Who's Kitten Who? (23 page)

While I waited, Bullseye and I became buddies, mainly because I’m such an expert at scratching dogs in all the right spots. After a minute or two, Cecil came striding back into the room, grumbling, “That stupid phone hasn’t stopped ringing all week. Everyone’s anxious about the Stones’ latest production.”

“Which production is that?” I asked, putting on my innocent act.

“A new musical they’re producing on Broadway.” He lowered himself onto one of the snow-white chairs, then gestured for me to do the same. “It was written by an unknown, which makes it riskier than usual. But it also makes it more exciting. The theater world is totally psyched about this show. A lot of people expect it to be the biggest hit since
Cats.
The usual fat cats have been lining up to invest, certain they’re going to make a ton of money.”

He sighed tiredly. “That’s why they keep calling here every five seconds. They’re dying to know what’s going to happen with it.”

“Why is its future suddenly in question?” I kept stroking Bullseye’s ears, hoping to give the impression I was more interested in the Stones’ dog than in the information I was pumping out of their assistant.

“The person who wrote it, Simon Wainwright, just died,” Cecil explained. “There’s a lot of concern that his death might bring it to a halt. You see, Simon didn’t just write it; he was also supposed to star in it. Now that he’s gone, people are wondering if Gloria’s lost interest.”

“Has she?” I asked.

“Au contraire,”
he replied with a haughty toss of his head. “The Glo-Worm is absolutely
thrilled
that Simon is suddenly out of the picture.”

“Why?” I didn’t even try to hide my surprise.

“Between you and me?” Cecil replied, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Gloria had had second thoughts about Simon.
Big
time.”

Once again, my ears pricked up like Max’s.

“When negotiations began,” he continued, “Simon insisted on playing George Putnam, the male lead. Glo was so convinced she had a surefire hit on her hands that she was willing to agree to anything in order to make a deal. But as soon as the Stones signed on the dotted line, big name Broadway actors started coming out of the woodwork, begging for that role.

“Gloria began to wonder if she’d made a mistake in agreeing to let an unknown like Simon Wainwright star in the show. She decided it was safer to go with a name. Chucky Winthrop, in fact. Not only had she and Shel worked with him before; he also won two Tony Awards, one of them for their production of
The Hottest Summer.
”

“When did she have this change of heart?” I asked.

“A couple of weeks ago. And once she’d decided she didn’t want Simon in the show, she and Shel argued about it nonstop. He kept insisting that Simon was perfect for the part. But eventually the usual thing happened: Glo worked on her poor husband until he finally agreed with her.

“The problem was, they had a contract with Simon that specified he’d play George Putnam. They couldn’t get out of it unless Simon agreed. So Gloria came up with the bright idea of inviting him to the house, allegedly for a nice sociable dinner. But the real purpose was to drop the bomb about wanting to eliminate him from the cast.”

“Were you at that dinner, Cecil?”

“Unfortunately, I was.” Rolling his eyes, he said, “Believe me, I took plenty of antacids before I sat down to
that
meal.”

“What was Simon’s reaction?” I asked.

He looked at me as if I’d just asked the stupidest question in the world. “Are you kidding? Simon had been trying to make it as an actor for years. There was no way he was going to walk away from an opportunity like this!

“He and Glo ended up having a horrible fight. Sheldon didn’t get involved, of course. He’s one of the least confrontational people I’ve ever met. But Glo threw a major temper tantrum. By the time the entrées were served, she was screaming and pounding the table and threatening to sic her lawyers on him.”

Not unlike her reaction in Suzanne’s waiting room, I reflected. “How did the evening end?”

“With Simon stalking out of here in a rage,” Cecil replied. “It was a total nightmare. Glo didn’t calm down for days. In fact, she did nothing but stomp around the house, fuming. Sheldon tried to calm her down, of course, but she kept insisting she’d find a way to keep Simon out of the show.” With a shudder, he added, “She said horrible things like, ‘I’ll see Simon Wainwright dead before I see him in any production that’s got my name on it!’”

“Cecil,” I asked, my heart pounding, “when did this dinner take place?”

“Hmm, let me think.” Cecil grasped his chin with his hand, doing an impromptu imitation of the great Rodin sculpture “The Thinker.” “Not this week. It was the week before. Wednesday, I think. No, Thursday. It must have been Thursday.”

Thursday, I thought. The night Simon had called Lacey, desperate to talk about something he was extremely upset about. It was also the night before he was murdered.

“It sounds as if Gloria is really as nasty as people say,” I observed, straining to sound matter-of-fact. Cecil clearly knew the Stones a lot better than I did. So I was anxious to find out whether he felt that in addition to having an instinct for theaterical hits, Gloria Stone also possessed a killer instinct.

“Are you kidding? The woman makes Marie Antoinette look like Mother Teresa,” he replied, spitting out his words. “I’ve seen her reduce her maid to tears because she used a cleaning product that had the wrong scent. I swear, her gardener, who was an illegal alien, sneaked across the border
back
into Mexico after working for her for a few weeks.”

Pointing at the terrier glued to my side, he added, “She even named her dog Bullseye, for heaven’s sake.”

“I don’t understand the significance,” I admitted. I’d just assumed the Stones had chosen it because it was a cute name.

Cecil raised his eyebrows. “Bill Sykes also has a bull terrier named Bullseye.”

“Who’s Bill Sykes?”

A look of disbelief, no doubt over my appalling ignorance, crossed his face. “Bill Sykes is a truly evil character in the Dickens’ novel
Oliver Twist,
as well as in the musical version,
Oliver!
He plots to kill Oliver, then kills his own girlfriend, Nancy.”

In that case, I thought, it really was an interesting choice.

