Offed Stage Left

by Joanne Sydney Lessner

  “Please answer the question.”

  “I think diligently is a more accurate word. I was learning the role because that’s what I was contracted to do. I can’t help how it was perceived. And,” she added, “it’s a good thing I did, since I’ve had to take over.”

  Dillon turned his hawk-like eyes on her. “That’s the problem, you see. In the strictest terms, you’re the person who most obviously benefits from Arden’s death.”

  Isobel folded her arms. “Have you seen the show?”

  “Not yet,” he admitted.

  “Come tomorrow and see if you think this role is worth killing for.”

  Dillon cleared his throat. “Taking over the role enabled you to join the actors’ union, which I understand can be hard to manage so early in one’s career.”

  “Yes, and it was a difficult decision. I almost turned it down. Ask Felicity.”

  “She mentioned something of the sort. But let’s be honest here.” He leaned forward and his tie caught on a jag in the Formica, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Wasn’t that for show? You never had any intention of passing up an opportunity like that.”

  “I thought long and hard about it. I have exactly one other professional role on my resume, and it’s an operetta in summer stock. Other than that, it’s all college stuff. Now that I’ve shut myself out of non-union work, I’ll probably languish in a stultifying array of offices slowly temping myself to death, while others of my type and talent level are cleaning up in non-Equity productions and preparing their resumes for the moment when lightning strikes and God bursts through the heavens to smite them with their union cards.”

  Dillon’s eyes hardened. “Don’t mock me, Ms. Spice.”

  “I’m not. I’m absolutely serious. Time will tell whether or not I made the right decision. The point I’m trying to make is that I very nearly made a different one.”

  He held her gaze a moment, then glanced down at his notebook. “You didn’t get sick from the coffee the other night?”

  “I poured a cup and then—” She blushed at the memory. “Hugh and I got distracted and I never drank it.”

  “Hugh Fremont. The musical director?”

  “Yes. We’re dating.”

  “Why would you sabotage the orchestra parts if it made more work for your boyfriend?” Dillon asked smoothly.

  “Points for the segue,” she conceded. “But I didn’t. In fact, I helped fix them.”

  “A classic cover-up,” Dillon said offhandedly. “And you also brought down the backstage curtain on Arden.”

  “It’s called masking, and that was an accident, pure and simple,” Isobel said, making a conscious effort to control her temper. She didn’t want him to see that he was getting to her. It was one thing for her fellow actors to suspect her, but another thing when it was a cop. “Besides, I thought Arden didn’t smoke.”

  “She didn’t.” Dillon leaned back.

  His chair creaked comfortably without threatening to tip, which annoyed Isobel further. She felt better when she heard his tie rip a little as the movement tore it free from the jag in the Formica.

  “It would be difficult to get a fatal dose of nicotine from smoking,” Dillon continued. “We’re talking about pure nicotine in concentrated form. Most likely administered in something she ate or drank. Did you happen to notice if she ingested anything right before she went onstage?”

  Isobel was tempted to ask if he was finished accusing her and she was officially only a witness, but she refrained.

  “Not that I observed.”

  “And you’d have been watching her closely, right?”

  Nope, still being accused, she thought.

  “Not backstage. I was only interested in what Arden was doing onstage. That’s the job for which I was hired.”

  “Once it hits the stomach or the bloodstream, concentrated nicotine acts quickly on the nervous system.” Dillon took the opportunity to examine the damage to his tie. “We’re looking at the twenty minutes before she collapsed, tops. Did she drink from a bottle of water? Suck on a cough drop?”

  “We all keep water in the wings,” Isobel said. “I’m sure she drank some at some point.”

  “Do you label your bottles?”

  “Sometimes, but not always.”

  “So, if most of the bottles are unlabeled, it’s hard to tell whose is whose?”

  “Right. You keep track of your own. Nobody’s paying attention to anyone else’s.” She gave a dismissive wave. “But those bottles are long gone anyway. Either recycled or taken home, rinsed, and refilled, and nobody else has dropped dead. I don’t think you’ll find much joy there.”

