The Apostrophe Thief (13 page)

Well, she's entitled
. Marian pulled the comforter up under her chin and sank happily into oblivion.

When Marian got home the next day, she found a message from Augie Silver on her answering machine. He said he'd heard some playscripts would be offered at the flea market held in St. Sebastian's Church on East Seventy-fourth all day Monday. He'd be there in the afternoon, if she wanted to meet him. Poor Augie, trying to make up for losing the hunk.

No message from Holland.

Marian spent the rest of Sunday doing laundry and making a pass at housecleaning, reading the
Times
, and dozing. She didn't envy Kelly, who was expected to give a brilliant performance in the middle of a Sunday afternoon; impossible task. Marian got her clothes ready for the next few days, thinking resignedly that she'd expected to be out of the policing business by now.

Monday morning she walked into a subdued and somber mood at Midtown South. “Lieutenant Overbrook had a coronary yesterday,” Captain Murtaugh told her. “He's in Christ Hospital in Jersey City—he was visiting his daughter when it happened. Last word we had, he's resting comfortably.”

“Oh, poor man!” Marian said feelingly. “I'm sorry.”

“So am I. Overbrook's only six weeks from making his thirty-year retirement.”

So close! “Is he going to lose the pension?”

“We're hoping not. The plan is for him to use all the personal time he's got coming before getting back to work. It'll be close, but he should have enough time to recover … unless there are complications. He's not a young man, and he's fifty pounds overweight.” Murtaugh made a visible effort to shift mental gears. “So you're going to have to bring me up to date on your investigation. Friday, Overbrook told me you had a line on the burglars, is that right?”

“A pretty good line, I think.” Marian filled him in on everything she'd found so far, up to and including Augie Silver's slip of the tongue that had scared off her most promising link to Ernie Nordstrom. “There's still Vasquez, though,” she said. “He's performing with a rock group this week—we can catch him there. But I was told he speaks almost no English, so we'll need someone who knows Spanish.”

“That might be a problem.” Captain Murtaugh frowned. “Campos has gone to Miami to pick up a prisoner and Esposito's going to be tied up in court the next few days. I'm not going to request an interpreter for a low-priority crime like this one. Budget's too tight.”

“Excuse me, Captain, but if you don't mind borrowing from the Ninth Precinct again, there's a detective there who speaks Spanish. Her name's Gloria Sanchez and I've worked with her before. She's half Puerto Rican and half black, and she changes ethnic identities as easily as you and I change clothes. Gloria'd do a better job of approaching Vasquez than I could, since she wouldn't need to haul an interpreter along.”

“When's this Ernie Nordstrom getting back from California?”

“Don't know. He might even be back now.”

“Then we'd better move on it—I don't want to drag this thing out any longer. Captain DiFalco isn't going to be too happy about giving up another of his people, though … unless I offer him a substitute. I'll give him a call. Sergeant, since you don't have a desk here, use Lieutenant Overbrook's office until he gets back. It's open.”

“Thanks, Captain.”
Who said I'd never make it to a lieutenant's office?
Marian thought wryly. She went into Overbrook's cubicle and had a sudden flash: What if in six weeks when Overbrook retired …? She shook her head, ashamed of her quickness to exploit a sick man's absence—and amazed at the stab of ambition still in her belly.

Marian pulled out the NYNEX yellow pages and started flipping through. The Esophagus turned out to be a club with an address on Bowery; Marian dialed the number and got a recording. A nasal voice informed her The Esophagus was closed on Mondays, but Tuesday night the feature attraction would be that hot new shock-rock group, Waltzing Brünnhilde. Two shows nightly, ten and midnight.

Then she started calling airlines. Forty-five minutes later she had what she wanted and went to knock on Captain Murtaugh's door. “Ernie Nordstrom's back in town—he took United's red-eye from Los Angeles last night. We can't move on Vasquez until tomorrow night, though, because Waltzing Brünnhilde doesn't open 'til then. They—”

“Waltzing … what?”

“Brünnhilde. That's the name of the rock group Vasquez is with, Waltzing Brünnhilde. But The Esophagus is closed on Mondays.”

