A Perfect Manhattan Murder

by Tracy Kiely

  “Well, how kind of you to come, Nigel,” she said her mouth stretching into a horrible facsimile of a smile. “And please call me Cindy.” She let out a little sigh. “It’s all so terrible. I don’t quite know what I am going to do.” She shook her head. “To find out that someone killed my Dan! It’s just been a nightmare!” She pressed two perfectly manicured fingers against her bright red mouth a moment before continuing. “Of course, as my dear friend Barbara Streisand told me yesterday, I must keep up my usual positive outlook. But it’s so hard! The police, of course, have been most unhelpful.” She paused here to glare at me. “I would have thought they would have arrested someone by now.”

  “I’m sure they are doing their best, Mrs. Trados,” I said. I debated calling her Cindy, as she had invited Nigel to do, but suspected that his was a unique offer.

  “Well, their ‘best’ is clearly not good enough,” she snapped. “And I am not alone in thinking that. When I was lunching with Liz Taylor the other day, she told me she was just horrified at how the police are handling this case.”

  Next to me, Nigel began to cough. “I am sorry,” I said, forcing myself to keep a straight face. “Would you happen to know where Harper is?”

  Cindy gestured a bony arm to an area behind her. “I believe that she’s off brooding in the Baptistery,” she said. “Really, with her upbringing you’d think she’d know better than to skulk off and leave her guests to fend for themselves.”

  “I’m sure everyone will understand,” I said. “I can’t imagine anyone expects Harper to entertain them today.”

  Cindy crinkled her nose as if I’d just waved a dead fish under it. “Yes, well, perhaps they do things differently where you come from,” she said with a scowl. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to see about the music.” She briefly laid her hand on Nigel’s arm before she turned away and murmured, “Bless you for coming.”

  “She seems sweet,” Nigel said as we watched her stomp down the aisle.

  “So is cyanide, I hear.”

  “Do you think someone should mention to her that Elizabeth Taylor died?” Nigel asked.

  I stared at him in disbelief. “Are you kidding? That’s the only thing that makes it bearable for Harper to deal with Cindy. Last time Harper saw her, Cindy told her that she’d just had dinner with Jackie Collins.”

  “Must have been some dinner,” Nigel said.

  twenty-nine

  Harper was in the Baptistery, as Cindy had said, sitting alone under a canopy of gilded, carved oak. Her face was pale and drawn, and her black Chanel suit sagged in places. Seeing us, she gave us a wan smile and stood up. “Thank God you’re here,” she said as she pulled me into a tight hug.

  “How are you holding up?” I asked.

  “By a fraying thread,” Harper replied.

  “Where’s Gracie?” I asked.

  “Devin has her,” she said as she ran a distracted hand through her hair. “I swear, I’d be a complete mess if it weren’t for him. I feel like I’m living in a nightmare, and that was before Cindy got here.” Harper paused and closed her eyes. “I’d actually forgotten how horrible she is. Within two minutes of her arrival, it all came rushing back in vivid Technicolor.” Harper sighed. “Did you know that before my wedding she sent me a detailed diet plan, so I wouldn’t look, as she so helpfully put it, ‘hippy.’”

  I smothered a laugh.

  “And don’t get me started on her behavior when I was pregnant,” she continued. “She sent me article after article about how it was important to remember that pregnancy is a stressful time for the father-to-be, and that I should be a little more mindful of Dan’s needs.”

  I stared at her. “You’re making that up,” I said.

  “I most certainly am not,” Harper said. “I had it laminated, actually. I thought I could use it at her commitment hearing. I’m going to call it Exhibit A.”

  “I may have your Exhibit B,” I said. “Apparently she had lunch with Elizabeth Taylor.”

  Harper stared at me in confusion.

  “Last week,” I clarified.

  Harper gave a wan smile. “I take it that you saw her?”

  I nodded. “Just now.”

  Harper craned her neck and peered over my shoulder “Is she still lurking by the doors?” she asked.

  “I think so. Why? Did you want me to get her?”

