Final Act

by Dianne Yetman

  “So, he had temper tantrums, did he?”

  “Yes, by times.”

  “Did he pick on anyone in particular?”

  Andrew crossed on leg over another.

  “Not really. He could be mercurial but he was over it quickly. He wasn’t one to hold a grudge.”

  “He made an enemy though didn’t he? Must have really pissed someone off. Any idea who?”

  “No, none at all.”

  “Who looked after stocking the liquor cabinet?”

  “Ed, the stage hand did. He’d refresh the apple juice after 5 performances or so. Other than that, the bottle stayed untouched.”

  “Any idea when Stone put his own bottle of bourbon in the cabinet?”

  “No. I assumed he transferred it from his own stash to the cabinet sometime before the toast. It wasn’t there at the beginning of the week. I was searching for the glasses that were always placed on top of the cabinet and the bottom compartment was empty.”

  “A man carrying a bottle of bourbon to the stage would attract a bit of attention, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, but Jeffrey was constantly in and out of the theatre at all hours of the day and night. He could have moved it when the place was empty.”

  “So, Mr. Williams, what happens now? Any idea who will step into the Director’s chair?”

  Andrew brushed a piece of lint from the shirt sleeve.

  “None at all.”

  “Is it something you’d be interested in?”

  “Certainly. But not interested enough to poison someone’s whiskey.”

  “Is that so? Well, I’ll keep that in mind. Any thoughts on who may have placed the poison in the bottle?”

  Andrew’s face paled.

  “None at all, no one associated with this production.”

  “What does that mean? Do you have someone outside the production in mind?”

  Andrew did but he’d be damned if he would mention his suspicion to him or anyone else.

  “Of course not. Just a figure of speech.”

  Gordon asked him a few more questions about procedures - placing of props, locking of doors - then dismissed him with a warning not to leave town.

  Andrew stomped down the hallway, muttering to himself. Arrogant, silly bastard, hung up on John Wayne, no doubt sees himself cleaning up the theatre corral.

  Chapter 2

  It took the team of detectives three days to finish their interviews with the cast, crew and Board Members of the waterfront Theatre. On the same day they wrapped it up, forty-six kilometres southwest of the city, 9:30 in the evening, the tired, elderly Evelyn Rogers was trying to open her front door. She muttered to herself about forgetting to put the front porch light on when she left last week to visit her daughter and grandson in Toronto. Hoping not to have to resort to turning the car’s headlights on, she took off her gloves, fumbled around until she felt the keyhole then married it up with her key and she was inside.

  Walking carefully down the hallway, she trailed her hand along the wall until she found the light switch. It was as dark inside as it was outside for Evelyn Rogers lived three kilometres from Peggy’s Cove, on a private gravelled road with no other dwelling except for a hunting cabin one kilometre past her house.

  As soon as she had lights, she went down into the basement, turned on the hot water tank and raised the furnace temperature setting. Climbing back up the steep stairs, she walked straight to the front door, out to the car, opened the trunk and lifted out her suitcase.

  Thirty minutes later, she sat in her rocking chair, sipping tea and listening to the news broadcast on the radio. She looked over the stack of newspapers she had brought in from the box her husband had built at the end of the driveway. She never cancelled her subscription when she went away because she loved nothing more than reading the paper each morning, front to back, finishing with the crossword puzzle.

  Walking over to the pile, she sorted them by date and placed them in the magazine rack by the rocking chair. Tomorrow morning she’d go into the village to pick up her mail and once that was sorted; she’d be able to begin a thorough scrutiny of the daily newspapers.

  If Evelyn Rogers had read the papers beginning with the latest edition, she would have seen the picture of Jeffrey Stone, learned of his murder, and contacted the police station much sooner.

  ***

  Kate opened the curtains to another sunny fall day and longed to don her running gear and hit the park. Before she bought the Condo, she and Abir used to meet early for their morning run. She missed it running with her friend more than she thought possible. Nothing ever stays the same. She turned from the window and got ready for work.

