Ms America and the Brouhaha on Broadway (35 page)

He pauses for such a long moment that dread pools in my stomach. It’s as if we’re at some sort of terrible precipice and if he says another word, we’ll pitch over.

Then he does speak again, saying words I never thought I’d hear. “I don’t think you love me anymore.”

“Jason, that is so not true. I do love you.”

“I don’t think I’m enough for you. I used to be, but I’m not anymore.”

“Please don’t say that. It’s not true.”

“I have to say it. It’s like the only thing I can think about. And if I’m not enough for you, Happy, then you’re not right for me, either.”

I reach out to him. “Jason—”

He shakes his head and I get the idea he might cry, which he never does. But he manages to go on speaking. “I think we both need some time. I’ve got to fly back to Charlotte today anyway.”

Our next-door neighbor chooses that moment to turn on the TV. For a few seconds until the volume goes down, news blares through the wall. Something about a hit-and-run. Somebody else’s tragedy.

I try to find my voice. “Jason, I really don’t want to say goodbye like this.”

“It’ll be okay.” He steps forward and grabs me in a hug, holding on to me so tightly it almost hurts. His skin is very warm and his heart is pounding. I don’t know how my own heart has managed to keep beating through all of this. I guess it’s stronger than I gave it credit for. “It’ll be okay,” he says again, and I wish I could believe him, but right now I’m not sure anything will ever be all right again.

He pulls back. “And don’t worry. I won’t say anything about Mario. I don’t know why it’s up to me to protect the guy, but I’ll do it.” He lets go of me and a shock of cold air hits my body. “I’m going to take a shower,” he says, and disappears into the bathroom. Moments later it’s our shower water that’s pounding.

I move through the next hour in a daze. Under overcast skies, Jason and I find a Starbucks and share a somber breakfast. He refuses my offer to accompany him to the airport, which I agree would be pointless, but that means I’m forced to stand outside the Sofitel and watch a taxicab take him away. I return to my apartment to find it empty, although Trixie and Shanelle come back moments later pumped after completing a three-mile run.

I burst into tears the moment I see them. My tale comes out in dribs and drabs, between pacing and sobs. I keep to myself the fact that Mario is with the F.B.I.; it’s bad enough I shared it once today and it should go no further. Eventually I sink onto a chair. “I know I’ve been dazzled by Mario and I know I’ve had my doubts about my marriage. But that doesn’t mean I want it to end.”

“Jason doesn’t want it to end, either,” Shanelle says. “He’s just thrown by how tight you and Mario are.”

“Every marriage has its rough patches,” Trixie says.

Shanelle looks thoughtful. “I know you’ve always got a plan, girl, and you like to stick to it, but maybe you can change some things up. You could move to Charlotte before Rachel goes overseas. Your mom would stay with her, I’m sure.”

“That would drive Rachel crazy,” I say.

“Maybe,” Trixie allows. “But it would show Jason how important he is to you.”

At what cost, though? I’d lose out on the last few months of my daughter going to high school. Of the last few months of her living at home. It’s hard not to burst into a fresh round of waterworks when I contemplate that bleak picture. Jason has admitted how hard it is for him to be away from Rachel and I’ve secretly been relieved that I haven’t yet had to share that pain.

But then again, I have to keep my priorities straight.

“Both of you are right,” I say. “I want to stay married to Jason and if that requires sacrifice, so be it.”

I’ve just finished making that portentous declaration when my phone vibrates with a text. I race across the apartment to pick it up. “It’s from Jason,” I report. It feels like a positive sign that he’s texting me at this moment.

“And?” Trixie murmurs a moment later.

I sniffle. Then I smile. “He says he loves me.”

Shanelle grabs me in another hug. We three have done a lot of that this morning. Her eyes are misty when she pulls back. “Trust in that, girl. It got you this far. And text him that you love him, too.”

I make quick work of that assignment.

“It’ll be fine,” Trixie assures me. “And in the meanwhile, you’ve got us. You’ve got us afterward, too, matter of fact.”

