Taking the Fifth(35)

“Did I wake you?” Peters asked.

“No,” I told him innocently, not mentioning Jasmine Day. “As a matter of fact, I just got out of the shower.” I glanced at the clock. It was already after eight and I was supposed to be at the Mayflower to meet with Alan Dale by ten. “I’ll have to leave in a little while though,” I said. “Got an appointment downtown.”

“I wanted to catch you before you left, to find out if you had seen the review.”

“Review? What review?”

“Of last night’s concert in this morning’s P.I.”

The P.I. is short for Seattle’s morning paper, the Seattle Post-Intelligencer. Peters knows all about my antipathy toward the media in general and newspapers in particular. While we worked together, his daily briefings were all that had kept me informed of current events.

“So tell me about it,” I urged.

“I’ll read it to you,” he said. “‘Over the last three years, Westcoast Starlight Productions has brought some real dogs to town. Their shows have been pretentious, overdone, and undersold. So when advance publicity said Jasmine Day would be “taking the Fifth Avenue by storm,” I was one of the nonbelievers, one who said it would never happen. Not nohow. Not noway.

“‘I’m writing this to tell you I was wrong. I’m serving up a whole column of crow for breakfast this morning.

“‘There’s good news and bad news here. The bad news is that the Fifth Avenue Theater was only half full when knockout Jasmine Day strutted her stuff last night. The good news is that there still should be plenty of tickets available for tonight’s performance. It deserves to be a sellout.

“‘Miss Day is someone whose considerable talents as a vocalist and a dancer were concealed during her druggy, heavy-metal rocker days. Her versatility and dynamic voice effortlessly overcame not only Westcoast’s hokey staging but also the Fifth Avenue’s stubborn sound system. Lots bigger names in show biz have cracked their front teeth on that one.

“‘The big-band sound of Hal Gordon’s orchestra would have overwhelmed a lesser performer, but it was Jasmine Day’s show from beginning to end.

“‘They say that most rock stars cross that magic-thirty age barrier and disappear forever. Kids won’t listen to them after that. Jasmine Day is thirty-two. I, for one, am glad the teenyboppers are done with her. Now the rest of us get to have her.

“‘In the course of the concert, Miss Day stepped aside from her music long enough to give a courageous, frank talk about drugs, what they’ve done to her life, and how she’s put her life and career back together after her bout with cocaine. It’s a talk that’s timely and inspiring. Surprisingly, it doesn’t detract from the music.

“‘So if your Friday night is looking dull and dreary, go see Jasmine Day. She really has taken the Fifth Avenue by storm.’”

Peters stopped reading.

“I guess he liked it,” I said.

“I’ll say.”

“I liked it too,” I added.

“‘Too,’” Peters echoed. “You were at the concert?”

“It was terrific.”

“Oh,” he responded. There was a pause. Then he said, “Did you pick up any leads?”

“A couple. I’ll be following up on those later this morning.”

“What about the nurse? Was I right about him?”

“On the money, Peters. You called that shot one hundred percent. He’s gay as a giggle. Except I don’t think it was a triangle. The nurse is afraid he’s got AIDS too. He took care of Jonathan Thomas as a sort of penance.”

The silence on the other end of the line lengthened.

“Hey, Peters. Are you there?” I asked.

“I’m going to hang up now,” he said.

“What’s the matter? Did I say something wrong?”

In answer, I heard a click and then a dial tone. I called the hospital back and asked for Peters’s extension. The switchboard operator told me his line was busy.

I was still puzzling over what I might have said that offended him when the bathroom door opened and Jasmine Day walked into the bedroom.

“I thought I heard voices.”

“It was the phone. A friend of mine called to read me a review of your concert last night.”

She made a face. “I try not to pay any attention to reviews. It’s too hard on my ego.”

“This one wouldn’t be. The guy loved it.”

“Oh,” she said and finished cinching her belt tightly around her waist. “Is there anything here to eat? I’m famished.”

“The deli downstairs makes a reasonable breakfast, and for a sizable enough tip they’ll even deliver.”