem pointless. After all, both Tom and Ben were out of the picture now. I should be spending my time worrying about those people who were still around. I decided to head for the theater and check out the new director.

***

I came in through the stage door, hoping to slip in unnoticed so I could observe my suspect during the auditions. No such luck. I wasn’t three steps into the building when I heard Simon cry “Darling!” He strode towards me, gracefully flinging a sweater from around his shoulders. “Charley, my angel, my pet, how we’ve all missed you!” There was a reason Simon had chosen the life of the theater.

“Simon,” I greeted him, as he kissed both my cheeks, grabbed me by the hands, and dragged me to the stage, talking all the time.

“Darling, it’s all so thrilling! Don’t you just adore auditions? They spell the dawn of a new day for our little troupe. Will we find genius today? Will we all write about this in our memoirs, as the day we discovered a breathtaking new talent?” As we reached the stage he pulled me close and whispered in my ear. “Sorry for camping it up so, darling, but the money man is here and one has one’s image.”

I smiled, relieved that Simon hadn’t gone completely over the top. Then I took in what he’d said. The money man. The anonymous donor, who apparently wasn’t that anonymous any more. I felt a stab of jealousy that he would be in my theater. Then I realized he was yet another stranger in our lives. “Where is he?” I muttered.

“Fifth row center,” Simon said softly, then, with boisterous energy, “Look, kittens! Look who’s come back to the fold! The prodigal producer has returned!” I saw a lot of familiar faces, but more who looked confused and annoyed at the interruption.

Everyone had stopped what they were doing with Simon’s announcement, and the pause was getting awkward. I looked toward the orchestra seats, but the lights prevented me from seeing who was seated fifth row center.

“Charley!” I heard, and turned to find Martha, the costume designer, waving from a group of people at the back of the stage. “Charley!” That was Paris, the set designer, calling down from the balcony. Then, “Charley!” from offstage, as Chip emerged from the gloom. A small crowd began to form, and Simon clapped his hands imperiously for attention.

“All right, all right, everybody! We’ll all have a chance to socialize with Charley later on. For now, we must be all business!” He grabbed my hands again and pulled me offstage in the opposite direction from where we’d come. “A few brief words in private I think, darling, and then we’ll get down to work. Chip!” he interrupted himself. “We’ll see the Annas first.”

Offstage, Simon propelled me up two flights of stairs and down a narrow, brick-walled hallway to the theater offices. He shoved me in the room marked
Artistic Director
and flung himself at the door to close it behind us.

“Chaos!” he proclaimed. “Disaster and ruin! Thank God you got here when you did!” He sank into a red velvet sofa which had seen better days, and looked up at me like a man on his way to the scaffold.

“Problems with the new production?” I guessed, sitting on the battered antique desk and crossing my legs.

He snorted. “How I’ve missed your gift for understatement.”

Now that I could look at him more closely, I saw how tired Simon was. There were dark circles under his fjord-blue eyes, and his hair, usually a perfect blond wave sweeping back from his brow, flopped down across his forehead. Worst of all, his clothes were rumpled. “Good Lord, Simon, you look like hell,” I said, causing him to wince. “What’s the matter?”

“Brian bailed,” he said flatly.

“Brian?” Brian the new director? The Brian I was here to investigate? The Brian who was now my leading contender for the role of Macbeth’s henchman? “What do you mean he bailed?”

“As if enough hadn’t gone wrong with this bloody production already,” Simon said bitterly, “I got here bright and early this morning to find a note.” He shot me a glance of pure hatred. “A note! That sodding—”

“All right,” I interrupted. “I get the picture. What did the note say?”

Simon collapsed back into the cushions again and gestured toward the desk. “It’s right there. I wanted to keep it so if I ever see him again I can ram it down his ungrateful throat.”

I looked around the desk and realized I was sitting on the edge of a piece of paper. I adjusted my position and retrieved the note.

Simon,

I’m really sorry, but I just got an offer that I really can’t refuse. I know it really sucks for me to leave you like this, but it’s Broadway and I’ve really got to go.

Brian

I cleared my throat. “That’s it?”

Simon glared at me. “That’s it. That’s
really
,” he spoke the word with an exaggerated American accent, “it.” He shook his head. “Eileen will sue him, of course, for breaking his contract, but that doesn’t help us now.”

“And you’re supposed to be auditioning today?” I asked.

“Yes, we’re auditioning, and to make matters worse, the Begley excrescence is here. Anonymous investor my ass!” He gave me pleading eyes. “Charley, you’ve just got to help out. You’ve just got to go once more into the breach for dear old Simon and the good of the company. You’ve just got—”

“Simon,” I cut him off. “What do you want me to do?”

“Isn’t it obvious? Darling, I want you to direct!”

“What?” I responded, and then something he had said earlier caught up with me. “What do you mean by ‘the Begley excrescence’? What’s going on?”

We heard a clatter of footsteps in the hallway. One good thing about having concrete floors and brick walls in the theater office area was that a producer could never be surprised by a mob of angry actors. In this case, though, I had the horrible feeling we were about to face a mob of something worse.

“Where are they?” demanded a voice I knew and loathed.

“Simon! Charley!” sang another voice, Chip’s, trying hard not to sound desperate. “Rix would like a word with you, if it’s convenient!”

Simon had only time enough to entreat “Follow my lead,” before the door burst open.

Chip darted in ahead of the crowd, but the man that followed swept him aside as he entered. He stood at the doorway. Tall, lean, handsome in an impossible, matinee-idol sort of way. He took in the shabby room and its inhabitants with distaste. Several other people stood behind him, trying to peek in the doorway at whatever scandalous exchange might take place.

