The Man Who Couldn't Miss

by David Handler

  “Why, yes, of course.” Glenda moved out into the corridor, the water splish-splashing over her shoes and the cuffs of her pants. But she wasn’t going anywhere. She intended to check on her daughter the instant that Dini emerged from the ladies’ room.

  “I’m definitely in the way, too,” Mimi said, sloshing her way toward the spiral staircase. “I’m heading back up.”

  “Likewise,” I said, following her. Lulu joined me eagerly.

  “How is it playing so far?” Merilee called out to me.

  I returned to the dressing room doorway as Mimi went upstairs. Merilee had changed into her act two costume, a pair of burgundy silk lounging pajamas. Her own. Or I should say mine. She stole them from me years ago because they looked better on her than they did on me.

  “Close the door for a sec,” she said to me.

  Lulu and I joined her in there. I closed the door.

  “Is it satisfactory so far?” she asked me, her eyes searching my face.

  “No, can’t say that it is. Great is more like it. But are you okay down here in this flood?”

  “What, this?” She let out a snort. “Back in my Keith Orpheum days I had to stand in water up to my thighs when I played Charley’s Aunt in Altoona.”

  “Merilee, you’ve never been in Charley’s Aunt. Or Altoona.”

  “Have so.” She grinned at me, her eyes bright with excitement. She was a theater creature. She thrived on this kind of chaos.

  As I opened the door to leave, Dini emerged from the ladies’ room looking gray and limp.

  Glenda was parked right there waiting for her. “How are you feeling, dear?”

  “Mother, please go upstairs, will you?” Dini said with exaggerated patience. “I have to change.”

  “Forgive me for caring,” Glenda said, stung, as she went up the spiral staircase in a huff.

  That was my cue to leave, too. “It’s terrific, Dini.”

  “Thank you, Hoagy,” she said softly.

  As I started for the staircase with Lulu the men’s room door flew open and Marty came back out in his boxers, huffing and puffing. “Hey, Hoagy, do you think it’s safe to flush the toilet?”

  “Is that your way of saying you haven’t?”

  “I’m afraid the septic system might be flooded, which means the toilet will overflow and we’ll be standing here with everything I’ve eaten for the past two days floating by. You’ve got to figure the system’s overflowing, right?”

  “It’s not something I really choose to give much thought to.”

  “Well, stay out of that men’s room, if you want my advice.”

  “I wasn’t planning to go in there, but thanks for the tip.”

  Marty went across the hall into the men’s dressing room as Lulu and I sloshed back toward the staircase. We hadn’t gone more than a few feet before he roared, “Hoagy, I need a hand now!”

  I dashed in there and found Greg lying facedown on the concrete floor between the planks in at least six inches of water. The back of his head was a bloodied mess, as if someone had bashed him repeatedly with a hard object of some kind.

  I immediately shoved a plank aside and waded down into the water. Marty did the same. Between the two of us, we were able to pick Greg up and lay him out, facedown, on a plank in his sopping wet tweed suit. He wasn’t conscious.

  Marty held his ear to Greg’s nostrils, listening carefully. Or trying to over the roar of the sump pumps. “I don’t think he’s breathing,” he said in a grief-stricken voice. “I’ve taken a lifeguard training course. Should I . . . ?”

  “Go for it.”

  Marty turned Greg’s head to one side and pressed firmly against his back with both hands, the plank creaking as Marty applied the pressure steadily. Water came streaming out of Greg’s mouth. A lot of water, which meant it was coming from his lungs. But Marty’s exertions didn’t make Greg cough the rest of the water out. Or cough at all. Or so much as stir. Greg just lay there.

  I knelt and took a good look into his eyes. They were open wide and glazed over. I know what dead looks like.

  Greg Farber was dead.

  By now I realized that Merilee and Dini were standing in the doorway, gaping in horror.

  “Merilee, you’d better call the police,” I said.

  She went rushing off. Dini remained frozen in the doorway, her eyes wide with fright. Until, that is, she suddenly let out a shriek and fainted.

