Fatal Gambit

by Ray Flynt

  “I got Doug Brennan off,” Dobbins bragged. “After our meeting yesterday, I called the detective and suggested she was barking up the wrong tree. Urged her to expedite the DNA testing. When they didn’t find anything at Doug’s parents’ farm, I knew they’d be springing him.”

  The attorney had changed his tune in the last day and a half. While he acknowledged the meeting—during which Brad informed him of the fact Brennan wore no makeup in the show—Dobbins wasn’t sharing credit.

  “Yeah, and I gave an earful to that critic from The Daily News. What a travesty to perpetrate on the reputation of that young man. I might file a civil suit.”

  Ah, money.

  Wasn’t this the same lawyer who described the evidence against Doug Brennan as damning? Then suggested his client plead guilty so he’d have to serve only three years in jail?

  “I already heard about Doug’s release.” Brad immediately detected the air escape from Dobbin’s boastful balloon. “I’m concerned about all the negative publicity.”

  A tone signaled an incoming call. Brad glanced at the number but didn’t recognize it.

  “What do you mean? Ralph tells me sales are strong. When the public hears our actor is exonerated, we’ll see even more business.”

  Is the public drawn to art or notoriety?

  Skeptical, Brad replied, “I’m not so sure.”

  The attorney scoffed. “Don’t be a Debbie Downer.”

  “How will audiences react after another arrest?”

  “Uh…” Silence. “Are you holding back on me?”

  “No. I just hope you’ll step up and defend the next person associated with Gambit that the police charge.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “I don’t know. Not yet anyway. But this was an inside job.”

  As Brad approached the doors to re-enter the theatre, he heard a loud commotion. His call with Dobbins hadn’t taken too long, and Brad couldn’t recall hearing shouting in the play before the second act.

  His phone signaled a waiting voicemail message. He stopped to listen, recognizing Nick Argostino’s voice. “Sorry I missed you. Had your information an hour ago but couldn’t get a cell signal. If you hear my message before three-thirty, call this number.” The voicemail bore the same 215 area code digits he hadn’t recognized earlier. He punched in the number.

  “Philadelphia Police Department,” a demure voice answered.

  Brad identified himself, and Nick joined the call moments later, accompanied by chatter in the background.

  “Where are you?” Brad asked.

  “Fifth District headquarters. Let me cut to the chase. No poison in Lillian Tilghman. She tested for carvedilol and atorvastatin—heart and cholesterol medication consistent with dosages prescribed by her cardiologist. The ME changed the manner of death from pending to natural.”

  Nick didn’t have time for idle chat. Brad thanked him and ended the call.

  Lillian’s death ruling absolved Ken Phillips.

  At least he’s not a serial killer.

  Brad scowled at his own observation. Serial or singular, there was no excuse for taking a life. Ken’s recent break up with Zane Tilghman gave him the motive of revenge. Without attacking him directly, Ken could’ve screwed with the play, which represented Zane’s professional comeback. Deadly consequences when love turns to hate.

  The toxicology report would simplify his explanation of Ken’s motive when meeting with Detective Russo.

  Brad pocketed his phone and reentered the theatre to find the drama not on the stage but in the front of the auditorium. Zane Tilghman stood toe-to-toe in a shouting match with director Hector Morales.

  Horrified cast members, mouths gaping, watched from the stage.

  With the fusillade of raunchy epithets between them, it was difficult to grasp the subject of their argument. After listening for a few minutes, it became clear Zane wanted to bring Doug Brennan back into the show for that evening’s performance.

  As a “producer,” Brad wondered if he should step in, if for no other reason than restore civility. The fancy title came with his investment in the show, and he felt out of his league on theatre protocol. Like other workplaces, Doug’s arrest for murder would have triggered a suspension. Whatever conclusions the DA’s office reached wouldn’t automatically alter the job action.

  As Brad decided whether and how to intervene, Zane abruptly pivoted and pulled out his cell. He brandished the phone at Hector. “We’ll let Ralph Lundgren settle this.”

  “The web of our life is of a mingled

  yarn, good and ill together.”

