Above that hung a wildly exuberant oil in splashes of primary colors that Sam instantly identified as Theta Berenson’s work.
McCord walked up behind her and stood so close that she could smell traces of Irish Spring, the same soap she used in the shower. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Do you like all this stuff?”
“Very, very much.”
“What’s it supposed to be?”
Smiling, she turned her head. “Whatever you want it to be.”
Jason Solomon’s remark, as he strode into the living room, made her jump back in guilty surprise. “Am I interrupting anything?”
“Yes,” McCord said calmly, “a lesson in modern art. Detective Littleton is in raptures over your collection. Where can we talk?” he added abruptly, putting an end to social chitchat.
“Let’s go in the kitchen. Eric is fixing breakfast.” Solomon led the way past the fireplace and into a large, sunny, ultramodern kitchen of oak and stainless steel. Eric was standing at the counter, a pitcher of orange juice in one hand and a bottle of white wine in the other, pouring some of each liquid into a stemmed glass. A good-looking man in his early thirties, he looked up as they entered and gave them a friendly nod.
“Would you like something to eat?” Solomon offered, sitting down at the table.
“No, it’s a little too close to lunch,” McCord replied.
“Then how about something to drink—one of Eric’s specials?” Sam glanced at the bottle of wine and declined that offer herself. “No, it’s a little too close to breakfast for that.”
Satisfied that he’d done his duties as host, Solomon folded his arms on the table and looked at McCord. “What have you found out about Logan’s death?”
“Actually, we were hoping you could answer some questions for us that might put us on the right track. Right now, we’re just gathering background information, hoping that something someone says will point us in the right direction.”
“I’ll tell you anything I know.”
“How long have you known Leigh and Logan Manning?”
Before he could answer, Eric arrived at the table with a plate of fluffy scrambled eggs, a wedge of cantaloupe, a slice of toast, and a glass of spiked orange juice. “This is Eric Ingram,” Jason said. “Eric is a fabulous cook.”
“Ingram?” Sam repeated. “Are you the artist who did the portraits of Mr. Solomon in the living room?”
Eric smiled self-consciously and nodded.
“Eric doesn’t talk much, and never about himself,” Solomon explained cheerfully. “That’s why we get along so well—I do enough of that for both of us.”
Eric had already retreated to the cooking area, but McCord looked over his shoulder at him. “Don’t hesitate to chime in, Mr. Ingram, if anything you hear triggers some recollection. It’s my experience that people who talk less, frequently notice more.” To Solomon he said, “You were going to tell me how long you’ve known Leigh and Logan Manning.”
Solomon thought about that while he chewed a bite of scrambled egg. “Let me think. The first time I met them, they came to an off-Broadway play I’d written called Time and a Bottle. It was one of my early efforts, and although the critics said I showed great promise, the play never quite caught on with the public. I still wonder if—”
“How long ago was that?”
“Thirteen, no, maybe fourteen years ago.”
“Good. Let’s focus on the last few months. Did you know that Mrs. Manning thought she was being stalked?”
“Yes, absolutely. Leigh was very frightened. Logan was even more so, but he didn’t want her to know it.”
“What did she tell you about this stalker?”
“Leigh said he’d sent her some gifts, and he’d called her a couple of times. Logan and she tried to trace the second call, but it was made from a pay phone in Manhattan.”
“She may have known her stalker without realizing it. It’s possible he hung around the theater on some pretense, or made it a point to be waiting outside when she left. Other than her husband and the members of your cast and crew, have you seen Mrs. Manning with any other men? Don’t leave anyone out,” McCord added, “no matter how above reproach he may seem to you.”
McCord was hoping Valente’s name would come up, Sam knew, and she listened while Jason Solomon came up with a few meaningless names, but in her heart she still wasn’t convinced that Leigh Manning had knowingly collaborated in her husband’s murder. Sam had seen Leigh Manning in the hospital, she’d seen her at the cabin when her husband wasn’t there, and to Sam, she had exhibited every sign of a frantic, loving, terrified wife.
