Rehearsal for Murder Page 3

  A lot of things you haven’t had time to notice, love. Nick quelled his resentment and said, “Sarah takes a lot of energy. But it’s been weeks since we’ve talked about anything besides who does dinner or who takes her to the pediatrician.”

  “Well, things are still shaking down.”

  “It’s been five months!”

  “But she changes every day! And you’re working now, and—”

  Two explosions burst through the clatter and rumble of the city dusk. Little Sarah stirred and whimpered. Maggie said doubtfully, “Backfire?”

  “Maybe.” They looked at each other a second, then turned and ran back to the corner where they had left Ramona. A few people had paused on the sidewalks to peer toward the middle of the block. A woman, not Ramona, was standing there in the light of the streetlamp, screaming. As they ran toward her, a coatless woman in a miniskirt began to soothe her.

  “What happened?” Nick asked them.

  “Don’t know,” said the miniskirted woman. “There were shots, and I heard Carlotta screaming, so I came out. She was running away from that building. But she’s not hurt, I can see that.”

  A scaffold covered the sidewalk in front of the building she indicated, and plywood blocked most of the facade. Maggie had disappeared into the black shadows under the scaffold. “Nick!” she called. “Get an ambulance!”

  There was no arguing with the urgency in her voice. Nick sprinted the half-block to the restaurant, despite Sarah’s complaints about the jouncing, and grabbed the phone by the register. The headwaiter stopped protesting when he heard Nick’s request for the police and an ambulance.

  Nick ran back to the scaffold, murmuring distracted explanations to the indignant Sarah. One of the plywood sheets was split, and the blackness of the gutted building loomed beyond. When he shielded his eyes from the glare of the streetlight, he could see Maggie in the shadows, kneeling. And more.

  Sprawled on her back on the dirty cement floor, Ramona Ricci lay very still, a dark stain spreading across the pale fur of the cape rumpled beneath her.

  II

  Tuesday night

  March 6, 1973

  “How bad is it?” he asked.

  “Bad.” Maggie was kneeling beside her, pressing her red scarf against Ramona’s side. “She’s in shock. Blinked a couple of times when I yelled for you, but her eyes haven’t opened since.”

  “The ambulance is on its way.” Nick knelt to feel the fluttery pulse, but Sarah began to wail. “I’d better remove the distraction,” he said, straightening.

  “Okay. Do you see her bag anywhere?”

  “Not out there. I’ll look.”

  It wasn’t near Ramona. He moved a couple of steps into the shadowed building and paused. Shafts of twilight broke through the clumsy wall of plywood and spattered the heaps of rubble, twisted stumps of utility conduits, trash cans. There was no movement. The assailant, he reasoned, would be gone; he could see a clear route through the gutted building to the next street, where the door in its plywood barrier was cracked open. No hiding places; a staircase zigzagged up the side wall to future upper stories that now were bare girders, but the stair was blocked by a solid, soundly padlocked metal door where it started down to the basement. No one could hide in this bare cavern. Still, he picked up Maggie’s briefcase and shielded Sarah with it as he moved cautiously toward the other end of the building. “Hush,” he murmured soothingly to the fretful infant. “How are we going to become world-famous secret agents if we can’t sneak up on people? You think James Bond whimpers on the job? You think Sherlock Holmes fusses?”

  She whimpered on. Easy to see why the great detectives were not family men. Well, at least there was no danger of panicking someone by a too-stealthy approach.

  Ramona’s bag gaped open, on its side, in a splash of light a few yards farther on. Nick knelt, still shielding Sarah with the briefcase, to inspect the spilled items—makeup, a pack of tissues, cigarettes, lighter, pens, checkbook. One of her long gloves was crumpled, the other lay full length, palm up, as though in grotesque supplication. There was no sign of a billfold. He went on a cautious tour of the space, exploring the loose plywood barrier along the next street. It would have been easy for the attacker to slip out this way; someone had broken the hasp of the padlock on the jerry-built plywood door. A few people moved calmly along the sidewalks of the next street.

  Sarah’s opinion of their expedition was still decidedly negative. He returned to Maggie.

  “Her bag has been dumped over there. I think her billfold is gone. How is she doing?”

  “Still breathing. Is that the ambulance?” The sound of sirens was becoming louder. Nick hurried to the street to meet the squad car.

  “Gunshot victim,” he explained, and pointed. “Back there. My wife is giving first aid.” The two officers ran through the broken panel, and he heard one of them starting to question Maggie as the ambulance turned into the block. Nick saw Carlotta, no longer screaming, retreating with her friend toward a narrow doorway across the street. He hurried across to them.

  “Excuse me, please, but you should probably tell them what you saw.”

  Carlotta was still snuffling. Her coatless friend, arms crossed against the damp chill, or against Nick’s questions, said, “We don’t want trouble. She says it was just a black kid anyway. Addict, probably.”

