(31/40) Murder, She Wrote: Madison Avenue Shoot Read online

  “Looks can be deceiving,” he said, smiling. I had the feeling he had heard that observation before.

  “Kevin is my neighbor in Southampton,” Matt said. “Since we’re both in Manhattan tonight, I figured you might like to meet each other.”

  Matt’s wife and daughters lived in a charming Victorian house on the East End of Long Island, where many people in the advertising and entertainment industries keep second homes. Matt’s house was his family’s main residence, however, and his children went to school in the village. He maintained an apartment in Manhattan in addition to his office, commuting back and forth on weekends by helicopter when he could hitch a flight from one of his wealthier neighbors, or by train or jitney when he couldn’t.

  “And by the way,” Matt said to him, “thanks for the referral of my new client.”

  Prendergast shrugged. “You’re the only literary agent I know.”

  “Not exactly a ringing endorsement,” Matt said, “but I’ll take it.”

  That’s interesting, I thought. Was that “new client” Anne Tripper? Did Kevin Prendergast know Anne Tripper before she was hired for the ad campaign?

  Kevin turned to me. “I understand you’re going to be in one of our spots tomorrow,” he said, leaning his elbows on the table and playing with string attached to a pair of frameless glasses that dangled in front of him. “How did we get so lucky?”

  “I haven’t quite figured that out,” I said, laughing. “My nephew works for the production company’s payroll house. Somehow, my name came up when he was talking with the producer, and before I knew what was happening, I was agreeing to do a commercial for Permezzo.”

  “However it came about, we’re delighted to have you on board,” he said. “My creative director has put together a good group, very different types and interests. It should appeal to a wide audience. I think it will serve us well. Perhaps I’ll stop by tomorrow to see how you’re getting on. I know for a fact that Tonio was absolutely tickled when he heard that you’d agreed to be in his spot.”

  “That’s very nice,” I said, noting that he referred to Antonio by a nickname. “Have you known each other for a long time?”

  “He and my father served on a board of directors together in Milan. One of the big leather companies. I’ve been to his house many times. When he decided it was time for Permezzo to break into the U.S. market, I convinced him that Mindbenders could handle the rollout and all the marketing details. And that’s what we’re doing.”

  “Makes it sound simple, doesn’t he?” Matt said to me. “Didn’t you trot half your New York staff to Italy to pitch him, Kevin?”

  “Only the key people.”

  “I’ll bet one of them was that gorgeous redhead from Toronto. Who could resist her?”

  “I use all the weapons in my arsenal,” Kevin said, smiling. “Tonio has a crush on Betsy. I knew she’d convince him to take us on. He only knew me as a friend of the family. I had to make him aware that my agency was sophisticated enough to handle his account. I couldn’t take anything for granted. Since we got his business, we’ve opened an office in Milan to service it.”

  “How’s that working out?” Matt asked.

  “A little slow. I’m thinking of sending Betsy over there to head up our Italian office. I want to start picking up more accounts in Italy, and in particular I want to take over Permezzo’s European advertising as well. I think she could do it.”

  “That would be quite a coup,” I said.

  “It would,” Kevin said, putting on his glasses and opening the menu. “It would also cut back on my business travel. My girlfriend is not happy. Unfortunately, she also travels for business, so we don’t see each other very often. We just leave each other notes in the kitchen.”

  “That must be difficult,” I said.

  “Sacrifices have to be made when you’re building a company,” Kevin replied mildly.

  I thought of Grady’s response when Betsy Archibald said the agency was open around the clock. It wasn’t only Mindbenders’ owner, however, who had to make sacrifices to build his company. His staff did as well.

  “Well, what are we going to have?” Matt asked. “They have great escargots, of course, if you can handle the garlic, although it looks like tonight’s version is made with truffles.”

  Truffles!

  We were dining in L’Absinthe, a French brasserie on the East Side of Manhattan, a good hike but a short cab ride from the Waldorf. The last time I had been there with Matt was just before I’d left for France on an extended holiday. It became a working holiday, as it turned out, when the chef of a cooking school where I was taking classes was found with one of his own knives sticking out of his chest. Still, I had wonderful memories of the country, the food, and the truffle market in France, and was fond of this New York French restaurant, too.