The day of Logan Manning’s funeral, Sam had scarcely taken her eyes off the new widow, and what she saw was a courageous woman struggling to act with dignity even though she was emotionally shattered and physically wrecked. Sam was willing to believe that Valente wanted her badly enough to get rid of her husband, but she couldn’t quite believe that Leigh Manning knew anything about Valente’s intent.
On the other hand, Sam reminded herself sternly, she wouldn’t have believed that Leigh Manning was having an affair with Valente in the first place, yet all the evidence clearly indicated that the actress had lied about her relationship with him and that she was trying to hide it from everyone. . . . But if Leigh Manning simply wanted to be free of her husband, why murder him? Sam wondered. Why not divorce him, instead? Spousal murder was normally motivated by rage or jealousy or revenge, yet as far as anyone knew, Leigh Manning had no reason to harbor any of those feelings toward her husband.
As absurd as Sam knew her attitude was, she could not accept that Logan Manning had been murdered by his wife or Valente simply because murdering him seemed expedient. They had to have had other reasons to commit such a heinous act.
Solomon had run out of names to mention, and McCord was taking another tack with his questions. “Would you describe the Mannings as a devoted, happily married couple?”
Solomon nodded. “Disgustingly devoted and revoltingly happy,” he declared with an effort at humor.
At that moment, Sam happened to glance at Eric and she saw his face tighten. “Mr. Ingram?” she interrupted. “Is that how it looked to you? Was Mr. Manning devoted to his wife?”
“Yes, Detective, that’s how it looked.” Sam thought his answer left some room for interpretation, but McCord wasn’t interested in Logan Manning, he was interested in his wife. “What about Leigh Manning?” he asked Eric. “Was she devoted to her husband?”
“Definitely.”
He turned back to Solomon. “I imagine Mrs. Manning has been under a lot of stress these last few weeks—with a stalker following her and a new play opening. Did you notice anything unusual in her behavior that would indicate she was under stress?”
“My God, yes! We all were stressed to the breaking point! You would be astounded by the effort involved in launching a new play. The creative issues are only a part of it. The financial ones are nightmares—the backers want assurances, they want returns on their investments, and no matter how well you do for them, they get squeamish when it’s time to ante up for the next play and you end up looking for new money all the time. I’m already doing that now—”
“So you don’t finance your plays with your own money?” McCord asked idly.
“Oh, yes. I dump piles of my money into every play, but I don’t shoulder the financial burden alone. Do you have any idea how much money actresses like Leigh Kendall and Jane Sebring get? Leigh’s agent made impossible demands, as usual, but Logan persuaded him to be more reasonable, thank God. Even so, before the backers can break even, Blind Spot will have to play to sellout audiences for a long time.”
McCord looked up at the ceiling, clearly trying to make some connection between what he was hearing and what he wanted to know. “Who are your backers in this play?” he asked absently.
“That’s confidential.”
His curiosity aroused by the other man’s evasiveness, McCord lowered his gaze and focused it
on the playwright, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “When can I have a list?”
Instead of being in a snit over McCord’s highhandedness, Solomon grinned and shrugged. “Will tomorrow be soon enough?”
McCord nodded. “Will there be any names on that list that I recognize?”
He was angling toward Valente again, Sam knew, and Jason Solomon’s answer made her tense expectantly. “You’ll definitely recognize one name.”
“Which one?”
“Logan Manning.”
“Logan Manning?” Sam repeated. “Isn’t that a little odd?”
“In what way?”
He was playing cat and mouse with her, and Sam didn’t like it. She made him pay for it by forcing him to prove her point. “You’re the show business expert. You tell me.”
“Well, on the surface it does seem to be a bit of a conflict of interest, I’ll grant you that.”
“Because?” Sam prompted him.
“Because, on the one hand, Logan was responsible for Leigh agreeing to take less money for appearing in the play. By doing that, there was more profit left for the backers.”