How to Succeed in Murder

by Margaret Dumas

  I sighed. “This professional has had it.” I closed the last of the manuscripts and faced my director. “Chip, thanks for all your work, but there’s no way we’re putting on any of these next season.”

  He nodded. “I thought you’d say that. I’ll send over the next batch in the morning. I’d have brought them with me, but the copier was down.” He perched on the bed again. “There’s one that I think has real possibilities. It’s about a logger and an environmentalist trapped in the crown of a redwood tree while—”

  “Chip, old man.” Simon stood and stretched. “I’ve been kicked out of enough bedrooms in my sorry life to know when it’s time to make my exit.”

  “Oh.” Chip seemed to realize something, then jumped off the bed again. “Oh! Okay. I’ll just…we’ll just…”

  “We’ll just find our own way out.” Simon took him by the arm and led him to the door. “It’s called surrendering the playing field. You’ll get used to it.”

  “’Bye, guys!” I called after them. Then I turned my attention to my husband. “Want to join me on the playing field?”

  A speculative gleam appeared in his eye. “Always. But we don’t have time for anything but a warm-up if we’re going to be on time.”

  “On time for what?” I stopped in mid pillow-plump.

  “Dinner at Bix.”

  “Oh!”

  “With Harry.”

  Oh.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I hadn’t forgotten another dinner with Uncle Harry. Apparently it was a spur-of-the-moment thing that he’d arranged with Jack that afternoon. Funny how he’d called Jack instead of me.

  In any case, as I contemplated which pair of shoes to ruin on yet another rain-soaked night, I consoled myself with the thought that the choice of restaurant was just right for both the weather and my mood.

  Bix is an old-school supper club, tucked away in an alley near the financial district, with dim lighting and good jazz in the background. The kind of place where you can imagine guys in fedoras smoking cigars and deciding among themselves who the next governor will be. The kind of place where the bartender really knows his stuff.

  It was, I acknowledged, Harry’s kind of place.

  ***

  I slammed the door and shook the rain out of my hair once I got in the car—a black Lexus SUV that we’d borrowed from Harry months ago and hadn’t gotten around to returning yet.

  “Do you own an umbrella?” Jack asked, flicking my second-hand drops off his jacket.

  “Several. I only wish I knew where I put them.” I looked back at the big empty house as we pulled away. There were a lot of places to lose things in there.

  Jack turned down the steep hill to Broadway and made a right. It was almost eight, so the worst of Friday rush hour was over. There was still a bit of cross-street congestion ahead of us, but our straight shot to the Broadway Tunnel, which makes a swooping cut through one of the steepest hills in the city, was relatively clear.

  After about the fourth stop sign, Jack made an irritated sound and adjusted his rearview mirror.

  “What’s the matter? Ow!”

  Jack didn’t need to answer my question because I’d just been temporarily blinded by the lights of the car behind us shining directly into my eyes from the side mirror. “That guy seriously needs his headlights adjusted.”

  Jack was alternately squinting into the rearview mirror and squinting to see the road ahead of us. We were getting to the busier intersections, with lots of pedestrians, and visibility was already bad because of the rain.

  “They aren’t headlights,” he told me. “He’s got a row of spotlights across the roof of his truck.”

  I turned around to look, shielding my eyes. “Isn’t it against some sort of law for him to have them on in traffic?” We went through a green light at Van Ness.

  “It should be.” Jack signaled and moved to the left lane as we approached the mouth of the tunnel.

  We had a moment of relief from the glaring lights, then the truck pulled forward, as if to pass us on the right, flashing the bright lights like strobes and blaring the horn.

  Jack accelerated instantly, but it wasn’t fast enough. Exactly at the point where the tunnel curves, the truck smashed up against us, slamming into our right side as the white tiled wall of the tunnel rushed to meet us on the left.

  “Jack!” I grabbed the arm of my seat and held on. I couldn’t see anything beyond the blinding lights of truck that was trying to crush us.

