by R. T. Jordan
When Tim entered the dark room Polly said, “What’s wrong, hon? Another nightmare? The one where Neil Patrick Harris leaves you for Anderson Cooper? Poor baby. I’d invite you to crawl in with me the way you did when you were a child, but three’s a crowd, if you know what I mean.”
Tim sighed in frustration. “Polly,” he said, finding his way in the dark and sitting by her side on the mattress. “I can’t sleep. It’s this investigation. I was thinking about all the stuff Jamie said tonight. And what Gerold said earlier. And then I thought about Mag. Remember that she insisted that there was no one else in the theater at the time of Karen’s murder? Then she retracted her statement and said that the cleaning people were there. Then you suggested that perhaps it was Charlotte whom she heard, using a foreign-sounding voice.”
Polly leaned over and switched on the light by her nightstand and sat up against the bed’s headboard.
Tim asked, “Who else was in the theater?”
Polly finger-brushed her hair out of her face. “Oh, hon, we’ve been over this so many times. The police have too.” She turned to Randy, who was now wide awake and sitting up. “We talked to the entire cast, didn’t we?”
“Absolutely.” Randy nodded. “Everyone has an alibi, or at least they lied about having alibis.”
Tim shook his head in disagreement. “Remember earlier this evening at the theater when Gerold made a big fuss about not hiring Jamie to coach Stewart Long? He said that George, the stage door guy, had been given instructions not to let Jamie into the theater.”
Polly thought for a moment, trying to recall the words and context of what Gerold had said. She looked at Tim and said, “Oh my God! Innocuous George. He’s always there. We skipped right over him because he’s so obvious that he’s not obvious.” Polly turned to Randy. “What about the police, did they interview him?”
Randy shrugged, knowing that he never personally spoke to George, and had never heard one way or the other about anyone else getting a statement from him.
“The guy was usually asleep or looking at Playboy magazine when I signed us in,” Tim said. “There’s a good chance that he saw something that could be relevant to this case.”
Polly was quiet for a moment as she recalled that no one, not even Sharon, ever mentioned the stage doorman. That Polly herself had failed to think about this bland old man to whom she gave a cheerful if cursory “Good morning!” each day as she sashayed past his desk, confounded her. “They all look alike to me, these old gems of theater tradition,” Polly said, trying to find an excuse for her lack of attention to detail. “No matter what theater I play, there’s always a George. Although they’re usually asleep at their post, they somehow manage to keep up on all the backstage gossip. I’ll speak to him first thing in the A.M.” She patted Tim on the cheek.
Randy rolled over on his side and said, “That’s my job.”
Polly smiled at her son and winked good night. “We love our Doogie Howser, so go back and dream that he’s my son-in-law.”
Chapter 31
George, the stage doorman at the Galaxy Theatre, appeared to be as old as the theater itself. He sat behind a built-in desk next to the artists’ entrance and spent his days napping and reminding the cast and crew members to sign in and out on sheets of lined paper attached to a clipboard. At the end of each day he filed away the attendance log in a manila folder and prepared a new one for the following day.
George had no real job description. Mainly he tried to prevent fans and lookie-loos from gaining access to the theater, but George was too old to even keep out troops of Girl Scouts who barged in to sell their Thin Mints. He had neither a bark nor a bite. However, because he more or less came as a package deal with the theater whenever it had changed ownership over the years, each successive management team had practically forgotten that he existed. He never complained and his pay hadn’t changed in a quarter century, so they simply left him alone.
An early riser, George was at his station at 7:00 A.M. every day. When Polly and Tim and Placenta arrived the next morning at eight, he was dozing next to a half-full mug of coffee. Tim opened the door for Polly, who bounded into the building and sidled up to the desk beside the old man. She sang out in a booming voice, “Oh, what a beautiful morning! Oh, what a beautiful day…” Her dynamic entrance succeeded in startling George from his dream of Natalie Portman.
Polly leaned over the counter next to his desk and exclaimed, “George! I’ve been a naughty star. I haven’t given you your present!”
