Rehearsal for Murder

by P. M. Carlson

  VI

  Thursday evening

  March 8, 1973

  Susan in bed was a wild woman, small and tawny and enthusiastic about every inch of Steve’s anatomy. Even a bandaged foot. Just now she was mouthing his toes, affording him a glorious view of rump and thigh. He could wait no longer and hauled her close to wrap his arms around her. “God, Susan, you’re the most fantastic thing that ever happened to me!”

  She was giggling. “Shut up, lover, and get down to business!”

  To see her in the outside world you might not guess her appeal. First impression of Susan: short, pleasant, businesslike except for hair that was always a little mussed. Six months ago she had taken the seat next to his at the bar of a Boston convention hotel to order a beer. Steve, representing Avery Busby at a three-day conference, had looked her over surreptitiously. Not his type, but he’d seen worse. Then she’d asked, without preamble, “Do you think I ought to go to Caracas?”

  “Not a question of ‘ought,’” Steve had answered. “Some people should, some shouldn’t. It’s a question of who you are.”

  She had looked at him squarely then, blue eyes surprised, and something in him had stirred to their promise. “You’re right!” she’d exclaimed. “I’ve been trying to be logical about it. But logic is beside the point, isn’t it? I’m going!”

  She was Susan Norwood, it turned out, a junior manager for a New Jersey oil company. The position in Venezuela, overseeing employee facilities, could make or break her career. Steve, who had so recently wrestled with a similar decision in his thwarted attempt to go to Japan, knew exactly what she was feeling. The sympathetic discussion in the bar had progressed naturally to a pleasant night, and early morning, in her room. Nothing serious, Steve had told himself as he flew back to New York the next day. Just another one-nighter, like a couple of others back during Elaine’s difficult pregnancies. He prepared for this one to join them in the realm of pleasant but unimportant memories. He loved Elaine. He loved Muffin. His life was just about perfect. And anyway, Susan, though pleasant, really wasn’t his type.

  This happy delusion had lasted four days. But at lunchtime Tuesday he had suddenly realized that he was standing in the checkout line of a bookstore, holding a stack of illustrated books on Venezuela. A hundred dollars’ worth. Ridiculous, he’d thought, replacing the books firmly. He already had everything he’d ever wanted. Susan was just a pleasant adventure on the road. Nice, but next to Elaine’s beauty, a bit frowzy. Dumpy, almost. Still, he thought as he reshelved the last book, he was mooning over her like a teenager. Better see her here on home territory. Cold light of day. Get her out of his system. From a booth he’d called her office, got her extension, coolly set up a date for a drink after work.

  She’d been as tousled as before. As untamed. Twice as fascinating. Steve, dazed, found himself arranging to see her for lunch Friday at her place. Heard himself claiming to be in the process of getting a divorce. And over these last six months, watched himself grow from a typical serious suburban executive on the verge of middle age, into a passionate, adventurous, complete man. Young at heart. And yet—

  And yet, he loved Elaine. Truly. They’d been through so much together to achieve their home, their child, their comfortable intimacy. He was an adult, with a reasoned adult love. And he kept an adult grip on reality. He knew the difference between love and mere infatuation.

  Therefore, said logic, his feeling for Susan had to be far more than infatuation.

  Far, far more. Anything that would lead him to consider leaving a beloved wife, inflicting tragedy on the family he loved deeply, truly, maturely, had to be a passion of fateful proportions.

  Susan felt it too. Just last month she had snuggled up to him one lunch hour and confessed, “Steve, you bastard, it’s because of you I’m going to Venezuela. And now because of you I don’t want to leave.”

  “God, Susan, then stay!” He pulled the sheets up around them, her green-and-yellow jungle-print sheets.

  “What you told me in that bar in Boston was right, though.”

  “I retract it, then! On sober reflection.”

  “Sober!” She laughed. “We’re a couple of giddy kids, Steve!”

  “Well, I love it. I don’t want you to go away. I want things to be like this forever.”

