“They’ll find your prints all over her room,” Tedone pointed out.
“So what? I had a fling with her. We were getting it on.”
“In your dreams.” Mimi looked at Tedone. “I heard him try to hit on her the first night of rehearsals. Sabrina blew him off.”
Tedone mulled this over. “Still, he does raise a reasonable point. She was a recovering addict, alone in a strange town. She’d just been through a heavy emotional experience. She was depressed.”
“She wasn’t depressed,” I insisted. “She was in good spirits when I left her there in the rose garden. Her career was about to take off.”
“That’s what freaked her out.” Marty nodded sagely. “I’ve met a ton of actors who are terrified of success. They’re much more comfortable being failures.”
“I’ve met writers like that, too. They feel much safer wallowing in a nice, soft cushion of self-pity. So what? We’re overlooking what really matters here.”
Marty peered at me. “Which is what?”
“The ripe scent of your flip-flops that Lulu followed from Sabrina’s room up the stairs directly to your room on the third floor. The scent that meant Sabrina wasn’t alone in her room. You were there. And you’re not really going to do this, are you?”
“Do what?”
“Expose yourself as a no-good, lying weasel right here in front of Dini. You love her, or so you keep telling us. You love her so much that you killed Greg because of what he did to her. So now’s the time to man up, Marty. Man up and tell us the truth.”
“The truth?” Marty let out a huge sigh, his chest heaving as he breathed in and out. “I went down to Sabrina’s room in tears. And I wasn’t acting. I truly was a wreck. I killed Greg. I-I told her I wanted to shoot up. She tried to talk me out of it. Wanted to take me to the hospital. She was so sympathetic and caring. A real nice girl. And I was sorry I had to do what I did to her. You can choose to believe that or not. I’m guessing you won’t.”
“Good guess.”
“I told her that the only way I’d make it through my grief over Greg’s death was if she’d shoot up with me. I talked her into it. I’d brought my suicide kit with me from New York, just like you said. I bring it with me wherever I go, because I never know when I’m going to crash and burn. A couple of packets of ‘Tango and Cash.’ Disposable syringes. A spoon. A length of rubber tubing to tie off. I cooked it and filled two syringes. I tied off with the tubing. She tied off with a belt. We counted to three and then . . .”
“And then . . . ?”
“She shot up and I didn’t. Just gathered up my kit and left. She was probably a goner by the time I was back upstairs in my room.”
“What did you do with your kit?” Tedone asked him. “The other syringe, the spoon, the heroin . . . ?”
“It’s in a suitcase in my room.”
Tedone peered at him in surprise. “It’s evidence. Why didn’t you get rid of it?”
“Get rid of it?” Marty’s eyes widened. “No way. I’d freak out if I didn’t have it with me.”
Tedone continued to peer at him, trying to understand this famous, gifted Oscar and Tony Award–winning actor Martin Jacob Miller. I could tell from the expression on his face that he wasn’t having any luck. “After we found Miss Meyer’s body we knocked on the door to your room. You weren’t there. Where were you?”
“Taking a walk around the village.” Marty shrugged his soft shoulders. “Contemplating what a miserable son of a bitch I am.”
We all fell silent. Dini stood there grief-stricken. Both Merilee and Mimi had their arms around her.
“It’s time to head upstairs, Mr. Miller,” Tedone said finally.
Marty nodded defeatedly. “Sure, whatever you say. Am I under arrest?”
“When you’re under arrest you’ll know it.”
“How?”
“Because I’ll tell you. Right now, I’m taking you in for formal questioning.”
“Wait, are all of those media people still out there?” The thought of this seemed to greatly distress Marty.
“I’m not going to put you in handcuffs,” Tedone said to him in a calming voice. “We’re just going to walk out to my car and go for a ride, okay?”
Marty lit another Lucky, his hand shaking, and dragged on it deeply before he said, “Sure, okay. But before we go upstairs is it okay if I use the john down here? My insides are about to explode. I should never eat onion rings.”