George looked confused. He stared at a brightly wrapped package offered by Polly. “It’s not my birthday,” he grumbled. He had worked in the same job practically since the night that Lincoln was shot, and with the exception of Lee Merriweather, with whom he was secretly in love, nobody involved with any show ever paid him much attention. He was now suspicious of why the legendary Polly Pepper was making a fuss over him. He pushed a clipboard toward her and said, “Sign in.”
Polly feigned regret. “I’m castigating myself for being so thoughtless. I can’t believe that for the first time in my long and illustrious career I neglected to befriend the one person in the theater who always deserves the Euripides Spirit Award. The stage door man. You are the tireless keeper of keys to the dressing rooms and the jack-of-all-trades who plunges the backed-up toilets and changes the makeup mirror lightbulbs. You are the hero who keeps a bowl of milk by the door for the theater alley kitty cat. The man who makes even the lowliest chorine feel like a star when she walks through the door and you call out a cheerful greeting. I’m absolutely ashamed that we haven’t become dear friends, but I intend to remedy that situation, pronto. To begin, I’d like to give you a wee little prezey.”
George didn’t recognize himself in Polly’s description. Nevertheless, he accepted the proffered gift. “Keys? Toilets? Lightbulbs? Those are union jobs,” he said.
“You can open it and thank me now, if you wish,” Polly said, eager to see the look on the old man’s face when he realized that a great star was going out of her way to make him feel as important as any member of the cast.
The package was the size of a thick book and George feared that’s what was beneath the wrapping. He hated to read, except for Bra Busters magazine. Still, he peeled away the paper with a bony finger. When he had torn the wrapping off he was happy to see that it wasn’t a book after all. He didn’t know exactly what it was. He stared for a long moment until Tim caught on and said, “It’s the entire first season of The Polly Pepper Playhouse on DVD. This special edition comes with cast and guest-star interviews, as well as commentary by Carol Burnett and Elinor Donohue.”
Polly clasped her hands together and gushed, “I knew that you’d love it. I was sure that a man of your years…er, appreciation for the business…would be thrilled to have your very own chapters of my early history. You can watch me on the tube long after I depart this venerable old theater.”
“I’ve been meaning to buy a television,” George said, aware that it would be impolite to say that the gift was of no use to him. Instead he pretended to be delighted by Polly’s thoughtfulness. “The wife—rest her soul—always thought you would be nice.”
Polly was touched by George’s expression of appreciation, artificial though it was, and reached out to caress his cheek. “Thank you for all that you do for people of the theater,” she said with as much earnestness as she could summon. “You and all the other stage doormen around the world may be overlooked, out of date, and out of place, but you’re still the heart of every backstage.”
Tim nudged his mother with his elbow. He gave her a look that said, “You’re babbling!”
“What I mean, of course, is that you’re as essential to our business as the seats in the auditorium, and I for one must acknowledge how much I value whatever it is that you do.”
George plopped himself back down on his chair. He was exhausted from listening to Polly, but said, “That’s mighty fine, Miss Pepper.”
“Polly! Your new best
friend.”
“Hmmm,” George responded, taking a sip from his oversized mug of now cold coffee. He looked at his watch, then turned around and opened the door to the microwave oven that occupied a shelf behind him. He placed his mug inside, closed the door, and pushed the beverage reheat button. “Convenience. I don’t have to leave my station whenever the joe gets cold.”
Polly looked at George and at the microwave oven. Then she looked at her watch. “A mug that size must last a long time between refills.”
“I make a pot at seven when I get in. With frequent nuking I can nurse this baby until eight thirty or sometimes nine,” George proudly declared.
“So you never have to leave your station. Such a profound work ethic!”
“Except when I have to…you know…answer the call.”
Polly was suddenly deflated. It was entirely possible that the reason that George hadn’t previously come forward with information about the murder was that he was in the bathroom at the time of the crime. “Do you have to go often?” Polly asked.
“Are you taking a survey? I have a friend who has to go at least ten times during the night. I’m not that far along,” he said.
