Speak Now Page 26

I’d been toying with the idea of bringing all the suspects together, the way they do in the movies, and waiting for someone to incriminate themselves. So far the suspects included only Regan and Paul, but still…I felt it was time for a dinner party.

  Harry had liked the plan when I’d mentioned it to him, and had offered the use of his house. Dialing his number, I was hoping the offer would include the use of Gordon’s culinary skills. It was Gordon who answered.

  “How are you, Gordon? How’s Cece doing?” It had been a little over a month since Cece’s rescue, and our paths hadn’t crossed since.

  “Your cousin is…out for the morning,” Gordon said.

  I didn’t like the little pause in his sentence. I sat up in bed. “She’s out? At 11:30 on a Sunday morning? Don’t tell me she’s at church,” I joked.

  There was a distinct silence on the phone.

  “She’s at church?”

  “In a manner of speaking. Miss Gee has taken her to a women’s retreat. ‘A day of mindfulness and meditation’ is, I believe, how she described the event. At a spiritual center somewhere near Big Basin.”

  That sounded like Brenda. She’d dragged me along on more than one occasion to sit in the woods with a collection of natural-fiber-clothing types who clearly got more out of the proceedings than I did. I was surprised Cece had been talked into going. And I thought I detected a smidgen of disapproval in Gordon’s voice.

  “Don’t you believe in meditation, Gordon?” I fished.

  “As a matter of fact, I have a daily practice which facilitates a great tranquility of the mind.”

  Oh. “Really? Then why do I get the feeling you’re not altogether thrilled that Cece’s gone with Brenda?” Could he be jealous? It wasn’t the first time I’d wondered if Gordon was developing a thing for Cece.

  He paused before answering. “It isn’t the fact that your cousin has gone with Miss Gee which troubles me, it’s that your uncle has seen fit to accompany them.”

  Harry? At a women’s meditation retreat? The mind boggled.

  “He felt they needed his protection away from the house,” Gordon added. “So he went…ah…undercover.”

  “Please don’t tell me he’s in drag.”

  “Please don’t think I would have allowed that,” Gordon answered smoothly. “He is masquerading as their driver. He is acting as their bodyguard.”

  Somehow, once I’d pictured Harry in a floppy hat and peasant blouse, seeing him as a Flank wanna-be wasn’t nearly as amusing.

  “Well, I’m sure they’ll be fine.” I wasn’t, really.

  “I’ll tell them you called,” Gordon said.

  “Wait, Gordon. I actually wanted to talk to you.”

  A pause. “Yes?”

  All of a sudden I was nervous. “Um, I’m planning a little dinner party for a week from today.”

  “Yes?”

  “And Harry has offered to let me use the house.” Before he could say “yes” again, I went on. “So I was wondering if you might be available.”

  “Why, thank you,” he said. “I’d be delighted to attend.”

  Oops. This was proof that I wasn’t meant to organize my own parties. I stammered. “Oh. Oh, well, that’s…that’s just…”

  Did I hear laughter from the phone? Not laughter exactly, but definitely a soft chuckle. “Please,” Gordon stopped my babbling. “I apologize. Of course I understand that you’d like me to cook for your party, and I’d be happy to do so. I was just having a little fun with you.”

  I stared at the phone. Gordon had a sense of humor? Gordon could tease? Who knew? “Oh, um…” I recovered beautifully.

  “Shall we discuss the menu?” he asked.

  ***

  After Gordon and I had weighed the various attributes and drawbacks of sea bass, reduction sauces, and seasonal greens to his satisfaction—and a bit beyond my comprehension—I hung up and made my next call.

  “Simon?”

  There were muffled sounds of activity on the line, but no voice had spoken.

  “Simon, it’s Charley.” I waited.

  Finally, “Charley,” breathless, “darling. What time is it? I thought we weren’t meeting until two-ish.” More muffled activity and a distinct thump. “Ow. Stop that.”

  “Is this a bad time?”

  “No!” I wasn’t sure if that was meant for me or his companion. “Charley, hang on a minute.” Another thump and what might have been a slap. “What is it, darling? What’s happened?”

