The Apostrophe Thief (26 page)

“Seventy-five, huh?” Marian said. “Okay, I'll see that you're reimbursed.”

They both laughed. “No way,” said Matthew. “Those sleeves aren't for sale for any seventy-five bucks. We realize you have to take them with you, as evidence. But we want them back when you're through. Write us a receipt.”

Marian looked at them in amazement. “Don't you understand? You're not going to get these sleeves back. You don't own them—they don't belong to you. They're
stolen property
. Do you know what stolen property is? I said I'd get you your seventy-five dollars back because you helped us out, not because I'm buying them from you. I
can't
buy them from you, because you can't
sell
them. I will, however, write you a receipt.”

She did just that, while the brothers muttered under their breaths. “Jeez, if I'd known you were going to be such a hardass, I never would have called you,” Matthew said.

“And then done time as a fence? That's real smart, Matthew. You guys just aren't plugged in at all, are you? From now on, get written receipts for everything you buy, and I do mean everything. Names, addresses. Dates of purchase and amounts. I'm not going to give you any flak—but sooner or later
somebody
is going to come down on you, and the more documentation you have, the better off you'll be. Do it. Start now. The Zingone family has got to clean up its act or you're all heading for trouble. Am I getting through to you?”

They stared at her sullenly without answering.

Marian sighed. “I'm trying to keep you out of jail,” she said. “But I can't make you listen. Where's your phone?” Mark lifted up a telephone from under the counter. “Thank you.” She stared at them until they started edging back out of earshot.

Marian didn't know Captain Murtaugh's home number, so she had to call the station first. But her second call caught him just as he was going out the front door, he said. What couldn't wait until Monday?

Marian told him about the sleeves. “I think they're the right ones, but I should be able to get a positive ID at the Broadhurst—Kelly Ingram or the wardrobe mistress would know.”

“
Just
the sleeves?” the captain asked.

“That's all. Which pretty much rules out a collector or a dealer as the man we're looking for. Nobody hooked on memorabilia would destroy that jacket.”

“No. So that leaves the insurance money. Ramsay. Will he be at the Broadhurst?”

“I doubt it. He rarely comes in.”

“What about the director, uh, Reddick?”

“He'll probably be there. But he's not the killer.”

“No, I don't think so either,” Murtaugh said. “Only one person could collect that insurance.”

“I don't think it was the insurance.” Marian took a deep breath. “If I'm right that Gene Ramsay wouldn't risk a murder rap for a scam as small as the insurance settlement, then there's only one possible explanation left. Captain, how about putting in a call to the French Sûreté? Find out if there's been a sizable jewel robbery in France recently.”

He saw it immediately. “The jewels on the jacket weren't imitations?”

“It's the only explanation I can think of. Replacing the stage fakes with real stones would be a good way to get them past customs. That was probably the only reason he bought the Bernhardt jacket in the first place—everybody knew about it, it was nothing he'd have to conceal. He was hiding the jewels right out in the open.”

“It sounds like a long shot to me,” Murtaugh said, “but I'll make the call. What made you think of it in the first place?”

“Oh, something Kelly Ingram said. You know replacement costumes were made up right after the burglary? Kelly remarked that the fake gems on her replacement jacket were larger than those on the original. Well, on the stage, small things have to be made bigger than they really are, or else the audience can't see them. The original jacket was designed to be worn on a stage—so why didn't it have large stones as well? I didn't really think about it until we ran out of other possible explanations.”

“‘Painstaking attention to minutiae is what solves crimes,'” Captain Murtaugh quoted, but Marian didn't know whom.

“Something else,” she went on. “Maybe we ought to get Gene Ramsay to come to the Broadhurst. There's a small safe in the office the director uses. The first time I ever talked to John Reddick, he told me only the producer had the combination.”

“You think Ramsay may have stashed the jewels there? Doesn't he have a safe in his own office?”

“I don't know. I didn't see one there, but it could have been concealed.”

