by Cynthia Raye
“Please save that sort of thing for later,” Kolonich said.
Ronni felt her face flush. She was embarrassed—being bawled out in front of a student. Oh, well, in a way, she told herself, she’d asked for it.
“Sorry,” Ronni said. “What I was actually trying to do was defuse the situation. I felt… Never mind.”
“Felt what?” Solomon asked. “That Kolonich and I were reacting too strongly?”
“To be perfectly honest, yes. I always thought in this country a person was innocent until proven guilty.”
“So now you’re telling us how to do question a suspect, are you? How about if I’d come to one of your classes and try to tell you how to teach your students? Would that work too?”
Again, Ronni felt her face flush. But this time it was in anger, not embarrassment. “That would be fine, if you’d drop the sarcasm. In fact, in might be beneficial to appear before my acting class since I’m sure police often have to assume different roles in their work.”
Kolonich laughed. “Maybe I’ll take you up on that.”
“Seriously, I think it might be a good thing for the students to hear.”
“All right,” Kolonich said, “I know you both have to go to class.” He spoke to Kimberly. “That’s it for now, but we may want to question you again later.” He chuckled. “And we’ll try to cut the sarcasm, okay?”
Kimberly didn’t seem sure how to react. Finally, she just nodded.
The bell ending the period rang just after Solomon and Kolonich left.
In the directing class Ronni was going to talk about the difference between proscenium and area theater. All the scenes the class had presented so far were intended for a proscenium theater, the type that has an imaginary fourth wall through which the audience watches the action. In this type of theater it was important that every member of the audience have a good view of the actors and the set itself. The actors, in effect, played to the fourth wall.
Now Ronni wanted to acquaint the class with the requirements and special conditions of acting in arena theater..
“Can anyone define arena theater?” she asked the class. Today they were meeting in their classroom instead of in the auditorium.
A boy in the back of the classroom raised his hand. His name was Ricky Robinson.
“Yes, Ricky?” Ronni asked.
“Arena theater means the audience surrounds the action, rather than viewing it from the front.”
“That’s right. Have any of you been to plays presented, as arena theater, which, incidentally, is sometimes called theater-in-the-round?”
Several people raised their hands.
“I know you’re all familiar with the proscenium arch, like we have here, and have seen plays presented in this sort of theater. But can you tell me any differences in the directing style from proscenium to arena?”
Ricky again raised his hand. He was a handsome boy with blond hair, blue eyes, and a mischievous look. He, like Ronni at his age, had already appeared as an actor in many area productions from community to semi-pro to professional theater, with a couple of roles at the Old Globe and the San Diego Rep.
“The audience is closer to the action in area theater. This means the actor doesn’t have to worry so much about voice projection. In other words, the presentation can be more intimate, the actions not exaggerated as they have to be, particularly in large proscenium theater..”
“Very good,” Ricky. “I’ll bet you’ve even acted in theater-in-the-round, haven’t you?” Ronni asked.
Ricky blushed. “A time or two,” he said.
Chapter 32
Ronni decided she’d spend the evening doing finishing touches to the prompt book. She’d fix herself a pot of decaf coffee and get to work on it. It was more a case of going over what she’d done already and seeing if she could improve the blocking or somehow make it more interesting. It was going to a dull evening.
As she entered the apartment complex Rose called to her. “Ronni, any plans for the evening?”
“Just to go over the prompt book for The Glass Menagerie one more time. I gave the cast the evening off.”
Rose patted the back of the chair behind her. “Have a seat? I have a question to ask.”
“All right.” She sat down at the small table facing Rose. “What is it? What’s the question?”
“Do you play bridge?”
“Bridge? My goodness, I haven’t played in at least a year. But when I was in the the-ah-tah, as they say, cast members would often play during a break or when there was a long wait to go onstage. I enjoy playing but haven’t even thought of it in a long time.”
“Well,” Rose said, “I play once a week at the senior center. Go out to dinner ahead of time with some friends, other players. My partner just called and said her daughter from Oregon is coming for a visit—starting tonight, and so she can’t play. Well, actually, she said she could, but she hasn’t seen her daughter and her family in months. Apparently, the visit was unexpected. So what do you say?”