  William Shakespeare

  All’s Well That Ends Well

  Act IV, Scene 3

  38

  Zane Scott Tilghman, stunned by the news of Doug Brennan’s release from jail, gazed up at the stage.

  This changes everything.

  He couldn’t believe Hector’s impatience to get the rehearsal underway. The expression on Tracy’s face said it all: let Cicely and the others have their celebratory moment. What an asshole.

  The pre-show music began. Zane closed his eyes, lulled by the euphoric memory of the Monday night launch. He opened them when the sound of a vehicle pulled in front of Hayden Whitcomb’s mansion. The quartet of strangers wandered about their new surroundings cautiously, except for Pawn who boldly opened the refrigerator, pulled out a bottle of water, and drank. Reacting to their stares, Tucker offered his opening line, “What? I’m thirsty.” Was it Zane’s imagination, or had the delivery fallen flat?

  During performances, Doug Brennan scored two laughs with that line. This afternoon there was no audience, or costumes, or stage lights. Still, didn’t a late-night turkey sandwich offer its own special reward without the trappings of a sumptuous Thanksgiving feast?

  Zane liked Tucker, admired his performance in Jerusalem a few years earlier at the Music Box Theatre, but he wasn’t cutting it today.

  Trevor Dodson made his entrance as Hayden Whitcomb and immediately grabbed Zane’s attention. Complete focus. Energy. Clear and distinct delivery.

  This guy’s a pro.

  He watched for a few more minutes, cementing his view that Tucker not only couldn’t capture the essence of Pawn’s character, but also brought down the energy of fellow cast members.

  Zane stood, walked over to Hector, beckoned him from his seat, and whispered, “Tucker’s got to go.”

  Hector managed a befuddled look. “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t play games. You know what I’m talking about. Do you think he’s doing a good job?”

  With a quarter turn of his palm, Hector all but agreed with him.

  “Look, he’s not right for the part.” Zane pressed his case in hushed tones.

  The director reached for his clipboard, penned a note, ignoring Zane.

  Pointing at the stage and no longer whispering, Zane said, “Does he look like a college student to you?”

  Tracy poked her head out from behind the proscenium and scowled. Hector shooed her backstage.

  Turning to Zane, he murmured, “We had this discussion two days ago when you wanted to bring in the actor who’d played Pawn at Duchess Community College. I told you ‘no’ then, and I haven’t changed my mind.”

  Zane laid his hand on Hector’s shoulder, but the director sidestepped away.

  “Forget about Duchess,” Zane pleaded. “You heard Cicely. Doug’s out of jail.”

  Hector clawed the air with his hand. “He’s suspended.”

  “Let’s unsuspend him.”

  Hector walked away, positioning himself directly in front of center stage, calling out to the cast, “Come on people. Pick up the pace.”

  Zane chased after him. “Don’t ignore me. Doug’s available.”

  “How do we know he isn’t still in legal jeopardy?” Hector hissed. “You don’t have a clue. Do you think the audience wants to pay to see an accused murderer?”

  Zane ignored the crosstalk from the actors trying to rehearse. “T
hey’ve read about it every day this week and it hasn’t hurt ticket sales.”

  Hector bobbed his head. “Yeah. The ones who find reality TV more interesting than real life.”

  Zane got in his face and bellowed. “This is my show, and I want Doug Brennan to play Pawn.”

  “No. It’s your play. I’m the director, which makes it my show.”

  Tracy walked on-stage and stopped the action. She glowered at the two men arguing. “Guys!”

  Hector directed Zane’s attention toward the gawking cast members. “Now look what you’ve done.”

  “No.” Zane jammed a finger in Hector’s chest. “You’re being an unreasonable asshole.”

  Hector batted his hand away. “Listen, cocksucker, you touch me again and I’ll have you banned from this theatre.”

  Zane howled with laughter. “Go ahead and try. Like I said, you’re a fucking asshole.”

  “Blow it out your ass.”