The timer on the microwave sounded and George retrieved his coffee mug.
Polly wasn’t interested in an old man’s bladder habits, but she needed to know if he had been at his post the morning of Karen’s death, or if the porcelain god had beckoned at the wrong time. “George,” she cooed, “were you at your desk the last time that Sharon Fletcher was in the theater?”
George raised an eyebrow and looked Polly up and down. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back. “It’s about time someone thought to ask me about that.”
George leaned forward, picked up his coffee mug, and took another sip. He savored the taste and nodded his head, indicating that the temperature was just right. Then he set the mug down and rested his elbows on the desk. He looked at Polly and shook his head. “It’s a damn shame about that nice director lady.”
Polly was once again hopeful. “Did you see anything unusual that morning?” she asked.
“See?”
“Sharon running out crying? Charlotte Bunch hanging around, or someone coming to the theater who didn’t belong here? Anything?”
“Actresses coming and going and running away with tears streaming down their pretty faces?”
“Yes!” Polly said eagerly.
“Yep. Not to mention the theater’s artistic director who came in with his little girlfriend.”
“So you did see something!”
“Um, actors backstage in a theater. Even crying actresses. What’s so unusual about that?”
Polly heaved a heavy sigh. “Didn’t you see anything unusual, George?”
“Nope.” George looked into Polly’s eyes. “Ask me if I heard anything.”
Polly leaned in closer to George. “Tell me. What did you hear?”
George smiled. He looked over his shoulder. Polly, Tim, and Placenta followed his gaze to an ancient speaker box mounted on the wall. “One of you go out there on the stage and say something. Anything ’t all. ‘I think that I will never see a poem lovely as a tree.’ Whatever. Go ahead. And you don’t have to project to the second balcony neither.”
Polly and her troupe were perplexed, but after a moment Tim volunteered to go out onto the stage and perform a soliloquy from The Three Stooges, or whatever came into his memory. Within a few moments, his voice was clearly audible through the speaker behind George’s desk.
Polly and Placenta each gasped.
Tim returned presently and could tell by the look on his mother’s face that something momentous had occurred.
Polly sang the first lines from the theme song to The Nanny.
“I just sang that song onstage. How did…The acoustics in this dump can’t be that good!”
Polly pointed to the speaker box. “As for singing, don’t give up your day job. If you had one.”
“You heard that? Did George hear…?”
Polly looked at George. “Every word?”
George nodded and smiled. He looked around the otherwise empty backstage area and looked at his watch again. “Others will be coming in any minute now. It’s best if we talk later. If you want to know who killed Karen Richards, come by my house tonight after rehearsal.” George scribbled his address on a piece of paper and handed it to Polly.
In that next moment, several dancers arrived. They called out, “Hello, Miss Pepper,” thus interrupting George. Polly smiled but didn’t take her eyes off George. “How can I stand the suspense all day? Just whisper something into my ear.”
“You need to hear the backstory,” George said, turning to the microwave and setting his mug inside. As he pushed the beverage reheat button he said, “The story of a person’s last minutes of life deserves all the details.” When he turned around he was looking into the eyes of Gerold Goss.
The cast of Mame did a complete wardrobe and sound test run-through before lunchtime. After an hour off they again assembled onstage and performed the show. By six o’clock, they had completed two full performances. The company was exhausted. However, Gerold announced that he was displeased with everything about the show and insisted that the cast perform one more time. “I don’t care if we’re here until midnight!” he shouted at a chorus boy who had dared to roll his eyes in exasperation.
Polly tried to set a good example for the rest of the cast by not complaining or showing that she too had more urgent things to do with her time. Beneath her paper smile was a woman desperate to leave the theater and to speak to George and finally solve the mystery of who murdered Karen Richards. After many stops and restarts, the company was finally through for the night. Gerold still complained, but the stage manager announced that everyone was dismissed.
