A Perfect Manhattan Murder

by Tracy Kiely

  Harper continued to stare at Dan while she answered me. “Devin is our Nanny. Gracie adores him.”

  “She’s not the only one,” Dan muttered. A faint stain crept up Harper’s neck. The table fell into an awkward silence.

  “Have you always wanted to produce plays, Dan?” I asked after a few moments.

  Dan took a sip of his drink before answering. “No, but after covering Broadway for a few years, I realized that if you know what you’re doing, you can make a killing by investing in the right play. Granted, it’s a risky business and more people fail than not. But if you have the right eye, you can spot a winner.”

  “And you think you’ve found a winning play?” I asked.

  “I know I’ve found a winning play,” Dan corrected. “I didn’t get to where I am today at Vanity Fair by not knowing what works and what doesn’t work. I know what theatergoers will like. In short, I know what plays are destined to be hits.”

  “What’s the play?” I asked.

  “Year with the Yeti,” said Dan. “It’s theater gold.”

  “Interesting title. What’s it about?” Nigel asked.

  “It’s the story of a young man who is orphaned as a small child,” Dan said. “Relatives take him in, but he’s never really accepted by them. They are narrow-minded, resentful, and content to stay in their little town. The boy, however, wants to see the world and seeks adventure. When the circus comes to the boy’s town, he sneaks out to see it. There he meets a magician who offers to show him a different world from the one he is living in. The boy ends up joining the circus and in doing so, finds out who he really is.”

  “It sounds a bit like Harry Potter,” I said.

  Dan looked at me as if I’d suddenly belched. “I’m sorry,” he said. “What?”

  “Harry Potter,” I repeated. “The plot sounds a bit like the basis for Harry Potter. You know, the orphaned boy, the horrible relatives, a magician who shows him another world.”

  Dan still stared at me in confusion. “The … children’s books?”

  “Well, I don’t think they’re considered children’s books,” I began, but Dan cut me off.

  “Oh, really?” he sneered. “Then tell me. Were I to go into a bookstore and ask the clerk what section the Harry Potter books were housed, where do you think they would direct me? To Classics? To Literature? No, I believe I would be shown to the Young Adult section. Otherwise known as books for children.”

  I forced myself to smile serenely. It was either that or stab Dan with my fork. “I take it you’re not a fan of the series?” I asked.

  “As I am not a child, no,” Dan replied curtly before taking a large sip of his drink.

  “Oh, you don’t know what you’re missing,” I said, driven by a sophomoric need to needle him. “You really should read them. I’ve read them all at least three times. I adored them.”

  Harper now let out a laugh. “That’s putting it mildly,” she teased. “You were obsessed. I remember for your birthday one year, Peggy and I sent you an acceptance letter from Hogwarts.”

  I laughed. “I still have it,” I said. “But speaking of Harry Potter, did you see The Cursed Child? I can’t decide if I want to see it. I hate the idea of Harry growing up and becoming a grouchy old man.”

  Harper shook her head. “I haven’t seen it.” Turning to Dan, she asked, “Dan, what did you think of it?”

  Dan shrugged. “I let Zack review that one,” he said with a dismissive sniff. “Like Nic here, he’s a fan. Personally, I abhor the current trend of diminishing the line between Hollywood and the theater. It goes against the true spirit of thespianism. I know you work with restoring old films, Nigel, but I think I must say that the cinema is several rungs below theater.”

  “Well, I can’t think of anyone else who would say it,” replied Nigel affably.

  “It is just that the cinema is crass commercialism intent only on making a profit, ” Dan continued.

  I nodded. “Unlike, say, Cats,” I offered.

  Nigel affected a look of rapture. “Ah, Cats. Now, that was a play! Do they still sell the t-shirts? Mine’s just about worn out.”

  Dan stared at Nigel at a loss for words.

  seven

  “So anyway, there I was in the Algonquin, when who else but Neil Patrick Harris comes in and sees me,” said Dan with an affected laugh. “Of course, he insisted on buying me a drink at the bar. He always does.”

