“I can tell you he’d jump at it. He may be able to serve you up some dish, but other than bouncing on Harrow, he’s not connected.”
“The dish could do. About Harrow—”
“Gee, this was fun. We really have to do it more often.”
And Eve cut her off. Peabody had to laugh.
“I’m surprised you didn’t do that sooner.”
“It passed the time and helped me lay it out again in my own head.”
She veered into a loading zone, flipped her On Duty.
“Crommell has motive but no skill, no brains for it, and no opportunity. Estaban’s going to have skill, brains, had opportunity, but no motive. Add Estaban’s focused on himself, his career, and his own pleasures.”
Gauging the traffic lumbering down the side street, Eve waited, waited, then pushed out to skirt around the hood of the car to the sidewalk.
“You could project Harrow saying, ‘Drop this cyanide in the Shitheel’s glass, and I’ll make you the star he was.’ But I don’t see him trusting her enough to kill for her. It puts him on the hook. Now, say she said, ‘Look the other way, give me a little cover while I drop this poison in the Shitheel’s glass—or the Whorehound’s’? Yeah, maybe.”
“And if we busted her for it?” Peabody put on her shocked face. “‘Oh my God, I can’t believe she did it! I was standing right there.’ And get lots and lots of media attention if she went down for it.”
As they walked the half block to the café, Peabody sighed. “If it turns out that way, or close to it, I’m never going to be able to watch him catch the Christmas-loving heroine when she slips off the stepladder while hanging the shining star on the top of the tree, then go in for the long, slow kiss. I resent that.”
“Your loss would be, of course, the major downside.”
“It’s a personal downside.”
Footlights hummed with voices. Its fake brick walls displayed dozens of photos of what she assumed were Broadway stars, troupes, productions. Couples and groups filled tables and booths, most of which had backpacks or duffel bags crammed beneath. Waitstaff chattered with them while they served fizzy water, iced coffee or tea, oddly colored protein drinks, and smoothies.
A few sat on stools at the bar where a blender whirled, making those smoothies.
She spotted Samantha alone at a booth, frowning into a smoothie.
Given its army-green color, Eve would have frowned, too.
The pretty young blonde had her hair twisted into a single braid and wore a short-sleeved black sweater over a pink tank and a minuscule black skirt.
No makeup, Eve observed—or none that showed. No jewelry but for the trio of tiny studs curving up both ears.
She looked up as Eve approached, and her bright blue eyes lost the frown. “Eve Dallas. Wow. Detective Peabody, we talked a little last night. Please, sit down. I appreciate you meeting me here. I didn’t want to talk about this at my apartment. My roommate’s at an audition, but I’m not sure when she’d come back.”
“No problem.”
She had a voice as clear as church bells, and tired eyes.
“I was sitting here wondering why I ordered a kale and berry smoothie when what I really want is a double espresso.”
She shrugged, downed a gulp of the smoothie. “I didn’t sleep very well last night.”
“Understandable.”
A waitress glided up. “What can I get you today?”
“Got Pepsi?”
“We do.”
“Diet version for me,” Peabody told her.
“Coming right up. How’s the smoothie, Sam?”
“You make the best.” She smiled, then sighed again when the waitress moved on. “They’re horrible. Or, they’re not if you like kale and berry smoothies. But sometimes I ask myself does anyone, does anyone really? And I’m making small talk, my way of procrastinating.”
“Last night was a shock.” Peabody spoke gently, all sympathy.
“God, yes. I’ve played it over and over in my head—who can sleep?—and it still doesn’t seem real.”
“How well did you know Brant Fitzhugh?” Eve asked her.
“Well enough to know he was a sweetheart. He dropped in on workshops a few times. After I got the part, they had me over for dinner. Eliza and I worked at their place a few times. He was just so nice—not that I-have-to-be-nice-or-she’ll-bitch-about-me, but real.”
Tears swirled into her eyes as the waitress brought the drinks.
“Just shout out if you need anything.” The waitress rubbed a hand on Samantha’s shoulder before she left them.
“I really liked him. I liked watching them together. They’re good together, and witty and fun. My parents divorced when I was nine, so it felt good to see a couple who genuinely liked each other.”
“How about Eliza? Do you like her? Please be honest.”
“Absolutely. I won’t say she’s a sweetheart, not like Brant. If you screw up a number or miss a line too many times, she’ll sure as hell let you know it. But she’ll work with you until you get it right. And she’ll let you know you got it right. She’s exacting, and I’m learning a lot. She’s, obviously, old enough to be my mother, and there are times I can barely keep up.”
She drank more smoothie. “If I’m honest, I’ll say I wondered how it would be to work with her. I wanted this part, so much, and when I got it, I immediately started worrying about that, about her.”
“Why?”
“I’m playing the part she played when she was my age, and how was that going to work? Then she took me out for coffee, and she told me she wanted me to shine. She was going to make sure I did, because Marcie, my character, was part of her. She makes me work harder and be better than I might have without her.
“In the play—it’s called Upstage because while the mother is always pushing the daughter, the mother is constantly trying to upstage her, to take the spotlight. She’s never been the star she wanted to be. She loves her kid, but she can be selfish and oblivious to what her daughter needs and wants. That’s Eliza, in the role.”
Pausing, Samantha drew half circles around the base of the smoothie.
“But the woman, the actress?” she continued. “The opposite. She’s generous. Last night for instance—she didn’t have to bring me up with her. She shared that with me. ‘Let’s knock ’em dead, Sam.’”
Instantly, Samantha’s eyes widened. “She didn’t mean it like that. It’s an expression.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard it.”
“Have you spoken with Eliza since last night?” Peabody asked.
“No. I don’t know what I should do. I thought about texting her or leaving a straight to v-mail. I don’t know what I should say, or if even just saying I’m sorry is intrusive. I’ve never been close to anyone who’s died before. And this is worse than that. Somebody killed him. I can’t get my head around it. Why anyone would.”
“When you were with Eliza, performing by the piano, what did you see?”
Samantha frowned at Eve. “See?”
“Did you see Brant?”
“Oh.” She breathed out. “Yeah. Okay. We sort of play off each other in that number, that duet. I’m pushing back, she’s pushing back, and it builds, so we’re basically singing to each other. But you always play to the audience, and we’d already worked on some staging, small bits of choreography in workshops, so there’s that. I saw Brant ease through people to watch. I saw him lift that glass. I didn’t actually see him drink because I’d turned toward Eliza.”