I watch the dark eyebrows on his silver-painted face rise in astonishment. Then he spies Cynthia, who apparently also heard me because she makes a sharp turn to the left.
That won’t help her, though. The Tin Man comes through in the clutch. He grabs her with his tin arms and holds on while she writhes and screams and hits and kicks. Fortunately none of that is very effective against his tin costume. Dorothy gets into the action, too, along with a few men in the crowd.
“Hold onto her, hold onto her!” I cry as I race up. “She killed the woman who wrote Dream Angel!”
Lots of people like to help in this kind of situation. In seconds Cynthia is well and truly surrounded. She’s not going anywhere.
I put in another call to the detective to give him our exact location. By this point he and his partner are very close. In minutes, two black-and-whites screech to a stop right beside us, sirens blaring. Cops emerge, guns drawn. The homicide detective shows up in short order, reads Cynthia her Miranda rights, and bundles her into the back of a police car.
“Good work,” he tells me.
I give the same compliment to the Tin Man, Dorothy, and the men who helped hold Cynthia. The crowd cheers. We all pose for photos and wouldn’t you know it? The sun breaks through the storm clouds and a rainbow appears, arching right over Times Square.
I look at it and have to smile. That’s the first good sign I’ve seen in a long time. Maybe things are looking up.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
“You looked very comfortable on stage,” Trixie tells me. “Taking your well-deserved bows.”
We three queens have just arrived at Dream Angel’s opening night after-party and we’re commanding a fair amount of attention, I must say. It’s not just because we all look fabulous in our gowns, although we do. Mine is a blush-colored tiered chiffon with an embellished halter neckline; Trixie’s is all drama with a black gossamer mesh skirt and embroidered black-and-white bodice; and Shanelle could not have chosen better than her strapless trumpet gown in deep sapphire.
No, we’re nearly as in-demand as Tonya and Junior at this shindig, thanks to my sleuthing. After that came to light this afternoon, Junior not only let me attend opening night; he brought me on stage to share my triumph with the audience.
“You two should’ve come on stage with me,” I say.
“We didn’t deserve to, girl,” Shanelle says. “We both thought you were nuts when you kept thinking Lisette might’ve been murdered.”
We grab champagne flutes from a passing tray. “That’s not the worst of it,” Trixie moans. “I was stupid enough to hang out with the killer.”
“We all hung out with Cynthia,” I say. “Don’t feel bad, Trixie. Besides, it was you who got me thinking that she was the killer. When you told me on the phone last night that Cynthia was upset about her foster mother, I realized just how much her life story is like the heroine’s in Dream Angel.”
“I don’t think she was upset about her foster mother, either,” Shanelle says. “I think she was upset that the N.Y.P.D. figured out Lisette was murdered.”
That rapidly became a big news story. “She must’ve been feeling the heat then,” I say.
“Probably.” Trixie shakes her head. “Anyway, what I really feel bad about is that I didn’t tell the two of you everything she said to me. If I had, you might’ve figured all this out sooner, Happy.”
“What’d you hold back, Trix?” Shanelle wants to know.
“That she wanted us to use our influence to get the show to close.” Trixie grimaces. “That was a real red flag, now that I think about it. But I knew you two didn’t like her, so I didn’t want to admit she said something so crazy.”
I hoist my flute in the air. “To honesty among BFFs!”
We’re enjoying our bubbly when Tonya joins us, resplendent in a teal-colored fit-and-flare bandage gown with a plunging V neck. “You were so fabulous tonight, Tonya,” I say. “Your voice really soared.”
“Guess what Oliver just told me?” Tonya is so giddy she can hardly speak. “Brad Baisley, you all know who he is, right?”
“He’s the Times critic, girl!” Shanelle cries.
“Yes,” Tonya says, “only the most important man in my universe right now. Anyway, he told Oliver that I’m going to be very happy with the review. Those are his exact words!” she squeals. “ ‘Very happy.’ ”
“I can’t believe we have to wait until tomorrow to read it,” Trixie says. “I’m jumping out of my skin. I can’t imagine how you must feel, Tonya.”
