Fatal Gambit

by Ray Flynt

  Zane met his gaze. “From the Daily News?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And?”

  “It wasn’t a review. Mostly his reaction to witnessing the death on stage.” Aaron pulled up the article on his phone. “He said this about Lauren’s performance, ‘she will certainly be remembered with esteem for her short-lived portrayal in Gambit.’ Sounds to me like he liked it.”

  Sadness flooded Zane again as he thought about Lauren. He wanted to share Aaron’s optimism, but didn’t have the same vibes.

  “Ralph tells me we need to make lemonade out of lemons. He asked me to contact all the critics who’ve seen the show and invite them to return to the opening, especially the ones from Saturday night who never got to see the end.”

  Zane felt confident about Melinda’s ability to carry on, but worried her performance would suffer in comparison to what they’d already seen from Lauren. “Not much happens after the champagne toast.”

  Aaron cocked his head. “No. But I think it’s critical to see the reaction of the characters as they prepare to leave—in the separate limos Pawn arranges for them—as they digest the impact of their real-world interactions versus their secret internet lives.”

  “You sound like you’re living with the playwright.”

  “Glad to see your mood brightening.”

  “It’s not. I’m inconsolable about what happened, and fatalistic about the future of the show.”

  “Leave it to me and Ralph.”

  Zane stared at him quizzically. “What else do you two have up your sleeves?”

  “Ralph told me the story about Gower Champion’s last musical.”

  “42nd Street.”

  “That’s right. He had cancer and died early in the afternoon of the day the show opened. But the news was withheld, even from the cast and crew. After all of the cheering curtain calls, David Merrick, the producer, walked on stage, quieted the crowd and said, ‘this is really tragic.’ People laughed, thinking he was joking. But then Merrick announced Champion’s death. Ralph’s point is that the show got a ton of publicity as a result, and it took a good show into the stratosphere at the box office.”

  Zane rubbed his eyes with his hands. “And you want to do the same thing using this tragedy and Gambit?”

  “Ralph’s optimistic.”

  “Of course, he is. There’s a reason they call it show business—emphasis on the latter.”

  “Aren’t you in the same line of work?”

  “I’m an artist, and if you and I are going to continue to live together, you need to understand that.”

  Aaron’s Adam’s apple bobbed before he settled at the desk in front of his laptop.

  21

  Monday, February 12th

  Sharon parked half a block from Milo Benedetti’s Upper Darby home, and faced her car in the direction he would take to Home Depot to pick up his half-sister’s lumber order. Sharon adjusted her side view mirror so she could watch the end of Milo’s driveway.

  Surveillance is no fun.

  Home Depot opened at 6. She knew Milo wasn’t a morning person, so she arrived for her stakeout at 7:30 a.m., relieved to see his half-sister’s truck still parked in his drive. Fog shrouded the neighborhood.

  A top 40 radio station occupied her time, but, as she pulled her coat more tightly about her on that chilly morning, she wondered about the odd time of year to be rebuilding a deck. His sister must’ve had dirt on him to get his agreement to work on such a project in the winter. Or maybe she planned to move soon and needed to have the deck repaired before putting her house on the market.

  Regardless of the reason, Sharon was stuck in Upper Darby, while Brad and Beth enjoyed another day in New York City and the gala opening of the show that night.

  As 9 o’clock approached, she tapped on her steering wheel in time with the music, occasionally humming along. A vehicle started, and she glanced in the side view mirror to see Milo rolling Julia’s Silverado to the end of his drive. He surprised her by heading in the opposite direction.

  Shit. Now where’s he going?

  She made a U-turn, glimpsing Milo turning right at the next intersection. She hadn’t anticipated a close follow, and she hoped not to lose him.

  Two miles later, Milo pulled into a McDonald’s drive-thru lane.

  She drove into the Burger King lot next door and waited for Milo to make his next move. Which turned out to be from the drive-in window to a parking spot where he devoured his breakfast.

