by Ray Flynt
Todd grimaced. “Yeah, I’ve been thinking about that. On days when we’ve had two shows, I cleaned up everything after the first performance, then had it all ready to go again for that night.”
Brad did a quick calculation. With the matinee ending around 3:30 on Saturday and patrons arriving by 7, that left a three and a half hour window when the flutes were exposed on stage waiting for a killer to deposit poison.
“Tracy and I discussed it,” Todd continued. “I’m sure that’s why she’s asking me to hold the setup until closer to the show.”
“You’ve been very helpful, Todd. If you could point me toward the men’s dressing room, I’d appreciate it.”
“Easy. Stage right. Up stage corner.”
Brad grinned and gave him a thumbs up.
He heard voices as he neared the open dressing room door, including a female voice saying, “She encouraged me.”
Ed Minteer’s voice replied, “Yeah, but don’t cross her, ’cause she’s a bitch who never forgets.”
Brad tapped on the door frame before sticking his head in. “Everybody decent?”
Conversation ceased.
The narrow room had a countertop on one side, with mirrors surrounded by light bulbs. On the opposite wall a metal clothing rack. Instead of facing the mirror, their chairs turned into the room. Doug Brennan, who played Pawn, sat closest to the door with his arm around Cicely Jackson/Rook—who was perched on his knee. Tucker—the standby—straddled his chair. Next to him Ed Minteer/Bishop—and in the far corner, Trevor Dodson, still wearing his costume for the role of Hayden Whitcomb.
Brad allowed the silence to seize control, waiting to see who might speak first.
“We were just talking about Lauren,” Cicely offered.
Ed cringed.
“A few of us would like to attend her funeral,” she continued. “I talked with her partner this morning, but nothing’s set until the medical examiner—”
Doug spoke. “She’s Jewish and her family wants to observe traditions.”
Their comments were directed toward Brad, an acknowledgement of his intruder status.
“In my experience, the ME will do their best to work with the family. I was hoping to ask Doug a few questions.” Brad gestured toward the door. “We could step out onto the stage.”
Doug squeezed Cicely a little tighter. “You can talk here. I’ve got nothing to hide.”
Ed’s eye roll caught Brad’s attention.
“Tell me about the process you use in filling the champagne glasses for the toast in the last scene.”
Doug pursed his lips and gazed up. “I’m standing down front, slightly right of center when I suggest the idea for a toast. Then I rush behind the kitchen island, give the champagne bottle a little twist in the ice.” He rolled his hands to demonstrate how he rotated the neck of the bottle while it was still in the bucket. “Todd suggested it would generate last-minute fizz. After lifting the bottle from the bucket, I tear off the foil and start pushing up on the cork. Most shows we get a nice pop.”
“Was that the case this past Saturday night?”
Doug glanced at other cast members to confirm. A few heads bobbed. “Yeah. Then I pour the glasses.”
“Any particular order?”
“From where I stand, Todd usually has the glasses arranged in a diamond pattern on a silver tray. I fill the one at the back first…less danger of me knocking it over.” His hands moved as he spoke. “Then the ones in the middle, and finally the glass closest to me.”
“When you pass out the glasses, what order?”
Doug gritted his teeth. “First, I walk over to Bishop. He’s farthest right, near the fireplace. Then Rook, who has been standing upstage, comes toward me to get her glass. After Knight takes hers, I place the tray back on the counter and grab the last one for myself.”
“That’s your pattern for every performance.”
Doug grinned. “I’m a creature of habit. For me, it feels like bad luck to veer off the roadmap for the scene. I’m not one of those old-school method actors like Ed.”
Ed’s face soured, but he held his tongue.
Brad turned to face Cicely, “Are you right or left-handed?”
“Right.”
Brad considered Oliver’s comment about a different sound from the third glass poured and factored in what Doug had just described. He would pay close attention during the performance that evening to confirm the order. Thinking of Doug’s description of the diamond placement of the glasses in baseball terms, Pawn would have filled the second-base position first, followed by third then first-base. Finally, his own glass at home plate.
