A Little Night Murder Page 15

  Libby had picked up her fork again and made a show of cutting a smidgen of cheesecake from the long, narrow plate of elaborate desserts before her. She looked very festive in a low-cut blouse with a long silver necklace that rode the crest of the wave of her bosom. Her hair was a coquettish tangle, her lipstick lush.

  “Would you like some cheesecake?” Ox asked me. “My parents owned a Brooklyn deli, so I’m a bit of a connoisseur where cheesecake is concerned. The stuff they serve here is first-rate.”

  Libby forked up a bite. “Here, try this one, Oxy.”

  She fed him from her own fork.

  I watched my sister pat his mouth with her napkin. Clearly, things had moved faster than expected between the two of them. Like maybe Mach 3.

  To Ox, I said, “Why don’t you tell me about the new Tuttle show? Isn’t it a miracle that Boom Boom found one of Toodles’s old scores?”

  “Yes, a miracle.” He couldn’t quite meet my eye as he reached for his champagne to wash down the cheesecake. “But the music’s great, and they’re working hard to make the production a hit.”

  Ox was a short man—barely my height, I guessed—but he sat with the body language of a powerful person accustomed to commanding money and prestige: upright posture, shoulders square, head high, one hand resting on the table at all times. As befitting a Broadway impresario, he wore flashy rings on his pudgy fingers. Otherwise, he had a round face and a bald head with a neatly trimmed white fringe around his prominent ears. Put him in a red sleigh and a false beard, and he’d make a pretty good Santa Claus.

  I said, “I suppose finding Boom Boom’s daughter dead was very upsetting for everyone connected with the show.”

  Libby sighed again. “Such a gruesome subject!”

  Ox patted her hand. “The show is my livelihood, Elizabeth.”

  She smiled fetchingly. “The show must go on, Oxy?”

  “I hope so,” he replied, gazing deeply into her eyes.

  I cleared my throat before they started canoodling right in front of me. “There’s something I have to ask you, Mr. Oxenfeld. Have you noticed anything strange about Boom Boom?”

  “You mean her color?”

  “Exactly. I’ve seen earlier pictures, and she wasn’t always blue. What happened?”

  Ox said, “She was taking some dietary supplements that caused the coloration. She’s hoping it will fade, but . . .”

  Libby said, “I ate too many carrots on a carrot diet once, and my palms turned orange.” She held up her perfectly normal palms. “That was just one of many reasons for me to condemn dieting forever.”

  To Ox, I said, “When did it happen?”

  “Let me see. About two years ago, I guess. It started gradually. Then suddenly she was blue, and—well, now she has a nurse to help keep her medications straight.”

  I swallowed a comment about closing the barn door after the horse was gone and instead said, “I’ve been invited to Monday’s preview. Boom Boom said I should bring cameras. What’s the purpose of the preview? Can you tell me about it?”

  He swung around to me again, unable to conceal his surprise. “I wasn’t expecting any media coverage. I’m not sure it’s the best— Well, if Boom Boom feels strongly about it, I can hardly protest, can I? The purpose? I’ve invited some influential people to attend. We’re still hoping to find backers. And—well, everybody connected with the show seemed to think a preview might be a nice send-off for Jenny. Boom Boom vetoed a funeral, you see. The cast is rehearsing tonight in the theater’s rehearsal space. The main thing is making sure they can do the show without Jenny. Her loss will be a great hurdle to overcome.”

  “Why?” Libby asked. “What did she have to do with anything?”

  I said, “Jenny was a vital part of rehearsals, wasn’t she, Ox?”

  “Yes. She had— She rewrote some of the lyrics that didn’t work, made a few adjustments to the music.” Ox seemed torn between keeping information from me and impressing my sister. “That happens a lot during the creation of any show when the composer is present, you understand, but without Toodles around—well, Jenny was extraordinary at interpreting the spirit of her father’s intent.”

  I said, “Might she have contributed to the songwriting back when Toodles wrote the show?”

  Ox struggled with an answer and finally said, “As far as I know, she did not. Bluebird of Happiness is one hundred percent from Toodles. Jenny was a big help, though. Without her, we’ll unfortunately have to rely on Fred Fusby now.”