  “I think I’ll have the skate,” I said to the waiter.

  “And I’ll have the Maine sea scallops, in your honor, Jessica,” Matt said, closing his menu.

  “I’ll have the venison and foie gras pie,” Kevin said. “And I’d like to see the wine list.”

  Two hours and three bottles of wine later, the men had moved to the bar for cognacs while I made my excuses, citing an early call and my hope to get some sleep before it. I thanked Matt for dinner, declined his offer to hail a cab for me, shook hands again with Kevin, and left the restaurant, taking a deep breath of the cool air as the glass door closed behind me. There was no way I could keep up with Matt and Kevin as they consumed glass after glass of wine, nor did I want to. My one glass had been sufficient, although they attempted to top it off several times as they regaled each other with the antics of their Hamptons neighbors, looking for my reaction to the outrageous stories.

  “You could write a book,” Matt had said.

  “Someone already is,” Kevin said, chuckling.

  “Is that what it’s about?” Matt asked. “She wouldn’t tell me.”

  “She wouldn’t tell me either. She’s very secretive, even rented an apartment on the West Side, just to use for writing. She says that way I can’t read her pages when she’s out of town.”

  “Is that Anne Tripper’s book you’re talking about?” I asked.

  Matt winked at me, but ignored my question. “What I don’t get,” he said to Kevin, “is how you two got together. You’re the classic bleeding-heart liberal, and she’s gotta be right of Attila the Hun.”

  “She has her charms,” Kevin had replied.

  I figured the Waldorf was less than a mile as the crow flies, if there are any crows in New York City. There are plenty of pigeons, of course, but I wouldn’t be seeing them tonight. It was already dark. Several taxis slowed as I stood in front of the restaurant buttoning my coat. I waved them off. A leisurely stroll to the hotel was what I needed to work off dinner, especially the warm apple tart Matt had insisted I try. It was worth every calorie. Years ago, I wouldn’t have attempted to walk back to my hotel, but the city is much safer now.

  As I started down the street, I replayed that last conversation in my head. Although they hadn’t mentioned her name, it seemed clear to me that if they were leaving messages for each other at breakfast, Anne Tripper was Kevin Prendergast’s live-in girlfriend. It began to make sense now. As neighbors, it would have been natural for Kevin to have talked to Matt about having Anne Tripper in a commercial for Permezzo. Perhaps Matt took the opportunity to suggest me for the campaign as well. When we’d sat at the City Bakery, he certainly seemed to know a lot about Permezzo’s marketing plans. If Kevin had mentioned me to Betsy Archibald, it was not so surprising that she would have jumped on it when Grady raised my name. Leave it to Matt not to tell me that he’d put a word in at the beginning. My participation didn’t hurt his relationship with his neighbor. In fact, it put them back on equal footing. Kevin had done Matt a good turn by providing him with a new client with lots of bestseller potential, and Matt had returned the favor by encouraging me to be in a commercial for Kevin’s client. Very n
eat.

  I ambled over to Lexington Avenue and headed south. It was only nine o’clock, but traffic was heavy and there were still many people on the street, window-shopping, walking dogs, or spilling out of the myriad restaurants and bars. Many, like me, seemed like out-of-towners. As I knew from my days as a city resident, there is no time of year when New York is without a sizable tourist population.

  I was halfway to the hotel when I felt my cell phone vibrate. I had turned off the ringer before dinner, so as not to be rude to my dining companions. I know I’m in the minority, but I still cling to the notion that people who talk on cell phones in restaurants are displaying terrible manners. Not only are those conversations usually loud enough to disturb people at nearby tables; they also send a message to whoever is unfortunate enough to be sitting with the phone wielder that the person on the other end of the call takes precedence over present company.

  I paused in front of a bus stop and answered my phone.

  “Grady! I was just thinking about you.”

  “I can’t talk long, Aunt Jess. I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you earlier. It’s been a crazy time.”