  Sharon tried to anticipate what he’d do next and consulted her GPS for his likely route from the McDonald’s to Home Depot. Based on her research, she didn’t think he’d return home first.

  She was right. Twenty minutes later she followed him into the Home Depot lot and parked one row over from the Silverado with a clear view of the exit door leading from the construction supply area.

  After a quick check of her email, she was surprised to see Milo on his way out of the store so quickly. He was accompanied by a young man pushing a rolling cart full of lumber. The order must’ve been ready, and she knew from her prior visit that Milo’s half-sister had arranged for the payment.

  Sharon reached for her video camera to capture his actions.

  Milo opened the back of the Silverado, and stood next to it. The Home Depot employee proceeded to move all of the lumber from the cart into the bed of the vehicle. Milo never lifted a finger. The employee lingered after tossing the last board into the truck, as if hoping for a tip, but none was offered.

  So much for getting the goods on Milo.

  Damn.

  When Milo left Home Depot, she followed, anticipating he would go to his half-sister’s home where the lumber would be used to build the deck. Surely, he wouldn’t make Julia unload the truck.

  Sharon got up to speed on Route 30. Confident she knew his destination, she gave herself permission to hang back about a quarter-mile. But then she saw him make an unexpected turn.

  What now?

  Milo circled the drive-thru lane of Dunkin Donuts. Apparently, he’d worked up an appetite watching the Home Depot guy load the Silverado. So far, the only evidence she’d seen of him exerting himself involved adding to his body mass index.

  Back on the main highway, he gripped the steering wheel with one hand and lifted a donut to his mouth with the other.

  To avoid raising suspicion, Sharon circled the block near Julia’s and drove to the community park behind her property. In February, the picnic tables, brick fire pits, and children’s play equipment patiently waited for spring. Without the cover of foliage, she felt exposed. But her car faced east, and she counted on the clouds reflecting off her windshield giving her the cover she needed.

  She raised a pair of binoculars.

  Milo backed into the drive between his Subaru Crosstrek and the area where a deck once stood. He climbed out of the vehicle and tugged on a pair of leather gloves.

  A gust of wind rocked her car, and the playground merry-go-round screeched as it spun.

  Milo walked behind the Silverado. This was the moment of truth. She reached for her video camera and aimed it at Julia’s back yard.

  A door on the side of the house flung open, and out walked Milo’s half-sister wearing a light sweater over her house dress. Her arms waved wildly, and Milo, who seconds earlier had his hands on a 4” by 4” post, stopped what he was doing.

  What the hell?

  Sharon grabbed the binoculars again. She couldn’t hear what was said, but Julia’s every gesture objected to taking the lumber out of the Silverado. She shook her hand toward the sky where a few flurries began floating to the ground.

  The longer Julia stood outside, the more she shivered, pulling the sweater tightly around her chest.

  Milo raised his hands in surrender, lumbered over to his Subaru. Seconds later he sped away.

  Sharon figured it was pointless to follow him.

  22

  Brad arranged to meet Hector at the conclusion of their Monday afternoon rehearsal.
He arrived a few minutes before the agreed upon time of 3:30 p.m. A young officer stood guard outside the stage door. Brad recognized the insignia on his uniform from one of the nation’s leading private security firms. The guard eyed him with suspicion. Brad gave his name, but since it didn’t match any of those on the “approved list,” the guard blocked Brad’s entry.

  Seconds later, Hector opened the door, announced “He’s okay” to security, and welcomed Brad backstage.

  The cast and crew assembled on the Gambit set, anxiety written on their faces. Brad was introduced and the reason for his visit explained. Having studied the Playbill, he recognized each member of the cast from the photo included with their bio.

  In view of Sharon’s previous comment, supported by Ralph Lundgren’s observation, Brad linked each performer with their gender neutral chess piece name.

  Melinda Harrison/Knight crouched on the hearth of the set’s fireplace, elbows on her knees, and chin in her hands. Her taut expression revealed her burden in carrying on for Lauren.

  By process of elimination, the two people dressed in black had to be Tracy Macklin, the stage manager and Todd Hurley, assistant stage manager. Todd was the person he most wanted to interview.

