The Opening Night Murders
by
James Scott Byrnside
Cover Art and Design by
Matt Willis-Jones
[email protected]
special thanks to
Jaimie-lee wise
Dedicated to
Mary Ber
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to people living or dead is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Copyright © James Scott Byrnside
All rights reserved
ISBN: 9781090792754
Contents
THE PLAYBILL
CHAPTER 1 ACTRESS
CHAPTER 2 FINAL REHEARSAL
CHAPTER 3 JUST A COINCIDENCE
CHAPTER 4 OPENING NIGHT
CHAPTER 5 WHAT HAPPENED?
CHAPTER 6 SIX OR ZERO
CHAPTER 7 THE DIRECTOR
CHAPTER 8 DAVID BROUTHERS'S SHINDIG
CHAPTER 9 WHAT YOU DON'T KNOW GETS YOU KILLED
CHAPTER 10 IT'S BLUNT, NOT OBVIOUS
CHAPTER 11 THE NASTY, DARK-HAIRED GIRL
CHAPTER 12 RE-CAST
CHAPTER 13 EYEWITNESS
CHAPTER 14 DOCTOR BROWN
CHAPTER 15 AND THEN THERE WERE TWO
CHAPTER 16 CURTAIN
CHAPTER 17 THE END OF INQUIRY
to the reader
for your convenience, a playbill of the balcony has been provided. The cast and crew are major players in this novel.
James Scott Byrnside
THE PLAYBILL
The red rising theater proudly presents
The balcony
written and directed by
jenny pluviam
A smashing entertainment…just what we need in these troubled times
charles gutworth—the chicago tribune
destined to be the most romantic and uplifting play of 1935
brenda o’leary—the daily herald
romance, laughter, heartbreak…the balcony is a reminder of why we go to the theater
martin bregman—the new sun
cast
Lisa pluviam as margaret hunt
timothy brown as clark hunt
edward filius as carey johnson
allison miller as stella johnson
maura lewis as lana hunt
crew
produced by jenny and lisa pluviam
lighting and set design by sam “grizz” thompson
written by jenny pluviam
directed by jenny pluviam
Chapter 1 actress
5:01 p.m. Wednesday, April 3rd, 1935
Detective Rowan Manory pinched some tobacco between gnarled, nicotine-stained fingers and held it above a cigarette paper. He tried to keep his hand steady, but the more he tried, the more it shook. The tobacco dropped, sprinkling off the side of the paper onto his desk. Damnit.
As he slid the dried leaves into a small mound with his pinkies, an all-too-familiar dread hovered like a noose in the back of his mind. Do not think about it, old man. It is simply a mechanism. In a swift, persistent motion, Rowan dropped the tobacco across the paper, rolled it, and licked the glue strip. He stared at the completed cigarette, more concerned than satisfied. Life is turning into a bad joke. I fear I am the disappointing punch line. Soon I will not even be able to roll my own cigarettes. I’ll be forced to smoke pre-rolled. They taste of hot dust.
The afternoon edition of The Chicago Tribune lay unfolded on Rowan’s desk. As usual, he could find nothing positive printed within its pages. The city remained the murder capital of the United States, a true feat in these violent, troubled times. The bombing of the Federal Building downtown dominated the front page. It had happened that very morning, so details remained sketchy. Although no one claimed credit, hints of unsubstantiated terrorism floated through the article.
Perhaps my advancing age is a good thing. The average man lives to be fifty-eight. Rowan did the math. I have eleven summers left. God only knows what the city will look like then. And what of me? What other wonderful ailments are in store for me?
Two shadows moved behind the door’s stained glass. Soft murmurs of unintelligible conversation drifted into Rowan’s office. Without knocking, Walter Williams cracked opened the door to slip his gangly body into the room. “There’s a woman here to see you, old man.” He whispered and his eyes glinted with suggestion. “Says she knows you.”
“What is her name?”
Walter waggled his brows and lowered his voice even more. “She’s an attractive specimen.”
“The name?”
“Age appropriate, as well.”
“Williams—”
“Lisa Pluviam.”
Rowan straightened his aching back against the chair. Why was she here? More importantly, how did he look? A plan of action was needed and quickly. “Stall her for two minutes.”
Walter grinned. “Right.”
A desk mirror, pulled from the middle drawer, revealed a blotchy, frowning face. Several wiry hairs stuck out defiantly from his nostrils, and his eyes leaned back into cavernous sockets. The harsh, revealing sunlight from the window wasn’t helping, so he shut the blinds and began a frantic search for his trusty mustache scissors. He yanked each desk drawer open in vain. Shit. Rowan put his fingers in his nose and ripped out hairs in tiny bunches, causing him to sneeze uncontrollably. Another consequence of age. One stops caring for oneself after a while. You accept the image in the mirror every morning. When was the last time— His jowls constricted in horror. Do I smell old? Do I reek of that unbearable mixture of orris root, cucumber, and fat, simmered to a disgusting room temperature? He splashed a bit of Pour un Homme over his throat, assaulting his olfactory nerves with a burning stench of lavender.
