Magic Hour by Susan Isaacs (i want to read a book TXT) 📗

“No,” she answered. “I’m almost positive he didn’t see any of them. For him, that was another life. But let me say this, Detective…I forgot your name.”

“Steve Brady. Did any people he knew from the meat business invest in this movie, Ms. Keefe?”

“Yes. One or two.”

“Do you know their names?”

“Just one. Mikey. Michael, I suppose.”

“Any last name?”

“I don’t know it.”

“Did you ever hear of Mr. Spencer meeting with this Mikey?” She shook her head. “Having a phone conversation with him?”

“Sy made most of his calls from his study.”

“Right, but did you ever happen to be passing by and hear any call to this Mikey?”

“Actually, once. And I was passing by—not eaves-dropping. Don’t condescend to me.”

“Okay. What did you happen to hear, passing by?”

“Sy was reassuring this man that everything was going well.”

“Was Mikey worried that it wasn’t going well?”

“No, of course not. It was one of those soothing, MAGIC HOUR / 77

stroking, you’re-so-important phone calls. Sy was a master of those.”

“No problems with Starry Night? ” I asked. She shook her head, allowing a curl of her long platinum hair to fall in front of her shoulder. She started twirling it around her index finger; I assume my eyes were supposed to follow the little circles until I was mesmerized. But I couldn’t stop watching the mole on her neck; it was so black it looked like an un-developed third eye. “Mr. Spencer was pleased with how it was going?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“No problems with the director? Any of the actors?”

“Nothing that wasn’t routine.”

“He was happy with your performance?”

“Of course.” Emphatic. Clipped. “Why do you ask?”

“Just trying to get the lay of the land,” I said.

“Let’s be straight with each other, Detective Brady. I don’t know what you’ve heard, but there’s always on-set gossip about the star of a film. Sometimes it’s more than petty nastiness. I’m sure there are people saying terrible things, like that I’m a tough bitch. That’s because I’m serious —passionately serious—about my work. Or that my performance is somehow lacking. Or that my relationship with Sy was…well, one of mutual convenience. The truth is, yes, I am tough.

But I also happen to be a vulnerable human being.”

“I’m sure you are.”

“And I loved Sy very, very much.”

“I understand.”

“I hope you also understand that Sy loved my work.” She bowed her head for an instant, a second of silence. Then she looked me right in the eye. “And he loved me.”

78 / SUSAN ISAACS

“I don’t doubt that for a minute,” I said, and thought about the long, dark hairs that had gotten caught on the headboard in the guest room.

“We were going to be married.”

I asked: “What do you know about his ex-wives?”

“I haven’t met either of them.”

“Did he ever talk about them?”

“Not very much. The first was named Felice. He married her right after college. She was getting her Ph.D. at Colum-bia. Supposedly very brilliant. Came from a distinguished family. A great deal of money.”

“What happened?”

“Truthfully?”

“Please.”

“Bor-ing.”

“Did he have any contact with her recently?”

“No. I’m almost positive. They were divorced in the late sixties. She’s remarried.”

“What about his second wife?” I asked.

“Bonnie. From out West someplace.”

“Do you know anything about that marriage?” Robby asked.

“A mismatch.” Lindsay placed the fingers of one hand in the palm of the other; they needed a rest, or else she was examining her nails. “She’s a writer. Well, she had one movie produced, and that’s when Sy met her. I think he was enam-ored of what he thought was a lively, unpretentious intelligence. All zip, and hero-worshiping quotes from Joseph Mankiewicz’s screenplays. That appealed to him—for five minutes.”

“And then?” I asked.

“The truth? She had one movie in her. She was yesterday’s news by the time they were married.”

“Do you know if he saw her at all?” Robby asked.

“No. Of course not. But she lives around here. When they split, she got their old summer place. Ac-MAGIC HOUR / 79

tually, though, Sy did hear from her a few months ago. She sent him some new script she’d written.”

I asked: “Was he going to produce it?”

“God, no.”

I found myself swallowing hard. “He told her no?”

“Of course. He told me he had to. Kindly, probably generously. But I’m sure very, very firmly. Oh, but wait a second.

That’s right. I’d forgotten. She came onto the set in East Hampton, pursuing him. I didn’t see her, but she went and knocked on the door of his trailer. It was awful. But he said he told her in no uncertain terms: ‘Goodbye. Stay off the set of my film. And keep your screenplays to yourself.’ That may sound harsh, but he had no choice. This business is a magnet for all sorts of unstable people.”

“He knew her, though,” I said. “She was his ex-wife. Did he think she was unstable?”

“No. As far as I know, he just thought she was a loser. But if Sy had given her the least bit of encouragement, she’d have been all over him: Love my screenplay. Love me. Do for me.

Make me rich, famous. Make me a star. People like her are desperate. Sy had to get rid of her.”

C H A P T E R F O U R

The Homicide team meeting turned out to be six cops sitting around a blackboard shrugging shoulders. Robby hadn’t been able to interview Easton because he’d been tracking down the kosher-meat guy, Mikey, who turned out to be Fat Mikey LoTriglio—a real sweetheart. Like the Spiegel-Spencers, Mikey’s family had owned a major meat-processing plant, but he also had ties to another family—the Gambinos.

He had a dandy record of arrests for extortion and aggravated assault—our kind of guy—but he’d never been convicted of anything.

Ray Carbone announced that all he’d been able to do, because he’d been busy calming down the higher-ups and helping write a press release, was find out that Sy’s first wife’s name was Felice Vanderventer and she lived on Park Avenue.

Our man at the autopsy, Hugo Schultz, the Sour Kraut,