The Actor's Guide To Murder

by Rick Copp

  I knew Malcolm. We had been in the same acting class a few years ago. The one thing I remembered about Malcolm was his incurable need to gossip. If anybody could give me the skinny on Spiro, it would be him.

  Charlie began to snore softly, his head resting on my chest, the glow from the laptop illuminating his face, tranquil at last. I closed the computer and gently moved his head over to the pillow as I picked up the phone and started making calls. Out of work actors have a strong information network, and not just when it comes to auditions and the best yoga classes. I knew I could track down Malcolm within minutes, and before I put down the phone and burrowed under the covers with Charlie for the night, I had the address of his new acting class, and the night this week that he would be there.

  Leonard Short was a renowned acting teacher in Hollywood. His own career had short-circuited in the early eighties and ever since then he had chosen to share his knowledge of the craft with a few working actors and an army of wannabes. Leonard never got to play Hamlet or Romeo or even King Lear. If someone were to cast him as a Shakespearean character, the role most suited for him physically would be Puck, the mischievous midget fairy from A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Leonard’s shortcoming was his stature. He was, in a word, short. He overcompensated for this by yelling, mostly at his students. Ordering them to reach deeper into their souls to find the pain and anguish they could channel into whatever roles he assigned them in his popular Tuesday night scene analysis class.

  Leonard projected a sensitive veneer to draw his students in. But mostly he relished in tearing them down once they finished a scene. It was a source of power he used to manipulate time and time again. He especially ripped into the young women, exposing their weaknesses and frailties all for the sake of “art.” It was also a sure fire way to get his female students into bed. He’d beat them up so bad, their self-esteem would be shot. Then, the “sensitive” Leonard would offer them a ride home to discuss what he was trying to accomplish with his sadistic scare tactics. And just when they were feeling their most vulnerable and exposed, he would talk his way into their pants.

  After six months of studying with Leonard, I caught on to what he was about and dropped the class. He was never cruel to me unless I was working on a show. Then it was impossible for him to contain his jealousy. He’d assign me the most challenging role he could find, usually Eugene O’Neill. Some testosterone-laden depressed alcoholic. That way he could tear into me when I couldn’t pull it off convincingly. But when I was out of work and unable to get an audition, I’d be blessed with a light comedy, Noel Coward or Paul Rudnick, something that played to my strengths, and he’d guffaw as I plowed effortlessly through it. Acting classes in Los Angeles were often equivalents to psychological torture.

  Leonard’s class was held in a rundown warehouse on Formosa Avenue, just south of West Hollywood. The class was a mixed bag. Most of the students were in their twenties and early thirties, fresh in town, hoping this was a quick detour before becoming the next Sandra Bullock or Brad Pitt. A lot of them had haunted, scarred looks on their faces, so I assumed they had been in Leonard’s class for at least a few months.

  There was no sign of Malcolm as I took a seat in the back and watched the students set up the tiny stage for the first scene. It was Academy Awards night, and all the students had been paired up to perform classic scenes from Oscar winning movies. On the chalkboard just left of the stage was a list of tonight’s featured movies including Sophie’s Choice, Misery, and Good Will Hunting. You had to love Hollywood. Even most stage productions were based on movies. My guess is you’d have to go to New York in order to find an acting class that would bother with a Tony Awards night. Very few people in L.A. would ever dream of mounting a stage production of an actual stage play. What would be the point? How would that get them in front of a camera?

  Leonard burst into the tiny theatre with all the fanfare of a royal procession. Students leapt from their seats to greet him, and he soaked up the fawning respect with a wide smile. I was hoping he wouldn’t see me, but Leonard made a habit of scanning the room after his grand entrance. You never know when a shy young girl from Toledo might show up to audit. He was always on the prowl for a potential conquest. There was no escaping his gaze. His eyes settled on me.

  “Well, it looks like we have a special guest star tonight. Jarrod Jarvis.”

  All heads swiveled to get a look. A few recognized me from my days on Go to Your Room! But most of them just wanted to size up the competition.

