Murder on the Aisle

4

7:02 P.M.

“There you are,” Michael Dailey said as Tobin put his hands on the doorknob of the upstairs dressing room.

He recognized Dailey’s voice instantly. Tobin turned to face the man the way you might turn to face a firing squad.

Michael Dailey had made a minor art form out of lounge lizardry. With his slicked-down dark hair, his pencil-line mustache, his heavily lidded eyes, his full ironic mouth, he resembled a gigolo from a thirties movie. He was at least fifty years old. Tonight he wore a narrow-collared black jacket, a brilliantly white shirt, and a red bow tie. It was to his credit that he didn’t look silly. Indeed, he looked quite seriously decadent. He was Richard Dunphy’s agent.

Dailey extended a hand that Tobin shook reluctantly. “Isn’t it time you two made up?”

“No,” Tobin said and turned back to opening the door.

“He’s a better friend of yours than you might think,” Dailey said. “You really hurt his feelings.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“I saw Jane leaving your dressing room,” Dailey said. “1 should have expected she’d run straight to you.”

The back of Tobin’s neck felt tingly. Did Dailey know about the affair he’d been having with Jane Dunphy?

Dailey said, “She should have come to Joan, if anybody. Joan could have helped her and not made the situation worse by stirring up your feelings about Richard again.” Joan was Dailey’s wife, a former runway model, blond, pale, inexorably of the night. Mrs. Dracula.

“Yeah, right; Joan’s the first one I’d turn to in a crisis.”

Dailey bristled. “Are you disparaging my wife?”

Tobin sighed. “Michael, what the fuck are you doing up here talking to me? You should be down talking to Richard. I just treated him very badly. He probably needs comforting. You know Richard.”

“I’m trying to settle your childish dispute once and for all.”

“You’re doing a rotten job of it. Anyway, you don’t have to worry about Richard and me anymore. Since he won’t sign the contract, there’s no reason we’ll have to be together under any circumstances.”

“But that’s one of the things I came up here to tell you.”

Tobin’s heart speeded up. “You mean he’s considering signing?”

“Possibly.”

But Tobin could see that Dailey was only doing one of his agent routines. “He hasn’t reconsidered, has he?”

Dailey was very good. Without in the least admitting that he’d just told a lie, he said, “I think he’d be so overwhelmed by an apology from you that he’d get swept up and sign the papers without thinking.”

Dailey had just finished his sentence when a young woman in her mid-twenties appeared at the top of the stairs, looked around, then came over to the men.

Sarah Nichols was a Ph.D. candidate who was also Richard Dunphy’s assistant, which translated into latest hump. She was a natural beauty with auburn hair that sparkled and cheeks that shone and teeth that gleamed. She was given to cardigan sweaters that took not a whit away from her wonderful breasts and long peasant skirts that thankfully hid nothing of her precious ankles. She had hazel eyes you could dote on for hours. She loathed Tobin.

“I need to see you, Michael,” she said. She made sure that her eyes never lighted on Tobin. He could have taken out his little dick and waved it at her, she would have favored him with nary a glance. “Downstairs,” she said to Dailey.

“Is something wrong?” Dailey asked.

“Everything’s fine. We just need to talk.”

“Hello, Sarah,” Tobin said as he usually did, mocking the fact that she would not lay eyes on him.

She slipped her arm through Michael’s. “Hurry.”

“Think over what I said,” Dailey called to Tobin as Sarah led him away.