Final Act

by Dianne Yetman

  The two friends met at a fund raiser for the town’s library. Susan had listened to Alexis’ halting speech of the importance of small town libraries. She decided to befriend the retired, unassuming, shy Librarian. The two forged a strong relationship, travelled once a year together to Europe, made frequent trips to the city condo Susan bought to shop and attend the theatre. They joined the town’s bridge club where Susan dragged a reluctant Alexis into the mystery of the poison pen letters the women had begun to receive. The two women actually succeeded in uncovering the culprit. It gave Susan an undying thirst for all things mysterious. Alexis regretted her involvement and put the whole incident out of her mind.

  Alexis looked at her watch. Thirty minutes since the producer first stepped on stage and informed them there had been a backstage accident. His next appearance was a bit more alarming. The police were on the scene and had requested everyone remain in the theatre until further notice. At this latest news, theatre patrons’ cell phones sprouted faster than weeds in a garden.

  The Producer had waited until the buzz subsided before informing them the box office would be starting to issue refunds in the next five minutes and the bar would be opening at the same time. A mass exodus to the lobby coincided with the closing of the curtain.

  Alexis was debating whether to seek out the facilities when the jab to her ribs hit.

  “For God’s sake, Susan, an excuse me or something would get my attention.”

  “Sorry, Alexis. Look over at the top step, to your left, beside the curtain.”

  She glanced over and saw a tall, familiar looking woman, heading backstage.

  “Kate”, Susan yelled.

  “Honest to God, Susan, you should have made a career in the theatre. Your voice projection is phenomenal.”

  Kate turned, waved, smiled, pointed to her watch, and exited backstage.

  “Murder’s been done, Alexis. Accident my foot. No accident would see a member of the Murder Squad here.”

  Alexis said not a word.

  “Quick Alexis, to the left. If I’m not mistaken, the tall black man motioning to the usher is none other than handsome himself. It’s Roger, the second member of the murder team. I told you, Alexis, murder’s been done.”

  Alexis suppressed her groan. Had it only been two years since the murder; two years since they met Kate and Roger. The memory seemed as fresh and chilling as autumn air. She shivered at the remembered heartbreak; the trauma; and, at the end, the sheer terror.

  “Indigestion, Alexis?”

  “You could say that.”

  Alexis forced her thoughts elsewhere. She thought about the first time she experienced one of Tennessee Williams’ play. She was only 19 and had just moved from a small rural town to attend university. The play was The Glass Menagerie and it had stunned her senses. She identified with Laura, the pathologically shy young woman who lived in a private world of glass animals and old phonograph records. She knew the reason she related so well. She suffered too from a life-long painful shyness, haunted by the ‘otherness’ of people; tongue tied, self-conscious, at school, at home, at work.

  Loud, persistent coughing from the woman seated a row behind disrupted of her thoughts. She was trying to immerse herself back into her reverie when she was struck by a horrid thought. She turned to her friend.

  “Tell me, Susan, please, that you don’t know a single person involved in this play?”

  “I know two, the Director, Jeffrey Stone and the Producer, Henry Ward. No, wait a minute, make that four, I know their wives as well, Catherine and Cheryl. No, sorry, make it five. I forgot about Eleanor; she’s in charge of set design and costumes. I went to boarding school with sister, Alice. I have memories of her trailing behind us on weekends, a bit of an oddball ...WHAT? ”

  “Listen to me, Susan. If you value our friendship, you’ll keep your distance from whatever is going on backstage. The police will handle it. I’m not; hear me, NOT, getting involved in another murder case.”

  “Relax. My ambitions to be a sleuth have been wiped as clean as the doctor’s operating table. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been so enthusiastic in my wave to Kate; I wouldn’t want to give her the wrong impression”.

  “No need to fear, Susan, Kate and Roger would move heaven and hell to keep us out of police business.”

  Chapter 1

  Kate lifted her arm towards the snooze button, remembered the early morning briefing before the interviews and threw back the covers. Her head pounded as she stumbled to the shower, headaches were ever present during murder investigations due to the sheer lack of sleep.

  As the hot water pounded away her body’s stiffness, she thought about the messages waiting on her answering machine when she got home. The first one was from Abir who left the typical rant. Sorry she hadn’t been able to join them; they had a good time without her; and, if she continued in her career as a homicide detective, they were sure to continue having good times without her. Please let them know about this Saturday night.

  The second message interfered with her sleep. It had been from David wanting to know if she was free next weekend. It was time to face the music. Their relationship was going nowhere; it was time to end it. He was too dependent, too needy. It didn’t start that way.

  They met over a year ago at detective’s conference in New Brunswick. The attraction was immediate and the romance blossomed. Maybe it was all those back and forth trips to each other’s city that cooled things down. She wasn’t sure. One thing she was sure of though, his feelings hadn’t cooled towards her. In fact, just the opposite was happening – vague hints surfacing about long term commitment. David was fourteen years older than her, divorced, and had a 16 year old daughter. He didn’t come baggage free but then who did?

