The Actor's Guide To Greed

by Rick Copp

  “Who?”

  Katrina took a long, sharp intake of breath before she reached into her coat pocket, pulled out a tissue, and began systematically dabbing away the dreaded tears that had so maliciously smudged her face. “Claire.”

  I nearly fell out of my chair. Wallace and Claire? Impossible. They were so different. Claire was so vibrant and sexual, and a real live wire. She was like a rich chocolate confection in an expensive stainless-steel dessert cup. And Wallace, well, he was just so Jell-O pudding. Of course, I couldn’t exactly share these feelings with Katrina since, after all, she was married to the guy.

  “Katrina, are you sure?”

  “I found this,” she said, pulling an aqua blue crystal earring out of her pocket and dangling it in front of my face. “It belongs to Claire. I saw her wearing them after the tech rehearsal when we all went out for drinks. I even commented on how beautiful they were. I just found it in our room.”

  “But that doesn’t mean she and Wallace . . .” I said. It was still such a fantastic concept to consider. Claire sleeping with Wallace.

  “I confronted him with the earring, and he caved faster than a child caught with candy before dinnertime.”

  So Wallace was the one I heard with Claire in her dressing room when I delivered her opening-night gift. He would have been the last man in the theater that I would have guessed. I might have even put the flamboyant Sir Anthony ahead of Wallace on the list. Just goes to show you I’m not the crack detective I sometimes like to think I am.

  “The sad thing is, Jarrod, he almost sounded proud. Like it was some big accomplishment that he actually got the great Claire Richards to go to bed with him.” Katrina sat up in her chair and sniffed back her flood of emotions, trying desperately to regain some kind of stoic resolve. “At first he was terrified I might find out the truth. He didn’t know why Claire had singled him out, but he decided to go with it. She was probably just using him for sex.”

  Highly unlikely, if you asked me, especially given the strapping physical attributes of her Irish lover, Liam.

  “Or possibly she was trying to get her role expanded in the play, or Dame Sylvia’s part cut down,” she said.

  Now that was a much more likely scenario.

  “Whatever the case, I noticed him acting nervous and jumpy, but I assumed he was just jittery over his first play opening. I never dreamed he was hiding something from me,” she said. “When Claire died, I noticed that Wallace seemed almost relieved. No one would ever have to know what had happened between the two of them. But when I confronted him with the earring, he knew the jig was up.”

  With all the backstabbing and bed hopping going on at the Apollo Theatre, perhaps if we had mounted a production about the backstage story of Murder Can Be Civilized, it might have been more widely accepted than the far less exciting script written by Wallace.

  “So you’ve left him?” I said, resting a comforting hand on Katrina’s arm.

  “Yes. I’m going home to Los Angeles,” she said, rising suddenly. “I don’t know if Charlie has been unfaithful to you or not, Jarrod, but let me tell you this. Before today, I would have told you point-blank you were being paranoid. But now, I have to say anything is possible.”

  She grabbed her Pierre Cardin carry-on handle and rolled it behind her toward Ian, who waited with a bright smile behind the reservations desk.

  I watched her go for a moment before calling out. “Katrina?”

  She placed her room key in front of Ian and circled around to face me.

  “Were you anywhere near the make-up station at the theater on opening night?” I said. If Dame Sylvia had been telling the truth, that a woman tampered with the make-up, the only other woman even remotely connected to the company besides Minx was the playwright’s wife.

  “I wasn’t even at the theater until ten minutes before curtain. I was shopping on Regent Street,” she said.

  I didn’t know whether to believe her or not. But if she was telling the truth about just finding out that her husband was sleeping with his leading lady, then she would have had absolutely no motive to mix the peanut oil into Claire’s make-up.

  “Have a safe flight home,” I said.

  “Thank you, Jarrod,” she said as Arthur hustled over to help her with her bags.

  “Excuse me,” a deep voice said from behind me.

  I turned around to find Detective Colin Samms and his chubby-faced, bearish partner hovering over me.

  “Yes?”

  “We need you to come with us,” he said in a grave tone.