“I’m not that great a player. I’ve run into those who seem to think it’s a matter of life and death. In fact, another actor told me once he doesn’t play for enjoyment. ‘Rather,’ he said, ‘I play only to improve my game.’”
“I’m with you. I don’t give a whit about that sort of thing. For me it’s a chance to get out of the house—a chance to meet up with friends and have an enjoyable evening.”
“You know, that sounds like fun.”
“Good. We always go to the Chicken Pie Shop ahead of time. Ever been there?”
“The Chicken Pie Shop? Nope. Never heard of it.”
“Then you’re in for a treat. But for now, how about a nice cup of tea?”
Ronni smiled. “Sounds good. Just let me drop my things upstairs, and I’ll be right back.”
“While you do that, I’ll fix you—as the British say—a nice cuppa’. What kind would you like?” She laughed. “I have almost any kind you can think of.”
“Do you have licorice?”
“You’re trying to put me to the test, aren’t you?” She gave Ronni a ‘well-you-can’t-outwit-me’ sort of smile. “It so happens I do.”
Ronni broke out in laughter as she stood and trotted up to her apartment where she laid her things on the desk and hurried downstairs again.
In a few moments Rose appeared again with a tray loaded with two cups and saucer, tea bags, milk, sugar, sweetener, and lemon. “Don’t know if lemon goes so well with licorice…” She chuckled. “But then again that’s your choice.” She set the tray on the table.
Rose dunked her bag a few times and then let it sink to the bottom of the cup. “Any new developments yet in the murder investigation? Or maybe you’d rather not talk about it? I understand if you don’t want to.”
“It’s fine. But so far as I know, the police haven’t made any progress in finding out who the murderer is… though there were some new developments today.”
“I think I’m a good listener after decades of doing little but sitting still while other people talk.”
“I’m sure you did much more than that.”
“You’d be surprised how much listening seems to help. It’s as if many people who seek help just need someone to pay attention to them, to recognize that they have a problem that need to talk about and try to solve.”
Ronni smiled. “Interesting.”
Rose took the tea bag from the cup and laid it on the tray. “So what happened?”
“Someone threatened Millie,” Ronni told her
“The girl who was arrested for the murder?” She took a sip of her tea.
Ronni nodded. “Yes.”
“Who threatened her, for heaven’s sake?”
“I don’t know. There was a suspect.” Ronni told her about Kimberly. “The police questioned her but didn’t find out if she did it or not.”
Rose frowned. “Why did they suspect her?”
Ronni sighed and shook her head.” Apparently, she’d been rebell
ing against the way the followers, of which she is one, were idolizing Sylvia. In other words, I think, she was waking up to reality, to be trite about it.”
“Hmm. Interesting,” Rose answered. “So she was starting to buck the herd mentality of the other girls, it seems.”
Ronni raised the teacup to her lips. “Certainly looks that way to me. My theory is that she became a part of the group for self-assurance. To know that she was part of something, and that it assured her, if not actual friendship, at least others with whom she felt she could have contact.”
“I take it she was the stereotypical outsider?”
“I don’t know much about her, but that’s what I assume, as well. And now something happened to make her think…what? That the whole thing was a waste of time? A bunch of nonsense? Teenagers’ need for self-assurance?”
Rose picked up her napkin and blotted her lips. “I suppose it could be any of those things. Speculating on little information, I’d say she probably is or was lacking in self-esteem. Maybe a result of being put down too often at home. Or something entirely different. And then she came to the realization that she didn’t want to be a carbon copy.” Rose laughed. “Dating myself, aren’t I? Carbon copy indeed. I’ll bet that most of the kids at Watson-Collins wouldn’t even know what I was talking about. Carbon paper is so passé. Anyhow, for whatever reason she decided to assert her individuality.” She shrugged. “Maybe that’s just the spouting of an old woman based on almost nothing.” She frowned. “But I don’t get it. How does this relate to threatening another student?”
“I think the theory is that Kimberly was having doubts about what she’d done.”
“You mean in renouncing the followers?” Rose asked.
“Yes.” She nodded. “And so she decided to do something to get back into their good graces.”
Rose frowned and then glanced into Ronni’s eyes. “Possibly…but I don’t think so. If she were having second thoughts, I doubt she’d act on them so strongly. And so quickly. This did all happen recently, I gather.”
