by Barbara Paul
Frieda Armstrong lived in an older apartment building on the West Side that looked like an Art Deco set for a Marx Brothers movie. The door to her apartment was opened by a maid or housekeeper, who made Marian wait in the hallway while she took Marian’s card in to her employer. But she returned quickly, and Marian was ushered into a formal sitting room.
The woman she’d come to see was sitting at a writing table by a window, the afternoon sun throwing her partially into silhouette and creating an attractive picture suitable for framing. Armstrong finished what she was writing and then looked up. “Well?” she said sharply. “Have you come to tell me my fur coat has been found? My very expensive fur coat.” There was no mistaking the sarcasm in her voice.
“Just the opposite, I’m afraid,” Marian said. “I came to tell you it has not been found.”
The other woman made a noise of exasperation. “I don’t know why I’m surprised. Or even why I care. It was a cheap coat … still, it was better than the one they replaced it with. Oh, do sit down—don’t hover over me like that! I suppose now you want to ask me questions.”
Marian sat down, amused. She knew better than to confuse actors with the roles they played, but evidently all those years of kindhearted motherness had begun to wear on Frieda Armstrong. “Ms Armstrong, was there anything special about that coat, anything that might make it valuable to someone else?”
A look of such scorn appeared on her face that Marian had to fight down an urge to apologize. “That coat?” the matronly actor exclaimed in ringing tones. “Surely you are jesting …”—she glanced at the card Marian had sent in—“Sergeant Larch. That coat belongs in a Goodwill Industries used-clothing store! I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s where it came from. I’ve never known Gene Ramsay to squeeze a dollar the way he’s done with this play. For something as pivotal to the plot as the fur coat is—but then, I don’t suppose you’ve bothered to see the play.”
“I was there opening night,” Marian said, trying to sound humble.
“Were you indeed? Well, then, you know how important it is that I wear a good fur coat. The whole plot turns on it!”
Well, not the whole plot, Marian thought. In one scene young Xandria got on her mother’s case about wearing fur; Kelly eventually backed her sister, although suspicious of Xandria’s sudden interest in animal rights. The mother seemed willing to alienate both her daughters rather than give up her fur coat; it was one of several minor issues deliberately left unresolved in the play, to show the family looking for things to squabble about rather than grapple with the big problems that faced them. “Yes, I can see why real fur would be better,” Marian said diplomatically.
“But Gene Ramsay absolutely refuses to get me real fur,” Frieda Armstrong went on, “because, he says, from the stage the fakes look real.” She sniffed. “As if anyone who’s ever worn fur would be fooled by those conspicuous imitations!” She put her fingertips to her throat and posed for a moment, and then said, “I see The Apostrophe Thief as a female King Lear. ‘How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child!’ Here’s this woman who’s given her entire life to two selfish daughters, who turn on her when she finally has a bit of luxury to indulge herself in! However, I can’t say I care much for the ending of Abby’s play … it’s a bit equivocal, don’t you think?”
Marian made a noncommittal sound; the play’s ending had seemed quite unequivocal to her. The mother played only a small role in that ending, though—that’s what grated on Frieda Armstrong. “Did anyone try to steal the fake fur earlier? Or buy it from you?”
A scornful laugh. “Most burglars wouldn’t take the trouble. As to buying it—no, of course not. Who would want it? Other than that contemptible little man who robbed us and then got himself murdered.”
Uh-huh. “How did you know he was little?”
“He was a thief, wasn’t he? He was little.”
“Did you ever meet Ernie Nordstrom?”
“Certainly not!”
“Perhaps you knew him as Eddie Norris.”
“Sergeant, I didn’t know him as anything! There are hundreds just like that man, swarming around every play, looking for things they can pick up to keep for themselves or to sell. And in cinema and television, they number in the thousands! These people are leeches—faceless, nameless leeches. They get their identities from us. They’re not true fans, you know. True fans show respect. But these collectors respect nothing except their own collections. Take their collections away from them and they’d wither up and blow away, I’m sure of it.”
