Before their departure, the production's credible Big Mama, Mildred St. Paul, another frequently used local thespian and the housewife of a vice president at Henderson Petroleum, and Jason Dupuis (Brick), were given standing ovations that they almost deserved. That left the stage to the elephantine Harmon Kane, who, with surprising grace, gathered Eugenia Broussard in one massive arm and pulled her close, both of them regarding the standing, cheering crowd with an air of noblesse oblige.
When the applause began to wane, Harmon turned to the wings and summoned the other two primary players—"Millie and Jack"—to rejoin them.
More applause.
A young man in an ill-fitting tuxedo raced down the aisle bearing two rose bouquets that Harmon presented to Eugenia Broussard and Mildred St. Paul. Then Harmon stepped toward the footlights and gestured the crowd to quiet down.
"Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, his magnificent voice rumbling effortlessly without benefit of amplification, “we would like to thank you for your warm and enthusiastic response to our little production."
The audience was silent now and a bit mesmerized.
"I, myself, am particularly in your debt,” he continued. “Since I have been absent from the theater for nearly twenty years, laboring in the Hollywood vineyards, there were some who needed assurance that I had not lost my ... flair for stagecraft.
"Tonight your applause has given them all the proof anyone would need. As a result, on Broadway this fall, I will be directing a new play by a promising young writer named David Mamet, starring myself and Mr. Kenneth McMillan.
"Until then, I remain your humble servant in the arts."
More applause.
But Harmon's cast members didn't seem to be sharing his good spirits as they took their final bows and the curtain descended.
"He had no intention of bringing this production to Broadway,” Megan said, her eyes wet with tears. “We were just a test case. How could he be so cruel?"
Tom, standing in the aisle a few rows from the stage, saw her and began to thread his way toward us. With the crowd of theatergoers jabbering and calling his name, he took Megan's hand and said, “I'm so sorry, my deah."
She drew a deep breath and when she exhaled her unhappiness seemed to disappear, replaced by a determination that hardened her beauty in a way I'd never seen before. “Did you know what he was planning, Tom?"
"Not until I saw Mr. Edgar Weisman in the seventh-row aisle seat."
"Who's he?” I asked.
"A representative of Greystone Theaters,” Tom said. “They operate the Waterford on 47th and Broadway, which I assume is where Harmon will appear in his ‘promising’ young playwright's bit of twaddle."
"I'd better get backstage,” Megan said. “Those poor actors must be terribly depressed. I want to make sure they're still coming to the party. After all their hard work, the least I can do is provide them with food and drink and the opportunity to tell the loathsome Mr. Kane precisely what they think of him."
We both watched her maneuver through the crowd.
"After dropping that bombshell, you don't suppose Kane really will show at the party?” I asked.
"'Course he will, Harol'. He's got to get another five performances out of those poor disillusioned actors and he's a big enough ham to think he can talk them into it."
"You theater folk,” I said, prompting one of his cackles. “I suppose you'll be at the party?"
"As things stand, I wouldn't miss it,” he said, turning to the crowd of men and women offering him pens and playbills to sign.
* * * *
Megan's cast party was being held in a penthouse suite at the Royal Orleans Hotel that probably cost about the same per night as a month's rent of my bookshop three blocks down the street. A bar had been set up, and a groaning board filled with iced shrimp and crawfish, raw oysters, roast beef, a ham, dirty-rice, two kinds of salads, crudités, and tiny hamburgers and little links that were mainly for the children.
She had been successful in corralling most of the cast, though the party proceeded in a subdued and semi-gloomy manner for over an hour without a sign of either Harmon or Eugenia. The children and their stage parents seemed to be enjoying themselves, along with the African-American contingent that had portrayed Big Daddy's household staff. They'd had no illusions about Broadway, having been informed at the start that their relatively minor roles would be recast by New York actors.
The others were finding it difficult to set aside their sense of betrayal, even with their stomachs full and their wine and cocktail glasses being constantly refilled. Jason Dupuis, suspicious that Tom had been in on the deception, was giving the playwright a hard time of it.
