Fare Play

by Barbara Paul

  When he was seated across from her, Marian pushed the two sketches toward him that Paula Dancer had left. “The man first,” she said. “You maintain that’s an accurate representation of your boss?”

  The young man picked up the computer-generated sketch and examined it carefully. “There are some differences, but—essentially, yes.”

  “Essentially, no,” Marian said. “The only similarities between that face and Holland’s are that they’re both male and they’re both clean-shaven. And they both have dark hair. The graphics tech told me that’s the face of the detective who was sitting at the next desk.”

  “Really?” André found this mildly interesting.

  “How can you not know what the man you work for looks like?”

  He looked everywhere in the room except at Marian. “I do know what Mr. Holland looks like. I’m just not very good at describing people.”

  “I’ll say. This sketch of the woman is useless.”

  “Excuse me, ma’am, but I’m pretty sure of that one.”

  Marian sighed. “André, do you remember the policewoman who composed these pictures? You last saw her, oh, three minutes ago.”

  “Uh, I remember her,” he answered vaguely.

  She flicked the sketch with her finger. “There she is.”

  His eyes widened, his attention caught at last. “I described the policewoman? Wow. Isn’t it amazing, the tricks your mind plays on you?”

  “Yeah, really amazing.” Marian turned both sketches facedown and tried to get him to look at her. “Think back, André. What were you doing when this woman calling herself Laura Cisney came into the office?”

  “Well, I was tracing funds a building contractor was moving around to keep them from being frozen by the IRS. He was using South American banks mostly—”

  “The IRS hired Holland’s agency?”

  “No, one of the contractor’s creditors is our client. I don’t think I should talk about it, ma’am. Confidentiality, you know.”

  “Oh.” Marian suppressed a smile. “So you were trying to trace the movement of this contractor’s money. Where were you? Physically.”

  He looked faintly surprised at the question. “In my office.” Like, where else?

  “How did you know when this woman came in?”

  “She didn’t come in, at first—the door’s kept locked. She pressed a buzzer and my security light started to flash. It was my week to cover when the receptionist went to lunch. So I looked at the monitor and saw it was just a woman, alone.”

  Just a woman. “So you buzzed her in. Then what?”

  Marian took him through the encounter step by step. André told her what he could, his eyes fixed throughout on some spot in the vicinity of her left ear. It became clear that André had paid no more attention to Laura Cisney’s face than he was paying to Marian’s now. She got the distinct impression that Holland’s young computer genius was giving her maybe one percent of his attention. He was just going through the motions of being interviewed because Holland had ordered him to come in; but his mind was elsewhere. Probably in South America, Marian thought. When she’d asked all the questions she could think to ask, she still had nothing more than André’s original description of the woman who wanted Oliver Knowles followed: she was medium.

  Finally she said, “I’m disappointed, André. I was hoping you’d be able to help us.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  But he wasn’t, Marian thought, watching him watching the wall behind her head. He wasn’t sorry and he wasn’t even interested. André wasn’t being uncooperative; he just wasn’t … here. Whatever problem Marian had, it was hers alone; he was totally detached from it. Marian speculated over whether he wasn’t responding to her because: a) she was a police lieutenant; b) she was female; c) she was not of his generation; d) she didn’t live her life through computers. She suspected the answer was d).

  At last she let him go, wondering if he’d recognize her the next time he saw her.

  9

  Mrs. Austin Knowles opened the door to Marian’s ring. Redhead, in her late thirties, her pretty face drawn into tight lines of distress. She was wearing a ruffled peach blouse with slim black trousers; something green sparkled at her earlobes. Marian introduced herself and was invited in after only a momentary hesitation.

  “Austin is lying down,” Mrs. Knowles explained, offering Marian a seat on a white sofa as long as Marian’s kitchen. She herself sat on a facing black sofa, equally long and about ten feet away. Marian could visualize a party in this room—Oh, do come in … I think there’s a place left on the black sofa. Two rows of people talking at each other over a ten-foot space. Marian put the image out of her head and murmured a conventional expression of sympathy.