Marian was thinking Holland would probably agree with her. But that was the second time that day Marian had heard Ernie Nordstrom called a leech, and she wondered what had prompted Frieda Armstrong’s tirade. “You’ve been ripped off before, haven’t you?” she ventured.
Instantly a change came over the woman; gone was the imperious denouncer of collectors, and in her place emerged a sweet, long-suffering woman of sturdy backbone and cheerful demeanor. Mom had arrived. “All my life,” she said in a gentle voice. “As far back as I can remember, people have been taking from me. But I try not to let it dishearten me. I don’t let myself feel like a victim. That’s all one can do, isn’t it? Keep on keeping on? It’s a burden one simply must bear.”
The scene would have benefited from music swelling in the background, but it still played pretty well the way it was. “You’re very brave,” Marian said solemnly.
“I try to be. To set an example for the younger ones in the cast, you know. They don’t yet understand it’s better to be stolen from than to have to steal.”
Marian felt sure that was a line from a movie. On the whole, she’d been enjoying Frieda Armstrong’s performance, but she wasn’t getting any answers here; reluctantly Marian got up to go. “Thank you for your time, Ms Armstrong—”
“Oh, you aren’t leaving, are you, dear?” Mom said. “Wouldn’t you like a nice cup of tea before you go? Or are you a coffee drinker? Perhaps cocoa is more to your taste.”
“Nothing, thank you,” Marian said with difficulty. “I just finished lunch.”
“Well, then, some other time.”
“That would be nice. Goodbye.”
Marian tried to hold in her laugh until she got down to the street; but in the elevator it exploded from her in a rush, frightening an elderly man cradling a small dog close to his chest. “Sorry,” she apologized, “but a visit to my mother always affects me like that.”
13
Ian Cavanaugh lived with Abigail James in a brown-stone on West Thirty-fifth, right down the street from Midtown South. Marian climbed the stoop and rang the bell, positioning herself in front of the eye hole set into the steel door.
The sound of a chain being removed reached her ears and Ian Cavanaugh opened the door. “Sergeant Larch—come in, come in!” He stood back to allow her to enter. “You’ll have to excuse me for a moment … I’m in the middle of a fight with Abby. Make yourself comfortable.” He waved a hand vaguely and headed toward a staircase that looked newer than the rest of the house. “I told you to wait until I could help!” he called up. “Now the neighbors have complained about all the racket you’ve been making and called the police! Sergeant Larch is here.”
Abigail James’s muffled voice floated down from upstairs, the words indistinct.
Cavanaugh was at the top of the stairs; he took a left turn and disappeared from view. “What’s that? Speak up!”
This time the playwright’s voice came loud and clear. “I’m stuck.”
“Stuck?” Cavanaugh’s voice was growing fainter. “How can you be stuck?”
Curious, Marian walked to the foot of the stairs and looked up; she could see nothing, but she could hear a thumping noise and an occasional swear word. Then: silence.
“Can you use some help?” she called up.
“Yes!” two voices floated down.
She ran up the stairs and paused, looking for them. “Where are you?”
“Here!”
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“On the staircase!”
Marian walked back to where the next staircase began, and found them: they were both stuck. Abigail James had been trying to move a cardboard carton large enough to hold a four-drawer file cabinet; in fact, the markings on the box indicated that’s what it was meant to contain. But halfway between the third and second floors, the box had slipped sideways just enough to wedge both its handlers firmly in place. Ian Cavanaugh was pinned against the wall with one leg stretched out, his foot braced against the banister. Abigail James had somehow got herself under the carton; one of her legs was hooked over Cavanaugh’s waist.
“Don’t just stand there laughing!” the actor snapped at Marian. “Get us out of this!”
“Sorry. But you do look funny.”
“Delighted to provide you with a moment’s amusement. Now will you do something?”
“Watch your foot, Ian,” the playwright said. “You don’t want to break the banister.”
