by Barbara Paul
“Gloria has odd tastes at the best of times. What about you? Did you like it?”
Marian shrugged. “It was okay. Kind of hostile.”
“Well, Mozart isn’t. Listener-friendly, in fact. I’ll see what I can do about it.”
The coffee smelled done; Marian poured them each a cup. “What are you going to do today?”
“Buy computers for the office. Interview three operatives I’m thinking of hiring. Meet with the telephone people who are installing my lines. Look at office furniture. Go to the printer’s. Set up an account with an office supply house.”
“Uh-huh. But what are you doing after lunch?”
“Making a dinner reservation for tonight.”
Marian shook her head. “I want to go to the Broadhurst tonight—I’ll just grab a bite on the run. Why don’t you meet me there, after the play? If you’ve got any strength left, after all the buying and meeting and interviewing.”
“I’ll draw upon my hidden reserves. We’ll go for a late supper. Ten, ten-thirty?”
“Thereabouts.”
It was after they’d gone their separate ways when it occurred to Marian that that was about the most unromantic morning-after imaginable. No declarations of undying love, no long lingering soulful looks, no was-it-good-for-you. She laughed aloud; the idea of Holland playing that game was hilarious. And she was grateful. If they could just keep it comfortable, with no role-playing or scene-acting … well, they just might end up not hating each other.
As hard as it was, she put Holland out of her mind and concentrated on the day’s schedule. Today she was going to try to find out why one of the five articles missing from Ernie Nordstrom’s Broadhurst cache was so special that it was worth killing for. She stopped by Midtown South long enough to report in to Captain Murtaugh and to collect some addresses.
Xandria Priest first.
Xandria-Holier-Than-Thou-Female-Priest, as Kelly called her, was still asleep when Marian got to her apartment. With difficulty she persuaded the young woman who’d answered the door to go wake her up. The young woman did, and then rushed off, muttering something about a cattle call. Another young woman wandered out of the kitchen holding a cup of coffee, smiled vaguely at Marian, and disappeared.
Finally the young woman she’d come to see wandered in—sleepy-eyed, tousle-haired, and wearing a robe; she still looked fresh-faced and pretty, in the way only the young can. She ducked her head and peered at Marian through long eyelashes. “You’re Kelly’s police friend.”
“Sergeant Larch, NYPD,” Marian said crisply. “I’d like to ask you a few questions, Ms Priest.”
“Xan. Call me Xan.”
“Er, Xan. You’re aware that the man who burglarized the Broadhurst has been murdered, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I know,” she said, now wide-eyed. “I’ve never had anything to do with a murder before!”
Funny way of putting it. “Did you ever meet Ernie Nordstrom? He was also known as Eddie Norris.”
“I never even heard of him. Did you get my diary back?”
“Yes, it was recovered. But a gown you wear—”
“Oh, I’m so relieved!” She smiled prettily. “I would just hate it if anyone read my diary. There are things in there, you know, about other people? I don’t want to embarrass anyone.”
Marian remembered the innocuous nature of the diary with its compulsive listing of compliments and said, “I’m sure you don’t. But it’s one of your costumes I want to ask you about. A white gown—you wear it toward the end of the first act.”
“You’ve seen the play? What do you think?”
“I think it’s terrific. The performances are terrific. Everything’s great. Now, about this gown—”
“Yes, but …” Xandria Priest moistened her lips, leaned forward provocatively, and said breathily, “What did you think of my performance?”
Kelly had said Xandria didn’t know how to communicate without flirting; Marian was beginning to see what she meant. “I think your performance was outstanding,” she said gently to the younger woman, “and you have a wonderful and exciting future ahead of you.”
That was what Xandria wanted to hear; she beamed at Marian and said, “Thank you. How kind of you to say so.”
Marian wondered if she’d bought a new diary to replace the stolen one; if she had, what Marian had just said was sure to be recorded for posterity. “Tell me about the white gown. Was there anything special about it?”
