The Rooftop Party

by Ellen Meister

  “To my dressing room,” Dana said.

  “Well, don’t be in such a hurry. Let’s have a sit-down with Jessalyn and go over your sales figures.”

  Dana whirled around and stared into Sherry’s face. Sherry stared back. It felt like a standoff. The producer either knew or suspected Dana was about to run off to the Sweat City theater, and she wanted to get in her way. Now Dana had a decision to make: acquiesce, and be late for rehearsals, or make up some lie about a previous engagement.

  “Unless you have someplace to be?” Sherry asked, folding her arms.

  “No,” Dana seethed. “I have no place to be.” She hated being late for rehearsals, but this felt like her only move, and she resented the hell out of Sherry for forcing it.

  They went into the control booth and met with Jessalyn, and Sherry insisted on discussing every number in painstaking detail, assuring that a ten-minute meeting stretched out to thirty. When they were done, Dana ambled out slowly, as if she had all the time in the world. But as soon as she was out of sight, she ran to her dressing room, changed, dashed out the door and hopped on a subway downtown to rehearse Harte of Brooklyn.

  * * *

  “Nice of you to show up,” Nathan said, when she reached the theater. Everyone was still in the greenroom, going over some notes before beginning rehearsals. Dana felt herself flush as they all turned to her. Lateness wasn’t just inexcusable. It was rude. Thoughtless. Selfish. Especially for someone who had skipped yesterday’s entire rehearsal.

  “I’m sorry!” Dana cried. “It won’t happen again.”

  Nathan gave her a look so loaded she wished life offered second takes so that she could go back and tell Sherry to fuck herself. Because nothing was worth the disappointment in his eyes. They seemed to say, You’re taking advantage—you of all people. I never should have opened up to you. And she couldn’t explain to him that she’d tried, but her boss was being a pain in the ass. Because if she told him rehearsals would continue being a challenge for her, he’d probably make her switch roles with Carolyn. And she couldn’t let that happen, not after she did so much digging into the role and finally discovered what made Penny tick. It took a long time, but she had an epiphany—she couldn’t play it for laughs. That was the trick. She had to approach the role in the exact same way she approached dramatic parts. Once she did that, Dana was able to tap into an earnestness at the center of her own being, and find a way to push it front and center for this character. She couldn’t wait for rehearsals to get started so that she could show them what she’d unearthed.

  Nathan went back to his notes, explaining some changes and tweaks he expected from his actors.

  “Does anybody have any questions?” he asked.

  Tyrel expressed some confusion about the prop in scene four, and Nathan said they’d work it out onstage.

  “Anything else?” he asked.

  Dana knew it wasn’t the best time to call attention to herself, but there was a burning question that only her actor friends could help her with, and so she raised her hand. “I do have one thing, but it’s not relevant to the play. Is that okay?”

  Nathan sighed. “Out with it.”

  “I was just wondering if anybody knows a dancer named Margaux who works for a caterer.”

  They all looked at her blankly.

  “Small nose, pointy widow’s peak? Spells her name with an X?” she said.

  There were some shrugs and head shakes.

  Nathan folded his arms. “Okay with you if we move on?”

  “Please,” she said, and took some deep breaths to get into character. She would impress them if it killed her.

  23

  The next morning was Ivan Dennison’s memorial service. The family had held a small private funeral the week before, which Megan described as “brutally grim.” The public event, by contrast, was planned as a celebration of his life, and the family invited a wide circle of friends and business associates.

  The Shopping Channel provided a luxury bus from its West Side address to the church out on Long Island. Megan had special permission to ride with the staff, and she climbed onboard with Dana. She gave a low whistle when she saw the plush leather reclining chairs with armrests.

  “Like flying first class,” Dana replied. “But with potholes.”