  I stared down at my steak pomme frites and willed myself to eat. My appetite had all but disappeared over the last hour as Dan monopolized the conversation with a seemingly endless supply of stories about Broadway. They all shared one purpose; namely, that Dan knew a lot of famous people, and, more importantly, they all thought he was wonderful. Dinner with Dan was nothing more than a sobering interlude of minimum-security imprisonment.

  “But then just as Patrick is demanding a bottle of the best champagne they have,” Dan went on, “I hear someone calling my name. I turn around and who do you think I see?”

  No one answered.

  “It’s Nathan Lane, of course,” said Dan. “And he starts insisting that he’s buying my drink!”

  I set down my fork in defeat. Nigel suddenly reached into the middle of the table and pantomimed picking something up by his fingers. “I believe you dropped another name, Dan,” he said, as he pretended to give it back to him.

  Dan looked at Nigel in confusion. “What?” he finally said.

  “You dropped another name,” Nigel repeated. “You might want to be more careful in the future,” he added as he eyed the table with pity. “They’re scattered all over the tablecloth.”

  I hid a smile and picked up my fork. My appetite had suddenly returned.

  An hour later, we were on our way to the Eugene O’Neill Theater where Peggy’s play was opening. Set in the South during the Great Depression, Dealer’s Choice was the tale of a down-on-his-luck con man, Frankie Davis, whose schemes have ruined his already suffering family. Seasoned actor Jeremy Hamlin had been cast as Frankie, the inept grifter who is convinced his big score is only one “dumb mark” away. Broadway legend Nina Durand played his long-suffering wife, Patsy, who works three jobs to finance her husband’s schemes. Up-and-comer Brooke Casey played the wise-beyond-her-years daughter, Lilly, who ultimately proves to have the winning hand. All were excellent in their portrayals, but it was Brooke’s steely portrayal of Lilly, a young girl determined to save her family as she outwits the local loan sharks, that stole the show.

  Based on the enthusiastic applause from the audience as Brooke took her final bow, I was not alone in my assessment. Harper turned to me, equally excited. “Wasn’t she amazing?” she asked me as we both stood for the ovation. “I can’t wait to read the reviews—I just know that it’s going to be a hit.”

  I glanced over at Dan as she said this. Like the rest of us, he was on his feet, but his reaction was tepid at best. I didn’t think it was because he’d already seen the play, either. My headache, which had vanished during the play, returned.

  eight

  There are luxury apartments in New York City, and then there are luxury apartments. Those found on the Upper West Side are the latter. Many of these block-long condominiums offer not just a place for the super rich to hang their top hat but include such amenities as twelve-screen movie theater complexes, full-service health clubs, and their own post offices. It was in one of these humble abodes that Peggy’s producer, Fletcher Levin, resided.

  Fletcher Levin was a well-known figure on Broadway, although some might prefer the term “notorious.” He had produced and financed numerous plays, and in the process had made an obscene amount of money. There were some who whispered that some of his dealings were underhanded, while others said that they were outright fraudulent. The rumors ranged from defrauding investors to blackmailing actors to rigging award ceremonies.

  The buildi
ng’s foyer was an ornate blend of white marble, gold leaf, and mirrored glass. Inside, an unsmiling receptionist checked our names off of a list with the seriousness of a guard at a NATO summit. From there we stepped into a private elevator. The floor was made from reclaimed wood and the walls were padded in tanned leather. A small metal sign next to the control panel read No Notices or Flyers Allowed. Nigel made me take a picture of him standing next to it.

  We were whisked with quiet efficiency to the fifty-third floor, where the mirrored doors slid open to reveal a stern-faced butler in a white tuxedo. Our names were once again checked off a list before we were allowed passage through the apartment’s oversized mahogany doors. We stepped inside a room with nine-foot ceilings, Brazilian cherry floors, and floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out on Central Park.

  I had just been relieved of my coat by a man I hoped was a hired domestic and not a fellow guest when I heard my name being called loudly. I glanced up to see Peggy hurriedly making her way across the crowded room to me, the skirt of her plum-colored gown fluttering behind her. A petite brunette with an hourglass figure and a ready smile, Peggy was a perpetual bundle of motion. Her husband, Evan, the more laidback of the two, trailed in her wake.

