Scene Stealer (9 page)

Lieutenant Brown paced back and forth. He no sooner walked the length of his small office—from filing cabinet to window—then he'd retrace his steps and do it once again.

Distracted, Marjorie Harris punched the delete button on her CRT and had to type an entire line of her report again.

He sat down, shuffled a stack of papers, stood and began pacing again.

Marjorie pulled open the top drawer of her desk, reached for the pack of cigarettes she had thrown out, then opened a roll of peppermints.

“Filthy,” Lieutenant Brown said, running a finger over the windowsill. “Marjorie, tell the cleaner to wash the windows.” Jesus, he was in a foul mood. His ex-wife would get a laugh if she heard him. When had he last paid attention to his surroundings? What was bothering him?

Lieutenant Brown couldn't pinpoint exactly what it was. Marjorie Harris would call it a nudgy feeling. Nudge, that was it. Marjorie had once called him a nudge. He'd looked it up in the dictionary; it was defined as someone who constantly pestered. That was the last time he'd tried to date Marjorie Harris. After that put-down, it was strictly business. The sergeant was off-limits. Hell. There were plenty of other women in the world, women turned on by a uniform. Anyway, when you worked together it was best to stick to a professional relationship.

Nudge. Miss Weidenmaier fit that description and Miss Weidenmaier hadn't called today.

Tim Brown checked his message box, then straightened and reread the crumpled slips of paper he had tossed in his wastebasket. Nothing. Not a word from that schoolteacher.

“Excuse me. I gave you all your messages, Detective Brown.” The civilian telephone operator had a thin skin, and felt her competence was being questioned.

Maybe, Lieutenant Brown thought, Miss Weidenmaier was busy with whatever elderly ladies busied themselves with and had become too preoccupied to call.
Think again,
he told himself. Not Miss Augusta Weidenmaier.

Finally he sat down, dialed her apartment and let the phone ring at least a dozen times, allowing for the deafness and the slow arthritic movements of old age, knowing full well Miss Weidenmaier suffered neither of those infirmities. The lady wouldn't countenance the maladies associated with the elderly. She was a genteel but tough old bird.

All right,
he asked himself,
if I were Miss Weidenmaier, why wouldn't I call Lieutenant Brown?

Made a decision to butt out? Never. Administering to a sick neighbor? Better. But the lady would manage to pick up a phone and call. Was she playing detective again in complete disregard of his orders and getting herself into God knows what kind of a mess?

Tim Brown whistled through his teeth and drummed his fingers against the desk.

Sergeant Harris winced.

“Sorry,” he said. “Marjorie, if you were a retired schoolteacher, what would you be doing right now?”

“I'd be soaking my feet, watching soap operas and eating chocolates. Nothing would get me off the couch. Not even commercials.”

Lieutenant Brown whistled again. Suppose Miss Weidenmaier was right. Suppose Kevin's father hadn't murdered Robert Barton. Who did it? Was Barton's murder even connected to Kevin? Why would someone kidnap Kevin? Money? Where was the ransom note? No calls demanding money. What else? A lot of questions with no real answers. Start again. What was the connection between Kevin and Robert Barton? Fast-food television commercials.

Marjorie was still talking. “You want to know what Miss Weidenmaier is doing? Easy. Miss Weidenmaier is playing detective.” She stared at the pile of reports stacked on her desk and began typing again.

“How would you describe me?” Timothy Brown drummed his fingers against the desk.

Marjorie Harris sighed and transferred her gaze from the monitor to the detective.

The drumming stopped; now he was pulling on his left ear. A sure sign he was troubled. Probably a habit carried over from his childhood.

He stared at her, waiting for her response.

Marjorie flexed her fingers.

“What do you see?” the detective asked, then answered his own question. “What you see is a decorated cop. A supposedly brave cop. A cop who's shot and been shot at by a couple of the toughest cons in New York. A cop that saw action in the war. And this cop…”

“Can't keep one elderly schoolteacher from meddling in police business.” Sergeant Harris finished the sentence for her boss. “Miss Weidenmaier is out doing her Miss Marple act again. Agatha Christie has a lot to answer for.”

