Reed Ferguson 1-3

by Renee Pawlish

  “Then…”

  “Because,” Xania interrupted me. “All enrolled students are required to attend the plays. It is an important part of an actor’s development to study the performance of others.” She pulled away from me and stood in a practiced pose. “This is why I teach. So others can learn from me, so they can benefit from my experience in theater and film.”

  In what, B-grade horror movies from the ’50’s?

  “You remember seeing Samantha that night?”

  “Of course.” She gestured around the room. “The lights are on before the play starts. You can see everything, and I make it a point to note if a student misses my class. A lack of dedication is the ruin of any actor.”

  Before Xania could share more of her vast knowledge of herself, the rear door of the auditorium opened and a couple of students walked in, laughing and talking. When they saw Xania, they immediately straightened their postures and began whispering. They moved quietly to the front row and sat down, staring at the empty stage.

  “Was the theater full for the performance?”

  “Yes. We had a very talented group in the play, and the auditorium was full. We even had to bring in some extra chairs,” she said proudly.

  The door opened and more students shuffled in.

  “As you can see, my class is about to begin.” Xania surveyed me again. “Perhaps I have misjudged you. You have strong bones. Would you like to stay for a while and watch? We’re rehearsing for our next play, Romeo and Juliet. You might find that you would want to work with me.”

  I accepted, but not because of Xania’s flirting. I was dying to see how the class performed Shakespeare’s classic.

  At seven o’clock sharp, Xania began her class. I counted a total of twelve students, mostly young, and all in awe of Xania Divinity. Maybe she was a better actress and teacher than she was a dresser.

  I slipped into a seat in the back row and watched Xania instruct the students in some techniques. She was actually quite good, her self-aggrandizing manner disappearing as she demonstrated various acting techniques.

  After ten minutes, some of the actors assumed positions center stage, and the others sat in the front row seats. Xania settled into an end seat and stared up at the stage. Someone turned off the lights, plunging all but center stage into obscurity. Sitting nine rows back, I could barely make out the students in the front row.

  I watched the first few lines of Act II, Scene 2, Romeo’s speech to Juliet, in which he compares her to the sun. The acting wasn’t bad, but when Juliet got to “Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou, Romeo”, I grimaced. Juliet needed some work. If Samantha was worse than this, it was no wonder that she hadn’t yet made it into a Spielberg movie. I stood up to go, eyeing Xania. She was intently watching the actors on stage, mouthing the lines as they spoke them. At least she knew her Shakespeare.

  I tiptoed to the rear door and paused, turning back toward the stage. No one had noticed that I’d gotten up to leave, especially Xania. Her attention was riveted to the stage and the actors. The play had her full attention.

  I eased out the door, watching to see if anyone noticed my leaving. All eyes were on Romeo and Juliet. No one turned when a sliver of light from the hallway penetrated the darkness.

  As I walked up the stairs to the main hallway, I realized a few things. I’d never heard of Xania Divinity, but since I wasn’t into B-grade horror movies, that probably explained this. I hoped I would never have to sit through a play that Xania directed. And, Samantha Healy could have easily shown up for her class, then slipped out once the play began, and no one would’ve known. Least of all Xania Divinity.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Wednesday dawned warm and I decided to get out of the city. I enjoyed a beautiful drive as I headed southwest into the foothills to Cal’s house to find out what he’d learned about Samantha Healy.

  Cal’s home office couldn't be more dissimilar from mine. Where I have books, videos, pictures, and other valuable items, and one computer, Cal has nothing in his office but computers – four to be exact – and other computer-related stuff. To be fair, there is a ratty loveseat to sit on at your own risk, and a chair that Cal wheels from monitor to monitor across the hardwood floors. But it isn’t hard to grasp what is important to the man, and it isn’t anything aesthetic.

  Stacks of books, manuals, and boxes of computer parts cover most of the available floor area, and a plethora of dirty dishes growing science projects were strewn about the long tables where the computers were set up. This was where Cal lived, where he was truly at home. He even watched DVD’s on a 30-inch computer monitor. If he could’ve fit his twin bed in the office, I’m sure he would sleep here, too.

