Actress Merilee Nash, here to appear in the sold-out West End revival of The Philadelphia Story opposite Anthony Andrews, seems to find London just ‘love-erly.’
The Oscar-winning American star has flown playwright-husband Zachary Byrd’s coop and is snuggling with a tall, unidentified associate of our own Tristam Scarr.
Merilee and friend enjoyed a cozy opening night celebration at the Hungry Horse on Fulham Road, followed by a crawl through neighborhood pubs and a lengthy tête-á-tête outside her rented mews house on Crowell Road in an Austin Mini Cooper registered to the rock star.
Calls to T. S.’s home in Surrey, Gadpole, were in vain. “No comment,” said a spokesman for the legendary rocker, who is reputed to be penning his memoirs for an American publisher. Several calls were placed to husband Byrd in New York. Byrd, Pulitzer Prize-winning author of the play Labor Day, was not available.
So that explained our tail that night. A member of the ever-vigilant British tabloid press had been shadowing Merilee. Part of me was relieved. Clearly, I wasn’t in the middle of anything ugly or scary as it had first appeared. Part of me was wounded—the pride part. It’s amazing how fast you can go from being a star to being a “tall, unidentified associate.” Easiest thing in the world. All you have to do is nothing.
I tossed the paper in the trash.
I’d parked the mini on the corner where Clifford Street runs into Savile Row. I’d just started to unlock the car door when it happened. Actually, I didn’t hear the first shot. What I heard, and saw, was the window exploding next to me. I wasn’t quick to react. Just stared like an idiot at the shattered window, wondering how it could have happened. It wasn’t until I heard the boom of a second shot and saw it blow out the back window beside my left elbow that I grabbed Lulu and hit the pavement. A tire popped a few inches from my head. The air hissed out. I could feel it on my ear. Someone was screaming now—a woman across the street. Then tires screeched and someone—whoever it was—sped away. Gone.
Slowly, I got to my feet. My hands were cut up from diving into broken glass, but otherwise I was okay.
Lulu wasn’t.
If there’s a sadder-faced creature in this world than a basset hound with a broken foreleg, I’ve yet to see it.
Merilee had made up a special bed for her in the mews house out of a crate and cushions, and placed it before the fireplace, which had a blaze going in it. There Lulu lay, bandaged, drugged, mournful. The gunshot had made a clean break. The vet had set it and kept her overnight at the pet hospital for observation. I had spent it tossing and shivering on the short love seat in Merilee’s living room, wondering what I’d gotten myself into and eavesdropping as she assured Zack on her bedside phone that the tabloid story was a gross exaggeration and that she and I meant absolutely nothing to each other.
That wasn’t what her green eyes had said when she bandaged up my hands in her tiny bathroom.
She was padding around in the kitchen now in old jeans, a Viyella shirt, and ragg socks, assembling Lulu’s favorite meal—her mommy’s tuna casserole. The kitchen was bright and high tech and the biggest room in the miniature house. The adjoining living room was barely big enough for the love seat and two companion armchairs, all of them of Fifties Moderne mustard-colored vinyl. I was busy in there entertaining Farley Root, a gawky, apologetic police investigator in his mid-thirties, with uncombed red hair, buckteeth, and an Adam’s apple the size of a musk-melon. He wore a nile green three-piece polyester suit and had, possibly, the worst case of razor burn on his neck I’d ever seen. He looked like he shaved with a John Deere. He was perched on the love seat, sipping tea and trying hard to act cool even though the famous Merilee Nash was right there in the kitchen. He was also trying hard not to claw at his raw, itchy neck. He was failing at both.
Merilee came in with the teapot. “A warm-up, Inspector?”
He gulped some air. “Thank you, miss. Please. And I’m not actually an—”
“So what’s this about, Inspector?” I asked. “More questions?”
A uniformed constable at the scene had already asked me the routine questions. He’d gotten the routine answers. I’d told him I had no idea why anyone had shot at me. The streets, we’d agreed, weren’t safe anywhere anymore.