  “Can you think of someone other than yourself who might have wanted to kill Arden?”

  Isobel flashed Dillon her sweetest smile. “Let’s be very clear about something. I did not want to kill Arden. And let me go one step further. I will probably figure out who did before you do.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Obviously, you’re not much of a detective if you don’t know who I am.” Isobel was vaguely aware of an out-of-body iteration of herself hovering somewhere over her shoulder urging her to shut up, but she sped on. “I’ve worked with the New York City Police Department on three separate occasions, investigating murders that took place in my presence. In all three cases, I led them to the killer, having figured it out before they did. Don’t be surprised if the same thing happens here.”

  Dillon took a moment to frame his response. “If you have any information about who killed Arden, you are obliged to turn it over to the police. Otherwise, you are withholding evidence, which makes you an accessory after the fact.”

  “Oh, I understand that. It’s just that in the past, the police weren’t particularly interested in what I had to say. But I’m happy to work with you, if you’re willing to work with me.” She saw him hesitate. “See? You haven’t made up your mind yet whether or not you can trust me, since you’ve already predetermined—based on hearsay from an artistic director who got it from a bunch of jealous actors—that I killed Arden.”

  Dillon thrummed his fingers on the conference table. “You’ve been involved in three other murder investigations? Seems to me you’re the common thread.”

  “I’d say you’re right, except that they all led to convictions of people who weren’t me.” She leaned forward. “Considering all the sabotage that’s gone on of late, here’s the question you should be asking: who wants to keep the show from succeeding? By your own reasoning, it’s not me, since as you pointed out, I’ve now got my Equity card. Goal achieved, level complete. I submit to you that Arden’s death was a means, not an end.”

  “There are no plans to shut down the production at the moment, so not a very successful means, if you’re right,” Dillon said.

  “Agreed.” Isobel took the bold step of standing up, even though she had not been dismissed. “Look, as a show of good faith, I’ll give you a few hints to get you started in the right direction. Talk to Geoff Brown, who wrote an original score that Jethro Hamilton chucked last summer and who was supposed to be the musical director. He wasn’t in the house tonight, and I’m guessing he’s not even on Sergeant Pemberthy’s list, since he’s not officially involved in this production. Look to the several women connected to the show that he dated, and don’t forget Oliver, his brother, who stayed on as assistant musical director. Then there’s the animosity between Ezra and Jethro, who have starkly different visions for the show. And finally, you might ask yourself who tipped off the New York Post’s theater columnist that the show was going to be a disaster, and what have they told him that prompted him to reserve seats through the weekend? Also, who invited New York producers, and why didn’t they show? There. That should keep you busy for a while.”

  Dillon’s jaw hung open in astonishment. Trying to conceal her satisfaction, Isobel continued, “This isn’t going to end until you or Felicity shut down the show. And here’s how I know. Even though Arden is dead, somebody took the trouble to h
ide the stage manager’s book tonight, which almost caused the performance to be canceled. So let me put it to you this way: you got ninety-nine suspects, but this bitch ain’t one. Can I go now?”

  TWENTY-TWO

  DELPHI CLAPPED HER HAND over her mouth. “You did not!”

  “You quoted Jay-Z at the cop?” Sunil threw his head back and roared with laughter.

  “Paraphrased, but yeah.” Isobel pushed open the theater door and shivered in the cold air. It was well past midnight. Delphi and Sunil had been questioned also, while Isobel and Hugh, whose interview was scheduled for the next day, had waited for them in the lobby. They started down the street toward the condo, which was five blocks away.

  “Only you, Isobel,” Delphi said, linking arms with her.

  Hugh trotted to keep up with them. “You might have made an enemy.”

  “Dear Hugh, ever my protector,” Isobel said with a laugh. She squeezed his hand and was surprised when he drew back.

  “I’m serious. I’m sure you were enjoying yourself immensely, but perhaps a little restraint was in order, under the circumstances?”

  “I restrained myself as much as I could, considering he accused me outright of killing Arden.”

