by Gail Lukasik
“Just have that bump looked at today, okay?” she pleaded, swiping at the tears running down her face. “For me?”
“Sure.” I put the ice pack down on the table, got up and moved toward Lydia, not sure what to do to comfort her.
“Leigh, I’m not kidding.”
“I said I would,” I reassured her, telling her what she wanted to hear.
“You say a lot of things.” She smiled, the dimples in her cheeks a welcome sight.
“Don’t we both?” I gave her an awkward hug. “You know none of this is your fault, don’t you?”
“Then why does it feel like it is?”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
When I arrived at the BT grounds, the place was eerily quiet. The ticket office was closed, and the sign in the window read: TheaterWill Reopen Tonight. Below the message was a number to call for more information.
That’s strange, I thought. Shouldn’t the ticket office be open? The show must go on and all that.
Maybe the cast was in rehearsal and that’s why it was so quiet. I walked over to the rehearsal building. The windows were shuttered, so I put my ear to the door. Nothing, not even the rattling of the air conditioner. It was after one p.m. The cast should be in rehearsal. What was going on?
I pulled out my cell phone and called the theater number. A recorded message said that tickets for The Merchant of Venice were sold out for the entire run. There was no mention of Nate Ryan’s death or who would be playing his part.
For a while I just stood outside the squat brown plank building staring at the pine trees, considering my next move. There were two people I needed to talk to—Harper Kennedy and Nina Cass. Was that Harper’s key I’d found? And what had Nina done that had made Ryan so angry he wanted to withdraw his donation?
I jogged up the flagstone path to the first apartment quad and knocked on Harper’s door. No answer. I scrolled through my phone log, found Harper’s number and waited. On the third ring, she answered.
“Harper, it’s Leigh Girard. Any chance I could talk to you today about Nate Ryan? I’m on the BT’s grounds right now. Are you around?”
“I just can’t believe he’s dead. He was such a great guy,” she gushed.
That was a switch. The other day he was a dog. “It is a shock,” I said.
“Listen, I gotta go. I’ll call you later.”
Before I could respond, she hung up. Well, she’d be back here for tonight’s performance. I’d catch her then.
I tapped the phone against my chin. If only I had Nina Cass’s phone number, but Barbara Henry had arranged all the interviews with the cast members, except Ryan’s. I could call her, but I doubted I’d get anywhere with her, especially with the fallout from Ryan’s death. There was always the off chance that Nina was in her apartment.
Hurrying down the flagstone path and up the limestone stairs toward Nina’s apartment quad, I thought about my approach with her. What I wanted to know was if she was aware that Ryan was going to withdraw the donation. That bonk on the head had me in overdrive. Asking her outright wasn’t an option. From my interview with her for the article, I’d learned two things: she was cagey, either giving one-sentence answers or changing the subject, and she didn’t trust the media. Talking to her was so nerve-wracking, you just wanted the interview to end. I remember leaving with a stiff neck and the suspicion that was her intention.
Just as I reached the second landing, I heard voices coming from the end unit. A door opened and Alex Webber emerged. Quickly I stepped back around the corner out of sight.
“Then you’re okay with that?” he asked in a conciliatory tone.
“Do I have a choice?” Nina answered, slamming the door hard enough to shake the walkway. After Alex’s determined-sounding footsteps echoed down the steps, I emerged from hiding and went to Nina’s apartment door.
I’d barely rapped on the door when it flew open. Nina must have expected Alex, because her face went from a scowl to surprise in an instant.
“This isn’t a good time,” she said, edging the door closed.
“I know it isn’t,” I began. “And I’m really sorry about Nate, but if you could spare a few minutes, I’d like to get a quote from you for the feature article on him I’m writing for the Gazette. I’m sure you’d want to say something about him.”
She glanced down at my notebook, which I was holding out toward her. I could tell she wanted me to go away, but she was savvy enough to know it was to her advantage to give me a quote.
“All right, whatever,” she agreed reluctantly, but she didn’t move, her arms crossed over her chest.