“She's the spitting image of my elementary-school principal. Same orthopedic shoes, permed white hair, even the same white handkerchief in the pocket of her English tweed jacket. You know how many hours I spent sitting in that principal's office?”

“Miss Weidenmaier must be her sweet revenge.” Marjorie's eyes crinkled at the corners. A throaty laugh escaped her generous mouth before she covered it with a mock coughing fit.

“It's not funny, Marjorie.”
Think about the sergeant's mind,
he told himself,
not her mouth or her legs.
“The lady is going to get hurt.”

“I don't know, Tim. That lady is a match for anyone.”

Had Miss Weidenmaier stumbled onto something or someone? Lieutenant Brown began pacing again. They hadn't picked up Captain Corcoran yet. The man could be anywhere. And if the kidnapper and Robert Barton's murderer weren't one and the same, that meant there were two criminals at large.

Why did he worry about that schoolteacher? He had certainly warned the woman. Lieutenant Brown turned on his computer, called up the Corcoran file and began checking each piece of information, every name again. Robert Barton had made an inquiry about Weidenmaier. Felicity Silk had made a complaint. Silk was with Cousin Cora's, another fast-food restaurant, Barton's main competition. Could there be a link between Cousin Cora's and Cowboy Bob's?

The intercom sounded; interrupted his line of thought.

“Yes,” Lieutenant Brown said. He listened for a moment then grabbed his jacket and headed for the door.

“C'mon, Harris, one of our men spotted Captain Corcoran near New York Hospital; he must want to visit his estranged wife after all. Let's go talk to him about a murder.”

No one at the front desk at the hospital remembered Mrs. Corcoran having any visitors.

“No sir.” The voice of the guard stationed at Mrs. Corcoran's door was firm. “No one gets by me. Only hospital personnel has gone in or out of Mrs. Corcoran's room.”

“Damn. I hate hospitals,” Lieutenant Brown said.

Marjorie slowly opened the door to the room, approaching the fragile-looking woman in the bed.

A few routine questions, then…“We just need to talk to your husband, Mrs. Corcoran. We're talking to everyone who knows Kevin,” Marjorie said.

“I haven't seen Charles.”

“Your husband was seen near the hospital.”

“He hasn't been here, I haven't seen him. I haven't seen him.”

“Calm down, Mrs. Corcoran. Your husband may have some ideas that will help us find your son. Your cooperation is necessary.”

Lieutenant Brown sensed Mrs. Corcoran could hear the pity and annoyance in the sergeant's tone. He took over the questioning. “When was the last time you saw your husband?”

She looked away. “I don't remember.”

“Does your husband know Robert Barton?”

Jean pulled the bed cover closer to her chin. “Charles never met Robert Barton.”

“Mrs. Corcoran, we have to speak to your husband. If you want us to find Kevin, you have to help us by telling us whatever you know. Anything at all. Let us judge what's important.”

Silence. The lieutenant sensed Mrs. Corcoran was holding something back. He could feel it in his gut. Hell, they weren't getting anywhere. He couldn't browbeat an emotionally disturbed woman whose child was missing. He just couldn't.

Sergeant Harris placed a card on the table next to her bed and finally the police officers left the hospital room.

 

Jean stared at the closed door. She had told Lieutenant Brown and the sergeant the truth, Charles hadn't met Robert Barton. And maybe Charles hadn't been here in the room; maybe he was nothing but a figment of her imagination, her neediness. She didn't know; she wasn't sure. Jean didn't know if they believed anything she said. Lying was new to her something she wasn't very good at.

After the police left, the doctor tried to give her a tranquilizer; she managed to stand up to him and refuse. A tranquilizer was the last thing she needed. She had to think, straighten out the thoughts that circled her brain and make some sense of them.

