Fatal Gambit

by Ray Flynt

  Money isn’t the only thing to make the world go round.

  Brad squinted as his brain pinged with a variety of ideas. His time in New York grew shorter. That night he would see the show with Tucker going on in the role of Pawn, and he wanted to make the most of his time before then. Brad needed to talk with Ed Minteer about Lauren. As her ex-lover, his absence at her funeral wasn’t shocking, but several cast members talked of an ugly breakup. Did that make Ed a killer?

  Tracy’s revelation about Zane’s ex, Ken Phillips, being backstage on the evening of the murder set off alarm bells. Brad grimaced.

  “Having a bad day?”

  He opened his eyes to see the barista staring at him. “Huh?”

  “You look like you’re having a bad day.” The employee stroked his chin and pointed at the dark stubble on Brad’s face. “You’ve been here a couple of times. Never saw you without a shave.”

  Brad grinned and nodded. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

  He wasn’t the only one. Detective Russo woke to a bad news day and felt betrayed. For Doug Brennan, aspiring actor, waking up in The Tombs wouldn’t come with a bright spot. Lauren Parshall, who had no more days, was where Brad needed to keep his focus—finding justice for her.

  34

  Brad returned to his room, shaved, showered, and dressed. He made notes about the loose ends nagging at him then waited until after nine o’clock to call Nick Argostino.

  After three rings, Nick answered. “I hear you fucked up.”

  Brad winced. “You talked to Russo?”

  “Nah. She left me a message. If my window had been open, I might have heard her all the way down here.”

  Brad summarized his take on events and how an innocent comment ended up in the Daily News.

  “Those artsy types can’t keep their mouths shut.”

  “Yeah, well…”

  “I hope you aren’t calling for me to get you back in Russo’s good graces. You’re persona non grata with the NYPD. I don’t have enough beads on my Rosary to turn that around for you.”

  Nick has a way with words.

  This episode, and Nick’s reaction, added insight into Hector’s characterization of Detective Russo as a “tough old broad.”

  “I’ll deal with Russo…eventually. I have another favor to ask.”

  “Okay,” Nick warily muttered.

  “I’m into this whole Broadway producing gig because of my Aunt Harriet. Her neighbor, Lillian Tilghman, was the grandmother of Zane Scott Tilghman, the playwright.”

  “Was?”

  “She died about two weeks ago. Eighty-nine, not in the finest of health, and no indication at the time of foul play. But Aunt Harriet was suspicious on the night of Lillian’s death, claiming to have heard voices and the sound of doors opening after she’d gone to bed. She thought her neighbor might have had a late night visitor.”

  Nick snorted. “I think Ruth records this soap opera, and I’m occasionally stuck watching it with her.”

  Brad laughed. “At the time, I discounted Harriet’s concerns, but Zane told me ‘pending’ had been listed as the manner of death. The ME’s probably waiting for toxicology results before making final certification.”

  Nick grunted in agreement.

  “Anyway…Zane’s ex-boyfriend, Ken Phillips, showed up at Lillian’s apartment on the morning after her death. Used his own key to enter, and mentioned having gotten together for lunch with Lillian the previous day. All of this happened within weeks of Zane and Ken’s breakup.”

  “You lost me. Ruth never watches soap operas this interesting.”

  Nick had caught every detail and was teasing. “Bear with me,” Brad said. “Yesterday, I learned that Ken came backstage on the night of Lauren Parshall’s murder. Leaving a note for Zane was the stated reason for his visit.”

  Nick exhaled. “You’re wondering if a serial killer, bent on revenge against his ex-boyfriend, got rid of Grandma Tilghman and one of the actors in Zane’s play?”

  “You cut to the chase.”

  “I’ve been at this a few years. Now you want me to call the New York City Medical Examiner’s office to learn if poison showed up in Lillian Tilghman’s system?”

  Once again, Nick had leaped two steps ahead. “Well, they’re more likely to share information with you than me.”

  “I don’t mind. I’d rather call them than grovel to Detective Russo. You’re in charge of that.” Nick snickered.

  “Fair enough. I’ll hold off on that as long as I can.”