“Right now, delirious.” She turns to me. “But I want to understand more about Lisette using Cynthia Cowlin’s life story to write Dream Angel. I’m a little worried. Is the musical going to run into copyright trouble now?”
“Not at all.” I got quite an education on this topic today after Cynthia was arrested. “A copyright covers only a specific telling of a story. You can’t copyright a story itself, only a certain way it’s told. So in other words, Cynthia’s life story can’t be copyrighted. Dream Angel, however, can be.”
“And I’m sure it is,” Tonya says. “But what about Cynthia’s right to privacy?”
“We all have that right. But Lisette changed some of the details of Cynthia’s life when she wrote Dream Angel. For example, Cynthia is a hairdresser.”
Tonya nods. “But the heroine I play works in retail.”
“So Lisette probably could’ve defended herself in court,” I say, “by claiming that while her heroine’s story was similar to Cynthia’s, it wasn’t based on Cynthia’s.”
“That doesn’t make it right, though,” Trixie murmurs.
“I think the problem was that Lisette couldn’t come up with a story of her own,” Shanelle says. “We heard at the celebration of her life that her father kind of bulldozed her into this career.”
I wonder if Warren Longley will ever communicate with me about his daughter’s murder and my role in bringing it to light. He hasn’t yet. “I feel bad for everybody involved in this. Even Cynthia.”
“Now I understand why she saw Dream Angel five times,” Trixie says. “It wasn’t because she’s a Broadway geek, like she told us.”
“But since she saw so many Dream Angel previews,” I say, “Cynthia did know the exact moment Lisette would appear on the staircase. She knew exactly when she could hit her with the ball bearing. By the way.” I lower my voice. “Guess what the police found in Cynthia’s apartment? A competition slingshot. That’s how she hit Lisette in the back of the head.”
“You learn something new every day,” Shanelle says. “I had no idea there was such a thing as a competition slingshot.”
“There are clubs and everything,” I say. “Clearly Cynthia practiced this.” I hate to say it was impressive that Cynthia killed Lisette the way she did, but in a gruesome way it was. It required cunning and skill, attributes I would not have guessed Cynthia possessed in great measure.
Junior joins us, looking dapper in a tuxedo. “How are my two stars?” he inquires, looking first at Tonya and then at me.
“Never better!” Tonya beams.
“Tonight went so well I don’t even mind that my father’s here.” Junior raises his champagne flute in his father’s direction and Senior raises his as well. I’m guessing that’s the warmest gesture I’ll ever see between those two. “Apparently the old bastard tried to trash talk Dream Angel to Baisley,” Junior goes on, “but to no avail. So even though we’re not sitting on Hamilton here, we’re sitting pretty.” He spins away. Tonya is spirited away, too, by a throng of chorus members.
A server tops off our champagne. “It’s too bad your mom and Bennie didn’t come to the party,” Trixie says.
“Maybe it’s better they have a quiet night just the two of them,” Shanelle says.
“Things might settle down between them once they get back home,” I say.
Or they might not. Trust is hard to rebuild once it’s shattered.
I glance across the room at Kimberly, who’s ver
y pretty in a red cocktail dress with a strappy open back. She’s laughing with a small group. I excuse myself from my BFFs and head in her direction. “I owe you an apology,” I tell her.
Her enormous blue eyes fly open.
“I was wrong to accuse you of having anything to do with Lisette’s death,” I go on.
“You were wrong,” she tells me. “And you wouldn’t let up.”
“I’m sorry. Really I am.”
She makes me wait before she says it. Then: “I accept your apology,” she says, and turns back to her friends.
We’ll never be besties, that’s for sure. But Kimberly may be part of my life for a while if she manages to get Jason’s calendar back on track. He says that’s possible.
