Audition for Murder

by P. M. Carlson

  “Well, thanks.” Nick was flattered, and warned. This complication he could do without. He crossed his arms. “We’re learning a lot here too. Lisette was just saying the other night that it’s useful to communicate to students. It forces you to become clear about concepts you thought you grasped, but really hadn’t thought through.”

  “Yes, that’s true.” There was a trace of regret in her warm rich voice. “It encourages you to be very rational.”

  “That’s important too,” he said firmly, and was thankful to hear some of his students approaching down the hall.

  “I may need a blackboard,” she said.

  “Sure. I’ll pull one in from next door.” He hailed one of the students to help him. In a few minutes he was pleased to see Grace take charge—capable and, of course, rational—and instruct his students in some of the subtleties of the language of Wilde and Shaw.

  Brian had asked him to work with the Players. The flowery language, the sense of ensemble, the careful timing were all new and difficult for the undergraduates, and the extra hour they spent three times a week with Nick was much appreciated. It made his days long, though. They didn’t finish until after six, and rehearsals started at seven-thirty. Today was worse than usual, because he had promised to meet Rob before rehearsal. “We’ll have a picnic first,” Lisette suggested to Nick. And as the last Players left the rehearsal room, here she was, warm and beautiful, with a huge sparkling gift box filled with fruit and cold cuts and a fresh loaf of pumpernickel. He closed the door and kissed her thoroughly.

  “You know, Blossom,” he said into the scented hair, “on top of your other virtues, you are a most satisfactory wife.”

  Amused, she ran a finger along his bearded jawline. “It’s only fair, Nicky. You’re a pretty good wife yourself, when I need one. Though a bit hairy.”

  “Can’t be perfect.”

  “Oh, it is perfect! If Rob weren’t coming, I’d ravish you right here on the rehearsal room floor.”

  “Mmm. Mind reader.” He smiled, and took the box from her. “Let’s eat before we both need cold showers.”

  She pouted impishly but obligingly changed the subject as they began unpacking the big box. “How was your day?”

  “Crowded. Grace gave a good talk to my seniors. And the grads are really responding to the corporal mime unit. How was yours?”

  “Fine. The beginners are a mixed bunch but some of them are doing well. Sheila did a fantastic reading from Miller today.” She shook her head. “Poor old Paul is no actor, though. He works very hard in class and gets some of the technique things, vocally at least. But his coordination is zero. He should stick to staging.”

  “He’ll get his C, won’t he?” After some discussion, the acting teachers had agreed that any student who worked hard and attended regularly would get a C, at least. But some talent would be required for an A or B.

  “Oh, sure. He’s very faithful,” she said. “Also, I think he has a crush on me.”

  “Probably does.” Nick smiled fondly at his wife. Their relationship with its complex dependencies was beyond ordinary jealousy. But Nick could still remember the first weeks he had known her, when he had been a young instructor smitten by his dazzling student, and he sympathized with Paul and with the many others who had been similarly affected by her over the years.

  Lisette had spread a red-checked cloth in the middle of the floor and was taking out the pumpernickel. “No ants,” she said happily.

  “Maybe all picnics should be held in rehearsal rooms.”

  “Maybe not all. Just until spring comes.” She surveyed the dull scuffed walls, the taped floor, the mismatched chairs, the grimy windows partly opened to the surprisingly mild March air. “Shouldn’t be long now.”

  Nick declaimed, “Winter slumbering in the open air wears on his smiling face a dream of spring,” and fed her a grape with a romantic flourish.

  When they had finished Lisette packed up the cloth and plates, replaced the ribboned top on the gift box, and pushed it aside. Rob appeared, as if on cue, holding his violin.

  “Hi, Nick, Zetty. Hey, what a gorgeous gift! Wish it was for me.”

  “Maybe someday, if you’re a good boy,” said Lisette.

  “Thanks for coming, Nick. It gets boring, practicing all by yourself.”

  “Unhealthy habit, too. Solitary practicing. I hope you aren’t hitting it before lunch.”

  Rob grinned. “It may come to that. Okay, you want to give me what passes for an A on that thing?”