  When they sat across from Eleanor Gratz and her husband, Philip Wagoner, Megan elbowed Dana conspiratorially. The message was clear: We may be sitting right beside Ivan’s killers. Dana was still skeptical. Yes, the evidence was pretty damning, but it was hard to imagine Eleanor as a murderer. Still, she was committed to paying close attention to anything that might provide a clue, as she had a personal stake in this now. Dana needed to know the culprit was anyone but her. For now, though, all the two friends could do was act as if they knew nothing about the twenty-year-old kickback and Ivan’s apparent threat to expose it.

  Dana settled into her seat and watched as her coworkers filed onto the bus with carefully suppressed enthusiasm. This was a memorial service, after all, and they were trying to show respect. But soon enough, the stoicism melted away, and the atmosphere on the bus went from forced solemnity to relaxed camaraderie and, finally, to excitement. They were going on a field trip!

  Eleanor leaned across the aisle to talk business with Dana, filling her in on the status of the Reluven gift basket she would soon be selling on the air. Eleanor’s passion was contagious, and Dana’s enthusiasm rose to match it.

  Then Eleanor turned her attention to Megan. “Were you at the funeral?” she asked.

  At that, Dana knew Eleanor had connected the dots linking Megan to Jamie. Why else would she have even considered that Megan might be there? Dana wondered if the whole company knew Jamie and Megan were an item.

  “It was nearly unbearable,” Megan said.

  “I heard Blair was practically catatonic,” Eleanor offered, and Dana tried to imagine who might have told her that, as the funeral was almost exclusively confined to family.

  “It’s very hard on her,” Megan said.

  “The poor thing. She has to be so careful—stress can really trigger a flare-up.”

  Now that was curious. Eleanor seemed to know a lot about Blair Dennison’s condition. In fact, she used almost the exact same phrase Jamie had used. It might mean absolutely nothing, of course, but Dana was collecting every impression.

  There was a hissing sound as the bus door closed, and then a small lurch as the driver put it into gear and they headed on their way, going straight across town and heading over the Fifty-Ninth Street Bridge.

  People talked and laughed throughout the journey, and Dana tried to listen through the chatter for any mention of Ivan. But the Shopping Channel employees barely knew him, and the snippets of conversation Dana could overhear included references to binge-watching a new Amazon sci-fi series, something about football, a bit of cooing over a cute baby picture, a question about the company’s upcoming Christmas party and a discussion of appropriate attire for a memorial service, which devolved into a smackdown of someone’s red patent leather pumps.

  At last the bus pulled into the parking lot of an old stone church designed to look practically medieval. It was a sunny autumn day, the air crisp and chill as they piled out of the bus and walked up the stone path to the cathedral-like doorway. Inside, they proceeded to the high-ceilinged sanctuary, which had a tall stained glass window behind the altar. In front of it, lining the steps, were dozens of baskets of white flowers, filling the place with enough floral scent to nearly mask the smell of musty wood and lemon furniture polish. There was a poster-sized blowup of Ivan’s business portrait propped on an easel to the left of the altar. On the right, there was a blurrier poster of him, obviously enlarged from an older snapshot. It showed a younger, handsomer Ivan in a casual polo shirt, smiling into the sun.

  Dana took a moment to study the photographs, trying to tap into some sympathy.
It didn’t take her long, since her training as an actor created pathways to her own pathos, and Dana found herself imagining the news of her own father’s death. Her love for him was buried so deeply beneath her disdain and hurt feelings that it didn’t often surface. But now, imagining how it would feel to lose him, it welled right up to the surface. Sure, he could be insensitive, judgmental, rude, a total asshat. But he was her asshat.

  “Too bad there’s no open bar,” Megan said.

  “Why?” Dana asked.

  “Because you look like you could use a drink.”

  Dana sighed. “Just having a moment.”

  She peered around the sanctuary. Jamie and his mother were already seated in the front row, along with several other people, including a man Dana presumed to be the older son. The Shopping Channel people slid into the wooden pews, making room for one another, and the church brimmed with the loud hum of people trying to be respectful.

