Fatal Gambit

by Ray Flynt

  Sharon once again looked through the viewer of the video camera. After digging the first hole, Milo retrieved a 4” by 4” from the Silverado, hoisted the 8-foot post on his shoulder, and dropped it into the ground. He eyeballed the top of the post, most likely to see if it lined up with the ledger board. She prayed for a clear video image. They would nail this guy.

  The officer returned to her window asking skeptically, “How do you know L. Bradford Frame?”

  “I work for him. I’ve got a business card here somewhere.” She did another one-handed fumble for her wallet.

  “That’s okay. You on assignment?”

  “Yes.”

  He handed her driver’s license back. “Mr. Frame guest lectured at the police academy on crime scene analysis along with Captain Argostino. Sorry to trouble you. We had a report of suspicious activity in the park, but that couldn’t be you. Have a good day.”

  With what she’d already captured on video, it would be a very good day.

  32

  Lauren’s Funeral

  Brad spotted the Ford Transit parked in front of Stage 42. Behind it, a line of patrons wrapped around the corner on 9th Avenue waiting at the theatre’s box office. He recognized several cast members standing next to the white van wearing scarves and hats to shield against the morning chill, most gripping cups of Starbucks coffee, while the stage manager tempted them with a box of Krispy Kreme donuts.

  Zane emerged from the theatre and aimed his thumb over his shoulder at the waiting ticket buyers, before high-fiving with a couple of cast members. “Can you fucking believe this?” He unlocked the doors with the remote, which signaled a stampede out of the cold and into the twelve passenger vehicle.

  “Anybody see Aaron?” Zane asked.

  When no one responded, he turned to Brad. “You might as well take shotgun.”

  Brad buckled into the front passenger seat, then swiveled to survey the other occupants. In the row behind him sat Cicely Jackson, Rook in the show and Doug Brennan’s girlfriend off-stage, alongside Tracy Macklin and Todd Hurley, the two stage managers. Behind them, Trevor Dodson, who played Hayden Whitcomb, next to director Hector Morales, and Melinda Harrison, successor to the Knight role. In the back row, Angela, the wardrobe lady with the tough-to-pronounce Russian name, and Tucker, the standby who’d be taking over the pivotal character of Pawn on Thursday night. Tucker had his nose buried in a notebook, and Brad wondered if it might be the Gambit script.

  Zane started the engine and propped his smartphone, open to a mapping app, on the dash. “Cicely, what’s the name of the synagogue?”

  Moments later she replied, “Temple Judea in Doylestown.”

  Zane entered the information. “It’ll take an hour and forty-five minutes. We better get going.”

  “Could you send a little more heat this way?” Angela shouted.

  “Sure thing.”

  Just as Zane put the van in gear, Hector called out, “Hold up. Here comes Aaron.”

  Aaron raced toward the vehicle, arms waving, yelling, “Wait.”

  Brad reached for the door handle, intending to offer Aaron the front seat, but Zane peddled his hand in a stay-put gesture and activated the sliding side door.

  They must still be on the outs.

  “Where the hell has he been?” Hector grumbled, then repeated, “Where the hell have you been?” as Aaron climbed in and shimmied toward the back row of the van, plopping down next to Tucker.

  Aaron caught his breath. “On the phone with Ralph, telling him about the crush at the box office. The Parisian Woman is scheduled to close at the Hudson in mid-March. Ralph’s gonna see if we can book it.”

  A smile creased Zane’s lips as prospects brightened toward his dream of a Broadway transfer for Gambit.

  The passengers buzzed over the news.

  As they idled in an interminable line to enter the Lincoln Tunnel, Tracy got rid of the last of the donuts she’d brought, Tucker confirmed he was studying lines, and Todd asked Cicely if she’d visited Doug.

  “I saw him yesterday.” Sadness filled her voice. “He’s making the best of it. One good thing…he’s in a cell by himself. I’m less worried about him getting hurt.”

  “If he didn’t do it,” Todd said, “he’ll eventually get out.”

  “Of course he didn’t do it,” Cicely snapped.

  “I don’t mean…” Todd stopped while he was ahead.

