The Lottery Winner Read online

  “Motive,” Alvirah said flatly. “By tomorrow they’ll be trying this case in the media, and Brian will be found guilty.”

  * * *

  At 12:30 P.M. Brian returned. Alvirah took one look at his ashen face and ordered him to sit down. “I’ll make a pot of tea and fix you a hamburger,” she said. “You look like you’re going to keel over.”

  “I think a shot of scotch would do a lot more good than tea,” Willy observed.

  Brian managed a wan smile. “I think you’re right, Uncle Willy.” Over the hamburgers and french fries he told them what had happened. “I swear I didn’t think they’d let me go. You can tell they’re sure I killed her.”

  “Is it OK if I turn on my recorder?” Alvirah asked. She fiddled with the sunburst pin, touching the microphone switch. “Now, tell us exactly what you told them.”

  Brian frowned. “Mostly about my personal relationship with Fiona. I was sick of her lousy disposition and I was falling in love with Emmy. I told them that when Fiona quit the play it was the last straw.”

  “But how did she get in my closet?” Alvirah asked. “You must have been the one who let her into the apartment.”

  “I did. I’ve been working here a lot. I knew you were coming back yesterday, so I cleared my stuff out the day before. Then yesterday morning Fiona phoned and said she was back in New York and would be right over to see me. By mistake I’d left my notes for the final draft of my new play here with my backup copy. I told her not to waste her time, that I was heading here to get my notes and then was going to be at the typewriter all day and wouldn’t answer my door. When I arrived, I found her parked downstairs in the lobby, and rather than make a scene I let her come up.”

  “What did she want?” Alvirah and Willy both asked.

  “Nothing much. Just the lead in Nebraska Nights.”

  “After walking out on the other one!”

  “She put on the performance of her life. Begged me to forgive her. Said she’d been a fool to. leave Falling Bridges. Her role in the film was ending up on the cutting-room floor, and the bad publicity about dumping the play had hurt her. Wanted to know if Nebraska Nights was finished yet. I’m human. I bragged about it. Told her it might take time to find the right producer, but when I did it was going to be a big hit.”

  “Had she ever read it?” Alvirah asked.

  Brian studied the tea leaves in his cup. “These don’t make for much of a fortune,” he commented. “She knew the story line and that there’s a fantastic lead role for an actress.”

  “You certainly didn’t promise it to her?” Alvirah exclaimed.

  Brian shook his head. “Aunt Alvirah, I know she played me for a fool, but I couldn’t believe she thought I was that much of a fool. She asked me to make a deal. She said she had access to one of the biggest producers on Broadway. If she could get it to him and he took it, she wanted to play Diane—I mean Beth.”

  “Who’s that?” Willy asked.

  “The name of the leading character. I changed it on the final draft last night. I told Fiona she had to be kidding, but if she could pull that off I might consider it. Then I got my notes and tried to get her out of here. She refused to budge, though, saying she had an audition at Lincoln Center early in the afternoon, and since it’s close by, she wanted to stay here until it was time to be there. I finally decided there probably wasn’t any harm in leaving her so I could get work done. The last time I saw her was just about noon, and she was sitting on that couch.”

  “Did she know you had a copy of the new play here?” Alvirah asked.

  “Sure. I took it out of the drawer of the table when I was getting the notes.” He pointed toward the foyer. “It’s in that drawer now.”

  Alvirah got up, walked quickly to the foyer and pulled open the drawer. As she suspected, it was empty.

  * * *

  Emmy Laker sat motionless in the oversized club chair in her West Side studio apartment. Ever since she had heard about Fiona’s death on the seven o’clock news she’d been trying to reach Brian. Had he been arrested? Oh God, not Brian, she thought. What should I do? Despairingly she looked at the luggage in the corner of the room. Fiona’s luggage.

  Her bell had rung yesterday morning at 8:30. When she opened the door, Fiona had swept in. “How can you stand living in a walk-up?” she’d demanded. “Thank God some kid was making a delivery and carried these up.” She’d dropped her suitcases and reached for a cigarette. “I came in on the red-eye. What a mistake to take that film job. I told the director off and he fired me. I’ve been trying to reach Brian. Do you know where he is?”