  “You checked out Denver Alternative College last night?” Cal asked once we were settled in his office.

  “Uh-huh.” I sprawled out on the loveseat, ignoring the stale air and dust I created when I upset the cushions. I shaded my eyes against the bright sunlight coming into the room from a small window over the couch.

  By the time I finished relating my encounter with Xania Divinity, Cal was on the floor.

  “Stop,” he gasped, his whole body shaking with laughter. “Man, that’s priceless.”

  “As is Xania. Talk about a legend in her own mind,” I chuckled. “I did look up her name online, though. She has some acting credits, mostly some minor television roles in the late ’60’s and ’70’s, and some off-Broadway plays, so I guess she knows something about the theater.”

  “Hoo boy.” Cal wiped tears from his eyes, crawled back into his chair, and became serious. “You doubt Samantha’s alibi?”

  I nodded. “I don’t think Xania has the first clue if Samantha stayed the whole time or not. I’ll have to interview each student in all the acting classes to find out if Samantha left early or not, and who knows if any of them would remember.”

  “What’d you find out about Ned’s insurance policy?” Cal asked.

  I turned on my left side, which eased some of the discomfort from my broken ribs. I was breathing normally but still experienced a bit of pain when I moved in just the right way.

  “I called Jack and got the information about the company, and gave them a call.” I said. “The agent I talked to wouldn’t reveal who it was that called him. He kept saying it was an anonymous person, but he slipped more than once and said ‘her’ or ‘she’.”

  “Samantha.”

  “That’s what I think,” I said. “Ned’s policy has been sitting there since his death, but it’s at the instigation of the deceased’s relatives or the beneficiary to get the ball rolling. In the case of Ned Healy, this anonymous phone call did that. The agent has to receive a death certificate, and then the insurance company will make the claim. A little bit of paperwork, and they release the money to Samantha. I called the county coroner, and it’s not that hard to get a death certificate either.”

  “Huh.” Cal twisted up his face, thinking. “Any reasons why the insurance company wouldn’t release the money?”

  “The usual – suicide. But Ned’s death was officially ruled as an accident. It’s nice and tidy for Samantha.”

  “So we have motive.”

  “Right. Money – one million big ones. And we have the means. Samantha could’ve left her class and gotten Ned to go with her up into the mountains for a bike ride, and then she pushes him off the trail.”

  “How would she get home?”

  “She either rides back, or she has an accomplice pick her up somewhere, maybe at the trail head, and they drive back to Denver.”

  “But Ned hated the mountains, right?”

  “He hated heights. Jack said that he didn’t like cycling, or the mountains. But we only have Jack’s word that Ned was afraid of heights. Maybe Ned went to therapy and worked on that. And who better to talk Ned into going up on that trail than his ex-wife?”

  Cal mulled that over. “It’s possible. I don’t like going riding, but you got me to do it.”

  “Exactly.” I stared at t
he tiny dots in the popcorn ceiling. “I wish I could get into Samantha’s house, find out if she has any barbiturates, or if she could easily get her hands on some pills that she could’ve slipped in Ned’s drink or something.”

  “Sounds like you’ve been watching too much late-night television.”

  “Sometimes the means and motive are so obvious you gloss right over them.”

  “I might be able to shed some light on Samantha’s ability to get the drugs,” Cal said, grabbing some papers from the table.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Samantha Healy,” Cal said, propelling his chair next to the couch. “Formerly known as Samantha Simpson. Do you want her vital statistics?”

  “Not unless it has a direct bearing on this case.”

  Something crinkling underneath me, so I reached down between the couch pillows and pulled out a half full bag of potato chips, now mangled to crumbs.

  “Lovely,” I said, holding the bag up.

  Cal tossed the bag into the corner, onto a pile of papers and other stuff I didn’t want to imagine.

  “You don’t want to know her age. Okay.” He paused. “Do you want to know that she’s thirty?”