  “I’m sure he doesn’t really think you did. He was just pushing your buttons,” Hugh said.

  “Yeah, and she beeped, loud and clear,” Sunil said.

  “My interview was quick, in and out,” Delphi said. “I had my train receipt and the receipt from the cab, and they confirmed with Miriam in the box office that I was in the audience. Even though, as Dillon pointed out, I also benefited from Arden’s death.”

  “He certainly seems fixated on that,” Sunil said.

  “He was forced to admit that in my case it was a stretch, and he let me go with a warning to watch my back,” Delphi said.

  “He must be warning you against me,” Isobel said. “Guess I didn’t convince him.”

  “Oh, and Kelly told me that once Arden’s stuff is packed up, I can take her room.”

  “Don’t leave me!” Isobel clutched her melodramatically.

  “I won’t. At least not right away. I don’t mind my little pallet on the floor, or I can take the couch. Truth is, I’m not hankering to move into the other condo. I don’t know those people at all, and what if one of them is a murderer?”

  “Dillon isn’t wrong that unless it’s a crime of passion, the killer is usually someone who benefits from the death,” Hugh said. “And I don’t see what Marissa, Ezra, or Chris get from Arden’s death.”

  “In my experience—” Isobel began.

  Delphi groaned. “Here we go.”

  “Well, I have had some.” Isobel allowed herself a flash of attitude. “And yes, usually the killer has something to gain. I think Dillon is missing the big picture, though. He’s looking at this as a personal crime and trying to figure out who benefits from Arden’s death, which even I have to admit is primarily me. I suppose it could be a crime of passion, although it seems premeditated. But I think he’s barking up the wrong tree, because of all the other stuff. The ultimate benefit to the killer isn’t from Arden’s death—it’s from the death of the show. I told him as much.”

  “I’m sure he loved that,” Delphi said snidely.

  “Dillon asked me about my relationships with everyone in the company, and he seemed stumped when he couldn’t connect me to Arden in any meaningful way,” Sunil said.

  “That’s because he can’t,” Isobel said. “You didn’t have much to do with her.”

  Sunil paused on the steps leading up to their building. “That never stopped anyone from suspecting the dark-skinned guy.”

  He had his keys at the ready and opened the door. They crept up the stairs silently and entered the apartment. No light streamed from under Talia’s door. She had left the theater as soon as she’d been released, obviously distraught, and must have gone straight to bed. Like Hugh, she was on the interview list for the following day.

  An awkward silence descended as they stood in the foyer, each acknowledging the unfortunate truth of Sunil’s statement, which still rang in their ears.

  “Plans for tomorrow?” Isobel whispered finally.

  “I’d like to check out the capitol,” Sunil replied.

  “Don’t bother,” Delphi said. “I grew up in upstate New York, and we had to go every year in elementary school. Trust me, it’s a poor substitute for DC.”

  “How about a movie?” Isobel suggested.

  “I’d like to join, but I have my interview with Dillon at eleven,” Hugh said.

  “We’ll check the listings in the morning and pick a time when you can come.” Isobel gave him a kiss. “We wouldn’t dream of leaving you out.”

  There was nothing decent showing at the movie theater, and in the end, they spent the day hanging around the condo. When Hugh returned from his interview, they passed the afternoon playing Celebrity. They made it through all three rounds, frequently lapsing into gales of laughter despite their barely concealed competitive streaks. Although Delphi was irate over Hugh’s lack of familiarity with The Producers, she cackled hardest at his attempts to convey Max Bialystock with the clues “a bagel without a hole” and “summer theater from hell.” Similarly, he was irked that she’d never heard of Herbert von Karajan, but was impressed with her ingenuity in coming up with “luggage you bring onto an airplane.” Isobel and Sunil trounced them handily, and they were still reliving their best moments when they got to the theater that evening.

  “I can’t believe you’ve never seen The Producers,” Isobel said to Hugh, “but you’ve been in New York long enough to know what a bialy is.”

