“YOUR CALL WAS UNEXPECTED,” Roman Fried said. “What was it you wanted to discuss, and why couldn’t you tell me over the phone?”
Isobel took a sip of her Diet Coke and leaned back against the banquette in the bar of the Hilton Garden Inn. “I’m offering an information trade.”
“I don’t work like that,” Fried said curtly.
“Let me put it this way,” Isobel said. “Judging from your column, I know a lot more about what’s going on at Livingston Stage than you do. Unless you’re sitting on the good stuff.”
“If you mean the fact that Arden was murdered, well yes, I’m sitting on that.”
“Why?”
Fried waved her off. “Not relevant.”
Isobel snorted in disbelief. “Not relevant?”
“Not to my overall story, no,” Fried said. “And don’t bother asking me what that is, because I’m not telling you. So unless you have another information bomb, enjoy your soda on me.”
He pushed his chair away from the table and stood up.
A sardonic smile spread across Isobel’s face, and she applauded slowly.
“Nice exit line, but your delivery needs work. I don’t think you’re going anywhere. If you were planning to give up that easily, you wouldn’t have bothered to meet me.” Isobel folded her arms. “Let’s cut the drama, which we both know is best left to the professionals. Do you want to know what I know or not?”
After a long moment, Fried sat down again.
“Ground rules. You tell me something, then I tell you something. If I already know yours, you don’t get mine. Deal?”
“Deal.”
“You first.”
Isobel paused for effect. “The show might or might not go on tonight.”
“That is a completely content-free sentence.”
Now it was Isobel’s turn to stand. “Okay, bye.”
“Please don’t play games with me, Ms. Spice. You will lose. I have far more experience at this than you do. Sit down and tell me whatever it is you’re dying to tell me.”
Isobel was happy to comply. “There might not be a show tonight, because there’s a terrible stench in the theater. If they can’t figure out what it is and get rid of it in time, it will be impossible for the show to go on.”
Fried let out an exaggerated sigh. “That’s not much of a tip. Knowing that it might not happen will be irrelevant as soon as it either does or doesn’t.”
“But I know what’s causing the smell.”
“Because you’re responsible for it?”
“No, because I figured it out. But for reasons of my own, I am choosing to keep it to myself. So if Felicity is forced to cancel the show, you’ll be able to tell people why. And if the show does go on, you’ll be able to spill the beans and reveal the problem after Felicity thinks she’s made it go away.”
“What’s causing the smell?”
“Somebody sewed shrimp into the curtain. And if I had to guess, other places in the house as well. The smell is pretty pervasive.”
Fried’s lip curled into a smile. “That would do it, I suppose.”
“Now I get to ask you a question,” Isobel said. “Who told you to cover Sousacal, and why do you have tickets all week?”
His jaw twitched. “That’s two questions. And what makes you think I have tickets all week?”
Isobel cocked her head. “Seems to me that’s a new question. If I answer, will you answer both of mine?”
Fried paused. “Fine.”
“The box office told me.”
“Why were you asking about me?”
“Uh uh uh,” Isobel said in a singsong voice. “That’s another question.”
Fried regarded her. “Look. This is a little ridiculous, don’t you think?”
Isobel nodded vigorously. “I couldn’t agree more. What do you say we lay our cards on the table? I’ve already told you something you didn’t know, so it’s your turn.”
Fried beckoned to the waitress.
“I’ll have a Bushmills, neat.”
“That’s my whiskey of choice too,” Isobel remarked as the waitress scurried away to fill the order. “You see? We were meant to be friends.”
Fried folded a cocktail napkin neatly in half. “Why are you so interested in this?”
“You pretty much accused me in print of being out for blood to get Arden’s part,” Isobel said. “Some people will take that very seriously. I have a vested interest in figuring out what happened in order to protect my reputation, not to mention my life.”
“Fair point.”
The waitress brought Fried’s whiskey, and he signed it to his room. He knocked back a healthy gulp, then set the glass down.
