Fatal Gambit

by Ray Flynt

  From my imagination to God’s ears.

  Zane extended his hand. “Welcome to the show.”

  “Happy to be here, Mr. Tilghman,” Dodson said. “Hope you’ll be pleased with my work.”

  Gotta be a thousand times better than the last guy.

  “I’m sure I will.” Not wanting to add to their jitters, Zane excused himself. “Break a leg everybody.”

  Backstage he found Tracy, the stage manager, shaking her head and mumbling.

  “You look like you lost something.”

  “I’m not sure.” She popped her left shoulder a little higher.

  “What’s happening?”

  “Todd finished his checklist and told me the prop syringe had been tampered with.”

  “How?”

  “It’s normally in a case on a table inside the stage bathroom. Todd discovered it out of the case, and the container flipped over.”

  “Is it still working?”

  Tracy nodded. “As far as he can tell.”

  “Maybe Rhonda was in there adjusting lights—she’s such a perfectionist—and it got bumped.”

  Tracy’s eyebrows danced. “Is a puzzlement.”

  Zane couldn’t imagine what might be gained by tampering with the prop syringe, which was pivotal to the action at the end of the play. Unlike a regular hypodermic, the faux needle was dull and retracted into the core when pushed against the skin.

  He wandered into the auditorium just as Aaron texted he’d be working on press releases and would catch up with him at the evening performance. When the lights dimmed, Zane slipped into an empty seat.

  Dodson’s portrayal of Hayden Whitcomb made Zane ignore the negativity on the BroadwayVamp site. While not performing on Broadway for thirty years, he hadn’t lost his stuff.

  Zane paid close attention to the first mention of the syringe. When Pawn returned from the bathroom after toweling off from the pool experience, he teased Rook about finding no condoms in the bathroom. Then commented that the old geezer must be diabetic since he found a hypodermic needle and vials of insulin.

  With Dodson in the role, the geezer reference drew a much bigger laugh.

  The show went without a hitch. When it was time to use the prop syringe in the third scene, everything worked as planned—the audience eating it up.

  Zane felt ready for Gambit to face the critics.

  16

  Saturday before Opening Night

  Sharon grasped Oliver by the arm and followed the usher down the stadium-seating stairs to the third row. The usher handed them a program, noting that their seats were the fifth and sixth in the row. Not only had Brad been able to secure them tickets, these were known as “house seats,” set aside for purchase by cast members and others connected with the show.

  Sharon sat. What a fantastic view.

  The show would cap a whirlwind day that included her first ever limo ride. Its curved back seat reminded her of a fancy restaurant booth. There was plenty of room for her and Oliver, along with Brad and Beth, and coffee and pastries to enjoy during the two-hour drive. Their 12th floor room at the Marriott Marquis afforded a bird’s eye view of the Times Square building where the ball drops on New Year’s Eve. Brad wasn’t the kind of boss to insist that they all stay together. She and Oliver ventured out in the afternoon to visit the 9/11 memorial at the site of the World Trade Center.

  Sharon stared in amazement at the set. She’d seen a few musicals on Broadway and recalled their scenery as having more of a caricature quality. What she saw in front of her looked move-in ready. She described it for Oliver.

  Through the French doors, it looked like sunrise over the patio. Dominating the living room, a massive stone fireplace, where a portrait light illuminated a contemporary painting. Above a large kitchen island, three pendant lights glowed. She couldn’t wait to see it when all of the stage lights were turned on.

  “It must be near the ocean,” Oliver said.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I hear seagulls.”

  “Oh, yeah.” With his prompting, she heard them too, along with gentle waves washing against the shore.

  The cover of the Playbill featured the title, Gambit, superimposed over a photograph of a chess board. Sharon thumbed through it until she found the cast of characters and read them to Oliver along with the bios of the principals.

  Seats filled around them, lights dimmed, and after a brief announcement about silencing phones, the show began.

