The Role Players

by Dorien Grey

  Cam took a sip of his drink, then said, “Same as Brent. I didn’t have all that much to do with him either, really. I was just his understudy. Like everyone else in the cast, I had a couple of my own parts to learn, and when I wasn’t learning them, I was studying Rod’s.” He paused for only a second before saying,“I never saw him outside the theater.”

  He said it without so much as twitching an eyebrow. So why didn’t I believe him? Maybe he just didn’t want Brent to know.

  Chris, sensing I might be heading off on another “interrogation,” said, “How about another round?”

  Max signaled the waitress, and we all picked up our menus.

  *

  Dinner was every bit as relaxed and enjoyable as the rest of the day had been. The food was very good, and the conversation was easy and covered a lot of subjects, with one notable exclusion—Rod Pearce. I’d decided after my little exchange with Cam and Brent not to press the issue since it was fairly obvious that neither wanted the other to know exactly what might have gone on with Rod, and I could respect that. Though it wasn’t hard to figure out.

  But while I found the fact that Keith not only knew Cam but had recommended that he try out interesting, I didn’t pick up any vibes at all that either Brent or Cam might have been involved in Rod’s murder. They seemed like the kind of guys who knew their way around the gay world well enough to know guys like Rod aren’t all that uncommon. So while either or each of them might naturally be a little jealous over Rod’s having seduced the other, I couldn’t imagine that either of them would kill over it. Besides, I’d gathered from the conversation that they hadn’t really started to get involved with one another until Cam took over Rod’s part. If Jonathan had decided to bump off every guy I’d slept with before I met him, he’d be a very busy boy, and there’d be a hell of a lot fewer gay guys in the world.

  Well, at least it was another couple of potential suspects more or less ruled out.

  Which left, basically, Gene Morrison and Joe Kenyon, and I had all but ruled out Joe Kenyon because…uh, well, just because I didn’t think he did it.

  Good thinking, Sherlock!

  *

  Monday morning. Five full days before we had to leave for home. Not much time to try to solve a murder, but it’s all the time I had. So the first order of business was talking with Morrison again.

  Jonathan, who had as usual been the first one up and had already showered by the time I got out of bed, had volunteered to not only go to the grocery store to pick up some things for breakfast, but to make it, an offer Chris was happy to accept.

  While he was gone, Chris and Max took turns showering and I went to the bedroom to get my wallet and find Gene’s phone number. It was still pretty early, but I remembered him saying he was an early riser, so I took a chance and called.

  It rang twice, and then, “Gene Morrison.”

  “Gene, it’s Dick Hardesty. Sorry to bother you, but I really need to talk with you—today, if possible.”

  There was only a slight pause. “Of course,” he said. “Is anything wrong?”

  Other than Rod Pearce being murdered and you being my number one suspect?

  “No,” I lied. “It’s just that my mind has been working overtime the past few days and I have several questions you might be able to help me with.”

  “I’d be happy to,” he said. “I’ve just started packing up some of Rod’s things to send to his parents, so I should be home all day. Stop by whenever you wish.”

  “Thank you. I’ll call first, of course.”

  “Very well. I look forward to seeing you again. Until later, then.”

  Max and Chris emerged from their bedroom just as I hung up, and shortly thereafter Jonathan, who had not taken the key with him this time, rang the bell. When I opened the door for him, I could see he probably would have had a devil of a time trying to manage the key even if he had it. His arms were filled with two large and very full grocery bags, plus he had a good-sized bag from the bakery in one hand.

  “Invite the Sixth Fleet?” I said as Chris took one of the bags from him.

  Jonathan grinned. “Nah…I just got stuff for breakfast and a couple of things I thought looked interesting.”

  “Like?” I asked.

  “Well, I got a jar of garlic-stuffed olives and, for you and Max, a jar of anchovy-stuffed olives and a couple other things.”

  I didn’t ask.

