by Ray Flynt
Brad set his teacup on the table. “When you saw Lillian yesterday afternoon, this news was fresh on her mind. Was she the type to agonize, or would she have called Zane to express her feelings?”
“Oh, she definitely planned to call him.”
“Do you think Lillian being upset contributed to her death?”
Harriet rung her hands. “I don’t know. She’d not been what you’d call well for a couple of years. I’d seen her get short of breath. She dropped out of my Tuesday night canasta club about a year ago, so she definitely had slowed down.”
Sharon set her cup on the table. “When did you talk with Clyde?”
“He saw me peeking out my door as the ambulance crew left. The sirens woke me. I looked out the window and saw flashing lights in front of the building. Then I heard commotion out in the hall. At first, I watched through the peephole, but couldn’t see very well, so I cracked the door.”
Sharon smiled.
Panic crossed Harriet’s face. “My key!” she blurted. “Lilly had a key to my place. I’ll need it back.”
“Perhaps the doorman will be able to get it for you,” Sharon suggested. “If you like, I could go down and ask him.”
Harriet looked confused, her right hand trembled. “I have a key to Lilly’s place. It’s in the drawer next to the stove.”
Knowing that the sights and smells of her neighbor’s apartment could further distress his aunt, Brad volunteered to retrieve the key. He learned that it hung from a bulletin board in Lillian’s kitchen. Sharon offered to remain with Harriet.
Key in hand, Brad passed the elevator, and stood in front of apartment 7C. There were two locks, one in the knob and the other for a deadbolt. Brad used the key on the lower one, and the door opened. He entered the apartment. He’d be able to lock it with the push of a button and could leave the key to Lillian’s place behind.
Brad expected the odor of urine or even feces, as death loosed control on those bodily functions. Instead, the scent of lavender overwhelmed him. The apartment layout was opposite that of his aunt’s. He passed a bedroom and traversed the hall toward the kitchen, spotting two bowls of potpourri. Fearing a sneeze, he reached for his handkerchief.
He found his aunt’s house key, with the blue rabbit’s foot chain she’d described, hanging in the kitchen. He swapped it for the one to Lillian’s place. A pink envelope addressed to “Ken” was tacked to the bulletin board. Lillian must’ve written it after the lunch conversation with him she’d recounted to Harriet.
He stepped into the darkened living room, where pulled blinds and drawn drapes made it difficult to see. Brad switched on a lamp, which led him to a wall switch that turned on a crystal chandelier illuminating over-the-top décor more befitting a European palace than a New York City apartment. His nose puckered at the sight of more potpourri bowls. He detected a damp spot on the thick wool rug, and tracks made by the ambulance’s gurney.
Brad heard a key turn in the lock. He stood with his back against the living room wall so he wouldn’t be visible from the entry.
The door clicked open. A man’s cheery “Hello” echoed in the hall, and the entry door shut.
After a few moments, a second, more tentative, “Hello…Lilly.”
When Brad heard footsteps heading in his direction, he revealed himself in the living room archway. “Can I help you?”
The man came to an abrupt stop near the kitchen table. Casually but stylishly dressed, he looked mid- to late-thirties with smoky-brown hair and green eyes. The man shuddered, asking, “Who are you?”
“I was about to ask you the same question.”
“I’m, ah, her grandson. Where’s Lilly? Now who the hell are you?”
Brad walked toward him. “You’re not Zane.”
The man stared at the floor, shuffling his feet. “I’m the closest thing she has to family, except for Zane. I’m Ken Phillips. She gave me a key. I have a right to be here.”
“I’m afraid I have bad news. Lillian passed away overnight.”
Shock gathered on Ken’s face. He grabbed onto a kitchen chair to steady himself. “No. It can’t be. I just saw her yesterday.”
Brad extracted a business card, handing it to him. “I’m Brad Frame.”
Ken studied the card. His eyes widened. “A private investigator…was she?” His gaze darted around the kitchen.
