Set the Stage for Murder (8 page)

Meg had never wanted Julie to become an actress. She knew all too well from firsthand experience that good girls don’t stay that way in the theater. Still, Roz and Juliet had won that particular battle and it all had seemed to be working out okay, thanks to Meg’s prayers to the Holy Mother and Her Son. Julie had received good notices in a couple of small productions, and even Meg had to admit that she was a natural actress, which wasn’t too surprising, considering her pedigree.

Then Teddy McDowell came along with his idea of a sequel to
Tuscan Holiday,
and Julie had just about burst at the prospect of all of them doing the play together. Meg finally agreed only after the girl literally begged her to do it; there was very little she could refuse Julie. And despite old wounds and hard feelings, it all seemed to be working out just fine. That is until Connor Cortez cast his roving eye on Juliet and Meg’s world started unraveling. She saw the effect he had on Julie; it was clear that the girl enjoyed his attentions, no matter how hard she tried to hide it from Roz and Meg. But Meg couldn’t blame Julie. If there were blame to be assigned, it belonged firmly on Meg’s shoulders. She should have been more careful and never let down her guard. If she had just fought harder against Juliet’s becoming an actress, then this whole situation would have been avoided. But how could she have guessed that this boy who had been underfoot since he was practically a baby and who was quickly becoming more and more like his despicable father would suddenly become interested in Juliet? And even more inconceivable was that this intelligent girl she had helped raise appeared to be falling for this dangerous Lothario. It was ludicrous! She wasn’t even the type of girl he was attracted to, not if all the gossip about his fondness for chorus girls were true. Meg and Roz should have been more watchful. They should have prepared for this, but they hadn’t. Connor Cortez was his father’s son, with everything that entailed, and there was no way he was going to get their Julie. Meg was prepared to enlist every agent in Heaven and on earth to make sure of that.

And now poor Roz had to worry not only about the situation with Juliet but also about this ominous threat someone had made against her. Mostly, Meg had turned a blind eye to Roz’s affairs and indiscretions and instead had concentrated on making a good, stable home for Julie. But the fact that Roz had an enemy came as no surprise to Meg. In fact, the only thing she found surprising was that there was only one. Over the years, there had been many angry wives whose husbands had cheated on them with Roz. And many of those husbands had been just as angry when Roz unceremoniously dumped them, which she inevitably did. Still, Roz was Meg’s closest friend and had always been there when she needed her to make everything right. Just as she promised to do this weekend. And Meg knew that she would, because quite simply, time had run out.

Meg crossed herself, stood, and replaced the kneeling bench in its upright position. She exited the pew, genuflected, and crossed herself again. As she was leaving the church she stopped and gazed up at the last window in the sanctuary, the one that depicted St. Agnes just before she was beheaded. In the background stood Procop, the wealthy governor’s son who had so desired Agnes and whose lustful attention had brought her to this tragic end. Either through some trick of the sunlight or the glass artist’s skill, his eyes seemed to shine brighter than any other part of the panel as he watched his evil triumph over her goodness.
Dear God
, she prayed,
protect Julie from all the evil that surrounds her
.

Chapter 7

As the Wednesday matinee crowd of blue-haired ladies sat in darkened Broadway theaters noisily unwrapping unnecessary small candies much to some irate actor’s dismay, Sir Anthony Dupree sat in a hole-in-the-wall bar on a not yet trendy block of Tenth Avenue wrapping up a very necessary whiskey and soda. It was, in fact, his second necessary whiskey and soda, not that anyone was counting. Which was exactly why he had picked this bar on this block. It wouldn’t do for someone Tony knew to see him getting royally pissed at 2:15 in the afternoon. He bloody well didn’t need to be the subject of
another
blind item in some snide gossip column. No, what he bloody well needed was a third whiskey and soda.

