“Tell her I said hi.”
“You’re quite the dreamer, Jack.”
Jimmy Stoma’s condo is on the nineteenth floor of an eyesore skyscraper at the southernmost tip of Silver Beach. Twenty minutes she keeps me waiting in the lobby, Jimmy’s widow, but truthfully I’m surprised she agreed to see me at all. From the briefness of the death notice, it would seem that the family doesn’t want much attention.
The door of 16-G is opened by a squat, bald, neckless man with two small platinum hoops in each earlobe. Straight from Bouncers-R-Us, this guy, down to the bomber jacket and the understated armpit bulge. Wordlessly he leads me through the hazily lit condo to the living room, where Mrs. Stomarti is standing before a wraparound bay window.
I have indeed seen her face before, on the cover of a couple tabloid-style celebrity magazines to which I subscribe for professional reasons. (I clip and file some of the juicier profile pieces in case the celebrity subject someday expires within our circulation area.)
“I’m Cleo,” says Mrs. Stomarti. “Jimmy’s wife.”
She is maybe twenty-two years old; twenty-three, tops. Medium tall, thin but not skinny, and alarmingly tan. The hair is bleached snow white and cut in a mock pageboy. The lips are done cherry red and the cheekbones are heavily shadowed, like a pair of matching bruises. She’s wearing a beige sleeveless shell and tight white slacks. Her toenails, also white, remind me of paint chips.
No wonder she quit calling herself Cynthia.
“I’m Jack Tagger,” I say. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I only wish the circumstances were different.” Implying I am aware of her blossoming fame, and would otherwise be delighted to interview her for the Arts & Music page.
We sit down; the widow on the end of a long cream-colored sofa, and me on a deacon’s bench. Wasting no time, I tell Cleo Rio how much I liked her hit single, “Me.”
She brightens. “You catch the video?”
“Who didn’t!”
“What’d you think—too much?”
“Did Jimmy like it?”
“Loved it,” Cleo says.
“I vote with Jimmy.” I uncap a felt-tip pen and open the notebook on my lap.
“You’re the first one to call,” Mrs. Stomarti says.
“I was a fan.”
A faint smile. “Next’ll be the trades, I suppose.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I know you’re trying to keep it low-key.”
“That’s what Jimmy wanted.”
“I promise not to take much of your time.”
The bald guy brings Cleo what looks like a screwdriver in a tall frosty glass. He doesn’t so much as glance in my direction, which is fine with me.
“Want somethin’?” Cleo asks.
I should mention her eyes, which are rimmed pink from either crying or lack of sleep. She’s wearing ice-blue contact lenses.
“A Coke? Beer?” asks Jimmy’s wife.
“No, thanks.”
To get the ball rolling, I start with the easy ones. How did you two first meet? A VH1 party. How long were you married? Not quite a year. Where was the ceremony? Sag Harbor. On a friend’s boat. Oh? Who was that? I forget the name. Some sax player Jimmy knew. A session guy.
Here I pause longer than necessary to write down her answer. The interval is meant to give Mrs. Stomarti a moment to prepare. I still dread this part of the job, intruding so bluntly upon the grieving. Yet I’ve found that many people don’t mind talking to a total stranger about their lost loved one. Maybe it’s easier than commiserating with family members, who know all there is to know about the deceased, good and bad. A visit from an obituary writer, however, presents a golden opportunity to start from scratch and remake a person as you wish to have them remembered. An obituary is the ultimate last word.
I drop my voice from casual to somber. “Mrs. Stomarti, tell me about the Bahamas trip.”
She sets her drink on a teak coffee table. “Jimmy loved it over there. We had a place down in Exuma.”
Glancing down, I notice the toes on both her feet are curling and uncurling. Either it’s some type of yoga routine, or Cleo Rio is nervous. I ask if they were on vacation when it happened.