Fare Play (7 page)

“Isn't that unusual, leaving trust funds for people who are, well …”

“Getting along in years? Yes, it is. But Dad asked them whether they'd like a lump sum or a steady income, and they both opted for the latter.”

“So he talked about his will with them. When was this?”

“Oh, four or five years ago. Dad always took care of his people, and he always let them know where they stood. But even though Mrs. R and Lucas won't have any financial worries, they are going to lose their home. That won't be easy for them, after so many years.”

“You inherit the apartment? And you're going to sell it?”

“Oh yes. It's a valuable piece of real estate, Lieutenant. I'm not going to do anything about it until I'm sure Mrs. R and Lucas are settled somewhere, though. I haven't had time to think about these things yet. But those two would never do anything that would cost them their home. It's absurd even to consider it.”

Marian reserved judgement, but the flat way Knowles had closed the subject told her there was no point in pursuing it now. Look elsewhere. “Did your father sell his business when he retired?”

“No, he still liked to drop into the office now and then. He could never bring himself to give up his toys.”

“Who's running the business now?”

“A man named David Unger. Dave's another one who'd been with Dad for a long time. Ten or twelve years, at least.”

So Oliver Knowles had been a man who inspired loyalty … or else rewarded his employees so well that they had no desire to look for greener pastures. Marian wrote down
David Unger
in her notebook and asked for the address of the toy company's business offices. “Do you plan on selling the business?”

“God, I haven't even thought about that. I'll probably work out some sort of deal with Dave Unger. He has stock options, I know. The last few years that company's been as much his as Dad's anyway.”

“I need to know who handled your father's legal affairs.”

The ghost of a smile appeared on Knowles's face. “I was still a schoolboy back when Dad first needed a lawyer. He was just getting started in the toy business and didn't have much money, so he hired this kid fresh out of law school. Well, that ‘kid' is in his sixties now … and still handling Dad's affairs.”

Marian was amazed. “Your father held on to people, didn't he? He believed in commitments.”

“That's exactly right, Lieutenant. Once he found people he could trust, he trusted them completely. And to a man, they reciprocated. Dad was a good judge of people.” Suddenly Knowles was on his feet, agitated. He started pacing. “That's how he became what he was—by knowing whom to trust, whom to avoid. The man had a gift for recognizing his own kind. He started with nothing.
We
were nothing. Dirt-poor Texas white trash. Dad was determined to get us out of that. And he did.”

“Then you're from Texas? How long have you lived in New York?”

“Almost all my life. I barely remember Texas. I've never gone back.”

“This sixty-year-old kid who handled your father's legal affairs—what's his name?”

“Elmore Zook. Isn't that a hell of a name? I called him Zookie the Cookie when I was a boy. I don't think he liked it, but he never said anything.”

Elmore Zook
, Marian's pen printed out. “Where's his office?”

“On Park … about Fifty-Seventh or so. Look, Lieutenant, I want to help, but I'm having trouble getting my head together. Too many feelings to sort out.”

They always let you know when the interview was over. “Of course,” Marian said, rising. “I'm sorry for your loss. I'll keep in touch.”

“I'm counting on that,” he said.

10

The stage doorkeeper waved her in. Marian walked silently to a place in the wings of the Broadhurst Theatre where she could see the stage without being in sight of the audience. The final scene of
The Apostrophe Thief
was just beginning; it was the only scene in the play in which the entire cast was onstage at the same time. Marian watched Kelly Ingram attempting to talk to the woman who played her mother, being ignored, feeling hurt, trying not to show it.
Showing
she was trying not to show it.

Kelly was doing that a lot more subtly than when the play first opened, Marian noticed. Kelly might claim to be getting the fidgets from having to say the same lines every night … but she was still working at it, still making a good performance even better. Kelly would scream with laughter if Marian ever told her she was a perfectionist; but in her own way, that's exactly what she was.

