The Roar of the Crowd

by Janice Macdonald

  And then something interesting happened. The Mayfield stopped relying on faded stars to sell tickets and began to put on smaller musicals, the kind not needing elaborate set changes. They hired local actors, many of them dynamite triple-threat singer/dancer/actors who had been trained at Grant MacEwan’s musical theatre program. And before you knew it, people were no longer lining up for the smoked salmon, they were there for the show.

  All that said, I was admittedly thinking about the smoked salmon as we entered the tiered theatre. The usher pointed us toward table 121 which, sure enough, was close to the buffet doorway, and I followed Denise along the carpeted aisle. You don’t see all that many restaurants with thick broadloom flooring, but I supposed it was better to have to spot clean the occasional spill rather than have falling cutlery clanging during an intense moment in a play.

  Denise and I sat down and began surreptitiously to look around the room. Not everyone was here yet, but there was a steady ingress. I could see Jeff Haslam from Teatro la Quindicina talking with James Kirkpatrick, who was nominated for his Don Quixote in a Mayfield production of Man of la Mancha that had slayed me last November. I could see Belinda Cornish talking to Marianne Copithorne and Taryn Creighton: now, there were three powerfully talented women. Both of the former two had written award-winning plays. Belinda and Marianne were magnetic actresses who were also incredibly funny, and Marianne and Taryn were directors of renown. Marianne taught at the university and Grant MacEwan when she wasn’t darting off to Calgary or Saskatoon, and Taryn ran Black Box Theatre, a pop-up theatre that used found space around the city to present edgy, unconventional works. From what I had gleaned from Denise, Belinda was a Sterling board member and might be co-hosting the evening ahead.

  The place was beginning to fill up. Several young things in tuxes and rhinestones burbled by. Some of the older crowd were already heading for the food line, which Denise and I figured might be a good idea. From what we had heard, the Sterlings ran a tight ship and the show would begin promptly at six. It would be best to have eaten up, so that one’s table could be cleared and all noise reduced.

  I was deciding between pickled mushrooms and baby corn by choosing both when Denise stiffened beside me and hissed. Gracefully managing to avoid hitting my head on the sneeze hood, I turned to see Sarah Arnold walking into the buffet room on the arm of Kieran. They were laughing in that electrically charged way that indicates they know people are watching them and are pretending they’re not putting on a show. You would think theatre people would be better at pulling off that illusion.

  “This is going to be awkward,” whispered Denise. I knew what she meant. Kieran and she had been almost inseparable since April, and now after three weeks of near radio silence, he appeared with Denise’s counterpart in the Drama department, the woman who had in effect introduced them in the first place. And Sarah was dressed for bear. Even in this crowd of extroverts, she stood out. The last time I had seen her had been in mourning black, complete with veil.

  This time she was in a crimson lace gown that revealed more than it covered. Long-sleeved and high-necked, the lace was patterned to be tighter where modesty required coverage, but was almost transparently sheer everywhere else. And it wasn’t lined in ecru like skaters’ costumes. I could see one of the tattoos on her hip clearly through the lace. Her hair, which she usually wore shoulder-length and was a nondescript light brown, had been piled on top of her head and adorned with shiny little ruby dots. And I had thought my shiny tights might be over the top. I could have passed for serving staff compared to Sarah.

  Kieran wore a tux the way someone like George Clooney would, easy and tossed off, as if it had just happened to be hanging there when he thought he might want to put something on. I had been watching him work in jean shirts and cargo shorts for the last few weeks, so seeing him all dressed up gave me a more objective view. I could see why Denise had fallen for him. It wasn’t the fact that he was gorgeous, which he was, that had likely attracted her. It was that he was so indifferently aware of his own beauty that it must have been a relief for her. She wouldn’t be worshipped on a pedestal by Kieran, because he dealt in that sort of coinage every morning when he looked in his own mirror.

