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“All right. I’ll take you to the office.”
“I’ll follow up with you,” she said to Roundtree. “Then Preston. I want to know when the others arrive on the premises.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Preston said again, then scurried off.
“Peabody, why don’t you go after Preston, make sure everybody goes where they’re supposed to go. And to save some time, contact Nadine yourself. Get her whereabouts and so on.”
“Yes, sir.”
“This way.” Connie, in sensible flats and casual trousers, led the way.
“Why are you here today?” Eve asked her as they exited the soundstage.
“Everyone’s on edge, upset, as is to be expected. I’m useful. The cast and crew can talk to me. I make a good wailing wall.”
“And you can keep your husband from imploding.”
Connie sighed, negotiated a turn. “Yesterday was grueling. In our business we’re used to the microscope of the media. But yesterday, even with buffers in place, was grueling. I don’t know how many contacts I fielded, or avoided, or passed on to Valerie. Not just reporters, bloggers, entertainment site hosts, but from vid people—actors, directors, producers, crew—who either knew K.T. or just wanted to know what was going on.”
She unlocked a door, stepped into a roomy office with a huge, deep sofa, a trio of generous club chairs, a shiny galley kitchen, a private bath.
“I want coffee. Would you like coffee? I’ve had too much already, but, well, it’s too early to start drinking, isn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t mind coffee. Black.”
“Mason feels responsible,” Connie began as she programmed coffee. “He won’t admit it, but I know him. We hosted the party, she died there. We’ve been annoyed and impatient with her, and he regretted casting her in this project. We both knew she was difficult, but she handled herself so well initially.”
Connie shook her head, passed a hand over the hair she’d pulled back in a casual tail. “She was so enthusiastic, so cooperative—at first. But in the last two or three months, it’s been a series of arguments, demands, frustrations, delays.”
“Makes it tough to work. Tough for Roundtree to keep it all going.”
“It does—did. He’s not one to suppress his feelings or thoughts—as I’m sure you’ve observed. So he made it very clear how he viewed her behavior. He swore he’d never work with her again. And now, of course, he won’t. And he feels responsible.”
“He’s not, unless he’s the one who drowned her.”
“He couldn’t.” Graceful, contained, Connie moved to the sofa, set both cups on the table that fronted it. She sat, folded her hands. “I want you to listen to me. He rants, yells, stomps, and snarls. He’d have blackballed her if he could—and that’s not out of the realm of possibility. But he’d never do physical harm.”
Eve took a seat. “How about you?”
“Yes, I’m capable. I’ve thought about this. I think most of us are capable of killing under the right—or wrong—circumstances. I would be. I think I would be. I know I could happily have slugged her, then done a victory dance. I was that angry with her on the night of the party. I can only tell you I didn’t. I want you to find out who did, but I don’t want it to be anyone I care about. It’s hard to reconcile that.”
“Tell me about Asner. The PI.”
“You know about Marlo and Matthew.”
“And apparently so do you.”
“She confided in me yesterday. She told me everything—that they’d fallen in love, were sharing a place in SoHo, that K.T. found out, hired a detective. She told me about the recording. As I said, I’m a good wailing wall. It has to be the same detective who’s been killed. You wouldn’t be here asking questions otherwise. But I don’t understand it.”
“He had the original recording, and from what we’ve gathered, intended to sell it to an interested party.”
“The media.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Who else? Marlo or Matthew?” Obviously exasperated, Connie threw up her hands. “I hope to God they have more sense than that, or that I talked some of that sense into them yesterday. Who cares?” She flicked the wrist of one lifted hand. “Yes, yes, the media would salivate, the blogs will bloat. The video would garner millions of hits. Is it unfair—certainly. Is it a terrible invasion of their private lives—absolutely. If you want fair and privacy, find another line of work.”
“That’s pragmatic?”
