“How are the troops doing, Andrew? Are they on their way?”
“Yes, Eleanor’s rounding them up now.”
Murmurs of conversation amplified as actors and crew drew closer to the stage. Within minutes, everyone stood huddled together like circus performers before the ring master. Henry Ward, the show’s producer, his planned late minute entrance catching everyone’s eye, crossed centre stage and stood next to the Director.
The sounds of the audience beat against the closed curtain.
Jeffrey, his usual sonorous voice lowered to a gruff whisper, gave his toast (Charlotte miming the well known speech behind his back) lifted his glass and downed the contents in one swallow. Within three minutes, the convulsing ceased and Jeffrey Stone lay dead centre stage.
8:00pm
Kate finger combed her short chestnut curls, slipped on her new jeans and blouse. She reached in the closet for her white cashmere sweater, warmth minus fleece, for a cool evening. Deciding to wear her black, leatherette platform boots, she muttered under her breath for the five minutes it took her to get them on. A quick glance in the mirror then out the door.
The streets were congested; it took almost thirty minutes for her to drive across town. Finding a parking spot in the popular night life of the inner city wasn’t going to be easy. She was circling the block for a second time when her cell rang. She checked caller id – Sandra.
“Kate, there’s a slight change in plans. Abir phoned. She’s running late and so are the taxis. I’m going to take my car, pick her and Hanya up. It means a twenty minute delay getting to The Dock.”
“That’s fine. It’ll take me that long find a parking spot. See you in a bit.”
Circling the block for the third time, Kate began to lose patience; a start up frustration grumble in her belly. Was Gordon right? Was she losing control? Did she need professional help? The very thought made her wince. She would be damned if she would contact a precinct psychologist. She didn’t trust the politics.
She could try to get Sandra alone for a few minutes tonight and ask her if she’d be willing to take her on. A psychologist with years of counselling experience and a patient list longer than a roll of Charmin, she had to know what’s she doing. Nix it, we’ve been friends for ever and why put our personal relationship at risk?
Her mind jumped to Abir, her smart, savvy Harvard educated lawyer friend. No, never. Abir’s personal life was chaotic – the woman gave up a stunning career to follow her loser, soap opera actor boyfriend to Canada – no, the beautiful Egyptian born Muslim wasn’t suitable.
Hanya, she’s the most logical choice. A first nation woman, a feminist, an Anglican priest, university lecturer and part time counsellor for the local suicide help line, who could be better? Kate shook her head. No, it wouldn’t work; she couldn’t do it to her; the woman’s agenda was crammed tighter than a fashion model’s clothes closet.
Screw it, she thought. I didn’t get this far for nothing. I’ll figure out how to handle it myself. Manoeuvring the car into the tight parking spot, she shut off the engine and picked up her ringing cell.
Caller I.D. showed Gordon Ramsey, the Team Leader of the Murder Squad. Kate’s heart sank. Did he get a complaint about a disturbance outside a gym? She took a deep breath and answered, his voice bellowing in her ear.
“Kate, whatever you’re doing, drop it. We have a dead body, centre stage, at The Strand. Roger’s out in the boonies with his Mustang, he’ll join us as soon as he can. Meet you there.”
She called Sandra to cancel, put the car in gear, and peeled away.
9:30pm
Roger pulled up in front of the theatre, placed the police sign in the windshield of his Honda Civic and grimaced at the sight of the TV crews, newspaper reporters and curious spectators gathered behind the erected barrier.
He badged the constable, stepped into the lobby of the Strand theatre, recently built on the downtown waterfront and named after the street in the City of Westminster, London, England. The locals, loyal to the city’s first and only theatre, stubbornly ignoring its existence at first, however; the younger crowd was beginning to put it on the map. It also picked up some loyal patrons based on its policy to present only the work of playwrights written before 1970. The sound of waves and smell of salt air continue to add to the growing line of patrons.