  It hadn’t occurred to me till then that it must have been very restful for Denise to date Kieran and connect with other beautiful people, in the same way sorority sisters connect no matter how many years they’ve been apart, or family members fall into familiar roles at annual events. It must be nice to be somewhere where you always know your lines and you don’t have to spend time either explaining yourself or pretending to be what you’re not.

  Sarah and Kieran hadn’t seen us yet, and Denise made the executive decision to deliberately continue down the buffet line to the hot food, pretending she hadn’t spotted them either. I followed her lead, trying not to overload my plate while at the same time offering her a buffer to hide her from their view.

  We had just turned from receiving a slab of prime rib on top of everything else on our plates, and were about to make it out of the room back to our table, when Sarah called out.

  “Denise! How lovely! I wasn’t sure you’d make it!”

  The news of Denise’s problems must have circulated further than I knew. All the thrumble of people serving themselves from two separate buffet lines went silent. There we were, the centre of attention, and now half of the Edmonton theatre scene knew that I had taken too much smoked salmon. I was not sure what I could do to diffuse the tension short of dropping my plate full of food, and there was no way I was going to do that willingly.

  Kieran, whose back had been turned when Sarah spoke, stepped forward and put a hand on her arm. He nodded our way, but I’m not sure he looked Denise in the eye. I sure didn’t get any ocular connection.

  “Lovely to see you. Enjoy the show. Sarah, shall we?”

  They sailed past us, back into the theatre. I noticed that on Sarah’s plate there were three olives and a piece of skinless roasted chicken. If that was what it took to fit into a dress like that, I’d settle for my little brown number.

  Denise smiled grimly at me as the noise in the buffet room resumed, and we gave them a couple of beats before following into the dining room/audience area.

  “Well, if that’s the bumpiest it’s going to get, we may not need to fasten our seat belts, eh?”

  There seemed to be some unwritten law that you didn’t schmooze with food in your hand, so we made it back to our table without incident, though I noticed Denise nodding and smiling to a couple of people. On the other hand, I saw no one I knew personally, though I did recognize a good segment of the crowd. Jeff Haslam and Stewart Lemoine were looking dapper at a table for four. Though I didn’t remember the names of the other two young actors with them, I did recall seeing them in last year’s Teatro la Quindicina productions.

  Jim de Felice and his family were seated close to the stage. Both Jim and his daughter were nominated for best director of a Fringe show. Talk about dynasties. I spotted Mark Meer, the mercury-quick improvisational comedian, who was also the voice of Commander Shepherd in Mass Effect, an internationally popular video game that was produced here in town. He was sitting with another couple I didn’t know, but I suspected that his wife, Belinda Cornish, was now probably backstage, as the programme noted that she had directed the awards evening. Of all the more recently arrived actresses in town, I really liked her. She was originally from England and brought with her a lavish adoration for the language that reminded me of Stephen Fry or Michael Flanders. I’d seen her in previous years at the Shakespeare festival, though this year she hadn’t been cast in anything. Perhaps she was busy preparing a Fringe show, as she was also an award-winning playwright. Or who knows, perhaps there had been some sort of falling out with the director?

  Maybe she had insights into what it was like to work with Kieran. A conversation with Belinda was something I should look into organizing.

  People milled around us, but Denise and I worked our way throu
gh our respective plates of food. Our table was rather well situated, in the first tier up from orchestra level, on the aisle. We had to contend with a table of four in front of us, and it did mean tucking ourselves closer to the table as the elderly foursome made several trips to the buffet. I didn’t recognize any of them as actors about town, so I presumed that they were relatives or former high school teachers of some of the nominated. Or maybe they were dyed-in-the-wool theatre fans. These sorts of folk actually existed in Edmonton, after all. Otherwise how could we support all those theatre companies per capita?

  Denise set down her cutlery and sat back, allowing one of the fastidious and capable wait staff to swoop in and clear her plate away. I was still cutting up my last bit of Yorkshire pudding to match up with my final taste of prime rib. There was the secret to a long and successful dinner theatre—amazing food. People raved about the Mayfield buffet, and with good reason. It was all fresh, beautifully cooked, and gorgeously presented.