Our conversation was strained this afternoon when I called to tell him about the day’s events. I’m already getting publicity from figuring out that Cynthia killed Lisette, which should bolster me with Mr. Cantwell but might have the opposite effect with Jason. Between that and the shark-kicking video that went viral, I fear Jason will be even more convinced that I’m somehow “too much” for him.
I walk to a window and gaze at Manhattan’s amazing night time skyline. Lights from more buildings than I can count twinkle in a madcap dance that can’t be matched anywhere else.
Somewhere in all that magic is Mario. No doubt he’s heard by now that I solved another murder mystery. But for the first time, he didn’t call to congratulate me. I heard that silence, and I understood it, but it hurt.
I look out at the beautiful night and what else can I do? I wish Mario well.
Diana loves to hear from readers! E-mail her at www.dianadempsey.com and sign up for her mailing list while you’re there to hear first about her new releases. Also join her on Facebook and follow her on Twitter.
Continue reading for an excerpt from Diana’s novel Chasing Venus, the story that readers call “a perfect blend of romance and suspense” ….
CHASING VENUS
Known for page-turning romantic novels that keep you reading late into the night, Diana Dempsey delivers a suspenseful tale about a man and a woman who must shed the past to embrace the future …
Annette Rowell’s latest novel is leapfrogging up the bestseller lists, and with every surge in sales she’s becoming more of a household name. The literary success she’s struggled so hard for would be a dream come true were it not for the killer preying on bestselling authors.
Reid Gardner hosts a syndicated crime show dedicated to capturing dangerous fugitives. The former LAPD cop knows only too well how violence can shatter lives. No victim arouses his ardor more than the pretty author who’s become the target of a psychopath. Yet falling in love with her could cost him not only the reputation he’s spent years building, but the one killer who’s eluded him for years …
PROLOGUE
Death was not on the guest list, but it appeared all the same.
Maggie Boswell, reigning queen of mystery fiction, sat at the signing table as if she were royalty on a throne. Around her, in teetering piles, was her latest bestseller. Grabbing at the books were members of the literary elite—authors, editors, agents. It was a huge irony that Maggie had invited them into her home for this book party. Most of them she disliked. Now all of them she distrusted.
For any one of them might try to kill her.
Someone handed her a book. She scribbled the inscription, struggling to rise above her fear. In the shifting terror of her worst imaginings, even her beloved home unnerved her. Its enormity was no longer a joy, but a threat. It had too many corners, too many shadows. And outside its stucco walls the night was moonless, and the silver-gray Pacific beyond the terraced garden unnaturally still.
A breeze from the open French doors behind her wafted over the back of her neck, chilling her skin like a spectral caress. She shivered, turned to look. Yet there was nothing there, nothing but the unrelieved blackness of her garden.
“Ms. Boswell?”
She spun at the woman’s voice, and pursed her lips. A pretender to her throne, in the form of a brunette wisp with—in Maggie’s opinion—dubious talent.
The woman held a book toward her and smiled. "I’m Annette Rowell. I’m a huge admirer of your work."
Maggie took the book but didn’t care to smile back. “Are you?”
"I’ve really been looking forward to this one."
Read it and weep. “Shall I sign the book to you?”
“Please.”
Maggie scrawled To Annette and then her signature in expansive script. She slapped the hardcover shut and held out the volume.
"You may remember that I have a mystery series of my own," the woman said.
Maggie was well aware of it. "Is that so?"
Again the woman smiled. “Thank you so much for including me tonight."
Maggie wondered how this upstart had made it onto the guest list. She averted her head in silent dismissal and the woman moved along.
The books kept coming, endlessly. Greet, open, sign, hand back, smile, over and over again. At one point, Maggie jolted upright. She’d felt something, sudden and swift, in the nape of her neck. A piercing, like a bee sting, or a needle making an entry into flesh. Deeply and with purpose. Then, just as quickly, gone.
She frowned, twisted to look behind her out the French doors. Again, nothing. Just the yards of flagstone terrace and the lawn sweeping to the sea. With some trepidation she touched the back of her neck, then stared aghast at the unmistakable crimson smear on her finger.
