“That’s a good analogy. When you have been verbally reamed out by Hollis, you won’t forget it,” Breckenridge said, glancing at his watch. “Let us head over to the palace where magic is created eight times a week.”
We walked the two blocks to the Belgrave Theater, which, unlike a palace, presented a dingy, tired facade in daylight. When Lily and I had been there a few evenings earlier, the peeling paint on the walls and doors and the cracked sidewalk had not been readily apparent. We entered the building by the stage door in a gangway set back from the street and were greeted just inside by a rail-thin specimen with watery eyes who could have been anywhere from sixty to eighty.
“Morning, Mr. Breckenridge,” the man said with a bow and a grin that showed gaps between nicotine-stained teeth. “Cast is all down in the green room like you asked, waiting for you. And Mr. Sperry, he’s there too.”
“Thank you, Connor,” the producer said, introducing me and describing my role.
“A writer from Canada, eh?” the doorkeeper said. “I been to Canada myself once, Niagara Falls, it was, years back, but not on a honeymoon, no siree. Just there to see the sights.” Connor started to go into detail about those sights, but Breckenridge tactfully cut him off, and we took a narrow iron stairway to the basement.
“Hardly glamorous down here, is it?” Breckenridge said. “But then, most people never see what goes on behind the scenes, which is a good thing, indeed, a very good thing. It would shatter the illusion we attempt to create, and we simply can’t have that. I do everything I can to keep the public away from the backstage areas of my productions, particularly moonstruck stage-door Johnnies and autograph hunters. They can gather outside after a performance, but we won’t let them in.”
“Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain,” I said.
“The Wizard of Oz. Oh, very good, very good!” Breckenridge said, clapping his hands. “That is my point precisely. We don’t want our audiences to see that man behind the curtain. There is a certain magic to the theater, and we must do everything we can to sustain the magic. Here we are, the green room.”
The first thing I noticed was that the room was not green, but gray, from the walls to the shabby carpeting and the sofa and chairs. The second thing was the faces of the assembled group: They ranged from indifferent to outright dour. Here was a group of individuals that clearly wished they were elsewhere, and I wondered if, as Breckenridge had said, they really would be eager to talk to me. I scanned those faces, identifying each cast member from the descriptions I had been given, along with the stage manager, who looked to be the least interested of them all.
“Thanks to each of you for coming this morning,” Breckenridge said after clearing his throat. “It is my pleasure to introduce to you Alan MacGregor of the magazine StageArts Canada. He has come down from Toronto to do a feature on Death at Cresthaven for his publication.
“As most of you are aware, a great many Canadians patronize Broadway shows every year, and a goodly percentage of these folks read the magazine Mr. MacGregor works for. So please take the time to sit down with him and share your feelings and thoughts—all of them positive, of course—about our production.” Breckenridge turned to me. “Anything that you want to add?”
“Just that I am happy to be here and anxious to spend time with each of you. I have seen the show, and I enjoyed it very much. I hope to pass along that excitement to our readers.”
“Excellent!” Breckenridge said, nodding vigorously. “Because ours is a small cast, each member of the company has the luxury of his or her own dressing room, so I suggest these are where your interviews take place. Do you have a preference as to who you would like to start with, Mr. MacGregor?”
“If Miss Williston does not have any objections, perhaps I could talk with her first,” I said, following Breckenridge’s script.
“Objections? Not at all, none whatsoever,” she replied airily. “Come with me to my palatial quarters, Mr. Toronto, and we shall palaver.” She rose gracefully, gestured me to follow with a devil-may-care toss of a hand, and led the way as we departed from the not-at-all-green room.
Chapter 7
“Very nice,” I told Ashley Williston as we entered her dressing room, which had a sofa, a pair of wing chairs, two floor lamps, a multicolored three-panel Japanese screen behind which she could change, and the dressing table with the predictable vanity mirror surrounded by light bulbs.
“Mr. MacGregor, don’t you know sarcasm when you hear it?” She sat, crossing one well-shaped leg over the other and watching me to see if that got a reaction as I took a seat opposite her. I held steady eye contact with the lady, however, and she went on. “You see before you the so-called ‘luxury’ that Roy Breckenridge described. I have had better dressing rooms than this in summer stock in one-horse towns upstate and in New England. Oh dear, I should not talk like that to a writer now, should I?” she said, placing a palm over her mouth in a gesture that was too cute by half. “After all, I am sure Roy wants each of us to tell you how we are just one big, happy family.”
“Aren’t you?”
“Oh, we really do get along quite well, better than a lot of casts that I have been a part of. Say, you look familiar to me; have we met somewhere before? I really am very good with faces.”
“No, I’m sure I would have remembered it—maybe I have a twin; they say everybody does. In fact, when I got this assignment, I was pleased, because I would get to meet you.”
“If you think flattery is going to get you anywhere with me . . . you are absolutely right. Have you seen me perform before?”
“Sadly, I had not, until a week ago. The biggest part of my job is writing about theater all across Canada, from Vancouver to Halifax and everywhere in between.”
“You poor baby, I am afraid I don’t envy you. Canada may be a big country, but it is mostly empty, isn’t it?”