“Special? Well, it didn’t drape exactly right in the back—”
“No, I mean was there anything that made it, well, valuable? More valuable than the other costumes, say?”
She looked puzzled. “It was just a dress.”
“Did anyone ever offer to buy it from you?”
“No, why should they?”
It was clear Xandria Priest knew nothing, but Marian made one more stab at it. “Do you collect theater memorabilia? Play programs, autographs, like that?”
Xandria’s pretty mouth turned down. “That’s for fans. I’m a professional.”
That says it all, Marian thought. “Well, I guess that’s it. Sorry I had to wake you up.”
“Um, how did you and Kelly meet?”
“During an investigation I was conducting.”
“A murder investigation?”
Oh, dear. “Yes, someone she knew had been killed.”
Big eyes again. “Then this is the second murder Kelly’s been involved in?”
“She’s about as ‘involved’ as you are. Now I must be going. Thanks for your time.”
“I’d just love to hear about that other murder. Maybe we could get together sometime and talk?” She actually batted her eyelashes.
“Why don’t you ask Kelly if you want to know?” Marian smiled to take any sting out of the words. She thanked her again and left.
Gene Ramsay next.
Ramsay’s office on West Forty-fourth, not far from the Broadhurst, was laid out like a little kingdom. Marian had to make her way through a sort of petitioners’ receiving room, where agents and actors and writers and directors were growing cobwebs waiting to be admitted to The Presence. A harried receptionist checked with her boss when she saw Marian’s badge and then motioned her on through. Next came a series of cubicles, each occupied by a man or woman talking on the phone while trying to read playscripts or portfolios or the latest issue of Variety. The last barrier was Ramsay’s secretary, a woman who looked as if she’d seen everything. She ordered Marian to go in.
The private office that Marian entered had been designed with naked intimidation in mind. Chairs and low tables had been arranged in a way that forced the visitor to travel a long aisle that ended at Ramsay’s enormous desk; it was like approaching a throne. The producer sat with his back to the window, watching Marian without speaking, giving her the full treatment. When she managed to make the journey without collapsing from fear, he turned friendly. “Hello, Marian,” he said, coming from behind his desk to greet her. “Or perhaps I should go back to ‘Sergeant’? I’m sure this isn’t a social call.”
“‘Marian’ is fine.” She took the chair he offered as he sat in another opposite her. “You know why I’m here, I’m sure. Did you know Ernie Nordstrom?”
He shook his head. “That’s the burglar who was murdered? No, I didn’t know him. In fact, I don’t think I ever heard the name before.”
“What about Eddie Norris?”
“No. Who’s he?”
“Same guy. You told me—”
“When do we get the costumes back?” he interrupted. “And the other things that were taken?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know. Some of the items will be needed as evidence for the prosecution of Nordstrom’s accomplices.” She took a deep breath. “And I’m even sorrier to tell you that some of items have not been recovered. The Sarah Bernhardt jacket is one of them.”
“It’s gone?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“God damn it!” His face da
rkened, and he worked his jaw back and forth for a moment. “The one thing I wanted back … they could keep everything else as far as I was concerned. We were insured, and everything’s been replaced anyway. But that jacket was one of a kind. Damn it!”
“Maybe we can get a line on it later, if whoever has it tries to make a sale.” Neither one of them believed that. “You told me you were on the board of directors of a costume museum?”
“The New York Museum of Theatrical Costuming, yes.”
“Did that ever bring you into contact with memorabilia dealers, people like Nordstrom who bought and sold costumes and other things?”
“No, I left all that to the museum’s director. He’s responsible for purchasing.” Ramsay looked at his watch.
“And yet you bought the Bernhardt jacket.”
He smiled. “That was a fluke. I was in Paris on other business when I learned of the auction. My intention was to donate the jacket to the museum and claim a tax deduction rather than draw on the museum’s limited funds. But before that, I wanted to take advantage of its publicity value by having Kelly wear the jacket for a while in The Apostrophe Thief. I would have replaced it in another few days. The jacket was in good condition, but it was old.”
