by Ray Flynt
“Oh yeah, I remember now.”
“She told Zane. He didn’t know it was there.”
“Well that explains a few things.” Ken rolled his eyes. His cell phone chimed with a text message. “I need to check this. My boss sends assignments via text.”
He picked up his phone, read what was on the screen, and glanced curiously at Brad. “Sorry.” Ken laid the phone on his desk.
“Everything okay?” Brad asked.
“I guess.”
“The last time we spoke, it was at Lillian Tilghman’s apartment on the morning after she died. She’d also left you a note, tacked to a bulletin board in her kitchen.”
Ken laughed. “I’m everyone’s favorite pen pal.”
“When I asked about it, you said blood was thicker than water. Can you elaborate?”
Ken reached for his wallet. “I’ll show you. You can draw your own conclusion.”
It surprised Brad that he still carried it with him two weeks later.
Ken unfolded the pink notecard with the letter “L” embossed on the front, and handed it to Brad who studied the lines of cursive writing accomplished with a fine-point pen.
My Dear Kenneth,
How wonderful to see you earlier today. Many thanks for the scrumptious lunch. You have been like a second grandson. I shall always treasure our time together. As to the unfortunate turn of events between you and Zane, he inherited pig-headedness from his father. There is little I can do or say to dissuade his decision.
Fondly,
Lilly
The lunch “earlier today” reference suggested the note had been written on the afternoon or evening before her death.
Brad handed the notecard back to Ken. “What precipitated your break-up with Zane?”
Ken’s bright green eyes peered at Brad. “His break-up. Not mine. He chose for us not to be together.”
“Did he tell you why?”
“Not in so many words.”
“What words did he use?”
Ken offered a wry smile and took another swig of his Dr. Pepper. “He tired of me applying the brakes all the time. You’re aware of his addiction years?”
Brad nodded.
“I brought him back from the brink. He’d be dead if it wasn’t for me. Of that, I’m convinced.” Ken cupped his hands together. “You know how kids complain when the only word their parents use is ‘no.’ That’s how Zane started to see me. He cracked a comment about it once in a while. I think he prefers being with a blue-sky, green-lights, all-dreams-are-possible kinda guy.” He shrugged. “I still love him, but my feet are on the ground.”
“For what it’s worth, Zane seemed glad to hear about the note you left him backstage.”
Ken’s face brightened.
“What can you recall from your visit to the theatre that evening?”
A scowl quickly replaced Ken’s smile. He pointed at his phone. “The text a few minutes ago…it was from Ralph Lundgren, alerting me that he’d given you my contact information. He said you’re looking for a graphic designer. You’ve been here fifteen minutes with no mention of it.”
Despite thinking that he might be sitting across from a serial killer, Brad decided to come clean.
“I wanted to talk with you about events at the theatre from the night of the murder. As far as design, I’m the board chair for an aerospace engineering firm based in Houston. We could use a new look for our annual report. I’ll pass along your information to my brother, the CEO. It won’t be my decision.”
Ken leaned back and looked skeptical. “You think I know who killed Lauren?”
“You may have seen or heard something that didn’t seem significant at the time. In retrospect, it could be the elusive bit of information needed to solve the case.”
“I thought the police arrested Doug Brennan for the murder.”
“Yes. But they’re still putting together the case against him. According to Doug’s girlfriend, a search of his parent’s farm didn’t produce the source of the poison that killed Lauren.”
Ken downed more of his soda. “I wasn’t at the theatre very long that night. I knew I’d be with Ralph at the opening and decided to share my congratulations ahead of time. I arrived about an hour and fifteen minutes before curtain. Tracy spotted me. I asked if Zane was around. She hadn’t seen him. I flashed the envelope I had for him and told her I’d post it on the board.”
“Did you see anyone else?”
“I heard laughter in the men’s dressing room and stuck my nose in to say hello.”
“Was everyone there?”