  Harper glared at me. “Bite your tongue. She’s been hovering by those doors all morning like Cerberus guarding the gates of hell. I couldn’t take her anymore so I came here to hide.”

  “I’m sorry, Harper,” I said. “She’s not staying with you, is she?”

  “No, thank God,” said Harper, her eyes widening in mild horror at the thought. “She insisted that I put her up at The Pierre. She needs to be alone in her grief.” Harper paused. “Well that, and apparently Burt Reynolds stays there whenever he’s in town, and she hasn’t seen him in ages,” she amended.

  “Now that you mention it,” said Nigel, “neither have I. Do me a favor, Harper, if she does bump into him, let me know. That son-of-a-bitch owes me money.”

  Harper laughed and I wrapped my arm around her shoulders. “Listen, Harper,” I said, “I’m sorry to bring this up now, but did Dan ever talk to you about the book he was working on?”

  “You mean his book of reviews?” she asked.

  I nodded. “Yes. He mentioned something at dinner that night about adding anecdotes about various celebrities.”

  “What about it?” she asked.

  “Did he ever tell you about any of the stories?” I asked.

  Harper shrugged. “Bits and pieces. He was being pretty secretive about them, to be honest. It was very unlike him, actually. I don’t think I need to tell you how much Dan liked to crow about his insider knowledge.” Harper frowned at me. “Why do you ask? Do you think his book had something to do with his death?”

  “I’m not sure,” I admitted. “But I wonder if Dan might have been using the book as a kind of leverage over people.”

  “Leverage?” she repeated. “What kind of leverage?”

  “Well, I just wondered if maybe he could have been using the stories as a bargaining tool to solicit investors for his play,” I said gently.

  Harper winced and closed her eyes in embarrassment. “That sounds exactly like something he would do. Oh Dan,” she whispered. “You dumb, greedy bastard.” After a moment, she opened her eyes and looked at me. “I swear, Nic, I had no idea.”

  I gave her a side hug. “I know you didn’t. I just wondered if you remember any of the stories.”

  “Just one. It was about Nina,” she said.

  “She had a baby, didn’t she?” I guessed.

  Harper opened her eyes wide. “Yes, but how did you know?”

  I smiled. “Normally I’d tell you that it was because I’m a brilliant detective, but we are in a church so it seems foolish to tempt fate.” Harper laughed. “At Peggy’s afterparty you spoke to Nina as if she’d also had a baby. You played it off as a symptom of baby mush brain, but I saw your face. You weren’t confused, you were embarrassed.”

  Harper nodded. “I felt so stupid. I remember Nina’s face after I said that. She looked terrified.”

  “Do you know when she had the baby?” I asked.

  Harper shook her head. “No. I just know that Dan found out that she’d had it and then gave it up for adoption. I don’t even know if it was a boy or a girl.”

  Suddenly the sounds of waves crashing on the shore began to play over the sound system. Harper closed her eyes again as if to shut it out.

  “Um … what’s with the ocean soundtrack?” Nigel asked.

  Harper’s shoulders sagged. “That would be Cindy.”

  Nigel gave a slow nod as a seagull cawed from above. “Okay,” he said slowly. “I’m still not getting this.”

  “And why would
you?” Harper asked with a rueful laugh. “Apparently, Cindy found some quote John F. Kennedy once made before an America’s Cup race. Something about how we’re all tied to the sea. She decided to use it as inspiration for the theme of the funeral. Can you believe it? A theme. Who has a theme at a funeral?”

  “I’m sorry, Harper. I really am,” I said.

  Harper let out a frustrated groan. “You have no idea what a nightmare she’s been. She’s trying to turn Dan’s funeral into some kind of social coup.”

  “Forgive me for asking, but how does one turn a funeral into a social coup?” Nigel asked.

  Harper shook her head. “I’m not completely sure. I just know that she’s trying to copy President Kennedy’s funeral. You saw her hat, right? I think she’s cast herself into the role of Jackie.” Harper closed her eyes. “It took everything I had to talk her out of a riderless horse with boots reversed in the stirrups.”

  I felt my mouth gape open. “You are kidding, right?” I asked.

