by Ray Flynt
Doug sat at the dressing room mirror, his chair turned outward, Cicely on his lap—their favorite position. Tucker appeared to be playing a video game on his phone. Trevor applied dark liner to his lower eyelash. Ed glowered at Brad, which he ignored.
“Doug, could I speak with you? Privately.”
“Sure.” Doug whispered in Cicely’s ear. “It’ll only be a minute, babe.”
She reluctantly stood, and Doug stepped out of the dressing room.
Brad clasped him by the shoulder. “Welcome back.”
Doug took a deep breath. “Thanks. Zane told me you went to bat for me with Lundgren. I appreciate it. I’m sorry Hector couldn’t get onboard. I liked him. He gave me good ideas during rehearsals.”
“Detective Russo told me they found a bag of poison in the drawer at your dressing room mirror.”
Doug bristled.
Brad held up his hand. “I’m not accusing, just clarifying. Do you remember when you last used that drawer prior to Lauren’s murder?”
“I don’t use it. Never even opened it. I don’t wear makeup for the show.”
“I know. Appreciate your time. Break-a-leg tonight.”
Doug offered an aw-shucks grin. “Thanks! I’m glad to be here. After ‘The Tombs,’ the crowd out front can’t be too tough.”
Doug’s information stirred a few new ideas. Brad figured the murder was premeditated, and he’d seen how easy it would be to spike the champagne flute without being seen. The killer knew Doug would be a likely suspect, since he was the actor dispensing the glasses during the show. Planting incriminating evidence in Doug’s dressing room might have been done at a completely different time, possibly during the pandemonium after Lauren collapsed on the stage.
Brad returned to the theatre lobby and rode the escalator to the second level lounge/lobby. The doors to the auditorium had just opened, and ushers were busy seating patrons.
He visited the cocktail bar, ordered a ginger ale and bag of pretzels, and then stood at one of the high-top tables to finish his snack before entering the theatre.
As he bit into a pretzel, he saw Zane and Aaron riding up the escalator, engaged in friendly conversation, seemingly oblivious to those around them.
He wasn’t the only one watching. A young man rushed over to Zane and shoved a Playbill at him, demanding an autograph—even had his own Sharpie.
After satisfying the fan’s request, Zane resumed his conversation with Aaron, who picked lint off Zane’s sweater and reached out to smooth an errant strand of hair. Whatever troubles there’d been between them seemed resolved.
The couple separated, and Zane marched toward the bar. The bartender placed a glass on the counter before reaching for a bottle of white wine. Zane deposited money and gestured for the bartender to keep the change. When Zane turned around, holding his drink, he spotted Brad and approached. “Mind if I join you?”
“Not at all. In fact, I have a question for you.”
“Shoot.” Zane plunked the glass of wine and his Wired Playbill keychain on the high top table.
“Did most of the cast and crew know that Doug doesn’t wear makeup for the show?”
“Sure. We had a big discussion about it during early rehearsals. Why do you ask?”
“Just trying to get inside the mind of a murderer.”
Zane gulped his wine. “We’re sold out tonight.”
“I saw.”
Zane lifted his glass in a mock toast. “Hope it keeps up.”
“Ralph told me he’s working on a Broadway transfer.”
“I still can’t wrap my head around everything that’s happened with Gambit. This business is so fickle. It’s not enough to believe in yourself and the material. Stars—not human, the celestial kind—have to align. Anyone who tells you they know what will sell in the theatre doesn’t have a clue.”
Brad sipped his ginger ale. “This may be my only foray into theatrical investing.”
“That would make you a smart producer.”
They both laughed.
Brad pointed toward Aaron, who kibitzed with one of the patrons near the bar. “I see you and Aaron are back together.”
Zane glanced sideways. “Our relationship is complicated. For the moment, I think he’s associating his success with mine, so we’re good. When I lived with Ken, it never mattered to him if my career was up or down. That kinda bothered me. Not sure why.” He heaved a shoulder in the air. “Maybe a shrink could figure it out. My work’s become my life. Ken cared enough to get me off of drugs, so at least I still have a profession. Aaron treats me like he’s the number one cardholder of my fan club. It’s flattering…I guess.”
