Peak Season for Murder

by Gail Lukasik

  Glancing down the hallway I saw Jake’s door was closed and as I neared it, I could hear his muffled voice. I put my ear to the door and listened. He was muttering something about light, birds, hunting and she. He must be working on his poetry.

  For some inexplicable reason his stone house near Newport State Park, which backed up to acres of savannahs and open fields, didn’t inspire him. His creative work process reminded me of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s. Tom and I had once toured Ralph Waldo Emerson’s house in Concord, Massachusetts. The tour guide told us that Emerson worked in an upstairs room with his desk facing a window, overlooking the vibrant New England woods. While Hawthorne, who’d lived in the house with his wife Sophia, for a time worked in the same room, but his desk faced a blank wall. If I were writing poetry or a novel, I’d be gazing longingly out at the green vista, but then I probably wouldn’t get any writing done. Maybe Jake had it right. No distractions.

  Thinking about Tom made my stomach tighten. The divorce was like a rock lodged inside my gut—heavy, jagged and impossible to digest. I tiptoed back to my desk, flipped open my notebook, and started on Ryan’s article. Work was the perfect antidote to self-pity.

  The piece seemed to almost write itself. I briefly mentioned Ryan’s sudden death at Lydia’s studio, leaving out what Lydia had told me about the golden hour and her ignoring the signs of his impending heart attack. The PopQ article would hit the newsstands in four days and would probably delve into those suppositions. Lydia was my friend, and I couldn’t betray her like that. At the most, Lydia was guilty of bad judgment.

  The bulk of my article was devoted to Ryan’s meteoric career. I described his film and stage credits, his struggle with drugs and his overcoming his addictions and turning his life around by coming back to where it all began—the Bayside Theater—to jump-start his career.

  Though the part about his overcoming his addictions wasn’t true, I’d made a promise to Lydia, which I intended to keep. If Nate was abusing drugs and alcohol at the time of his death, it’d come out in the tox results, and I could write about his sordid end then.

  Throughout the article I interspersed glowing accolades from Nina, Alex and Harper to enhance my conclusions. Once done, I read over the piece and realized Harper’s quote was weak. It said nothing. “He was amazingly talented, and I learned a lot about acting from him.” She admitted she’d hardly known Ryan, and her words reflected that.

  What I needed was a quote from Julian Finch, who’d known Ryan when he was a young and struggling actor. I glanced up at the office clock. It was only eleven a.m., and I had until Monday before noon to make the deadline. I paged through my notebook, rereading my interview with Julian. No usable quotes about Ryan.

  Drumming my fingers on my desk, I considered how to contact Julian short of driving to the BT on the off chance he was there. Because of Barbara Henry’s ridiculous protectiveness, I didn’t have Finch’s cell phone number. What did she think I was going to do, stalk the actors?

  Feeling vengeful, I called her number, and her phone went to voice mail. Though I left her a message, I didn’t hold out much hope of her calling me back before Monday’s deadline. Maybe I should leave Harper’s quote in and enjoy the rest of my day. No, there had to be someone who could help me.

  Rich. He was like the BT’s unofficial sentry/town crier. Though I didn’t relish talking to him, he might know Finch’s cell phone number. I dug Rich’s number out of my bag.

  “Hi, pretty reporter lady,” he answered. “What can I do you for?”

  Inside I groaned at his all too obvious and lame flirting. “Well, I’m trying to get a hold of Julian Finch. I’m on deadline and need to talk to him. To get a quote for my piece on Nate Ryan. Do you have his cell phone number?”

  “Here I was thinking you were calling to talk to me.” He tittered.

  For an awkward few seconds neither of us said anything. Then he piped in, “Don’t have his number. But I just saw him. He was headed out to White Fish Dunes. He goes there to unwind sometimes, is what he told me.”

  “When did he leave?”

  “About ten, fifteen minutes ago.”

  “Thanks, Rich.”

  “Maybe we could catch dinner sometime?”

  Oh, no. Okay, this was going to take some finesse. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but I didn’t want to encourage him either. And he wasn’t taking my clear hints that I wasn’t interested. So I decided on honesty. “I haven’t told many people this, but I just got divorced, like, a few days ago, and I’m still trying to sort things out. But when I’m ready to get back up on the horse, I might take you up on dinner.” Ugh! Did I really say get back up on the horse? For someone who made her living with words, that was pitiful.