  At the memory, rage swelled in Emmy. As though she were still across the room she could see Fiona, her blond hair tousled, her body-hugging jumpsuit showing off every inch of that perfect figure, her cat’s eyes insolent and confident.

  Fiona was so sure that even after the way she treated Brian she could still walk back into his life, Emmy thought, remembering all the months when she had agonized at the sight of Brian with her. Would that have happened again? Yesterday she had thought it possible.

  Fiona had kept phoning Brian until she finally reached him. When she hung up, she said, “Mind if I leave my bags here? Brian’s on his way to the cleaning woman’s fancy pad. I’ll head him off.” Then she shrugged. “He’s so damn provincial, but it’s amazing how many people on the West Coast know about him. I must say from what I heard about Nebraska Nights it has all the earmarks of a hit—and I intend to play the lead.”

  Emmy got up. Her body felt stiff and achy. The old window-unit air conditioner was rattling and wheezing, but the room was still hot and humid. A cool shower and a cup of coffee, she decided. Maybe that would clear her head. She wanted to see Brian. She wanted to put her arms around him. I’m not sorry Fiona’s dead, she admitted, but oh, Brian, how did you expect to get away with it?

  She had just dressed in a T-shirt and cotton skirt and twisted her long bright-red hair in a chignon when the buzzer downstairs rang.

  When she answered, it was to hear Detective Rooney announce that he was on the way up.

  * * *

  “This is starting to make sense,” Alvirah said. “Brian, is there anything you left out? For instance, did you put the bottle of that fit-for-a-queen champagne in the silver bucket yesterday?”

  Brian looked bewildered. “Why would I do that?”

  “I didn’t think you would.” Oh boy, what a story, Alvirah thought—Fiona didn’t hang around here because she had an audition. It’s my bet that the producer she mentioned to Brian was Carlton Rumson, and that she phoned him and invited him down here. That’s why the glasses and champagne were out. She gave him the script and then, who knows why, they got into a fight. But how do I prove it? Alvirah paused for a moment, thinking. Then she turned to Brian. “I want you to go home and get your final version of the play. I talked to Carlton Rumson about it; he wants to see it today.”

  “Carlton Rumson!” Brian exclaimed. “He’s just about the biggest man on Broadway, as well as one of the hardest to reach. You must be a magician!”

  “I’ll tell you about it later,” Alvirah said. “I also happen to know that he and his wife are going away on a little trip, so let’s strike while the iron is hot.”

  Brian glanced at the phone. “I should call Emmy. She certainly must have heard about Fiona by now.” He dialed the number, waited, then left a message: “Emmy, I need to talk to you. I’m just leaving Aunt Alvirah’s and I’m on my way home.” When he hung up, his tone reflected his obvious disappointment. “I guess she’s out,” he said.

  * * *

  Even when she heard Brian’s voice, Emmy made no move to pick up the receiver. Detective Rooney was sitting across from her and had just asked her to describe in detail what she had done the previous day. Now he raised his eyebrows. “You could have answered the phone. I don’t mind waiting.”

  “I’ll talk to Brian later,” Emmy said. Then she paused for a moment, choosing her words carefully. “Yesterday
I left here about 11:00 A.M. and went jogging. I got back about 1:30 P.M. and then just stayed in the rest of the day.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you see Fiona Winters yesterday?” Emmy’s eyes slid over to the corner where the luggage was piled. “I . . . ” She stopped.

  “Emmy, I think I should warn you that it will be in your best interest to be completely truthful.” Detective Rooney consulted his notes. “Fiona Winters came in on a flight from Los Angeles, arriving at approximately 7:30 A.M. We know she took a cab to this building, and that a delivery boy who recognized her assisted her with her luggage. She told him that you would not be glad to see her because you’re after her boyfriend. When Miss Winters left, you followed her. A doorman on Central Park South recognized you. You sat on a park bench across the street, watching the building, for nearly two hours, then entered it by the delivery door, which had been propped open by the painters.” Detective Rooney leaned forward. His tone became confidential. “You went up to the Mee hans’ apartment, didn’t you? Was Miss Winters already dead?”