  Harper gave a weary shake of her head. “I wish I were.”

  The three of us fell silent as a rolling crescendo of crashing waves and the faint cries of seagulls surrounded us. As strange as it was to hear sounds of the tide slamming onto the beach from inside St. Patrick’s, it was nothing compared to what happened next. The very distinct sound of a jackhammer began to resonate through out the church.

  I looked over to Harper. “What is that?” I asked.

  Harper let out a sigh. “That would be the water main that burst on East 51st Street. They’ve been at it all morning.”

  We all fell silent as the bone-jarring blasts of the jackhammer began to alternate with the sounds of crashing waves and squawking seagulls. After a moment, Nigel put his arm around Harper’s shoulders and lightly kissed her temple. “I think this should be your Exhibit A,” he said.

  thirty

  To say that Dan’s funeral service was memorable would be like saying the Titanic had a rough crossing. Cindy’s response to unrelenting bursts from the jackhammer was to increase the volume on her ocean soundtrack. The end result was that for nearly an hour, Dan’s mourners listened to what sounded like an audio of seagulls armed with heavy machine guns, engaged in a bloody battle.

  Following the service, we headed to Sardi’s for the reception. Inside the famed Broadway institution, waiters in red jackets and black pants guided guests to the main dinning room. There, against deep red walls, over 1,200 caricatures of show-business celebrities smiled down at us.

  Nigel and I spied Brooke and Mark by the bar and wandered over their way. Their heads were bent close together, but when they saw us approaching they moved apart. I thought about the story that Zack had told me about Brooke and wondered if it could be true. As I did, Brooke smiled warmly at us and gestured for us to join them. It seemed inconceivable that the charming woman in front of me could have been so cruel as to destroy another girl’s career.

  Nigel caught the bartender’s attention and asked for two glasses of wine. Mark waited until Nigel had finished ordering before offering a tentative smile and shaking Nigel’s hand, saying, “It’s Nigel, right? I’m Mark Adams. We spoke briefly at Fletcher’s the other night.”

  Nigel nodded. “I remember. Sorry to see you again under these circumstances.”

  Mark gave a grim smile. “I still can’t wrap my head around all of this. I heard that the police definitely think that Dan was murdered?” he asked, his glance sliding to mine. I gave an affirming nod. Mark shook his head as in disbelief.

  “This all seems like a dream,” Brooke said with a small shudder. “Or rather a nightmare.”

  “To think that someone actually killed him,” Mark said. “I mean, he wasn’t the most well-liked guy—he seemed to get a kick out of being critical for the sake of being critical. And he definitely pissed people off with some of his reviews, but I can’t see why anyone would want to kill him just because of that.”

  “I think it’s hard for most people to understand the motive behind anyone’s killing,” I said. “People still do it every day.”

  “But he was just a theater critic,” Mark protested. “So what if he gave a play—or an actress—a crappy review?” Beside him, Brooke began to fidget uncomfortably. “I mean, really,” Mark went on. “In the scheme of things, who cares? It’s one review. Nobody’s career ever tanked because of one lousy review.”

  “Mark, I really don’t think that’s fair—” Brooke began.

  “Yes, but the police said—” Mark began.

  “Actually, I don’t think the police have established that he was killed because of one of his reviews,” I said.

  Brooke glanced at me with a relieved expression. “See, Mark?” she said. “You can’t just assume that Dan was murdered because of a review.”

  Mark blinked. “Right. I know,” he said. “It’s just … well, you can’t deny that he made some enemies over the years with his barbs.”

  I took a sip of my wine. “Are you thinking of anyone in particular?”

  Brooke tensed. Mark gave what I’m sure he thought was an indifferent shrug. He’d been wise to focus on directing; an actor he was not. “No,” he said. “I mean, I’m not. I’ve heard other people make some guesses, but it seems unfair.”

  “That’s because most people are gossipy idiots,” said a familiar voice behind us. I turned to see Nina standing with a drink in one hand and a challenging look in her eyes.

  Mark’s face flushed red. “Oh, hello, Nina,” he said. “I didn’t see you there.”

