The Actor's Guide To Greed

by Rick Copp

  It was obvious that although he was including me, he was hoping that Charlie would tuck me into bed and then scurry on down to join him so they would have a little private time together. As long as I had one last breath in my body, that was never going to happen.

  When Charlie and I stepped onto the elevator, I turned around in time to see Akshay waving to us as the doors closed. Finally we were rid of him.

  “He seemed nice,” Charlie said.

  I let out a dismissive groan. Charlie knew what was coming, so he braced himself.

  “He’s a two-faced, nasty son of a bitch!” I spit out. “He’s been mean and condescending to me ever since I arrived in London, and now all of a sudden he’s trying to be best pals or something. And I know why!”

  “Why?”

  “He’s attracted to you,” I said. Now it was Charlie’s turn to say I had nothing to worry about because he certainly wasn’t the least bit attracted to Akshay.

  “Really? You think so?”

  He sounded flattered. Maybe I had overplayed my hand. That’s what wild jealousy will do to a man. It causes him to let his guard down and make stupid mistakes.

  “You didn’t fall for that fake show of charm and good manners, did you?”

  “I don’t know,” Charlie said with a shrug. “It didn’t seem phony to me.”

  “You don’t know him like I do,” I said.

  “Okay,” Charlie said. And that was that. He had no intention of getting dragged down into a fight.

  We arrived at our floor and I bounded out of the elevator and down the hall to our room, fishing for the room key in my pocket.

  From behind me I heard Charlie’s stern voice. “Now that’s what I call a miraculous recovery.”

  Damn. I had forgotten I was supposed to be sick. When I reached the door to our room, I stumbled a bit, just for show, but it was a sad attempt to regain what little was left of my credibility.

  I inserted the key into the lock, twisted it, and pushed open the door. I turned back to Charlie. “Maybe I had a twenty-four-minute flu.”

  Charlie chuckled. “Yeah. Maybe.”

  I was caught red-handed. Luckily, however, he was in a forgiving mood and we were up half the night celebrating our long-awaited reunion.

  I had received a message to report to the theater the following morning at eight for a meeting with Detective Inspector Sally Bowles. She wanted to go over everyone’s stories again given the reclassification of Claire Richards’s death as a homicide. But since Charlie and I didn’t get to sleep until well after four, when I pried open my eyes and saw it was twenty minutes past nine, the panic instantly started to seep through my body.

  Charlie was still sound asleep as I threw on some jeans and a T-shirt and dashed out the door. It was a brisk, sunny morning as I pounded through the throng of people toward Shaftsbury Avenue. I made it to the Apollo in just under ten minutes, probably a new record. As I hurried through the rear door, I heard loud yelling. It was probably DI Sally Bowles demanding that I be arrested for my inexcusable tardiness. But as I rounded the corner and made my way past the dressing rooms and toward the auditorium, I saw DI Bowles and her gruff, doughy partner snapping handcuffs on Claire Richards’s understudy, Minx.

  Minx was screaming and cursing and wrenching her body in protest as Kenneth, Wallace, Liam, Akshay, Sir Anthony, and Dame Sylvia all looked on, utterly appalled. This was not the perky brunette with the electrifying smile I had met only weeks earlier. This was an explosive, unhinged woman whose wild, possessed eyes sent a chill down my spine.

  I raced up to my writer, director, and fellow actors as DI Bowles and her partner hauled the screeching Minx out a side door.

  Akshay, my warm and wonderful host the night before, took one look at me and turned his back. Without Charlie at my side, my stock had suddenly plunged in his eyes.

  Kenneth abruptly cocked his head my way and said, “DI Bowles still wants to speak to you even though she suspects the case may already be wrapped up.”

  “Minx?” I said.

  Wallace nodded. “The coroner found peanut oil mixed in with Claire’s stage make-up. It turns out Claire was severely allergic to all nuts, and that’s what caused the massive stroke.”

  Sir Anthony sadly shook his head. “We all heard Minx’s inappropriate jokes about offing Claire so she could take over the leading role.”

  Liam moaned with grief, sank into a chair, and covered his face with his hands.