“Can I come in? It’s blistering out here.”
She opened the door and walked inside. I followed. Her apartment was a duplicate of Ryan’s, right down to the furniture, but there were no errant undergarments or a wine bottle and glasses; just the smell of cigarette smoke.
She flopped down on the sofa, her yellow silk caftan billowing out around her thin frame. The bright yellow was in stark contrast to her black hair and dark eyes, which gave her an exotic appearance. She leaned over and grabbed the pack of cigarettes from the coffee table, shook one out, and then lit it. After she took a long drag on the cigarette, with her free hand she picked at her short curly hair impatiently, her bare feet tapping in a frenetic rhythm. The tension and heat coming from her was causing my shoulder muscles to bunch into knots. I took in a deep breath, trying to relax. The cigarette smoke was making me feel lightheaded.
“Who’s taking Nate’s place as Shylock?” I asked, sensing that at any moment she’d jump up from the sofa and demand I leave.
“Julian.” She blew smoke up toward the ceiling. “I thought you wanted a quote about Nate?”
“Just curious. Why not the understudy?”
“Look, you should be asking Alex these questions. Not me.”
She was right. I’d have to hunt him down.
“Were you surprised by Nate’s sudden death?”
She choked on her cigarette smoke. But at least her feet stilled. When she stopped coughing, she said, “When we were married, I lived expecting that phone call. You know, the one in the middle of the night saying your husband’s died from an overdose or a car accident or whatever addicts die from.” She picked up the glass ashtray from the table and balanced it on her thigh, nervously flicking ash into it. “But to answer your question, yes, I was surprised. And as far as I could tell, he was a reformed man. Ironic, huh? He finally slays all his demons. Then he drops dead taking a yoga class. But that’s how it works sometimes, doesn’t it?”
“What do you mean?” I was surprised by her cold candidness.
She snubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray and placed it back on the table. “You get your act together, then fate steps in and says, ‘Sorry, too late.’” She snapped her fingers. “‘You had your chance and you blew it.’”
Wow, that was both angry and bitter. “But he lived long enough to donate money for the rebuilding of the theater,” I said. “At least he was able to do that.” I was slowly leading up to my real reason for being here.
She adjusted the caftan so it covered her long, bony feet. Then she fiddled with her silver bracelets. “We’re dedicating the new theater to Nate.”
“Is that what you and Alex were discussing?” She looked at me suspiciously. “I saw him leave as I came up the path.”
“That and tonight’s performance.” She pulled one of her tightly wound curls away from her head and then let it spring back.
“And nothing else? Like the rumor that Nate was withdrawing his donation?”
Her forehead crinkled in confusion. “Where’d you hear that?”
Her tone was even, but she’d suddenly stopped fidgeting. I’d struck a nerve.
“I can’t divulge my source. Is it true?”
“I don’t know who told you that, but it isn’t true.” She sounded sincere. I remembered what Nate had said about acting. Just say the words. Don’t emote, let the words do the work.
“I had to che
ck it out, you understand,” I answered, matching my tone to hers: even, sincere, and false.
“So when’s the BT article going to appear?” Right on cue, she changed the topic.
“Not sure. It’s up to my editor. But probably after the piece on Nate’s death.”
She nodded her head, her eyes shifting right. “What did Nate say about me?”
The question seemed to come out of nowhere, and I wasn’t sure how to answer. “You mean when I interviewed him?” My face flushed in confusion.
“When else?” She grinned sardonically. “Don’t tell me you fell for his shit?”
“No. I mean, he didn’t say anything about you.” Why was I sounding so guilty?
She was staring at me in perfect stillness. Not a muscle moving, except for the smile playing around her mouth. “Listen, I’m exhausted. So if you don’t mind.” She got up from the sofa and shook out the caftan, which had faint sweat marks where it had creased.
“Sure thing,” I said, rising from the chair. “And what do you want to say about Nate for the article?”
“He was a very generous man, both as an actor and as a friend. I’ll miss him.”