  I caught her before she fell and hoisted her into my arms. She was light as a feather. “Don’t touch anything,” I said to Marty, who was still on his knees in the floodwaters, his eyes filling with tears. Lulu, I noticed, had started sniffing her way carefully around, snuffling and snorting. “Just grab your clothes and get out of here, okay? This is a crime scene.”

  “Right,” Marty responded grimly.

  I carried Dini up the spiral staircase to the stage door area and laid her gently on the floor. Took off my tuxedo jacket, rolled it up and placed it under her head as a pillow. Merilee was on the stage door phone with the police. Mimi was standing next to her weeping, the tears streaming down her face. Glenda was with them—until she caught sight of me tending to Dini and came racing over.

  “She’s fainted,” I said. “Shock, I think.”

  “We’d better find her some blankets,” Glenda said, immediately turning brisk and professional.

  “There are some in my office,” Mimi said, swiping at her eyes.

  “You’d better call Doctor Orr, too,” I said.

  “And I’ll need that first aid kit,” Glenda said, following Mimi up the service corridor toward her office off of the lobby.

  Merilee stood next to me, gripping my hand tightly. Hers was like ice. “Greg is . . . dead?”

  I nodded. “Someone bashed him in the head a whole bunch of times, knocked him out and then he drowned. Or at least that’s how it looks.”

  Glenda returned quickly, accompanied by Sabrina and the twins. Sabrina was toting an armload of blankets. Glenda had Mimi’s first aid kit.

  “Is Mommy okay?” Durango wondered fretfully.

  “She’s fine, honey,” Glenda said. “Just had a little shock, that’s all.”

  “What kind of a shock?” Cheyenne asked.

  Glenda didn’t want to answer her. No one did.

  While Sabrina swaddled Dini in blankets Glenda found some ammonia ampules in the first aid kit, broke one open and waved it under Dini’s nose.

  Dini stirred, shuddering, and opened her eyes. She let out a gasp and cried out, “No, no, no . . . where’s Greg?”

  “It’s okay, Dini.” Glenda cradled her in her arms like a little girl. “Shhh, you’re okay. It’s okay.”

  “Where are my babies?”

  “We’re right here, Mommy,” Cheyenne said.

  Dini put her arms around the twins and squeezed them tight, tears running down her cheeks.

  “Mommy, what’s wrong?” Durango asked.

  “Where’s Daddy?” Cheyenne asked.

  Somehow, Dini managed a reassuring smile. “We’ll talk about it when we’re alone, okay? There are too many people around right now.”

  “Why would anyone do such a thing?” Merilee’s green eyes were wide with disbelief. “And how? We were right next door. I didn’t hear a thing, did you?”

  I shook my head. “Not with those sump pumps going. Did you, Dini?”

  “No.” Dini’s voice was a whisper. “But I was in the ladies’ room being sick.”

  And Marty had been in the men’s room coping with his problematic bowel. Just moments earlier, Mimi and I had seen Greg changing into his tweed suit. We’d exchanged a few brief, cheerful words. He’d been alone in the dressing room at the time. Or so it had appeared. Possibly, someone else had been in there with him. Someone who we couldn’t see from the corridor. I had no idea. I only knew that someone, somehow, had managed to slip in there, bash Greg in the head and slip away while he lay facedown on that flooded basement floor. Or make that not slip away, because the odds wer
e excellent that Greg’s killer was still right there with us. It had to be someone who had access to the dressing rooms, didn’t it? That meant a fellow cast member. Or Glenda. Or Mimi. Or possibly one of the stage crew. Unless, that is, we were talking about the wildest of wild cards—R. J. Romero. But how could R.J. have snuck his way downstairs to the dressing rooms and murdered Greg without any of us seeing him? And why would he want to after all of these years? Then again, if R.J. was desperate enough that he’d taken to blackmailing Merilee, was it possible that he was blackmailing Greg, too?

  As I stood there, my mind racing, Marty came slowly and heavily up the spiral staircase, puffing on a Lucky Strike. He’d changed into a rumpled polo shirt, shorts and his cheese-scented flip-flops. His shoulders were slumped, his eyes vacant.