  Forty minutes later, she parked her car and headed for her favourite coffee shop. Ten minutes later she was on her way to the precinct, the vapour from the hot coffee mingled with the cool autumn air and formed a thin cloud over her head. My kind of halo, she thought, evaporating too fast for any goodness to permanently settle in.

  Nodding at Withers sitting behind the plastic, bullet proof bubble, she opened the stairwell door. Holding her coffee high, she took the stairs two at a time. Reaching the third floor, she switched her coffee to the other hand, opened the door and walked into the noisy squad room. Making her way through the congestion, she entered the hallway leading to the shared offices.

  Roger was sitting at his desk sipping precinct coffee, she’d recognize that smell anywhere. He looked up as she came in the room, glanced at his watch and shook his head.

  “Well, well, this is a first. A late Kate.”

  Ignoring the remark, she laid her coffee on the gray steel desk that butted up against Roger’s, turned on the lamp, and booted her aging PC.

  Her phone rang. It was Janet, Gordon’s P.A.

  “The boss would like to see you and Roger in his office.”

  “When?

  “Now.”

  “Okay, we’re on our way.”

  “On our way where”, Roger asked.

  “Gordon’s office.”

  Roger led and Kate trailed behind sipping her coffee. Entering the small office, they sat side-by-side on the cold metal chairs facing Gordon’s desk.

  “Good morning. I hope you the two of you slept well, we have a lot to do. Couldn’t find either one of you ten minutes ago so I told Withers and Shirley Proctor I wanted them at the Coroner’s office by 9:00am.”

  “It’s only 7:50”, Kate said. “You were lucky you found anyone here.”

  “Don’t start, Kate. I’m splitting the two of you up this morning. Kate, you’re to interview....” he stopped speaking and shuffled his papers.

  Kate and Roger exchanged a quick glance.

  “Catherine Stone, the victim’s wife.”

  “Ok.”

  “Roger, you’re to meet with Henry Ward, the producer, at the crime scene. He’s putting the heat on already. Had the damn nerve to call the Chief and ask when they could expect get the theatre back? Smug little prick. Okay, that’s it. See you at the briefing.”

  Back in the office, fingers flying across the keyboard, Kate didn’t reach for the phone until the fifth ring.

  “Good morning, Kate. It’s Susan. We didn’t get a chance to speak the other night at the theatre and I know you must be busy so I won’t keep you long. Alexis and I couldn’t believe our eyes when we spotted you and Roger. Something nasty must have happened behind those curtains.

  Kate sighed. Susan hasn’t read her morning paper yet.

  “But not to worry, Kate, I didn’t call to snoop. Alexis and I are in town for three weeks to do some research for the Director of our small town theatre. That’s part of the reason we took in the play. We were hoping to go backstage on a fact finding mission. Given the circumstances, that didn’t happen. So we’re on to plan ‘b’ but that’s none of your concern. The reason I’m calling i
s to see if we can get together with you and Roger before we leave town.”

  “Nothing I’d like better, Susan, however, a get together is impossible for the immediate future. Roger and I are in middle of an investigation, and we’ll be lucky if we find time to eat. When it wraps, I’ll give you a call and maybe we can meet in Truro at the little Italian bistro you and Alexis are so fond of. Or is it the owner’s son you both so fond of? I’ll call as soon as I can.”

  “Good save, Kate”, Roger said. “As much as I love those two, we don’t need a repeat performance of the last time they interfered in a case. Let’s go, briefing starts in five minutes.”

  ***

  An hour later, in the police canteen, Roger bit into his jelly doughnut, red ooze dripping on his chin. Kate made a face between spoons of yogurt.

  “So, did Gordon’s wrap up homily, go troops, do me and the precinct proud, work the info and put the killer behind bars, inspire you”, Kate asked.