  Jack fought to keep the car under control, still accelerating as we were being pressed into the tunnel wall. The sound of metal crashing against metal on one side and metal screeching against tile on the other was deafening. Sparks were starting to fly past Jack’s head.

  “Hold on!” he yelled, wrenching the steering wheel to the left as the tunnel straightened. There was a last ear-splitting metallic squeal as we scraped deeper into the wall, but when Jack gunned the engine we were suddenly free of the truck’s pressure.

  The truck roared past as Jack slammed on the brakes to avoid crashing into the backed-up line of cars outside the tunnel.

  “Are you all right?” he shouted.

  “Jack! He’s getting away!” I saw the truck—some huge black sort of extra-wide pickup—race through the stoplight while we were still stuck in our lane, the traffic to the right moving too quickly for us to change lanes and follow it.

  “Never mind. Are you okay?”

  “Yes! Did you see a license plate?”

  He shook his head grimly. “There wasn’t one.”

  Jack pulled over as soon as he could, and we took refuge in the tiny driveway of a Chinese greengrocer. We stared at each other. I was shaking uncontrollably, still hearing the screech of metal, still seeing giant purple spots in the shape of the truck’s lights bouncing around.

  Jack, not surprisingly, looked good. Face slightly flushed, eyes slightly blazing. More like he’d just navigated a particularly tricky stretch of alpine roadway than nearly been crushed to death at high speed.

  As soon as I got my breath back, I had one question for him.

  “Jack, just exactly who did you piss off at Zakdan the other day?”

  I waited. He appeared to be thinking. Then he nodded his head, as if he’d figured something out.

  “I was at Zakdan again today,” he began.

  “What! Why? Were you going to tell me—”

  “Mike and I went back today.” He cut off my questions. “So he could…it doesn’t matter why. The important thing is that I got the call from Harry inviting us to Bix on my cell while I was there.”

  “Who were you with?”

  “Just Mike. We were in Lalit Kumar’s office. He was out today. Morgan put us in his office so we could work undisturbed.”

  I was a little disturbed at the news that Kumar had been out that day. Had he been back to work since Brenda and I had followed him all over town two nights before? But Jack was still talking.

  “I don’t know how soundproof any of those offices are. I don’t remember anyone passing in the hall when I was talking to Harry, but I’ll find out who has the offices next to Kumar’s, and who might have overheard my side of the call.”

  Would that mean Clara’s killer was one of the Zakdan executives? Because, as far as I knew, the only person who might want to scare Jack away from his investigation was the person who had killed Morgan Stokes’ fiancée.

  Jack looked at his watch. “Are you hungry?”

  “Are you kidding? You still want to meet Harry?” I was thinking of something more along the lines of a quick call to the police followed by a very large martini, enjoyed from behind some barricaded walls.

  He started the car. “If we don’t show up there will be questions.”

  “If we do show up there will be questions,” I countered. “Such as ‘where is your side mirror and most of your car’s paint?’”

  Jack grinned. “Remind me not to park under a streetlight.” Then he reached over and touched my ch
eek with the back of his hand. “Sorry for putting you in the middle of that, Pumpkin.”

  Which only made me want to burst into tears and throw myself into his arms. But I’m a big girl, so I told myself I could do that after dinner. Instead I took his hand and held on.

  ***

  Jack called Mike as soon as we were moving again, to let him know that apparently someone had been noticeably unhappy with their presence at Zakdan that day. I spent the rest of the trip jumping every time a car came near us, but I think by the time we parked (not under a streetlight) and scurried through the rain to the restaurant, I probably looked as composed as I ever do.

  “Let’s not tell Harry about this,” I said as we shook off our coats under the awning outside the door. “He’ll want to call in his own personal cavalry, and I really don’t think I could deal with that right now.”

  “Agreed,” Jack said. “There’s just one thing I need to do before we go in.”

  At which point he pulled me into one of the most spectacular kisses of my life, swift and intense, leaving me breathless and disoriented and feeling that having nearly been killed was almost worth it, if this was the effect it had on my husband.

