“What’s the matter?” Dad asked. Then he looked at the lobby wall—now streaked with black soot and extinguisher foam—and said, “Oh.”
“This isn’t anything I did,” Arnstein said. Some guys know exactly how to handle human interaction, and then there are those who are more comfortable with things like wires and current.
“No,” I agreed. “I’m sure the wall just burst into flames on its own, and the smoke coming from the basement where you were working is strictly a coincidence.”
Dad looked shocked, probably more at my sarcastic tone with his friend than with his friend’s setting my theatre on fire while Dad looked on. “Elliot,” he chided.
“Why didn’t my fire alarm go off?” I asked.
“I had that fuse turned off,” Arnstein explained.
“I hope you have a good lawyer,” I said. There went the family discount.
Arnstein said not another word. He turned and walked toward the basement door, no doubt to pack up his tools and move on. I had to consider reining in my mouth on occasion until such time as my theatre isn’t in danger of being shut down by the local fire department.
“I’ll talk to him,” Dad said, and went to follow Arnstein.
“Tell him I won’t sue him if he fixes the fire damage,” I said, and Dad gave me a stern look. I thought I was being reasonable.
My day didn’t get any easier when I turned to walk back toward the office. Standing just inside the lobby doors were Gwen Chapman and her sister, Lillian.
Standing next to them was the redheaded man I’d seen at C’est Moi! right before the shopping cart had tried to flatten Sharon.
I walked over to them, and extended my hand to the red-haired man.
“I’m Elliot Freed,” I told him. “And you just
have
to be Wally. I’ve heard so much about you.”
He didn’t look pleased.
30
WALLY
Mayer did not take my hand. Instead, he looked at me much as that big animated can of Raid used to look at the animated bugs it annihilated. “I’m not here to be friendly,” he growled.
“Well, you’re off to a flying start,” I told him.
Wally huffed and puffed, but even given the dilapidated condition of the house was unable to blow it down. Seeing as how the house had tried to
burn
itself down only a few minutes before, it was showing surprising resilience.
“We’re here to deliver a message,” Wally continued, as if I hadn’t spoken, which was the first sign of intelligence he had shown.
“Three people for one message?” I marveled. “That must be a huge Candy-Gram. Where’d you hide it?” I looked around the three of them, as if expecting at the very least a Whitman’s sampler. Nothing.
“You can’t protect your wife,” Wally said.
“Ex-wife,” I corrected him.
“Ex-wife,” he agreed.
“I can’t believe you ever married that woman,” Lillian Chapman offered.
“Well, I can’t believe you married that man,” I countered, gesturing toward Wally. “It’s all a question of taste, isn’t it?”
Gwen, who had been looking like she’d rather be in Philadelphia (it’s a W. C. Fields reference; Google it if you don’t believe me), finally piped up, “Can’t we find some common ground here? There’s no reason to be so unpleasant.”
“Your ex killed a very important man,” Wally intoned, completely ignoring his sister-in-law. He’d learned his lines, and he was delivering them. “A very important man.”
“She didn’t kill anyone. And you mean a very
rich
man,” I corrected.
He shrugged. “It’s the same thing.”
“Let me get this straight,” I said. “The three of you—okay, the two of you—have come here to verbally threaten the life and health of my ex-wife? Because you still harbor some twisted belief that she drove him to attempt suicide? You haven’t heard that she told him he
didn’t
have cancer? And you haven’t been told that he was murdered—excuse me, Gwen—not driven to suicide? Is that what I’m hearing?”
“I’m here to suggest a reasonable attitude,” Gwen said. “Mr. Freed had nothing to do with Dad’s death, certainly. Why are you threatening him?” But again, her sister and brother-in-law pretended she hadn’t spoken at all.
“You hang in there, Gwen,” I said. “In the end, you’ll be proven right.” I winked at her, which probably wasn’t the right move.
“She told him he had cancer because she wanted his money,” Lillian Chapman continued, not persuaded. “She seduced him and then took away all his hope. And she duped my poor father into willing her millions.”
“Don’t be absurd,” Gwen told her sister. “Dad never would have invested without a prototype.” Beats me; I was an English literature major.
“Man, you guys would have made great comedy writers,” I said. “And here I am without a tape recorder to get all this down.”
“You don’t have any witnesses, either,” Wally reminded me. “So you can’t go and report us to the police. They’ll never believe you, anyway.”
“Oh now, stop it, Wally,” Gwen pleaded. “There isn’t going to be any trouble.”