  “As much as black and white TV does. Sorry, forgot, you’re a big fan of the thing.”

  “Of black and white classic films, there’s a huge difference, Roger.”

  “Okay, sure.”

  “So, what was your take”, Kate asked.

  “You go first.”

  “We know the victim was a boy genius, a womanizer, made his mark in NYC, returned to his roots, was doing fine up until two weeks ago when he suddenly started having tantrums.”

  “Seems to be the consensus of the cast and crew.”

  “And the eerie laugh coming from off-stage that James Thompson heard at the time of the toast. Killer gloating behind the scenes, maybe?”

  “I don’t think so”, Roger said. I think this killer was on stage, front and centre. Wouldn’t want to miss the death scene.”

  “Withers gets the prize for the biggest surprise. According to him, Camira Paul, aka Maggie the Cat, is hiding something. He thinks she’s running scared. And according to June Grayson, my hairdresser by the way, Camira was ambivalent about the Director. She raved about his talent and ranted about his sex life. I think we should bring her in, apply a little pressure.”

  “Right, I’ll arrange it tomorrow, no time today.”

  “Keep me out of it, Camira’s cousin is a good friend of mine.”

  “Okay, I’ll ask Shirley to sit in.”

  Kate looked down the list of names.

  “This Brenda Parsons, what did you think of what she had to say to Withers?”

  “Stone’s protégé? Didn’t really say a lot, loyal to Stone, and no doubt worried about her future. Not that she needs the money. According to Shirley’s background check, she’s married to a Jim Parsons, an Engineer employed by none another than Eleanor Foster-Sutton’s ex, Donald Sutton. Small world, isn’t it?”

  “Not that small. I wonder if there’s a social connection between the six of them. Maybe we could ask Shirley to check it out.”

  “Yup, the woman doesn’t have enough to do. About the poison, it’s going to be damn near impossible to determine who put it in the bottle. On the night of the murder, it was full house, virtually everyone associated with the theatre had access to it. Victim’s fingerprints only on the bottle, naturally.

  “Maybe the bottle wasn’t put there on the evening of the play”, Kate said. “What about the night before? There would be less chance of being seen.”

  “You’ve got a point. According to the interviews, after the play closed, Ed was on stage getting the set read for the final night’s performance. He says no one came on stage and he was the last one to leave the building.”

  “The killer must have come in after that.”

  “Could have been anyone, Kate. According to what Ed said practically everyone in the company had their own key to the back entrance.”

  “Every case needs a challenge. So, if we start with the premise that the poison was placed in the bottle sometime after midnight and before 10:00am the next morning, we need to get onto the taxi drivers, the buses don’t run after midnight. Maybe one of the cabbies picked up a late night passenger near the theatre.”

  “I’ll ask one of the Incident Room team members to get on it.”

  “Once the lab report and autopsy results are in, we’ll have more to go on. Let’s hope we get them quickly.”

  “Come on Kate, you know we’ll have the reports whenever George is good and ready and not before. Our esteemed pathologist has only been married for three months so I’m guessing he’s more interested in working on live bodies.”

  “Funny. I’m off to interview Catherine. Good luck with Henry Ward.”

  The two partners checked into the precinct car pool together then went their separate ways.

  Chapter 3

  Kate’s friend, the Reverend Hanya George, Anglican Priest and part-time University lecturer, leaned back in her chair, propped her legs on the desk, and scowled at the picture of the 2008 Class of Theological students hanging on the wall. Darn trouble with office sharing, you can’t pick and choose the decor, she thought.

  Her scowl turned to a deep frown as her thoughts moved on to her meeting with Chris, her supervisor. She rehearsed varied conversations to use in her pitch for support for her student’s proposed outing.

  Easing her numb legs down from the desk, she stood, stretched and walked to the window, hoisted it high and breathed in the fall air. The crimson and orange colours of the oak leaves were breathtaking. Nothing but show offs, shamelessly flaunting their colours at the lone pine.

