Final Act

by Dianne Yetman

  “I’ll start”, said Alexis. “I’ve only known them for a very short time so I’ll be brief. I had read about Jeffrey’s brilliant career in our local theatrical magazine. I can’t say I was disappointed when I met him in person, as sometimes can happen when one meets a famous person. My observations are rather superficial as they are based on one meeting only, however, I found him to be charming, witty and a first rate conversationalist.”

  “Yes, the man had the gift of gab alright. Strange considering his background – a muted mother and garrulous father”, Susan said.

  Alexis ignored her remark.

  “I found Catherine charming as well but she possessed a more subdued personality.”

  “Spot on, Alexis.”

  Kate spoke before an angry Alexis could reply.

  “Thanks, Alexis. Okay, Susan, the floor’s yours.”

  “Catherine could have had a brilliant career. She joined the theatre group in University where she first met Jeffrey and, believe me, she was magnetic, dynamic, on and off the stage. All eyes were drawn to her. After university, she and Jeffrey went to New York City. Her star rose first. She was in demand; the famous critic, I can’t remember his name now, hung out with the chic crowd. He did a wonderful write up on Catherine in New York’s leading paper, and alluded to another Bernhardt. After she married, she became more selective about her roles and was seen less and less on stage. When she became pregnant with her first child she quit, never went on stage again. A damn shame because she was a first class talent.”

  “Would you say they were a happy couple?”

  “I don’t know. I would be invited to dinner whenever I happened to be in New York but those were formal occasions and, of course, everything was very polite, upbeat. Catherine and I weren’t as close as we used to be. I suspect Jeffrey kept her on a tight leash. Her focus had certainly changed. She was quiet, more subdued.”

  “Do you have any idea why they came back to Canada?”

  “Not really. I found it very odd they had left New York. Neither of them said anything more specific other than getting back to their roots. It couldn’t have been a good thing that made them leave. Do you think it has anything to do with why he was murdered?”

  “Hard to say. It’s early days yet, but every bit helps. So, what are you two researching in the big city?”

  “Mary Jane Kempner, a good friend of ours and Director of our small playhouse, has written a play and offered Alexis and I the two leading roles. Rehearsals are due to start next month. Neither one of us have any experience so we’re meeting with Eleanor, no doubt you’ve met her, she worked closely with Jeffrey – set and costume design – to discuss acting coaches.”

  “Not exactly research, is it? More like prep work but I think you two will be wonderful on stage with all your powers of suggestion.” Kate looked at her watch. “Gotta go, meeting with Roger. Thanks for the information. Good luck.”

  Kate was at the door when she heard Susan’s powerful voice.

  “Give sexy Roger our best.”

  Chapter 5

  The relentless, loud voices in the precinct’s cafeteria beat steadily against Kate’s ears. She took a sip of water, leaned across the cafeteria table and shouted.

  “Had enough of this noise, let’s finish our conversation at Chives. What do you say?”

  Roger pushed the cup of thick, black coffee aside. “Good idea. I could use a brisk walk in the fresh air, a cold draft of beer and decent food. Let’s go.”

  Once they were settled in the back corner of the Bistro, they continued the conversation where they left off.

  “There was friction between Ward and Stone, I remember Withers saying something about overheard shouting matches, but what I witnessed between Andrew and Henry when I got to the theatre was scary.”

  “Ward reminds me of one of those sly cartoon characters who slinks behind the scenes and rubs its hands together when discovering the down and dirties. I wouldn’t put a spot of blackmail past him, or if cornered, something more drastic. Any idea what the argument was about?”

  “None, but I’m going to do some more digging. Somebody in the company must know something.”

  Their conversation ceased when the waiter placed the colourful fall beet, orange and apple salad in front of Kate and the hardier antipasto salad with salami, pepperoni, Asiago cheese, tomatoes, with oregano, parsley and parmesan whipped in balsamic vinegar and oil in front of Roger. They tucked into their food, shared the basket of warm sourdough bread and finished with Costa Rica Shade Grown Organic coffee. Both gave dessert a miss.

  “Catherine’s fainting spell bothers me. She used to be an actress so I’m not sure it was genuine. She became agitated when I mentioned the Production team, I think she knows something. She’s a repressed woman and you know what can happen with repressed personalities. I’m going to pick up with her where I left off as soon as possible. Maybe drop by this evening.”

  Kate’s cell rang. It was her brother. Damn, she forgot to cancel.

  “I heard you were seen trolling the neighbourhood in a Ford sedan? Tell me it’s not true.”

  “Can’t do that, James.”

  “Unfortunate. Mom’s in the kitchen cooking up a Mexican storm and asked me to give you a call to see if you would be joining us?”

  “Give her my regrets. I don’t know when I’ll be free, I’m on a case. I was going to drop in earlier this morning to let her know but no one was home.”

  “A case, okay, that explains the Ford. You’ll be missed. Take care.”

  Kate and Roger strolled back to the precinct where they spent the rest of the day and the best part of the evening writing reports, doing background checks, and scheduling appointments.