  The rehearsal room piano was battered but had once, early in its career, been a reasonably good instrument. Nick had often played it, briefly, in odd moments between classes or before rehearsals. He thumbed through the music while Rob tuned the violin. Lisette settled into a chair, prepared to listen. Nick said, “Let me run through a couple of these sections, okay? Parts of this Beethoven sonata look tough.”

  “Okay. I’ll play along with you.”

  They worked the more difficult sections a couple of times, then Nick said, “Well, I won’t be any readier than this tonight.”

  “Okay. Let’s go.”

  They played it through. Nick almost lost it in a couple of places, but Rob had been working on it and pulled him through, and in many sections it went surprisingly well.

  “Not bad, considering your crummy choice of accompanist,” said Nick when it was over.

  “Rob, that was great!” Lisette was enthusiastic.

  “Thankee, thankee, Zetty,” said Rob, putting on a country accent. “Just what me old mammy used to tell me in North Carolina. ‘Chile,’ she would say, ‘keep a-workin’ and you’ll be the best country fiddler in these here hills.’”

  “And you ignored her!” said Lisette tragically.

  “And became as dissipated as you two instead. Listen, Zetty! This was her favorite piece.” He lifted the violin, and she smiled as he played the opening phrase of “Turkey in the Straw,” then paused, surprised. The same phrase was floating, silvery, through the open window. A flute.

  “Nice effects you country fiddlers get,” said Nick.

  Rob played the next phrase and stopped. Again, the flute repeated it. He frowned and shifted to a bit of Mozart. The flute repeated and added a few bars, accurately. He grinned at Nick.

  “Apparently we have become a trio,” he said. He played a bit of Tchaikovsky’s Chinese dance, the flute part. This time the response mimicked the violin part of the Kreutzer. Rob laughed out loud. “Touché!” he said. The flute played a few bars of a Paganini caprice. Rob concentrated fiercely and repeated it, faster. Nick, tired of the sidelines, did it on the piano.

  There was no response.

  “Have we broken its spirit?” asked Rob. He looked toward the window anxiously, then smiled in delight. “No—soft! What light through yonder window breaks?”

  Maggie pushed the sash further open and climbed in to straddle the sill, four floors up, flute in hand. She was wearing her usual jeans and baggy sweatshirt and amused expression.

  “It is the west, actually,” she informed him.

  “And Juliet is the ingenue. Shucks, I keep forgetting.” Rob’s blue eyes sparkled. “But welcome all the same.”

  “Merci. Play something else, okay? I really came to spy. But I’d like to hear more.”

  Rob turned to Nick. “How about the Schubert?”

  “Right.” They launched into the new piece. Maggie and Lisette listened with enjoyment, and applauded at the end. Maggie swung herself on into the room.

  “That was good.”

  “Thanks,” said Rob. “We’re saving up for tuxedos so we can join the Philharmonic.”

  Nick cocked an inquiring eyebrow at her and played a few bars of the Humoresque. She nodded, and they played it through with few bobbles. Nick said, “Rob, let’s add a flute to our musical evenings.”

  “By all means.” Rob smiled at her. “Now you’ve been officially invited. You won’t have to sneak in through windows.”

  “Good. It’s hard
on the ivy.”

  Ellen came in and plunked down her prompt book. “Hello, people. What are you doing here, Maggie?”

  “I’m leaving, chief. I was distracted by these wandering minstrels.” She saluted them with the flute and went out, calling over her shoulder, “Get them to do ‘Turkey in the Straw’ for you. Their specialty.”

  Rob lifted his bow and played Ellen a chorus. Nick watched Maggie swinging down the hall, tall and slim as Lisette, but heartier, bigger-boned, more full of life and laughter. Lucky the man who would share that joyous life. That joyous bed. He turned quickly back to the piano and closed it. He thought of Grace, and of Lisette, and smiled at himself. Spring was coming indeed. A middle-aged fancy lightly turning to thoughts of universal horniness.