  “I talked to Doug’s parents last night,” Cicely continued. “The police showed up with a search warrant and tore the place apart looking for poison.”

  “What kind of poison?” Trevor asked.

  Cicely held a knuckle to her lips. “I forget. Starts with an ‘S.’ ”

  “Cyanide?” Todd ventured.

  “No, silly.” Melinda giggled. “That starts with a ‘C.’ ”

  They razzed Todd for his spelling skills.

  Brad knew the type of poison but kept his mouth shut to see what anyone else might have to say.

  “According to Doug’s mom,” Cicely continued, “they didn’t find anything.”

  An interesting development.

  Zane tooted the horn for an SUV with Indiana license plates to pull ahead of him on the slow moving merge lane into the tunnel. “Fly next time.”

  Brad glanced back into the cabin, disquieted at the thought that—except for Ed Minteer, who’d skipped Lauren’s funeral—one of the van’s occupants was most likely her killer.

  Zane piped up. “Doug’s lawyer will get him off. Their so-called evidence against him has a makeup smudge on it, and we know Doug didn’t wear makeup.”

  Brad shot a glance at Zane, but a garbage truck muscled ahead of him in traffic drawing an obscenity-laced tirade.

  If Zane’s announcement about a makeup smudge piqued the curiosity of the van’s occupants, it didn’t reflect in conversation. They eased into the tunnel and gradually picked up speed, the heater worked well, and several people loosened coats or slipped off gloves. Trevor Dodson asked Tucker if he was nervous about Thursday’s performance.

  Tucker laughed. “I’m trying to figure out how to channel my inner twenty-one-year old, when the face I see in the mirror passes for mid-thirties.”

  “Sarah Bernhardt once played the thirty-year-old Hamlet at age fifty-five,” Hector Morales offered. “If you believe it, the audience will buy it.”

  Easier said than done.

  By 11 a.m. they were speeding west along I-78. Most of the cast and crew dozed. Theirs was a nighttime profession.

  After crossing the Delaware River into Pennsylvania, the cast and crew gradually came to life, commenting on snow that blanketed acres of farmland next to the highway. Angela remarked about it being Valentine’s Day. Brad wondered if Beth had received the roses he sent to her office.

  “Hey Zane,” Melinda called out, “there’s a card for you tacked to the bulletin board next to the cast sign-in sheet.”

  “Who’s it from?”

  “Your ex,” Tracy volunteered.

  “Humph,” Aaron snorted. “Figures.”

  Zane bit his lower lip as he glowered in the rearview mirror at Aaron.

  Glancing over his shoulder at Tracy, Zane asked, “How do you know?”

  “I saw Ken when he delivered it last Saturday.”

  The night of the murder. Brad made a mental note to follow-up with Tracy for more details. Until then, Ken hadn’t been on his radar scope as a potential suspect.

  “Do we have time for a pit stop before we get to the synagogue?” Angela asked.

  “Sure.”

  A few miles later, Zane pulled into McDonald’s where everyone piled out of the van to stretch, use the facilities, or add more caffeine to their bodies.

  Temple Judea, the synagogue for Lauren Parshall’s funeral, sat on the outskirts of Doylestown in a rural community called Furlong.

  Brad hadn’t spent a lot of time in Jewish temples, with his attendance mainly limited to a few college friend’s weddings and a couple of bar/bat mitzvahs
. The experience conjured images of baroque Eastern European architecture with carved woods, elegant chandeliers, and opulent artifacts. Temple Judea was a newly designed contemporary structure, elegant in its simplicity.

  The Gambit delegation took seats in portions of two rows, behind family and Lauren’s local friends. Angela and Cicely sobbed at the sight of Lauren’s poplar coffin with a wooden Star of David affixed to the lid. The men remained stoic.

  Rabbi Maurice Libman conducted a solemn service, opening with the reading of the 23rd Psalm.

  This was followed by more Psalms.

