“While I went to a state university and ended up in middle management with an insurance company before my heart attack and that minuscule pension I received,” Carlisle said, finishing his wife’s sentence. “I know people said I married you for your money, but . . .”
“Now I did not mean to suggest—”
“And then, of course, our money—well, your money, really—ran out, partly because of some unwise investments on my part, and so here we are today, my dear, the genteel poor.”
“Do not say that!” she snapped. “We are not poor.”
Carlisle responded with a tired smile and walked out. “I will be in the study,” he said over his shoulder.
“I know, playing with your stamp collection,” she replied with an edge to her voice, although she had lost her audience of one. Olive Hawkins entered, coughing once and announcing that she was “preparing the lamb chops along with mashed potatoes and spinach, and for—”
“You know very well that I abhor spinach,” Marjorie huffed.
“I also know very well that it is good for you, better than most of the things you insist on eating,” the cook-cum-maid shot back in a tone that suggested no further discussion. “Things around here sure ain’t what they once was,” she said to a smattering of applause. She would mouth the line several more times in the play, and if the audience reaction was similar to what I had seen earlier, that applause would grow with each repetition.
And Olive wasn’t through yet. “As I started to say before I was interrupted, for dessert I will be serving strawberry ice cream.” Not waiting for a reply, she executed a snappy about-face and marched out, head held high. More applause.
“If we didn’t need that woman right now, so help me, I would . . .” Marjorie sighed and threw herself into a high-backed chair, picking up a magazine and paging through it idly. The doorbell rang.
“Olive, the door!” the lady of the house keened after the third ring. Finally, with another protracted sigh, she left the parlor through French doors. When she returned, three others were trailing behind her.
“Train was right on time for a change,” said a portly, florid-faced man, next-door neighbor Harley Barnes, played by Max Ennis. “I knew who they were right away, of course.”
“Larry, it is so, so wonderful to see you,” Marjorie effused, offering her husband’s nephew her hand.
“Aunt Marjorie, I want you to meet my fiancée, Diana Gage,” he said, stepping back gracefully as the two women shook hands.
“Thank you so much for your hospitality,” Diana said with an engaging smile. “I am so glad to meet you at last. I have heard so much about you.”
“I have heard so much about you, too, my dear,” Marjorie said. “We simply must get to know each other. Now, you both must be exhausted from the ride on that dirty old New Haven line train. Why they don’t clean up their cars, I will never know. It is a disgrace, an absolute disgrace. I will show you up to your rooms, and you can freshen up before dinner.”
“And I will carry their luggage upstairs,” Barnes said, ever the helpful sycophant. The young couple, played by Steve Peters and Melissa Cartwright, looked older when viewed from the wings than from the audience, maybe because their makeup was more apparent up close.
Now that all the cast have made an appearance, I will not subject you to more of the play, except to say that Marjorie Mills is found dead on the terrace in Act Three, strangled with her own silk scarf. The culprit, eventually identified by Larry Forrest, was Harley Barnes, who had long carried a torch for the woman. He was overheard (by Forrest) professing his undying love for her, and she laughed at him.
The audience sees only a shadowy figure attempting to embrace a spot-lit Marjorie on the terrace, and when she resists, she is strangled, writhing dramatically before her demise. Before the denouement, audience members, or so it was hoped by the playwright, suspected either her husband or Larry Forrest himself, with whom she had been flirting. I have no qualms about revealing the ending, as the play closed suddenly after a brief, but healthy and profitable, run, and to my knowledge, it has not yet been restaged anywhere.
Chapter 11
The audience, which gave what seemed to me to be enthusiastic applause, filed out of the theater after three curtain calls. I went to Breckenridge’s cubbyhole, knocking once and entering. “Would you rank that as a good performance?” I asked, poking my head in.
He swiveled in his chair and nodded. “Yes, I would say so,” he replied, finishing the last of a glass of Coca-Cola. “One or two pauses were a beat too long, but otherwise, a competent job. I would give it a B-plus. Everybody was where they should be, when they should be, as I would expect. I scribbled comments on just a few minor things, which is good. I’ll have to see what Hollis thinks. We always compare notes after a performance.”
“Well, the folks who paid the freight seemed to like it, if that’s any sort of a measuring stick.”
“The matinee crowds are usually the easiest to please,” he said. “Maybe that’s why I love them so much.”
“I’ll want to talk to the rest of the cast and Sperry this afternoon. Do you see that as a problem?”
“Not at all. On days when we have two performances, it’s good that they have something to occupy them during the in-between time. Feel free to start with anyone you like.”
“I think I’ll begin with your stage manager, unless you want to see him first.”
“No, that’s just fine. We’ve got hours before the curtain goes up again.”
I found Hollis Sperry at his small desk at stage right, from where he watched every performance with his notebook at the ready. I wondered if he envied Breckenridge’s more comfortable vantage point.
“Pardon me, Mr. Sperry. If possible, I’d like to grab a few minutes of your time now.”