  “But how did they connect Minx to the peanut oil?” I said.

  “I saw her mixing some strange liquid in with the make-up that night,” Dame Sylvia said. “I asked her what it was, and she told me it was just something to give the base more color and texture or some such nonsense.”

  This was unbelievable. Minx might have been a clawing, manipulative little Eve Harrington, but a murderer?

  “Did anyone see Minx actually give the make-up to Claire?” I said.

  Akshay finally deigned to speak to me as he raised his hand. “Not only did I see her bring the make-up directly to Claire, but I also watched as she helped her put it on.”

  A lethal concoction. Two separate witnesses. A clear motive. It was starting to look like curtains for Minx. But if she had planned on doing away with Claire, why would Minx bounce around the theater making jokes about it during the weeks leading up to the murder? Minx might not have been the brightest bulb in the chandelier, but she wasn’t an idiot. It didn’t make sense to me. Was someone lying? Dame Sylvia had the most damning testimony. She had actually seen Minx blending the oil into the make-up. Was this a part of some elaborate setup to frame Minx for her own dirty doings?

  And what about the combustible Liam, whose violent temper might have driven him to the edge? Or Kenneth, who was completely belittled and humiliated by Claire, or anyone else in the company, all of whom seemed to despise Claire? Everyone, that is, except me. As my head started to flood with questions, I knew I was about to embark on yet another journey to uncover the truth. And I was going to start by finding out the identity of the mystery man who was having sex with Claire Richards in her dressing room mere minutes before her final performance.

  Chapter 10

  DI Sally Bowles returned hours later from hustling Minx off to the nearest precinct for booking on suspicion of murder. She had requested I wait for her, but it was well after four in the afternoon before she decided to return and interview me again. Most of the cast had already fled by the time she charged into the theater through the front entrance. She asked that I join her in my dressing room, where she launched into a near repeat of her previous line of questioning with a heavy emphasis on the identity of the man I had supposedly heard Claire having sexual relations with minutes before the opening-night curtain.

  “I’ve talked with every man in the company, and they all deny sleeping with Claire, with the notable exception of Liam Killoran, of course,” she said.

  “Someone’s lying,” I said.

  “That someone could be you,” she said.

  “Why would I sleep with her? I’m gay,” I said.

  “You’re an actor. Maybe you were acting.”

  “I’m not that good.”

  “Oh, I highly doubt that,” she said.

  “What motive would I have? What could I possibly gain?”

  “Claire is a very successful star. People listen to her. Perhaps if you had her in your corner, she could help secure you a key role in her next film production.”

  If only I were that conniving. Maybe I would have more feature-film credits on my resume other than Larry Levant’s disastrous low-budget slasher flick shot in south Florida last year. And a cheap Tom Sawyer remake in the eighties with Jason Bateman.

  “Look, Detective Inspector, Claire was already in my corner. I didn’t have to sleep with her. And what does this have to do with anything? You’ve already arrested Minx for the murder.”

  “There’s no denying the evidence against Minx, but I just want to make sure I have covered
all the bases. If you insist Claire’s secret paramour isn’t you, then do you have any guesses on who it might be?”

  “I told you during our last interview. No, I don’t.”

  “It’s been a few days since we last spoke. I was hoping you might have remembered something.”

  We did this little dance for another forty-five minutes. I saw something gnawing at DI Bowles. Arresting Minx didn’t feel right. Her gut told her the case wasn’t closed. There was more to the story. And I had to agree.

  Sally Bowles asked me to keep my eyes and ears open over the next couple of days in case I heard something unusual from one of my fellow cast members that might be of help in the case. I told her I would be happy to, if I had planned on staying in England. But right now my sole focus was boarding a plane and flying home to Los Angeles. This did nothing to dissipate any suspicions she might have harbored about my involvement with Claire’s death. Fleeing the country was not the best way to illustrate a perception of innocence. But at this point I didn’t care. She had nothing on me to keep me there. In fact, she had already made an arrest. So legally I was free to go.

  “Very well,” Sally Bowles said, her jaws clenched from frustration. “If I need to speak to you further, I will contact you in America.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” I said, shaking her hand and bounding for the door.

