by Parnell Hall
“Next on the list is Captain Kirk himself. That’s Kirk Mitchel. He’s fifteen years old. Lives in the apprentice house. His dream is to be a stage manager someday.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s hard to torpedo someone’s dream. Even such an apparently unrealistic one. Anyway, the humiliation of being fired gave him a motive for killing Goobie. Or you, for that matter. If we grant the kid the power to reason, you can say he killed Goobie instead of you because he recognized Goobie’s action as malicious, while yours was merely expedient. Frankly, I don’t grant the kid that much power to reason. I think it much more likely he killed Goobie Wheatly because when he got backstage you were onstage and Goobie wasn’t. Personally I find that far more likely than any more complex theory.”
“What theory?”
“That he actually did resent you both, so he killed Goobie Wheatly and framed you.”
“What?”
Chief Bob shrugged. “As I say, I find that highly unlikely.”
“So do I. Tell me. Are there any motives that are not related to the firing of Captain Kirk?”
“Oh, sure,” Chief Bob said. “As I said, those are merely the most obvious. Let’s see, there’s the prop man.”
“Who?”
“The apprentice running props. Jack Dent. He worked with Goobie on the last three shows and didn’t like him. Not surprising—not many of the apprentices did. Goobie was a real tyrant. A royal pain in the ass. Goobie overworked the kid. Even made him miss the apprentice party.”
“Apprentice party?”
“They did a musical, ran two weeks. That meant one week there was no strike night. The apprentices threw a party. Jack couldn’t go because Goobie made him inventory props.”
“Why?”
“To be a prick, basically. You gotta understand, Goobie Wheatly got off on being a prick. There are people like that, they enjoy doing cruel things.”
“Yeah, but something as petty as that.”
“Sure, you say that now. But this is something that never would have come up if that man hadn’t been killed. Here’s a man who spent his life doing petty little things. Then he gets killed and you ask people to remember them and they do.”
“This apprentice doesn’t come running up and say, ‘Hey, I hated the son of a bitch, I have a motive.’“
“No, of course not. But the other apprentices remember him missing the party and some of the comments he made about Goobie Wheatly at the time,” Chief Bob held up his hand. “I’m not saying he did it. It’s terribly farfetched that he did it. In fact, there’s only one thing that points in his direction.”
“What’s that?”
“He was the prop man, of course.”
“So what?”
Chief Bob looked at me. “For a detective, you’re unusually dense. The murder weapon was a prop.”
“Oh. Right.”
“Of course he claims he gave it to Goobie Wheatly on strike night. But we’ve only his word for that. Unfortunately, we can’t question Mr. Wheatly on it.”
“True.”
“Anyway, that’s Jack Dent. He had more motive than most, and the access to the murder weapon. But almost all the apprentices had reason to hate Goobie Wheatly. As I say, the man was a general prick. Jack’s just a standout because he worked directly with him and had access to the knife.
“Aside from him, the most likely apprentice is Ridley.”
“And why is that?”
“Goobie ridiculed him too.”
“What about?”
“The lights, of course. Not this show so much. As I say, it’s a simple show. But some of the others. Especially the musical. They did The Fantasticks, you know, largely ’cause it’s a small-cast show, easy and inexpensive to do. Abstract set, do a lot of suggested settings in pools of light. Well, that makes for a show with a zillion light cues, all of which are important. Goobie reamed the kid out over it. Really made him feel like shit. Enough so that a lot of people commented on it.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“That’s for starters. For another thing, I don’t know if you noticed, but this Ridley smokes dope. Which is probably why he wasn’t on the headset in Act Three, by the way. From what I gather, he had a habit during the show of sneaking up in the attic to blow a joint. Anyway, that’s one reason Goobie Wheatly picked on him. Goobie was hard on drugs, and if he’d actually caught Ridley with ’em he might have booted him out. As it was, he just came down on the kid pretty hard.”
“That’s a motive for murder?”