"Don't touch me, old man,” he said, jerking his arm from Tom's hand. “I prefer not to associate with people I don't trust."
"I learned of Harmon's plans when you did,” Tom protested.
"You're lucky I don't know for sure, or I'd give you what I'm gonna give the fat man."
"You physically attack him and he'll sue you. The publicity will make him stronger and destroy you."
"Oh yeah? Like I got anything to destroy. In any case, hanging around with you's lost all its appeal. What can a has-been like you do for me now? Dig?"
We both watched the method former bartender swagger off toward Eugenia Broussard, who'd just arrived, alone. “He'd seemed like such a nice boy,” Tom said, not at all sarcastically.
"Sharper than a serpent's tooth is an ungrateful actor,” I said.
"The sad thing is, I've been treated worse,” Tom said and cackled mirthlessly. “Time for me to refill the cup. Can I get you something from the bar, Harol'?"
I told him I was fine.
I watched him collect a large clear drink and take it to join Megan, who was saying goodbye to the departing children and their parents. Jason, meanwhile, had turned his full glowering method stare on Eugenia and she seemed to be flowering under its intensity.
Actors.
* * * *
Harmon Kane arrived nearly two hours late for the party.
By then, we were down to a skeleton crew. Jason and Eugenia were “discovering” themselves on a couch in the corner. Jacques Boudreaux, the once and, it now appeared, future druggist, was ranting to an obviously inebriated and disinterested Tom about being relegated to a life of “rolling pills,” while his wife Lula, a country girl from Jeanerette, was confessing to me that, “as good as mah hubby is pretendin’ to be Gooper, I just wouldn't'a felt right about livin’ in New Yawk, with Jacques associatin’ with drug addicks an’ all."
Mildred “Big Mama” St. Paul and Megan were standing at the food table, deep in a discussion—of calories, I guessed. Her husband, the vice president of Henderson Petroleum, had been backed into a corner by insurance salesman Carl Godet and was trying to edge away gracefully.
All conversation ceased when Harmon entered.
He looked uncharacteristically harried, his hair mussed and his round face an unhealthy shade of gray. “Forgive me for arriving so late,” he said to the room, “and for ... everything. If you'll allow me, I'll try and explain ... but first, could someone be so kind as to point out the facilities?"
"There,” Megan said flatly, indicating the doors leading to the darkened bedrooms and baths.
As soon as he stormed away, energy began to flow through the room again. Lula drifted in the direction of her husband and I strolled to the window where Tom stood staring at the lights along the Mississippi.
"Lovely view,” he said.
"Not exactly like the lights on Broadway,” I said.
"No, but you know, Harol', these folks do have some talent. And if they really want Broadway, they'll find a way to get there."
We watched the lights for a few minutes in silence.
"Okay. I've had enough of this bull.” Jason's angry voice drew us both from the river view.
He strode angrily into the bedroom and continued to the closed bathroom door. “People out here want to talk to you, fat man
,” he shouted. “Enough with the Frankie Machine bit."
The door remained closed.
"C'mon out, you lyin', sorry son of—"
Jason's flow of invective was interrupted by the opening of the bathroom door.
Harmon stood wild-eyed and mountainous in the doorway, nearly blotting out the light from the bathroom. He had removed his tux jacket, pulled his bow tie apart, and unhooked his cuffs and the top of his shirt. He stumbled forward, then stopped and took a stiff-legged backward step, as if attempting a Frankenstein-monster parody.
But there was nothing comedic about his condition.
Jason, his handsome face registering surprise and, I think, fear, distanced himself as the big man started forward again, gasping for air and reaching out his arms. As he entered the lighted room where we stood his body began to spasm.
I rushed to offer whatever help I could, but I was too late. He went down hard on his side, hitting the carpet with an ugly thud. He rolled onto his back and lay there, his mouth opening and closing, reminding me, I hate to say, of a bloated, beached frog.
He stared up at me, his face wet with perspiration and tears. “Meg ... Meg ... did it...” he said. Then, apparently annoyed with himself, he shook his massive head. He mumbled something.
