When he got back home, he begged, pleaded, grovelled before his parents, offering to mow lawns, wash cars, clean bathrooms, weed flower beds, give up Christmas gifts, if they would spring for the 64 Chevy one of buddies had for sale.
Nagging day and night until they folded and for the next two years he spent his free time breaking down and rebuilding the car in the family garage. Passion for girls came second and, still does.
Pulling into the empty parking spot across the street from the theatre, he walked towards the glass door entrance, saw two men, toe to toe, their yells reaching his ears. He moved fast and in seconds was inside the building.
“Hey, you two, cool it before someone gets hurt.”
Henry and Andrew each took a step back, both breathing hard.
“What the hell is going on?”
Andrew spoke first. Henry still hadn’t caught his breath.
“Everything’s cool. We got heated over nothing. Isn’t that right, Henry?”
Henry nodded. “A dispute over the next production, that’s all.”
“Yeah”, Andrew said. “I’m out of here. We’ll talk later, Henry.”
Roger watched Andrew cross the street and get into his car. Henry locked the door and motioned for Roger to follow him.
“Sorry about that. Arguments are par for the course in this business. Nothing serious, it’ll blow over.”
Would hate to see a serious one, Roger thought, but he said nothing, filed it away for now. Ward unlocked the door of the Director’s office, seated himself behind the desk and pointed to the chair facing him.
Roger recognized a power move when he saw one. He put the tape recorder on the desk, stepped back, leaned against the filing cabinet, his legs crossed at the ankles, hands in his pockets.
“I’ll stand if you don’t mind.”
Ward’s face said he minded.
“I assume you know why I’m here, Mr. Ward.”
“Yes, of course. You guys couldn’t get to question me yesterday because you chose to go in alphabetical order and ran out of time. So, ask away.”
“Apparently, you and the deceased worked closely together over the past few years. Like to fill me in on your impressions?”
“Yes. I met Jeffrey when he was appointed Director of the rep group two or three years ago. I was already established – I come from a long line of actors and producers, my mother rehearsed her lines while breast feeding me. I’ve been Production manager slash producer for the past nine years. Earned my reputation and kudos at the Neptune Theatre but always like the underdog so came to this one five years ago.
“How did you get along with the new Director?”
“Fine. He was a gifted man, we were lucky to have him. He was easier in the first couple of years. The man had no limits. He worked tirelessly with the production teams and actors to create performances that connected with the audience.”
“So, his star rose without a hitch?”
“No, not really. He had a weakness, a soft spot. It was his inability to take into account the budgetary and physical constraints of production. That’s where I came in; it’s my area of expertise. We worked well together.”
“Do you know why he relocated to Halifax at the height of his career?”
“I’m not sure. There were rumours of course.”
“What kind of rumours?”
“Women problems - young women problems - very young women problems.”
“Are we talking pedophile, Ward?”
“Let me put it this way. He sailed his boat close to the shore, close enough to scrape some paint but not enough to sink it.”
“Did he launch his sailboat in New York waters as well?”
Ward shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows? I didn’t hear anything.”
“Was your recent working relationship with Stone going well?”
“Not as well as it had in the past. I never knew what to expect from him, one minute he was friendly, the next he was biting my head off at the third vertebrae.”
“Any idea what was going on?”
“I think his marriage was in trouble. Catherine had always stood behind Jeffrey but maybe she had had enough. The woman certainly deserved better.”
“You never thought of relocating to New York? You have an excellent reputation.”
“No, of course not. My work was well respected. I don’t need fame and my finances are okay. I’m not an ambitious man.”
Roger wasn’t buying it but decided now wasn’t the time for a challenge.
“Was Jeffrey afraid of anyone?”
“Yes, I believe he was but I have no idea who it might have been. He was a complex man. Kept his problems to himself. But yes, he was afraid.”
Henry talked about the difficulties of putting on a production, the roles of the Director and his responsibilities for the next ten minutes.
“One more question. You say you knew how to handle Stone’s tantrums and things went pretty smoothly between you. Funny, it’s not what some people in the production told my colleagues. They said they heard quite a few shouting matches between the two of you. Is that true?”
Ward shoved his hands in his pockets. His eyes swerved right to the window.
His hands are either trembling or clutched. Ten dollars on clutched.
“I know where those remarks came from and I can’t believe the police would take what a puffed up, overweight, whiskey bloated, so-called southern belle, has to say. Or was that poker up the ass dried up fig of a set designer spreading her poison?”
“Just answer the question.”
“I already have. Jeffrey and I got along fine. There were no problems.”
Roger turned off the machine. He found Ward’s remark as believable as finding lobsters in a fresh water lake but once again, he let it go.
Chapter 4
Something in Susan’s tone of voice caught Alexis’ attention. Standing directly across from her, back to the windows overlooking the park, the phone to her right ear, Susan had became quiet, stood as still as a heron resting in water. She had hung up.
“That was Nora Jamieson.”
