Set the Stage for Murder (7 page)

Vincent left that apartment every morning at 6:30 and was at the no-nonsense gym to which he belonged by 6:50. The gym was on the same block as his old precinct, and he inevitably ran into police officers with whom he had served before an incident involving a bullet and a lung caused him to leave the ranks of the NYPD’s finest. After five minutes of catching up with his friends, he jumped rope, lifted weights and showered. Vincent was on his way out the door at 8:00, immaculately dressed in a dark suit cut to flatter his frame, a white shirt with French cuffs, and a muted tie with a half Windsor knot. To the casual observer he looked like a well-heeled attorney or stockbroker. To Vincent, he looked like Phoebe Russell McDowell’s new bodyguard.

After picking up a large black coffee and a
New York Times
at the deli next door to the gym, he made his way uptown and across the park, arriving at Phoebe’s apartment at 9:00. From 9:00 to 10:00 he sat at the kitchen table and enjoyed his breakfast of dry wheat toast, an egg white omelet, freshly squeezed orange juice and another cup of black coffee, all lovingly prepared by Mrs. O’Hanion, who was 76 and quite willing to dote on Vincent. Her husband and Phoebe’s butler, Gerald, was also quite fond of Vincent, whom he saw as “an outstanding boy with an ethical and moral fortitude one usually doesn’t find in those of his generation.” At 9:58 Vincent thanked Mrs. O’Hanion for the excellent meal, shook hands with Gerald and walked into the library, where Phoebe Russell McDowell was seated behind an ornate Chinese desk. And whether she was answering correspondence or speaking on the telephone with a CEO or an attorney, she always did the same thing when he entered the room. She smiled from ear to ear and blushed ever so slightly. Without a doubt, it was Vincent’s lot in life to be adored.

****

“
Vincent, do you have plans for the weekend?” Phoebe asked.

“
No Ma’am, no plans. I’m at your disposal.”

“
Oh good,” Phoebe said, delighted. “Then we’re going to the country house and dining with Theodore and Victoria. They’re having a weekend party for the cast and creative team of Theodore’s latest show. And we are needed there to do some detective work.”

“
I beg your pardon, Mrs. Mac? Why is there a need for detective work and why are we doing it?

“
Because, Vincent,” Phoebe said patiently, “We are the obvious choice. I’m old and rich and can get by with asking the most outlandish questions, and you are a trained crime professional. We’re the perfect pair! I will get them to talk, and you will examine the information they provide with your incredible detecting skills.”

“
Just what are we ‘detecting,’” Mrs. Mac?

“
We’re going to find out what Rosamund Whiting has done and to whom she has done it,” Phoebe said. “And then we will know who wishes to do her harm. In truth, I’m not all that fond of Rosamund. I find her entirely too self-absorbed and a trifle boorish, but she is a good friend of Victoria’s and the star of Theodore’s play. I owe it to them to figure this out before something tragic happens. May I count on your assistance?”

Vincent grinned as he thought about his good fortune in landing this job. He knew Mr. McDowell from his days as a beat cop in the theater district. Mr. Mac was a great, down-to-earth guy, not at all what you would expect from a multi-millionaire. He always spoke to everyone and made a point of knowing the names of all the cops who worked in the district. When Vincent got shot, Mr. Mac and his wife sent the biggest arrangement of flowers he had ever seen to his hospital room. And when Mr. Mac’s mother needed protecting, he called Vincent and offered him the job. Although it was very flattering, it was the salary Mr. McDowell offered him that made him take the position. When he mentioned the offer down at his old station, the response from his former co-workers, whether rooted in genuine concern for his well-being or envy of his luck, had been mostly derisive:
“You’ll be carrying some rich old broad’s packages around a department store”
and
“Spiritos, she’s gonna turn you into a big Greek lapdog”
were just two of the comments. But those guys didn’t know Phoebe Russell McDowell. She carried her
own
packages and never sat down long enough to accommodate any pet, large or small. And like her son, she treated Vincent as an absolute equal. “My detecting skills are at your disposal. You and I, we’ll find the perp, Mrs. Mac.”

“
The perp!” Phoebe said gleefully. “Oh Vincent, that is simply
too
divine. I can’t wait to spring it on Theodore this weekend!

