The Actor's Guide To Greed

by Rick Copp

  Bowles and Samms exchanged a look. They didn’t know whether I was desperate to save my hide or telling the truth.

  “But there was a peach carnation in the bouquet I gave to Sir Anthony Stiles! I went to his dressing room right before Claire’s. He could have sprayed the poison on his peach carnation, then switched vases when Claire was distracted,” I said, my mind reeling from the implications. “He also knew Claire hated peach carnations. He knew she would immediately remove it from the vase and come in contact with the poison!”

  That was it. It was Sir Anthony. But why? What motive did he have to kill Claire? I turned to Bowles and Samms expectantly. Was I free to go?

  Bowles folded her arms and said half heartedly, “We will be sure to check your story out in due time.”

  My heart sunk. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

  Samms smirked. In his mind I was already tried, convicted, and on my way to the British big house.

  Sir Anthony. It was Sir Anthony. Now all I had to do was negotiate my freedom, come up with a motive, and uncover enough evidence to clear my own name. A tall order considering I was under arrest for murder. And if I did go down for the crime, the worst thought of all was that it would be due to the diligence and expertise of Charlie’s ex-wife, Susie Chan. That bitch. I could almost hear her laughing all those thousands of miles away.

  Chapter 34

  After an all-night interrogation by Bowles and Samms, I was escorted by car over to the Magistrates’ Court, where I was formally charged. Thoughts of living out my days in an English prison terrified me, but I kept my cool, trying to maintain a sense of dignity, not to mention innocence, about me. My hair was disheveled, my clothes were wrinkled and smelly, my eyes bloodshot. As the officers escorted me up the steps inside the court building, the crush of paparazzi blinded me with their flashes. I looked a mess and braced myself for the onslaught of photos that would hit the tabloids and make those unfortunate wild-haired mug shots of Nick Nolte, who was pulled over for drunk driving a few years ago, seem downright refined.

  Charlie and Laurette met us inside and followed my entourage of police escorts into the courtroom.

  I twisted my head around as far as it could go and called out to Charlie, “I love you.”

  He forced a smile that didn’t hide his worry. “I love you too, babe.”

  “Did you send the flowers?” I said.

  He nodded as I was hustled into a room. Bowles looked me over suspiciously.

  “Sending more flowers?”

  I sighed. “To Akshay Kapoor’s family. He recently passed away, and I was rather fond of his mother.”

  “Shot in Greece, as I understand,” Bowles said. “Interesting coincidence.”

  I didn’t have the energy to refute her insinuations. I was distracted by the judge making copious notes on the bench. He was decked out in a black robe and long, white, curly wig that made him look like a character out of Monty Python. I never knew judges today actually still dressed up like their forefathers.

  Charlie had been on the phone all morning trying to drum up a lawyer. There was a handful anxious to take on such a high-profile case, but we were unable to pick one before my arraignment. The judge reviewed my charges, I pleaded innocent, and then he kicked the whole case up to the Crown Court, a higher-level court that takes on the most serious indictable offenses. The murder of one of the queen’s most beloved subjects certainly warranted the top guns. After the prosecution trying the case argued vehemently that I be denied bail due to my recent side trip to Greece, the judge overruled their request and granted me freedom for a mere one hundred thousand dollars. I was stunned by the number and thought I would sit out the time leading up to trial in a jail cell with some scrappy, young street hustler right out of Oliver Twist, but Charlie miraculously came up with the money within an hour and I was finally released. My passport, however, was confiscated until after the trial.

  We escaped the onslaught of reporters and photographers waiting outside the police precinct and squeezed into a taxicab.

  “How did you get the money for bail?” I said.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Charlie said.

  “Do we still have a home to go back to in LA?”

  He smiled and nodded. I guessed he had borrowed the money from our retirement account. All my residuals from Go to Your Room are directly deposited into a personal IRA for our golden years. So we shaved off a few of those golden years so I wouldn’t have to rot away in prison while awaiting trial. Worked for me.