  *

  During breakfast (scrambled eggs with diced ham, onions, green pepper, and cheese, plus orange juice, coffee, rolls and—at Max’s and my insistence—about half the jar of anchovy-stuffed olives on the side) I told them I’d called Gene Morrison and needed to go talk to him at some time during the day.

  “Sorry to screw up another day,” I said, “but I’ve really got to get moving on this if I have any hope at all of even coming close to resolving who is most likely responsible for Rod’s death.”

  “No problem,” Max said. “I’ve got to find my gun and get it over to the Whitman for the switch, so it should work out fine. Was there anything special you wanted to do today when we all get back together?”

  Jonathan and I looked at one another. “What haven’t we seen yet that you really want to see?” I asked.

  Jonathan thought for all of two or three seconds before saying: “Rockefeller Center? Radio City Music Hall? The Chrysler Building? The U.N.? Harlem? Brooklyn? The Brooklyn Bridge? The Staten Island Ferry? The…” he broke off, grinning. “More?” he asked.

  “Uh, that should do it for this morning,” I said. “But we’ll have to figure out something to do after lunch.”

  “Well, we can play it by ear again,” Chris said. “That be okay?”

  “That’ll be fine,” Jonathan said.

  “So when did you plan to see Gene?” Max asked.

  I shrugged. “I wanted to check with you guys first, but I would like to do it as soon as possible. I told him I’d call him back. Again, it shouldn’t take too long.”

  *

  I’d taken a quick shower and gotten dressed while Chris unpacked the groceries and Jonathan started breakfast, so as soon as we’d finished eating I called Morrison and asked if it would be convenient for me to come over shortly. He said “of course,” so I called a cab.

  “Can I go with you?” Jonathan asked. “I mean, I wouldn’t have to go to his apartment with you, but I could wait outside.”

  I knew my being alone with a possible killer concerned him. It was typically sweet of him, but I assured him that everything would be fine. Telling the guys I’d be back as soon as I could, I went downstairs to wait for the cab. It arrived within minutes, and as I opened the door I glanced up at the apartment to see Jonathan standing in the window. We exchanged a wave, and I got in.

  On the way to Gene’s apartment, I did some serious thinking on how to handle my questions. The minute I asked him about changing flights and arriving in New York the night before he was supposed to, he’d know I had been checking up on him. And if by some chance he did kill Rod, letting him know he was a suspect might…might what? Well, there were quite a few options there, ranging from fleeing the country through trying to kill me, to killing himself (I do tend to lean toward the melodramatic). None of them seemed really very viable. But he might try to get rid of the gun, which, again, was the only physical link to the crime. I hoped Max would have made the switch by the time I left Morrison’s.

  *

  Once again, Morrison was waiting at the door when I got off the elevator.

  “Dick; good to see you,” he said as we shook hands and he led me into the living room. “Would you like some coffee?”

  “No thanks,” I said as he gestured me to a seat in the comfortable living room. I’d not had a chance to look at it closely the last time I was there, since we’d gone directly into the dining room for breakfast. I noticed several sealed boxes stacked beside the front door—Rod’s things, I imagined. The wall opposite the windows was covered with framed movie posters and playbil
ls of films and plays he’d written. On the lamp table next to my chair I noticed a framed photo stand of an incredibly handsome young man—Rod Pearce. There should be a law against people being that beautiful.

  Morrison took a seat opposite me, smiled, and said, “So to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” Though he was cordial and appeared to be at ease, I could sense, as I had every time I’d been in his presence, a definite air of…sadness about him. I felt truly sorry for him.

  Here we go, I thought.

  “I can appreciate everything you and Tait have gone through with Impartial Observer,” I began. “The play is your baby, and the Whitman is Tait’s and they are inextricably linked by your long friendship and Rod’s death. Tait has told me of your hope of possibly moving it to Broadway. And it’s obvious what a shadow Rod’s murder has cast over everything…and everyone.”

