Fatal Gambit

by Ray Flynt

  “Of course, because he’s a man. The breakup can’t be about him…or his inferior talent. He has to turn her into a bitch. Trust me. Ed’s not the first guy to blame his shortcomings on the woman.”

  Brad stared at her. She sounds like the voice of experience.

  Tracy never even twitched. She slung the handles of a canvas bag over her shoulder. “I need to grab a sandwich and be back in forty-five minutes.”

  “Since it looks like I’ve been stood up, I’ll go with you.”

  They walked past Hayden Whitcomb’s elaborate great room toward the stage door. As they prepared to leave, the door jerked open and Ed stood in front of them.

  “Speak of the devil,” Tracy said.

  Ed made a sour expression.

  Brad deflected Ed’s attention. “I thought you’d forgotten about our meeting.”

  “No. Figured you and Zane would be kibitzing for a while. I joined Cicely and the others for an impromptu celebration around the corner.”

  Brad had traveled throughout the UK, knew they had as many dialects in that small country as in the USA. Ed’s accent reminded him of London proper. He detected a whiff of beer, though Ed would hardly have had time for more than one.

  “I gotta go.” Tracy slipped past Ed and onto the sidewalk.

  “What got into her?”

  Brad ignored the question. “Can we chat a few minutes?”

  “Sure. Follow me.”

  Moments later, in the men’s dressing room, Ed pointed toward a chair.

  As Brad sat, Ed snapped on the lights surrounding his makeup mirror. With a grand gesture and an unrecognizable accent he uttered, “Why did you bring these daggers from the place?”

  Brad cocked his head.

  “Did you see Murder on the Orient Express?”

  “Sure, with Kenneth Branagh.”

  Ed sat next to the dressing table, reached for a packet of Chiclets, shook a pair of them into his hand, and popped them in his mouth. He offered the box to Brad who declined. “Not the Branagh version. The one with Albert Finney, one of my favorite actors.”

  “Maybe a long time ago.”

  “Finney, as Poirot, said the line to Bacall’s character, Mrs. Hubbard. Those words are from Act 2 of The Scottish Play.” Ed drew quotation marks in the air with his fingers.

  Brad recalled a superstition against actors uttering the name Macbeth in the theatre lest it bring bad luck.

  “The Lady—future queen—was angry that her husband had brought the bloody daggers used to kill King Duncan. It was Poirot’s way of signaling he knew Hubbard’s true identity as the stage actress Linda Arden.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  Ed’s facial expression signaled isn’t-it-obvious. “I’m waiting to hear what clever line you have to say to me. I’m sure a couple people around here think I committed murder.”

  “Did you?”

  “Expecting me to confess?”

  “Not if you didn’t do it.”

  Ed chomped on his gum. “I can’t even engage you in a game of cat and mouse.”

  “You could answer a few questions.”

  “Shoot.”

  “What were you doing last Saturday in the hours between the matinee and evening performance?”

  Ed tapped the makeup counter. “Sitting here. Wasn’t punching a time clock.”

  “I don’t need a minute by minute accounting. What did you do? Were there others in the room?”

  “You mean do I have an alibi.”

  Who’s playing a game now? Brad leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. Silence had a way of drawing out responses better than shouting. He gazed at the floor, depriving the actor of an audience.

  “There isn’t much to do between shows,” Ed blurted. “You can hang out in the dressing room or venture out. It was way too cold that night for me to leave the theatre.”

  Brad’s strategy worked. He gave Ed his undivided attention.

  “All the guys hung out in the men’s dressing room—Doug, Trevor, Tucker, and me, along with Cicely, who never likes to stray too far from Doug. Trevor listened to an audiobook—not engaged in much conversation wearing those ear buds. I played a couple of hands of gin rummy with Tucker. Doug and Cicely spent a lot of time making out, occasionally joining in intermittent conversation.” Ed stroked his chin. “Oh, I perused the souvenir program, mostly to make sure they spelled my name right. Last show I did, they called me Ed Minter—rhymes with Pinter.”

