“Someone already did get killed,” Deirdre said. “My dad.”
Sy gazed at the machine beside his bed, which was tracing out a regular wave pattern. “I’m not going to disagree with you. But if you have it, or maybe you are carrying it around with you”—she squirmed under his intense gaze, even though there was no way he could know that it was right there in her messenger bag—“you are putting yourself in danger. Hide it in the house and the arsonist might burn the house down next time. Carry it around and you could be the next person who gets mugged. My advice? Before anyone else gets hurt, get rid of it and make it widely known that you have done so. Leave it somewhere safe. The only question is: Where?”
When Deirdre got back into her car, she took out the manuscript. Was this what it was all about? Her father’s murder. The garage fire. A fake police search. Now Sy’s attack. All because someone desperately wanted to keep this from being published?
Deirdre riffled through the pages. What was in it that was so, as Sy put it, toxic? What Arthur had to say about the night of Tito’s murder hadn’t seemed, to Deirdre at least, to be that much of a game changer. Maybe the murderer was afraid of something Arthur hadn’t yet gotten around to putting on the page? But what secret could he reveal about Tito’s murder? And if there was something he’d kept secret for all these years, then why had Arthur been paying Bunny for her silence? Wouldn’t she have been paying him?
Sy was right. Deirdre needed to put it somewhere safe, and then get out the word that she’d done so. After going back and forth with Sy on where, they had agreed on Sy’s office. Neither Sy nor Vera would be in there for the next few days, and he had an alarm system that went straight to the police if someone tried to break in.
But looking at the manuscript, a thought occurred to her. What she had in her hands was a carbon copy. Which meant that somewhere out there was the original, and possibly even more carbon copies. Placing the manuscript in Sy’s safe only took care of the problem in the short term. On the other hand, announcing where she’d put it might tempt whoever wanted it to reveal himself. Or herself. The more she thought about it, the more she liked it.
Deirdre picked up takeout from a Japanese restaurant on the way home. Vegetarian maki rolls for her mother; spicy tuna, yellow fin, and salmon maki for her and Henry. Then she stopped to make a Xerox copy of the manuscript. The first few sheets of onionskin jammed the copier, so she had to feed them in a sheet at a time. That gave her plenty of time to think through exactly what she intended to do. The plan she came up with required the help of a man and a woman. She knew who to ask.
She slipped the Xerox copy into a FedEx envelope, addressed it to herself in San Diego, and left it in the copy store’s drop box. Then she bought a ream of paper, got some extra change, and used the pay phone to make two calls before heading home.
Deirdre was relieved to find Henry was back, talking to Gloria in the kitchen when she returned. He looked exhausted and he smelled like he needed a shower.
“How was it—?” Deirdre started, intending to ask Henry how it had gone with the police, when Gloria interrupted with “How’s Sy?”
“Concussion and a cracked rib. He’s shaken and hurt, but he seemed okay. And he claims the only reason they’re keeping him there is to monitor his heart. But he looks ragged. He’s going to miss the funeral.”
“Miss the . . .” Gloria’s face fell. “It won’t feel right, burying Arthur without Sy there. And he was going to speak.” She reached across for Henry’s arm. “Henry, you’ll say a few words? Deirdre, maybe you’d like to get up and—”
“No,” Deirdre said. “I’m sorry, but no. I couldn’t. I’d be too emotional.”
“I suppose we do have the film clips. And we can ask people to share their memories,” Gloria said as she unwrapped and plated the maki rolls. “That’s what they do at a Quaker funeral. Silent meditation and the sharing of memories.”
Silent meditation? Good luck with that in a room full of movie people.
“I’ve got a limousine coming at noon tomorrow to drive us to the chapel,” Deirdre said.
“A limo?” Gloria asked. She peeled away the rice paper wrapping and sniffed at a piece of cucumber maki before eating it. “Isn’t that a bit extravagant?”
“It’s what people do,” Deirdre said.
“Did they catch the attacker?” Henry asked. He’d already polished off a piece of spicy tuna roll.
“No. And Sy was hit from behind and knocked out, so he didn’t see who it was. For all that, the only thing that got taken was his briefcase.”
“That’s lucky,” Gloria said.
“Maybe it was luck. Or maybe that’s what the person was after.”
“His briefcase?” Gloria said.
“Sy thinks the person wanted Dad’s memoir,” Deirdre said, even though she’d been the one who came up with the theory.
“Our dad?” Henry said.
“Arthur wrote a memoir?” Gloria said.
“Why would anyone care?” Henry said.
“Sy thinks publishers will care,” Deirdre said.
“Really?” Henry gave a dismissive snort.
“Of course they will,” Gloria said. She ate another cucumber roll. “Your father was a born storyteller. A true raconteur.”
“Right,” Henry said. “Now he can tell his stories to people who haven’t already heard them a million times. But why would someone mug Sy to get Dad’s memoir?”
“Maybe because he wrote about what happened the night Tito Acevedo was killed,” Deirdre said, watching Gloria and Henry for their reactions.
Gloria winced. Henry, reaching for the last piece of spicy tuna roll, paused.
“Dad was there.” Deirdre leaned close to Henry and stage-whispered to him, “And according to his memoir, you were, too.”
Henry’s eyes widened and he looked momentarily stunned.
“Henry?” Gloria said.
“That’s crazy,” Henry said, not very convincingly.
“That’s what I thought,” Deirdre said. “But hey, why would he write it if it wasn’t true?”
“Do you have the manuscript?” Gloria asked.
“I do. Sy wants me to take it over to his office and leave it there on the way to the funeral.” With each word, as Deirdre felt as if a burden lightened, Henry looked more and more uncomfortable. He pushed away from the table.
“Do you think that’s—” Gloria started.
“So do you want to know what happened with me and the police?” Henry said, interrupting her. He didn’t wait for an answer. “I expected it to be a lot worse. He took me—”
“He who?” Deirdre asked.
“Martinez. Took me to a room and asked a lot of questions. Most of them I’d already answered. What happened the night Dad died? Where was I? What did I know about a shovel? Then he started in on the fire in the garage. I told him I don’t know anything about that, either, and besides, I was at work.”
“Did he seem satisfied?” Gloria asked.
“I couldn’t read him. I did my best, but I really wish Sy had been there. Because after that he started asking about you.” He looked at Deirdre. “Where you were that night. How you and Dad got along. When I last called you from the house.” He paused. “He even wanted to know how your gallery was doing.”
“And you said?”
“I said I didn’t know.”
Of course Henry didn’t know. God forbid he’d take the time to pay her a visit and see for himself.
“Which made me think,” Henry continued, “I should come down one weekend. See the gallery. Meet your business partner. See your house. Would you have room if I wanted to stay over?”
Shocked, it took Deirdre a moment to come up with an answer. “Of course there’s room. I’ll make room. You can even bring Baby and Bear.”
The dogs, sleeping next to each other in the corner, picked up their heads. They seemed as surprised as Deirdre.