Offed Stage Left

by Joanne Sydney Lessner

  “What’s causing the smell?”

  “Somebody sewed shrimp into the curtain. And if I had to guess, other places in the house as well. The smell is pretty pervasive.”

  Fried’s lip curled into a smile. “That would do it, I suppose.”

  “Now I get to ask you a question,” Isobel said. “Who told you to cover Sousacal, and why do you have tickets all week?”

  His jaw twitched. “That’s two questions. And what makes you think I have tickets all week?”

  Isobel cocked her head. “Seems to me that’s a new question. If I answer, will you answer both of mine?”

  Fried paused. “Fine.”

  “The box office told me.”

  “Why were you asking about me?”

  “Uh uh uh,” Isobel said in a singsong voice. “That’s another question.”

  Fried regarded her. “Look. This is a little ridiculous, don’t you think?”

  Isobel nodded vigorously. “I couldn’t agree more. What do you say we lay our cards on the table? I’ve already told you something you didn’t know, so it’s your turn.”

  Fried beckoned to the waitress.

  “I’ll have a Bushmills, neat.”

  “That’s my whiskey of choice too,” Isobel remarked as the waitress scurried away to fill the order. “You see? We were meant to be friends.”

  Fried folded a cocktail napkin neatly in half. “Why are you so interested in this?”

  “You pretty much accused me in print of being out for blood to get Arden’s part,” Isobel said. “Some people will take that very seriously. I have a vested interest in figuring out what happened in order to protect my reputation, not to mention my life.”

  “Fair point.”

  The waitress brought Fried’s whiskey, and he signed it to his room. He knocked back a healthy gulp, then set the glass down.

  “I got a call from your costume designer, Thomas Falk. He told me a few things that interested me. How much do you know about how Livingston Stage is funded?”

  “Nothing at all,” Isobel said, trying to hide her surprise.

  “It’s partially funded by the state,” Fried said. “For years, educational outreach was an important component of their business model. But that ended five years ago, when management claimed the theater was hemorrhaging money and couldn’t keep the program operational. The state rolled back the funding gradually, and then two years ago, it dried up completely.”

  “So they’re hurting for money?” Isobel asked.

  “That’s what’s odd,” Fried said. “The theater’s bottom line didn’t take much of a hit, and Thomas started speculating that Felicity Hamilton had been diverting the state’s money all along.”

  “Embezzling?”

  Fried took a more measured sip of his whiskey. “That’s what Thomas thinks. He claims there’s evidence of unnecessary expenses like meals and hotels—mostly on visits to New York for auditions. And he hinted there might be something else going on, but he wouldn’t get specific.”

  “Why haven’t you put all that in your column?”

  “That alone would not interest my readers. But when he told me Felicity Hamilton was dumping money from one or more anonymous donors into a new musical that was embarrassingly awful—and penned by her unknown, unproven nephew—I thought there might be something in it.”

  “Why buy tickets for the whole week? Why not see it once, write about it, and leave?”

  Fried’s face clouded. “Thomas called me the day before you opened and said there was a series of incidents that would amuse me. But frankly, there’s nothing amusing about an actress being murdered. That’s why it’s not relevant. Even I have my limits.”

  Isobel nodded. “He was talking about the stuff that happened before Arden died.”

  “What stuff?”

  “During our ten-out-of-twelve, somebody untied the masking backstage and it fell. It happened to fall on Arden, but I don’t think it was necessarily intended for her.” Isobel held up her fingers and counted off. “Then somebody put a laxative in the coffee, and we had to end our tech early because everyone had the runs.”

  Fried’s face flooded with gleeful approval. “That is positively devilish.”

  “But wait, there’s more,” Isobel said. “Somebody snuck into the theater later that night and put random cuts in all the orchestra parts, which rendered our dress rehearsal useless from a musical point of view. I think that’s the stuff Thomas wanted you to write about.”

  “But how would I have found out about that? He would have had to tell me, and he didn’t.”