  “This is very hard for Austin,” Mrs. Knowles said, “losing both parents so close together.”

  “His mother died recently?”

  “Just last month. It was cancer … a long, drawn-out illness.”

  “I’m sorry.” Marian let a moment pass and then said, “Mrs. Knowles, do you have any idea why someone would want your father-in-law dead?”

  She shook her head. “I have to think the … the killer shot the wrong man. Oliver was just an old man who liked to play with toys.”

  “But he was a wealthy old man. Who inherits all that?”

  Mrs. Knowles flared. “Are you accusing my husband?”

  Marian tried to look startled. “No. I’m asking a question. I’m assuming your husband is the main beneficiary, but was anyone else named in the will?”

  The woman looked uncertain. “You’d better ask Austin.”

  “All right, I will. I’m sorry to disturb Mr. Knowles, but I do need to talk to him now.”

  Mrs. Knowles frowned. “I’ll go see if he’s awake.” She left the room.

  The Knowleses lived well. From what Marian could see of their Fifth Avenue apartment, the architecturing biz was paying off handsomely for Austin Knowles. This whole family was used to having money. And if the money stayed in the family, maybe the motive behind the killing was something else.

  Austin Knowles came in looking haggard and grim, obviously hit hard by his father’s death. The manner of the old man’s dying was enough to rock anyone, but following so soon after his mother’s death … Marian felt a stab of sympathy for the architect. Since Mrs. Knowles had not returned with her husband, Marian once again introduced herself. Knowles sat down at the opposite end of the long white sofa.

  He was a slim, tense man in his forties who walked leaning forward … blue eyes, blond hair beginning to thin on top. In normal times he probably carried an air of authority. But in the midst of grieving for his father, Knowles seemed disoriented, uncertain. “Do you have a line on the killer yet?” he asked before Marian could start the interview.

  “No,” Marian answered regretfully. “We’re not going to get any leads from those people on the bus, Mr. Knowles. They didn’t see anything. We’re going to have to look for whoever hired him.”

  Knowles rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Why? He was a harmless old man. Why would anyone want to kill him?”

  “That’s what I was hoping you could tell me. Let’s get the unpleasant part out of the way first. Who inherits?”

  “I do. Trust funds set up for his secretary and his housekeeper, but I get the bulk of it.”

  “How big are the trust funds?”

  “Big enough to give them both a comfortable income for the rest of their lives. But both Lucas—ah …”

  “Lucas Novak and Mrs. Ellen Rudolph, yes.”

  Knowles nodded. “You know about them, right. But they’re family, Lieutenant. Lucas and Mrs. R and Dad had been living comfortably together for nearly twenty years. Well, Mrs. R has been there twenty years … I guess it’s more like fifteen for Lucas. But they were both protective of Dad. They took care of him. Neither one of them would want him dead.”

  “Isn’t that unusual, leaving trust funds for people who are, well …”

 
“Getting along in years? Yes, it is. But Dad asked them whether they’d like a lump sum or a steady income, and they both opted for the latter.”

  “So he talked about his will with them. When was this?”

  “Oh, four or five years ago. Dad always took care of his people, and he always let them know where they stood. But even though Mrs. R and Lucas won’t have any financial worries, they are going to lose their home. That won’t be easy for them, after so many years.”

  “You inherit the apartment? And you’re going to sell it?”

  “Oh yes. It’s a valuable piece of real estate, Lieutenant. I’m not going to do anything about it until I’m sure Mrs. R and Lucas are settled somewhere, though. I haven’t had time to think about these things yet. But those two would never do anything that would cost them their home. It’s absurd even to consider it.”

  Marian reserved judgement, but the flat way Knowles had closed the subject told her there was no point in pursuing it now. Look elsewhere. “Did your father sell his business when he retired?”

