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  I reached for the last of my wine. I gulped. “That,” I said, “and a little something more.”

  The waiter chose that moment to whisk our plates away, brush any offending crumbs from the table, and place dessert menus discreetly before us. Jack pushed his away.

  “You haven’t accidentally shot anyone, have you?” he asked.

  I made a face, took a breath, and told him everything about Rix.

  Chapter 18

  Although Jack rose above any prurient interest in my past with Rix, he wanted every detail surrounding Rix’s reappearance and his new involvement in the theater. Jack may have had some illusion that investing in a Rep company could be lucrative, but once I explained the concept of non-profit status to him, he had to admit he couldn’t come up with any logical reason for Rix to have supplied funding.

  “Is it possible he just wants to mess with your head?” he asked.

  “I don’t think so. I’d swear he was just as uncomfortable seeing me yesterday as I was seeing him.” I toyed absently with the dessert menu, sliding it from one hand to the other on the tablecloth. “And Eileen said he’d agreed to total anonymity, so I don’t see how I would have even known about it if I hadn’t accidentally run into him.”

  I overshot the menu and came close to knocking the candle over. Jack smoothly intervened. “What’s really bothering you?”

  I made a face. “I know you’ll think I’m being paranoid, but I can’t help thinking there must be a connection. With Cece’s kidnapping. With the woman in the bathtub, maybe. With Macbeth.” I picked up a spoon and began flipping it over and over.

  Jack didn’t even blink. “It’s possible.”

  “What?” I dropped the spoon. “Hell, Jack, I thought you were going to tell me I’m crazy.”

  “That’s possible too.”

  “Thanks.”

  He frowned. “The thing that bothers me about Rix is where he got the money to put into the Rep. He was broke when he dated you, and Harry’s money can’t have lasted long if he really used it to pay off gambling debts, so someone must be bankrolling him.”

  “Macbeth?” I swallowed hard.

  “But even if that’s true, I can’t figure out why. What do either of them have to gain by it?” He shook his head. “Maybe we’re just looking for patterns that aren’t there. It’s probably something much simpler.”

  “Like an unbridled love of drama? A sort of sudden-onset thespiophilia? Why don’t I believe that?”

  “Maybe he’s still in love with you,” Jack suggested. Then he shot me a look. “Did you make that word up?”

  “He was never in love with me. He was in love with my bank balance.”

  “He’s an idiot.”

  “Of course he is, but why is he back?”

  “My best guess is that he expects you to buy him out.” Jack leaned forward. “Think about it—despite all the conditions of anonymity in his agreement with Eileen, he expected you to find out about him. When he showed up at the theater he might not have known you’d be there, but he knew you’d hear about it. And he probably figured that when you found out he’d put money into the Rep, you’d give him a nice return on his investment just to be rid of him.”

  “Well if that’s the case he’s seriously deluded. Harry paid him once to go away and I don’t intend to make a habit of it.”

  We left it at that and took our dessert to go. Banana milk chocolate pie is a dessert best eaten in bed.

  ***

  The next morning I woke up completely happy. Brenda had been right. It felt good to have told Jack about Rix.

  I stretched contentedly. It was Saturday, and the only thing I had to do all day was meet Martha at a vintage clothing store in Palo Alto so we could look for authentic fifties costume ideas. At least, that’s what she’d be doing. I would be ever-so-subtly digging for information about Brian, my directorial predecessor and her missing boyfriend. What I had heard from the Rep staff had convinced me that there was something fishy about him, and I figured anything fishy should be examined for connections to Macbeth.

  But that wasn’t until the afternoon. I had the whole morning ahead of me. And the sound of the shower told me Jack hadn’t gone off to the gym.

  I had a clear conscience and a clean husband. Life was good. It was even better after I joined Jack in the shower.

  ***

  “How long until you’re ready?” Jack asked later, toweling me off in a way I found pretty fabulous.

  “Again?” I asked. “What kind of superman are you?”