  “Gimme the date of death for Ms. Tilghman.”

  Brad put Nick on hold and consulted the calendar on his smartphone.

  “January 30th.”

  “Got it. When I know, you’ll hear about it.”

  Brad sat on the edge of his bed and texted Beth, telling her how much he looked forward to their delayed Valentine’s Day celebration that weekend in DC.

  Beth replied, “Busy. Can’t chat right now.”

  Not even a smiley face.

  Brad stood, deciding what to do next.

  It was too early to contact Ed Minteer. According to Hector Morales, Ed lived in the Astoria section of Queens. Brad had no desire to travel to Queens. Instead he hoped to catch up with the actor for a few minutes prior to that evening’s performance. Ed had already demonstrated how prickly he could be in cooperating with the investigation. Brad wanted to give him a heads-up that he desired a meeting.

  Russo’s call had unnerved him. How was he to know that an off-hand remark in a van full of people would end up on the pages of the Daily News? In retrospect, he shouldn’t have trusted Zane Tilghman. The man acted like an emotional basket case with his erratic responses to Gambit events or his on-again, off-again relationship with Aaron.

  Brad admired Russo’s tenacity in pursuing the case, unlike Attorney Dobbins, who only seemed to go through the motions of providing a legal defense for Doug Brennan. Even Ralph Lundgren’s abrupt departure for Chicago bothered him, especially given how anxious Ralph was for Brad to investigate the on-stage murder.

  Most of all, the brutality of Lauren’s death nagged at him. He needed to vent and picked up his phone.

  Sharon answered on the first ring. “Hi stranger.”

  “What’s happening?”

  “I’m relaxing. Feet up on the desk. Just tossed a fresh log on the fire. Wondering how to stay busy today.” A momentary pause. “NOT. I’m on my second day surveilling Milo’s deck building skills. If the man moved any slower, he’d freeze in place.”

  “I thought you already caught video of him strong-arming a forty-pound post hole digger?”

  “Yup. Showed it to the insurance company yesterday afternoon, and they want more, so I’m back.”

  “I’ll be home on Monday. I can take your place.”

  Sharon scoffed. “You’d trade the lights of Broadway for the drudgery of a stakeout?”

  “Regrettably, I’m witnessing a side of show business that isn’t glamorous.”

  “With any luck, Milo should finish up tomorrow, so you’re off the hook.” Sharon sighed. “The worst part is I had a great location behind his step-sister’s property in a community park. But his mom spotted the vehicle yesterday and called the cops. To avoid raising their suspicions, I’m now parked on a side street, shooting video of the deck between two of the neighbor’s houses.”

  He gazed out the window onto Times Square, where electronic signs on the Good Morning, America studio flashed headlines about the school shooting the previous day in Parkland, Florida. He shuddered thinking of the grief those seventeen families faced. “I was hoping to chat about the theatre murder, but you’re busy.”

  “Not yet. I’m here. Milo hasn’t arrived. He’s not the most punctual soul. Even when he is, Julia usually has to bribe him with a muffin or donut. When he pulls into the drive, I’ll still have twenty minutes before videoing. What’s up?”

  Brad recounted developments in the death of Lauren Parshall, starting with the arrest of Doug Brennan, his ini
tial meeting with Detective Russo, described the laissez-faire attitude of Attorney Dobbins, the trip to Lauren’s funeral, and his early morning upbraiding from the detective. Then he expressed his concern about a potential link between the death of Zane’s grandmother and the on-stage murder as acts of vindictiveness against the playwright.

  Sharon whistled. “There’s a lot of shit going on. Your aunt had her suspicions about Zane’s grandmother’s death from the very beginning.”

  “I know.” He hated to admit it.

  “So you think whoever murdered Lauren also framed Doug?”

  “Looks that way.”

  “Who benefits from Lauren’s death?”

  Brad had mulled the same question without any definitive answers. “Not sure. As near as I can tell, she only had her mom and a boyfriend. Lauren was a working actor maintaining a New York City apartment. Probably living from paycheck to paycheck. If she socked away any savings, it would be to see her through periods of unemployment.”

