Murder, Stage Left

by Robert Goldsborough

  “How would you describe her relationship with Mr. Breckenridge?” Saul asked.

  “I assume you mean professional relationship?”

  “Is there any other kind?”

  “Not as far as I am aware, lest you think me a rumormonger.”

  “No one is suggesting such, madam,” Wolfe said.

  “Well, thank you for that, anyway,” she said, squirming. “As to their relationship, I would describe it as strained at best. Ashley always had a better idea—when to make her entry, where to sit or stand, how to react to someone else’s lines. To hear her go on, one would think she was the playwright, director, and stage manager, all rolled into one.”

  “Was Mr. Breckenridge able to corral her?” Wolfe asked.

  “Good choice of a verb,” she said with a nod. “She could be like a bucking bronco. But if I can continue the analogy, Roy never got unhorsed. He could be just as stubborn as Ashley, maybe even more so.”

  “How did Miss Williston react to being overruled?”

  “Oh, she pouted of course, as one would expect, but she was smart enough to know when to quit fighting Roy. After all, Ashley saw this as probably her last chance to win a Tony, as I am sure you have heard already. Personally, I do not think she would have gotten the award anyway, not with the raves that Marshall woman is getting in the long-running drama playing over at the Winter Garden.”

  “Were there other conflicts among the cast?”

  Teresa Reed screwed up her face. “I know that I am going to sound like I have it in for Ashley, but you asked. She seemed to think she could charm young Steve Peters. During rehearsals, she was forever flirting with him. Old enough to be his mother! It was absolutely disgusting.”

  Wolfe exhaled. “How did Mr. Peters react to her coquetry?”

  “How do you think?” she snapped. “Here the poor guy was trying to make his name in a well-publicized Broadway production, and he didn’t know how to handle her aggression. He was somewhat in awe of Ashley and her semidistinguished career, and the last thing he wanted was to alienate her. I felt sorry for the guy, as much as I ever feel sorry for anybody who gets into this crazy business. After all, as actors, we are supposed to deal with tough challenges, both onstage and off.”

  “Did either Mr. Breckenridge or Mr. Sperry intercede in the one-sided dalliance?”

  Teresa sneered. “They both pretended to ignore it, don’t ask me why. Maybe they felt they already had enough trouble with Queen Ashley without wading into this predicament.”

  “Did the situation resolve itself?” Wolfe asked.

  “In a sense, yes. As far as I could discern, Peters did not return her interest, although he continued to be deferential toward her. One other thing . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “It seemed to me that that Melissa Cartwright had an active interest in Peters herself. One could see that she was far from pleased with Ashley’s antics toward him.”

  “Did Mr. Peters return the young woman’s interest?”

  “Hard to tell,” Teresa said. “He is a difficult one to read. Even when Ashley was vamping him—and not doing a very good job of it, if you ask me—whatever revulsion he may have felt, he kept well hidden. If I were to guess, though, I would say he was drawn to Melissa. Have you met her?”

  “Not yet,” Wolfe said.

  “She is an attractive young woman, no question about that.”

  “Is it unusual to have this much intrigue, particularly of an amorous nature, in a Broadway show?” Saul asked.

  The character actress nodded. “I would say so. Oh, there have been a few liaisons here and there in plays I’ve been involved with, but the goings-on during Cresthaven have seemed somewhat more intense.”

  “Mr. Breckenridge had said he felt a sense of unease was pervading the production,” Wolfe said. “Do you feel that may have been because of these relationships?”

  “Of course I have no way of knowing that—how could I?” Teresa said. “I try to mind my own business. Roy may have been referring to Ashley’s resentment of Brad Lester.”

  “What caused this resentment on her part?” Wolfe asked.

  “Her Highness had heard or read somewhere, maybe in Variety, that Lester had been brought into the cast for box-office appeal, given his star status in films. Ashley has long claimed to have no respect whatever for Hollywood, and what galled her most—I know this because she told me—is that Lester’s name came before hers on the theater marquee and in the playbill.”

