The Apostrophe Thief

by Barbara Paul

  She turned away and resigned herself to waiting. After a moment she caught a glimpse of Leo Gunn doing whatever it was stage managers did after a performance. Marian amused herself for a while watching the postperformance performance being given by a young woman who played Kelly’s kid sister in the play. She was putting on quite a show—flirting, laughing gaily, playing the sweet young innocent to the hilt. She had an odd first name … Xandria, that was it. And young Xandria was having the time of her life, holding court backstage at the Broadhurst Theatre. Well, why not? Marian thought. She was young, pretty, and in a hit Broadway play—why not show off a little?

  Suddenly Marian found herself caught in wall-to-wall people; evidently Kelly and Ian Cavanaugh both had shooed the rest of their visitors out at the same time. The last one out of Kelly’s dressing room was John Reddick. He came out laughing and shaking his head. “I should have known she’d rope you into coming along,” he said to the man right ahead of him. “One dancing partner isn’t enough! Where does she get her energy? She gave two performances today, she has one tomorrow—and she wants to go dancing!”

  The other man said simply, “Be thankful.”

  “Oh, I am, I am!” Then Reddick spotted Marian. “Well, hello, Sergeant. Gene, this is the police detective investigating our burglary, Sergeant, er, Birch.”

  “Larch.”

  An exaggerated sigh. “I knew it was something arboreal. Sergeant Larch, this is our producer, Gene Ramsay.”

  Ramsay was monochromatic: tan suit, tan hair, almost the exact shade as his face. Even the irises of his eyes looked tan. They both muttered Gladtameetcha, and Marian said, “You’re going dancing? Kelly loves to dance.”

  “But I don’t,” Ramsay said. “John, if you were a better dancer, I wouldn’t have to do this.”

  The director placed one hand flat on his chest. “I try. God knows I try. Is it my fault I was born with two left feet? Besides, it’s the producer’s job to keep his star happy. Oh—there’s Leo. Excuse me, folks, I have to see him about something.” He hurried off after the stage manager.

  Marian smiled. “Seems to me he’s not exactly lacking in energy either.”

  Gene Ramsay grunted. “John’s been rejuvenated. He used to wear the rest of us out, he was so go-go-go all the time. But then he got a little older, as we all did, and everyone breathed a sigh of relief when John started slowing down. But now—” He laughed.

  “But now?”

  “Now he’s back to go-go-go again, worse than ever.”

  “Hm. Is he sharing the mystery of his newfound youth or is he keeping it to himself?”

  “Oh, no mystery. John’s not the first director to fall in love with his star, and he won’t be the last. Nothing like it to get the old juices flowing again.”

  “What?” Marian wasn’t sure she’d heard right. “What did you say?”

  But before he could answer, Marian heard her name being sung out in bell-like tones. Ian Cavanaugh stood posed in the doorway of his dressing room, drawing the eyes of everyone backstage. “Sergeant, did you come to tell me you’ve recovered my shaving mug?”

  Marian saw Abigail James laugh and turn back to her conversation with Holland. “Not yet,” Marian said. “But we do have a line on the thieves.”

  “You do?” Gene Ramsay said.

  Cavanaugh dropped his pose and came over to her. “You mean there’s a real chance of getting our things back? Frankly, I never expected to hear that.”

  “Frankly, I never expected to say it. I don’t want to get your hopes up, but we do have a shot at recovering your things—including the scripts.”

  The actor waved a hand. “They’re no longer urgent—we have our new scripts marked now. Of course, Abby always worries about play piracy. But I’ll be glad to see that old shaving mug again.” He raised his voice slightly. “Abby—I’ll be ready to leave in about ten minutes.” She waved acknowledgment.

  When Cavanaugh went back to his dressing room, Marian turned to ask Gene Ramsay what he’d meant, but the producer was no longer there. John Reddick in love with Kelly? She went over and knocked on Kelly’s door. “It’s me.”

  Kelly said to come in; Marian spent the next few minutes telling her friend how great her performance had been that evening, with Kelly encouraging her every step of the way. Both women were laughing—and it hit Marian with a shock that she felt happy. What had happened to her depression?

