Scene Stealer by Elise Warner Page A

twitch.
    â€œThank you very much but Mr. Bean will see me.”
    â€œI doubt it. Only sees actors on Tuesdays.”
    â€œI am not an actor.”
    â€œC’mon. Don’t kid a kidder. Sure you are. I saw you on TV. I know I saw you. What was the show?”
    â€œI am not…”
    â€œWait. Don’t tell me. Let me guess. It’ll come to me in a minute.”
    â€œAre you going to operate this elevator or do I have to march up those stairs?”
    â€œI’ll be glad to take you up, miss, but Mr. Bean won’t see you. Doesn’t like being disturbed, might throw away your picture.”
    â€œI’m not about to give Mr…Never mind. I’ll take my chances. Up, please.”
    The elevator operator shrugged, scratched his scalp and replaced the cap—this time he tilted it over one rheumy eye—and closed the elevator door. He sang snatches of “Let Me Call You Sweetheart” in an asthmatic tenor as the elevator creaked and grumbled its way to Mr. Bean’s floor. When we arrived he doffed the cap, told me his shift ended at five that afternoon and he’d be glad to buy me a cup of coffee and advise me on my career.
    I bit my lip, held my temper, thanked the poor soul and informed him I’d had quite enough advice.
    Abner Bean’s office was at the far end of a long, dimly lit hallway. I could hear the ring of a telephone as I approached his door. Light showed through its heavy, opaque window. A note, taped to the glass, read “Actors will be interviewed between the hours of 12:00 and 2:00 on Tuesdays. No exceptions! Please do not knock.”
    I knocked.
    There was no reaction.
    I rapped on the door again.
    â€œThe office is closed. Mail your picture and resume.”
    â€œMr. Bean? I must see you. I am not an actress.”
    The door opened. Mr. Bean looked me over with a practiced eye. In turn, I studied him. I towered over a chubby, dapperly dressed man. A ruffle of red hair—the same shade as his granddaughter’s—circled his round, pink head. A button nose separated two pudgy cheeks.
    â€œAll right,” Mr. Bean said. “You’re not an actress. Who are you?”
    â€œA friend of Kevin Corcoran’s. My name is Augusta Weidenmaier. I’m assisting the police with their investigation. Your granddaughter, Patti, informed me you were his agent.”
    â€œYou spoke to Patti?” Mr. Bean’s eyes twinkled. “Some kid, huh?”
    â€œA charming young lady.”
    â€œWants to be my partner, someday,” he said and adjusted his red vest. “So? How’s it coming? You guys making any progress? Nothing’s on the tube. You think Kevin’s okay? I didn’t get a wink of sleep last night worrying about that boy. I don’t know what to say to Patti. He’s a nice kid. Not one of those precocious brats who are nine years old and act like forty. Should I ask you for identification or something?”
    I sensed my library card would not fool an agent. “The hallway is a touch warm. Shall we go into your office, Mr. Bean? I expect it’s a tad cooler and I need to ask you a few questions.”
    â€œThe police already asked plenty but why not?” Mr. Bean said. “You might as well come in and park it. Take a seat, I mean.” He pointed to a chair facing his desk. “You know a Lieutenant Brown? He cleaned my mind out. But anything to help Kevin.”
    My glance strayed around the room. Photographs of theatrical personalities, a few of them recognizable, cluttered the office. They were tacked to the walls. They sat on the desk; they were stacked in lopsided piles on the top of a metal file cabinet. The photos on the walls and desk were all addressed to “Dear Abner” and signed with “Love,” “Gratitude,” “Affection” or “Kisses.” Abner Bean watched me study the photos. “What can I tell you? I’m a lovable