  Now that I was charged with murder, I was no longer welcomed at most of the chic London hotels, but Charlie and Laurette had managed to rent a flat in north London using Laurette’s name. We paid the driver an extra twenty-five pounds to ditch the motorcycle-driving photographers on our tail, and soon we were rolling up a back alley to the rear entrance of the building. We were finally going to get some peace and quiet.

  The flat was a one-bedroom, cramped space with scuffed and banged-up appliances, a weathered couch, and no heating. I didn’t care. It was out of the intense glare of the media spotlight, and I could shower and change and get some sleep. Charlie tucked me in, kissed me lightly on the forehead, and told me everything was going to be all right. Laurette had dashed out to buy us some food.

  When Charlie flipped off the light and left me alone in bed to rest, I just lay there wide awake. I kept thinking about Sir Anthony Stiles. I had to talk to him. I had to find out if he stuck a poisoned peach carnation in Claire’s bouquet. But if I confronted him directly, he would deny it. I had to be stealthy and sneaky about it. I was certain there would be some evidence socked away in his flat somewhere. It was early evening by now, going on seven o’clock. I slid out of bed and padded over to my bag and fished around for my cell phone. I double-checked the cast sheet for his number and rang him up. He picked up on the second ring.

  “Sir Anthony, it’s Jarrod Jarvis.”

  “My dear boy, I’m watching you on the news right now. You look ghastly. At the very least, one of those officers could have offered you a hairbrush.”

  “It was dreadful. But I’m free on bail and hiding out at a flat in north London.”

  “You poor darling,” he said.

  “I didn’t do it, Sir Anthony, I swear it.”

  “I believe you.”

  “You’re the only one. No one will have anything to do with me except for the press. Those vultures won’t leave me alone. It’s as if everyone in the world has already tried and convicted me.”

  “People are demanding to know the identity of Claire’s killer so they can finally put the matter to rest. Be strong, Jarrod. The truth will come out in time. It always does.”

  “You’re such a good soul, Sir Anthony. Talking to you makes me feel better already.”

  Come on, Sir Anthony. Take the bait. Take the bait.

  “I’m always here if you need me, love.”

  Bingo.

  “Do you really mean that, Sir Anthony?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Because of everyone I’ve met since I’ve been here in London, you are the most genuine, the most sincere, by the far the most decent and good-hearted.”

  “Really? Well, I’m flattered you feel that way.”

  “So you don’t mind if I come over now?”

  “I beg your pardon.” Sir Anthony’s tone abruptly changed.

  “I’ve been under such pressure, and my future is so uncertain, and I could really use a friend right now. My boyfriend, Charlie, just doesn’t understand what I’m going through. But you do. You’re a high-profile actor. You get it.”

  “I do, Jarrod, I do, but I am expecting a student tonight. He’s coming around at eleven—”

  “Oh, I won’t stay that long. I’ll be gone by ten, I promise. Thank you, Sir Anthony, thank you. I’ll see you soon.”

  I quickly hung up before he could say another word.

  I walked back out into the living room. Charlie was watching the news coverage of my a
rrest, but when he heard me shuffling toward him from behind, he scooped up the remote and quickly flipped to an old comedy sketch show starring Stephen Fry and Hugh Laurie.

  Laurette wasn’t back yet. I was about to tell Charlie about my suspicions surrounding Sir Anthony, but if I even hinted to him that Sir Anthony was Claire’s murderer, Charlie would never allow me to go over there.

  But Charlie never saw the expression on Inspector Bowles’s face that I did. She couldn’t have cared less about investigating my claims about Sir Anthony. In her mind, the killer had already been caught. No. I had to have proof. And I had to get it any way possible. Even if it meant lying to my boyfriend.

  “I’m going to go for a walk,” I said.

  “Are you crazy? Someone might spot you.”

  “It’s already dark outside. And it’s cold. I’ll just cover my face with a scarf. I’ll look like one of Michael Jackson’s kids.”

  Charlie chuckled, but it was clear he didn’t relish the thought of me going out alone. I would have told him where I was heading and asked if he wanted to come along, but he had been through such an ordeal, and he was in a weakened state from his gunshot wounds, I just didn’t want to take any chances with his health.

