by Ray Flynt
“What’s up?”
“After you left this afternoon, we continued talking in the dressing room.” Doug lowered his voice. “Cicely confronted Ed for digs he’d been making about Lauren since she died, and asked why he was being such a jerk.”
“Okay.”
“Turns out Ed had a history with Lauren. They lived together for two years. According to him, their break up was pretty ugly.”
“How long ago?”
“Six or seven years.”
“That’s quite a while.”
Doug’s head bobbed. “I know. But the guy can’t seem to let go.”
“Today was the first you learned about it?”
“Yup.”
“You’re friends with Cicely. She shared a dressing room with Lauren. Had she ever said anything?”
“Nope. Cicely was as surprised as anyone. She suggested I talk with you.”
“Thanks for sharing. By the way, good job in the show.”
Doug blushed, muttered, “Thanks,” and drifted back toward the dance floor.
Brad processed what he’d just heard. Ed Minteer/Bishop had been the most resistant, challenging Hector on why an outside investigator would be needed. If Ed had wanted to harm Lauren/Knight, regardless of pent-up resentments from six or seven years ago, why reveal the hate after her death. After all, he’s an actor and should be able to mask any motive for murder.
Brad returned to Beth, who asked, “What was all that about?”
“I’ll fill you in later. Sorry for leaving you all alone.”
“Oh, I wasn’t alone. Ralph offered to bring me a drink. If his sexual preference wasn’t obvious, I’d say he was hitting on me.” She offered a coy smile.
“You can take the gentleman out of the South, but not the South out of the gentleman.”
She laughed.
Ralph now held court with several young men. Ken was still at his side but stealing looks at Zane.
Brad hadn’t witnessed as much testosterone-fueled desire since his high school prom.
They milled about for a while longer before Beth leaned into him, suggesting they return to their hotel.
“Sounds good to me.”
She visited the powder room before their departure.
As Brad watched all the joyous faces, he heard a voice behind him. “Did you see her performance? If I didn’t know better, I’d think Melinda killed Lauren.”
Melinda had been the subject of much buzz during the party, but Brad found the comment curious. He glanced over his shoulder and saw it was Aaron Siegel who’d made it. Several of the people who heard the remark nodded in agreement.
Beth returned just as Ralph once again took to the stage. She shrugged in recognition that they’d be stuck there for at least a few more minutes.
A few hours of alcohol-laced partying made it harder to quiet the crowd. Ralph waved a sheaf of papers. “We’re a hit. Aaron, come on up here and read these reviews.”
The publicist joined him at the microphone. “Here are excerpts of what critics are saying about our show.”
“The Wall Street Journal. Once in a decade a show comes to town that’s smart and relevant. Such is the case with Gambit, Zane Scott Tilghman’s play about the casual way people treat each other when they presume anonymity.”
“WABC. We often joke about a generation whose eyes are buried in their smartphones. Gambit, which opened tonight at Stage 42, takes that supposition to the next level with an amusing juxtaposition of online deceit and the bitter reality of real-world cleanup.”
“Josh Harris from the Daily News wrote: On Saturday night, I saw an award-worthy performance by Lauren Parshall as Knight, but tonight I witnessed a breathtaking portrayal of the same role by Melinda Harrison whose every gesture brought fresh insights to the role of a frustrated teacher torn between real life and her online persona.”
With each positive notice, Ralph, who’d downed a few tumblers of whiskey that evening, shouted a war whoop and jammed his fist into the air. Aaron reveled in the celebration, inciting cheers at the mention of a cast member, playwright, or Gambit.
“Newsday. For those who think American theatre has become flabby, with offerings more akin to TV sitcoms than soul-stirring drama by the likes of Tennessee Williams, Arthur Miller, or David Mamet, get over to Stage 42. Gambit manages to entertain and pack a punch. Following his success with Wired, more than a decade ago, Tilghman has demonstrated he is no one-hit-wonder.