“And now why don’t I make a fresh pot of coffee,” Shanelle suggests, which launches us into the next topic of discussion. Murder.

I get a round of high fives for calling that one. Trixie’s eyes widen when I describe how I found the ball bearing. “I wonder if Lisette’s ghost was in the orchestra pit with you when you found it,” she breathes. “Maybe she led you to it. Maybe her ghost bumped into the music stand so you’d bend down to pick everything up and find the ball bearing that killed her.”

“You’re giving me the creeps, Trix,” Shanelle says, “and I don’t even believe in ghosts.” She turns to me. “Sorry for doubting you, girl.”

“No worries. I doubted me, too.”

“Whoever killed Lisette did a dang fine job of making it look like an accident,” Shanelle goes on. “You honestly think Kimberly could pull that off?”

“I’ve been asking myself that very same question. And you know what? That girl is pretty conniving. I bet she tried everything in the book to seduce Jason.”

“Not that it worked,” Shanelle points out. “Anyway, I don’t think Kimberly’s your killer. Seems to me she’s got too few brain cells.” She lowers her voice. “Reminds me of a certain hairdresser we all know.”

“Why are you always so mean to Cynthia?” Trixie cries. “If she had a good mom like we all did, she would’ve been a beauty queen, too. And who knows how many pageants she might’ve won.”

“Speaking of moms,” I say, “I wonder how my mom’s shoot went.” I call her to find out, but not before confirming with
Dream Angel
’s publicity department that she and Bennie have tickets to tonight’s preview. “Your fur’s supposed to be repaired by later today, so you should be able to wear it to the theater,” I tell her when I get her on the phone.

“Bennie thought something was up last night when we went out for dinner and all I had on was that red sweater from Chico’s.”

“You’re lucky it was such a warm day.” I’m still peeved that my mom never told Bennie she almost lost the fur he gave her.

“I made us go out to dinner at 5:30 so it wouldn’t be too cold. By the way, that hussy Kimberly is supposed to show me the photos in about an hour. Want to help pick out the good ones?”

“I would, but I have to get to the theater.” I received another summons from Junior. I wonder what he wants now. Maybe for me to buy him more fancy tea.

“I’ll get that Kimberly to show you the photos later,” my mom says. “I wouldn’t mind if you made sure your father sees them when they’re all printed up. Especially the ones of me and Bennie.”

“So you’re still using Bennie to tweak Pop? Didn’t you think about that at least a little yesterday, like I asked you to?”

“So you won’t do it. Fine. I’ll ask Rachel.”

I shake my head. It’s hopeless.

I don’t even bring up the wrenching discussion Jason and I had this morning. If my mother knew there were trouble in my marriage, she’d make a beeline for St. Patrick’s Cathedral to pray that God split us asunder. Even though divorce is against Catholic doctrine, she’s opined more than once that the Almighty would make an exception in my case.

Given my fashion-show rendezvous this morning—which has both Trixie and Shanelle green with envy—I dress carefully. I don’t have anything with me that Violet Honeycutt would admire, but I can attempt understated yet chic. I choose an all-black, long-sleeved, bateau-neck dress with ruching at the side and back seams. It fits like a dream. With stilettos and my new asymmetrical earrings, my hair loose and my makeup meticulously applied, I feel confident heading out the door.

“Please tell Tonya we’ll be there very soon,” Trixie calls as I depart. As opening night nears, Tonya is fretting about her beauty-queen stride and has requested an emergency refresher course. Of course all three of us are delighted to oblige, but it’s clear Tonya especially longs for Trixie’s reassuring presence.

I find our star in her dressing room wearing jeans, a black turtleneck, and a wool scarf even though she’s indoors. I perch on her pink settee to tell her my BFFs will join her shortly.

“No rush,” she whispers. “Sorry about this”—she gestures to the scarf—“but I’m trying to protect my throat. I gargle with salt twice a day and I’m drinking tea with honey pretty much nonstop. I’m so terrified I’ll get sick and lose my voice for opening night.”

