McNally's Folly (27 page)

“Corroborate your story,” I finished for her.

“That’s it. Corroborate. You were there, Archy, and so was everyone else. How could we lie about what happened?”

“You couldn’t, and we’ll all back your story. Are you and Lady Cynthia sticking with the accident theory?”

“Do you have a better solution?”

I didn’t but I resented people asking. Jorge appeared with two table stands. Silently unfolding them he placed one before each of us before scurrying out only to reappear a moment later with a tray bearing the contents of the horn of plenty. This he rested on the stand before Desdemona. Running out again, he returned with a similar tray for me.

Desdemona’s idea of a nosh was what many would call a banquet. Swedish meatballs; mini-sandwiches stacked to form an edible pyramid; prosciutto, sliced paper thin, wrapped around sesame breadsticks; pickled corn; lox on mini-bagels; hard-boiled eggs, quartered— and a partridge in a pear tree. If her husband’s cholesterol count was larger than his bank balance, hers must take on the proportions of the national debt.

“No fuss, Archy,” she nudged verbally, “just pick at what you want.”

Graze would be a more appropriate way of putting it. A fork and small plate were also provided and following Desdemona’s lead I fixed myself a smorgasbord.

“You know,” she said, nibbling daintily, “that Mr. Ouspenskaya knew what we would encounter at the police station. He called Cynthia to warn us and then tried to get me here, but we were already on our way to the police station.”

“Did Jorge tell you Ouspenskaya called here after he tried to get Lady Cynthia?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “He wrote it down like he does all the calls. It was a few minutes after nine that morning. Isn’t it amazing, Archy?”

Grazing, I didn’t answer immediately, which prompted Desdemona to get in, “You think he’s a fake, don’t you?”

Picking up a prosciutto-wrapped breadstick I gave my standard response to the Ouspenskaya query. “I’m an agnostic in things spiritual. Only if there was no humanly possible way he could have gotten that information am I ready to believe it was whispered to him in a dream.”

“But how could he possibly know?” she contested.

“Someone at the medical examiner’s or the police station could have told him,” I explained.

“But that’s impossible,” she persisted.

“Sorry, DeeDee, it’s improbable, but not impossible. There’s the rub.”

This contentious conversation did not arrest her appetite. “I know Richard hired you to investigate Mr. Ouspenskaya,” she admitted.

“I know you do, DeeDee. It’s no longer a secret.”

“And what did you discover?” she challenged.

“Nothing,” I said. “I lost my client before I had a chance to do my job.”

“You would have come up empty-handed if you had gone on, Archy. Believe me, he’s for real. I’ve consulted a lot of so-called psychics in my time and none of them could do what Mr. Ouspenskaya has already proven he can do.”

If we were letting it all hang out I saw nothing wrong in confessing, “Your husband told me why you consulted psychics, DeeDee.”

She flushed ever so slightly but looked me right in the eye when she answered, “I thought so. Richard had a big mouth.”

I put my plate down, resisting the temptation to help myself to more. “It’s now none of my business and your secret is safe with me. What worries me is that your husband told Ouspenskaya he would no longer finance your consultations. The man was not sorry to see Richard drop dead. The police will have to know this, DeeDee.”

“Are you saying I wasn’t sorry to see Richard die for the same reason?” she shot back.

“I’m not the police and I have no right to question you or make accusations. I’m just trying to caution you of what may lie ahead.”

She held out her glass and asked me to freshen it once again. “Better put some ice in it this time,” she stated.

I did as requested and helped myself while in the process. When I served her libation she told me, “Mr. Ouspenskaya is advising me in this matter.”

That riled me enough to snap at her, “If he’s so great how come he hasn’t found what you’ve been searching for all these years?”

It took her so long to respond I thought she had lapsed into either a trance or an alcoholic stupor. Her famous blue eyes seemed to be focused on something visible only to her. Was I going to be witness to a metaphysical epiphany or a vodka-induced blackout?

When she finally blinked, a rapturous smile appeared on her this and she said with perfect lucidity, “Oh, but he did find it.”

With that bombshell, Desdemona Darling closed her eyes, rested her chin on her satiny collar, and began to snore rhapsodically.