Aaron flaunted the last piece of paper. “And finally, this from The New York Times:”
“A cautionary tale for our times, Gambit, a new play by Zane Scott Tilghman, examines the veracity of on-line interactions and subsequent real-world encounters with results ranging from hilarious to harrowing. Hector Morales has assembled a perfect ensemble. Doug Brennan and Melinda Harrison are standouts. Watch for lines to form around the corner to Ninth Avenue for tickets. We’ll go out on a limb and predict a Broadway transfer.”
High-fives and glee-filled faces spread across the room.
Zane placed his fingertips alongside his temples and propelled them outward like his head was exploding. He hugged Ken, who stood nearby, which provoked a scowl from Aaron.
Brad heard rustling and turned to see a tall uniformed NYPD officer accompanied by a woman wearing a navy suit and off-white blouse. Brad figured he was about to encounter Detective Russo. She pushed through the crowd toward the front of the stage. Before Brad could introduce himself, she faced the actor who played Pawn.
“Doug Brennan?” she asked, in an authoritative voice.
The actor nodded.
“I’m Detective Russo of the New York City police. You’re under arrest for the murder of Lauren Parshall.”
25
After the uniformed officer put cuffs on Doug Brennan/Pawn and led him through the crowd, word quickly spread of what happened.
Brad glanced at the stage, where Ralph and Aaron watched in horror as the police left the ballroom. Murmurs grew, and Ralph dispatched Aaron to ask the DJ to resume playing. Ironically, their first selection was Green Day’s version of I Fought the Law and the Law Won.
Zane rushed onto the stage, screaming at Ralph. “Help him.”
Ralph glared at him. “What can I do?”
“You’re a fucking lawyer.”
“Contract law…in Illinois.”
“Someone should take a contract out on you.” Zane’s ill-chosen words echoed through the open mic.
Partygoers, who had begun to exit after Doug’s arrest, stopped and gawked.
Ralph slurred, “You’re a fucking asshole.”
The alcohol-fueled clash escalated. Ralph rammed the playwright with his shoulder, nearly causing him to tumble off the platform.
Zane recovered his balance and took a swing at the producer.
Several guys Brad didn’t know rushed onto the stage to separate the two men. They kept them at bay, but with epithets still firing between them.
Aaron dropped to his knees at the edge of the stage and unplugged the mic connector from the floor jack.
Now, the cursing was less distinct, but the shouting underscored their anger with each other.
Beth tugged at Brad’s sleeve. “We should go.”
“Gimme a minute.”
Brad marched up the steps to the platform, grabbed Ralph by the arm, and whispered in his ear. “You’ve got twenty other investors watching you right now.”
Ralph shuddered like he’d come to his senses and pulled himself away from Brad. The producer spun around, staggered down the steps, motioned for Ken, and they left the ballroom.
The other men released their grip on Zane, who came charging at Brad. Nearly nose to nose, Zane exhaled gin-laden fumes. “We need to talk.”
“You need to sober up.” He rejoined Beth at the edge of the dance floor and helped her on with her coat.
Brad felt a yank on his jacket and turned around.
“Please,” Zane implored.
Brad head-gestured t
o Aaron for his help.
Aaron grasped Zane’s elbow, urging him toward the exit.
Zane shook him off and once again got in Brad’s face. “Doug is crucial to the show. Give me a few minutes.”
The hostile expression on Aaron’s face matched Beth’s stern look as she stood with her arms folded.
Brad shoved a finger in Zane’s chest. He lurched back.
“It’s getting late, and you’re drunk.” Brad handed him his business card. “Sober up and call me in the morning… not before ten a.m.”
Brad took Beth by the arm and strolled toward the exit. Behind him he heard Zane shouting at Aaron. “Get outta my face.”
26
Day after Opening
Via text message, Brad agreed to meet Zane Tilghman at Cello’s for brunch on Tuesday at 11 a.m. The Chelsea restaurant advertised whole grain pancakes as their specialty.