  “O Lord, what is man that You regard him, or the son of man that You take account of him? Man is like a breath, his days are like a passing shadow. You sweep men away. They are like a dream; like grass which is renewed in the morning. In the morning it flourishes and grows, but in the evening it fades and withers. The years of our life are threescore and ten, or even by reason of special strength fourscore; yet their pride is but toil and trouble. They are soon gone, and we fly away. So teach us to treasure our days that we may get a wise heart. Observe the good man, and behold the upright, for there is immortality for the man of peace. Surely God will ransom my soul from the grave; He will gladly accept me. The Lord redeems the souls of His servants; none of those who take refuge in Him will be condemned. The dust returns to the earth as it was, but the spirit returns to God who gave it.”

  Sniffles rose from Brad’s seatmates, and several of them wiped away tears. Funerals always brought back the painful memories of Brad’s own family tragedy. He couldn’t erase the vision of two caskets side by side at St. Matthew’s Episcopal Church on the day they buried his mother and sister. Their kidnapping and murder propelled him to his life as a private detective bringing justice to others. He only hoped that he could help the police bring justice for Lauren’s untimely death.

  The Rabbi offered a prayer:

  “O God, full of compassion, Thou who dwellest on high! Grant perfect rest beneath the sheltering wings of Thy presence, among the holy and pure who shine as the brightness on the heavens, unto the soul of Lauren the daughter of Simon who has gone unto eternity, and in whose memory charity is offered. May her repose be in paradise. May the Lord of Mercy bring her under the cover of His wings forever, and may her soul be bound up in the bond of eternal life. May the Lord be her possession, and may she rest in peace. Amen.”

  Amen. Others softly spoke the word.

  Brad never had the opportunity to meet Lauren, but the plain words of the Rabbi’s eulogy, addressing her patience, love of family, and commitment to sharing her creativity, illuminated her character.

  After the service, the van followed the hearse and other mourners to the cemetery, and the occupants joined the processional as the casket was carried to the grave. Rabbi Libman recited Psalm 91: “For He will give His angels charge over thee to keep thee in all thy ways.”

  Six pallbearers, all wearing yarmulkes, lowered Lauren’s coffin into the earth. Family and close friends joined in the tradition of shoveling dirt on the casket. One man, his eyes moist with tears, helped Lauren’s mother. Brad suspected it was David, who Lauren had acknowledged in her Playbill bio, and who’d been labeled her partner.

  The simplicity of the service impressed him, as well as the gesture by so many of Lauren’s theatrical colleagues to honor her with their presence.

  With the burial complete, Zane returned to the driver’s seat of the van, while several of the cast and crew approached family members to offer comfort.

  Tracy Macklin, the stage manager, wasn’t one of them. Brad found her behind the van smoking a cigarette and pulled her aside for a private conversation. “You mentioned a note left for Zane on a backstage bulletin board.”

  “That’s right.”

  “His ex left the note, do you mean Ken?”

  She bobbed her head.

  “Are you sure?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Of course I’m sure. I introduced the two of them, almost four years ago.”

  “You said he visited the theatre on Saturday. Do you remember what time?”

  Tracy took a long drag on her cigarette. “Not sure. I’d finished my prep for the evening performance, but we hadn’t opened the house yet. Maybe…six-forty-five. From my work station I saw Ken come in the stage door.”

  “Did you talk with him?”

  “For a quick minute. He asked if Zane were around. I hadn’t seen him. Said he was going to say ‘Hi’ to Ed.”

  “Did he?”

  “Did he what?”

  “Speak with Ed.”

  Tracy shrugged and took another puff on her cigarette before stomping it out on the gravel drive. “I don’t know.”

  “Does Ken work in theatre?”

  “Not directly. He’s a graphic designer. He’s worked on a couple of show posters, but his office handles all kinds of design work from pizza ads to web graphics.”

  “Did Ken know Lauren?”

  Tracy stared back at him, eyes widening, as if she’d finally connected the dots on why Brad had been questioning her. “You aren’t implying….”

  It was Brad’s turn to shrug. “Did he know her?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Tracy tugged on her scarf and wandered away in a daze.

  Brad turned on his phone and smiled at the waiting text from Beth, which included a photo of the dozen red roses he’d sent.

  Everyone climbed back into the van. When Brad went to the front passenger door, Aaron sat shotgun. Zane grinned at Brad like a Cheshire cat and jerked his head in the direction of the sliding side door—a silent instruction for him to sit in the back.