  Ken Phillips had reported sticking his head in the dressing room when Ed wasn’t there, only to get a cold shoulder from him moments later. Perhaps Ed had simply visited the adjacent restroom.

  “Did any of you guys leave the theatre?”

  Ed shook his head. “Angela and Tracy stopped by to see if anyone wanted a sandwich from the deli around the corner. Doug and Cicely placed an order. Hope you don’t expect me to remember if it was pastrami or liverwurst. I won’t eat before a show…gives me gas.”

  Fits his persona.

  “You had a visitor after the matinee that Saturday.”

  His gum chewing slowed. “I don’t remember. Wait…that was my landlord. I told her I’d arrange a house seat for her and to stop backstage afterward. She came back wanting to meet Trevor. He impressed her.”

  “The other actors didn’t?”

  Ed winced. “The language bothered her. She’s old school. The minute she heard the first F-bomb, she soured on the experience—not like it hasn’t been said in nearly every PG-13 movie since the ’90s. When I first rented the apartment from her and she found out I was an actor, she mentioned seeing The Lion King. Not my fault she didn’t appreciate the show. Like Groucho Marx said, ‘I didn’t like the play, but then I saw it under adverse conditions—the curtain was up.’ ”

  Ed had warmed up, leaning back comfortably in his chair holding court. Brad felt it was time to push a few issues.

  “I understand Lauren had two visitors after the Saturday matinee.”

  “How the hell would I know?”

  “Did you see her between the shows?”

  A curt, “No.”

  “Sorry, I thought you might have noticed people around her.”

  “Why? It’s not like there’s any love lost between us.”

  “That’s exactly what there is. The two of you were in love once and lived together for two years before the breakup. Sounds like love lost to me.”

  “Who have you been talking to?”

  Brad remained tight-lipped.

  “It’s that damned Tracy, that’s who. Isn’t it?”

  “What do you have against her?” Brad asked.

  Ed pawed the air. “Forget it.”

  “How many shows have you worked with Tracy in addition to Arcadia and this one?”

  “I said forget it.”

  Ed took the wad of gum out of his mouth. “This stuff don’t last.”

  As he searched for a place to stow it, Brad reached for a Kleenex on the counter in front of him and extended it toward Ed. “I’ll throw it away.”

  Ed muttered thanks as his dropped gum instantly stuck to the held tissue.

  Brad closed the tissue in his palm, pantomimed throwing it into a waste basket under the counter, but instead pocketed it.

  A second specimen to share with Detective Russo.

  Brad turned back to Ed. “You were the only cast member who didn’t attend Lauren’s funeral.”

  Ed shot him a don’t-start-with-that glare.

  “Why?”

  Ed massaged his fingers across his forehead. “We made peace with one another a long time ago. My being there wouldn’t have helped either of us.”

  Like most of Ed’s verbal delivery, the words came with bluster. Brad understood what Tracy had said about the reasons Ed broke up with Lauren. The self-centered gruffness built into his genes. His stature and resonant baritone commanded attention. He knew it and worked them to his advantage.

  “Last question: Who do you think killed Lauren?
”

  Ed blinked. “Honestly, I figured Doug did it.”

  “Why?”

  “Beats me.” He shrugged. “But he was the guy passing out the champagne glasses. Doug will be back tonight and if anyone thinks I’m actually gonna drink from mine they got another think coming. Label me cautious.”

  “What did Doug have against Lauren?”

  “Nothing I know, but I never figured she was the target. Whoever put poison in that glass wanted to cause mayhem—and did. All I know is that Albert Finney would have had it figured out by now.”

  It was a gratuitous shot. Ed smirked at having seized the last word.

  But it marked the second time that day that the notion of Lauren’s death as a random act had resurfaced. It forced Brad to rethink the case.

  40

  Brad left Stage 42 at 5:30 p.m. The lobby stood empty. It would be another two hours before patrons lined up for that evening’s performance.