“Nora? Catherine Stone’s sister? Haven’t seen her since the charity bazaar she co-chaired with her sister. That was two years ago now. A charming woman, much more open, warmer than Catherine. ”
“Yes, she is certainly that. If I remember rightly, Alexis, you were a tad warmer at the Bazaar as well. The result of too much punch and flirting with Charles, who’s gay, what a hoot.”
“I recall, Susan. No need to keep speaking of it. So what’s up with Nora? Is she putting on another fund raising event?”
Susan’s face darkened. “I wish. Terrible news, Alexis. The accident at the theatre last night; it was as we thought, it was murder. Jeffrey Stone has been murdered. To think while we sat and speculated about what happened, he lay dead behind that closed curtain. That’s the case Kate and Roger are working. She didn’t say anything but it has to be. The one morning I gave the paper a miss.”
“How horrid.”
“Nora asked if we would pay Catherine a visit this afternoon.”
“So soon?”
“I know; it surprised me as well, but Nora insisted. To quote, ‘Catherine needs her friends around her. The children aren’t expected home until tomorrow.’ Actually, I think both sisters could benefit from a visit.”
“Yes, of course. When do you want to go?”
“I said we’d be there around 1:00pm.”
“Strange, Susan, the two of us attending the play; Kate and Roger at the scene of another murder. What a coincidence.”
“I believe it’s more than a coincidence that we keep bumping into each other whenever there’s a murder.”
Alexis didn’t like the sound of this. “I hope you are not seriously thinking of getting involved. If s
o, I’m out of here. Fancying yourself as a private detective is ridiculous.”
“Detective? What on earth do you mean, Alexis? I’m simply an observer.”
“Detective is the right word, the word that led us both into trouble two years ago. So dump the Marple/Pollifax image. I mean it, Susan, lose it.”
“For God’s sake Alexis, don’t let one little remark ruffle your feathers. I was thinking about the nature of coincidence, that’s all. I have no intention of offering our services – as if Kate would accept! I do feel terrible for Catherine. I know what it’s like to lose a husband although I can’t imagine the horror of losing one by murder.”
***
Kate had no problems locating Catherine Stone’s home. It was two blocks around the corner from where she grew up. She drove the unmarked Ford sedan past her homestead and was surprised at jab of disappointment at the sight of the empty driveway. She waved to Ruth Jamieson, her family’s life-long next door neighbour, who, with trowel in hand, was walking towards her perennial bed.
Mom’s probably off to one of her speaking engagements and Dad, of course, is with his cigar smoking cronies at the once a month cholesterol packed breakfast. She was scheduled to meet with them this evening for a family dinner party and made a mental note to call and give her regrets once she parked the car.
As she drove past the sweeping manicured lawns, wrought iron gates, Victorian and Early Colonial mansions, she remembered growing up and playing in what was a much less populated neighbourhood then – although the area was the last one in the city where people could still buy a home built on a three acre property.
She turned right at the end of the street, drove two blocks and turned left on Mullen Drive. If she had forgotten the street address, it wouldn’t have mattered, the small group of media and journalists gathered in front of the large mansion would have been a clue.
Unlike the majority of her colleagues, Kate didn’t have a problem with the media or journalists. Granted there were the sleaze balls but those types are found in every profession. She respected the good ones; the ones who reported responsibly, protected their sources, valued their readers’ opinions.
She had never experienced a problem with any of them but then again, her father and his family have owned and operated the city’s largest newspaper for two generations. She parked the car, walked past the group, smiled and waved. Some smiled back, some nodded, said hello, others ignored her.
She pushed the bell. No one came. She lifted her hand to ring again when the door opened. A tall, angular woman, dressed in ivory silk pants, a black silk blouse, ivory coloured heels, with mint green jewellery and matching scarf, extended her hand.
“You must be Detective Sgt. Fraser. I’m Nora Jamieson, Catherine’s sister. Please come in.”
Kate stepped into the large, marble foyer.
“Catherine is in the library. If you’ll just follow me.”
Spoken like the humble servant rather than the sister, Kate thought.
She followed Nora down the cavernous hallway, stopping behind her at the door the right. Nora gave a quiet knock before entering into the library. Kate maintained her discreet distance from Nora, taking the time to gaze around the library.
The room was exquisite with its built in cherry wood cabinets displaying books, blueprints and maps, the overstuffed leather couches and chairs, and the floor to ceiling French Doors draped in velvets and silk. Directly across from the entrance to the room stood a red brick fireplace that commanded attention; it was twice as wide as it was long and family photos were scattered across length of its mantle. From the hearth, the tang of low burning apple wood filled Kate’s senses with nostalgic memories of Christmas, roasted chestnuts and presents.