“Never you mind my foot. If you’d waited the way I asked—”
“I know, I know.”
Marian climbed up to them; if she could somehow get him loose, then they could just slide the box off her. She reached over Cavanaugh’s outstretched leg and worked her hands under the carton; it wouldn’t budge. “What have you got in this thing—bricks?”
Cavanaugh sighed. “Next thing to it. Books.”
“Bend over.”
He did; Marian leaned over his back and managed to rock the carton upward a little. “Can you get out?”
“Not yet.”
She pushed a little harder. Abigail James groaned and said, “You do realize you’re flattening me, don’t you? I just want to make sure you realize that.”
“Just a smidge more.”
Finally Cavanaugh was able to slip out; but once his body was no longer wedging the carton in place, it began to descend the stairs under its own volition. He and Marian desperately tried to stop its advance … but to no avail. The box hit the newel post and split open, showering them with books. Marian yelled; the books hurt. She lost her balance and fell. After a moment she sat up, covered with books. Ian Cavanaugh lay on the floor next to her, a What-happened? look on his face.
Abigail James was sitting primly on one of the steps, elbows on her knees and chin resting in her hands. “Now, that’s funny,” she said.
With a lot of groaning and complaining, they got the books stacked up in fairly neat piles. They disposed of the now-useless carton; and by the time they ended up downstairs in the kitchen, Marian was on a first-name basis with the other two.
“I like these big old kitchens,” she said, sitting across the table from Abby. “You don’t see them much anymore.”
The playwright smiled. “There’s another one two floors up.”
“Abby’s kitchen is even bigger than this one,” Ian said, as he made the coffee.
“Abby’s kitchen?”
They explained that the brownstone was divided into two two-story apartments. Abby had been living in the top apartment for eons when Ian bought the downstairs apartment from the couple living there. Then they put in a new interior staircase; Abby had been using an outside entrance before. But other than that, they’d left the two apartments pretty much the way they were. Upstairs was her stuff, downstairs was his.
“Except that her stuff has a way of creeping down to encroach on my stuff,” Ian said, pouring them coffee. “She’ll say, ‘You’re not using this wall space here, are you?’ And the next thing I know, a new bookcase has gone up.”
Marian asked, “What were you doing with all those books you were trying to get down the stairs?”
“Giving them to Goodwill,” Abby said. “There’s just never enough shelf space.”
Ian brought a plate of cookies and sat down at the end of the table. “Have a cookie.”
Abby sighed. “You’re a better hostess than I am. Where’d these come from?”
He smiled a stage smile. “Xandria made them. With her own lily-white hands.”
“I’ll bet.” The two women each took a cookie. “Not bad,” Abby said. “Did she bring cookies for everyone, or just for you?”
“Just for the men.” Ian laughed. “You should have seen Leo Gunn’s face.”
Marian finished her cookie and reached for another. “I think I’m supposed to be here on police business. Just thought I’d mention it.”
“And now that you’ve mentioned it,” Abby said, “we can forget about it?”
“’Fraid not. This will take all’ of thirty seconds, so brace yourselves.” Marian pointed a finger at Ian. “Honest-to-god truth, now—how much was that shaving mug worth?”
He took a swallow of coffee and said, “Honest-to-god truth, I haven’t the foggiest. I put a five-thousand-dollar price tag on it the night it was stolen because I was furious at being robbed—but my grandfather could have gotten it at Woolworth’s for all I know. Kelly told me it was missing from the things you recovered, is that right?”
“Unfortunately. I’m sorry, but I doubt if you’ll ever get it back now. Did anyone ever offer to buy the mug from you?”
“Good heavens, no. Although come to think of it, Abby did try to throw it away a couple of times.”
“I did not. I simply bought you a new one last Christmas, that’s all.”
“Which I now use dutifully every day, thank you very much.”
“So the missing mug would have no value for anyone else?” Marian persisted.