  On his promotion to Chief Inspector in charge of the detective division, his work schedule doubled and they saw each other less and less. Slowly, their relationship began to change. David lost interest in going out, preferring to spend their time together inside either his or her apartment, cooking meals, talking about the breakup of his marriage, his concern over the impact it would have on his daughter and the guilt he experienced over his failure.

  He treated her like a sob sister. Their intimacy took a nose dive, her passion cooled. She became bored followed by guilt. He was a great guy who deserved another chance. But not with her. She kept stalling, worried about his damned helplessness and how it would affect him. She’d decided to call him in the morning. Her decision haunted her dreams.

  She reluctantly turned off the shower. It was the ultimate of showers; a shower that wraps water, sound, light and steam together with the push of a button. Most people, when choosing a condo, fall in love with the layout, the kitchen, the gardens, or the balcony. She had fallen in love with the shower. Towelling off, she didn’t think about what she would wear. When an investigation was running in the fall of the year, it was always the same: a black turtleneck, black jeans, red blazer, and black Doc Martens.

  Finishing her breakfast of coffee, orange juice and lightly buttered toast, she punched in David’s cell number. It went to voice mail. She left a message that she was on a case and this weekend wouldn’t work. Told him she would call when things slowed down. She left the condo and headed for the precinct.

  ***

  The team met in the small boardroom and judging by the looks on their faces, it was obvious to Kate she wasn’t the only one who thought the morning arrived too soon. She took the empty seat next to Roger. Gordon seemed at a bit of a loss because a round table has no helm. As a consequence, he sat higher in his chair than the others. No doubt there were a couple of New York City directories under his butt. She sat in the empty chair between Roger and Sgt.Withers.

  Withers, whose normal duties consisted of supervising new recruits, collating and filing overtime reports, and in control of the hated, most debated, ever changing document in a police precinct
, the duty roster.

  Withers was the man for the job. He was incorruptible, rigid, dogmatic, bribe resistant; an iron will that hell on earth would not bend. He had obviously been seconded to the interviewing team. Pity the poor actors he had on his list.

  Cst. Shirley Proctor sat directly across from Kate. A computer whiz who seemed to be able to capture the goods on the most obscure on the internet in record times, she was a highly valued member of the murder investigation team. Shirley had entered the police force at a greater age than most recruits but Kate had no doubt that with her talents, she would zoom by the more senior recruits.

  Strange to see her part of the interviewing team, Kate thought. Minutes after Gordon started the meeting, she understood. Shirley was coordinating, escorting the actors and crew to the interview rooms and would keep the interviewing team on schedule. The meeting was quick. They had to be at the theatre by 8:00am. Once Gordon briefed them on how they were to proceed, he ended the meeting. The team exited the room together and made a mad dash to the police car pool.

  ***

  A bleary eyed cast and crew of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof sat in the front rows of the theatre. No one spoke but a lot of body language was happening - everything from facial twitches to drumming fingers and feet - a nervous group ripe for the picking.

  At the sound of footsteps, all heads turned in unison to watch six police officers march down the aisle, mount the steps and stand centre stage in parade perfect formation. Kate, Roger, Gordon, Withers, Shirley and Tom looked out at their audience with blank faces.

  Charlotte leaned into Andrew.

  “Heaviest grand entrance I’ve ever seen”, she said.

  Andrew swallowed his response.

  Gordon stepped forward, introduced himself and the team. He extended his thanks to everyone for making the effort to be here on time after such a long and no doubt, stressful night. Promises of a speedy process were made and reassurances of confidentiality given.

  Tuning Gordon’s spiel out, Kate scanned the faces. No surprises in the facial expressions; it was always the same. The majority people looked at police the way they looked at strange dogs - alert, wary. Her gaze halted for a moment on the Stage Manager she met last evening, Andrew something. The rush of instant attraction to the man she felt last night was still there, his charisma, and dark good looks pulled her under with the force of a surfer’s wave. Dangerous stuff. She moved on.

  Scanning the back row, two seats from the aisle, she recognized a face. Camira Paul, the actor who played Maggie the Cat. She missed her last night; Gordon or Roger must have spoken with her. She was Hanya’s cousin. Kate met her months ago when she picked Hanya up at the end of her shift on the suicide line. A beautiful woman, modelling at the time, if memory served her correct, I’m not surprised she moved onto acting.

  Finishing her scan, she looked in disbelief at the woman seated in the last row. It was June, her hairdresser, minus her scissors. What the hell was she doing here? Hairdresser to the stars? Or part-time thespian?

  A rumbling noise caught her attention. A beat up trolley, loaded down with pastries, a large coffee urn, cups, spoons, milk and sugar, was being pushed down the aisle by a tall, thin man with a slight paunch below the belt. Kate identified him right away. It was the producer of the production, Henry Ward. She had spoken briefly with him last evening.

  On cue, actors and crew rose as one body and made a beeline for the cart. Henry motioned for the police to join them. They shook their heads and waited patiently for the group to resettle. They knew the value of caffeine stoked people during interviews.

  Once everyone was back in their seats, Gordon cleared his throat and addressed them again. “We have temporarily taken over the Director, Producer, Set Designer and Chief Publicist’s offices. The interviews will be taped.”

