by Rick Copp
“I don’t mean to interrupt your . . . tutoring session, Sir Anthony, but I must speak to you. It’s very important.”
“My dear boy, you look quite frazzled. Would you care to come in? I’m sure my . . . protégé won’t mind taking a short break from his . . . studies.”
“No, we can talk here.” The last thing I wanted was to be swept inside Sir Anthony’s salacious den of iniquity.
“Very well. What is it you would like to discuss with me?” he said, not even noticing the young mother passing by pushing a stroller. The shock of seeing Sir Anthony in the buff nearly caused her to ram her baby into a street lamp.
“I heard you were at the Savoy last night,” I said.
“Oh yes, I often like to drop in for a drink. They have such an elegant bar. It’s a throwback to a far more raucous, festive time. Brings back many fond memories.”
“Someone saw you speaking to this man,” I said, flashing him the beach photo of Charlie.
“Oh, yes, I remember him. He’s your boyfriend, as I recall,” Sir Anthony said, leering. “Quite an impressive-looking fellow, if I do say so.”
“How did you know he was my boyfriend?”
“I was just leaving the bar after a few strawberry martinis, and I saw him loitering about in the lobby. Thought he might be a rent boy, to be perfectly honest. I decided to inquire about his hourly rate. Unfortunately, he told me he was a police officer from America and was only here to see his boyfriend in a play that unfortunately just closed. Well, it only took me a few seconds to realize he was talking about our little play, and that his boyfriend was you.”
“What else did you talk about?”
“We simply exchanged a few pleasantries after that. He seemed to be in a bit of a hurry. I offered to buy him a drink, but he declined. Said he was waiting for someone.”
“Who?”
“I have no idea, Jarrod. I left shortly after our brief exchange. But I did see him wander into the bar after we parted. Is something wrong?”
“He’s gone missing,” I said.
“Oh, dear. Well, I’m sure he’ll turn up. I’m sorry I cannot help you more, but I was in a bit of a hurry last night myself. You see, I was rushing off to meet one of my students. A strapping young man from the Royal Academy. Does a breathtaking Hamlet. Big star of tomorrow, if you ask me.”
Down the hall from the foyer of the brownstone I heard a toilet flush. Sir Anthony blushed. “He’s still here cramming for his exams. You know how devoted students like to pull all-nighters.”
“Yes. Well, thank you, Sir Anthony,” I said.
“Cheers!” Sir Anthony waved good-bye to me, as did his nether regions. He shut the door and I was left alone to fret and worry and fear the worst.
Chapter 13
When I returned to the Savoy, it was already midafternoon, and I was hoping the bartender from last night had begun his shift. The bar, exquisitely appointed with antiques and plush chairs, was relatively quiet, with just a few patrons talking in hushed tones as orchestral music wafted in the background. I spotted one elderly woman clutching a bourbon straight up with one hand while grasping the side of the bar for support with the other as she teetered on top of an unwieldy stool. It was Dame Sylvia Horner. Claire was a teetotaler compared to this boozy broad. The bartender was nowhere in sight.
I ambled over to Dame Sylvia and slid onto a stool next to her.
“How are you, Sylvia?” I said.
She slowly turned, huffing and puffing, making a Herculean effort to maintain her balance. Her face was overly done with powder, and her lipstick was smeared and running over the borders of her lips. Her hair was hastily pulled up in a gaudy pink headband. And she wore a fur coat over a white and pink pantsuit. She looked more like a haggard drag queen after an all-night binge than a theatrical legend. Someone needed to delicately advise Dame Sylvia not to dress herself when she’d been drinking.
Her eyes squinted to focus on my face. She still wasn’t sure who was talking to her. Who could blame her? It was already three o’clock in the afternoon. Her happy hour had started at nine this morning.
“Jarrod, I thought you’d gone home,” she slurred, not the least bit happy to see me.
“Not yet. I’m trying, though.”
“Would you like a drink?” She looked around for the bartender, but the sudden movement caused her to sway and nearly topple over. I quickly leaned in, grabbing her by the elbow to help keep her upright.
