Murder, Stage Left

by Robert Goldsborough

  “Well, thank you,” he said earnestly, leaning forward and resting both elbows on his knees. “I probably should not be telling a reporter this, but I was nervous at first during rehearsals, being on the same stage with Ashley Williston and Brad Lester and the others. Now, though, I am a lot more relaxed.”

  “To what do you attribute that?”

  He turned his palms up. “Partly getting to know the others, partly some encouragement I got.”

  “From whom?”

  “I guess you could say Ashley Williston took me under her wing,” he said, his face coloring slightly. “From the start, she has been very encouraging.”

  “I’m pleased. I realize actors and actresses are known for their artistic temperaments, although perhaps some of that is a fiction. Has there been much tension among all of you, either during rehearsals or during the run itself, for that matter?”

  I could tell Peters was becoming nervous with this line of questioning and I felt sorry for him, but I pushed on. “I suppose a certain amount of tension is to be expected in any play, particularly a drama.”

  “Well . . . I have taken some good-natured razzing,” he said. “I’m a graduate of the Yale School of Drama, and the other cast members, especially the older ones, like to refer to me as ‘Our resident Yalie.’ They all like to say they graduated from ‘the school of hard knocks.’ Sometimes, when I get to the theater, they all start singing ‘Boola Boola.’” When I looked puzzled, he quickly added, “It’s an old Yale fight song.”

  “Do the others also rib Miss Cartwright? She is about your age, isn’t she?”

  “She’s just a little older, a year or so, I think, but she attended a state school, and she likes to refer to me as a Yalie, too.” I got the impression from Peters’s tone that maybe not all the razzing was that good-natured.

  “It’s not like you are new to the business,” I said. “I have read your bio, so I know you’ve appeared in several Broadway productions.”

  “True, and overall, I have received good reviews, although my parts were minor. I don’t want to appear overly sensitive, Mr. MacGregor. I get along just fine with everybody in the production—cast, stagehands, lighting crew, box-office staff, stage manager . . .”

  “So you have assimilated. And I assume you also have a good relationship with Roy Breckenridge.”

  “Yes, I do. In fact, Mr. Breckenridge is the one who suggested me for a role in the production. He had seen me last year in Autumn of a Tycoon and asked that I read for the role of Larry Forrest, the rich nephew who the Millses hope will be their financial salvation, and—well, I don’t need to tell you this; you have already seen the show.”

  “And enjoyed it. You sound like you take the teasing you’ve gotten with good humor.”

  Peters hunched his shoulders. He had seemed much more self-possessed on the stage than he did here with me, one-on-one, so I switched to a safer subject. “Do you have any thoughts about the types of roles you would like to take on after this production is done?”

  “I’m open to just about anything,” he said. “I have a new agent, and he seems quite well connected, so there could be all sorts of possibilities. I like to think I’m optimistic by nature.”

  “Back to Death at Cresthaven. Do you have any other comments about the production? Anything at all that might be interesting to our readers up there in the friendly country just to the north?”

  “I think that if they come down to New York to see us, which I hope they do, they will enjoy a top-notch show with a first-rate cast.” He laughed. “Hey, I sound like a press agent, don’t I?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with that. A good artist should take pride in his work and promote it.”

  “I guess I’m an artist of sorts,” he said, laughing again in a self-deprecating way. “I hope others think so.” I was left to wonder if the “others” he referred to were theatergoers or his fellow cast members.

  I realized I wasn’t going to wring anything more out of young Mr. Peters, at least not now. “I’ve taken enough of your time,” I told him as I rose. “I hope the matinee performance goes well.”

  “For some reason, don’t ask me why, I always seem more relaxed before the matinees,” Peters said. “It must have something to do with my metabolism, do you think?”

  “You are asking the wrong guy about that,” I said. “I’ve never understood what metabolism is or how it works. Is it still okay for me to tell you to break a leg today, or has that become a cliché on Broadway?”