  With the stage lights fully lit, she took in the details, like the ceramic art objects arrayed on shelves near the fireplace, the chrome ice bucket next to a tray of champagne glasses, electrical outlets and light switches on the walls. It might all be make-believe, but it looked real.

  When the lights dimmed at the end of the first scene, Oliver whispered, “I like this.”

  Dramatic music swelled during the blackout, and Sharon settled back and entwined her fingers with Oliver’s.

  By the end of the second scene it became clear that the four characters on the stage weren’t strangers. They may not have met face-to-face before, but their lives had intersected in the underbelly of the internet, where civility and candor gave way to crudeness and duplicity.

  Sharon suspected that among the four players, Pawn, the playful college student, had a hidden agenda. This seemed particularly obvious when he accused Knight of using the name WhereRdaBoys in the popular dating app Blendr.

  “Liar,” Knight screamed.

  Pawn held up his phone brandishing a photo for her to see. “Then who is this?”

  Knight covered her face with her hands.

  The audience gasped and the lights blacked out accompanied by spine-chilling music.

  Oliver squeezed Sharon’s fingers. “Getting good.”

  Pandemonium broke out at the opening of the third scene, which Sharon found difficult to follow. It seems Knight had come on to Pawn via that same app, eager to hook up. They agreed to meet at a bar in the East Village. When he spotted her arrival through the windows, and saw that she was a lot older than the picture she’d sent him, he realized he’d been duped and left.

  It didn’t take a private detective to figure out Pawn had arranged for her invitation to the Hamptons to orchestrate this.

  Looks like Pawn and Hayden Whitcomb are in cahoots.

  During the bellowing that ensued, Rook withdrew to a chair at the edge of the stage. It wasn’t long before Knight, eager to take the focus off her deception, asked Rook what was bothering her. Rook explained how her brother, Tim, had been bullied in an online sports chatroom and driven to suicide eighteen months earlier. She explained that he wasn’t the finest basketball player, and that teammates—using pseudonyms—labeled him as everything from dipshit to faggot.

  When Bishop wanted to change the subject, Sharon felt he must’ve been involved, and once again Pawn offered information suggesting Bishop not only knew about the bullying but had participated in it using the handle TruthBTold74.

  Not much truth in that screenname.

  After Bishop tried to defend himself, Rook raced into the off-stage bathroom, and returned wielding the syringe.

  Sharon’s heart raced. Their seats were so close—like being in the room.

  After a brief struggle, Rook plunged the needle into Bishop’s shoulder, causing him to collapse.

  The audience gasped once again and, during the onstage silence that followed, caught their collective breath.

  “Oh my God. Insulin. She’s gonna kill him.” Knight grabbed her phone, trying to make a call. “I still don’t have a signal.”

  “Don’t worry,” Pawn said. “It’s only a tranquilizer. He’ll be alright.”

  Rook shot him a puzzled look.

  Pawn confessed he’d arranged for his uncle, Hayden Whitcomb, to host the social experiment as research for his master’s thesis: exploring real world confrontations between people whose only prior encounters had been under false cyber identities.

  Over the next few
minutes, Bishop revived and struggled to his feet, still groggy. Rook, who now seemed stricken by what she’d done moments earlier, helped him to a seat.

  “It’s time for a toast.” Pawn grabbed a bottle of champagne from the ice bucket, popped the cork, and filled the waiting flutes. After passing them around, he held his glass aloft. “In the immortal words of The Bard, ‘Conscience doth make cowards of us all.’ ”

  They exchanged glances before drinking, their faces registering emotions ranging from bemusement to revulsion. They downed the champagne.

  Seconds later, Knight let out a cry, her mouth contorted, and body spasmed. Her crystal flute shattered, chards hitting patrons in the front row. Knight fell with a thud, her head bouncing off the stage floor.

  Pawn dropped to his knees next to Knight before shouting, “Is there a doctor in the house?”

  The audience tittered.

  A panicked look on his face, Pawn yelled, “She’s not breathing.”