The captain nodded. “Okay, I'll request Detective Sanchez for a briefing period tomorrow and we can work out the details then. That enough time?”

“Should be. It's not very complicated.”

“No. I haven't been able to reach DiFalco yet, but there won't be a problem. Sergeant, I like the way you've handled this case. You've taken up a minimum of administrative time and you've gotten results. That's what I like to see.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

“What next?”

“Well, since I'm going to have some time, I thought I'd go to St. Sebastian's flea market this afternoon. I've heard there'll be playscripts there.”

Murtaugh said that sounded like a good idea, in an absent sort of way; he was already thinking of another case. Marian went to the files and pulled out the list of items taken from the Broadhurst. She sat at Lieutenant Overbrook's desk and made up her own list, items she was guessing would be of most value to a dealer of collectibles. Costumes even more than scripts, especially the Bernhardt jacket. She left out things such as a six-pack that one of the stagehands claimed was taken; after a moment's hesitation she ruled out all of Kelly's personal items. Kevin Kirby must have lifted Kelly's hairbrush when Ernie Nordstrom wasn't looking; but Marian couldn't see that even in the artificial values of the world of collectibles a pair of old sneakers or a bottle of hand lotion would be worth much.

Primary on the list were the scripts and the costumes; they would bring money. Also included was Ian Cavanaugh's shaving mug, although he'd obviously inflated its antique value. Marian's memory brought up a picture of the hawk-nosed woman named Lenora whom she'd met at the auction in Sheridan Square … and how she'd virtually drooled at the thought of owning the mug. It was worth something.

Two paintings had been taken from the walls of the dressing rooms. One belonged to Xandria Priest and the other to an actor named Mitchell Tobin. The names of the artists and the titles of the paintings meant nothing to Marian. She put them on the list.

Also taken from Xandria Priest's dressing room: a diary. Ah. Secrets? Gossip? Juicy stuff that would bring a tidy sum once young Xandria had passed from the ingenue stage to that of established performer? On the list it went.

But Mitchell Tobin was the one hardest hit. In addition to the painting, he lost a tape deck, a portable CD player, a clock radio, and a notebook computer—all electronic items that may have been taken for their easy disposability as much as for their souvenir value. Marian tried to remember which one Tobin was. Yes: he played Xandria's boyfriend in
The Apostrophe Thief
, acting a role ten years younger than his true age.

Other radios and clocks were stolen, as well as a six-inch television set; but larger, more cumbersome TVs were passed by. Also taken: several bottles of liquor and one of champagne. Plus a fountain pen, four flower vases, two small stuffed animals (both actor-owners claimed they were good-luck charms), a dressing gown. A framed, autographed photo of Geraldine Page. No cash, no jewelry; none had been kept in the dressing rooms.

All in all, it still made quite a list. Except for Mitchell Tobin's electronic toys, Marian had a real hope of recovering the missing items. If Ernie Nordstrom made a habit of storing his loot in his home, the police might just turn up a few other articles of interest as well. It all depended on Vasquez. One way or another, they'd have to get the address out of him.

Marian checked her watch. Time for an early lunch and then on to the flea market at St. Sebastian's.

9

Augie Silver was pacing back and forth before the entrance to St. Sebastian's Church, waiting for her. “I was afraid you wouldn't come,” he greeted her, “after I scared off Rocky. I really am sorry, I didn't—”

“Forget it, Augie. It's done. And all is not lost.… There's still Vasquez.”

“You don't want to kill me?”

Marian laughed. “Not today.” She noticed he didn't offer to return her two hundred bucks. “Are you on your lunch hour?”

“I'm taking a couple of hours. And I'll work late to make up for it. My boss is real good about that. He doesn't care when we work, so long as the work gets done.”

“Hold on to
that
job. So, what's this flea market here?”

Augie beamed. “Fun and games. A glorious mishmosh of show biz collectibles. There'll be people from all over—buying, selling, trading. A lot of the stuff is junk, but you can usually count on a few quality finds. Most of what's for sale is movie memorabilia, but there's always a fair assortment of theater goodies. And the prices are on the cheapish side—the high-priced stuff all goes to auction. Let's go in.”