  “If Lauren was the target, then it has to be for a reason other than money.”

  Once again, Sharon had uttered a magic word that stirred Brad’s thinking—IF. “More than one person suggested that her ex-boyfriend and fellow performer, Ed Minteer, might have killed her, or there’s the bizarre notion that Melinda Harrison, the standby, killed Lauren so she could take over the role.”

  “Sounds like a plot twist right out of All About Eve.”

  Brad recalled the movie in which a young actress, Eve Harrington, befriends Bette Davis’ Margo Channing character, then schemes to sideline Margo so that Eve can fill-in, having ensured critics would be a part of the audience. “Yeah. Truth is stranger than fiction, but that would be weird.”

  After a long pause, Sharon piped up. “It’s Russo’s call that’s bugging you, isn’t it?”

  “Hmmm, I don’t think so. I don’t blame her for being pissed. A minute ago you put your finger on the issue gnawing at me.”

  “Uh…wait a minute. Milo just pulled in the driveway. Keep talking. Just wanted to give you a heads up. What genius comment did I make?”

  “You said, ‘If Lauren was the target.’ I’ve made that assumption ever since hearing about the placement of the poison in the champagne flutes. But if her death were random, I’ve discounted a few people that ought to be considered suspects.”

  “Like Zane’s ex-boyfriend, Ken?”

  Brad nodded, even though there was no one in the hotel room who saw him. “Yeah.”

  “Oh, my God,” Sharon blurted.

  “What?”

  “Julia raced out of the house. No muffins. No donuts. Jumped in her car and drove off. Milo’s already lifting lumber. I gotta go.”

  Brad wished her well before ending the call. Their conversations usually gave him a better perspective on any investigation, but this wasn’t a typical case. He didn’t have a client. There’d be no one to whom he could submit a bill. As always, he labored on behalf of justice.

  35

  Brad bided his time after the phone call with Sharon. He hoped to hear back from Nick regarding the toxicology reports on Lillian Tilghman. If poison had killed her, suspicion would land on Ken Phillips for her death as well as Lauren Parshall’s. Either way, since Phillips had visited backstage on the night of the murder, Brad was eager to talk with him.

  Brad flipped on the TV and tuned to CNN. He sat on the edge of the bed to watch but quickly bored of the drama du jour. When housekeeping knocked on his door to make up the room, he turned off the TV, put on his jacket, and headed out to the theatre district to walk and clear the cobwebs in his brain.

  He took a deep breath in front of the Marriott Marquis. Temperatures had moderated a bit and the sunshine lifted his spirits. The city bustled with late-morning foot traffic, and cars stretched along the intersection of Broadway and 7th Avenue. In the Square, several people costumed as popular cartoon characters encouraged selfies with the tourists, expecting a tip in return. Missing that morning was Broadway’s performance artist in cowboy boots and a hat, who posed with a guitar wearing only white briefs.

  Creative entrepreneurship.

  Maybe Sharon had been right. Brad secretly wanted to demonstrate his skills to Russo—prove himself as an ally rather than an adversary.

  He grew antsy to talk with Ken Phillips, sensing revelations to come. Tracy Macklin had noted that Ken worked for a graphic design agency, but never said which one.

  Ralph Lundgren had kept company with Ken during the opening night festivities, their pairing even drawing a few jealous stares from Zane. Brad called Lundgren’s private number.

  “Good mornin’, y’all,” Ralph drawled. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  “Wanted to touch base. I hear Gambit might transfer to Broadway?”

  “We’re workin’ on it. Aaron sent me photos of the lines at the box office. Tickets are goin’ faster than hot chocolate at an ice skating rink.”

  “We saw hordes of people outside Stage 42 yesterday, right before a group of us rode down to Lauren’s funeral.”

  “Tragic. Tragic.” Ralph repeated in somber tones. He paused, then almost gleefully, “Hasn’t hurt sales. If anything, people are learning about the show because of all the front-page publicity.”

  Ironic that a play about fakery in social media should earn a boost due to negative headlines.