  Audience members exchanged glances, unsure, at first, if what they witnessed was part of the play. A woman dressed in black, wearing a headset, emerged from the side of the stage. The auditorium lights came on.

  Other cast members knelt next to Knight.

  Sharon saw white froth oozing from the side of the actor’s mouth.

  Two individuals rose from their seats and rushed down the aisle, climbing stairs on the right.

  The actions on the stage became a blur as cast members moved out of the way, and patrons, presumably with medical expertise, took over.

  Oliver leaned toward Sharon. “The guy says he’s an EMT, the woman a pediatric nurse.”

  After the first moments of shock, murmurs filled the theatre, with a few people standing at their seats for a better view.

  From Sharon’s vantage point, Knight looked lifeless. Consulting her program, the actor’s name was Lauren Parshall.

  The EMT began chest compressions.

  The woman with the headset, most likely the stage manager, moved off to the side, waving to get the attention of someone at the rear of the theatre.

  An announcement crackled through the auditorium’s speakers. “Ladies and gentlemen, due to a medical emergency, the performance has ended. Please exit the theatre at this time.”

  Ushers appeared in the aisles directing the audience toward the doors.

  With their choice seats in the front, Sharon and Oliver were among the last to leave the theatre. She glanced back and saw rescue squad paramedics arrive with a gurney.

  She paused in the lobby, pulled out her phone, and texted Brad.

  17

  Brad stood and stretched during the intermission of Kinky Boots, the Cyndi Lauper musical at the Al Hirschfeld Theatre.

  He’d heard the show’s upbeat music and wanted to surprise Beth with tickets. When they walked arm-in-arm down 45th Street from the hotel, she spotted the marquis for Carousel, the classic Rodgers and Hammerstein musical, at the Imperial Theatre. “That’s my favorite,” she gushed.

  Sounded like she’d be disappointed with his choice, but then they saw that Carousel wouldn’t open for another three weeks.

  “What are we seeing?” Beth asked.

  When he told her, she clapped her hands. “Friends saw it and loved it.”

  Their seats in the front row of the mezzanine provided an unobstructed view. When Beth went in search of a glass of wine, Brad pulled out his phone to see if there were any messages.

  A text from Sharon read: “Death onstage at the end of the show.”

  Brad knew Gambit had elements of mystery, but found it odd that Sharon felt the need to text since they’d all agreed to meet for brunch the next morning. He replied. “Will be back at the hotel around 10:30.”

  Beth returned from the lobby, offered him a sip of her chardonnay, and they settled back for the second act.

  Following a rousing standing ovation, they made their way to the exit. Beth paused in the lobby to button her winter coat and slip on gloves. Brad checked his phone.

  Three texts from Sharon and two voicemail messages.

  “Not clear earlier. Cast member died on stage.”

  “Brief mention on the local ten o’clock news. Police terming it homicide. Not many details.”

  “Poison suspected.”

  Before listening to his voicemail, he texted Sharon that they were on their way back to the hotel and would touch base shortly.

  Then he checked voice messages. The first was from Sharon reiterating her texts in a lengthier message. He deleted it.

  On the second one, he immediately recognized the southern drawl. “This is Ralph Lundgren. We’ve had a tragedy at the show. Hector called me with the news that one of the cast members died. The police are at the theatre now. Give me a call when you hear this message. Doesn’t matter how late.”

  Brad pocketed his phone.

  “What’s wrong?” Beth asked.

  “Let’s walk. I’ll explain on the way.”

  With frigid wind pushing against them as they plodded down the street, the little-over-a-block walk felt like a half a mile. Brad explained what he knew, and Beth shot him a don’t-even-think-about-it look.

  Easy for her to feel that way. Brad had a hundred and thirty thousand dollars invested in the success of the show, which based on the messages he’d seen and heard so far, was in serious jeopardy.

  “I’m not sure what Ralph wants, but I’d like to hear what Sharon has to say. I’ll invite her and Oliver to join us for a drink in the lounge at the top of the hotel.”

