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The Quirky Quiz Show Caper

By Sally Carpenter

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LOS ANGELES, 1993
Chapter 1: Monday, Monday

Strange that the music I’d made popular in the 1970s sounded unbearably cheesy when played on a four-manual Wurlitzer theater organ. For a few moments I stood in the center aisle of the art deco auditorium (built in the 1930s, fallen into disrepair, and restored decades later) and listened while nine Greek muses watched me from the wall murals. Overhead crystal chandeliers hung from the soaring ceiling, not the best decorating choice in earthquake-prone Southern California. Were my songs really smaltzy, or was the organist deliberately sabotaging the music? I believed the latter. The organist, seated on the organ bench to my left facing the stage, had his back to me. But he couldn’t see me anyway, not with the house lights off and only the stage work lights on. His slim fingers danced effortlessly over the keyboards. Much as I hated to admit it, this guy was good.

The lush wine-red carpet of the Terpsichore Theatre muffled my footsteps as I limped my way up the aisle, slowed by a cane and a busted ankle. I climbed the stairs at the front of the stage, stepped behind the organist and poked him in the ribs.

Warren yelled and nearly jumped into the overhead catwalks. I stepped around the organ to face him.
He scowled. “Ernest, what are you doing here?”

“Is that any way to greet your brother?”

“I’m very busy. And you know I hate interruptions when I’m practicing.”

Warren hadn’t changed since the last time I’d seen him. Same short, nerdy haircut. Same fastidiously trimmed beard and moustache. Same natty suit and tie (in contrast to my casual attire––windbreaker, shirt, pants and blond ponytail). At age thirty-five, a mere three years younger than myself, his dishwater blond hair sported only a touch of gray and a bit of hairline recession. His eyes were a darker blue than mine. Only a few creases in his ruggedly handsome features but same sour disposition.

“You need more practice,” I said. “You sound like a cross between Lawrence Welk and Liberace.”

“Hmmmp.” Warren fiddled with the sheet music on the organ stand. “The so-called greatest hits of Sandy Fairfax.” He pronounced my stage name as if it burned his tongue to say it. “Same three basic chords in all the songs. A six-year-old beginning piano student could play this.”

“Fine. You go home and I’ll find a six-year-old to fill in.”

“How can you stand to sing this drivel?”

“This drivel, as you call it, has paid for my house and a pretty decent lifestyle.”

“And also the pot and the booze and the women and the bail money and the drugs.”

“I never did drugs. Not hard drugs. Okay, maybe a few tabs of LSD.”

Warren eyed the cane in my hand. “What happened to your leg? Did you get your foot caught in a bar door at closing time?”

“Ha ha. Last week I was on a cruise ship. I got in a fight with a murderer.”

“That sounds like something you’d do. You never outgrew playing that kid spy on TV.”

I could find a cure for cancer and bring world peace, but I’d never live down my starring role over two decades ago in the 1970s hit TV series "Buddy Brave, Boy Sleuth."

“I did so chase a killer. You can ask Celeste. She’ll tell you all about it. Our sister did a week of shows with me onboard the SS Zodiac, and she had a grand time playing my drivel.”

I leaned forward and rested my forearms on the organ lid. The magnificent instrument sported excessive gold-plated filigrees against the polished white wood frame. Warren pushed me off. He removed a handkerchief from his suit pocket and wiped the spot I’d touched.

“Ernest, why are you here bothering me?”

“I was in the area, so I thought I’d drop by and say hello. I was in the office upstairs talking with the theater manager about my appearance at the Buddy Brave double feature.”

His eyes narrowed. “You’ll be here on Saturday? Nobody told me.”


“The manager wants me to say a few words at the start, and do a Q-and-A between the films.”

“You did this to cut into my playing time, didn’t you?”

“Warren, I am not trying to upstage you. But whenever you star in two feature films, you’re welcome to run the show any way you want.”

“Are you finished gloating?”

“Actually, I wanted to tell you I’ll be at the family dinner tonight, so don’t faint from shock when you see me.”

He began shutting down the organ stops. “Seems peculiar that you’ve suddenly taken an interest in the Farmington clan.”