  “That’s a good question,” Isobel acknowledged. “Maybe he was waiting to tell you after you witnessed whatever happened opening night, but Arden’s death wasn’t what he was expecting.”

  Fried downed the rest of his whiskey. “Going back to your initial question about why I’m here, I have a theater with inklings of fiscal wrongdoing pumping money into a musical of dubious quality by the artistic director’s nephew, and a staff member who seems to know—in advance—that misadventures will befall the production.” He let out a snide chuckle. “Trust me, that’s a lot more interesting than the string of revivals opening on Broadway this season.”

  “And I just gave you tomorrow’s column. The shrimp. You’re welcome.”

  Rather than offer his thanks, Fried looked perplexed. “I haven’t heard from Thomas since he called to tell me Arden was murdered.”

  Isobel sat back. “I can tell you how she was murdered, and I can tell you why Thomas hasn’t told you. But you have to promise me something in return.”

  “What’s that?”

  “If you find out where the money is coming from for Sousacal, will you tell me?”

  Fried looked into his empty glass. Then he met her eyes and nodded. “Yes, I will. Now tell me why I haven’t heard from Thomas.”

  “If he told you Arden was murdered, then he probably told you she died of acute nicotine poisoning. This next bit hasn’t been confirmed yet, but I’m willing to bet my brand-new Equity card that an exposed wire on her bustle was treated with the stuff. When Chris pulled her onto his lap during ‘The Washington Post,’ it stabbed her and injected the poison into her bloodstream.”

  Fried took a moment to collect himself. “Well. That would explain why I haven’t heard from Thomas. A poisoned costume piece? He must be in police custody.”

  Isobel set her mouth in a grim line. “That’s not why he hasn’t called you.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  “I DON’T KNOW WHO I feel sorriest for,” Isobel said to Sunil. “You, Hugh, or myself.”

  “Oh, Lord.” Delphi rolled her eyes. “It isn’t always about you, honey!”

  “I know Jethro was heinous to Sunil, and poor Hugh has to coach him, but if he goes on as Sousa, I’ll have to kiss him, for God’s sake,” Isobel protested.

  “Maybe not,” Delphi reminded her. “We still don’t know if there’s going to be a show tonight.”

  Sunil flopped onto the living room sofa. “As infuriating as that racist, talent-free boor is, his behavior pales in comparison to what you’re telling us about Felicity, plus the fact that Thomas was Roman Fried’s informant. Where do we go with that?”

  “Well, we know Thomas didn’t bash his own head in,” Delphi said. “But Felicity might have had to shut him up.”

  “And Arden? Why would she kill her leading lady?” Isobel asked.

  “It also begs the question where she was getting the money to dump into this piece of shit production,” Delphi added.

  “No, it doesn’t,” Isobel said.

  “Of course it does,” Delphi said. “Where did she get the money, and what in God’s name made her think she could promise a return on the investment?”

  “No, you’re not using the phrase ‘begs the question’ correctly. It doesn’t mean raises the question, it means you’re asking the speaker to support the premise behind the question. It’s another way of asking ‘What’s your point?’”


  “What’s your point? That I’m a moron? Seriously, Isobel, I know you’re a grammar freak, but can we stick to the actual question at hand, which fine, I will fucking well ask: where did she get the money and why did she bother?”

  “I think the better question is how do we find out?” Sunil said in placating tones.

  “Fried is working on that,” Isobel said.

  Delphi looked skeptically at Isobel. “And you’re cool with that? I’ve never known you to not follow up on a lead. Or are you still obsessing about having to kiss Liver Lips Louie tonight?”

  Isobel paced over to the window. “There’s too much here that doesn’t make sense. I’m having trouble reconciling…” She pulled the curtain aside.

  “Reconciling what?” Sunil asked.

  “Never mind. We have company.” Isobel turned from the window. “It’s Detective Dillon.”

  “Here?” Delphi asked.

  “Anyone have a guilty conscience?” Sunil canvassed the room. “Then we should be fine.”