I knelt beside him, sensing rather than seeing the others in the room move closer. There was an oddly familiar chemical smell coming from his body, pungent, but not unpleasant. I placed my ear near his mouth and heard him whisper his final words.
I stood and looked down at his still body, only then realizing that a hypodermic needle was dangling from one huge fleshy arm, caught in place by the open French cuff of his shirt.
There was little doubt that he was dead, but I felt for a pulse anyway.
Jacques Boudreaux, the druggist, stood right behind me. “Oh, man, ain't that somethin'?” he said.
"What was it he whispered to you?” Tom asked. “His last words?"
I pointed to the needle. “He said, ‘the heroin.’”
"Good Lord,” Mildred St. Paul said. “Was he on heroin?"
"On something,” I said.
"Actually, according to the insurance policy we needed for the play, he was a diabetic,” Megan said coldly. “Not that that rules out heroin, of course."
"Diabetic?” Jason said. “Then that's what killed him."
"Either that or a drug overdose,” I said. “In any case, we should all move back from the body and find a comfortable place to sit and wait for the police. They won't want anybody using that bathroom."
"Shouldn't we cover him with somethin'?” Tom asked.
"I think we'd better leave him like he is,” I said, and, ignoring the buzz of their questions and comments, I took it upon myself to notify the night manager of the hotel.
He in turn summoned the police.
* * * *
A pair of uniformed policemen, one fresh and brash, the other seasoned and bored, answered the call and quickly ushered us to one of the hotel's vacant suites, leaving the death scene to technicians from the coroner's office and various other minions of the law.
Eventually we were joined by two homicide detectives, Burke (pronounced “Burkie") and Mamahat, who, for the next two hours, interviewed each of us singly in the suite's bedrooms.
Finally, Mamahat, a small, sad-eyed, olive-skinned man who seemed to be the ranking member of the NOPD, emerged from a room with Lula Boudreaux, the last of us to be interrogated. “I'm sorry we had to keep all you folks heah,” he said, looking as if that really were the truth. “But, in point o’ fact, Mr. Harmon Kane, a man of international fame, is now officially a victim of homicide, making this, unofficially, what we call a ‘don't make a mistake or your butt winds up walking a beat on Bourbon Street’ murder investigation."
He crossed the room to where Megan and I were together on a loveseat. “Miz Carey,” he said, his eyes looking sadder with each word, “you have any idea why Mistah Kane said you were the one who killed him?"
Megan's hand squeezed mine suddenly. I tried to gather my thoughts.
"That's not what I heard him say.” Tom's voice was a weary drawl, but it worked to distract Mamahat.
"Then you seem to be in the minority, suh,” the detective said.
"Words are my business, Detective,” Tom said. “I don't much care for im-prov-i-zation. The word ‘kill’ was not used, nor any of its many synonyms. What Harmon said was, ‘Meg did it.' That could mean, ‘Meg brought me to New Orleans,’ or ‘Meg got me to come to this dreadful party.’ The word ‘it’ can be so dawgone vague, n'est pas?"
"With all due respect, Mistah Williams, when a man has just injected himself with a toxic substance he thought was insulin and realizes he is about to ex-pire, I truly do not believe he's gonna be concerned with who invited him to a party."
"A toxic substance?” Tom said. “You mean heroin?"
"Wasn't no evidence of heroin. Not in the hypodermic needle or in its leather case that we found in the bathroom,” Mamahat said. “Way it looks, somebody slipped something into the dead man's insulin supply and he shot it into his arm. We'll identify the toxin soon enough. The assistant coroner said it smelled like a petroleum substance of some kind."
Hearing those words, I recognized the odor I'd smelled when I was close to the dying man. And I knew exactly who had killed him, though I was less clear on what I should do about it.
Mamahat returned to Megan. “Miz Carey, you were aware that the deceased suffered from diabetes, right?"
She nodded.
"Then that knowledge, together with the victim identifying you..."
I saw where the detective was headed. “A lot of people knew he was a diabetic,” I said. “Or, to be more correct, they knew he used a needle."
