The Apostrophe Thief (22 page)

Marian poured herself some wine and sat down. “What's this line from? ‘It's better to be stolen from than to have to steal.'”

“
The Red Shoes,
” Kelly said promptly. “The ballet director says it to the young composer, early in the film. Why?”

“Oh, Frieda Armstrong said that to me earlier today, and I thought it sounded like direct quotation.” She took a sip from her glass. “This is good wine. John Reddick brought it? Is he here tonight?”

“He's around somewhere. Giving Xandria a good talking-to, I hope.”

“You still having trouble with her?”

“
Bleaghh
. The best acting I do is in those scenes where I'm supposed to show how much I love my sister.”

“Why don't you try upstaging
her
?”

“That's for amateurs.” Kelly stopped what she was doing and turned to face her friend. “Are you just going to go on sitting there making chitchat? For crying out loud, Marian, tell me what's going on! Why was this Ernie Whatsisname killed? What's it got to do with us?”

Marian sighed. “My boss is going to make an announcement here later this evening. Ernie Nordstrom's killer is right here at the Broadhurst. He put Nordstrom up to the burglary—there was something among the loot that he wanted.” She went on to explain about the five missing items, and how it looked as if the one the killer wanted was the Bernhardt jacket.

Kelly's eyes were big and round. “My jacket? A man was killed for my jacket?”

“Gene Ramsay paid twenty-two thousand for it. To a hardcore collector, it'd be a real prize. Kelly, who here collects theater memorabilia? Do you know?”

“Oh boy. Oh boy.”

“Kelly … who?”

“Only one that I know of. Oh boy.”

“Dammit,
who?
”

“John.”

Whew
. Marian thought about that a while. “Have you seen his collection?”

“Yes. He's given over a whole room in his apartment to his theater stuff. Marian, John's the only one I
know
about. There could be others.”

“That's something I can check on.” She finished her wine and stood up. “Don't say anything about this, Kel.”

“I won't.”

Just as Marian left Kelly's dressing room, she saw Mitchell Tobin coming out of his. “Mr. Tobin—a moment, please.”

“Yes?” He waited for her to catch up with him.

“Have you ever seen John Reddick's theater collection?” she asked.

He looked surprised. “You don't suspect
John
, do you? But to answer your question, yes, he showed it to me once. Not much there, really—two or three items other collectors might want, but mostly it's play programs and scripts, other directors' notes. Letters, a lighting plot or two. John's a director, and he's interested mostly in things to do with directing.”

“Is anyone else here a collector?”

“Not that I know, and I'm not sure even John Reddick would qualify as a real collector. Leo Gunn keeps souvenirs from the plays he works—hell, we all do that, a little. But Leo usually manages to get the best stage props.”

“You mean he just steals them?”

“Oh, I don't think so. I don't know what kind of arrangement he has.”

The call of
Places, please
was sounding backstage, so she let Tobin go. Ian Cavanaugh was already on the stage, concentrating; he looked right at Marian and didn't see her. Frieda Armstrong sailed up to join Mitchell Tobin; they were to enter together and stood silently until their cues. Marian looked across the stage and saw Kelly waiting on the other side.

John Reddick. Leo Gunn
.

Finally it was time. The stage lights came up, the curtain opened, and the audience applauded the sight of Ian Cavanaugh standing there looking through an address book. That had impressed Marian the first time she'd seen it and it impressed her now, how the man could draw applause just by being there. After some stage business the actor had, Tobin and Armstrong made their entrance, and Marian listened as the now-familiar dialogue began to unfold.

She stood rooted to the spot until Kelly made her entrance; then she had to resist the urge to do a little dance at the way her friend marched out and took over the stage. Kelly and Ian were antagonists in the play; they squared off nicely in this first scene, and
The Apostrophe Thief
was off and running.

Marian felt a light touch on her arm; she turned to find the play's author standing next to her. Abby James crooked a finger at her and walked away; Marian followed.