Roger glanced at the two line ups of patrons, one for ticket refunds, one for the bar, as he headed towards the main body of the theatre. The sound his shoes made on the wide, bare boards of the floor was absorbed into the conversation of the patrons. Tension and restlessness wired the air.
If we detain this lot too long, there’ll be hell to pay.
He ran up the three side steps to the stage. Off to his left, he noticed a small group of people consisting of a large woman snuffling into a hanky, a tall, man blowing nervously into a hankie, and rocking back and forth on the balls of a pair of size 12’s, was a white haired man, his head bent, his eyes paying homage to his feet. And on the fringe stood a young, dark-eyed beauty staring at her hands as if she were seeing them for the first time. He had seen similar groups at previous murder scenes; the looks on the faces always the same: shock and disbelief.
He turned towards the stage. Two crime scene cops, on their hands and knees combing the floor, dressed in white, looked like giant, white rabbits, sniffing out a burrow. Another two were brushing and dusting the hi-fi cabinet with the intensity of clean freaks armed with their trusty dusters.
The cabinet has to be a hot spot.
He spotted Kate standing stage right looking hot in her black jeans, red blouse. Looking better than he saw her when she left the precinct yesterday afternoon, a heavier rain cloud hanging over her head than the comic character in the Snoopy scenario. He wasn’t sure what was going on and he wasn’t he wanted to know. He had a good working relationship with Kate, was probably the only one in the precinct who did. He liked her, understood her mood swings, the temper, he grew up with five sisters. He tried only once to warn her off but never again. Not if he wanted to continue working with her and he wanted to for she was one of the smartest cops he ever worked with.
And there she was, standing in all her glory, next to her nemesis, Gordon, who was haranguing three bewildered looking constables. He could hear the gruff instructions clear across the stage.
“Cast and crew are to be rounded and taken into the Boardroom in the Office area of the Theatre. Take their names, addresses, and telephone numbers. Tell them to be back at the theatre by 8:00am tomorrow for preliminary interviews, no excuses. Anyone not showing up will find themselves being escorted here in a police car. Don’t let yourself be side tracked by unnecessary questions. If you’re unsure of anything, check it out with Kate.”
Dismissing the constables, Gordon walked over to the man bent over the dead body.
Roger joined Kate who was writing in her notebook. Leaning over her shoulder, he gave her a nudge and a smile. She looked up and was about to say something but Gordon’s voice silenced her response.
“What a fine pair the two of you make decked out in your Saturday night finest. Practicing your poses for the front cover of True Detectives are you? Get the hell over here.”
“Do you feel like you’re being summoned to the Principal’s office”, Roger asked.
“More like my father’s den”, Kate said.
The two crossed the stage. Roger looked at the man dressed in evening clothes who was crouching over the prone body. “Looking mighty spry, George, my man. Glad to see there isn’t any truth to the rumour you’re suffering from honeymoon sleep deprivation.”
George Cummings, known around the precinct as the Genius Pathologist, or as Roger told it, the Pathological Genius, looked up and scowled.
“Well if it isn’t the man who looks like a black man, walks and talks like a black man, and dresses like fashion senseless yuppie.”
&nb
sp; “Watch it, George; you’re skating close to the edge with talk like that.”
“Stuff it you two”, Gordon said. “What can you tell us George?”
“The man was poisoned. Don’t know what with yet but it has all the earmarks of a metabolic. Autopsy will be tomorrow morning at 9:00am. Come one, come all if you can. Now, I’m off, back to the dinner table in time to catch dessert, I hope.” The three detectives followed him with their eyes until he was off stage.
Roger stooped down for a closer look at the body.
“Who is the poor bugger”, he asked.
“Jeffrey Stone, the play’s Director”, Gordon said. “According to the tall, skinny one with the extra tire below the belt, Henry Ward, the Producer, our murder victim was a famous New York Director who gave up his lucrative career three years ago for this dinky little theatre. It was his last evening as the big boss, however. He was scheduled to fly back to New York to direct some high-brow, artsy kind of play.”
