Cold Wind to Valhalla (Abby Fouchet Mysteries Book 3) Read online

  I nodded back. “Ivan Ialovskaia. My agent. I had another but she was a horrible gossip so I hired Ivan because he's my favorite dance teacher's semi-fiancé and he’s absolutely crazy but a very good business person so we get along great because I’m absolutely crazy and a terrible business person. But I guess that’s not relevant, is it?”

  “Probably not. So, you and Mr. Ialovskaia saw the show?”

  I shuddered. “Sadly, yes. Not to be cute, sarcastic and tacky at what’s definitely a serious moment but if anyone had to get shot, it should have been the playwright and the director. This thing stunk worse than the Upper West Side during a garbage strike. Anyway, yeah, uh, Colette and I bumped into each other getting coffee after we'd each been to an audition at this deli down the street from the Actors Equity building the deli, not the audition and she and I got to chatting about Indie Theatre in Manhattan and she said she was stage managing this show called Hangin’ and she gave me two tickets. Colette said we’d go out after but she had to haul it to another audition and I came home so we didn't get to talk. I asked Ivan if he wanted to come with me and we came tonight and . . ."

  The Detective raised his hand. “ How well did you know Ms. Currie? Colette.”

  “We weren’t like on the phone daily kind of buddies but she was definitely a good friend. We did a melodrama in this cool funky theatre in Austin one summer when I was still in college—that was a little over two years ago—college—not the show. That was about four years ago. I've got to quit doing that, don't I? Interrupting my own answers with stupid explanations that you doubtless already know. Where was I? Oh, yeah. We got to be friends. And we did a couple of episodes of a soap here as well only last winter. Search for Serenity. She'd been on a bunch of times but this was a new one for me. Great fun. That was actually after I’d been doing Vanessa on Endless Time and they dumped me and before I got cast in Starlight Express when I broke my ankle skating off a ramp and couldn’t do the show.” I shook my head. “You know? I do that a lot. It’s ridiculous. But, that's not important. I was in the Czech Republic in the spring and got back about a week ago and that's when I saw Colette at the audition for a tour of Les Miz, uh, Les Miserables. We were both going for Fantine but she didn’t get it. I didn’t get it either which was fine since I wouldn’t have been able to do Endless Time now that they’ve finally decided to bring Vanessa back. It was up in the air for a month. You know? I’m not sure why I auditioned. I mean, for Les Miz. The casting notice said it strictly for Fantine and I’m just not the right type since by all rights she should be sort of ethereal instead of tiny and elfin which the casting directors politely told me I am. Colette is” my voice caught, ”she was tall and ethereal and gorgeous.” I paused and mused aloud, “I could do Eponine. ”

  Detective Gordon smiled. “Stop. I can already tell you're about to go off on another tangent.”

  “I’m so sorry. I'm really trying not to focus on what just happened. I’ll get on track. It’s just nice to think of her at that audition singing a role she loved and not . . . tonight. Does that make sense?”

  He nodded. “Totally understandable. But, if I can get you back on point, any ideas as to why someone would target her?”

  “No.” I started shivering. “It sounds worse when you say that. Target. Like an assassination or something.”

  “My apologies. Although, in some ways, assassination is correct. It appears someone waited for an opportune moment for Ms. Currie to come backstage and was ready to use that moment . . . “

  “To shoot her." I gulped.

  “Yes. Although, I reiterate, it’s debatable at present whether the perpetrator intended to kill her or was simply trying to scare her and was a very lousy shot.”

  I bit my lip and tried to stifle another tidal wave of tears.

  The detective waited until I was a bit more composed. “Abby, was Colette able to say anything before she died? In any way identify the attacker?”

  “She did mumble a few things. Um . . .” I closed my eyes. “Okay. 'Cold wind.’ And something about clowns and history repeating and what sounded like ‘can you see’."

  Detective Clark nodded, “Maybe she was asking if you’d seen anything.”

  I opened my eyes and dabbed at the tears welling again. “I just don’t know.”

  Clark softly asked, “Can you focus on exactly what she told you?”