  “Well, I don’t!” She’d swung around to sit on the edge of the bed, the short sensuous curve of her back to him. “You know why I’m divorced, Steve? Basically because Bill wouldn’t let me grow. Wouldn’t let me find out what I can do. It was stifling.” She looked at him, unexpected shrewdness in the silvery blue eyes. “You know what I mean, Steve. You’re stifled too.”

  “No, I just like the way things are.”

  “No, you don’t. Otherwise why tell me you’re getting a divorce?”

  God, she could walk in and out of his mind as though she lived there. He remembered stammering, “Well—”

  “Oh, you don’t have to lie again, Steve. I never believed that anyway. Any guy who only sees me at lunchtime and maybe an hour after work is not trying to get rid of a wife. I ain’t that dumb, honey. I know you don’t want to leave her. You just want to play around. Well, fine, that’s all I wanted too.”

  He’d seized hungrily on the past tense. “Wanted? What do you want now?”

  “Caracas. Money. Power. Adventure.”

  “This is adventure! It’s not playing around, Susan. It’s love.”

  “Maybe.” The remembered sadness in her eyes still gave him a pang. “We know each other pretty well, Steve. Not all the surface details maybe. I don’t really want to hear about your wife and all that. But we know each other deep down. You knew from the minute you saw me that this move was right for me. You cut right through the tangle and said it was a question of who I was. I’ll always be grateful for that.”

  Dismayed, Steve had swung around to sit beside her. “But we can’t give each other up! This is so right!”

  “Maybe.” She’d kissed him briskly on the forehead and stood to dress. “But I’m not about to give up my future to stay around and have a lunchtime affair. And I don’t hear you saying that you’re coming to Venezuela.”

  “To Venezuela? But my job …” He trailed off and hid his confusion in buttoning his shirt.

  “Yeah, your job. Your wife. Your whole life. Right.” She held up a palm to stay his protest. “It’s okay, I don’t expect anything more than this, Steve-o. I never did. We’ll go on playing around, okay?”

  He’d said uncertainly, “Maybe I could fly down sometime, Susan.”

  “Shhh!” She smiled a sad smile. “Lunch hour’s over, Steve. Time for the giddy kids to get back to real life. Like you said, it’s a question of who you are.”

  She was right of course. His own words; he’d been right. That had been a month ago; and though they hadn’t talked of it since, Steve had pondered it. And now he had to take the question seriously. Who was he? Was he a man who could accept the challenge of change, of passion, of Venezuela? Who could look death in the eye and emerge a man? Or was he doomed to mere dreams of Kilimanjaro, just a stolid soul playing at being a giddy kid?

  Of course he had thought of simply leaving Elaine, but that was a kid’s solution. Hopping a freighter to Venezuela, living off the jungle. And things were so complicated. Muffin, sweet baby, might be too young to be much affected; but a lump came to his throat at the mere thought of leaving Elaine, so good, so loving, so deserving. It couldn’t be true that she had been marked for tragedy; that he, who loved her so deeply, had been chosen by fate to hurt her! He wished that things could stay as they were. But Susan couldn’t stay, she was right; it would stifle her glorious spirit. Her destiny was in Venezuela, in adventure. But Steve felt sundered: how could he love both these women so deeply?

  He thrust the worry away. Susan was leaving; he mustn’t fret away these last minutes together. He gave her a squeeze.

  “So this is the last time? You can’t see me off tomorrow?” Susan asked wistfully.

/>   “God, I wish I could! But there’s no way to get away tomorrow. But I swear, Susan, I’ll see you somehow in Caracas. This isn’t the last time.”

  “I wish I could believe you! But thanks for understanding anyway. You know you’re the only guy I know who understands?”

  “Everyone else thinks you’re crazy to go?”

  “Well, not Wilson.” Wilson was her boss. “He sees it as a shrewd career move. But even he thinks it’s a wild country for a woman alone.”

  “Not for you, Susan. You’ll tame it. Easy.”

  “Mmm.” She returned his squeeze. “That’s for saying all those nice things I wish I could believe. But anyway, don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

  “I know. I just wish—” He stopped himself, kissed her, and reached for his jacket. There wasn’t time to say all the things he wished. They hugged each other good-bye, and he caught a cab for the airport.

