Who's Kitten Who?

by Cynthia Baxter

  The collection also included books about acting theory by such masters as Sanford Meisner, Uta Hagen, Konstantin Stanislavsky, and Stella Adler. Interspersed were books on computer programming, biology, and chemistry, including some textbooks I recognized from my own days as an undergraduate.

  I took one down from the shelf. The name Ian Norman was scrawled on the inside cover.

  “Caught me red-handed,” I quipped when Ian strode into the room, carrying a tray. “Sorry to be so nosy. I love books, and I can’t resist looking through every bookshelf I come across.”

  “Be my guest,” Ian replied, setting the tray down on the table. “As long as you don’t mind all the dust. Neither Kyle nor I are particularly committed to housekeeping.”

  “I figured these books belonged to Kyle, since they mostly seem to be about acting,” I observed. “But I noticed your signature inside this one.”

  “Somehow Kyle’s books and my books have gotten all mixed up together,” he explained. “I’m not even sure which ones are mine anymore, especially since books seem to find me, like stray cats and dogs. And some of these are quite old, going all the way back to my college days.”

  “Isn’t that where you and Kyle met?” I asked, returning the book to the place I’d found it.

  He looked surprised. “Yes. How did you know?”

  “I think Kyle mentioned it,” I said. “What about Simon Wainwright? Did you know him too?”

  “Yes,” he replied. “We’d drifted apart in recent years, but I knew him well back in college.” His voice suddenly sounded strained. “I still saw him from time to time, once Kyle and I began sharing this house.”

  “Did you take acting classes at Brookside too?”

  For some reason, Ian seemed to react strangely to this question as well. “Oh, yes,” he answered. “That’s how Kyle and Simon and I met: studying acting as undergraduate students at Brookside University. We were in so many productions together—Glengarry Glen Ross, Our Town, The Iceman Cometh, The Skin of Our Teeth…In fact, we used to joke about being a modern-day version of the Three Musketeers. We even got really drunk one night and dubbed ourselves the ‘Three Musk-Actors.’” Smiling sheepishly, he added, “I guess that’s only funny after you’ve been doing tequila shots.”

  Suddenly, the muscles in his face hardened. So did his voice as he concluded, “But all that was a long time ago. I eventually decided that the cutthroat world of theater wasn’t for me. I’m involved in computers now. Not only is that a much more practical way of making a living; the nature of my job also enables me to work from home.”

  The topic of acting seems to be a bit of a sore point, I observed, filing that factoid away. Was it possible that Ian had been jealous of Kyle’s continued interest in the theater—maybe even because of his roommate’s strong attachment to Simon? I couldn’t help feeling that I’d stepped into a plot as intriguing as a long-running soap opera.

  And Ian struck me as one of the more mysterious members of the soap opera’s cast. I was frustrated by my inability to put my finger on exactly how he fit into Simon’s world, and the rest of our conversation over tea yielded little more information. So I decided to check in with the one person who was mostly likely to know.

  Even though it went against my better judgment.

  “Falcone,” the Chief of Homicide barked when he picked up the phone. Five seconds of interacting with me and he already sounded impatient.

  Frankly, I was surprised he’d even taken my call. When I’d been put on hold while the officer who answered checked to see if he was “available,” I expected to get the brush-off.

  But now that I had his attention, I wasn’t about to let go of the opportunity to find out whatever I could. No matter how minimal it might turn out to be.

  “Thanks for taking my call,” I began, figuring a little buttering up never hurt.

  “You got five minutes, Dr. Popper,” he replied, as usual not bothering to pronounce the r at the end of my name.

  Somewhere out there, I mused, there’s a tremendous warehouse filled with all the Rs that people living in the New York area have discarded.

  “That means five,” he repeated, “not six or seven or ten. And the clock’s already started ticking.”

  Great, I thought. I’m trying to solve a murder, and instead I’m suddenly a contestant on a game show.