Until now, Brad considered the poison and who ended up with it as a random act—Lauren being the unlucky recipient. They’d rehearsed for weeks. Anyone associated with the production could have observed Doug’s pour pattern and chosen the victim accordingly.
Learning more about Lauren Parshall grew in importance.
“I love criticism just so long
as it’s unqualified praise.”
Noël Coward
Reaction to reviews of Tonight at 8:30, 1935
23
Opening Night
Zane approached the stage door, Aaron at his side, forty-five minutes before the scheduled six p.m. opening. He carried five bunches of long-stemmed roses and notes for the cast thanking them for their hard work and wishing each a successful debut. The tragic death from two nights earlier robbed the evening of its usual glitter. Actors always had a challenge to suspend the audiences’ disbelief and keep them engrossed in a fictional story. All the press reports of Lauren’s death would make that job much harder.
A uniformed guard stopped them. “Sorry, but no one else is allowed backstage.”
“But I’m the playwright.”
“Those are my orders, sir.”
“From whom?”
“Mr. Morales.”
Hector.
Zane gripped the flowers more tightly until he felt a rose thorn pierce his skin. It drew blood.
“Damn it.”
He flung the flowers at Aaron and reached into his back pocket extracting a handkerchief to blot his wound.
“Could you please take these backstage?” Aaron asked the security guard.
“Sure.” The officer disappeared through the door.
Zane tried the handle, hoping to follow, but the door had already locked. He wrapped the handkerchief around his hand so as to not get blood on his peach-colored silk shirt.
“Don’t worry about it.” Aaron grabbed him by the arm, but he shrugged him off.
Zane kicked the door.
“Let it go. This is your big night.”
He glared at Aaron.
Brad and Beth walked arm in arm down the stairs to their seats just off the aisle in row G. Like half of the men in the opening night crowd, he wore a tuxedo, but Beth outshined in a Persian blue velvet gown accented with a diamond and sapphire necklace. Heads turned. She’d be the envy of any red carpet. Brad beamed.
He’d looked forward to this day ever since Aunt Harriet persuaded him to invest in the play. Lots had changed. His aunt couldn’t bear the thought of coming to the opening knowing that her neighbor Lillian, the playwright’s grandmother, wouldn’t be there. She claimed it would conjure up too many “memories.”
Now Ralph had asked him to investigate Lauren Parshall’s death, and watching the show meant a hunt for clues along with following the play’s storyline.
The seats next to them, originally intended for Sharon and Oliver, stood empty. He’d turned those tickets in at the box office. Ralph said they might be needed to accommodate return visits by reviewers who’d missed the end of the show due to Lauren’s death, or might want to update their opinion to include Melinda in the role of Knight.
Brad alerted Beth that she could be sitting next to a critic.
She grinned. “Maybe I should point out your name in the program.”
“Funny.”
A smatteri
ng of applause broke out to his right. Brad turned and saw Ralph Lundgren walking down the stairs on the other side of the theatre. He’d lined up all the investors, twenty-two names in the Playbill, which may have made him the most recognizable person in the audience.
Perhaps it was the flashy cummerbund, but Ralph reminded him of Hugh Jackman as P.T. Barnum in The Greatest Showman.
An even bigger surprise was who accompanied Ralph—Ken Phillips, Zane’s former lover.
“What’s he doing here?” Zane hissed through his teeth.
Aaron turned to look, but Zane clamped his hand on his arm. “No don’t.”
“I already saw. Relax. What do you care?”
Aaron had put his finger on it. Zane cared about Ken, to the point where, even in his most intimate moments with Aaron, memories of his three years living with Ken snuck in. Seeing Ken walk in on the arms of that turd of a producer ignited a jealous rage within him. With his career literally on the line, thoughts of Ken still crept into Zane’s consciousness.
Knots formed in his stomach. Zane realized the pounding in his head was his heart beating.
