* * *
Using a tall stool during her show was easier than Dana thought it would be, especially since there were no models on the set, and she could stay in one place. Today’s show featured microfiber tops and elastic waist skirts. It was strategic post-Thanksgiving positioning, as people struggled with extra pounds and welcomed the flowing skirts with forgiving waistbands. The trick was to try to get viewers to buy mix-and-match separates for themselves and as holiday gifts. Fortunately, the challenge was mitigated by the sale prices.
Plus, since it was Dana’s first day back on the air, Jessalyn made the decision to open the phone lines, letting viewers pour out their affection and concern for the injured host. It was an effective strategy, as it made the show especially warm. Viewers were receptive to Dana and by extension, her pitch.
She finished on a high, and went back to her dressing room, where she took a call from Megan. Her friend was flattering and solicitous, as if dealing with a fragile ego. Dana couldn’t blame her. She’d been such a wreck the last time they had seen one another.
“You sure you’re okay?” Megan asked.
“Nothing a little cocaine won’t cure.”
Her friend went silent as if she wasn’t sure it was a joke.
“I’m kidding,” Dana piped in.
Megan exhaled. She didn’t seem convinced Dana had recovered. “What are you doing tonight?” she asked, trying to make it sound casual. But Dana understood Megan was keeping tabs on her to be sure she wasn’t going home to get stoned and drunk.
“Actually, I’m going to an art gallery with Ashlee,” she said, leaving out the reason for the excursion. She didn’t want Megan to worry that she was still obsessing on her vague memory about the night of Ivan’s murder.
“Oh!” Megan said, sounding surprised, and possibly a little hurt that she wasn’t invited. “That’s great. Enjoy!”
Dana exhaled, suppressing a twinge of guilt. She would find a way to make it up to her friend.
* * *
Subways were still too difficult to navigate with a broken ankle, so Dana and Ashlee got into a cab and headed downtown. Dana was excited, but tried to temper her expectations; there was no guarantee Margaux would be working at the gallery’s party that night, even if it was fully staffed.
The driver let them out at the curb, several yards from the entrance. Dana was doing pretty well on her crutches, but not well enough for the impatient couple walking behind them.
“Excuse me,” the man said brusquely as the couple darted around them and pressed through the glass doors of the Warren Erstein Art Gallery. He gave the door a mock-polite push behind him, as if Dana could catch it before it shut. As if she wasn’t already using both hands to hold on to her crutches.
“Hey thanks!” she called sarcastically, as she stuck out her crutch, missing the door. “I’ve always wondered what a random act of kindness felt like.”
“Well, this should be fun,” Ashlee said.
The interior of the gallery was packed like a subway car at rush hour. The patrons were mostly well-dressed, and more interested in one another than the paintings, all of which seemed to be highly stylized portraits in vivid colors.
“How on god’s green earth are we supposed to make our way through this crowd?” Ashlee asked.
It did indeed look like it would take a grenade to break through the mob, but Dana was determined. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m going to get through to Margaux no matter what it takes.”
There was a table by the door, staffed by a young woman checking people in. She had the translucent skin of someone who lived underground, offset by bottle-black hair, black clothes, purple lipstick and a tattoo climbing up her neck.
They approached the young woman, who checked them off a list and handed them preprinted adhesive name tags.
“Y’all know where the bar is at?” Ashlee asked.
Dana wondered what this urban creature, who had probably never been south of Canal Street, made of Ashlee’s accent. But she seemed unfazed. “If you can push through the crowd, you’ll see it.” Then she looked at Dana’s crutches and shrugged, as if to say, Hey, sucks to be you.
“I can handle it,” Dana said, as if the girl had expressed concern, and set off.
But when she approached the thick crowd, her confidence faltered. Dana wasn’t usually overwhelmed by packed rooms. After all, she’d had plenty of experience squeezing through crowded bars, doing the sideways shuffle as she moved aggressively toward the bathroom or the exit doors or a friend in the back. But never on crutches.
“Let me give this a try,” Ashlee said, and then called, “Excuse me, ladies and gents. Would y’all mind if my friend and I got through? We are having a vodka emergency and need to get to that bar in the very back of the room. Thank you so much!”
It was hard to disarm jaded New Yorkers, but a few appreciative titters spread through the crowd. Still, there was no parting of the Red Sea—merely an opening just wide enough for Dana to wedge her shoulder into.
“Excuse me,” she announced loudly, and no one moved. She tapped a woman on the shoulder and said it again.
“Sorry,” the woman said, and moved aside about six inches.
Dana couldn’t help noticing that everyone was avoiding her eye, pretending they didn’t see the woman with a broken leg. They had all claimed their precious little piece of art gallery real estate, and weren’t willing to budge.
“I’m going to need just a little bit of cooperation here,” Dana called out, and nothing happened. This was one stubborn crowd. In fact, a guy in a blazer used his elbow as a weapon to keep her from passing, and a skinny woman in a vintage dress shot her vicious looks. It was as if they thought she brought the crutches as a prop to help her displace them.
She tried again. “Broken ankle, coming through!” she called.
