She returned with two cups of tea on a small tray. She set the tray on the desk, held out a cup to Mattie, then sat down in her chair. “Tell me what’s wrong. When you ran by me on the path, I thought something must have happened and I was worried. Were you coming from Audrey’s bungalow? Had you had a row with her?”
Mattie shook her head and whispered, “No.”
Charlotte pulled her chair closer. “No. Not Audrey. So Edmund, then, was it?” Mattie nodded miserably. “You had an argument with him?”
“Not really. But I did something really stupid. I asked him to reconsider the casting for the play. I want to play Beatrice. I should play Beatrice. Audrey’s too old.” Charlotte let that remark go.
“I think you’re perfect as Hero. She’s described as young, pretty . . . all the things that you are.”
“But the whole point of acting is to play someone I’m not! And besides, Hero’s such a small part. Maybe forty lines and nothing memorable. Lines like, ‘Good Margaret, run thee to the parlor; There shalt thou find my cousin Beatrice . . .’ I won’t get a chance to show what I can do.”
“Sometimes smaller parts pay off in big ways. Think of Judi Dench as Queen Elizabeth I in Shakespeare in Love. She was on screen for about eight minutes—eight minutes!—and won an Academy Award for her trouble. So it’s not the size of the role that matters. It’s what you make of it.” Charlotte sighed. “And you could make a lot of this one. Edmund’s interpretation of the play could be darker. He’s looking at the treatment of women in this play, and the focus of that is Hero. When rehearsals really get going, you’ll see this part has much bigger implications than you can see now. There’s one more thing I want to tell you that you should find encouraging. Did you know that Helen Mirren once played that part?”
Mattie shook her head slowly. “No, I didn’t know that.”
“But you really should be having this conversation with Edmund, not me. He’s the director.”
“I doubt very much I could talk about anything with him now.”
“Oh, Mattie, come on. I doubt it’s as bad as that. Look, I know you want to get as much experience as you possibly can, but perhaps you should look at what’s happening in this situation as part of that experience. Your acting life isn’t just about the stage. Just as important is all the other stuff that goes on.” She took a sip of tepid tea. “Look, acting is a tough business. You won’t always get the parts you want. And then something really awful starts to happen. You realize you’re aging out of roles, and the parts that might have been offered to you even a couple of years ago are no longer within your reach. You have to learn to accept these things graciously. It’s just part of the job you’ve chosen to do.”
“Well, thanks,” muttered Mattie. “That’s really cheered me up.”
Charlotte smiled. “Sorry. I just want to try to help you put things in perspective. I wish you’d enjoy these days while they’re happening, because they won’t last forever. One day, you won’t be Juliet anymore; you’ll be the nurse. Or Lady Capulet. And then the nurse. So make the most of Hero. She’s a lovely part, really. With the false accusation of infidelity at the wedding scene, there’s huge scope for you to show what you can do, and a good director could pull a brilliant performance out of you. Anyway, there’s always discussion about whether Hero and Claudio are really the main plot and Beatrice and Benedick are the subplot. Why not see yourself as the star of the play? Now stand up and let me have a look at you.” Mattie did as she was told, and Charlotte gently pinched the side of her loose shirt. “I think you’ve lost a bit of weight. When we know for sure about the costumes, you’ll need a careful fitting.”
Mattie sat down again and leveled a direct gaze at Charlotte.
“I hate him. I really do. I didn’t know it was possible to hate someone this much.”
“Who? Who do you hate?”
“Edmund Albright.”
“Because he won’t recast the part of Beatrice? But don’t you think it was a bit unrealistic of you to ask him to do that? You know that Audrey’s been brought over specially to play that part, so why would you think Edmund might give the part to you? He can’t. Audrey’s got a contract.”
“Yes, well, because . . .” Her unsaid words hung between them. And then Charlotte understood.
“Oh, no, you didn’t.” Mattie lowered her head, and a couple of tears landed on her gray T-shirt. “Did he tell you if you slept with him, he’d give you the Beatrice part?” she asked softly.