  “You think Jethro called the cops on you?” Isobel asked him.

  “With Hugh as my witness, I didn’t threaten him, and he provoked me with a blatantly racist insult. I stand by every word I said.”

  Dillon rapped sharply on the front door.

  “Company behavior, everyone.” Isobel went to answer it. “Detective Dillon. Sergeant Pemberthy. What brings you here?”

  “I want to know how you knew,” Dillon said bluntly.

  “I know a lot of things. To which are you referring?”

  “That the nicotine was on the bustle wire,” he said. “Can we come in, please?”

  Isobel felt her stomach drop. As much as she liked to be right, she was deeply unsettled that in this case she was. It could so easily have been any of them. What if the bustles had gotten mixed up?

  What if the bustles had gotten mixed up?

  Dillon reached out to steady her. “Are you all right?”

  “Um, yeah. Come in. Delphi and Sunil are here, too.”

  “How did you know the nicotine was on the bustle?” Dillon repeated as he and Pemberthy followed Isobel into the living room.

  Delphi clutched Sunil’s hand, and he pulled her closer in response.

  “It just seemed logical to me,” Isobel said, sinking into her favorite armchair. “Arden had made a big public fuss about an exposed wire the day before, and she keeled over at the exact same moment. It wasn’t much of a stretch.”

  “How badly did you want Arden’s role?” he asked.

  Isobel caught Delphi’s warning glance. “If I had killed Arden, why on earth would I have told you how I did it? And to tell you the truth, with Jethro Hamilton going on for Chris tonight, I’m inclined to call in dead myself.”

  “We let Chris go,” Dillon said. “We dropped him off at the other condo before we came here.”

  “Is there even going to be a show tonight?” Isobel asked.

  Dillon’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “There’s a horrible smell pervading the theater, and nobody can figure out what’s causing it,” Sunil said. “If they can’t get rid of it, we can’t perform.”

  “How bad can a smell be? Can’t you open all the doors?” Dillon asked.

  “It’s stomach-churning, believe me,” Delphi said.

  Dillon surveyed them all. “This may seem like a glib question, but I’m serious. Has anyone gone missing?”

  “You think it could be a dead body?” Sunil shot a sideways glance at Isobel.

  “It was more like the worst garbage you ever smelled,” Isobel said quickly. “It reminded me of when I was in Florence the summer after I graduated, waiting in line to visit the Uffizi, and there were open grates into the sewer. That’s more what it smells like. Sewage. Fishy sewage, to be exact.”

  “Thank you for that evocative description, but we can’t rule anything out until the source is discovered.” He turned to Pemberthy. “Get over there and see what the deal is. We may need to get involved.”

  She nodded and left.

  “I honestly think it’s another prank,” Isobel said.

  “We’ll find out soon enough.”

  Isobel decided it was time to change the subject. “Has Felicity Hamilton ever been investigated for embezzling state funds from the theater?”

  Dillon whipped out his notebook and pen. “Care to explain where that question came from?”

  “Thomas told a friend of his that there were rumors of misappropriated state funds for personal use. And now Thomas is dead. Sunil and I overheard Felicity on the phone earlier today instructing the president of the board to destroy his files.”

  “Who is Thomas’s friend?”

  Isobel shook her head. “I can’t reveal my source. I made a promise.”

  “I can make you, you know.”

  “Why don’t you follow up on my lead first and see if there’s anything there?”

  “What else have you got for me?”

  “Felicity also dumped a fair amount of money into Sousacal. Where did that money come from?”

  “I think you just answered your own question. If she’s been stockpiling state funds, maybe she’s been saving up to back the show.”

  “My gut tells me there are two different things going on,” Isobel said.

  “Do you have any idea yet who killed Arden and Thomas?” Sunil asked.

  Dillon looked momentarily pained. “There’s a surprising lack of physical evidence. Whoever did this knows what they’re doing.”

  “Then we’re all in danger,” Delphi said. “What if he or she strikes again?”

