The preview on Tuesday night had gone well, and the audience was the best one yet. I got a good night’s sleep. Early Wednesday, Monaghan called.
“There’s good news and bad news.”
“I’ll have the good first.”
“Your hunch was right. They’re headed north. Two men answering to the descriptions of Warren and the boy spent last night at the White Birch Inn north of Rutland, Vermont.”
“The bad news is—they got away.”
“Right. They left in the middle of the night, maybe as early as 2:00 or 3:00 a.m. We had all the crossings from Vermont into Canada covered, but so far no sign of them.”
“I didn’t think of it before: they may have turned west into upper New York and gone over that way.”
“We were wondering the same thing.”
“This seems almost certain to mean that he’s headed for the cousin in Montreal. I looked him up on the Internet. His name is Josh Tremayne and he lives in an upscale district called Westmount.”
“We’ll check it out.”
“Good luck.”
• • •
After I hung up with Monaghan, I called Annie in Boston and told her what the police had discovered. I explained my hunch that her father might be headed for Montreal, where he had that young cousin. “Josh,” Annie said.
“It may not be as bad as it sounds.”
“But it doesn’t sound good.”
“No. If they do catch him, they’ll bring him and Stuart Ross, who is apparently with him, back to the city and charge them, along with Mikey. Stuart and Mikey might try to turn state’s evidence against Warren. All in all, it looks bleak.”
A subdued Annie listened and then thanked me. I told her once again how desperately sorry I was, and how much the family had always meant to me—Warren in the past, Dorothy in the last few years, and Annie and her brother ever since I had known them. I said I would try to reach Danny. She said there was no need; he was on his way to Boston. I told her that was exactly where he should be just now. I repeated that if there was anything I could do, to please let me know.
“You’ve been a great deal of help already.”
“Not nearly enough,” I said.
• • •
Knowing that he got to his office early, I put in a call to Lance Middlecoff and told him that he should get in touch with his friend in St. Louis.
“Arthur Ross?”
“If he’s the one whose son is working with Warren, you should let him know that the young man may be in need of legal help.”
“How so?”
“It seems that he and Warren are on the lam. The detective thinks they may be headed to Warren’s cousin’s house in Montreal. If they are, the boy will need a lawyer, and I thought it only fair to let the father know what is happening.”
“Sounds wild.”
“I agree, and there may be nothing to it, but I wanted to tell you so you can warn the father.”
“I’ll give him a call; the rest is up to him.”
“If I hear anything more definite, I’ll let you know.”
I couldn’t reveal any more than I had, and I knew Lance thought I sounded half-crazy, but I thought I owed it to him and the Ross fellow.
• • •
The audience for the preview on Wednesday afternoon was not as enthusiastic as the one the night before, but that frequently happens at matinees. Still, the show seemed to be on a solid footing. After I had changed, my playwright, Elliot, and I headed for Mon Plaisir. It’s off the beaten track and a bit seedy, but I have always liked it. Besides, the food is authentically French, rare for a small bistro, and there is more room between tables than usual. Another advantage: I’m well known there, so they always save me a table near the window, the quietest spot in the restaurant. Gerard, the waiter, asked what we wanted. Since he had very little time, Elliott ordered a bowl of mushroom soup, a small endive salad, and a beer. I ordered scallops and a glass of white wine. Then we talked about my scene near the end where I announce my decision about the division of the inheritances. I wasn’t quite sure how to approach it, which was the point of our meeting.
