Night Night, Sleep Tight (20 page)

Chapter 37

S
o Arthur
was
writing a memoir.” Sy reached down the side of the bed and pulled a lever. With a hum, the head of the bed raised him to a sitting position. “I accepted as much.”

Accepted
when he meant
expected
—the occasional slip like that was a reminder that Sy’s native language wasn’t English. “You didn’t know?” Deirdre said. “I thought for sure he’d have talked to you about it. Asked you to read it.”

“He did not. I can only assume that he had his reasons.”

“Earlier today I told Bunny that I’d found it. That I’d given it to you, and you were going to try to find a publisher.”

“Which is what I would have done, if you had given it to me.”

Deirdre winced at the tacit rebuke. “I’m sorry. I even told her that you thought it would be an easy sell.”

“Did you tell her why I thought that?”

“Because he wrote about the night Tito was killed.”

“Did he now?”

Deirdre shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. “He wrote about the party. How Bunny called him late that night and he came back and helped move Tito’s body from Joelen’s bedroom. That must have been before she called you.”

Sy let his head drop back against the pillow. The bruise on his forehead was an angry purple against his ashen skin.

Deirdre went on, “He wrote about Bunny showing him the dress that I’d been wearing and a knife that belonged to us. She warned him that if he wanted to protect me and Henry he’d keep his mouth shut about what happened.”

“You and
Henry
?” Sy tilted his head, considering. “Henry was there?”

“That’s who you saw driving away from the house. Not Dad. Henry crashed the car.”

“I always knew your father was hiding something, but I never guessed that. And Bunny thinks that you have given this manuscript to me? At least this is starting to make sense. You still have it. Someplace secure?”

“For now.” It was all Deirdre could do to keep herself from looking down at the messenger bag she’d dropped on the floor and where the manuscript was safe, at least for the moment. “Of course, it’s unfinished. There are just some notes at the end.”

“Notes about what?”

“Stuff he was going to write about, I think.” Deirdre tried to remember those scrawls on the final pages that had seemed like random thoughts. “Something about you and Mom and trust.”

“Ah, the trust.”

“
The
trust?”

“It is one reason why the estate is as small as it is. Years ago your father had me draw up a trust. Every month he paid a set amount into it. Elenor Nichol was empowered to draw money out. The trust expired a few weeks ago.”

Her father had been paying Elenor Nichol? That made no sense. Unless . . . “Starting right after Tito was killed?”

Sy’s expression told her she’d guessed right. “Some months after.”

“She must have been blackmailing him. He was paying her for her silence.” Deirdre looked at Sy but saw no reaction. “Sy, it’s got to be connected. My father stops paying into the trust. He starts to write about what he knows, but before he can finish, he’s killed. His office is burned to destroy the manuscript, only it’s not in his office. Today a fake police search of my father’s house fails to find it. Then you get mugged because—”

“What fake police search?”

“Two cops came and took Henry in for questioning, and right after that another one showed and ransacked the place.”

Sy’s eyebrows raised in surprise, then his brow furrowed. “I suppose it makes sense that the police would come back and also take your brother in for questioning.”

“Maybe. But the way they executed the search sounded sketchy. Mom said a single officer got out of an unmarked car, came to the door, flashed a badge, and bulled his way into the house. She just assumed he was legit. After all, he was in uniform, and when someone’s in uniform you don’t really see him, do you? You told us yourself they’re supposed to give you a copy of the search warrant and leave behind a list of what’s taken. This guy failed on both counts.”

“Not every police search goes by the book. Maybe he left the paperwork but your mother was so upset she—”

“Now I know she can be a little out to lunch, but Mom is not a complete idiot. Whoever she let in to search the house was not operating like a cop. I’m wondering if he’s the same person who mugged you because I told Bunny I’d given you the manuscript.”

“But—”

“In fact—” Deirdre cut Sy off, talking as fast as she was thinking, “That police officer who was there in your office building when you came to? Are you sure he arrived
after
you got mugged?”

“I . . . he . . . well of course I assumed after.”

“But you didn’t see who mugged you, did you?”

It took Sy a moment to get what she was suggesting. “You are saying I got mugged by a pretend cop?”