“Not a problem,” Tedone said. “Only, wait a sec . . .” He patted Marty down. The checked sports jacket, starched white shirt, pleated cream-colored slacks, even his argyle socks.
“You think I’m wearing an ankle holster or something?” Marty asked, watching him in amazement.
“Mr. Miller, I don’t know what to think. I just do my job.”
“I’ll be right out.”
“Take as long as you need.”
Marty went in the men’s room and closed the door.
The rest of us moved down the basement corridor toward the stairs.
“He’s loved me all of these years?” Dini sounded dazed and forlorn. “That’s why he killed Greg?”
“He was defending your honor,” I said. “Rather chivalrous in a sick, twisted sort of way.”
“Marty’s always been partial to grand, Shakespearean gestures,” Merilee recalled. “He’s also a devotee of Dumas—The Three Musketeers, The Count of Monte Cristo. And he loves The Prisoner of Zenda with Ronald Colman. I swear he knows that movie line for line.”
“Big Errol Flynn fan, too, or so he told me.”
That was when we heard the thud.
It came from the men’s room.
Tedone raced back there. “You okay, Mr. Miller?” he called to him through the door.
There was no response.
I joined Tedone. “Marty?” I hollered.
Still no response.
Tedone flung open the door and Marty came tumbling out headfirst onto the hallway floor. That thud we’d heard was the sound of his head thumping against the door when he’d passed out. His jacket was off, his shirtsleeve rolled up so that he could tie off with a length of rubber tubing. The needle was still in his arm, the vomit still spewing from his mouth as he gagged, shuddered and then went still. Dini and Mimi both screamed. Merilee just stood there and stared. She isn’t given to screaming.
Cursing, Tedone hollered up the stairs for an EMT crew.
Glenda, the retired Chatham County school nurse, knelt with a grunt, feeling for Marty’s vital signs. “They can’t save him,” she said heavily, her gaze fixed on the rubber tubing that was still knotted tightly around his arm. “He’s gone. More of that same ‘Tango and Cash,’ I imagine.”
Tedone peered in dismay at the kit on the men’s room floor. “He didn’t have that on him when I just patted him down. I’d stake my career on it.”
“He planned ahead, Lieutenant,” I said quietly. “Hid it in there when we were still upstairs. He knew.”
“He knew what?” Tedone demanded angrily.
“That he wasn’t going to get away with it.”
Dini fell to her knees, resting her cheek on Marty’s chest despite the stench of his vomit, and began to sob. They were painful, gut-wrenching sobs. I stood there looking at her and wondered how she was going to put her life back together. Her husband was gone. Her health was compromised. What would she do? Take the twins and flee home to Siler City with Glenda? Stay put in New York and slug it out? My guess was that she would stay put and fight to keep working. She came across as fragile, but she was a battler to her core. All great actresses are.
I knelt and put my hand on her shoulder. “Dini, I’m sorry I had to get a little rough with you and your mom, but I needed to piss him off. It was the only way.”
Dini sniffled softly. “I understand.”
Glenda didn’t. Just glared at me with a Vulcan death stare. She wasn’t the forgiving type.
I helped Dini to her feet.
She stood
there, swiping at her eyes, then moved away from Marty toward the staircase. “Mother, shall we take the twins back to the beach house now?”
“Certainly,” Glenda responded. “But Eugene has to leave.”
“Absolutely. I’ll tell him to go.”
“We’ll be needing statements from both of you,” Tedone said to them. “Can you stick around for another day before you go back to New York?”
“Of course, Lieutenant.”
“Thank you. I’ll be in touch. And I’m sorry that it . . . that it came to this. I should have been able to stop it from happening.”
“Don’t blame yourself,” Dini responded quietly. “There was no way you could have known he was planning to kill himself.”
“I’m going to follow them down to the beach,” Merilee said to me. “Do what I can to help out. I’ll see you later at the farm, okay?”
“I’ll be there. Wait, hang on, there’s something on your cheek . . .” I leaned over and kissed it and gave her a hug.