They were both quiet a moment, thinking it over. Then Murtaugh said, “Perhaps he meant to throw suspicion on Reddick, if anything went wrong. All right, see if you can get an ID on the sleeves and I'll call the Sûreté and Gene Ramsay. Wait for me at the Broadhurst.”

“Yes, sir. I have to see the stage manager anyway. There's one loose end that still needs tying up.”

“Tie it tight,” Murtaugh said and hung up.

Marian pressed the phone's plunger and released it, and then tapped out her own number; she wanted to tell Holland she wouldn't be coming right back after all. Busy signal.

She hung up and started to leave; she'd reached the door when she heard her name spoken. Marian turned and saw Janet Zingone standing behind the counter where her brothers had been earlier.

“I heard you,” Janet said.

She meant Marian's harangue about the Zingones' cleaning up their act. Marian smiled in relief and waved goodbye. Now if Janet could make her brothers listen, the Zingone family just might be all right after all.

Anne-Marie St. John, née Elsie Greenbaum, ran her hand over the amber velvet. “They're from the Bernhardt jacket, all right.” She held up the two disembodied sleeves. “Such a thing! Who would do such a terrible thing?”

“Are you sure?” Marian asked. “Take your time.”

“Yeah, I'm sure. Look here.” Marian went over to stand beside the wardrobe mistress. “See these pale gold threads in the seams of the lining? I put those in myself. The original threads are even paler—faded, you know. Here's one.”

Marian squinted. “You can barely see it.”

“Tell me about it. I thought I had all those old threads picked out.” She used what to Marian looked like a surgical instrument to lift the offending thread from the jacket. “Used to be that gray thread was used for everything, because stitching doesn't show from the stage. It was a lot easier then.”

“What happened?”

The wardrobe mistress shrugged. “Who knows? Everybody's a prima donna, everything has to be just so.” She turned one of the sleeves inside out. “These seams are stretched—how'd that happen? This lining's new, you know. Gene Ramsay sat right there in that chair and watched me the entire time I was putting it in.” A big laugh. “You'd think that thing had the crown jewels sewn on it. He took the jacket home with him the first few nights, until he got a new lock put on the costume room door.” A snort. “Much good it did him.”

“Did he select the new lock himself?”

Another laugh. “He sure did. Shows what he knows about locks.”

He knew enough to get a cheap one
. Marian wrapped the sleeves back up in the tissue paper and put the bundle into her shoulder bag. “That's all I needed to know. Thanks, Elsie.” The other woman glared at her. “Er, Anne-Marie.”

It was still early, and the cast was just beginning to drift in for the matinee performance. Kelly wasn't there yet. Marian went looking for Leo Gunn, and found him reading the riot act to an electrician. She'd wondered before why the stage manager wore a hook instead of an artificial hand; now she saw one of the hook's side benefits. Gunn spoke softly, but he kept tapping the other man's chest with his hook. For emphasis. The electrician kept glancing down at the hook tap-tapping his chest; he appeared somewhat uncomfortable.

“Last night Ian Cavanaugh's face was in shadow again when he was standing by the fish tank. He can't step away
into
the spot because he has stage business at the tank. So
you
have to keep the light on
him
. Is that so hard to understand?”

“It, it just slipped again, Leo—I'll fix it.”

“That's what you said last time. What are you using on that light, chewing gum and a rubber band? You've got some worn threads there somewhere. This time don't just tighten it, replace it.”

“I'll do it right now.” The electrician scurried away.

The stage manager saw Marian watching and shook his head. “I should have been born in the last century, when you could still
fire
incompetents.”

“Unions?”

“Unions.”

“Any danger the light will fall?”

“No, the big clamps are secure. It's just the positioning arm that keeps slipping. Well, Sergeant, can I do something for you?”

“Yes, you can. You told me that when Ernie Nordstrom first approached you to steal props et cetera from the show you were working, you notified the producer and the director, right? Was Gene Ramsay producing that show?”

“No. Why?”

“What about the other times? You said that every new play you worked, Nordstrom would show up, didn't you? Did you notify the producers and directors then as well?”