  “You just told me.”

  “She’s five-foot eight, a hundred and thirty pounds.”

  “What does this have to do with the price of rice in China?”

  “Nothing. It was part of my research.” Cal shot me a pious look.

  I sat up and rubbed my neck, trying to ward off a headache.

  “Okay, I’m focusing. You said you had something about Samantha getting drugs.”

  “Right.” Cal waved a paper in front of my face. “Samantha has a criminal past.”

  “What?” I snatched the paper from him. “When? What for?”

  “Samantha Simpson was busted for possession eight years ago.” I did some quick math. “That was four years before she married Ned.”

  “What’d they find on her?” I asked, scanning the notes. Cal had printed out all the related offenses Samantha had been charged with.

  “Samantha was stopped for erratic driving, was combative, and was subsequently taken to jail. When she was searched, lo and behold, she had a number of Seconal pills in her purse.”

  “Not very bright,” I said.

  “She was in college,” Cal said. We both knew how stupid young people could be – the remembrance of our infamous flour tortilla drug purchase was enough for us to look on Samantha’s actions with a certain tempered sympathy.

  “The police report said that Samantha claimed she didn’t know how the drugs got there, but who would say ‘Yes, the drugs are mine’ when they’re being arrested?”

  “And she had enough on her to get charged with possession with intent to sell. Because it was her first offense, she got probation and community service,” I said, finishing the report. I gave the paper back to Cal. “Samantha obviously knew how to get her hands on the stuff.”

  “If she did then, she could now,” Cal said.

  “And she’s familiar with the effects. She would know that Seconal would make Ned drowsy, if not put him to sleep. Easier for her to get him in the car and up into the mountains.”

  “But how would she get him on a bike?”

  “She wouldn’t have to drug him that much, just enough to make him a little loopy. Then he’s more easily manipulated.”

  “True.”

  “And it can’t be that hard for her to get her hands on the drugs. I’d bet there’s at least a few students in her class that use something.”

  “She drops a pill or two in a drink she gives Ned, then takes him for a ride, they go around that bend, and he’s gone.”

  “That was my theory,” I said.

  “I’m coming on board.”

  “Oh.” I reached for the phone. “I’m hungry. Let’s get some lunch.”

  “Yeah, detective work really takes it out of you.” Cal shot me a goofy grin.

  I ordered us a pepperoni and mushroom pizza, and while we waited for the delivery, we worked on a crossword puzzle. Let me correct – Cal worked on the puzzle, a tough New York Times one, and I mostly watched, adding one answer about Alfred Hitchcock’s first sound film – Blackmail, made in 1929, in case you wanted to know. We were halfway through when the doorbell clanged.

  Cal left to pay the pizza guy, and my cell phone rang.

  “Hello, is that you Reed?” Henri Benoit’s accent cut in and out like a bad television signal.

  “Yes. Henri, I can hardly hear you.”

  I stood up and moved around the room, trying to get a better connection.

  “There is…” The line crackled. “You should…” I tried the hallway.

  “Henri, I can’t hear you.”

  The line suddenly cleared, and Henri’s breathing blared through the phone. In the background, the bell in his shop chimed.

  “Why are you yelling?” Henri asked. “I don’t understand this business with the cell phones. You think if you cannot hear someone, it will help if you yell into the phone. I can hear you just fine.”

  “I can hear you now,” I said. I didn’t tell him that I was standing on the toilet in Cal’s bathroom. Must be the porcelain making a better connection.

  “I have to talk to you,” Henri continued.

  “Okay, shoot.”

  “No, not over the phone. I want to show you something.”

  “About the poster?” A burst of excitement sizzled through me and I dropped the phone. It hit the tile floor with a clunk. Henri’s disembodied voice crackled up at me.

  “Henri, wait Henri. I can’t hear you.” I shouted again as I snatch up the phone. Now the connection was really bad.

  “What do you think of that?”

  “What? I dropped the phone, Henri. I didn’t hear what you said.”