  “No, he still liked to drop into the office now and then. He could never bring himself to give up his toys.”

  “Who’s running the business now?”

  “A man named David Unger. Dave’s another one who’d been with Dad for a long time. Ten or twelve years, at least.”

  So Oliver Knowles had been a man who inspired loyalty … or else rewarded his employees so well that they had no desire to look for greener pastures. Marian wrote down David Unger in her notebook and asked for the address of the toy company’s business offices. “Do you plan on selling the business?”

  “God, I haven’t even thought about that. I’ll probably work out some sort of deal with Dave Unger. He has stock options, I know. The last few years that company’s been as much his as Dad’s anyway.”

  “I need to know who handled your father’s legal affairs.”

  The ghost of a smile appeared on Knowles’s face. “I was still a schoolboy back when Dad first needed a lawyer. He was just getting started in the toy business and didn’t have much money, so he hired this kid fresh out of law school. Well, that ‘kid’ is in his sixties now … and still handling Dad’s affairs.”

  Marian was amazed. “Your father held on to people, didn’t he? He believed in commitments.”

  “That’s exactly right, Lieutenant. Once he found people he could trust, he trusted them completely. And to a man, they reciprocated. Dad was a good judge of people.” Suddenly Knowles was on his feet, agitated. He started pacing. “That’s how he became what he was—by knowing whom to trust, whom to avoid. The man had a gift for recognizing his own kind. He started with nothing. We were nothing. Dirt-poor Texas white trash. Dad was determined to get us out of that. And he did.”

  “Then you’re from Texas? How long have you lived in New York?”

  “Almost all my life. I barely remember Texas. I’ve never gone back.”

  “This sixty-year-old kid who handled your father’s legal affairs—what’s his name?”

  “Elmore Zook. Isn’t that a hell of a name? I called him Zookie the Cookie when I was a boy. I don’t think he liked it, but he never said anything.”

  Elmore Zook, Marian’s pen printed out. “Where’s his office?”

  “On Park … about Fifty-Seventh or so. Look, Lieutenant, I want to help, but I’m having trouble getting my head together. Too many feelings to sort out.”

  They always let you know when the interview was over. “Of course,” Marian said, rising. “I’m sorry for your loss. I’ll keep in touch.”

  “I’m counting on that,” he said.

  10

  The stage doorkeeper waved her in. Marian walked silently to a place in the wings of the Broadhurst Theatre where she could see the stage without being in sight of the audience. The final scene of The Apostrophe Thief was just beginning; it was the only scene in the play in which the entire cast was onstage at the same time. Marian watched Kelly Ingram attempting to talk to the woman who played her mother, being ignored, feeling hurt, trying not to show it. Showing she was trying not to show it.

  Kelly was doing that a lot more subtly than when the play first opened, Marian noticed. Kelly might claim to be getting the fidgets from having to say the same lines every night … but she was still working at it, still making a good performance even better. Kelly would scream with laughter if Marian ever told her she was a perfectionist; but in her own way, that’s exactly what she was.

  Marian thought she probably knew this scene by heart, she’d watched it so many times. She loved the play almost as much as she loved seeing her friend’s success—almost, but not quite. Kelly’s move from television glitter girl to legitimate actor had not been without its traumas, but she’d done it with the same style and grace and good humor that she did everything. Marian had no doubt that once the film version of the play was made, Kelly would be a movie star as well.

  The play drew to its quiet, disturbing conclusion. There followed the usual stunned silence—and then the audience burst into applause. The performers were bowing, blowing kisses to the audience, flashing megawatt smiles … which disappeared the moment the curtains were closed. Kelly charged off the stage, smoke curling out of her ears. She stormed right past Marian without seeing her.

  Her big, handsome leading man was thundering along right behind her. “Leo!” Ian Cavanaugh boomed. “Where the hell’s Leo?”

  Kelly swirled to face him; Ian ran into her, took a step back. Kelly thrust her face up into his. “Don’t you ever, ever do that to me again!”