“That’s what you think,” Wally told her, betraying his third-grade level of wit.
“So, just to be clear, what kind of violence should I warn Sharon about?” I asked. “Are you going to attack her with more supermarket paraphernalia, or will one of you cut her throat with a scalpel like you did with your old man?”
And imagine this—the Chapman girls had the nerve to act offended! “How
dare
you accuse us of such a thing?” Lillian huffed. “I should have known you would stoop to this level—your kind are all alike!”
I drew myself up to my full height. “My
kind
?”
Lillian looked down the full length of her nose at me. “You know exactly what I mean,” she growled.
“Lil!” Gwen admonished.
“If you guys came by looking for free movie passes, you really need to work on your technique,” I told them. Then I turned to Wally. “Look, your wife was born into this family, but you chose to marry her. That wasn’t a really high intelligence day on your biorhythm the day you said I do, was it?”
“Whaddaya mean by that?” he asked.
“My mistake,” I said. “I guess you don’t
have
any really high intelligence days on your biorhythm. Now, take your lovely sister-in-law and your fairly unappetizing wife, and get out of my theatre. The management reserves the right to refuse admission to anyone who has an IQ in the negative numbers.”
Strikingly, they left, even as Gwen apologized to me a number of times.
I could hear clanking and the occasional power tool sound from the basement, so I guessed Dad had worked his magic on Arnstein. What I couldn’t decide was whether I was happy about that or not. But I did decide not to report the fire to the department of the same name, as I was tired of being shut down, and figured the fire was already out, and they’d just put on all their winter gear for no purpose. You see, it was really an effort on my part to lighten the load of the local fire department.
Fine. Believe what you will.
I could remember something about wanting to go out for a sandwich, but that seemed like a very long time ago. Since I was here, and there was little I could do while my theatre’s electrical system was being dismantled—and, hopefully, re-mantled—I decided to head back to the office to get some paperwork done and try to solve a few problems. Like figuring out who killed Russell Chapman, how to keep Sophie on my staff, and whether we should name the baby after Groucho or Harpo if it was a boy.
I was planning to solve these problems by playing MacBrickout for a while (you’d be amazed how much you can think about when you’re not thinking), but then I remembered there was a stack of mail on my desk that I had not looked at since Sharon had taken her little trip to the Poconos. I sat down at the desk and started sorting the mail.
After throwing away catalogs (I didn’t really
need
new popcorn buckets) and stacking bills, I had a depressingly small pile of mail that actually was addressed to someone other than “occupant.” I disposed of most of it quickly, and then I came across an envelope that was unusual.
It was plain, with no return address and no distinctive stationery pattern. The address was handwritten (and not by one of those computer programs that’s supposed to
look
handwritten), in blue ink, to “Mr. Elliot Freed, c/o Comedy Tonight,” with the address of the theatre beneath. It was post-marked in East Brunswick two days before, indicating that it had been stamped by the post office on Monday, and could have been mailed anytime between the post office closing on Saturday and sometime after it opened Monday.
The letter was strange in that there was absolutely nothing strange about it. It’s rare that a business, especially, gets a piece of mail that isn’t in some way generated by another business. Movie theatres don’t get personal letters, and yet this appeared to be just that.
I actually used a letter opener I have on my desk, something I rarely do. Sharon had given me the opener when I started the theatre, as part of a stationery set that I almost never use. She thought it seemed “professional” to have such an item. I’m not sure I’ve made this clear, but I don’t have use for the thing.
Unfolding the letter, I had a sense of importance; this didn’t feel like a casual piece of mail. It was also handwritten, in very clear script, on heavyweight, expensive stationery. It was dated three days ago—Sunday—and it read:
Dear Mr. Freed:
I’m not sure why I’m writing to you. We’ve only met twice, and I know I’m not a close friend, but you have had a significant impact on my life, even if that was not your intention. In the back of my mind, however, I know the real reason I’m writing: to say that I am sorry.
My apologies for the deception I have perpetrated upon you. I hope it has not caused you any serious inconvenience, and I hope that you do not believe I have been attempting to make you feel foolish.
When we met, I introduced myself as Martin Tovarich, and that was a lie on my part. I was playing the part of Tovarich, simply pretending, and since I had not met you before, it didn’t seem a terribly gross inconsideration. You were, in fact, the last person I was thinking of when I “became” Tovarich. Let me explain.