  Brad crossed Broadway gazing at all the show billboards on the façade of the Palace Theatre. Two cars on 47th Street, jockeying for the same spot in the middle lane, laid on their horns.

  “Sounds like you’re outside.”

  “Just taking a walk. The police arrested their suspect. I’m heading home tomorrow after seeing the show with Tucker in the role of Pawn.”

  Ralph exhaled. “Zane’s all bent out of shape about Tucker taking over for Doug—thinks he’s too old. He called me last night…wanted me to hire the kid who played Pawn in his college production. Zane already tried to convince Hector, to no avail. I listened respectfully, but we’re runnin’ a business. Finally, I had to put my foot down. Zane had a hissy fit and hung up on me.”

  Their chit chat had lasted long enough. “I understand Ken Phillips is a graphic designer. Joedco, my family’s business, could use a good one to transform the look of our annual report.” Brad had stretched the truth, since he’d have very little say in the matter. “You and Ken seemed quite close at the Gambit opening. How can I reach him?”

  Ralph’s voice quavered. “I uh, don’t want to leave you with the wrong impression. Ken’s a nice bit of eye-candy, and I enjoyed his company for a few days in New York, but I’ve got a partner here in Chicago. He’s a real estate developer…not the least bit interested in theatre…crazy about the Cubs and the Bears.” Ralph laughed. “Not my thing. We’ve been together in an open relationship for ten years.”

  When Brad didn’t immediately react, Ralph added, “Ken knows the way things are with me.”

  “I’d still like to contact him, if you have his information.”

  “Hold on.”

  A minute later, Ralph returned. “Ken works for Horvath and Buchanan, 48 West 48th. Their office moved to a different floor than the information I have, but you’ll find it. Good to talk with you, Brad. Let me know what you think of Tucker’s performance.”

  Brad, who had circled the perimeter of Times Square to exercise and clear his head, reversed course at the corner of 45th Street and 7th Avenue, marching north toward 48th.

  The pre-depression era building sat across the street from an entrance to the Rockefeller Center parking garage. Brad found the listing for Horvath and Buchanan on the lobby’s directory and took the elevator to the seventh floor.

  Not standing on ceremony, the receptionist merely called Ken to announce, “There’s someone here to see you.”

  At the sight of Brad, Ken’s mouth gaped. He finger combed his tousled ash brown hair, and mumbled, “Come on back.”

  They meandered a winding corridor, and Brad wondered if he should have left
a trail of bread crumbs. Aside from a well-appointed conference room to confer with clients, the offices appeared shabby—a real estate brochure might label them utilitarian. Ken Phillips had what could only be described as a cubby hole within a rabbit warren of offices in a cramped suite.

  Ken shoved aside a pile of papers on his computer desk and pointed for Brad to have a seat in the chair next to it. “Can I get you a soda or bottled water?”

  Brad shook his head.

  Ken eased into his own chair, wearing stone-washed jeans and a black polo shirt embroidered with the Horvath and Buchanan logo. He reached for a can of Diet Dr. Pepper, taking a long swig.

  On the wall directly in front of him, Brad noticed three Broadway show posters, recognizing the one from Wicked. “Did you design those?”

  Ken grinned. “No. I wasn’t even born when Follies opened on Broadway. They’re examples of good design. I have them for inspiration.”

  “Did you design the Gambit poster?”

  Ken puckered his mouth. “When Zane and I were still together, I suggested using a chessboard as the background. I imagined stark black and white chess pieces with Gambit in red using a Gothic font, like might be found on a popular computer game.”

  Brad glanced about the office.

  Ken wrung his hands. “Don’t mind the mess. Our team is working on a packaging design for a company that sells ingredients for make-at-home smoothies.”

  Ken had yet to ask Brad the reason for his visit. A tell?

  Brad leaned forward. “Yesterday, I traveled to Bucks County with the cast to attend Lauren Parshall’s funeral. The stage manager told me you were at Stage 42 the night Lauren died.”

  Ken furrowed his brow. “Was I? I don’t recall.”

  “Tracy said you brought an envelope with Zane’s name on it. Posted it on a backstage bulletin board.”