  And Mimi returned from her office, her eyes red and swollen. As she dabbed at them with a tissue I noticed that the knuckles of her right hand were scraped raw. The scrapes looked to be fresh. “Doctor Orr lives right around the corner,” she said in a calm voice, mindful of the twins. “He’ll be right over.”

  Two Sherbourne police cars pulled up outside the stage door. The wind-driven rain had begun to let up. The thunder was moving off into the distance, growing steadily more muted.

  Mimi turned to Merilee and said, “I hate to say these words out loud but the curtain for act two should have gone up seven minutes ago. Our house is getting restless. Someone’s got to tell them that there will be no act two. We have to send them home.”

  “I’ll do it,” Merilee said unhesitatingly. “Just let me change out of these pajamas.”

  “Nobody will notice or care.” I led her by the hand out onto the stage and left her there facing the curtain while Lulu and I made our way into the wings.

  She stood there collecting herself for a moment, then instructed a stagehand to raise the curtain. Everyone in the audience automatically started to applaud until they realized that Merilee was standing alone there onstage with her arms raised in the air, pleading for silence. “I’m sorry to have to tell you that the show cannot go on,” she informed them in a strong, clear voice. “Greg Farber is . . . Greg is dead.”

  Screams and gasps of horror showered down upon her. Again she held her arms up, pleading for silence.

  “Our prayers go out to Dini and their girls.” The twins still hadn’t been told. They were currently being distracted backstage by Dini and Glenda. “I want to thank each and every one of you for coming. But now I’m afraid I have to say good night. Have a safe trip home.”

  “Isn’t there anything we can do?” someone called out.

  “No, there isn’t. Thank you. Please, just go home. Allow me to assure you that we’ll refund your donations.”

  “You . . . will . . . not!” thundered the unmistakable voice of Katharine the Great, which pretty much put the kibosh on that idea. “We’re saving this place no matter what!”

  “Kate’s right!”

  “We don’t want our money back!”

  “But what happened?”

  “Did he have a heart attack?”

  “It was very unexpected,” Merilee said. “I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you right now. Thank you and good night.”

  She gestured for the stagehand to lower the curtain, then rejoined Lulu and me in the wings as we listened to the grief-stricken voices on the other side of the curtain. The excited ones, too, because the playhouse was full of media people, and while the theatrical legends would eventually stream home in their limos and town cars, the assembled reporters, photographers and TV camera crews would mob the stage door demanding answers. After all, Greg Farber, a major Hollywood movie star, had just died backstage in the middle of a gala stage benefit. Cause of death: unknown.

  And until they did know they weren’t going anywhere.

  We weren’t going anywhere either. Not until the Sherbourne Police had sent for a homicide team from the Connecticut State Police’s Major Crime Squad. Not until the investigators had arrived, been thoroughly briefed and written down the names and contact information of every performer, stagehand, usher, family member and ex-husband who’d been in the theater at the time of Greg’s death. Criminal background checks would have to be run on everyone. Preliminary questioning would have to be conducted. Hours. We’d be there for hours.

  Meanwhile, there was Dini to attend to. Doctor Orr turned out to be young and sunburned, as if he spent a lot of time out on the water in a sailboat. When he arrived he carried Dini down the service runway into Mimi’s office and stretched her out on the sofa. It was a narrow, cluttered office with room enough for the sofa, a desk, a couple of chairs and not much else.

  Dini was not doing real well. In fact, she was on the verge of hysterics. Doctor Orr rummaged around in his black bag and injected her with a sedative. Mimi fought back more tears as she stood there watching him. Marty was slumped in her desk chair dragging on a Lucky Strike and blowing the smoke out of an open window. Glenda was crowded in there with the twins, trying—and failing—to keep them distracted. The girls were alarmed by their mother’s condition.

  “Is Mommy okay?” Durango wanted to know.

  “She’s just a little bit upset right now,” Glenda assured her.

  “Why?” Cheyenne demanded.

  “She’ll be fine. Isn’t that right, Doctor?”

  “Absolutely fine,” he said.

  “What about Daddy? Where’s Daddy?”

  No one in the office responded. No one knew what to say.

  I nudged Lulu with my sodden patent leather shoe. She glowered at me. I glowered back. I’m bigger. She went over to the twins and rolled over on her back so they could pat her belly.