Rix Begley. Damn.

“Rix.” I preempted any attempt he might make to speak. “It’s been a long time.” I crossed the room, smiling in what I hoped was a relaxed, charming manner. “Simon was just telling me how delightful its been working with you on this production.” You miserable bastard.

Simon snapped forward. “Yes, Rix old sock, we’ve just been doing a little catching up before we carry on with the auditions. Isn’t it marvelous of Charley to step in for us? What a trouper! Honestly,” he moved closer to the scowling man and spoke in a low, confiding tone, “I think this is the best thing that could possibly have happened. I mean,” he rushed on, when it looked like Rix might respond, “she’s simply head and shoulders above Brian. So talented! I would have died before hiring him if I’d known Charley was coming back. It’s simply wonderful.” He paused for breath. “Don’t you agree?”

Rix regarded me darkly. The look on his face, angry embarrassment mixed with frustration, matched exactly how I felt, but for Simon’s sake I wasn’t about to show it. Of all the people who could have put money into the Rep, why the hell had they gotten involved with this back-stabbing, filthy, lying, scum-sucking bastard? I was going to kill Eileen the next time I saw her, and then I was going to kill Simon.

Need I say I had dated Rix? He had pursued me energetically, romanced me relentlessly, seduced me tirelessly. I was just beginning to get bored with his unflagging perfection when he’d asked Harry for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars to get out of my life. Apparently he’d had a pile of gambling debts. He’d told Harry that if he didn’t get the money he’d propose. Harry, the idiot, had thought I might accept. So he’d done me what he’d thought was a favor and had bought the creep off.

Rix interrupted my short trip down memory lane. “Charley,” he said. “What the fuck are you doing back?”

Charming. My smile grew brighter. “How could I stay away?” I practically purred. “When everyone I love is here.” I moved closer to Simon and put my arm around his shoulder. “This is my home.” Then, with more force than I should have given it, “This is my theater.”

The pause that followed lasted too long. I turned to Simon, as much energy and enthusiasm as I could muster in my voice and on my face. “Shall we get to it, sweetie? The actors have suffered long enough, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely, darling!” I was probably the only one to see the relief in his eyes. He turned to Rix. “As much as we’d all like to catch up…” He maneuvered himself past the group at the door, dragging me behind him, and practically sprinted toward the stairs when he hit the open hallway. “Work, work, work!” he called as we fled. “That’s the way to ensure a successful production!”

But by the time we reached the stage we knew we hadn’t made a clean escape. “Bannister!” Rix’ voice commanded. “I want a word with you.”

All conversation, both onstage and backstage, ceased. Experienced actors, recognizing the tone of a pissed-off backer, exchanged worried looks.

Rix’ group had come to a halt at the bottom of the stairs. Simon raised his eyebrows as if he couldn’t for the life of him imagine what the man might want, and walked nonchalantly back across the stage to him, discreetly pulling me along. “Yes?”

Rix took him by the arm and dragged him away, out of earshot. What they said I could only imagine, but Rix was a picture of ill-contained fury and Simon did his best to maintain his British sangfroid. The members of Rix’ entourage, two men who looked like bodyguards and an efficient-looking girl with thick glasses and thin lips, followed the action.

The argument went on for a few moments, but Simon must have scored some winning point, because eventually Rix shut up, glared at him for a moment, then looked over at me. He approached me with a set face, coming close enough to speak without being overheard.

“Charley, I’d hate to think you’d fuck this show up just to screw me.”

I decided not to reply.

“But your boy Bannister has made the very good point that you can’t screw me without screwing yourself, so I’m willing to go ahead with you as the director.”

Big of him. When I still didn’t reply he grunted to his entourage, then walked swiftly to the stage door, his faithful followers faithfully following.

After he left there was a tangible release in the theater, as if everyone had been holding their breath.

Simon was suddenly standing next to me. “Well,” I murmured, “I hope my upper lip is as stiff as yours.”

He kissed me lightly on the forehead. “Only way to play it, darling,” he said softly. Then he came to attention, clapped his hands sharply, and called “Chip! We’ll see the Annas now!”

***

Everyone on stage snapped into action as Simon and I took the makeshift stairs from the stage to the orchestra seats. A desk with few small lamps had been set up among the seats, and I saw a stack of head shots. Seated in the relative darkness of the orchestra seats, I realized I was still wired after seeing Rix, and still feeling blindsided by Simon’s request that I direct. I looked at my watch. I’d been in the theater for half an hour and I felt like I’d just run a marathon.

“All right, darling?” Simon was looking at me closely.

I reached for the first pile of head shots, all twenty-something women who were auditioning for the female lead, Anna. “When we’re finished here,” I replied, “we’re going out for the biggest margarita this town has to offer.”

“Done,” beamed Simon.

“And then,” I continued, “you’re going to tell me what the hell has been going on around here.” I gave him my most serious, don’t-even-think-of-bullshitting-me look.

His smile faltered. He swallowed and nodded. “Done.”

I took a deep breath. “Can we start now? Is the playwright here?”

“She still hasn’t returned any of my messages. She has casting approval, but we can’t just wait forever.”

“Maybe we should call Eileen and ask her if we’re going to get into legal trouble if we cast without her,” I suggested.

“Maybe the author ran off with Brian and we need to sue them both,” Simon responded darkly.

“Okay!” Chip called from the stage, “We have Heather Magruder here. Heather is going to give us a monologue from
A Doll’s House
. Quiet everybody!” The first actress took center stage, smiled out confidently to where she couldn’t see us, and began.