Blackbird 10 - A Little Night Murder (21 page)

“Nothing’s wrong with it. Except I can barely concentrate with all that—”

“Stop stalling. What in heaven’s name was your sister talking about?”

Gus began to pace the floor. “This is very awkward.”

“For which one of us?”

He put his hands into his trouser pockets and couldn’t meet my glare. “Nora, I will preface the whole story by saying I never meant for things to get out of control the way they have, but my family is rather known for going big—”

“Gus! Is this the personal matter you’ve been trying not to tell me about? What in the world is going on?”

He gave up stonewalling. He stood still and said, “I told my family that you and I were seeing each other.”

If there had been so much as a stapler handy, I’d have thrown it at his head. Good for him that his office was empty of weapons. “Why?” I demanded.

Hastily, he lowered the blinds to prevent the entire newsroom from watching us. “It’s not implausible. You’re attractive,” he said, perhaps deliberately misunderstanding my question. “As you know, I’m usually drawn to older women. They’re easier to cope with, but you—”

“I’m going to be really hard to cope with in ten seconds. Why did you tell your family we were an item?”

“Because they wanted to hear it,” he burst out, starting to lose control. “I needed an advantage to get assigned to this Philadelphia takeover, and you fit the bill. Megan was going to get the job if I didn’t come up with an idea that made me the perfect choice to negotiate for my father. And they all thought adding you to the mix was a great strategy—an American with a pedigree those relics would appreciate. Besides, my father wants us all settled—that is, weighted down with ankle biters and generally stuck in the tar pit of life so we’re prepared to take over his bloody empire if he drops dead tomorrow, but the main thing is this Philadelphia deal, which—”

“Stop!” I cried. “You want to buy a company, so you pretended to have a girlfriend?”

“It’s not just a company. It’s practically its own planet. I tried to explain to you last week when—well, other things popped up. By the way,” he said, “you’re not a girlfriend. As far as my family is concerned, you’re my fiancée.”

I let out a word that didn’t usually cross my lips. “Gus! What were you thinking? They’re going to find out you’re not engaged to me.”

“They’re on the other side of the world! How can they find out?”

“She knew my name! She reads my column! She— Oh!” I was hit with an epiphany. “That’s why you wanted the photo of me out of the online paper, isn’t it? Because I was pregnant! You didn’t want your family to think you had a baby on the way.”

“My family is very old-fashioned about that sort of thing.”

“What sort of thing? Children out of wedlock? Or bald-faced lies?”

“You’re not going to have a stroke, are you? Because you’re turning an alarming shade of— Look, if it’s any consolation,” he said, swiftly changing tactics, “they’re delighted about you. Dad reckons you’re a right sheila, and my brother Jack can hardly wait to meet you. Watch out for him, by the way. He’ll poke anything in panties, but he’s particularly wild about redheads.”

“I’m not going to meet your brother! Or your father! Or anyone else! Ever! I’m staying right here in Philadelphia. And on Friday I’m marrying Michael.”

“About that,” Gus said.

I put up my hand to stop him. “No,” I said. “You have no input on my wedding.”

“Could I ask you to postpone it a few weeks? Or months?”

“You’re joking, right?”

“Not really, no,” he said grimly.

“Gus!” I pointed at the telephone. “You’re going to phone your sister right now. And you’re going to tell her the truth. I will have no part of your family politics. Tell them.”

“I can’t do that,” he replied.

“I’m not giving you a choice!”

“It would kill my father,” he said. “Do you want that on your conscience?”

“Don’t try manipulating my feelings. That’s not going to work.”

“I’m being honest here. My father is not in the best of health.
The negotiations to buy that damn company have drained him. I know you’re not the kind of woman who—”

“You’re not going to worm your way out of this!”

“I need a week,” he said. “To prepare them.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Four days.”

“No.”

“Okay, how about until Friday, then? Just— I need to do this carefully.”

I let out a frustrated shriek and clapped both hands over my eyes to block out the whole stupid mess. When I had a grip on myself, I dropped my hands. “I’ll give you until tomorrow.”

“Thursday?” he bargained. “It’s practically the middle of the night over there now. This will take time. It’s a big family. And I need to rethink the negotiations.”

