I resisted the urge to probe further into the Potter/Darlington milieu. ‘So you’ve never seen Danny before?’
‘Danny? Oh, the kid himself? No.’ Rosemary was absently swirling what was left of my martini in its picnic-quality glass, like it was crystal from the Reidel collection. ‘Maybe Larry’s planning on stealing his book and foisting it off as his own. You know, like Agatha Christie’s play, Mousetrap.’
‘I think you mean Sidney Lumet’s film, Deathtrap.’
She drained my glass and set it down. ‘Christopher Reeve, Dyan Cannon, Michael Caine?’
‘Yes, that’s Deathtrap. I can understand your confusion, though, given the title and the fact that Lumet also directed Christie’s Murder on the Orient Express. That was 1974, though, and Deathtrap was 1984, based on Ira Levin’s play by the same name.’
Rosemary waggled her finger. ‘Washed-up playwright decides to kill aspiring writer and stage his play as his own?’
‘That’s the one,’ I said. ‘Though the twists and—’
‘Excuse me.’ Missy was standing in the aisle behind my shoulder.
I turned.
‘Surprise!’ A blonde woman in a fur jacket nearly identical to Missy’s – except this one looked more fox than faux – jumped out theatrically from behind her. I was fairly certain it was the same blonde I’d glimpsed through the door when Missy had answered Boyce’s summons.
Laurence Potter’s feet retracted like the Wicked Witch of the West’s after Dorothy squibs the ruby slippers. ‘Audra! Uh – my dear! Whatever are you doing here?’
I swiveled my head to Rosemary. ‘Don’t tell me.’
‘You got it.’ Rosemary lifted and tipped my glass before tapping on the base to dredge the dregs. Then, ‘All passengers, fasten your seat belts for Act Two. Wifey’s here.’
NINE
‘You didn’t really think I’d miss your ‘guest of honor’ stint, did you?’ The new arrival kissed Laurence Potter on the cheek and perched awkwardly on the sliver of bench Missy had vacated earlier. ‘Do slog over, my love, so I have some room.’
His face capturing the concepts of gloom and doom in one portrait, Potter obliged, starting a chain reaction counterclockwise, which ended with me. I stuck out my hand. ‘I’m Maggy Thorsen. And you must be Mrs Potter?’
I got an icy look and a cold hand for my efforts. ‘Mrs Potter is Larry’s mother. I’m his wife, Audra Edmonds.’
‘A pleasure.’ I’m sure.
‘Hello, Audra – this really is a surprise,’ Zoe said. ‘Wherever have you been hiding?’
‘Do you mean in general? I do have a job, you know, so I’m not free to travel to all of Larry’s book events. Though I have to admit I learn something new each time I do.’ She gave our other guest of honor a significant look.
Rosemary, my double-down martini probably making serious inroads on her consciousness, just shrugged.
From the exchange, I assumed Audra knew about whatever relationship Rosemary and Potter had enjoyed in the past. And maybe ‘surprising’ her husband was Audra’s way of staying abreast of any new potential dalliances.
As if she’d read my thoughts, Zoe pulled her gaping wrap dress demurely together over her own breasts.
Audra idly picked up the pack of matches Potter had left on the table. ‘But if you’re asking, Zoe, where I was hiding, literally? The bartender – a lovely young hard-body named Pete or Pierre or something on his nametag – was kind enough to let me stow away to surprise Larry.’
She gave her husband a rather over-the-top adoring look. ‘And you were surprised, weren’t you, my love?’
There was something about the woman that reminded me of an early Katherine Hepburn. Even when Hepburn played a softer role, you sensed her strength.
‘I certainly was,’ Potter said, putting an arm around her shoulder and giving it a squeeze. ‘You are my rock, and I must say you’ve gotten into the spirit of the occasion beautifully.’
‘My outfit, you mean? Well, thank you. Even if you don’t read your emails,’ she surveyed her husband’s lack of costume, ‘I do. Though apparently,’ she gestured toward Missy, who hadn’t moved, ‘is it …’
‘Missy.’ The girl nodded.
‘Yes, well, apparently Missy and I had the same idea.’ Audra shrugged out of her coat, revealing a period dress of deep blue silk chiffon, the waist cinched in and defined by crisscrossed ribbons. The skirt fell from a low inverted ‘V’ into what we now call a handkerchief bottom, but I had a feeling this was, like Rosemary’s, a genuinely vintage dress. ‘Coming as the fabulous Mrs Hubbard, that is.’