  “Did this resentment manifest itself in the production?”

  “It was particularly evident in rehearsals, where she complained that Lester was pausing too long to deliver his lines after she had spoken, or that, on at least one occasion, he came onstage too quickly.”

  “Was she justified in these complaints?” Saul asked.

  “She definitely was not,” Teresa said, waving her hand dismissively. “It was an attempt, and a very transparent one, to make Lester look bad, but it did not work, because Roy jumped in and defended him, saying things like ‘No, I think his timing was perfect.’ Ashley was furious, but then, what could she do? She had been caught out, she knew it, and she knew that Roy knew it. There was no more of that nonsense for the rest of the rehearsals, or when the run began. But she was still bitter, and offstage she has been cool to Lester to the point of iciness.”

  “How has Mr. Lester behaved toward her?”

  “As if nothing had ever happened, at least as far as I was able to tell. He is both a first-rate actor and a gentleman. Ashley could take lessons from him on how to behave with class.”

  “It would appear that Miss Williston is the source of much of the discord surrounding the production,” Wolfe said.

  “Hah! That is putting it mildly, Mr. Genius,” Teresa said.

  Wolfe ignored the dig. “Let us turn to the subject of Mr. Ennis; do you have any thoughts as to why he would try to do away with himself?”

  “If you have done your homework, as you should, you are aware that Max was failing. While onstage, he did a damned good job of hiding his ailments, but all of us knew how much pain he always seemed to be in. He did not do a lot of complaining, though, because he is a true professional.”

  “Do you feel there is a correlation between Mr. Breckenridge’s apparent murder and Mr. Ennis’s suicide attempt?”

  “I hope you are not suggesting that Max poisoned Roy. The idea is absolutely preposterous, and I am amazed you would come up with it.”

  “I make no such suggestion, madam. Were you or anyone else in the company surprised by Mr. Ennis’s action?”

  “I think it is fair to say we all were shocked, terribly shocked.”

  “How would you describe the relationship between the men?”

  Teresa sniffed again, as if insulted by the question. I wondered how long before she would get up and leave in a huff. “Amiable, and why wouldn’t it be?” she answered. “They had worked together in the past, and they had respect for each other. It seems to me that you are going out on a limb to find trouble where none exists. If I were you, I would concentrate on locating that MacGregor individual—if that is really the man’s name.”

  “I appreciate your suggestion,” Wolfe said in a tone that indicated no such appreciation. “Is there anything else you care to add?”

  “Only that I hope you begin to make some progress. You certainly haven’t made any yet.”

  “Good day, madam,” Wolfe said, rising and walking out of the office.

  “Talk about being rude,” Teresa grumped, looking first at Hewitt and then at Saul. “Does he always behave like that, or do I bring out the worst in people, as has been said about me?”

  “Mr. Wolfe tends to be brusque,” Hewitt said.

  “Oh, is that what you call it, brusque? I would have said boorish. Well, I have spent quite enough time here, thank yo
u very much,” she said, getting to her feet and marching out much the same way as she marched in. Saul followed her to the door as I left my post at the peephole and went to the office.

  “She is quite the character, isn’t she?” Hewitt said as I sat.

  “I’m not sure that is the word Wolfe would use, but she hasn’t exactly mellowed with age, has she?”

  “What a number she is!” Saul said, entering the office and shaking his head. “As she was leaving, she turned to me and said, ‘How can you stand working for that oversize egomaniac? I hope that you get hazard pay.’”

  “How did you respond?” I asked him.

  “I merely nodded and smiled at her,” Saul replied. “The woman has got chutzpah, I will give her that. And she also happens to be a first-rate actress; I’ve seen her in at least three plays, and although she wasn’t ever the lead, she got the biggest applause at the curtain in two of them, with good reason.”

  “You are quite the man about town, aren’t you?”