It made only a small difference, but Dana could feel an atmospheric shift. She had scared them. They thought a mental patient had infiltrated their cultured ranks.
She said it again, louder this time, as if she were on the brink of psychosis. Again, the crowd shifted. She had to repeat it three more times, but at last she and Ashlee managed to jostle their way to the clearing at the back.
Dana glanced around, and could make out what looked like a bar at the rear, but the line around it was too thick for Dana to see if Margaux was working.
“Come on,” Ashlee said. “We got this.”
They stood at the back of the line at the bar, and Dana thought she saw the top of a blond head. So not Margaux. But there seemed to be two bartenders, so maybe.
In another minute, Dana got a better look at the blonde bartender. She was dressed just as Margaux was at the last event, in a white shirt and black vest, with a yellow bow tie and matching hair ribbon.
And then, at last, Dana stood face-to-face with her. She wore a name tag that said Isabel, and her partner was crouched down, retrieving something under the bar.
“What can I get for you?” asked Isabel.
Dana hesitated, trying to see over the bar. She pointed and said, “Uh...who is that?”
“Excuse me?”
At that, the other bartender stood. She was a striking Latina woman who looked a lot like Salma Hayek, and nothing like Margaux.
Dana exhaled, crushed. “Margaux isn’t working tonight?” she said.
“You know Margaux?” Isabel asked.
“Sort of,” Dana said. “I needed to ask her something.”
“She’s away—taking an extended Thanksgiving vacation.”
“Y’all know when she’ll be back?” Ashlee asked.
“First week in December, I think.” She looked at the other bartender for confirmation.
“Yeah, she’ll be back by the third. Can I get you ladies a drink?”
Dana hesitated, but only for a moment. “Hell yes,” she
said.
34
With no other avenues to Margaux available, Dana had no choice but to wait it out until the bartender was back from vacation. And so she distracted herself by making plans for her new apartment, and spent the next few weeks getting price quotes from painters and choosing colors. She had the keys now, and went over several times to examine the paint chips in the light and imagine how everything would look. It still felt like she was playing make-believe, pretending this place would soon be hers.
And while the apartment felt like a fantasy, the job felt more grounded than ever. Dana poured everything into it, and was delighted she had the chance to go back on the air with Reluven merchandise several more times. The viewers always responded enthusiastically. They loved the products, and Dana was on her way to becoming a Shopping Channel legend.
She and Ashlee had circled a date on the calendar—a Monday in early December. They knew Margaux would be back by then, and hoped she would be working as many bartending gigs as she could.
By the time that day arrived, Dana’s leg was in a splint instead of a hard cast. She rested it on the coffee table as Ashlee called back the Garden of Stephen. Using her bride-to-be persona, Ashlee explained to the receptionist that she had absolutely loved the catered food and just needed to convince her fiancé. Since she was back in New York for the holidays, she wondered if it would be possible to let her betrothed sample the food service.
Once again, the receptionist was accommodating. “Are you going to be in town on Thursday?” she asked.
“As a matter of fact I am.”
The woman went on to say that a fancy new hair salon was opening on the East Side with a catered party to mark the event. Since it was open to the public, Ashlee was free to attend with any guests she wished.
“Well, ain’t that just perfect!” Ashlee cooed.
* * *
On Thursday, Ashlee and Dana took a crosstown bus and braced themselves against the icy December air as they walked toward the salon. The sidewalk was jammed with shoppers and workers, hurrying and scurrying. New Yorkers always had someplace to be, but there was an extra rush when it got this cold. Still, Dana thought the holiday season took a little edge off the impatience.
There were Christmas decorations everywhere, but it was easy to spot the new salon, as it was the only place that had white-and-silver Grand Opening flags flapping in the chill wind. Ashlee held the door for Dana, who was greeted by a burst of warm, humid air and a server holding a tray of champagne flutes. Dana was about to wave her off when she stopped cold, staring straight into the symmetrical face of a dancer with a pronounced widow’s peak.
“Margaux!” she blurted.
The young woman blinked at her, taken back. She looked just as she did the night of the Shopping Channel party, in a white shirt and black vest, only now she was accessorized with a silver bow tie and hair ribbon to match the salon’s colors.
“Do I know you?” Margaux asked. Her posture was alert and defensive.
Dana tried to smile nonthreateningly. But it was hard to mitigate a stalker vibe when you were, in fact, stalking someone.
“I’m Dana Barry?” she said, lilting it like a question, hoping her name rang a bell. “And this is Ashlee St. Pierre.”
“Okay,” Margaux said, her face tight and wary.
Dana was using only one crutch now, and leaned on it, hoping to look pathetic and harmless. “From the Shopping Channel,” she said. “You were the bartender at our party the night that—”
“Oh god—the rooftop party,” Margaux said, her eyes widening in recognition. Her voice was big and throaty. There had been so much noise that night Dana hadn’t really heard it. “Yes, I’m sorry. I should have remembered you.”
“It’s okay,” Dana said. “I was hoping to talk to you about what happened.”
“Me?”
“I think you might have seen something that would help me.”
