The Role Players (6 page)

“Tonight,” I said.

He shrugged. “So go call. Then we can decide where to go for dinner.”

“Whoa, no you don't!” Chris said. “Why don't you go take a nap for an hour, and we'll just call out for pizza. There are a lot of going-out-to-dinner nights left.” He turned to Jonathan and me. “That okay with you guys?”

“Sure,” we echoed.

Max didn't need much more encouragement. He gave us a weak smile, then got up and with a small wave of his hand headed for the bedroom.

*

Tait wasn't home, but I left a message with Keith asking him to let Tait know I'd be glad to be of service to him for the remainder of our time in New York. Chris called in our pizza order—two large, one with anchovies for Max and me, one without—and Jonathan volunteered to go down to wait for it so the doorbell wouldn't wake Max. Actually, of course, I knew he just wanted to experience the sensations of sitting alone on the stoop of a New York apartment building on a warm summer night, absorbing as much of the feel of the city as he could. As I've said, Jonathan is something of a sensory sponge.

He left about ten minutes before the pizza could possibly be expected to arrive; Chris giving him the key so he could let himself back in.

For only the second time since Chris moved to New York—the first being while Max and Jonathan attended an A.A. meeting on their visit to us some time before—we found ourselves alone, and just as the first time, there was an odd sense of déjà vu and familiarity and warmth. I could tell Chris felt it too, though neither of us said anything. We just talked of ordinary things, and I was again struck by how strong the unspoken bond still was between us.

*

Max came back into the living room at almost the same time as the sound of the key fumbling in the lock announced Jonathan's arrival with the pizzas. Chris hurried over to open the door.

“Thanks,” Jonathan said. “Trying to juggle two pizzas and a set of keys is easier in theory than in practice.”

We all followed Chris to the kitchen, where he set the pizza on the counter and went to the refrigerator for sodas while Max took plates, forks, and napkins from the cupboard to carry into the dining area of the living room.

“So, did you call Tait?” Max asked once we were all seated and diving into the pizza…which was not quite up to Momma Rosa's back home, but pretty close.

“Yeah. He wasn't home, but I left a message. Which brings me to my asking you guys' help again.”

Chris, pizza slice about three-quarters of the way to his mouth, paused only long enough to raise an eyebrow in question.

I finished taking a bite of my own slice before saying, “Since I've never had a case where I was mainly trying to find out who
didn't
do it, I think I'll work backwards and concentrate on eliminating those from the Whitman who
might
have done it. I'm going to need to know everything I can about the troupe…cast, backstage crew, anyone who had contact with Rod at that last rehearsal, and especially whether there was anything unusual about that night.”

Max nodded, reaching for another slice. “Sure. Twelve cast members…six men, five women, and the kid; four stage crew—costume mistress, props, lighting and sound, stage manager…” he paused to take a humble head-lowering bow…and the director. And Tait. You can probably pretty much rule out the kid and the women, so that narrows it down to ten, counting…or nine, if you choose not to include me—though I'd hate to be left out.”

“Hey, what about me?” Chris asked, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “I'm the set designer, even though I'm not there every night.”

“Were you there the night of Rod's murder?”

“I popped in for about five minutes to talk to Doris about a costume question. You were busy, so I didn't want to bother you.”

I looked at him closely, eyes narrowed. “Well thank you both for volunteering. I shall move you immediately to the top of the list.”

They both grinned. “Thank you,” Chris said. “We've always wanted to be murder suspects.”

I returned the grin. “The least I can do for your hospitality.”

“Oh,” Chris said, “and for the rehearsal before Rod was killed, what about Keith?”

“Keith?” Max and I chorused.

“He was there? Are you sure?” Max asked. “How do you know? I didn't see him.”

“Well, I don't think you saw
me
either,” Chris said. “You and Joe and Russ were working on the hydraulic lift. I had to stop by just for a minute to talk to Doris about a costume. I came in from the back row exit door, and I saw Keith coming out of Tait's office. I think he was going into the box office. We just nodded a ‘hi,' and kept going.”

“Does Keith come to the theater often?” I asked.

Max pursed his lips. “Yeah, pretty often, I'd say. He just sort of comes and goes; never gets in anybody's way or says much at all. He usually just goes right to the office, and I almost never see him in the auditorium.” He gave Chris a weak smile. “And I'm sorry I didn't see you, Babe.”

“You were busy,” Chris replied. “No problem.”

“What about Gene Morrison,” I asked. “Was he there?”

Max shook his head. “No, he didn't get in from Los Angeles until the next morning. Poor guy. He really took Rod's death hard.”

“I can imagine,” I said. And I could.

*

The pizza and another round of sodas were gone in no time, but his short nap had obviously done Max good, and we remained around the table talking and laughing. We'd mutually agreed not to rush the matter of who might or might not be a possible suspect in the event that Tait's instinct was right and Rod's death wasn't just a routine robbery gone wrong.

The phone rang, and Chris got up to answer it.

“Oh, hi, Tait,” I heard him say. “Sure, just a second.” He held the phone out to me, and I got up to take it.

“Hello, Tait,” I said. “Sorry I missed you earlier.”

“That's quite all right,” he said. “Gene and I had an early dinner meeting I should have mentioned. I'm very glad to hear you've decided to take the case.”

“I only hope I can be of help. I have a couple of questions and wonder if we could meet again at your convenience.”

There was no hesitation when he said, “I've got to go by the theater tomorrow morning. If you could meet me there at, say, ten, I'll be happy to answer any questions you might have…if I can.”

“I'll see you there,” I said.

CHAPTER 3

We were all up, dressed, coffeed, and ready to go by 8:30. We walked to a small café with a large outdoor patio for an Eggs Benedict breakfast, and then headed for the Whitman, arriving there around 9:55.