“No. He didn’t make any promises, and when I thought about it later, he made it quite clear the Beatrice role isn’t for me.”
“I’m so sorry this has happened. Even though he didn’t offer any assurances about the role, I still see what he did as a real abuse of his power, and it makes me so mad that he would take advantage of you like that.” Of course, there was nothing new about what Edmund had done, but Charlotte saw Mattie as being more naïve than some young actresses. Some knew exactly what they were doing when they set out to seduce leading actors or directors.
She was prevented from saying more by the sound of someone trying the door handle and finding it locked. A moment later came the sound of a key being inserted into the lock. “That’ll be Aaron,” said Charlotte, springing out of her chair and running to the door. She opened it smoothly and stepped outside into the corridor in one fluid motion. “Just having a little chat with Mattie,” she said. “Can you give us a few minutes? We won’t be long, and I’ll leave the door open when we’re finished.”
“Yeah, sure. Is everything all right?”
“It’s fine.”
“Is she coming back to the rehearsal? Edmund’s asking where she is. I came here to ask if you’d seen her.”
“She’ll be there. Why don’t you tell him she’s on her way?”
Charlotte returned to her workroom to find Mattie rinsing her face in the little kitchen. “Good,” she said. “Sorry, all we have is paper towels, so just blot your face.” When Mattie emerged, Charlotte encouraged her to take a few deep, calming breaths to center herself. When she seemed composed, Charlotte said, “It’s time for you to head back to rehearsal. Edmund’s been asking for you.”
“Why is he asking for me? I’ve finished what I was supposed to do today. The rehearsal schedule doesn’t list me for this time period.”
“I’ll come with you.”
They crept into the rehearsal room to find Audrey working with the actor playing Benedick. He was at least ten years younger than she, and as they walked around the space, gesturing at each other or turning their backs, posturing, and waving their scripts, their dynamic seemed artificial. The dialogue between the two characters, meant to be witty and cutting, sounded flat and forced.
Director Edmund Albright sat in a plastic chair, referring to his script, standing occasionally to yell at them. “I know it’s early days, but this witty banter between Beatrice and Benedick is meant to be what this play is known for. I’d like some reassurance, please. Could you try to give the impression that eventually it will be at least mildly entertaining?”
Dressed in well-cut blue jeans, sneakers, a shirt with a blue-and-white check, and his light-beige jacket, Edmund rose from his chair every now and then and moved comfortably and easily around the room offering suggestions, asking for specific actions, and sometimes demanding more emotion from the actors.
The rehearsal continued until finally Edmund said to Audrey in front of the rest of the cast, “Why is your acting so wooden this morning? Everything about your timing is off. I know you’re capable of so much better, but you’re just not giving it to me. I’m tempted to reassign the part of Beatrice to Mattie. And you can play a waiting woman.” Several cast members gasped. Audrey tensed and glared at him.
“Why don’t you just bugger off back where you came from!” she hissed at him. And then, raising her voice, added, “We’d all be so much better off without you!”
“That’s more like it!” Edmund shouted as Audrey tucked the scrip
t under her arm and headed for the door. She wrenched it open, and as the latch clicked into place, she disappeared.
Edmund grinned at the shocked cast members. “Don’t worry. A bit old fashioned, I know, but just an old director’s trick to light a fire and keep an actress on her toes. She’ll be feisty and ready to go when we take up where we left off.” He rubbed his hands together. “Right. Let’s work on some blocking. Let’s be having you, gentlemen, please. I’m looking for Leonato, Don Pedro, Claudio, and Balthasar.”
Audrey did not return to the rehearsal room for the rest of the day.
Chapter 9
Charlotte yawned, saved her place with a bookmark, and set the novel on the bedside table. She switched off her reading light and lay in the calm darkness, mulling over the events of the day, including a conversation with Paula Van Dusen about the upcoming dinner party.