He spoke like a man whose ego was the driving force in his life. Brad had met surgeons, and for that matter a plumber or two, with egos bigger than an opera diva. A long time ago he discovered that he found selfless people more appealing than selfish ones.
“Zane!” a man screamed from across the lobby, drawing stares and momentarily quieting the din among theatre patrons enjoying a pre-show drink or socializing with friends.
Zane turned to look as the burly man charged toward him, arms wide open, preparing for a bear hug.
A smile crossed Zane’s face. “Horatio!”
They embraced.
“What are you doing here? The last I heard you live in San Francisco.”
“Still do.” The stranger aimed a thumb over his shoulder. “Mark and I flew in this afternoon to catch your show. Wouldn’t miss it. Besides, maybe there’s a good role for me and I could headline the West Coast tour.”
Zane waved toward an older man just picking up a drink at the bar. “Amazing to see you…and Mark.” He turned to Brad. “Forgive me, this is Brad Frame, one of our investors. Horatio Neilson, who starred in the original Broadway cast of Wired.”
They shook hands.
“Wanda came with us.” Horatio winked.
“What! Where is she?”
“She already took her seat. We’re in the last row.”
“Aww. You’ve come all this way. Let me check on last minute cancellations, or whether we can still get you house seats.”
Zane and Horatio wandered off, leaving Brad behind to finish his soda. On the table in front of him, Zane’s fancy Wired keychain remained.
I guess he’s coming back.
Aaron dropped by. “Hey, Mr. Frame. Drinking alone?” He laughed.
“For the moment.”
“Here’s a souvenir program you can peruse.”
“Beth picked one up on opening night.”
“We’ve added Melinda’s bio. They’re a little pricey, but adds a touch of elegance to the play-going experience.”
Brad reached for his wallet. “How much?”
Aaron held up his palm. “Nothing for you. My compliments.”
“Who’s Wanda?”
Aaron looked puzzled.
“A guy named Horatio stopped by to say ‘Hi’ to Zane. When he said Wanda had come with him. Zane seemed very excited.”
“Maybe Wanda Bennett. She co-starred in his first Broadway hit.” Aaron caught the excitement. “She’s here!? Tonight?”
Brad nodded. “Zane went to find out if he could get them better seats.”
“I should help him and take a photo we can use for publicity.”
As quickly as he’d arrived, Aaron dashed for the escalator. Heading toward the box office, Brad presumed.
Brad flipped through the program to Melinda Harrison’s information, strategically pasted over the spot where Lauren Parshall’s bio once graced the page. He frowned as he realized glasses would be necessary to read the modest font on the program. Beth blamed vanity for his aversion to using glasses, but because he could see fine most of the time, the put-them-on, take-them-off process frustrated him more than anything.
Melinda graduated with an MFA from Carnegie Mellon’s School of Drama and had two Broadway credits along with various regional theatre appearances. Her kudos earned as Knight should have been no surprise
. It’s just that Lauren had made such a good impression, most of the pros figured her performance couldn’t be bettered.
Brad reflected on the private portions of his call with Ralph Lundgren about permitting Doug Brennan back into the show. All Lundgren could talk about was the possibility of Gambit transferring to Broadway and how many awards it might secure. Best play certainly, but a good shot at acting nominations for Doug Brennan and Melinda Harrison, and scenic design for Cody and Cassie Zimmerman. In spite of Zane’s differences with Hector, Ralph thought the show might be nominated for best director.
Timing was the key to everything. Gambit would need to transfer to a Broadway house before the eligibility deadline, and finding one had been a challenge. Just when Ralph thought a show might close, thus opening a new venue, the situation changed.
Lobby lights blinked, signaling the show would soon begin. Brad downed the rest of his ginger ale. TheWired keychain remained on the table, and Zane was nowhere to be seen. Brad pocketed the keys for safekeeping. With no intermission, he would have to find Zane after the show to return his keys.