“I saw Doug, Tucker and Trevor. Ed wasn’t there. They were laughing about Trevor’s headshot in the souvenir program. He’s pushing seventy, but the picture of a much younger man dated from the ’80s. Zane and I were still together when the show was cast and they had their first read through. I’d met the others but not Trevor. He seemed like a nice guy. Took the ribbing about his pic with good nature.”
Brad pictured the small dressing room and the drawer at Doug’s station where the plastic bag of poison with the makeup smudge had been found. Russo hoped to find skin cells. Since Doug didn’t use makeup, it increased the likelihood of finding another person’s DNA. “I’m curious. Do you recall if Trevor was already in makeup for the show?”
Ken bobbed his head. “Yup. Full costume. All ready to go. Doug still wore his denims.”
“Did you see anyone else while you were backstage?”
“I bumped into Ed as I left the dressing room. He gave me the cold shoulder…kinda typical for him.”
“Anybody else?” Brad repeated.
Ken squinted and pursed his lips. “Oh yeah, I saw Angela, the wardrobe lady. I don’t think she saw me. She was busy taking a costume into the ladies’ dressing room.”
After another attempted drink at soda, Ken clanged the empty can on his desk.
The phone rang on the credenza behind him, and he glanced at the time on his phone. “Shit. I’ve got a conference call now. I have to take this.”
Brad stood. “It’s okay. I’ll find my way out.”
Ken swiveled his chair toward the phone.
Brad eyed the empty soda can, realized it could be a source of Ken’s DNA, and scooped it up from the desk before leaving the office.
36
On his way back to the Marriott Marquis, Brad stopped at a deli, laid a dollar on the counter, and asked for a paper bag. “Don’t open it.”
The clerk eyed him with suspicion, but eagerly snatched the bill and handed him a brown bag.
Brad stowed the Dr. Pepper can inside and double folded the top.
A peace offering for Detective Russo.
In his hotel room, just before noon, he scanned the contact information list from his initial meeting with the cast and crew of Gambit and called Ed Minteer’s number.
“What now?” a gruff voice blared.
Brad paused. “Ed, it’s Brad Frame.”
A soft hum as Ed processed the name. “Sorry. Just got off another call. I thought that asshole was bugging me again.” He sounded groggy.
“I’m planning to be at the theatre tonight. Wondered if you’d have a few minutes to chat about Lauren Parshall before the show?”
“Christ.”
Brad heard heavy breathing on the line but didn’t react.
“Are you still there?” Ed grumbled.
“Yes. I’ll only need a few minutes of your time.”
“I don’t know about tonight. Look…they called a rehearsal for three today. They want to work Tucker into the show. The rest of us have to suffer. How ‘bout if I see you this afternoon?”
“Sure. What time?”
“Two-thirty. We can chat in the dressing room.”
Brad arrived at Stage 42 five minutes early for his appointment with Ed Minteer. A few people waited in the ticket line, but nothing like the throngs he’d seen the previous morning. In the lobby, Melinda Harrison’s name had been pasted over Lauren Parshall’s on a large sho
w poster featuring details of the cast and production crew. On a separate sign:
At this performance, the role of Pawn, usually played by Doug Brennan will be performed by Tucker Greene.
Brad could only imagine the pressure Tucker would be feeling.
He walked toward the stage door expecting to be stopped by a security guard. He found the door unlocked. Brad followed the same route he’d taken with Ralph and Hector the previous Sunday afternoon. From his prior visit backstage, he recognized the plywood backing of the Hampton Mansion’s fireplace looming in front of him. He wandered onto the mid-century modern decorated set, once again marveling at how real it all looked. Tracy Macklin stood at the stage manager’s podium on stage left and waved when she spotted him.
“Is Ed here?” Brad asked.
Tracy shook her head. “Haven’t seen him.”
The backstage buzzed with preparations for rehearsal. Conversation in the dressing rooms drifted to the stage without discernable words until a woman shouted, “Hey Angela, can you check this zipper.”
Sounding harried, Angela called back, “Coming.”