“She appears to have died from natural causes. My aunt lives across the hall.”
“Ms. Beecham?”
“Yes. I was retrieving her key and returning Lillian’s, and I was just about to leave.”
Ken turned toward the door, before looking back, confusion on his face. “Does Zane know?”
“The medical examiner’s office should notify him.”
Brad explained the early morning call he’d received from his aunt and what Harriet had learned about Lillian’s death from another one of their neighbors.
Ken sat at the kitchen table and pulled out his phone. He tapped his finger on the screen. “I’m gonna let Zane know.”
“I’ll turn out the lights in the living room and get out of your way.” Brad paused by the bulletin board. He untacked the note addressed to Ken and handed it to him. “I think she left this for you.”
When Brad returned from the living room, tears streamed down Ken’s face, the opened note on the table in front of him. “Were you able to reach Zane?”
“Not yet.”
“I just noticed the photograph of you and Zane next to the sofa. How long were the two of you together?”
“Slightly more than three years.”
Ken tapped out another message on his phone.
“I hate to make my aunt sound like a gossip, but she told me Lillian didn’t know about your breakup until you had lunch with her yesterday.”
Ken sighed. “Yeah, but blood is thicker than water.” He held up Lillian’s note. It took a few moments before he finally said, “She’s giving Zane the benefit of the doubt.”
Brad’s inner private detective wanted to know more, but he bid goodbye, saying he hoped things would work out between them.
Ken’s phone chimed. His face brightened as he looked at the screen. “Zane’s coming over.”
“The world is a stage, but the play is badly cast.”
Oscar Wilde
Lord Arthur Savile’s Crime and Other Stories
1891
7
Zane slipped a corduroy jacket over his blue linen shirt and admired himself in the mirror. He glanced over his shoulder at Aaron. “Do I look like a playwright?”
“You look perfect.”
“I can get away without wearing a dickey?”
Aaron rolled his eyes. “Just be yourself.”
Zane adjusted the cuffs of his shirt. “Which self would that be? The genius who stole Broadway’s heart or the druggy—too stoned to get out of his own vomit?”
Aaron put his hands on his hips and scowled. “Self-pity doesn’t become you.”
Zane glanced in the mirror again. “What time is the taping and who is it with?”
“Ten-thirty, with Heather Wright. She’s a friend of mine, so relax.”
Aaron held the door open for him, then raced ahead to the receptionist announcing, “Aaron Siegel and Zane Scott Tilghman for the taping of the morning show.”
They cooled their heels in the lobby until a production assistant showed up to escort them back to the studio. Zane shivered. “It’s chilly in here.”
“It’ll warm up when the lights come on. Just have a seat here Mr. Tilghman, Heather will be with you shortly.”
Zane sat on a stool behind a counter-height desk, to his right stood the set for the morning show with its leather sofa and chairs and a cozy fireplace backdrop.
From the shadows, Aaron flashed an exaggerated smile. Zane ignored him. This wasn’t his first TV interview. He knew what to do.
He unbuttoned his jacket deciding it looked more natural.
Two camera operators ambled into the studio,
the overhead lights came on, momentarily blinding Zane. Behind the cameras, a glass-enclosed booth held a couple of people seated at a console.
A man wearing a headset approached. “I’m the floor director, Mr. Tilghman. Your focus will be on camera A.” He pointed in that direction, and then handed Zane a battery pack and microphone. “Fasten this onto your belt and snake the wire inside your jacket clipping the mic to your lapel.”
Zane did as instructed, then the man repositioned the microphone two inches lower.
“If you could say a few words, Mr. Tilghman, so we can get a sound level.”
He launched into one of his favorite Oscar Wilde quotes. “Actors are so fortunate. They can choose whether they will appear in tragedy or in comedy, whether they will suffer or make merry, laugh or shed tears. But in real life it is different.”
“Thank you, that’s enough.”