  ***

  Camira went to the kitchen and took down her favourite mug, filled the kettle and began to make tea. Standing on the stool in the pantry, she took down the one possession she had of her mother’s – a white, china teapot, with a thin worn circle of gold on the lid and spout. She reserved its use for special occasions only.

  Surely being terrified qualifies as a special occasion, she thought, as she poured boiling water in the teapot. She glanced at her watch. Hanya should soon be here. She reached in the cupboard for her cousin’s favourite mug. It was a large white one with an eagle emblazed on one side and on the other, ‘women chiefs can heal your griefs’, in bold script. She took her own cup of brewed tea into the living room and sat in the leather recliner.

  It was her favourite room, her bedroom coming in a close second. Black leather sofa, side chairs, recliner and ottoman stood in stark contrast to the white accent pieces; the pictures on the wall were black and white prints framed with black or white painted wood. Hanya once asked her why she chose not to add another colour to her cozy nest.

  Her reply was simple.

  After career in modelling followed by one in the theatre, I need the relief of starkness.”

  As she reached for the TV remote, she thought of the question the tall, good looking Police Sergeant had asked her – did you notice anything different on the night before the Director’s murder?

  The question conjured up the image of the dark figure getting into the cab. She had left the theatre after the performance to meet John, her modelling agent. He was down from Toronto and they made plans to get together after the performance. She was looking forward to being brought up to date on the modelling and entertainment world. No one could deliver more scandalous, witty gossip better than John.

  And, she wanted to share her good news with him. She had been offered the role of Maggie the Cat in an American PBS production. They had sat together talking about their futures over a bottle of champagne until well after midnight.

  The root of her terror began innocently enough, outside the restaurant, on the sidewalk. Waving goodbye to John, and heading for her car, her eye caught a sudden movement to h
er right. Turning her head, she saw a dark figure, ten feet in front of her, emerging from the alleyway leading from the theatre. She watched the shadowy figure cross the street to a parked cab. The stance and walk of the person seemed familiar but she couldn’t put a name to the body.

  That coat, that god-awful coat. Dark, shapeless, made it impossible to determine if it was a man or a woman.

  She had yelled hello and waved as the person was leaning into the cab. At the sound of her hello, the person stood, lifted the hood of the jacket over the top of his or her head, turned and stared at her.

  She couldn’t see the face. The figure stared with the intensity of burning logs for what seemed forever. Not one word was spoken. And then, swiftly, with the precision of a retracting switchblade, the dark figured turned and got into the cab. She didn’t think anymore about it until last night, until the detective asked his question.

  In an effort to remain calm, she told herself the figure that came out of the alleyway had been a drunk who pissed on the alley wall. The lie wouldn’t stick. The walk across the street wasn’t the walk of a drunk. She spent a restless night, brooded over breakfast, and then it came to her. She knew that stance. She knew who it was. No one would believe her, she couldn’t prove anything, but she sensed she was in danger and called Hanya.

  She aimed the remote at the huge black and white print of the Eiffel Tower. The frame moved silently across the metal tracking to reveal a flat screen TV. She had turned on the 24 hours news when heard the doorbell. She laid the tea on the side table, walked down the hallway with a lighter heart, and opened the door.

  ***

  Hanya, standing outside Camira’s door, was puzzled by the lack of response to the door bell or her loud pounding.

  I don’t believe this, she’s not at home. Why would she go out? She knew I was coming over.

  Indulging her hurt feelings, she turned and stomped towards the elevator but stopped short of pressing the down button. Reason had won out over emotions.

  No, she wouldn’t have gone out. She’s taken something to calm herself down and is sleeping.

  She pulled her cell phone out of her purse and dialled Camira’s number. Her answering machine clicked on after four rings.

  Now what? I’m not leaving until I know she’s in there.

  She got on the elevator, pressed the second floor button. A few minutes later she walked down the floor corridor reading the apartment numbers and stopped outside 211.

  This is where Jimmy Creighton, the building’s super, lives. I’m certain this is where I came when Camira’s apartment had started to flood.

  While she waited for someone to answer the door, she thought about the night of the flood. They were just about to sit down to dinner when they noticed water lapping its way from the kitchen to the dining room table. They followed the water trail back to the broken pipe under the kitchen sink. Camira had tried to reach Jimmy, the Super, on the phone but there was no answer.

  “The deaf, lazy sod is lying on the sofa again with the volume cranked on the TV. Would you mind pounding on his door, Hanya, it’s Apt. 211, while I start mopping?”

  And that was how she first encountered Jimmy. Leaning once more on his bell, she wondered if there was a building regulation that doesn’t allow anyone to open their doors after 9:00pm. She jabbed the bell again. Forty seconds later, Jimmy stood in the doorway wearing a faded red t-shirt and plaid pyjama bottoms.

  “Well, hello Rev. Hanya,” he said. “What can I do for you at this time of night?”

  “I’ve been pounding on my cousin’s door and ringing her phone for the last ten minutes but there’s no answer. I’m worried; she knew I was coming to see her. I need to know she’s okay. Would you please let me in the apartment?