  “Doesn’t Fred have the talent to pull the show together?”

  “I fervently hope so. But he’s only the music director—the one who conducts the musicians and coaches the singers. We still need a stage director, too—and a whole team of theater pros: lighting designers, a costume staff, that kind of thing. Unfortunately, we can’t afford anyone else just yet.”

  I said, “You’re waiting for the big investor to bring more money to the production.”

  “Uh, yes. Boom Boom has promised he’s on his way, but—well, we need the money soon or the production will fold. Which is why we’re hoping to encourage other investors at the preview.”

  Libby frowned. “I thought you were the producer, Oxy. You said you wear a tuxedo and go to lovely restaurants with famous actors and—”

  “I am the managing producer.” He regained his expansive demeanor. “But I’d be a fool to sink all my capital into one basket. I must save my eggs for expenses that are more important to me personally.”

  He smiled into her eyes, and she leaned close and glowed.

  I interrupted the tunnel-of-love moment by asking, “Ox, do you know who Boom Boom’s big investor is?”

  “No, but I trust her,” Ox said, perhaps a shade too quickly. “We’ve known each other a long time. She may be losing a few steps at her age, but she still has relationships with the important people we need. I’m sure she has lined up someone reliable.”

  I asked, “Is she really going to play the lead role?”

  Ox again grabbed his champagne glass and raised it to his mouth, only to belatedly realize it was empty. As efficient as a geisha, Libby reached for the bottle to replenish his glass. While she poured, he said, “Boom Boom had a lot of talent in her day. But, uh, it’s a very demanding role. It requires a singer-dancer with skill and stamina. And someone who isn’t . . . blue. Out of respect for her past accomplishments, however, we continue to . . . indulge her.”

  “I suppose the big investor wants Boom Boom to play the lead?”

  “He’s the financial linchpin, but the addition of new backers may change the casting. Everybody comes in with new opinions. It may be a better box office strategy to offer the role to someone with the star power to sell tickets—someone from television or the movies, perhaps.”

  Libby swallowed a mouthful of cheesecake and leaned closer, resting one breast on Ox’s arm. “I’d love to meet Neil Patrick Harris. Isn’t he adorable?”

  To Ox, I said, “You’re stuck with Boom Boom for the time being.”

  Libby sighed irritably. “Boom Boom is a bitch on wheels, from what I heard when I made my deliveries. Everybody hates her. But they’re also terrified of her.”

  “That may be overstating things,” Ox said without much conviction.

  Libby licked her fork, then speared a raspberry with it. “You told me it’s a wonder she wasn’t the one who died. You said you were actually afraid somebody might kill her.”

  Ox’s resolve crumbled. He gave up trying to snow me. “Honestly? She’s more exasperating than any actress I’ve ever known. It’s a miracle somebody didn’t strangle her a long time ago.”

  “What about Jenny?” I asked. “Did anyone want to strangle her?”

  “Jenny was her mother’s polar opposite. She was very much liked.”

  “By everyone?” I pressed.

  “Almost,
” he said, and couldn’t go on.

  I said, “Fred liked her. But Poppy didn’t. And neither did Boom Boom.”

  “True,” Ox said unwillingly. “But that doesn’t mean they killed her.”

  “Ox, do you know the boy in the photograph? The photo Jenny carried in her pocket?”

  “I have no idea who he is.”

  “Can you guess?”

  Libby said, “Betcha he’s her son. A love child. The result of a wonderful but doomed romantic relationship with—well, I don’t know who. Did Jenny sleep around?”

  “Of course not.” Ox began to look unnerved by the way my sister and I were peppering him with questions. “Jenny was a very quiet woman—a woman with a spotless reputation. She was a paragon.”

  Libby said, “A paragon? That’s usually a word that means she wasn’t much fun.”

  I thought of Jenny hanging around crab shacks listening to the likes of chanteuses like Bridget O’Halloran. Maybe she wasn’t as much of a paragon as people believed.

  “If she did have a romantic relationship,” I said, “who might it have been with?”