  He chucked the towel at me. “Ready to go to lunch, you maniac.” He walked away, and I was a little preoccupied by the way the few remaining drops of water sparkled on his butt, so it took me a minute to realize what he’d said.

  “Lunch where? Do we have lunch plans?”

  “We’re meeting Mike.”

  “Who?”

  He stuck his head back in the room. “Didn’t I mention it?” He vanished again.

  “You know damn well you didn’t mention it!” I wrapped the towel around myself and marched into the bedroom. “Mike?”

  “He’s my best friend, Pumpkin.” Jack sat on the bed in a pair of jeans, one shoe in his hand. “I really want you to get to know him better.”

  I sat next to him. “Do I have to get to know him today?”

  “You’re going to Palo Alto anyway, right?” He nudged me. “And it’s just one little lunch.”

  I nudged him back. “I suppose it is just one little lunch.”

  “Good.”

  “But I don’t have to like him.”

  “Understood.”

  ***

  We made a striking group as we crossed the lobby and waited for the valet to bring Harry’s SUV (now apparently on permanent loan) from the garage. Jack, looking perfect as usual, me, looking a little sulky but cool, and Flank, looking like a balding silverback gorilla who’d been captured in the Virunga mountains and forced into a Brooks Brothers suit.

  Palo Alto had spent most of its existence happy just to be called the home of Stanford University. Quiet, tree-lined streets named after poets crossed the central thoroughfare, University Avenue, which was occupied by bookstores, movie theaters, and student-oriented restaurants.

  But sometime in the eighties the unassuming town had become ground zero for the digital revolution. Now, even after the dot.com bubble had burst, it’s impossible to parallel park without grazing the khaki-clad ass of a venture capitalist or denting the fender of a twenty-five-year-old entrepreneurial genius. At least that’s how it seems.

  We met Mike at Zibibbo, a relatively upscale restaurant off University. After passing through an open-air space with a fountain and olive trees that served as both the entrance and bar seating, the place turned into one of those lots-of-blond-wood, funky-lighting-fixtures, whimsical-cocktail-glasses kinds of scenes where the digerati like to hang out. If I hadn’t still been full from the previous night’s dining excess, I might have gotten more enthusiastic about the menu. If we hadn’t been meeting Mike I would have loved the place.

  Flank took a position at the “one for lunch” counter that faced the exhibition kitchen and watched us as we were led to a table against the back wall.

  “Who’s your friend?” Mike asked, nodding his head in Flank’s direction.

  “Your replacement,” I said.

  “Oh.” He slid into his seat. “Um, look, Charley, about that—”

  “Never mind.” I waved dismissively.

  “No, really,” he insisted. “I want you to know I really wasn’t spying on you. I was just watching your back. Really.”

  “Right,” I said agreeably. “But now my back and I are happy to report that we are no longer in need of your services.”

  Mike looked uncertainly at Jack, who must have made a “just drop it” face, because he did.

  “So, what’s good here?” Jack asked enthusiastically.

  I sighed and decided to act like an adult. We ordered a bunch of small plate
s to share: olives, a cheese assortment with hazelnut crackers and honey, roasted eggplant with pine nuts, marinated mushrooms, an heirloom tomato salad, and lots of crusty rustic bread to accompany it all.

  What amazed me was how Jack and Mike were able to act so perfectly normal—as if they weren’t spending all their waking hours trying to track down any possibility that an imprisoned former colleague might be waging some sort of war of retribution against us. But no, the conversation was all about Mike’s computer-security company. I had wondered if that had been some sort of cover story, but they both seemed serious about it. Apparently, Mike was “retired” too. And, after all, I supposed a crowded restaurant was no place to compare notes on the activities of a certain traitorous ex-spy currently code-named Macbeth.

  Mike, despite the whole spying-on-me thing—which really did call into question his undercover skills—wasn’t so bad. When he spoke about technology and computer code, all of the “um’s” and “uh’s” that peppered his ordinary speech vanished. I decided the guy was just poorly socialized. And there was a cure for that.