She ran her tongue over dry lips. Nerves; her hands clutched the sheet again as if it was a lifeline to a normal world. Robert Barton was dead and the police thought Charles had killed him. Lieutenant Brown didn't come right out and say Charles was a suspect in Barton's murder; he just said the police wanted to talk to him but Jean knew. If the police found her husband they would put him in jail and who would find their son then?

She rubbed her forehead, feeling as if her head would split open.

The police must be wrong about Charles, he told the truth even if the truth hurt. Charles hadn't kidnapped Kevin and he hadn't murdered Robert Barton. Not her Charles. Why would he want to murder Robert Barton?

Unless he knew Barton had propositioned her but how could he know that? It was her secret. She wanted to kill Barton herself; he had no right to touch her. He told her she was built like a young girl then crushed her body against his. She struggled and he held her wrists with one hand and laughed when she tried to fight him off.

“Fun time is over,” he finally said and loosened his grip. “Just a joke; you're too old for me.”

She didn't care that Barton was dead, she only cared about Charles.

The same thoughts over and over and over; did the police know she had lied about Charles? Charles would find Kevin. If only the police didn't find Charles first and put him in jail. Someone had murdered Robert Barton. Why? What did it have to do with Kevin? God. Oh my God, she thought, someone capable of murder was holding Kevin.

Her husband's photo would be splashed on the front page of every newspaper. If Kevin read a paper what would he think? Reporters would imply that he was guilty, slant everything just to sell their newspapers.

Charles couldn't be the murderer. Not the man she had married; not Kevin's father. But he wasn't the man she had married; not the same man at all. Would he hurt Kevin? There were stories in the papers every day about people who did terrible things to their wives and children.

Jean caught herself making moaning sounds. The nurse would hear; she had to get hold of herself. She bit her lip until she tasted blood.
No tranquilizers. Think straight.

She picked up Sergeant Harris's card, then put it back down on the table.

What if she called the police and told them the tranquilizers got her confused; she remembered now. Charles had been in the room. Just call the police and ask for the lieutenant and tell him. Jean reached for the phone and then drew her hand back. She couldn't do that to Charles. He was still her husband.

Talk to somebody. A friend, someone smart and calm, who would listen. Who could she turn to? Her new friends didn't listen; they were actors. They talked mostly about themselves; used her as an audience. Except that old actress friend of Kevin's. Where was that piece of paper with her name and telephone number? There it was, right on the table.

Weidenmaier. Augusta Weidenmaier was different. A schoolteacher type; playing schoolteachers gave her an air of authority. Miss Weidenmaier would know what to do. Jean's hand shook but she managed to lift the receiver and press the numbers.

Calm down and take a deep breath. One.
She counted each ring.
Two.
The woman had to be there. Three rings. What if she was out? An interview. An audition. A rehearsal.

She must stay calm and not panic. Her heart beat so loudly against her chest she was sure the guard standing outside the door would hear it. Four rings, then five…Where was Miss Weidenmaier? What kind of actress was she? No telephone service. No voice mail. No answering machine.

Be sensible.
Perhaps she had dialed the wrong number. That was it.
Try again. No hysteria. Don't panic. Don't panic.
Where was Miss Weidenmaier? Why didn't she pick up the phone?

The dilapidated brownstones on West 66th Street had seen better days. Though the neighborhood was close to the opera house, the concert hall and the theatre at Lincoln Center, these streets had not been blessed with any of the Center's newfound vigor. The dwellings, once owned by the more fashionable members of society, were now divided and subdivided into crowded units for the less-fortunate. Today, as I searched for Lawrence Dunn's theatre, my eyes were drawn to dirt-streaked windows, my ears assaulted by the discordant sounds of the street. Curiosity, interest, prying, call it what you will, my steps slowed as I studied life in progress.

A bored child stared at me from one window, before thumbing a scabbed nose. I resisted an urge to thumb my own back. I stubbed a toe, lowered my gaze and paid more attention to the cracked sidewalk.

