by Otho Eskin
“Weapon?” I ask.
Hanna points to the revolver in the dead woman’s hand. “A .38 Smith and Wesson Special, I think.”
“You think? You just think? That’s not like you. Is there any doubt about the weapon?”
“There are three, possibly four, guns around here.” Hanna points to the far side of the small room. Lying on the floor is a large black revolver. “Fake,” Hanna announces. “I can tell you it’s not a real gun. I’m assuming it’s a prop for this play.”
“You say there are other guns?”
“There’s another gun just like this one somewhere: also a prop. Lucy has secured it. The fourth gun is real enough; it’s a starter pistol. The stage manager uses it at the end of the play for some kind of sound effect.”
This is all wrong, I think. I deal with murder all the time. There are a limited number of reasons why people kill: money, sudden anger, sometimes jealousy. None seem to fit here. Vickie was a person people wanted to love.
The director, Garland Taylor, is on his cell phone when Lucy and I return to the stage set.
“Mr. Taylor,” I say. “Put that phone away.”
“This is an important conversation.”
“So is the conversation we’re about to have. Where were you when Miss West entered the drawing room?”
“Backstage.” His voice is high-pitched with barely suppressed impatience.
“Tell me what happened.”
“My leading lady committed suicide.” Taylor clutches his phone to his chest as if it were a talisman.
“Why would she do that?” Lucy asks.
“How the hell should I know? Why does anyone commit suicide?”
“Did she have a bad experience during this evening’s performance?”
“Everything went fine until the end of the last scene.”
“Did you get along with Miss West?”
“Absolutely. I’d directed her in several earlier productions. I’m a huge admirer. And Ariel and I were close friends.”
“Ariel?”
“Ariel was a name her intimate friends always used for her.”
“Take us through the last few minutes of the performance,” I say.
Taylor’s phone rings. “Can we talk some other time? I’ve got to take this call.”
“No, you don’t.” My initial dislike of this man is beginning to evolve into active aversion.
“For God’s sake. This is Solly calling from LA. Solly is Creative Management,” Taylor pleads, as if I had a clue who Solly is. Or cared. “It takes weeks to get through to him, and this is the man himself. No one refuses to take a call from Solly.”
“Now’s your chance to make history. Tell Solly to be patient and wait his turn. Tell me what happened tonight.”
Taylor takes a deep breath and looks at his phone forlornly. “This was opening night. The performance went fine; Vickie was absolutely fabulous as usual—up until the very last minute. I was on the other side of those double doors waiting to take my curtain call with the cast. Vickie was going to make some kind of important announcement, and she insisted I be there with her.”
The director’s cell phone rings, and Taylor glances at it.
“Don’t even think about it,” I say. “What happened that last minute?”
“Vickie took the gun from where it hangs over the fireplace as we’d rehearsed a hundred times. She crossed from stage right to stage left to the door to the drawing room, then said something to Arthur Cantwell and stepped through the door there.” He points to the door to the small room. “She shut the door, and a moment later, she killed herself.”
“What did you mean Victoria West was absolutely fabulous until the last minute?”
“What’s this got to do with her death? She shot herself. End of story.”
“The story ends when I say it ends. Did something happen?”
“She forgot her last line.”
“What did she say?”
“I don’t know. Arthur Cantwell was on stage just a few feet away from her, and she was speaking directly to him. Ask him.”
“I’m asking you. What did she say?”
“I’m not accustomed to being spoken to in this manner by a city employee.”
“Get used to it. Why did she forget her line?”
“What is the name of your superior officer?”
“Wrong answer. Why did she forget her last line?”
“I don’t know. All I know is she blew it, recovered, and made her final exit. If actors forget their lines and there’s silence, it totally fucks up the scene, so they say something, anything, even nonsense, instead. The audience never knows the difference.”
“What did she say instead of her scripted lines?”
“I told you, I don’t know.”
He’s lying: of course he knows what she said.
“Were you surprised when you heard the gunshot?”
“We’re performing Ibsen’s Hedda Gabler. In the play, Hedda kills herself at the end of the play, and the script calls for a gunshot just at that moment.”
“What was Miss West supposed to do when she went into that small room?”
“She would shut the door and wait for the starter gun to fire. After a few minutes she would return to the stage and take her curtain call.”
“What happened when the shot was fired?”
“The other actors on stage thought it was their cue to rush to the drawing room door, as called for in the script. Even though it was quite dark in the drawing room, they knew immediately something had gone wrong.”
“What did you do?”
“I ran onto the stage and told our stage manager to kill the stage and house lights. I looked into the drawing room and saw Victoria was dead.”
“Then what?”
“I told the cast to leave the stage immediately and told our stage manager to call 911. I said something to the audience—there’d been some kind of accident and asked them to remain in their seats. The audience, of course, was completely mystified. Some probably thought this was part of the production—some postmodern shit. The medical people came. Somebody must have called the police; then you lot showed up.”