The bartender’s eyes never left the television set mounted in the corner of room as he took the glass, refilled it, and placed it back in front of Tony. Yes, this was definitely the right establishment. What had he been thinking the other night? Why had he allowed Rosamund to get him into such trouble?
Overture
was such a damned public spot. He knew better, really he did. It was just that she was still so beautiful and young and, damnit, she still knew how to push his buttons. Of course being apart from her for several years had helped matters along. Apparently absence does make the heart grow fonder. He was again in the first-blush phase with Rosamund, forgetting the hair-pulling, vase-throwing reality that made up the largest part of their relationship.

It had started just a couple of weeks ago with those bloody e-mails, really. She got his address from Juliet and wrote to him with the intent of “making nice before they started working together again,” and suddenly he was behaving like a schoolboy, checking the computer several times a day, reading her messages, and quickly deleting them before Cary could discover the correspondence. It was exhilarating, and it made him feel vital. By the time he had arrived back in New York, he was like a randy dog straining at the leash. He saw Rosamund Saturday night after her show and the rest of the story had appeared on Page Six of the newspaper in not-so-coded language:

“
Royal Ruckus
: Which Knight of the British Empire was making
Overtures
to the Queen of Broadway, when his current Great Dame walked in (complete with ladies-in-waiting) and caught them?
”

One would have to be a bloody idiot not to figure it out. Cary was furious. She might put up with his occasional dalliance but not if it made it to the papers and certainly not if it were with his ex-wife, Rosamund
Whiting. She was also livid that the item had referred to Walter Boscobel and Kirby Felder as “ladies-in-waiting.” Tony had found that particular reference the only entertaining part of the whole thing. Still, it wasn’t worth the fight he and Cary had that night. The two of them were certainly no strangers to arguing. In fact, it was something of a sport with them, and they did it well. And as luck would have it, fighting turned out to be an aphrodisiac for the Duprees, a fact the couple had discovered early in their acquaintance. Tony had first met Caroline Evans fifteen years ago when he was cast opposite her in
Macbeth
at the Royal Shakespeare Company. During rehearsals, a terrific quarrel had led to the two of them furiously coupling in her dressing room just moments later. To say he found her physically repulsive would be exaggerating only ever so slightly. She had made a career on the British stage playing stern, dour women and there were painfully obvious reasons she had been cast in these types of roles. Unfortunately, the characteristics one mentioned when describing her, broad shoulders, strong jaw, and far-set eyes, would be more suitably used if one were listing the attributes of a fine horse rather than an actress. So it was a testament to her talent that Caroline had become a respected and revered performer, a performer who also happened to be an heiress. And since Caroline Evans was homely but loaded and Tony Dupree was dashing but broke, it stood to reason that they would be married within the year, which they were. All in all, if Tony were honest, it hadn’t been a horrible union. He had given her glamour and style, and she had given him the lifestyle he wanted without the secret mountain of debt he always accumulated when living it. Now, fifteen years later, they were the most celebrated acting couple in Britain, having each received The Order of The British Empire as they approached the age of seventy. The fighting and subsequent sex, because it could hardly be called lovemaking, had been a constant throughout the marriage.

But the fight the other night had been different and had not ended in the bedroom. He had never seen Cary like that. It was rage, pure and simple, and it had scared him to death. She had calmed down somewhat in the past couple of days, but that nonsense in this morning’s paper had incensed her all over again. Hell, it was four nights ago, it should be old news by now. And it would have been if all the drama at Rosamund’s closing performance hadn’t made every little thing concerning her newsworthy. Maybe the two dozen roses he had sent Cary earlier today would smooth things over and he wouldn’t have to sit in some shithole bar in the middle of the afternoon just to avoid returning to their overly decorated Park Avenue apartment. Not bloody likely, he thought darkly as he finished his third drink and ordered another.

****

Dame Caroline Evans Dupree sat back in a horribly uncomfortable, chintz-covered chair and watched her host, Walter Boscobel, pour her a cup of tea as Kirby Felder prepared her a small plate of sandwiches and pastries. Honestly, they really were like ladies-in-waiting, the way they fawned and flattered. Eventually she would tire of them, as she always did, but that point was still weeks from now. And the two of them had been wonderful to her in the wake of last week’s debacle with Tony and Roz. Caroline was a realist and she knew that Walter and Kirby were thriving on the drama, but she also knew that they genuinely were concerned about her. So for the time being, she let them take care of her. After all, she was damn sure that no one else was going to do it. Certainly not Tony; that much was clear.

