Audition for Murder

by P. M. Carlson

  Title page

  Copyright & history

  Dedication

  Audition for Murder

  About the author

  Audition for Murder

  Maggie Ryan, 1967

  by P.M. Carlson

  The Mystery Company

  Mount Vernon, Ohio

  AUDITION FOR MURDER

  Copyright © 1985 by Patricia Carlson

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

  Excerpts from THE FANTASTICKS, © Copyright as an unpublished work in 1960 by Tom Jones and Harvey Schmidt. Copyright © 1964 by Tom Jones and Harvey Schmidt. Published by arrangement with D.B.S. Publications, Inc. Used by permission.

  PRINT ISBN-13: 978-1-932325-21-8

  EBOOK ISBN-13: 978-1-932325-25-6

  Cover design by Pat Prather

  Cover art by Robin Agnew

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Avon Books first edition: May 1985

  The Mystery Company Smashwords/epub edition: October 2012

  Smashwords Edition License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

  The Mystery Company, an imprint of Crum Creek Press

  1558 Coshocton Ave #126

  Mount Vernon, OH 43050

  www.crumcreekpress.com

  For Marvin

  I say, we will have no more marriages. Those that

  are married already—all but one—shall live; the rest

  shall keep as they are. To a nunnery, go.

  — Hamlet, Act III, Scene I

  One

  Nick O’Connor put down the telephone, his broad, muscular body sagging a little. So she hadn’t been merely tired. Hell. He changed to worn jeans and his old leather jacket, and made a mean face at the mirror. Nick the hustler tonight. Man of a thousand faces, said his agent, and every one of them homely. A regular one-man Dickens novel. Nick headed out for the West Forties.

  The snow was not sticking much. It made the sidewalks shine darkly, splashed with gold and rose and white reflections from bars and street lamps, and pasted down scraps of paper that otherwise would be scuttling across the streets in the bitter wind. His way led past whores, pushers, tired old men huddled over warm grates. Without a hurt, the heart is hollow. No hollow hearts on this street.

  Franklin’s place was halfway down the block. A worn brass door handle, chipped paint. Nick wiped a few snowflakes from his thinning hair and pushed through the crowd to the end of the bar. In a moment the bartender, black, with a trim mustache, had worked his way down to him.

  “Hey, man, where ya been?”

  “Is she here, Franklin?”

  “Been here for hours.”

  “Yeah, I was working tonight. I just heard.”

  “She said she got fired.”

  “Hey, we can’t all be self-employed minority success stories.”

  Franklin chuckled. “You watch your honky mouth.” He went off to break up a loud argument about whether or not the Vietcong were winning, served a whiskey, and returned to Nick. “Room 6B,” he said.

  “Okay. What’s she had?”

  “Well, man, first she practically cleaned me out of bourbon.” Franklin jerked his head to indicate the stock on the back wall. “Then she said she wanted something stronger. So I pretended to be out of horse, gave her charley instead.”

  “Thanks.” Nick paid him and started for the door at the rear of the long room. A short, serious Oriental man barred his way suddenly. Franklin playing games again, Nick thought tiredly. There was still a white line across his left rib cage from an earlier game. He located the knife with the corner of his eye and raised his right hand as though to push the Oriental away, then came up hard with his left, smashing into the man’s wrist with a numbing blow. The knife dropped. He stepped on the blade while he jerked the numbed wrist back and up between the man’s shoulders. Many eyes were staring at them. Nick pulled him around again to face Franklin, who was beaming.

  “Hey, Franklin,” he said mildly, “you ought to pay me extra to be in the floor show.”

  Franklin laughed. “Hey, man,” he said to the Oriental, “leave be. We got a understanding, see?”

  “Yes, sir,” said the Oriental.

  Nick nodded, unsmiling, playing John Wayne for Franklin’s benefit, and went through the door and up the creaking stairs. Cocaine. Well, Franklin was right, it was a hell of a lot better than the alternative.

  He checked the numbers in the smelly upstairs hall and knocked. A scrawny black man looked out at him, then moved back to let him enter. Ah, the glamour of life in show biz. Peeling paint, a high grimy window, a metal bed with a torn Army blanket, dented chairs. On the bed, in a soft rosy dress, lay a woman of heart-stopping beauty.

  She had been humming to herself, but now she broke off. A silken toss of honey-brown hair, lily skin, a slender body wrapped in the flowery fabric. Her warm eyes smiled into Nick’s.

  “Nicky!” she said in muddled delight. “I’m so glad you came!”

  Nick looked at her helplessly. Her white teeth caught at the soft lower lip. She became serious.

  “Is it time to go?”

  “Yes, Lisette.”

  “Okay.” She sat up gracefully and blinked at her slim bare legs and feet. “I prob’ly have some shoes.”

  “She had boots,” volunteered the black man. “Under the bed.”

  Nick fished out the boots and a warm scarf. Thank God, she was still high, she was playing by the rules. He was in time. The U.S. Cavalry personified. Ta ra. He helped her pull on the boots, slid the long zippers up carefully, and helped her gently to her feet.