  This was serious. Something was wrong. My mind instantly went to Charlie. Had they found him? Was he alive? Or . . . The alternative was too grim to even think about.

  Chapter 15

  “Do you have any news on my boyfriend, Charlie?” I said. Detective Samms stared at me glumly, his mind working to make sense of what I had just asked him. Obviously he hadn’t given much thought to Charlie’s mysterious disappearance.

  “Oh, right,” he said. “No, I’m afraid not. I’ll assign a detective to the case tomorrow if he hasn’t turned up.”

  He still believed Charlie had just taken off. And I was starting to suspect the same thing. But if Charlie had indeed ditched me, he would have at least had the good manners to take the time to write me a Dear John letter. That’s what was so frustrating. Not knowing.

  Detective Samms and his partner escorted me to a black sedan and whisked me away from the Savoy. I asked why they needed me for follow-up questioning, but they didn’t answer me. After that, we rode in silence. Within minutes, we pulled up to the police station of our first encounter.

  As we entered the lobby area, I saw Minx gathering up her belongings from the desk sergeant. Her hair was mussed, her mascara smeared from crying. She was slumped over, humiliated. She had probably never before been seen in public looking like such a mess, and it was killing her.

  “You’re letting her go?” I said to Detective Samms.

  “Yes,” he said as he gripped my arm tight and steered me down the hall toward his office.

  When we were behind closed doors, Samms gestured for me to take a seat. He circled his desk and sat down to face me while his imposing partner remained standing so close behind me I felt his gut pressing into my back as he breathed in and out heavily.

  “So Minx didn’t do it?”

  “She’s still a suspect,” Samms said. “But we’re putting everyone under a microscope to see what we can find.”

  “Let me be the first to tell you that Dame Sylvia’s story is a bit wobbly,” I said. “She’s certain she saw a woman mixing the peanut oil into Claire’s make-up, but she’s not 100 percent convinced it was Minx. She had been drinking and her eyesight may have been a bit, shall we say, compromised,” I said, choosing to be cooperative and hopefully helpful.

  Samms nodded. He wasn’t surprised.

  “The peanut oil didn’t kill her,” he said.

  “What?” I sat up in my chair so fast Samms’s chubby-faced partner clamped his hands down on my shoulders to fasten me back into my seat. He was afraid I was about to lunge at his partner or try to make a run for it.

  Samms slid a manila folder across his desk towards me. I picked it up and flipped it open. It was Claire Richards’s medical records.

  “Read what’s highlighted at the bottom of the page,” Samms said.

  I scanned down to find a doctor’s scribbling that was highlighted with a yellow marker. I had trouble reading it at first, as all doctors have a tendency to write illegibly. But the facts were clear. Claire Richards had only a mild case of peanut allergy. She didn’t even carry an autoin jector that administers epinephrine, which is the leading antidote for a severe reaction. In fact, her case was so mild it would take nearly six ounces of peanuts to cause any swelling or rashes on the skin.

  I glanced up at Samms. “So if she didn’t have a massive immune response to the peanut oil, how did she die?”

  Samms shrugged. “The medical examiner so far
has found no traces of poison in her body but is going back to redo the autopsy. When he found traces of peanut oil on her face and learned of her allergy, he focused mostly on that. He’s afraid he might have missed something.”

  “What does any of this have to do with me?” I said.

  Samms unfolded the tabloid that featured Liam Killoran’s exclusive interview emblazoned across the front page. “He’s got a lot of interesting things to say about you in here.”

  I sighed. “You know, it’s a bit disturbing that the police pay attention to this trash. In case no one has bothered to tell you, they make 99 percent of this stuff up.”

  “It’s the 1 percent of truth we’re concerned about,” he countered.

  “You actually believe the tabloids?” I said.

  “Not necessarily. But Killoran is a very convincing witness.”

  “Witness to what? He didn’t see anything. He’s just making all of this up because he hates me,” I said, my face reddening.

  The chubby-faced partner finally spoke up. “Is he lying about how you were the one who stole Claire Richards’s Oscar?”