The waiter seated him at a table for two next to a brick wall. He ordered coffee. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows at the front, Brad watched for Zane’s arrival. Taxis dominated the traffic on 9th Avenue, with a hypnotic effect as they accordion-stopped and started at the light before continuing southbound.
When Tilghman hadn’t arrived by 11:10, Brad reflected on the chaotic events of the night before and feared Zane might be a no-show.
After refilling his cup, the waiter seemed impatient to take an order.
He returned a few minutes later with a bagel, cream cheese, and strawberry preserves just as a disheveled Tilghman walked in the front door.
“Sorry I’m late.” Zane slipped into the chair across from him, still wearing sunglasses and with dark stubble on his chin. “I had trouble getting a cab.” He plopped a key ring on the table attached to a silver medallion of a Playbill embossed with the Wired logo. The show marked Zane’s Broadway debut and his greatest success.
“I thought you lived a block or two away.”
“So did I.”
While Brad considered that cryptic comment, the waiter appeared with coffee and, by name, asked Zane what he wanted. Clearly a regular at Cello’s, he placed his order without consulting the menu.
A few stares across the table later, Brad said, “It’s not that bright. You can take off the glasses.”
Zane let out a deep breath. He removed the shades, revealing bloodshot eyes and a shiner under the left one.
“What happened to you?”
Zane pointed at the burgundy-purplish contusion. “You mean this?”
Brad already felt like he was wasting time and signaled his irritation with an arched eyebrow.
Zane looked embarrassed. “Aaron accidentally elbowed my cheekbone while wrestling me into a taxi last night.”
The waiter delivered Zane’s breakfast. Zane busied himself slathering his pancake with butter and syrup, providing an additional excuse for him to avoid Brad’s gaze before attacking his meal with a fork.
Uneasy silence filled the space between them. Brad hadn’t had much one-on-one contact with the playwright, but he felt growing concern about the bundle of insecurity and indecision that sat across from him.
“You asked to talk with me. I’m here. If you’ve got nothing to say, I have better things to do than watch you eat.” When there was no response, Brad shifted his chair and waved to the waiter for the check.
“Wait.” Zane’s shout drew the attention of several other patrons. “Sorry. I’m not thinking straight right now.”
“It’s none of my business, but I’ve read stories about your addiction. Thought you had that under control.”
Zane winced. “Yeah, I’m still good there. Aaron kicked me out.”
Brad clasped his hands in front of him. “Sorry to hear.”
“We had a big fight last night as we left the hotel.” He pointed at his eye. “That’s when he got me with the elbow. Back home, Aaron dashed into the bedroom and returned with a blanket. He tossed it on the couch telling me, ‘You’re out here.’
“I couldn’t sleep. A thousand thoughts flooded my mind. I remembered that I still had a key to Grandma Lillian’s place. Got dressed. Called a cab, and stayed in Gramercy Park last night.”
Judging by his bloodshot eyes, he didn’t have much sleep there either.
Zane held up a finger. “Which reminds me…I was looking at Lillian’s death certificate. The cause of death was congestive heart failure. Given her age, I figured she died of natural causes. On the certificate, it said ‘pending’ under manner of death.”
Brad recalled his aunt’s suspicions regarding late night noises hours before Lillian died. To allay her fears, Brad had contacted the New York City medical examiner’s office. They’d assured him that their methods would be thorough. “They’re probably just waiting for toxicology results before making a final ruling.”
Bewilderment etched on Zane’s face. “Oh, okay.”
“I hope that wasn’t why you wanted to talk with me this morning. I could have told you that over the phone.”
Zane shook his head.
“Then what do you want?”
Zane sighed. “You have to help Doug.”
“What can I possibly do?”
“Convince the police he didn’t kill Lauren.”
Brad smiled. “I’m a private investigator not a miracle worker.”
“Doug would never hurt anyone.” Pleading infused Zane’s voice. “I first met him at Yale Drama School where he starred in a production of Long Day’s Journey Into Night. Do you know the play?”
Brad shook his head.
