Barcelona Jones - Murder on Broadway

  "Hi sis, what are your plans for this evening?" I had called her just as soon as I got home.

  "Nothing much. I'm on call at the hospital, the midnight shift, and it's quiet here without Rick and the kids. So I'm just catching up on some long-delayed projects. Why? What's up?"

  "Well, I know how much you love the theater, and someone gave me two free tickets for a play for tonight. I'm wondering if you'd like to go with me -- if you haven't already seen it."

  "Oh, you can't find a date, huh?"

  "Actually you're the first one I called. I know how much you love the theater."

  "What's the play?"

  "Not sure."

  "Well, look on the ticket. It should say."

  I remember fumbling for the ticket and when I found it I read aloud, "Murder on Broadway. Have you heard about it?"

  "You've got to be kidding. That's a hot show. Are you sure it's for tonight? It takes over six months to get a ticket for that play. I think someone's playing a joke on you. Are you sure it wasn't for last night's performance?"

  I looked at the date. "No, the date on the ticket is definitely for tonight. It must be a good play then?"

  "Yes it is. Right now it's the number one show on Broadway. Who gave you the ticket?"

  "Some knock-out blonde I met in a taxi this evening on the way home. She had a real odd name . . . Barcelona." Then laughing, I said, "I wonder if her last name is Spain!"

  Erica ignored my remark and asked, "Barcelona? Doesn't that name mean anything to you, Sam?"

  "Nope, but you've got to admit it is a little strange. So will you go with me or not?"

  "Of course. I wouldn't miss it for the world. Even if I was in the middle of an operation I'd drop everything. Not only to see the play, but to see the look on your face."

  I knew of course that Erica was just kidding. She was a great doctor and surgeon at St. Ann's Hospital. In my opinion the best, I may add. The whole family was very proud of her. I wanted to ask her what she meant by the look on my face, but she quickly asked what time and where we should meet.

  "Well, since you live further out, you get a taxi and come by and pick me up. The performance starts at eight, so how about being here at 7:30? I'll be waiting outside of my building."

  "Good. See you then. And, Sam, remember this is a dressy affair. Not tux night, but a nice suit would be good."

  "What, no shorts and tee shirts tonight? I'll try and look my best. I wouldn't want to embarrass you."

  Right on schedule Erica showed up. It was still raining and with the help of the doorman holding an umbrella over my head, I managed to join her in the taxi without getting too wet, because the rain had turned to a gentle mist.

  "You look very handsome tonight, Sam. I'm going to hang on to your arm and make all of the single girls there jealous."

  "Thanks, Sis. You as always look smashing."

  When we arrived at the theater I got out first, then reached back and helped Erica out. She had this big mischievous smile on her face. She looked up and with her finger pointed to the marquee. I looked up and in big letters was Murder on Broadway. In even larger and bolder letters, I read, STARRING BARCELONA JONES.

  Chapter 3

  After looking up and seeing who the star was, I turned to Erica. She gave out this big laugh and said, "I can't believe you pass by here every day and never noticed the name Barcelona on the marquee."

  I shrugged my shoulders, put on my best sheepish look and said, "I walk across the street and have other things on my mind. Besides, you know what I think of Broadway plays. Too costly and too formal."

  I remember we both walked in, arm and arm. The usher gave us a program and led us to our seats. Erica looked over at me and whispered, "You probably don't realize it, but these are great seats given to you by the star who is a great actress and has had many good reviews."

  Soon the theater got dark. Silence fell upon the audience and Murder on Broadway began.

  After five minutes, Barcelona entered. The applause was thunderous to my ears. All of the actors on stage froze in their positions. When the applause quieted down, the actors came back into the characters they were playing. It was truly amazing.

  Barcelona was spellbinding. My heart kept skipping beats every time she spoke or was just on the stage. Something deep inside of me kept telling me that I wasn't only falling in love with Barcelona Jones, but I was in love with her.

