He crossed the room to where Megan and I were together on a loveseat. “Miz Carey,” he said, his eyes looking sadder with each word, “you have any idea why Mistah Kane said you were the one who killed him?”
Megan’s hand squeezed mine suddenly. I tried to gather my thoughts.
“That’s not what I heard him say.” Tom’s voice was a weary drawl, but it worked to distract Mamahat.
“Then you seem to be in the minority, suh,” the detective said.
“Words are my business, Detective,” Tom said. “I don’t much care for im-prov-i-zation. The word ‘kill’ was not used, nor any of its many synonyms. What Harmon said was, ‘Meg did it.’ That could mean, ‘Meg brought me to New Orleans,’ or ‘Meg got me to come to this dreadful party.’ The word ‘it’ can be so dawgone vague, n’est pas?”
“With all due respect, Mistah Williams, when a man has just injected himself with a toxic substance he thought was insulin and realizes he is about to ex-pire, I truly do not believe he’s gonna be concerned with who invited him to a party.”
“A toxic substance?” Tom said. “You mean heroin?”
“Wasn’t no evidence of heroin. Not in the hypodermic needle or in its leather case that we found in the bathroom,” Mamahat said. “Way it looks, somebody slipped something into the dead man’s insulin supply and he shot it into his arm. We’ll identify the toxin soon enough. The assistant coroner said it smelled like a petroleum substance of some kind.”
Hearing those words, I recognized the odor I’d smelled when I was close to the dying man. And I knew exactly who had killed him, though I was less clear on what I should do about it.
Mamahat returned to Megan. “Miz Carey, you were aware that the deceased suffered from diabetes, right?”
She nodded.
“Then that knowledge, together with the victim identifying you...”
I saw where the detective was headed. “A lot of people knew he was a diabetic,” I said. “Or, to be more correct, they knew he used a needle.”
“Yeah? I got the idea they found out about his condition from Miz Carey after the man expired.”
“Lula,” I said to Jacques Boudreaux’s wife, “you told me you were worried about your husband associating with drug addicts. Were you talking about Harmon Kane?”
She looked at her husband for help. “Jacques?”
“I may have heard something about him bein’ on the needle,” Boudreaux said, frowning.
“Did you hear it from Jason?” I asked.
“Whoa,” the ex-bartender shouted. “Leave me out of this.”
“When you were calling for Harmon Kane to exit the bathroom, Jason, you said he should stop ‘the Frankie Machine bit.’ What’d you mean by that?”
Jason slumped. “Okay. Frankie Machine. Man With the Golden Arm. Sinatra’s greatest role.”
“Heroin addict,” I said.
“Yeah. One of the cleaning guys at the theater interrupted Harmon shooting up in the head. He thought it was dope.”
“So who else knew the deceased used a needle?” Mamahat asked.
“It’s a fact of backstage theater life, Detective,” Tom said, “that if one person in the company possesses that kind of information, everybody does.”
“Okay, so everybody knew,” Mamahat said, with some heat. “Big deal. I still have the dead man singling out one person by name.”
“Detective,” Tom said, “has anyone mentioned to you that no one refers to Miz Carey as ‘Meg,’ not even her... gentleman friend? It is always ‘Megan.’”
“So what? Kane was dying. He wasn’t able to get the full name out.”
“Finally, we agree,” Tom said. “Are you familiar with my play, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof?”
“I saw the movie,” Detective Mamahat said, “back awhile.”
“Good man,” Tom said. “You remember Miss Elizabeth Taylor in the film?”
“She went around in a slip, flirtin’ with Paul Newman?”
Tom smiled. “More or less correct. The character’s name is Margaret, but she is also called Maggie the Cat. Maggie... Mag. Sounds a lot like Meg, no?”
“You’re suggestin’ what?” Mamahat asked. “That he was talking about some character in a story?”
“More like the actress playing that role,” Tom said.
“That’s crazy!” Jason yelled. He was sitting next to Eugenia Broussard, his arm cradling her in a protective manner. “Why wouldn’t he have used her real name?”
“I think you’ll agree Harmon wasn’t quite himself at the time,” Tom said. “He was dying and mentally confused, not unlike the character he’d been playing only hours before. Isn’t it possible he was still thinking of Miz Broussard as Maggie?”
“You’re not buying any of this, are you, Detective?” Eugenia asked. “The ravings of an old drunk?”
Mamahat looked a bit uneasy. “It is a little... far-fetched, Mistah Williams.”
“Then let’s draw it closer to reality,” Tom said. “In spite of her lies and manipulations, some consider Maggie to be the heroine of the play. I do. And I believe Harmon did, too. That’s why his dyin’ words to Harol’ LeBlanc were ‘the heroine,’ indicating the lady, not the drug.”
“This is absurd,” Eugenia said.
“Most of the people here, Miz Carey included, had one reason to wish Harmon ill,” Tom said. “But only you, Miz Broussard, had a second reason. The man had pretended to be your lover. A broken contract might result in anger and frustration. But a broken heart, now that’s a motive for murder.”
We all were looking at Eugenia now. Even the suddenly quiet Jason, who, perhaps unconsciously, had slipped his arm from around her.
“Harmon didn’t break my heart,” Eugenia said. “But even if he had, do you suppose I carry poison around in my purse just in case I get dumped by a fat old fraud?”
“Not in your purse,” I said. “But, in this case, the poison was benzoyl. I recognized the odor from my days at Webber Advertising. It’s used by the artists to clean the glue from their boards. You’ve been working in Webber’s art department. They still use the stuff?”
She remained silent, staring at me.
“You didn’t have much time after Harmon’s curtain speech,” I said. “The agency is only a few blocks away. I imagine you raced right over there in a fury, filled a plastic bottle with the most toxic product you could lay your hands on, and then ran directly to Harmon’s hotel. What happened there? A full-out fight, maybe. You locking yourself in the bathroom, pretending to cry while you doctored his medicine?”
“That’s your story,” she said.
“An’ what’s yours, ma’am?” Mamahat asked.
“I don’t need one,” she said. “These are all fantasies.”
“If that’s the case, the night watchman at Webber won’t have checked you in tonight,” I said. “And the desk clerk and elevator operators at Harmon’s hotel won’t have seen hide nor hair of you.”
“And I suppose your fingerprints won’t be on any of the vials in Harmon’s medicine case,” Tom said.
Eugenia stood, head held high, arms at her side. Her glittering green eyes scanned the faces in the room. “Oh, you weak, beautiful people,” she said, repeating Maggie the Cat’s final words from the play. “What you need is someone to take hold of you — gently, with love, and hand your life back to you, like something gold you let go of — and I can.”