A Curtain Falls (12 page)

“But with no promise of a role of your own?” I asked, not unkindly. I realized how little I actually knew about the inner workings of the theater.

“No. But the show’s prior three understudies each landed regular roles in other productions last month. It was a way to establish myself again in New York.”

“When did you last see Annie?” I took another sip of the whiskey.

“Last night, before I went home. She was one of the last to leave.”

“Was that her habit?”

“Oh, no.” Though her laughter pealed, it had a hard edge. “That’s what I wanted to tell you. She was meeting someone after. A man.”

The words lingered between us for a moment. Then I finally said, “Which man?”

“If I knew that, I could probably solve your case for you, Detective,” she said lightly. Then she leaned in close to me, so close I saw the shades of green that colored her hazel eyes. “But he was the sort of man she told no one much about— not even me. Not his name. Not how she met him. Not even the places he took her.”

“Then how do you know about him at all?

“Because I’ve got eyes, haven’t I? She was crazy about him, always getting dressed up to meet him. Had to wear her best dress, perfectly ironed, have her hair perfectly done.”

“But you never saw him?”

“Never.” Her voice was flat. “She called him her lucky man.
And she was convinced—” Molly Hansen drew in a deep breath and gave me a triumphant stare, “
completely
convinced— that he was gonna make her a star.”

Gonna make her a star.
The words resonated through my mind as we finished our conversation. The Great White Way was filled with people who wanted to be stars— and a fair number of men who were willing to create them. But only one of them had put his efforts toward murder.

As I raced back to the Garrick so as not to be late, I hoped Alistair had learned more than I had. Because, unfortunately, Molly Hansen had raised more questions for me than she had answered.

The Garrick Theater, 67 West Thirty-fifth Street

“It’s not just that Annie’s dead— it’s that your community has been violated.” The young man looked around dramatically, pausing for effect, even though the three women in the room already hung on his every word. “Whoever killed Annie has taken something important from each of you. You’ve been robbed of the safety and security you should feel here in the theater, your second home.”

His eyes flickered toward me as I entered the room, but almost immediately he turned and leaned in toward the lady on his left: Lily Bowen.

Behind her lace handkerchief, she half stifled a sob. “Oh, Jack, I knew you’d understand. It’s simply terrible we even had to be here tonight.”

The man was thin, with chiseled features and rich blond
hair perfectly coiffed in even waves. He smiled. “It’s because of my father, God bless him. He worked in the theater my entire life, so I grew up among you. The theater community was my surrogate family.”

Two blond women I recognized from the chorus line nodded wordlessly, their attention fixed on the young man.

A poignant expression crossed his brow. “I lived the theater life until my father died. I was just a boy of nine.” His hand moved to his heart. “It affected me deeply. And still does, to this day.”

I moved to the back of the green room, a simple waiting area where four dressing tables filled with jars of greasepaint were jammed along one wall, and two almost-threadbare floral sofas were placed against the rear. Alistair stood there, sullen and alone.

“Who’s the dandy?” I asked quietly as I approached him.

The lines around Alistair’s face tightened. “Jack Bogarty,” Alistair said, his voice low. “Remember, from
The Times
? He’s the theater critic who is supposedly helping us.” He frowned. “From what I can see, his primary interest is making a more intimate acquaintance with Miss Bowen.”

I regarded the young man more closely. A “pretty boy” who liked clothes, the
Times
editor had said. Jack Bogarty made the most of his appearance: he wore a smart brown suit accentuated by a yellow cravat and red tie. His every choice— of cut, fabric, and color— was designed to complement his boyish but handsome looks.

“How awful to lose one’s father when so young.” The taller blonde practically quivered.

Jack rewarded her with a broad, indulgent smile. “No one
supported me afterwards like the actors and actresses he had worked with. Each one of them came to his funeral.”

The women surrounding him murmured their sympathies, which he accepted with a sheepish look.