My God. A thought came, a terrifying idea she immediately banished. It can't be.
Someone held another book toward her. Mechanically she signed it, her mind whirling. As she returned the volume to its owner, she grimaced again.
An unnatural tingling sensation had begun in her body. Maggie stilled, gave it her full attention. Yet the feeling didn’t disappear, but grew, strengthened.
She shivered. Coldness writhed within her. The hideous thought returned, taunted her. Just like in my second book.
No. She wouldn’t believe it. It couldn’t be so easy, that what she feared most would simply come to pass. Just like that. All the while the iciness intensified, knifing through her body. A harbinger of doom.
This cannot be happening.
Yet, she knew, it could.
The people around her seemed to grow distant, as if a veil had dropped between her and the living world. She saw their faces, she heard their voices, but she was alone among them in a way she never had been before. She tried to move her mouth to speak but her lips failed to respond.
So fast. It really is so fast.
She was almost admiring of the poison's power. Just as she had written about it, so it was.
"Darling?" Her husband bent over her. Voices echoed, concerned faces loomed. Someone held up something thin and shiny and silver. Maggie didn’t need to see it clearly to know what it was. A dart, tipped with poison.
Terror gripped her then, spun in her mind like a grotesque dervish. Her imagination, always vivid, conjured an image of her last breath. Not so far off now, she knew. And, oh, how she would gasp, strain, seek air she could never more find ...
Panic ballooned in the gorgeous living room, an acid cloud only she could see. People were jostling now, bumping into one another, seeking escape. A lone scream rent the air. She tried to turn her head to see who had made the shrill sound but wasn’t able. Already that was beyond her rapidly dwindling capabilities.
So fast, so fast …
Her body slumped to the table. She was powerless to keep her head from slamming onto the book she had been preparing to sign.
My last book. It's over. I'm dead.
Another scream, not her own, for she could no longer draw breath. She knew. She had tried. Nothing came.
Death made its exit, leaving its grim calling card behind.
CHAPTER ONE
Annie Rowell snagged a deep breath of air, her heart pumping, her feet in their worn running shoes pounding the grave
led shoulder of the two-lane road. It was dusk, and at this hour few cars passed through these low grassy hills outside the California coastal town of Bodega Bay. Here, a mile inland, she couldn't hear the surf, but still the chill air carried a tang of salt. Overhead a raven cawed, its shriek splitting the heavens.
The route was her usual one and required no concentration. Her mind was free to wander, and it did, to her favorite daydream.
New Yorkers shouldered past her as she stared into the windows of the glitzy bookstore. Snow drifted from the sky, dusting her brunette hair and melting on the long lashes rimming her green eyes, shiny with tears of joy. A businessman, walking fast, bumped into her, muttered under his breath.
She remained motionless. Mesmerized. Nothing could tear her from this sight, one she'd dreamed of for years. Her novel—hers!—stacked in a giant pyramid in the window. In the middle where the bestsellers go.
A shopper inside lifted a book from the pyramid and headed for the registers. More like that and Annie would rise even higher on the bestsellers list. She could just imagine Philip and that new wife of his frowning at each other over their New York Times, unable to fathom that Annette Rowell's name was printed there, and in such an illustrious position.
Maybe I shouldn't have divorced her, Philip would think, eyeing wife number two with the disappointment he'd previously reserved for Annie. But who would have thought she'd ever amount to anything?
The fantasy generated the usual smile but this time it didn’t last long. Annie was abruptly jarred back to reality.
She picked up her pace—just a bit, not enough to be obvious, then raised her chin a notch and resisted the urge to glance over her shoulder.
How long had that car been behind her?
Why wasn’t it driving past?
It was late April and the longer days allowed her to get sloppy about when she set off on her run. In January she had to get going by 3:30 or it’d be dark by the time the circuit led her back home. Darkness and jogging solo were a bad combo for any woman. Let alone one who might have a target on her back.
Ms America and the Brouhaha on Broadway Page 29