  “Have you decided to grace our little class with your presence again, Jarrod? I know we’d all love to have you.”

  “Um, well, yes, I’ve been meaning to come back for a while, but I just haven’t had the time . . .”

  His face tightened and he visibly braced himself. “Oh. Have you been working?”

  “Oh no. Not much.”

  The tension drained from his face. He was elated over my unemployment. “Well, why don’t you sit in tonight, and then we’ll have a chat after class. I have a Noel Coward scene I’d love for you to work on.”

  If I had even copped to a Trident gum commercial, he would have forced me into a blistering, impossibly dour scene from O’Neill’s The Hairy Ape. To hell with Academy Awards night.

  Up first was a classic scene from Sophie’s Choice where Meryl Streep tells Peter MacNichol the agonizing decision the Nazis forced her to make over which child she was going to save and which child she was going to ship off to the ovens. A voluptuous young woman with a curvy body and long golden hair joined a wiry, intense kid with wire-rimmed glasses on the stage.

  Leonard sat back in his chair and cupped his hands behind his head. “Meryl Streep won her first Oscar in 1981 for this masterpiece directed by Alan J. Pakula. It co-starred Kevin Kline and Peter MacNichol. Here’s Anna and Steve doing a scene from Sophie’s Choice.”

  It took every ounce of self-control not to correct him. Meryl Streep won her first Oscar in the Supporting Actress category three years earlier for Kramer vs. Kramer and she won for Sophie’s Choice in 1982 not 1981. I wanted so much to show Leonard up in front of his class. But I wasn’t there to exact revenge on an acting teacher with a master/slave fetish. I was there to speak with Malcolm, who still hadn’t shown up.

  Anna and Steve launched into the scene with gusto and pulled out all the acting tricks they knew, from long reflective pauses (a favorite of mine I use to remember my next line) to jittery hand movements that keep the focus off your face, which is usually filled with abject fear.

  Anna was quite good. She had perfected a flawless accent for her Polish/Catholic Post World War II immigrant and she delivered a moving, believable interpretation that would have made even Meryl proud. Steve, on the other hand, was hopelessly miscast. He jumped about like Tom Green on amphetamines, mangling the words with a thick, affected southern accent, and trying to step on Anna’s lines in a blatant selfish attempt to wrest the scene away from her.

  “Stop,” Leonard said as he held up his hand. “Obviously one of you thought a lot about the scene before tonight and the other is just winging it. Steve, incredible focus, I felt you were there right from the start. Anna, I don’t know what to say. I want to say you have potential to be a good actress, but you’re not showing me anything.”

  Well, it was no mystery who Leonard would try to get in the sack tonight. I felt sick to my stomach as I watched him rail against this fragile creature with an abundance of talent. I wanted to jump to my feet and tell her not to listen to him, to follow her instincts and she’d probably do quite well in this town. I was very close to leaping to her rescue, but I knew it wouldn’t do any good. She would automatically heed the word of her beloved teacher and acting guru. Anna would have to discover the truth about Leonard and her budding talent on her own. Especially since Malcolm Randall, nearly a half hour late, finally hurried into the theatre.

  He was carrying a blanket and typewriter and was wearing striped pajamas. I guessed he was playing the James Caan role in tonig
ht’s scene from Misery. He glanced around the room for his scene partner. There was no one in the warehouse who remotely resembled Kathy Bates. So far she was a no show.

  I glanced over to Anna and Steve. She stood in front of the class, her arms folded, feeling alone and humiliated. Steve stood a few feet away from her, trying to distance himself, his mind reeling from Leonard’s praise, fighting back an urge to dance across the stage with joy. I tuned out Leonard’s self-serving rant, and quietly stood up and tiptoed over to Malcolm.

  Malcolm always looked good. Not a hair out of place. A year-round suntan. A sinewy perfectly formed body. That was the blessing and the curse for actors. They were always out of work, but it gave them plenty of time to take care of themselves.