An usher escorted him to an aisle seat four rows from the back of the auditorium. Brad scanned the crowd and spotted Zane and his friends. Aaron, ever the sycophant, must have worked his magic at the box office, securing seats for them in the front row. He personally ushered them, glad-handed with the out-of-town visitors, and didn’t miss a chance to pat Zane on the back.
Brad studied the souvenir program for a few more minutes until the house lights dimmed and an announcement to silence cell phones. He hadn’t noticed previously how the pre-show sounds of water lapping against a shore and gulls circling overhead blended seamlessly with music hinting at mystery.
Although he’d seen Gambit on opening night, this atmosphere felt different. Theatre fans seemed eager to enjoy every moment. When the motley crew of Pawn, Rook, Knight, and Bishop came through the doorway, the audience burst into applause—as they did when Dodson, playing Hayden Whitcomb, made his entrance.
Freshly-released Doug Brennan coaxed the most from his lines and appeared unfazed following his stint in jail. If the audience knew or cared, he couldn’t tell. The crowd laughed at the funny moments or fell into a hush during confrontation scenes.
Brad forgot he was an investor, relaxed, and soaked in the enjoyment of a confidently performed play.
Early in the second scene, as characters compared notes on the remuneration Whitcomb had given them for their appearance, Ed Minteer/Bishop said, “I don’t care, as long as he spelled my name right on the cashier’s check.”
The line echoed Brad’s earlier conversation with Ed about time spent between shows on the day of Lauren’s murder. Cast members had perused the new souvenir program, with Ed declaring he wanted to make sure “his name was spelled right.” Ken had also remarked about seeing cast members reading the programs during his brief backstage visit the Saturday before.
The program booklet had been Aaron’s pet project. He’d delivered them to the dressing room that crucial afternoon, thus giving him time to deposit the poison.
Suddenly, a fresh suspect: Aaron Siegel.
42
Brad’s heart pounded. Had his imagination run away from him, or had he stumbled on the solution to who killed Lauren Parshall? Aaron was well known among the cast and crew and able to move about backstage without drawing attention, just as Brad had earlier.
He stopped watching the show.
Brad leafed through his program and saw Aaron’s credit on the inside back page. He’d taken all the photos and written all the copy. Why would Aaron want to do harm to the show? Brad recalled Ralph talking about Gower Champion’s dying on the opening day of 42nd Street, and how the tragedy had boosted sales. But Champion’s death had been from natural causes. What warped mind would bring such heartbreak on purpose?
Zane’s comments about Aaron being his number one fan haunted him. Would Aaron commit murder if he thought it could boost Zane’s career—or maybe even his own?
Brad had witnessed flimsier reasons for killing.
Where was Aaron when Lauren collapsed? If he placed the poison between shows—while backstage to deliver the special programs—the onstage confusion would have given Aaron an opportunity to plant a plastic bag containing strychnine in Doug Brennan’s dressing table.
He glanced around the auditorium. Zane and his guests still occupied their prime seats, but Aaron wasn’t with them.
When the stage lights dimmed between the second and third scene of the play, Brad eased out of his seat and made his way up the aisle to the second floor lobby. A lone bartender readied glasses for post-show liquor sales. As Brad paced, trying to decide his next move, the bartender called out, “Interest you in a cocktail?”
Brad approached, asking if he knew Aaron Siegel.
“Sure, I know him. He asks me all the time what scuttlebutt I hear from the customers about the show. Tips me good for the information.”
“Have you seen him this evening?”
“Not since the show started.”
“Thanks.” Since the man alluded to tips, Brad laid a five on the bar.
He would feel ridiculous if he called Detective Russo with mere speculation. He couldn’t provide enough evidence to guarantee probable cause for a search warrant. But his gut told him he was on to something. That’s when Brad remembered Zane’s keys in his pocket. Keys to an apartment Zane shared with Aaron.
Brad retrieved his overcoat from the cloakroom attendant and aimed for the stage door, hoping to find Aaron’s address.
Once again, he found the door unlocked and crept backstage, slowly pulling the door shut. He recognized dialogue from the scene in which Pawn accused Knight of cyberstalking him using a fake profile and claiming to be years younger.