“Hey, you haven’t lived until you’ve been to Moose Jaw and Medicine Hat,” I told her, glad I had paged through the atlas back in the brownstone. I pulled a reporter’s notebook and pencil from my pocket and took a moment to study Ashley. Although she had to be easily on the far side of fifty, she still was easy on the eyes, with her hair an ash-blond color and with good bone structure in her face. Close up, the makeup showed, but I knew from being in the audience that she cut quite a stunning figure on the stage. And she was aware of it.
“What was it that attracted you to the part of Marjorie Mills?” I asked, figuring that was a natural question for a reporter to open with.
“Where to start?” she said with a stagy flutter of manicured hands. “First off, I have always liked this playwright’s work, and I’ve seen several of his creations, although I have never been in one before. Second, the role is just plain juicy; I play a grade-A bitch—maybe that’s typecasting,” she added with a self-deprecating laugh, perhaps hoping I would contradict her. “Third, I die dramatically, which I love, but you don’t want to put that in your story, do you? It would ruin the suspense, which is a big part of the play’s success. In a way, we are like that long-running Agatha Christie play, The Mousetrap, in that, after each performance, one of us urges the audience not to give away the ending to those who have not yet seen it.”
“Yes, so I had noticed. You needn’t worry; I will not ruin the surprise. Our publication is just as eager as you folks to avoid spoiling the experience for theatergoers. But I must say, your murder did come as a surprise to me.”
“As it was indeed meant to,” she said. “I believe most everyone thought Brad—who plays my husband, of course—would be the corpse, probably done away with by the Harley Barnes character in a fit of jealous rage. Max Ennis has played heavies often in the past, which probably is at least part of the reason Roy cast him.”
“Do you enjoy working for Mr. Breckenridge?”
She paused a beat before answering, then nodded with a thoughtful expression. “
Roy is . . . well, interesting to work for, to say the very least. We do not always see eye-to-eye, but that is to be expected when strong-willed people are involved, don’t you think?” It was my turn to nod.
“There are a couple of things to be admired in Roy Breckenridge,” she continued. “One, you always know exactly where you stand. And two, as both producer and director, he really takes total control of his production and monitors every aspect of it. Now that can also cause friction—in this case, particularly with the stage manager, Hollis Sperry. Of course you haven’t talked to Hollis yet, have you?”
“You are the very first,” I told her. “What am I likely to hear when I sit down with Mr. Sperry?”
“Oh dear, Mr. MacGregor, I probably said more than I should have.” She did her palm-to-the-lips trick again, which was wearing thin. “I did not mean to foment trouble, not for a moment. Both men are very talented at what they do, and you may certainly quote me on that.”
I scribbled dutifully in my notebook, although it was hardly necessary. I can recite long stretches of dialogue verbatim without a single notation, but I knew I had to act like a reporter.
“How about the other cast members? Would you say that you make a good team?”
“Well now, you have seen us in action, so I will turn that question around. What do you think?”
“I felt both the characterizations and the dialogue were very believable,” I said, which was only a partial fib. “It seemed to me that you all meshed together extremely well.”
She nodded and looked self-satisfied. “Good. I know that you must have seen God only knows how many shows in your line of work, so you are in a good position to judge.” Now the flattery was flowing in the opposite direction.
“Talk for a bit about what you see as some of the strengths of the other cast members.”
“Oh my, that is a wonderful question. Well, I will start with Brad Lester, my stage husband. Of course you know that he has made quite a name for himself in Hollywood, and that includes an Oscar—for a supporting role, that is. This has been his very first experience on the stage, and I feel that, all things considered, he has really done quite well, yes, quite well indeed.”
“I’m sure you have been a great help to him, what with all of your experience. He must appreciate it.”
“That is very kind of you to say, Mr. MacGregor. We do what we can with whatever talents we have been given.”
“You mentioned Max Ennis earlier. I gather he has been around the theater for a long time.”
“I’m surprised you hadn’t heard of him. Yes, Max has been around as long as I can remember and then some. He’s never had a leading role, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t talented. As I said, he often plays heavies—schemers, con artists, even killers on occasion. As you know from watching the show—and I hope you’ll see us a few more times—Max plays a different type here, very obsequious and unctuous, what I would call a real toady.”
“And very much enamored of the character you play,” I put in.
“Yes, that’s what the script calls for, and he plays it well, don’t you think?”
“I do. Have you ever been in a production with him before?”
“Only once, which is surprising, given how long both of us have been around. I’m older than I look, Mr. MacGregor.”
“I have no idea what your age is, and I am not about to ask.”
That drew a dry laugh. “I’m glad of that, because I am not about to tell you. For the record, I had a birthday two weeks ago.”
“A belated happy birthday.”
“Thank you so much, Mr. MacGregor. I must tell you that I feel like I am in the prime of life.”
“That’s wonderful to hear. Any thoughts on the other members of the cast?”
“Mmm, well, Teresa Reed, who plays Olive, the combination maid and cook, is another Broadway fixture like Max who has been around seemingly forever.”
“She comes off as a very caustic character.”