Chapter 5

Vicki absentmindedly took her foot and pushed Clementine’s pillow until the pug was once again basking in the morning sunlight that streamed in through the kitchen’s mullioned, leaded-glass windows. She hadn’t slept well for a second night in a row, spending most of the time she should have been asleep thinking about her phone conversation with Teddy right before she’d gone to bed. The things she kept finding out about Roz were so incongruent with what Vicki knew about her. Why would her friend be cavorting with Tony out in public like that? And Roz and Connor? That sounded so ludicrous that Vicki was just sure that the usually dead-on Clea was more than a little off the mark this time. Now Vicki sat in her pajamas and robe at the long antique farm table filling the boys in on Roz’s alleged behavior.

“Do you think any of this is true?” she asked, taking her first sip of Marc’s strong coffee. “Apparently Clea saw Roz and Tony with her own eyes, but I just can’t believe this thing about Roz being involved with Connor.”

Marc was standing at the kitchen island, readying his second batch of yellow raspberry scones for the oven. “Look,” he stated matter-of-factly, as he divided the dough into triangles with a pastry cutter, “I hate to speak ill of anyone, Vic, but it’s been my observation over the years that if Roz Whiting wants something, she takes it, plain and simple. Damn that Clea Greene; I think she must be a witch. How else could she know half the stuff she knows? It’s freaky. I mean, what do we really know about her, after all?”

“Well,” Vicki said, as she got up, crossed to the kitchen island and grabbed a handful of raspberries, “we know that she’s trumped you on gossip for over fifteen years.” She sat back down at the table and popped a berry into her mouth. “And we all know that nothing gets under your skin more than coming in second, especially to Clea.” An eagle-eyed Clementine had observed Vicki’s actions and now sat up and looked longingly at the berry in Vicki’s hand. “You won’t like it, Clem, but okay,” she said as she gave it to the dog. Clementine bit down on the treat and immediately spat it on the floor. She heaved a sigh, sat back down on the pillow and cast a look of disgust toward her mistress. “Don’t blame me,” laughed Vicki. “I told you that you wouldn’t like it.”

Ethan grinned as he sat at the table polishing the silverware. “You know, Marc had a point before he veered off course. Roz is no angel, Vicki.”

“Oh, I’m aware she’s no angel,” Vicki said. “Look, I’ve been in shows with her. I’ve seen her pull the diva routine. I’ve witnessed the tantrums and the theatrics. But it’s part of who she is and it’s what makes her so good; she wears her emotions on her sleeve. But I have to say that I’ve never seen her be openly cruel or insulting to someone. And to do something that would destroy Juliet, of all people? I just can’t see it. Maybe I’m just not a very good judge of character.” She took another sip of coffee and nudged Clem’s pillow more into the sun.

Marc opened the oven door and placed the second tray of scones on the lower rack. He poured a cup of coffee for himself and refilled Vicki’s and Ethan’s before joining them at the table. “Vicki, dear heart, I think you’re a fine judge of character. It’s probably more a matter of Rosamund Whiting being a careful and masterly performer, onstage and off. She let’s you see what she wants you to see. And you, well, you are one of her peers and now the wife of a wealthy and successful producer. Maybe Roz has made sure that you never see her dark side.”

Vicki sighed resignedly. “Phoebe said something similar yesterday. I suppose there really must be a side to Roz that I’ve chosen to ignore.”

“I’ve got a feeling that Sally Crandall and Caroline Dupree would say so,” Marc said.

“Hmmmm,” mused Vicki. “I wonder if Sally is aware of any of this? I’ve got a feeling she wouldn’t be too happy about Roz having anything to do with her son. I mean, come on, he’s just a child, for God’s sake. Roz is really pushing buttons all over the place, isn’t she?”

Marc gave Vicki a familiar world-weary look that always, no matter what the circumstances, pointed out her naiveté. It was the purpose of the look. “Victoria Locke, Connor Cortez has not been a child since he was fourteen years old and in the chorus of
Godspell
. No woman was safe once his hormones kicked in. He’s been around the block more times than all of us in this room put together. And I’m not even talking about the drinking and the drugs.”