At 6:30, Elliott left, but so far Phyllida Fairchild had not appeared. In the true French style, Mon Plaisir prefers to offer the salad after the entrée, so Gerard brought me a small plate of arugula. I had almost finished it when the door of the restaurant opened and a woman entered who could only be the one I was expecting. I don’t know what I thought she would look like, but it certainly wasn’t the person I saw coming toward me. Tall, about my height if not taller, with slim legs and arms, she had a more than ample bosom. Her eyes were green, she had high cheekbones, and her lipstick was pink, accenting her surprisingly pale face, which was surrounded by an aurora of soft auburn hair. Her mouth seemed always in a half smile, though I learned later that, with a barely noticeable shift, it could register many things, from the sardonic to an expression of genuine pleasure. She was not glamorous, with the vacant stare of a model, but her appearance, both intriguing and appealing, drew attention whenever she entered a room. I assumed this had to be Phyllida. She walked toward me smoothly, easily—one could say, almost regally. I rose and extended my hand.
“Sorry to be late,” she said. “I was stuck in traffic. I finally got out of the taxi and walked.”
“A New York moment.”
She shook hands. “Phyllida Fairchild,” she said.
“Matt Johanssen.”
Gerard helped her to her chair. “A drink, madame? A glass of wine?”
“Black tea,” she said. “Milk, no lemon or sugar.”
As Gerard departed, I said, “Phyllida? Sounds English.”
“My mother was English,” she said, and continued, “Thank you for doing this; I know it’s an imposition.”
“Anything to help Dorothy get the recognition she deserves.”
“That’s one of the things I want to be up front about. I’m an associate editor of the magazine, but none of us, from the editor-in-chief on down, knows quite what to do with all this. I’m pushing as hard as I can for some kind of piece on Dorothy, but I don’t know how it will turn out. One reason I want to do this is that I met her a couple of times.”
“Oh?”
“I used to go to the theatre off and on.”
“I don’t remember seeing you, and if I had, I’m sure I would have remembered.”
“I was dating Ashley Sullivan at the time.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, ‘oh.’”
Ashley Sullivan was the wealthy scion of a family that had made its money in pastry-related products: crackers, frozen pizza, cheesecake. He dabbled—almost bought a small chain of four theatres, invested hither and yon, brought shows over from London. But it turned out he was a manic depressive, and in one of his down periods he became so despondent that he swallowed more pills than even Lenox Hill’s finest could save him from.
“It was always at a social gathering: backers’ auditions, fund-raisers in plush apartments, opening night parties. But Dorothy stood out—genuine, serene, quietly intelligent. The idea that someone took her from us offends me to the core.”
“True. The theatre needs every single person of her caliber it can find.”
Gerard had brought her tea, and she continued: “I’ve seen you in half a dozen shows over the years. You’re good. Alive, authentic, versatile, always believable. What I think of as the backbone of the live theatre.”
“Thank you, if you mean even part of what you say.”
“I don’t flatter people, and I don’t throw compliments around.”
“We’ve just met, remember, but I take you at your word. Now, about you.”
“I suppose the simplest thing is to say is I’m a writer, though I’ve been through half a dozen careers: translating at the UN, teaching at Barnard, editing for a small press. But for ten years now—which is a record for me—I’ve been a freelance writer. Mostly in the glossy magazines—Vogue, Vanity Fair, Architectural Digest. Four years ago I was made an associate editor as well as writer at Vanity Fair, which pays better than I deserve.”
“A bit of an independent income, perhaps?”
“How did you guess?”
“You must be good, though.”
“I write well enough, but mostly I seem to be able to get stories no one else can land.”
“Like thinking about Dorothy.”
“Exactly.”
Gerard, who had already given me the check, appeared with my credit card. I signed it and said, “I’m sorry to be so abrupt, but I really have to get back to the theatre. Would you like to walk back with me?”
We exited the restaurant and headed east. “It’s hard to know where to start about Dorothy.”
“Start anywhere.”
“She was sound, of course, really well grounded, as a person but also as a theatre producer. She truly loved the theatre and was a fast learner who was just coming into her own.”
“There’s a lot to cover in each one of those.”
“I want to come back to something you mentioned earlier,” I said.
“Which is?”
“The uncertainty of your fellow editors.”
