Set the Stage for Murder (2 page)

***

Rosamund Whiting hardly noticed that her dressing room had been invaded. She was still in her elaborate costume, sitting on the end of a peach velvet chaise lounge. The upholstery fabric had been selected because it matched the color of the hybrid tea rose named for her. The walls and carpet were the same color. It was a flattering hue for just about everyone; it made Rosamund Whiting look positively luminous. Although the actress, who had often been called a modern-day Grace Kelly, was somewhere in her early forties, she could have easily passed for Vicki’s age, thirty five.

Vicki immediately rushed to Rosamund’s side and took her visibly shaking hands into her own. “Roz, what in the world has happened? Are you okay?”

“
Oh, Vicki. Was I just awful tonight?”

“
Of course you weren’t awful, but it was clear that something was wrong.”

“
I just couldn’t concentrate. I’d find myself in the middle of a line and I would have no recollection of where we were in the play; that’s never happened to me before.”

“
Roz, don’t you think you’d better tell us what’s the matter?” asked Ted, as he poured her two fingers of scotch from the decanter on the table. “Here, drink up.”

Rosamund took the glass and downed most of it in one gulp. She handed it back to Ted and stared at her reflection in the lighted mirror over her dressing table for what seemed like forever. Then, as if some decision had been made, she got up, crossed to the table and opened the carved jewelry case that sat among her makeup, crèmes and perfumes. She took a folded piece of paper from it and handed it to Ted. “I found this taped to my mirror when I unlocked my room tonight.” Ted opened the envelope and pulled out a piece of paper with two tragedy masks crudely drawn on it. Under the drawing there was a handwritten message:

“
What is this about, Roz?” Ted asked as he handed the note to Vicky.

At first it appeared that Roz hadn’t heard the question, but as she stared out the window of her dressing room at the marquee of the Gotham Theater, across the street, it became evident that she was struggling with something; something she was definitely reluctant to share with them.

“
Roz,” Vicki said, as she passed the note to Billy, “this is frightening and the person who wrote it is sick. If you know what it’s about, you should tell us and maybe we can help.”

“
At the very least,” Teddy said, “you should tell the police.”

Rosamund’s reaction was quick and vehement. “No,” she exclaimed as she tore the note out of Billy’s hand. “The police cannot be involved.”

“
For God’s sake, why not?” Ted asked.

“
I can’t afford any sort of scandal. The press would have a field day with this. No; no police.”

“
Wouldn’t they treat something like this confidentially?” Vicki asked.

“
Oh Vicki,” Rosamund said, “don’t be naive. You know as well as I do that nothing is confidential if you’re a celebrity, especially in this day and age. It would be posted online before I was out the stage door.”

Vicki was adamant. “Roz, you cannot put yourself in danger because you’re afraid of scandal.”

“
Vicki’s right, Rosamund” Billy agreed, as he poured himself a scotch. “Besides, the scandal boat has already sailed. There were camera crews filming the curtain call, so by now, you’ve screamed and fainted on all three network newscasts and CNN. Trust me, people are already talking.”

“
Roz,” Vicki said, flashing a withering look at Billy, “you’re probably better off admitting what happened upfront; if the press starts speculating, there is no telling what they’ll come up with. It could get really ugly.”

“
Perhaps not uglier than the truth,” Roz said in a voice barely above a whisper. And with that admission, the other three people in the room became the captive audience that had eluded Rosamund Whiting all evening. They waited patiently for her to continue as she got up from the chaise, crossed to the dressing table, and took a cigarette from the pack in her purse. Billy quickly provided her a light and she inhaled the smoke as if it were a magic elixir that would cleanse her. From anyone else, this deliberate cessation of what promised to be a juicy confession would be, at the least, trite and at the most, infuriating. From Rosamund it was exactly what was expected and it was expertly done. After all, the lines between what happened on the stage and what happened outside the theater had blurred a long time ago for everyone in the dressing room; a well-played moment was a well-played moment whenever and wherever it occurred.

“
We didn’t get to where we are without stepping on a few toes,” she said, her back to her companions. She turned around and smiled wanly. “Well, at least
I
didn’t. And I’ve also stabbed a few backs, just for good measure. I’m afraid I’ve made some rather formidable enemies.”

“
You couldn’t possibly have done something to inspire this sort of hatred,” Vicki said.

“
Vicki, you’re a good friend to say that and I wish it were true. However, sometimes events occur which require us to do things we could never imagine ourselves doing otherwise. And sometimes other people get hurt.”

“
Does that mean you know who sent this note?” Ted asked, watching her closely.

“
I’ve thought of a few possibilities,” she said, looking at the cigarette as if she couldn’t remember having it. She stubbed it out in the ashtray on her dressing table and turned back to face the group. “But I’m pretty sure I know what they want, whoever it is.”

“
What?” Vicki asked, anxiety creeping into her voice.

“
To ruin me. And believe me, it could happen. That is why you have to promise me that there can be no police; I have to handle this on my own. And as far as the press goes, well, I’ll just have to make something up that will satisfy them for now, because if they catch the scent of what really happened, then my career could be over.”

*****

FROM THE MONDAY, AUGUST 17, EDITION OF
THE NEW YORK TIMES

Rosamund Whiting collapsed yesterday during the curtain call of the final performance of
The Scottish Queen
at the Duchess Theatre. News crews there to film the bows captured footage of Ms. Whiting fainting after apparently becoming alarmed when a bouquet of black flowers was thrown to the stage. In a statement released last night by the actress’s publicist, Ms. Whiting said, “I feel so silly about the whole thing. It was a prank played on me by a friend. I was exhausted because it was the end of the show and the end of the run and I simply overreacted. But believe me, I’ll get back at my friend. I want to express my sincerest thanks to everyone for their concern.” Ms. Whiting was unavailable for further comment.

