“You want to look at it in another color?” he asked.
She rubbed the upholstery. It was soft and homey, but she was afraid it wouldn’t hold up. “That might be a good idea.”
She was about to tell him that she was doing her best, really trying to make it work, when a man with white hair and a red tie rounded the corner. From a distance, the resemblance to the dead chairman of the board was strong enough to make her gasp.
“You okay?” Ari asked.
Dana put her hand to her heart and felt it thudding. “I know we’re not supposed to talk about the case, but for a second that man looked like Ivan Dennison.”
Ari followed her line of vision to study the man, who was now close enough to look almost nothing like Ivan. He was much older, for one thing, and had the kind of skin condition that made his nose large and lumpy.
“Never mind,” she said. “It was just a first impression.” But at that moment, a memory came back. It was just a quick flash of something that happened at the party—Ivan, leaning toward her and kissing her on the neck. Had that really happened, or did she imagine it?
Dana couldn’t know for sure if it was an actual memory, but it was disturbing enough to make her want to finish this couch business so she could go home and take a hit off a joint.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Ari asked.
Dana shrugged. She did want to talk about it. She wanted to tell him what Sherry had said. She wanted to confess that she was terrified she might have lost her temper and shoved Ivan off the roof without even remembering it. She wanted him to take her in his arms and promise that it wasn’t her, that he knew exactly who did it and had irrefutable forensic evidence.
“Of course I do,” she told him. “But you said the investigation is off-limits.”
Ari nodded. “We can talk about anything else.”
“Can’t you just tell me who’s under—”
“I can’t.” He pulled her toward him and softened his voice. “I’m sorry this is hard for you.”
Dana let out a long breath. “It’s okay,” she said, but what she meant was that it was okay he put so much value on his job. She understood that, and was determined to be a grown-up about it, not a needy child. “I don’t ever want you to feel guilty about putting your career first.”
“I don’t put my career—”
“Let me clarify,” she interrupted. “There are times when it’s first. Times when the job is a priority and times when I’m a priority. I get that.”
He kissed the top of her head. “Thank you.”
“I’m proud of you.” She didn’t say it enough, but it was important for him to know. “I’m proud that you’re so good at your job.”
“Let’s hope Covello agrees with that assessment.”
Dana moved in closer. She knew the promotion meant a lot to him—not just so that he could afford his share of the rent on their new apartment, but because it meant being recognized. As an actor, Dana could respect that. Nailing a performance felt great. But applause, cheers, appreciation...that was the part that filled you up.
They looked at upholstery swatches, and Dana spiraled into a frenzy of indecision. She really didn’t like any of them, but she wanted so badly to give Ari what he wanted.
“You decide,” she said, handing him the swatches.
He tossed them down. “Why don’t we sleep on it?”
25
The next day, Dana went to her Sunday morning rehearsal eager to dive deep into the scenes. She was discovering layers for her character, and wanted to impress Nathan with the work she had put in. It was important to make him glad he had cast her as Penny Harte.
Today, they were working on the final scene in Act I, where Penny and Curtis—who had been fighting their feelings for one another—have an argument in which their pent-up sexual attraction explodes into a fight. The dialogue was sharp, but it wasn’t one of the jokier scenes. Penny was finally off the treadmill, facing her emotions. It was meant to let the audience experience the passionate crescendo between these two, which peaked at the end of the scene, when Penny grabbed Curtis, and kissed him on the mouth just before the stage went black.
Dana and Tyrel were both off book, which allowed them to delve into the characters. Dana identified Penny’s rage—she was angry with herself for being so attracted to Curtis, whom she wanted to hate. Tyrel went to a more external place with his character’s anger, directing it at Penny. Dana understood his choices, but wasn’t sure how it would work in terms of the kiss. She tried her best, but when she moved in for the sexual connection, the moment felt inauthentic as his anger was more off-putting than sizzling.
The actors both sensed a failure in that final moment, and looked to Nathan for input.
He paced for a minute, thinking, then said, “Try the scene again, only let’s switch it up. This time, I want Curtis to grab and kiss Penny, instead of the other way around. Let’s see if that works better.”
He gave them instructions to adjust the blocking so that Dana would be the one exiting at the end of the scene.
“I guess we’re done here,” she said, in character. She paused, waiting for a reaction from the man she loved, as if deciding whether to stay or go. One tiny moment of softness from Curtis and she would melt into his embrace. But he huffed in anger and folded his arms.
She registered the disappointment, then turned toward the part of the stage where the set would eventually have an exit door, and reached for it. Her back was to Tyrel, so she didn’t see him coming, merely felt his hand on her arm as he grabbed it and whirled her around.
It was startling, and Dana went blank in fear as adrenaline rocketed through her. She froze. This didn’t feel like love—it felt like an assault. Her reaction was primal. Panicked. Dana’s surroundings disappeared and she was nothing but an animal who needed to save herself. Her heart rate pounded in her ears: run, run, run! She was about to turn and bolt from the stage when his hands seized her shoulders and his face moved toward her for a kiss. In that moment, she was back on the rooftop. And it wasn’t Tyrel grabbing her, nor his character. It was Ivan. Ivan’s hand gripping her arm so hard it hurt. Ivan’s eyes, dark and menacing. Ivan’s face moving toward her. And she did the only thing she could. She protected herself...using more strength than she knew she had.