Caroline had met Walter, and subsequently Kirby, after she and Tony had purchased the apartment and needed a decorator. He came highly recommended by some minor European royal who clearly had more money than taste. When the project first started, Caroline had taken issue with Walter over wallpaper he had selected for a powder room. As she was complaining about the pattern, he crumpled into a chair, buried his head in his hands and cried, blubbering on about how he had disappointed her and how he so wanted to please her of all people. Sharply swatted puppies have looked less pitiful. Caroline was formidable, but she wasn’t one for picking on the meek. She preferred her adversaries to be her equals. After that moment she had never questioned another of his decisions, instead allowing him total creative license. After all, she really didn’t give a damn how the place was decorated. As a result, her apartment was littered with uncomfortable chintz-covered chairs. They were a Walter Boscobel trademark.

Walter’s eyes were bright as he handed her the delicate pink and ivory cup and saucer with gold filigree trim. The pattern was called “M’lady,” and he owned 24 place settings of it. “The tea is Earl Grey. I know it’s your favorite.” He looked at his long-time partner, Kirby, and smiled knowingly.

In fact, it wasn’t her favorite, not even close. But Walter had been serving it to her for several years now with that same knowing smile and that same glance at Kirby. She had let the moment to protest pass, perhaps because Walter had seemed a trifle insecure that day, so now she sipped Earl Grey tea and nodded. “You know me so well, Walter. Whatever would I do without the two of you?”

“Try the crab sandwich,” Walter said, excitedly. “It’s a new recipe Kirby got from a chef friend.” Kirby was forever trying new recipes from chef friends Caroline was convinced were no friends at all, as they clearly always left out some key ingredient that would make the dish palatable before they passed on the formula. Whatever was omitted from the crab concoction had evidently been replaced with bits of shell. Caroline surreptitiously deposited the offending shards in her laced napkin while the two men prepared their cups of tea.

Walter glanced again at Kirby as he took a sip from his cup. Apparently it was up to him to bring up the troubling subject, since Kirby rarely spoke and Caroline seemed to be pretending nothing was wrong. Well, he simply couldn’t ignore the incredibly large elephant that had entered his delicate living room and sat right down on one of his wonderful chintz-covered chairs. Taking a deep breath and closing his eyes, he forged ahead. “Dearest Cary, we are soooo very upset about that despicable item in this morning’s paper. Kirby and I are considering legal action and we think you should go along with us.”

Caroline took a moment and tried to think of the best way to handle this situation without making Walter cry and run from the room. “Walter, darling, I couldn’t bear to see you put in that situation. I simply care about you too much to see you go through all that.” There. Let him take offense to that.

“
You don’t think I’m strong enough?” Walter asked, with a quivering lip. “I can assure you I am, aren’t I, Kirby?”

Well, bloody hell. She really didn’t have the energy for this right now, not with everything else going on in her life. After all, she was the truly injured party in this whole fiasco. Her marriage, and more important, her pride and reputation were on the line, thanks to that bitch Rosamund Whiting. Walter and Kirby just had their damned feelings hurt. She suddenly had the mother of all headaches.

“
You misunderstand me, Walter,” Caroline said, her strained smile wearing even thinner. “I know you have the fortitude for such a battle, I just don’t think it wise to pursue the matter. The less attention paid, the better.”

Walter sat up straighter and looked her in the eye. Clearly, someone somewhere had crossed a line and he wasn’t about to back down. “Caroline, I don’t think you understand the situation. The truth of the matter is that attention is already being paid. Kirby and I feel that we simply must respond to this … this insult to our manhood; our very reputation is at stake. We’ve been slapped with the glove and we are accepting the challenge. I can’t believe you don’t grasp the importance of this moment.”