  “Including me?” Morrison asked calmly, with an only slightly raised eyebrow.

  “Everyone,” I said. “Have the police spoken with you at all?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Because Tait and probably several other people told them you came into New York the morning after Rod’s body was discovered.”

  “Apparently,” he said.

  “But you actually came in the night before.”

  He looked at me calmly and said, “True, though I’m curious as to how you found out.”

  Well, I’d gone this far so I might as well tell him, and I did, including Tait’s having hired me to rule out everyone at the Whitman, and his firm belief that Morrison could not possibly be involved.

  “However,” I said, “the elimination process involves looking into areas most people wouldn’t. And precisely because you would be the most logical suspect, following up on your arrival time in New York was a natural. Why didn’t you contact the police?”

  He allowed himself a small smile. “The answer to that should be obvious,” he said. “I knew if the police knew I’d come in the evening before I was scheduled to, they would waste a great deal of time and effort trying to prove that I murdered Rod, while whoever did kill him would get lost in the shuffle. Though I’m certain Rod’s death was the senseless and random act of some soulless individual who will never be caught.”

  He had a point, if he was telling the truth now.

  “So why did you come in early?” I asked.

  He sighed. “To confront Rod,” he said, “childish as that may sound. I had reached the point where I was literally consumed by…well, let’s face it, by jealousy. I arrived here around nine o’clock, hoping against hope that he would come home right after rehearsal. If he had, well…it might have given me some reassurance that things were not as bad as I knew in my heart they were.”

  “You didn’t go to the theater?”

  “If I had,” he said, “then there would have been no reason for him not to come directly home. My waiting for him here was the only way to know; a final ‘test,’ if you will.”

  We both remained silent for a moment, until he said, “I waited for him all night, like a love-sick teenager waiting for the phone to ring. I’m certainly not proud of it. Jealousy is one of the most destructive of human emotions. As a Scorpio, I’m sure you can understand.”

  Unfortunately, I could.

  “It was well after sunrise when I laid down on the couch, and that was the last I remember until I awoke around noon. My first thought was to call Tait, but I was too upset and too embarrassed. I didn’t want him to know I’d been here all night, waiting. So I waited until I would have arrived home had I taken the flight I’d originally booked, then called him. And that’s when he told me what had happened.

  “I knew then and know now that the police would consider me the prime suspect if they knew I’d changed flights. And that undoubtedly would have led to a public airing of my relationship with Rod. So I can only hope they don’t find out—and I would hope that you do not feel obligated to tell them.”

  “Not at this point,” I said. He had a logical story, I had to admit.

  Uh, Hardesty…one of my mind-voices interjected… He’s a writer, remember? Writers tell logical stories.

  “I’m curious,” I said. “Had anyone from the Whitman known Rod before you brought him here for the auditions?”

  “Just Tait, to my knowledge.”

  “How did that happen?” I asked.

  “I’d not seen Tait in several months,” he explained, “but we exchange phone calls frequently. Shortly after I met Rod, I mentioned the fact to Tait in passing. Since we do not discuss the more intimate details of our private lives, and I had not mentioned another man in some time, Tait wanted to know if it was serious. He’s always very solicitous of my welfare. I told him I’d not even considered the possibility—though of course I had.

  “The following week, Rod’s grandfather, who had lived with Rod and his parents for years and with whom Rod had been extremely close, died, and Rod had to return to Connecticut for the funeral. Rod had always had a rather strained relationship with his parents, I gathered, and was extremely nervous about spending any time at all with them. Tait happened to call as Rod was packing for his flight, and I told Tait that I wished that Rod was able to spend a day or two in New York after the funeral to relax, but that I’d lent my apartment to a writer friend who was in New York on business. Tait said that Rod would be more than welcome to stay at his apartment and, when I extended the offer to Rod, he was grateful to accept. He spent two or three days at Tait’s after the funeral, then returned to California.