“No, thank you. It’s a little early for me,” I said.
She gripped the bar with both hands and stared at me as if I were an alien from another planet who had come down to observe local custom. Not drink? It was an entirely foreign concept to her.
She shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
“Actually, I’m having a bit of a problem locating my boyfriend.”
“Did you try that fruitcake Anthony? You want to find a boy, he’s got them in all shapes and sizes,” she cackled.
“I just came from his flat. No luck there,” I said, suddenly realizing I never did get a look at the young buck he had hidden in the back of his flat. But the thought of Charlie and Sir Anthony together was just too fantastic, too ridiculous to even consider.
“He’ll turn up,” Sylvia spat out between gulps of her drink. “They always do. Whether you want them to or not. And believe me, I’ve had several husbands who would have made me much happier if they had stayed missing.”
“It’s just so strange. I mean, he’s never done this before . . .”
“Give him some time,” Sylvia said, not really concerned with my problem but content knowing I was there to keep her from falling to the floor.
“Time is one thing I’ve got,” I said. “The police would prefer I stay in town until they’re done with their investigation of Claire’s murder.”
Sylvia put her drink down and turned to me. This was a momentous occasion. She had actually let a glass of bourbon out of her sight for a split second.
“Why? You had nothing to do with it. It was Minx,” she said.
“The police just want to make sure they have it right,” I said.
Dame Sylvia’s mouth dropped open, appalled. “Why, that’s insane! I saw her mixing that concoction that killed Claire with my own two eyes! How dare they doubt me? Are they implying that I am an unreliable witness?”
“Oh no, not at all,” I said, trying to calm the old bat down. “They couldn’t ask for a more upstanding and—”
Dame Sylvia slammed down the remainder of her drink and banged the empty glass on the bar several times in an effort to find the bartender.
“And . . . lucid witness,” I said, trying hard to sell it.
“Any prosecutor would be proud to have me, a respected member of the artistic community, sitting in that witness box and pointing the finger at that manipulative little trollop Minx,” Sylvia said. “Or whoever it was.”
I raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
Sylvia was confused and her throat was parched. She was in need of more liquor, and the bartender was MIA.
I gently placed a hand on Sylvia’s fur coat sleeve. “Sylvia, what did you mean when you said whoever it was?”
Sylvia grumbled something to herself about the Savoy’s bad service, and then her glazed-over, dull eyes tried hard to keep me in focus.
“Jarrod, I saw Minx pouring some kind of liquid into the make-up. That fact is indisputable. But . . .”
“But what?”
“Well, to be perfectly honest, one of my many adoring fans had delivered a gorgeous bottle of scotch to my dressing room earlier in the day. And you see, even at this advanced stage of my career, I get terrible butterflies in my stomach on opening night.”
I suddenly knew where this was going. “So you had a shot?”
“Yes. Several, actually. I lost count after seven.”
The big reveal that Dame Sylvia was drunk on opening night was about as big a shock as finding out Joan Rivers had a face job.
“Dame Sylvia, are you saying you’re not absolutely sure it was Minx you saw mixing the peanut oil into Claire’s make-up?”
“Of course I’m sure. Why would I ever inform Detective Inspector Bowles it was Minx if I was not 100 percent positive of the fact?”
“But if you had been drinking—”
“I can hold my liquor, young man,” Dame Sylvia said, leaning forward, waving her finger, and completely sloshed. “And I am telling you right now, I am positive it was a woman.”
“You mean Minx,” I said.
“Yes, Minx is a woman. It could have been her,” Sylvia said.
“You’re not sure, are you?”
Dame Sylvia gazed around the room for the bartender. “I should slap your face for questioning my judgment, young man, but I won’t if you find the damn bartender and get him to pour me another drink.”
“Your vision was blurry from the booze. You saw a woman tampering with the make-up and you just assumed it was Minx because of all the jokes she had made about offing Claire so she could assume the starring role.”
Dame Sylvia was now embarrassed for divulging so much to me. “It had to be her. That hateful little bitch. Who else could it have been?”