  He caught a glimpse of Tracy, with her phone pressed to her ear, heading back toward the theatre from half a block away. He didn’t think she took notice of him. Night had already fallen, along with a corresponding drop in temperature. A neon glow rose from Times Square two blocks away.

  He’d promised Russo a visit by six. Brad hailed a cab, asking the driver for a quick stop at the Marriott Marquis so he could retrieve the can of soda with Ken Phillips’ DNA evidence. After that brief interruption, the taxi deposited him in front of the Midtown South Precinct headquarters on West 35th Street. A quick look at the time told him he had five minutes to spare.

  Brad wondered what kind of a reception Russo would give him. She’d been all business during their Tuesday meeting but her fangs were out in her early morning call. He gripped the top of the bag with the soda can as he entered and identified himself at the main information desk.

  “You can go on up, Mr. Frame. She’s expecting you.”

  He boarded the elevator and pressed the button for the second floor. Russo stood waiting for him when the doors slid open. Unlike their first encounter, she wore civilian clothes, a light gray suit, pink blouse, with a pearl necklace.

  She must’ve observed him taking notice. “I had a court appearance earlier.” Russo pivoted. “This way.”

  He followed her down the hall to the same cubbyhole where they’d met two days earlier. They faced each other across a small conference table. She looked a lot older.

  Maybe it’s the scowl.

  “What d’ya got for me,” she snapped.

  Okay. No pleasantries.

  Brad set down the paper bag containing the empty Diet Dr. Pepper can he’d confiscated from Ken Phillips’ office.

  Her look of disapproval deepened, demanding an explanation.

  “This contains a soda can with DNA from Ken Phillips, a legitimate suspect in the murder of Lauren Parshall.” Brad explained Ken’s relationship to playwright Zane Scott Tilghman, their breakup just weeks before the murder, and the circumstances under which Brad had first met Ken in his aunt’s Gramercy Park apartment building.

  Russo rustled in her seat. “You think he offed Tilghman’s grandmother?”

  Good, she’s paying attention.

  “No. Lillian Tilghman died of natural causes. That’s confirmed by the medical examiner’s office. But Ken can’t seem to let go of Zane. He’s not part of the production, so I don’t think you’ve interviewed him. According to Tracy Macklin, the stage manager for Gambit, Phillips visited the theatre between performances on the day of the murder. The same time frame when strychnine ended up in the onstage champagne glass. Ken came looking for Zane, and when he wasn’t there, left a note for him on a backstage bulletin board. Ken admitted that he wandered around a bit and also visited the men’s dressing room while at Stage 42.” Brad provided Ken’s contact information at Horvath and Buchanan and summarized his recent meeting, including capturing the soda can.

  Russo’s scowl flat lined. “We’ll check the DNA. If we find a match, I’m sure you’ll read about it.”

  She wasn’t giving an inch. He didn’t expect Russo to treat him like a colleague. They’d gotten off to a bad start, thanks to Zane’s big mouth during the van ride to Lauren’s funeral.

  Russo pushed back her chair.

  Time for another peace offering.

  Brad reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the wad of tissue containing Ed Minteer’s chewing gum. He plunked it onto the table.

  “What is that?”

  “Another DNA sample. Well-chewed gum from Ed Minteer, one of the actors in Gambit.”

  “I remember him—long on ego, short on patience.” The first bit of information she’d volunteered.

  “Several of the cast and crew identified Ed as a potential suspect because several years ago he and Lauren had a relationship—lived together for two years. By all accounts, their breakup left bad feelings on both sides. While you’re checking DNA, it wouldn’t hurt to test his.”

  Russo crinkled her lips. “Now that you’ve exhausted my DNA testing budget for the month, anything else?”

  “Just trying to be helpful. I’m convinced the killer’s name can be found in the show’s Playbill. Testing these items against the DNA evidence you already have will either reveal a killer or eliminate two more suspects.”

  “We’ve already eliminated half—”

  A hard rap sounded on the door.

  “Come in.”

  A uniformed officer pushed open the door, glanced at Brad before turning to Detective Russo. “Vic, there’s a reporter from the Daily News on line three asking for you. This is the third time he’s called.”