“What about Sheldon?” I asked. “What’s he like?” Despite his reputation as a real sweetheart, there could be another side to his personality.

“Sheldon’s great,” Cecil insisted. “If anything, he’s too nice. He’ll do anything to keep his Wicked Wife of the West happy.”

I wondered if “anything” included finding a way to get Simon out of the picture.

I was about to solicit his opinion about that possibility when Cecil suddenly muttered, “Uh-oh. Here comes trouble.”

I followed his gaze to one of the tremendous front windows that overlooked the driveway.

“What kind of trouble?” I asked nervously.

“The Gloria Stone kind.”

He was already dashing over to the door. As he flung it open, he was all smiles. “Glo, what a lovely surprise!” he gushed. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

Me either, I thought. I had to remind myself that having the chance to talk to her was a
good
thing.

“Cecil, get Harvey Gomberg on the phone,” she commanded, marching into the house like General Patton. “Wait—before you do, go into the files in my study and get the figures for last week’s ticket sales for
The Hottest Summer.
We’ve got to start promoting the hell out of this new show.”

“Of course, Gloria,” he said fawningly. He cast me a knowing look, then hurried out of the room.

She suddenly appeared to notice me. “Who are you?” she asked, looking me up and down as if I was something that had crawled in under the door.

“Jessica Popper,” I said as evenly as I could. “We met at Simon’s wake.”

“Really? I don’t remember you.” She frowned. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m a veterinarian,” I replied. “You couldn’t have missed my mobile clinic, which is parked in your driveway. I have a lot of clients out here on the East End, and I know that busy people like you can appreciate the convenience of having a vet who makes house calls.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Now I remember you from the wake. I saw you at the Theater One rehearsal last night too. You’re friends with that aging tap dancer. The one who was close to Simon. Betty Vandervoort. Isn’t that her name?”

I was glad Cecil had left the room, given the way I’d feigned total innocence during our little gossip session about Simon Wainwright and
She’s Flying High.

“Yes. That’s right. Betty and I are good friends. But I stopped by today to tell you about my practice, since it’s something you might consider—”

“I don’t get involved with those horrid medical things anymore,” she said, waving her hand in the air disgustedly. “Cecil takes care of all that. Talk to him.”

I thought I was off the hook until she turned back to me and said, “I understand you’re trying to find out who killed Simon Wainwright.”

I was so startled I didn’t know how to respond. “Who told you that?” I finally gasped.

“That lovely man Lieutenant Falcone,” she replied. “I invited him to a little dinner party I threw here at the house a few nights ago. My way of thanking him for all the wonderful work he’s doing investigating poor Simon’s murder.”

Terrific, I thought. Falcone’s decided to get me out of the picture by telling the suspects what I’m up to.

Or maybe he didn’t consider Gloria Stone a suspect.

But I certainly did. Especially after I’d learned from her own assistant that she had recently decided she was against having Simon star in the Broadway production of
She’s Flying High.

Dead set against it.

Given what I’d learned about Gloria Stone over the past twenty-four hours, I was convinced she deserved a prominent place on my list of suspects. The timing certainly fit.

According to Cecil, she had fought with Simon on Thursday night about whether or not he’d be in the Broadway cast of
She’s Flying High
. He’d been so upset that he called Lacey, wanting to vent. Friday night, Gloria could have come to Theater One—a place she’d made a point of saying she’d never visited before—anticipating that he’d be there. I could picture her pressuring him to cancel their contract—and I could see their conversation erupting into another argument, which Sunny overheard. Later in the evening, Gloria could have come up with the perfect solution to her predicament: grabbing the Buddha and killing poor Simon.

Thinking about such a horrific series of events was exhausting. I looked forward to going home and putting it out of my mind—at least until I let myself into my cottage and realized I now had to deal with spending a Friday evening alone.

In the pre-Nick days, Fridays were for unwinding at home or calling a friend and going out for dinner or a movie. After he moved in, weekend evenings became a chance for us to spend some time together, since we were both so busy the rest of the week.

But I’d seen neither hide nor hair of Nick since our argument in the restaurant parking lot two nights before. And as I wandered around my empty cottage, I suddenly felt very much alone.

So after letting out the dogs, checking all the water bowls, and doling out dinner to all my pets, I strolled over to the Big House to see if Betty and Winston were willing to let me tag along on whatever the two soon-to-be-wed lovebirds had planned. I found Betty sitting on the couch with Frederick curled up in her lap, studying a catalog with such intensity she appeared to be cramming for a quiz. Various pages had been flagged with Post-its.

“You’re just in time to give me some advice,” she said. “I’m trying to decide on gifts for my bridesmaids. Do you think I should go with these engraved bangle bracelets or is a silver picture frame more practical?”

“I’m sorry, Betty,” I replied, “but I’m not really in the mood for anything that’s even remotely related to weddings, engagements, love, or even dating.”

She frowned. “In that case, would you like to practice your dance steps?”

“I’m
really
not in the mood for that,” I replied.

The ringing of the phone interrupted us.

“I’d better get that,” Betty said apologetically, dashing off to answer. “It’s probably Winston, calling from the tuxedo shop to get advice on what sort of cummerbund to choose.”

I fondled Frederick’s ears distractedly, half-listening as she padded down the hall toward the phone.

“Hello?” I heard her say.

And then, nothing.

I expected her to report that it was a wrong number. But when she walked back into the room, her face was ashen.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Who called?”

“It sounded like a threat,” Betty replied in a tight voice. “From a woman. I think I recognized her voice, but I can’t place it.”

“What do you mean, a threat?” I demanded. “From a woman? What did she say?”

“Actually, it sounded like a taped message. And I believe it was a line from a movie.”

Before I had a chance to fire more questions at her, she added, “The tape simply said, ‘Be afraid. Be very afraid.’”