A Cat in the Wings: (InterMix) (3 page)

Chapter 4

About thirty-six hours before the dawn of the new year, Tony Basillio came rapping on my door. It was his usual mode of arrival—completely unannounced. Out-of-the-blue Basillio.

Tony was exhibiting that brand of proprietary behavior typical of the ex-lover, but from the looks of him now was no time for me to carp: He appeared to be crazier than ever. It was apparent that his plunge back into the world of the theater—after more than a decade of being a good citizen—was taking him deeper and deeper into murky waters.

“Well, Swede,” he announced broadly, “here I am at last. I know how madly you’ve missed me. I could tell by all those desperate, pleading letters and phone calls of yours.”

“Don’t you chastise me, Tony. I didn’t even know where you were living the last few months.”

He scooped into his arms the preening Bushy and collapsed along with the cat onto the sofa.

“I could use a brandy, Swede,” he said wearily. “Or in lieu of that, you could bring me an order of rye toast with a schmeer of scallion cream cheese.”

“I don’t have any scallion cream cheese, and you know it.”

“Then a brandy it is, my girl.”

He grinned as I delivered the drink.

“You’re more beautiful than ever, Swede,” he said. “Can we make love now—right this instant?”

I ignored the question. Bushy seized the opportunity to escape from Tony’s grasp.

“What are you up to, Tony?” I asked, a little suspicious.

He gave me the killer smile again, only this time he shivered, too. As usual, he was underdressed. I saw then that his distinguished, pockmarked face was red from the cold. He had grown his hair quite long, and it was all over the place. Well, I thought, at least he hadn’t succumbed to the Middle-Aged Man with Ponytail Syndrome. In fact, it was hard to believe he
was
a middle-aged man.

“Swede,” he replied languorously, using that silly name for me that he alone used, “I’m up to no good—and loving it.”

Tony stretched luxuriously.

No, the name “Swede” had no relation whatever to the reality of my life. For while I am indeed tall and fair, I in no way look like a Swede, nor am I one.

“I spend my time,” he was saying, “going from party to fabulous party. Attracting beautiful young actresses. And when I spot one about nineteen, just in from the provinces, with that long golden hair and that firm, ripe body and that hungry look on her face . . . why, then I just tell her who I am.

“And of course she’s never heard of me. So I tell her that I’m such a famous designer that Olivier himself, in the old days, would never contract to appear in an American production unless he knew I was doing the sets.

“Then I invite her up to my room to look at my . . . uh . . .
sketches
for the Theban Cycle sets. And then I promise to make her a star and she melts in my arms. You know the drill, Miss Nestleton.

“So there you have it. That’s what I’ve been up to.”

He held out his empty glass for a refill.

“Oh, right, Tony,” I said, not taking it from his fingers. “Meanwhile, back in your real life, what are you up to?”

“Get me another brandy first, Swede.”

“I don’t know, Tony. The bottle’s pretty near empty.”

“But it’s the holidays!”

Feigning reluctance, I took the glass and refilled it.

“The truth is, I
have
been to a couple of parties lately. In fact, at one of those Christmas Eve do’s your name was mentioned prominently.”

“My name? Who by?”

“Some producer. I don’t remember his name.”

Against my will, “What did he say?” came out.

Tony laughed, and took a slow sip of his brandy before proceeding. He was purposely being difficult.

“The man said, and I quote, ‘Alice Nestleton is one of the best actresses out there today, but she’ll never be rich and famous . . . never be a star . . . never arrive at a restaurant in a limo . . . she’ll never have a summer place on Dune Road.’”

“He forgot, ‘Never be able to hire a tailor to let out her camel-hair coat.’ Come on, Tony. You’re making this up.”

“I’m not, Swede. I swear. I swear on your sainted grandmother’s head. The guy said there were two reasons you never made it in the past—and won’t make it in the future. First, he says, you’re too old. Though I don’t agree with that, babe. That was downright cruel. And second, says he, you’re too goddamn stubborn—‘willful,’ he called you. Willful. He said you always act like you’re some kind of theatrical pope delivering holy instructions.”

“Ha! And what did you say?”

“Me? Nothing. I wasn’t a part of the conversation. I was merely eavesdropping.”

“Um-hum.” I nodded. “And you can’t remember his name.”

“Nope. But he said you were up for one of his shows and you didn’t get it. It was something called
The Interesting Mrs. Heath
or something like that. He said you didn’t get it because you refused to use the proper accent. The part was an upper-class California WASP. And you told the director that California WASPs sound like Memphis hookers and you don’t do Southern accents. Or something like that.”