  Beth rolled her eyes. “I know you too well.”

  18

  Appropriately named The View, the revolving lounge on the 48th floor of the Marriott Marquis afforded spectacular vistas of Midtown Manhattan. Brad and Beth met Sharon and Oliver in the lounge’s reception area. Their window table overlooked the Hudson River, where lights on the Jersey shore sparkled like jewels.

  The setting gave Brad a chance to delve into the latest mystery involving Gambit, while Beth luxuriated in the nighttime splendor of one of the world’s splashiest cities. The bliss on her face warmed his heart.

  In addition to cocktails, the lounge offered a cheese and dessert buffet, which everyone but Beth decided to try.

  Once they got settled, Sharon handed Brad a Playbill. “All the names of the cast and crew are in there. You’re listed under the producers. Since you haven’t seen the show, I don’t want to give away the plot.”

  Brad rolled his hand, palm side up. “That’s not important. Tell me what you think is relevant.”

  Sharon described the premise of the play and how the characters gathered at a posh home in the Hamptons. She explained how Rook stabbed Bishop with a needle in what looked like an attempt to kill him, only, according to the play, it was a tranquilizer. When Pawn offered a champagne toast, admitting everything was an experiment for his thesis, Knight slumped to the floor after taking a drink.”

  “Is Knight a man or a woman?” Beth asked. “It’s a little confusing.”

  “A woman. It’s easier to understand when you watch the play,” Sharon said. “It looked like she’d been poisoned. They called out to see if there was a doctor in the audience. We were close enough for me to see foam oozing from her mouth.”

  Brad steepled his fingers. “Did they use real champagne?”

  “I don’t know. It looked real. The top of the bottle was wrapped in gold foil, and he popped the cork.”

  “Since everyone drank the champagne, the poison must’ve been in her glass,” Brad said.

  Oliver piped up. “The third glass.”

  “What do you mean?” Sharon asked.

  “The third glass Pawn poured,” Oliver explained, “the sound of the pour was different.”

  Brad smiled at his non-sighted powers of observation. “Did you smell anything unusual?’

  Oliver sniffed. “My nose isn’t working very well. I’m getting a cold.”

  Brad turned to Sharon. “Did you notice a substance in any of the
glasses?”

  Sharon closed her eyes as if trying to picture. “No. The glasses were frosted…a faint blue color.”

  Brad wondered if that indicated premeditation, making a mental note to inquire about the process for selecting the glasses.

  Sharon reached for Oliver’s hand. “The audience didn’t realize what was happening at first. A couple of people chuckled when the second character collapsed, but the expressions on the actors’ faces as they peered toward the audience imploring for help…you could tell they weren’t acting. I thought they only used that line, ‘Is there a doctor in the house,’ for TV and movies.”

  As the lounge revolved, Times Square’s famed Coca-Cola sign came into view along with a direct line of sight up Broadway.

  The waitress approached them about another round of drinks. Oliver ordered a Coors Light, and Beth asked for club soda with lemon.

  “The stage manager came onto the stage,” Sharon continued, “at least I think that’s who it was. She looked toward the booth at the back of the theatre and talked into her headset.”

  Oliver spoke. “She told them to announce the show was over.”

  Sharon’s jaw dropped. “You could hear that?”

  Oliver nodded.

  Brad patted him on the back. “The man has super powers.” Turning to Sharon, “Was Zane Tilghman there?”

  “I don’t know. I had my eye out for him…remembered his picture from People magazine…we had such great seats, close to the front. I didn’t want to keep turning around. He could’ve been.”

  Brad described the voicemail message Ralph Lundgren left. “I haven’t called him yet. Wanted to hear from you first. Did you see the police?”

  Sharon shook her head. “Fire department paramedics arrived just as we were about to exit the auditorium. The EMT, and the nurse who went up onto the stage to help out, stepped back after exchanging words with the squad leader. I was gawking toward the stage when one of the ushers told me I had to leave. I heard sirens when we left the lobby, but hey, it’s New York.”