by Dorien Grey
Damn! “I’ll have to talk it over with Jonathan. Can I call you tonight with my answer?”
“Of course.”
We sat in silence for a moment until Tait suddenly got up from his chair and said, “Well, shall we go see how the others are doing?”
“Sure,” I said, rising to follow him.
*
The conservatory was at one end of the large combination library and study, divided from it by a glass wall, apparently for temperature control. I had to admit that even I was pretty much awed by what seemed to be hundreds of exotic orchids. When Tait suggested we go back to the living room, I had to practically drag Jonathan out of the conservatory.
As we passed through the library, I noticed a large portrait of a distinguished, white-haired gentleman, apparently, from the style of his clothes, Tait’s father, or more likely, his grandfather. I gathered from that that Tait’s wealth had not been a recent development.
We left Tait’s apartment at about 1:45, and the minute we entered the elevator, Jonathan slipped into his talk-a-thon mode…the one in which his enthusiasm bubbles over into Guinness World Record Length Run-On Sentences, unhindered by punctuation of any kind. But considering his love of plants, I could hardly blame him. Chris just looked at me and grinned.
He was still talking as we got off the elevator, let the building, and crossed over to Battery Park. That he hadn’t even asked for the camera was, I thought, a pretty good indication of his distraction. But by the time we reached the booth selling tickets for the ferry to the island, he’d pretty much shifted his focus to the Statue. We were soon swallowed up in what seemed like thousands of people waiting to board the ferries. There were people of every race and every nationality, speaking in more languages than most people ever hear in a lifetime.
Jonathan leaned toward Chis in order to be heard over the din. “Can we climb up to the torch?” he asked.
“Afraid not,” Chris responded. “They used to let you climb as high as her head…see her crown? Those spaces are little observation windows. But they won’t let you up there now. The whole statue’s due for a major renovation in a couple of years. It’s been here a long time, after all.
Jonathan, though obviously disappointed, nodded.
A ferry pulled up to the dock and began disgorging passengers. When it was empty, the waiting crowd was allowed on board.
“Wow,” Jonathan said as we boarded. “I haven’t been on a boat this big since my folks took us on the ferry across Lake Michigan to see the tulip festival in Holland, Michigan, when I was a little kid!”
He paused. “You know, I’ll bet that’s when I first fell in love with plants. I’ll never forget how beautiful those tulips were.”
When the boat was loaded to capacity…we were among the last to be let on…it moved away from the dock and headed for the Statue. The weather couldn’t have been more perfect; bright sun, brisk wind. We found a spot along the port railing, and as the city receded behind us, Chris pointed out several landmarks.
The boat made a partial turn away from Liberty Island to circle the closed and sadly neglected Ellis Island. The noise level from the crowd dropped off considerably as we moved past the docks and grand old turreted buildings over which American flags still fluttered, and through which so many soon-to-be-Americans passed over so many years.
Jonathan, of course, ran out of film about halfway between Ellis and Liberty Islands.
*
As soon as we landed on Liberty Island, Jonathan made a frantic search for film, which luckily wasn’t hard to find. He bought three rolls, two of which I insisted on holding for him lest he go through them in ten seconds flat. The instant he had the film loaded, he asked Chris to take our picture, one arm around the other’s waist. Then we each took a picture of the other with Chris.
Chris had been to the Statue numerous times, and I’d been there once on a visit during a college break, so while we were both patriotic enough to be impressed by gazing up at the symbol of what America was all about, Jonathan was practically awestruck.
*
We spent about an hour and a half on the island, looking at all the exhibits, reading all the markers, going into the base of the Statue, and then wandering around the island itself, finding an empty bench in a relatively quiet spot at the back of the Statue. Chris went off to get us something to drink, and I took the opportunity to tell Jonathan about Tait’s offer and ask what he thought.
“But, jeez, Dick…it’s our vacation,” he said. “I want us to be together.”