Heather Wright swept into the studio wearing an eye-catching red dress and carrying a sheaf of light blue paper. They’d produce less glare on the set than white ones. Aaron rushed to her. They exchanged air kisses.
“Hey guys, welcome.” Heather offered Zane a firm handshake. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
She sat on the stool next to his, straightened her papers against the desk, and gazed at the teleprompter on camera B.
The floor director held up three fingers. “We’re ready to go in three, two, one….” He pointed at Heather.
She read from the prompter. “Good morning and welcome to That’s The Ticket, where we bring you up to speed on happenings in the cultural life of the city. Today we welcome Broadway playwright, Zane Scott Tilghman, whose new play, Gambit, is in previews at Stage 42.”
Zane kept his eyes focused on camera A, but he could see the teleprompter rolling on Heather’s camera.
“Tell us about the new play.”
Zane felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He smiled trying not to show the distraction. “Gambit examines the impact of social media on our lives including people we may only know via the cyber world.”
“Dear Evan Hansen uses a social media theme as well.”
“True, but that deals more with viral messaging. Gambit explores one-on-one effects.
“Is it a comedy or a drama?”
Zane hated to stick his work in one of those boxes. “I’d call it a think piece, but based on audience reactions, there’re lots of laughs.”
A monitor suspended from the ceiling revealed what the viewers would see when the segment aired.
“Tell us more,” Heather gushed. “I’ve been reading about it. There’s an element of intrigue, right?”
“I don’t want to give too much away. The premise involves a wealthy man who invites four strangers to his home, telling them not to divulge their names to each other and offering money to compensate for their time.” His phone vibrated again. “Uh, he uses chess piece names to identify them. In the opening scene, they discover some were lured with a few hundred dollars, while others were offered thousands.”
Heather laughed. “That would get them talking.”
Zane winked at the camera. “Exactly.”
The show’s poster appeared on the monitor along with a phone number as Heather read: “If you text Gambit to the number on your screen, we’ll enter you to win one of four pairs of tickets to opening night. It should be a great time.”
The floor director yelled, “We’re off.” The lights went out, plunging the temperature by at least five degrees.
Aaron rushed over to swap more air kisses with Heather. “When will this segment broadcast?”
“Thursday. Unless we’re bombing North Korea that morning.” She displayed a toothy grin.
Zane pulled out his phone to check messages, stopping to read as they reached the lobby.
“That was great.” Aaron slapped him on the back. “I especially liked the wink.”
Zane stared in disbelief at Ken’s texts. Aaron knew nothing of his grandmother, and this was hardly the moment for explanations. Zane masked his inner torment, not wanting to prompt questions. “You go ahead. I have an errand to run before my meeting with Ralph this afternoon.”
Aaron pouted. “I can drop you.”
Zane forced a smile. “I’m heading the opposite direction.”
As he watched Aaron jump into a cab on 67th Street, Zane texted: I’ll be right there.
Zane handed the cabbie $30 and told him to keep the change. He stepped out of the taxi in front of his grandmother’s apartment building, a place he’d visited hundreds of times since boyhood. Until he was corrected by one of his college fraternity brothers, he’d always referred to the neighborhood as Gramma’s Park.
He pulled his top coat around him and trudged up the steps toward the etched-glass double door. He felt dread and a lump in his throat. There’d been so many changes in his life of late. Losing his grandmother could be the most life changing.
Despite the texts from Ken, it wasn’t until the doorman waved him onto the elevator with, “My condolences, Sir,” that the news finally hit him.
He leaned against the wooden walls of the elevator and sobbed, wishing he’d returned the two phone messages she’d left for him the previous evening.
What had she wanted? Had she sensed the end of her life? The thought gave him the willies.
8
A tap sounded on the door of Lillian’s apartment. Brad got up from the kitchen table to answer it.
He found Sharon pacing in the 7th floor elevator lobby.
Brad joined her and pulled the door shut behind him. “What’s going on?”