  “Got it. Enough said.” Rich’s tone had gone from flirty to sharp. I had hurt his feelings.

  Rather than prolong both our miseries, I thanked him and hung up.

  There was a long line of cars waiting to enter White Fish Dunes State Park. Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea. After about fifteen minutes, which seemed like an hour, I entered the park and trolled up and down the parking lots looking for an open spot. Finally, I found one in the last lot adjacent to the gravel yard. I shoved my notebook in my tote bag, left the windows partially open and headed for the beach area. With the lot filled with nifty SUVs and sports cars, I doubted anyone would bother stealing my ten-year-old pickup truck.

  When I reached the gray weathered nature center perched atop a rise that overlooked Lake Michigan and the dunes, I was stunned by what I saw. The beach was a circus of sunbathers splayed out on towels; swimmers bobbing in the lake, others dashing in and out, as well as hordes of colorful beach umbrellas, coolers, and volleyball nets. I’d never seen it so crowded or frenetic.

  How was I going to find Julian if he was here? I almost turned around and left, but I’d already endured the long entrance wait, so I sat down on a bench, took off my sandals and crammed them into my bag. Then I started down the cement walkway that connected to the strip of thick brown meshing that protected the dunes. As I gingerly walked over the hot mesh path, I told myself that if I didn’t find Julian, at least I’d enjoy the washed blue sky, gentle lake breeze and get some exercise.

  Once the mesh path ended, I began weaving my way up and down the beach, peering under umbrellas and perusing the comatose sunbathers. No Julian. Suddenly, a toddler appeared in front of me, looking lost. “You’re not my mommy,” she accused me. “Where’s my mommy?”

  Before I could answer, a plump woman in a floppy straw beach hat and black one-piece bathing suit ran up to the toddler and grabbed her hand as if I were about to abduct the little girl. “Mommy’s here, Ellie. Now don’t run ahead of me again, okay?” Then she turned to me. “Sorry.”

  I didn’t know what she was sorry about, but I could feel that rock in my gut again. “No problem,” I answered, walking away quickly, squashing down the erupting emotions. Tom was going to have a family without me.

  “Life sucks,” I grumbled aloud, stomping my way down the beach, not adding the rest of the phrase: “and then you die.”

  When I reached the dog beach, the crowds thinned and there was no Julian in sight. My calves ached from all my bitter stomping. I stopped and watched two black labs chase each other in and out of the water, barking furiously. As I followed their mad play up the beach, I noticed a blue domed beach tent tucked high up on a dune. I’d come this far; I might as well check it out. Then I could stomp myself back to the parking lot and call it a full day.

  As I trudged through the sand toward the tent, sweat rolled down my face, beading off my nose and going into my eyes. I pushed my sunglasses on top of my head, swiped at the sweat with the back of my hand and kept walking. Hot was becoming a permanent state with me.

  Just as I neared the tent’s opening, I spotted Julian Finch sitting inside on a beach chair, his head down, intently reading what looked like a playbook, looking cool and unruffled. Next to him was a matching beach chair. I wondered
whom he was expecting.

  His mind must have been elsewhere because it took him a minute to realize I was standing there.

  When he looked up, his eyes seemed unfocused. “Leigh, what are you doing here?” he asked.

  I was so exhausted by the walking and stomping in the heat, all I managed was, “Do you mind if I come inside? I’m about to burn up.”

  “Sit, sit, please.” He placed the playbook on his lap and patted the other beach chair. The play was The Importance of Being Earnest.

  I bent down, crawled inside and collapsed on the chair, then pulled my wet t-shirt away from my body in an effort to cool myself. As I fanned myself with my other hand, I glanced at Julian’s unusual attire—white short-sleeved shirt, white cotton drawstring trousers and leather huaraches. He looked like a character from a PBS drama set in a nineteenth-century English manor. Only the greenish sports drink, which rested in his beach chair’s cup holder, said otherwise. I stared at it longingly.