I’ll have a stroke if I don’t calm down.
Saturday night’s tragedy hung like a pall over the theatre. He’d been to opening nights before, seen audiences hum with excitement. What should be a raucous group of theatre friends and supporters acted like they were attending a wake. In a way, they were. Not wanting to betray Lauren’s memory with too much merriment.
Aaron poked him in the ribs and pointed toward a couple making their way down the aisle.
“That’s Joel Harris from the Daily News,” Aaron whispered.
The critic had come back. Probably looking for ammunition to savage the show. Zane held his forehead as Harris and the woman he presumed to be Mrs. Harris sat in the open seats next to private detective Brad Frame.
Jesus. Let this be over.
He leaned to ask Aaron the time just as the lights dimmed and an amplified voice made an announcement about silencing phones.
Thank God. It’ll be done in ninety minutes.
Gambit marked the third show Brad watched with Beth that weekend. For the others, he could sit back, relax, and enjoy the experience, occasionally reaching over to touch Beth’s arm or whisper a comment. Tonight, he alternated between nervous investor and baffled investigator.
When the stage lights came on, polite applause greeted the set, even though it had been visible prior to the show. Brad anticipated enthusiastic reactions from the mostly invited audience but found them subdued.
After Sharon’s detailed descriptions and his backstage conversations, much of what unfolded on stage seemed familiar.
To Beth’s left, a man used a pen light to illuminate a writing pad and scribble notes. Beth’s body language signaled her displeasure. Brad warned her a critic might be sitting next to them, but it didn’t make it any less distracting.
Brad theorized the poison used to kill Knight/Lauren had been placed in the champagne flute after the Saturday matinee and before the audience arrived for the evening show. However, he kept a sharp eye on the tray of glasses looking for any opportunity a cast member might have had to spike one of them in the course of the play. Even during the confusion when Rook/Cicely stabbed Bishop/Ed with the hypodermic needle, no one went near the tray on the kitchen island.
He paid close attention when Pawn/Doug proposed the toast. Brad envisioned the glasses in a baseball diamond pattern as Doug Brennan poured the champagne in the following order: 2nd base, 3rd base, 1st base, and finally home plate. Pawn then offered them to the actors as he’d described, with Knight, originally Lauren’s role, receiving the glass which had been poured third—a salient investigatory detail he would share when he met with Detective Russo of the NYPD.
The pounding in Zane’s head stopped twenty minutes into the show. He didn’t know why but was grateful nonetheless. Deep breaths may have helped, or his frequent recitation of the serenity prayer from his days in addiction therapy.
A half hour in, he was convinced family and friends don’t make the best audience. The actors nailed it. Preview audiences had given better reactions. Critics couldn’t complain of overzealous claques.
Zane leaned forward in his seat admiring Melinda’s performance. There wasn’t enough money in the budget to hire a standby for each character. The female had to be able to cover Rook, a twenty-something and Knight, a woman pushing forty; a challenge in the best of circumstances. Both standbys shared responsibility for covering the gender-neutral role of Hayden Whitcomb, intended to be mid-fifties or older.
Melinda, 30, managed to pull off the older woman. Without doubting her competence as an actor, he never expected the nuance she found in the character of Knight—a revelation. Even more remarkable for her to achieve with only one rehearsal. He bit his lip at the notion she might actually be better in the role than Lauren.
Watching the champagne toast brought back the pain of Saturday night. He held his breath and sensed that others in the audience—having read about the murder—did too at that crucial moment.
The play concluded and the lights blacked out. When they came back on, the cast assembled on the stage for curtain calls. The audience, overly quiet throughout, thundered to their feet in applause, whistles, and shouts of bravo.
Aaron slapped him on the back. Nearby, a couple of people he knew flashed thumbs up.
Zane choked up and wiped tears from his eyes as a flood of emotions washed over him. He’d made his NYC comeback. For how long, would depend on the critics.
24
Opening Night Party
“What did you think?” Brad ventured, as he and Beth walked two blocks to The Westin.