In which case her stand-in would fill in for her. Sort of like Sherry Phillips providing Sebastian Cantwell with the testimonial I flubbed, although that was hardly the biggest opportunity of my career. Nevertheless, I feel Tonya’s pain. “Just relax. You’ll be fine.”

She twists open a lipstick and tests the color on the inside of her wrist. “Did you notice the cops are back? They’re crawling all over the stage. What’s that all about, do you think?”

I know, of course, but I feel I shouldn’t say. It’s probably not yet public information that Lisette’s death is now considered a homicide. “Maybe just wrapping up loose ends,” I suggest. Then I get an idea. “By the way, I heard the weirdest gossip the other day that Lisette and Kimberly were at each other’s throats. Did you ever see—”

“Oh, my God, yes!” Tonya hisses. “For a while it was a catfight every day of the week. But that’s because Lisette kept trying to get Kimberly fired.”

“Are you kidding me?” I screech. “Why?”

“Because Lisette hated the publicity photos Kimberly took of her. I never saw them, so I don’t know if they were really bad or if it was just Lisette being Lisette. But she insisted they be redone and not by Kimberly. Jerry had to do them. He took my shots and he is extremely good.”

“Did that settle it?”

“It should have, but you know what Lisette was like.” Tonya re-caps the lipstick. “Even after her second photo session, when she found a photo she loved, she was still trying to get Kimberly fired. I heard all about it from Jody in publicity. You know her?”

I don’t, but I know it’s the publicity department that hires—and presumably fires—the show’s photographers.

So Kimberly had another reason besides Damian to be angry with Lisette. True, protecting her job doesn’t seem like a strong motive. She can be confident her uncle will always throw work her way. Still, it intensifies my suspicion of her, which fills me with a certain malevolent glee.

I lower my voice as if I’m about to confide a secret. “Did you ever meet Lisette’s boyfriend?”

“She had a boyfriend?”

“Some guy named Damian, I heard. You never saw him around?”

“Never once did I see her with a guy.” She lowers her voice to such a quiet whisper I can barely hear her. “Not that that surprised me, to be honest.”

I get her meaning. “I’ve got to go see Oliver.” I rise from the settee. “Command performance.”

“He’s even more of a nervous wreck than usual today,” Tonya whispers. “But since tomorrow is opening night, I suppose we all are.”

Maybe opening night jitters are the reason for Junior’s heightened anxiety. Or maybe he knows the cops now believe Lisette was murdered and fears they’ll soon be on his scent.

En route to Junior’s office, I wonder why Kimberly would be so insistent about being backstage when Lisette fell if she were the murderer. After all, that location gave her the opportunity to commit the crime.

Then I realize that all Kimberly knows is that everyone believes Lisette’s death was accidental. Which means that all Kimberly is trying to do is protect herself against the accusation that she caused Lisette to fall by distracting her with her phone. That would’ve been impossible if Kimberly had been backstage.

There’s something else I shouldn’t forget. At the point in
Dream Angel
at which Lisette interrupted the production and fell, most of the actors were on stage but most of the crew members were backstage. Meaning any random crew member might be the killer. I know of bad blood between Lisette and Kimberly and between Lisette and Junior but, knowing Lisette, many other feuds might have been raging.

I arrive at Junior’s office. He keeps talking on the phone while he motions me inside. He gestures for me to shut the door and I comply.

“My point is that this is way too big a story to keep under wraps,” he tells whoever he’s got on the line. “It’s going to get out, and soon.”

Hearing that, I bet Junior has been told the N.Y.P.D. is now thinking homicide.

“So what I’m telling you to do,” he goes on, “is twofold. Make sure this doesn’t hurt us. And come up with ways it can help us. Pronto.” He hangs up.

There’s Junior for you, trying to make hay out of Lisette’s murder.

“So,” he says to me, “wanna hear the latest?” And he fills me in on the news I already know.

I do my best to appear shocked and appalled. “Who told you?”