“What about Frank Riley, the crime reporter we met this afternoon?” I whispered to Alistair.

Alistair shook his head. “No sign of him. But this one’s been here the better part of the past hour, making eyes at all the women.”

We watched as Jack gazed at Lily Bowen with soulful eyes. “So you see, I do understand what you’re going through right now. Truly. Perhaps,” he touched her arm, “you’d like to talk with me about it over drinks. Shall we go somewhere?”

“I have rooms at the Algonquin.” She gave him a coy smile.

It was a fashionable hotel north of us, on Forty-fourth Street. But I knew it was dry— which no doubt explained why Jack immediately suggested an alternative.

“Let’s try the Knickerbocker instead. It’s right by my offices on Forty-second Street.” He took Miss Bowen’s hand into his own.

“Why, Jack, I adore the Knickerbocker,” she cooed.

He stood. “Where is your coat, Miss Bowen?” Then he caught the eyes of the blondes to his left. “And you ladies should join us as well.”

As he helped Miss Bowen into her voluminous coat, he ignored her pout.

“We didn’t think you wanted us, Jack,” the shorter blonde teased.

He drew back in mock surprise. “Nonsense. We should all go to the Knickerbocker; I never meant otherwise. Your hats, ladies?”

Lily Bowen was already adjusting her broad-brimmed hat in the mirror while the others quickly donned coats, hats, and scarves, chatting amiably.

“Gentlemen.” With a cursory nod in our direction, Jack bade us good evening.

We discreetly waited a moment, then followed them out the backstage door. From upstairs, we heard Leon Iseman, voice raised, complaining about something in regard to the Shubert brothers— Charles Frohman’s main competition.

“Should we check on him?” Alistair rolled his eyes upward.

“Not tonight.” The fact was, I was simply too exhausted. Alistair immediately understood.

“Come with me, old boy,” he said, clapping his arm around my shoulder as we braced ourselves for the icy March cold. “You shall have my guest room tonight, and anything else you need.”

And after he easily waved off my feeble excuses, it was decided.

Despite the fog of exhaustion that muddled my thoughts, I could not sleep. Alistair’s guest room, I knew, had once belonged to Teddy.

Alistair’s son.

The room’s every wall bore witness to his interests: a gray scabbard and chain hung to my left, bookshelves were filled with small artifacts from past digs, and an Egyptian mural hung above the headboard. I looked down and ran my fingers across the blue-and-gold coverlet on top of the bed. The fabric was thick and rich, entirely unlike the threadbare blanket atop my bed at home. Of course, nothing in my dingy flat in any way resembled this comfortable room, with its tasteful mahogany
furniture. Its coordinated blue-and-gold color scheme was reflected in the wallpaper, the fabrics, and the pillows, and even the plush Turkish carpet that, I suspected, had been brought home from some Far East adventure.

I supposed that on my salary, I could afford better than the dingy flat in Dobson, north of Manhattan, that I currently called home. I had no one to support, and I’d amassed some decent savings— the result of many years of frugal living, helping my mother while saving to marry Hannah. But Hannah had been taken from me in the waters surrounding North Brother Island, and my mother had followed within the year.

Not for the first time, I wondered what it must have been like to grow up in this sort of environment. The thought was an uncomfortable one, especially knowing that Teddy Sinclair was dead— even as I lay, completely out of my element, in his room, among his belongings, determined not to think of his wife. Or rather, his widow— no doubt fast asleep in her own apartment across the hall.

All that surrounded me had been his birthright. But something in him had been unsatisfied, quieted only by the far-flung adventures he had repeatedly sought.

I stood up and pulled tight the navy-blue dressing gown— one I told myself was Alistair’s, though I knew better. Then I cautiously opened the bedroom door. All was quiet.