  I know it may sound strange and you may be saying, "Impossible." But you are so wrong. It is possible and I am living proof. Do I believe in love at first sight? A few hours before, I might have said, "No way." But now after experiencing it, I have to say, "Yes way!" Has this ever happened to you?

  The end of the first act was coming to a close. As the actors stood on the stage, the scene was celebrating a birthday. One of the players pulls out a gun and shoots the leading male star. Everyone on the set screams. The actor who was shot falls to the floor and the curtain comes down. The applause begins.

  It was so loud that at first we couldn't hear the panic voice of Barcelona, "He's really been shot. He really has been shot."

  Most of us there started to look at each other thinking it was still part of the play. Then Barcelona appeared between the two drawn curtains and with a very shaky voice asked, "Is there a doctor in the house? Mr. Sparks has really been shot. He's bleeding."

  "I'm a doctor, please let me through." Erica by now was trying to get through the crowd and I was following close behind her. The curtains were parted a little. We went through them and the male star was lying on the floor in a small pool of blood.

  Erica leaned over the body. She looked over at me, shook her head, then announced to everyone on the stage, "I believe this man has expired. Please, no one touch anything, and wait for the police to arrive."

  The actors standing around were shuffling their feet. I was noticing different emotions on their faces, most of them looks of unbelief.

  I told everyone to stay where they were, then asked Erica to call the police and to tell them a homicide had taken place at the Shuster Theater. Of course the word given back was that no one was to leave the building. Within fifteen minutes the Chief Inspector arrived to ask questions.

  I turned to see what Barcelona was doing. She looked scared, bewilderment on her face. I wanted to go over and put my arms around her. After all, wasn't that what people did when they were in love with a person who seems to be confused and almost in tears? Then I remembered that at least for now this was a one-sided love affair. Besides, she gave no recognition that she even knew who I was.

  When the police arrived, Chief Inspector Martin (Marty) Mead, an old friend of my parents and also a friend of mine, walked up on the stage. The curtains were now fully closed. My father and Marty had worked on many cases together and had become very good friends. Marty and I had worked on only a few.

  He looked over at me and smiled. "Hi, Sam. Nice seeing you. Are you on this case?"

  "No, I was in the audience when Miss Jones--" I looked over at her to see if by now maybe she recognized me. But no . . . nothing. I continued on, "Miss Jones called for a doctor, and my sister Erica went up to see what she could do."

  The Chief looked over at Erica and gave her a nod of recognition. After all, he had known both of us since we were teenagers when he and Dad started to work together.

  Then he looked over at me. "Sam, since you're not on the case I'm going to have to ask you to give your statement and then leave. Erica, you can give me a short statement, then you'll be able to leave with Sam." Then he turned to the cast members. "The rest of you take a seat. We'll be asking all of you some questions, and we may be here for a long time."

  I wanted to stay but knew the Chief was right. Unless I was hired for the job, or was one of the actors and crew, I had no business being there. I looked back at Barcelona. Still nothing. Not even one of her smiles.

  Chapter 4

  Erica wasn't ready to go home, so we walked back to my place for a nightcap. The
rain had stopped and the stars were trying to peek through the clouds. Our nightcap consisted of hot fudge Sundays and decaf coffee. It was always available at my condo, and still is at Barcelona's and my home.

  Erica had about an hour before having to check in at the hospital, where she always kept a change of clothes. This meant she could go right from my place to the hospital.

  We talked about the murder, the show, and of course Barcelona. When we'd left, people were standing in line for their refunds. We'd been told that the play was sold out for the next six months, so the theater could not guarantee a seat any time soon. Erica and I just walked out. After all, our tickets had been free.

  As Erica was leaving my apartment, I mentioned that I wished I was on the case and that I would have loved to get to know the star more. My sister gave me that mischievous smile again. I had a feeling she knew I'd fallen for Barcelona. She didn't have to say anything. The look was enough. And I had seen that know-it-all look many times before.

  I tossed and turned all night. I knew that one of the suspects would be the person who fired the shot. But that seemed too easy. So I was wondering who might have put real bullets in the gun. And of course, why?