  “Peggy!” I said with a grin as she pulled me into a hug, “The play was amazing. We loved it.”

  “Nic! It’s so good to see you! Did you really like it? Do you promise?” she asked in a rush, her green eyes shinning with excitement.

  Beside her, Evan good-naturedly rolled his eyes. “Peggy, don’t be such a goof,” he said affectionately. “Of course they loved it. How could anyone not?” Tall and lanky with sandy blond hair that flopped over his forehead, Evan was incessantly calm and unflappable. As such he was the perfect foil for Peggy.

  “Evan’s right,” I said. “We loved every second of it.” Peggy gave a happy laugh as Nigel and Harper added their compliments. Dan stood impassively to one side, saying nothing.

  After hugging both Nigel and Harper, Peggy turned to Dan. Neither pretended a hug was an option for their greeting. “Hello, Dan,” Peggy said, her tone now more polite than enthusiastic, “I certainly hoped you enjoyed the play.”

  Dan angled his head in acknowledgment of her statement but said nothing.

  Peggy pressed on. “Seriously? All I get is a head tilt? Come on Dan, what did you think of it? It’s not like I’m not going to find out,” she said with a hopeful smile. “Tell me what you thought.”

  Dan paused a moment before answering, “It was exactly what I expected.”

  Evan stiffened. Peggy’s smile dimmed. Then with a dismissive shrug, she turned her attention back to Harper and me. “Well, come on everyone,” she said. “I want to introduce you to Fletch.”

  Dan and Harper paused to say hello to a former co-worker, while Nigel and I followed Peggy to the far wall, where our host stood lounging against a piano. Fletcher Levin was a short, bespectacled man of about sixty-five. He had dark brown eyes, the build of a melting snowman, and—based on the few remaining wisps on his head—red hair. In one hand, he held a glass of scotch; in the other, a voluptuous brunette sheathed in red satin. If I had to guess, I’d say the scotch was the older of the two.

  “Fletch!” Peggy called out as we approached. “I want you to meet my friends. This is Nicole Martini and her husband, Nigel.”

  Fletcher smiled amiably and released his hold on the brunette. “It’s always a pleasure to meet a fellow ginger,” he said to me. Tapping his bald head, he winked and added, “It’s a nice reminder of what used to be here.” After greeting Nigel, he turned to the woman at his side, saying, “And this is my friend, Rosie.”

  “Ruby,” the woman corrected, her full lips pulling down into a pout.

  “Of course. Forgive me, Ruby,” Fletcher said smoothly. “It’s just that you’re as pretty as a rose, and so my tired old brain wants to call you that.”

  Ruby accepted his apology with a giggle and a simpering smile. Turning to me, she asked, “Are you an actress, too?”

  “Oh, no,” I answered. “I’m an old friend of Peggy’s. We went to school together.”

  “Oh, that’s nice,” Ruby replied somewhat absently. Her gaze slid to Nigel. “Are you an actor?” she asked hopefully.

  Nigel smiled and shook his head. “No, I’m afraid not. But I take it that you are?”

  Ruby beamed at him. “I am. And Fletch here says that he might have the perfect role for me in one of his upcoming plays. I’ll have lines and everything!” She snuggled closer into Fletch. “Isn’t that right, Fletch?”

  “Sure is, Rosie,” Fletch replied as he took a large sip of his scotch.

  “Ruby,” she corrected.

  “Huh?” he asked.

  “It’s Ruby.”

  Fletch gave a self-deprecating roll of his eyes. “Of course it is! Ruby,” he repeated, as if trying to commit the name to memory. “I’m sorry, darling, but I’m just terrible with names. But I never forget a face. And yours is too pretty to forget, I can promise you that.”

  Ruby smiled, somewhat mollified and took a sip of her drink. Fletcher turned his attention back to me. “So you’re Peg’s college friend. She’s been yapping about you nonstop.”

  “I could say the same about you,” I replied.

  “Is that so?” he asked, smiling at Peggy. Leaning close to me, he said in a stage whisper, “It’s all lies, of course. Don’t believe a word of it.”

  Peggy let out a little laugh. “You don’t even know what I told her,” she protested.