  “But why was the woman in the building?”

  The friend shrugged. Carlotta didn’t answer because she and Sarah had noticed each other and were smiling and cooing. Nick let the mutual therapy proceed for a moment, then asked gently, “Do you remember why she went into that gutted building?”

  Carlotta glanced at him quickly, then back at Sarah. “I was walking a little behind her. She stopped where the boards were broken, sort of surprised, and then said something. Maybe, ‘Are you hurt?’ She went a step closer, then the black kid grabbed her and pulled her into the darkness. I ran away.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “I didn’t see his face. Just a shadow in the shadows. She went closer and his arm came out and pulled her into the dark. I was running away when I heard the shots, and I thought he’d come for me next.” Her lips were trembling again and she looked fearfully at the scaffolding.

  Nick said, “He’s gone. I went all the way through the building to check. Hey, my baby sure likes you.”

  She turned back to Sarah gratefully. “She’s a wonderful baby!”

  “Yes,” said the friend firmly. “But I still think you need coffee. Besides, I’m cold.” She took Carlotta’s elbow and led her into the door. Nick noted the number and crossed back to the other side of the street.

  The paramedics had Ramona on a stretcher and were hurrying her into the vehicle. In a moment the siren yowled and it roared away. More police had arrived, plainclothes and technicians. Nick saw Maggie under the streetlight talking to what was probably a detective. He joined them. She was nearing the end of her account.

  “I asked Nick to call an ambulance. She seemed bloodiest around her left waist so I felt for the wound and jammed my scarf and a diaper on it. I just pressed it there. Hope it was the right thing to do.” She was cleaning blood from her hands with Sarah’s baby wipes.

  “Yes, ma’am.” The detective was stocky with a thick neck and receding curly hair. He seemed deeply weary, alert out of habit rather than interest. “What next?”

  “I just held the scarf in place until you came. Pulled her cape around her to keep her warm. She was in shock, but I couldn’t think of anything else to do. I knew we shouldn’t move her. Nick came back and I asked him to look for her bag.”

  “Nick?”

  “Me. Nick O’Connor. I was the one who called you. When I got back here, I walked through the alley to the next street. Her bag was halfway along, emptied out. I didn’t really search because I didn’t want to touch anything.”

  “Good. We’re checking it out.” The gutted building was lively with flashlights now. The detective added, “I’m Detect
ive Sergeant Perez. Did you see anyone in the building when you arrived?”

  “No. But I didn’t really look until after I’d called you. You’ll want to talk to a woman, Carlotta something, across the street at number fifty-two. She says she saw someone pull Ramona into the building just before the shots were fired. She’s very upset, of course. A friend is trying to calm her.”

  “I see. Now, Miz Ryan here said you worked with Miz Ricci?”

  “Yes. We’re doing a musical. I’m one of the actors.”

  “An actor?” Perez glanced at him with no recognition. Not surprising; Nick was one of those actors who dissolve into their parts, and few recognized him even if they had seen his Elson Beer commercial a dozen times. Of course in the Elson Beer thing he hadn’t been wearing a fussy baby.

  Perez asked, “Is Miz Ricci one of the actresses?”

  “She’s the star. Also the producer.”

  “Producer? Puts up the money?”

  “Yes.”

  “Rich lady, then. Wait a minute. Not Ramona Ricci?The Devil’s to Pay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Jesus.” Like Nick, Sergeant Perez was old enough to remember ‘fifty-five. He made a note, then returned to his question. “So she’d probably have money on her.”

  “Some.”

  “And wearing that fur. Can you tell me anything else? What she was doing here?”

  “She was going to meet someone at L’Etoile.”

  “Yes, Miz Ryan said that. Do you know who?”

  “No. Ramona didn’t say.”

  “Is she married?”

  “Well, she’s about to get a divorce, I think. Her husband is named Simon Jenkins. Banker, she said.”

  “I see. Children?”

  “I don’t know. She never mentioned any.”

  “Boyfriends?”

  “We’ve only been rehearsing about a week. I don’t know her very well.”

  “We’ll check. Now, Miz Ryan said you were walking together?”

  “To the corner there. We were on our way to the subway.”

  “I see.” Perez looked at Sarah, who was beginning to fuss again. “Well, let’s get your statements so you can go. Wait here a minute.”

  It took more than a minute. Perez conferred with his colleagues, toured the gutted building, and fetched Carlotta and her unwilling friend from their apartment before escorting them all to the precinct house.

  “Where did they take Ramona?” asked Nick as they climbed the steps.

  “Bellevue E.R. Of course, someone like that, they may move her when she’s stabilized.”