  I took a deep breath. “Uh, sure. I’m truly sorry I can’t seem to keep my thoughts straight or even in some kind of logical order. Let’s see, there was that thing about clowns, which was really weird, and what sounded like the spice cinnamon. I mean, not those exact words because it was more like bits of phrases. Move. Maybe telling me to move if she thought I was also in danger? And then she started to say a name, ‘Ken and see.’ That was it.” I sat up straight. “Oh my God. Someone named Ken must have shot her. Or maybe someone named Ken saw who did it?”

  “Not necessarily. Could be she was asking for a friend. Any ideas who that might be?”

  “Not a clue. I don’t know any Ken’s at all. One Kenneth but that’s back from my high school and he’s still in El Paso and I’m sure Colette never met him.”

  Detective Clark blinked. “Fine. Okay. You said, Ken? You’re sure. Not kin?”

  “Definitely Ken if you’re thinking of kin as in family.” I attempted a weak smile. “Colette wasn’t a Texan even though we met in Austin. She was from right here in Manhattan. A native New Yorker. Can you imagine? I never knew they really existed. Anyway, her ‘I’s’ were real ‘I’s’; not ‘E’s’. Although I’ve tried really hard to hide my Texas dialect and El Paso doesn’t have the hard ‘r’ or the drawl that East Texas does. But any drawl doesn’t work for one’s acting career unless you want to do Best Little Whorehouse ad nauseam.”

  The Detective stopped jotting notes. He was sharp. He also chose to ignore those last stupid comments. “So. Ken. We’ll check the cast of this show for anyone with a name that’s close.”

  “Wait. Wait! There’s something . . . Hang on. I only met her once but I’ve got an almost audiographic memory unless I'm horribly stressed and it didn’t hit me because I think of Ken as a guy’s name but maybe she hadn’t finished. When you said kin something flickered. Colette has—had—a cousin. Just give me a second?” I thought. “Got it. Kenny-Ann. I’m not sure of her last name. Could be Currie like Colette but I honestly don’t recall her mentioning that when she introduced us. It was like, ‘hey, Abby, meet my cousin, Kenny-Ann.’”

  “I don’t suppose you’d know what she meant by cold wind? Or cinnamon?”

  “Clueless. Those were the only things she managed to say that sounded like real words. I figured she was chilled lying there and I wasn't really sure she'd said cinnamon.”

  We stared at each other for a few moments. Finally, the detective helped me up and started to escort me to the front door of the theatre. “Do you need to go to the hospital, Ms. Fouchet?”

  “No, no. I’m fine. I mean, I’m well aware I'm in shock but I don’t think any doctor can help do what being with my friends at home will do.” I nodded toward the lobby door where Ivan stood with another police investigator, adding what little he knew to the mix. “Ivan and I live pretty close to each other and it’s not far anyway. Up on West 79th. He’ll make sure I don’t collapse on the train on the way home. Are we free to go?”

  “You are. I’ve got your statement and your contact information.” He didn’t add, “and your bloody hooded jacket and beret” but he didn’t need to. I’d seen it, wrapped in a plastic bag and toted away by a member of the crime scene investigators. “Would you prefer having an officer drive you both home?”

  I considered the offer for a few seconds but responded, “No. Honestly, the more normal things are for the next few hours, the better I’ll feel. Somehow the train ride sounds—comforting.”

  We shook hands, then he turned to talk to his fellow officers. I ran over and grabbed Ivan.

  “Let’s make tracks. I really don’
t want to hang out here any longer.” I winced. “Ouch. Hangin’. Stupid name for a stupid show. And then there was Colette hanging onto me trying to gasp out words that made no sense. What a truly stupid way for a life to end.”

  Chapter 3

  Ivan and I had to fight our way through the horde of so-called investigative journalists swarming the Cameo Theatre. Fortunately, most of them were chatting it up with the (thankfully) now-clad actors from Hangin’. I’m no TV star but I’d been in the soap magazines practically every issue when I was doing Endless Time and six months wasn't really so long ago that people would forget. It was enough to make me worried I’d be spotted and asked a gazillion questions I had no desire to answer. Since the cops had taken my hoodie jacket and beret, Ivan lent me his baseball cap to hide my hair. I buried my face in the top of my shirt and hoped for the best. Best being Johnny Gerard.