  “Do you want to scope out the desserts? We have at least half an hour before the programme begins.” Denise pushed back her chair and dropped her napkin into her seat. I tried for the same panache, but the casters on my chair were not quite as fluid as they were on hers. I narrowly avoided sending our water goblets tipping over as I got up. Of course, this would have to be the moment Louise Williams was walking by.

  “Ooh, careful there, Randy!” She smiled brightly, but it was the fake sort of smile that grown-ups give to children who are brought along unexpectedly to dinner parties. Louise obviously thought I shouldn’t be here. I would have to do my best not to spit unwanted food back onto my plate or interrupt when other people were talking. Like now.

  “I haven’t seen you in weeks,” Louise was chirping brightly to Denise, who was using all her diplomatic wiles not to look grim. “I was thinking you had gone off on sabbatical, or whatever it is you academics call it.”

  “We call it vacation, Louise, unless it lasts half a year or so.”

  Louise wasn’t one of my favourite people in the company, and it hadn’t helped my view of her to see how quickly she had transferred her belongings to what had been Eleanor’s area of the dressing room. Although the dressing rooms weren’t the roomiest and all the women shared one, it was implied that the first full mirror seat to the right went to the principal character. If it weren’t for the magnanimity of Maureen Shannon, who was playing Beatrice/Amelia and was ostensibly the lead, Eleanor would have been second mirror. Kieran had encouraged Maureen to bow to the power of celebrity. However, since Louise had less seniority in the company and was cast only as Hero for the first play, a much lesser role, her assuming the same spot as Eleanor was beginning to rankle Maureen. I had seen it in action the day before and was waiting to see how it played out. Maureen might be pleasant, but there were standards to uphold.

  And besides, Louise had rubbed me the wrong way from the first minute I’d met her. I wasn’t sure if she reminded me of someone I had disliked in the past—a student who’d bitched about her grades or a classmate who had sneered at something I had said in class—or whether I was merely responding to the aura she cast into the world, a spiky, nasty aura that was set to attack first before someone else could attack you.

  How could someone that armoured be a good actress? I wasn’t sure what Kieran saw in her. Maybe those offensive defences came down on stage. Or maybe he’d slept with her, too, once upon a time. Or maybe she held a secret on him.

  I wouldn’t put it past her. Louise had that sneaky attitude to her, as if she would love to let you know she is keeping a secret but wouldn’t deign to share anything with you, even if it would help her out.

  By the time Denise had shaken Louise and joined me back in the buffet hall, I had loaded up my tiny little dessert plate with a square of coconut torte, a slice of hazelnut truffle cheesecake, a little glass of chocolate mousse, and a skewer of pineapple run through the chocolate fountain.

  “Why didn’t you grab one of the larger plates?” Denise laughed.

  “Other people were taking plates full of cookies,” I said defensively.

  “That was likely for the whole table for during the show.”

  “Oh.” I hadn’t thought of that. Everything I had chosen required a fork, which might clack against the china. Cookies would have been a better choice. Oh well. I would just have to scarf it all down before the lights went out.

  I managed.

  The show was supposed to begin at 6:30, and within three minutes of that mark, Belinda’s cultured voice was heard over the intercom, asking people to take their seats, turn off their cellphones, and prepare themselves to be dazzled. I looked at Denise to share a grin at Belinda’s quip, but she was looking toward the stage with the sort of awe and delight I probably demonstrate in the doorway of libraries and stationery stores. Or bakeries.

  The theatre really was Denise’s first love, and maybe her immersion in Shakespeare was a means to an end. The gypsy life of an actor or playwright isn’t for everyone, and Denise was high maintenance when it came to creature comforts. She also had the brains to soar academically, so perhaps her family had nudged her toward academe rather than the arts. Or maybe I was reading too much into her dreamy look toward the stage.