  Emmy stared at her hands. Brian always teased her about how small they were. “But strong,” he’d laugh when they’d arm-wrestle. Brian. No matter what she said she would hurt him. She looked up at Detective Rooney. “I want to talk to a lawyer.”

  Rooney got up. “That is, of course, your privilege. I would like to remind you that if Brian murdered his ex-lover, you can become an accessory after the fact by concealing evidence. And I assure you, Emmy, you won’t do him any good. We’re going to get an indictment from the grand jury, no doubt about it.”

  * * *

  When Brian reached his apartment, there was a message on the recorder from Emmy. “Call me, Brian. Please.” Brian’s fingers worked with frantic haste as he dialed her number.

  She whispered, “Hello.”

  “Emmy, what’s the matter? I tried you before but you were out.”

  “I was here. A detective came. Brian, I have to see you.”

  “Take a cab to my aunt’s place. I’m on my way back there.”

  “I want to talk to you alone. It’s about Fiona. She was here yesterday. I followed her over to the apartment.”

  Brian felt his mouth go dry. “Don’t say anything else on the phone.”

  * * *

  At 4:00 P.M., the bell rang insistently. Alvirah jumped up. “Brian forgot his key,” she told Willy. “I noticed it on the foyer table.”

  But it was Carlton Rumson rather than Brian she found standing at the door. “Mrs. Meehan, please forgive the intrusion.” With that he stepped inside.

  “I mentioned to one of my assistants that I was going to look at your nephew’s play. Apparently he saw a performance of his first one and thought it was very good. In fact he had urged me to see it, but it closed suddenly and I never got the chance.” Rumson had walked into the living room and sat down. Nervously he drummed his fingers on the cocktail table.

  “Can I get you a drink?” Willy asked. “Or maybe a beer?”

  “Oh, Willy,” Alvirah said. “I’m sure that Mr. Rumson only drinks fine champagne. Maybe I read that in People.”

  “As a matter of fact, it’s true, but not right now, thank you.” Rumson’s expression was affable enough, but Alvirah noticed that a pulse was jumping in his throat. “Where can I reach your nephew?”

  “He should be here any minute. You’re welcome to wait, or I’ll call you the minute he gets in.”

  Obviously opting for the latter choice, Rumson stood and headed for the door. “I’m a fast reader. If you would send the script up, he and I could get together an hour or so later.”

  When Rumson left, Alvirah asked Willy, “What are you thinking?”

  “That for a hotshot producer, he’s some nervous wreck. I hate people tapping their fingers on tabletops. Gives me the jitters.”

  “Well he certainly had the jitters, and I’m not surprised.” Alvirah smiled at Willy mysteriously.

  Less than a minute later the bell rang again. Alvirah hurried to the door. Emmy Laker was there, wisps of red hair slipping from the chignon, sunglasses covering half her face, the T-shirt clinging to her slender body, the cotton skirt a colorful whirl. Alvirah thought that Emmy looked about sixteen.

  “That man who just left,” Emmy stammered. “Who was he?”

  “Carlton Rumson, the producer,” Alvirah said quickly. “Why?”

  “Because . . . ” Emmy pulled off her glasses, revealing swollen eyes.

  Alvirah put firm hands on the girl’s shoulders. “Emmy, what is it?”

  “I don’t know what to do,” Emmy wailed. “I don’t know what to do.”

  * * *

  Carlton Rumson returned to his apartment. Beads of perspiration stood on his forehead. Alvirah Meehan was no dope, he warned himself. That crack about champagne hadn’t been social chitchat. How much did she suspect?

  Victoria was standing on the terrace, her hands lightly touching the railing. Reluctantly he joined her. “For Pete’s sake, haven’t you read those signs all over the place?” he demanded. “One good shove and that railing would be gone.”

  Victoria was wearing white slacks and a white knit sweater. Sourly, Rumson thought it was a damn shame some fashion columnist had once written that with her pale-blond beauty, Victoria Rumson should never wear anything but white. Victoria had taken that advice to heart. Her dry cleaning bills alone would have broken most men.

  She turned to him calmly. “I’ve noticed that you always get ugly with me when you’re upset. Did you happen to know that Fiona Winters was staying in this building? Or was she here perhaps at your request?”