And Kelly thought his letting her wear it had been a vote of confidence. Marian thought back: the list of stolen costumes the wardrobe mistress had provided designated the value of the jacket as unknown. “Gene, how much did you pay for it?”
“In American currency, a little over twenty-two thousand dollars.”
Marian was impressed. “For one jacket?”
Gene laughed shortly. “For Bernhardt’s jacket. It was a steal.”
“Was it insured?”
“Of course.” He looked at his watch again.
“I’d like to see the receipt,” Marian said, “from the Paris auction house. Better still, I’d like a photocopy to take with me.”
“You got it.” He stood up and went to the phone on his desk. When he’d finished telling his secretary what he wanted, he said to Marian, “Edie’s making you a copy. Now, if there’s nothing else, I have a full schedule this morning.”
“That’s all for now,” Marian said, getting up. “Thanks for your time.”
By the time she reached the door, he was already on the phone, chewing out someone named Manny. In the outer office, Edie the Efficient had the photocopy ready and was putting it into an envelope, which she handed to Marian with a look of wordless reproach—for taking up Gene Ramsay’s precious time over foolish things like receipts, Marian supposed.
Two down. Mitchell Tobin next.
“I just used it for correspondence,” Tobin was saying with irritation. “The only program I put on the disk was a word processor.” He was feeling his thirty-two years this morning, but his baby-faced good looks were still enough to permit him to pass for the college student he played in The Apostrophe Thief. He’d just gotten up when Marian arrived at his apartment and he was still grouchy.
“Mr. Tobin, how long had you had the notebook computer?” Marian asked.
“That was just it—it was brand new! I hadn’t had it even a week!”
“Then that’s probably why it’s gone. A virtually new computer … that would be easy to dispose of. What about the printer? You didn’t report one stolen.”
“I used my old printer. The one I keep here.”
“Ah. Is there a chance something was on the notebook disk that was important to someone?”
“What? I told you, I just used the thing for correspondence.”
A young woman whose face Marian was sure she’d seen on magazine covers drifted in from the back of the apartment, smiled mechanically at no one in particular, picked up a purse from a table, and drifted back out again. Tobin ignored her.
With an effort, Marian did the same. Back to business: “Did you back up the disk, or make hard copies to file?”
“No, no, it’s all gone.” Tobin took a long swallow of coffee, trying to work himself out of his cantankerous mood. “I’m sorry, Sergeant, there just wasn’t anything there of value to anyone other than me.”
“Tell me what kind of correspondence.”
“Letters to my agent and money manager, mostly. One letter to my mother. And I answered a few fan letters.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“The letters to your agent and your money manager—what were they about?”
Tobin stood up and stretched, then walked over to look at himself in a wall mirror … of which there were three in the room, Marian noticed. “My agent’s trying to get me TV guest roles that can be shot in four days,” he said, “so I won’t have to miss the Wednesday matinee. I sent him two or three letters about shows I did and did not want to appear in. If I told him over the phone, he’d just forget.”
“And your money manager?”
“Two letters—I remember now, I wrote him two letters. They were both just cover letters, accompanying some receipts.”
Nothing there, evidently. Not expecting anything, Marian asked, “Did you know Ernie Nordstrom?”
Tobin turned away from his mirror and frowned. “You know, I may have met him once. I don’t believe I ever heard his last name, but I’m sure the first name was Ernie.”
“What did he look like?”
“Short and stout. He had a respiratory problem, as I recall.”
“That sounds like Nordstrom,” Marian said. “When did you meet him?”
“Oh, eight or nine years ago. I was still struggling and taking any job I could get. At the time I was understudying two roles in Lockhart’s Lie, and this Ernie offered me a hundred dollars to get him a bullwhip that was used in the play. I needed money, but not so badly that I’d stoop to stealing stage props for some leech I didn’t even know. So I told him to get lost. But about a week later the whip did disappear, so he got to somebody.”