“That is precisely the point, of course. Her cantankerousness—I believe that is the right word—adds some comic relief to a story line that is otherwise somber and angst filled. She has played that type many times, and I’ve never seen anybody who does it any better.”
“Then we have the wide-eyed young couple who are lovebirds,” I said. “In the show, they don’t seem to realize what they’ve stumbled into—a cash-strapped household with a scheming woman, her oblivious husband, and a fawning neighbor who lusts after the lady of the house.”
Ashley raised well-tended eyebrows. “Mr. MacGregor, I must say that you have very nicely summarized the situation at creaky old Cresthaven. And those ‘lovebirds,’ as you term them, are well portrayed by Steve Peters and Melissa Cartwright, both of whom are more experienced performers than one might gather from their youth and the naïveté they intentionally project on the stage.”
“I did note from their biographies in the program that both of them have impressive résumés, which must have been a factor in why they got the parts.”
“Oh yes . . . Roy Breckenridge is not one to take chances on totally untried performers. He is a very cautious man, which is well known around town and which has made it easier for him to attract backers for his shows. His instincts are trusted in the business.”
“Both of the young cast members are quite attractive.”
“Are they?” she responded with a blank expression. “Oh, I suppose that is true; I’m afraid I really hadn’t noticed. Perhaps I am too involved in concentrating on my performance.”
“A question about chemistry, Miss Williston. Once—”
“Ashley, please.”
“A question about chemistry, Ashley. Once the parts had been cast, did all of you immediately hit it off, or was there a period of adjustment?”
She nodded. “That is a very insightful query, and one I have not been asked before. In all candor, I don’t believe I have ever been part of a production in which all its players immediately bonded with one another. Perhaps it is our vanity, our egos. We tend to approach those with whom we are going to perform cautiously, warily. And not one of the six of us in Cresthaven had ever been in a cast with any of the others before—oh, except those times years ago that I mentioned when Max Ennis and I were in the same play, but we were never onstage together in that instance.”
“Does that unfamiliarity with one another indicate that things were rocky at the start?” I asked.
“Oh, I did not mean to suggest that, not at all,” she said. “It’s just that it took time during rehearsals for everyone to find their . . . I guess rhythm is the word. Yes, that’s it, rhythm.”
“No jealousies?”
A pause. “Not that I am aware of, but actors can be very good about hiding their feelings, so you might want to ask that of the others.”
“How do the others feel about working for Mr. Breckenridge?”
She smiled tightly. “Once again, you will have to ask them that question. As I said a moment ago, Roy is all right, a bit too controlling sometimes perhaps, but please don’t quote me on that.”
“I won’t. Any other observations you’d like to make about the show, the reviews, the audience reaction, or any of your fellow cast members?”
“I don’t think so,” she said. “You can say this has been an exhilarating experience for me, and that several people who have seen the show have approached me in restaurants and on the street telling me how much they had enjoyed seeing it. That is so very heartening, Mr. MacGregor. As long as I have been in the business, I never tire of hearing that.”
“Thank you so much for your time,” I told her, rising. “I may want to talk to you again.”
“It would indeed be my pleasure,” she said with a practiced and insincere smile, holding out an outstretched arm as she remained seated. The way she presented the slender and well-tended hand to me, i
t seemed that she expected me to kiss it. I shook it gently instead. It would not be proper for a writer to get too personal with one of the subjects of his article, not that I was inclined in that direction with Ashley Williston.
Chapter 8
I stepped out of Ashley’s dressing room and closed the door gently behind me, almost colliding in the narrow hallway with Steve Peters, the youthful actor playing Larry Forrest, wealthy nephew of Carlisle and the man the Mills family hoped would be their financial savior.
“Oh! I’m sorry, Mr. MacGregor,” he said, giving me a sheepish smile. “I have a bad habit of looking down when I’m walking and thinking at the same time.”
“If that is the worst habit you have, consider yourself fortunate. I am not going to tell you what some of mine are. Do you have time to talk for a little while?”
“Yes, sir. Yes, I do—if you don’t mind meeting in my dressing room. I hope you are not claustrophobic.”
“Nope, I was once stuck between floors on a crowded elevator for fifty minutes, and I never flinched. I’m sure your quarters will seem spacious by comparison.”
“Do not be too sure of that,” Peters said, opening his door. Okay, so his dressing room wasn’t spacious—about half the size of Ashley Williston’s—and it had only one chair, which the actor insisted I take.
“Can I pour you some ice water?” he said, motioning to a carafe on a small table. “I’m afraid it’s all I’ve got.”
I declined politely, wondering why the oh-so-elegant Miss Williston had not offered me anything to drink, given her exalted status.
“Glad you can work me in,” I told the dark-haired young actor as I pulled out my notebook.
“No, I am glad you can work me in,” he countered. “After all, I am just a small cog in this operation.”
“You don’t seem like a small cog, in any sense, when you’re out on the stage,” I said. Peters was one good-looking guy, no question, with a strong chin, full head of well-groomed dark hair, and blue eyes. But he also seemed right at home in his role, and I told him so.
Murder, Stage Left Page 4