Chapter 2

The following day, Vicki sat on her mother-in-law’s terrace and stared across a very green and lovely Central Park. The weather was mercifully mild for August, a time, normally, when a city constructed mostly of concrete and steel heats up like an oven by 10:00 am. The reservoir sparkled under the morning sun as compulsively fit New Yorkers ran circles around it. However, Vicki was noticing neither the fair weather nor her fellow citizens jogging through the verdant landscape. Instead, she was lost in her own thoughts, replaying last night’s events over and over in her head, especially Rosamund’s confession in the dressing room. How could you know so little about someone you had known for so long? The woman who admitted to doing things horrible enough to generate a seething hatred in other people was a stranger to Vicki, although she had known her for nearly twenty years.

It had been a sleepless night and today, her thoughts were dark and depressing as she and Teddy breakfasted with his mother, Phoebe Russell McDowell, at her Fifth Avenue apartment. All of New York society would immediately know of whom you were speaking if you simply said “Phoebe”. However, she was almost always referred to by all three names, presumably as a reminder that her money came not only from her wealthy husband, but from her wealthy family as well. There were those in society to whom this sort of thing was very, very important. Phoebe Russell McDowell was not one of those people, nor did she suffer them gladly.

The casual observer might note that Phoebe seemed to fit the stereotype of the ultra-thin, perfectly coiffed and well-dressed upper eastside society matron. But that observer would have no way of knowing that her slim physique was a result not of dieting but of an active lifestyle. Phoebe had always been athletic, having been on both the swim and tennis teams at Vassar. Even now, at almost 80 years old, she managed to walk everyday, no matter what the weather was doing. The weekends usually found her bicycling around the property of her home in upstate New York. And as for her coiffure, well, the Russells, quite simply put, had always had good hair. It inevitably was black before it turned a silvery gray and it was naturally wavy. Phoebe discovered long ago that with a properly maintained haircut, she simply had to run a brush through her hair and spray it lightly in order to achieve a look that made her appear as if she visited a salon daily. And because she would never consider such a regimen, she felt fortunate to have the Russell hair gene. As far as dressing nicely, well, she had the money to do so, so she did. Not ostentatiously, because that would never do, but simply and in excellent taste. She was partial to neutral shades that complimented her silver hair, mostly blues, grays and black, with accessories in vivid hues. She adored fuchsia, emerald, and peacock and was known for having amassed, over the past 60 years, one of the largest collections of Hermés scarves in the world. Unless the occasion absolutely dictated otherwise, she wore pants, simply because they suited her and her lifestyle. This morning she wore black slacks topped with a short-sleeved, pale blue cotton sweater and a scarf that was reminiscent of the sea, in shades of blue, green, coral, and black. She fingered the knot on the scarf as she observed her daughter-in-law.

“
Victoria, dear,” Phoebe sighed, “I’m afraid I am at a loss as to how to get your attention. I’ve gone on and on about that adorable Lily Pulitzer shirtdress you’re wearing, complimented the new haircut, and admitted to you that there is a strong probability that I was abducted and probed by aliens in the mid-50’s; you are, apparently, unreachable. What do you think, Theodore?”

“
I think that alien thing would explain a lot, Mother.”

“
Don’t be fresh, Theodore; it doesn’t become you.”

“
I’m sorry, Phoebe,” Vicki said halfheartedly. “I just can’t stop thinking about last night. Rosamund suddenly seemed like a stranger, didn’t she, Teddy?”

“
Well, it was certainly a side of her I’ve never seen before,” said Teddy as he refilled their cups with hot coffee from some long dead relative’s sterling silver pot. “She was frightened, but she was something else, as well …”

“
What?” Phoebe asked.

Teddy thought for a moment as he reached for the fresh cherry preserves and his third muffin. “She was … resigned. Don’t you think so, Vic?”

“
Exactly. It was if she had been expecting this.”

“
Time to pay the piper, so to speak?” Phoebe offered.

“
I think so,” Teddy said. “These awful things that she’s done seem to haunt her.”

“
And I definitely got the feeling that she’s been looking over her shoulder, waiting for something to catch up with her,” Vicki said, sighing and leaning back in her chair.

“
Well, I must say that I’m suddenly very curious about the skeletons in Rosamund Whiting’s closet,” Phoebe said, as she gazed over her perfectly manicured hedges at the buildings across the park, apparently searching for clues to Rosamund’s behavior in the skyline of Manhattan’s upper west side. “I know,” she exclaimed with a degree of excitement not normally found in her social circle. “Perhaps Rosamund is a kleptomaniac. Maybe she nicked someone’s silver letter opener or made away with a diminutive Degas after a dinner party.”

“
Nicked?” Teddy asked, raising an eyebrow.

“
It’s slang, Theodore. It means stole; swiped.”

“
Oh yes, I’m aware of what it means. I’m just applauding your … ever-broadening vocabulary.”

“
It’s Vincent,” Phoebe said with a slight smile, referring to her new chauffer and bodyguard. “He has the most delightful stories from his days as a policeman and he tells them in such a colorful way.”

“
I thought you couldn’t abide Vincent,” Teddy said, amused. “You didn’t speak to him, or me for that matter, for an entire month.”

“
Honestly, Theodore, you are overly prone to exaggeration. I really don’t know where you get that trait. The Russells and the McDowells were, by and large, a very straightforward and honest group …”