Chapter 42
Sy rocked back in the desk chair and gazed at Deirdre across tented fingers. “I never thought you, of all people, would walk out on your father’s funeral.”
“I never thought you, of all people, would betray him.”
Sy barely blinked as he held her gaze. “Oh, Deirdre. I do wish it had not come to this.”
“And what exactly is this? You went to a lot of trouble to make us all think you’d been mugged.” She knew from his bemused expression that this time she’d gotten it right. There’d been no mugging, and no police officer (phony or otherwise) showing up at the scene. Only a well-connected “victim” who could get himself checked into a tiny private clinic that specialized in cosmetic surgery where, for a fee or perhaps as a favor to one of their regular clients, the staff would pretend to care for “injuries” that had been conjured courtesy of smoke and mirrors, as Bunny would have said, along with a little help from Wardrobe and Makeup.
“I am sorry,” Sy said, and he did seem genuinely saddened. “You have been caught up in this from the beginning. We tried to disentangle you. Really we did. And it was taken care of. Until your father decided to write a tell-all. I warned him not to. It was not worth it, no matter how much publishers were offering him.”
“Publishers were making offers?”
“And a producer was eager to option the rights, according to Arthur at least. No one had actually read it, as far as I can tell. Thank God for that. And of course he hadn’t finished writing it. But if there was one thing your father knew how to do, it was pitch.”
“So do you really think anyone would have wanted to read it?” Deirdre asked.
“Are you kidding? It has everything. Old Hollywood, glamour, sex, intrigue, and violence. Details about a true crime that captured the imagination of a generation of moviegoers. In other words, a blockbuster. And I’m fine with that. Arthur can have his bestseller. Bunny will have her comeback. I can make all that happen. But the manuscript needs a few tweaks before it can go public. I’m already working on that. And in the meanwhile, I can’t have a copy of Arthur’s draft floating around.”
“Arthur’s draft?”
“So where is it?”
“It’s in the mail.”
“You mean this Xerox copy?” Sy crossed the room to his briefcase, opened it, and pulled out a FedEx envelope. He held it up so Deirdre could see her own handwriting on the mailing label. Deirdre’s mouth went dry.
“I had you followed. So where’s the original?” He shook the envelope at her.
“The original? Good question,” Deirdre’s words came out a rasp. “Because as you can see, that’s a Xerox of a carbon copy. I’ve never seen the original. Knowing my father, I’m guessing he gave it to someone to read. Someone whose judgment he respected. Whose integrity he trusted. You.”
Sy didn’t bother to contradict her.
“And of course, you recognized the potential for disaster. Bunny’s audience could forgive her for murdering a murderous boyfriend, but not for seducing a sixteen-year-old boy.”
“Yes.” Sy rubbed his chin. “It would have been a public relations nightmare. I tried to reason with him. But your father let his ego get in the way. I’m sure you can imagine.”
Deirdre could. Serene in his own sense of entitlement, Arthur would have blown off his oldest friend’s concerns.
“He was going to reveal details Bunny had been sure he’d never tell,” Sy said.
“But he didn’t know who killed Tito. He thought it was me or Henry.”
“It was.”
For a moment Deirdre felt short of breath. “But you told me—”
“I told you it wasn’t you. Henry killed Tito.”
“Henry killed Tito?” Deirdre parroted the words, but her brain wasn’t taking them in. “He didn’t.”
“He did. He came over late that night after the party. Bunny met him. Tito discovered them together.”
“But Henry told me Bunny stood him up.”
“Henry lied. He’s been lying for so long, I’m not sure he even knows what the truth is.”
“Henry?” Deirdre felt the air go out of her. She groped behind her for a chair and sat. “It had to have been self-defense,” Deirdre said, her voice sounding wooden.
“Of course it was self-defense. No jury would have found your brother guilty. He was a kid who’d gotten in way over his head. He was ready to confess. But Bunny couldn’t let that happen. She’d have been pilloried for having an affair with a teenaged kid. So she called your father and when she saw him driving up, she ordered Henry to take your father’s car and drive you home. She promised him that she’d take care of everything. Which she did. She called me.
“Months later, when the news stories had finally died down and Bunny had given birth, she told Arthur that the baby was his grandchild. They struck a deal. She had me draw up a trust that your father agreed to pay into until Jackie turned twenty-one, and your father agreed he’d never tell a soul that Henry was Jackie’s father. In return, Bunny would make sure the police never found out that Henry and you had been in the house at the time of the murder. She’d make sure the police never found these.”
Sy rose to his feet and walked over to the coat stand. He bent, picked up his briefcase again, and brought it over to her. Deirdre knew what she’d see even before he got there—the stained yellow dress, looking no more soiled than when Bunny had taken it from her. Lying on top of the dress was the bone-handled knife. The splash Deirdre had heard had been just another of Bunny’s tricks, playing to her audience’s expectations.
“By the time I got to the house,” Sy went on, “she’d switched knives and wiped the one that killed Tito on the dress you’d been wearing earlier that night. Always thinking ahead, you can say that for her. She showed your father the knife and the dress. Promised to give them to him after he had finished paying into the trust. Your father thought he was protecting you and Henry both. These can still be handed over to the police . . . if it becomes useful to do so. You can be sure that will never happen if you just give me the last copy of the manuscript.”
“You thought the manuscript was in his office, didn’t you?” Deirdre said. “That’s why you set the fire.”
“Not me personally. But yes, I hired someone. I had no idea that your mother would be up there looking for the manuscript herself, or that you would come back when you did. The important thing”—Sy grabbed Deirdre’s arm and pulled her close to him—“is that you give me the last copy of that manuscript. Now.”
Deirdre’s shoulder throbbed as Sy’s grip tightened. “Is this what you tried with Dad? When persuasion and reasoning and arm-twisting didn’t work, you bashed him on the head?”
Sy winced and loosened his grip. “It does not have to be this way. Your father wanted to tell his life story. He wanted to be the star. Give me the manuscript and I will do everything in my power to see that it is finished and well published.”
“Too bad it has to be posthumous and filled with lies.” Deirdre wrenched free and backed away.
“Not lies. Omissions.”
“Henry?”
“Erased.”
“Can you explain one thing to me? She could have had anyone in Hollywood. Why Henry?”
Sy seemed taken aback by the question. “He was young.” Sy shrugged. “She wasn’t.” He shook his head. “Bunny wants what she wants, and she is used to getting it. Your father, too, in his way. He thought he was entitled to write whatever he damned well pleased. It was pure, shortsighted hubris on his part. Bunny couldn’t let that happen. Too much was at stake.”
“Cerulean,” Deirdre said, the word sounding like air leaking from a balloon.
“You know about that?”
“Bunny had the art for the ad framed in her dressing room. All very hush-hush, or so she said.”
“Selling a dream to a vast and untapped audience: women of a certain age.” Sy held up his fingers as if he were framing the slogan. Like her father, he was a pro at pitching an idea. “It’s going to be huge. Television ads. Free samples in the Oscar gift bags. International tour. She’ll be on Johnny Carson. Barbara Walters. Good Morning America. She’ll be getting scripts again.”