  “Seriously,” Sunil added. “Your Yiddish education has some weird gaps.”

  “You should be glad I didn’t put in Pussy Galore,” Hugh said.

  They cracked up anew at that, and then it was time to part ways to their dressing rooms. Kelly was waiting in the hall for Isobel.

  “Got a sec?”

  “Sure.”

  Kelly gestured around the corner, where the hallway continued several feet before dead-ending in a broom closet.

  “I found my book,” she said, a note of uncertainty in her voice. “It was on my table in the booth when I got in this afternoon.”

  “And my script page with the note was gone,” Isobel guessed.

  Kelly nodded. “I thought someone was trying to keep the show from going up on time last night, but it looks like they wanted to get rid of the note. Why wouldn’t the person just grab the paper and throw it out?”

  “Maybe they didn’t have time to rifle through looking for it,” Isobel suggested.

  “But who even saw me put it there?”

  “There were plenty of people standing around at the end of the dress rehearsal when I gave it to you,” Isobel reminded her. “Did you tell Dillon about it?”

  “It wasn’t until I got the book back and realized all the papers in the front pocket were gone that I remembered it. I was so focused on finding a way to call the show last night I forgot it was even in there.”

  “What do you mean all the papers?” Isobel said. “What else is missing?”

  “Directorial notes, old set renderings. The copies of your Equity contract. You’ll have to sign them again.”

  “Oh!”

  “But do you think I should tell Dillon now?”

  Isobel pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Since we can’t produce the note, maybe we should keep quiet. For now, at least.”

  “I was thinking the same,” Kelly said, sounding relieved.

  “Can I ask you something in confidence?”

  “Sure.”

  “Who benefits if the show gets shut down?” Isobel asked.

  Isobel waited expectantly, but Kelly only shook her head.

  “Couldn’t say,” she replied. “Okay. We’re at half hour.”

  Isobel returned to her dressing room, then changed her mind and knocked on the door of Delphi and Marissa’s room. Delphi came out in h
er camisole and petticoat, shutting the door behind her.

  “Stage manager’s book turned up, but the ‘Die, bitch’ note is missing,” Isobel said softly.

  “Somebody is covering their tracks,” Delphi said.

  “I’m not sure.” Isobel’s brow furrowed. “If you were really planning to commit murder, why would you declare your intentions like that? It could only get you in trouble later.”

  “You don’t think the note writer killed Arden?”

  “No. Someone wrote that note out of anger—either at Arden or at me—and now that Arden’s dead, she’s afraid it’ll look like she did it. And to be honest, if the person is discovered, she’ll have a hard time convincing Dillon otherwise.”

  “You said she,” Delphi pointed out.

  “I did? I wasn’t thinking about it. But yeah, it seems more like something a woman would do.”

  “Did you tell Dillon about the note?”

  “No, and Kelly didn’t either. We both forgot about it. But I’m glad I didn’t. It would only feed the idea that Arden’s death was the primary goal. My gut still says otherwise.”

  Thomas appeared to help Delphi into her costume, and Isobel returned to her dressing room, which she was relieved to find empty. Talia’s street clothes were folded neatly over her chair, and her costume hanger was bare. Isobel could hear her vocalizing in the stairwell and wondered why she was the only one who ever thought to avail herself of the empty rehearsal studios upstairs.

  The curtain went up on time, but the police interviews had taken a toll on the company. Everybody’s energy was off. Chris fumbled several lyrics in his first song, and Isobel was so distracted thinking about her exchange with Kelly that she started to go onstage with Sunil for Emma’s scene, and he had to push her back.

  She hung in the wings and watched Sunil and Delphi play their scene. Delphi certainly looked lovely. Her skirt was hanging properly now. Either Thomas had done a better job jerry-rigging her fake bustle or he’d located a replacement. Isobel had to admit that Delphi was balancing Emma’s vitality with the sweetness Jethro had chided Isobel for lacking. For all her contemporary gloss, Delphi had a natural way with period style. Chris made his entrance, and Sunil rejoined Isobel in the wings.