“I doubt that,” Margaux said. “I told the police—the lights went out and I couldn’t see a thing. I was in the middle of pouring a drink and spilled it all over the bar. Dewar’s, I think. Under normal circumstances, my boss would have been furious.”
Dana nodded. “I understand, but do you have a minute to talk in private? There’s something else you might have witnessed that would help me.”
Margaux looked confused and hesitant. Dana couldn’t blame her—it was an odd request.
“Please,” Dana added. “It’ll only take a minute.”
Margaux shrugged. “I go on break in half an hour, but I really doubt I can—”
“That’s great,” Dana said. “Thank you. I’ll wait.”
With that, she and Ashlee accepted champagne flutes and went to the back of the room, where they nibbled hors d’oeuvres and pretended to admire all the carefully lit posters of models with interesting haircuts. A couple of stylists stopped to talk to them about their hair, and they listened, accepting business cards as if they were truly interested in makeovers.
When Margaux finally approached, Ashlee excused herself so Dana could have a one-on-one conversation with her. This was a tactical move they had discussed earlier, deciding it would be best if the woman didn’t feel ambushed.
“So how did you track me down?” Margaux asked.
“I’m an actor,” Dana said. “We travel in overlapping circles. It wasn’t that hard.” She didn’t want to go into details about her stalkerish behavior, and hoped that would put it to rest.
“How did that happen?” Margaux asked, pointing at Dana’s ankle.
She explained a bit about the accident, and how she had to power through for the show. That seemed to impress the dancer, who knew a thing or two about injuries.
“You know, I’m sorry you went to so much trouble when I don’t have much to offer. I have no idea who pushed that guy. I would have told the police if I did.”
“I figured that,” Dana said. “But I have gaps in my memory from that night and I thought you could help.”
Margaux nodded. “Vodka martinis, right?” She looked proud of herself for remembering.
“It wasn’t just that,” Dana explained. “Someone slipped me a roofie.”
Before Margaux could react, a stylist approached and said he’d love to talk to them about their hair.
“Do you mind?” Margaux said. “We’re having a conversation.”
“Touchy, touchy,” he said, backing away.
“Asshole,” she muttered, before looking back at Dana. “I’m sorry. I’m just... I had no idea. Are you sure...about the roofie?”
“I went for a drug test that night.”
“Jesus,” Margaux said, shaking her head. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” Dana assured her. “Nothing happened. But that’s really all I can remember from that night.”
“Does that mean you don’t know who spiked your drink?”
“The police are trying to figure that out.”
“I didn’t see it happen,” Margaux said. “I swear. If I had, I would have—”
“I know, I know,” Dana said. “That’s not even why I’m here.”
“Then, what?”
“Someone told me I had words with Ivan Dennison at some point.”
“That’s the guy who died?”
Dana nodded and Margaux squinted, thinking. “Yeah, you did. You guys were pretty close to the bar at one point. Now I remember. You were enraged.”
“What else do you recall?”
“I think you told him to take his hands off you. You sounded really drunk so I wasn’t sure what was going on.”
“And then what happened? Did you see somebody pull me away?”
Say yes, Dana prayed. Please.
Margaux’s eyes seemed to light up in memory. “Oh yeah! That’s right. Some guy.”
Dana’s could barely contain
herself. This was exactly what she wanted to hear. It wasn’t proof, of course, but it was damned close.
“What guy? What did he look like?”
“White, I think. Not sure I remember. There were a lot of people at that party.”
“Think,” Dana said. “Please. Was he old? Young? Short? Tall?”
Margaux sighed. “I’m sorry. It’s not coming back to me.”
“And this all happened right before the lights went out?”
Margaux stared into the distance, as if searching for the memories. “Probably.”
“Margaux,” Dana said, “do you think it’s possible that whoever pulled me away was the person who pushed Ivan off the roof?”
Margaux shook her head, but said, “I don’t know. I’m sorry. I wish I could be more helpful.”
“You’ve been very helpful, actually,” Dana said. “Thank you.” She took out her business card and wrote her cell phone number on the back. She pressed it into Margaux’s hand. “Will you call me if you can remember anything about the guy who pulled me away?”
“Of course,” Margaux said. “But you know, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Dana stared, confused. “Tomorrow?”
“Yeah, I’m booked for your company’s holiday party.”
“Oh!” Dana said, nearly laughing in surprise. She knew, of course, that the party was tomorrow—the Shopping Channel held their celebration early in the month because so many people took the holiday off. But it hadn’t occurred to her that Margaux would be there. She smiled at the irony. She had worked so hard to track this woman down, and if she had waited just one more day, she would have run into her. “I had no idea. But that’s good. Maybe you’ll see someone there who jogs your memory.”
“Maybe,” she echoed, but added a doubtful shrug.
They said goodbye, but before Dana could leave, Margaux stopped her. “Will you do me a big favor?” she asked.
“Of course,” Dana said. “What is it?”
“Never again let a drink out of your sight.” The dancer raised a graceful finger and wagged it at her. “Never. You understand?”
The Rooftop Party Page 23