“Huh! Oh yeah, yeah, it’s MacGregor, isn’t it?” he said, seeming distracted. “Hell, I guess now’s as good a time as any. How ’bout the green room? I could use a fresh cup of coffee.”
He got his coffee from a pot on a side table and we settled into two stuffed chairs. Hollis Sperry was at least sixty with gray hair slicked back and the build of a jockey. He wore an open-collared, striped shirt and dark pants held up by suspenders. His narrow face seemed to be frozen into a permanent scowl.
“I hear you’ve been around for a long time. You must have seen a lot of fine theater over the years.”
“Yes, sir, that is all too true. I’ve watched a lot of the greats, all right, and a goodly number of the not-so-greats as well—unfortunately, many more of the latter.”
“And you’ve probably seen all kinds of personalities as well.”
“I have that. Everyone from egomaniacs, and there are plenty of them, to a handful of performers who are basically so shy and withdrawn that you wonder how and why they ever got into the theater, or even wanted to. These types pose a real challenge to the director, but the payoff can be very rewarding, both to us behind the scenes and to the audiences. There are a few big names on Broadway—I won’t get specific—who used to totally freeze up during rehearsals.”
“Back to Death at Cresthaven. Were you pleased with this afternoon’s performance?”
He shrugged. “Not bad, not bad. We have gotten better every day. The run started out a little rough from my point of view, but that’s not unusual, especially when you’ve got a bunch who haven’t worked together before.”
“Do they all get along with one another?”
He paused, drinking coffee. “More or less. Hell, I really don’t care how well actors like each other as long as they know their lines; enter, stand, or sit where they’re supposed to; and stay in character, for God’s sake. This bunch seems to be doing that pretty well on the whole. But there is always room for improvement.”
“Any area in particular where you would like to see improvement?”
Taki
ng another sip of coffee, Sperry clearly was uncomfortable being interviewed. “Nothing special I can single out. Maybe cut down on some of the pauses in the dialogue. By that, I mean they need to be a half second quicker in responding to what someone else says. We’ve talked about that, and I have seen things get better.”
“But as you just said, there’s always room for improvement.”
“Yeah, one thing you’ve really got to guard against is complacency, which is so doggone easy to fall into. I was stage-managing another play a while back—I’m not going to mention it by name—which got great reviews, raves,” he said. “And it had a heck of a cast of old pros, well-known names in the theater world. But after a few weeks, they started getting sloppy and careless. The director—you would recognize his name, since you know a lot about this business—he was too easygoing, and I had one devil of a time trying to keep everybody in line. Problem was, they all knew that the reviewers wouldn’t be back for a second look unless there were major changes in the cast. I must have aged ten years in that job.”
“Do you think something like that could happen here?”
“There’s always a chance, of course, but Roy Breckenridge is on top of everything as the director and also the producer—and a major investor, too, for that matter. If this show were to flop, he would end up being a big loser where it really hurts—in the pocketbook—and I do not believe that is about to happen. He won’t let things slide any more than I will. We are in agreement in that regard.”
“So the two of you get along well?”
For the first time, the stage manager allowed himself the hint of a smile. “Well . . . I didn’t exactly say that, did I? We are both strong-minded, and we occasionally disagree on one thing or another. But overall, I do like the way Roy runs the show. He doesn’t put up with carelessness or a lack of professionalism any more than I do. He’s one of the few directors I respect.”
“This production figures to have a long run, doesn’t it?”
Sperry nodded. “Looks that way, all right, although I am a pessimist by nature. I don’t ever take anything for granted. If something can go wrong, it will. We could have an earthquake tomorrow.”
“In New York? I doubt it. Anything else you’d like to add? Any question I should have asked?”
“Seems like we’ve covered things pretty well. Do you figure articles in that Toronto magazine of yours will result in people actually coming down here to get rid of some of their hard-earned Canadian dollars?”
“I like to think so, yes. Toronto is a good theater town, and people up there pay a lot of attention to what’s going on in New York.”
“Ah, there’s nothing to compare with the glitter and swank of Broadway, the Great White Way.”
“Can I quote you?”
That brought a full-fledged laugh from the taciturn Sperry. “Darn right you can quote me. You got the spelling of my name?”
I said I did and thanked him for his time, then set off in search of my next victim.
Chapter 12
Chance dictated that my so-called victim was a very attractive one: Melissa Cartwright, who had just stepped out of her dressing room as I walked down the hallway from the green room.
“Hi, Mr. MacGregor,” she said brightly, then stuck out her lower lip in a pretend pout. “I feel slighted that you haven’t talked to me yet.”
“Put your mind to rest,” I told her. “The time is now. Where should we rendezvous?”
“Definitely not in that horrible green room or in my dumpy dressing room,” she said with feeling. “I spend enough time in those places as it is. On days when we have two performances, I like to get out of the theater for a while. There’s a little spot over on Ninth Avenue that makes a marvelous bowl of chili. Can I tempt you?”