  She stopped me with her stern, hardened voice. “Mr. Jarvis, I actually do have one more question for you.”

  I sighed and turned around.

  “Do you think Minx is capable of murder?” she said, staring me dead in the eyes.

  I thought for a moment before answering. “No. I really don’t.”

  She nodded, mulling over my opinion, and then waved me away, lost in her own thoughts.

  It was finally over. I was going home. Free from this loony bin of egos and ambition. As I trudged back to the Savoy, I flipped open my cell phone and called British Airways. The chipper airline representative clicked away on her computer as she tried to secure Charlie and me two coach seats on the next flight back to Los Angeles. The first available flight would be tomorrow morning. I decided to pay the one-hundred-dollar reservation change fee in order to avoid having to go through the production office. I just wanted to slip out of town unnoticed and never think of anyone connected to Murder Can Be Civilized ever again. Charlie had wanted to stay in town a few days, but I was through with jolly old England for now. Perhaps we could come back next year as tourists, when enough time had passed and I was no longer so close to all the emotion and tragedy of the last few weeks. I couldn’t bear staying in London with the constant reminders of Claire Richards. She had been a true friend to me, and I had yet to take the time to grieve properly. Charlie would understand. He always did.

  It was going on six o’clock and the cloudy gray sky was slowly giving away to nightfall. Arthur waved to me as I scurried through the door of the Savoy and raced for the elevators. I had already planned our evening out in my mind. A feast from room service. Some snuggling in our white terrycloth robes between comedies on the BBC. A little lovemaking. And then a good night’s sleep before our flight back to the States. The only problem was, whenever I meticulously design the perfect evening, I allow my expectations to be raised, and when things don’t work out as planned, I am resoundingly disappointed.

  I jammed the key into the lock and whipped the door open. I stopped dead. My heart sank. Charlie was lying on top of the bed, his shirt discarded on the floor. Akshay stood over him, looking dashing in a blue blazer, a white shirt open enough to boast his toned, hairy chest, as he offered me his trademark sexy smile.

  “Hello,” I said, standing in the doorway, like a lost child on the verge of tears. They had been so engrossed in conversation they hadn’t even heard the door open. Both looked up at me, startled.

  “Hey, babe,” Charlie said, trying to sit up but wincing from the pain of his bullet wounds. There was still a white bandage stretched across his bare torso. Akshay quickly slipped an arm around Charlie’s back to assist him. I wanted to throw up.

  “What’s going on?” I said, trying in vain to keep my voice steady and calm.

  “Akshay just dropped by to see if we had dinner plans,” Charlie said.

  Akshay flashed his perfect teeth at me. I wanted to punch him in the mouth and get rid of a few of them.

  “I’d really rather just stay in tonight. It’s been a long day,” I said, watching Akshay as he finished helping Charlie sit up, but let his hands linger on his back and knee.

  “I completely understand,” Akshay said. “DI Bowles is like a dog with a bone. Question after question. It was exhausting. And poor Jarrod was stuck there waiting for her to speak to him all day.”

  There was a long, uncomfortable silence. Akshay finally got the hint. He stood upright, letting Charlie ease back against the headboard, and said, “Well, I should get going. You two have a relaxing evening.”

  “Good night, Akshay,” Charlie said.

  Akshay gave Charlie an inappropriate longing look. He didn’t care that I was standing there watching. “Good night, Charlie.”

  It took all the self-control I could muster not to trip him as he walked out the door. He gave me a perfunctory nod as he passed me. Once he was safely in the hallway, I stepped inside and slammed the door behind him. Then I turned to Charlie.

  “Look, don’t wig out on me over this. When he knocked on the door, I thought it was you,” Charlie said, in damage-control mode.

  “I have a key,” I said. “I wouldn’t have knocked.”

  “I thought you forgot it or lost it or something.”

  I wanted to drop it. I really did. But I just couldn’t. “Why was your shirt off?”

  “He wanted to give me a massage. How could I say no?” Charlie said with a straight face.

  My mouth dropped open and Charlie chuckled.

