A Curtain Falls by Stefanie Pintoff

Street

     
    “He controls his players’ lives more than you’d think. Would you believe he only allows his leading ladies to walk along Fifth Avenue, never Broadway?”
    “What are you talking about?” I didn’t follow Alistair’s train of thought.
    We were making our way uptown on Fifth Avenue toward Sherry’s. Alistair, nonchalant as always, appeared to be surveying the storefronts we were passing, but it was clear that his mind continued to work feverishly.
    “Charles Frohman, of course.”
    “That’s preposterous,” I said, scoffing at the suggestion. “How could anyone presume to control where someone walks?”
    “It’s only a story, of course,” Alistair said easily. Then hegave me a knowing look. “But I have good reason to believe it’s true. I was once acquainted with his biggest star.”
    He paused for effect.
    “You may have seen Maude Adams onstage? Fascinating woman.”
    I shook my head. She was Broadway’s most well-known actress, so of course I had heard of her. But I had never seen her perform.
    “Well, as Miss Adams once explained it to me, Frohman believed her offstage image would directly affect her onstage reputation.” His voice grew softer. “I do know his influence once led her to cut off a romance that he believed to be inappropriate.”
    I eyed him suspiciously but declined to comment. What ever his personal secrets, he was entitled to keep them.
    “And what does this story— assuming it’s true— have to do with the murders at the Garrick and the Empire?”
    “Perhaps nothing— at least not directly,” Alistair said. “But it is the environment in which your investigation will take place. You should understand it.”
    I nodded.
    “Here we are.” Alistair raised his arm and pointed to the classic brownstone entrance to Sherry’s, a restaurant located across the street from its chief rival, Delmonico’s, in new quarters designed by Stanford White. It was one of New York’s finest restaurants— a place where one went not merely to dine but to be seen. I had never been there myself, but like most New Yorkers I knew it by reputation, for its patrons’ over-the-top soirees were regularly written up in the papers. And while I was not a regular reader of the society column, in recent monthsI had scanned it on occasion, wondering if Isabella’s name would appear.
    It was a typical Friday evening and Sherry’s was filled to capacity. Yet, exactly as Alistair had anticipated, the headwaiter managed to find a small table for us. Sherry’s reserved exterior had not prepared me for the opulent scene indoors. Walking through the Palm Room, I gawked openly at the vaulted ceiling above, which was covered in elaborate latticework that, on each side, reached to the edge of a row of windows surrounded by a gold floral design. Numerous potted palms created a tropical effect that made me feel suddenly far removed from the icy March night outdoors.
    The moment we were seated, our waiter— a stiff man in a black suit— seemed to assess the age of my worn brown suit as he placed a napkin emblazoned with Sherry’s name on my lap. I looked across the table at Alistair. He had moved his napkin immediately and thus escaped our waiter’s intrusive attention.
    “Wine list, sir?”
    This was addressed to Alistair, not to me.
    “No need.” Alistair instead ordered a bottle of his favorite Bordeaux— one he knew they stocked in their cellar.
    Meanwhile, I counted the number of forks placed in front of me. The silverware was arranged from left to right, small to large, except for the exceptionally small fork at the top of my plate. I flipped one over to look at the engraving: TIFFANY & CO.
    Putting the fork back, I reviewed the menu in haste, for there was no time to be lost if we were to make this evening’s show.
    Our waiter had reappeared with the requested bottle of wine. He removed the cork with a grand flourish and pouredAlistair a sample of the Bordeaux, which he tasted and