Marian thought she probably knew this scene by heart, she'd watched it so many times. She loved the play almost as much as she loved seeing her friend's success—almost, but not quite. Kelly's move from television glitter girl to legitimate actor had not been without its traumas, but she'd done it with the same style and grace and good humor that she did everything. Marian had no doubt that once the film version of the play was made, Kelly would be a movie star as well.

The play drew to its quiet, disturbing conclusion. There followed the usual stunned silence—and then the audience burst into applause. The performers were bowing, blowing kisses to the audience, flashing megawatt smiles … which disappeared the moment the curtains were closed. Kelly charged off the stage, smoke curling out of her ears. She stormed right past Marian without seeing her.

Her big, handsome leading man was thundering along right behind her. “Leo!” Ian Cavanaugh boomed. “Where the hell's Leo?”

Kelly swirled to face him; Ian ran into her, took a step back. Kelly thrust her face up into his. “Don't you ever,
ever
do that to me again!”

“If you could just bring yourself to pay attention once in a while,” he growled, “you wouldn't get caught by surprise like that!”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning I
told
you I was going to add new business tonight! Where's Leo?”

“You told me
nothing
!”

“I told you expressly that I was going to pick up a chair and carry it to the other side of the stage so you would have to adjust your exit accordingly. I even told you
which
chair I was going to move!”

“You're out of your skull!” Suddenly something penetrated and Kelly's head whipped around toward where Marian was standing. “Hi, toots.” Back to her co-star. “Ian, you never said a word to me!”

He glanced over too. “Hello, Marian.” Then he looked over Kelly's head and boomed out, “Will someone please get Leo Gunn?”

“What's Leo got to do with this?”

“Leo was standing right there when I told you. If you won't believe me, maybe you'll believe him.”

She looked astonished. “Ian, you're making this up!”

“Making it up? Making it up?” He shifted into Shakespearean mode. “Mayhap the lady is calling me a speaker of untruths?” he boomed.

“I'm calling you
confused
, is what I'm calling you!”

The stage manager came hurrying up to them. “What's the problem?”

“Leo, will you please explain to this obstinate woman that I informed her well ahead of tonight's opening curtain that I was going to add some new stage business? Go ahead, tell her.” The actor folded his arms across his chest, smiling smugly.

Leo's face was blank. “How do I know what you told her?”

Ian lost his smug look. “I told both of you at the same time!”

The stage manager shook his head. “You never told me at all,” he said pointedly.

Ian was flabbergasted. “Damn! I was sure that was you who was standing there. I wonder who it was?”

Kelly threw up both arms in disgust and stomped away toward her dressing room, waving to Marian to follow. Leo Gunn was saying, “Ian, you surprised everybody—moving the chair like that. Kelly adjusted, but nobody knew it was coming.”

In her dressing room, the play's leading lady plopped down in front of her make-up mirror while Marian closed the door. Kelly slathered cold cream all over her face and grabbed a tissue and started rubbing hard enough to take the skin off. “I am going to
kill
that man. I am going to strangle him with my own two lily-whites, chain his feet to an anvil, and toss him off the Triboro Bridge. That's what I'm going to do.”

Marian stretched out on the daybed next to the make-up table. “He just forgot to tell you.”

“He could have ruined the scene! You don't just spring something like that on people. But it's not only tonight. It's every night. Every night, Ian has to have something to complain about. Bitch, bitch, bitch. That's all he does anymore!”

“Hm. When's Abby getting back from California?”

“Oh, god … soon, I hope. Ian doesn't like going home to an empty house.”

“Few men do.”

“I talked to Abby a couple of days ago. She said she's spending most of her time waiting for meetings.”

“I don't understand how that works,” Marian said. “Why does the playwright have to go to script conferences? The play's already written.”

Kelly wiped away the final traces of make-up and cold cream. “You don't think they're just going to film
The Apostrophe Thief
the way Abby wrote it, do you? Dear me, no. Then it would just be a filmed play, it wouldn't be a moooovie. No, they'll tweak a little here, cut a little there, ‘open it out'—add stuff. Abby says it makes them feel creative.”