  Assuming that was addressed to me, I said, “A dinner party.”

  “How lovely. Did you have a nice time?”

  “I didn’t go to one, I’m having one.”

  “Oh, even lovelier. And I’m invited?” Then he placed his hand over the mouthpiece, which didn’t stop me from hearing, “No, run the bath. I’ll be right there.”

  “You are invited,” I told him. “A week from today. At Harry’s house in Hillsborough.”

  “Excellent. And who have you invited for me?”

  “The primary purpose of the evening isn’t to find you a date,” I told him.

  “You’re very cruel sometimes, darling. What is?”

  “What is what?” I asked.

  “What is the primary purpose of the evening?”

  “To have a nice time?”

  “Just that?”

  “What else would there be?” I said innocently.

  “Not, for example, to ferret out a killer?” Simon enquired. “Not to trap an unwary villain? Are we all to be characters in some Agatha Christie-inspired dinner drama?”

  “It’ll just be a friendly little get-together with the gang and a few assorted extras,” I lied.

  “I’ll try to believe that.”

  ***

  I’d just put down the receiver when the phone rang.

  “Charley?”

  “Eileen! I was just going to call you.”

  “I haven’t dared ask how things are going,” she said. “But how are things going?”

  I brought her up to speed on the production.

  “And no more bodies?” she asked.

  “I’d have told you.”

  “I’m not so sure of that. What were you going to call me about?”

  I invited her to the party.

  “Next Sunday? That’s perfect. Anthony gets back from his dad’s a week from tomorrow, so your party will be my last free evening for a while.” I hadn’t seen Anthony since before I’d left for London, but I’d heard all about how much he’d grown and how well he’d been doing in school. Apparently he was studying Japanese. An underachiever, like his mother.

  “I can’t wait to see him again. He must be getting so big.” What else can you say about someone’s son?

  “You’d better bone up on your PlayStation trivia,” she warned. “That’s all he wants to talk about these days.” She paused. “I miss him.”

  “One more week,” I said.

  ***

  Eventually I dragged myself away from the phone and out of bed. I showered and dressed in the jeans and long-sleeved tee that was becoming my standard uniform, then tucked the Walther into my waistband. I’d gotten used to carrying the gun in the small of my back. I suppose I should have gotten a real holster, but I hadn’t made the time.

  I was rummaging through the mess at the bottom of the closet, looking for the mate to my most comfortable Cole Haans, when I came across the box containing the gun Harry had loaned me, the Smith & Wesson. I was already carrying one unlicensed concealed weapon, so I didn’t really need another. But then, I didn’t need five pair of black high-heeled strappy sandals either. I took the .38 out of its box, checked to make sure it was loaded, and tossed it into the messenger bag.

  Flank and I walked to the theater, as usual. But in a stunning turn of events, San Francisco was experiencing a genuinely sunny summer day. It was a shame I’d be spending the rest of it in a dusty old theater basement. But just because I was, everyone didn’t have to.

  “Flank,” I said, “
it’s just going to be Simon and Paris and Martha and Chip today. We’re just going to look over the props and costumes for a few hours. It seems silly for you to hang around for that. Why don’t you go enjoy the sunshine? Go to the park or something.”

  Flank nodded several times and said something that was probably “No way.” He held the door open for me.

  “Your loss,” I told him.

  I found Chip and Paris onstage with a measuring tape and clipboard, respectively.

  “Hey, Charley,” Chip greeted me. “We thought we’d get started without you.”

  “Go for it.” I watched them work for a while, and eventually was joined by Martha and Simon.

  Martha had only stayed away for a few days after the discovery of Brian’s body. She’d come back subdued, and had enveloped herself in black ever since, but I don’t suppose anyone really noticed. The biggest change, according to the head stitcher, had been in the redesign of most of the costumes. “They’re still fifties,” she had reassured me as we’d munched lunchtime salads a few days before, “but darker somehow. As if it’s the fifties of the Communist witch hunts and the Cold War, rather than of Elvis and I Love Lucy.”