My word. I studied a hardy weed that poked through one of the cracks, a Daisy Fleabane. How had it managed to grow in this inhospitable spot? The daisy, stepped on and undernourished, had found a spot in the sun. I quickly became aware of a few more plants, placed on windowsills and fire escapes, a testimony to the resilience of human nature. The sight of these sprigs of green lifted my spirits. Kevin was here, alive, somewhere in this neighborhood, I was sure of it.

Lawrence Dunn's theatre had once been Saint Genesis, a small neighborhood church. Its congregation had moved to the suburbs and the board that formerly announced sermons and masses now advertised
An Evening with Larry and Will—Poems, Sonnets and Soliloquies.

The church appeared to be as rundown as the neighborhood. Age and pollution discolored its stone walls. Grout had cracked and disintegrated; leaving unsightly crevices between blocks of masonry only partially concealed by the heavy vines of ivy that climbed toward the stained-glass windows. One window, located to the right and above the front doors, was clean and bright despite a visible fissure that split the face of the patron saint of actors in two. The heavy, oak doors, weather-beaten and wood-splintered, were propped open, disclosing a slip of a girl wearing an overlarge sweat shirt emblazoned with an inked sketch of William Shakespeare. She sat at a table next to a hand-lettered sign resting on an easel. The sign requested a contribution of three dollars for a show program; there was no fee for attending the show.

The girl's buoyant, paprika-colored hair spiraled around her head like one of Saturn's rings. Her up-turned nose was sprinkled with the freckles common to natural redheads. She looked as if she had stepped out of a modern dress version of
A Midsummer Night's Dream.

The programs, piles of thin mimeographed sheets of paper, were stacked on the table next to an empty candy box containing two single dollar bills. The walls of the vestibule leading to the theatre were decorated with framed theatre posters, programs and photographs. I donated my three dollars, took a program and began to study the photographs and posters attached to the walls.

“Welcome to Saint Genesis Theatre.” The young girl stood and introduced herself. “I'm Annalise Sheridan, Mr. Dunn's assistant. Would you sign the roster, please? Name and address. That way we can notify you when we do future productions. We plan on a subscriber series. Something like the Public Theatre, only more artistic. Mr. Dunn says the Public Theatre has forgotten its roots and become commercial. Oh…would you like a cup of herbal tea? We're not making a profit; the tea is only fifty cents a cup. And the carrot cake is one dollar and fifty cents, cranberry muffins a dollar. I make them myself without a drop of sugar. I use fruit juice and Canola oil, no egg yolks, just the whites so there is absolutely no cholesterol. Talk about healthy. If you want one just drop the money in the saucer by the hot-water urn. The honor system, you know. I mean, you have to trust people, don't you? Excuse me, I enjoyed our conversation but I have to sell, I mean offer a few more programs.”

The child had talked without once coming up for air. Her breath control was admirable; I must say I was impressed.

A group of four equally young people came through the door. Their good looks and exuberance as well as their unconventional garb marked them as actors. They managed to scrape up enough money between them for one program, looked longingly at the cake and muffins, muttered about diets and entered the theatre. I followed.

A gold lamé draw curtain hid the stage. The heavy fabric appeared new but not out of place in the old church. The chancel and altar that had served the congregation remained, as well as the pews where the assembly had once been seated. I shifted my posterior; there were no cushions on the hard, wooden benches.

I examined my program, noting that while Lawrence Dunn had many illustrious plays listed in his credits, he had not mentioned the parts played or where they had been performed.

There weren't many people interested in
An Evening with Larry and Will.
By the time Annalise Sheridan flashed the house-lights on and off, indicating that the curtain would soon part and the entertainment begin, only seven more attendees had been added to Lawrence Dunn's scant audience. A shabbily dressed, elderly couple, a pretty blonde ingénue accompanied by a juvenile who clutched her hand, two exuberant girls—friends of Annalise, judging from the hugs, kisses and squeals that were exchanged, and a reedlike gentleman of advanced years who wore a bowler hat and a white foulard and sported a walking stick as glossy as his old-fashioned, patent leather pumps.