He told the story so guilelessly that Marian believed him, not forgetting the man was an actor; but if Tobin had himself taken the whip, he’d have denied knowing Nordstrom. “Did you ever see him again after that?”
“Never did.” Tobin sat back down, crossing his legs with a studied elegance. “In fact, I didn’t even think of him when our stuff was taken from the Broadhurst. It was only when I read the name ‘Ernie Nordstrom’ in the paper that I began wondering if it was the same man. By the way, when do I get the rest of my things back?”
Marian explained that that was up to the DA’s office and took out a card. She scribbled the number for Midtown South on it and handed it to Tobin. “If you remember anything else on your computer disk, please call me. It doesn’t matter what it is.”
He shrugged but took the card. “Why was this Ernie killed, Sergeant? Does it have anything to do with our play?”
“I’m afraid it does, Mr. Tobin. You’ll be seeing me again.”
“Good god, am I a suspect?”
“Everybody’s a suspect, and nobody is.” Her rote answer. “No, I meant I’d be at the Broadhurst tonight, that’s all.”
He didn’t look especially reassured. But he said, “Have you seen the play?”
“Twice.”
“Ah. What did you think?”
Marian’s earlier experience with Xandria Priest warned her he wasn’t the least bit interested in her opinion of the play. So she gave him the praise he craved and left him in a much better frame of mind than she’d found him. He saw her to the door, checking his profile in one of the mirrors as he did.
Good timing; her stomach was beginning to make noises.
Marian was in the mood for something green and crunchy, so she stopped at a small eatery that had a fairly decent salad bar. As she chewed on a cucumber slice, she took out her notebook and flipped through the pages. The fact that Mitchell Tobin had once met Ernie Nordstrom didn’t mean much, she felt. Considering the line of work Nordstrom had been in, it was not unreasonable that he’d once crossed paths with someone from the Apostrophe Thief bunch
. And unless Tobin was lying, there was nothing on his computer disk that anyone wanted.
Xandria Priest’s costume was just that, a costume; nothing special about it. But the Bernhardt jacket—that had turned out to be more valuable than she’d realized. People killed for a lot less than $22,000. Marian still had to see Frieda Armstrong about her missing fake fur coat; and she supposed she ought to check with Ian Cavanaugh about that shaving mug he’d made such a fuss over. But at this point it looked as if four of the missing items had been taken only to confuse the issue, to prevent the police’s attention from being focused on the fifth. That’s the way the original burglary at the Broadhurst had been set up, a lot of thefts to obscure one particular one.
Marian finished her salad and idly pushed a black olive around her plate. Captain Murtaugh was sending out a list and description of the five missing items to all the precinct houses, but the chances of anything coming of that were slight. Maybe she’d been too quick to dismiss Mitchell Tobin’s brief contact with Ernie Nordstrom, because maybe it wasn’t that brief. Perhaps Tobin was protecting himself by admitting he’d known the dead man, in case someone saw him recently with Nordstrom. But if that were so, he wouldn’t have claimed his one and only meeting with the dead man had taken place eight or nine years earlier. Marian sighed; no point in trying to figure it out until after she’d spoken to Armstrong and Cavanaugh. She popped the olive into her mouth and left.
Marian was looking forward to her next interview. Frieda Armstrong was something of an institution; she’d been acting longer than Marian had been alive, on the stage and in the movies and on television. Not everyone knew her name, but few people in the country would fail to recognize her face. Armstrong had never been a leading lady; she’d made a career out of playing mothers, or at least motherly women. Her very first role, at age eighteen, had been a thirtyish mother, and she’d been playing mothers or mother-types ever since. Sometimes she was a loving aunt, or a best friend, or a helpful next-door neighbor; Marian remembered one movie set during the Depression in which she’d founded an orphanage. Her role in The Apostrophe Thief was a slight departure; still a mother (Kelly and Xandria’s), nevertheless she somehow wasn’t quite nice. A mother that made the audience just a trifle uncomfortable—by design. It was a smart touch, thanks to Abigail James; and smart casting … thanks to John Reddick?
