Lacey flushed. “She had a photo; I saw the cocaine in a photo.”
“They set him up,” I said. “You live in a world of doctored images; you know how easy it is to make a picture look like the truth. And how did you know the kilo in the bolt of cloth was even in Frenada’s shop? But it’s not the coke per se I care about. What I’m trying to understand is why they needed to shut him up. Was it something to do with the T–shirts? Why did he have a Mad Virgin T–shirt in his office?”
“It can’t be anything about the T–shirts,” she said. “That’s not a story at all. Here’s what happened. Lucy and I didn’t stay close, but we keep—kept in touch. He sent me that story that ran in the Herald–Star about him two years ago, how he was the model of the up–and–coming minority entrepreneur. Then when we decided to shoot Virgin Six here, of course it was a big story. Lucy saw it. He wrote and asked if I would get the studio to give him a contract for some of the Mad Virgin T–shirts, a Chicago commemorative or something. So I told him I’d talk to Teddy Trant, which I did, and Teddy gave me a sarcastic brush off. And I let it drop.”
“You were never a shuffler, Magdalena. You didn’t care about Lucy enough to stand up for him?” The priest looked at her over the rim of his teacup.
“We were in the middle of a difficult contract cycle. I know—I should have thought more of Lucy, but I’m thirty–seven; in another few years unless I’m really lucky I won’t be able to be a star. And anyway, Father Lou, I moved away more than twenty years ago.” She held out her hands, the gesture she often made to her old lover halfway through the Virgin movies.
“But he made some shirts on spec?” I said.
“I guess he must have. Suddenly, the day before I was flying out, Teddy called me and asked for Lucy’s number. He wanted to look at the factory or something.”
“Then at Murray’s party at the Golden Glow two weeks ago, why did you get so angry with Frenada?”
“Were you there?” she said. “Behind another potted palm or something? Teddy said he looked at Lucy’s stuff. He said it wasn’t up to Global standard. But Lucy claimed Teddy stole one of his shirts. I said that was nuts, we—the studio—manufacture zillions of them, why would Teddy steal one? Lucy threatened to make a scene right there, and I hate being humiliated in public that way. I had him thrown out. And then I felt terrible. I did, Father Lou, I really did. I called him and apologized and invited him up to my hotel for lunch. We talked and talked and he said one of the shirts he’d made really was missing. I couldn’t get him to let it drop, so I told him I’d mention it to Alex, but really I thought one of his workers must have stolen it; it’s the kind of thing people take.”
“Yes, that is possible,” Father Lou said. “What did you say to this woman Alex or to your boss?”
She knit her fingers. “I didn’t see how I could say anything to Teddy. He’d already assured me he didn’t have the shirt. He said something horrible about Lucy, anyway, and I had to remind him that I’m Mexican, too. But I told Alex and she said to stop fussing about it, if Lucy was missing a shirt she’d send him one. But of course that wasn’t the point.”
“What was so special about his shirts?” I asked. “The fabric? The picture?”
“Honestly, I don’t know,” she said, spreading her hands again. “I think Lucy was upset because Global didn’t give him the contract, and it distorted his judgment.”
“Where does Global make its spin–offs—shirts and dolls and whatnot?” I asked.
“I’ve never asked. All over, I suppose.”
“Third World countries? America?”
She shook her head impatiently. “I don’t know.”
“You collect the royalties, but you don’t ask for fear of what they’ll tell you?” I said.
“I’ve sat here long enough with you thinking I’m a cockroach in the sink.” She uncoiled her legs and sprang out of the chair. “I’m out of here.”
Father Lou reached the door ahead of her and barred her way. “You can leave in a minute, Magdalena. I’m glad you came tonight. I think you’ll sleep better, having told the truth, as I’m sure you’ve done.
“We’re having the funeral mass tomorrow,” he added, when she didn’t say anything. “I expect you to be there. It will be at eleven. Lucy left his sister’s children provided for—he had a life–insurance policy—but they could use another bit of cash to pay their school fees. And it would be a graceful gesture if you gave a scholarship to the school in his memory.”
Her face was stormy, but after staring at the priest for a long minute she muttered agreement. He let her go. A few minutes later we heard a motor roar into life. Her motorcycle. I’d have to ask young Emily what kind of bike Lacey Dowell rode around town. I was betting on a hog.