  “No, it’s still done, and I think it always will be,” he said. “Thank you for talking to me.”

  “It is I who should thank you,” I replied as I stepped out into the hall.

  Chapter 9

  I checked the time, figuring I could work in one more interview before the cast had to get ready for the matinee. Walking a few paces along the dingy hall, I stopped at a door with TERESA REED printed on a card set into a slot that probably had held the names of countless actors and actresses over the years. I knocked once.

  “Yes?”

  “Mrs. Reed, it is Alan MacGregor. Would you be able to talk to me for a few minutes?”

  The door swung open, and I found myself facing a tall and scowling sixtyish woman with a long face dominated by a chiseled nose and eyes that probably were dark brown but looked black to me. “Well, come on in,” she said with a nasal sigh. “I knew I would have to see you eventually, so it might as well be now.”

  Her room was smaller than Ashley Williston’s but bigger than Peters’s, probably signifying the pecking order within the cast. She stepped aside and said in a sour tone, “Welcome to my home. Can I get you something to drink? I have Coke, coffee, and a wretched red wine that someone—I can’t remember who—gave me as a ‘gift of appreciation’ for my performance.” Teresa behaved exactly as she did in the play: caustic and acerbic. Maybe she was always in character.

  “Nothing for me, thanks,” I said as I settled into a wing chair she had indicated with a nod. She parked herself on a sofa.

  “So what do you want to know?” she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

  I gave her what I hoped was a winning grin. “What in particular is there about this show that attracted you?”

  “The money,” she said with a dry laugh that carried no mirth. “Seriously, the part is one I knew I could play well. You’ve covered the theater world long enough, I assume, to have seen me before. You can see that I’m ideally suited for the role of Olive Hawkins, cranky, wisecracking. It’s what I have been doing for years.”

  “And have always done very well,” I said. “I—”

  “You don’t sound like a Canadian,” she interrupted.

  “I’m not, at least not originally. I come from Ohio,” I said, having anticipated the question and glad I could be honest about something.

  “Where in Ohio?” she demanded.

  “Chillicothe,” I said, the honesty now oozing from every pore.

  She nodded, unsmiling. I wondered if she ever smiled. “The reason I asked is that I lived in Toledo when I was a kid about a thousand years ago. Have you ever been there?”

  “No, never.”

  “Well, you haven’t missed a blessed thing,” she said, torching a cigarette with a match before I could pull my lighter out. “I have never been back, and I’ve never had any urge to.”

  “I haven’t been back to Chillicothe, either, except for very occasional visits. Do you find the chemistry good in this production?”

  She raised razor-thin shoulders and let them drop. “It’s all right, I guess. I’m not big on what you call chemistry,” she said, exhaling smoke. “I play my part, and I expect everyone else to do so as well. That’s called professionalism where I come from. No temperament, no fuss, no histrionics. To hell with all of that. If it’s anything I cannot stand, it is prima donnas of both sexes who take
themselves too seriously and think that method acting is the only way to go.”

  “Are you suggesting there are prima donnas in Death at Cresthaven?”

  “Don’t try to put words in my mouth for the purpose of spicing up your story, young man,” she rasped, gesturing with a bony hand. “I am merely telling you that I can’t abide pretentiousness in this business. Do not try to foment dissent at my expense.”

  “I would not think of it, Mrs. Reed. One of the goals of our publication is to make the theater appealing to our readers.”

  “I suppose that’s a noble goal,” she conceded with a snort. “What else can I tell you?”

  “What’s it like working for Roy Breckenridge?”

  She ground out her barely smoked cigarette in a metal ashtray and pulled another one from a pack. This time I was ready with my Zippo. “Breckenridge? He’s all business, has to be to keep the backers happy. I don’t very often work for somebody who’s both the producer and director, and that takes some getting used to.”

  “How so?”

  “He’s awfully hands-on, involved in every aspect of the production. He might just as well be the stage manager, too. He watches almost every performance from his cubbyhole.”