“It’s not as if all of you stood by me back in the day when I needed support.”

“Maybe if you hadn’t shown up drunk at any number of family gatherings—”

Now I was miffed. “All right, all right, forget that. We’ve got a crisis to handle.”

He stuffed his sheet music into a briefcase. “What do you mean, we? Father will have to disband his orchestra unless he can raise the money to float another season. How do you intend to fix that?”

“I don’t know yet. I haven’t given it much thought. But don’t worry; I’ll think of something.” My brother glared at me.

“What?”

“Ernest, please don’t quote lines from your stupid TV show at me.”

I didn’t mean to say it; those words just slip out without thinking. Even though I’d finished filming that goofy series years ago, I still couldn’t get it out of my brain.

“Apparently you’ve watched it enough to know the dialogue.”

“My kids are the ones who eat it up. They think their Uncle Ernest is the silliest thing on cable reruns.”

“I’m so happy I amuse them.” I laid on the sarcasm as thick as mayo on a deli sandwich.

Warren put his organ footwear into a shoe bag and slipped on his regular shoes. “So if you’re coming tonight, should we order an extra case of beer?”

“Very funny. I’m missing my A.A. group tonight so I can attend this family powwow. I’ve quit drinking, but you wouldn’t know, since you haven’t bothered to call me in months.”

“Any time I want to keep up with what you’re doing, I pick up the National Enquirer. Your fame is the family curse. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have errands to run before dinner.”

He pushed the button that activated the hydraulic lift beneath the organ. The platform holding the instrument shuttered and descended into the basement. I was standing too close to the organ and I stumbled, nearly falling into the pit with it. The organ disappeared into the bowels of the theater. The floorboards automatically slid back into place, covering the hole. I wanted to shout out a parting insult to Warren, but he’d never hear me over the grinding machinery. No matter. We’d meet again soon enough.

The quickest route to where I’d parked my car (behind the theater) was not the way I’d entered. I came in via an exterior staircase and through a side door near the administrative office on the mezzanine level. The Terpsichore Theatre in Van Nuys was dark (no shows) on Mondays, so all the outside doors were locked except the one by the office. But I knew a secret way out. The door inside the basement organ room was always locked from the outside, but anyone inside could leave. Although I’d never given a concert here (and why not, I’d like to know), I knew my way around the building. As the theater’s long-time house organist, Warren had given backstage tours to the family. I was one of the few people who knew the passcode combination—the birthday of Warren’s wife—to the keypad lock on the hallway door of the organ room. Once inside the room, I could go through the exit door directly into the parking lot.

I wormed my way through the dark, labyrinthine backstage area. No wonder old theaters had ghosts—a performer could get lost in there and die. I descended a stairwell with concrete walls that shut out all other sounds. The door at the bottom opened to the basement level. The hall went straight into a dead end and also split with a branch to the left. Just past this corridor was the elevator. To my right stood the door to the organ room. Just as I started punching the numbers onto keypad, from the left-hand hall came the sound of people running—and a scream.

As my left ear had lost some of its hearing during my boisterous concert days, I turned my head to listen. Footsteps echoed through the passageway. How odd. Nobody else should be here. Warren was the only performer in here on Mondays; he worked in rehearsals around his teaching schedule. Maybe he was meeting somebody, but why make an appointment in the basement of an empty, dark theater?

“Warren?” I called. “Is that you?” Curious, I detoured into the split-off.

A flickering fluorescent ceiling light cast a cold glow. Doors for the dressing, makeup and costume rooms lined the lengthy corridor. The strong odor of disinfectant hung in the air, the result of the cleaning crew. A young man, his ample girth ready to explode out of his tee shirt and jeans, staggered toward me. He weaved about, ready to topple. Was he drunk? Sick? He flailed his arms and made odd gurgling sounds.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

Something from the man’s hand fell onto the tile floor with a clink. He tumbled forward. I dropped my cane and caught him. I staggered; his weight pushed me back against the wall. I couldn’t hold his hefty frame. I slid down the wall, still holding the man. I landed on my butt.

That’s when I noticed the knife stuck in his back.


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