Read Online Nothing but Gossip by Marne Davis Kellogg - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Marne Davis Kellogg
Tags: Mystery
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searching for bigger game than Wade Gilhooly.
Mrs. Van Buren was ecstatic to recover her sapphires, which had been lifted from her neck in a suite at the Grand Hotel during an evening rendezvous, a little piece of action torn off furtively at the Arthritis Foundation annual benefit. To complicate the matter further, it was the foundation honoree, the Man of the Year, she had met in the suite, and since time was limited, he’d had to return to the ballroom before the house detective arrived, which kept his skirts nicely clean. In the meantime, Mrs. Van Buren sent a message to her husband that she had suffered a sick spell and was waiting for him at the front door, where he found her, the million-dollarsapphire necklace ostensibly safely snuggled beneath her velvet scarf and fur coat.
I had known Nell Van Buren all my life; she was only a few years older than I and was notorious for messing around on her husband. There are many things I’m old-fashioned about and fidelity is one of them. God knows, I’ve had more than my share of married lovers, but did I trust them? Are you kidding? Not a chance. They were cheaters. I suppose that’s why I’ve always taken marriage so seriously: I figure a promise is a promise and playing around on your partner is simply not a go. Otherwise, who can you trust? That’s the way it works on the police force anyhow, and that’s good enough for me.
Her large check was safe in my pocket, my skill, silence, and discretion paid for in full, as I turned out of her tree-lined driveway across the street from the Roundup Country Club. I decided to call Richard and see what he was up to. See if he still loved me.
“He’s over in the theater,” his secretary told me. “They’ve got a Così rehearsal until noon. Do you want me to transfer you?”
I loved going to opera rehearsals. So much happened, so much motion and talking and music. Lighting people stood right in front of the tenor while he sang and made sure the spots hit him just right while the wardrobe mistress tugged on the back of his uniform jacket to make sure it didn’t bunch up during that particular aria where he’d have to wave his arms around, and in the background the director moved the rest of the cast here and there and then descended into the front of the house to examine his work like a painter, and then motioned to the movement trainer that the ladies should be doing little dips and twirls with their fans, “Like this,” not big swooping ones, “Like this,”and all the cast members who weren’t singing would laugh at his exaggerated antics, and then he called out to the stage manager, who was having a conversation in a normal voice with his assistant about the lighting cues, that Yes, that was just right, and all the while the orchestra was booming along at full pitch. The incredible thing to me was that everyone always seemed to be on the same page, because at some point during all this turmoil, the conductor would give his baton a little ding on his music stand and all would come to a complete and silent halt and he would say quietly, “Okay, fine. Let’s try that again from the …” and I never could figure out what he said at that point but everyone else could and always went right to the perfect spot. Sometimes it even seemed they started right in the middle of a note. And they kept on like this for hours every day, for weeks, when finally the music, the voices, the costumes, the lights, and the action all melded together into an opulent spectacle. To me it is miraculous.
“No, that’s okay. Just tell him I’ll drop in later and see if he can grab a quick lunch.”
I decided to pay a visit to the crime scene.
NINE
A squad car blocked the brick gateway that marked the entrance to the Gilhooly residence across the road from the tenth green. Two patrolmen—one younger, one older—leaned against the black-and-white in the warm late-morning sunshine sipping coffee and talking, no doubt about the
Mrs. Van Buren was ecstatic to recover her sapphires, which had been lifted from her neck in a suite at the Grand Hotel during an evening rendezvous, a little piece of action torn off furtively at the Arthritis Foundation annual benefit. To complicate the matter further, it was the foundation honoree, the Man of the Year, she had met in the suite, and since time was limited, he’d had to return to the ballroom before the house detective arrived, which kept his skirts nicely clean. In the meantime, Mrs. Van Buren sent a message to her husband that she had suffered a sick spell and was waiting for him at the front door, where he found her, the million-dollarsapphire necklace ostensibly safely snuggled beneath her velvet scarf and fur coat.
I had known Nell Van Buren all my life; she was only a few years older than I and was notorious for messing around on her husband. There are many things I’m old-fashioned about and fidelity is one of them. God knows, I’ve had more than my share of married lovers, but did I trust them? Are you kidding? Not a chance. They were cheaters. I suppose that’s why I’ve always taken marriage so seriously: I figure a promise is a promise and playing around on your partner is simply not a go. Otherwise, who can you trust? That’s the way it works on the police force anyhow, and that’s good enough for me.
Her large check was safe in my pocket, my skill, silence, and discretion paid for in full, as I turned out of her tree-lined driveway across the street from the Roundup Country Club. I decided to call Richard and see what he was up to. See if he still loved me.
“He’s over in the theater,” his secretary told me. “They’ve got a Così rehearsal until noon. Do you want me to transfer you?”
I loved going to opera rehearsals. So much happened, so much motion and talking and music. Lighting people stood right in front of the tenor while he sang and made sure the spots hit him just right while the wardrobe mistress tugged on the back of his uniform jacket to make sure it didn’t bunch up during that particular aria where he’d have to wave his arms around, and in the background the director moved the rest of the cast here and there and then descended into the front of the house to examine his work like a painter, and then motioned to the movement trainer that the ladies should be doing little dips and twirls with their fans, “Like this,” not big swooping ones, “Like this,”and all the cast members who weren’t singing would laugh at his exaggerated antics, and then he called out to the stage manager, who was having a conversation in a normal voice with his assistant about the lighting cues, that Yes, that was just right, and all the while the orchestra was booming along at full pitch. The incredible thing to me was that everyone always seemed to be on the same page, because at some point during all this turmoil, the conductor would give his baton a little ding on his music stand and all would come to a complete and silent halt and he would say quietly, “Okay, fine. Let’s try that again from the …” and I never could figure out what he said at that point but everyone else could and always went right to the perfect spot. Sometimes it even seemed they started right in the middle of a note. And they kept on like this for hours every day, for weeks, when finally the music, the voices, the costumes, the lights, and the action all melded together into an opulent spectacle. To me it is miraculous.
“No, that’s okay. Just tell him I’ll drop in later and see if he can grab a quick lunch.”
I decided to pay a visit to the crime scene.
NINE
A squad car blocked the brick gateway that marked the entrance to the Gilhooly residence across the road from the tenth green. Two patrolmen—one younger, one older—leaned against the black-and-white in the warm late-morning sunshine sipping coffee and talking, no doubt about the
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