  A wardrobe woman, dressed in jeans and a Les Miserables sweatshirt, fiddled with Rook’s costume, straightening the collar on the jacket. Brad had forgotten her name.

  The director emphasized Brad’s newfound hobby as an Off-Broadway producer more than the seventeen years he’d spent as a private investigator—no doubt to make them feel more comfortable with his presence. “Mr. Lundgren has asked Mr. Frame to look into the circumstances surrounding Lauren’s death.”

  Ed Minteer/Bishop scoffed. His British accent might have made his plea sound more genteel, but his message was clear. “Sounds like one of Ralph’s harebrained schemes.” He glared at Hector. “Has this been cleared with Equity? I spent three hours the other night cooling my heels waiting for the police to interview me. I’ve got a show to do tonight, and don’t want to waste my time.”

  Hector glanced at Brad with an I-never-expected-this look.

  Events had frayed everyone’s nerves. The only treachery they’d expected in an Off-Broadway play was supposed to be in the pages of the script, with bruised egos the only hazard.

  “I completely understand, Mr. Minteer.”

  Ed’s eyes bulged that Brad knew who he was.

  “I’ll be meeting with Detective Russo tomorrow, and I’ve already told Mr. Lundgren and Mr. Morales that I would defer to her investigation. But all of you witnessed a death the other night. My associate was in the audience and shocked by what she saw. Perhaps you noticed a detail that didn’t seem important at the moment. Unless you’re responsible, I assume you’d like Ms. Parshall’s murder solved.”

  Heads bobbed. Ed remained silent.

  “I’ll speak with most of you individually, but I’d appreciate it if you could tell me where you stood at the moment Lauren collapsed.”

  Following a few exchanged glances, Doug Brennan/Pawn jumped up and moved next to the kitchen island. “I placed the empty tray of glasses on the counter and stood stage left of Lauren—meaning to her left as she faced the audience.”

  Brad smiled. “I’m not a complete theatre virgin. I dated a theatre major in college. She roped me into a production of Chekhov’s The Cherry Orchard that she directed for a senior project. I wasn’t very good, but she drilled me on up stage, down stage, stage left and stage right.”

  “Ah, you could do Hector’s job,” Ed quipped.

  Everyone laughed, including Hector. Brad suspected Ed was trying to make amends for his earlier resistance.

  Ed remained in his seat and pointed. “I stood near the fireplace.”

  Cicely Jackson/Rook sniffled and stepped forward. “I was three feet stage right of Lauren.”

  “Did any of you notice an odd smell?”

  Doug piped up. “You mean like bitter almonds?”

  Brad nodded at the telltale odor for cyanide.

  “The police asked the same question. I don’t think any of us did.”

  Brad glanced around the stage. No one else responded. “I’ll let you get ready for your show. I’m looking forward to seeing it. My college girlfriend also taught me to say break-a-leg.”

  Hector cleared his throat. “We have a six o’clock curtain for the opening. I understand there will be a few critics present. If you leave the building, please be back by five.”

  Brad conferred with Hector before seeking out Tracy Macklin, the stage manager. He found her at a podium stage left rearranging a large binder.

  “I won’t take much of your time,” Brad began. “First, remind me of the name of the person responsible for wardrobe.”

  “Angela. Her last name is Russian, a bit of a struggle—Voskoboynikova.” Tracy enunciated all six syllables. “That’s why we call her Angela.”

  “Aside from the people I just met, are there others associated with the production permitted backstage?”

  “Oh gosh.” Her eyelids fluttered. “There’s quite a lot: the lead producer, Mr. Lundgren, Mr. Siegel, the publicist, Cody and Cassie Zimmerman, our set designers, Rhonda Terranova, the lighting designer…ah, there’s a water cooler service that exchanges bottles once a week.”

  The sound of glass breaking, followed by “Shit.”

  Tracy’s shoulders slumped. “We can’t afford to lose any more of those champagne glasses.” She called out, “You okay, Todd?”