The cast members of
Arsenic and Old Lace
weren’t any more animated than the show’s star I had just left to the ministrations of Jorge. Richard Holmes’s death had knocked the P & V out of them and replaced it with apathy bordering on fear. Only Connie chose to comment on my dashing appearance. “I prefer the silk berets,” she told me, “even the one in puce.” It appeared that everyone was out of step except Mother and me. In a fit of pique I removed the glasses from the top of my head and placed them in my jacket pocket.
Ars gratia artis
was not to be the maxim of our community theater.

I noted that we were missing two members, Priscilla Pettibone and Joe Anderson. Connie reported that Jasmine, Priscilla’s mother, was down with the flu and unable to fill in for Priscilla at the Pelican. As makeup consultant Priscilla’s presence this evening or at rehearsals was not necessary. Hank Wilson didn’t look as if he would agree.

Binky informed us that Joe Anderson was reconsidering participating in the show. That was a low blow because Joe was perfect for the role and, besides Desdemona, the only cast member with acting experience. “He thinks the show is jinxed,” Binky whispered in my ear.

There was that word again. “Keep that to yourself, Binky. It’s the stage manager’s job to boost morale, not debase it.” Joe seemed to be more upset over Holmes’s death than the widow. I would have to have a word with him and see if I couldn’t talk him into persevering.

I must say I was proud of the way Binky was handling his duties. He gave out the scripts, verifying everyone’s phone number as he did so and even adding their cell phone numbers to his big black book. He had had business cards printed with his name, title and contact numbers. These he had placed in each script. If nothing else, the cast and crew would be in constant communication.

We were gathered in Lady Cynthia’s drawing room where folding chairs had been set up along with a podium. I didn’t think for a moment that Lady C had rented the chairs from a funeral parlor, however, their occupants looked more like professional mourners than amateur actors about to put on a comedy. Our Creative Director was at the podium, clad in one of those sleeveless printed shifts that were all the rage this season. Her Capezio slippers were testimony to her age if not the current fashion, but why let go of a good thing?

Lady C was also sporting her famous tennis bracelet, which was as touted in Palm Beach as Mrs. McLean’s Hope Diamond had once been in Washington. Buzz was at her side, more to keep him from sitting next to Fitz than for any expedient purpose. Neither drinks nor food were in the offering as befits a business meeting. Lady Cynthia was a tough broad, as Al Rogoff would say.

Unable to avoid the issue, Lady Cynthia began by discussing the “accident” that had claimed the husband of Desdemona Darling. “Desdemona will not abandon us and I trust her brave resolution will encourage one and all to emulate Desdemona’s devotion to the cause of community theater.” Really! They had all signed on for a lark and right now they looked dedicated to nothing more than keeping themselves alive.

As she spoke I canvassed the room. Things I would have paid scant attention to before Holmes’s death and my newfound interest in Hanna Ventura suddenly became paramount. I was a psychiatrist in search of hidden meanings, all of them with a sinister bent.

Why was Hanna sitting next to her self-proclaimed nemesis, William Ventura?

Why had Fitz banished herself to the rear of the assembly where she looked forsaken without Buzz at her side? And why wasn’t William filling the void?

William was flanked by Hanna and an empty chair, so where was Arnie Turnbolt? Tête-à-tête with Phil Meecham, that’s where, and both of them slightly apart form the group as a whole. Did they know something they were loath to share with their cohorts?

The Tremaines were sitting up front, keeping their eyes glued to the podium.

The two men forming a trio with Hank Wilson would have to be Ed Rogers and Ron Seymour. I would soon learn which one was Seymour and invent an excuse to discuss his wife’s aborted séance with Ouspenskaya.

With thoughts of bypassing the security guard and going directly to makeup for his screen test inflating his pretty head, Buzz wasn’t giving two hoots in hell for the deceased and how he got to be that way. Before facing a camera, Buzz would have to run the course, bypassing Lady Cynthia, Fitz and Phil Meecham in order to “rehearse” with Desdemona and fulfill his destiny.

Our lucky mascot, Ouspenskaya, was not with us. Just as well. The luck he had dispensed at our last outing would last us a lifetime, especially Richard Holmes’s lifetime.