  He also seemed to have a good business head. At least it sounded that way to me—he said things like “intellectual property” and “market capitalization.” I wondered if I should put him together in a room with Eileen and see what happened.

  “So, Mike,” I said, inserting myself into a lull in the conversation. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

  He choked on a mushroom and, I swear, blushed. “Um, a girlfriend?”

  I nodded encouragingly. “You know, like someone to go to movies with. That sort of thing.”

  “He knows what a girlfriend is, Charley,” Jack said dryly. “At least in theory.”

  Mike had recovered enough to protest. “I’ve had girlfriends!”

  “But at the moment…” I pursued.

  He tried to sound casual. “At the moment, I’m, uh, between relationships.” He actually looked proud of the way he’d put it.

  “Really?” I sounded fascinated. “Because I have this friend—”

  “Pumpkin, I really don’t think—”

  “And I think you might like her,” I finished.

  Mike got that trapped male look so common among unmarried nerds of a certain age.

  “Charley, why don’t you tell Mike about your new job?” Jack said.

  I looked at him like he was insane. “My new job?”

  “You know, at the theater…” he gave a very leading emphasis to the last word.

  “The theater?” I repeated. “I’m directing a play,” I told Mike, shooting Jack a “where are we going with this?” look. “We just finished casting.”

  Jack grinned. “Tell him about the actress.”

  “The actress? Oh, right, she’s…” and then I saw it. “Regan?”

  “Her name’s Regan,” Jack told Mike. “And Charley says she’s drop-dead gorgeous.”

  “I don’t think those were my exact words,” I said. “And in any case, I was thinking of Eileen.”

  Jack shook his head. “Eileen’s great, but Regan…” He endowed her name with untold sexual possibilities.

  “Regan?” Mike asked. “An actress?” He looked at me. “You, um, think she’d like me?”

  I looked at Jack, then at Mike. Right. If that’s the way they wanted it.

  “You know,” I said, “I think we should have a dinner party. Don’t you think so, Jack?”

  “I think so.”

  “And that way—” I brushed some crumbs away— “everybody can get to know everybody.” I smiled at Mike.

  He grinned nervously. “Sounds good.”

  And I could seat him next to Eileen.

  ***

  After a while I glanced at my watch and realized it was time to go meet Martha. Ugh. Now that I’d mellowed over lunch I really wasn’t looking forward to providing a sympathetic ear to her tale of a broken heart. But, if that was how I could find out more about Brian…

  “Right.” I turned to Jack. “You guys are going to the office?”

  He nodded. “And you’re going costume shopping?”

  I nodded.

  “And what aren’t you going to do?” he asked.

  I looked over at the counter, where a large pile of dishes cluttered space in front of my bodyguard. “I’m not going to ditch Flank.”

  I was reaching for my purse as a shadow fell across the table. I looked up expecting to see the waiter, and got a nasty shock.

  “Inspector Yahata.”

  The detective stood before us, a pristine figure in a fawn linen suit. He looked brightly from me to Jack. “Mrs. Fairfax, Mr. Fairfax. How fortunate. I was planning to see you later today.” He gave Mike one of those politely quizzical looks that usually sear through my flesh. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “This is Mike Papas, Inspector,” Jack said. “He’s an old friend of mine.”

  “Ah.” The detective produced a microscopic smile.

  “Um, hi,” Mike offered.

  “Why were you planning on seeing us today?” I asked. I didn’t add “as if we believe you’re here by coincidence.”

  “I have a few questions.”

  I waited for the notebook and pen to materialize, but they didn’t. Did that mean this was off the record?

  “Inspector, please join us,” Jack offered.

  Another slight smile. “Thank you, no.” Of course not. Sitting might put a crease in his suit. “But as long as I have you here…” He targeted me with his gaze. “Mrs. Fairfax, we have learned that the man your cousin knew as Tom Nelson was an actor.”