  “So later, when I was writing Impartial Observer and had Rod in mind for the lead, I mentioned it to Tait, and he thought Rod would be perfect for the part.”

  “And was he?”

  A look of sadness crossed his face. “Unfortunately, we never had a chance to find out. But from everything Tait and Arthur McHam have told me, I understand that yes, he was…or would have been.”

  “How do you think Cam is doing in the role?”

  He leaned slightly forward in his chair. “I must say, I am impressed. He’s not Rod, of course. Rod had an indefinable something. Every one of his lines fit him like a glove—hardly surprising, I suppose, since I wrote it for him. But Cam has a certain…well, sincerity…about him. I’m very pleased he is doing the part.”

  He fell silent, looking at me steadily.

  “So do you think I killed Rod?” he asked.

  Did you? my mind-voice asked.

  I took several seconds before answering. “I find it hard to believe,” I said honestly.

  “But you’re not sure,” he said with a small smile.

  I shook my head. “I’ve learned in my line of work that it is difficult to be absolutely positive about anything, much as I might want to be.”

  The smile remained. “I can appreciate that,” he said, “but for however little it may be worth, I can assure you that I could no more murder Rod than you could murder Jonathan.”

  Wow! He got you on that one, I thought.

  It took me another second to pull my thoughts back together.

  “You’d told me that while you were in California you began hearing rumors about Rod’s promiscuity,” I said at last. “From whom? Tait?”

  He shook his head. “No, and I’m afraid I can’t tell you the source.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “Because it really doesn’t matter.”

  “But obviously from someone from the Whitman,” I prodded.

  The small smile again. “I have many friends in New York outside the Whitman. The theater community is rather small and tight-knit.”

  I sensed it was time to call this particular session to an end.

  “Well, Gene,” I said, “I know you’re busy, and the guys are waiting for me back at the apartment, so I should be going. Thank you again for your time, and I very much appreciate your candor.”

  “And I yours,” he replied.

  We got up from our chairs and he walked me to the door.

  �
�If there is anything else I can tell you,” he said, “please feel free to call.”

  “I’ll do that,” I said as we shook hands.

  He closed the door behind me, and I walked to the elevator.

  Damn, Hardesty! You forgot to call a cab again!

  CHAPTER 9

  Did I believe him? I wanted to. Just as he had said that he saw something of himself in me, I think I projected a part of an older me onto him. I really could understand his feelings for Rod, and what Rod’s promiscuity did to him. And his comment about him being as incapable of killing Rod as I would be of killing Jonathan really hit home—maybe it was supposed to.

  But the most frustrating part was the inescapable fact that of everyone I’d considered in this case, Gene Morrison was the only really logical suspect—the operative word here being “logical.” Joe Kenyon might have done it; Cam Roberts might have done it. Hell, even Russ the prop man might have done it. But the basic element of logic was missing with everyone I’d looked at, except for Gene.

  I had no doubt at all that he would have one hell of a time proving he didn’t do it if the cops were to know of his relationship with Rod, and that he’d come into town the night of the killing. How could he prove he was sitting in his apartment alone all night?

  Which brings us back to the gun. If it was the murder weapon, that meant the murderer was from the Whitman. If there were prints on it that I couldn’t see, that might solve the whole thing.

  And I knew that by rights I should have insisted it be turned over to the police immediately. But then they’d want to know who I was and why I was turning it in and how I knew the murder weapon was a .38, and… I really believed that no one else was in imminent danger and that leaving it—or, now, it’s duplicate—where it was was the best course of action.

  *

  A honking horn pulled me back to reality, and I realized I’d walked about six blocks without seeing a vacant cab, so I stopped at a pay phone in front of a drugstore and called for one. I also tried to call Tait, to let him know Gene knew Tait had hired me and that Gene had given a logical explanation for having arrived in town early, though I wasn’t about to go into the details. The line was busy! Damn, I hoped Tait wasn’t on the phone with Gene. I dialed a couple more times until the cab pulled up.