“Tempt away and lead the way,” I said, playing the role of a visitor to the city. I did not take long during our two-block stroll to learn that the young lady was a chatterbox, which I attributed in part to nervous energy. I noticed as we walked west that she looked younger and more fetching without makeup, and that her turned-up nose seemed more pronounced than it did on the stage.
“I don’t know any Canadians,” she said. “How would you describe yourselves as a people?”
“I am really not the right person to answer that.” I laughed, telling her about my Ohio roots. “But I say to you that most of the people I’ve met in my years in Toronto are friendly, although, in general, more quiet and reserved than Americans, particularly Midwesterners like me.”
“I call myself a Midwesterner, too,” she said, “from Lansing, Michigan. Have you heard of it?”
“Yes, but that’s about all. What can you tell me about Lansing?”
“Well, for one thing, it’s the state capital,” she said. “Plus, it is the city where they make all those Oldsmobiles. My father works for Olds; he’s an executive in the marketing department. And, oh yes, we have Michigan State right there in the neighborhood, too, the first land grant college in the country. That’s where I went to school,” she said with a touch of pride.
“So that makes you a Spartan, doesn’t it?” I said, thereby exhausting my sports-page knowledge of the place.
“Yes, it does,” she said. “Three cheers for the green and white! You could call me a ‘townie,’ I suppose, for going to school in my hometown, although I always lived on the campus. Here is the place I was talking about, Mr. MacGregor.”
I had passed this beanery before but had barely noticed it and never stopped in. It didn’t look like much from the street, and the interior was far from special, although the aroma made up for the decor. Chili has never been on the brownstone’s menu, but I happen to like it, so I was happy to learn it was the specialty in this outwardly unimpressive joint.
“So nice to see you again,” a smiling, hennaed hostess said to Melissa. “You just can’t resist our chili, can you, hon?”
“By now, you know me too well,” the actress said, grinning back. “And look, I’ve even brought along a friend. Do I get extra credit for that?”
“How about we give you booth number one as a reward?” She gestured toward a table in the front window.
“Is this okay with you?” Melissa asked.
“Absolutely,” I said. “I have never in my life been one to turn down the best seat in the house.”
“Now, isn’t this better than us talking back there in that cramped theater?”
“It is without doubt,” I answered. “And just to get things straight from the start, this is my treat.”
“Oh, no, I did not expect you to buy my lunch, Mr. MacGregor. I am planning to pay.”
“As a journalist, I simply cannot take a free meal,” I said with a smile. “That would compromise my objectivity when talking to one of the subjects of an article.”
“Well, if you put it that way, I guess I accept,” she said, tilting her head in a practiced gesture. Practiced or not, I liked it.
After we had ordered our bowls of chili, I pulled out my notebook. “Tell me a little about your background.”
“As I mentioned, I went to Michigan State and was in the theater department. I acted in several student productions and got good reviews from the local daily paper and the campus paper and also from my professors. While still in college, I did summer stock up in New England, and I got some nice notices there as well.”
“Sounds like you got hooked on the theater business early.”
She nodded, showing dimples. “For sure, and after graduation, I came straight to New York, like so many other starstruck hopefuls, all full of optimism and excitement. I was absolutely positive I would land some big part quickly.”
“And you did?”
“And I didn’t,” she said, shaking her head as our chili arrived. “Oh, I got a few crumbs, small roles, mostly off-Broadway, and I was in the chorus line at a musical that closed
after three weeks. That abrupt ending didn’t bother me much, though, as I really prefer dramas to musicals, and I only took that chorus line job so I could keep eating.”
I laughed. “I like your candor. I read in the playbill that you had been in a number of New York productions before Cresthaven.”
“Yes, I started getting noticed after a couple of those off-Broadway shows,” she said as we began attacking the chili. It lived up to the advanced billing as far as I was concerned; just the right amount of spiciness.
“Had you been in any of Roy Breckenridge’s plays before this one?” I asked between bites.
“Oh my, no, this came as something of a surprise,” she said. “He had seen me in one of the off-Broadway shows I just mentioned—a revival of Chekhov’s The Cherry Orchard at a small theater in the Village. I played Varya, who tries to hold the family together. I’m sure you have seen it.”
“I have, but it was years ago up in a smaller Canadian city,” I improvised. “You must have been good to attract Breckenridge’s attention.”
“At the risk of seeming full of myself, I was,” she said. “But it still came as a surprise when I learned that Mr. Breckenridge wanted me to read for the part of Diana Gage. I was thrilled, of course, and even more so when I got the part.”
“Do you like working for him?”
She nodded but did not respond. Maybe his reputation as being a perfectionist was putting a strain on her.
I tried a different tack. “Would you say the cast members all get along with one another?”
She wrinkled her brow. “Well, I think so. At first, I was in awe of Ashley, given her great reputation, but she has been wonderful to me,” she said, although her tone lacked conviction.
Murder, Stage Left Page 6