  Brad nestled between a scene-studying standby and a snoring wardrobe lady. The return trip to New York seemed twice as long.

  33

  Brad’s phone woke him. Moments earlier, a dream had transported him to a contentious Joedco board meeting, for which he served as chair—including scenes of a raucous fight with his brother. After God knows how many rings, Brad jolted back to the reality of his bed at the New York City Marriott Marquis. In the room, darkened by the blackout drapes, he groped the nightstand for his phone, and knocked it plummeting to the carpet. He sat up, noted the time from the alarm as 6:05 a.m., and retrieved the phone from the floor. After swiping it on, he managed a slurred “Hello.”

  “You fucking lied to me.” A woman’s voice snarled.

  Fully awake, Brad turned on the light next to the bed. He eliminated Beth and Sharon as the source of the call, since neither of their special rings had wakened him, and scratched his head for a clue as to who might be calling. “Who is this?”

  “Don’t bullshit me. If you weren’t Nick’s friend, I wouldn’t have talked with you in the first place.”

  Detective Russo.

  “Wait a minute. What happened?”

  “You called the Daily News, and now my lieutenant is all up my ass crack about compromising the investigation. You get nothing more from me.”

  “I, uh—”

  “Your buddy Nick is gonna hear about your betrayal of a fellow officer.”

  She disconnected the call before Brad could say anything further.

  He got dressed and visited the hotel’s lobby, hoping to find out what information appeared in the NY Daily News. The newsstand wasn’t open yet, but stacks of various newspapers sat outside the entry. Another person had snagged a copy of the Daily News and left money on top of the pile. Brad followed suit.

  He settled into a stool at the Starbucks’ counter, sipped a venti-sized dark French roast, and perused the paper for what had pissed off Russo.

  The tabloid-style cover dealt with the latest Washington, DC, food fight. Lately, sideshows from the federal government had given middle school antics a bad name.

  Brad found what he was looking for on the third page, under the headline: New Details in Theatre Murder.

  The Daily News has learned that makeup smudged on a plastic baggie containing strychnine was the critical evidenc
e leading to the arrest of Doug Brennan for the murder of Lauren Parshall during last Saturday’s preview of the new hit play, Gambit, at Stage 42.

  The article went on to repeat information about Lauren’s death already well established in the media.

  It’s possible Doug’s lawyer, Quentin Dobbins, had leaked the information to the press. He spoke with Detective Russo after Brad, and she’d shared that facet of the investigation with Dobbins. Brad cringed at the thought that Zane’s offhand remark in the van on the way to Lauren’s funeral had found its way into the newspaper. He couldn’t blame Victoria Russo for being upset.

  Brad finished his coffee while leafing through the rest of the paper. Near the back, on pages devoted to entertainment, he spotted a photograph of the line outside the Stage 42 box office, with the caption, “Sales soar for Gambit.” Below the picture, an article with Joel Harris’ byline.

  In this era of online ticket buying, it’s unusual to see long lines forming at a theatre box office. Such phenomena are usually associated with a hit musical, rarely for a play. Gambit, the new Off-Broadway sensation by Zane Scott Tilghman, whose previous hit show, Wired, played for nearly two years on the Great White Way, is racking up lines outside 42nd Street and 9th Avenue.

  The play drew favorable reviews at its Monday night opening, including a few raves. Lines often indicate a show has caught the attention of ticket brokers and group sales mavens, but is there also a curiosity factor resulting from the death by poisoning of Lauren Parshall, one of the show’s stars?

  Whatever the reason, Gambit’s success may also mean a transfer to Broadway. Lead producer, Ralph Lundgren, confirmed negotiations are underway for a Broadway house that will more than double capacity. They could slay it at the box office for years to come.

  The article contained a link to Joel Harris’ review. The photo, transfer rumor, and inclusion of Ralph Lundgren’s name, put Aaron Siegel’s fingerprints all over it. Not hard to imagine how PR-hound Aaron gushed about long lines and a possible move to Broadway. However, when a skeptical Harris raised questions about the murder cloud hanging over the show—Aaron spilled the beans regarding makeup smudges on bags of strychnine. In turn, Harris shared that tidbit and made the news editors happy.