  But Johnny was in absentia. Typical. Last I’d seen of him had been in the Czech Republic in March before he’d headed out to do a set design (yes, he’s absurdly multi-talented) for the Sarasota Florida Senior Retirees Home. Something like that. He’d done the set for The Magic Flute (which I would have killed to have seen done by a troupe of singers all over the age of eighty) then flown out to Colorado to do another set design for a friend who’d started a little theatre company in the middle of Crested Butte only to discover a group of survivalists had forced their way in to finance the first show and try to get themselves elected to mayor and town council to boot. The whole thing was like another episode of our soap. It was now about ten days away from June and I’d heard from Mr. Gerard a grand total of four times. He’d sent postcards with pictures of cute bears wearing sunglasses snowboarding down advanced slopes and written cryptic messages like, “These folks are totally bonkers but the band for the show is awesome!” Or “Learning how to ski jump. You’d like it.” Like what? That he was learning to ski jump or that I’d like to learn how myself at some future date? Like that it was snowing enough to ski in Colorado in May? Or like the show his buddy and the crazy survivalists were doing?

  Johnny and I have been engaged since last July but things keep cropping up in our lives that circumvent any posting of the banns. We're hardly ever alone, the soap keeps sending him to far-off lands and we’d been also caught up in weird situations, often involving crime, since we first met. Consequently, the timing hadn’t been conducive to much of what Shay calls “unapproved by the Vatican doin’s.” And I had no idea where Johnny Gerard was now that he’d discovered the survivalists had been ready to take over Crested Butte with guns and cannons and secede from the United States—at least until the FBI got involved. Not that I was terrified for him. I don’t know if he’s been playing Gregory Noble on Endless Time for so long that he thinks he is Mr. Supercop or if he just doesn’t believe anything bad will happen to him. And he’d probably charmed the survivalists by now so I doubted he’d be taken hostage. Interesting though—according to Mr. Gerard in his longest postcard, the gun-happy revolutionaries had put on a very fine version of How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying in the theatre that had been their cover for more sinister activities. He pointed out I’d’ve been a better Rosemary than the girl they had in the role, but my politics wouldn’t have gelled with the leader of the secessionist organization and I’d have been not only fired from the cast but possibly dropped down a mountain without skis during an avalanche.

  I focused on the scribbling, microphone-thrusting, video-taping throng who immediately surrounded me (Ivan’s cap hadn’t hidden enough hair which is still partially green from almost doing Starlight Express last winter months and partially chestnut from my mother’s side of the family which stays that way unless idiots like the one directing Starlight Express bring out the hair dye instead of wigs) and began hurling questions about the shooting. I bit back what I was really thinking, “You vultures! Leave me the hell alone! This is not a soap and this particular shooting won’t be airing starting Monday afternoon at two Eastern, one Central, as soon of the storyline involving Letitia and the guru is wrapped up" and tried to smile and answer inane questions.

  “Were you shot, too?” (Do I look like I was shot, you moron?) “No, thankfully, I was in the theatre house at the time.”

  “Were you having an affair with Colette Currie?” (Not unless Colette was a secret lesbian and since I’m not and I’m fairly sure she had a boyfriend, that ain’t flyin’, folks.) “Gentlemen, both Colette and I are straight. I know this sounds clichéd, but Colette and I really were just friends.”

  “When are you and Gregory Noble taking over again? Everyone’s sick of Letitia and the guru and Noble’s been off the soap since they sent him to Africa back in January.” (Say what! A woman was just shot to death and you’re asking whether two fictional characters are going to knock Letitia and the guru out of the episodes that start airing daily at two o'clock Eastern on your local channel. Does anyone in this crowd have a brain or a trace of empathy?)

  And then there was the truly tactless, albeit factual comment, “Abby, seems like you’re around a lot of criminals or murder. There was that whole business with the immigrants and the mob and the D.A.’s office last July and we heard you and Johnny were involved in a couple of deaths just a couple of months ago over in Prague.” (Sadly, that’s true, you idiot, although how you found out about what happened in the Czech Republic is a mystery. Then again, I’m pretty sure Angela my bigmouth ex-agent told every reporter in the Tri-State area along with every director and actor she knows. Which is one of the many reasons I fired her and am now repped by Ivan Ialovskaia. But really, it’s not like I’m asking to be discovering dead bodies twenty-four/seven even when I envision them.)