  Real bullets. Something bothered me there, but I couldn't think what. I was thinking about motive. Maybe the understudy wanted a chance for stardom. I'd read a book about such a thing when I was a kid. That's a detective's mind, always looking and searching for a new clue that no one else had figured out yet.

  Intermingling through all of this were, of course, my feelings for Barcelona. Was she engaged? Maybe even married? Or did she have a steady boy friend? I thought I would ask my sister. She would know, because she kept up on all of this entertainment business. I was also wondering where I would figure in all of this, or even if I would.

  One thing I knew: I wasn't going to give up. I even dreamt of our wedding day and Barcelona all in white walking down the aisle. But before I could say, "I do," I woke up and started the whole process of Barcelona, the wedding, and the murder all over again.

  I finally got up, showered and had a bowl of Cheerios, got dressed and walked to the office. The rain had stopped and the air was cool and brisk. It was just the way I liked it when walking to and from the job.

  Chapter 5

  Wednesday

  I arrived at the office about 7:15 a.m. Donna, my secretary, came in at 8:45 sharp, as she did each day. She had worked for the firm for over twenty-five years, and started when she was twenty-five. When my dad retired Donna asked me if she could still stay on, because she loved her job. Of course I said yes, as I had no intentions of letting her go.

  My dad always said Donna was a great asset to our agency. He'd told me I'd be wise to keep her on, but no pressure. He also said that the place was mine and to do what I felt was best for the business.

  Donna was one of those God-sent people: easy to get along with, smart as whip, and as Dad said, valuable to our company.

  At 9:45 Donna called me on the intercom. "There's a woman here who would like to see you."

  "Does she have an appointment? I don't have anyone down for 9:45."

  "No." Then in a very quiet whisper, "You'd be foolish not to see her. She's a knockout."

  A knockout! I was wondering, could it possibly be Barcelona Jones? She was the only knockout I would be interested in.

  "Okay, Donna, send her in."

  I waited, holding my breath. The door knob turned and in walked Barcelona Jones. My heart started to skip beats again. Even through the dark glasses and the hat hiding part of her face, I couldn't help recognizing her. I remember I jumped up so quickly that my chair rolled towards the window behind my desk and crashed against the wall. The Boston fern wobbled back and forth in its plant stand, almost falling over. I held my breath until it stopped.

  I felt flustered, and as I walked around my desk I hit my thigh on its corner. I wanted to shout out, "Ouch," but kept my lips tight. I reached out to shake her hand, but instead motioned for her to sit down in one of the two chairs facing my desk. I felt like a complete idiot.

  She gave me that amazing smile as she sat down. Removing her hat and glasses, she said, "Hi Sam, in case you have forgotten, I'm Barcelona Jones." She paused for a moment, "We met last night in the taxi."

  You can probably guess by now that those words melted me away in an instant. She remembered me, she remembered me, was all I kept thinking.

  "Of course, Miss, or is it Mrs. Jones?"

  "It's Miss Jones, but please call me Barcelona." Then looking me straight in the eyes, and with a little grin, she said, "We're practically old friends."

  Old friends. I liked that, but sweethearts would have been better.

  I came to my senses quickly. "Barcelona. . ." I loved saying that name. ". . . Barcelona, why do I have this honor of you gracing my office?"

  Just as soon as I said it, I thought: How stupid. Get a hold of yourself. Be professional. She apparently came here to hire you. So I covered up by saying, "Before the tragedy happened last night you were marvelous. You had us all captivated. My sister says you're up for an Emmy. She keeps up on these things. As for me, I love a good movie."

  I felt my face turning red, another foot-in-the-mouth episode.

  "Thank you, but I think your sister most likely said that I was nominated for a Tony award. The Emmy is a TV award, and, Sam, believe it or not I also like a good movie."

  "Yes, of course it was a Tony. I remember now." I'm sure my face was still red.

  "It's all right, Sam, many people get them mixed up. I came here, as you can probably guess, because of the murder last night. I saw you there, and after you left I asked the Chief about you. He said you're one of the best detectives in the city. So I asked him for your address. He happily gave it to me and said he enjoys working with you. I couldn't sleep all night just thinking about it and wondering who would want to kill Anthony Sparks."