  Zane rolled his eyes. “I’m getting nowhere with you.” He pulled out his phone and shook it at Hector. “We’ll let Ralph Lundgren settle this.”

  “Fine with me.”

  Hector looked a little too confident. Zane wondered if he’d made a mistake. What did Hector have on the lead producer that might tip the scales in his direction? Behind him, a baritone boomed. “Let me help with this, gentlemen.”

  He turned to see Brad Frame charging down the steps of the auditorium. How much had Brad heard? Whose side would he take in their dispute?

  Brad positioned himself between the two men and pulled out his phone. “I talked to Ralph earlier today. As one of the producers, it’ll be easier if I facilitate the call.” He gestured toward the Gambit set. “Could we excuse the cast members for now?”

  Hector summoned Tracy to the edge of the stage. “Have everyone wait in the dressing rooms. Hopefully, we’ll get underway shortly.”

  Not if I can help it.

  Zane glanced at the actors. Cicely peered at him expectantly. He knew her desired outcome. Tucker’s eyes glazed over, like a man who’d been asked his choice of a final meal. The success of Gambit was more important than his feelings.

  Tucker knows he’s struggling.

  The cast cleared the stage. “Let’s sit,” Brad suggested, as he settled into a seat in the middle of the first row. Zane hesitated until he saw on which side of the detective Hector chose to park.

  Tails I win. Heads you lose.

  Brad positioned his smartphone in front of him and tapped the screen delivering a dial tone.

  “Good gracious,” Ralph’s melodious voice oozed through the phone. “Two calls from you in one day. I’m truly blessed. Perhaps I should play the Powerball this Saturday night. What can I do for you, Brad?”

  What an ass kisser!

  “I’m at the theatre sitting between Zane and Hector. There’ve been a few developments.”

  “Oh, dear.” Anxiety mixed with the Southern charm in reaction to Brad’s somber tone.

  “The cast is rehearsing this afternoon to work Tucker into the role of Pawn. However, we got word that Doug Brennan has been released from jail.”

  “Wonderful news.”

  Brad hesitated. “Yes, it is. However, Zane would like to have Doug back in the role of Pawn for this evening’s performance.”

  Ralph cleared his throat. “I don’t see why no—”

  “Didn’t we suspend him when he was arrested?” Hector blurted. “Jenny, in your office, notified Equity. He may be out of jail, but there’s still a cloud hanging over his head.”

  “Ralph this is Zane. Bottom line…Tucker stinks in the part.”

  Hector joined in. “No he doesn’t, but that’s not the issue.”

  Brad glided the phone back and forth as each man spoke, often at the same time.

  “Listen to me,” Zane screamed. “There’re bound to be a few press people at the show tonight. He’ll kill this show and you can watch your investment go down the drain.”

  Hit Ralph in his wallet. That’ll make him squirm.

  After more squabbling between Zane and Hector, Ralph pleaded, “Give me a minute to think.”

  Zane looked over at Hector who sat tight-lipped, with his arms folded across his chest.

  Ralph heaved a sigh. “Brad, what are your thoughts on the matter?”

  The private detective turned Broadway producer rose from his seat and walked about fifteen feet away, holding his phone next to his chin. With Brad’s back to them, Zane couldn’t make out the details of the conversation. Finally, Brad pocketed his phone, turned, and addressed Hector. “Doug will go on as Pawn tonight. Ralph’s going to call Jenny to ensure the proper notifications.”

  Yes!

  Hector stood, seething. He pointed a quivering finger at Zane. “Wipe that shitass grin off your face. I’ll be filing a complaint with the SDC about your behavior.” Turning to Brad, he added, “Tell Ralph he doesn’t need me anymore. I quit.”

  Complain about me to your union all you want. Ask me if I care.

  Hector stormed up the steps and disappeared behind the set. Moments later Zane heard a door slam backstage.

  He glanced over and saw Brad regarding him with a mixture of curiosity and disdain.

  “What the fuck are you staring at?”

  Brad shook his head. “Not sure. Maybe you should ask yourself.”

  “Huh?”

  Is he playing mind games?