“I really enjoyed it. When I lived full-time in New York, I saw lots of shows. I haven’t been this impressed since August: Osage County. That was at least eight years ago.”
“I don’t see as many plays as you, but I thought they did a good job.”
“The fill-in impressed me. What’s her name? Melinda?”
Brad nodded.
“She stood out in a strong cast.”
Brad agreed, wondering how Lauren Parshall would have been in the same role.
They welcomed the warmth inside The Westin and ascended the escalator to the registration lobby where they caught an elevator to the Broadway Ballroom on the third floor. A banner hung above a small stage: “Congratulations to Zane Scott Tilghman and the Cast of GAMBIT.” Bartenders set up on one side of the room, while tables filled with hors d’oeuvres and decorated with gold and white balloons on the opposite side guaranteed guests would mingle. A DJ played upbeat music, and quite a few young couples took advantage of the wooden dance floor directly in front of the stage.
The 6 p.m. curtain time meant the party was underway before 8 p.m. With any luck, he and Beth would have an early night.
Beth munched on appetizers of shrimp, bruschetta, and wheat thins with brie. Brad volunteered to get drinks. She requested a chardonnay.
The room filled. Music abruptly stopped and a trumpet fanfare signaled the arrival of Ralph Lundgren along with the cast and crew of Gambit. Partygoers cheered as the guests of honor made their way through the crowd and Ralph mounted the steps to the microphone on the platform.
The producer held up his hands to quiet the audience. “What a great night. Wasn’t that a fantastic show?” Everyone cheered. “Zane come on up here.”
The playwright, bombarded by a crescendo of cheers, walked up the steps and smiled broadly next to Ralph. Brad thought he saw tears in Zane’s eyes and a flushed face.
Ralph coaxed Zane to the microphone. “I’m overwhelmed. My thanks to our wonderful cast and everyone involved with the production.” He returned the applause with a hand gesture from his heart. “Thanks for coming.”
Brad and Beth mingled. She was a natural at interacting with strangers. Although he could mask it well, Brad never felt comfortable in crowds. There was lots of buzz about the show, with people bragging about wh
ich actors they knew.
Their path intersected with the lead producer, surrounded by well-wishers and wallowing in their praise for his genius in selecting good material. Brad presented Beth to Ralph. The southern gentleman kissed her hand, remarked on her stunning diamond necklace, and introduced Ken as “my date”. Brad explained how they’d already met Ken via Zane’s grandmother. During their brief encounter, he couldn’t help but observe how Ken’s gaze kept darting in Zane’s direction.
Beth noticed too. When they walked away, she remarked, “Looks like Ken’s yearning for an old flame.”
Brad guided Beth toward Zane Tilghman, to offer congratulations. They found him talking with several partygoers and waited patiently.
Zane spotted Brad and bypassed a couple of others in line to say hello. “Mr. Frame, good to see you.”
Brad introduced Beth.
Zane didn’t fawn on her like Ralph had, but greeted her warmly. He snagged the arm of the young man next to him saying, “I’d like you to meet Aaron Siegel. He handles promotion for our show.”
Brad shook Aaron’s hand.
Ralph and Hector had spoken about the work of a publicist. Brad hadn’t expected such a young man, or the adoring looks he gave Zane.
“Thanks, Mr. Frame,” Aaron said, “for giving up those seats next to you. They came in handy for the Daily News critic.”
Beth pursed her lips. “We noticed.”
“I hope you’re enjoying your first time as a producer,” Zane added. “Your aunt was always such a good friend to Lillian.”
“She adored your grandmother.” Brad didn’t react to the comment about his producing experience. On that score, the jury was still out.
Brad felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see Doug Brennan/Pawn.
“Could I speak with you for a minute?” the actor said.
“Sure.”
Doug looked around. “Maybe in a less busy spot.”
Brad nodded and excused himself with Beth. Doug forged a path through the crowd to a secluded corner of the ballroom.