I noticed Annalise slipping through the door to the vestry. The house-lights went out; the church became dark except for the strands of moonlight that managed to illuminate the stained-glass windows. Conversation slowed then halted in anticipation of the performance. After a few moments of sitting in silence, broken only by one half-suppressed giggle, the curtains parted and revealed Lawrence Dunn. Dunn, dressed in tights and made up to look like the Bard of Avon himself, stood center stage. In the background, the audience saw the parapet of a castle painted on flats. The perspective was extremely well executed. The audience applauded; a tradition that showed appreciation for the set and Dunn's appearance.

I heard the sound of shoes racing up the side aisle to the back of the church. The top of Annalise's head appeared over what must have once been the choir loft, and she pointed a spotlight in Lawrence Dunn's direction. He stepped into the light and launched into his first piece. “All the world's a stage,” he declaimed, his voice ringing out across the audience.

Dunn proved himself adept at changing costumes and make-up. He managed to appear as a young Romeo, a foppish Malvolio and Marc Antony (reminiscent of Marlon Brando) before attempting Hamlet. He walked to the right side of the stage, gazed out front, focused on a spot just above our heads and recited. “Angels and ministers of grace defend us! Be thou a spirit of health or goblin dam'd. Bring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from hell…”

Clouds of fog seeped from somewhere beneath Dunn's feet and hid them from sight. The seepage turned to gusts of heavy, white smoke that soon enveloped Lawrence Dunn and wafted into the audience. The rest of the recitation was lost to a chorus of sneezes, wheezes and loud gasps of breath. I covered my nose with my pocket-handkerchief and tried not to inhale the pungent odor of ammonia. Tears drenched the linen; I searched my purse for tissue to replace it. Several members of the audience ran toward the exit.

“Wench!” Dunn bellowed. “Turn off the damnable fog machine!”

The fog dissipated slowly accompanied by barked coughs, phlegmatic clearing of throats and the flap of theatre programs; finally, Dunn emerged through the last wisps of smoke as a bald Julius Caesar. He concluded the first act with an elegantly attired Othello.

The set had impressed me; Abner T. Bean was right about Dunn's talent as a carpenter. His acting, however, remained static. Lawrence Dunn illustrated emotions and passion as though they were set-dressings: there was no depth to his characterizations. Instead, the audience was treated to impersonations of other actors. Dunn's inflections were reminiscent, his gestures all too obviously practiced in front of a mirror.

The first act over, I began to clap. The lonesome sound was followed by thunderous applause emanating from an area in the rear of the theatre. I turned—the back rows were empty. Annalise raced down the aisle, closed the gold lamé curtain and raced back. The applause screeched to a halt. Of course, a recording was used to augment the sparse audience. Annalise turned on the house-lights, then bounded up the three steps to center stage to address us.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she said. “May I have your attention?” Her tone was earnest. The shine of sincerity brightened her eyes. “Ladies and gentlemen. We are here tonight because we share a great love for the theatre, a love of William Shakespeare and Lawrence Dunn's fine interpretation of his works. I ask you to support that work by contributing what you can to this theatre. Nickels, dimes, quarters, anything you can afford. Bills of any denomination are always acceptable.”

“She's got to be kidding,” someone stage-whispered.

A semi-stifled snort emerged from the row that seated Annalise's friends.

Annalise ignored the interruption. “I will pass this can around so you can make your contribution.” She handed it to the gentleman in the first row who still wore his bowler hat. The sound of a single coin meeting tin disturbed the unnatural quiet of theatre patrons trying to think of something to say. He passed the can to the group of dieting actors who quickly passed it on to Annalise's friends. In the meantime, the child dashed backstage where she could be heard setting the props for act 2. Several members of the audience donned their coats and jackets and began to leave only to encounter Annalise standing at the top of the aisle. The girl, I thought, must have set some sort of record in her dash from the back of the theatre to the front.