Sudden thought: If Lady C had served wine this evening, how many would have declined the offer?

When the Creative Director had finished her homily it was my turn in the barrel. Being a
director
director rather than a Creative Director, I thought I would tell them what they had come to hear.

“I just wanted to add briefly to what Lady Cynthia said about the unfortunate death of Richard Holmes,” I began, pricking up all ears. “In order to determine how the poison got into Richard Holmes’s wineglass we will all be questioned by the police in the very near future.” I could feel rather than see Lady C’s wrathful glare.

“Just tell them what you saw and try, if possible, to recall who you were standing next to at the time.” With this, heads began to turn and fingers began to point. It was the biggest show of enthusiasm they had exhibited all evening.

To placate Lady Cynthia I said, “The cause of the accident must be determined to help prevent such a thing from happening again.” In support of Father I said, “If you should choose, you may have a lawyer present when summoned.”

Then I told them I had just come from a visit with Desdemona and that she was resting quietly. I explained the schedules Binky had distributed, adding that we would begin rehearsing four weeks before our opening which had yet to be determined. I suggested that they learn their lines before rehearsals began, stopping short of encouraging them to form workshops to do so. There was enough of that going on already.

Because living theater was what we were all about I infused a dash of theatrical lore into our first conclave. “Joseph Kesselring, the author of
Arsenic and Old Lace,
thought he had written a very serious and gruesome drama. When it made the rounds, producers rejected it on the grounds that both the premise and the characters of the drama were so insipid, audiences would laugh it off the stage. It took those two geniuses of modern theater, Howard Lindsay and Russel Crouse, to discern that if the drama made people laugh it wasn’t unproduceable, it was a comedy. Lindsay and Crouse did indeed produce the play, laughing all the way to the bank.” I got a polite spattering of applause.

I ended with, “You’re going out there unknowns, but you’re going to come back stars.” It did not get a laugh.

All in all it was a somber and sober meeting, which did not speak well for a company on the eve of presenting a comedy. When I was done no one had any questions nor were they inclined to hang around and chat.

Buzz asked me if I thought he should call Desdemona to see if he could be of assistance. I answered in the negative, drawing a smile from Lady Cynthia.

I introduced myself to Ed Rogers and Ron Seymour, who both fled after shaking my hand.

Fitz gave me the obligatory peck on the cheek. Phil Meecham, as usual, cornered Buzz. Arnie Turnbolt told me that the old Warner Bros. version of
Arsenic and Old Lace
was on a waiting list at all the local video rental shops. “You’re competing with Frank Capra,” he warned. Then the three of them left together to regroup at Ta-Boo’ or the Chesterfield, was my guess. Would Buzz be joining them?

Hanna gave me a quick wave before departing with the Tremaines, followed by William. My para turned instantly noid. Was she avoiding me? Did her favorite psychic know about the meeting between her husband and yrs. truly and leak it to her? If so I would tear up my license to snoop and take up needlepoint.

Binky and I walked Connie to her office to pick up her things and I told them the truth about my meeting with Desdemona Darling. “She’s going to be trouble,” was Connie’s educated guess. “And did you get a look at her bedroom?”

“I most certainly did not. Why do you ask?”

“Remember the night of her party when she told me to put your megaphone in one of the bedrooms? Well, it was her bedroom I put it in and I couldn’t help notice the framed photos on her dressing table. Five of them. All men. Didn’t she have five husbands before Richard Holmes?”

“That she did,” I said. “Lady C has flags, Desdemona has framed photographs. I wonder which I like least.”

“Do you think there are six framed photos there now?” Binky asked.

“I would say it’s too soon,” I told him. “But what do you think Richard thought of her rogue’s gallery?”

“Maybe he didn’t spend too much time in her bedroom,” Connie offered.

On the way out we ran into the housekeeper, Annie, and Binky paused to have a few words with her. When we reached the parking area I could just about make out Hanna and William in the light of the overhead floodlights, conversing. As we approached they broke off and got into their respective cars, and drove away. Interesting?

I saw Connie to her car and waited for Binky. When he came out I chided him for hitting on the help.

“I wouldn’t do that, Archy,” he pleaded. “I know Annie from work. She’s with Temporarily Yours, too.”