  I turned to Ivan for help—and got it. Ivan is only three inches taller than my five-foot-two. He’s nearly bald and he sports a moustache that looks like a Texas Ranger circa 1880. Yet, somehow his whole persona screams Russian spy, which makes him quite intimidating. Since I was feeling about as intimidating as a rabbit chewing on a carrot, I was very grateful he was with me. He raised his hand for quiet. He got that too. “This has been quite a horrific ordeal for Ms. Fouchet and we would ask that you respect her need to get some rest. She’ll be available to answer questions on the set of Endless Time. Later.”

  Gotta love Ivan. Managed to be totally non-specific especially about when and where Endless Time would be filming this week or next week with episodes featuring Vanessa; all the while remaining polite but firm. Not to mention that security had tightened dramatically around all TV shows and movies filming in Manhattan the last few years, so any reporter crossing the wrong guard would find himself on the ground with a large boot up his or her backside before facing very testy, gigantic bruisers preparing to pitch said interlopers over the nearest fence.

  Finally, the sea of flashing cameras parted and we were free. We jogged our way to the nearest subway entrance and boarded the Uptown One train just as one was about to close its doors. Since it was about two a.m. by this time on a school night, the train was fairly sparse which gave Ivan and me a chance to hash the details of the last hours.

  “So, Abby, I’ll ask you what the cops asked and the reporters, thankfully, did not. Any ideas about what Colette was talking about before she—died?”

  I’d already told him about the “clown” and “Ken” and “cinnamon” and “cold wind” murmurings. “No. Not a clue.” I choked back a sob. “But I am very determined to find out.”

  Ivan hugged me, then smiled. “So are you telling me that Vanessa Manilow, spy with the unknown initials, is about to make an appearance in Abby Fouchet’s life outside of the script?”

  It was not really a question. He already knows me too well even on a fairly short acquaintance. “Definitely. I get very angry when things happen that are just wrong. And I'm furious that my little vision didn't come earlier so I might have had a chance to stop what happened. Although it was very short and very non-specific so it wouldn't have made sense even if I'd had it a week ago. D
amn." I choked back tears.

  He was silent for a moment. Then, “Uh, trying to change the subject in an effort to get your mind off things you don’t need to dwell on, did you get the current scripts for upcoming episodes?”

  “Oh, yeah. First, thanks for the diversion. And second; ready for this? They’re going very, very retro. Apparently people are still talking about the disco episodes they did with Johnny in the coma and he and I got to dance during a dream sequence. But we’re jumping much further into the Twentieth century than the Seventies. Something to do with early films. And I mean early. Like the Nineteen-teens. I got the script yesterday for the first two. Takes place in Fort Lee and in the Palisades. On location. No one ever does Fort Lee on TV even though it’s really an amazing place with a ton of neat history, which we are taking advantage of.”

  “I like it. But are we talking coma time again for Johnny or for you?”

  I winced. “Oy! No! They promised. We get to be awake for our acting." Another disclaimer. A small one. Endless Time has been known to go overboard putting people in comas. Johnny’s character, Gregory Noble, has been in one at least once a year in the years he’s been on the show and as Vanessa I’ve been in one and I played that character for less than six months. "This is all supposed to be flashbacks to our characters great-grandparents and their buddies. Drifting back and forth from present day. The bad news is that half the early films done in Fort Lee were melodramas that called for at least one heroine to get tied to a railroad track before the Dudley Do-Right hero-type rides in for a rescue. So since Vanessa is now Miss Hot Agent with Initials, I’m sure you know-who will be the ly-ee tie-ee waiting for the choo-choo.” I smiled for the first time in hours. “Wouldn’t surprise me to have her run over by a train in the first episode, end up in a coma and then have those flashbacks.”

  “Well, you should get some great screen time before you’re in a bed with one of those weird nose things I've never seen in any patient in a hospital outside of TV." Ivan chuckled. “Are you worried? I mean, about the train if they do the melodrama bit."