Catherine sat in one of a pair of wing chairs placed adjacent to the fireplace. Kate advanced quickly before the woman rose, introduced herself and offered her condolences. The widow invited her to sit in the other wing chair and turned to speak with her sister. Kate studied Catherine’s profile. She was subdued rather passive looking; her features, like her sister’s, were sharp, angular, the high cheek bones emphasizing her deep set eyes. As she spoke to Nora, her long, slender hands swept through her coiffed blonde hair as if searching for stray strands. She wore a simply cut black dress, black shoes with wedged heels, pearl earrings and a pearl necklace.
The woman doesn’t shout conservative, Kate thought, she screams its. Another perfect image of a woman fast frozen in the 50’s - dutiful wife, dutiful mother, and dutiful hostess. Where has she seen that 50’s look recently? Then she remembered where she had seen the resemblance. Eleanor, the company’s set designer, in her navy blue and whites.
Kate accepted Nora’s offer of tea.
“You have a beautiful home. How long have you lived here?”
“Thank you. I’m glad you like it. I enjoyed working with Antoine; have you seen his work on the interior of the Art Museum? Brilliant. We’ve lived here for a little over three years now. Jeffrey loves, loved it, as well. We were both sorry to have to leave it.”
“I understand you were moving back to New York.”
“Yes. Walter Thomas, you may have heard of him, he was behind all those Shakespeare dramas in the 80’s, made Jeffrey an offer her couldn’t refuse. He deserved the honour, he’s, ah, he was, a very talented Director.”
“I understand you were an actor at one time.”
A hint of a smile. “Yes, many years ago. Once we started our family, I retired from the theatre. It was no contest. I’m a homemaker at heart.”
“How many children do you have?”
“Two, Edward and Sarina. They’re both on their own now. Sarina’s studying art design in Paris. Edward is working for an engineering firm in Minnesota. I’m expecting them home sometime tomorrow.”
Nora entered the library and placed the tray filled with a silver tea pot, delicate, paper thin, china teacups with matching side plates, tiny crystal milk and sugar containers and delicious looking sandwiches, on the table between the sofa and wing chairs.
Twenty minutes or longer, Kate guessed, had passed as the three women busied themselves with tea, sandwiches and polite conversation before Nora, gathering up everything, excused herself and left them alone.
“In what way may I assist you”, Catherine asked.
“I know this will not be easy for you”, Kate said, “but we need to gather as much information about Jeffrey as we can and anything you may be able to tell us about him will help. Can you think of anyone who would want to harm your husband?”
Her hand reached for the non-existent stray hair again. “No, I can’t.”
“He had no enemies?”
“Not what I would call enemies. There were those of course who were jealous of his talent but I can’t imagine they hated him enough to kill him.”
“Did you have anyone specific in mind when you mentioned jealousy?”
“No, not really. People involved in the theatre have the reputation, totally unmerited, of being jealous, vindictive, and bitchy. They don’t throw tantrums and they don’t murder their Directors.”
“Someone murdered your husband. If you don’t think it was anyone in the cast or crew of the company, do you think he could have been the target of someone on the production team, someone looking to take over the reins?”
Catherine began to shake and tears filled the deep set eyes. “I’m well aware of that”, she said. Standing, she advanced towards the fireplace, her body swaying back and forth. Kate managed to catch her before she hit the floor.
Easing her into the chair, she grabbed Kleenex from the end table and wiped the beads of perspiration from Catherine’s brow.
“There’s a button on the side of the desk. It will summon Nora”, Catherine said.
Once Nora returned, Kate helped her take Catherine up to her bedroom, said her good-byes and left. Quite a dramatic wa
y to end an interview, Kate thought, but effective one. It’s over, for today.
When she stepped outside, she was surprised to see the media had left and more than surprised to see Susan and Alexis approaching the house.
Both women advanced towards her with outstretched arms. Caught in a mist of honeysuckle and rose scents, a tangle of soft hands patting her back, head and face, she ceased struggling and let the embraces happen.
“You were the last one we were expecting to see”, Susan said. “But given the circumstances of Jeffrey’s death, it’s no surprise.”
“So you two knew Jeffrey?”
“Yes. Alexis met Catherine and Jeffrey two years ago at a charity bazaar. I’ve known them much longer. Catherine and I have been friends since high school days; I went to their wedding in New York. How is she doing?”
“Not too well. I’m afraid if you’re here for a visit, you’re out of luck. She’s had some sort of nervous collapse; Nora’s has settled her in bed and called the family doctor.”
“She was fine a couple of hours ago when Nora invited us over. Did she collapse before or after your interview?”
Kate laughed. “Haven’t changed any, have you Susan. Listen, I have a few minutes to spare. How about the three of us grab some java at Cafe Italia?”
“Wonderful idea. We’ll follow you in our car.”
Fifteen minutes later, the three women, balanced on the high, red leather stools surrounding the scarred, wooden circular table, sat sipping their Java Monsters – half the caffeine of regular coffee with twice the boost – in three different flavours – Big Black, Loca Mocha, and Mean Bean.
“Well, friends, in the interest of time, let’s forget small talk. I’d rather hear what you know about Jeffrey and Catherine Stone?”
Final Act Page 7