  “I’ll be back in a while.”

  I walked to the door and turned around to see Charlie frowning. He really didn’t want me to go anywhere.

  “You’re going to be here when I get back this time, aren’t you?” I said.

  Charlie grinned. “I’m always going to be here, babe.”

  I winked at him, pulled the scarf around my face, and walked out.

  It didn’t take long to hail a taxicab, and after a speedy twenty-minute drive to Sir Anthony’s flat, I was ringing his doorbell.

  Sir Anthony opened the door and welcomed me inside with a warm embrace. Any reservations of my sudden visit were wiped away by the drama of it all. Actors adored being in the eye of a crisis. It gives us good sense memory material to work with later.

  Sir Anthony had tea and crumpets waiting for me. It was only a little after eight in the evening. I had plenty of time to pump my host and case his flat for clues before the arrival of his boy toy at eleven.

  I peppered him with questions about his longtime friendship with Claire, their history together at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts, their one movie together and multiple stage productions. He appeared genuinely saddened by her passing, and it suddenly became difficult for me to picture him spraying a peach carnation with ricin and stuffing it in Claire’s bouquet. But he was an actor, and quite possibly he could be giving the performance of a lifetime. I could make no assumptions based on his demeanor.

  As Sir Anthony poured more tea, I noticed the wilting, dried-out flowers that I had given him on opening night displayed on an end table.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t throw those out by now,” I said.

  Sir Anthony at first didn’t understand what I meant. But he followed my gaze to the flowers and nodded with a smile. “I’ve been so busy, I just haven’t had the chance. And perhaps a part of me wants to hold on to them. After all, they’re the last tangible connection to our final night with Claire. Once they’re gone, we will only have our memories.”

  Genius. If he did kill her, he was putting on a damn good show.

  “I thought I put a peach carnation in there,” I said, eyeing Sir Anthony for any change in his demeanor.

  He never skipped a beat. He looked the flowers over and shrugged. “Frankly, my dear boy, I hardly remember if there was one in there or not.”

  “I remember because I was careful not to put one in Claire’s bouquet. She despises peach carnations.”

  “That’s right. I do remember that. She was very particular about her tastes,” he said, shaking his head and amused at the memory.

  He wasn’t going to crack. I needed to regroup and think of another tack.

  “Sir Anthony, may I use your little boys’ room?”

  “Of course, go right ahead. Second door down the hall on the right.”

  I stood up and headed down to the bathroom. I saw him check his watch. He was nervous I might overstay my welcome and still be around when his young protégé arrived.

  Once inside, I bolted the door and looked around. Nothing out of the ordinary. I opened the medicine chest and perused the row of white bottles, not seriously expecting to find one marked with a skull and crossbones and labeled “Ricin.” But I was desperate. I didn’t have a concrete plan coming over here, and a part of me felt that if I left the flat empty-handed, my fate was sealed and I would be serving out the rest of my days in prison.

  I plopped down on the toilet seat and buried my face in my hands. What was I thinking, racing over here hoping to expose a killer? What did I seriously hope he was going to do? Pour me some tea and then jabber on about how he pulled off the perfect murder? I was feeling pretty dumb when my eye caught something. It was a magazine sticking out of the bottom cupboard below the basin of the sink. I recognized the masthead instantly and pulled it out. It was a copy of Playboy, a Christmas issue with a buxom redhead on the cover wearing a Santa hat and little else. Maybe Sir Anthony was interviewed inside. But after flipping through the pages, I saw nothing about him. I opened up the cupboard and found stacks and stacks of men’s magazines, some Playboy, some Hustler, and even more hardcore porn titles. This was interesting. What was the flamboyantly gay Sir Anthony doing with this kind of bathroom reading material? I walked over and opened the door slightly. I heard Sir Anthony in the kitchen piling some more crumpets onto a plate. I slipped out and scurried quietly to the bedroom. There was nothing unusual in the room. Mostly pictures of Sir Anthony’s many theatrical triumphs and one larger framed photograph of him being knighted by Queen Elizabeth. There was a cabinet in the corner. I walked over and tried to open it, but it was locked. I searched his bedside table drawers, finally turning up a key. I tried the key in the lock, and it clicked open. I stumbled back in shock. Rows and rows of DVDs. All porn. All straight porn. Not a gay title in the bunch.