  That made me just a little bit nervous. I couldn’t imagine a professional like Martha making any drastic changes without my approval. But when I’d asked her about it, she’d said “Trust me.” Never a good sign.

  The costume and properties workshops were in the basement of the theater. I didn’t like it down there. Probably because I’d grown up in earthquake country, I get uncomfortable below ground. It was unusual to have a basement in a San Francisco building as old as the theater. It had been an addition, scooped out during a seismic retrofitting sometime in the eighties. That should have made me feel better, but it didn’t.

  Martha had done her best to cheer up the costume shop by hanging sari silks on the walls and using lots of floor lamps instead of the cold overhead fluorescent lights, but fabric could only do so much to soften concrete.

  Martha and her staff had dressed five dressmaker’s dummies in outfits to be worn by Regan, Paul, Olivia, Victor, and little Sally. As soon as I saw the clothes I knew what the stitcher had meant. The costumes were darker somehow. Emotionally darker. It was as if everything, from the fitted bodice on the party dress for Regan to the stiff fabric of Victor’s suit, was just a little harsher, a little more confining, than it had been before.

  “What I’m going for,” Martha explained, “is the sense of being held captive by the clothing. It looks beautiful, but it restricts movement, even restricts breathing a little.” She looked at us expectantly.

  “This one’s pretty,” Chip said, gesturing to the party dress.

  Martha gave him a look of grave disappointment.

  “I see it,” Simon said. “It’s a commentary on the society of the time. The repression, the conformity that Regan is rebelling against.” Martha and I stared at him in amazement. “What?” He looked a little ruffled.

  “Nothing, Simon,” I said. “You expressed it beautifully. And Martha, they’re wonderful. They’ll add a whole new emotional dimension. It’s subtle, but on a subconscious level—”

  “Thank you,” Martha cut me off. Clearly, she was uncomfortable with compliments.

  “Girl, they’re perfect,” Paris declared. “Now, who wants to see the props?”

  “Hang on,” I said. “Aren’t there more?”

  She nodded. “In the walk-in. I took these out just to show you. Everything else stays in the closet until it’s time to use it. This basement is so damp,” she said to Simon, somewhat accusingly. “We need to keep dehumidifiers running all the time to make sure the clothes aren’t damaged.”

  She opened a door on the back wall, behind an enormous padded table. I followed her into a large closet.

  “Wow,” I said when Martha flicked on the light. “This is a lot of costumes.”

  “It’s everything we’ve done for the past three seasons, sorted by period and gender.” She sounded proud and I could see why.

  “It’s so clean,” I said. “And organized.”

  Martha smiled. “Remember before you went to London when I asked you for budget to have it fitted out?” I didn’t, but that didn’t seem to matter. “We covered the walls with moisture-repellant materials and had the dehumidifiers installed. It’s temperature-controlled, which is more than I can say for the workroom. We were also able to get some shelving and a cedar floor. The only weaknesses are the doors.”

  “Doors?” I looked around but could only see one.

  “This one down here leads to an electrical room.” She pushed some Elizabethan dresses aside to reveal a painted metal door. “I think you’ll like the takeoffs on the bowling shirt that we did for Paul.” She rolled a rack of costumes toward me. “Here’s everything for this production, sorted by actor.”

  We looked through the clothes, and, although I had a few suggestions, the overall impression was that Martha was a genius.

  ***

  Across the hall in Paris’ realm, it was harder to figure out what was going on. Everything was stacked on top of everything else, with furniture, kitchen fixtures, and trees thrown into the mix seemingly at random.

  The actual sets had been constructed off-site, then loaded into the theater. In the onsite workshop, Paris’ crew built the furniture and other props to be used in the sets.

  The bits and pieces scattered across the properties shop looked like something from news footage of a tornado’s aftermath. Paris picked out a kitchen chair and began to describe how it integrated into the overall artistic vision. I looked around at the rest of the collection.

  It was going to be a long afternoon.

