“I will try to be more expeditious, sir.”
“Please do,” Ashley said. “I am glad to hear you say that Max, gentle soul that he is, did not kill Roy. But how do you explain those notes?”
“Mr. Ennis, who remains comatose, did not poison Roy Breckenridge, although he made it seem so by his own message, which was found in his apartment.”
“The one that read ‘I’m sorry.’ That much was in the newspapers,” Ashley said. “So if Max did not poison Roy, why did he make it seem like that was the case with that ‘I’m sorry’ note?”
“I am getting to that, madam. I had conversations with each of you, individually, in this room. And—”
“Oh, we are all too aware of that,” Sperry said. “Did one of us say something that led you to who you believe to be guilty?”
“Rather, it was something not said that I found significant, although I failed to pick up on it at the time.”
“Proving once again that none of us is perfect,” Teresa said with a sour smile.
Wolfe ignored her. “Only one individual did not inquire as to the condition of Mr. Ennis, and that person also neglected to ask anything about Mr. MacGregor’s whereabouts.”
“I guess I just do not . . . do not see your point,” Steve Peters said.
“My point is that the individual in question evinced a marked lack of curiosity, and also a lack of concern for Mr. Ennis. Yet it was precisely because of Max’s own concern for this person that he behaved as he did—ingesting the same poison that killed Mr. Breckenridge and writing that note, both actions that were designed to point to him as the killer. One might term such behavior a noble sacrifice.”
“But a sacrifice for whom?” Lester asked.
“For Miss Cartwright, of course,” Wolfe said, turning toward Melissa, who made a gasping sound, sliding down in her chair and starting to sniffle.
“This is a ridiculous accusation!” Peters said, surprised at the loudness of his words. “Melissa had no reason whatever to dislike Mr. Breckenridge. He had given her a wonderful opportunity.”
“But that opportunity came with a price, and to her, a very steep price,” Wolfe said. “It is common knowledge in the theater community that Roy Breckenridge was strongly drawn to attractive women. He—”
“That is putting it mildly, as a lot of us are all too aware,” Teresa interrupted.
“He was making demands upon Miss Cartwright, demands she chose not to accede to. So she took steps to remove him from the production.”
“But not to kill him,” Melissa said, now racked with sobs as Purley Stebbins moved beside her. I almost—but not quite—felt sorry for her.
“I put what I thought was a small dose of arsenic into his Coca-Cola, just enough to . . . to get him out of the way during the rest of the play’s run,” Melissa continued. “I . . . had no intention whatever of . . . of . . .”
“What total idiocy!” Ashley Williston said, standing and turning to the younger woman. “Here we have an amateur practicing with poison. Or did you have some previous experience?”
“So was Max going to take the fall for her?” Sperry asked.
“He was, and willingly,” Wolfe said. “Mr. Ennis had become Miss Cartwright’s confidant, perhaps even a father figure, as has been suggested. And when Mr. Breckenridge was poisoned, Mr. Ennis realized immediately what had transpired and set out to protect Miss Cartwright from punishment. It was a somewhat clumsy effort, but he did not care. He knew that because of his health, his time was running out, so he decided that a suicide would both end his own pain and free Miss Cartwright from suspicion.”
“Ah, but what possible motive would Ennis have for killing Breckenridge?” Sperry asked. “They had always gotten along well and respected each other. On several occasions over the years, Roy had gone out of his way to praise Max to me as a consummate professional.”
“Miss Cartwright tried to create a reason for enmity between the two,” Wolfe said. “She claimed she overheard them in a heated argument after a performance. But no one else connected with the production said they had heard or been aware of such a dispute. And as has been pointed out, the theater occupies a tightly contained space, and the walls between dressing rooms are thin. Any loud discussion would surely have been heard by several persons.”
