Free Speak Now by Margaret Dumas Page B

anything else?” His voice held the hope that there wasn’t.
    “Nothing. Thank you.” I hung up and stared vacantly at the phone. Apparently I was no good at this sort of thing. Instead of learning anything useful, now I just had more questions. Was the missing security chief sitting in a bar somewhere nursing a whiskey and a grudge over having been fired because a murder was committed on his watch? Or was he relaxing on a South American beach, congratulating himself on having pulled off the perfect crime?
    Damned if I knew. And damned if I knew how to find out. I said “oh, hell” out loud, downed some coffee, and picked up the play. I was better off sticking to what I knew.
    ***
    “It’s brilliant!” I met Simon in the hotel lobby Friday afternoon practically gushing with enthusiasm.
    “This?” He looked down at his shirt. “It’s just a Kenneth Cole I’ve had for ages, but—” he saw the look on my face and realized I hadn’t complimented his wardrobe. “Oh, the play,” he recovered smoothly. “Of course it is. I chose it.”
    “When do I get to meet the writer? Have you heard back from her?” I peppered him with questions as he dragged me outside to where Eileen was waiting behind the wheel of her gray Volvo.
    “Hello to you, too,” she said, interrupting me as I continued to harangue Simon for details.
    “Have you read it?” I demanded.
    “I don’t read them, I just budget them.” She turned out of the parking lot. “I’m not allowed to fall in love with the material, remember?”
    “That’s our clear-eyed Eileen,” Simon said from the back seat. “Guiding us to financial security.”
    Eileen gave Simon a squinty look in the rearview mirror.
    “Eileen,” I told her, “you just have to read it. It’s so good. Really, it’s funny, and true, and there are wonderful characters, and you’ll just—”
    “I’ll just wait for opening night,” she assured me. “If I don’t fall in love with it, I’ll have an easier time turning you two down when you come asking for enough money to build a medieval fortress or a replica of the Mayflower or something equally extravagant.”
    “Not this time, darling,” Simon said with satisfaction. “A simple, one-set design. Nothing extravagant about it. I took your admonishment to heart, you know.”
    “What admonishment?” I asked. “What have I missed in the last year? And when have we ever had to worry about budget?”
    “Later, darling,” Simon answered. “First I want you to tell me more about what a fabulous play I picked. Don’t you just love the title? All About Me .” He sighed with content.
    “If Neil Simon had grown up a girl in suburbia in the late fifties instead of a guy in Brighton Beach in the forties, this is the play he would have written,” I announced. “And I intend to make sure at least one reviewer says exactly that.”
    Simon beamed. “You do like it.”
    ***
    Eileen took us to the Richmond district. There are hundreds of good restaurants serving every conceivable variation of Asian cuisine along Geary and Clement streets in the Richmond, and we usually relied on parking karma to determine which one we’d choose. I must have done something good in a previous life, because Eileen found a space across the street from Ton Kiang.
    It wasn’t until she stepped out of the car that I realized Eileen was wearing a killer outfit—a snug black skirt that hit just above the knees topped with a form-fitting black jacket that left a dramatic V opening at the neck. “Look at you!” I said. “Where’s the fashion shoot?”
    “Oh, this?” Eileen looked down at herself. “It’s just a simple suit.” She put quarters in the meter while I exchanged a look with Simon.
    “Elegantly simple, tastefully simple, stunningly simple,” I said.
    “Sexily simple.” Simon nodded his approval.
    “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve always worn suits to work.” Eileen looked rather desperately for a break in the traffic so we could