The whole Much Ado production had got off to what Paula Van Dusen described as “such an unfortunate start” that both she and Charlotte had high hopes that meeting socially would settle everyone; help them see one another’s points of view through fresh, sympathetic eyes; and restore a civilized calm to the situation. And then Paula had mentioned that the board had discussed Edmund’s proposed Civil War theme and that she would share their thoughts at dinner. Despite Charlotte’s pleas, Paula had refused to tell her what approach the board had decided to take. “I promised the board members that we’d let everyone know at the same time,” she said. “That’s the only fair way to do this. It would be inappropriate for you to know before other people, like the director and lead actress, who are just as involved as you are. As much as I’d like to tell you—and in light of our friendship, you know I wish I could—I can’t, and I’m afraid you’re just going to have to be patient.”
“No more of my gin and tonic for you, then,” Charlotte had replied easily, smoothing over the awkwardness of the moment and the disappointment she felt.
“And you’ll have to wait to hear until after the starter,” Paula had added. “One never discusses business until after the soup or salad. My father-in-law taught me that years ago, and it’s a rule I always follow at my dinner parties. Social niceties first, then business.”
As Ray lay sleeping beside her, Charlotte contemplated various dinner party scenarios and what might happen. Finally she, too, closed her eyes and drifted off into a fitful sleep.
In what seemed like just a few minutes but was actually a couple of hours, the ringing of Ray’s cell phone awakened her. She felt his body position shift as he reached for it, then heard him speaking softly as he got out of bed. “Oh, no,” said Charlotte. “What is it?”
“Report of a prowler at Audrey’s.”
He straightened up, lifted Rupert onto the bed, and grinned as Charlotte put her arm around him and they settled in for a cuddle. Ray could think of somebody who loved late-night callouts enormously, and he reckoned that if Rupert had a phone of his own, he’d make the calls himself just to get Ray out of the way so he could have Charlotte all to himself.
Ray let himself out of the house, locked the door behind him, switched on his flashlight, and—holding the light in his left hand, his right hand on the gun on his hip—headed down the path to Audrey’s bungalow. A light was on in the director’s bungalow, but it was switched off as he passed. Making a mental note to ask Edmund Albright if he’d heard or seen anything suspicious, he continued on to Audrey’s. After performing a careful check around the house, he knocked on Audrey’s door. “Police,” he called out. The door was opened by a short woman with attractive gray hair worn in a soft pageboy style. “Oh,” said Ray, “I was expecting to see Audrey. You must be . . .”
“I’m her sister,” said the woman. “Maxine Kaminski. You’d better come in.”
“Can you tell me what’s going on here?” Ray asked as she led him into the sitting room. “And where’s your sister? Is she all right?”
“I think so. She’s in her room. She felt poorly and went to lie down. She said you could go in and talk to her if you needed to.”
“Why don’t you tell me what happened?” Ray asked. “What did you hear? Did you see anything?”
“Nothing. I was asleep. Dead to the world, I was, and the next thing I know, Audrey’s shaking me awake and telling me there’s someone outside. I didn’t hear anything, but she was obviously upset, so I got up, and she phoned the police, and then she felt a bit wobbly so she went to lie down, and you arrived.”
“Maxine?” came a faint voice from the next room. “Who are you talking to? Is the police officer here?” Maxine excused herself and walked to the doorway of the bedroom. “Yes, he’s just asking a few questions.” Audrey said something Ray didn’t quite catch. Maxine retraced the few steps back to the sitting room and sat down.
“She wants to know if there’s anything you want to ask her,” she said.
Ray stood up. “No. I’ll let her get some rest now. I’ve had a look around outside, and there doesn’t seem to be a sign of anybody, but it’s hard to tell in the darkness. I’ll send someone around in the morning to take another look.”
*
Charlotte was swirling something around in a pot when Ray arrived home. “Cooking? At his hour?” he asked.
“You know I have trouble sleeping when you’re out on a night call, so I’m making a cup of cocoa. It’s what we Brits do when we can’t sleep. Want one?”
“Love one.”