  A somber, “Yeah,” echoed from behind the set.

  Brad brought the focus back to visitors. “What about friends of cast members after a show?”

  “The actors give me the names of their guests. When they show up at the stage door, I alert the cast member who then greets the person and is responsible for escorting them backstage.”

  “Did you have visitors following the matinee on Saturday?”

  “Yes. There were only three. One of the visitors was for Ed and two for Lauren. I gave the list to the police.”

  NYPD will find those contacts.

  “I understand Todd is the person responsible for the props. As you reflect on the other evening, is there any detail that stands out as important?”

  Her lips tightened and she shook her head. “The only thing out of the ordinary happened last Thursday when our prop syringe was tampered with between the matinee and evening show.”

  Brad flashed a quizzical look. She elaborated how the syringe—used by Rook to stab Bishop—had been found with its case tipped over. Everything worked properly, and she hadn’t given it a second thought until he asked.

  Todd approached her work station carrying a dustpan with broken frosted blue glass. “Should I go ahead and set up the props for the opening?”

  Tracy shook her head. “Let’s wait until an hour before, as long as that gives you enough time.”

  “Sure. No problem.”

  Brad spoke to Todd. “If you have a minute, I’d like you to review how you get the props ready.”

  Todd glanced at Tracy, as if seeking permission, then nodded. “We can talk now.”

  Brad followed him past a trash can, where he dumped the broken glass. Behind the set, Todd patted a wooden cabinet secured with a combination padlock. “This is where we keep the props.”

  “Has it always had the lock on it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who, besides you, has the combination?”

  “Tracy.”

  Todd kept the combination from Brad’s view when unlocking the padlock. The cabinet stood about four feet high and had three shelves. At quick glance, the top shelf contained envelopes, paper, markers, and cashier’s checks. The middle shelf held squares of gold foil, corks with rounded tops, an unmarked bottle of white tablets, and a case Brad suspected might hold the fake syringe. Finally, at the bottom of the cabinet he saw empty champagne bottles, five frosted blue glasses, and a case of bottled water.

  “Are those the glasses used for the onstage toast?”
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  “Yup. Originally we had ten. The police took the broken one and the other three used on Saturday night. I broke another one as I was washing it from our rehearsal.”

  Brad pointed at the bottled water. “You put water in the champagne bottles?”

  Todd shook his head and pointed at the mini-fridge next to the cabinet. “I fill it with ginger ale, add half an Alka-Seltzer tablet, and shove the cork on. Then I cover the top of the bottle with a piece of gold foil and secure it with Scotch tape. It makes for a realistic pop when Pawn opens the bottle.”

  Clever.

  “The bottle is on stage before the show begins?”

  “Yes. I finish my work prior to when they open the house to patrons, usually a half hour before the show. I add a few cubes of ice in the bucket, more for the sound it makes than to keep it cool.”

  “What’s the bottled water for?”

  “Pawn grabs a bottle from the refrigerator near the beginning of the show.”

  Brad nodded. “Helps keep it cold.”

  “Not really. The compressor’s been removed from the on-stage refrigerator to eliminate noise. It’s plugged in, so the light still comes on when the door opens, but everything you see—milk carton, veggies, ketchup, pickles—it’s all fake.”

  Brad smiled. “My college girlfriend never got as far as that lesson.”

  “We keep a few tricks up our sleeves.”

  “Who picked the glasses used for the champagne toast?”

  Todd shrugged. “Not sure. It might have been Cassie. Cassie Zimmerman. She and her husband, Cody, did the set design. She used blue accents on the set, like pillows, items on the shelves near the fireplace, and the kitchen canisters. Makes me think she might have picked the glasses.”

  “Why weren’t they crystal?”

  “Opaque shows up better under the stage lights. Here’s a bit of trivia for you: Rain is one of the trickiest things to light in theatre.”

  Brad couldn’t wait to regale Beth with his newly found knowledge.

  “One last question. For Saturday night’s show, when did you place the tray of flutes on the set?”