Walter’s well-timed knock came at the door. The detective dropped into his seat, wiped his face with a handkerchief, and swept the mirror back into the drawer with a loud clang of brass and a tiny crack of glass. With the newspaper neatly folded into a rectangle at the corner of his desk, Rowan sucked in his considerable gut. “Come in.”
Lisa Pluviam’s hair appeared black but came with the scent of ammonia, a dead giveaway that it was graying and she was now forced to dye it. The smell was not overbearing, as it was tempered by Femme Du Jour. This created a new odor which, though not quite intoxicating, smelled vaguely floral. She had a dark face with a mouth made sunken by pronounced cheek-bones. The blue of her irises contained within them flaws of green and brown, giving her an almost otherworldly sense of gravity and importance. Rowan thought her gorgeous.
“It’s good to see you, Rowan,” she said, resting her scarlet-taloned hands on the arms of the chair. “I’m sorry it took me such a long time to pay you a visit.”
“Not as sorry as I am, madam.” He turned to Walter with a satisfied smirk. “Williams, sitting across from me is the finest actress in all of Chicago.”
Lisa blew a raspberry. “My God. That’s not hard to live up to at all.”
Rowan pointed his index finger upward. “And yet, I speak the truth. So smitten was I with your performance in The Farmer’s Daughter, I coerced my way backstage in order to make your acquaintance.”
Walter concurred. “Manory can’t stand people. If he went out of his way to meet you, it must have been an impressive show.”
Lisa glanced around the office, taking in her surroundings. A large, blank-faced clock ticked away next to two photos of smartly-dressed women, pinned rather lazily to the wall. Two half-full bo
ttles of Dreighton sat atop the overstuffed cabinet near the window. The colors of the room were dulled, as if a layer of dust had adhered to every surface. She pointed one of those bright red nails at the photographs. “Old girlfriends?”
Rowan shook his head, a dumb smile plastered to his face. “An old case.”
“Were they satisfied with your work?” Lisa asked.
“They were murdered.”
“Excuse me?”
“I revisit completed assignments from time to time to determine if any errors in judgment were made. This has been an abnormally slow week, so I have had time to reminisce. These women were casualties of a particularly disturbed mind. Perhaps you’ve heard of the Barrington Hills Vampire?”
Something between awe and disbelief flashed over her face. “You and I must get together for a drink sometime. You can tell me all your detective stories. Some very desperate people must have sat in this chair, asking for your help.”
“Nothing would make me happier. Perhaps, we could make an appointment after one of your performances. I plan to attend your newest play.”
Walter took out the notebook he always kept at the ready. He scribbled a quick note and showed it to Rowan. For God’s sake, don’t call it an appointment.
Lisa said, “Yes, the play. That’s why I’m here. I was hoping you would agree to come to the opening performance on Friday.”
A masculine confidence rolled through Rowan’s body. He pushed his shoulders out wide and puffed his chest like a cat wanting to appear bigger. “It is a date, Miss Pluviam.”
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t call me Miss Pluviam. I’m not a school teacher.”
“Duly noted, Lisa. Williams and I would be thrilled to attend. Wouldn’t we, Williams?”
Walter winced. “I’m more of a moving-picture man myself. Don’t get me wrong, I admire the theater. I just have a terrible time staying awake.”
A bit of graveness crept into Lisa’s cheery demeanor, her flawed eyes drifting from Rowan to a speck on the mahogany floor. “I’m not here strictly for a social visit. In fact, now I am one of those desperate people sitting in this chair, asking for your help.” She pulled out a gray slip of paper from her purse. In the process of unfolding it, she stopped, her hands forming into soft fists and crumpling it between thin, attractive fingers.
Intrigued, Rowan tilted his head at the mysterious note in her hand. “Anything you say here will be held in the strictest confidence.” His voice conveyed pillowed reassurance. “I am more than happy to offer my advice or assistance. Would you care for a drink? Coffee? Tea?”
“No, thank you. I—”
“Milk? Whiskey?”
“I don’t know quite what to make of this, but it has me a little spooked.” Lisa gave a joyless, perfunctory smile. “It’s probably nothing, a waste of your time.”
Rowan extended his hand toward the paper and curled stubby fingers into a come-hither motion. “Let me see.” She reached over, laying it open on the desk. He stared at the paper, speechless. The one hand remained in midair with extended fingers while the other twiddled the butt of his cigarette until it formed a little stem. He was not much edified by what he read.
LiSa PlUVIuM
oN OpEnING night
YOU WiLl DIE
Walter came round and read the cut-out newspaper letters over his boss’s shoulder. Rowan lit the cigarette and puffed at the wispy, bent end. “Most troubling.”
Lisa said, “I’ve been trying to come up with theories. I don’t owe anyone money. As far as I know I’m not part of the underworld or anything crazy. I was thinking…I suppose I was hoping it could be a joke, someone just having a go at me for fun.”
Rowan’s mind was taken back to that nasty Lasciva business from 1927. “Possibly, but that is not the premise upon which you should be basing your actions.”
It took her a moment to respond. People often took time to decipher Rowan’s speech. “You think I should be worried?”
