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Did I feel up to it? I wasn’t grieving. There was a riot of emotions coursing inside me, but the primary current was fear. Someone had, I was quite sure, murdered first Richie and then Artie, and two times yesterday I had rung Erika Schweiker. A U.S. congresswoman. On her private cell. I had called because Artie had asked me. I couldn’t help but feel there was a connection here, and while I wondered whether I had some legal exposure—I doubted it, but I knew I had brushed close to something murky—the danger seemed life threatening. There were dead in the water.
“I’m guessing Nigel doesn’t know yet.”
“I didn’t tell him, but he might know. Word is spreading fast through the casino. You’ve been at your cabana, but there were EMTs and police a couple hundred yards from here.”
Which, inevitably, was when I started receiving texts from other employees at the BP and, yes, from Nigel.
* * *
I went to my dressing room behind the showroom to gather myself. I saw that a fan who had been at last night’s second show had sent backstage one of the classic Royal Doulton Princess Diana figurines, a porcelain re-creation of the woman that stood about nine inches tall. She’s wearing a navy-blue off-the-shoulder gown that falls to her ankles, and striding rather purposefully forward. She’s smiling. She has Diana’s cobalt eyes. (The first time I had been given this figurine was my second year of the residency, and when I had held it in my hands, it was eerie: this is what I looked like when re-created in porcelain.) I took a selfie with it that I could include with a thank-you note I’d send the fan on my faux Diana royal stationery, and then placed the figurine in my dressing room closet, where I had seven others. After Halloween, once people began thinking of holiday gifts, I would sell them on my Etsy shop, along with all the other memorabilia fans had given me over the year. Each of those statues would bring in at least $250 apiece. When I included all of the commemorative plates, coins, scarves, sweaters, spoons, posters, and framed magazine covers I had been given that year, I’d net about twenty-five grand. I will readily admit, that’s not a posh sum for actual royalty. But it is for a teen shelter in Vermont.
My accountant wanted my Diana’s Castle shop to fuel an IRA: she had pointed out that very spring when she was preparing my taxes that it would be worth six figures if I’d opened one a couple of years ago. And given that a lot of my salary was my suite and my cabana, given that my half of my mother’s estate had been half the sale of a rickety Victorian in a Vermont village that didn’t even have an elementary school anymore, it seemed prudent to have a nest egg. But I said no. I would have felt soiled when I made my December trips to the UPS store to ship the memorabilia if I were selling the trinkets to fund my retirement. Besides, how many Royal Doulton figurines that resembled oneself did a girl need? Answer? None. It made much more sense to sell the damn things and give the money to the shelter where Betsy worked.
The only rule I had with the development director was this: my sister could never know that among the anonymous gifts in the annual report each year was one from me. At first, I didn’t want her to worry that I was giving more than I could afford. But, then, after she killed our mother, I didn’t want her to know because knowledge, in this case, would encourage contact.
* * *
Between four and five that afternoon I spoke to Nigel, my drummer, and Yevgeny. The first two conversations were about the Morleys, the third was about both the Morleys and Futurium. I did not, however, speak to the police. No one from the LVPD reached out to me. I considered asking Yevgeny why he thought that was, but I was not prepared to tell anyone what Artie had asked me to do—and what I had done. But then it dawned on me: why would the congresswoman call the police and tell them I had called her? Why would she want to link herself in any way with the Buckingham Palace, especially now that the owners were dead and quite possibly executed?
Eddie Cantone had a lot to juggle, but even he rang me. He wanted to make sure I was, in his words, “able to royal up.” I assured him I was. Then I told him that I had a question: Did he think the police would want to talk to me about the favor Artie had asked of me yesterday?
“She ever call back?” he asked in response.
“She did not.”
“Good to know,” he said. “Thank you for trying. But, no, I can’t see why they’ll want to talk to you.”
“Well, they will about Artie.”
“Meh. Not so sure about that. But even if they do, all they’ll ask you is if he was depressed. You know, in your opinion. They won’t ask about the other thing.”
“What would you recommend I tell them?”
“For your own sake? Answer he was depressed.”
“For my sake?”
“Uh-huh. Say he was in the dumps because his brother had blown his brains out. Say mostly you talked about your show. That’s what I told them.”
“Okay.”
“It won’t be a big deal. All pro forma hokum.”
“Are you in danger, Eddie?”
“Probably. But I have been my whole life.”
Was this bluster? I was concluding it was, when he added, “Trust me, Crissy, I’m a survivor. I’ve gotten the message loud and clear.”
“Are you going to sell?” The question was tinged with self-preservation.
“Won’t be up to me. Will be up to the lawyers who manage the Morleys’ estate. But they may have alternatives. Options.”
“And what if Erika Schweiker calls me back? Do I still—”
“No. At this point, if she calls back, insist it was a wrong number. A butt dial. Whatever. But don’t say you have anything on your senator. Got it? Artie is gone—it kills me to say that—and so now we’re in the land of the lawyers and bankers.”
Then he said he had to go. He told me to hang in there, but immediately retracted the comment, no doubt envisioning how Artie Morley had died, and added simply, “Break a leg.”