Cramer had heard enough. He stepped forward, joining Stebbins. “Melissa Cartwright, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Roy Breckenridge. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can be—”
“I know, I know . . . You are reading that Miranda warning,” she said in a barely audible tone, punctuated by more weeping. “I know exactly what it is; it was used in a play I performed in at Michigan State. I will go with you.” She turned to the others. “I am sorry, so sorry, so very sorry.” She got to her feet with what seemed like great effort and walked out, head down, led by the grim-faced Cramer and Stebbins, neither of whom spoke.
Chapter 33
After the departure of Melissa and the police, the room was silent, as if everyone were in shock, which may have been the case.
“I would not have believed this,” Brad Lester said, finally breaking the silence. “She seemed so . . . innocent, I guess, is the word I would have used to describe her.”
“Huh! I knew very well that she was not as naive as she appeared,” Teresa Reed said. “Women are better at spotting these things than men, a lot better. But still, I never would have guessed at . . . this.”
“If you all will excuse me,” Wolfe said, rising, “I have another engagement.” He walked out of the office, probably heading for the kitchen. Not one for small talk, he saw no reason to remain in a room with these people.
Everyone was on their feet again. “Well, how do you feel about your performance?” Ashley Williston asked me. “Doesn’t it give you a guilty conscience to have taken part in that masquerade?”
“The only thing I feel guilty about,” I told her, “is that I was not able to prevent what happened. I will have to live with the knowledge that I, like Mr. Wolfe, did not realize how real the danger was to our client.”
“There are people who would say he deserved what he got,” Teresa said. “I realize that sounds harsh, and if so, I apologize.”
“Roy Breckenridge will go down in the books as one of Broadway’s greatest producers and directors,” Hollis Sperry said. “As to his behavior in other areas . . .” He shrugged and shook his head.
“This has been a black day,” Lewis Hewitt said. “Three members of the Cresthaven family are casualties. One dead, one arrested, one on life support and very possibly near death.”
“And it is probably the end of the production, although that seems unimportant at the moment,” Lester put in.
“Well I, for one, am sorry to see things come to an end this way,” Ashley Williston said as though she were speaking lines to a standing-room-only theater. “I am sure many of our paths will cross again.” With that, she swept out regally on clicking heels with Saul following her to the front door.
“I have to be honest, Mr. Goodwin,” Lester said. “I was disappointed to learn who you really were. But I suppose I can understand why you did what you did. I am just damned sorry that you couldn’t have prevented what happened.”
“No sorrier than I am, I assure you of that. There were no winners at all that I can see in this real-life performance.”
One by one, the remaining guests trickled out, each exchanging a few words with Hewitt, whom they all seemed to like. I received no such farewells, which was understandable. To them, I was definitely a Caleb, no matter the intent of my deception. After all of them had left the brownstone, I dialed Lon Cohen, having earlier suggested he remain in his office until he heard from me. He was to get his scoop after all.
Chapter 34
Melissa Cartwright never was able to return home to Lansing in an att
empt to get her parents reconciled. But she did dodge the murder rap, thanks to the brilliant and high-powered Manhattan trial lawyer her father, the Oldsmobile marketing executive, had retained for her defense. The smooth-talking mouthpiece copped an insanity plea, and Melissa played her part to the hilt as an unhinged woman, according to a Gazette reporter, who told Lon that “she earned her Tony right there in the courtroom. And it did not hurt her cause that she dressed primly and managed to maintain a wide-eyed and dazed ‘little me’ innocence throughout the trial.”
Her lawyer argued that she had become so distraught over her parents’ impending divorce that she was sent spiraling into a form of derangement, and that she could not be held accountable for her subsequent actions. Amazingly, a court-appointed psychiatrist confirmed the diagnosis of the defense’s own shrink, and the jury bought it, bringing back a quick verdict of guilt by reason of insanity.
Melissa resides at a state psychiatric facility in rolling farm country more than two hundred miles north of New York City, where, according to a Gazette feature writer who visited the place, “she spends much of her time organizing amateur theatrical productions for the patients, all of whom seem to thrive under her direction. She has become something of a celebrity at the institution, spinning yarns about her adventures on Broadway but avoiding the episode that ended her acting career.”
