by Parnell Hall
Yeah, Avery could have killed him just fine. And I know he did, right in the middle of Act Three. He told Chief Bob he came up the stage-right stairs and saw me sitting at the top, studying my lines. Well, he probably did. Then he walked by me and took up his position at the entrance door.
Masked by a masking flat. So there would be no way I could see him if he’d walked downstage, come up behind Goobie Wheatly as he sat in the folding chair holding the prompt script and plunged the knife into his heart. He was there, downstage, instead of in the doorway where he should have been.
The actor was not on the scene.
Yeah, it’s a totally meaningless phrase, but there you are.
The actor was not on the scene.
But he was on the scene moments later. He was onstage, coming on to Nellie Knight.
The more I think back on it, that was really the key to the whole thing.
I remember what Chief Bob said, that it probably wasn’t one of the actors, because how could anybody kill someone and then go onstage and act without it showing? Without anyone realizing something had happened?
Well, of all the actors in the show, Avery Allington was the only one who could have done that. Because his performance was so overblown and out of proportion anyway, you wouldn’t notice him acting unnatural. Because his whole performance was unnatural.
As far as I was concerned, that was convincing. He and only he could have committed the crime.
But aside from that, there was no actual proof against him.
Not that that really mattered. To me, or to Avery Allington. As far as Avery was concerned, it was all over. It was the revelation that he had AIDS that was the crushing blow, not the revelation that he was a murderer. To him, that was almost incidental. In fact, his image as a macho leading man could have withstood the insinuation that he was a murderer.
But not that he had AIDS. Not in his own eyes. Not in his own image.
No, I rather thought Avery would confess. Eventually. Once he got around to it. Because, given the revelation, it was the only thing left for him to do. He couldn’t fight anymore. But he could confess. Confession is good for the soul. Maybe it would be good for his.
Not that I care.
You may think me heartless for ruining a man’s reputation by revealing publicly that he had AIDS. Considering, I mean, the fact that I had no proof he was a murderer. But I have to tell you, that doesn’t bother me one bit. If he had just shut up and gone quietly about his business, it would have been a different matter. But the son of a bitch was so concerned with his image as a macho TV-star stud, that he was willing to seduce and infect a poor young girl like Beth.
And probably would have, if I hadn’t intervened. Boy, she must have really thought I was an old fogy when I finally got her back to the apprentice house that night and sent her off to bed. I certainly hope the next night she realized why. Realized that old fart had been like a TV star himself, rushing in and rescuing the damsel in distress.
Well, even if she didn’t, Alice understood and that’s all that matters.
Plus, she got to see the show. Not the whole show, but most of it. And she’d seen the ending at the second night’s less-than-wonderful performance. Thank god that wasn’t the only performance she saw. That I don’t have to go through the rest of my life knowing I was better than she thought. Knowing she would never know it. That no one would ever tell her.
Certainly not reviewer, Harvey Frank of the Daily Sentinel.
I still have his review, though. I pasted it into our photo album, just so I wouldn’t lose it. Even though I wasn’t really mentioned in it. Even though it listed Walter Penbridge instead.
Pretty neat irony there—that Herbie wouldn’t manage to get the programs changed, or even an insert printed up, listing me as playing the part, and that as a result the reviewer would name, instead of me, the actor whose murder I had solved.
Yeah, small irony there.
But the bigger one, I should think, would have to be that, after a twenty-year layoff, after getting The Call, after fulfilling every actor’s dream of stepping into a leading role at the last moment, after coming back on two days’ notice and playing the part without a script, so well in fact that no announcement of an actor substitution had to be made, after playing to the audience and hearing them respond—though admittedly George Bernard Shaw deserved the credit as much as me—well, after all that, it had to be somewhat ironic that the only tangible evidence of my performance, my one souvenir, would turn out to be Avery Allington’s rave review.
Books by Parnell Hall
Stanley Hastings private eye mysteries
Detective
Murder
Favor
Strangler
Client
Juror
Shot
Actor
Blackmail
Movie
Trial
Scam
Suspense
Cozy
Manslaughter
Hitman
Caper
Puzzle Lady crossword puzzle mysteries
A Clue For The Puzzle Lady
Last Puzzle & Testament
Puzzled To Death
A Puzzle In A Pear Tree
With This Puzzle I Thee Kill
And A Puzzle To Die On
Stalking The Puzzle Lady
You Have The Right To Remain Puzzled
The Sudoku Puzzle Murders
Dead Man’s Puzzle
The Puzzle Lady vs. The Sudoku Lady
Steve Winslow courtroom dramas
The Baxter Trust
Then Anonymous Client
The Underground Man
The Naked Typist
The Wrong Gun