  “It’s a possibility,” Dillon said soberly. “We’ve beefed up security around the theater, and we’re on the lookout.”

  “But for what?” Delphi pressed. “We have one poisoned bustle and one bloody C-clamp. Do you even know what to look for? Why haven’t you shut the theater down?”

  “We have little else to go on except to watch closely and hope our killer makes a false move,” Dillon said. “If we shut down the theater, everyone scatters and our chances of solving the murders diminish. We spoke with Felicity Hamilton about this at length, and she agreed. At least for a little while longer.”

  “Felicity is on board with this?” Isobel asked. “Pretty convenient if she’s the murderer and she isn’t finished yet.”

  “What about our costumes? Our props? Scenery? How do we know we’re safe?” Sunil asked.

  “Well—” Dillon was interrupted by the sound of a key in the lock.

  A moment later, Hugh appeared in the living room. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

  Dillon rose. “I’m finished.”

  “There’s no show tonight,” Hugh said.

  “But Chris is back,” Isobel said. “They’ve let him go.”

  “It’s the smell. An exterminator is coming, but Felicity opted to cancel now so there would be enough time to alert ticket holders.”

  “Sergeant Pemberthy may get to the bottom of it first.” Dillon returned his notebook to his coat pocket. “But it looks like you get an unexpected night off.”

  “You didn’t answer Sunil’s question. How do we know we’re safe?” Isobel repeated.

  Dillon met her gaze steadily. “I’m afraid you don’t. But unless you want to quit—and, I gotta tell you, after seeing this show I wouldn’t blame you—you’re going to have to stick it out until we catch the killer. Stay alert. I’ll show myself out.”

  When he was gone, Sunil clapped his hands together cheerfully. “Who feels safe? Yeah, didn’t think so.”

  “At least we have the night off,” Delphi said.

  “Jethro nearly exploded, he was so furious. He was absolutely raring to go. Ezra was beside himself. He said this was the first he’d heard of Jethro covering.” Hugh plopped onto the sofa. “I wonder what is causing that smell.”

  “We know what it is,” Isobel admitted.

  Hugh sat up. “You know and you haven’t told?”

  “We onl
y just found out that Chris was let go. Did you really want to do the show with Jethro? Or an unprepared Sunil?”

  “Thanks a lot!”

  “No, and I’m perfectly happy to have a night off,” Hugh said. “But what is it?”

  “Shrimp sewn into the curtain.”

  Hugh grimaced. “It’s going to take a while to get that smell out. Felicity was right to cancel. But you are going to tell her tomorrow, right?”

  “We won’t have to.” Isobel grinned. “Roman Fried will.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  BUT TO ISOBEL’S SURPRISE, Roman Fried didn’t write about the shrimp and the canceled show. In fact, he didn’t write about anything.

  Isobel handed the paper across the kitchen table to Delphi. “He doesn’t seem to have filed a column today. Don’t you think that’s funny?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t read the Post.”

  “His column appears every day. Page six.”

  Delphi squinted at the paper. “It’s an ad encouraging people to subscribe.”

  Isobel rose and paced to the sink. “That means his decision not to file was last minute. If it was a planned miss, they’d have substituted other editorial. That’s what the Times does when a columnist is on vacation.”

  “Are you seriously comparing the Post to the Times? I thought you were better than that.”

  Isobel filled a glass with water and returned to the table. “No, really. Even if he decided not to write about the shrimp, why didn’t he offer a replacement column?”

  Delphi buttered her toast, spraying crumbs in Isobel’s direction. “He probably didn’t have any other gossip worth gossiping about.”

  “As if that’s ever stopped him. If there isn’t real gossip, he makes stuff up.” Isobel swept the crumbs off the edge of the table into her hand and brushed them onto Delphi’s plate. “I think something’s wrong. He was like a bloodhound on the scent yesterday.”

  “Why don’t you call and ask him why he didn’t file?”

  “Very funny.”