  Fletcher shook his head. “Don’t need to. No doubt you said I was a generous, talented, and kind man.” He looked to me for corroboration.

  I nodded. “That’s pretty much what she said.” It was a bald-faced lie, of course. Peggy had complained to me numerous times that Fletcher was a micromanaging egomaniac who enjoyed the company of women. “Young women,” Peggy had added pointedly. “The younger the better, and the dumber the better, if you know what I mean.” I told her I did.

  Peggy now shot me a grateful smile just as Harper joined us. “Oh Harper. There you are,” Peggy said. “Harper, I’d like you to meet my producer, Fletcher Levin.”

  Seeing Harper, Fletcher’s expression of polite interest fell away. He stared at her bug-eyed. Tentatively, he reached his hand out to touch her arm and then pulled it back. “Diana?” he whispered.

  Harper blinked in surprise. “No, but that was my mother’s name,” she said.

  Fletcher slowly scanned Harper’s face. “Your mother was Diana Harrington?”

  Harper nodded. “Yes. Well, that was her maiden name. Did you know her?” she asked.

  Nodding slowly, he said, “I did. It was many years ago, but I knew your mother very well.” He produced an apologetic smile. “Forgive my staring, my dear. It’s just uncanny how much you resemble her.”

  Harper smiled. “That’s what everyone tells me. So how did you know my mom?”

  Fletcher took a sip of his scotch before answering. “I met your mother the summer before her senior year in college. It was at some country club dance. I was actually there with another girl, but then I saw your mother, and I was a goner. It was love at first sight—well, for me at least.” He gave a rueful smile. “I pursued her all summer, rather relentlessly, I’m afraid.”

  Harper’s eyes widened at this. “Really?” She gave a light laugh. “I had no idea. It’s funny, you never think of your parents as being with anyone else.”

  Fletcher shook his head at this. “I didn’t say I was successful,” he clarified with a regretful sigh. “But I certainly tried my damnedest. Then your father came into the picture, and as they say, that was that.”

  Harper smiled. “They were very happy,” she said.

  Fletcher noticed the past verb tense. “Were?” he repeated.

  Harper nodded. “Mom died last year,” she said, her voice low. “
Just after their fortieth wedding anniversary. It was breast cancer.”

  Fletcher’s face fell. “I’m so sorry to hear that,” he said. “I had no idea.” Pulling his emotions together, he then said, “Well, tell me about yourself, Harper. Are you married?”

  Dan joined us just in time to hear this. “She is indeed, sir,” he said with an air that suggested Harper had won the marital lottery. “To me. Dan Trados. Perhaps you’ve heard of me. I’m the theater critic at Vanity Fair.” He stuck out his hand. “I’ve been hoping to meet you for sometime now.”

  Fletcher stared blankly at Dan and then at Dan’s hand and then once again at Dan. His glance finally slid back to Harper, his expression one of hopeful doubt. When Harper nodded her head to indicate the truth of Dan’s statement, a faintly horrified expression crept over Fletcher’s face. He turned back to Dan and reluctantly shook his hand.

  “I’ve actually been hoping to meet you, Mr. Levin,” Dan continued, ignoring the quelling look Harper shot him. “I’ve come across a play that I think you might be interested in investing in. It’s called Year of the Yeti.”

  Fletcher said nothing.

  “The author, Robert Taylor, is an unknown, but he’s written a hell of a play,” Dan continued. “In fact, I think it’s destined to be a hit. It just needs the proper cast and backing.”

  Again, Fletcher said nothing.

  “So anyway, I was hoping that—” Dan’s phone suddenly began to chirp. Pulling the device out of his pocket, he glanced down at the readout and frowned. Swiping his thumb across the screen, he angled his body away from us and answered the call. “Hello?” Dan paused to listen. “Oh, right,” he said. “Hang on a sec.” Turning back to Fletcher, Dan said, “If you will excuse me, Mr. Levin, I need to take this call. I’ll be right back.” Dan pressed the phone to his ear and quickly walked away.

  Fletcher said nothing. He watched him go, his expression that of a man observing a bug crawling across his morning toast.