“What nonsense!” I exploded. “Of
course
I read for that part. About seven months ago. The name of the play was
The Interrogation of Mrs. Heath
. ‘Interrogation,’ Tony, not ‘interesting.’ And I wasn’t ‘up’ for anything. I
had
the part!

“Plus—I did
not
argue with the director about any phony accent. The argument was about his using an overhead movie screen for some ungodly,
arty
commentary during the performance. It was one of the most hideously fake modern props that ever saw the light of day—just intolerably cute. And I’d rather earn my daily bread worming foul-tempered cats for the rest of my life than deal with a fool director who doesn’t know his—”

“Swede,” Tony broke in, interrupting my harangue, “it’s all, as they say, blood under the bridge. I’m just reporting what I heard. What else am I good for these days?”

“You seem to be doing well enough seducing those young things.”

“They do go for me, it’s true. I guess it’s my European soul—I’m right out of the Renaissance, you know. That, and my obvious desperation.”

I had been holding Bushy, reassuring him after his brief imprisonment by Tony, who now stood up and took the cat gently from my arms and placed him on the floor.

“Why’d you do that?”

“I don’t think I trust that guy.”

“Who, Bushy? He’s the best friend I ever had,” I said. “You know me, Tony: Love me, love my cat.”

“Okay.”

He gave me a rather long kiss which I didn’t interrupt. Bushy growled.

“Listen,” said Tony confidentially, the brandy obviously beginning to work on him. “I think we have to use the Henry Wyatt test to judge that cat’s character.”

“Henry who?”

“Sir Henry Wyatt,” he said, “was thrown into a dungeon by Richard the Third for his Lancastrian sympathies. You remember the War of the Roses, don’t you?”

“Tony, what does this have to do with Bushy?”

“Well, dungeons in those days were no joke. And the only reason old Sir Henry survived was because of a small, sad-looking cat, who kept bringing him pigeons to eat. Now I ask you, Swede”—he looked down at Bushy—“would this beast do that for you? Could he pull it off?”

I didn’t know how to answer that one. It was too bizarre a hypothetical. All I said was, “No more brandy, Tony.”

“Good point,” he agreed. “No more brandy. Let’s do something else, Swede.”

It was only the sudden ringing of the phone that threw Basillio off his game. Startled, he released me, and I picked it up before the second ring.

On the other end of the line was Lucia Maury. Her voice told me she was caught somewhere between paralysis and hysteria.

Her words came out in spastic bursts. “Alice! The police are here—here in my apartment. Oh, Alice!” she wailed. “They think I . . . killed . . . Dobrynin.”

“Tell me what happened, Lucia. Try to stay calm.”

But she couldn’t. I could barely make out her words. She was screeching something about a search warrant. “Help me!” was all I could understand unequivocally.

“I’m on the way, Lucia—all right? I’ll be there in ten minutes—all right?”

The phone went dead. I looked around for Tony, who was on all fours, dangling a toy mouse in front of a wary Bushy.

“Tony, I’ve got to go. Stay here if you want. I’ll tell you about it later. Play with the cats!”

I grabbed my bag and my parka and slammed the door behind me. Halfway down the stairs I realized I’d forgotten my gloves. I didn’t go back.

Chapter 5

Lucia lived in a massive old apartment building on Fifty-seventh Street between Eighth and Ninth Avenues. And a rare building it was, featuring sprawling apartments, immaculately kept lobby and corridors, flawless building services, ancient uniformed doormen—in other words, all the longed-for and welcomed civilities. And it was rent-stabilized! I, along with millions of others, would cheerfully have killed for one of those apartments.

The apartment door was ajar when I arrived. As soon as I stepped inside I was struck by the bustle of activity. Uniformed and plainclothes officers were rustling back and forth. But a rigid and wide-eyed Lucia sat silently in the center of the living room on a plain wooden chair.

I walked quickly toward her.

“Who are you?” A male voice stopped me in my tracks.

The questioner was a cherubic-looking redhaired man, wearing a bright reindeer-patterned sweater buttoned up the front.

“I’m Alice Nestleton,” I replied evenly. “Lucia’s friend.”

“Attorney?” he asked politely.

I shook my head. Then I knelt down beside Lucia, who still hadn’t spoken. I looked up at the detective. “Why are you doing this to her?”

I could tell that something official had just clicked in his head. He opened one of the buttons of his sweater.