  “Relax, babe,” he said. “I’m joking. The bullet wound on my chest was bothering me, and I was afraid it might be bleeding so I took it off to take a look. End of story.”

  “I don’t like him,” I said.

  “I know you don’t. You made that abundantly clear last night. But just because you’ve got a problem with him doesn’t mean I have to be rude to him.”

  Charlie watched me closely, monitoring just how close I was to a meltdown. He didn’t want to risk suffering through a geyser of emotions that I could shoot off like Old Faithful.

  “Nothing happened,” Charlie said, slow and soft, never taking his eyes off me.

  I knew I should have understood. Especially since I had my own admirer while shooting my movie in south Florida last year. A buff, handsome Navy SEAL turned private detective had been attracted to me, but from Charlie’s point of view, it had seemed as if something was going on between us when in fact nothing was happening except a passing attraction. But now I was in Charlie’s position of doubting and suspecting, and I knew I was not going to handle it as well as he did.

  “I need some air,” I said and turned around to leave.

  “Oh, come on, Jarrod, don’t do this,” Charlie said, standing up from the bed, but still holding his bandages.

  “No, I’m fine. I believe you,” I said, but I was only half convincing myself. “I just want to go for a walk.”

  I was feeling hopelessly insecure. I knew it. And Charlie knew it.

  “You’re being ridiculous right now. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Don’t talk to me like I’m a child.”

  “Well, you’re acting like one, Jarrod. Sometimes you forget that you’re no longer that cute little kid from Go To Your Room. You’re thirty-four years old. You can’t keep making a grand exit offstage whenever you get hurt. And the sooner you realize that there is no sympathetic studio audience out there that is going to go ‘awwww’ over your problems anymore, the better off you’ll be.”

  I had heard enough. I turned on my heel and marched out the door. I headed out to the Strand and wandered aimlessly around the c
ity. But it was cold, the kind of cold that cracks the bones. And I hadn’t brought a jacket. I stopped in at a Starbucks in Leicester Square (Starbucks is only a few franchises away from complete world domination) and warmed myself up with a hot cup of coffee, my mind forming terribly violent thoughts about Akshay Kapoor, my newly crowned arch nemesis. Then, I checked the movie times at several of the old palace theaters that lined the square. Nothing was starting for at least another hour. I was stuck. It was either swallow my pride and head back to the hotel room, or shuffle over to Piccadilly Circus and pass the time thumbing through CD racks at Tower Records.

  Charlie was right. I was being ridiculous. I had let my absolute distrust and dislike of Akshay completely cloud my judgment. If it had been Wallace or Sir Anthony hovering over Charlie’s bed and leering at him, I would not have thought twice about it. I would have laughed it off. But Akshay had been so dismissive, so disdainful of me during the entire production I had let my imagination run wild.

  Whenever I feel backed into a corner, my first instinct is to run. But after a brief period of contemplating the situation, I often come to the conclusion that I might have overreacted. I smiled to myself. Charlie was probably lying in bed, watching TV and checking his watch. He knew I would be back within the hour, full of apologies for not trusting him and prepared to make up for my bad behavior with a barrage of kisses.

  I trekked back to the Savoy, tail between my legs. I was as predictable as our Pekingese Snickers with a tennis ball. She would always come back with it no matter where you threw it. My mood brightened as I snatched the keys from my pocket and bounced down the hall to our room. I had debated on whether I should stop for flowers, but Charlie just isn’t a flowers kind of guy. He liked chocolates but was trying to cut down on his sugar intake. I decided a full on apology from me would be enough for him tonight.

  When I reached out to open the door with the key, I was surprised to find it already open a crack. I pressed my fingers against it and pushed the door open wider. Charlie wasn’t in bed. The TV was on, blaring some old French and Saunders Baywatch sketch. I looked around the room. The bathroom door was ajar and the light turned off. Charlie was gone. Maybe he just went out to get some ice. Or ran down to pick up a newspaper in the lobby. There had to be a simple explanation. But four hours later, as I sat alone on the edge of the bed, rocking back and forth with worry, still waiting for him to return, my intuition was screaming at me that something was seriously wrong.