They both sobered at her tone. Ian said, “No, it has no intrinsic value. It’s just an old shaving mug.”
Marian nodded. “Okay, that’s my thirty seconds’ worth. That’s all I wanted to know.”
The other two exchanged a look. Abby said, “Marian, who was this Ernie Nordstrom? Was his burglarizing the Broadhurst what got him killed? What’s the connection?”
Marian gave them the Reader’s Digest version. “Ernie Nordstrom was a man whose whole life consisted of dealing show business collectibles. He was killed by someone who set up the Broadhurst burglary for him. The killer’s cut was to be one specific item that was kept backstage—we don’t know what. But it looks as if Nordstrom welshed on the deal and was killed for it, and then the killer simply took the item he wanted. But before he left Nordstrom’s apartment, he grabbed up as much other stuff as he could carry—to muddy the waters a little.”
“And my shaving mug was one of the things he grabbed,” Ian said.
“That’s right. The mug’s most likely been broken and the pieces scattered by now.”
“Damn. Is the killer connected with The Apostrophe Thief?”
“He has to be,” Abby interposed, “if he was able to set up the burglary. What else was taken besides the shaving mug?”
“Three costumes and a notebook computer,” Marian said. “Everything else is accounted for.”
“Mitchell Tobin’s the only one who had a notebook,” Ian remarked. “One of the costumes must have been the Bernhardt jacket, right? What were the other two?”
“A dress worn by Xandria Priest and Frieda Armstrong’s fake fur.”
Abby and Ian looked at each other and shrugged. “The Bernhardt jacket,” Abby said.
Ian concurred. “It’s the most valuable thing there.”
Marian was inclined to agree. “I’m trying to rule the items out, one by one. So far, I’m about as certain as I can be that it wasn’t the shaving mug or the other two costumes. That computer is still a question mark, though.”
“Tobin hadn’t had it long,” Ian said. “I remember how excited he was with his new toy.”
“Have you asked Xandria and Frieda about their costumes yet?” Abby asked. When Marian said yes, the playwright smiled. “Did Frieda give you her King Lear interpretation? About how The Apostrophe Thief concerns a mother with two ungrateful daughters?”
Marian laughed softly. “She certainly did. She really thinks your play is about her character, doesn’t she?”
“That’s why she w
as cast,” Abby explained. “Frieda Armstrong has spent her life playing warm, nurturing, concerned women—but she’s one of the most self-absorbed actors in theater … and that’s saying something. John Reddick has done a marvelous job of getting her to let that aspect of her personality show through. The reviewers all mentioned the ‘new subtlety’ in her performance or some such flapdoodle. One of them even praised her courage in revealing the dark side of a stereotype she’s played so successfully in the past.”
“Frieda’s going to win a Tony for this role,” Ian proclaimed wryly. “You wait.”
“She said something to me that I’m sure is a line from a movie,” Marian remarked. “What’s this from? ‘It’s better to be stolen from than to have to steal.’”
The other two frowned in concentration. “British,” Ian said at last.
“And it’s a man who says the line,” Abby added.
But neither of them could remember which movie. Marian looked at her watch and stood up. “Thanks for the coffee … and the cookies.”
Abby looked surprised. “You’re leaving?”
“I have to report to my captain. And I want to get away in time to come to the theater tonight.”
“Can’t stay away, hm?” Ian asked smugly.
“Positively can’t,” Marian answered with a smile. “See you later.”
When she’d left, she thought it just as well she hadn’t told them that one of the reasons she was going to the theater was to talk to the wardrobe mistress, not to see the play. The woman lived on Long Island, and Marian simply didn’t want to make the drive. But while she was at the Broadhurst, it might not hurt to have a word with Leo Gunn as well. Who was in a better position to know cleaning-crew and doorkeeper schedules than the stage manager?
She got back to Midtown South to find storm clouds brewing. Captain Murtaugh was talking heatedly on the phone; he made an angry arm gesture for her to come into his office. She closed the door behind her.