  "Yes, I was up all night myself thinking about the murder also and about--" This time I stopped myself. I wasn't about to say, "And you."

  Instead, I said, "I thought maybe the murderer could be an understudy, a director or one of the producers wanting to sell more tickets to the play. I'm sure more people will want to buy them now. I can just see the headlines in the paper: Murder on Broadway becomes a reality."

  "No, I'm sure it's not the director or one of the producers. There's no reason for them to have murdered anyone. The show is already a big hit and it's sold out for at least the next six months. My contract is for another year, and praise God it's a wonderful hit. Of course more people will want to see it, and I'm sure at the end of scene one, when the audience hears the shots they'll wonder if they'll be witnessing another murder."

  "What about the stand-in. Who is he? Maybe he wants a chance to play in such a big hit on Broadway."

  "No again, Sam. The dead man is the stand-in. John Ashland, the lead actor, called in sick at the last minute. He was rushed to the hospital. He had to have his stomach pumped and was given medication. I called him this morning. He's under observation and hoping to be released this afternoon. He'll be performing tonight. I'm sure you've heard the saying, 'The show must go on.'

  "He's allergic to all kinds of peanut products. He must have eaten something yesterday, not realizing there was some kind of peanut extract in the food. He's always very careful. In the last two months this is the third time this has happened. But this was the first time he's missed a performance.

  "The reason why I'm here is because I think that whoever the killer is, meant to have John Ashland murdered instead of Anthony Sparks. Somehow real bullets were put in the gun last night, but I'm not sure how that was done. The prop man told the Chief he'd put the blanks in two hours before the show was to go on, as he does every night. He doesn't like to wait for the last minute. He's a good guy and has been a prop man for some of my other plays. He himself has no motive to kill anyone that I can think of."

  "How many people knew about Mr. Ashland being allergic to th
is peanut stuff?" I asked.

  "Just about everyone. John Ashland always makes sure all the actors and other people involved in a play he's doing knows. He takes no chances, and is a great actor. This is the second time I've worked with him."

  "If he's so great, why did the writers want to kill him off in the first act?"

  "They didn't. The next scene was to take place in the hospital. The character recovers and continues on being the villain, but all the audience wishes he had died. That's how bad the character is that he plays, and he's very good at it."

  "Well, it looks like someone nearly had their wish fulfilled, but they got the wrong man. I'll take on the case. And as a favor to you, no charge."

  Barcelona shook her head in protest and started to speak.

  "No, please let me do this," I said. Then I used the same words that I had used the night before in the taxi, "I insist."

  With a twinkle in her eyes she said, "Okay, Sam, if you insist." She reached into her purse and took out two more tickets, "These are for tomorrow night's performance. Please bring your sister Erica again. I'd like to meet her properly. She's very beautiful."

  "Yes, she is. At school we were known as Beauty and the Beast!"

  As she handed me the tickets, she smiled. "I'm sure they were only kidding."

  I took the tickets, looked at them, and then started to hand them back. She must have read my mind.

  Very sweetly she said, "I'm the star you know. They give me a few free tickets for each performance to give to my friends. It's part of my contract."

  I was in seventh heaven. She called me her friend. Well at least that's the way I took it.

  Chapter 6

  I asked Barcelona, "Do you think it will be possible for us to go and visit the actor who has the peanut allergy? John Ashland, isn't it? I'd like to ask him a few questions."

  "Yes, I'm sure it will be. But first let me call him to make sure. May I use your phone?"

  "Of course."

  I stood and handed her the receiver. I intentionally touched her hand but made it look like an accident. I wanted to see her reaction -- there wasn't one.

  She exchanged a few words with the actor, then turned to me. "Yes, we can go. John says he'd love to have visitors. He's bored, but happy. He'll be released from the hospital at three this afternoon, so we will have plenty of time to see him. I'll meet you there, say in about an hour and a half? I have some things I have to take care of first."