  He must have seen me staring because he said, “Would you like a cold drink? I have water and sports drinks.”

  “Water would be great.”

  He opened a portable cooler next to him and took out a bottled water. Besides the sports drinks and water bottles, I caught a glimpse of a bottle of wine and a block of cheese, probably for whomever he was expecting.

  I opened the bottle and took a long swallow. “I was hoping you could give me a quote about Nate Ryan for the article I’m writing on him.”

  “You tracked me here to get a quote about Nate?” he asked incredulously. “Why didn’t you call me or stop by the BT before the performance?”

  Now I felt foolish. “Barbara Henry is pretty protective of the actors, so I didn’t have your cell number. And the article is due before noon tomorrow. I suppose I could have come by before tonight’s performance.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather have a quote from Nina?”

  “I have a quote from Nina.” Why was he being so reluctant? “And you knew Nate when he first performed with the BT. Wasn’t Twelfth Night his first professional acting job and A Streetcar Named Desire his first starring role?”

  Julian’s face was expressionless, as if I were describing someone he didn’t know. “So maybe you could say something about him when you first saw him act, or maybe relate an anecdote about Twelfth Night or Streetcar.”

  “That was twenty-some years ago,” he stated flatly.

  I’d tromped around this beach in the heat, and I wasn’t leaving without my quote. “Nate told me you mentored him. His exact words were that you’re a great guy, great stage actor, and he learned a lot from you.” I took another swallow of water, rested the bottle in the cup holder, and slipped my notebook and pen from my bag.

  “He said that?” Julian said, surprised and suddenly interested.

  That did the trick—when all else fails, stoop to flattery. I hadn’t pegged Julian as an actor with a big ego, but maybe all actors had big egos—goes with the territory.

  “Okay, sure. What exactly are you looking for?”

  A quote, I mused sarcastically. “Did you think he’d become such a big star?” Oops, irritation was making me sloppy. I’d broken the number one rule of interviewing—avoid yes/no questions.

  “Not really,” he answered, chuckling.

  “Why’s that?” It was like pulling teeth to get this guy to say something, anything, about Ryan.

  “Nothing to do with Nate. It’s just how this business works. Whether someone becomes a big star is next to impossible to predict. There are countless talented actors out there, and most of them won’t become big stars.” He paused. “It’s all a matter of dumb luck. Being at the right place at the right time. But that applies to almost everything, don’t you think?” There was a wistfulness to his words.

  I nodded in agreement, wondering if Julian was talking about himself. Though talented, he’d never been a big star. By his own definition, he’d been unlucky.

  “Do you feel that way about your own career? That you never got your lucky break?”

  It was as if I’d shot him. He sat bolt upright in his chair, knocking the playbook off his lap. “Multiple appearances at the Globe Theater in London, three Broadway shows, an Academy Award nomination.” He counted them off on his fingers. “If that’s not success, then I don’t know what is. Will you see my face plastered in a celebrity magazine? God forbid. I never wanted fame. I get paid to do what I love. How many people can say that?” He glared at me with such intensity, I looked away.

  I’d hit a raw nerve. “I wasn’t implying you weren’t a successful actor, Julian. Like I said, I’m a big fan of yours.” I could kiss that quote about Ryan goodbye. I’d offended him.

  He bent over to pick up the playbook, shook it free of sand, then placed it on his lap. His hand trembled. “Dangerous. And magnetic,” he stated. “You never knew what he’d do on stage. There was something unpredictable, maybe even primitive, about him. I don’t think he understood it. It was just who he was.” He crossed his arms and stretched out his long legs, digging his heels in the sand. “That’s probably why he turned to drugs. He knew he was one lucky son of a bitch. Why would anyone want that fate?”

  I looked up from my notebook. His rancor was gone. “Are you saying you didn’t think he was talented?” I chose my words carefully. “That it was all charisma and danger?” Two seagulls landed in front of the tent, squawking loudly.

  Julian kicked sand at them, sending them waddling down the beach complaining. “What do you think?” He waved his hand dismissively, whether at the seagulls or me I wasn’t sure.