  They sat there for quite some time, waiting for the sanctuary to fill. Every few minutes Jamie and his brother turned toward the back of the church to see who was coming in. It looked like they were reporting the details to their mother, and Dana wondered if there was someone specific they were waiting for. At one point, Jamie stood and waved to an older couple with a yacht-club air about them—they looked tanned, relaxed, and impossibly wealthy. Dana couldn’t see the husband’s socks, but she would have bet money they were...interesting. That is, if he were wearing socks at all. Based on the wife’s cheekbones, Dana pegged them as relatives of Blair’s. And sure enough, they approached the front row, bent to kiss her, and took seats with the family.

  Eleanor was keeping a careful eye on the entrance, turning toward it every few minutes. Dana watched the doorway, too, as she knew Ari and his partner, Kevin Lee, would be attending the service. Ostensibly, it was to pay their respects, but Dana understood they would be watching and studying every attendee.

  At last she saw them enter, and Ari caught her eye almost immediately. He gave a quiet nod, but didn’t approach. They had already discussed the protocol. Ari needed to look professional and keep his distance. He and Detective Lee remained standing, surveying the crowd like sentries.

  When the arriving guests slowed to a trickle, Dana assumed the service was about to begin. She glanced back at Jamie, who was still checking out the crowd. He must have seen something that alarmed him, because he shook his brother’s shoulder and they both turned and stared. Jamie stood, as if deciding whether to do something.

  Dana pivoted around to see who they were watching, and observed two women who seemed to be mother and daughter. The older woman was slim, with dark loose curls and a carefully tailored suit. The younger woman looked college-aged, and had her hands tucked into the pockets of her navy peacoat. She wore glasses, and her long hair—probably naturally curly—had been blown straight and was admirably lustrous. Beyond those superficialities, they looked very much alike.

  Dana watched, wondering if they would join the family at the front of the church, but they took a seat in the rear. Jamie and his brother had a whispered conversation, and then the brother rose and walked to the back of the church to talk to the latecomers. It was impossible for Dana to catch any drift of the exchange, but she noticed that Eleanor seemed especially interested in it, as she didn’t take her eyes off them, even as she put her hand over her mouth and whispered something to her husband.

  Dana glanced back at Ari to see if he noticed the exchange, and of course he was paying close attention.

  When the brother finally finished his conversation, he walked briskly toward the front of the church, his face reddening the same way Ivan’s sometimes did. Dana burned with curiosity.

  “Do you have any idea who that is?” she asked Megan.

  “Some estranged relative, I would guess,” Megan said.

  “You think he was asking her to leave?”

  “That would be some hell of a feud, wouldn’t it? Kind of thing that would happen with my family.”

  Dana nodded. Megan’s family was notorious for long grudges. She had aunts, uncles and cousins who hadn’t spoken to one another in twenty years. The Silvestri family weddings weren’t so much planned as brokered, like ceasefires.

  The rest of the service seemed carefully arranged, with a succession of speakers who made Ivan Dennison seem like a cross between Warren Buffett, Steve Jobs, Roger Federer and the Dalai Lama. The minister opened, discussing Ivan’s firm commitment to his faith. Dana tried to hold very still, but when he mentioned Ivan’s servitude to God, she couldn’t resist giving Megan the side-eye. An old high school friend talked about his tireless dedication to tennis, and how he had nearly gone pro. A college buddy made some cute asides about their fraternity parties, but kept most of his focus on Ivan’s popularity and his position on the crew team. A man who worked with him at the electronics giant discussed Ivan’s unprecedented success, and joked about how jealous they all were when he was recruited by the Shopping Channel. Charles Honeycutt made some brief but respectful remarks about their first encounters and how much Ivan had impressed the notoriously impossible-to-please board of directors. Not one woman had been invited to speak, which Dana presumed had been a conscious choice to keep any whispers from circulating.