I held my breath and wondered if I might explode. There was one person who was going to go ballistic over this situation, though, and I could already hear him shouting. And shouting wasn’t going to be the worst part.

“Please breathe,” Gus said.

At last, I said, “When Michael gets wind of this, don’t take time to pack your bags. Get the first flight back to Australia. At the very least, he’ll break your knees. At worst, you’ll end up floating in the Atlantic in a variety of Tupperware containers.”

“Understood,” he said contritely. “Thank you for the warning. Meanwhile, I’d like to make it up to you.”

I stepped back, afraid of what he thought “making it up to me” might include.

“Don’t panic. This is good news. Stan Rosencrantz is retiring.”

My temper flared again. “His name is Rosenstatz, not Rosencrantz. The least you could do is know the names of your employees.”

“Whatever. He’s retiring.”

“How is Stan’s retirement possibly good news? He loves the newspaper business!”

“He wants to leave while he still has what’s left of his health. I want you to take his job—editing the Lifestyle section of the
Intelligencer
.”

I stood very still and tried to make sense of what he’d just said. But I felt as if his words were suddenly swirling around in my head as if thrown by the centrifugal force of a roller coaster.

Finally, I said, “Can’t you have one chair in this office?”

Gus opened the door and went out into the newsroom. He returned seconds later with the swivel chair from his assistant’s desk. He took my elbow and guided me to sit down on it. I did so in the nick of time. A slosh of dark water had begun to surge around my feet. It rose up to my knees in a black flood that threatened to overwhelm me.

“Take a deep breath.” Gus steadied me with both hands on my shoulders. His face swam before me, but his voice seemed very far away. “You’re not going to faint, are you? You’re white as foam.”

I fought my way back to clarity. “Get your hands off me.”

He let go of me and stepped back. He leaned against his desk and met my gaze, all trace of his embarrassment gone. “Well? Do you want the job or not?”

“I’m not qualified to assume Stan’s job. He’s a brilliant editor.”

“He’s a lame old coot with lousy digestion. It’s long past time he went out to pasture. We need new ideas around here. You have proven yourself in the online edition. And you have your finger on the pulse of our readership. You’re a born-and-bred Philadelphian, and I need that on the editorial side. We can work on your reticence when it comes to sensational ideas—”

“I loathe sensational ideas.”

“You’ll learn on the job. Bottom line? I’d like you to take on more responsibility.”

Head clearing, I looked up at him through narrowed eyes. “You have another agenda, don’t you?”

“Why would you say such a thing?” He endeavored to look innocent. “You’re the girl for my money, Nora. And we work well together.”

“We are not together in any sense of the word!”

“Right, right. Look, I’m not asking for an answer now. It means a raise, of course. And you won’t start until fall, after your little Abruzzo is born. In fact, take a few extra weeks of maternity leave to energize yourself, and come back to a new career.”

Gus had the audacity to smile down at me with the pleased look of a cat that had eaten a whole flock of canaries.

“There are days,” I said, “when I think you are the devil.”

“So you’ll take the new job?”

“I’ll have to talk it over with Michael and get back to you.”

“Of course. I presume you’ll refrain from telling him about my—our—that is, the relationship that you and I—”

“The ridiculous relationship that you made up? No, I’m not keeping that a secret from Michael.” The idea of telling him, though, made my stomach plunge. Even though I was the innocent party, I dreaded having to explain the situation to him.

Gus went back out into the newsroom and returned with a paper cup of water. I sipped it without speaking. When he was satisfied that I wasn’t going to sprawl out on the floor in a dead faint, he said, “Where are you going tonight?”

“The preview of the Tuttle musical.”

“Where is it?”

I told him which theater and that I was going with Tremaine.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll see you afterward, before you go home. I want to be sure you’re all right. Can you walk?”

“Of course I can walk,” I said, and tried to prove it. I went out of his office with a wobble, but when I realized everybody in the
newsroom was watching with intense interest, I stiffened my spine, grabbed my bag and headed for the elevator.