“What was he doing on stage? I thought Directors hung out at the back of the theatre, pacing back and forth chomping on finger nails”, Roger asked.
“Wanted to give a farewell toast to cast and crew. It was a farewell one alright. Drank from the glass and it was lights out. Andrew Wilkins, the Stage Manager, the only one on the set trained in CPR, tried to revive him but it was no use. He was dead within seconds. As dead as his name - stone dead.”
Roger and Kate ignored the pun, everyone at the precinct ignored Gordon’s puns.
Gordon shot them a look.
“Maybe we should start by finding out the reason why he left New York in the first place”, Kate said.
“Did I hear the word start”, Gordon asked. “Sounds like a plan and the sooner the better. I’m off to the station to set up the incident room. I’ll leave you two to handle the executive team that runs the theatre here. Make sure all bodies are accounted for – it took 20 minutes after the murder before we had a uniform at the back and front exits. No sense getting into too much detail with the head honchos, by the looks I saw on those vacuous faces, all you’ll get is shock talk. I’ve got two more recruits on the way to ensure the patrons all leave the theatre and in an orderly fashion. Once they arrive, make the announcement that they are free to go under the direction of the police constables.”
“What about the interviews? Here or at the station”, Roger asked.
“Here for the preliminaries. We’ll haul any interesting ones to the station for the full treatment. We’re starting early; everyone is to be here by 8:00am tomorrow morning, they should love that. I’ll meet you in the briefing room tomorrow morning at 7:00am.”
He started to leave then turned around.
“With those actors, you’re going to get a lot of histrionics. Don’t let them distract you; keep that poor dead bastard’s face in front of your eyes.”
Roger snorted at his boss’s disappearing back.
“Who the hell does he think we are, new recruits?”
“It’s his one year from retirement spiel, you know how it goes. Keep your eyes on the bouncy ball because I don’t want it hitting me in the face.”
The shadow of a movement caught their eyes. A priest was advancing towards them from stage left. He nodded at the two detectives then knelt and gave Stone the last rites.
Roger found himself strangely moved by the ritual.
“No doubt about it, Kate, this case is going to be an emotional zinger.”
10:30pm
Cast and crew were huddled together in the common dressing room. Someone placed a bottle of Scotch on the table. Ed rushed to the prop room for more plastic wine glasses. By the time he returned, the lone bottle multiplied to three.
Once the glasses were filled and a couple shots consumed, there was a noticeable easing of shock and a loosening of tongues. Small knots of people began to form and a verbal debrief began. Only one person asked about the Henry, Andrew and Eleanor. Someone said they were squirreled away in their offices located in the front of the theatre.
But not all the executives were together. Henry Ward was sitting in Ed’s cubbyhole pouring whiskey into a dusty, coffee stained mug. His hand shook as he raised it to his mouth. Jeffrey’s death throes were playing with his head. He switched his thoughts to their last conversation.
It had been a little over a week ago, at their usual meeting place, third row back from centre stage, free from knocks on the door and ringing phones. Once they saw where they were seated, actors and crew avoided them like the plague.
Their conversation got off to a rocky start and before it was over, it had advanced to crashing boulders. It started innocently enough. Henry had sat next to Jeffrey, nodded, smiled, and reached inside his jacket pocket, pulled out his pipe. Jeffrey barked.
“I hope that thing isn’t lit, Henry. We don’t want any complaints from patrons about the smell of smoke, do we?”
“For God’s sake, Jeffrey, do you have to be so anal? Have I ever actually lit the damn thing?”
“No, but I don’t trust anyone who has to resort to soothers”, he said.
“Not a lot of people you trust are there? You know my pet peeve, Jeffrey, people who parade their ridiculous, stupid, affectations in front of others in the hopes of squeezing out a drop more attention.”