  “I can’t be letting you in just because you think she should be home. I gotta respect the tenants’ privacy.”

  “I understand what you’re saying but if you let me in, believe me, Camira isn’t going to complain. And if you don’t let me in, then I’ll have to go higher up the authority chain, understand?”

  She watched the battle of indecision on his face and said nothing. “Okay Reverend. I’ll just change and grab the key. Won’t be a minute.”

  No invitation to wait inside, but then that’s probably a good thing.

  He emerged dressed in torn jeans and a dirty t-shirt, mumbled all the way up in the elevator about how he shouldn’t be doing this and it would be on her head if Camira freaked out.

  “I mean there are all kinds of things she could be doing in there Reverend, if you know what I mean.”

  “I get your meaning; just open the door Jimmy and then you can go back to bed.”

  Jimmy did just that, not bothering to say good night.

  Hanya walked down the hallway into the living room. The TV was muted but not turned off. She saw Camira’s half filled cup of tea sitting on the small table by the recliner, bent down and still warm. Wondering what would have made her cousin so quickly skip out on her, Hanya decided to use the facilities, buzz home and have a firm word with Camira in the morning. As she headed towards the bathroom, she noticed light spilling on the carpet from beneath the closed door of the master bedroom. She knocked on the closed door and called her name.

  No response. She opened the door and breathed a sigh of relief. Camira was lying on top of the bed, sound asleep. She took a step closer.

  Just like I thought, she’s taken some sleeping pills; no waking her now. Even in her sleep, she looks like she’s posing for a photo shoot in that white silk negligee, trimmed in black lace, and spread out around her long lean body; her long dark hair splayed across the pillow. Maggie the Cat patiently waiting for her Rick to come home.

  Picking up the blanket at the bottom of the bed, she went to cover her. That’s when she saw the empty syringe laying next to her cousin’s outstretched arm. Fear and dread squeezed Hanya’s heart and rooted her to the spot. She wasn’t sure how long she had stood there before feeling for a pulse. None. Her body, like the teacup, was still warm to the touch.

  Hanya made the sign of the cross, said prayers over the body, called 911 and, breaking all rules, laid next to her cousin, her arm encircling her waist; tears running down her cheeks.

  Chapter 6

  “What time does the meeting start?”

  “Not soon enough”, Kate said.

  “So you don’t know either.”

  “I’m not your bloody time keeper, Roger.”

  “Shit, Kate, did a stray panther piss in your purse?”

  “Ok. Thirty minutes.”

  Kate threw him the evil eye but he wasn’t looking. She opened the desk drawer and took out a handful of jelly beans. I hate this room. It’s like being in kindergarten, two desks butted up against each other, two students, without the benefit of a teacher referee, sniping at each other.

  “Glare at your damned computer, not me.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Your left eye is starting to twitch.”

  “They’ll be more than my eye twitching if we have to spend months in here.”

  “Methinks I see paid stress leave and mountains of sympathy coming your way because of all the ticks and tremors that will spread over your body. End of the love life. Wait a minute, big mistake; you don’t have a love life.”

  The truth hit her. She was slipping away from friends and colleagues like melting butter. Alexis and Susan had more joie de vivre in their menopause minds and bodies than she did in her ‘finely tuned ones’. Worse case disaster, she was heading for disaster, least case, heading for a crash. Her gut told her it was more than relationship problems. Her phone call cancelling the weekend didn’t go over well with David and the conversation had turned into pissing contest with neither side winning. The last thing she heard was a dial tone.

  “Sorry for my shitty mood, I had trouble sleeping last nig
ht.”

  “For Christ’s sake, you call that a shitty mood; its foreplay where I come from. You know Kate, it mightn’t be a bad idea to drop the morning run and take up yoga.”

  A knock on the door cut Kate’s response.

  “Time to go, folks”, Shirley said.

  ***

  Gordon nodded grunted a good morning to the team members assembled around the conference table. Kate and Roger exchanged a glance at the look on his face. Whatever was on the table, it wasn’t going to be good.

  “Glad you’re all sitting down cause if you weren’t the news I have to tell you would knock you down. Two detectives from our Bedford precinct were called to an apartment in Pine Crest Hills around 10:00pm. They were met by a woman who led them into a bedroom where a young female body lay dead on the bed.”

  “What’s that got to do with us? It’s not even in our jurisdiction.”

  “Showing off your law school smarts, again Kate? Of course it’s not. Can you refrain from questions until I finish. The two officers thought it looked like a simple case of a drug overdose but bless their brains; they erred on the side of caution and treated it as a crime scene. The deceased is Camira Paul, one of the actors we interviewed yesterday.”

  “Camira? Murdered?

  “Like I said, Kate, no one’s sure yet if it is murder. But yes, the deceased is Camira.”

  Kate, too stunned to speak, lowered her head and thought of Hanya.

  “When the Officer in Charge of Bedford’s substation was briefed by his constables this morning, he made the theatre connection and sent me the info. It’s early times yet but I’d bet a share of my pension her death is related to Jeffrey Stone’s. An empty syringe was found by the body.”