“It’s not my vid.”
“Now, now, credit where it’s due. They could hardly have made it without you. In any case, we talked to him and his date—who turned out to be his daughter—and with Cosmo, Cosmo Wise.”
“I really like his vids,” Peabody commented.
Vera smiled, genuinely. “He’s charming—and I don’t say that unless it’s true. He and Brant have been friends for years. He played my love interest in—”
“Do Over,” Peabody supplied. “It was so much fun.”
“And nearly as much to make.” She shifted again, obviously pleased. “He played Eliza’s in…”
Peabody laughed. “Can’t Dance. But he can!”
“He can. I introduced him and his almost as charming wife of twenty years or more to Rico. Then he called over another couple. Ah, yes, Malcomb and … something. Sable, Foxy…”
“Minx.”
“Yes! Malcomb Furrier, often of Caine and Furrier. He’s a lyricist. And the woman—Minx—is choreographer on Eliza’s revival. And it turned out she worked with Cosmo on Class Reunion on Broadway a couple of years ago, so we all chatted away. I genuinely enjoyed myself. Then Eliza drags the girl—Samantha—to the piano. Now I’m stuck, basically front row center, because if I’d tried to slip away—”
“It would’ve been remarked upon,” Eve finished.
“You bet your ass it would. Eliza’s introducing the girl. ‘For those of you who don’t know Samantha Keene, my stage daughter, believe me, you will. And we’re going to give everyone a taste of what they expect this fall in the twenty-five-year—where did the time go?—revival of Upstage.’
“Applause, applause. They started a duet, and I’ll say the girl has strong pipes and presence. Brant made his way forward—and the crowd made way for him. Then—”
“Who stood where?”
“Ah … God. Rico, myself … I think Minx beside me with Malcomb just behind her. He’s a tall one, Malcomb, and she’s petite. Then Brant. I think, yes, another girl—young, sort of slid in—two of them. I don’t know them. But Tessa was on Brant’s other side, and Cosmo—another tall one—shifted back so the young girls could see, and—I’m not sure, honestly. I know the group of us who’d been chatting more or less spread out, like an audience in a theater.”
She shrugged, polished off the wine. “Most came in from the terrace to stand to the back and side of the piano, more crowded in from the dining area. I couldn’t say who was behind us. Then.”
She looked down at her empty glass. “Brant lifted the flute—Eliza’s drink—like a toast. His right hand lifted, his left on his heart. Then he drank it. I know he stepped back, which surprised me. Glass shattered, somebody screamed. I looked behind me, but I didn’t see Brant at first. There were too many people crowded in, and more screams, shouts. The one who said he was a doctor pushed through, and then I saw Brant on the floor.”
She touched fingertips to her mouth, briefly.
“Eliza shoved past me and dropped down with him. He seemed to be choking, then convulsing. Then he was dead. It was so fast.”
Lifting her hand, she rubbed the center of her forehead. “I suppose you’ve seen someone die before.”
“Yes.”
“I hadn’t. We act death scenes. Rehearse them, stage them, do countless takes of them. But it’s nothing like reality. I know that now.”
“What else did you observe? Did you notice anyone around him who seemed off?”
“My powers of observation dimmed considerably. I saw Brant, and the doctor—he had blood on his hand. Shattered glass. Eliza holding Brant. It was chaotic. I think … the doctor tried to do CPR. Eliza wouldn’t let go of Brant, but he did that…”
He pumped downward with her hands.
“It was Lin, I think, who finally pulled her away when the medical team got there. And the police soon after. I didn’t see that, actually, but heard it. Rico pulled me out onto the terrace. Made me sit down, got me something from the bar. Brandy. Yes, brandy. He stayed with me. He’s a hound, that’s part of his appeal, but he stayed with me and held my hand.”
She let her head fall back against the cushions, closed her eyes. “So. Am I under arrest?”
“Not at this time.”
Vera opened her eyes, smiled. “You’re a hard case.”
“It takes one, they say.”
“They do. I don’t like Eliza. And I resent not being able to stop myself from feeling sorry for her. I hope to get over that very soon.”
“Thanks for your time.” Eve stood. “Would you consider Eliza a colleague or a competitor?”
“That’s a clever question, so here’s a clever answer. We’re competitive colleagues. She has her Tonys and Grammys—I don’t. We each have an Oscar. But I have two Emmys—so far—and she doesn’t. She’s nipped me by one on Golden Globes to date, but I intend to fix that.”
“We’ll see ourselves out.”
Peabody glanced back as they walked to the elevator. “She’s a hell of an actress, but I don’t think she killed Fitzhugh.”
“Neither do I.”
“You don’t. Okay, you go first.”
“The motive’s not enough for her to risk getting caught, and she strikes me as a risk/reward type. Plus, she liked him. Despite the grudge, she just liked him. And with him dead she loses any chance to get him back into bed and wreck his marriage, and instead puts Eliza front and center.”
“I do think she liked him,” Peabody agreed as they rode down, bypassing the lobby for the garage. “And I think the whole grudge/competition thing is more like a game to her.”
“Some games are deadly. Now, ask if I think she could try to kill Eliza Lane.”
“You do?”
“She knows he’s getting the drink for Lane, something he did routinely according to several statements. She positions herself, by her own admission. There’s opportunity. And she’s smart,” Eve added as they walked into the garage. “Smart enough to stand back, chat away while he delivers the drink, one she expects Eliza to drink. But it doesn’t work that way. Now she sees him with it. She’s close, but not really close enough to stop him from drinking it without making a move. Still, she could have, but then he’s toasting her enemy, with a hand over his heart.”
Eve got behind the wheel. “So she thinks: The Shitheel, just that instant of resentment, and he drinks. Too late now, play it through. She has the chops for it.”
“I guess she does—if Lane was the target.”
“Factor this. It’s not unusual for people to say positive things about a victim, but it is less usual to not hear a few digs here and there. People liked this guy. We could consider a demented fan, or again a competitor, but it’s more unlikely than not. And we go back. He got the drink for her, and he ended up drinking it as a tribute.”
“Killing Lane … It puts Harrow in a better position to get him back in bed, then boot him, so there’s that.”
“There’s that. And it’s time to start digging up anybody who has a motive for Lane.”