“What a sanctimonious, prissy little shit you are, Henry. I don’t know how I’ve put up with you all these years.”
Henry knew why he had.
“So, Jeffrey, who’s going to save your butt once you’re in New York?”
Muscle twitching in the side of his face, Jeffrey ignored his remark but softened his tone.
“Okay. Down to business. I spoke with Andrew. Told him I wouldn’t be recommending him for the chair.”
“How did he take the news?”
“He was upset but he won’t cause any trouble, not if he knows what’s good for his career. Board of Directors are in agreement. Congratulations, Henry. You got what you wanted.”
Henry looked in the mirror and raised the mug.
But you didn’t get what you wanted, did you, Jeffrey? Spasms, arched backbone, spittle and foam pouring out of your mouth, wasn’t what you were looking for.
Henry laughed and drank the rest of the whiskey in a single gulp. No sense in dredging up the shouted insults, vindictive, spit drivelling rot of the rest of their conversation. He popped a peppermint candy, brushed imaginary dust from his tailored suit, closed the door quietly and walked slowly down the hallway towards centre stage.
He met Andrew and Eleanor at the doorway into the large common room. They didn’t exchange greetings but stood silently together listening to the snatches of conversation drifting into the hallway.
In all the years I’ve known him, I never suspected Jeffrey suffered from seizures.
Don’t be daft; the man was poisoned.
Who’s going to assume the Director’s mantle?
Why Andrew, of course, who else?
Poor Catherine, I’m glad she was spared the sight of her husband’s death.
Too bad, she wasn’t spared his infidelity.
Died in agony, you say? It was his body I heard thrashing round on the floor. I thought something let loose on the stage set, given all the mechanical screw ups over the past few weeks.
Henry took a deep breath, nodded to Andrew and Eleanor; the three entered the room and positioned themselves behind the drinks table. Gradually all conversation ceased as more and more heads turned towards them. Henry cleared his throat and waited for complete silence before addressing them.
“We’ve all experienced a terrible shock tonight and, as difficult as it might be, we need to keep a clear head. I ask each and every one of you to keep Jeffrey’s family - Catherine and their children - in your thoughts and prayers. The police have requested we do not leave the theatre before they’ve had the opportunity
to speak to us. I would suggest you ease up on the drinks before that happens.”
The sound of a muttered ‘sanctimonious shit’ drifted up from the back of the room to the drinks table. Henry smirked, Andrew smiled, and Eleanor turned her head.
Another slurred voice was heard. “What’s going to happen to the next scheduled play, Henry? Are we going to be laid off? Should we start looking around for something else?”
“I can’t answer those questions. I have no idea; I will meet with the Board of Director’s as soon as possible. Now, good people, I suggest you get rid of the makeup and back into your street clothes.” He looked at his watch. “I have to meet with the police. Try to stay calm and for God’s sake, no dramatics.”
“Theatre without drama –impossible - why it’d be like a bathroom without a toothbrush”, Charlotte said.
Henry and Eleanor made deaf and left the room. Andrew addressed the group.
“The first ones to get rid of makeup and costumes are the first ones to leave for the comfort of their own homes and beds.” He smiled and bid them a good night.
“Keeps a level head that one does”, Charlotte said. “We’d be lucky to have him in the Director’s chair.”
***
On the other side of the curtain, Alexis and Susan sat together in middle row seats, centre aisle. The middle aged women had been friends for the last seven years and how the friendship managed to blossom was a mystery. The friendship began when Alexis, a Librarian in the city’s main branch retired and moved to a small town where she was able to buy a small bungalow. Susan, a wealthy city socialite, relocated to the same small town when her husband died unexpectedly of an aneurism. Escaping the claustrophobic care and concern of family and friends, she invited her sister-in-law to move into the family home, relocated, bought and restored a Victorian mansion in the small town.
Final Act Page 3