  The cool air began to turn her less than warm office colder so she closed the window and put on the kettle. Ten minutes later, she was seated again in the chair, sipping her tea, legs under the desk. Tea always helped to calm her. She had so many memories of her grandmother putting the kettle on whenever there was an upset.

  The ring of the phone interrupted her musings.

  “Hello Stone, how’s it going?”

  Only one person calls me by the Aboriginal meaning of my name.

  “It goes, Camira. What’s up?”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I saw something I wished I hadn’t and it’s got me spooked.”

  “What did you see?”

  “I can’t talk about it over the phone. Can you come over?”

  “I’m meeting with Chris, followed by two lectures back-to-back, one at the University Library and the other at the Reserve – brainstorming with ways the women’s group to organize the next election for a new Chief, female, I hope. Then it’s off to the council meeting in the city at 7:00pm. If it’s really important, I’ll cancel the council meeting.”

  “No, don’t cancel, it can wait until later. What time do you think you’d be here?”

  “By 10:00 at the latest.”

  “Hanya, please make sure you come. I don’t care how late it is.”

  “No worries, put the kettle on, I’ll be there.”

  Hanya was puzzled. It wasn’t typical of her cousin’s behaviour. They were close but both of them were both guarded their independence. She couldn’t remember the last time Camira sounded needy but she will always remember the first time she met her.

  She was standing on their grandmother’s doorstep clutching a torn, dirty, yellow Snow White backpack. Her parents had dropped her off and it was the last anyone saw of them – they never came back. At six years of age, the skinny, stringing hair kid with a bruised heart, moved into Hanya’s room and into her heart.

  Two cousins, whose grief over lost parents bonded them tighter than blood sisters. Hanya’s father had died when she was eight years old in a prison fight. Her mother died a month later of an overdose. At least I knew what happened to my parents. Camira never did. It was as if her parents had been wiped off the face of the earth.

  Their alliance born from pain never failed. It held thr
oughout their shared home life with their grandmother, on the school yard, and the drug saturated reserve. Maybe I should cancel tonight’s meeting. No, Camira said it could wait until after the meeting.

  She answered the knock at the door. John, one of her students, stood there, a goofy smile on his face, books in hand. She forgot she had penciled him in for 15 minutes.

  ***

  Roger sat behind the wheel of the unmarked car, pulled out his cell and punched in Randy’s number.

  “Yeah.”

  “Caught you napping didn’t I?”

  “For Christ sake’s Roger, what do you expect? The sun’s not even up yet.”

  “Oh yes it is, heading for mid-day as we speak. Wouldn’t think of disturbing you but I can’t make the race this afternoon. You know the one where my Mustang sucks your wreck up my tailpipe.”

  “Shit. We need the trial run to get ready for the big race. Don’t go backing out on me now.”

  “Aren’t you the princess this morning! I’m on a case.”

  “Yeah, well, that sucks, couldn’t happen at a better time. I don’t suppose someone can fill in for you?”

  “Are you kidding? Loan my baby to one of your seedy friends, not on a bet. No one sits behind that wheel except me.”

  “Okay. I’ll see if that useless brother-in-law of mine will drive the spare. Take it easy man, watch your back.”

  “Always.”

  One more call to make. He reached voice mail. Of course, she’s working the 7 am shift, morning rounds. He left a message. “Hey, Sara, listen, tonight’s not going to work. Sorry babe, we’ve got a hot, high profile case. Watch the evening news; you’ll see what I mean. Call when I can.”

  A disturbing realization hit him on the drive to the theatre. Cancelling his date with Sara was disappointing; cancelling the car race was devastating. No contest. The growl of the engines, screaming tires, lightning speed pit stops, crashes, near misses, the roar of the crowd, spiked an overwhelming, exhilarating, exhausting and glorious passion in his soul. A infatuation that was as strong today as it was back then when he was 15 years old and his father took him to Nascar.