  “If you could just bring yourself to pay attention once in a while,” he growled, “you wouldn’t get caught by surprise like that!”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning I told you I was going to add new business tonight! Where’s Leo?”

  “You told me nothing!”

  “I told you expressly that I was going to pick up a chair and carry it to the other side of the stage so you would have to adjust your exit accordingly. I even told you which chair I was going to move!”

  “You’re out of your skull!” Suddenly something penetrated and Kelly’s head whipped around toward where Marian was standing. “Hi, toots.” Back to her co-star. “Ian, you never said a word to me!”

  He glanced over too. “Hello, Marian.” Then he looked over Kelly’s head and boomed out, “Will someone please get Leo Gunn?”

  “What’s Leo got to do with this?”

  “Leo was standing right there when I told you. If you won’t believe me, maybe you’ll believe him.”

  She looked astonished. “Ian, you’re making this up!”

  “Making it up? Making it up?” He shifted into Shakespearean mode. “Mayhap the lady is calling me a speaker of untruths?” he boomed.

  “I’m calling you confused, is what I’m calling you!”

  The stage manager came hurrying up to them. “What’s the problem?”

  “Leo, will you please explain to this obstinate woman that I informed her well ahead of tonight’s opening curtain that I was going to add some new stage business? Go ahead, tell her.” The actor folded his arms across his chest, smiling smugly.

  Leo’s face was blank. “How do I know what you told her?”

  Ian lost his smug look. “I told both of you at the same time!”

  The stage manager shook his head. “You never told me at all,” he said pointedly.

  Ian was flabbergasted. “Damn! I was sure that was you who was standing there. I wonder who it was?”

  Kelly threw up both arms in disgust and stomped away toward her dressing room, waving to Marian to follow. Leo Gunn was saying, “Ian, you surprised everybody—moving the chair like that. Kelly adjusted, but nobody knew it was coming.”

  In her dressing room, the play’s leading lady plopped down in front of her make-up mirror while Marian closed the door. Kelly slathered cold cream all over her face and grabbed a tissue and started rubbing hard enough to take the skin off. “I am going to
kill that man. I am going to strangle him with my own two lily-whites, chain his feet to an anvil, and toss him off the Triboro Bridge. That’s what I’m going to do.”

  Marian stretched out on the daybed next to the make-up table. “He just forgot to tell you.”

  “He could have ruined the scene! You don’t just spring something like that on people. But it’s not only tonight. It’s every night. Every night, Ian has to have something to complain about. Bitch, bitch, bitch. That’s all he does anymore!”

  “Hm. When’s Abby getting back from California?”

  “Oh, god … soon, I hope. Ian doesn’t like going home to an empty house.”

  “Few men do.”

  “I talked to Abby a couple of days ago. She said she’s spending most of her time waiting for meetings.”

  “I don’t understand how that works,” Marian said. “Why does the playwright have to go to script conferences? The play’s already written.”

  Kelly wiped away the final traces of make-up and cold cream. “You don’t think they’re just going to film The Apostrophe Thief the way Abby wrote it, do you? Dear me, no. Then it would just be a filmed play, it wouldn’t be a moooovie. No, they’ll tweak a little here, cut a little there, ‘open it out’—add stuff. Abby says it makes them feel creative.”

  “Abby permits this?”

  “Abigail James is lucky to be allowed to sit in on the script conferences at all. ‘In Hollywood, writers aren’t worth the paper they write on’—quoth Abby. Let me get changed and we’ll go grab a bite.”

  Marian picked up Kelly’s copy of the Times and read an article about price-fixing while her friend changed into her street clothes. She finished the article and said, “What are you in the mood for tonight? French? Italian? Indian?”

  “American,” said Kelly. “Steak, preferably. Something I can chew down on. That’s what I’m in the mood for.” She checked her appearance in the mirror. “I’m ready.”