When they were near the stage door, Abby said in a low voice, “Care to join me for a drink?”

“I'd love to,” Marian whispered.

“Don't whisper. Whispers carry.”

Marian nodded, and was surprised to see the other woman leaving through the stage door; she'd thought they'd be going to Ian Cavanaugh's dressing room or someplace like that. Outside, she said, “Don't you want to watch the play?”

Abby said no. “I agonize too much. When it's been running six weeks or so, then I can watch with a little objectivity.” A thought occurred to her. “Oh—I'm sorry!
You
want to watch.”

“I wouldn't get to see all of it anyway,” Marian said, “so I might as well have a drink while I can. Where are we heading?”

Abby led her to a bar about half a block away that was virtually empty. “This place will be packed during intermission. Do you mind sitting at the bar? Hello, Fred.” Fred took their orders and brought their drinks. “Ah, that helps,” Abby said after her first swallow. “By the way, where's your friend who talks in blank verse?”

“Uh, Holland? He'll be along later. Blank verse? Really?” Then she realized. “Oh, dammit!”

“What's the matter?”

“We're supposed to go for a late supper—but I can't make it and I forgot to let him know.”

“There's a pay phone on the wall.”

“Wouldn't do any good. The only number I have for him is a voice service, and he won't be checking this late.”

“Well, how far away does he live? You could grab a cab—”

Marian groaned. “I don't know where he lives!”

“Hm. You don't know his home phone, and you don't know where he lives—just what do you know about the man?”

“Not a hell of a lot. He's a very secretive person. He's never mentioned his childhood, or anything earlier than the recent past that I already know about … how can he do that? How can anyone
never
mention what's happened to him?”

“I don't know. I couldn't. Ah, well—you're a detective, you like mysteries.”

“I hate mysteries. What I like are
solutions
.”

Abby laughed. “And you like Holland.”

“Yes. Dammit.”

“Well, you'll just have to wing it when he gets here. Why can't you keep the date?”

“Police business.” Then, realizing how abrupt that sounded, Marian explained. “My boss is coming tonight, and he's going to inform everyone at the Broadhurst that Ernie Nordstrom's killer is one of them. Then he and I will take statements from everyone—we're looking for alibis.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Abby, you mind saving me a few minutes?” Marian pulled out her notebook. “What time did you leave the theater Tuesday night?”

“Tuesday … I didn't go in Tuesday night. Something I ate didn't agree with me, and I was afraid to get too far away from a bathroom. Ian came straight home after the performance.”

“So you were both at home from about midnight on?”

“From before midnight, yes.”

Marian thought a moment. “Abby, how well do you know Leo Gunn?”

“Very well, both professionally and personally. We go back a long way. Why?”

“The souvenirs he takes home from each show he works. How big a collection is it?”

Abby was shocked. “You can't suspect Leo! Leo Gunn is a decent man—he wouldn't stoop to theft, much less commit murder!”

“He knew Ernie Nordstrom. He's a collector.”

“Of
souvenirs
, personal souvenirs! It's a perk he arranges with producers before he'll accept a job … he has the same deal with Gene Ramsay for
The Apostrophe Thief
. And what if he did know Ernie Nordstrom? A lot of people must have known him. Marian, take my word for it, you're on the wrong track there. Leo and Ian and I have been through a lot together, and I
know
Leo. He's not your killer.”

Marian knew there was no point in arguing with that kind of conviction, so she said, “John Reddick's a collector, too, isn't he?”

Abby almost fell off her stool. When she'd composed herself, she said, “John's interested only in materials about directing. He keeps saying he's going to write a history of contemporary directing, postwar theater to the present. I don't know if he'll ever get around to it, but that's the only sort of thing he ‘collects'—the Bernhardt jacket would be of no use to him.”

“Yet he's given over an entire room of his apartment to this noncollection.”

The playwright looked surprised. “How'd you know about that?”

“Then it's true?”

