Ms America and the Brouhaha on Broadway (38 page)

“Exactly. And while Oliver might’ve hired somebody to kill Lisette, he wasn’t backstage to do it himself.” I explain why. My BFFs find Junior’s secret McDonald’s habit pretty hilarious.

“But Oliver is still a suspect,” Trixie says. “And so is Kimberly.”

True. And just today I heard from Tonya yet another reason why our petite would-be homewrecker would’ve loved to see Lisette dispatched to the Great Beyond: Lisette was scheming to get her fired. I rise to look for my phone, which I’ve been shunning since the fashion show. Among the concerned texts and calls is a voicemail from Mario Suave. As you can imagine, I listen to it ASAP.

“He wants me to call as soon as I can,” I tell Trixie and Shanelle. “He says it’s important.”

Shanelle harrumphs. “
I
know better than to stand between you and your cell phone when Mr. Suave wants a call back.”

I ignore Shanelle’s snarky comment and relocate to the semi-privacy of our kitchen to return Mario’s call.

“I wasn’t trying to reach you because of the case,” he tells me. “Although there is one new development. My contact told me there are no fingerprints on the ball bearing.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. That would be a pretty basic mistake.”

And thus we exhaust the topic of Lisette’s murder. Mario pauses and I wonder what else could be so important that he wanted me to call him as soon as possible. Then he speaks again, in as somber a tone as I’ve ever heard from him. “I want you to know that I agree with you, Happy. We can’t keep going on this way.”

It’s unmistakable, the note of finality in his voice. “What are you saying?”

“It has to be yes or no for us. It can’t keep on being maybe or someday. Not for me, anyway. It has to be yes or no.”

I know he’s right. That doesn’t mean I’m ready for this. “You know we’ve tried this before. Tried to cut each other off.”

“Yes. And what happens? At the first possible moment, we both backslide. That’s why for me it’s decision time.”

So. An ultimatum. I can’t really blame Mario. We’re in a sort of limbo and have been for a while.

“Are you free tonight around six?” he goes on.

“Yes.” Senior promised me he’d stay away from tonight’s preview. Blackmail is so very effective.

“Then,” Mario goes on, “if you want us to be together, meet me at the Empire State Building. At the open-air observation deck on the 86
th
floor. If I don’t see you there, I’ll know what that means.”

“Mario, this is very
An Affair to Remember
.”

“Yes. Yes, it is.” He hesitates, then: “I’m sorry, Happy, but I just have to know. Once and for all.”

Then he’s gone. Just like that. Poof.

I have a few hours to decide. Not that there’s anything
to
decide, really. I’m married to Jason and I love him. Just this morning I vowed to make sacrifices for our marriage. Still, I’m crushed at the idea of never seeing Mario again. Being with him might be an improbable fantasy, but that doesn’t mean I don’t treasure it. That doesn’t mean that on some level way deep down, I don’t want it to come true.

“You all right, girl?” Shanelle wants to know.

I realize she’s standing behind me. I wonder for how long. I force myself to turn and face her inquisitive eyes. “I’m fine,” I lie.

“What did Mario want?”

I hesitate for only a second. “To tell me no fingerprints were found on the ball bearing.” I don’t want to tell her what Mario really wanted. I don’t want to hear what she thinks. Because I know what she thinks. Now what does that tell me?

Trixie comes into the kitchen to stand behind Shanelle. “Oh, my Lord. If there are no prints, it’s going to be even harder to figure out who the murderer is.”

“It sure enough is.”

Not a peep comes out of Shanelle. She just stares at me. At moments like these, I wish she weren’t so darn good at reading read every single thought that passes between my ears.

“Do you want to meet up with your mom and Bennie at the Met?” Trixie asks me. “Shanelle and I are going. I’d hate to leave New York without seeing it, but you might want to hang out and try to figure out who killed Lisette.” Her eyes grow serious. “I could skip the Met and help, if you want.”

