‘‘He was talking to a ghost, Al,’’ said the sergeant, yawning. ‘‘I don’t know who this Estelle is, but his friend Eddie Martineau is long dead. And the dead woman is a writer from Chicago, named Kate Brady, here to give a talk. Two people have identified her. The waitress where she had dinner heard her say she was meeting a friend from Detroit to go on this walk-it’s time we got on to that, don’t you think? We’ve already lost a day because we didn’t know who she was. Get rid of Billy and find me the guy from Detroit.’’
As soon as Al left, Paul leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. He saw the three of them, clear as could be, Billy, Eddie and his wide-eyed younger self, sitting on the grass in the dark outside Billy’s house. Eddie crying and swearing as he shivered with the cold water dripping off him, saying if he ever saw Estelle again, he’d get her good for what she’d done. And they swore, solemnly, that they’d help.
But no one believed Eddie when he told them she’d killed Jack, because he was sick and running a fever and they thought he’d been hallucinating. He went wild and the day he got out of bed, he ran off to live with his aunt. As far as anyone knew, he never came back and the word was that he had died.
Paul opened his eyes. ‘‘We swore we’d help him, Jack,’’ he whispered to the sad drowned ghost. ‘‘And a promise made is a debt unpaid, isn’t it? So now we’re quit. Because if Eddie can’t disappear again in the twenty-four hours we’ve given him, I’ll be very surprised.’’
Two days later, on the bench where Kate Brady’s body had been found, someone had printed in a neat script using black paint and a narrow brush, ‘‘Estelle is dead, too, Jack.’’
Steak Tartare by Barbara D’Amato
If you drive north from Chicago along Lake Michigan, you will pass through several increasingly wealthy suburbs. The first and oldest is Evanston. Then Wilmette, Kenilworth, and Winnetka. Winnetka is one of the richest municipalities in the United States. It may be that the average income in Kenilworth, nestled next to it, is higher than Winnetka, but Kenilworth is so small that it hardly counts.
Basil Stone had therefore been thrilled to be hired as resident director of the North Shore Playhouse, located in Winnetka. It wasn’t Broadway, of course, but it was a very, very prestigious rep house. And you rubbed shoulders with nothing but the best people.
Like tonight.
He spun his little red Lexus around the curves of Sheridan Road, which ran right along Lake Michigan and therefore was the Place des Vosges of Illinois, rue de la crème de la crème, the street that accessed the highest-priced real estate in an already high-priced area. And the Falklands’ mansion was on the lake side of Sheridan, the east, which meant beach frontage, of course, and was far tonier than living across the road.
These things mattered to Basil.
Pamela had given him the street number and told him to watch for two brick columns supporting a wrought-iron arch and elaborate iron gates. And there they were. He swung in, spoke his name into the post speaker, and the gates majestically opened.
God, the place was a castle. The drive wound in a lazy S up to a wide pillared veranda. Pamela stood on the lip of the veranda like a midwestern Scarlett O’Hara, framed among acres of flesh pink azaleas that swept away on both sides of the fieldstone steps.
‘‘Welcome, Basil,’’ she said, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. He pulled back fast, not wanting her husband to see. Although everybody hugged and kissed when they met, didn’t they? It didn’t necessarily mean anything.
She drew him in the front door.
Basil stopped just inside, trying not to goggle at the immense foyer. A tessellated marble floor flowed into a great entry hall, stretching far back to a double staircase, which curved out, up, and in, the two halves joining at the second floor. The ceiling was thirty feet overhead. The chandelier that dimly lit the hall hung from a heavy chain and was as big as a Chevy Suburban turned on its end.
Basil looked around, found that they were alone, and whispered, ‘‘Pamela, I don’t think this was such a good idea.’’
‘‘Oh, please!’’ she said. ‘‘Don’t be so timid.’’
Timid! He didn’t want her to think he was timid. He was bold, romantic. Still… ‘‘But what if he guesses?’’
‘‘He won’t.’’ She patted his cheek, leaving her hand lingering on the side of his face. Just then, Basil heard footsteps coming from somewhere beyond the great hall, and he backed sharply away from her.
Pamela laughed. She touched him with a light gaze, then spun to face the man who had just entered. ‘‘Darling,’’ she said, ‘‘this is Basil. Basil, my husband, Charles Falkland.’’
Gesturing with his drink, Charles Falkland said, ‘‘I know she’ll make a wonderful Kate.’’
‘‘I’m very grateful that she wanted to do the show. With her background in New York. Of course, Pamela is a brilliant actor. And as Kate, she has just the right combination of bite and vulnerability.’’
‘‘Absolutely,’’ Falkland said, placing his hand possessively on the back of Pamela’s neck. ‘‘She is extremely accomplished.’’
Basil studied the room, taking time to answer. Must be cautious here. ‘‘Of course, you know we’re an Equity house, so all the actors are professional. They’ll support her beautifully.’’
‘‘But why The Taming of the Shrew?’’
‘‘You’d rather we did a drama? Don’t you feel that it’s important for the general public to realize that Shakespeare can be light? Humorous? People are so deadly serious.’’
‘‘Well…’’ Falkland said, drawing the word out, ‘‘some issues in life are serious, of course. Aren’t they?’’
‘‘Of course, but-’’
‘‘But enough of this. Let me just mix us all a drink.’’
Falkland busied himself with the bottled water, lime, and lemon wedges that the silent butler, Sloan, had brought in, and decanters of some splendid bourbon and Scotch, which the Falklands were too well-bred to keep in labeled bottles, but which to Basil’s taste in his first drink seemed like Knob Creek or possibly the top-of-the-line Maker’s Mark. Not the kind you buy in stores, even specialty shops. You had to order it from the company.
‘‘Here, darling,’’ Falkland said, turning to Pamela. ‘‘Basil’s and yours.’’
Pamela carried Basil’s drink to him, reaching out to put it in his hand. Her fingertips grazed his as he reached for the glass, and her thumb stroked the back of his hand. Basil’s breath caught. How beautiful she was. He could scarcely believe his luck. Their affair had started the first day of rehearsals. Seeing her husband, and this mansion, knowing that she had been an actress of some considerable reputation, he could imagine that she might be bored in this big house, with a husband who looked chilly and austere.
Pamela left her hand next to his just half a second too long. Basil resisted pulling back. Surely that would only make it more obvious. But he thought Falkland had seen. Or maybe not. He’d been pouring his own drink, rather a stiff one. But he’d been casually looking toward them, too, over the lip of the glass. Did he notice? After all, what would he see? A woman hands a man a drink. Just ordinary hospitality. Just what was expected.
Abruptly, Falkland said, ‘‘Pamela?’’
‘‘Yes, dear?’’
‘‘I just realized I’ve not chosen a dessert wine. I have a lovely Médoc for dinner. We’re having a crown roast of lamb, and the dinner wine should be just right. But we need something to go with the sabayon and raspberries, don’t we?’’
‘‘Yes, I imagine so, dear.’’
Basil noted that Sloan was waiting near the door that led from this great room to some unspecified back region. Briefly, he wondered why Sloan hadn’t poured and passed the drinks.