  Shuffling noises and nervous coughs could be heard following his remark.

  “There’s no reason to be anxious. Taping is a routine procedure for information gathering sessions. The members of our team are experienced interviewers so it shouldn’t take too long. We need two days to speak with everyone so we are proceeding alphabetically. Some of you will leave and return tomorrow morning once you register your presence here with Cst. Tom Adams. We would appreciate it if one of the crew would find him a table and chair to use.

  Ed volunteered set the table and two chairs up on the main stage. Gordon nodded his thanks.

  “We will now proceed with the first four persons, the rest of you remain seated until called upon to register or escorted to an interview. Would Charlotte Beauvoir, Eleanor Foster-Sutton, June Grayson, and Philip Lawson please follow us to the office area; Constable Shirley Proctor will summon the rest of you as needed.”

  Charlotte lifted her heavy body out of the front row at the same time as June. Eleanor, rose, back rigid and followed behind the other two women. Philip uncoiled his long, lean body, and like a gazelle loped his way down the aisle.

  The remaining cast and crew watched the ordered recessional, thanking the gods above they weren’t the first.

  ***

  His office in use by the police, Henry walked backstage and opened Charlotte’s dressing room door sat in the large swivel chair and stared with unseeing eyes at the mirrored wall, his mind on the call he received at home early this morning from the Chair of the Board.

  The call came in at 6:30am. An official invitation to direct the next scheduled production, Death of a Salesman, was made. Henry remained calm. He had rehearsed his response over and over again. Hedging, he thanked the Chair for his confidence but producing was his field; he wasn’t sure if he could meet the rigors of the Director’s position.

  “Don’t so modest, Henry. Jeffrey, God rest his soul, and I were talking only a week ago and he sang your praises, recommended you, in fact, for the Director’s chair. Give it a go Henry, if not for your sake, for Jeffrey’s. And for the sake of the actors and crew. If you don’t take the position, it means we will have to refund season tickets, we’ll be in the red and everyone could be out of a job.”

  Henry hesitated for ten seconds, sighed, and then accepted. Graciously. Now he had to work out the logistics. He wanted Eleanor on board as Producer. Given her years of experience in the theatre business, it wouldn’t take long for him to teach her the ropes. It wouldn’t cause any flack among the rest of the cast either. Eleanor’s manner prohibited jealousy.

  He hoped he could convince Andrew to stay on as Stage Manager. The man could multi-task and knew what he was doing. He needed him. It would take careful coaxing.

  Brenda Parsons was a different matter. Loud, aggressive, talented, and when she thought it was required, an excellent people pleaser but he didn’t trust her. She had been schooled by Jeffrey; he was her mentor. And he had been more than delighted to have a protégé.

  No request from Jeffrey had been too demeaning for her. She swept the stage floors, pinned up hems, removed spots from the actors clothing, and did take out food runs. The rest of the time she followed Jeffrey around the theatre, scribbling like mad in the little notebook she carried. Henry thought she was a bit long in the tooth for a protégé but knew she was more valuable on the roster than off. He decided to make her assistant stage manager. Andrew can handle her.

  As much as Henry despised Jeffrey, he never discounted his talent. His ability to encourage, motivate, inspire and coax the best performance out of a complex, multi-talented team of actors had been astounding. He’d be a tough act to follow. But he would succeed. He had to. He heard a sound of approaching footsteps. He slipped out of the dressing room before anyone saw him.

  ***

  Roger entered the deceased Director’s office followed closely by Charlotte Beauvoir. His eyes swept around the room. He was surprised at its beauty. It was pristine, immaculate, furniture well placed. He sat in the executive chair that was so deeply cushioned a small child could hide in its folds. />
  I feel like Captain Kirk taking the command seat.

  The room bore no traces of the feminine. There was a faint aroma of pipe and cigar smoke. The dark mahogany bookcase was filled with leather bound volumes on the history of the Canadian and American theatre.

  With a nod, he directed Charlotte to the plush twin of the executive chair facing the cherry wood desk. He ignored the loud slight protest of the chair’s springs as she seated herself.

  Wonder if Scotty would be able to beam her up?

  He could hear his mother’s voice, it sounded like it was coming from behind his chair. Lose the fat jokes, Roger, and grow up.

  He smiled at Charlotte.

  She has beautiful ice blue eyes. Damn, are those whiskey fumes I smell?

  Trying to reduce her stress level, he took the time to give her extra reassurances before beginning the questioning.

  “Please try to relax as much as you can, Ms. Beauvoir, it’s not an interrogation, more like a friendly chat.”

  “Thank you, I’m relieved to hear it. It’s all little overwhelming, not to mention intimidating. Please call me Charlotte, Sergeant. It’s more in keeping with the friendly chat, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, I suppose so. Your bio in the brochure is impressive. You’ve been involved with the theatre for quite some time. How long were you acquainted with the victim, Jeffrey Stone?”

  “For 3 years, or so, whenever he joined the company, can’t remember exactly.”

  She looked around the room, a frown creasing her forehead.