  “Hey, Archie, I like to get around. With you, it’s dancing with Lily Rowan at the Churchill or going to the Rangers games; with me, it’s poker and Broadway shows.”

  “Oh, it is poker with me, too,” I replied, “except you mostly win while I mostly lose.”

  “Whaddya mean, ‘mostly win’? I almost always win.”

  “Don’t rub it in. You’ll give Mr. Hewitt the wrong idea, and he might invite me to one of his games since I’m such an easy mark.”

  “Don’t worry about that, Archie,” Hewitt said, laughing. “I don’t play poker, and if I did, I am sure Mr. Panzer would relieve me of my money, too. What do you two think of Teresa Reed as a possible suspect?”

  “She certainly is nervy enough to pull off a killing,” Saul said. “And although she says she respected his abilities, she wasn’t overly fond of Breckenridge, as she made clear. But where’s the motive? What do you think, Archie?”

  “I agree with Saul on all counts. Based on my earlier interviews with the cast and watching today’s performance, she is probably the smartest person in the show, with the possible exception of Max Ennis. I realize she’s caustic to the point of distraction, although she is also a quick study. But a murderer? I vote probably not, although I’m not prepared to give odds. And as you have just seen in her encounter with my boss, she is not easily intimidated.”

  “I will add an amen!” Hewitt replied. “I’m not sure I’ve ever heard anyone speak to Mr. Wolfe like that before. Although he did finally shut her up after she’d been interrupting him.”

  “Yeah, I have to say I liked seeing the look on her face when he slapped his palm down. For him, that is an act of violence,” I said.

  “Say, I’ve forgotten, who’s next on our list, and when?” Hewitt asked.

  “It is young Steve Peters,” I said. “And he will be joining us at nine tonight. Or, more precisely, he will be joining the two of you and Mr. Wolfe. You know where I will be.”

  Chapter 23

  Both Saul and Lewis Hewitt joined us at dinner, where Wolfe held forth on why the Wright Brothers had been so successful in the development of their airplanes as we consumed Fritz’s superb casserole of lamb cutlets with gammon and tomatoes.

  “This is a rare treat for me, feasting on two of Mr. Brenner’s superb meals in the space of a few days,” Hewitt said. “Thank you for the invitations.”

  Wolfe nodded his “you are welcome” and went on talking about the Wrights, who he said “were possessed of a rare singleness of purpose that allowed them to concentrate on constructing and piloting their flying machines with a minimum of distraction.”

  “I was privileged to meet Orville Wright at a dinner at the Waldorf a couple of years before he died,” Hewitt said. “He was a fine gentleman, and extremely modest. The man lived a long life, far longer than his brother Wilbur, and he got to see incredible progress in aviation. He was one of the great Americans of the twentieth century.” The conversation morphed into a wide-ranging discussion of the airlines today and their effect upon global travel.

  After dinner, we moved to the office for coffee, and Wolfe turned to me. “You will not be present to talk to Mr. Peters, but if you were, what would you want to learn, now no longer fettered by playing the role of a friendly magazine writer?”

  “I would start by asking him to describe his relationship to Ashley Williston.”

  “Don’t you think that would rattle him to the point of clamming up and withdrawing into a shell?” Hewitt asked.

  “Maybe, but Peters is a big boy, isn’t he? Never mind his tender age, after all, this is a murder case. When I did my interviewing, I had to pussyfoot around, being careful not to make anybody suspicious. Now, we’ve got one murder and a possible suicide—unless somebody here thinks maybe there was a murder attempt on Ennis and that he murdered Breckenridge.”

  “I agree with Archie,” Saul said. “I think a frontal attack is the best approach. Besides, his new producer is going to be right here in the room, and it is to Mr. Peters’s benefit to do everything he can to cooperate with the investigation, unless he has reason not to. There is still a chance, however thin, that the production could be continued, and that certainly would benefit him—assuming, of course, that he is not the poisoner.”