  “May I call you later? I can barely hear you with the noise of the traffic.”

  “No, that’s okay. Just wanted to let you know I’m afraid we have a scandal brewing. I don’t like what I’m hearing.”

  “What are you learning?”

  “Huh? I’m not turning anywhere.”

  “Learning. I said, what are you learning?”

  “Can’t hear you. Was that a bus?”

  “Yes. I’m on the street. Oh dear, here comes a fire engine.” The loud siren had me covering my ears. “Grady, you still there?”

  “Sorry, Aunt Jess. Gotta go. When I see you tomorrow, I’ll explain everything.”

  Back at the Waldorf, refreshed and unfortunately wide-awake, I set my alarm clock for five thirty, dialed the operator for a wake-up call, and arranged for breakfast from the twenty-four-hour room service. That’s like having a belt, suspenders, and a balloon to hold up your pants, I thought. But there would be no chance I’d sleep late and miss the car. I pulled out my large shoulder bag, tucked the Eye Screen folder inside, checking it first to make sure my script was the first paper on top, placed it on the desk next to the unopened champagne, and climbed into bed.

  As relieved as I was to have heard from Grady, I still wondered what was making his life so crazy, and what scandal could possibly be brewing. I hoped it wasn’t as bad as he suggested. If it was, would he still be taking the time off to bring Frank to the set?

  I was eager to see Frank again. It’s going to be such fun for him, I thought. He’ll get to watch his great-aunt act in a commercial, and I’ll get to enjoy seeing the production from the perspective of a nine-year-old boy. We’ll have a wonderful time, I told myself. Won’t we?

  But as I drifted off to sleep, a thousand thoughts swirled through my mind, and a line from Shakespeare came to me. It was from A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and in my dream, I heard Puck say to the fairy king: “Lord, what fools these mortals be!”

  Chapter Eight

  “A h’m so glad they put us in the same limousine.” Stella Bedford drew out the word “glad” until it had two syllables instead of one. “You know the others insisted on cars just for themselves. Now, that’s just wasting fuel, if you ask me. In these days of global warming, you shouldn’t do that. We could certainly have fit more in here. Lookit all this room.”

  “Count your blessings, Cookie,” Jimbo Barnes said from the passenger seat next to the driver.

  We were on the West Side Highway heading north out of the city. The Hudson River was a gray white strip to our left, a mist hovering over the surface. Across the water on the New Jersey side, the windows of apartment buildings lining the Palisades reflected the early-morning sun as it edged out from behind the clouds. On the southbound side of the highway, cars were already stacking up as the rush into New York City from its suburbs had begun.

  Stella pulled up the sleeve of her white sweater, held out her right arm, and rocked her hand from side to side, admiring the gold-and-diamond ring on her third finger, and the matching bracelet. “Got these at Tiffany’s with Antonio’s card. Ain’t they nice?” she said. “ ’Course, I had to add a bit to get them both, but I think it was worth it. Don’t you?”

  “They’re very pretty,” I said.

  “I think so, too,” she said, tugging down her sleeve. “ ’Course, I won’t wear them when I put on the overalls for my commercial. I’d be tempted, but I won’t. Got to keep up the image people expect.” She sighed heavily.

  “Just remember those overalls made your career,” Jimbo reminded her.

  “Ah know. It’s just too bad I couldn’t cook and still wear my diamonds. Paula Deen does. No one criticizes her.”

  “When you’re as famous as Paula Deen, we can talk about it,” Jimbo said. “You’re not quite there yet.”

  “But I surely will be.” She grabbed my arm and lowered her voice. “We just picked up a whole passel of local affiliates in addition to the cable network. Pretty soon my name will be as familiar as Wolfgang Puck’s. Jimbo and I are looking at two locations in Dallas for my next restaurant. Everybody loves barbecue—I’m partial to my pulled pork myself. Umm. Ummm. There’s nothin’ I love more than my pulled pork on my special bread.” Her eyes became dreamy. “Anyhow, I’m working on a new menu that’s healthy but still authentic. That’s what you have to do these days. Figure out a way to make fatty foods healthy. Keep ’em delicious at the same time. And that ain’t easy, let me tell you.”