Brad paused at center stage gazing into the darkened auditorium. It’s the closest he would ever come to what it felt like to perform. He stretched his right arm toward the imaginary audience and mouthed, “Is this a dagger which I see before me, the handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee.” He grinned, recalling how he’d butchered the same speech from Macbeth during high school. His senior lit teacher would be proud.
Maybe I can play Hayden Whitcomb one of these days.
“Hey, Brad.” Todd Hurley appeared with a tray of champagne flutes for the rehearsal, placing them on the kitchen island. He opened the refrigerator and shifted a bottle of water from the door to the top shelf. Todd walked down the hallway toward the set’s bathroom, presumably to check the prop syringe.
Hector rounded the stage-left corner of the set carrying a clipboard. He flashed a V-for-victory to Brad before bounding down the stairs into the theatre.
Brad had met these people only four days earlier, yet he’d become one of them, no longer drawing who-the-hell-are-you stares. Whoever murdered Lauren Parshall moved about the stage and recesses of the theatre with equal ease.
They knew the killer; of that, he was certain.
Tracy returned to the stage manager’s podium, and Brad wandered in her direction. “Any sign of Ed yet?”
She held up her index finger, poked her head around the proscenium, and called to Hector. “Ed Minteer’s train is stopped at Lexington due to a medical emergency. He’ll be late.”
“Is everyone else here?” the director asked.
“Still waiting on Cicely.”
“When she arrives, we’ll start. You can read Bishop’s lines till he gets here.”
Bishop was Ed Minteer’s character in the show. The show’s two standbys filled in for the deceased Lauren Parshall and the jailed Doug Brennan. There hadn’t been time to fill either of the standby slots. Ed’s absence wreaked havoc with the normal order.
Brad pulled out his phone to check the time. Even if Ed arrived in the next few minutes, they wouldn’t be able to fit in a chat before the rehearsal. He resigned himself to the wait.
Tracy switched on the microphone at her station. She glanced at Brad, announcing to the cast: “Don’t forget to silence your phones.”
Brad gave her a thumbs up and slipped his phone into vibrate mode as he descended the steps into the auditorium. He marched up the aisle and exited into the lobby, walking past Hector who was too busy to acknowledge him.
Rehearsal would conclude by five, at which time he’d corner Ed Minteer. He still hoped to deliver his peace offering to Detective Russo, but figured he should text her with a heads up. He pulled out his phone, found Russo’s number, and used one finger to type, “Have potential DNA evidence for you. I can deliver by 6.”
He didn’t expect an instant reaction, but waited before making his next call.
Brad looked up the number for the Daily News. He suspected Aaron had contacted theatre critic Joel Harris and shared the information about the “smudge on a bag of poison” Zane had blurted out during their van ride to Bucks County. In the process, Aaron probably wanted to curry favor and promote the news that Gambit might transfer to Broadway. Brad hoped to confirm his theory. He’d then be able to tie up that loose end with Russo as well as offer his apology.
Brad called the newspaper’s office, identified himself, and asked for the theatre critic. The receptionist put him on hold.
Harris answered. “This is Joel.”
“We haven’t formally met, but my fiancé and I sat next to you on the opening night of Gambit. I’m one of the producers.”
“Ah, okay.” Clacking of computer keys sounded in the background.
He’s on deadline.
“Aaron appreciated your story on the Broadway transfer, and he’s glad the news people were able to use the information about the makeup-smudged bag of poison.”
“No problem.” Harris sounded disinterested, nevertheless confirming Brad’s theory of how the information got into the paper.
“Here’s another tidbit you or your editors might want to know. Doug Brennan didn’t wear makeup for the show.”
“Sort of a moot point,” Harris groused.
“What do you mean?”
“Guess you haven’t heard. The district attorney just cut Brennan loose. His DNA wasn’t a match.”
Speechless, it took Brad a moment to find the right words to end the call.