“And that’s exactly what I told Tait,” I said. “And I told him I wouldn’t do it if you didn’t agree.” I then told him what Tait was willing to pay, and that he’d even offered to reimburse our airfare. “So it’s like this trip is practically free. We’ll set aside the money from the case toward our next trip. You would like to come back, wouldn’t you?”
I realized, of course, that I was deliberately manipulating him, and added that to the guilt I already felt for even considering taking the case…if it could be called a case. Rod’s death was most likely exactly what it appeared to be, a botched robbery resulting in murder. But I was convinced Tait felt that there was more to it, and as one whose own intuitions are more often right than wrong….
“Of course I want to come back,” Jonathan said.
“And I won’t be working twenty-four hours a day,” I said, lamely. “We’ll still have plenty of time together.”
Oh, sure.
Yeah.
You bet.
Uh huh, my mind-voices chorused.
“Oh, the hell with it!” I said aloud, startling Jonathan. “Being with you is more important than taking on another case. I’ll just call Tait and tell him I can’t do it.”
Jonathan looked slightly shocked. “Really?”
I reached over and put my hand on his leg. “Really.”
He leaned over quickly and kissed me on the cheek. “Then take the job,” he said. “I know you better than you think I do, and that you’d be willing to give up a case just for me…well, that means more than you know.”
“Am I interrupting something?” Chris said, and we looked up to see him standing in front of us carrying a cardboard tray with three enormous sodas, three straws, and several napkins, which he distributed, then threw the tray into a trash bin near our bench and sat down himself.
“Dick has a new case,” Jonathan said with a soft smile, then quickly added, “which he’ll turn down if it might in any way inconvenience you and Max.” He looked at me and the smile grew. “Right, Dick?”
“Right,” I said, hoping I wasn’t blushing too obviously.
“Tait?” Chris asked, then quickly added, “Ah…Rod! What does he expect you to do about it?” He paused. “Unless he thinks someone from…. Does he?”
Chris and I had developed, in our years together as partners, a sort of mental shorthand, and I was pleased to see we still had it.
“He doesn’t know,” I said, “but he’d like to find out.”
“Does he have any evidence? Does he suspect someone?”
“No on the first, that I know of, and if he does suspect someone in particular, he didn’t let on.”
“Then what…?”
“He’s concerned for the Whitman. He just wants to be sure no one there was involved.”
Poor Jonathan just sat there, looking from me to Chris and back again, as if he were watching some sort of vaudeville routine.
“So he wants to hire you not to find out who did it, but to satisfy himself that no one from the Whitman did?” Jonathan asked, head cocked and eyebrow raised.
“Basically.”
“Jeez!” Chris said. “Well, he’s got the money to do it, and if he wants to give it away, there’s no reason you shouldn’t take it.”
We finished our sodas in relative silence, then got up and headed for the boat docks. Jonathan took several more photos of the Statue as the boat pulled away from the island to make up for those he hadn’t gotte
n as we pulled in.
*
In deference to Jonathan, we took the subway back toward the Village. The train wasn’t too crowded, but Jonathan insisted on standing. He was intrigued, as was I, by the subway system map near the door. He looked at me and shook his head.
“How can anybody find his way around this thing?” he asked. A good question for which I had no answer.
We got out at Sheridan Square, which I gathered was about as close to Washington Square as the subway came, and took our time walking to Chris and Max’s apartment, stopping frequently at stores that caught Jonathan’s attention, and using up another roll of film along the way. He insisted on buying us matching tee shirts with Greenwich Village emblazoned across the front. He offered to buy Chris one, too, but he declined with thanks.
“And we’ve got to get something for Bob and Mario and Tim and Phil and Jared and Jake, and I’ve got to get something for the guys at work, and….”
“But not right now, I hope,” I interrupted gently.
He gave me a sheepish grin. “No, not right now.”
Chris stopped at a payphone to call the apartment to see if Max might be home yet. He wasn’t, so Chis left a message saying we were on our way.