  I snuck up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder. When he turned around, his face registered surprise.

  “Jarrod, what are you doing here?”

  “Auditing.”

  “I thought you hated Leonard’s class.”

  “I do. I came to see you.”

  “I really can’t talk now. I’m up next and I can’t find my scene partner. She always flakes. Always. I hate it when Leonard pairs us up.”

  “How about after class?”

  “Can’t. I have a date. With a director. Don’t want to name names. But he won the Audience Award at Sundance last year.”

  Malcolm ran outside in search of his missing scene partner. Even in his nervous state, he never missed an opportunity to brag about the big fish he occasionally reeled in.

  Anna and Steve were off and rolling again. I knew I only had a few minutes left before I lost Malcolm.

  When Malcolm hurried back inside, dread in his face, I approached him again. “I just want to ask you about someone. Spiro Spiridakis.”

  Malcolm stared at me. The name seemed to stir up all kinds of emotion. But the one that was easiest to read was fear.

  “I don’t want to talk about him,” he said.

  “I think he may have had something to do with his stepson’s death.”

  “Sorry. Not going there.” For a legendary big mouth, Malcolm was certainly tight-lipped about Spiro.

  Anna and Steve wrapped up their scene. Leonard scuffled down to the stage to scream in Anna’s face about commitment and focus. The clock was ticking. Malcolm was up next, and I knew I’d never get him to talk to me after that. Not with his big date probably waiting for him up the street at the Formosa Café.

  There was still no sign of Malcolm’s scene partner. On the stage, Anna’s eyes filled with tears, and sensitive Leonard took over, comforting her, shushing her apologetic whispers. Steve was so full of himself, so pleased with his whole sense of being, he practically floated off the stage.

  Cradling a spent, distraught Anna in his arms, Leonard turned to his enraptured crowd of disciples. “Who’s up next?”

  “I am,” said Malcolm. “But Christine isn’t here.”

  Leonard’s eyes narrowed. He despised students blowing off his class. He took it as a personal affront, as if they were blowing off him.

  “Does anybody else know the part?” he said.

  “I do!” I can’t believe the words came out of my mouth. But I was determined to get Malcolm to talk, and this was the only way I could think of to do it.

  Leonard chuckled, amused at the thought of me playing the same role as Kathy Bates.

  “It’s my favorite movie,” I said. “I know it by heart.”

  “Take five minutes, everybody,” Leonard said with an impish grin. “Then we’re in for a real treat.” Leonard pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his corduroy shirt, and raced outside to make sure Anna had a ride home . . . with him.

  I turned to see Malcolm, staring at me with a pale, stricken face. He couldn’t believe what had just happened.

  I smiled. “What scene are we doing? I hope it’s the one where I chop off your feet with an axe.”

  “Why are you doing this?” he said. “Is it because I got that Tylenol P.M. spot last year and you didn’t?”

  “Here’s the deal, Malcolm. You tell me everything you know about Spiro, or else . . .”

  “Or else what?”

  “I feed you the wrong cue lines.” It was an actor’s worst nightmare. We depend on cue lines to keep the scene flowing and the thought of not getting them sent shivers down Malcolm’s spine.

  “Leonard knows you just got a guest spot on Gilmore Girls,” I said. “He’s itching to tear you apart. And since I’m not a pretty starlet with a big chest, chances are he’ll be focusing on you tonight.”

  “Okay, okay. Spiro’s a nasty, evil pig. Happy?”

  “I’m going to need more than that.”

  Malcolm glanced around, and then lifted his pajama top, revealing a white scar five inches long down the side of his rib cage. “He got mad at me one night and decided to show me how much by grabbing an iron poker out of the fireplace and branding me. That was three years ago. The scar is there for life.”

  I swallowed hard. I had no idea just how violent Spiro could get. It made me regret how much I had been rattling his cage over the last few weeks.

  “Why was he mad?”

  “I was making us a pot roast for dinner and I accidentally burned it. It really pissed him off.”

