Free Final Curtain: An Edna Ferber Mystery (Edna Ferber Mysteries) by Ed Ifkovic

aberrant behavior and seemed surprised to see me sitting there, though of course my presence in Maplewood was the reason we were all assembled in that lovely room. I suppose she read my obvious dislike of Evan, but she smiled at Evan’s blatant flattery and his dipping and swaying in her direction, the tall man’s calculated movements reaching his intended audience. Admittedly too good-looking for a mortal man, this pathetic Adonis doubtless assumed his easy birthright from childhood. He obviously never had to learn humility or suffer insecurity or doubt—the way the rest of us did. Thus I should have pitied him, but his sweeping attention to a fluttery Bea grated on my nerves. I’m not used to being witness or captive to kindergarten behavior.
    Bea was a presentable woman, an adjective I use with great care. In certain lights she would be attractive, the slightly plump Manhattan socialite with the well-tailored summer dress, the discreet ruby earrings and necklace, and the Vivian Leigh hairdo that made her look as though she were one step ahead of marauding Yankee troops approaching Atlanta. Signaling to the waiter for a second martini, she ignored the mumbled hiss from her teetotaler husband.
    Evan was thanking her for calling Cheryl Crawford. “I don’t know why I’m having trouble getting parts.”
    “Perhaps because you project an image of not needing one,” I offered.
    He squirmed. “Meaning?”
    “Directors, on Broadway and in Hollywood, tend to be fearful of unwarranted cockiness.”
    “I’m not cocky.” An edge to his voice.
    “I mean no offense. I’m just saying…”
    Bea broke in. “Edna, look at him. Handsome and smart, the matinee idol, a natural.”
    “A heartthrob, indeed.” My robotic voice suggested an epitaph.
    Bea hurled a sidelong glance my way, her eyes flashing anger, and she shook her head.
    George spoke up. “Young man, why did you leave Hollywood? I would have thought you’d be in demand out there.”
    “George, be nice.” From Bea.
    “I am. Bea, not every syllable from my mouth is ironic.”
    I smiled. “The other ones, I guess, just register disbelief.”
    Evan sat back, sated from the copious meal and his third martini. His eyes gleamed like shiny marbles. A sloppy grin covered his face. “I’m going back there. To Hollywood. I just thought I’d try my luck back on Broadway, where I started. Hollywood…I didn’t give it a chance.”
    “Maplewood is hardly Forty-second Street,” George noted.
    “Hey, it’s summer, and I happen to know people here.” He sat up and glanced around the room. He slurred his words. “I have reasons for coming here.” He narrowed his eyes. “Reasons.”
    “Who you do know here?” Bea asked.
    “Dakota Roberts,” he said slowly. “Not really a friend, but…yeah…I suppose a friend. You know, his mother’s one holier-than-thou preacher.”
    “How do you know him?” I asked.
    “Hollywood.” The word was stretched out, each syllable clipped.
    “You were arguing with Dak the other night at the inn.”
    That stopped him. “I know. We put on a show for you. I regret that, Miss Ferber. Entertainment for your dinner. He thought I was flirting with Annika, his girl. Silliest thing. A little too much to drink, him and me. It got…physical. But we’re buddies. From Hollywood days.”
    “How so?” From George.
    Evan suddenly looked uncomfortable, fiddling with the napkin, balling it up. “I bumped into him out there a few years ago. I was doing bit parts in some Universal movies, nothing big, and he was working scenery on a back lot. As it turned out, we boarded in the same rooming house. So he became a drinking buddy, sometimes. A few games of pool. He’s a wanderer, somehow ended up in L.A. We were two guys who didn’t know a lot of people, you know, bumping into…you know…” He clicked his tongue. “Unlikely friends, the two of us, but when you’re alone in a strange land…you know…Not my sort of buddy,