I wrote down her words, aware of their hollow falseness. Nate Ryan was a lot of things, but generous wasn’t one of them, unless you counted sexual favors. And I doubted Nina was going to miss him.
Nina’s deep, melodic voice cut into my thoughts. “By the way, you shouldn’t be embarrassed to admit being seduced by Nate. It’s happened to the best of us.”
I started to protest, then realized it would be useless. She’d already decided that I’d fallen for “Nate’s shit,” as she put it. That must have been the story of their marriage, his constant infidelity and substance abuse. What a nightmare of a marriage.
As I ambled down the steps and started toward the theater office to search for Alex, my face was still hot, and my head was aching painfully where I’d been hit. What had just happened? How had Nina thrown me off like that?
Then it hit me. Nina’s nervousness, which I’d initially chalked up to her vulnerability due to a dislike of the media, was a form of control, a way of disarming you. Watching her constant fidgeting, like she was on the verge of falling apart, I’d let my guard down. So when she’d asked about Ryan, implying something sexual had happened between us, I’d been defenseless. Clever, very clever. She was about as vulnerable as a cobra.
The sign in the box office window was gone, and the box office was open. I peered inside and saw Barbara Henry and Alex Webber seated at a desk, deep in conversation.
They must have sensed I was there because they both stopped talking and looked toward the window.
“Leigh,” Alex called to me as if I was his long lost friend. That was a switch. “We need to talk.” He scooted back his chair and stood. “Why don’t we finish this later,” he said to Barbara, who looked miffed by my interruption. Her fleshy face was slightly pink.
Without waiting for her answer, he left the cottage-like building and came outside where I was waiting.
“Let’s go sit by the water. Maybe catch a breeze.” He strode ahead of me, walking at a quick pace, his muscular legs and arms in contrast to his wiry thin frame. Though he wasn’t handsome, his face was compelling. Even his dull brown hair, which stuck out around his head as if he’d just gotten out of bed, didn’t deter from his commanding presence.
He waited until we sat down on the bench before he began talking. “I want to discuss with you how to handle Nate’s death. Here’s the thing, and I know you’ll agree. We have to stress Nate’s comeback. How the BT was instrumental in giving him a new start. You know he’d donated a sizable amount of money toward the rebuilding project? I’m counting on you as the hometown journalist to skip the trash. No need to rehash that stuff.”
As he talked, I kept glancing at the tiny birthmark on his forehead that looked like an ink drop to keep myself from interrupting him. Finally, he seemed to run out of juice and ended his monologue by patting my leg paternally. “So we’re good then.” It wasn’t a question. He stood up.
“Alex, I’m a journalist, not a public relations person.” I resisted the urge to stand. “I’m going to write the article the way I see it.” I tapped my notepad to make my point.
He remained standing, his legs apart, his hands on his hips as if ready for combat. “No one’s telling you to compromise your standards, Leigh. I’m just strongly suggesting that you avoid the trashy stuff you read in those other publications.” He said other like it was a dirty word.
Now I stood and faced him. I needed to see his eyes when I dropped the bombshell. “Did you know there’s a rumor going around that Nate was going to withdraw his donation?”
His right eyebrow arched. “Nonsense. I already have confirmation of the donation. This is what I’m talking about.” He pointed a finger at my nose. “Unfounded rumors, speculation. I’d really hoped better from you.”
His eyes shifted toward the water. When they came back to me, he said, “You’re going to have to submit your article to me before you print it.”
“That wasn’t the deal,” I protested.
“Well, it is now. In fact, I’ll have Barbara call your editor—what’s his name? Jake, today, to make sure we see it before it goes to print.”
“That’s not how it works, and you know it,” I said, trying to keep a lid on my temper.
“I’m sure I’m not the first person to ask to see an article prior to publication.” He reached out and put his hand on my shoulder. “I don’t know what you’re getting so upset about.”
I shook off his hand. “I’m not changing anything, if that’s where this is going.” Keep your head, Leigh. Don’t lose your temper.