While he hemmed and hawed, Harris said, “Sorry I won’t be able to use anything from you. Just talked to Quentin Dobbins though…he had a lot to say.”
Brad ended the call and took a deep breath.
If not Doug, who?
Happy for the young actor, Brad hoped this new development might make his overture to Russo even more welcome.
Impatient, Brad texted Nick. “Any news for me?”
He circled the lobby waiting for a reply.
His phone dinged with a text, but it was from Russo. “OK.”
Brad bumped the air with his fist.
Redemption.
37
Brad reentered the theatre just as Zane Scott Tilghman meandered like a zombie past several cast members milling about on the stage. He descended the stairs into the auditorium. The ignored actors shrugged. They’d witnessed his mood swings. For all his brilliance as a playwright, Zane’s people skills left much to be desired.
Zane sat in the fourth row on the opposite side of the theatre from Hector.
Brad sank into a seat in the back row, prepared to sneak into the lobby if he received a text from Nick.
Tucker and Melinda huddled near the stage fireplace, possibly rehearsing one of the scenes between Pawn and Knight. Trevor watched from a stool near the set’s kitchen counter. The veteran performer beamed at his fellow actors.
Tucker looked nothing like a college student, a fact he’d admitted during their trip to Lauren’s funeral. Brad’s knowledge of theatre had grown exponentially in the past few weeks but hardly reached expert. He’d become accustomed to seeing Doug Brennan as Pawn. Tucker in the role seemed…well, jarring. Like most consumers, he knew what appealed to him—or didn’t—even if he couldn’t articulate all of the reasons. As Ralph Lundgren liked to say, “Everybody’s a critic.”
Hector stood at his seat. “Is everyone here?”
Tracy, the stage manager, appeared at the edge of the set and answered. “All except Ed.”
Hector made a round-em-up gesture with his hand. “Let’s have the cast on stage before we begin.”
Tracy yelled for Cicely, who appeared from the wings shoving her cell phone into the pocket of her jeans.
Hector stood to address the cast. “When I arrived, I overheard someone suggest that the stage manager should have rehearsed Tucker alone this afternoon. This rehearsal is for the good of the show. Listen to his interpretation and react accordingly. Don’t be
cute. Play it straight.” He looked at Tucker. “If we need to stop, we will. Questions?”
No one said a word.
“Tracy’s going to read Ed’s lines until he gets here.”
Just then, Ed walked onto the stage and grumbled, “I’m here.”
“Nice of you to join us,” Hector mocked.
Ed threw him the finger. “Tell it to the MTA.” He appeared frustrated by his transit delay. When Trevor tried to drape an arm around Ed’s shoulder, he shrugged him off.
“Whenever you’re ready,” Hector called to the stage manager.
Tracy yelled, “Places.” The cast scurried off stage, and seconds later the pre-show music began. Only the work lights illuminated the action. Cast members weren’t required to wear their costumes.
Following the sound of an arriving car, Pawn, Knight and Bishop ambled through the front door of Hayden Whitcomb’s mansion in the Hamptons.
“Where the hell is Rook?” Hector shouted.
Cicely burst through the front door. She held up her phone, limbs shaking, and shrieked, “Doug’s out of jail.”
The rehearsal skidded to a halt. The other actors crowded around her. Brad couldn’t hear all that was said, but everyone appeared to share in the joy of her news.
Hector stood, hands on hips. “Tracy!”
Tracy had joined the knot of cast members congratulating Cicely on the good news. She turned toward the director with a give-us-a-moment grin.
They started the rehearsal from the beginning. Tucker seemed tentative, but after grabbing a bottle of water from the set’s refrigerator loosened up a bit.
Having experienced the excitement of opening night, this failed to electrify. Their use of no stage lighting or costumes could have been contributing factors.
Zane rose from his seat, walked over to Hector, and the two men engaged in whispered conversation.
The phone vibrated in Brad’s pocket. He looked at the screen to see an incoming call from Quentin Dobbins.
Brad hustled to the lobby before answering.