“Doug played the role of Edmund, the Tyrone’s younger son. It’s Eugene O’Neill’s masterpiece but requires talent to keep it from boredom. Doug lit up the stage with his portrayal. I knew then I wanted him to play Pawn—tailored the role especially for him.”
“Being a convincing actor doesn’t exclude him from being a killer.”
Zane flapped his arms. “I know. I know. Doug’s a sensitive soul. He and Lauren got along great. They worshipped the craft of acting, discussing character, doing improvisations. Doug’s girlfriend plays Rook. She can tell you.”
Brad held up his palm. “This case is in the hands of the New York City police. Later today, I plan to meet with their lead investigator, Detective Russo. Until I learn what kind of evidence she has...” Brad let his voice trail off.
“Doug didn’t kill anyone.”
“You may be right.”
A glimmer of hope appeared in Zane’s eyes.
“Despite the popular culture’s fascination with serial killers, most of the murderers in our nation’s prisons only killed once. Maybe they snapped. Otherwise good-intentioned people can go off the rails. I watched a play last night where a perfectly respectable, middle-aged teacher adopted a completely different persona chasing after a younger guy. You wrote the part of Knight, so you understand how a person is capable of acting outside of our expectations.”
Zane covered his face with his hands.
The waiter dropped the check folder on the middle of the table. Brad reached for it and handed it back along with his credit card.
Zane’s fingers now massaged his temples. “I assure you, Doug didn’t snap.”
“No.” Brad nodded in agreement. “Whoever murdered Lauren did a lot of planning. This killing was premeditated. Maybe by the likes of a talented actor who pours his heart and soul into creating a role.”
“Damn it.” Zane smashed his fist against the table.
A man across the aisle snarled, “Hey guys, take it outside.”
Zane’s face flushed.
The waiter returned. Brad added a tip to the total before signing. He pushed back in his chair. “I gotta go.”
Chastened by the earlier rebuke, Zane whispered, “What about bail for Doug?”
“Not likely in a murder case.”
Zane’s shoulders sagged. “I hate the thought of this show resuming on Thursday night without Doug. I mean…Tucker can go on…although he’s older than I’d like for that part. It won’t be
the same.” He sighed. “Aaron keeps telling me that the crime publicity will draw people to the show.”
“I’ve heard Ralph say the same.”
Zane snorted. “Those guys are in cahoots.”
“Lauren’s understudy, Melinda, received great reviews on her performance.”
“Yeah, I don’t know where her portrayal came from. I thought Lauren was great. Melinda was amazing. More nuanced.”
“Had she worked with Lauren?”
“I’m not aware if she did.”
“Before I go, who’s your prime suspect in Lauren’s murder?”
Zane’s mouth gaped and the color drained from his cheeks. “Gosh. I don’t know.”
“Forgive me, but that’s bullshit. You have a suspect in mind, even if you don’t have proof that he or she committed the crime.”
The playwright shifted side to side in his chair, and his gaze darted around the room.
“You won’t find the answer in those ceiling tiles.”
Zane mouthed, “Fuck you.”
“Okay, we’re done.” Brad stood, headed for the front door, and at the 9th Avenue curb raised his arm to hail a taxi.
Two cabs at the nearby traffic light had their roof lights off, meaning they weren’t available. Brad pulled out his phone to check for messages.
Zane caught up with him, breath visible as they stood in the frigid air. “Ed Minteer. That’s my suspect. He worked with Lauren a few years ago. I think they lived together. No love lost between them.”
Brad nodded.
“Wait!” A shout came from behind them.
They both turned their heads to see the reason for the commotion.
A scowling waiter charged toward them. “You forgot your keys.”
Zane mumbled his thanks and rolled his eyes.
A cab stopped at the curb. “Later.” Brad jumped in the back seat of the taxi.
Ed Minteer is also Doug’s prime suspect.
27
When the cab stopped at a red light a few blocks from his hotel, Brad glimpsed a shop selling Broadway memorabilia. The window displayed numerous tchotchkes celebrating NYC theatre life. A neon sign advertised scripts, which gave him an idea.