She hugged me back, tightly, for so long that I thought she was never going to let me go. When she did her green eyes were shining at me. “Thank you, darling.”
“For what?” I asked, getting lost in them.
“For being you.”
Then she went up the spiral staircase behind Mimi, Dini and Glenda. I stayed down there with Tedone and the Oscar and Tony Award–winning actor Martin Jacob Miller, who none other than Kazan himself had said was the best Willy Loman ever.
Tedone looked at me, nodding his head. “Okay, I get it now.”
“Get what, Lieutenant?”
“Very told me you’d irritate the hell out of me but that I’d end up thanking you.”
Lulu let out a low moan of protest.
“You and your partner both, I should say.” He bent down and patted her. She thumped her tail happily. Tedone watched her carefully, frowning. He seemed a bit disappointed. “That’s it? There’s nothing more?”
“Such as . . . ?”
“I thought maybe she’d bark three times or give me her paw or something.”
“You watched too much TV when you were a kid, too, Lieutenant. Lulu’s not Lassie or Rin Tin Tin. She’s a real dog.”
“Sure. Right. Don’t know what I was thinking.” But he still seemed disappointed.
“Besides, I’m the one who should be thanking you.”
“For what?”
“You’ve kept us safe and relatively sane these past twenty-four hours by keeping Romero on ice.”
His face fell. “Yeah, about that. I’m afraid he’s been arraigned on the grand theft charge, which means he’ll be out on the street as soon as he raises bail. Then it’ll take him about a minute and a half to find a shyster lawyer who’s dying to get his name in the tabloids. Your troubles with Romero are far from over.”
“I know.”
“What are you planning to do about it?”
“You’re not hinting again at that arrangement your brother Pete and I discussed, are you?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Tell me, Lieutenant. What would you do if you were me?”
Carmine Tedone suddenly looked very weary. “I can’t answer that. Not officially. If it was my woman whose life and career were being threatened I’d do something, I’ll tell you that much. I wouldn’t just sit back and let that creep drag her through the mud. But you don’t strike me as the type who’ll let that happen. You know how the world works.”
“You’re right, I do. And I’m sorry that I do. I was a whole lot happier before I did.”
“You and me both, brother.”
Chapter Ten
It was late afternoon by the time Merilee joined up with me back at the farm. It seemed so deliciously tranquil there. The breeze off of Whalebone Cove was rustling the leaves of the apple trees. The ducks were quacking in the pond. The chickens were conversing in their coop. Merilee announced she was going to take a good, long walk in the woods. Lulu decided to keep her company. I decided to pull my manuscript from the deep freeze and sit down with it at the writing table in the chapel, fully intending to escape back into my fictional universe while the Ramones blasted from my turntable.
But it was no use. There was still too much ugly reality somersaulting around in my head.
When the business line rang I had no doubt who it would be. Same hoarse, phlegmy voice. Same mocking, insinuating tone. “That you, smart guy?”
“It’s nice to hear from you again, Mr. Romero. I’ve missed our little chats. It’s been a while.”
“That’s because I’ve been locked away in a padded cell. I’m guessing you already knew that, seeing as how it was the cops who showed up for our eleven o’clock meet, not you. You ratted me out, you flaming piece of shit.”
“Consider yourself lucky that’s all I did.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re still alive. There was a very strong case being made by a lot of very influential people that you should be taken out. If it weren’t for me you’d be dead right now.”
He let out a laugh. “Like Greg and Marty are, you mean?”
“And don’t forget Sabrina Meyer.”
“Never heard of the bitch.”
“How did it make you feel?”
“How did what make me feel?”
“When you heard that Greg and Marty were dead.”
“I didn’t feel anything. Why would I?”
“They were friends of yours.”