“Hey, none of these are great. But suppose Goobie had caught Ridley with drugs, He isn’t gonna can him the day of the dress but, once the lights were set and anyone can run ’em, was planning on booting him out the next day. Maybe you got a motive there.”
“Anything to suggest that was the case?”
“No, just speculation. That’s all. Take the statements from all the witnesses, glean what few facts you can get from them and then speculate on ’em, I know it’s not much. It’s where we are at this point in time.
“Anyway, that’s Ridley’s motive. Who’s next? Let me see. Ah, yes. Beth Scott,”
To my surprise, I actually felt a catch in my throat. “Who?”
“By far the most attractive apprentice. Surely you’ve noticed her.”
“Oh, her,” I said.
“Yeah, her. She’s hard to miss. Well, Goobie noticed her too.”
“Oh?”
“No, I don’t mean like that. Goobie wasn’t like that. Pretty much of an old woman, you know?”
“You mean he was gay?”
“No, not gay. Just asexual. A noncom, you know? Like he was too old and beyond it. Not that he was too old, I’m just saying that was his attitude. Sex was the province of the young and foolish and existed expressly for him to ridicule.”
“What about this apprentice?”
“Well, that’s the point I’m making. It’s not like he was coming on to her or anything. It was one of the apprentice boys. A Phil Epstein. From the tech crew. That’s who this Beth Scott seemed sweet on. Anyway, Goobie found that out and rode it. That’s what I mean by old woman. A gossip, you know. And not just gossip behind her back. I mean to her face. Snide. Catty Insinuations. Double entendres. Anything to embarrass or demean. So she’d have every reason to hate his guts. So would he. The kid from the tech crew, I mean. Do you know him, by the way?”
“Not by name.”
“Yeah, well, he’s in the show. He’s the soldier who searches the house in Act One. You knew that was an apprentice, right? The soldier, I mean. Well, that’s him. He’s also on the set crew, by the way, that does all the scene changes. So he’d be backstage.”
“And you say he had a motive?”
“Yeah. Because the way I understand it, she broke it off. And the way I get it, the reason she broke it off was Goobie Wheatly running his mouth. Which may or may not have been true. But that doesn’t matter, because at least this Phil Epstein seemed to think so. Which gives him a motive.”
Chief Bob put the paper down on the table and looked up at me. “You’ll be happy to know that’s all the apprentices. With specific motives, I mean. The others may have hated him in general because he was a prick, but there’s no specific instances that stand out.”
Chief Bob picked up another paper. “That brings us to the actors. Excluding you, of course. We’ve already discussed you as the man most likely. As to the rest, let’s start with the resident company.”
“Which is who?”
He looked at me. “You don’t know?”
I took a breath. “Look,” I said, “I’m getting a little pissed off at your sarcasm over my lack of knowledge. I came up here as a favor for a friend to do a specific part. I’m sorry this happened, but it’s not my doing. I’m not here of my own accord, I’m here because you asked me. I don’t know if you really want my help or if I’m just your chief suspect. Either way, I don’t care. But if you want to tell me something, tell m
e. You don’t have to make such a fucking big deal over the fact I don’t know it.”
Chief Bob smiled. “That was not my intention. I am genuinely amazed that you don’t know. If that ridicules you, I’m sorry, but it happens to be the fact. Anyway let’s go over it now.
“There are only four actors in the resident company. That’s why most of the shows are small-cast shows. Those four actors are Peter Constantine, who plays Nicola; David Rothwell, who’s Major Petkoff; Julie Katz, who plays his wife, Catherine; and Nellie Knight, who plays Louka. All the other actors are jobbed in for a specific show.”
“You mean Margie’s not in the company?”
“No. She’s local, she was brought in just for this play.”
“Who brought her in?”
He looked at me. “Do you really have to ask me that?”
“You mean, Herbie knew her before the production?”
“That he did.”
“Son of a bitch,” I said. “And what, may I ask, did Goobie Wheatly think of that?”