  The service concluded with speeches by Ivan’s sons, Jamie and Brock, and their uncle, Everett Dennison, whom Dana thought looked like a younger and even WASPier version of Ivan. Like Tucker Carlson from his bow-tie period. She couldn’t imagine he lived anywhere but Greenwich, Connecticut.

  And then, just like that, it was over. Dana thought there might be some kind of a receiving line so people could pay their respects to the widow and her sons. But the family made a quick exit, wheeling Blair Dennison out of the church and into a waiting limousine before she could be overwhelmed. Dana understood. Blair couldn’t be expected to accept the condolences when it was entirely possible someone in that church was her husband’s murderer.

  As the rest of the Shopping Channel folks piled back onto the bus for their return trip to Manhattan, Dana lingered in the church, scanning the crowd for the mysterious woman and her daughter. Apparently, they, too, had made a quick exit.

  On her way out, Dana stopped at the door, where Ari and his partner stood surveying the crowd. She was dying to ask Ari if he knew the identity of the dark-haired woman, but of course she couldn’t. So she simply whispered that she would see him later, and climbed onto the bus.

  24

  Dana did not want an IKEA couch for her new apartment. She wanted a statement sofa. Something large and comfortable, romantic and pretty, with curved lines and rounded arms. She envisioned it under the living room windows, decorated with beautiful throw pillows.

  But since Dana had supplied the deposit for the apartment, Ari wanted to be the one to buy the couch, and insisted on a Saturday morning excursion to the massive retail location in Brooklyn. She knew the place would be big, but she wasn’t prepared for the magnitude. This wasn’t a furniture store—it was an airplane hangar on steroids, a sprawling waterfront military compound.

  Dana was glad she wore comfortable shoes, because even though there was a free shuttle bus from the subway to the store, she logged several miles by the time they reached the sofas, which included a Danish modern couch in beige, a Danish modern couch in olive green, a Danish modern loveseat in black leather and a Danish modern sectional in burlap brown. Since IKEA was actually a Swedish company, she guessed this was considered an international showcase.

  “What do you think?” Ari said, as they stood surveying the choices.

  “I didn’t know there were so many varieties of Danish modern.”

  “See anything you like?”

  “That one’s not too bad,” she said, pointing to the least Danish modern piece on the floor. It had rounded arms and a skirted bottom, and was upholstered in a mustard color gingham plaid.

  Ari cocked his head a
nd she knew what he was thinking—it looked cheap. She couldn’t argue the point because it did. She just wasn’t sure there were any better alternatives.

  “How about that one?” he said, pointing to a flattish couch with a low tufted back and sharp angles. It almost looked like a retro mid-century design, but stopped just short of making the commitment to kitsch. Even the upholstery selected for the display model—a pale grayish aqua—stood timidly to the side, softly suggesting a late fifties look without quite abandoning the Danish modern aesthetic.

  She opened her mouth and nothing came out.

  “You hate it,” he pronounced.

  “So very, very much,” she said.

  He took her hand and they walked around the selections as she said a silent prayer: Not the one with headrests, not the one with headrests.

  “How about this one?” he asked, stopping at the pleather couch with headrests.

  She looked at him, her eyes filled with pain, and he laughed.

  “You were busting my chops?” she asked.

  He pointed to another couch—a dark gray one she hadn’t noticed. It wasn’t beautiful, but it wasn’t terrible either. It had a plush cushioned back and narrow, gently sloped arms. The upholstery was a soft imitation velvet.

  “I actually like this one,” he said, lowering himself into it.

  Dana sat next to him and put her head on his shoulder. The piece was downy and enveloping, and her tension didn’t exactly dissolve, but she was able to envision the two of them sitting on this couch in their apartment. It was comfortable, at least, and she tried to imagine how it might look with romantic patterned drapes on the windows to compensate for the sofa’s bland style. Maybe.

  “I can picture this one in the apartment,” she said.

  He backed up to look at her face. “You’re not just saying that?”

  She held her thumb and forefinger a quarter inch apart, to indicate that a tiny part of her was indeed “just saying that.”