“Bullshit. They were never my friends. When I needed their help, a good word whispered in the right director’s ear, they both turned their backs on me. So I couldn’t care less that they’re dead. Fuck them.” He fell silent on the other end of the line for a moment before he said, “Nothing’s changed except for the price tag, smart guy. It’s gone up to thirty-five thou. I’m giving you one more chance to make good on your word. Tonight, nine o’clock, same place. Show up with anything less than thirty-five thou and I go straight to the Enquirer and tell them the whole, sad story about the night when the great big movie star got high on coke, ran over a Yale professor and left him for dead. Is it a deal?”
“Fine,” I said. “It’s a deal.”
With a click the line went dead.
I went inside the house, found a manila envelope and tucked the Lyme–Old Lyme phone book inside. It made for a good, snug fit.
That was when Merilee and Lulu came home from their walk. Merilee flopped down at the kitchen table, pooped. Lulu took a long drink from her water bowl before she flopped down, too.
“How was your walk?”
“Good. It gave me some time to think. Let’s sit out on the deck. There’s a nice, cool breeze.”
“All right.”
We sat on the Adirondack chairs overlooking the cove and watched the osprey circle overhead, floating on the breeze.
“Time to think about what?”
“Marty, mostly,” she replied. “He always resented Greg’s good looks, Greg’s ease around other people and, more than anything else, that Greg took Dini away from him. Marty channeled his pain and his loneliness into amazing performances. Became one of our finest actors. Yet his resentment never, ever stopped eating away at him. How heartbreaking is that?”
“From where I sit? Pretty damned heartbreaking.”
“Greg was a solid pro. He deserved his Oscar. But he rarely made a movie or play better simply by being in it. Marty did. Marty was a genius. But no one will think of him that way now. They’ll remember him as the crazy man who murdered Greg Farber and then died of a drug overdose while he was sitting on the toilet, just like Lenny Bruce and Elvis.” She let out a long sigh of regret. “Is it too early for a glass of chilled Sancerre?”
“It’s never too early for a glass of chilled Sancerre. Stay put, I’ll get it.”
There was a half-empty bottle in the refrigerator. I grabbed it and two glasses. Dug the remains of several cheeses from the cheese drawer, Lulu’s anchovy jar, a knife and
a hunk of baguette. Set it all on a tray and carried it outside. Merilee got busy unwrapping the cheese. I poured the wine, handed her a glass and fed Lulu an anchovy.
“I ran into Mr. MacGowan when I was out walking,” she said, sipping her wine. “He asked me how Quasimodo was fitting in.”
“Damn. He promised me he’d keep his trap shut.”
“What happened to Old Saxophone Joe, darling?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, okay. R.J. showed up here when we were away and beheaded him. I gave Joe a proper, respectful burial. I can show you where the marker is.”
“Thank you, I’d appreciate it. I want to plant something there for him.”
“And then I asked Mr. MacGowan if he could spare a rooster.”
“Hence Quasimodo.”
“Hence Quasimodo.”
She smeared some Maytag blue on a piece of bread, nibbled on it and sipped her wine, eyeing me over the rim of the glass. “Is R.J. out on bail?”
I nodded.
“He’s called again, hasn’t he?”
“He has. And he still wants his hush money. I’m giving it to him tonight. He’ll use it to pay off whomever it is he owes it to. It’s my sincere hope that he will then go to jail for a solid decade for stealing that truckload of Marvin windows. It’s also my sincere hope that this nostalgic Yale Drama School reunion of yours has run its course and that I can go back to work on my book.”
“I’m coming with you tonight.”
“Absolutely not. You can’t.”
“Why not?” she demanded indignantly.
“He could be setting a trap. Have a photographer with him. You can’t be seen with him, Merilee. Can’t be mixed up in any of this. Just leave it to me, okay? After tonight, this mess with R.J. will all be over.”
OUR RENDEZVOUS SPOT by the old brass mill’s front gate was no more picturesque or fragrant than I remembered it from last time. Again, I spotted him by the orange glow of his cigarette.
“Give it here,” he said right away, meaning the money.
“I guess this means we’re dispensing with pleasantries,” I said, handing him the manila envelope.
The Man Who Couldn't Miss Page 20