  There was another weary time of waiting while Perez organized the machinery of investigation. No wonder the detective looked permanently tired. Nick tried to soothe Sarah while Maggie phoned her partner to explain why she would not be on time for the second half of her noon-to-nine working day. “Hey, Dan, sorry I’ll be late. There was a shooting and I’m sort of a witness…. Yeah, I did that this afternoon while you were cursing the computer…. No, no, Sarah was entertained, and anyway she hears worse from me in French…. Basically I’m waiting on the new program now…. Well, I hope you get it figured out. Leave me a note and I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  At last Perez sent for them and they went over the grim story again and he sent them on their way.

  They started slowly back toward the subway. Nick said, “Hell.” Maggie didn’t answer, just put an arm around his waist. But there was no time for comforting each other on their current schedule. Maggie still had to go back to her job farther uptown to complete the day’s work, while Nick and Sarah headed for the subway and Brooklyn. The train, inside and out, was mantled in meandering curls of spooling graffiti, as though snagged in the unraveling fabric of the disintegrating city. Sarah, jaded city child, was mysteriously soothed by the screeching, crowded, swaying car and dropped into sleep. Nick, gym bag between his legs, one hand gripping a strap and the other sheltering Sarah from the press of their fellow travelers, was left alone to worry about Ramona and about his job and about his marriage.

  “Look, Steve! She’s dancing!”

  Elaine was in her element as mother. Steve looked over his shoulder from where he stood mixing Bloody Marys at the tiled counter. Little Muffin was making repeated flat-footed jumps on the kilim carpet, not quite in time with the Glenn Miller music that Elaine and Rachel had on the stereo.

  Rachel said, “Nah. She’s just practicing her karate stance. Wants to terrify the other kids at Montessori.” She was roundly pregnant, a pleasant woman of definite features: wide smile, strong nose, long dark hair caught in a clasp at the nape of her neck. She had become good friends with Elaine last fall when she and Bob had moved in next door.

  Steve tended to agree with her about Muffin’s “dance.” But Elaine only laughed, still delighted with her daughter. Portrait of Elaine: a proud carriage, a warm smile, a cultured voice. Shiny caramel-blond hair. Hazel eyes, the first laugh lines at the corners. Long supple body in cashmere and silk. And total conviction that her daughter was precocious. Steve delivered a tomato juice to Rachel and a Bloody Mary to Elaine. “Time to sign her up with Martha Graham,” he teased.

  “Well, eventually, don’t you think?” said Elaine, not backing down. She loved to dance herself, still took lessons in the Village. “She enjoys music so much.”

  “I know she does. C’mon, Muffin, may I have the next?” Steve dropped to his knees and took his daughter’s rather sticky fingers. He moved their linked hands up and down as she jumped. Muffin gave him a smile that pierced his heart, and Elaine laughed.

  “Steve, you’re crazy!”

  “Wait’ll you see us tango!” He swooped Muffin up, laid his cheek on hers, and circled the room with sweeping Valentino strides.

  “Crazy!” Elaine was clapping her hands. Muffin was squealing with delight.

  Steve released his daughter and retrieved his own Bloody Mary. “Don’t let Lainey kid you,” he warned Rachel. “She knew I was crazy when she married me.”

  “No false pretenses, huh?” Rachel’s dark eyes smiled at them.

  “None at all,” admitted Elaine, still amused. “But of course Muffin makes him worse.”

  “Yeah, I can hardly wait to see Bob with ours. He’s so obsessive anyway. He’ll probably mortgage the boat to buy teething rings.”

  “We’re all a bit crazy, I guess,” said Steve. He was astonished, these days, at the extent of his own craziness. Here, in this house on Long Island, was the American dream come true. His blessings, counted: Oriental carpets, stereo, Woodmode kitchen, a Porsche and an Olds in the garage, a sailboat at the private dock. Vietnam winding down, the business poised to do better than ever. A long-awaited daughter, sticky-fingered but beloved. A wife of beauty, wealth, connections. Good family, good house, good job. And yet—

  And yet, he found himself dreaming of South America, of jaguars and bougainvillea, of an untamed woman somewhere in Caracas, of work that required steely nerve instead of his pleasant smile, of rafts on jungle rivers instead of Porsches on the expressway. Crazy.

  “Oh, baby, I’m going to miss you!” Elaine’s voice brought him out of his reverie. She was giving Muffin a big kiss before placing her in her chair by the kitchen counter.

  “It’s only for a few hours, Lainey,” said Steve sharply. “You’ll be back before midnight. And my secretary already reserved your tickets.”

  “Don’t I know it! Myra called and talked to me half an hour about it. Did I want an aisle seat, who was watching the baby, and so forth. But it’s Muffin I’m thinking of. It’s the first time I won’t be there to pick her up after playschool. The very first time!”

  “I imagine she’ll survive it,” said Rachel drily. “But I’m not sure you will.”

  “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.