“So far as I know,” Ronni told Rose. “Kimberly started to express her unhappiness with the group a week or two ago and has continued to raise doubts.”
“Then I don’t think she’d turn around again so quickly. Yes, she may regret what she’s been doing. She may have mixed feelings about it—weighing the pros and cons. But if I were in such a situation—which I can’t really image—I’d want to consider what to do before jumping back into the middle of the previous situation.”
“You’re implying you don’t think she’s the one who made the threat.”
Rose shook her head. “I may be wrong, particularly since what I’m saying is almost entirely speculation since I don’t actually know those involved. I’m jumping to conclusions, which I would never do in a real situation with a client.”
“The police also feel that Kimberly might be the murderer.”
“Do you think she is?” Rose asked.
“I don’t.” Ronni shook her head.
Rose removed the teabag from her cup and placed it in the saucer. “You sound certain.”
“I am… a hundred percent.”
“There must be a good reason.”
Ronni laughed. “There is.” She took a sip of tea and learned back in her chair. “First of all is the murder weapon,” Ronni said.
“The statue of the Aristotle?” Rose answered.
“That’s right. It’s heavy.”
“But somebody used it!” Rose said. “Why not Kimberly?”
“She’s a small girl, not much over five feet tall. And with a small frame.”
“I see. You believe she couldn’t have lifted it.”
“Besides the fact that, as I said, Kimberly is short while Sylvia was fairly tall. It would be difficult enough for Kimberly to lift the statue, let alone swing upward to connect with Sylvia’s head.”
Rose nodded. “I see. And so you have to rule her out as the murderer.”
“I think the police would see that too… unless they think she ran up a few steps and then swung the statue.”
“Possible, I guess, but by then I would think Sylvia would have had time to get out of the way.”
“I agree,” Ronni said. “So I believe someone else committed the murder. And come to think of it, the murderer could very well be the same person who threatened Millie.”
“Trying to point the finger at someone else to throw off the police,” Rose answered.
“Yes. The thought just occurred to me.” Ronni shook her head. “And to top it off, at lunch time Emma—”
“Sylvia’s friend, right?”
“Strange friendship, I think, but yes. She also received a note that someone stuck under her locker door—just like with Millie. This happened later in the day. Just before the cafeteria opened for lunch.”
“Very strange,” Rose said.
The Chicken Pie Shop was on El Cajon Boulevard, and it was packed. “This is the way it usually is,” Rose said. “Very popular, with good reason. I recommend the chicken pot pie. It’s absolutely wonderful.”
“I’ll give it a try.”
The pot pie was wonderful. And the Bridge was fun. It was more like a social gathering than a serious game. Mostly seniors, with a few younger people here and there, everyone laughed a lot but most, from what Ronni could tell, were good players. She kind of wished she could be a regular part of the group… but with rehearsals starting soon, that was out of the question. Maybe afterwards though, until the next production came along.
It was a little after nine when Ronni and Rose returned home after Bridge. So, Ronni thought, she could at least start going over the prompt book and work until it was time for bed, which wouldn’t be long since she had to be at Watson-Collins early each morning. She laughed to herself. In her former life, she was still onstage and maybe only halfway through a performance at this time of day. Bedtime? Well, that was most often around one or two in the morning. Some of her actor friends would laugh if they knew she already was yawning.
She decided she was being silly about the prompt book. It was fine, and she certainly could make any changes she thought would improve the production during the weeks of rehearsal. Well, maybe she’d skim through what she’d written. She walked to her desk, picked up the book and opened it. “No!” she told herself. She didn’t need to be a drudge. She’d take the book to school with her and spend second period skimming through it. She thought of her great aunt Sybil. No matter how many times she checked to see if a door was locked, once she was on her way to wherever she was headed, she came back and checked again.
That’s what Ronni was doing with the prompt book. “To heck with it!” she said aloud as she dropped the book back on her desk. It had been such a relaxed and fun evening she didn’t want to spoil it. Instead, she walked to the couch, picked up the remote control for the TV set and clicked the “on” button.
The next morning she took the prompt book with her. There was still the second period when she could look through it. Hmmm, she wondered what Rose would say about this silly compulsion to make sure everything was fine, if not perfect—though she knew it was as good as she could make it for now. “No more fussing with it, young lady,” she muttered to herself, as she parked and got out of her car.