“Yessir,” replied Root, pulling out a small notepad. “Sorry to bother you, Mr. Hoag. Just a few other matters I was interesting in pursuing. And, please, I’m not actually an—“
“No problem. And make it Hoagy.”
“As in Carmichael?”
“As in the cheese steak.”
He frowned. “Very well, Hoagy.” He shifted on the love seat, gulped some more air. “It has come to our attention since you were questioned yesterday that you … you and Miss Nash, I mean … are perhaps in the midst of what could be called a domestic situation of a somewhat … uh …”
“Do you mean those awful tabloid stories?” Merilee asked, from the kitchen.
“I do, miss,” he replied, relieved. “I don’t mean to pry into your personal lives, but the press reports were followed by a shooting incident. One could draw the conclusion that—”
“My husband is in New York, if that’s what you’re wondering,” she said. “Hoagy and I were once married, and we remain friends. That’s all there is to the story. He’s here now because of what happened to Lulu.”
Lulu stirred in her bed at the sound of her name. Almost.
“Makes perfect sense, miss,” said Root. “I-I do appreciate your candor, and being so understanding of my situation. I’m … allow me to assure you I’ve no interest in bothering you or invading your—”
“We understand,” I assured him.
“Thank you, Hoagy,” he said. “If I may take a bit more of your time … There was also this matter of the mini’s owner. You say you’re presently in the employ of …”
“Tristam Scarr. I’m helping him do his memoirs.”
“You’re a writer?”
I tugged at my ear. “Yes, I am.”
“Any connection there, do you think?”
“My being a writer?”
He swallowed. “Do you think the shooting might have had to do with the work you’re doing for Mr. Scarr?”
“I don’t see how. It’s just a collection of anecdotes about the old days, his views on his life. As I said yesterday, Inspector, I really can’t think of anyone in London who would want me dead.”
“I understand. And I’m not actually an—”
“But I will call you if I think of anything.”
“Thank you, sir. Appreciate that. And I’ll ring you if we turn up anything, though I can’t say I’m optimistic.”
“Not getting anywhere?”
“No one who witnessed the attack seems able to identify precisely from where the shots originated, or to give us any description of who fired them. I’m afraid we don’t even know so much as what kind of weapon was used.” Root glanced at his notepad. “You mentioned you believe it was not a handgun.”
“It sounded more like shotgun to me. It boomed.”
“As does a large caliber handgun, such as a three-fifty-seven Magnum,” Root pointed out.
“Could have been one of those,” I conceded. “I would have thought you’d find a bullet, no?”
He shook his head. “The two that shattered the mini windows passed directly through the passenger-side windows as well. The one that clipped your hound here glanced off of the front tire and then passed underneath. As you had parked at an intersection, all three then proceeded on down Savile Row. They did not break any storefront glass. They do not appear to have glanced off any nearby buildings. We’ve found no glance marks. We’re still searching, of course. However, it’s a long street. And if the bullets happened to lodge in a pile of rubbish or in the side of a passing lorry, well, they may never be found.”
“No spent cartridges anywhere?”
“No, sir. Whoever shot at you was neat and careful. Fired from their car, most likely. Gone before anyone really
took notice of them.”
“I don’t imagine it was buckshot,” I said. “Even if he’d had it on full choke there’d still be some pellet marks in the side of the car. From hitting Lulu, I mean.”
Root nodded. “We’re examining it. Nothing so far.” •
“I don’t suppose anyone mentioned seeing a puff of smoke.”
“Smoke? No. Why?”
“Just wondered.”
Root tucked his notepad away in his coat pocket. “Yes, well, sorry to have troubled you.”
“No trouble at all.”
He struggled to his feet and lurched into the kitchen with his teacup. “Thank you so much for the tea, Miss Nash. It’s been an honor to meet you. I’ve admired your work in films for many years.”
“Why, thank you, Inspector,” she said brightly.
He cleared his throat. “Actually, I’m not an—”
“You know, Inspector, I have an idea you might benefit from,” I told him, as I steered him toward the front door. “Personally, I mean.”
“Sir?”
“Talc.” I fingered my neck. “Clear that rash right up. Floris makes one with a very light scent, number eighty-nine.”