“I have no idea how long I'll be,” I said as Max pointed me to a door in a narrow alley at the side of the building.

“No problem. We'll just wander around and check back here every half hour, okay?”

“Great,” I said. With a wave they moved off down the street and I turned toward the door. I wasn't sure whether to knock or not, so I pulled the handle and the door opened, letting me into the back row of the auditorium. I was a little surprised by how small it was—not many more than 100 seats, I'd judge…or what maximum seating capacity non-Equity theaters were allowed.

A couple small spotlights cast dim cylinders of light on each side of the stage, but they didn't reveal much. From what I could see the entire stage was totally black, except for a small, plain wooden table and four simple wooden chairs all painted a medium grey—an interesting effect.

Tait was nowhere in sight.

“Tait?” I called.

“Dick!” Tait's disembodied voice responded. “I didn't know you were here. Come on in.” A door opened in the recessed entry to the lobby, revealing a brightly backlit Tait Duncan. I walked quickly over to join him in a small but comfortable office with a large desk…Tait's, I assumed…that seemed larger in the confined space. There was also a smaller desk with a calculator and several books and ledgers. Beside the smaller desk were two file cabinets and three chairs. We shook hands—I noted he was using his right hand again, and tried not to grip it too tightly. He smiled.

“Almost as good as new,” he said, flexing his fingers.

He moved one of the chairs closer to his desk, then gestured me to sit, then moved behind the desk to seat himself.

“I'm really glad you've agreed to indulge me,” he said. “In anticipation of your accepting the case, I took the liberty of calling Attorney O'Banyon at his home on the assumption that he may have prepared your client contract for you, which apparently he had, and asked him to send me a copy. And I have a retainer check for you, which I trust will be adequate.”

Pretty confident guy
, I thought.

“So,” he continued, “that said, I've got a meeting across town at eleven, so hope you don't mind getting right down to business.”

“Not at all,” I said. “Since everything is so nebulously hypothetical at this point, I'd be more comfortable approaching your concerns from the other side; I'd like to work on the assumption that someone from the Whitman
was
involved. From what little I know of Rod Pearce, it seems likely that he may well have ruffled more than a few feathers among the cast and crew. Since you know everyone at the Whitman, and I've yet to meet most of them, who, looking at it from a purely objective point of view, would you consider conceivably having reason to wish Rod harm?”

Tait leaned back in his chair. “Hmm.” He was silent a long moment, then said, “Well, I can think of several people Rod stepped on in one way or another. But….”

“Such as?”

He suddenly looked uncomfortable. “Well, if you want to start with the most obvious, I'm afraid you'd have to start with Gene Morrison. But since he was in L.A. at the time and didn't arrive in New York until the next morning, he's out as a suspect.”

“I know this is a little off the subject, but I'm really curious about him. Tell me a little about him and his relationship with Rod.”

“Gene and I have been friends for many years. He was one of the original investors in the Whitman, as a matter of fact…and I know him far better than most people do.” Again leaning slightly forward in his chair, he said, “Let me give you a quick nonprofessional analysis of Gene's character. For all the power of his plays, he himself is extremely insecure. Like many writers, he
writes
his emotions rather than expressing them. It's as though his mind were a pressure cooker, and his writing is the only way he can allow himself to vent his innermost feelings.

“When Gene met Rod, he fell hopelessly in love, as so often happens with men who realize that their own youth has slipped away, unnoticed, and will not be coming back.

“Did Rod really love Gene? It's impossible for me to say, given his personality and his own needs. I'm sure he cared for Gene in his own way, and when they were together, they were very close. But once Gene was out of sight…

“Gene had to have been aware of Rod's promiscuity, though he never spoke of it, even to me. But it has to have hurt. He wrote
Impartial Observer
for him, even knowing full well that if it did rekindle Rod's career, he would probably lose him.

“Rod's greatest mistake in the relationship was in assuming that Gene's silence on the matter of promiscuity was the same as consent to it. Some might see that as having been a fatal mistake.”

“But you don't think so,” I said and he shook his head firmly.

“No. There's no way. Gene is, underneath it all, a pragmatist. As much as he loved Rod, he also loves the theater. He has a great deal invested in this play, and in his future as a playwright. If anyone thinks that, even if he had been in town, he would jeopardize everything the week before an opening, they simply do not know Gene Morrison.”

He had a good point.

“How did he learn of Rod's death?”

“The police called me shorty after nine that morning, and came by around noon to ask me some questions. They left about one-fifteen and I immediately called the airport to try to catch Gene when he got off the plane, but I missed him.”

“You knew what time he was getting in?”

Tait nodded. “He always flies Trans-Con, Flight 106 from L.A., which gets in at one-fifteen. When I couldn't reach him at the airport, I knew he'd call as soon as he got to his apartment. He called about two-twenty, pretty distraught. He'd expected Rod to be home when he got there, and he wanted to know if I knew where he was. That's when I told him.”

“And how did he react?” I asked, immediately realizing how stupid a question it was.

Tait looked at me oddly. “He was in total shock. I immediately went over to be with him.”

“Why was he coming to New York a full week before opening?”

“It's not unusual for the playwright to be here for the last week of rehearsal. And I'm sure he wanted to see Rod and spend some time with him before the play opened.”

“Well, I'd certainly like to talk with him. Max and Chris invited us to sit in on rehearsal tomorrow, if you don't mind. I assume Gene will be there?”

“I'm sure he will.” He looked at his watch. “Ah, I see it's time for me to go, and we haven't run through the list of people about whom you asked. I'll trust you to make your own judgments when you meet them.”