  “Thanks,” he said to the black man. “Franklin pay you?”

  “He said you’d pay.”

  Probably true. Nick nodded and gave him his last twenty, then opened the door and steered his wife carefully down the stairs and out into the bleak night.

  The cold air revived her a little. She sucked in her breath sharply and stood a little straighter at his side. “C’mon, Blossom,” he said. “We’d better walk it.”

  It was a long walk, and she stumbled sometimes. She said little, just looked at him occasionally with those wide eyes, or smiled hesitantly. Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear. He smiled back, and she walked on. Once she stopped.

  “I gotta pee.”

  “Okay. We’ll go in there.” He indicated a hamburger place nearby. Nick the nanny. While he waited he bought an order of French fries. Then they went on, eating the fries, soft and gritty with salt, from the little paper packet.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked as he unlocked the apartment.

  “I’m all right.” She still smelled of bourbon. He got her into a nightgown and was hanging up her dress when she said, “I got to thinking,” apologetically.

  “Yes, I know, Lisette.” He closed the closet door and turned to look at her. She was sitting up on their bed, her slim arms around her knees, frowning groggily.

  “It won’t go away,” she said.

  “You’ll learn how to manage,” said Nick. “Today is over. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

  “Nicky. Love me?” She held out her arms.

  Nick went to her and held her close to him, this familiar stranger, so like and so unlike the woman he had married seven ye
ars ago. Because he loved her, and because she would feel a failure if he didn’t, he made love to her; but it was not very satisfying, because she was so drowsy and even the coke did not keep her from dozing off after a few minutes. The rape polite, thought Nick bitterly. He lay beside her afterward, stroking the silky hair for a long time before he slept.

  Near dawn there was a muffled rattle, a little distant clink, and Nick’s subconscious raked him awake in terror. He hurled himself across the room, wrenched open the bathroom door, squinted against the glaring light. She held a glass of water in one hand, a heap of little pills in the other. He seized her fist, shook the pills into the toilet, tipped back her head, and poured water into her mouth. Then, one hard arm immobilizing her, he ran the fingers of his other hand back into her throat so that she gagged, heaved, vomited all over his arm, all over the floor. He made her drink again, vomit again, until at last she was shuddering with dry retches, so weak that she sagged weeping across his arm. He carried her to the bed and held her while he picked up the telephone.

  “No,” she whispered painfully. “It’s okay.”

  He started dialing the ambulance. “What do you mean?”

  “Nicky, I’d only swallowed three.”

  Their eyes met. She was telling the truth. “Okay,” he said.

  He bathed her, changed the bed, scrubbed himself and the bathroom. She said little; it hurt her to talk. When finally he lay down next to her again he was silent too. Arms barely touching, isolated yet linked, they grieved their separate ways to morning.

  She was still miserably hung over. Nick canceled his morning dance workout, but had to leave her in bed, dozing, while he went to a TV audition their agent had set up. She was still in bed when he returned before dinner, although she had apparently managed to get out and find a bottle of bourbon in the interim. She had not drunk much. A medicinal dose. He kissed her and went to the little kitchen to start dinner. Belting a daffodil-colored housecoat, she joined him while he was turning the fish.

  “Have we got a lemon?” she asked. Her voice was still hoarse.

  “Yes, in that bag.” Looking up over his shoulder as he squatted to dribble butter onto the fish, he decided to ask. “How are you?”

  A slim shoulder shrugged. “I never knew so young a body with so old a head.”

  “Dear Portia.” He grinned at her. Quoting was a good sign.

  The honey-colored eyes, circled with pain, looked down at him. “I’m going to go get dried out tomorrow.”

  “Okay.” He didn’t let too much enthusiasm into his voice. She had to do it for herself, not him.

  “And then I want to get out of the city.”

  “Get out?” He straightened, looked at her. This was new.

  “Yes. I need a vacation or something. We’ve only been away once in four years, to Compton to see Mom.”

  “That’s true.” His warm brown eyes smiled at her. “The celebrated O’Connor treadmill. Athletes marvel! Tourists gawk!”

  She smiled, rearranged the lemon slices. “Well, I think the change might help.”

  “Will you want me to go with you?”

  “Yes. Oh, yes!” Her glance was frightened.

  “But you know I can’t get away for a while.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t be ready either, for a while.”

  It was awkward. His role in this musical was the best he’d had yet. He wouldn’t get reviewed, of course, this late in the run, but people in the business would hear about it. And it was obviously going to keep on running for quite a while, with a small but steady income. Money. Just like being a real person. Most importantly, of course, it was stage work. Nick did TV spots eagerly for the money—hell, he waited tables for the money—but TV had very little to do with his reasons for being an actor. Every night now, though, as he stepped through the little curtain made of streamers and began the opening song, he felt that intense communion with the audience, a sense almost of priesthood, as his voice and body communicated the fleeting yet eternal emotions of the play. Nick the witch doctor. Quitting when he had this fulfillment was unthinkable.

  But Lisette knew all that. She would not ask him to give it up lightly.

  “I had sort of an idea,” she said.