“Could have been. The first passerby would think the cop was there to help.” Deirdre remembered what Bunny Nichol had said about magic.
Make the audience attend to what
you
want them to see.

“I guess it is possible,” Sy said, “but it seems so unlikely—”

“We should be able to figure it out. If a real officer responded, there will be a record of it, won’t there?”

“But how—”

“I know someone who can find out.”

“A fake cop.” Sy shook his head. “Suppose that’s what it turns out he was. Then what? Call the police? Deirdre, are you sure that is what you want? Why, they will ask, would anyone go to all that trouble just to keep an old movie hack’s memoir from being published?”

“He wasn’t a hack.”

“I know. I am just telling you what they will say. Before you know it, you find yourself having to speculate about what your father knew that was so”—he paused, searching for the word—“toxic. Do you want the world to know that you and Henry were there the night Tito was killed? Because you have no idea how quickly things can escalate from there.”

Sy was silent for a few moments, his eyes focused on the middle distance between them. “Remember those pictures that ran in the paper the morning after Tito was killed?” He shook his head. “Headlines that ran way beyond the facts? It was horrifying. And who do you think allowed photographers to go up to Bunny Nichol’s bedroom? Who gave them entrée and permission to photograph a fifteen-year-old girl, still distraught over what happened that night? Joelen hadn’t been charged with a crime.” His voice shook with rage. “Shameful. But it happened all the time. If you want to find out whether it still does, go ahead and call in the police. Just don’t be surprised at what happens next. You saw what it did to your friend.”

That stopped Deirdre. The events of that night had derailed both Joelen’s and Deirdre’s lives, but at least for Deirdre the aftermath had been a private affair.

“Maybe your father’s memoir is publishable. Hell, maybe it has the makings of a bestseller. I would need to read it in order to form an opinion on any of that. But for the moment at least, one thing is clear: that manuscript could get someone killed—”

“Someone already did get killed,” Deirdre said. “My dad.”

Sy gazed at the machine beside his bed, which was tracing out a regular wave pattern. “I’m not going to disagree with you. But if you have it, or maybe you are carrying it around with you”—she squirmed under his intense gaze, even though there was no way he could know that it was right there in her messenger bag—“you are putting yourself in danger. Hide it in the house and the arsonist might burn the house down next time. Carry it around and you could be the next person who gets mugged. My advice? Before anyone else gets hurt, get rid of it and make it widely known that you have done so. Leave it somewhere safe. The only question is: Where?”

W
hen Deirdre got back into her car, she took out the manuscript. Was this what it was all about? Her father’s murder. The garage fire. A fake police search. Now Sy’s attack. All because someone desperately wanted to keep this from being published?

Deirdre riffled through the pages. What was in it that was so, as Sy put it, toxic? What Arthur had to say about the night of Tito’s murder hadn’t seemed, to Deirdre at least, to be that much of a game changer. Maybe the murderer was afraid of something Arthur hadn’t yet gotten around to putting on the page? But what secret could he reveal about Tito’s murder? And if there was something he’d kept secret for all these years, then why had
Arthur
been paying Bunny for her silence? Wouldn’t she have been paying him?

Sy was right. Deirdre needed to put it somewhere safe, and then get out the word that she’d done so. After going back and forth with Sy on where, they had agreed on Sy’s office. Neither Sy nor Vera would be in there for the next few days, and he had an alarm system that went straight to the police if someone tried to break in.

But looking at the manuscript, a thought occurred to her. What she had in her hands was a carbon copy. Which meant that somewhere out there was the original, and possibly even more carbon copies. Placing the manuscript in Sy’s safe only took care of the problem in the short term. On the other hand, announcing where she’d put it might tempt whoever wanted it to reveal himself. Or
herself
. The more she thought about it, the more she liked it.

Deirdre picked up takeout from a Japanese restaurant on the way home. Vegetarian maki rolls for her mother; spicy tuna, yellow fin, and salmon maki for her and Henry. Then she stopped to make a Xerox copy of the manuscript. The first few sheets of onionskin jammed the copier, so she had to feed them in a sheet at a time. That gave her plenty of time to think through exactly what she intended to do. The plan she came up with required the help of a man and a woman. She knew who to ask.