  “Hey, Lulu!” exclaimed Cheyenne.

  Both girls fell to their knees and began petting her and tugging at her ears.

  Glenda nodded to me gratefully.

  “The sedative I’ve given her should relax her for a good eight hours.” Doctor Orr snapped his bag shut. “I’ll be in touch in the morning.”

  “Doctor, did you get the results back from Dini’s blood work?” I asked.

  He studied me cooly. “I’m sorry, you are . . . ?”

  “Stewart Hoag, the author,” Mimi said. “Merilee’s ex-husband.”

  “Why, yes, of course. I’m a huge fan of your work, Mr. Hoag. Absolutely loved The World According to Garp.”

  “Thank you. I’m sure John Irving will be pleased to hear that.”

  “My mistake, sorry. Yes, I did get the results, but I don’t believe in discussing such matters with anyone but my patient.” He turned to Glenda and said, “Best thing right now is to get her into bed. She’s not flying to Savannah tonight.”

  “I’ve just phoned her agent,” Mimi said. “The business end of things is being seen to. I also spoke to the housekeeper at the beach house. She said the owners won’t be back until next week. Dini and the girls are welcome to stay on for a few more days.”

  “Good.” Doctor Orr looked at Glenda. “Are you okay to drive?”

  “I’m perfectly fine. And the car’s parked not twenty feet from the stage door.”

  “Mimi, do you think you can snag a burly stagehand to carry Dini out to their car? She’s gone to sleep.”

  “Hell, I can do that,” Marty said, stirring from the desk chair.

  “If the Sherbourne police at the stage door give you any trouble just tell them that I said she’s in no condition to answer questions until tomorrow morning.”

  I said, “Doctor, if the media scene out back is anything like I’m imagining—and I’m guessing it’s ten times worse—Marty’s going to need a police escort to and from the car. And Glenda will need one to the beach house.”

  He peered at me, his eyes narrowing fractionally. “Why do I get the feeling you’ve been through this sort of thing before, Mr. Hoag?”

  “Only because I have.”

  “In that case, I’ll accompany Mr. Miller and speak to the chief of police.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,�
� Glenda said.

  Marty gently picked slender little Dini up off of the sofa and said, “Okay, girls, we’re heading out to the car with your mom and your grandma. You ready to rumble?”

  “Can we take Lulu with us?” Durango wanted to know.

  “I’m afraid not,” Merilee said. “But she’ll come visit you tomorrow.”

  “You promise?” Cheyenne pleaded.

  “I promise,” Merilee said.

  I opened the door and Marty carried Dini up the corridor toward the stage entrance with Glenda and the girls following close behind. After the doctor had murmured a sympathetic good night to Mimi he hurried after them.

  I caught up with him, matching him stride for stride. “Is it Lyme disease, Doctor?”

  He let out a weary sigh. “Mr. Hoag, like I said . . .”

  “Let me put it another way. When you initially examined Dini Hawes for her flu-like symptoms and took blood samples did she request that you test her for a certain medical condition that you were a bit surprised to hear her mention?”

  He glanced at me sidelong. “I won’t discuss that with you either.”

  “So she did, didn’t she?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to. Your eyes just said it for you.”

  Those eyes glared at me disapprovingly. “You’re a bit of a sneaky customer, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t mean to be. It’s just that I’ve spent the past several years hanging around with the wrong sort of people.”

  “What sort of people would that be?”

  “Famous people.”

  BY THE TIME Marty carried Dini out to the car and a young Sherbourne cop had escorted him back, a half-dozen uniformed Connecticut State troopers from Troop F in Westbrook had arrived on the scene in their silver Ford Crown Vics to establish a perimeter around the playhouse. Politely but firmly, they muscled the mob of media people and celebrity gawkers behind it.

  Meanwhile, we sat around on folding chairs on the wet stage waiting for the homicide investigators from the Major Crime Squad, who had to come from their headquarters in Meriden. A lieutenant and his sergeant pulled up twenty minutes later, followed closely by a pair of blue and white cube vans packed full of crime scene technicians wearing navy blue Windbreakers.