“There you are,” Chief Bob said. “It was a situation made in heaven for Goobie Wheatly. The lead actress in the show and the producer/director of the theater, and he’s got something on both of them.”
“Are you saying he’d use something like that?”
“Sure he would.”
“Against his own producer/director?”
“Especially against him. The bigger the target, the greater the fun. Petty sport to torture some apprentice. But the head of the whole playhouse? The man who hired him?”
“Yeah, but even if Goobie would tease him about it, that’s not motive for murder.”
“Tease him, no. But threaten him?”
“With going to his wife?”
“Of course. And you must remember, she was there that night.”
“Are you saying you suspect Herbie?”
“Of course not. No more than I suspect you. I’m merely attempting as rationally as I did against you to lay out the case against him.” He smiled. “Only in his case, Herbie’s not here to take offense. Though I gather you’re prepared to take offense for him.”
“No, I’m just trying to make some sense out of this, and it doesn’t.”
“Because the facts aren’t all in yet. But we have to evaluate the ones we have. Anyway, that’s Herbie’s motive. And Margie’s.”
I frowned. “Why Margie? A young actress like her, a little bit of scandal isn’t going to hurt her any.”
“Yeah,” he said. “But she’s married.”
My mouth dropped open. “What?”
“That’s right,” he said. “You didn’t know that either? Well, she is. She’s married to a young used-car salesman. He’d probably have hit the roof if Goobie Wheatly had given him the news.”
“Good lord. He wasn’t there that night, was he?”
“No. Thank goodness for small favors. But that wouldn’t have stopped him from walking right in through the lobby any time during the act. There was no one in the box office that time of night.”
“Shit.”
“Right. Of course, why he would kill Goobie Wheatly is beyond me. He and Herbie’s wife. Same difference. Definitely interested parties, but no motive.”
He frowned, rubbed his head. “Let me see now. Where were we? Oh yes, the resident company. The jobbers. The four I mentioned, they’re the permanent company, they’re in every show. They’re rehearsing Glass Menagerie now.” He picked up another piece of paper from his desk. “Julie Katz is Amanda, Nellie Knight is Laura, Peter Constantine’s the gentleman caller, and David Rothwell’s Tom.
“Now, the last show was two one-acts. The two guys did Zoo Story and the two women did White Whore and the Bit Player.” He shrugged. “Bit racy for us folk, but there you are. I understand attendance was about the same as the other shows. I guess as many as stayed away from the smut, others came to be titillated. Anyway, the same four actors were in that.
“Avery Allington, of course, was jobbed in for the one show. Big TV star up from New York for the production. This Walter Penbridge whom you replaced was the same deal. Though a much lesser light. Anyway, the point is, being jobbed in for the show, this Avery Allington hasn’t been here that long. I know you only had two days, but they only had a week’s rehearsal in all.
“So, anyway, out of the members of the cast, Avery Allington and Margie Miller were new, and the rest had been here all year. Margie rates more consideration because she’s local and had a previous relationship with Herbie Drake. But with Avery Allington up from New York only five days before, a motive is sort of hard to fathom.”
I frowned. “I see.”
Chief Bob smiled. “I can understand why that might not please you. For what it’s worth, I’ve had some experience in the theater—granted, not that much, but still quite enough to say that Avery Allington is a terrible actor, and I can understand how you must feel, and sympathize with you entirely over that review.”
I think it’s a testament of how much I wanted to hear that that I couldn’t even resent Chief Bob anymore for thinking of me as a murder suspect. I blinked my eyes and found they were almost tearing. “You know,” I said, “you’re the first person who told me that.”
“A shame,” he said. “You did an excellent job and he stinks.”
It was amazing, but I felt as if an enormous weight had been lifted from my shoulders. Because it was true, no one had told me that before. Not Herbie. Not Alice. Beth had told me I was great, but that was before the review. No one had said specifically the review was wrong.
I grinned. “All right, Chief,” I said. “Let’s solve this fucking crime.”