“I do,” Rowan replied. “What’s more, I think you should cancel the play and report this to the police post haste. They would be far more capable of assisting you in this matter.”
Her gaze switched from Rowan back to the tiny speck. “That would be the intelligent thing to do, I’m sure. Unfortunately, I can’t.”
Walter and Rowan looked at her with the same humorless expression and both had the same troubling thought. A person who cannot go to the police is a person who cannot be trusted.
Lisa explained. “I’m not going to cancel the show over an anonymous threat. And I know damn well the police aren’t going to come and provide security. They’ll demand the show be stopped. If it were only me, that wouldn’t be a problem. However, there are the other actors to consider—not to mention my sister. It’s Jenny’s directorial debut. She’d be devastated.”
“Lisa—”
She leaned forward, placing her hands flat on his desk. “If you came Friday night and kept an eye on me, sort of like a bodyguard.”
“It is not exactly our specialty. We investigate crimes after the fact. We do not prevent them.” Rowan’s eyes shifted back to the note. “Do you have any guess as to the identity of the author?”
“I wish I did. The whole thing is baffling. If someone wanted me dead, I’m sure I’d have heard about it long before now.”
“Then let us narrow things down a bit and see what we can determine. Where and when did you find this message?”
“This afternoon. It was on my desk, lying on top of my script.”
“And where is your desk located?”
“In my office. At the back of the auditorium, there are two offices adjacent to one another. My sister’s is on the left, and mine is on the right. After we finished rehearsal, I went into my office, just like I do every day. Only today, this wonderful note was waiting for me.”
Rowan pictured the layout in his head. “When was the last time you had been in your office before this afternoon?”
“Yesterday. About three o’clock.”
He stubbed out his cigarette and rolled another with no hint of the previous tremors. “Brilliant. We know the note was left sometime between yesterday afternoon and today, roughly a twenty-four hour period. Williams, what is the next logical query?”
Walter pulled his notebook out again. “Who had access to the theater during the established time frame?”
“Everyone who was there yesterday has keys.” Lisa counted them on her fingers. “That’s six people in total, seven if you include me.”
“Does anyone work at the theater after rehearsal, alone at night, when they would have more freedom to act?” Rowan asked.
“I suppose Grizz spends the most time there.”
“Grizz?”
“He’s the head of technical production. He’s in charge of the sets, the props, the lighting.”
“Yes, but…Grizz?”
“I guess it’s a funny nickname, isn’t it?” Lisa chuckled. “His real name is Sam, but everyone calls him Grizz.”
Walter said, “Why?”
“I’ve never asked. I guess it’s ’cause he’s grizzled, you know? He’s got one of those leathery faces, a lot of cracks in it that you can read. A million lines, a million stories. That sort of thing.”
Rowan lit the new cigarette. The sublime satisfaction of smoke flooded into his blackened lungs. “What of the other members of production? Grips, front of house, those kinds of people?”
Lisa waved at the cloud in front of her face. “We’ll have two grips and a box office manager for opening night, but the main crew finished last week. I think Grizzy had a team of about six or seven people.”
“One of them may have come at night when the theater is empty,” Rowan suggested.
“None of them have keys. Jenny and I gave keys to the actors and the technician. No one else.”
“I see.” Rowan pondered this thought as drops of rain pinged against the windows, the sounds amplified by the stillness in the room.
Li
sa bit her bottom lip. “What are you thinking, detective?”
“I am considering the psychology of this particular death threat. It is quite odd. Typically, threats such as these involve finances. They include demands for money. Sometimes, there is a political message attached. The threat is made for the purpose of bringing light to some ideological cause.”
“Neither is true in my case.”
“Correct.” Rowan stood, circling Lisa’s chair in measured shuffle steps. She turned her neck to follow him. “Yours is only being used to inform you of your impending death. Naturally, there is a question of practicality. What could possibly be gained by revealing to you the day of your murder?”
“Don’t know. If I wanted to kill someone, I wouldn’t advertise it.”
Rowan returned to his chair, stubbing out his barely-smoked cigarette. “Precisely. The only thing to gain is your fear. The author of this note requires you to suffer.”
Lisa shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “What did I ever do to deserve this attention, assuming it’s genuine?”
“That should be our advantage. The motive must be intensely personal, enough to cause a pathological hatred. Surely, it would be retaliation for some act you have committed or been perceived to have committed, something you would undoubtedly be aware of.” When Lisa did not come forward with a suggestion, Rowan gently prodded her. “An unrequited love or some other act of betrayal?”
She shook her head with confidence. “I don’t have those kinds of skeletons in my closet.”
“Uh-huh.” Rowan flicked his tongue against his cheek and scratched his balding head. Everyone has something in the past that will not stay quiet. “Last year, you were working with the Saunter Stock Troupe. They produced The Farmer’s Daughter?”
“That’s right.”
“Flip the calendar ahead one year. You and your sister have your own company and your own theatre space. It must have cost a pretty penny. If you do not mind my asking, how were you able to raise the capital for such an endeavor?”
The Opening Night Murders Page 1