  Why was he asking me? “I think he was a gifted actor. That’s why it was such a waste when he seemed to . . .” I struggled for the right words. “To . . . I don’t know, phone it in. Like in those ridiculous romantic comedies. He just lost sight of his own talent. He told me that it all came too fast and too easy.”

  “I didn’t think he was that self-aware.” He took a swallow of his drink. “Did I give you enough for your article?”

  I scanned my notes. “I’ll probably use what you said about Nate being dangerous. No one else said that about him.”

  He arched one eyebrow. “That’s because they’ve never been pricked with a knife by him.” His tone was so serious, at first I didn’t catch the humor.

  “No scar, I hope.” I went along with the joke.

  “Not that you’d notice.” He patted his chest. “How’s the BT article coming?”

  “Interviews are over. Now all that’s left is my weekend living with the BT. I want to experience what it’s like being a member of a residential theater group.” I still didn’t know if I had the go-ahead, and after my run-in with Alex Webber, I wouldn’t be surprised if he refused my request.

  “You sure you’re up for that treat? We’re a pretty bizarre bunch, though harmless.”

  “It may not happen. I’ve been rubbing Alex the wrong way lately.”

  “What could you have possibly done to upset him? You’re a total professional. You tracked me down on a Sunday to get a quote. I call that dedication.”

  I couldn’t tell if he was being ironic. “I asked him if the rumor was true that Nate was going to withdraw his half-million-dollar donation.”

  Julian went perfectly still, as if he was in shock. “Who told you that?”

  “Can’t say. But it was a reliable source. Of course, Nate died before he could withdraw the money.”

  “It’s not Nina, is it?” I could see he was scrolling through possible sources in his mind.

  “Why would you think the source is Nina?” Nina, who was overtly hostile to the press, would be the last person to tell me anything, especially something as critical to the theater’s rebuilding project as the loss of Nate’s donation.

  “They acted like everything was fine between them. But the bad blood was still there, believe me.”

  “If there still was bad blood, why did Nate return to the BT or donate money?”

  “I should have sai
d that the bad blood is all on Nina’s side. She never got over the way he treated her when they were married.”

  There might be something to what Julian said. Nina wasn’t the least broken up over Nate’s death. “Did Nina say something that makes you think she’s still bitter?”

  “Not to Nate’s face, she didn’t. She’s too smart for that. But she was vehemently opposed to his returning to the BT. Eventually she gave in.” Julian shrugged. “Nate Ryan was good for box office sales and fundraising. What could she do?” He crossed his legs and straightened the crease in his white cotton trousers. “So you didn’t tell me how you found me here?”

  I screwed the cap back on the water bottle. “Rich told me.”

  He nodded his magnificent head. “He doesn’t miss much. He’s a sharp one. Always has been. Did you know he has a degree in engineering from Purdue?”

  “He mentioned it.”

  “So are we good? Do you have what you came for?”

  That was my cue to leave. I stowed my notebook and pen in my bag and struggled out of the low beach chair. “I think so. Thanks for the water.”

  “Always stay on the good side of the press, my drama coach once told me, even when they pan you.” He saluted me. “So why don’t you write down my cell number. Hang Barbara Henry. You can call me anytime.”

  I yanked out my notebook and jotted down his number, then left.

  On my long walk back to my truck, I debated whether to drive back to the office and finish the article or call it a day. I was still undecided when I reached the cement walkway leading to the parking lot. Hurrying down the walkway wearing oversized sunglasses and a large-brimmed black straw hat that did nothing to hide her blond cotton-candy hair was Harper Kennedy. As she walked, her loosely tied sheer beach wrap swayed open, revealing a skimpy bikini and a very thin but toned body like a ballerina’s.

  I stepped off the walkway under the deep shadows of the large cedars. She was in such a hurry, she didn’t notice me standing there watching her scurry past. Other than a small black straw clutch tucked under her arm, she wasn’t carrying anything else—no towel, no umbrella, nothing. Why would she? Julian was waiting with everything she needed. Were they rehearsing lines? I knew she was playing Gwendolyn, Julian’s love interest, in The Importance of Being Earnest. Then why meet at the Dunes? A tryst? Finch was old enough to be her father. Maybe they were just friends? Yeah, right. That bikini said it all.