  Ox shook his head firmly. “I can’t imagine Jenny being interested in romance. She seemed single-minded about the music. Where’s the waiter? We should order more cheesecake.”

  As he snapped his fingers to call a waiter, it hit me that maybe Ox was trying to gloss over his relationship with Jenny for my sister’s benefit. I wondered if he and Jenny had ever—? Had he used the proverbial casting couch?

  Instead of pursuing that idea aloud, I asked, “Did Jenny support your idea that Boom Boom should star in the show? Or did she prefer Poppy Fontanna?”

  Still looking around for the waiter, Ox said, “We all agreed Poppy isn’t right for the role, either. Not powerful enough. Not a showstopper.”

  I asked, “So who will get the part? Not—Bridget O’Halloran?”

  At the mention of Bridget, Ox turned colors all over again. “As much as the delightful Miss O’Halloran would like to be the lead, I’m only the producer, not the director.”

  “So Fred will decide?”

  Ox considered the question and looked rather surprised by the answer that occurred to him. “Until yesterday, I’d have said that Jenny would have decided. She wasn’t the official director, but she was making the creative choices. And she was the only one who would have eventually stood up to Boom Boom.”

  “So,” I said, “if Boom Boom feared her daughter might prevent her from getting the role, what might Boom Boom have done?”

  He couldn’t summon the words. By his expression, though, I guessed he believed Boom Boom might have gone to any length to play the lead in Bluebird of Happiness.

  Libby slid her hand over Ox’s. She leaned close to his ear and whispered, “Let’s not talk about murder anymore. We have much more exciting things to consider.”

  When Libby set her sights on a man, he was usually a goner. As she stroked his hand, Ox seemed to lose his ability to concentrate before my eyes. Any minute, he was going to start thinking about all those hotel rooms within close proximity. And I wondered if Libby was thinking about her unmet need for intimacy. Or—as Emma had suggested—her need for financial help paying college tuition for Rawlins.

  I couldn’t stand to watch anymore. Abruptly, I thanked them for the champagne I hadn’t even sipped and stood up to excuse myself.

  Libby cried, “You’re going already?”

  Ox rose to shake my hand. The light of the chandelier gleamed on his bald head, highlighting the age spots. He had twinkly Santa eyes, which were discernible through his saggy eyelids. For an old guy, he was courtly.

  To me, he said, “Those are very attractive shoes you’re wearing.”

  “Oh. Thank you.”

  Libby jumped up from the banquette. “I’ll walk you to a cab, Nora. Ox, order us more desserts, and I’ll be right back.”

  She wobbled on her new strappy sandals as we crossed the lobby. Outside, Libby gasped and leaned against the hand railing. “Nora, please slow down. I think I’m going to explode.”

  “What’s wrong? The new shoes?”

  “Not just the shoes.” She clutched her stomach as if she’d been stabbed. “I bought some new Spanx. The Spanish Inquisition could have used this thing! It’s killing me. And how are Spanx any different from that girdle Grandmama took to wearing, I’d like to know? I was seduced by the naughty name. Now all my internal organs are getting squished!”

  She did look a bit as if she’d been poured into her outfit like sausage into its casing. I said, “That couldn’t have anything to do with the cheesecake.”

  “What’s wrong with you?” Libby blinked, looking as wounded as a fawn.

  “Seeing you practically sitting in Ox’s lap is—is—honestly? I can’t stand it.” I spun on her. “One day you’re delivering his lunch, and now he’s suddenly buying you sexy shoes!”

  “You asked me to talk to him!”

  “Talking is different from . . . from throwing yourself at the man. What are you thinking? Do you even like him? You’re acting like he’s some kind of meal ticket!”

  “I’ll have you know he told me more than he told you. You didn’t ask him who got Jenny hooked on energy drinks. Well, it was him! He was totally addicted himself, and he encouraged Jenny to try them, too. But he started getting heart palpitations, so his doctor ordered him to stop. Meanwhile, he got Jenny hooked on caffeine!”

  “Then what in the world are you doing with him? He might have killed her!”