“Yes, but only because John's a bit of a procrastinator. If he'd ever sit down and sort through what he's got, he could get rid of a lot of the stuff. Marian … I know you can't just take my word for it, but John's no murderer, either. The thought of having to kill someone would drive him wild. He'd be more likely to run away and hide until the trouble blew over.”

“All right, then, tell me who else is a collector.”

“Why, I don't think anyone is. The kind of collecting you're talking about, that's a fannish sort of activity. I don't know of anyone with the play who goes in for that. If Ernie Nordstrom was indeed killed for the Bernhardt jacket, I'd say the killer was someone who needed cash, not necessarily a collector. Didn't you say Gene paid twenty thousand for the jacket?”

“Twenty-two.” Leo Gunn had thought the killer must be a collector, but Abby's argument made sense. But the killer would have to have a buyer lined up, if all he wanted was money.

“Oh, there's John,” Abby said. “Must be close to intermission.”

John Reddick took the stool next to the playwright and started talking. “Whoo
ee
, are they ‘on' tonight! You should have been there, Abby! Hello, Larch-Tree, why aren't you watching the play? Fred—scotch, please. You should have seen Ian, Abby. In the passport scene, he got so into it that he actually picked Kelly up and threw her against the sofa!”

“Oh, my god!” Abby said. “What did she do?”

“Bounced right back up, of course! For a minute there I thought they were going to start swinging!”

“Are they mad at each other?” Marian asked, puzzled.

John laughed. “Anything but, Larch-Tree! They came off the stage grinning like hyenas and congratulating each other. They'd pulled off a good one.”

Abby said, “You were watching from backstage?”

“I started out front, but then I went back to see Leo—one of the spotlights looked crooked to me. God, Abby, I wish you could have seen it.”

“Are you going to keep the sofa-bouncing bit?” she asked.

“I don't know. That kind of macho physical explosion isn't really in character, not that early in the play. But Ian did it so
gracefully
, it made a terrific bit of stage business. Theatrical as hell. I may tell him to keep it in, but only when the momentum is right. That way Kelly will never know what to expect. It'll keep her sharp.”

By then the bar was crowded with playgoers trying to snatch a quick libation between acts. Fred kept shooting glances at Marian's empty glass, so she told Abby and John she'd see them back at the theater. She worked her way through the crowd, trying not to jar people holding drinks in their hands. Just as she was leaving she heard someone say, “And when he threw her against that sofa, I thought she was going to
kill
him!”

And Marian had missed it.

15

Captain James T. Murtaugh stood on the stage of the Broadhurst Theatre, his back to the empty auditorium. Facing him were the cast and crew of
The Apostrophe Thief
, displaying varying degrees of irritation and/or curiosity. A uniformed officer stood by the stage door, his function being to dissuade any member of the company from departing prematurely. A second uniformed officer was stationed in the lobby, and a third was positioned behind Marian Larch at the side of the stage. Marian looked around for Holland; no sign of him.

Captain Murtaugh introduced himself. “I'm sure you all know by now,” he said, “that the man who burglarized the theater was murdered Tuesday night. His name was Ernie Nordstrom, alias Eddie Norris. We now feel certain he was killed for the velvet jacket that once belonged to Sarah Bernhardt.”

If the captain expected a murmur to run through the crowd, he was disappointed. Murtaugh went on, “Someone with this play set up the burglary for the sole purpose of obtaining that jacket for himself. We don't know if he planned on killing Ernie Nordstrom all along or if it was just a case of thieves falling out. We suspect the latter, because the killer hurriedly grabbed up several other items to divert attention from the
one
item he wanted, the jacket. If the murder had been planned in advance, the killer would have taken his time and picked out more valuable items—items that would have done a better job of confusing the issue.”

“Wait a minute,” John Reddick said. “You're accusing one of us? Of murder?”

“That's exactly what I'm doing. You are …?”

“John Reddick. What makes you think someone in the company set up the burglary?”

“The fact that Nordstrom knew the layout here well enough to pull it off. That plus the admission of his two accomplices.”