The door to the small drawing room opens, and the medical examiners wheel the body of Victoria West out on a gurney—covered now by a heavy black cloth—and across the stage. We watch in silence as Victoria West makes her final exit.
I think of her last words she said on the stage when I saw her that first night: “Merrily shall I live now, under the blossom that hangs by the bough.”
I’m heartsick … now that the initial shock has passed I feel nothing but anguish. I know I can’t rest until whoever did this to Vickie is made to pay.
I pull myself together and focus on my job. “Do you have an understudy to take over the part?”
“You think some ambitious, young starlet killed Vickie West to get the part? Some All About Eve crap?”
“Something like that.”
“There’s no understudy. We close the show tonight.”
“Show me what the stage looks like when you turn the lights off.”
“Why is that necessary?”
“It’s necessary because I say it’s necessary.”
Taylor shrugs. “Michael! Douse stage and house lights.”
There’s a second’s pause, and then we’re plunged into total darkness except for a little light from the auditorium exit signs.
“What the hell’s going on?” Hanna yells from her crime scene perch. “I can’t see a damn thing.”
“Sorry, Hanna. Mr. Taylor, bring up the lights.”
Taylor shouts orders, and the stage and house lights come back on.
“That room Miss West was in: it’s closed on all sides,” I say. “Why is that?”
“Maybe you should talk with our set designer.”
“Maybe you should answer my questions.”
“Partly to block the view so the audience can’t see the backstage area when the door is open
ed.”
“And the second door?”
“Vickie used it to enter and leave the drawing room from the backstage area.”
“Let’s look at the victim’s dressing room,” I say to Lucy. As we leave, Taylor whips out his phone and speed-dials someone.
Victoria West’s dressing room is one floor above the stage and is filled with roses, the air heavy with their fragrance. There are several wreaths with pink and blue ribbons expressing cheerful good wishes. The walls are adorned with head shot photographs, mostly professional studio portraits of beautiful people who, I assume, are actors who have performed in this theater in the past. Many are posed at odd, unnatural angles with dramatic side lighting, which, I guess, people in the theater world find arty.
The walls are painted pale lavender, Vickie’s favorite color. Lying on the dressing table is a charger cable not plugged into anything. “This is for some kind of electronic device,” I say to Lucy. “Where is the device it’s supposed to charge?”
“We haven’t found one yet.”
“Keep looking. It may be important.”
Suddenly, I can’t stay in this room any longer; it breathes Vickie’s presence, and I need to escape. Lucy can supervise the search.
“Garland Taylor said we should talk to some actor named Arthur Cantwell,” I say as we return to the stage. “Tell him to meet us here.”
Hanna is still in the small drawing room.
“Hanna,” I say, taking from my pocket the shell casing I picked up in the gutter across the street from my house. “I want you to check this for me.”
Hanna takes the shell in her gloved hand. “It’s from a rifle round. Not a common rifle round. I’ll take a look when I get back to the shop. You know our victim this evening was shot with a handgun, not a rifle.”
“This has nothing to do with the investigation into the murder of Vickie West. It’s a different case.”
CHAPTER FOUR
A MAN WEARING a casual, elegant pair of Italian chinos, sneakers, and a yellow shirt opened halfway over his suntanned chest steps onto the stage. A long, raffish, white silk scarf is wrapped around his shoulders.
“I’m Marko Zorn. I’m with the police.”
“Arthur Cantwell,” the man replies.
Cantwell is around forty: tall with strong, handsome features. But it’s the voice that’s riveting—a plumy, deep baritone with some kind of accent found nowhere naturally on this planet. It reminds me of old movie stars like Ronald Colman or James Mason. It’s also a voice from my past, a voice I’ll never forget.
“We need to talk,” I say.
“I live to serve.”
“Leave the sarcasm to me, Mr. Cantwell.”
“It was inevitable, you know,” Cantwell continues, pretending I’d said nothing. “This death was inevitable. The immutable laws of the theater dictate that someone be shot here tonight.”
“I don’t believe I’ve seen those laws in the criminal code.”
“Anton Chekov once said, ‘if in the first act you have hung a pistol on the wall, then in the following act, it should be fired’.”
“This is no joke,” I tell him.
“If you say so.”
“I say so. And Chekov said rifle, not pistol.”
Cantwell shrugs and settles onto the chaise, stretching out full length, making himself comfortable. I can see now he’s had serious work done on his neck and chin and around his eyes: He’s as fake as the plywood marble fireplace. It must have cost him a fortune.
“What did you see this evening at the end of the last scene?” I ask.
“Vickie went into the drawing room and closed the door and shot herself.” He sighs. “Vickie was always looking for a dramatic exit … I suppose she hit this one out of the ballpark this evening.”
I consider punching this guy’s lights out, but I know I’m not supposed to do that sort of thing. It would achieve nothing and would mean a lot of paperwork. Besides, he’s not worth it. “Was there anything different about her performance tonight?” I ask.