She had a point. And even if Sylvia’s hazy recollections couldn’t be counted on in a court of law, Akshay did see Minx not only bring Claire the make-up but assist her in applying it. She was still the number-one suspect.
The bartender finally returned, much to Dame Sylvia’s relief. He was a small man, East Indian, wearing a red vest, white button-up shirt, and black pants. He had a tiny nose, but monstrous-sized teeth that threatened to swallow his face when he smiled.
“Young man, where the hell have you been?” Dame Sylvia barked.
“The bathroom, ma’am. Sorry,” he said, bowing to her great presence as he refilled her glass with another generous shot of bourbon.
“Where’s that?” Dame Sylvia snickered. “New Delhi?”
The bartender laughed, but his smile was tight enough to suggest he would have preferred knocking her bony, drunken ass off the bar stool.
“Excuse me,” I said, as sweet as I could be. “I hate to bother you, but I’m looking for someone who was in here last night.”
“I was here. Who are you looking for?”
I slid the picture of Charlie in front of him.
The bartender’s eyes lit up. “Yes, yes, of course I remember him. How could I forget him?”
“Why? What did he do?” I said.
“It’s not what he did. It’s whom he was with. Akshay Kapoor. He may not be that famous here, but back home he’s like a hero. I’ve seen all his movies. I own every one on DVD.”
I tapped the photo with my forefinger. “So this man met Akshay? Were they here long?”
“About twenty minutes. That is how long it took me to work up the courage to ask Mr. Kapoor for an autograph.” The bartender pulled a napkin out of his breast pocket and waved it proudly in front of my face. “See? He signed it. Do you know how much I could get for this back in India?”
I was trying to stay calm. “Did they leave together?”
“Oh yes. They seemed quite tight,” the bartender said.
Dame Sylvia took a big gulp of her drink and slapped the glass down in front of the bartender again. “I always knew that towel-head was a fag.”
I stood up from the bar and wandered aimlessly away, my whole world slowly falling apart.
Chapter 14
As I left the bar, I felt as woozy and disoriented as Dame Sylvia did but I was, in fact, stone-cold sober. This was a nightmare. Charlie and I had been together for four glorious years. Were they glorious to both of us or just me? Was I one of those ignorant spouses who ignored the warning signs and blindly skipped along, oblivious to my spouse’s unhappiness and discontent? Was he sticking it out just to appease me, waiting for some smooth-talking Bollywood heartthrob to sweep him off his feet so he could finally be rid of me? My insecurities bubbled brightly to the surface, making me question every self-absorbed action or comment I had made during our entire relationship. Two years ago I had forgotten his birthday while shooting an intensely dramatic episode of Joan of Arcadia. I was so wrapped up in my role as a kindly minister who counsels Joan on how to deal with hearing God through the voice of a school crossing guard that I stood up Charlie, who was waiting for me at one of our favorite neighborhood haunts, Off Vine. And on his birthday! Was that the moment he decided he had enough of me? Or was it this play? He had been wounded in the line of duty, and instead of staying by his side, I shot off to London in a desperate attempt to reignite my career. But he had encouraged me to go, insisted I go. So how could I have said no? Should I have more thoroughly examined his desire to be rid of me? I questioned everything. But I still lacked a sufficient number of facts. So Charlie met Akshay in the bar, and they were seen leaving together. Did that necessarily mean they were having an affair or that they were hatching plans to run away together?
I glanced over to Ian, the lanky, young desk clerk, who caught my eye and sadly shook his head. Still no messages from Charlie. I saw Arthur looming by the door, a thin, pitying smile on his face. Word had spread fast throughout the hotel. I had been dumped. I hadn’t slept in almost two days. My eyes were heavy, my body slow and lumbering. I had to rest. And taking a nap would at least be a temporary escape from this hellish turn of events.