Root craned his neck uncomfortably. “Rather ugly business this. Can’t seem to shake it. Number eighty-nine? Just may give it a go.”
“Do you use an electric razor?”
“I do.”
“They’re murder.”
“That they are. Good-bye, then.”
“Good-bye, Inspector.”
I knelt at Lulu’s bed and scratched her ears. She treated me to her most profoundly pained look. A definite ten on the hankie meter.
“If you’re trying to make me feel guilty,” I told her, “you can stop now.”
For that I got a whimper. A very weak whimper.
The casserole was bubbling away now in the kitchen. Merilee makes her tuna casserole with sautéed shallots and mushrooms, a touch of sherry, and a thick topping of melted Gruyère. She tasted it, frowned, and added a touch more sherry. I sipped the Laphroaig I’d gone out for. It was strong and smoky. Possibly too smoky for me. I told Merilee I’d be taking Lulu back to Gadpole with me after she’d eaten.
“I can carry her,” I said. “And she’ll be fine on the train.”
Merilee turned off the heat under the casserole and uncovered it. Lulu prefers it served tepid. “I think she should stay here, darling. At least for the weekend.”
“What for?”
“She’s comfy here. She’s close to the hospital. And I don’t think she’s safe with you.”
“Merilee, she’ll be fine. There’s no need to worry.”
“That, Mr. Hoagy, is a load of baked beans. You were very nearly murdered. Both of you. Why didn’t you tell that policeman what’s really going on?”
“Because I don’t know what’s really going on.” I poured myself another Laphroaig and Merilee some more of her cooking sherry. Of course, she cooks only with Tio Pepe. She won’t put in food what she won’t also drink. “Clearly, I am on to something—something that somebody wants to keep buried in the past. Maybe it’s Puppy’s death. Maybe it’s something else. I don’t know. I have to find out.”
“And until you do you’re putting her in danger.”
“She’ll be fine,” I repeated.
Merilee sipped her sherry, unconvinced. “Why shoot at you? Why not T. S.?”
“I suppose because he’s so well protected. It would also draw a lot of press attention. And speculation. This serves as a nice, quiet warning: Whoever did it is probably hoping T. S. will get scared and forget about the book.”
“Will he?”
“I doubt it. My guess is that as long as T. S. personally feels secure he won’t be bothered one bit.”
Merilee put her hand against the casserole dish. It was no longer hot. She carried it over to Lulu’s bed and presented her with the whole damned thing. None for his Hoagyness. “Here you are, sweetness,” she cooed, patting her. “Now you eat this awww up so you can get stwong again.”
Lulu pawed feebly at the dish with her good foreleg. Then she wriggled herself forward in her bed a bit and stuck her head in the dish. Chomping noises followed.
“This is truly low, Merilee. This is beneath you.”
She frowned. “I really don’t know what you mean, darling. I’m just giving her a little TLC.”
“We agreed that I’d keep her. You got the apartment, the Jaguar—”
“And I’m not contesting it. But she’s wounded, and my maternal instinct is taking over. I can’t help it.”
“You’re trying to take her away from me.”
“I’m not.”
“She’s my dog.”
“She’s our dog.”
“She’s my dog!”
A low moan emerged from Lulu’s bed. She’d stopped eating and was watching us, genuinely distressed. It’s true what they say—divorce is always hardest on the little ones.
“Merilee, I don’t want to get into some kind of ugly, protracted custody battle with you.”
“I don’t want that either.”
“Good. So I’ll make this very simple: If she stays, I stay. We’re a package deal. You take one, you get both.”
Merilee raised an eyebrow, the same one she raised when Mel Gibson made his play for her in that sweaty tropics melodrama they did together. Her only flop. On screen, that is. “Now who’s getting low?”
I went to her and took her in my arms. She didn’t resist. “I got a stiff neck sleeping on the love seat last night.”
“It is short.”
“Your bed isn’t.”
She sighed. “Hoagy …”
“Yes, Merilee?”
She pulled away, went to the closet, and came back with her red Converse Chuck Taylor high-tops and her mink. “Let’s walk.”