  “Lock the door, will you?” Kelly asked. “I don’t want someone walking in on me while I’m changing.” She slipped out of the sparkly jacket she wore in the last scene and hung it up.

  Marian went over for a closer look at the garment. “Is this a copy of the Sarah Bernhardt jacket?”

  “Not an exact copy. The costumers had to come up with something fast, and they were working from photographs instead of designs. Gene Ramsay … our producer?”

  “I just met him.”

  “Gene got the jacket at an auction in Paris. I think he meant it to go straight to the theater costume museum, that one on Fifth? But … do you remember that rough period I was going through during rehearsal? That time I was thinking I was just a television actor, that I’d ruin the play for everybody?”

  “Ohhhhhh, yes!”

  “Well, Gene brought me that jacket as a sort of confidence-booster. He gave me this little speech about how the jacket should be worn only by those worthy of it—me, brand new to the stage, wearing something that belonged to Bernhardt herself! Whoo! But I wore it, you betcha! And now it’s gone.”

  “So wearing it was an honor?”

  “Just slightly short of canonization. Is that the word I want? When somebody’s made a saint?”

  “That’s the word. Was the jacket kept in the costume room along with everything else?”

  “Yes, but Gene had new locks put on. It was supposed to be safe there.”

  “Safe … what about that safe in John Reddick’s office? Why not keep it there?”

  “That little old thing? You’d have to wad the jacket up into a ball to get it in there.”

  Marian ran her fingers over the imitation gemstones that were sewn on the front part of the jacket; the sleeves and back were an amber velvet. “Are you sure this is just glass? From the audience, they look like real jewels.”

  Kelly grinned. “That’s the idea. They aren’t cheap, you know. Good fakes cost money. And those are larger stones than the ones on Bernhardt’s jacket. These show up a little better, I think.” She’d finished changing. “Marian, you can do me a tremenjous favor. Come dancing tonight. I’ve already got two dancing partners lined up—”

  “John Reddick and Gene Ramsay, I know. But I’m no dancer, Kel. Why don’t you ask Ian Cavanaugh and Abigail James to go along?”

  “Oh, them.” Kelly dismissed the two with a wave of her hand. “Their idea of a good time is to go home and lock the doors and shut out the world. They never go to clubs like Column Left.”

  “That’s the name of the place you’re going?”

  “That’s the place we’re going.”

  “Sounds like a marching order—about face, column left. Change of subject, Kelly. Gene Ramsay just told me that John Reddick is in love with you.”

  Kelly made a face. “Gene is a terrible gossip. John thinks he’s in love with me. It’s the Pygmalion thing,” she said earnestly. “He took this raw television personality and created a real actor out of her—and then fell in love with what he’d created … isn’t that the way the story’s supposed to go? Well, that’s how he looks at me. But he’ll forget all about it when he starts work on a new play. I hope.”

  “Did he ‘create’ you?” Marian asked skeptically.

  “He helped.” Kelly was trying to be fair. “But I created myself. God, that sounds extensional, uff, I mean existential. But I think John is giving himself too much credit.” She laughed easily. “It’s best not to take him too seriously.”

  “I’ll remember.”

  “Now—you are coming dancing. No argumen
ts!”

  “Uh, I’ve got Holland here with me.”

  “Holland?” Kelly didn’t try to hide her surprise. “Well. Imagine that.” She mulled it over for a moment. “Curt Holland, huh?” Then the corners of her mouth lifted and she asked: “Does he dance?”

  Marian laughed. “I have no idea.”

  Kelly’s smile got even bigger. “Well, then—let’s find out.”

  8

  Holland didn’t dance, or wouldn’t. When Kelly invited him to come along to Column Left, he spun toward Marian and snapped out, “Is that what you want? Celebrity dancing? A whirl in the old spotlight? A little reflected glory for yourself?”

  “Whoa!” Marian said, annoyed. “What’s the matter? Is dancing against your religion?”

  “I find it … exhibitionistic.”

  “Oh, thank you very much,” Kelly said archly.

  Marian found that an odd comment, coming from a man who at times displayed more than a touch of the exhibitionist himself. “It’s just a way to unwind, Holland,” she said mildly. “Don’t make it into something else.”