  Jason, just coming in, was looking after her too with a gentle, hopeless hunger. Poor Jason, thought Nick. Poor Grace. Poor Rob. Poor Paul. Loneliness came in many flavors. He suddenly felt a need for Lisette and went to where she sat in a chair backed against the wall, reading over her lines. She smiled at him as he sat down next to her, then her eyes returned to her book and she continued with her work. But her slender ankle moved a few inches and hooked around behind his, and he sat quietly for a few minutes, feeling lucky, until everyone had arrived.

  “Excuse me, Lisette, is this yours?” Ellen held up the beribboned box. “Judy and I have to clear the rehearsal area.”

  Lisette looked up from her book. “Oh! Sorry. I’ll just put it out by the prop room.” She grabbed up the box and ran down the hall and around the corner to drop it on the bench by the prop room door. As she came back in, Laura handed her a rehearsal skirt, and she buttoned it on over her jeans.

  The rehearsal began with the graveyard scene. David Wagner was getting better as Laertes, thought Nick. His young voice already had range and flexibility, and even at this early stage a brother’s grief and anger were communicated as he stormed at the priests. He was not so convincing when Hamlet bounded into the grave with him. Their fight was still just a shoving match, but that could be worked out. And Rob was already damn good. As Horatio and the others pulled them apart, he glared at Laertes. “Why, I will fight with him upon this theme/Until my eyelids will no longer wag!”

  “O my son, what theme?” asked Grace in her rich voice.

  And the heartbroken answer came. “I loved Ophelia. Forty thousand brothers/Could not, with all their quantity of love,/Make up my sum.”

  Yes, in fits and flashes, Nick could glimpse an exciting production emerging from this odd collection of cynical professionals, bright-eyed graduate students, and untrained, hardworking youngsters. What a peculiar and fulfilling business he was in.

  They moved on to the Hamlet-Players scene, and Nick was no longer needed. “I’ll be down the hall,” he whispered to Ellen. “Just yell if you need me.” He walked past the drinking fountain and stairs to the corner of the hall, glanced down both deserted corridors, noted the gift box on the bench, and slipped into the prop room where the two halls joined.

  “Changing of the guard,” he said to Maggie. “Anything?”

  “Nope. The Players were clowning around out here for a while, but none of them touched it. Nobody else even walked down the hall. But the Blithe Spirit folks will be back in the dressing rooms when their performance is over.”

  “Thanks. Sorry if it was boring.”

  “Glad to help. If you leave the door ajar, you can see the box clearly through the crack. And if you move over to the hinge side, you can see down the other corridor past the exit and the drinking fountain to the rehearsal room door.”

  “Fine. See you later, then.”

  “Hey, Uncle Nick, good luck.” She checked both halls and then, flute case in hand, slipped through the door and down the exit stairs.

  Nick settled onto the chair in the dark prop room, surrounded by dark shelves with the shadows of goblets, candlesticks, papier-mache food, stuffed animals, lamps, prams, and a million other dusty objects. He kept his eye on the gaudy picnic box on the bench outside, the top with its big bow fitted loosely over the box. He could hear the muffled sounds of the rehearsal as Brian worked through the scene. It was peaceful. Hell, it was dull.

  Once, the costume and properties heads came up the stairs; Nick shifted sides and peered through the hinge side to watch them, but they just walked quietly to the rehearsal room door. He went back to watching the box.

  Finally there was a commotion at the end of the hall. He heard one of the Players say, “How long? Ten minutes?”

  “Yeah. Let’s hurry.”

  He looked through the hinge side to see most of the actors pouring out of the rehearsal room, some hurrying to the exit stairs, others sauntering along the hall, stopping at the drinking fountain or just stretching their legs. Nick switched sides and watched the box attentively, but few people came around this corner. Grace and Judy walked past it toward the dressing rooms, then started slowly back toward the rehearsal room. Ellen and Tim, the props head, met them and they stood and talked for a moment, then went back with them. Nick was relieved; it wouldn’t do for Tim to decide to fetch a prop now. He’d have to disguise himself, as a stuffed bear, maybe, or a giant hassock. Nick the potted palm.

  The minutes wore on; people began to drift back into the rehearsal room.

  “Yes, that’s true.” It was Lisette’s voice; and the underlying tenseness in it caught Nick’s attention. He moved to the hinge side.