She slipped the Xerox copy into a FedEx envelope, addressed it to herself in San Diego, and left it in the copy store’s drop box. Then she bought a ream of paper, got some extra change, and used the pay phone to make two calls before heading home.

D
eirdre was relieved to find Henry was back, talking to Gloria in the kitchen when she returned. He looked exhausted and he smelled like he needed a shower.

“How was it—?” Deirdre started, intending to ask Henry how it had gone with the police, when Gloria interrupted with “How’s Sy?”

“Concussion and a cracked rib. He’s shaken and hurt, but he seemed okay. And he claims the only reason they’re keeping him there is to monitor his heart. But he looks ragged. He’s going to miss the funeral.”

“Miss the . . .” Gloria’s face fell. “It won’t feel right, burying Arthur without Sy there. And he was going to speak.” She reached across for Henry’s arm. “Henry, you’ll say a few words? Deirdre, maybe you’d like to get up and—”

“No,” Deirdre said. “I’m sorry, but no. I couldn’t. I’d be too emotional.”

“I suppose we do have the film clips. And we can ask people to share their memories,” Gloria said as she unwrapped and plated the maki rolls. “That’s what they do at a Quaker funeral. Silent meditation and the sharing of memories.”

Silent meditation?
Good luck with that in a room full of movie people.

“I’ve got a limousine coming at noon tomorrow to drive us to the chapel,” Deirdre said.

“A limo?” Gloria asked. She peeled away the rice paper wrapping and sniffed at a piece of cucumber maki before eating it. “Isn’t that a bit extravagant?”

“It’s what people do,” Deirdre said.

“Did they catch the attacker?” Henry asked. He’d already polished off a piece of spicy tuna roll.

“No. And Sy was hit from behind and knocked out, so he didn’t see who it was. For all that, the only thing that got taken was his briefcase.”

“That’s lucky,” Gloria said.

“Maybe it was luck. Or maybe that’s what the person was after.”

“His briefcase?” Gloria said.

“Sy thinks the person wanted Dad’s memoir,” Deirdre said, even though she’d been the one who came up with the theory.

“
Our
dad?” Henry said.

“Arthur wrote a memoir?” Gloria said.

“Why would anyone care?” Henry said.

“Sy thinks publishers will care,” Deirdre said.

“Really?” Henry gave a dismissive snort.

“Of course they will,” Gloria said. She ate another cucumber roll. “Your father was a born storyteller. A true raconteur.”

“Right,” Henry said. “Now he can tell his stories to people who haven’t already heard them a million times. But why would someone mug Sy to get Dad’s memoir?”

“Maybe because he wrote about what happened the night Tito Acevedo was killed,” Deirdre said, watching Gloria and Henry for their reactions.

Gloria winced. Henry, reaching for the last piece of spicy tuna roll, paused.

“Dad was there.” Deirdre leaned close to Henry and stage-whispered to him, “And according to his memoir, you were, too.”

Henry’s eyes widened and he looked momentarily stunned.

“Henry?” Gloria said.

“That’s crazy,” Henry said, not very convincingly.

“That’s what I thought,” Deirdre said. “But hey, why would he write it if it wasn’t true?”

“Do you have the manuscript?” Gloria asked.

“I do. Sy wants me to take it over to his office and leave it there on the way to the funeral.” With each word, as Deirdre felt as if a burden lightened, Henry looked more and more uncomfortable. He pushed away from the table.

“Do you think that’s—” Gloria started.

“So do you want to know what happened with me and the police?” Henry said, interrupting her. He didn’t wait for an answer. “I expected it to be a lot worse. He took me—”

“He who?” Deirdre asked.

“Martinez. Took me to a room and asked a lot of questions. Most of them I’d already answered. What happened the night Dad died? Where was I? What did I know about a shovel? Then he started in on the fire in the garage. I told him I don’t know anything about that, either, and besides, I was at work.”

“Did he seem satisfied?” Gloria asked.

“I couldn’t read him. I did my best, but I really wish Sy had been there. Because after that he started asking about you.” He looked at Deirdre. “Where you were that night. How you and Dad got along. When I last called you from the house.” He paused. “He even wanted to know how your gallery was doing.”