“It’s a problem, more for me than for you. But as a writer, I try to stay ahead of other writers. I pursue stories on all sides, and, if one out of every three works out, I’m ahead of the game. It’s because of this that I have this contract. But I must confess that, while I have a genuine interest in Dorothy, I have an ulterior motive.”
“Which is?”
“You.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve always wanted to get to know an actor. I’ve been close to a few, but they were always special cases: too obviously gay, a character actor who plays the same part over and over, someone much, much younger than I. So I’m intrigued.”
“Not by me. You don’t even know me.”
“You don’t think the whole town doesn’t know about your behind-the-scenes detective work.”
“Oh, that.”
“Yes, that.”
“There’s one thing I want to get straight,” I said. “I’m willing to talk about Dorothy, and I’m willing to talk about the theatre, but my avocation, my occasional sideline, is strictly off-limits.”
“Understood and agreed to. As you say, this whole thing calls for more talk. I know how tied up you are with these previews and the opening next week. When can we talk again? Friday? Saturday? Sunday?”
By this time, we were only a few steps from the stage door. I hesitated. I have to confess I was conflicted. I was busy, what with my involvement with the murder case and the forthcoming opening night. At the same time, Phyllida intrigued me. She was obviously bright as hell, accomplished, a bit offbeat, and perhaps great fun. It had been some time since I had had any real contact with a woman my age—with any woman. In short, a long time between drinks.
“Right through this stretch, it changes from day to day, even hour to hour.” I looked at my calendar on my cell phone. “Whew,” I said. “It’s a rough weekend. Can we talk tomorrow?”
“Absolutely.”
I headed toward the stage door. “I’m sorry—I have to run.”
“Thanks for working me in.”
“Give me a call tomorrow. We’ll try to set a time to talk about Dorothy.”
• • •
The Wednesday night preview went better than the matinee and gave us the same feeling we had had the night before: that we were getting there. Also, the talk I had had with Elliot helped me enormously in my scene near the end. My intentions were clearer, and I felt much more confident. The big news that night, however, was not our preview but events occurring just north of us on the Upper West Side, at the American Museum of Natural History.
Later, when I read the papers and talked to people, some of whom had been there, I was able to piece together how the evening unfolded. The museum was holding its annual gala, their most important event of the year, socially and financially. All of its top-tier trustees, donors, and supporters were invited, along with important political figures, especially those from the city who were in a position to assist with financial aid to the institution. It was black tie, of course, and the more fashionably conscious women would not dare appear in anything but a recognizable designer dress. Events at the Museum of Natural History were not as pretentious or self-important as those at the two Mets—the opera and the museum—but they were nevertheless grand affairs.
The Museum of Natural History is on a four-block stretch on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, running from 77th Street to 81st. For the gala, the U-shaped driveway to the south, ordinarily closed to vehicular traffic, was opened so that limousines could drive in from 77th Street under a high-ceilinged porte cochère where guests could alight and enter the Grand Gallery, the most notable feature of which was an amazing sixty-three-foot wooden canoe suspended from the ceiling. Originally created in the Northwest, it was thought to be the largest surviving carved canoe in the world.
After being marked off a list, guests were greeted by the museum’s director and the chairman of the trustees, who directed them to a fleet of electric trolleys waiting to whisk them to the site of the dinner at the Milstein Hall of Ocean Life. An immense space of nearly 30,000 feet, it was a spectacular setting for the gala. The centerpiece of the hall was a model of a ninety-four-foot blue whale suspended from the ceiling in a graceful curve, as if it were floating rather than making its way through the ocean deep. With its tall ceiling, large ground floor, and spacious upper gallery running around the entire circumference, it could accommodate an event like this and still not seem crowded.
On both levels of the hall, there was a bar set up, and an area for socializing before the dinner. Off to one side on the lower level, a society orchestra was playing old favorites: Rodgers and Hart, Gershwin, Jerome Kern. The tables were beautifully decorated with flowers, each with a centerpiece featuring a small ocean creature of some sort—a starfish, a snail, or the like—cast in silver. The lights were brighter than usual, and the atmosphere overall was not only appropriate but notably festive.