  I dove right in. “You know how upset my dear friend Betty Vandervoort is about Simon Wainwright’s murder,” I began. “And naturally she finds the possibility that one of the Port Players may have killed him terrifying. You also know that, as a result, I’ve taken a real interest in the investigation.”

  “You seem to do that quite often,” he commented.

  I let that one pass.

  “I’ve taken the liberty of speaking with a few people in the theater company,” I continued. “People who strike me as suspects. I’m sure most of them have also been a focus of your investigation.”

  “We’re questioning a number of individuals who are of interest,” he retorted, sounding as if he was reading the stock phrase off an index card.

  “I wanted to know what you think about Kyle Carlson and his roommate, Ian Norman.”

  “Dr. Popper, surely you don’t think I’m going to discuss this case with you.”

  Actually, I thought, I was hoping you’d do exactly that.

  Aloud, I said, “What about Kyle? Do you consider him a suspect?”

  “Kyle Carlson has an airtight alibi,” he replied, sounding almost smug. “His roommate, Ian Norman, swears Kyle was at home with him from Friday after work until Saturday morning, when they both heard the news from somebody in the theater company.”

  “But how do you know Ian’s not just covering for Kyle?” I persisted. “After all, the two of them are obviously close friends. Why wouldn’t they lie for each other?”

  “Look,” Falcone huffed, “we had both of them come into the station. Separately, of course. And they managed to convince us they were both telling the truth. They were consistent on even the smallest details.”

  “You talked to Ian Norman yourself?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you didn’t sense anything…strange about him?”

  “Aside from his accent?” From the way Falcone sounded, I could tell there was a big smirk on his face. As if he was one to talk. “He seemed perfectly believable. By the way, according to my watch, you got about forty-five seconds left.”

  “How about Lacey Croft?” I tried, talking faster than usual. “Did you know she was Simon’s jilted girlfriend?”

  “We’re looking closely at the female suspects,” Falcone admitted begrudgingly, “based on what the cleaning lady told us about the argument she overheard.” Sourly, he added, “Speaking of Sunshine McGee, Forrester Sloan told me you may have had a conversation with her.”

  I ignored that too. Share and share alike, as far as I was concerned. And he wasn’t exactly doing a great job of sharing.

  “And Aziza Zorn? What about her?” Falcone knew at least as well as I did that the victim’s love interest is almost always a suspect. Especially given Sunny’s report about Simon’s argument with a member of the female gender.

  “We’re looking at her as well. Sorry, Dr. Popper, but your time is up.”

  “Wait!” I cried. “What about Sheldon and Gloria Stone? What about other people in the theater company, like Derek Albright and Jill D’Angelo and—and—”

  “Look,” he interrupted petulantly. “When are you gonna learn to leave the police work to the police, Docta Poppa?”

  Neva, I thought. But I kept my response to myself.

  As I climbed back into my van after making my afternoon calls, I glanced at my watch and saw that I still had some time before I was scheduled to go to Aziza’s house. It seemed like the perfect time to focus on two individuals whose relationship with Simon I hadn’t yet had time to explore. While love was often a motive for murder, money was probably an even more likely factor. I�
�d been curious about Sheldon and Gloria Stone since I’d met them at Simon’s wake. And it wasn’t the extreme difference in their personalities that had intrigued me. It was the fact that they were about to become very important people in Simon’s life.

  And he, in turn, was about to become important to them—especially their pocketbooks. The two producers were on the verge of taking a huge risk by putting She’s Flying High on Broadway. Of course, that would have been the case with any theatrical production. But I wondered if in this instance there was some backstory, some goings-on that weren’t part of the obvious plot, that could possibly have erupted into murder.

  My local public library seemed like a good place to start. Since I didn’t know much about the theater world, I started by strolling through the periodicals section, perusing the slick, colorful magazines that lined the shelves to see if anything caught my eye.

  I stopped when I spied a magazine called Theater World. I picked up the current issue, which was right on top, and saw that the previous five or six issues were stacked underneath. Whose faces did I find smiling out at me from the cover of the November issue but Sheldon and Gloria Stone’s.