“Tea? Muffins?” Annalise asked, determined to block their exit.

“Just need a breath of fresh air,” the elderly gentleman pleaded.

“We'll be back,” his wife added.

Annalise reluctantly stepped aside.

I studied Lawrence Dunn's photographs. Profile, front face, smiling and somber. In and out of costume. His appearance changed with every photograph. Which likeness, I wondered, captured the real Lawrence Dunn? One picture in particular caught my notice. I found my reading glasses and examined it with care. In the photo, Lawrence looked very much like the man I had seen with Kevin. Was he? I could feel my adrenaline glands begin to pump with excitement. If Dunn was the abductor, the boy might be here hidden in this old church.

“Annalise, where's the bathroom?” one of her friends asked.

“Behind the door, down the steps, turn left at the bottom.”

The opening of the second act found me sitting in the last row of benches, close to the door; a good spot to observe Lawrence Dunn's audience rather than his portrayals.

“If music be the food of love, play on,” Lawrence began..

By the end of that piece I could hear one member of the audience gently snoring. The sound came from the gentleman in the bowler hat. The hat had slipped past his forehead and settled over his eyes. His chin rested on the knob of his cane. The elderly couple, despite the wife's promise, had not returned, and only the actors and Annalise's friends were left sitting in the house. Dunn began his interpretation of Falstaff—slurping wine from a goblet, plunging a jewel-encrusted dagger into a loaf of bread and, unfortunately, spewing grape seeds into the front row. It was too much for the ingénue, dogged by the juvenile who no longer clutched her hand; she strode up the aisle and out the door.

While Lawrence Dunn emoted, I devised a rough plan. With the exit of the actress I was the only woman left in the audience except for Annalise's friends. They had already paid a visit to the ladies' room; I would be able to hide there until the performance ended. When the theatre became dark, I would begin my search for Kevin.

Lawrence had not repaired the stairs leading to the basement. They were narrow and rickety with age. The light cast by a single, dirty bulb painted deceptive shadows on the walls. I gripped the disagreeably moist and cold pipe that passed as a handrail and descended.

Where would Lawrence Dunn hide the child? I peered into the semi-darkness. Perhaps Kevin was right here in this basement; watching, listening, alert to any sound. Would he remember the gentlewoman he had asked for help?

A smattering of applause signaled that
An Evening with Larry and Will
was at long last over. It was time to hide; the ladies' room was on my left. As I entered something brushed against my face. A timorous woman might have believed it to be a spider; I felt a frayed cord that could possibly turn on the light. I hesitated, wondering whether to pull it. Too late. I heard the rapid clatter of work-shoes galloping down the stairs. The light went on; Annalise was at my side.

“Are you all right? You didn't stay for
Richard III.
It's Mr. Dunn's best piece.”

“A bit of a headache,” I muttered. “Most disagreeable.” I looked for paper toweling but there was none to be seen. A roll of toilet tissue sat on a shelf above the sink. I tore off a small piece, held it under the cold-water tap, then dabbed at my forehead.

“Can I get you an aspirin?” Annalise asked.

“May…” I began to correct the girl then caught and restrained myself. “No. Thank you,” I said. “I'm much better now. Have you worked for Mr. Dunn a long time? I see you wear many hats.”

“I guess you can tell I'm really an actress,” Annalise said. “Mr. Dunn gives me lessons in Shakespeare and, in return, I help him around the theatre. Though there haven't been many lessons lately. He's been so busy I haven't had a lesson all week. I memorized Desdemona's big scene for yesterday's lesson and he never showed up, said he had a gig on television. I mean why didn't he tell me ahead of time? I would have watched. I couldn't even get into the theatre. Larry won't give me another key. I waited at the door for an hour. What a waste of time; I could have filigreed the furniture if I had a key. He says I'm careless, that I lost the first set. I swear I didn't. I can't do my job if I can't get at the props and glue gun, now can I? Tell you the truth, I don't think he's being very fair, do you?”