  “Vic, I haven’t seen Fiona in nearly two years. If you don’t believe me, too bad.”

  “As long as you didn’t see her yesterday, darling. I understand the police are asking lots of questions. It’s bound to come out that you and she were—as the columnists say—an item.” She paused. “Oh well, I’m sure you’ll deal with it with your usual aplomb. In the meantime, have you followed up on Brian McCormack’s play? I have one of my famous hunches about that, you know.”

  Rumson cleared his throat. “That Alvirah Meehan is going to have McCormack send me a copy this afternoon. After I’ve read it I’ll go down and meet him.”

  “Let me read it too. Then I might just tag along. I’d love to see how a cleaning woman decorates.” Victoria Rumson linked her arm in her husband’s. “Poor darling. Why are you so nervous?”

  * * *

  When Brian rushed past Alvirah into the apartment, his play under his arm, he found Emmy lying on his aunt’s couch, covered by a light blanket. Alvirah closed the door behind him and watched as he knelt beside Emmy and put his arms around her. “I’m going inside and let you two talk,” she announced.

  Willy was in the bedroom laying out clothes. “Which jacket, honey?” He held up two sports coats.

  Alvirah’s forehead puckered. “You want to look nice for Pete’s retirement party, but not like you’re trying to show off. Wear the blue jacket and the white sports shirt.”

  “I still don’t like to leave you tonight,” Willy protested.

  “You can’t miss Pete’s dinner,” Alvirah said firmly. “And Willy, I wish you’d let me order a car and driver for you.”

  “Honey, we pay big bucks to garage our car here. No use wasting money.”

  “Well then, if you have too good a time, I want you to promise me not to drive home. Stay at the old apartment. You know how you can get when you’re with the boys.”

  Willy smiled sheepishly. “You mean if I sing ‘Danny Boy’ more than twice, that’s my signal.”

  “Exactly,” Alvirah said firmly.

  “Honey, I’m so bushed after the trip and with what happened last night, I’d just as soon have a few beers with Pete and come back.”

  “That wouldn’t be nice. Pete stayed at our lottery-winning party till the morning rush started on the expressway. Now we’ve got to talk to those kids.”

/>   In the living room Brian and Emmy were sitting side by side, their hands clasped. “Have you two straightened things out yet?” Alvirah demanded.

  “Not exactly,” Brian said. “Apparently Emmy was given a rough time by Rooney when she refused to answer his questions.”

  Alvirah sat down. “I have to know everything he asked you.”

  Hesitantly Emmy told her. Her voice became calmer and her poise returned as she said, “Brian, you’re going to be indicted. He’s trying to make me say things that will hurt you.”

  “You mean you’re protecting me.” Brian looked astonished. “There’s no need. I haven’t done anything. I thought . . . ”

  “You thought that Emmy was in trouble,” Alvirah told them. She settled with Willy on the couch opposite them. She realized that Brian and Emmy were sitting directly in front of the place on the cocktail table where the fingerprints had been smeared. The drapery was slightly to the right. To someone sitting on this couch, the tieback would have been in full view. “I’m going to tell you two something,” she announced. “You each think the other might have had something to do with this—and you’re both wrong. Just tell me what you know or think you know. Brian, is there anything you’ve held back about seeing Fiona yesterday?”

  “Absolutely nothing,” Brian said.

  “All right. Emmy, your turn.”

  Emmy walked over to the window. “I love this view.” She turned to Alvirah and Willy and told them about Fiona’s sudden and unwelcome appearance at her apartment. “Yesterday when Fiona left my apartment to meet Brian I think I went a little crazy. He had been so involved with her, and I just couldn’t stand to see that happen all over. Fiona is—was the kind of woman who can just beckon to men. I was so afraid Brian would take up with her again.”

  “I’d never—” Brian protested.

  “Keep quiet, Brian,” Alvirah ordered.

  “I sat on the park bench a long time,” Emmy said. “I saw Brian leave. When Fiona didn’t come down I started to think maybe Brian had told her to wait. Finally I decided to have it out with her. I followed a maid through the delivery entrance and came up in the service elevator because I didn’t want anyone to know I’d been here. I rang the doorbell and waited and rang it again, and then I left.”