  Ding. Ding. Ding. Cue bells and whistles. If Malcolm was making Spiro a pot roast, then that could only mean . . .

  “Yes, it’s what you think, Jarrod. We were lovers. We lived together for almost a year.”

  I couldn’t believe it. Spiro Spiridakis, Tamara’s tough as nails gorgeous Greek boy toy, was a draft pick for our team.

  The class ambled back inside. Time was up.

  “Do you keep in touch with him anymore?” I said.

  “Are you kidding? The day he hooked up with Tamara, I ceased to exist. He denied we were ever involved, said he was straight, and never looked back. How else was he ever going to get his hands on all that money?”

  Leonard strutted back to his seat. His booming voice filled the air. “Next up, a scene from Misery, based on the Stephen King novel, directed by Rob Reiner. Kathy Bates won the 1991 Oscar for Best Supporting Actress.”

  It was Best Actress, not Best Supporting Actress. And it was 1990, you moron. But there was no time to expose Leonard Short’s ignorance. My priority now was exposing the secret life of Spiro Spiridakis. Right after I debuted my impression of a psychotic axe-wielding Kathy Bates.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Susie Chan was more beautiful than I remembered. Almost thirty-five, she looked more to be in her early twenties. There was a youthful vitality in her face, a bounce in her voice. Her mood was always positive without being overly enthusiastic. I expected medical examiners to be more somber and reclusive, but not Susie. She was outgoing and fun and I absolutely hated her. This is another giant flaw in my personality. I can never get my mind around liking anyone Charlie ever dated, and in Susie’s case, someone he married. If he had dated Mother Theresa or Ghandi, I would have found some way to get them on my shit list.

  Luckily, Susie didn’t think much of me either. After all, I was the man who stole her husband away from her. That was what happened in her mind anyway. The fact that she left him and he came out of the closet months before meeting me didn’t matter. So if Susie and I had one thing in common, it was a mutual abhorrence for one another.

  Despite these feelings, I insisted on joining Charlie and Susie for dinner at Off-Vine, an upscale eatery in the heart of a rather rundown section of Hollywood. The restaurant was housed in a small yellow wood framed house off the beaten path, off Vine Street in fact. It was typical California cuisine with lots of fish, chicken and pasta dishes and was a favorite among theatergoers who ventured into the area to see The Lion King at the restored Pantages Theatre.

  What bothered me most when Charlie told me he was dining with Susie at Off-Vine was its obvious romantic atmosphere. I didn’t expect Susie to hypnotize Charlie into believing he was a heterosexual so he would leave me and go back to her,
but I would have preferred a louder, more central location for them to break bread.

  So, for the first time ever, I invited myself. Charlie was surprised, but didn’t seem to mind me tagging along. Susie, on the other hand, was downright shocked at my sudden appearance, but her bubbly personality instantly covered up any reservations she had about me joining the party.

  I ordered an expensive bottle of wine in an effort to get Susie drunk. On the surface, I knew her to be the utmost professional, not one to gossip about things she shouldn’t. After a few glasses of wine, however, she got giggly and a lot chattier. My goal was to get an insider’s perspective on Willard’s autopsy in the hopes of uncovering an overlooked piece of evidence that might support a murder theory. So the more I could ply her with wine the better my chances were for some useful information.

  Charlie knew exactly what I was doing, but he was still shaken from my near death experience. I was not above capitalizing on the slack he was cutting me. And I knew the reason he was so amenable to me joining him and Susie was because he still wasn’t comfortable with the idea of me sitting home alone.

  As we finished our salads and waited for our entrees, I ordered another bottle of wine. Charlie sighed, but didn’t stop me. Susie polished off her second glass, and eagerly waited for her third. I had endured her stories of her parents’ visit, her cat’s pregnancy, and her flirtation with a cute, criminally young UCLA medical student who was interning for her. Finally, the opportunity presented itself. I leaned forward.

  “I read about you in the papers all the time, Susie. You’re becoming quite famous.”