Rehearsal for Murder (Maggie Ryan) (5 page)

“Well, you’ll understand when you have one,” declared Elaine, pouring a glass of milk for Muffin. “It was hard even leaving her with Mitzi, and Mitzi’s been my buddy since junior high.”

“I know,” sighed Rachel. “I’m totally unqualified. Boorish even to express an opinion. I’ll just shut up till the nine months are up.”

“And then, abracadabra, you’ll be an instant expert!” Steve teased. But he doubted that Rachel would ever know the feverish devotion that Elaine felt for Muffin. Rachel hadn’t suffered those anxious years of not conceiving, those heartbreaking miscarriages.

“Yes, and then you’d better watch out! If you think I meddle too much now, just wait till I’m a pro too!” said Rachel. “But you do owe your parents something too, Elaine.”

“Yeah,” Steve agreed, “you’d want Muffin to come see you if you were having the operation, wouldn’t you, Lainey?”

“Oh, I know. I’m going,” said Elaine, dutiful daughter to Avery Busby as well as loving mother to Muffin. “But I’ll still miss her.” She handed a carrot stick to Muffin, who chewed on it single-mindedly, oblivious to the passions she aroused in the adults.

“I’m surprised you aren’t taking her along,” said Rachel.

“Oh, she makes Dad nervous,” explained Elaine regretfully. “And Muffin’s doing so well at Montessori, I hate to have her miss it. And Steve can pick her up.”

“That’s right,” said Steve.

“Sure you don’t want me to get her?” asked Rachel. “I’m just hanging around here, waiting for my water to break, and that won’t be for weeks.”

“No, no, I can get her. The playschool is only a few blocks from work.”

“Well, phone me if you need anything, okay? How’s your dad taking it, Elaine?”

Elaine shrugged. “He’s furious. Says he was healthy all those years he was working, so why does his system kick out now that he’s trying to retire? But in him I think it’s a healthy reaction to be angry.”

“True,” agreed Steve. “I’d only worry if he was meek about it.”

Elaine wafted a smile at him. “Anyway, he won’t stay out of action long. Mom says he’s planning another African hunt next month. Can’t decide if he wants to go after rhinos or zebras.”

Steve had a sudden vision of Elaine’s tanned, balding father on his hospital bed, wearing a white gown and a pith helmet, being rolled across the veld by a combination of native bearers and nurses in white, his big-game rifle booming to bring down herds of charging rhinos in the best Hemingway fashion. No mere operation would stop Avery Busby. A spirit as free as Susan’s.

Rachel seemed to agree. She said, “Boy, you’ve got quite a dad. Well, listen, I’d better get my casserole out of the oven before it fuses together. Your plane is at noon Thursday, right?”

“Yes. I’ll drop Muffin at Mitzi’s, then drive to the airport. Dad should be coming out of the anesthesia about the time I arrive in Palm Beach.”

“Not a complicated operation, then?”

“Just a typical male complaint. But he’s not pleased.”

“He doesn’t think he’s a typical male,” said Steve. “But he’ll be pleased enough to see you.”

“Oh, I know. But he’ll bluster around and send Mom and me on lots of pointless errands and won’t admit he hurts.” Elaine sighed in resignation. Avery Busby liked his men rugged and his women refined, and had seen to it that his daughter spent her summers at a Swiss finishing school, her college years at Mount Holyoke. Steve appreciated the results. Convincing Elaine and her formidable father that he would be the best choice among her suitors was one of the great victories of Steve’s life. His elation had lasted months, even years. He felt a nibble of melancholy now; did all joys in life become flat eventually? He had been happy then. He’d thought it would last. And in a way it had; he loved Elaine deeply, loved his enchanting daughter, appreciated the good life they lived here. But somehow joy had succumbed to time, worn away by little daily frustrations, and by big ones. Catalog of the decline of joy: A bleak night at the hospital, the doctor’s professional sympathy: “I’m sorry, Steve, we couldn’t save the baby. Your wife needs your support now.” At the office: “I’m sure you’ll understand, Steve, Bill’s in a better position to take the assignment in Japan. No family to worry about. We all thought it would be better just now to send him.” At his own doctor’s office: “You’re in great shape, Steve, but we’d better keep an eye on that blood pressure. We middle-aged types can’t be quite as carefree as teenagers, you know.” At the target range, his father-in-law’s genial reiterated confidences: “I always told Elaine she and her family would make their own way. Advice, sure. Recommendations, sure. But no handouts. That’s how I was raised. It makes a man sharper, hungrier, ready for a little adventure.” And Steve, the Japan adventure so recently snatched from his grasp because he was married to this man’s daughter, could only nod soberly and blast away at a cardboard target. And yet—