  Then he turned me around and propelled me into the restaurant.

  ***

  Harry, unsurprisingly, was already there, and for once he wasn’t dressed like an aging beach bum. Instead he wore a sober gray suit that I was willing to bet he’d bought for a funeral. He gave it a distinctly personal flair with the addition of a vintage Hawaiian print silk tie.

  He was not alone.

  “Brenda!” I couldn’t wait to get her off to the ladies room and tell her everything.

  “Hi, you two,” Brenda greeted us. “Isn’t this nice?”

  Her glasses were sliding down her nose and her long black hair was, as usual, drawn into a ponytail bound by some hippy device one of her students had given her years ago.

  I looked from her to my uncle, who had draped an arm proprietarily over the back of her chair. “Nice” was one word for it. “Suspicious” was another. Maybe our little brush with death wasn’t the only frightening aspect of the evening.

  Jack held my chair as I slid into the seat next to Brenda. “What’s Harry up to?” I hissed.

  “Good to see you too, Charley,” Harry said loudly. Then, “What’s new, Jack?”

  “Not a thing,” Jack said, just a beat too quickly. He looked beyond Harry. “Well, it looks like the gang’s all here.”

  I followed his gaze over to the door, where Simon had just entered and was making something of a production out of removing his Burberry.

  “What’s he doing here?” I asked.

  “Joining us for dinner.” Harry exhibited wide-eyed innocence.

  It was just as well the waiter arrived then with Sidecars for everyone. Simon sauntered up just as he was leaving. “Hullo all.” He kissed Brenda on the cheek before sitting. “Isn’t this nice?”

  “Simon, I spent all day with you,” I reminded him.

  “Well, yes, darling. But that was work. And this is…” He looked at Harry. “Not that I wasn’t delighted to get your message when I got home, old man, but…what’s the occasion? I gather it’s not entirely social?” He grinned with the attitude of someone who would enjoy it immensely when the other shoe dropped.

  “Not entirely, no.” Harry leaned back and took us all in. “I think this is what you showbiz folks call schmoozing.”

  Oh, good God.

  “Harry’s written a play,” Brenda told us.

  “Yes,” Jack filled the ensuing silence. “He mentioned something about that.”

  “Charley didn’t seem too enthusiastic.” Harry was speaking to Simon. “So I thought, since you’re the artistic director of the Rep, I should pitch it to you directly.”

  Simon clearly found the evolving situation less and less amusing. He was blinking rapidly and making clever comments like “Ah, Um, Well, Ah…” when Jack raised his glass in a toast.

  “To the theatre!”

  Hilarious, my husband.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Almost being killed does amazing things for a person’s appetite, and the dinner was everything I could have asked for in upscale comfort food. Little potato thingies topped with caviar (mine) and firecracker shrimp (stolen from Jack’s plate) for starters, followed by lobster spaghetti (which I did not share). And I will say this in Harry’s defense: The man can navigate a wine list.

  I was just beginning to contemplate warm chocolate brioche pudding and a terror-free ride home when Brenda gave a little squeak.

  “Oh!” The color drained from her face as she looked toward the door. “Were we expecting…”

  What now? We all turned to look.

  I swear there was a disturbance in the restaurant’s electricity the moment I saw him. It was probably my imagination, or possibly the storm. Nevertheless, I felt the air crackle as he approached us.

  “Good evening.” He inclined his head slightly and somehow made eye contact with each of us at once. There was a silence, then Jack spoke.

  “Inspector Yahata.”

  The policeman was, as usual, impeccably dressed. There was always something cutting-edge about the way he looked, and if I could put my finger on it I might have chosen a career in fashion instead of the theatre. He was crisp and sharp and angled, from the not-quite-spiky way he wore his hair to the precision of his language.

  “What a pleasure to see you all again.”

  At least he hadn’t said “Isn’t this nice?”

  “Inspector.” Harry eyed the detective. “Please, join us.” It was possibly the most unwelcoming invitation ever issued.