  “What are you doing in here?”

  I spun around to confront an ashen-faced Sir Anthony. He held the plate of crumpets in his hand, which was now shaking. He had been caught.

  “Omigod,” I said. “You’re straight.”

  “No,” he said in a last-ditch attempt to hide the truth. “I am as gay as Graham Norton, believe me.”

  I picked out one of the DVDs in the cabinet and looked at the cover. “A Midsummer Night’s Wet Dream? As You Lick It? Lots of highbrow Shakespeare here. But not a pretty boy in sight. All plucky young girls with big jugs. If you’re gay, then so is Russell Crowe.”

  Sir Anthony shifted and sighed, desperate to figure a way out of this, but the evidence was far too overwhelming. “All right, yes, I prefer women. No crime in that.”

  “But why?”

  “My career was dead. It was Sir Anthony Hopkins this, Sir Peter O’Toole that. People were forgetting who I was. I had to do something dramatic to get people talking again.”

  “So you pretended to come out of the closet?”

  “Of course. Look at all the old English queens who come out, get loads of attention from the press, and more importantly, find themselves getting cast in the best movie parts. Take that bitch Ian McKellan.”

  “Sir Ian McKellan.”

  “Bollocks. There’s nothing about that poof that remotely says ‘sir.’ After he declared himself a homosexual, not only did he get an Academy Award nomination playing a gay film director, he also landed two plum parts in a pair of huge franchise movie series. Why wasn’t I considered for Lord of the Rings? I could have played the villain in those blasted X-Men movies! It is unfair, I tell you! I am every bit the actor he is! So I decided it was time to shake things up a bit. And I will tell you this, Jarrod, coming out has done wonders for my career. I am suddenly back on everyone’s radar. And because of that, I am very close to landing a juicy role in a big Hollywood film.”

  “You lied abou
t everything. All those boys, the late-night tutoring sessions, it was all an act to revive your career.”

  “And it worked beautifully.”

  “How far will you go, Sir Anthony, to keep up this charade?”

  “What are you implying, Jarrod?”

  “If someone found out the truth and threatened to expose you, what would you do? Would you risk all your hard work at creating this illusion by letting that happen, or would you take steps to ensure that person never had the opportunity to tell anyone?”

  “Are you suggesting . . . ?”

  “Claire somehow found out you were lying. She was going to blow everything. And you panicked. You got your hands on some ricin and sprayed it on the peach carnation that was in the bouquet I gave you. When Claire removed it, she was exposed and died a few hours later. Now no one could ever stop you from becoming the film legend that in your mind you were destined to become.”

  “No! Claire did know about me. How could she not? We have been dear friends and frequent costars for years! She knew my history with women. We even dated in our younger years at the Royal Academy. But she loved the idea of me creating this charade! She thought it was brilliant! And she did anything she could to talk me up to the press as being a much better actor since accepting my supposed truth! I did not kill her! I could never kill her!”

  “What about the missing peach carnation from your bouquet ? How did it reappear in Claire’s bouquet sprayed with poison ?”

  “I don’t know. But I never saw Claire before the show. After you presented me with the flowers, I went directly to make-up for final touches. Both Minx and Dame Sylvia were there at the time. Not to mention the make-up girl and several stagehands. I have plenty of witnesses to back me up. I was never anywhere near Claire’s dressing room. I could not have switched the flowers.”

  Then who did? Who else was backstage and in proximity of Claire’s dressing room? Suddenly it hit me. Of course. How could I have missed it? There was one person that night who did have the opportunity to switch the flowers—the mysterious “acting student” that Sir Anthony was entertaining in his dressing room. But if Sir Anthony was indeed straight, then the boy must have been a woman. And there was only one other woman seen milling about backstage that fateful night.