  “Not on purpose!”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I just do, that’s all. He’s too nice a man to hurt anyone, let alone a lady.”

  “You’re blinded by love, is that it?”

  Her spine stiffened at my sarcastic tone. “He’s an attractive man who could use an attentive woman in his life. Why not me?”

  “Why not? For one thing, he must be twenty-five years older than you are!”

  Two bright spots of color appeared on her cheekbones. “That just means he’s worldly and smart and—”

  “You’ve got him wondering how fast he can get his hands on a Viagra prescription.” I could hear myself getting angrier by the second, but I couldn’t stop myself. “And what about that spiritual fulfillment you’re always babbling about? That goes out the window when you see dollar signs?”

  Libby snapped to attention and quivered with affronted pride. “Out of the goodness of my heart, I came out here to warn you not to exhaust yourself with worrying about Jenny Tuttle’s death. But I can see your hormones are completely out of control—”

  “The only thing that’s out of control around here is you. You’ve sunk to seducing a man to get to his money!”

  Libby sucked in a breath and raised her head high. “I think you’ve said enough, Nora. If you’ll excuse me, I have to find a ladies’ room and take off these Spanx before I rupture an ovary. Which I might need if I decide to marry Ox Oxenfeld! Good-bye.”

  She stormed back into the hotel, leaving me standing there in openmouthed astonishment.

  Had I heard correctly? She was actually thinking of marrying Ox Oxenfeld?

  CHAPTER TEN

  I left Libby to do whatever the hell she wanted with her life, and I tried to calm myself by walking several blocks toward the Chinatown section of the city. Although still furious with my sister, I told myself I needed time to process what I had learned from Ox Oxenfeld. But my thoughts were so muddled by anger at my sister, I ended up thinking that the only person without a motive to kill Jenny Tuttle was me.

  I passed the best Peking duck restaurant in Philadelphia and a few more tiny shops before stepping through a doorway beside a former Chinese laundry that was now the take-out window of the Fu Manchu restaurant.

  I took the long flight of narrow steps to the second floor. Halfway up, I enco
untered an old woman gripping the banister and carefully making her way down the stairs. With a start, I remembered her. Dorothea Mitt Scanlon. In her day, she had been a very famous Philadelphia socialite and a friend of my grandmother’s. Now at least ninety, she attended only a handful of high-society social events a year—those with ticket prices of five thousand dollars and up, and which required the haute-est of haute couture. She was still stick thin and as tanned as cordovan leather, but her cosmetic procedures could no longer fight gravity. Her face was tight at the edges, and filler had puffed her mouth into duck lips, but everything between had gone slack. It was a shame, because she’d probably have aged very gracefully if not for surgical intervention. We said hellos but kept going our separate directions. The light was so dim and her eyesight was so poor, I was sure she didn’t recognize me—certainly not in my current round shape.

  At the top of the stairs, I knocked, and Krissie Wong opened the door to her modest apartment.

  “Hi, Nora. Thanks for coming. Wow! Is that a real Pucci?”

  “Inherited from my grandmother.” When I had closed the door behind myself, I said in a stage whisper, “I just met Mrs. Scanlon on the stairs. Can you tell me what she’s wearing to the hospital ball?”

  Krissie put one finger to her lips. “She’d be humiliated if it got out, but she’s recycling old dresses.”

  “Hey, that’s the story of my life,” I said with a smile.

  “But not hers. Poor thing, she lost all her money. Lexie Paine stole it.”

  “Lexie didn’t steal anything,” I immediately objected. “It was her partner who did all that.”

  “But her partner’s dead, and Lexie’s still alive, so that’s who people blame. I feel sorry for Mrs. Scanlon. She doesn’t have any children, and her husband is long gone. Her friends are paying for her ticket to the gala to cheer her up. She must sell her house and downsize.”

  I felt sorry for Mrs. Scanlon, too. At her age, she was probably afraid of ending up destitute. But it was unfair of people to blame Lexie for her partner’s terrible crime. I kept my objections to myself, though. It was hard to defend someone who was living in the lap of luxury—even if that luxury was borrowed.