Chapter 9
NICHOLAS
Nicholas grabbed a fresh bottle of the Mourvèdre and approached the concentration of gray-haired wealth gathered on the long, low-slung beige velvet couches in the center of the room.
He wasn’t here to fade into the background as Sophie networked.
No, he and Mrs. B had a plan. She’d encouraged him to come to raise money for Sophie’s play.
Tonight’s guests could fund a production with pocket change.
They just needed someone to sell them on it.
So Nicholas gestured with the wine bottle, offering a top-up. “Anyone?”
“Please,” the bald guy with the chains said. “You’re the theatre girl’s boyfriend?”
“Nicholas,” he said.
“I’m Sunny Wheeler. So bright they named me after a star.”
“Also, you’re always emitting hot air.” The small woman across from him paused in her demolition of a plate of fruit and cheese. “I’m Helene, this is my husband, George.”
“I’ve heard of you,” Nicholas told her, pouring the wine. “You’re the other theatre people.”
Helene peered at him with bright, curious eyes. “Have we met?”
“I don’t think so,” he said, though she did look a little familiar. “Hm. Unless we went to the same plays?”
“Perhaps your eyes met across the crowded theatre?” George stroked his full white beard. “As the orchestra played a lively tune, the curtains opened wide, replete with possibility. Then tragedy struck! The moment passed unremarked.”
Helene batted at her husband. “Ignore him, Nicholas! So do you work at the theatre, as well?”
“Only as an audience member,” he said. “Although Sophie is a—”
“So what do you do?” Sunny Wheeler interrupted.
Nicholas evaded the question, mostly because he wanted to talk about Sophie, but also because work had been so draining lately.
He didn’t want to hear any opinions on turning the downtown blocks of State Street into a car-free zone for pedestrians or how e-bikes were out of control.
He’d hoped the city would’ve agreed on a comprehensive redevelopment plan by now.
Instead they were struggling with a budget shortfall that kept him awake at night.
Though perhaps covering up two murders with the other residents of Marigold Cottages six months earlier was responsible for most of his sleeplessness.
He still felt vulnerable over how they’d framed Lily-Ann’s husband for murders he hadn’t committed, even if he did deserve incarceration.
Though this wasn’t the time to worry about it.
“Sophie is a playwright,” he blurted, apropos of nothing. “She’s just finishing a play based in Santa Barbara.”
To his surprise, George lit up and started talking.
The guy was clearly an eccentric—his bushy beard and non sequiturs proved that—but he was also clearly a lover of art.
He launched into a speech about contemporary playwrights that was so knowledgeable Nicholas suspected he’d been a professor of drama.
“I’ll tell you what would make a good play,” Sunny Wheeler interrupted, resting his half-empty tumbler on his belly. “My seventy-fifth birthday party.”
“Why is that?” Nicholas asked.
“Picture this, Nicky. A hundred and sixty guests in a ballroom. Black tie, absolute mounds of funeral bouquets. A big photo of yours truly on the dais. Then six of my friends carry my coffin to the front of the room. My wife, god rest her soul, comes out wearing a mourning veil and weeping. How’s that for drama? ”
“That … happened?”
“You betcha.”
Nicholas didn’t know whether to be awed or appalled. “You had a fake funeral for your birthday?”
“No reason to miss an event that’s all about me,” Sunny said. “And men in my demographic—the ones who haven’t prepared—have been dropping like flies for years.”
“Ah,” Nicholas said, instead of Prepared for what?
“The coffin was comfy, too. Snug as a bug.”
“It was open casket,” Helene said, with a quick roll of her eyes. “He looked like a bald vampire.”
Sunny leaned toward Nicholas. “I listened to the eulogies, and I don’t mind saying that it turns out I am quite the fellow. ‘Beloved,’ that’s the word.”
“Either that,” Helene said, “or everyone prefers you dead.”
Nicholas found Helene charming and approachable, but he didn’t want to push too hard so he drifted away. He figured he’d planted the seed, mentioning Sophie’s play. He didn’t want to scare anyone off. Though Mrs. B would wonder why he wasn’t carrying a sack full of cash when he reported back.
He checked on Sophie, who was still chatting with her awful blond friend, then slipped into the corner to enjoy his second glass of spectacular wine.
Another guy was already there: he looked five or ten years older than Nicholas, with dirty-blond hair and impressive forearms, one of which sported a tattoo of a mermaid reaching for a crescent moon.
Nicholas was about to introduce himself when a woman across the room started yelling about music.
A middle-aged woman with a lot of blond hair and a tight dress that she completely pulled off.
She pointed at him and shouted. Why was she talking to him?
Then her gaze shifted to the guy beside him and she called, “Oh, Pecs! I didn’t see you there.
Be a dear and get the soundtrack started? And none of your new age nonsense.”
The guy opened a cabinet, synched his phone, then glanced at Nicholas. “What do you think for this crowd, Adele or Billie Eilish?”
“Uh,” Nicholas said.
“Oh, here we go!” the guy said, tapping at his phone. “Frank Sinatra.”
As the music started, Nicholas said, “Perfect. Fits the décor.”
“They like the oldies. Frank—I mean, our Frank—was a big-time music producer back in the day. Some of the stars jammed in his studio as recently as five, six years ago. Like Matty Almond, a few guys from True Blue.”
Nicholas didn’t know either of those names, but he said, “Neat.”
“His studio’s amazing. Serene. Great place to meditate.” The guy considered him. “Are you from World of Goods?”
“Just tagging along with my girlfriend. I’m Nicholas.”
“Pecs.”
That was a little too on the nose. “Pecs?”
“No, no. Pax.”
“Oh, Pax! Like peace.”
Pax flashed his perfect white teeth. “Exactly like peace.”
“So you’re a friend of, uh…” Nicholas gestured toward the woman who’d yelled for music. “Hers?”
“Jane? Not really. I’m closer to the DeYoungs. I’m their bodyworker, I see them four times a week. Karina asked me to come tonight. She said that way she’s not the youngest person here, but I think it’s really so if anyone falls over, I can pick them up.”
“A new spin on ‘pickup artist,’” Nicholas said, then cringed internally at the terrible joke. On the bright side, when he told Sophie later, she’d giggle.
Pax gave him a pity smile. “Yeah.”
The pause lasted a few seconds before Nicholas raised his empty wineglass in explanation, then headed for the bar.