“That’s a really sweet offer, but you know what? Let’s all go to the Met. Sometimes I get my best ideas when I’m out and about. I’ll be ready in fifteen.” I escape Shanelle’s penetrating gaze by busying myself with dressing. I keep it simple and all black: skinny jeans, turtleneck, 3-inch-heel booties. I can’t even bring myself to wear my new asymmetrical earrings: they’re too festive. Today I’m going with plain silver studs.

The Metropolitan Museum of Art would be overwhelming even if I were in full possession of my faculties. As it is, I’m only too happy to adhere to the viewing suggestions that Bennie texted Trixie.

We begin by admiring the sprawling Fifth Avenue façade, which to me has a monumental Greek temple look. “It’s Beaux-Arts, which lots of public buildings were in the late nineteenth century,” Trixie says, reading from her phone. “What amazes me is that now, after so many additions, this museum has over two million square feet of floor space.”

“You could visit every day for a year,” I say, “and always see something new.” We walk up the grand front steps. “We’re supposed to meet Bennie and my mom in the Egyptian Galleries, right?” I ask Trixie.

“Yes, back here on the first floor,” she says, and soon we’re walking past sarcophagi, sculptures and sphinxes. Like everyone else in this gallery, we’re pulled as if by a magnet to the stunning Temple of Dendur, one of the museum’s highlights, which presides over a breathtaking room with a floor-to-ceiling glass wall that looks out on Central Park.

“This temple was constructed in the fifteenth century B.C.,” Trixie murmurs. “Egypt gave it to the U.S. as a gift after we helped salvage monuments that would’ve been flooded by Lake Nasser after the Aswan Dam was built.”

It’s an astonishing sandstone structure that’s even more incredible close-up when you examine the carvings of papyrus and lotus plants, deities and vultures.

“That reflecting pool in front represents the Nile,” Shanelle whispers.

Even my mother seems awestruck. We find her and Bennie peering at a segment of wall covered by hieroglyphics. “I don’t know how they got this thing here from that Egypt,” my mother says.

“By the freighter Concordia Star,” Bennie says. “All these stone blocks put together weigh eight hundred tons.”

“Thank God that ship didn’t sink,” my mother says.

We’re taking our time wandering around the temple when Bennie steps away to take a call on his cell.

“Your skin still looks fabulous, Mrs. P,” Trixie says.

“It better still look good on Easter. So what have you all been up to today?”

I’ve just started describing the fashion show when Bennie rejoins us wearing a puzzled expression. He looks at my mother. “I just got a call from the Saks Fifth Avenue fur salon. They told me your fur is ready to be picked up.”

Uh oh. I glance at Trixie, whose hand has flown to her throat. When she dropped off the fur, she probably neglected to tell the salon not to call the number on the account to alert us when the repair was done. I probably would’ve forgotten that detail as well.

My mother gulps. “Uh … the lining got torn.”

“How did that happen?” Bennie wants to know. “You’ve barely worn the fur here. I was even starting to think you didn’t like it.”

Nobody says a word. If anybody is going to make this confession, it’s got to be my mom.

She throws a desperate glance in my direction, then: “I’ve got something to tell you, Bennie,” she says, and out the story comes, all of it, or nearly all of it, for she does not reveal why she was so distracted Saturday afternoon that she managed to leave the salon minus the fur.

“No wonder you were never wearing it.” Bennie isn’t saying much, but his hurt and disappointment are palpable. “And this has been going on for three days and you never told me.”

“I didn’t want you to be upset,” my mother says.

Bennie says nothing. I bet that he, like me, knows my mom isn’t being entirely truthful even now. She wasn’t so much worried that Bennie would be upset; she wanted him never to find out what she had done.

Finally he speaks again. “Well, you didn’t trust me enough to tell me. So I am upset. Excuse me,” and off he goes.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. P,” Trixie says a moment later. “It’s my fault for not—”

“No. It’s not your fault, Trixie.” She meets my gaze. “It’s mine.” Now she looks as dejected as Bennie. This is turning out to be a melancholy day all around. “You were right, Happy,” she tells me.