  ***

  I didn’t stop talking all through dinner. Jack took me to Moose’s in North Beach, which was sort of a shame because I love Moose’s and I was so caught up in telling Jack about the sets and costumes that I didn’t even notice my fig and goat cheese salad or my steak with horseradish mashed potatoes. But by the time the blueberry tart with homemade marshmallows arrived, perhaps because that coincided with finishing the bottle of wine, I had slowed down enough to ask Jack if he’d made any progress on the hunt for the killer.

  His lips tightened slightly. “It’s possible.”

  I dropped my fork. “Are you serious? And you let me just go on like that about the stupid show?”

  “It isn’t stupid and I couldn’t have stopped you if I’d tried.”

  “Well, that’s true.” I dipped my finger into the creamy marshmallow. Jack sighed and gave me his fork. “Thank you. Now tell me everything.”

  “It may not be anything,” he frowned. “But Mike may have traced something to a bank in the Cayman Islands.”

  “He followed the money,” I said sagely.

  “He did.”

  “What money?”

  “The money Macbeth used to pay the actors.”

  I almost dropped Jack’s fork. “So it’s true? Macbeth set everything in motion before he was killed?”

  Jack ran a hand across his face. “Working with someone on the outside, yes.”

  I let it sink in. “Brian? Refrigerated Brian? Do you think he was Macbeth’s contact?”

  “We know he used Brian to find the actors.” Jack paused. “But I don’t believe Brian and Macbeth were full-fledged partners. Brian was probably useful at first because Macbeth was looking around for your weak spots, and the Rep was an obvious place to start. The fact that Brian had lied about his background might have made him easy for Macbeth to manipulate, and his list of actors who’d do just about anything without asking questions was an added bonus. But from what Yahata’s been able to find, Brian wasn’t a killer.”

  I pushed the remains of the tart away. Something about Macbeth having looked for my weak spots took my appetite away.

  Jack went on. “It worked for a while. Brian was able to report on what was happening at the Rep. That’s how Macbeth would have found out about Nancy. She was single and local,
and perfect for what he had in mind.”

  Okay, it was possible I’d never have an appetite again.

  “But eventually Brian got cold feet. You told me Chip and Paris were skeptical about him. He probably knew he’d be found out eventually.”

  “And when he tried to back out of his deal with Macbeth…”

  “He’d outlived his usefulness.”

  I tried not to think of the body tumbling slowly out of the refrigerator. “So, with Brian gone, Macbeth needed someone else to infiltrate the Rep.”

  “Right.” Jack waited for me to make the next logical leap.

  Which only took a moment. “That bloody blond bitch!”

  Jack signaled for the check. “If that’s your way of referring to the lovely Regan—”

  “Has Mike been able to find out anything about her? Why she’s dating Rix, for example?”

  “As a matter of fact, he has found something,” Jack grinned.

  “Are you going to tell me?”

  The grin got wider. “Pumpkin, how do you feel about porn?”

  “That’s not a very smooth way of changing the subject.”

  “I’m not changing the subject.” He gave me raised eyebrows.

  “Regan?” I got it. “The princess is a porn star?”

  “Which I’m sure she doesn’t want you or anyone else to know.”

  “And which would explain why she used a sugar daddy instead of an agent to get cast in the play.” I wondered if Rix knew.

  “And which also would have made her a fairly ripe candidate for blackmail by Macbeth.”

  Our eyes locked, and I said it again. “That bloody blond bitch.”

  ***

  When we got back to the hotel there was a wrapped gift on the bed.

  “What’s this?” I’m ashamed to say my first thought was to send for the bomb squad.

  “Open it,” Jack said. “It’s not ticking.”

  It’s possible he was getting to know me too well.

  I pulled off the ribbon and paper. It was a book. The Collected Poems of Percy Bysshe Shelley.

  “Jack! When did you get this?”

  “Today,” he said as he vanished into the closet. “There are a lot of bookstores in Palo Alto.”

  “I didn’t think you were even paying attention…” I opened the cover and saw that Jack had written something on the first page.