  NEW YORK’S HOTTEST PRODUCERS BRING THE HOTTEST SUMMER TO BROADWAY, the cover copy read.

  I leafed through the glossy magazine until I found the article. It was mostly about the play, which had been written fifty years ago but never produced. Gloria had reportedly discovered it at an antiques shop, retrieving the dust-covered manuscript from the bottom drawer of a rolltop desk where its author, Arthur Nimsley, had apparently stashed it years and perhaps even decades earlier.

  The second paragraph quoted her as saying, “A chill ran through me as I stood in that dark, musty little store. I only had to read the first few pages to realize I’d stumbled upon a surefire hit. As I read the opening monologue, in my head I could hear Chucky Winthrop saying the words. I could see how the entire production should be staged. I knew then and there that we had to make it into a musical. Maybe Mr. Nimsley hadn’t realized it, but that’s what he’d written.”

  I read on, soon finding a comment by some hotshot producer who was apparently a competitor but still had the greatest respect for her. “Glo has a real instinct for what works and what doesn’t,” he was quoted as saying. “And with the minimum cost of producing a Broadway musical somewhere around $10 million, being able to pick a hit has never been more important. Understandably, backers are only interested in investing in shows whose producers have a strong track record. That’s something the Stones can offer.”

  I continued looking through the rows of magazines until I spotted another likely candidate. Sure enough, Behind the Footlights had done a piece on the Stones in its January issue. When I flipped through the magazine, I found that facing the article was a full-page photograph of Sheldon and Gloria, standing back to back. She has the nose, while he’s the financial wizard, the caption read.

  I read through the first few paragraphs and learned that Sheldon and Gloria Stone did, indeed, play different roles, each complementing the other’s talents. According to the article, Sheldon was a master at raising the tremendous pot of money required to stage a production on Broadway. But it was Gloria who was the real genius when it came to picking hits.

  Gloria Stone has yet to make a mistake, the article claimed. The consensus among her peers is that she was born with a natural instinct that very few people in the business are lucky enough to possess.

  Instinct. There was that word again. The people who knew about these things agreed that Gloria Stone practically had a sixth sense about the theater.

  As I tucked the magazines under my arm so I could photocopy the relevant pages, I wondered if these two articles were simply a case of theater people being kind to other theater people. After all, both were clearly magazines read only by insiders who lived and breathed the industry. But when I expanded my search to the thick red volumes of the New York Times index, I found an article from the Sunday Arts & Leisure section that had run the year before. I tracked down the correct microfiche reel, threaded it into the machine, and began to read.

  BROADWAY PRODUCERS ATTRIBUTE

  SUCCESS TO “INSTINCT”

  While musical theater seems as much a part of the American landscape as rodeos and state fairs, the art form actually dates back less than 150 years. In 1866, William Wheatley, the manager of a 3,200-seat auditorium in downtown Manhattan called Niblo’s Garden, was worried about filling his tremendous theater. Fearful that the play he was producing would never bring in the crowds, he came up with the idea of adding songs, dance numbers, and lavish sets to the mediocre dialogue. The result was the world’s first musical, The Black Crook. The five-and-a-half-hour production instantly became a huge hit, running for over a year and bringing in over a million dollars.

  Mr. Wheatley was probably not aware that he was setting a precedent. Yet over the past century and a half, the magic of the Great White Way has been kept alive by gifted individuals with his same sensibility, Broadway producers who possess the innate ability to recognize a potential hit and then pour their blood, sweat, and tears into bringing it to the stage. David Merrick, who produced such Broadway phenomena as Gypsy, Oliver!, 42nd Street, and Hello, Dolly. Joseph Papp, who produced Hair, The Pirates of Penzance, and A Chorus Line, in addition to creating the New York Shakespeare Festival. Hal Prince, the genius who gave us West Side Story, Fiddler on the Roof, Cabaret, and A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum.