“I was just afraid Bennie would be more hurt by your keeping this from him than he would be that you mislaid the fur.” It’s deception that kills relationships, after all. Most everything else can be gotten past.

“So what do I do now?” she asks.

“You best leave him be,” Shanelle says. “Let’s tour some of the other exhibits and give him time to come back on his own.”

“I think that’s good advice, Mrs. P,” Trixie says.

I glance at my watch. Seven o’clock isn’t far away now. And somehow amidst all of this I have figured out what I will do. “I’ll go pick up the fur,” I say.

“Then we can all meet up for dinner before the preview,” Shanelle says.

“I hope nobody minds,” Trixie says, “but I invited Cynthia to join us for dinner. She seemed kind of upset when I talked to her earlier.”

“I think that girl’s always upset,” Shanelle mutters.

“You all go on ahead,” I say. “Don’t wait for me.”

“Do you have to babysit Oliver’s father again?” Trixie asks.

“I have another errand to run,” I say, careful to avoid Shanelle’s gaze. I turn to my mom. “I’ll drop the fur off at your room so you can wear it tonight.”

“Maybe that’ll make Bennie happy,” she says.

Maybe.

Since I don’t have much time, I take a cab to Saks. Given the Fifth Avenue traffic, even that takes half an hour. Fifteen minutes later, with the perfectly repaired fur in tow, I hail another taxi. “The Empire State Building,” I tell the driver.

It’s clear to me now. I cannot be with Mario. I love Jason and I want to stay married to him. He was my love the day I married him and he is my love today. But I need to explain to Mario what he’s meant to me, and why. Not showing up tonight seems like too strong a rejection of him and that’s not how I feel. I don’t know what would have happened between us if I’d been free when we met, but I must stop dwelling on what might have been. I must live my life the way it is.

The cab reaches 34
th
Street. “I’ll get out here,” I tell the driver, and hand him a ten. I don’t have time to wait for change. I scramble out of the taxi and stand on the sidewalk to gaze up at the Empire State Building straining toward heaven through the inky sky. Tonight the lighting at the top is the classic signature white.

I’m leaning back admiring the tower for one final moment when it hits me. I don’t have my mother’s fur in my arms.

I left it in the cab.

The cab is long gone. It’s one among a gazillion vehicles heading downtown on Fifth Avenue.

On the other hand, I realize a beat later, it can’t have gotten very far. All four lanes are crowded with traffic. If I hustle I might still be able to catch it.

I’m embarrassed to admit it, but for a fleeting moment I consider going to see Mario instead of chasing down my mother’s fur. Then I get a hold of myself. This moment is not about Mario. After all, why am I here at the Empire State Building in the first place? I’m here to say goodbye to him.

I raise my head and gaze up at the building, impossibly tall and wondrous. Mario is up there waiting for me. Deep in my soul I know he wants me to appear. He will be sad for a long time when I don’t.

I close my eyes, mouth a silent goodbye, and move on to the rest of my Mario-less life. Which begins with me getting my mother’s fur back.

If I can.

I chase cabs, oh, how I chase cabs. It’s a big help that my footgear is on the sensible side. But none of the cabs into which I peer is driven by my cabbie and none of them has my mother’s fur in the rear seat. And I soon realize it’s highly improbable that my cab is still on Fifth Avenue. It must have turned off by now. Meaning it could be anywhere.

Of course I don’t know the taxi’s medallion number and I don’t have a receipt. I paid with cash and skedaddled. I call yellow cab and file a report. No, they tell me, no driver has reported finding an abandoned Russian sable in their vehicle. They advise me to call the 17
th
police precinct, which handles lost property. Then I find myself on the receiving end of a call that gives me heart palpitations.

It’s my mother. “I’m back at the hotel about to go to that musical,” she says, “and I don’t see my fur.”

I take a deep breath. “Okay, try to remain calm.”