"Yeah? I got the idea they found out about his condition from Miz Carey after the man expired."
"Lula,” I said to Jacques Boudreaux's wife, “you told me you were worried about your husband associating with drug addicts. Were you talking about Harmon Kane?"
She looked at her husband for help. “Jacques?"
"I may have heard something about him bein’ on the needle,” Boudreaux said, frowning.
"Did you hear it from Jason?” I asked.
"Whoa,” the ex-bartender shouted. “Leave me out of this."
"When you were calling for Harmon Kane to exit the bathroom, Jason, you said he should stop ‘the Frankie Machine bit.’ What'd you mean by that?"
Jason slumped. “Okay. Frankie Machine. Man With the Golden Arm. Sinatra's greatest role."
"Heroin addict,” I said.
"Yeah. One of the cleaning guys at the theater interrupted Harmon shooting up in the head. He thought it was dope."
"So who else knew the deceased used a needle?” Mamahat asked.
"It's a fact of backstage theater life, Detective,” Tom said, “that if one person in the company possesses that kind of information, everybody does."
"Okay, so everybody knew,” Mamahat said, with some heat. “Big deal. I still have the dead man singling out one person by name."
"Detective,” Tom said, “has anyone mentioned to you that no one refers to Miz Carey as ‘Meg,’ not even her ... gentleman friend? It is always ‘Megan.’”
"So what? Kane was dying. He wasn't able to get the full name out."
"Finally, we agree,” Tom said. “Are you familiar with my play, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof?"
"I saw the movie,” Detective Mamahat said, “back awhile."
"Good man,” Tom said. “You remember Miss Elizabeth Taylor in the film?"
"She went around in a slip, flirtin’ with Paul Newman?"
Tom smiled. “More or less correct. The character's name is Margaret, but she is also called Maggie the Cat. Maggie ... Mag. Sounds a lot like Meg, no?"
"You're suggestin’ what?” Mamahat asked. “That he was talking about some character in a story?"
"More like the actress playing that role,” Tom said.
"That's crazy!” Jason
yelled. He was sitting next to Eugenia Broussard, his arm cradling her in a protective manner. “Why wouldn't he have used her real name?"
"I think you'll agree Harmon wasn't quite himself at the time,” Tom said. “He was dying and mentally confused, not unlike the character he'd been playing only hours before. Isn't it possible he was still thinking of Miz Broussard as Maggie?"
"You're not buying any of this, are you, Detective?” Eugenia asked. “The ravings of an old drunk?"
Mamahat looked a bit uneasy. “It is a little ... far-fetched, Mistah Williams."
"Then let's draw it closer to reality,” Tom said. “In spite of her lies and manipulations, some consider Maggie to be the heroine of the play. I do. And I believe Harmon did, too. That's why his dyin’ words to Harol’ LeBlanc were ‘the heroine,’ indicating the lady, not the drug."
"This is absurd,” Eugenia said.
"Most of the people here, Miz Carey included, had one reason to wish Harmon ill,” Tom said. “But only you, Miz Broussard, had a second reason. The man had pretended to be your lover. A broken contract might result in anger and frustration. But a broken heart, now that's a motive for murder."
We all were looking at Eugenia now. Even the suddenly quiet Jason, who, perhaps unconsciously, had slipped his arm from around her.
"Harmon didn't break my heart,” Eugenia said. “But even if he had, do you suppose I carry poison around in my purse just in case I get dumped by a fat old fraud?"
"Not in your purse,” I said. “But, in this case, the poison was benzoyl. I recognized the odor from my days at Webber Advertising. It's used by the artists to clean the glue from their boards. You've been working in Webber's art department. They still use the stuff?"
She remained silent, staring at me.
"You didn't have much time after Harmon's curtain speech,” I said. “The agency is only a few blocks away. I imagine you raced right over there in a fury, filled a plastic bottle with the most toxic product you could lay your hands on, and then ran directly to Harmon's hotel. What happened there? A full-out fight, maybe. You locking yourself in the bathroom, pretending to cry while you doctored his medicine?"
EQMM, November 2006 Page 6