*
Max didn’t get home until nearly seven o’clock, looking totally exhausted.
“We will make it to opening night,” he muttered to no one in particular. “We will make it. We will!” I had a mental image of Judy Garland clicking her ruby slippers together and saying, “There’s no place like home! There’s no place like home!”
He came over and sat town heavily next to Chris, who patted his thigh, then got up to get him a soda.
“So,” Max said, resisting the obvious temptation to lay his head back on the sofa, “how was your afternoon?”
“It would have been even better if you could have been with us,” Jonathan said.
“Well, this is my last stage-managing job. Ever!”
“Uh huh,” Chris said, handing Max his soda and sitting down beside him.
Max shook his head slowly. “No, Babe, I’m serious. Really. It was fun when I was single, and a lot younger, but now that I’ve got a reason to come home every night, my priorities have changed.” He paused, then repeated his earlier question: “So how was your day?”
“Dick got offered a case,” Chris said.
Max looked at me, only mildly surprised. “So you were right on being suspicious of Tait’s motives for having us over? He wants you to look into Rod’s death?”
I nodded. “Well, this is a real first for me…actually he doesn’t so much want me to find out who might have killed Rod as to reassure him that no one at the Whitman was involved. But I told him I wouldn’t take it unless Jonathan, you, and Chris agreed. We came out here to see you guys, after all. I don’t want to toss a monkey wrench into the works.”
Max glanced at Chris, who echoed my nod, then said, “Well, Rod’s death did that before you even got here, so go for it. But thanks for asking us first. When are you supposed to let him know?”
“Tonight,” I said.
He shrugged. “So go call. Then we can decide where to go for dinner.”
“Whoa, no you don’t!” Chris said. “Why don’t you go take a nap for an hour, and we’ll just call out for pizza. There are a lot of going-out-to-dinner nights left.” He turned to Jonathan and me. “That okay with you guys?”
“Sure,” we echoed.
Max didn’t need much more encouragement. He gave us a weak smile, then got up and with a small wave of his hand headed for the bedroom.
*
Tait wasn’t home, but I left a message with Keith asking him to let Tait know I’d be glad to be of service to him for the remainder of our time in New York. Chris called in our pizza order—two large, one with anchovies for Max and me, one without—and Jonathan volunteered to go down to wait for it so the doorbell wouldn’t wake Max. Actually, of course, I knew he just wanted to experience the sensations of sitting alone on the stoop of a New York apartment building on a warm summer night, absorbing as much of the feel of the city as he could. As I’ve said, Jonathan is something of a sensory sponge.
He left about ten minutes before the pizza could possibly be expected to arrive; Chris giving him the key so he could let himself back in.
For only the second time since Chris moved to New York—the first being while Max and Jonathan attended an A.A. meeting on their visit to us some time before—we found ourselves alone, and just as the first time, there was an odd sense of déjà vu and familiarity and warmth. I could tell Chris felt it too, though neither of us said anything. We just talked of ordinary things, and I was again struck by how strong the unspoken bond still was between us.
*
Max came back into the living room at almost the same time as the sound of the key fumbling in the lock announced Jonathan’s arrival with the pizzas. Chris hurried over to open the door.
“Thanks,” Jonathan said. “Trying to juggle two pizzas and a set of keys is easier in theory than in practice.”
We all followed Chris to the kitchen, where he set the pizza on the counter and went to the refrigerator for sodas while Max took plates, forks, and napkins from the cupboard to carry into the dining area of the living room.
“So, did you call Tait?” Max asked once we were all seated and diving into the pizza…which was not quite up to Momma Rosa’s back home, but pretty close.
“Yeah. He wasn’t home, but I left a message. Which brings me to my asking you guys’ help again.”
Chris, pizza slice about three-quarters of the way to his mouth, paused only long enough to raise an eyebrow in question.