  A small, suitable flicker of regret passed over Yahata’s features. “Some other time, perhaps. I fear I have other plans this evening.”

  Oh, so this was an entirely coincidental meeting. Right.

  “Mrs. Fairfax.” He turned his attention to me. “I hope you are well? And keeping safe?”

  I had a horrible certainty that he knew exactly whose paint job was now decorating the Broadway Tunnel—and he probably also knew precisely where Brenda and I had been at one a.m. two nights before. But I swallowed and gave him what I hoped was a completely innocent smile.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Excellent.” He held my gaze a moment longer than was required before turning to Jack. “May I have a word?”

  Jack gave me a look that said “Don’t even think of coming along” before excusing himself and leading Yahata to a quiet corner of the bar.

  Simon exhaled slowly. “Am I the only one who finds that fellow a little…”

  “No.” Brenda and I answered together.

  “He’s something,” Harry said speculatively, observing the men at the bar. “And unless I’m mistaken—which I’m not—they’re up to something.”

  Brenda grabbed my hand. “Do you think it’s about Clara?”

  Of course I thought it was about Clara.

  “I don’t know,” I told her.

  But I did know Jack hadn’t called the detective, which meant Yahata hadn’t suddenly materialized simply because someone had tried to squish us on the way to the restaurant.

  “Who wants to bet that’s the good Inspector’s date?” Simon asked, raising his eyebrows in the direction of a woman near the door.

  She stood in one of those hipbone-out, one-shoulder-dropped, red carpet poses, as if she were perfectly accustomed to being stared at, and gave her shimmering golden hair—somehow unfrizzed by the rain—the slightest toss.

  “Oh, she’s got to be.” I glanced back to Jack and the detective. They shook hands and parted, Yahata pausing to look in our direction and incline his head again. Then he moved toward the supermodel, and they exited smoothly into the night.

  “So.” Jack took his seat next to me again. “Who wants coffee?”

  We stared at him. Then we all spoke at once.

  “Goddamn! If you think I’m going to—” Harry.

  “
Well, old thing, if you’re not going to—” Simon.

  “Jack, are the police going to—” Brenda.

  “Oh, cut it out!” I spoke the loudest, so I won. Admittedly, it was at the expense of some curious stares from other tables, but whatever. “Jack, if you don’t tell us what Inspector Yahata said this instant I’m never speaking to you again!”

  “It’s really not anything—”

  “Jack,” Brenda said quietly. “Please.”

  So he told us.

  ***

  “Clara wasn’t alone?” I stared at my husband. The information from Yahata had left us in a stunned silence, until I summed up the gist of the news. “Someone was with her at the gym?”

  “How can they not have known?” Simon asked.

  “How in the hell can they not have known?” Harry elaborated.

  “How do they know?” Brenda’s eyes were huge.

  He shrugged slightly. “It was a mistake. One of the officers who was first on the scene took a statement from the receptionist who’d been on duty at the gym that night. Then, after the detectives arrived, the cop and his partner got called away to another incident—a holdup at a convenience store a couple of blocks away.”

  “Oh, my God—I read about that,” Brenda said. “There was a shootout.”

  Jack nodded. “The cop’s partner was wounded, and the robber was killed. So with everything involved in that…”

  “Our cop forgot to tell anyone about the statement he took,” I concluded.

  “Unbelievable,” Simon said.

  “Un-fucking-believable,” Harry agreed.

  “And the receptionist is sure she saw someone else with Clara that night?” I asked.

  “Positive,” Jack confirmed. “She says Clara came in with a guest. But the description could fit almost anyone—an adult of medium size wearing gray sweats, with the sweatshirt hood up. She can’t even swear whether the guest was a man or a woman.”

  “But wouldn’t a guest have to sign something? Or fill something out?” Brenda asked, knowing full well they would, since she’d done it Tuesday night.

  Jack pushed his wine glass away. “Yes. But they’ve gone through all the guest cards and none of them list Clara as the member sponsor.”