“It’s after ten. Let’s get the hell out of here!” Polly said as she raced to her dressing room. In record time, she shed her costume, washed off her stage makeup, consumed a flute of Bollinger, and was out the door and in her car. “Step on it,” she said to Tim, who quickly maneuvered the car out of the lot and onto the wide boulevard.
“I’ve set Magellan to George’s address,” he said, looking at his favorite navigation gadget. In ten minutes they were slowly driving along Conrad Street, and the automated voice in Magellan finally said, “You have reached your destination.” Tim easily found a space to park by the curb, and the trio stepped out of the car and onto a concrete sidewalk, which was cracked and buckled, from the roots of enormous magnolia trees that lined the street.
“That must be it,” Polly said, pointing to an old early California bungalow-style house. “He’s written that his place is in the back,” she added, looking at George’s note.
Tim led the way and as they walked down a driveway in which two cars were parked in tandem, they heard a dog bark from within the main house. A chain-link fence gate was open at the side of the house, and in the distance they could see a small cottage with its front porch light on.
“Watch your step,” Tim cautioned as he gingerly stepped through the semidark yard. A faint light from inside the house spilled into the backyard, casting shadows over children’s bicycles and toys, and rakes and hoses. Finally they reached the screen door at the guest house and looked at the number. It matched the one that George had given to Polly. “Either he’s not home or he’s already in bed,” Tim said, looking into a dark window.
“He won’t mind being woken up,” Polly said as she opened the screen door. “This is too important to him and to us.”
Tim tapped on the door. No response. He knocked louder. “There’s no doorbell.”
Polly stepped beside Tim and rapped on the door herself. “George? It’s Polly. Wake up, honey. You’re expecting me.” She knocked again but still no one answered and no light shone from within. “Maybe he’s not home yet. But he was gone by the time we left the theater.”
The three stood outside in the cool night wondering what to do next.
As they were about to give up and head back to the car, a woman called out to them from the main house. “He’s not there,” she said, stepping from the house and making her way toward the trio. When she was finally among them she instantly recognized Polly. “Oh my God, it’s you, from the television. What’s your name…? Give me a minute. The funny one. Darn.”
Polly was horrified by the woman’s lack of recall, but rather than show her annoyance, she held out her hand and said, “Polly. Polly Pepper. How do you do?”
“You’re right,” the woman said. “You’re Polly Pepper! I knew it.” After a moment of awkward silence, she said, “If you’re looking for George, the ambulance finally came. Took ’em long enough. He’s gone.”
Polly and Tim and Placenta were stunned. “Gone?” Polly said. “To the hospital?”
“To join his wife,” the woman said.
Polly looked confused. “But his wife is…” Polly’s reaction was that this was a horrible mistake; that she must have the wrong house and the wrong George. “How? What happened? Was he alone? Did he suffer? What was the cause?” She wanted to know everything, but the woman knew next to nothing.
“I came home from my first-aid class and saw him facedown in the yard,” the woman said. “I rushed outside but there was nothing I could do. We don’t learn CPR until next week.”
“Did you call 911?” Polly asked, almost impatiently. “They could have saved him.”
“I called, but it was ten minutes before they showed up. Anyway, I’d say he was a goner long before I even came home.”
Polly reached out for Tim’s and Placenta’s hands. She squeezed them tight and closed her eyes. “George knew who the killer was. I’m a fool. And now I have nothing to prove my theory. We’re screwed.”
Chapter 32
“Blunt trauma to the head?” Polly said, speaking into the cell phone and repeating what Randy was telling her about what he’d learned of George’s death. “Murder!” she immediately announced. “I don’t care that he was eighty-six or that he’s hardly cold and the coroner hasn’t made his stupid official determination. The man lived in that house for years. He knew his way around that trash heap they call a backyard. It’s highly improbable that George would have stumbled over a rake or a tricycle, even in the dark. He was a careful man. So careful, in fact, that he didn’t want to tell me what he heard from backstage the morning of Karen’s murder until he could do so privately. I don’t need an autopsy report to tell me that someone wanted him silenced. And I think I know who.”