  How she was going to come up with healthy pulled pork was a mystery to me.

  “Is your handsome nephew goin’ to be there today?”

  “He is,” I replied. “He’s bringing his son, Frank, my grandnephew, with him. We’re going to show Frank how a commercial is made.”

  “How old is Frank?”

  “Nine.”

  “Oh, that’s a sweet age, old enough to appreciate things but not old enough to have a smart mouth yet.”

  “You sound as if you’re speaking from experience. Do you have any children?” I asked.

  “Did,” she said. “I had a son. Lost ’im in Afghanistan.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. “That must be very difficult for you.”

  “It’s nice to hear you say that in the present tense,” she said, taking my hand. “So many people think because some years have passed that I don’t mourn him anymore, but that ain’t true. I think about him every day.”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  “He was a hell-raiser for sure, drove his mama and papa crazy. Homer thought the military might give ’im a chance to sow those wild oats and get ’em out of his system. We encouraged him to join. We never figured we’d lose him.” Tears filled Stella’s eyes, but they didn’t spill over. Lost in her thoughts for a moment, she put down my hand and patted it. “You’re a good listener, Jessica.”

  “Thank you, Stella.”

  “No thanks needed. It’s just the truth. I think we’re gonna be friends. So you just go on ahead and call me ‘Cookie.’ It’s what my friends call me.”

  “I’m honored to be considered a friend, Cookie.”

  “You may change your mind when you get to know her better, Jessica,” Jimbo growled from the front seat.

  “Oh, him,” Cookie said with a laugh. “Ain’t he too much?” She leaned forward in her seat. “You better be nice to me, Jimbo, or I’ll tell your wife you was cattin’ around in New York.”

  “That’s not true,” he said, indignant.

  “I know that, but she doesn’t. And she’ll be a daylight nightmare for you till I set her straight. So watch your step.” Cookie straightened up in her seat, took a compact from her purse, powdered her nose, put the compact away, and brushed imaginary lint from her sleeve.

  Jimbo twisted around and gave me a wink. “I don’t care what you tell her,” he directed at Cookie. “Just don’t show her the
m diamonds or I’ll never hear the end of it.”

  “Ooh, they are nice,” she said, and settled back, admiring her jewelry. “I just hope Homer don’t think some secret admirer is givin’ me diamonds. He’ll turn greener than a cactus.” She shifted her gaze out the window, a small smile playing on her lips.

  When we pulled into the parking lot of the office building that was to serve as our location, there was a line of trucks blocking the entrance, and a crowd of crew members emptying them. Huge cases on wheels were rolled up to the door. Skeins of rope and cable were slung onto shoulders. Lights and stands and toolboxes and what appeared to be enough equipment to kit out a construction site were hauled from the truck beds and bays and scattered temporarily on the driveway before being dragged into the lobby.

  Our driver dropped us off at another door some distance from the busy entrance. Several people were standing around an open rectangle of folding tables, from which breakfast was being cooked and served. All the kitchen equipment needed for a luncheonette was there—coolers, toasters, griddles, gas burners, and coffeemakers—as well as baskets of baked goods, cereals, bowls of cut fruit, berries, and nuts, and plates of sliced cheese and deli meats. The only thing missing was places to sit.

  “I’m famished,” Cookie said, taking a paper plate and reaching for a doughnut.

  “Ms. Bedford?” A production assistant with a clipboard cocked her head at Cookie. “I’m Alice Evans. Whenever you’re ready, I’ll need you to follow me. We have to check into the production office, and I’ll show you where wardrobe and makeup are.”

  “Jimbo, hold that for me, please,” Cookie said, handing her plate to him. “I’ll be back.”

  Jimbo put down the plate, wrapped the doughnut in a napkin, and hurried to catch up with her. “See you later, Jessica,” he called over his shoulder.

  “Mrs. Fletcher?” It was Jason, the production assistant from our meeting the previous week. “I’m supposed to bring you inside to meet the second AD. Would you like something to eat first?”