“You’re the woman Miss Maury brought out onto the balcony that night.”

“Yes.”

I repeated the question he had ignored: Why was he here searching Lucia’s home?

“We obtained warrants to search both her apartment and her office at Lincoln Center,” he said. “For three reasons. One: We haven’t been able to verify Miss Maury’s account of her movements in the theater before she arrived at your box. Two: She was at the scene of the murder only seconds after it occurred. And three: She had an acrimonious affair with the deceased.”

I stood up, suddenly furious at the man. “‘Acrimonious,’ indeed!” I mocked him. “This is ridiculous, Detective.”

After cracking a tiny smile, Wilson excused himself and went into one of the thick-walled bedrooms.

While I stood over poor Lucia, who was still too stunned to talk, I found myself, insanely, noticing yet again just how lovely the high-beamed apartment was. There were two big bedrooms, two bathrooms, an enormous kitchen, a dining alcove, this spectacular living room, and the labyrinthine hallway.

The rustling from the other rooms brought my thoughts back to Lucia’s predicament. I heard muffled voices, papers being riffled, drawers opening and closing. My eye fell on a lush, fresh-cut bouquet of carnations, which stood in a crystal vase on the low antique table in front of the quilted sofa. I wondered if the police had “searched” that yet? Had they pulled out the flowers and stuck their hands into the water? The thought was absurd—and at the same time sad.

Then I walked over to the dining table, took a chair, and carried it back into the living room, where I placed it beside Lucia’s and sat down.

She was still in her robe, a chocolate velour one with matching slippers. There was something equally silly and poignant about the little pompoms on the tops of her shoes.

“Can I get you something, Lucia? Shall I make a cup of tea?”

She shook her head slowly from side to side. Her powerful dancer’s neck tensed. I knew she was close to tears.

“You know what, Alice?” she said quietly, the tears coming now.

“What, dear?”

“I wish Splat were here. I miss him so much.”

“I know,” I said. “He was a delightful cat.” I wasn’t just humoring her. Her great, friendly Maine coon had indeed been a wonderful cat. His beautiful coat was the color of blue smoke—deep and rich and memorable.

The search party seemed to be getting impatient. We heard a closet door slam. Lucia winced. I reached for her hand and held it tightly.

“You didn’t see me dance
Raymonda
, did you?” she asked.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Well, I was a guest artist with the San Francisco Ballet that season. And the critic said I was wonderful—that I was ‘graceful but not posturing.’ He said my dancing ‘revealed rather than obscured.’ He said, ‘The key to Miss Maury’s sensitivity is . . . is . . . um . . .”

Lucia stopped the reminiscing abruptly and turned to stare hard at me. “What is happening here, Alice?” she shouted.

Her speech patterns had begun to sound very peculiar. The tones no longer seemed to coincide with the contents. It was as if she were moving further and further away from normalcy, from reason.

“It will be over soon,” I said, hoping that was enough of an answer.

The telephone rang then. Twice. Three times. The noise seemed to register with Lucia, but she made no move to answer. Instead she said huffily, “I want them to go!”

“I’ll get that for you,” I offered, and went over to pick up the extension.

A voice on the other end barked: “Get me Wilson!”

Wilson?

“You have the wrong number,” I said. But at the same moment I looked up to see the detective approaching me.
Oh, my, that is his name, isn’t it?
I handed over the receiver and went back to join Lucia.

Detective Wilson listened in silence for about thirty seconds, nodding every once in a while. Then he hung up.

He came toward us purposefully, his colorful sweater now scrunched up a bit to reveal the beginnings of a classic male potbelly.

“Miss Maury, a gun has been found. Taped beneath the desk in your office. It’s a .25-caliber weapon, the same kind used to kill Dobrynin.”

We all waited. I looked at Wilson, he at Lucia, she at me.

“Detective,” I began, trying to make my voice sharp and authoritative. He shushed me right away.

“Do you have anything to tell me, Miss Maury?” He was focused solely on Lucia. I thought I heard a little whine escape from her throat.

“Please get dressed,” Wilson instructed her. “Miss Maury, I’m placing you under arrest on suspicion of murder. I’m required by law to inform you that you have the right to remain silent, you have the right . . .”

I felt a tremendous rush of pity for Lucia at that moment, felt as frightened and helpless as I knew she felt. I hated having to listen to this stranger “Mirandizing” my old friend—it was just too much to bear. So, like an idiot, I covered my ears with my hands.