  “Yes! I was the one who caught the thief in Claire’s dressing room! He knocked me over as he ran out with it,” I said.

  “So what did this thief look like?” Samms said.

  “I don’t know. He was wearing a mask. And it all happened so fast,” I said.

  Samms drummed his fingers on the desk as he stared me down. “You were the only one out of the entire cast and crew of the play who saw this mysterious intruder?”

  “I was early for a meeting and the only one around at the time. Look, what does this have to do with Claire’s death?”

  “We’re simply trying to connect all the pieces, Jarrod,” Samms said, never taking his eyes off me. “We just want to talk to everyone who might have had some deeper connection to Ms. Richards.”

  “Well, I’ve already told you, I was not sleeping with her. The man you should be talking to is Wallace Goodwin,” I said.

  Samms raised an eyebrow, surprised. “The playwright?”

  “He was the one who was having an affair with Claire, not me. He was terrified that Claire was going to spill the beans to his wife. And as I’ve already told DI Bowles, I heard someone having sex with Claire in her dressing room minutes before the curtain on opening night. I can only assume it was Wallace. That’s means and a motive.”

  Samms jotted a note down on a yellow pad. “You have proof of this?”

  “His wife told me,” I said.

  “Where can we find her?” Samms said.

  My heart sank. “She’s gone.”

  Samms eyed me suspiciously. “Gone?”

  “She left the country this morning.”

  “How convenient,” the partner piped in, a spray of his spittle landing on the back of my neck. I casually reached behind my head and wiped it away with the palm of my hand.

  “Okay, assuming Mr. Goodwin was having relations with Ms. Richards in her dressing room on the night she died,” Samms said, “what were you doing lurking outside?”

  “I wasn’t lurking!”

  “You were obviously eavesdropping.”

  “I was delivering a gift,” I said.

  “A gift?” Samms flashed his partner a knowing smile.

  “Flowers,” I said, instantly regretting it.

  “How romantic. You’re a regular Romeo. For someone who was not at all involved with his leading lady.”

  “I gave everybody a gift! It’s kind of an opening-night tradition!” I was on the defensive now.

  “Did you ever consider the fact that your close relationship with Claire might have something to do with your boyfriend’s disappearance?” Samms said.

  “What are you talking about?” I said.

  “It’s all over the papers. Your boyfriend might have picked up a copy, read all about your escapades, and just decided he’d had enough.”

  “That’s not possible,” I said.

  They were convinced I was hiding something. Liam had managed to twist their minds around enough so that they actually believed I was Claire’s murderer. But I had to remain steadfast and true and know deep in my heart that eventually the true killer would be revealed. That is, if it was a murder now that the peanut oil had been ruled out as the cause of the death. I had to believe that. Just as I had to trust that Charlie would return to me safe and unharmed from wherever he was and still be in love with me. I just had to have faith. For the sake of my own sanity.

  Chapter 16

  I knew I had to keep my cool in front of Detective Samms, or I was going to completely unravel. Laurette. I needed Laurette. She was a master at calming me down, putting things into perspective. But ever since she had met Larry, she had been less and less available, and I would be lying if I didn’t admit that her budding new relationship was stirring up more than just a little bit of jealousy.

  After another hour of intense grilling, Samms ordered his chubby-faced partner to drive me back to the Savoy. And as we pulled up to the luxurious front entrance, the squinty-eyed lackey barely slowed the car down enough for me to jump out. The London police were obviously not big fans of my eighties TV show.

  As I swept through the lobby towards the bank of elevators, Ian, the young, towering desk clerk, worked hard to avoid eye contact. He just didn’t have the heart to break the news that there had still been no word from Charlie. When I reached my room, I quickly entered, shut and bolted the door behind me, and then sank to the floor and lost it. I cried. Hard. This entire ordeal had taken such a toll on me, and I was tired of burying my emotions and trying to keep a level head. I sat up against the door, my knees to my face, and sobbed uncontrollably for what felt like hours. Finally, as the sun outside slowly slipped away and the room darkened, I crawled to my feet, brushed myself off, and wiped the last tear from my cheek. I had to stay strong. I had to be proactive. I had been trying to keep everybody back home out of this drama—except Laurette, of course, who was my rock—but I was way beyond the point of protecting people anymore. Besides, someone might have some information I did not have. I was going to reach out to everybody for some help, and the best person to start with was my psychic/house sitter, Isis. I scooped up the phone and punched in an overseas call to Los Angeles. It rang a few times before a harried, distracted voice picked up.