“She forgot her exit line.”
“What was she supposed to say? I understand she was addressing that line to you.”
Cantwell closes his eyes for a moment, concentrating, or pretending to concentrate. “She was supposed to say: ‘I’m sure you flatter yourself that we will, Judge. Now that you are the only cock on the walk.’”
“You being the ‘cock’ she’s referring to?”
“Obviously.”
“What did Vickie say instead?”
“I have no idea.”
“You have no idea? She was speaking to you directly.”
“I wasn’t really paying attention.”
I don’t believe Cantwell for a moment. But, for some reason, he doesn’t want to repeat Vickie’s words. I’ll have to get back to him and find out what he’s hiding. And why.
“Did she seem distressed or anxious when she said that last line?” I ask instead.
“No more than usual. She was always nervous and very insecure.”
That’s not the Vickie I knew. She was volatile but never insecure and never nervous. Why would Cantwell say that when we both know he’s lying?
“I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary about her performance,” Cantwell continues after a moment’s reflection.
“Except that she forgot her last line.”
“Except for that.”
“Did you know Miss West before rehearsals started?”
“Our paths have crossed from time to time.”
“How did you become involved with this production?”
“God knows why Garland wanted to revive this old warhorse. But when he decided to do it, naturally he thought of me. He needed a big name. I starred in Hedda years ago in New York. That New York production was a sensation. Garland approached me, and I made myself available and the rest is history: at least it was until tonight. Now history has fucked me, and I’m back to doing voiceovers for Pixar.”
“And Miss West’s connection?”
“Garland needed someone to play Hedda and Vickie was available. Vickie played Hedda in my New York production. She was a little old for the part now. Hedda’s supposed to be a bride just back from her honeymoon. I mean, give me a break. Vickie’s great, but it’s been a long time since she’s been a young bride.”
“Mr. Cantwell, you’re annoying me, and I do not care to be annoyed. And I think you’re hiding something.”
“Are you calling me a liar?” Cantwell demands. “Do you have any idea who you’re talking to?”
“I’m talking to someone who’s making an ass of himself in a criminal investigation. It’s late and I’ve had a very bad day and you’re giving me a headache.”
“You should know that the district attorney of the Southern District of New York and I are close friends.”
“You should know I’m deeply unimpressed with that information.”
Cantwell turns away in a huff.
“We’re not done yet. Were you and Miss West on good terms?”
“We’re professionals. We would not allow any ancient history to get in the way of our art.”
“I understand she was going to make a speech when she made her curtain call. What was she going to say?”
“It’s not important now.”
“I’ll decide what’s important. What was she going to say?”
Cantwell sighs. “She was going to announce that she and I were to be married at the end of the Hedda Gabler run.”
That takes my breath away. Vickie—beautiful and talented—a woman whose smile could bring any man she wanted to his knees. She was going to marry this weasel?
“You and Miss West were going to marry?” I struggle to find words.
“That’s what I just said, didn’t I?”
I try to think if there is anything I can arrest Cantwell for, but nothing comes to mind. I know there’s something Cantwell just said that bothers me. I know I should ask him about it, but I can’t
recall what he said. My unasked question nags at me, but it’s late. I’ve had a terrible day—somebody tried to kill me, Voss has pulled me into a job I’d be better off avoiding, and now I’m stuck talking to this jerk who is seriously getting on my nerves. No surprise that I’m losing my concentration.
“One final question. Was Miss West involved romantically with anybody in this production?”
“You mean was Vickie fucking the cast?”
“Mr. Cantwell, I object to you speaking like that about Victoria West. She was somebody I admired. My partner, Detective Tanaka, finds that kind of language distasteful, and I find it juvenile.”
“Is that all?”
“For the moment. Don’t leave town.”
“Don’t leave town? Are you kidding me?”
“Do I look like I’m kidding?”
Cantwell turns on his heels and stalks petulantly off the stage, flinging his white silk scarf dramatically over his shoulder.
A woman with long blond hair, dressed in a black turtleneck sweater, and wearing heavy black eye shadow and long artificial eyelashes, sits at a small wooden table in the backstage area. She’s pulled her black sweater over her hands so only the tips of her black fingernails show. She has lightly applied lipstick of a kind of orangey color.
“Good evening,” I say. “I’m with the police. My name is Marko Zorn. Can you answer some questions for me?”
“I guess so.” The voice is soft and so low as to be almost inaudible.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Props, sir.”
“When you say you’re ‘Props’, what does that mean?”
“I take care of the props for this show. You know: Props.”
She smiles at me. She has a warm, inviting smile. It’s hard to make out her features in the dark, but I can see she has large dark brown eyes.
“Did you handle the guns this evening?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How many guns did you handle?”
“There are two guns, sir. Just props, you know.”
“Could you have given Miss West a real gun by mistake? Maybe a pearl-handled revolver?”
“No, sir. The gun she took from the wall was a prop gun.”
“Our investigators have identified three guns used in this production.”