“Even if it’s inaccurate?” He smiled broadly, as if I was a naughty child.
What could I say to that? “I’ll e-mail you a copy,” I said grudgingly. “If there are any inaccuracies, which there won’t be, let me know.”
“That’s all I want.”
He was playing with me, just as Nina had played with me. “Who else have you given interviews to since Nate’s death?” I was wondering if that was the issue here: irresponsible journalists.
“Too many to name. You’re just another one.”
Then he turned and walked back to the box office cottage. What was he afraid of? He knew I couldn’t mention the rumor about Nate withdrawing the money because I had no proof. His attitude toward me had changed at the rehearsal when Nate had pricked Julian with a real knife. He’d gone from cooperative and genial to aloof and cold. Why?
A real knife, a dead rat in a casket, a bloody chicken, and then there was the splattered nightgown planted in the Moyers’ cabin. Now Nate Ryan was dead. Maybe Alex should be afraid.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“Jake wants to see you, ASAP,” Marge said as I sauntered into the Gazette office, savoring the air conditioning. “Oh, and see me after. I’ve got some info on those dog tags. Very interesting.”
I straightened my shoulders as I walked toward Jake’s office, steeling myself for the inevitable chewing-out. I’d no doubt Barbara Henry had called Jake, complaining about my rumormongering. They don’t pay me enough for this grief, I thought, gently massaging my aching bump.
His door was open, so I went in, plopped down in one of the green vinyl chairs laden with papers, and said, “Have at it.” The papers crinkled in protest under my butt.
“Jeez, how’d you piss off Webber? He’s one of the nicest guys around. Always cooperates with us. Knows the importance of keeping on the good side of the press. What the hell did you do?” He leaned back in his swivel chair as if he needed distance from me.
“Thanks for the support, boss. Last time I checked, journalists were supposed to ask penetrating questions. And don’t give me that crap about the Door County villages and medieval hamlets.” I held up my hand in protest. “I asked him about the rumor that Ryan was withdrawing his donation for the rebuilding of the theater.”
“Whoa,
hold up. Who told you this?” Jake’s eyes narrowed.
“Lydia.” I explained everything Lydia said about Ryan, including her sexual antics the night before his death.
“It doesn’t matter now anyway,” Jake concluded. “He’s dead, and they’re getting the money.”
“Exactly,” I agreed. “But don’t you find it strange that he died before he could withdraw the donation? If he was going to withdraw it.”
“Leigh, don’t go there. Unless the tox screen shows something suspicious, according to the ME’s initial autopsy, it looks like Nate Ryan had a massive heart attack. Though right now he’s calling the cause of death undetermined. End of story.”
“Why’d you call the ME? Don’t you trust me?” My stomach was grumbling. I hadn’t eaten since this morning, which was making me cranky.
“Chet just happened to stop by and I asked him. Why am I explaining myself to you? Who’s the editor here?” He moved a few piles of paper around absentmindedly.
“Didn’t want you to think I wasn’t doing my job,” I said petulantly.
“That’s never been one of my worries about you.” He stared at my face a little too long for comfort, then said, “What’s going on with your house hunting?”
That reminded me that I needed to drop a check off at the realty office. “Found a cabin I can rent month-to-month.”
“Where?” His long fingers were drumming nervously on the nearest paper pile.
“Gills Rock.”
Jake tightened his lips, causing his goatee to jut out. “You sure you want to live that far up the peninsula? Heck of a drive to work, especially during tourist season, not to mention winter.”
I knew what he was asking. He was aware that Joe lived there. Just as he was aware of our brief romantic dalliance. I’d yet to sort that out.
“It’s only temporary until I decide what I’m going to do with my sudden windfall.” Oops. Why’d I blurt that out?
“Someone die?” He rested his elbows on his desk and hunched forward.
“You might say that. Listen, I gotta run.”
“Leigh.” He dragged my name out, and I flashed on an intimate moment when he’d said my name in that same way as he’d brushed my hair from my forehead, then kissed me.