  I followed her gaze, snagging just before I got to the dais. Seated at the edge of the stage on the lowest tier of tables was Kieran Frayne.

  Maybe it wasn’t the stage Denise was really struck on.

  16.

  The Sterlings were long, but probably not as long as the Tonys or the Oscars. It helped that I had seen quite a few of the shows over the course of the year, so it was more interesting to hear the results of the nominations and see the actors speaking their own words instead of those of the playwright.

  Both Marty Chan, whose wife was up for an award in stage management, and Trevor Schmidt, who had two directorial nominations and a design nod, were live-tweeting the show. Morgana Creely, the photographer hired for the Freewill Shakespeare Festival’s archival scrapbook, had been covering the room, taking group photos and candids, but was now set up near the lip of the stage to cover the award action.

  The new play Sterling went to Stewart Lemoine, who must have a shelf full of them, and Taryn Creighton took the directorial Sterling for her eye-popping and populist Major Barbara, staged in an empty warehouse next to an actual soup kitchen, which I recalled loving. I was more than ready to leave, with no desire to attend the after-show dance. I suppose it was lucky for me that Denise and Kieran were on the outs, as she seemed ready to pack it in, too. Of course, if they had been a duo, she likely wouldn’t have needed a date to the event in the first place, so it was all academic.

  After all the noise and bustle of the evening, Denise didn’t bother to turn on the stereo in her car, which was unusual. She normally was trying to school me on some new band or an old favourite. Silence was fine by me, and we drove down the Whitemud Freeway in relative quiet. It wasn’t till she was turning onto my street, near the medical sciences buildings, that Denise spoke.

  “On the whole, that was less awkward than I had imagined it could be, but it wasn’t entirely pleasant.”

  “I was rooting for Kendra Connor.”

  “I didn’t mean the awards.”

  “I know. I was just trying to be funny. Sorry. I think you handled yourself magnificently, if you want to know.”

  Denise pulled into one of the stalls behind the Garneau Cinema, from where it was close enough for me to walk, allowing us to sit in the car and continue our chat.

  “I think I can manage it, you know. When I wake up in the morning, as I put on my makeup and button my blouse, I think, I can handle whatever the day is going to throw at me. But every day, more people have heard rumours, or maybe I just run into different folks, and I have to see that look in their eyes, and it’s all I can do to stand upright.”

  “I know exactly what you mean, except that, of course, you know more people than I do.”

  Denise laughed. I took this as
a good sign.

  “But it’s going to be okay,” I continued. “Steve will be back soon, and Iain will stumble across something that doesn’t make sense to him. Meanwhile, you make sure you have documented lists of wherever you are, and proof that you are there. It would help if you could travel with a nun and a copy of the day’s newspaper at all times, just in case. Alibis R Us, you know!”

  Denise laughed again and I knew I could safely leave her to survive the night. It was just all the tomorrows and tomorrows I was worried about. If Detective Gladue was so intent on pinning Eleanor’s murder on Denise, the Edmonton theatre community wasn’t going to object. Something had to give. Someone had to stand up for Denise, before she broke under the weight of standing alone.

  And I supposed that someone was going to have to be me.

  Steve wasn’t going to like this one bit.

  17.

  I had already tried to get Myra McCorquodale to intervene for me with her husband, but she wasn’t having any of it. I would have to gird my loins and tackle Iain directly. Steve’s partner didn’t actively dislike me, as far as I knew, but I had the sense that he only tolerated me for Steve’s sake. We didn’t double-date with Iain and Myra, and even at police events, we didn’t hang together all that much.

  However, if Jennifer Gladue seemed to see me as just a piece of flotsam drifting between her and Steve, a possibility I had to grudgingly admit was an unproved and ugly bit of jealousy I couldn’t prove or quell, Iain was a much better ally to seek out. I left a phone message on his office phone number and then went to shower. It was a Tuesday morning, and I didn’t have to be at the park till ten. All that would change next week when the camps began. I was relishing the pace while I could.