  “Oh? What’s that?”

  She let loose with another joyless chuckle. “There’s a booth at one side of the stage that is soundproofed and has a window that looks out on the stage. And it’s wired for sound. Most nights, Breckenridge hunkers down in there drinking gallons of Coca-Cola and monitors what goes on. He takes pages of notes then goes over them with Hollis; that’s Hollis Sperry, the stage manager. Have you met him?”

  “Not yet. I just saw him in the green room earlier.”

  “Huh! So you have got that treat to look forward to. Anyway, Hollis gets all these notes from on high, so to speak, and then he goes over them with us.” It was clear from Teresa Reed’s tone that she was less than pleased with the procedure.

  “I should know the answer given how long I’ve covered theater, but are cubbyholes like this common in Broadway houses?”

  “That is a very good question,” she said. “As far as I know, this theater is the only one that’s set up that way, and who installed it, I have no idea, but it’s been there for years.

  “And that is at least part of the reason why most if not all of Breckenridge’s productions are staged in this house. He didn’t have the cubbyhole built, but when he learned about its existence, he fell in love with the thing and he’s been using it ever since.”

  “It sounds like he’s a perfectionist.”

  “Oh yes, and then some.” She sniffed. “But I knew that going in; after all, I’ve worked for the man before, and chances are I will work for him again.”

  “Have any of the other cast members been in Breckenridge productions before?”

  “Mmm, I’ll have to think about it. Of course, Peters and Cartwright are relative newcomers, so they’re probably in one of his shows for the first time. Let’s see . . . That leaves Ashley, Lester, and Max. You can scratch Lester, since he hasn’t been on Broadway before. As for Her Highness—don’t quote me,” she said with a conspiratorial grin. “I am not positive that she ever worked for Roy, although she might well have. But now Max is another story. He has been in so many shows that I’ve lost count. I’ve never worked with him before, although I’ve known him for ages and I like him. We’re a pretty small community, when you come down to it. At one time or another, he has probably toiled under every impresario in this town and has likely been on every stage in this town as well, both on and off Broadway. Have you spoken to him yet?”

  “No, I’ll try to see him after the matinee.”

  “Well, then, you can ask him yourself. After all, you are a reporter, aren’t you?”

  I had to concede the lady was correct, and I excused myself, figuring I would track down Breckenridge, assuming that he could spare a few minutes for me as we approached curtain time.

  Chapter 10

  I had no trouble locating the producer. He stood on the darkened set talking to a couple of stagehands. I stood a respectful distance away until he noticed me. “Ah, Mr. MacGregor, did you want to see me?”

  “Whenever you have a moment, no hurry.”

  He said something to the stagehands, and they walked away, nodding. “How have your interviews gone?” he asked in a voice just above a whisper.

  “I talked to three of your cast members, and I plan to talk to the rest of them as well as the stage manager after the matinee, then I’ll give you a rundown. But first, I just learned about your so-called ‘cubbyhole.’”

  He laughed. “I guess I had not mentioned it to you, had I? It just slipped my mind because it’s become such an integral part of my operations. Come on, I’ll show it to you.” We walked off the stage and into the wings, where Breckenridge indicated a door, pulling it open and gesturing me to go inside.

  The cubbyhole was about four times the size of a front hall closet and had a glassed window in one wall that looked out on the stage. A tall padded chair was situated behind a control panel that had a couple of buttons and a microphone.

  “This is soundproofed,” he said, “and it is blended into the set in such a way that it is camouflaged from the audience. I’m in here for almost every show drinking Cokes, and by turning this dial, I can clearly hear every word spoken on the stage. I sometimes use this during rehearsals when I’m not out on the stage or sitting down front, and I take notes during the performances. I know the cast and crew think I’m obsessive, but that is the way I operate and always have.”

  “So you had this little room built?” I asked.