“Your aunt wondered what was taking you so long.” Sharon arched an eyebrow.
Harriet could be formidable, and when she got a bee in her bonnet, would not be deterred.
“I tried to talk her into a nap,” Sharon continued. “She’d have none of it. I convinced her that she should get dressed, that you’d probably want to take her to lunch before we head back to Philadelphia.”
“Absolutely, but I’m going to be a little while longer.” Brad explained the arrival of Ken Phillips, Zane’s ex that Harriet had told them about. “Ken’s been texting Zane, and he’s on his way. I don’t want to get in the middle of their quarrel, but I’d like to meet him.”
“There’s something else,” Sharon ventured.
Brad gave her a cockeyed glance.
“Harriet’s been wringing her hands over not responding when she heard noises last evening, before she went to bed.”
“What kind of noises?”
“In the hallway. They weren’t thinking about soundproofing the doors when these buildings were built. She heard a knock on a door and voices.”
Brad rubbed his forehead. “It could have been Clyde.”
Sharon shook her head. “No. She already asked him. It was Lillian’s place. She’s sure of it.”
Brad understood the implications. “She’s convinced herself Lillian had a visitor last night.”
“Thanks for the heads up. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Okay. I’ll keep your aunt busy. Maybe it’s time for another pot of tea.”
Brad turned to Ken. “Do you think it’s warm in here?”
Ken, who sat at the kitchen table rereading the note Lillian had left for him, bobbed his head. “She liked keeping it hot, even in the summer. The lavender’s overpowering too.”
Brad agreed on both counts. He went in search of the thermostat and found it in the living room set at 80 degrees. No wonder it felt stifling. He lowered the setting to 72. He pushed back the drapes and raised the blind to see if he could open a window. From the rear of the building, Lillian’s apartment afforded a great view of the top of the Empire State Building. He pushed up on the sash, opening it a few inches. Cold air flooded into the room. It felt refreshing.
When Brad returned to the kitchen, Ken said, “It already smells better.”
The front door opened. A bewildered Zane Tilghman entered. He matched the People magazine photo. Ken
leaped up from the kitchen table, and they embraced. Brad couldn’t make out what they were saying. After they separated, their eyes looked moist.
Brad stepped forward and extended his hand. “My condolences on your loss. I’m Brad Frame. My aunt lives across the hall.”
“Harriet, right?”
“Yes. I also happen to be an investor in your new play.”
“Oh, of course, Mr. Frame.” Zane grasped his hand tightly. “Forgive me for not immediately making the connection.”
“No worries. My aunt heard the news and called me. She seemed upset, so I caught a train from Philadelphia.” Brad summarized what he’d learned about Lillian’s death from Harriet.
Zane’s phone sounded, an unusual ringtone, Leonard Bernstein’s overture to Candide.
“Hello,” he answered. “Yes, this is Zane Tilghman.” Glancing at Brad, he added, “I heard the news from a neighbor.”
Ken cringed.
“I’m at her apartment right now.” Zane listened. “Yes, I’ll contact someone to make arrangements. Later today? I understand.”
Zane ended the call. “That was the Medical Examiner’s office. I need to find a funeral home, but don’t have a clue where to start.”
9
Back in her sixties, his Aunt Harriet used to utter the phrase, “When I’m in my dotage.” As Brad returned to her apartment, it looked as if she’d finally reached that point.
Standing next to the dining table, Harriet muttered about which scarf to wear, draping first one then another over her charcoal jacket, before shaking her head in indecision.
Sharon watched with bemusement, occasionally rolling her eyes.
Brad sought to focus his aunt. “When Uncle Oscar passed away, which funeral home did you use?”
She cocked her head. “Biddle’s on 2nd Avenue. Why?”
“Zane needs to make arrangements and doesn’t know where to start.”
Harriet steamed for the kitchen, opened a drawer next to the stove, and retrieved a card that she handed to Brad. “Lillian always said she wanted to be cremated. Here’s their information.”