With soft footsteps, I tiptoed down the hallway to Alistair’s well-stocked kitchen, a large affair of white cabinets, black-and-white checkered floor, and a gargantuan black stove that dominated the room. The Dakota, of course, had been one of the earliest buildings to embrace electricity, so I had only to press a button to illuminate the room. The clock showed ten minutes
past two in the morning. I thought momentarily of the liquor cabinet in Alistair’s library— one he had invited me to sample at any point this evening.

But no drink could relieve my insomnia. Thoughts of Isabella disturbed me. Was she awake as well?

That was absurd, I decided. I’d thought of her often, always in the context of one magical evening I’d spent with her last fall. We’d had dinner and mooncakes in Chinatown, enjoyed coffee in Little Italy— and for those few, brief hours, I had forgotten the difficulties of the case I’d been investigating at the time. It had been a moment of fleeting happiness.

When I did manage to push her out of my mind, worries about this latest case came streaming in. And so, giving up on sleep, I found coffee beans in the third cabinet I opened; a grinder and French press were immediately below on the counter.

Once I had ground the beans with the hand crank, tamped them into the French press, and run steaming water through it, I was rewarded with a strong cup. I took it and sat down at the small wooden table near the kitchen window overlooking West Seventy-second Street, which was deserted at this time of night.

The coffee’s aroma, as much as its comforting warmth, settled my nerves.

This particular case had gotten under my skin. Although the murder today had been disguised as suicide— bloodless and seemingly less violent— that fact actually seemed to make it more disturbing. The killer responsible was sophisticated. And that made his handiwork seem more sinister than the crude, bloody murders I usually investigated.

Moreover, tonight’s display in the green room had confirmed that Jack Bogarty and his partner, Frank Riley, were going to be hindrances to the case, not allies. Not that I’d seriously thought it would be otherwise— but the way Bogarty had whisked away those actresses we wanted to interview seemed to confirm it.

I could have intervened, of course. But not without including Bogarty. And I suspected that Molly’s advice was solid: that I’d have better success talking with the other actresses in private. What was even more frustrating was that Bogarty had been so charming that he’d immediately accomplished just that. He had elicited their trust, even though he’d just met them. I’d not seen anyone do that so well, other than—

Well . . . other than Isabella. She’d been friendly and disarming when she had spoken with so many important witnesses— especially women— during our last case. It was a gift she had that, just maybe, could help in this investigation.

I made myself a second cup of coffee and relaxed for the first time that night.

I would ask her tomorrow . . . and hope that she wouldn’t refuse.

Saturday
March 17, 1906

Central Park, near Sheep Meadow

“I remember the almond pastry is your favorite.”

Isabella looked up in surprise as I took the seat beside her on the park bench, placing the white pastry box from Bernadette’s Patisserie between us. She hesitated, so I helped myself to one of the warm, flaky, almond-covered croissants.

“You brought
pain aux amandes,
” she said softly.

It was a particularly fine, early-spring day, and the earthy smell of wet soil filled the air. It was mild today, and yesterday’s snow had almost entirely melted except for those shady patches where towering maple trees protected the ground from the sun’s warmth. March was like that: ever changeable.

“I would have thought you’d have chosen to fill your coffee mug rather than buy croissants,” Isabella said, her lips curving into a half smile.

“You know me too well,” I replied lightly. “I sampled the coffee while I was waiting for the pastry order. It wasn’t bad.” I took a bite of the croissant. “But clearly baking is Madame Bernadette’s forte.”

She gingerly helped herself to one of the pastries, then held it high in the air as Oban, her jubilant golden retriever, bounded over with muddy paws and a stick. Guiding his nose away from the pastry box, she passed me her croissant to hold for a moment while she stood and tossed the stick far into the field that bordered the green where, even at this early hour, a noisy game was being played by a group of boys, not far from the grazing sheep. Rumor had it that the sheep were an important part of Olmsted and Vaux’s original plan for a peaceful and bucolic space within the park. They obviously hadn’t taken into account how a vast green meadow would appeal to the boisterous games of men and boys alike.