“I mean it,” I said. And I did. I was lucky enough to have friends in my life like Spike, who routinely dropped everything to help me out—whether that meant beating the crap out of some thug who tried to kill me, scaring a reluctant informant into submission, or, in this most recent case, babysitting a diva author with muscles of steel and a voice that could shatter glass. But I took advantage of that privilege too often. Spike had his own troubles. Richie had his, as did my father and my shrink, Susan Silverman, and every other friend and colleague I assumed had nothing truly crucial going on in their lives compared to mine.
I was worried I might have a touch of main character syndrome, and that if I didn’t stop believing that my problems were bigger and deeper and more important than everyone else’s, I was never going to be able to make a successful go at a second marriage to Richie.
I stared out the window. Traffic had barely moved. Even at the end of the day, the steam-heat was floating off the asphalt in visible waves. Spike was right. At this time of year, Boston was just as unpleasant as Asbury Park was. And unlike Asbury Park, half these people probably didn’t even want to be here.
“Busy night at the restaurant?” I asked.
He nodded. “We’ve had big crowds lately.”
“What’s Flynn doing?”
“He’s got a Zoom interview,” he said. “Then he was going to come by and work some magic in the kitchen.”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve got shepherd’s pie on the menu, and Flynn’s is a lot better than Jorgen’s.”
“Why don’t you get out of the car?” I said. “We’re only about a block away, right? It would be faster if you walked.”
“You sure you don’t want me to come to dinner with you?” he said. “Flynn won’t mind. He’s friends with everybody at the restaurant. And there’s nothing at work that my manager can’t handle.”
“You love your job,” I said. “Your man’s going to be in the kitchen. You should be there.”
He looked surprised, which made me wince.
“Thanks, Sunny.”
Traffic was at such a standstill, I didn’t need to put my hazards on. Spike simply lifted Rosie from his lap and set her down on the seat, slipped out of the car, and closed the door behind him. Nobody even bothered to honk.
After Spike left, Rosie put her paws up on the passenger-side window and stared out after him. She began to whine. “I know, sweetheart,” I said. “But we’re both going to have to stop being so selfish.”
Twenty-one
I called Kim Lash from my car. It went straight to voicemail, so I left a message. I kept it vague, mentioning Natalie’s name and asking if I could talk to her about Melanie Joan. I figured vague was best. When it came to returning a stranger’s phone call, curiosity could be a powerful motivator.
Before heading to my parents’, I picked up a bottle of my mom’s favorite Chablis, walked and fed Rosie—and left her at my loft. I didn’t like doing this. Rosie and my dad adored each other, and my mom didn’t mind her, either. But Elizabeth loved to complain about my dog so much that it was practically a passion, and I wasn’t about to indulge her.
I was around ten minutes away from my parents’ place in Newton when my phone rang. It was Kim Lash.Curiosity strikes again.“Thanks for calling me back,” I said.
“Sure, hon.” She had a gravelly voice. From what, I didn’t know. Cigarettes, age, years of screaming, all of the above…Over the phone, who could tell? “Are you a friend of Natalie’s?” she asked. “I haven’t seen her since she left showbiz.”
“Actually, I just met her today,” I said. “But I’ve known Melanie Joan for years.”
Kim chuckled. “Melanie Joan Hall. She’s something.”
“She sure is.”
“You work for her?”
“Sometimes.”
“What’s your job?”
“I’m a private investigator,” I said. “But right now, I’m kind of…helping her out with damage control.”
She chuckled again. “Man, oh, man. You’ve got your work cut out for you.”
“You’ve heard about what happened?”