Kensington Gardens was where we went. It was a Saturday afternoon and there were people there—pipe-puffing dog walkers, loners with their shoulders hunched and their hands in their pockets, young couples with baby strollers. It wasn’t like being in Central Park. No trash. No graffiti. No dead rats lying in the walkway. No teenage roller skaters with boom-boxes. Also, no one carrying shotguns. This I could be fairly sure of. I was looking. Getting shot at will do that to you.
We walked in silence alongside the Serpentine, enjoying the quiet, until we came upon a young father teaching his little boy how to ride a bicycle. The boy was chubby and apple-cheeked, and wore a tweed cap.
“Oh, darling,” exclaimed Merilee, squeezing my arm. “I want one of those.”
I coughed. “A midget human life-form?”
“No, one of those caps.”
“Oh. Somewhat oversized, I assume.”
“Yes. Would you … ?”
“Would I what, Merilee?”
“Would you buy it for yourself and then give it to me?”
I took her to Bates, a tiny, cluttered old hat shop on Jermyn Street. The proprietor’s cat from much earlier in the century still stood guard there from inside a glass case—properly stuffed, of course. It wouldn’t be long before the clerk who fitted me would be joining Puss in there himself, I reckoned. I got a charcoal gray herring-bone tweed that would have gone nicely with my new suit, and presented it to Merilee when we got outside on the sidewalk. She tried it on right away, admired her reflection in the store window from one angle, then another. Then she burst into tears.
I held her until they stopped. Then I gave her my linen handkerchief and asked, “What is all this?”
She dabbed at her face with the handkerchief. “All this,” she replied, sniffling, “is that I’m still in love with you. I didn’t sleep a wink all night. I couldn’t. All I could do was think about how much I want you back.”
I’d been waiting three years to hear Merilee say those words. Now that she had I found myself feeling just a little dubious. “I see,” I said quietly.
She eyed me. “Well, don’t jump up and down,” she said drily.
> “I won’t.”
“What’s wrong? Are you thinking it’s just because of Lulu?”
“You’re the one who said your M-instinct has been aroused.”
“It’s not all that’s been aroused.”
“Actually, I was thinking about Tracy.”
“What’s Tracy got to do with it?”
“Merilee, you do happen to be playing a woman who does happen to fall back in love with her ex-husband.”
She mulled this over, as we stood there on Jermyn Street. “There is that,” she conceded. “I am an actress, and therefore a nut. This whole situation is rather …”
“Neat?”
“And it’s bothering you.”
I shrugged. “My professional nutsiness drove us apart. I suppose it’s entirely appropriate if yours brings us back together. I guess I can handle it. Just promise me one thing.”
“Name it.”
“Don’t ever do Macbeth. Not even if Papp begs.”
She laughed girlishly. “Papp doesn’t beg.”
We kissed. It started soft and sweet, but didn’t stay that way for very long.
She pulled away, gasping. “Darling, we’re being indiscreet.”
“So?” I gasped back.
“Not fair to Zack.”
I caught my breath, looked around. People on the street were indeed watching us. “You’re absolutely right. Let’s go somewhere nice and quiet, and get discreetly naked.”
We didn’t stray far from the feathers the rest of the weekend. Lulu seemed cheered by our reconciliation. She even started to hop around the house a bit, which meant now I had seen something sadder than a basset hound with a broken foreleg—a basset hound with a broken foreleg trying to walk. Not that she’s particularly gutsy. This was strictly a ploy for sympathy. And smoked salmon.
Merilee and I had one ground rule. We would talk only about London. No talking about afterward allowed. But there was no ordinance against thinking about it, and that’s what I did as we cuddled there in the middle of the night, all cozy and warm under our down comforter and tray of salmon sandwiches and cocoa. I let myself think about Zack out and me back in. Back in the eight art deco rooms overlooking the park. Back in the sweet life—acclaimed, promising, madly in love. Maybe you can’t go back, but you can always try. Hmm. Maybe here was the ending for novel number two. A happy ending.
The Man Who Lived by Night Page 9