  “Yes? What?”

  “Isis, it’s me, Jarrod.”

  “I knew you were going to call me today,” she said, a smugness in her voice. She loved boasting about her premonitions.

  “Listen, Isis, this is very important. Have you heard from Charlie?”

  “No. Why? Is something the matter?”

  Of course I should have asked her if she knew I was going to call, why didn’t she already know Charlie was missing? But I needed her support desperately, and if I called into question her talents as a psychic, she might turn on me.

  “He’s vanished. We had a fight.” I said.

  “Oh, Jarrod, what did you do now?”

  She always sided with Charlie. In fact, everyone in our circle always sided with Charlie. Perhaps it had something to do with me being a high-maintenance actor. The fact is, most times even I sided with Charlie once I thought about it.

  “Nothing. It wasn’t a bad fight. But I stormed out and wandered around for a bit like I always do, and once I cooled off and came back to apologize, he was gone. And that was two days ago.”

  There was a pause. Isis expected me to tell her Charlie had been missing for only a few hours. Not a couple of days. This was serious.

  “Isis?”

  “Just a minute,” she said in a grave tone. She was trying to get a visual lock on Charlie’s location. I didn’t say another word. The last thing I wanted was to interrupt her if she was coming up with something useful for me.

  “I see soft, sandy beaches and a crystal blue ocean,” she said.

  “But we’re in London,” I said.

  “No. Charlie’s not in London. It looks li
ke he’s on vacation somewhere.”

  This was ludicrous. I couldn’t believe that Charlie had suddenly gotten the urge to go lie around on a beach somewhere and not bothered to tell me.

  “Anything else?” I said.

  Another long pause. “No, honey, I’m sorry, that’s all I see.” She was disappointed that she couldn’t give me more. “What are you going to do now?”

  “I don’t know. There’s so much going on. The police think I had something to do with Claire Richards’s murder, and this Charlie thing, it’s just so weird. Why would he just take off like that and not even bother to leave me a note?”

  I heard a bark in the background and I got a lump in my throat.

  “Give Snickers a kiss for me,” I said.

  “I will, sweetie,” Isis said. “She misses you both desperately.”

  I wanted to ask Isis if she had seen more and just wasn’t telling me. Was she hiding something? Isis could sometimes be selective about her visions in order to protect my feelings.

  “Bye,” I said, my voice cracking as I hung up the phone. I just wanted to be home. With Charlie and our dog, all curled up on the couch watching a DVD and eating Indian food. Scratch that. I was done with Indian food. I wanted no more reminders of Akshay Kapoor.

  Next on my call list was Susie Chan, Charlie’s ex-wife and a rising medical examiner in Los Angeles. Susie was plugged into the LA crime scene and proved to be an invaluable resource from time to time whenever I got the urge to insert myself into a local murder case. Even though she was thousands of miles away, I was sure she was following the Claire Richards case intently, and she might have some additional insight. But more importantly, she was still on friendly terms with Charlie, and they chatted regularly. There was a slim chance he might have been in contact with her. I called her cell and found her at home. She had been up all night conducting an autopsy and was taking a few hours off to recharge her batteries. But she was in the middle of watching The View, a show she loathed because all of the women, especially that wedding-obsessed Star Jones, bugged the hell out of her. Still, she was drawn to it like a passing motorist glued to a car wreck. She was a bit distant until the show went to a commercial, and then she finally focused on our conversation. My hunch was right. She had been devouring all the details related to the Claire Richards case, especially all the tabloid fodder and insinuations of my involvement.