“Abby permits this?”

“Abigail James is lucky to be allowed to sit in on the script conferences at all. ‘In Hollywood, writers aren't worth the paper they write on'—quoth Abby. Let me get changed and we'll go grab a bite.”

Marian picked up Kelly's copy of the
Times
and read an article about price-fixing while her friend changed into her street clothes. She finished the article and said, “What are you in the mood for tonight? French? Italian? Indian?”

“American,” said Kelly. “Steak, preferably. Something I can chew down on. That's what I'm in the mood for.” She checked her appearance in the mirror. “I'm ready.”

Marian didn't bother checking her own appearance. She'd stopped competing in the looks department years ago—the first time she took a good honest look at herself in the mirror. She'd made a choice no fourteen-year-old should ever have to make: should she spend time, energy, and money trying to change the way she looked, or should she stay the plainjane she was and live her life without the approval good-looking girls always garnered? It hadn't been an easy choice, but even then something had told her she'd avoid a lot of frustration by opting for the latter.

Before they could leave, there was a knock at the door. It was Ian Cavanaugh; he too had changed to street clothes. He was looking about as contrite as he ever managed to look.

“I'm sorry, Kelly,” he said. “You were right. I only meant to tell you about the added stage business—I never actually got around to doing it. I apologize for being such an equine's derrière. Can you forgive me?”

“Sure, I can forgive you,” Kelly said offhandedly, “until the next time it happens. You really ought to stop taking those grouchy pills.”

He smiled sadly. “You mean I haven't been a barrel of laughs lately? Leo Gunn just gave me A Stern Talking-To, about what he called my constant complaining. I honestly hadn't realized I was being such a boor.”

“‘Bear' is more like it,” said his co-star.

“Leo said I owed every person in this company an apology. Have I really been that bad?”

“Oh yes,” Kelly said cheerfully.

Ian cocked an eye in Marian's direction. “Have I done anything to you lately that I need to apologize for?”

She grinned. “Not a thing.”

He sighed in mock relief and placed a hand on his chest. “Ah, someone left who doesn't hate me! I throw myself at your feet in gratitude!”

“Only metaphorically, I hope,” Marian said. “Why don't you come with us? Get something to eat.”

“Oh … no, I don't think so. I want to get home.”

“Come along, Ian—it'll do you good,” Kelly added. “Break your pattern a little. You always go straight home.”

“I want to call Abby. I call her every night, after we're done. But have a good meal!” He tipped an imaginary hat to them and was gone.

Kelly locked the dressing room door behind her. “You know, he's why Leo Gunn banned visitors from coming backstage after the performance. Ian was offending too many people. He never does suffer fools gladly, even when he's not being a grouch.”

Marian suddenly thought of Curt Holland—another who didn't suffer fools gladly. “I was wondering why there were no backstage visitors. This can't be helping the play.”

“Oh, they're all outside in the cold, waiting by the stage door. Leo will lift the ban as soon as Ian gets over his grumps. As soon as Abby gets back. But brace yourself. You're going to have to elbow your way through the crowd.”

The doorkeeper wished them both good night. Outside, the small crowd raised a cheer when they saw it was Kelly Ingram who was coming out. Kelly put on her celebrity smile—and then stopped cold.

“What's the matter?” Marian asked.

“She's here,” Kelly said heavily.

11

The “she” turned out to be a mousy-haired woman in her mid-to-late twenties, wearing oversized glasses and a London Fog coat over leggings and lace-up boots—hardly the type to strike dread into the heart of so stalwart a soul as Kelly Ingram.

“Who is she?” Marian asked, low.

“Remember that fan I told you about?” Kelly muttered. “The one who never goes away? There she is.”

The crowd surged forward, waving play programs and pens. Out-of-towners, Marian guessed, since the initial excitement of a new play drawing the New York crowd had passed. Kelly dutifully signed the programs thrust at her, chatting pleasantly with her fans.