  “You’re determined to go?”

  She hadn’t been, until his surprisingly unreasonable response to such a simple invitation. “I’d like to go, yes.”

  He smiled his most cynical smile. “Then far be it from me to interfere with your pleasures.” And with that, he walked out.

  “What an aggravating man,” Kelly growled, low in her throat.

  Marian agreed. What had set him off like that? She was provoked with Holland, and with herself as well, for allowing his behavior to push her into something she’d only half made up her mind to do. But she went along to Column Left with Kelly and her two conscripted dancing partners, John Reddick and Gene Ramsay. And she went determined to put Holland out of her mind; every time she thought she was coming close to understanding him, he pulled some stunt like this one. But if the man was determined to remain an enigma, let him.

  Column Left had a long line of customers waiting to get in. Gene Ramsay ran an eye over the crowd and said, “Remember those restaurants in China that were found to be putting opium pods in their dishes to addict customers to their food?”

  “Nothing that sneaky here,” Kelly said. “This is just one of the few places in town with a dance floor bigger than a postage stamp.”

  They were able to bypass the line once the doorman caught sight of Kelly; luminaries had priority there. The waiting customers hooted good-naturedly as the four of them were ushered in, perhaps thinking that soon they’d be on the same dance floor as the celebrated Kelly Ingram. Inside was about what Marian expected; jam-packed with customers, strobe lights playing over the dance floor, a band performing with ear-shattering intensity. The place had one nice touch: the tables were divided from the dance floor by a thick Plexiglas partition that muted the music enough to permit talking without having to shout. But the effect of that was to make stepping on to the dance floor something like entering an arena, an arrangement that intimidated Kelly Ingram not at all.

  Marian spent the next hour sitting at a table and talking to whichever man was not trying to keep up with Kelly on the dance floor. John Reddick was drinking a lot, tossing it down while watching Kelly like a moonstruck schoolboy. Gene Ramsay was right; the director was besotted with his star. But Kelly was the same old Kelly—friendly but not encouraging, having fun but keeping her would-be lover at arm’s length. At one point Kelly acquired five extra partners on the dance floor, men and women both, all of them strangers and all of them having a glorious time.

  “Look at that, Larch-Tree,” John Reddick said blurrily. “Everything rotates around her. She makes her own universe, wherever she goes!”

  Oh dear. “How about some coffee, Mr. Reddick?”

  “John. Call me John. Are you tryin’ to get me undrunk?”

  “Wouldn’t be a bad idea.”

  “It would be a terr’ble idea. And why, you ask? No, you don’t ask. But I’ll tell you anyway. It would be a terr’ble idea because … because … I don’t remember why because.”

  Marian asked the waiter to bring a pot of black coffee.

  Gene Ramsay came back and sank into a chair, panting and laughing. “Kelly doesn’t need me out there. Whoo! I’m too old for this.”

  “Sheesh really byooful, isn’ she?” the director mumbled.

  Ramsay winked at Marian. “Yes, John. She’s really beautiful.”

  The waiter brought the pot of coffee. Marian poured a cup and pushed it across the table. “John—drink this.”

  He made a face but did as she said. “I’m makin’ a fool of myself, arn eye?”

  The producer laughed. “Not yet, but you’re getting there. The coffee’s a good idea, Marian. Do you mind if I call you Marian? ‘Sergeant’ and ‘Mister’ seem a little formal for this setting.”

  Marian didn’t mind.

  A young woman hiding behind a ton of make-up and wearing a short dress that looked made of aluminum foil came up to their table. “Excuse me—aren’t you Gene Ramsay?”

  He groaned. “Only during office hours, darling, only during office hours.”

  “Mr. Ramsay, I was wondering if you’d look at my portfolio? I know it’s an imposition, but—”

  “You take your portfolio dancing with you?”

  “Oh, I don’t have it with me, but I thought—”

  “Drop it off at the office and someone’ll take a look. Just don’t bother me now.”

  “Really? You mean it? You promise?”

  “Really, I mean it, I promise. Now run along.”

  “Oh, thank you, Mr. Ramsay, that’s really wonderful, I really appreciate it …” She went on burbling until he turned and glowered at her; she backed away, still thanking him.