  After rehearsal Nick had to wait for Maggie a few moments. She and Sarah hurried in at last. “Had to run an errand for someone,” Maggie explained. “And then Sarah needed changing, at an inopportune time. As usual.”

  Nick made a fierce face at his daughter. “Were you inopportune?” he demanded.

  Like Nick, Sarah had brown eyes and almost no hair. She produced a huge gummy smile that lit up the universe. “Jesus Christ,” muttered Nick.

  Maggie was amused at his susceptibility. “Amazing, isn’t she?”

  “Lethal.” He ticked off a list as he strapped on the carrier. “Also useless, demanding, expensive, time-consuming. She has repulsive personal habits. She monopolizes our house with her junk and our time with her mewling and puking. All that’s on one side. On the other side, there’s that stupid grin.”

  “And?” Maggie was grinning too as they started down the stairs.

  “No contest,” Nick admitted.

  “Yeah. Lethal,” Maggie agreed. She leaned over to kiss Sarah, who cheerily drooled onto her scarf.

  Nick helped her wipe it off. “Listen. They probably won’t tell us anything, but I’d sort of like to stop by the hospital. Want to come along?”

  “Yeah. I was thinking of doing that myself. Things are slow at the office anyway. Dan’s hit a glitch in the computer program we’re using for the Corrections project, so I can’t do much anyway till it’s straightened out. Actually I was just going to work on the taxes.”

  “And you with a Ph.D. in theoretical statistics.”

  “Listen, tax consultant ain’t so bad. I’m also washerwoman and wet nurse, and Sarah here pays less than minimum wage.”

  “I’ve noticed. Hope Actors’ Equity doesn’t find out I’ve been moonlighting for her. Has she—”

  “Nick? Nick O’Connor?” A new voice halted them.

  “Yeah?” He looked back.

  It was the blonde who had visited the rehearsal two nights ago. Tonight she was in a skinny purple sweater, suede miniskirt, stylish clogs that made those splendid legs look even longer. She fell into step beside them. “I’m Didi,” she said, fidgeting with her purple beads, wrapping them around her finger one way, then the other. “Friend of Larry’s.”

  “Yeah, I saw you the other night. If you’re looking for Larry, he left about fifteen minutes ago.”

  “I know.”

  “Oh. Um, this is Maggie, and this is my daughter, Sarah.”

  “Hi.” Didi wasted only a glance on them before turning back to Nick. “Look, is Larry in trouble? About this Ramona Ricci thing?”

  “We’re all worried about her. About the show.”

  “No, I mean the cops.”

  “Not that I know of. Maybe you should ask him.”

  A pretty shrug. That purple sweater was a very effective garment. “Yeah, but we had sort of a fight the other night. But I noticed today the pigs were here.”

  “They talked to all of us.”

  “But the paper said it was a mugging. If they’re looking for a mugger, why are they talking to you?”

  “Good question. I think they may have found the gun that shot her. Wanted to know if any of us recognized it or the guy who had the gun.”

  She spiraled the beads around her finger again. “Why should you guys recognize it?”

  “It belonged to Ramona, they tell me.”

  Maggie mused, “So the idea is that the mugger got Ramona’s own gun away from her and shot her with it?”

  “Why not? Happens all the time,” said Nick. “But they were there to ask questions, not answer them. I’m just guessing from what they asked about.”

  Didi said, “Ramona’s not dead, is she?”

  “No. We hope she’ll be okay.”

  “That song she sang about being alone blew my mind. But afterward she seemed a real bitch.”

  “Not really. She was having a bad day when you saw her.”

  “Larry says she’s after him. He can’t shake her.”

  Nick started to answer, but Maggie was ahead of him. “Must be annoying to him,” she interjected sympathetically. “Do you know Larry pretty well?”

  Didi shrugged again. “That’s just it. Not very well. My girlfriend Linda dated him a couple of times and brought him over to the apartment. I liked him. Then he dropped her and split for a couple of months. Then I bumped into him at a dance class, and he called me that night. But he’s hard to get close to. The other night was only the third time I’d seen him and we had that fight. Linda said she hadn’t learned anything about him either, except he splits if you get too serious. Some kind of ego trip, she said. I should have paid attention.”