Certain locations in the hall were considered the most desirable—tables for ten, for example, that cost $50,000. Prices went down from there, but even the least expensive were not cheap. A $250 ticket allowed you to have drinks, but you had to leave before dinner. There was also the opportunity to make larger gifts, which would be announced with some fanfare at the end of the evening.
Following the murder at the Met Museum, there had been discussions between senior staff at Natural History and the executive committee of the board that perhaps they should cancel or at least tone down the celebration. In addition to the fact that this was a high-profile event, there would be a large number of additional personnel entering and leaving the premises. In the end, it was decided that the Met incident, hopefully, was a one-off event and that they should proceed. The museum did, however, beef up security considerably by bringing in an outside firm, which doubled the number of guards and surveillance teams.
The highlight of the evening was to take place after the main course had been served and just before dessert. The cocktail hour was to last forty-five minutes to an hour, after which guests who were staying for dinner would take their seats. A first-class caterer had been engaged, one who did not proffer the usual limp salad and bland chicken. No, there would be a salad with a “divine” dressing, with choices for a gourmet main course.
The new addition to be unveiled was a graceful, fourteen-foot baby whale suspended from the ceiling, to be moved later toward the center as a sort of accent or punctuation mark to accompany the large whale. On the west side of the gallery level, opposite the entrance, the balcony widened in the center; it was here that the small whale was concealed under a white covering. At the critical moment, a man on each side would pull a rope raising the cloth to reveal the replica of the small whale. It would be what the Elizabethan theatre referred to as a “discovery.”
The guests were finishing their dinners. The evening so far had been a huge success; as the wife of the chairman said to the director, everything was going “swimmingly.” The orchestra sounded a fanfare; the Chairman moved to the microphone; the room grew quiet. The Chairman exclaimed what a special night this was for the museum. He thanked all those present for coming and for their support; he also mentioned by name the people who had made larger gifts; he thanked the staff. “And now,” he said, “the moment we have all been waiting for. An addition to our glorious Hall of Ocean Life, which will only add to its excitement and its appeal.” He pointed to the covered object on the balcony. The orchestra played a chord, and he nodded to the two men holding ropes on the balcony.
It was the signal for them to raise the cover, which they began slowly and ceremoniously to do. First visible was the bottom of the baby whale in a curved position, like its larger counterpart in the center of the room. As they raised the cover higher, it became apparent that there was something else coming into view. The men hesitated, but then continued. When they had pulled the cover free, there, astride the small whale, was a man dressed in tux and black tie. He had a shock of red hair and a round face with protruding ears. There was an audible, almost universal gasp. It was one of those moments that passes in an instant and yet is indelibly imprinted on the visual memory of everyone who saw it.
There were choked attempts at speech. “Is he—?”
“Oh no—”
“It’s not—”
“I can’t believe—”
Finally one man, sitting in the gallery near the scene, exclaimed in horror and disbelief, “My God, it’s Wally!”
Seeing the stiff figure in his tuxedo atop the whale, people didn’t know what to do. Everyone was in shock. There were shouts from all sides: “Call the police”; “Get security.” Some put their dessert forks down, picked up their things, and made a hasty exit. Others looked at the frozen tableau, transfixed by the sight. Still others gazed and then looked away, shaking their heads. Gradually, everyone left except those directly concerned: the staff, several trustees, guards who had been summoned, all of whom had slowly made their way to the scene. On close inspection, it was confirmed that the man was dead. Somehow, he had been strapped securely to the baby whale, which his corpse appeared to be riding like a cowboy. Also, there were straps under his arms. As the two men pulled the ropes that raised the cover, the man had been drawn erect as well. Later it would be pointed out that, at the gala exactly one year before, the victim had been on that same balcony being honored as the “trustee of the year.”