After several weeks, Max Ennis regained consciousness and steadfastly refused to explain why he took the poison and left the infamous “I’m sorry” note or the three notes sent to Breckenridge. He denied having anything whatever to do with Roy Breckenridge’s death and not once did he ask about Melissa Cartwright.
Given the fragile state of his health, Ennis never returned to the stage and eventually moved into a retirement home in Westchester County, where, until the end of his life, he was said to regale the other residents with tales of stage personalities he had known and performed with over his long career, much like what Melissa was doing to a lesser degree in her own institution to the north.
Hollis Sperry continues to toil as a demanding and crusty Broadway stage manager, and he told Lewis Hewitt recently that because of his years working with Roy Breckenridge, he has remained in demand with other directors, one of whom said, “If Roy kept asking for you on his productions, you have got to be good.”
Teresa Reed reinvented herself as a television star of sorts. She managed to get herself cast as an eccentric and grouchy aunt in a popular daytime soap opera and earned herself an award. But her late-in-life success has by no means mellowed her. At the awards ceremony, she said, “It is about time I won something, for heaven’s sake. I slaved for years on Broadway and never got so much as a pat on the head like a good dog. At least you folks know class when you see it.”
Teresa is not the only Death at Cresthaven cast member who has been showered with honors. Brad Lester, who decided he liked Broadway after his brief stint in Cresthaven, was cast as Ezra in a restaging of Eugene O’Neill’s Mourning Becomes Electra and won a Tony for Best Actor in a Revival. One can only imagine how Ashley Williston must feel about this.
As for Lester, the award has made him in demand to the extent that he has made New York his home. And according to Lily Rowan, he has found himself a new companion, an extremely fetching raven-haired divorcée whom I have met at a couple of soirees at Lily’s penthouse abode. “They make a very glamorous pairing,” she told me, “and I would not be surprised if that pairing becomes permanent.”
Speaking of Ashley Williston, the woman who likes to fancy herself as the next Helen Hayes, she lost any chance she had of winning a Tony when Cresthaven never reopened. Angry at a Broadway she felt never gave her the recognition she deserved, Ashley crossed the Atlantic and has made something of a name for herself on the British stage.
“It is marvelous to be where I am appreciated, and I think I have found a new home,” she was quoted as saying in a New York Times article about her popularity with the British. She has appeared in two London dramas and has gotten generally positive reviews. It was even speculated that she might be in the running for a British theater award.
“We find Miss Williston to be a breath of fresh air on the West End theatre scene. Over the years, we have sent so much acting talent to the States. It is refreshing to see that on a rare occasion, the Yanks reciprocate,” wrote the critic for London’s Telegraph.
Speaking some more of Ashley Williston, last week, Lewis Hewitt and I dined at Rusterman’s Restaurant because of the bet we had made as to who got the better of it when Wolfe interviewed Ashley in the brownstone. I thought my boss was the winner, but Hewitt insisted on casting his vote for the actress. The result: We each bought our own meal.
“I am one of several backers of a new musical that is now in rehearsals,” Hewitt told me over dessert. “And among its cast is none other than our own Steve Peters, who, as it turns out, has a very fine tenor voice. And the young man is an accomplished dancer as well.”
“So our boy looks like he’s in the world of greasepaint to stay,” I said. “I am happy to hear it. He seems like a decent guy.”
“And that is not all, Archie. I have seen him several times in the company of a most attractive young woman who drops by after almost every rehearsal, and off they go to heaven only knows where.”
“Well, that is hardly a surprise, is it? He’s pretty good-looking himself.”
“True, but what makes this particularly interesting is that the lady in question bears a striking resemblance to Melissa Cartwright, red hair and all.”
“Let us hope this relationship works out better for the young man than the previous one.”
“Agreed. By the way, Archie, tell your boss he is to expect a package tomorrow morning.”
“Dare I hazard a guess as to who it is from and what it contains?”