  “He was getting ready to split, you think?” The full power of Maggie’s sympathy was directed at Didi. I’ve got two lethal women, Nick realized.

  “I was trying not to let it get heavy. But Ramona made some crack as we were leaving, about a brunette. Nick, was there really a brunette?”

  Sometimes cruel truth was kindest. Nick said, “There’s been someone or other, a couple of nights a week. Not that we’ve been rehearsing that long.”

  “Yeah.” She was not surprised, just morose. She dropped the strand of beads. “I should have known. Half a dozen decent guys I could have, and I fall for the prick.”

  “God, that hurts.” Maggie had known a prick or two in her day. “He lied to you?”

  Didi squared her shoulders, tossed back the blond fall of hair. “Okay, I don’t want to knock him. Larry told me he was one hundred percent for his career. Told me he couldn’t get committed, you know, just wanted everyone to have fun. Big deal. Say that and then—well, shit, a guy says you’re gorgeous, and you’re having a good time, really tripping on each other—well, you sort of hope it’ll go on awhile.”

  “I know. It’s happened to me. Before Nick.”

  “Yeah, and all those complaints about Ramona chasing him, maybe that was just a warning for me. Damn.”

  Maggie had stopped at the corner. “You think you can drop him? I mean, if his idea of just having fun isn’t enough for you.”

  “Why do I always think they’ll reform?” Didi, hands thrust into her miniskirt pockets, shoulders hunched, had found a stray sheet of newspaper in the gutter and was industriously trying to maneuver it into the storm sewer grating with the toe of her clog. “Anyway, I suppose I can tell the pigs he was with me that night.”

  Maggie’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “But not long, because you had a fight about Ramona, right?”

  “Look, don’t tell them that, okay? No sense in screwing him up. See, we were supposed to be together all night, so he couldn’t have planned to shoot her, no matter how pissed off he was!”

  “I’m sure he didn’t,” soothed Nick, jiggling Sarah, who didn’t approve of standing still. “He’s got a terrific part in this show. Two terrific parts, Albert and Disraeli. No matter how much he hated Ramona, he wouldn’t endanger that.”

  “One hundred percent for his career,” agreed Didi bitterly.

  “Right. No need to lie to the police, they’ll figure that out.”

  “Maybe. Ma
ybe they won’t even ask me. Anyway, it doesn’t make any freaking difference to me anymore, does it?” With a toss of the golden hair she abandoned the sewer grating and strode back down the street. Nick’s eyes lingered on the unconscious grace, the swing of trim hips. Larry must be crazy.

  Maggie turned toward the hospital but gave Nick an uneasy glance. “He sounds like the original Playboy.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Do you feel tied down, Nick?”

  “Of course. But I had a turn at Larry’s kind of life. Depressed me.”

  “But this gets depressing too.” There was an odd raw note in her voice. Fear? Was she worried too?

  “Occasionally,” admitted Nick. Not eager to explore the question, he reassured her with another truth. “But you see, my taste in women has changed. Voluptuous blondes are all very well, but nowadays the ones that really make me melt are bald and toothless.”

  Maggie laughed, the shadow between them diminished. “Yeah, those are my favorites too. Sorry I was late tonight.”

  “You said you had an errand. Not just Sarah, then?”

  “No, can’t blame it all on her.” She frowned. “It was odd. I’d like your reaction.”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay. A day or two ago I met a guy named Buzz. Well dressed, thirties, some sort of banker or executive maybe. Seemed pleasant. He has a little two-year-old daughter. We just talked a minute and went our ways. Then today I saw him again. He had problems. Battalions of them. Most notably, he’d fallen down the stairs and sprained an ankle. They’d bandaged him up, but he had some sort of big deal going and wanted to finish today, though it meant working late. But his wife was out of town and he was in charge of his kid.”

  “Well, he’s got my sympathy!” said Nick fervently.

  “Yeah, mine too. He was coping fairly well. He’d arranged for a sitter to meet him at his little pied-à-terre, he called it. It’s a fourth-floor studio in an old cast-iron building they’re renovating, not far from here. The building doesn’t have elevators yet.”