  The phone buzzed and hummed at me. “Why…wait…come down…until six.”

  “I’ll come down to the shop,” I interpreted the sounds.

  “Ah, yes…stop shouting…can’t be possible.”

  The line went dead.

  “Damn it,” I said, then used the tried and true way of fixing any gadget that was giving me a problem. I banged the phone on the counter top, then put it to my ear. Nothing.

  “That’ll solve the problem,” Cal said from the doorway. He had the pizza box in one hand, some papers towels in the other, and an amused look on his face.

  “It’s worked before,” I mumbled as I followed him back into the office. It didn’t matter. Now I had an excuse to go back to Henri’s shop and marvel at all the collectibles.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  After our late lunch and some time playing computer games, I left Cal’s house and drove down the twisting dirt road to Highway 285.

  I cranked the air conditioner, turned left, and headed back toward Denver. It was four o’clock, but I was moving against the flow of commuters heading home to the mountains, and even with the endless construction traffic on 285, I had plenty of time to get to Henri’s shop before it closed. A gang of construction workers sweated under the intense heat of the sun, and I was thankful that I was sitting in the 4-Runner with cool air blasting on me. I didn’t envy them a bit.

  I pulled into a space on Broadway a little before 5:00, locked the car, and strolled to Henri’s shop. The chimes above the door announced my entry into Classic Hollywood Memorabilia, and a wave of cool air hit me as I shut the door. I took off my sunglasses and looked around, but didn’t see Henri or anyone else.

  “Hello?” I called out, thinking I heard a door at the back of the shop close. Henri sometimes exited through a rear exit to the alley where he parked his car and where the trash dumpsters were located. Since it was the end of the day, maybe he was taking the trash out.

  I called his name again, louder this time.

  Nothing.

  I meandered around a locked display case full of autographed pictures, letting my eyes linger on the various items as I made my way to the back counter. Among the objects were a
number of Charlie Chaplin pieces. There was an autographed picture of Charlie Chaplin in his tramp garb. I remembered reading in a collector’s book that photos of The Tramp signed by Chaplin were rare. This one was in pristine condition, with a price of $12,000, a bargain for a Chaplin collector. Next to it was Chaplin’s book, My Trip Abroad, written in 1921. I wondered how Henri acquired such a rare find. I didn’t see a price tag on it, but a signed picture of Edna Purviance, Chaplin’s leading lady in many of his early silent films, had a price of $300. I lingered for a moment, wondering about the actors and their lives. What was going on in Charlie’s life when he signed the photo? Why did Edna Purviance’s career falter after she quit working with Chaplin? Okay, I’m weird like that.

  I glanced up from the display case. “Henri?” I called again.

  I studied a couple of posters on the wall before I moved over to the counter. Sean Connery stared down at me, the dashing secret agent holding the Walter PPK up near his face. Next to that were nice copies of the first two James Bond movies, Dr. No and Goldfinger. I could only hope my Bogart poster would look as good as the ones Henri had hanging on the walls. I leaned my elbows on the counter and waited for Henri to return.

  After a moment, I pushed aside a stack of papers, bored. Some of the bold lettering in Henri’s sloping handwriting on the top paper caught my attention: “Academy Award”.

  “Interesting,” I said to no one as I turned the page so I could read it better.

  Henri had written a list and jotted notes beside some of the points:

  Statuette weight: 6 ¾ lbs

  Height: 13 1/2”

  Plaster molding

  “A little bit of research?” I again talked as if Henri were in the room listening to me. “Statuette base: solid black marble.” I continued to read: “The statue sits on a canister of film, with 8 cutouts in the reel.”

  Little bits of trivia I didn’t know, but it made for captivating reading, at least if you had any curiosity about the Academy Awards. I did know that the Academy Award was officially named the Academy Award of Merit, that it was nicknamed “Oscar” but the origins of the nickname are under some dispute, and that the number of awards and categories have been in flux since the Academy first started giving out the awards at a banquet in 1929. And I knew that an Oscar was worth over $10,000 brand new.