  Marian was curious. “Will you look at it?”

  “Someone on my staff will. I’ve got one person who does nothing but read portfolios and reviews and mail from the wannabes. Every third person in New York is an actor looking for work, which still beats California, where everybody is an actor. We’ll look at this girl’s portfolio—there’s always a chance she has talent.”

  “How can you tell that from a portfolio?”

  “Her credits. You don’t get a lot of roles without some talent. But if all she’s done is Marian the Librarian in her high school production of The Music Man, we’ll pass.”

  “Ha!” said John. “Marian the Librarian.”

  Marian waved a hand. “Not me—I’ve never worked in a library.”

  Just then the band took a break; Kelly came back and sat down. “John, your turn next, when they come back.”

  He made an attempt to rise but sank back to his seat. “Larch-Tree, you dance with her. I tol’ you I have two left feet.”

  “And I’ve got three,” Marian said. “The music’s stopped anyway. Here, have some more coffee.”

  Kelly realized John was a little tipsy and ordered him to sober up immediately. “I have to talk to you about Xandria. Did you see what she did tonight? She tried to upstage me three different times.”

  “They learn fast,” Gene murmured.

  John was nodding. “I saw. I’ll speak to her tomorrow. Can’t have s’porting players upstaging the star.”

  “We can’t have anybody upstaging anybody,” Kelly insisted. “You said that yourself, the first week of rehearsal.”

  “I’ll talk to her, I’ll talk to her!”

  “She’s young, Kelly,” Gene said. “Still trying to find out what she can get away with.”

  “Well, she can’t get away with upstaging me. I’ll nail her shoes to the floor.”

  “What’s her last name?” Marian asked. “I don’t remember.”

  “Priest,” Kelly said. “Xandria-Holier-Than-Thou-Female-Priest.”

  “I’ll remember that,” Marian declared.

  After a while the band came back from its break, and John valiantly struggled to his feet and followed Kelly out to the dance floor. Marian watched as he stood weaving in place an
d occasionally waving an arm in the air as Kelly danced around him. A for effort.

  Gene Ramsay touched her arm. “I heard you telling Ian Cavanaugh you had a line on our burglar. Who is it, can you tell me?”

  “I’d rather not say. What if I’m wrong? Besides, my suspect’s not in custody yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “Out of town. Let me ask you something. When did Sarah Bernhardt die?”

  His eyebrows rose. “You’re thinking of the jacket. Bernhardt died sometime in the twenties, I don’t remember the exact year.”

  “So that jacket’s at least seventy years old. And it was still wearable?”

  “The seams had to be strengthened and the lining replaced. But the velvet wasn’t faded—the jacket had been kept folded away in tissue paper all this time.” He smiled. “You know, Bernhardt thought that jacket brought her luck. She called it her veste à bonne chance. Eventually it would have gone to the New York Museum of Theatrical Costuming—I’m on the board of directors. I only hope the thieving sonuvabitch who took it knows its true value.” A sigh, and he changed the subject. “This music is starting to sound monotonous. Are you sure you don’t want to dance?”

  “Positive.”

  “Oh, thank you,” he said with a laugh. “My feet hurt. I don’t see how Kelly does it.”

  But after another fifteen or twenty minutes, even Kelly had had enough. Gene and his still-sobering director climbed into one cab while Marian and Kelly took another, the latter having decided that Marian was spending the night at her place. Marian was too sleepy to protest.

  However, sleep was not what Kelly had in mind. She kept Marian up listening to her complaints about Xandria Priest. “She never just talks to people,” Kelly said. “She flirts. Every sentence that comes out of her mouth is a flirt-sentence, even when she’s talking to women. She can’t even say ‘It’s raining’ without making it sound like a come-on. That’s the only way she knows to talk. She comes in wearing pink and does that cute, coy, poor-little-me act until I want to puke.”

  Marian yawned. “Notcher problem.”

  “The hell it isn’t! I’ve got to watch her trying to seduce every man in the place with that innocent little girl act—do you know she even hit on Ian Cavanaugh while Abby was watching? And she knew they were living together.”