27.
THAT AFTERNOON THERE WAS A matinee.
I’d forgotten about matinees. In more ways than one. I’d forgotten what they were like, and forgotten that I had one. Actually, I hadn’t even known I had one. In fact, newly promoted stage manager whatever-the-hell-his-name-was had to come screeching up in a station wagon and rip me out of the snack bar where I was sitting over a cheeseburger and a diet Coke, with no idea that I had any obligation any earlier than that night.
Guess again. It was two-fifteen, the show went up at two-thirty, and I’d just missed half hour.
Fortunately, everything in town was within a couple of minutes’ drive of everything else and I was back in my dressing room with a good ten minutes till show time. I’d missed the “Nellie Knight Show,” but still had time to throw on costume and makeup, particularly since I’m not onstage at the opening curtain. I wanted to be backstage when it went up though, and not sitting in my dressing room listening to the lines wafting down over the ancient, squeaky, squawky intercom system which had speakers in the greenroom to let the actors know what was going on onstage. It was close, but I made it up the stage-right stairs just in time to see the lights come up onstage.
To squeals of laughter.
Laughter?
Hold the phone. Reality check. Not to brag, but I happen to know there are no laughs in this play till I get onstage.
I edged downstage to see what was going on. I came around the masking flat to where I could see the lectern where the new stage manager stood with his headset. He was grinning from ear to ear, and when he saw me he smiled and nodded.
I stepped down to him, whispered, “What are they laughing at?”
He jerked his thumb at the audience. “Kids,” he said. “They’re laughing at she’s in her nightgown.”
I peered out from behind the curtain. Very unprofessional again, but then the stage manager had just invited me to do it. The audience was a sea of young faces. That’s what I’d forgotten about matinees. They attract the young and the old. This being Sunday, the audience was composed largely of camp groups. And young ones, at that. Preteen, by the looks of some of them. Young enough to laugh at a nightgown.
And at Avery Allington.
I’m telling you, the gods could not have devised a more exquisite torture than that matinee. Because the audience was t
oo young to appreciate the subtle humor of my performance but laughed uproariously every time Avery Allington mugged.
I had not been in a good mood when the performance began. By the time it ended I was ready to bite somebody’s head off. Unfortunately, it was Herbie who grabbed me when I came offstage.
“I heard you almost missed curtain,” he said.
“That’s right,” I said. “It’s lucky they found me.”
“I almost had a nervous breakdown,” Herbie said. “I need you here at half hour.”
“You’re lucky I got here at all. No one told me there was a matinee.”
“There’s always a matinee on Sunday,” Herbie said.
That did it.
“What do you mean, always?” I snapped. “There’s no always in my case, Herbie. I just got here. All I know is what you tell me. And you never told me.”
“It’s on all the posters,” Herbie said.
“So there’s no reason to tell me, I should find out for myself,” I said. “Great.”
I turned on my heels, stomped off to my dressing room.
Nellie Knight was changing into sweater and jeans.
“Oh, you looked pissed,” she said.
“I just got bawled out for missing half hour. I’d certainly have been here if anyone had bothered to tell me we had a matinee.”
“Well, don’t take it personally,” she said. “Anyone mention we had an evening performance too?”
“That I knew about,” I told her.
“Well, see you then,” she said. She smiled. “Hey, don’t let it get to you.”
I tried not to. I’m not good with anger to begin with, and I can’t hold a grudge long. Not against a friend. My instinct is to make up as quickly as possible.
I did that now. I went and hunted up Herbie and apologized for snapping at him. He seemed somewhat distracted but otherwise took it well. Then I went and hunted up the stage manager and apologized for missing half hour. He acted like he couldn’t really give a shit, which he probably didn’t. But basically they were both hail-fellow-well-met and all conciliatory smiles, and everything was just fine again.
At least until I walked out of the theater and saw Avery Allington on the front steps, smiling, mugging, posing for pictures and signing autographs for the camp kids.