  The latest names on that impressive list are theatrical impresarios Sheldon and Gloria Stone. This duo of dynamos has been waving its magic wand over Broadway for nearly three decades, lighting up the Great White Way with one record-setting hit after another. From Red Riding Hood to Sad-Faced Clowns to Elizabeth the Queen, the Stones have set a new standard. The couple has also made stars like Chucky Winthrop and Della Dormand household names, at least in households whose members enjoy this all-American form of entertainment.

  Given their history, it’s hardly surprising that the Stones have done it again, this time with Strange Bedfellows, which opened at the Gower Champion Theater…

  I skimmed the rest of the article, finding it packed with accolades. Then I checked more thick red volumes of the Times index. During their three decades in the Broadway biz, one article after another had appeared in the Times’s Arts & Leisure section, raving about the plays and attributing their success to the Stones’ genius.

  The last article I read on the microfiche screen caught my interest for an entirely different reason. It was entitled, WEEKENDS IN THE BROMPTONS RELIEVE THE STRESS OF SHOW BIZ. This article, which turned up in the Times’s Real Estate section, was about the Stones’ second home, which was located in the chic and ridiculously expensive village of East Brompton on the east end of Long Island’s South Shore.

  But it wasn’t the detailed description of the stainless steel Sub-Zero freezer in the four-hundred-square-foot kitchen or the three different living rooms overlooking the beach—or even the collection of Tony Awards crammed onto the mantel—that intrigued me. It was the simple fact that the famous impresarios spent significant amounts of time on my home turf of Long Island.

  That meant the Stones and their bull terrier were neighbors. And as far as I was concerned, it was definitely time to act neighborly.

  After I finished at the library, I saw there was still time before my appointment with Aziza to check on my animals. Betty had been too busy to stop in at the cottage during the day, since she’d had a long list of prewedding errands to run, so I was anxious to see how Max and Lou and Cat and the rest were coping with their uninvited guest.

  I was relieved that Max and Lou met met at the front door, as usual. And Prometheus started squawking some incomprehensible greeting, a mishmash of his favorite expressions. Within seconds, Tinkerbell came running in from the bedroom, where she’d undoubtedly been lounging in her favorite location: my pillow. Leilani looked as contented as usual, draped across a large twig in her tank.


  Only Cat wasn’t in sight. As I glanced at her preferred spot—the middle cushion of the couch—I saw why.

  It was occupied by Mitzi.

  “Hi, guys,” I said, but without my usual enthusiasm. I couldn’t explain it, but I had a funny feeling something was wrong beyond Mitzi ousting the queen of the castle, no doubt exiling her to the rug in front of the refrigerator.

  My feeling of doom was confirmed when Max failed to grab his pink plastic poodle in the hopes of engaging his favorite playmate in a rousing game of Slimytoy. After all, that’s generally the first thing he does when I come home. Instead, he just looked at me expectantly, his sturdy little body jerking every few seconds as if he was more agitated than usual. For a terrier, that’s saying a lot.

  “What’s the matter, Maxie-Max?” I cooed, crouching down and scratching him behind the ears. “Don’t you want to play Slimytoy? Where’s the poodle? Go get the poodle, Max!”

  Instead of bounding off to find his beloved toy, he let out a sharp little bark.

  “Max, where’s the poodle?” I asked uneasily.

  I was afraid I already knew the answer. A feeling in the pit of my stomach told me that some terrible fate had befallen his favorite toy. And I was pretty sure I knew who was behind it.

  My eyes automatically drifted to the ball of white fluff nestled on the couch. Mitzi was watching us both with what I was certain was a look of defiance.

  “Max, did Mitzi steal your poodle and hide it?” I demanded.

  I knew my Westie couldn’t understand me. At least not the words I was saying. But something about the way he barked halfheartedly told me he knew exactly what I was talking about.

  I spent the next ten minutes searching everywhere for that poodle. Max padded after me hopefully, following me from room to room and sticking his nose under the bed and behind the couch right along with me as if he was trying to be helpful. Even Lou joined in the search. Of course, he was even less help than Max, since he had no idea what this new game was all about.