Brad moved deftly behind the set until he found Tracy at the stage manager’s podium.
“What are you doing here?” Tracy hissed. “You’re not allowed backstage during the show.”
“Have you seen Aaron Siegel?” Brad whispered.
“No,” she snapped.
He handed her his business card, and softly but urgently asked her to call him if Aaron showed up. She nodded, tucking his card under the script.
“Do you know where Aaron lives?” Brad asked.
With a peeved not-now expression on her face, Tracy held her hand in the air. She spoke into the mic calling out a cue. Brad wasn’t sure if it was for a sound or light change.
She rustled through papers under her notebook, finally showing him a list of the production staff and pointing to Aaron’s name.
Brad copied the address onto the back of one his cards. “Thank you,” he mouthed.
Her body language screamed just-get-out-of-here.
Retracing his path behind the set and exiting the stage, he dashed toward 42nd Street and hailed a cab.
Within ten minutes, the driver let him off at the corner of 9th Avenue and 28th Street in Chelsea, near the Church of the Holy Apostles.
As Brad stepped from the cab, he extracted Zane’s keys from his pocket. A total of six keys hung on the ring. Three were small, most likely to mailboxes. Brad figured one of the standard-sized keys was for Lillian Tilghman’s Gramercy Park co-op, since Zane had mentioned staying there during the time when Aaron had kicked him out.
He hoped the remaining keys were for the building entry and the apartment Zane shared with Aaron. Brad had no desire to confront a doorman who not only wouldn’t recognize him but would sound an alarm. He looked around and didn’t see anyone else in the vicinity.
Brad approached the frosted-glass entry to Aaron’s apartment building grasping a large brass key marked “do not duplicate.” He tried it in the lock. It worked.
The lobby appeared serviceable, rather than posh. Through a small window, the door to his left revealed a stairwell—an alternate way out should the situation require. Always good to have a backup plan. On his right, a bank of mailboxes, above the one marked 9A, the name: A. Siegel.
Directly ahead, the elevator. An indicator light showed it stopped on the fifth. Brad pressed the call button. When the doors finally opened, he entered and selected the top floor.
Brad glanced at the time. Gambit would let out in about five minutes. He suspected Zane might spend time with his friends afterward, for a late night supper or drinks at a tavern near the theatre. Perhaps Aaron would go along, but Brad couldn’t be sure. He hadn’t seen Aaron since he helped seat Zane and his guests.
The elevator opened onto a well-lit corridor with doors on either side marked 9A and 9B, while straight ahead stood the stairwell entry alongside three additional steps leading to a door stenciled UTILITY.
In front of 9B, lay three copies of The New York Times still in plastic sleeves.
He placed his ear next to the 9A door and listened for signs of occupancy. Nothing.
The door had two locks. One in the knob, and several inches above, one for the deadbolt. Brad tried one of the two traditional-sized door keys from Zane’s keyring. It fit but wouldn’t turn. He slid the other key into the deadbolt. This one worked.
Brad entered the apartment, quietly closing the door behind him. Enough ambient light filtered through the windows to make out a sparsely furnished, contemporary-styled living room with glass tables, a leather sofa, and matching chair. A larger table against the wall held a laptop.
He hadn’t come to scope out real estate. If Aaron murdered Lauren Parshall, Brad needed to find evidence—namely, a poison designed to kill moles.
Not many hiding places in the living room.
An archway opened to a galley kitchen and a short hallway led to a bedroom. Brad stopped short, thinking he saw a person lying in bed. After holding his breath, he realized it was only an optical illusion created from an adjacent treadmill on which clothes had been tossed.
Confident of being alone in the apartment, he turned on overhead track lights in the kitchen and rummaged through the cupboards. Half of the upper cabinets stood empty, with only the simplest of household necessities on the shelves. Lowers held even less. He opened a tall pantry, yielding a few cans of soup, a couple of cereal boxes, and a variety of Keurig cup flavors. A trash can overflowed with Styrofoam takeout containers. No surprise.