“I wonder why Sally and Ed didn’t rein him in?” she asked. “Why didn’t they intervene before he ended up stoned out of his mind in Soho, waving a gun at strangers? He’s just lucky he ended up in rehab instead of prison.

“Are you kidding?” Marc asked. “Ed loved it. As far as he was concerned, Connor was just a chip off the old block. The more outlandish Connor’s behavior, the prouder he was.”

Vicki rolled her eyes. “I’ll bet it would have been a different story if he’d had a daughter.”

“What about Sally?” Ethan asked.

The timer bell on the oven rang and Mark got up to retrieve the first batch of scones. “Sally, with the aid of many prescription medications, has been able to remain blithely ignorant of just about anything she chooses. And she chooses not to know what a couple of shits the men in her life are.” He plated three of the pastries and returned with them to the table. The three of them immediately dove into the scones.

“Oh, boys,” Vicki asked, shaking her head and wiping a crumb from her mouth. “What have we gotten ourselves into this weekend?”

Chapter 6

Rosamund Whiting decided not to show the second note to anyone. Instead, she tossed it into the wastebasket by the desk, lit a cigarette with a shaky hand, picked up her tumbler of Scotch, and walked out onto the balcony. She was in unfamiliar, nightmarish territory, and the worst part was that she knew with absolute certainty that it was about to get worse.
Oh, dear God
, she thought,
are there truly unforgivable sins?
Throughout the years, so many people had suffered because of her selfishness. And she could see that those initial offenses, which had only been pebbles thrown into the water, had set off tiny ripples that were now becoming angry, crashing waves. Certainly, there were those who thought she deserved to be engulfed by those waves and pummeled against the rocks. But she was a fighter and a damn good swimmer, for that matter. She wasn’t going down without a fight and Friday night was the time and place; it had to be if she were to survive, because time was running out. She thought about Caroline, Sally, and the boy. Was she still right? Caroline was vengeful, but was Tony really that important to her? Roz supposed it was possible. No one would ever have thought that the dowdy, overbearing actress could have attracted someone as handsome and debonair as Tony. The notes and the bouquet seemed out of character for her, but people pushed to the brink did bizarre, irrational things, didn’t they?

Sally? She was one of the most popular women on television. Would a woman with so much to lose risk it all for revenge? Roz doubted it, unless Sally knew about her dealings with Connor, and then all bets were off. A mother would do just about anything to protect her child.

Still, the boy was the most likely suspect. There was something juvenile and crude about the threats that seemed to point to him. There was also the timing; everything started the day after she approached him. That had been her initial thought, and it was the answer that made the most sense. And he had been furious when she left his apartment. He was angry with her, and he had a bad history. Yes, it really did look like the boy.

She’d never been so scared in her life, and she wished there were someone to whom she could turn, but the truth was that she’d created this situation and it was up to her to see it through. Normally she counted on Meg to fix her messes but that couldn’t happen this time. No, Roz had set the stage for this little drama, and now it was time for everyone to play his or her part. Of course it was risky, there was no denying that. She was putting herself in grave danger and she knew what the consequences would be if her plan failed. She had started down a dangerous path, and there was no turning back. She downed her scotch and went back inside to pour another one.

****

The sanctuary of St. Agnes’s church was dark except for the little bit of daylight that found its way through a row of stained-glass windows and the golden glow emanating from a dozen or so flickering candles that had been lit by desperate yet hopeful parishioners. Meg Pierce had lit one of those candles and now, as she knelt and prayed, she felt a peace that had eluded her for days. She had worried so about Juliet. Meg had fiercely loved the girl ever since she and Roz had brought her into the world in that villa in Prague. For many reasons, not the least of which was that travel was out of the question until the child was born, Meg and Roz had stayed in Poland after filming had finally wrapped on
A Renaissance Woman,
Roz’s second film. Meg had joined Roz in Europe once she knew she was with child. The three of them had been inseparable since that night in the villa.

Julie had been such a good girl all her life, just like St. Agnes, whose trials and martyrdom were depicted in the windows high above Meg’s head. She had always been quiet, obedient, and eager to please both Roz and Meg. And she was chaste and pure, just like Agnes. Thank God Meg had been able to raise her in the church and keep her safe from the dangers and temptations that had befallen her mother.