Her assaulter went toppling backward and landed on his ass.
Reality came crashing back, and Dana gasped, her hand to her mouth.
“I’m sorry!” she cried, realizing she had shoved Tyrel to the floor. “I don’t know what came over me.” But she did know, and tears spilled down her face.
“What the fuck?” Tyrel asked as he stood, dusting off his pant legs.
“Are you alright?” Nathan asked him.
“I guess,” he said, and turned to Dana. “But remind me not to get on your wrong side, honey.”
Nathan approached the stage. “Dana, talk to me,” he said, concerned.
Her stomach seemed to flip over, and she got that feeling in her jaw that always preceded nausea, as if it wanted to involuntarily unhinge so she could heave the contents of her stomach.
“Can’t,” she said, and ran to the bathroom, getting there just in time to vomit into the toilet.
When she finished, Dana washed her hands and face, and slurped sink water into her burning throat. Her hands shook, and she stayed in the bathroom as she heard Nathan end the rehearsal and dismiss the cast. A few of them knocked on the bathroom door on their way out, asking if she was okay.
“I’m fine,” she kept saying. “I’m fine.” But she wasn’t.
When she finally emerged, Nathan was the only one left in the theater.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked.
She sniffed, wiping her nose. “No.”
“You sure?”
“I just...can’t.”
“Fair enough,” he said. “But you need to be perfectly honest with me. Will you be able to play this role?”
She wanted to say, Yes, of course! You know how important this is to me. And I would never let anything stand in the way. But all she could do was mutter, “I don’t know.”
Nathan went silent for a few moments as if he expected her to elaborate, but Dana could barely hold it together. If she opened herself up to speak, she would collapse into sobs.
“Okay,” he finally said. “You take a little time to think about it. But not too much time. Our next rehearsal is Wednesday, and I’m going to need an answer by then.”
When Dana didn’t respond he prodded, “You understand?”
“Yes,” she choked out, and then hurried to grab her coat and purse. All she wanted to do was get out of there. She needed to be alone and try to understand what had just happened. She didn’t even want to get onto the subway, with those bright lights and all those people. The only thing she could imagine was hitting the streets to walk and walk and walk, as if she might find an answer in some loose change on the sidewalk. But before she could swing open the door to leave, Nathan stopped her.
“Oh, one more thing,” he said. “Before I forget. I asked around about that dancer. It seems there’s a Margaux with an X who works for a caterer called Garden of Stephen. That’s all I could find out.”
It took Dana a minute to absorb the information. But as she did, she realized it was a perfectly timed gift from the universe. Margaux! She was exactly the person Dana needed to talk to. The one living, breathing human who might be able to tell Dana she hadn’t killed Ivan Dennison.
26
Dana had just enough presence of mind to call Ari and tell him she had a headache, and would be getting into bed to sleep it off.
“You sound awful,” he said, and she could barely hear him as she was trudging uptown against a chill wind.
Dana put her hand over her other ear to block out the noise. “I know,” she said. “I think I’m just overtired.”
The wind noise was a good excuse to cut the conversation short. So after she assured him that she didn’t need anything, and he admitted he had several loads of laundry to catch up on anyway, they agreed to sleep in their separate apartments that night and said goodbye.
At home, Dana stripped out of her clothes and let them fall onto the floor. Then she got into pajamas and a pair of impossibly thick chenille-lined bootie-socks that had been a present from Chelsea. She had called them “reading socks.” The idea was that you wore them when you wanted to be alone and comfy, curled up in a chair with a good book. Now, Dana wanted anything that would make her feel protected and safe. But of course, a pair of socks wasn’t going to do that.
She poured a glass of cabernet and brought it—along with the whole bottle—into her bedroom. Dana got under the covers and arranged the pillows behind her back, then texted Megan.
Busy?
Her friend responded quickly.
With Jamie. Sup?
Dana stared at her phone, and knew there was just way too much ground to cover in a rushed conversation with a friend who was probably in the middle of something romantic. She took a sip of wine and then typed:
Just chilling. Have fun. TTYL.
She put the phone down on her night table, and seconds later it buzzed with another text.
Just decided we’re going to Mexico over Christmas! Me and Jamie.
It was followed by a series of joyful emojis that made Dana want to weep. Instead, she downed the rest of her wine in a long gulp. Then she typed back a smiley face, and told herself they both deserved the respite. Defeated, she threw her phone into a drawer, slammed it shut, and got more stoned and drunk than she had been in a long, long time.
* * *
The next day, getting out of bed felt like crawling from a coffin. But Dana had to get to work. Thanksgiving was a week or so away, and there were novelty Christmas sweaters to sell, with little sewn-on bells to jingle in delight. Also, she had an early morning appointment with Eleanor Gratz about the Reluven launch. It was all too much.