“I got a call from your costume designer, Thomas Falk. He told me a few things that interested me. How much do you know about how Livingston Stage is funded?”
“Nothing at all,” Isobel said, trying to hide her surprise.
“It’s partially funded by the state,” Fried said. “For years, educational outreach was an important component of their business model. But that ended five years ago, when management claimed the theater was hemorrhaging money and couldn’t keep the program operational. The state rolled back the funding gradually, and then two years ago, it dried up completely.”
“So they’re hurting for money?” Isobel asked.
“That’s what’s odd,” Fried said. “The theater’s bottom line didn’t take much of a hit, and Thomas started speculating that Felicity Hamilton had been diverting the state’s money all along.”
“Embezzling?”
Fried took a more measured sip of his whiskey. “That’s what Thomas thinks. He claims there’s evidence of unnecessary expenses like meals and hotels—mostly on visits to New York for auditions. And he hinted there might be something else going on, but he wouldn’t get specific.”
“Why haven’t you put all that in your column?”
“That alone would not interest my readers. But when he told me Felicity Hamilton was dumping money from one or more anonymous donors into a new musical that was embarrassingly awful—and penned by her unknown, unproven nephew—I thought there might be something in it.”
“Why buy tickets for the whole week? Why not see it once, write about it, and leave?”
Fried’s face clouded. “Thomas called me the day before you opened and said there was a series of incidents that would amuse me. But frankly, there’s nothing amusing about an actress being murdered. That’s why it’s not relevant. Even I have my limits.”
Isobel nodded. “He was talking about the stuff that happened before Arden died.”
“What stuff?”
“During our ten-out-of-twelve, somebody untied the masking backstage and it fell. It happened to fall on Arden, but I don’t think it was necessarily intended for her.” Isobel held up her fingers and counted off. “Then somebody put a laxative in the coffee, and we had to end our tech early because everyone had the runs.”
Fried’s face flooded with gleeful approval. “That is positively devilish.”
“But wait, there’s more,” Isobel said. “Somebody snuck into the theater later that night and put random cuts in all the orchestra parts, which rendered our dress rehearsal useless from a musical point of view. I think that’s the stuff Thomas wanted you to write about.”
“But how would I have found out about that? He would have had to tell me, and he didn’t.”
“That’s a good question,” Isobel acknowledged. “Maybe he was waiting to tell you after you witnessed whatever happened opening night, but Arden’s death wasn’t what he was expecting.”
Fried downed the rest of his whiskey. “Going back to your initial question about why I’m here, I have a theater with inklings of fiscal wrongdoing pumping money into a musical of dubious quality by the artistic director’s nephew, and a staff member who seems to know—in advance—that misadventures will befall the production.” He let out a snide chuckle. “Trust me, that’s a lot more interesting than the string of revivals opening on Broadway this season.”
“And I just gave you tomorrow’s column. The shrimp. You’re welcome.”
Rather than offer his thanks, Fried looked perplexed. “I haven’t heard from Thomas since he called to tell me Arden was murdered.”
Isobel sat back. “I can tell you how she was murdered, and I can tell you why Thomas hasn’t told you. But you have to promise me something in return.”
“What’s that?”
“If you find out where the money is coming from for Sousacal, will you tell me?”
Fried looked into his empty glass. Then he met her eyes and nodded. “Yes, I will. Now tell me why I haven’t heard from Thomas.”
“If he told you Arden was murdered, then he probably told you she died of acute nicotine poisoning. This next bit hasn’t been confirmed yet, but I’m willing to bet my brand-new Equity card that an exposed wire on her bustle was treated with the stuff. When Chris pulled her onto his lap during ‘The Washington Post,’ it stabbed her and injected the poison into her bloodstream.”
Fried took a moment to collect himself. “Well. That would explain why I haven’t heard from Thomas. A poisoned costume piece? He must be in police custody.”
Isobel set her mouth in a grim line. “That’s not why he hasn’t called you.”