I finished taking a bite of my own slice before saying, “Since I’ve never had a case where I was mainly trying to find out who didn’t do it, I think I’ll work backwards and concentrate on eliminating those from the Whitman who might have done it. I’m going to need to know everything I can about the troupe…cast, backstage crew, anyone who had contact with Rod at that last rehearsal, and especially whether there was anything unusual about that night.”
Max nodded, reaching for another slice. “Sure. Twelve cast members…six men, five women, and the kid; four stage crew—costume mistress, props, lighting and sound, stage manager…” he paused to take a humble head-lowering bow…and the director. And Tait. You can probably pretty much rule out the kid and the women, so that narrows it down to ten, counting…or nine, if you choose not to include me—though I’d hate to be left out.”
“Hey, what about me?” Chris asked, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “I’m the set designer, even though I’m not there every night.”
“Were you there the night of Rod’s murder?”
“I popped in for about five minutes to talk to Doris about a costume question. You were busy, so I didn’t want to bother you.”
I looked at him closely, eyes narrowed. “Well thank you both for volunteering. I shall move you immediately to the top of the list.”
They both grinned. “Thank you,” Chris said. “We’ve always wanted to be murder suspects.”
I returned the grin. “The least I can do for your hospitality.”
“Oh,” Chris said, “and for the rehearsal before Rod was killed, what about Keith?”
“Keith?” Max and I chorused.
“He was there? Are you sure?” Max asked. “How do you know? I didn’t see him.”
“Well, I don’t think you saw me either,” Chris said. “You and Joe and Russ were working on the hydraulic lift. I had to stop by just for a minute to talk to Doris about a costume. I came in from the back row exit door, and I saw Keith coming out of Tait’s office. I think he was going into the box office. We just nodded a ‘hi,’ and kept going.”
“Does Keith come to the theater often?” I asked.
Max pursed his lips. “Yeah, pretty often, I’d say. He just sort of comes and goes; never gets in anybody’s way or says much at all. He usually just goes right to the office, and
I almost never see him in the auditorium.” He gave Chris a weak smile. “And I’m sorry I didn’t see you, Babe.”
“You were busy,” Chris replied. “No problem.”
“What about Gene Morrison,” I asked. “Was he there?”
Max shook his head. “No, he didn’t get in from Los Angeles until the next morning. Poor guy. He really took Rod’s death hard.”
“I can imagine,” I said. And I could.
*
The pizza and another round of sodas were gone in no time, but his short nap had obviously done Max good, and we remained around the table talking and laughing. We’d mutually agreed not to rush the matter of who might or might not be a possible suspect in the event that Tait’s instinct was right and Rod’s death wasn’t just a routine robbery gone wrong.
The phone rang, and Chris got up to answer it.
“Oh, hi, Tait,” I heard him say. “Sure, just a second.” He held the phone out to me, and I got up to take it.
“Hello, Tait,” I said. “Sorry I missed you earlier.”
“That’s quite all right,” he said. “Gene and I had an early dinner meeting I should have mentioned. I’m very glad to hear you’ve decided to take the case.”
“I only hope I can be of help. I have a couple of questions and wonder if we could meet again at your convenience.”
There was no hesitation when he said, “I’ve got to go by the theater tomorrow morning. If you could meet me there at, say, ten, I’ll be happy to answer any questions you might have…if I can.”
“I’ll see you there,” I said.
CHAPTER 3
We were all up, dressed, coffeed, and ready to go by 8:30. We walked to a small café with a large outdoor patio for an Eggs Benedict breakfast, and then headed for the Whitman, arriving there around 9:55.
“I have no idea how long I’ll be,” I said as Max pointed me to a door in a narrow alley at the side of the building.
“No problem. We’ll just wander around and check back here every half hour, okay?”
“Great,” I said. With a wave they moved off down the street and I turned toward the door. I wasn’t sure whether to knock or not, so I pulled the handle and the door opened, letting me into the back row of the auditorium. I was a little surprised by how small it was—not many more than 100 seats, I’d judge…or what maximum seating capacity non-Equity theaters were allowed.