Marian followed him down to the basement of St. Sebastian's, into a babble of voices and an array of color and shapes that made her pause. Almost all the floor space was taken up by tables laden with various wares, with only the narrowest of aisles in between. The walls sported posters, hooks with costumes hanging from them, framed photographs, and a tattered American flag purporting to be the one used in
The Sands of Iwo Jima
. “Those are
not
Sonja Henie's skates!” an annoyed male voice proclaimed.

“This way,” Augie said. “The theater people usually set up along the back wall.”

He led her past tables separating collectors and dealers haggling over price. One loudly contested item was a black cowboy hat autographed by Cher. A Woolworth's writing pad with Hedy Lamarr's picture on the cover sold for eight dollars. Another dime store item was a card of bobby pins featuring a picture of Rita Hayworth. A matchbook cover advertised
The Thief of Bagdad
—the 1924 version with its eccentric spelling. Cary Grant grinned out from a cigarette card. Dixie Cup lids, sporting pictures of Clark Gable, Ginger Rogers, William Powell, Tom Mix—priced from fifty cents to six dollars. Marian smiled at a soap statue of Shirley Temple, but didn't quite know what to make of an empty cardboard container bearing the words “Valley Farm's Bing Crosby Vanilla.”

“Philip, I've told you a dozen times,” a cranky voice said, “I collect
John
Hurt, not William Hurt.”

Augie stopped and pointed. “See the guy in the blue wind-breaker? That's the Bogart man. Nobody knows his name, but he lives out of his van and travels all over the country hauling his Bogart lobby cards with him.”

“Um,” said Marian. They pushed on.

“It looks authentic, sure,” a suspicious woman was saying. “But how do I know this is really Ronald Reagan's autograph? His mother signed most of his photographs for him.”

“Here we are,” Augie said. “Hiya, Wadsworth. Made any good scores lately?”

A mournful-looking man with no chin shook his head sadly. “I almost got the apron Joan Plowright wore in
The Entertainer
, but some woman from Cincinnati beat me to it.”

“Aw, that's too bad. Marian, this is Wadsworth. Wadsworth, this is Marian. She collects John Reddick.”

“Hello, Wadsworth,” Marian said.

The gloomy man returned her greeting. “John Reddick, the director? I don't believe I've run into a Reddick collector before.”

“I'm looking for his copies of playscripts. You wouldn't happen to have any, would you?”

Wadsworth looked as if he wanted to cry. “I was
this close
to a copy of
Foxfire,
” he said, holding thumb and forefinger about half an inch apart, “but I was outbid.”

“Er, I already have that one,” she lied. “I'm looking for
Three Rings
… or maybe
The Apostrophe Thief?
”

His voice broke as he said, “I've never seen a copy of
Three Rings
, and it's too early yet for
The Apostrophe Thief
. What about play programs? I can get you his programs.”

“No, thanks. Just scripts.”

Wadsworth looked crushed.

Augie picked up a box from Wadsworth's table. It was a jigsaw puzzle called Broadway Stars; the illustration on the lid showed a caricature drawing of about a dozen people. “There's Tallulah,” Augie said, “and Lunt and Fontanne. And I suppose that could be Helen Hayes. But I can't identify any of these others. This isn't a Hirschfield drawing, is it?”

The dealer sighed dolorously. “It's an imitation Hirschfield. Those are said to be even more rare than the originals.”

“How much?”

“Forty dollars.”

Augie put the box back on the table. “I don't think so.”

Wadsworth's face was a tragic mask until he saw Marian looking at a bedraggled ostrich plume on his table. “That's from the fan Mae West carried in
Diamond Lil
.”

“Ah. Where's the rest of the fan?”

“It went for six hundred dollars!” the dealer wailed. “I didn't have the cash!”

Both Marian and Augie hastily offered words of condolence until Wadsworth had regained some measure of self-control; then they slipped away. Augie leaned in close and said, “To hear Wadsworth tell it, he's forever getting
that close
to the find that'll set him up for life. He's always crying about the one that got away.”

“Then how can he make a living from it?”

“Oh, Wadsworth just deals part-time. He's an aglet-maker from Passaic.”