And yet, he knew the value of what he had. Count blessings: security, status, health, love, the beginnings of wealth.

Rachel was letting herself out the kitchen door, saying something about dinner. He waved good-bye and wondered if love and wealth could survive in South America.

Sarah’s waving fist smacked against the spoon in Nick’s hand and sent a dollop of oatmeal splattering onto the refrigerator door.

“Thou clay-brained guts!” complained Nick.

She stared in fascination at his face and breathed reverently, “Ah-yah!”

His annoyance dissolved into addle-brained rapture. Nick the besotted. Gazing into her delightful brown eyes, he murmured, “Fond of Shakespeare, are you? How about, ‘thou knotty-pated fool?’”

“Ah-yah!”

“Obscene, greasy tallow-keech!”

Sarah chortled and slapped the tray of the high chair.

“All right, now, enough of this idle banter.” Nick succeeded in getting most of the last spoonful into her mouth, then mopped her chin, dropped the unspeakable bib into the pile of souring laundry in the corner, called the dog to lap up the spills on the floor, and got out her bathtub.

She had just dropped off to sleep and Nick was swabbing down the refrigerator when Maggie returned from work. “Hi, love,” she said. “How’s it going?”

“The usual. Gracious surroundings, scintillating conversation, impeccable linen.”

“You’re right. Time for the laundry.” She dropped her briefcase and coat in the butler’s pantry and picked up the armload of soiled bibs and blankets. “Any word about Ramona?”

“No. I called Derek to tell him. He said he’d go to the hospital and ring me back when he heard something. But he hasn’t called.”

“I’m worried, Nick.”

“So am I, love.”

“And I can’t figure it out.” She was stuffing things into the washer.

“What?”

“Why did she go into that building? Why was she shot? Why there?”

“Carlotta said Ramona seemed to think someone was hurt in there.”

“Okay. So her soft heart overcame her street smarts. But someone grabbed her, right? Made contact? Carlotta saw that?”

“Yes.”

“Grabbed her, threatened her with the gun, got the bag. Okay, I’m with it so far. But next?”

“Shoot her and run.”

“Shoot her where?”

Nick nodded. “You’re right. The guy is close enough to grab her. He’d probably have the gun against her head. Maybe her heart.”

“Couldn’t miss.”

“You’re sure the only wound was the one at her waist?”

“Yeah. I kept checking for trouble somewhere else because there’d been two shots. But that was it. Entrance and exit wounds.”

“Couldn’t have been two different shots?”

She shrugged unhappily. “Then why both at her waist? Why a powder burn on the front of that light cape and none on the back? It was close range, Nick.”

“Maybe she was struggling.”

“You don’t struggle if the other guy has a gun!”

“Ramona’s feisty.”

“Okay. Here’s another problem then. Why that street? Lots of other places are more deserted.”

He rinsed his dishcloth and tossed it to her to add to the laundry. “Maybe he didn’t want to wait too long for a victim to happen by. And maybe with construction scaffolds on both streets he thought it was a good setup to escape. Somebody pried off that hasp, after all, and broke down the plywood, and I doubt if it was the building’s legal owner.”

“Maybe.”

“There’s something else, though,” Nick admitted reluctantly.

“What?”

“Well, you remember the mood she was in. How we kidded her out of it? She had us all fuming.”

Maggie considered. “But even supposing it was one of you people, that doesn’t explain any of the problems we’ve been talking about.”

“I know. And besides, no matter how nasty she might be, every one of us wants her to be wildly successful in this play. We’re part of the show. We aren’t going anywhere without her.”