Two weeks ago, I visited your ex-wife’s office, complaining of severe headaches that would last all day and make it impossible for me to concentrate on anything at all. She recommended a series of tests, and seemed concerned. I asked her what she suspected might be my problem, and she tried not to say, but rich men become used to having things their own way, and when I insisted, she told me what I didn’t want to hear: that she thought it was possible I had a malignant brain tumor.
Even an old man fears death. Don’t let them tell you otherwise. I was terrified, and could barely function while undergoing the tests and—worse—waiting for their results. It seemed to take forever, and I aged ten years for every day I had to wait.
During that time, I naturally got in touch with both my daughters. We’ve never been as close as a father would like to be to his children, but I felt it was important they know about my condition, and I suppose I hoped for some comfort and sympathy from them.
I was disappointed. While Gwendolyn was sympathetic, she was detached in her concern, asking about the state of my medical care, rather than how I felt or what emotions I might be having. Lillian was colder still. Her questions were limited to my financial affairs. This disturbed me greatly. I love my daughters, and thought they felt the same for me.
I am a very rich man, Mr. Freed. A chemist by trade, many years ago I developed a process that helped preserve certain kinds of baked goods. It worked especially well in flour tortillas, and I marketed the process to businesses that would find that helpful. When a national taco chain decided to buy the process from me outright, I became a very wealthy man. Since then, I have not worked in chemistry, which I always loved. I have instead worked to keep my finances healthy, which I found tedious but lucrative. My estate is worth over $47 million, and my daughters are aware of that.
But a few nights ago, Dr. Simon-Freed called to say the tests had come back, and although she said she could give them to me on the phone, I wanted to look her in the eye as she explained the results. I needed to know if she was a person I could trust through an ordeal. My late wife died of liver cancer, and I was with her every step of the way. It’s an awful process. I steeled myself and went back to your ex-wife’s office.
As you probably know by now, the diagnosis is much less severe than I originally feared, and I am not about to die. That new lease on life was exhilarating, but was tempered by the unsettling glimpse I’d had into my daughters’ minds and how they thought about me.
I decided to test them, to see if they were truly concerned about my well-being. I emptied the bottle of Valium your ex-wife had prescribed to calm me down into the toilet, left the bottle out where it would be found, and wrote a suicide note. Then I called someone I know in authority (and I’ll say no more about that) and arranged to be classified a “suicide.” It was also arranged that my “corpse” would be brought to the county morgue. My daughters were summoned, and Gwendolyn identified the “body” as mine via video monitor.
I could then put on some theatrical makeup, call myself “Tovarich,” and observe their reactions to my “death” and the circumstances around it. The look I got was shocking.
There was never a tear shed, no expression of concern for my welfare (whether or not I had died painfully, for example), not once. It almost made me want to commit suicide in truth. My eldest daughter said nothing about me that wasn’t about my fortune. My younger one said virtually nothing at all, but she did not seem distraught, merely surprised.
Nothing can prepare a man for the realization that his daughters don’t love him. Nothing. Parenthood is a huge undertaking, Mr. Freed. You don’t have children yet, but perhaps some day you’ll find out. And if you do, I urge you—don’t be distant from your child. That bond is more important than money, personal success, or any other concern. Love your children, Mr. Freed. More than you want to.
My despair was deepening—although I found a release in playing Tovarich, as he was a very jolly man—until I happened across you at the doctor’s office, and you suggested I drop by your theatre. And when I did—the film you were showing was the perfect tonic for me, Mr. Freed; it gave me insight into what really matters in this world. The enthusiasm “Tovarich” showed when we met after the showing was genuine. I really did find it a life-changing experience.
And I thank you for that.
Let me give you this one piece of advice before I close, Mr. Freed. Don’t ever give up your theatre. It is your passion, as mine was chemistry. It is the purpose you have taken on while on this earth. See it through. Give the gift of laughter to more people, and leave this world a better place. I gave up chemistry, and for all I have gained financially, I have regretted that decision every day since.
Tonight I have given up the disguise of Tovarich. When I discovered that your ex-wife was under suspicion in my “death,” I could not allow that to go on. I will call my attorney immediately and let her know I am far from deceased.
Now that I have told you my strange tale, perhaps I will find the courage to face you in person, instead of hiding behind a pen. But I am ashamed of my ruse, and grateful to you for all you have done for me. I would like to help you do that for more people. Perhaps I can do so. We’ll talk when we meet again, and I hope that will be soon.
Sincerely, and with much gratitude, Russell Chapman