  “Oh?”

  “Because you have such a good part now.” She did understand. “It would be bad to just quit.”

  “Yes.”

  “God, my head hurts.”

  They sat down on their mismatched flea-market chairs and she ate a bite or two, the fine skin between her brows furrowed. Nick squeezed lemon juice onto his fish and waited.

  “It’s something George was talking about yesterday,” she said. “There’s this college upstate. They’re doing some sort of special Hamlet and they’re hiring professional leads.” The long-lashed eyes looked at him anxiously. “They’ll pay scale. We’re supposed to help with the acting classes too.”

  “You’d be a delicious Ophelia.”

  Lisette smiled a little. “Yes. In fact, it’s funny, George said someone called him and asked if I’d consider a job upstate. Anyway, I thought it would be a change.”

  “When is it?”

  “Starts in January or February, I think, for their whole spring term. Auditions week after next.”

  “You want to be back in a college?” The question was ugly. But it had to be asked. The little line reappeared between her brows before she nodded.

  “I never really quite finished, emotionally. I thought it might help me work things out.”

  Nick buttered his roll doubtfully. “Are you sure?”

  “Hell, no! But Nicky, what else can I do? It’s been four years. Almost five. And it never interfered with my work before! Time isn’t helping. The shrink didn’t. Our friends don’t. Maybe nothing will ever help.” He put his big hand over hers and she blinked a little. “Well, you’ve helped.”

  “I know what you mean. In the end it’s just you, all alone.”

  “So, who knows if this is right? I thought it might be worth a try.” She looked up. “I know you’ll have to give up a hell of a lot.”

  “If they even want me.”

  “Oh, they will! You could do any of the big parts. Hamlet, Claudius, even Polonius. Though I always think of him as skinny.”

  Nick grinned. “We two know I could do it,” he said, “but I suspect Claudius is what they’ll think. If anything.” Hamlet, Thick Balding Prince of Denmark. Dear loyal Lisette.

  “That’s not as good as what you have now, is it?” The dark-circled eyes were sad.

  “No,” he said honestly. “But it’s Shakespeare. God, I’d love to do Shakespeare again. In my heart I’m Sir Laurence O’Connor.”

  She looked hopeful. “Yes, well, I thought it might work.”

  He picked up her fragile hand and said diffidently, “Um, Arnie Hutton told me you were drunk at rehearsal.”

  Her fingers stirred in his, and then were quiet. She said, “Yeah. Three times this week.”

  Damn. He’d suspected it. But she’d said she was just tired, and he’d wanted to believe her. This time she’d been sober five months. He asked, “Did anything special happen to set it off?”

  “Well, they were rewriting my character. She was supposed to stab someone.”

  He frowned, concerned. “Ophelia’s father is killed. She goes mad.”

  “But Nicky,” she explained earnestly, “it’s different. Ophelia gets to die.” His mouth tightened, and she glanced down at her plate and murmured apologetically, “Well, it makes it easier. And anyway, I have to get at that part of me sometime, or I’ll never get beyond diet-cola commercials.”

  Nick nodded. It was true. An actor’s instrument, infinitely more complex than a musician’s, was his own body and voice, mind and emotions. With talent and training, he could find the complex sequence of emotional and bodily memories that combined best with the words of a particular part, then coax his bones and muscles into living another life. But secret horrors and buried memories could not be sealed o
ff and forgotten. They were his sources, his raw materials. If Lisette was right about what had broken her in these last rehearsals, she was crippled as surely as if she had lost a leg. Ophelia might be the key to finding what she had lost. Close, but not too close.

  “You’re a gambler, kiddo,” he said.

  “I’m sick of how things are. I’m sick of playing things shallow so I won’t freak out. I’m sick of Franklin’s and making you play these idiot games.”

  “Okay. Let’s try it. And if these fellows won’t have us, we’ll find someone who will. Stratford, maybe? The Royal Shakespeare Company? The Pumpkinville Junior Thespians? But right now I must go.”

  “Hey, Nicky.” She smiled up at him.

  “Yeah?”

  “We’ll be okay.”

  He kissed her hair. Today she smelled of violets. Also of fish. He smiled too. “We are okay. We’ll be even better.”

  Nick was one of the last to audition because of his schedule. They had agreed to wait for him so that he could get there from his matinee. Lisette had read the day before, although she had come back a little concerned.

  “They made me read Gertrude too, Nicky. Isn’t that odd?”

  “Yes. How did you do?”

  “Okay with Ophelia. I did part of the mad scene, of course. For Gertrude they wanted part of the scene with Hamlet. ‘Alas, how is’t with you/That you do bend your eye on vacancy?’ But they couldn’t seriously want me to be some big hulk’s mother, could they?”

  He grinned. “They’ll have trouble finding a young enough hulk. Maybe they’re really going to stress the Oedipal angle.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “Well, we’ll see. Did they seem okay otherwise?”

  “One fellow, Brian—I guess he’s the director—seemed very bright and helpful. The other one was creepy. Just sat in the corner watching me. Looked like a cowboy.”