  He waited for my reaction, which I suppose was something between shocked and stunned. Then he went on. “He was hired for what he was told would be a new reality television series—How to Marry an Heiress.”

  My jaw dropped.

  Yahata continued. “He believed he was playing a part, and that his seduction of your cousin was being filmed by hidden cameras.”

  “That’s insane.”

  The detective granted me a barely perceptible shrug. “Never theless.”

  “Inspector,” Jack said. “Do you know who hired him?”

  Yahata flicked his glance toward Jack. “As with the mercenaries, that remains the critical and unanswered question.” He turned back to me. “And the one on which I hoped Mrs. Fairfax might be able to shed some light.”

  “Me?” I squeaked.

  “As someone who has, herself, hired actors.”

  Jack spoke. “If you’re implying —”

  “I imply nothing.” The detective showed a flash of impatience. “I merely enquire of someone with greater experience in the matter than I.”

  I put a hand on Jack’s arm. “Inspector, what would you like to know?”

  “Thank you.” He focused on me. “In your opinion, is it credible that an actor would quit his job, leave his apartment, and check himself into a drug rehabilitation center with the goal of achieving a romantic conquest over a woman he has never met, based solely on one phone call?”

  “What was his job?”

  “Waiting tables.”

  “Did he live alone?”

  “He had four roommates.”

  “What was his last acting job?”

  “A local pet store commercial eight months ago.”

  I have to admit, firing questions off at the inspector felt good. And the answer was obvious. “He’d have done it in a heartbeat.”

  The inspector’s shoulders descended a millimeter, which I assumed was his version of slumping in disappointment.

  “Based on one phone call?” Jack was skeptical.

  “He was told a contract and a check were in the mail,” the inspector informed us.

  I grinned. “Oh, well, if the check was in the mail…”

  But I could tell they still didn’t believe me. I sighed. “Look, actors live on dreams. When it comes to telling them they’re about to be rich and famous, they’re the most gullible people in the world.” I shrugged. “If they were sensible
, they’d be doing something sensible with their lives.” Like producing. “Now, if that’s all, I need to go shopping.”

  The inspector inclined his head, which I interpreted as “Yes, thanks, you’ve been so helpful. Have a good time.” I gave Jack a peck on the cheek, picked up Flank at the bar, and left Yahata in the company of my husband and his Navy buddy.

  ***

  We walked to a shop called Trappings in Time, only a few blocks from the restaurant. Flank followed three steps behind me and I tried to ignore him.

  The store was small, and filled to bursting with clothes from the twenties through the seventies. Above the racks of dresses, suits, evening gowns, and lounging pajamas were shelves displaying hats, purses, scarves, gloves, and any manner of vintage accessories. There was fringe everywhere.

  Martha was in the back, near a rack of highly painful-looking underthings. She was wearing her standard knitwear layers. Today’s ensemble was in shades of gray—a long straight skirt and a gray funnel-necked sweater accented by a long gray-striped scarf. She had pulled her hair into a knot on the top of her head, then jelled the ends into spikes that stuck out at odd angles, rather like the Statue of Liberty’s crown. Her eyes were rimmed with black liner and her lips had vanished under a nude lipstick that perfectly matched her skin tone.

  Anyone else would have looked like a lizard poking out of a steam pipe. Martha looked like the queen of another planet. And she was already hard at work.

  “Okay,” she briefed me. “We’re mostly looking for the graduation dress for Regan in the first act, and whatever else we can find along the lines of housedresses for the mother or fabulous bowling shirts for Paul and the father.” She waited for some sign of comprehension from me, then turned her back and began critically assessing a rack of what looked like ancient bridesmaid dresses.

  Looking around, it seemed to me that we’d have had better luck if we were trying to costume a drag show set in 1973, but I followed Martha’s example and started digging for gold. We were mainly looking for ideas and vintage pieces to deconstruct for patterns. Martha would use these as a jumping-off point and build the show’s costumes based on them, but in a color palette integrated with the show’s overall artistic design.