“Yeah. And none of you are black kids, either.”

“Well—”

“What?”

“There’s Callie. Daphne’s niece. Expelled from school for the day, just visiting. She watched very politely, but Ramona lit into her too.”

“A kid?”

“This particular kid has a tongue as rough as Ramona’s. But she shut up when Daphne told her to.”

“Daphne seemed to have control?”

“I thought so.”

“Well—hell, it’s just that nothing quite fits. Guess I’ll let the police worry about it.” Maggie added the soap and started the washer. “Is Sarah sleeping?”

“Like a baby.” Nick followed her upstairs to the bedroom floor. Sarah’s nursery and the kitchen were the only two finished rooms in the house. If Ramona recovered and he got his promised pay, they might get two more painted this year. Damn, this was not the profession for home and family. Ninety-five percent unemployment, and that was among actors good enough to belong to Equity. He’d been lucky so far, a couple of jobs a year, waiting tables or janitoring in between. This risky, up-and-down life had seemed full of freedom and joy when shared with an eagerly adventurous companion like Maggie. But his choice of profession felt rash and irresponsible now as he looked down into the crib at Sarah, tiny and defenseless.

Maggie adjusted the cotton blanket over her, smiling, then met Nick’s eyes and grew serious again. “You’re worried about Ramona,” she said.

“Yeah. Not just because she’s a friend. Goddamn it, Maggie, in most businesses if the boss has an accident, you don’t lose your job!”

“There are two of us, Nick.” Her blue eyes were troubled. He threw an arm around her shoulder.

“Hell, Maggie, maybe it’ll all work out. But somehow, now that Sarah’s here, the future counts. I’m not quite as carefree and liberated as I thought I was.”

He half expected her to argue that she could provide for them all, that his own career was surprisingly dependable, that their successes to date were more than freak good luck—all true observations. But instead she burrowed her nose into his neck and murmured, “Neither am I, Nick. Neither am I,” and somehow he was more comforted than if she had said all those other true things.

III

Wednesday

March 7, 1973

By the time Nick arrived at the loft on the drizzly Wednesday, Derek was mounting the platform to call the rehearsal to order. Nick was struck at the alteration in the mild little Englishman. Today the pale twinkling eyes were feverish and worried, the genial optimism converted to anxiety. The subdued actors quieted instantly. Most had not heard what had happened until their arrival minutes ago.

“We’ve got a problem, mates,” Derek announced. “To be brief, Ramona was badly hurt last night during a robbery. She is in the hospital and in quite serious condition. Still unconscious.”

Edith stroked the blond wig she wore as young Victoria’s German nurse. “Was it a mugging? A knife? What?”

“The hospital blokes were not very forthcoming, but I gather the problem is internal bleeding from a bullet that nicked her liver. They assured me that she has been attached to all the appropriate machines. I can’t give you a firsthand report because only relatives can visit.”

“God!” said Edith with an indignant heave of her ample bosom. “That bastard Simon? He won’t visit. She’ll be alone!” Alone. The words echoed in Nick’s mind
:
in the crowds, still alone, forever alone.

Derek shrugged. “It’s regulations. And she’s unconscious at the moment.”

Daphne asked anxiously, “Is her life in danger?”

Derek licked his lips. “They made no predictions. Just repeated that it was serious. My own feeling is, if there’s any sort of a chance, she’ll rally round. She’s a fighter.”

“That’s true,” said Edith, slightly consoled.

“How did it happen?” Larry, who had been quietly inspecting his shoes, looked up.

“She was on her way to a restaurant, and—but here, Nick, you tell it. You were there.”

“You were there?” exclaimed Jaymie.

“Not quite. Half a block away,” said Nick. Poky O’Connor, dull and muddy-mettled. The big man who wasn’t there. “We—Maggie and I—walked with her most of the way to the subway, but she turned off before we reached Canal. She was meeting someone at L’Etoile. We went on a few steps, then heard shots and ran back. We found her in a gutted building, already unconscious. Maggie gave what first aid she could while I called the ambulance.”