  “I would think a man who wrote a play called Gambit with characters named after chess pieces, might have more strategic foresight.”

  “How so?”

  “I agree with you about Doug being superior to Tucker in the role of Pawn. But having him back on stage doesn’t solve a larger problem.”

  Zane shot him a quizzical look. “Enlighten me.”

  “Someone associated with this show killed Lauren Parshall. It’s only a matter of time until your world is rocked by another arrest from which Gambit—and you—might not recover.”

  39

  Watching Zane roll his eyes and sulk away, Brad was glad to not have chosen a life in the theatre. As near as he could tell, short fuses and emotional outbursts accompanied the profession. In the last week, he’d seen as much drama off stage as on. This would be his first and last dip in the producing pool—no matter how lucrative the experience.

  He took a deep breath and climbed the stairs to the stage in search of Ed Minteer.

  Tracy wrestled the ghost light, tethered to its long black extension cord, into position near center stage. Shadows from the wire housing surrounding the bare bulb played against the contours of her face.

  Brad offered a silent wave.

  Without needing to, she explained, “Everybody will be back at six for tonight’s show.”

  He bobbed his head.

  “We couldn’t help but hear what happened in your phone call with the lead producer. Cicely went to tell Doug.”

  “I think Ed’s waiting for me in the dressing room.”

  Tracy furrowed her brow. “Is he? I thought I saw him duck out the stage door with the others.”

  It wouldn’t be the first setback in his investigation.

  Brad followed Tracy back to the stage manager’s podium on stage left and watched as she closed her copy of the script before turning out the light. “Do you have a theory on who might have wanted to kill Lauren Parshall?”

  Tracy brought a hand to her face before abruptly clenching her fist. A nervous gesture? Brad recalled her smoking a cigarette following Lauren’s funeral.

  She jiggled her head to indicate no.

  “Not even a guess?”

  “I don’t know who would want to harm her.”

  Brad glanced toward the men’s dressing room. It looked dark.

  “A few people have fingered Ed as a likely suspect.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Given Tracy’s earlier reticence, her rapid response surprised him.

  “Can you elaborate?”

  “I was present at the begi
nning. Ed and Lauren were in the 2011 revival of Arcadia. Do you know it?”

  Brad shook his head.

  “It’s a Tom Stoppard masterpiece, originally on Broadway in the ’90s. I assistant-stage-managed the revival six or seven years ago. Both of them had come off relationships in the previous year. Like tinder in a draught, sparks between them ignited quickly. By the end of the run they were inseparable. Ed had been subleasing an apartment from an actor who abruptly ended his tour in 9 to 5. Ed decided to move in with Lauren, which was their first mistake.”

  “How so?”

  “Too much togetherness. Lauren had misgivings at the time. She confided in me. But those embers still burned brightly, and she wasn’t about to leave Ed out in the cold. Some people aren’t meant to live together, know what I mean?”

  “Ed and Lauren fell into that category?”

  “Pretty much.”

  Brad’s own relationship with Beth came to mind. They got along great, with both content to keep time and distance between them. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, right?

  “Was it day-to-day irritations? Dishes left in the sink, snoring, what?”

  “Ego.”

  Seeing his puzzled look, Tracy continued, “When Arcadia ended, they were both out there looking for roles. Obviously they weren’t competing for the same parts, but Lauren succeeded more often. A regional gig. An Off-Broadway showcase. Understudy in a Broadway play. Meanwhile Ed struggled to find work. He most often gets cast to type—with a narrow range of what he can pull off.”

  “I’m no expert, but I thought he was fine in Gambit.”

  “Sure. Fine. What he does with Bishop is the same shtick he dished up as the captain in Arcadia. Nothing wrong with it. Not much depth. Deep down I think he recognized his limitations compared to what Lauren could pull off.”

  “You’re saying Ed was jealous of her talent and that’s why they split up?”

  “Yeah, pretty much.”

  “Did either of them tell you this?”

  “Not in so many words. You’ll notice Arcadia isn’t listed in Ed’s program credits.”

  “I overheard him say a few vile things about her.”