I met Tremaine in the lobby of the building. He saw nothing amiss, so I congratulated myself on a quick recovery. More than anything, I wanted to bash Gus Hardwicke over the head with something lethal, and that wish strengthened my resolve. His preposterous engagement story enraged me. And the job offer? It was finally dawning on me that he’d probably used that to defuse my anger.

We reached Broad Street and the old rococo barn that was no longer one of the city’s fine theatrical venues. It was still a beautiful place, though in need of a restoration. The marquee advertised a touring show that would come later in the month. For tonight, Ox Oxenfeld had rented the stage for the Tuttle preview.

Tremaine opened the door for me. Our route into the lobby was almost entirely blocked by a large easel bearing a handmade poster advertising
Bluebird of Happiness
. The poster depicted a much younger-looking non-blue Boom Boom Tuttle, her arms flung wide, her mouth gaping open as if she were hitting a glorious high note. The photo was surely decades old.

Edging around the poster, Tremaine said, “I’m not much of a theater person myself. You’re going to have to tell me what to look for, Nora.”

“Just take a few short videos of scenes from the show. Maybe we’ll interview some of the cast later. I’ll double-check with the producer, though, before we publish any photos or film.”

The lobby was not thronged with an eager audience, all clutching tickets and pressing toward the open auditorium. Instead, a handful of men in suits brushed past me, talking with one another like bookies at a racetrack. And if the evening was supposed to be a memorial service as well as a theatrical performance, it looked as if
mourners had been left off the guest list. Everyone seemed very businesslike.

Ox Oxenfeld came out of an open office door with a sheaf of papers in his hand. He caught sight of me and faltered.

“Hello, Ox,” I said. “Is Boom Boom’s big investor here tonight? I’d like to interview him.”

“Uh, no,” Ox said. “He isn’t—that is, he couldn’t make it. Excuse me, I have to—I must— Sorry. Later.” He rushed over to the bookies. Hastily, he distributed the papers to them, and they all began to discuss financial matters.

“That’s odd,” I said, half to myself. “You’d think the primary investor would want to attend the first preview.”

Tremaine and I headed across the faded carpet of the lobby. At the open double doors, a couple of long-legged showgirls in short, spangled costumes handed makeshift programs to me and Tremaine. The cast list had been printed on one side, a synopsis of the show on the other. No mention of Jenny.

Tremaine didn’t bother glancing at his program. One look at the long legs of the dancers was all it took for him to hitch his camera out of its case. His smile turned enthusiastic. “Let’s get started.”

Inside the auditorium, the lights were on, and a small, restless audience talked noisily among themselves. I guessed they were potential investors, but also curious people from the theatrical community. I saw Nico Legarde standing by the front row of seats, speaking with a well-known local actor. I waved, and they waved back.

Tremaine and I found an open section of seats about halfway back on one side, and he set up his camera there. He pretended to do some test shots by filming the showgirls. They caught him in the act and strolled down the aisle to flirt with him.

I slid into a rump-sprung seat and looked at the stage. The
curtains were open to reveal a half-constructed set. It was an interior of a house—a house of horrors, by the look of the crooked staircase and the fake cobwebs hanging from the chandelier. A large Palladian window at center stage had cracked panes and tattered draperies that swooped from a gilded pole. The room was decorated with whimsical props, though—an old butter churn wearing a top hat, a stuffed sailfish on the wall with a man’s tie amusingly wrapped around its neck, a kite with a key dangling from its string.

A chubby man with a clipboard came along to call the showgirls backstage, so Tremaine squinted at the set with puzzlement. “What’s this show about, Nora?”

“I don’t know.”

“Looks like Ben Franklin is going to drop in. Either him, or Dracula.”

Fred Fusby came out from the wings and strode purposefully across the stage on his rubbery long legs. He headed for the lone piano. No orchestra had been engaged for the preview, I guessed. Fred spread his music on the stand and snapped on a light. He sat down at the bench and flexed his fingers. The audience understood his signal and quickly took their seats. Fred played a few bars of a pleasant melody. The auditorium lights dimmed, and a moment later the stage lighting came up. Spotlights pinpointed all the dilapidated details of the set, and I guessed the show had to be about a haunted house.