  “I have no intention whatever of bullying Mr. Peters,” Wolfe said. “But I am not about to handle him with kid gloves, either, and further—” He was interrupted by the doorbell. I hastened off to my post while Saul headed down the hall to play doorman yet again.

  Steve Peters, dressed in a sport coat, slacks, starched white shirt, and tie, stepped into the office, looked around, and blinked. “Uh, hello, Mr. Hewitt,” he said. “I think I am on time.”

  “You are, sir,” said Wolfe. “Please be seated. Would you like something to drink? Coffee, perhaps, or beer, or something else?”

  “No, nothing for me,” the young actor replied, sliding uneasily into the red leather chair and looking at Wolfe in awe.

  “As you know, Mr. Peters, all those intimately involved in Death at Cresthaven have been asked to come here at the request of Mr. Hewitt to shed whatever light they are able on the death of Roy Breckenridge and the hospitalization of Max Ennis,” Wolfe said.

  Peters swallowed and nodded. “I do not see how I can help. I have told the police everything I know.”

  “I appreciate that, and I ask your forbearance. I will try to be as expeditious as possible. In the days leading up to Mr. Breckenridge’s death, did anything surrounding the play seem amiss to you, or in any way whatever out of the ordinary?”

  “No sir, not really. Except now, I realize there must have been something suspicious about that Canadian magazine writer, MacGregor—at least that’s what he called himself. I have read in the newspapers that the publication he claimed to represent does not even exist, and that he has disappeared. But I suppose you already know that.”

  “I do. Let us set the subject of Mr. MacGregor aside, at least for the moment. Did anyone connected with Death at Cresthaven seem to exhibit animosity toward Mr. Breckenridge?”

  “Not at all, not in the least. It seemed to me that everyone respected him, as they should. He has a wonderful record on Broadway, as all of you know.”

  “Did anyone question his judgment as a producer or director?”

  “Well . . . there were a few occasions when Ashley—Miss Williston—had questions and suggestions during rehearsals about stage direction and things of that sort.”

  “Did you feel she was challenging Mr. Breckenridge’s authority?”

  Peters shifted in his chair. No question that the young man was nervous. “I suppose her comments might be seen in that light, but then, she too has had an awfully good record.”

  “Did he resent her questions and suggestions?”

  “I couldn’t always tell, although I remember that on one occasion, he did sa
y to her, ‘Let’s try this scene my way, Ashley. We simply have got to move things along.’”

  “How did she react to that comment?”

  “It was easy to see that she wasn’t happy, but she bit her lip, and the rehearsal went on as Mr. Breckenridge had directed it.”

  “Miss Williston sounds like a strong personality.”

  “Yes, very much so.”

  “How did you get along with her?”

  I knew Wolfe was gradually leading up to that, and I focused on Peters, who swallowed again. “She is . . . very dedicated and intense. I was fascinated watching her deliver her lines. She has got a presence about her; I don’t quite have the words to describe it.”

  “The woman is a veteran performer, while you are a relative neophyte,” Wolfe said. “How did she treat you?”

  “I have no complaints whatever. Ashley is every inch a professional.” I wondered how long he had practiced those lines, which came out as though they had been rehearsed.

  “Did others involved in the production have different opinions about her?” Wolfe asked.

  “Different opinions? I really don’t know. We did not discuss other cast members among ourselves. We all were too busy rehearsing and concentrating on trying to get everything right.”

  “Did you ever feel she was challenging Mr. Breckenridge’s authority or his judgment?”

  Peters looked at Hewitt, as if seeking support. Finding none, he said to Wolfe, “Well . . . she did sometimes suggest better ways that a scene might be done.”

  “Did you agree with any of her suggestions?”

  “Uh . . . not really. I felt Mr. Breckenridge always had good reasons for what he was doing.”

  “Do you have any thoughts about who might have poisoned Mr. Breckenridge?” Wolfe asked.

  “None whatever, other than that MacGregor fellow. I hope they find him.”