Charlotte opened the fridge door, took out the milk carton, and added more milk to the pot. She handed the container to Ray to put away and continued gently moving the pot over the heat. “Well?” she asked, not looking at him.
“I didn’t see Audrey. Her sister answered the door. The sister’d been asleep and didn’t hear or see anything. Audrey called the police and then went to bed.”
“Do you think someone was hanging around the place?”
“I’m not sure. I didn’t see anything to indicate there is.” Ray unfastened his police duty belt and set it on a chair. “I’ll remind Harvey to get the bushes around the bungalows cut back so it won’t be as easy for someone to hide in them.” Charlotte made a paste of cocoa, sugar, and milk in two cups; poured the hot milk into each; gave them a noisy stir; and handed a cup to Ray. They sat at the kitchen table, Charlotte in her dressing gown and Ray in his uniform, their hands cupped around their mugs of comforting cocoa.
“Should I take Rupert out?” Ray asked when they were finished. Rupert looked up at him and waggled his bottom, so Ray opened the door, and the two disappeared into the night. They returned a few minutes later, and Ray locked the door, turned off the light, and joined Charlotte in bed.
They held each other in the darkness, and as their breathing quieted and slowed, Charlotte’s sleepy voice broke through the stillness. “Ray?”
“Mhmm.”
“Did you check to make sure the stove was turned off?”
Chapter 10
As the sun slipped behind the Catskill Mountains, filling the sky with a scattering of pink light, the burgundy Rolls-Royce meandered along the two-lane highway toward Oakland, Paula Van Dusen’s country estate. Set in beautifully tended, award-winning lawns and gardens, the house was protected by a massive black wrought-iron gate that swung smoothly and silently open to admit the Rolls-Royce ferrying the dinner guests.
Audrey Ashley gazed out the window and exchanged a warm, knowing smile with her sister as the car made its way along the driveway, past beds of colorful late summer perennials in full bloom. Edmund Albright, sitting beside the other window, had remained silent throughout the twenty-minute journey. Except for the occasional glance out the window at the passing greenery, his eyes had remained fixed on the back of the chauffeur’s head.
The sprawling late Victorian house, with its gables and chimneys that provided a varied and detailed roof line, was built of locally quarried gray stone. The car slowed to a stop in front of the main door, where Paula Van Dusen waited to welcome her guests.
Wearing
a cocktail sheath of midnight-blue lace, her dark hair arranged in a neat chignon and her face beautifully made up, she held out her hand and greeted each arrival by name.
“Audrey, lovely to see you. Hello, Edmund. And Maxine. Welcome to Oakland. Shall we go in?”
Chatting in a relaxed and engaging manner, she led her guests through an immense, high-ceilinged entry hall with black-and-white flooring and down a corridor to a large sitting room at the back of the house. The French doors that led to the terrace stood open, letting in the last of the dying light as the pinks of sunset were absorbed by the deep purples of twilight. Standing by the fireplace, drinks in hand, were Charlotte and Ray. Charlotte, wearing a becoming little black dress and pearl stud earrings, smiled at the new arrivals.
“Now let me introduce everybody,” Paula said. “Unfortunately, Harvey’s wife was unable to join us this evening, but we’re happy that his secretary, Nancy Hargreaves, agreed to come in her stead.” As Harvey’s name was mentioned, he stood up, but Nancy remained primly seated, back erect and eyes alert. The gray suit she wore to the office had given way to a navy-blue, calf-length dress in a nondescript, synthetic fabric.
“Now then,” said Paula. “Where are Roger and Sonja?”
“Here, Paula.” A couple who appeared to be in their late fifties or early sixties stepped through the French doors. They had that air of authoritative confidence about them associated with expensive grooming and well-tailored, classic clothes with deep pockets. “Just enjoying the remains of the day,” said the man.
Paula introduced the theater people to the couple.
“And I’m delighted that Roger and Sonja Harrison were able to join us tonight. Both of them serve on the theater board with me and are eager to meet our new director and lead actress.
Much Ado About Murder Page 7