Наташа Купер: Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 126, No. 1. Whole No. 767, July 2005

“That’s okay, I don’t think anyone has been totally truthful with me since I got out of that bed this morning.”

“This thing Tony and I have isn’t just a casual fling. We’re in love with each other. He’s asked Barbara for a divorce. He told me this afternoon. Tony needs to be free of her, Timmy. He needs me in his life. We’re going to get married.” Leigh glanced up at me uncertainly. “You look horrified.”

“I’m not. I’m crestfallen.”

She smiled at me. “You’re so sweet.”

“God, I wish people would stop saying that.” I poured myself some more wine and drank it down angrily. I didn’t want to be sweet. I wanted to be no good. I wanted Leigh Grayson to show up at some poor shnook’s apartment late at night sobbing over me. “ Leigh, I don’t mean to burst your bubble, but when I left them just now they were in the midst of a pretty passionate reconciliation scene.”

“No, that’s not possible,” she protested, her voice rising. “He can’t stand to be with Barbara anymore. She’s physically repulsive to him. H-He’s told me so.”

“That’s really not the way it sounded,” I said, studying her in surprise. Because Leigh Grayson wasn’t so worldly after all. Not when it came to men. It seemed pretty obvious to me that she had been thoroughly taken in by Anthony Beck.

And she knew it now. She drew her breath in raggedly, very raggedly, then clapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes widening with alarm. I pointed to the bathroom. She ran in there and threw up her Chianti along with, seemingly, everything she’d eaten for the past three days. Then I heard the water run, and a little while later she came back out, looking very pale. “I used one of your toothbrushes. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.”

“Timmy, how could I have been so stupid? What is wrong with me?”

“Not a single thing. You got used. Like you said, that’s what they do.”

“You’re awfully understanding,” she said softly, gazing at me.

“If you call me sweet again I swear I’m going to slug you.”

My phone rang now. I didn’t get many calls at such a late hour.

“Timmy, we need to deal with this matter openly,” the voice at the other end said. Anthony Beck didn’t need to identify himself. I recognized his velvet purr instantly. “We must clear the air.”

“Do you really think that’s necessary, Mr. Beck?” I asked, Leigh stiffening instantly at the sound of his name.

“I do, Timmy. Could you pop up to our apartment for a nightcap?”

“I don’t think I can make it.”

“You damn well can make it,” he said roughly. “And you will.”

Now there was a rustling on the line. “Won’t you please come, Timmy?” Barbara’s voice was kindly and gentle. “If you don’t, I won’t be able to sleep a wink tonight. I’m just so sick over this.”

“All right,” I said reluctantly. “I’m on my way.”

“And Timmy? Bring the Grayson girl along, why don’t you?”

When the elevator door opened they were waiting there to greet us before the burbling copper fountain. Beck looked rather chastened and downcast. Barbara was all smiles and royal reassurance.

She immediately hugged Leigh and said, “We’re all professionals, dear. For the good of the show, we must move forward. Can we do that?”

Leigh nodded meekly, her eyes firmly fastened to the marble floor.

Me, I felt as if I’d just walked into Act III of Private Lives, when Amanda and Elyot emerge from the bedroom of her apartment to find Victor and Sibyl waiting to pounce on them. Coward’s exquisitely worded stage direction for Amanda reads: Gracefully determined to rise above the situation. This was Barbara right now. Standing there, I had the uneasy feeling that the dividing line between real life and her stage role had blurred.

“No need to look so frightened, dear,” she chided Leigh. “This has just been a tiny misunderstanding, that’s all. I was a bit upset today to learn that my Tony has been something of a bad boy. Young Timmy here was comforting me in my dressing room. Beyond that, nothing was happening between us, though it certainly could have looked that way to Tony. Can we agree on that much?”

Beck cleared his golden throat uncomfortably but said nothing. Merely nodded his mane of silver hair.

“And can we agree that you’ve been sleeping with my husband?” Barbara said to Leigh.

“I’m sorry, Barbara,” Leigh answered in a small, timid voice.

“Don’t be sorry, dear,” Barbara said between her perfect white teeth. “Just tell me that you slept with him.”

“I–I did.”

“Tony, are you in love with this girl?”

“I love you and only you.”

“So you’ve lied to Leigh, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“In fact, you’ve treated her rather badly.”

“Terribly.”

“This thing between you two — is it over?”

“As far as I’m concerned, it is,” he answered, his eyes avoiding Leigh’s.

“And you, Leigh...?”

Leigh stood there breathing in and out. Briefly, I thought she was going to throw up again. “Yes, Barbara, it’s over.”

“Fine, then everything’s settled,” Barbara Darrow exclaimed. “Now we can all get on with our work and our lives.”

“Timmy, I’d like to go home,” Leigh said, glancing at me.

“Nonsense, stay and have a glass of champagne with us,” Barbara insisted. “Let’s all toast our new understanding.”

Beck reached for his wife’s hand, his eyes moistening. “You are the most beautiful and understanding creature on earth. I adore you.”

“And I you, darling. Why don’t you bring the champagne out onto the terrace?” she suggested, throwing open the French doors. “We can breathe some fresh air out here. That’s the one thing I miss about Los Angeles. Our fresh air.”

“Why, that’s not air at all,” he pointed out as he started for the kitchen. “It’s pure smog. Your whole damned San Fernando Valley reeks of it. Dreadful place.”

A breeze had blown the last of the rain clouds away, and the night air out on the terrace was uncommonly fresh and clean. It was a long, shallow terrace enclosed by a three-foot-high stone wall topped with brick. There was some deck furniture, but it was still too wet for us to sit on.

“Isn’t it lovely out here?” Barbara said gaily.

“It is.” I wondered how long it would take before I could afford such a terrace.

“And look at our view of the skyline. Isn’t it beautiful?”

“Beautiful,” Leigh murmured, scarcely glancing at it.

Barbara took her by the elbow and ushered her over toward the stone wall. “If you stand right here, dear, you can see all the way to the Empire State Building.” To me she said, “Isn’t that fountain pretty from out here?”

I glanced back inside at the copper fountain in the foyer. “It’s very pretty,” I said. Then I heard a gasp and turned back and discovered something so unthinkable that it took a split second for the horrible reality of it to sink in.

There were only two of us standing on that terrace now.

Barbara and me. Leigh wasn’t there anymore. Even as my eyes flicked desperately around the terrace, hoping she was there, praying she was there, I knew she was not. And now I heard it — the unmistakable thud of her hitting the sidewalk sixteen floors below. And now there were the screams of the people in the street. Raised voices, horns honking.

I gaped at Barbara in shock. Barbara who had led Leigh over to the edge of the terrace. Barbara who had directed me to look away. Barbara who had just pushed Leigh Grayson to her death. I knew it. She knew it. We both knew it. And yet, as she stood there smiling at me serenely, Barbara had a look of almost childlike innocence on her face.