“I believe you know the answers to both questions,” Hewitt said with a smile. “As I realize you are aware, Nero Wolfe can be one tough negotiator.”
“Amen to that. I have had plenty of experience trying to get my salary bumped up. Over the years, we have had some interesting conversations on that subject.”
I was at my desk with coffee the next morning at ten, updating the orchid germination records, when the front bell rang. I went to the door and, through the one-way glass, saw the tall, lean figure of Thursby, Lewis Hewitt’s driver. In his black uniform and cap, the bright-eyed, square-jawed young man looked like Hollywood central casting’s idea of the quintessential chauffeur. The large tray he was holding contained three tall packages covered in green paper that looked like something a florist would deliver.
“Good morning, Mr. Goodwin,” he said as I opened the door. “I have something for Mr. Nero Wolfe from Mr. Hewitt.”
“Come right in,” I said to young Thursby. “Mr. Wolfe happens to be up in the plant rooms on the roof right now. May I give you a hand with those?”
“No, thank you, Mr. Goodwin, I can manage them.”
“All right, then. I am sure he would be happy if you made the delivery to him in person.” I led him to the elevator and up he went, descending ten minutes later and wearing a wide grin. I saw him out and went back to my desk, where I was paying the bills when Wolfe walked in at eleven.
“Good morning, Archie, did you sleep well?” he asked as he invariably does.
I replied that I had, and he settled in behind his desk, ringing for beer and riffling through the morning mail, which I had as usual stacked on his blotter. I turned back to my work, and there came a sound I was not used to hearing in the office.
Nero Wolfe was whistling.
Author Notes
As with my previous Nero Wolfe stories, I express my sincere thanks to Barbara Stout and Rebecca Stout Bradbury for their continued support. My thanks also go to Otto Penzler of Mysterious Press, to whom this book is dedicated, and to his associate Rob Hart, as well as to the enthusiastic team at Op
en Road Integrated Media and to my agent, Martha Kaplan.
I also want to thank my friend Eric Berg, a Renaissance man who has made his name in the fields of both law and the theater, for his helpful counsel on details surrounding both the onstage and backstage intricacies of a major dramatic production.
Four volumes have been particularly helpful to me in my attempts to emulate the wonderful world of Nero Wolfe and company that Rex Stout created over a four-decade period. They are: Nero Wolfe of West Thirty-Fifth Street: The Life and Times of America’s Largest Private Detective by William S. Baring-Gould (The Viking Press, New York, 1968); The Nero Wolfe Cookbook by Rex Stout and the Editors of the Viking Press (Viking Press, New York, 1973); The Brownstone House of Nero Wolfe by Ken Darby as Told by Archie Goodwin (Little, Brown, Boston, 1983); and Rex Stout: A Biography by John McAleer (Little, Brown, Boston, 1977). The McAleer volume justly won an Edgar Award in the biography category from the Mystery Writers of America.
My most heartfelt thanks go to my wife, Janet, who for more than a half century has redefined the term soul mate. She has patiently tolerated my many moods and eccentricities with grace and good humor.
About the Author
Robert Goldsborough is an American author best known for continuing Rex Stout’s famous Nero Wolfe series. Born in Chicago, he attended Northwestern University and upon graduation went to work for the Associated Press, beginning a lifelong career in journalism that would include long periods at the Chicago Tribune and Advertising Age.
While at the Tribune, Goldsborough began writing mysteries in the voice of Rex Stout, the creator of iconic sleuths Nero Wolfe and Archie Goodwin. Goldsborough’s first novel starring Wolfe, Murder in E Minor (1986), was met with acclaim from both critics and devoted fans, winning a Nero Award from the Wolfe Pack. Ten more Wolfe mysteries followed, including Death on Deadline (1987) and Fade to Black (1990). In 2005, Goldsborough published Three Strikes You’re Dead, the first in an original series starring Chicago Tribune reporter Snap Malek. Murder, Stage Left (2017) is his most recent novel.
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