While I waited for the elevator, I fumbled for my cell phone and speed dialed Laurette. She was still with Larry in Maui, no doubt soaking up the sun and plenty of mai tais. I had received word early on during my stay in London that they were renting a condo on the beach for six weeks because his Disney film had been pushed back a few months after his rising tween star got busted for DUI. Larry was using the free time to work on a new romantic comedy script, which Laurette promised would blow the lid off the Internet dating scene. I got her voice mail, which was no surprise. Why answer your phone if you’re in Hawaii? I waited for the beep.
“Laurette, it’s me. Please call me when you get this. I don’t want to alarm you or anything, but things aren’t going well. And I just need to hear your voice. I’ll fill you in when you call. But please call back soon. I love you,” I said.
I clicked off the phone and tried to keep it together until I was safely hidden back inside my hotel room.
A bell rang, and the gold elevator doors opened to reveal Wallace Goodwin’s wife, Katrina. She wore a gray turtleneck sweater and black pants with a charcoal overcoat. She gripped the handle of a Pierre Cardin carry-on suitcase that rolled behind her. A pair of oversized dark sunglasses nearly covered her whole face. She didn’t even acknowledge me as she brushed past, heading straight for the checkout desk.
“Katrina?” I said.
She stopped and pivoted on her heel. The Savoy was dimly lit during all hours of the day, so Katrina had to lower her gigantic glasses in order to make sure it was me. Her eyes were red and puffy. She had been crying.
“Jarrod, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you . . .” Her voice cracked and trailed off.
“Is everything okay?” I said.
She nodded, but her eyes welled up with tears and she pushed her sunglasses back up over her face to hide them.
“Are you leaving?”
“Yes.”
“Where’s Wallace? Isn’t he going with you?”
She stood there, not sure what to do or say. Her whole body started to shake, and I thought for a moment she might collapse to the floor. She was a far cry from the chatty woman I had encountered in Starbucks with her husband just five weeks earlier. I bounded over and gave her a hug.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” I said.
“Nothing, Jarrod. I’m fine. Please, I need to hurry. I have to get to Heathrow. I don’t want to miss my flight home.”
“Did you and Wallace have a fight?” I said.
Katrina’s greatest fear was showing any cracks in her picture-perfect life. That was completely unacceptable. She didn’t
want anyone looking down on her, or judging her, or feeling sorry for her. It was important to present a strong, united front even if things were crashing down behind the scenes. Despite the teardrops streaming down her face behind her huge sunglasses, she tried valiantly to keep a smile on for appearance sake.
“Everything’s fine, Jarrod, but thank you for your concern. Are you and Charlie staying in town for a while longer to enjoy the sights?” she said, finally getting a hold of her emotions.
“Charlie’s not here. I don’t know where he is,” I said. “I haven’t said this out loud to anybody, but . . . but I think he may be having an affair . . . with Akshay.”
Katrina burst into tears. I had no idea she was so invested in my relationship with Charlie.
“I don’t really have concrete proof or anything,” I said, taking her hand and trying to calm her down. “But there does seem to be a disturbing amount of circumstantial evidence.”
Katrina sat down in one of the big white and pink striped plush chairs in the lobby. I kneeled down next to her, still gripping her hand. She was sobbing now, gasping for breath, losing her composure completely.
“I’m sorry, Jarrod, I’m sorry, I’m never like this . . .” she wailed.
This was not news to me. Usually she was so tightly wound she could be used as a ball of yarn for a cat to playfully swat around.
“I know, Katrina, I know, but maybe you’d feel better if you just let it all out. Tell me what’s wrong,” I said.
She finally removed her sunglasses to reveal a hollow-eyed, pale, exhausted face. Katrina had gotten about as much sleep recently as I had.
“I understand your fears about Charlie,” she said, still crying. “More than you know.”
“Wallace?”
She nodded. I was stunned. Wallace just never seemed the type to cheat. He was so devoted to his hot little number of a wife. I used to see him gaze at her with a look of utter disbelief as if it were inconceivable to him that he was able to snare such a remarkable catch for himself. He was devoted to her and would do just about anything to preserve their relationship and protect her from any harm. Which left the million-dollar question.