Dana considered lighting up another joint to face her day. Maybe a toke or two would take the edge off. But then she remembered another piece of important business. She had to track down Margaux and find out exactly what she had seen and heard. And yes, Dana was scared of what she might learn, but a part of her clung to the hope that it was all a big mistake, and that her memory had been false.
So instead of getting high, she took a long, sobering shower, made herself a cup of strong coffee and looked up the phone number for the caterer Nathan had mentioned.
She reached a voice-mail recording. Apparently, the folks at Garden of Stephen were sorry to miss her call, which was important to them. Dana hung up anyway. Her mission was too complicated to leave in a message.
She headed out to work, and kept her sunglasses on when she got to the studio. There were eye drops in her dressing room that would help with the bloodshot remnants of last night’s indulgence. In the meantime, she didn’t need any questions or gossip. Dana grabbed a cup of coffee from the cafeteria and went straight to her dressing room.
The eye drops did their magic, and Dana sipped her coffee. She was just about to try Garden of Stephen again when Ashlee arrived.
“Y’all okay?” she asked. “You look like you been chewed up and spit out.”
So much for the eye drops. “It’s about how I feel,” Dana said.
“Anything I can do?”
“Just a little moral support. I’m trying to track down the woman bartender from the roof party. Do you remember her?”
“Just that she didn’t blink when I asked for an old-fashioned made with Jack Daniel’s. What do you need her for?”
“I think she can help fill in some of the gaps in my memory,” Dana said. She didn’t want to offer too much, but Ashlee was a wily girl and her input could be valuable. “Problem is, I don’t even have her last name. I’m going to call the caterer to see if I can wrangle it out of them.”
“I’ve never seen a Yankee wrangle,” Ashlee said, “so I’m glad for a front row seat.” She lowered herself onto the couch.
“Watch and learn,” Dana said. She called the number again and a live person picked up.
“Hi, my name is Penny Harte and I’m from Dance NYC,” Dana pronounced, borrowing her Sweat City character’s name, but using a voice modeled on a part she had played as a fussy executive. She had the lie already planned out. “I was at a party a few months back—I can’t remember whose birthday it was, but one of the bartenders was a lovely dancer named Margaux. Talented girl with an interesting resume, as I recall. I wanted to get in touch with her about an upcoming audition. By any chance, do you have her contact info? I seem to have lost it.”
“I’m sorry,” said the woman on the phone, “I can’t give out that kind of information.”
“But you see, we had quite a conversation, and I know she would be eager to hear from me.”
“I wish I could help.”
“Maybe just a last name? She’s probably already in our database.”
“Unfortunately, that’s not something I can provide. But if you’d like to leave a message, I can try to get it to her.”
“I was really hoping to contact her myself,” Dana pressed.
“Company policy,” the woman said.
Dana sighed. It was no use. She made an excuse to get off the phone and then let out a whine. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
Ashlee looked at her sympathetically. “You think this Margaux knows who the murderer is?”
Dana let out a long breath as she considered how to answer. “No,” she finally said. “But she might know who the murderer isn’t.”
Ashlee folded her arms. “Dana,” she said pointedly, “are you worried that it might be you?”
D
ana stared. She thought she had been so coy.
“You can close your mouth now,” Ashlee said. “I’m not as blonde as I look.”
“How did you know that’s what I thought?”
“It’s all over your face, darlin’. You’re going to have to call on those acting skills of yours. Also, lay off the weed.”
“Noted,” Dana said. “But I’m still going to have to track down Margaux.”
“Or maybe just have a little faith. There’s no way it was you.”
“Part of me believes that and part of me...” She searched for the right words.
“Still doubts?” Ashlee offered.
Dana nodded. “If I could just know for sure.”
“Maybe there’s another route to the truth.”
“You have some ideas?” Dana asked.
Ashlee leaned forward. “Have you ever considered that Eleanor Gratz may have done it?”
So they were back to Eleanor. Dana wanted to dismiss the idea, because despite what she had learned, her gut instinct was that Eleanor was no murderer. And yet, if she was doubting her own innocence, shouldn’t she at least doubt Eleanor’s, too?
“Why?” Dana said, folding her arms. “What have you heard?”
“You know Gemma from upstairs?”
Dana could picture her—a dark-haired girl who worked in the bullpen outside Eleanor’s office. “The assistant buyer,” she said. “From Texas.”
“Arkansas,” Ashlee corrected, “but yes. That’s her. Anyway, she told me Eleanor has been doing some strange things lately.”
“Like what?”
“Some meetings she’s been sneaking off to without tellin’ anyone where she’s goin’.”
“Is that unusual?”
“According to Gemma, very. She’s the one responsible for the department’s schedule, and Eleanor’s appointments are always on it. But since Ivan’s murder, she’s left the office in the middle of the day three separate times without telling anyone where she was. Gemma thinks it’s suspicious, and so do I.”
The Rooftop Party Page 17