Unnatural Acts

50

Stone put down the phone on his desk and walked back to the kitchen and into the garden, where Marla was relaxing on a chaise longue. There was a script in her lap and a bottle of gimlets and two glasses on the table next to her.

Stone sat down and kissed her, then poured them both a gimlet. “I’m sorry I took so long. I was talking on the phone with Dino.”

“How is Dino?”

“Never better. He cleared Annette Redfield’s murder this morning.”

“What does ‘cleared’ mean?”

“Well, in this case, he didn’t make an arrest.”

“You mean, Ed Abney is still free?”

“Ed Abney is dead. He shot himself when Dino went to arrest him.”

“Oh, God,” she said, putting a hand to her face. “I’m never going to have to be afraid of him again.”

“That’s right, and it’s a good thing, too. Abney nearly killed a female NYPD detective last night. She’s recovering in the hospital, be out in a few days.”

Joan came into the garden with some letters. “Marla, your neighbor dropped off your mail. There was something hand-delivered, too.” She handed the packet to Marla.

Marla opened the hand-delivered envelope first. “It’s from Bright Lights, Ink,” she said.

“Are you their client?”

“They’re publicists for the show I just finished.”

“What does it say?”

“I’ll read it to you:

Dear Marla,

We want to tell you about a big change at Bright Lights, Ink. Ed Abney is no longer in charge. As a matter of fact, it has been some years since Ed did any active publicity work for the company. Senior staff did the work, and Ed took the credit.

For our existing clients, like you, our work will continue as usual, but Ed is gone. Police went to his East Hampton home this morning to arrest him on charges of the murder of a woman and assault on a police officer. Rather than go to jail, Ed took his own life. The newspapers and TV will give you the details.

I have been with the agency for twelve years, and I am its new president. I will take great pleasure in seeing that your account is handled in an outstanding and personal fashion. If you have any questions or requests, please call me, day or night.

“It’s signed by Margie, his secretary. She’s a terrific lady, and I always thought she was the brains there.”

“Then she still is,” Stone said.

“I’ve got some news for you,” she said.

“I hope it’s good news.”

“I hope it is, too. This morning I read your son Peter’s play, the one he produced at Yale last winter.” She tapped the script in her lap.

“Did you get the script from my study?”

“No, my agent had it hand-delivered to me this morning. It’s coming to Broadway, and I’ve been asked if I have any interest in directing it.”

“Do you?”

“Let me ask you a question first. Does Peter know that you and I are… friends?”

“No, that’s such a recent event that I haven’t had time to tell him yet.”

“Did you suggest to someone that I direct it?”

“No. Peter told me when the play opened at Yale that there was talk of a New York production, but I haven’t heard anything about it since, until now.”

“Do you want me to direct it?”

“Apparently Peter does, or they wouldn’t have contacted you. My opinion doesn’t enter into it. For my part, if you choose to direct it, I’ll be happy for you both.”

“Then I think I’d like to do it. It’s charming, funny, and, in the end, very moving. I think a play like this-small cast, one set, put into a small theater like, say, the Music Box or the Helen Hayes-could have a long run.”

“May I ask a favor of you?”

“You may.”

“You didn’t see the play at Yale?”

“No.”

“Well, Peter played the lead, and he was very good in it.”

“You want me to cast him again?”

“No, I’d rather you didn’t. That’s the favor I’m asking.”

“Why don’t you want him in the play?”

“Because of what you just said. I don’t want him tied to the long run of a play, even if it’s his play. I want him at Yale, finishing his degree, before he does something like that.”

“I can understand that. All right, if I do it, I won’t cast him. Will he be disappointed?”

“Maybe, I’m not sure. We haven’t discussed it.”

“Perhaps it’s best if I don’t use anyone from the original cast,” Marla said. “They’re all students, and what you’ve just said about Peter probably applies to them, too.”

“I can’t argue with that reasoning.”

“Then I’ll tell them I’m interested, and if the offer is right, I’ll do it.”

“That’s great! Do you want me to tell Peter?”

“No, let him hear about it through channels, then he can have the thrill of telling you. There’ll be time enough later to tell him about us.”

“Peter’s girlfriend wrote the incidental music, and it’s very good.”

“I’ll hear it, and if I like it, I’ll use it.”

“That would make your playwright very happy. In fact, I think you should expect him to insist.”

“Then I’ll try very hard to like the music.” She took a sip of her drink and sat back.

“Everything all right, now?” Stone asked.

“Everything seems just about perfect,” she said. “Ed Abney got what he deserved, I’m not out of work anymore, and, best of all, I’m here with you.”

“Pilots have an expression,” Stone said. “‘Severe clear.’”

“What does it mean?”

“It means that the way ahead is clear of foul weather and even clouds, the air is smooth, and visibility is unlimited.”

“Severe clear,” she repeated. “I like it.” She squeezed his hand. “I feel it.”

HERBIE FISHER was clearing his desk at the end of the day when Cookie came in with a package.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“A packet of invitations came for the grand opening of High Cotton Ideas’ new building, and a housewarming for Mark Hayes’s new apartment. It’s a week from Friday. There was a note suggesting that you invite some of your clients.”

“What a good idea,” Herbie said. “Mark knows most of my clients, anyway. Invite them all. And Bill Eggers, Stone Barrington, and Dino Bacchetti. And invite RoseAnn.”

“Dink Brennan, too?”

“Yes. Would you like a drink?” Herbie asked.

“Sure.”

“Pour us both one and sit.”

Cookie poured the drinks and took a chair. “Cheers.” She raised her glass.

“Cheers.”

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“No, but I need to talk to you about something.”

“All right.”

“I know you find Dink Brennan attractive. He’s young, handsome, charming, and rich.”

“What a nice combination!” Cookie said, smiling.

“Normally, yes. The trouble is, I don’t think there’s anything normal about Dink.”

“You mean, because he was at the funny farm?”

“No, I mean because he needed to be at the funny farm for a lot longer, and he didn’t get the treatment he needed. He short-circuited the process.”

“You think Dink is crazy?”

“I think, from what the director at the farm told me about him, that he might be a psychopath. At the very least, he’s a sociopath. You know the difference?”

“A psychopath is crazy,” Cookie said. “A sociopath has no conscience.”

“Either one of them can appear to be a perfectly normal person,” Herbie said. “Handsome, charming, and rich.”

“Which do you think Dink is?”

“I think that he’s both. The psychiatrist thought Dink had violent tendencies.”

Cookie gave a little shudder. “Eeww,” she said.

“My thought exactly. I don’t buy his reformed act, and I suspect his father doesn’t, either. I think it would be a good idea if you treat him politely, but not warmly, and that you avoid seeing him outside this office.”

“Herb,” she said, tossing off her drink, “you talked me into it.”