  “No, no, that was done years ago by someone else, I don’t even know who. Maybe someone who was as compulsive as I am. But when I learned of its existence, I decided I would try to stage all my productions in this house, assuming it was available.”

  “And has it been?”

  “Almost without exception. This is my seventh production here,” he said. “I don’t think I could operate without my little room now. Afraid I’ve become spoiled.”

  “And why not? If something works, stay with it.”

  “I could not have said it better myself. I trust you will stay and watch the matinee from the wings. And catch tonight’s performance as well.”

  “I will. Are you still feeling uneasy in general about the show?”

  “Yes, I am. I still can’t precisely tell you what’s eating at me, but that is where I’m hoping you are going to help. They’re about to open the doors,” he said, glancing at his watch, “so the audience will begin filing in. Looks like we’ll have a full house or close to it; we’re getting three big groups today that are being bused in from Westchester County.”

  I spent most of the next forty-five minutes avoiding the bustling stagehands and other functionaries, as well as Hollis Sperry, the dyspeptic stage manager, who carried a clipboard and barked orders while grumbling about how nobody ever listened to him. He grumbled about me, too, and suggested a place for me to stand—an alcove on stage left, which is really on the right side of the stage as viewed from the audience. I was learning the lingo.

  Even though this was my second time experiencing Death at Cresthaven, the view from the wings made it seem like I was watching an altogether different production. I quickly learned why Sperry had positioned me where he did: all the cast members made their entrances and exits from stage right, so I was never in their way.

  The whole of the three-act play was set in one room, the dark and somewhat threadbare Victorian parlor of Cresthaven, circa 1940. As the curtain rose, Ashley Williston, as Marjorie Mills, clad in an elegant peach-colored dress, entered to applause.

  When the clapping subsided, she addressed her husband, Carlisle, played by Brad Lester, as he sat on an overstuffed davenport reading the New York Times.

  “Darling, you d
o remember that Larry is arriving today, with that friend of his, don’t you?”

  He looked up at her over half-glasses that added to his age. “Hmm. Oh yes, yes . . . of course. Coming up on the train from the city, I believe, isn’t he?”

  “You know very well that he is, Carlisle. I’ve said so to you enough times. I have asked Harley to pick them up at the three-ten. Lord, it’s been what . . . four years since we’ve seen Larry, or maybe longer. Do you remember when he came through that time before taking off for Europe? Of course, that was before the terrible crash of that small plane in Aruba, killing his dear, dear parents, Charlie and Grace. We haven’t laid eyes on the boy since they’ve been gone, other than at the dreary double funeral in that dreary Philadelphia suburb.”

  “No, no we haven’t,” Carlisle said as he continued to focus on whatever it was that interested him in the Times.

  “Of course he is hardly a boy anymore,” Marjorie went on. “He must be close to thirty now, don’t you think?”

  “Mmm.”

  “Honestly, Carlisle, I don’t believe that you have heard a word I’ve been saying.”

  “But I have, my dear,” he said softly, looking up at her and blinking. “Something about that dreary Pennsylvania funeral and how Larry really isn’t a boy anymore.”

  “All right, so you were listening, at least with one ear, which is more than I can usually hope for. I’m having Olive prepare lamb chops for dinner. Do you think that’s all right? She is usually good with lamb chops.”

  “Usually . . . I think,” Carlisle answers with brows knitted, drawing laughter from the audience.

  “Well, she’s all we’ve got in the way of a staff these days, as you well know.”

  “But you are hoping that my nephew is going to come to our rescue, aren’t you, my dear?” Carlisle said in a gentle tone, setting the paper down and rising.

  “After all, he is now a multimillionaire with no siblings, no children, and no other relatives closer than you,” she said. “Is it too much to expect for him to share some of your late younger brother’s estate with us? You told me that when you and Charlie were young, you looked after him and helped him with his homework and protected him from bullies. As it turned out, he went off to Princeton and ended up making a fortune with that big drug company in New Jersey while you . . .” She stopped herself and adjusted a figurine on an end table.