“Every time.” Gunn's eyes narrowed. “And Gene Ramsay was the producer on one of them.
Little Green Apples
.”

“John Reddick?”

“None of them.” The stage manager looked incredulous. “Gene Ramsay killed Nordstrom?”

“He's only a suspect at this point,” Marian said firmly. “I just wanted to pin down whether he knew about Nordstrom or not.”

“He knew. My god! I've known Gene for twenty years!”

“Mr. Gunn, let me repeat he's only a suspect. I don't have evidence.” Yet. “Captain Murtaugh will be getting here before long. I'd appreciate it if you'd have someone let me know the minute he shows up.”

“Yeah, sure. Gene. My god.”

He was so shaken that Marian felt bad for him. She put a hand on his shoulder and said, “Can you keep it to yourself? I'll know today whether he's the one or not.”

Gunn said he'd keep it quiet and turned away. Marian let him go.

She went to warn the doorkeeper that Captain Murtaugh was coming. She'd just finished telling him when Ian Cavanaugh made his entrance.

“Ah, Sergeant Marian!” he sang out in booming tones. “I say ‘Sergeant Marian' because I never know whether you're here as the police or as yourself. Which is it today?”

“We're the same person,” Marian said with a smile. “But I'm afraid it's the official-capacity designation this time. Where's Abby?”

“Abby's at a different matinee today—change of pace, she said. She went to the opera.
Don Giovanni
.”

Oh boy
.

“Ian!” exclaimed a young voice. “You got here before me!” Xandria Priest had just come in.

“Hello, Xandria,” the actor said. “Yes, I got here before you.” His tone said:
So?

“That's a sign of a true professional, isn't it? Not only outstanding on the stage, but always early to the theater, champing at the bit?” She was gushing.

Ian frowned. “Young woman, I do not
champ
at anything. And I'm early today only because Abby dropped me off on her way to the opera.” Then he relented. “But I never mind being early, do you?”

“Oh, no! Abby's not coming?”

“That's what I said. Marian, stop by my dressing room if you have time.” He strode away.

The doorkeeper looked amused. But Xandria Priest looked …
stricken
. It had been a long time since Marian had seen such naked yearning on someone's face; she'd made a friendly overture to her idol and he'd rebuffed her. Was that why Xandria had been flirting with everyone in the company … because Ian Cavanaugh was ignoring her? “Let's go to your dressing room,” Marian said, leading her away.

Marian had barely got the door shut behind them when Xandria burst into tears. “Why does he do that to me?” the younger woman snuffled. “I never embarrass him in front of other people!”

Are you sure about that?
“Where's your Kleenex?”

Xandria pointed a shaky finger toward her dressing table. “Bottom right-hand drawer.” Then her eyes grew big and she cried, “Wait! I'll get it!”

But she was too late. Marian had already spotted the shaving mug behind the box of Kleenex. Carefully, she took the mug out of the drawer.

Xandria let out a wail and sank down into the chair before the dressing table. She buried her head in her arms and bawled.

Marian went to the sink and wet a washcloth. “Your eyes are going to be red and puffy for the performance. Blow your nose and cover your eyes with this.”

The young actor did as she was told. Eventually, she calmed down, sitting with her head thrown back and the washcloth over her eyes. It was easier for her that way, not having to look at Marian.

“It belonged to his grandfather, you know,” Marian said at last. “That shaving mug means a lot to Ian.”

A moan. “I know. Are you going to tell on me?”

Tell on me
—the language of children. “I won't have to. You're going to return it yourself.”

“I can't do that! He'll hate me!”

“Xandria, be realistic—he's not exactly falling over himself to get at you right now. What else of Ian's have you stolen?”

Sniffle. “Some of his make-up. One of his shirts. A note he left for Leo Gunn.”

“Anything else?”

“That's all, I swear!”

Nothing of real value lost. Lovesick teenaged girls were not high on Marian's list of Interesting Things, but she felt sorry for Xandria. “In case you haven't noticed,” she said, “Ian's living with the woman he's chosen. He's taken.”