  Nina smirked. “Yes. Thanks for the update, but I was able to work that out all by myself.”

  thirty-one

  “Hello, Nina,” Brooke said. “Are you feeling better?”

  Nina’s glance fell on the younger woman. A flash of some emotion I couldn’t quite identify crossed her face and then was gone. “I am, actually,” she said. “Thank you for asking.”

  “Do you know what was wrong? I certainly hope it’s not contagious,” Brooke continued.

  “I shouldn’t worry, dear. The doctor thought it was food poisoning,” Nina said.

  Brooke’s eyes opened wide. “Food poisoning? How terrible!”

  Nina grimaced. “Yes, it was most unpleasant. But I survived.”

  Brooke leaned forward and placed her hand on Nina’s arm. “Well, I’m glad you’re back. The play just wasn’t right without you.”

  Next to her Mark nodded. “I have to say I agree with Brooke,” he said to the surprise of no one. “Your understudy, Molly, is a good actress, but her scenes with Brooke just didn’t seem to click the way yours do. It’s funny how you just get a certain connection with some people, isn’t it?”

  Nina stared at Mark a beat and then said, “Not really. It’s called acting.”

  Mark gave an awkward cough and then said, “Well, I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

  A young woman in a waitstaff uniform suddenly appeared next to Nina. In her hands was a small silver tea tray. She politely cleared her throat and said, “Your tea, Ms. Durand.”

  Nina glanced over at the woman and smiled. “Thank you, dear. Please just set it on the bar.”

  The young woman nodded and set the tray down as indicated. “Shall I pour for you, Ms. Durand?”

  Nina shook her head. “No, thank you. I prefer to do it myself.”

  “Still a control freak about your damn tea, I see,” Fletcher’s voice suddenly boomed out from behind me.

  Nina turned and leveled Fletcher with an icy stare. “Still an egotistical jackass, I see,” she countered.

  Fletcher’s eyes narrowed. “It takes one to know one, darling.”

  Nina let out a laugh. “What are you, ten years old?” she scoffed. “But I suppose on a certain level, it makes sense. Your sense of humor is just as underdeveloped as”—here she paused letting her gaze drop before adding—“other p
arts of you.”

  Brooke began to cough into a napkin. “Sorry,” she wheezed when Fletcher glared at her. “I have horrible allergies.”

  “Really,” intoned Fletcher slowly. “What a coincidence. So do I.” He glanced from Brooke to Nina and back to Brooke. “However, mine act up in the spring rather than early September. Odd, don’t you think?”

  Some of the color left Brooke’s face, and her eyes darted to Nina. Nina crossed her arms and regarded Fletcher with a bored look. “So let me see if I’m following you correctly,” she said. “Since you get allergies in the spring, the entire allergy-suffering world must also get them at the same time. Tell me, Fletch, is your physician aware that you suffer from narcissistic delusions?”

  Fletcher stared at Nina a beat and then turned and walked off without another word.

  “I hope it was something I said,” Nina called out after him in a saccharinely sweet voice.

  Fletcher’s response was brief, nonverbal, and crystal clear. Nina smiled.

  Brooke did not.

  thirty-two

  Sometime later, Nigel and I wandered over to where Jeremy stood quietly talking with his agent, Julie. They looked like an ad for an edgy, European designer. Jeremy wore an expertly tailored suit of worsted wool. His hair was slicked back with gel to the point that it almost looked polished. Julie was wearing an elegant black sheath that managed to be somber and sexy all at the same time. She wore her hair in a loose upsweep that Nigel referred to as the “naughty secretary.” Julie saw us first and discreetly nudged Jeremy to alert him of our presence. Jeremy glanced our way and offered us a small wave.

  “So this is pretty horrible,” he said by way of a greeting. “I don’t think I’ve ever been to the funeral of someone who was murdered before.”

  Julie sucked in a sharp breath. “Jeremy!” she admonished. “What a horrid thing to say!”

  Jeremy looked down at her with a blank stare. “What?” he asked. “All I said was that Dan was murdered. It’s not like it’s a secret or anything. I mean, it’s why we’re all here.”