  Russo shook her head. “He can keep calling. I’m not talking with him.”

  The expression on the officer’s face left little doubt that her response wasn’t the reaction he’d hoped.

  Russo stood. “Are we done here?”

  She might have been finished; Brad wasn’t. He urged her to sit. After hesitating, she did. “I got off on the wrong foot with you, and I apologize for that. We’re on the same side in wanting to see justice. I know I’m the one who advanced the theory that Lauren Parshall was the target of the crime, based on my analysis of the champagne pours and how the flutes were distributed during the performance. A couple of conversations recently make me think the target was random.”

  “Apology accepted.” She smiled, bordering on a smirk. “I never bought the theory Ms. Parshall was the intended victim. There’s no question this was a deliberate and premeditated act. I’ll share a tidbit with you, hoping not to see it in print anytime soon.”

  Brad winced before nodding his agreement.

  “We’ve analyzed the poison,” she continued. “It’s sold commercially to kill gophers, and no, I’m not giving you the brand name. There aren’t a lot of gophers popping up in the city. Whoever used it, knew what he was doing.” She stood. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to go. I’m stuck working a double shift. I’ll be here until after midnight.”

  She grabbed the samples Brad had brought and ducked out the door before he could leave his chair.

  He checked the time. More than an hour remained until he needed to be at the theatre for the performance. He gathered his thoughts. In many respects, his meeting with Russo went better than expected. She heard him out. Russo sounded unequivocal in her statement that the killer “…knew what he was doing.”

  Earlier, the knock on the door cut her off when she stated they’d eliminated half—must’ve meant suspects.

  Of course, the DNA evidence they had from the makeup smudge identified its source as male. At least the samples he gave her would match that criteria.

  41

  Brad arrived at Stage 42 about forty minutes prior to the start of the show. A few patrons waited in the “Will Call” ticket line. The lobby buzzed with people excited to see Off-Broadway’s hottest new play, their anticipation fueled by the “This Performance is Sold Out” sign at the box office. Additional buzz came as a result of news accounts regarding the cont
inuing investigation into the on-stage murder. Sell out was a good omen, especially on a week night.

  He jostled his way through the crowd and headed toward the stage door. No security personnel were present, and the door was unlocked.

  Brad glanced at the empty stage. On the opposite side stood the stage manager’s podium, vacant at the moment. The pre-show lighting gave a glimpse into the opulence of Hayden Whitcomb’s waterside retreat. In particular, he noted a spotlight aimed at the tray of blue crystal champagne flutes—unguarded—on the kitchen island. He realized how easy it would be to deposit poison in one of the glasses in a matter of seconds without being detected.

  On the night of the murder, ten people had been backstage, including five cast members, two understudies, and three crew. Of those, only five had the all-important Y chromosome. Prior to his conversation with Russo, Brad intended to interview Melinda Harrison. As Lauren’s understudy, she might have had a reason, however petty, to bump off Ms. Parshall in order to take over the role. Brad was grateful not to have to pursue that line of questioning.

  He passed Todd Hurley, the assistant stage manager, on the way to the men’s dressing room. Todd carried a bucket of spray bottles, probably to spritz Pawn for the scene when he emerges from the pool on Whitcomb’s estate.

  “Hey Todd.”

  Todd waved. “Oh, hi, Mr. Frame. Seeing the show again?”

  “Yup. It’s only my second time.”

  “It should be a good one. We’re sold out, and Doug’s back.”

  Over his years of attending theatrical productions, Brad wondered how much the people onstage knew about the audience beforehand. It seems there were no secrets, especially when it came to good news. Doug was the reason for Brad’s backstage visit, as he hoped to develop a better picture of what happened on the night of the murder.

  His encounter with Todd underscored how easily a person connected with the show—such as the producer, director, and a handful of others—could move about the stage without being viewed as suspicious. The convention of “See Something, Say Something” mostly applied to strangers.

  The men’s dressing room door stood ajar. Brad knocked on the jamb and poked his head in. “Anybody home?”