  “It’s just that there hasn’t been much genuine emotion yet.” Brian was talking to her near the water fountain. Lisette was nodding in agreement, but Nick could tell that she was strung tight.

  “I’ll work on it, Brian,” she said. “But probably not by tomorrow or Monday. I need more time.”

  “Sure. You know best how you work. But it’s a crucial scene.”

  “I know, Brian.”

  “Well, don’t rush things if you’re not ready. The other scenes are wonderful. I’ll trust you.”

  “Thanks.” But she stood for a moment, rigid by the water fountain, after Brian went back to the rehearsal room, and Nick knew that she didn’t trust herself. And that he was helpless to help her.

  He realized suddenly that there had been a soft click down the other hall. He jerked around to peer out the other side of the door, and saw that the door at the end of this hall was closing slowly. Where the hell did that door lead? Another storage room? He couldn’t remember. But the same glance told him that the lid of the big gift box had been moved. Damn. He flung himself down the hall, past the dressing rooms, and pulled the door open before it had closed all the way.

  Darkness, vacancy. As he braked himself, his foot slipped over the threshold and rang on metal. The upper catwalk gallery. He was high above the stage, the pulleys of the gridiron only a few feet above him. He thought he could feel the metal platform quivering in rhythm with silent steps descending its ladder. From far below came a voice. “Elvira?” The lead actor in Blithe Spirit.

  And from far below, too, the anguished whisper of someone backstage. “Jesus Christ, keep that door closed! There’s a performance going on! What’s with you people?”

  Nick recoiled as though burned, pushed the door closed as fast as its pneumatic arm allowed, closed his eyes. Terrific. Great plan, O’Connor. Let the joker escape, burst into the middle of someone else’s show. Hargate was sure lucky to have professionals working here. Bozo O’Connor himself. The original Keystone Kop.

  “What’s wrong, Nicky?” Lisette had heard his step, was coming toward him from the other hall.

  “I’m what’s wrong. Christ! Me and my James Bond delusions.”

  “You blew it,” she deduced.

  “I blew it. Got distracted for a minute.” He didn’t tell her why. “And when I looked back, someone was disappearing through this door. I went blundering after and almost fell into the middle of a Blithe Spirit performance. The seance, I think.”

  “Oh, Nicky! Did the audience see you?” She was distressed.

  He tho
ught. “No, I think this upper level is masked by the velours. But there was probably some light spill.”

  Amusement crept into her eyes. “Well, maybe they would have thought you were a spirit, called back from above.”

  He grinned. “Yeah. I’m the ethereal type, all right. But anyway, our joker got away.”

  “You’re sure he was here?”

  Nick walked back to the gift box. A last mob of actors and technical workers was coming up the exit stairs, and he waited for them to reach the rehearsal room door before flipping back the top. Inside it was a recent Time magazine, with the familiar title and red border, and a diagonal banner reading “The Polluted Air.” But Lisette’s photograph had replaced the cover photo of smoggy Los Angeles. Wearily, Nick said, “I’m sorry, Blossom.”

  She slid an arm around his waist and looked down at the cover thoughtfully. “It’s okay, Nicky. Better than worms.”

  “It’s not okay! It’s damn upsetting! Damn unprofessional!”

  “Well, this ain’t Broadway. Anyway, I’ll tell you a secret. I’m using it.”

  “Using it?”

  “For Ophelia. She feels like this too. Something unknown, faintly threatening, breaking into her life.” She smiled at Nick. “It’s helpful.”

  Their eyes met, and he felt a rush of wonder, as he always did when he recognized himself in her. His soul’s mirror. I’d do exactly the same thing, he thought. Welcome any emotion that could be used. How wrong the joker was to think these pranks would interfere with her acting! He clasped her to him a moment and said, “God, actors are weird people.”

  Hand in hand, they went back to the rehearsal.

  Eight

  Rob thought it was hilarious. “Look, up in the sky! It’s a bird! It’s a blimp! No—it’s the spirit of Uncle Nick that usurps this time of night!”

  “Couldn’t help it,” Nick explained solemnly. “They went into their seance, and I felt a mystic tugging. Irresistible.”