“Oh, the poor man,” Audrey wailed. “The gun’s right there on the sofa beside him. Killing himself like that. It’s just too awful.”
“That’s not for you to decide,” Ray told her. “The state police will be here soon to start their investigation, and they’ll determine if it was suicide. Now how about we have Sergeant Davenport here”—he gestured at the officer who had finished tying the police tape to a sapling—“walk you home? You shouldn’t be alone right now. Is your sister available to look after you? We’ll come back later to take your statement.”
Audrey nodded, her face set in a mask of numb disbelief. Ray tipped his head at Phil Davenport, and the two set off.
“And you,” Ray said, wrapping a comforting arm around Charlotte. “Are you all right? I’ll take you home as soon as Phil gets back. Are you okay to wait here with me? I can’t leave the scene.” She nodded, and they stood without speaking, her head resting on his shoulder, for the few minutes it took Phil to see Audrey home and then return.
“You take over here, Phil. Won’t be long,” Ray directed.
Once home, Charlotte sank gratefully into her sofa. She leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees, covering her eyes with her hands as if trying to block out what she’d just seen. Ray sat beside her and rested a hand on her back. “What brought the two of you to his bungalow this morning?” he asked gently.
“We wanted to get started on this costume business. We needed his opinion on the concept sketches Aaron had done.” She straightened up with a startled expression. “Oh! I must have left them there. On his kitchen counter, maybe. Or table. Can you get them for me?” Ray assured her he would. “Anyway, we rang Edmund’s office, but there was no answer, so we tried the bungalow. Thought he might have slept in after last night, so we decided to walk over. It was more Audrey’s idea than mine, really. I don’t like just popping in on people, but she talked me into it. Said she owed him an apology, wanted to get it over with, and asked me to go with her.” She leaned back into the sofa. “Shouldn’t you have taken a look at him?”
“No. There’s nothing I can do there. Me not going in means one less person walking through the scene before the forensics people process it.”
Chapter 12
“I don’t want to leave you, but the state police will be here soon, and I’ve got to be there to meet them,” Ray said a few minutes later. “Will you be all right?”
“Yes. I’ll be fine. You go. I’ve got calls to make. Harvey should be informed, hopefully before the police arrive.”
He kissed her good-bye, holding her for a few extra seconds. When he had gone, she picked up the house phone and dialed Harvey’s apartment. After speaking to his wife, she hung up and called his office. When Nancy answered, Charlotte told her what had happened, that the local police were on scene, and that the state police had been notified and were expected any minute. “So just be aware, there’s going to be a lot of police activity for the next few days,” she said. Then she added, “Oh, and Fletcher Macmillan will probably be sniffing around soon.” She ended the call and moved on to the next one.
“Paula? It’s bad news, I’m afraid.” After describing the discovery of Edmund’s body, she added, “Of course, we’re going to need another director, and fast. Do you suppose Wade Radcliffe is still available?” She listened for a moment and then said, “Lunch? Good idea. At Oakland? In an hour? Right. I’ll be ready.”
After changing into a sunny yellow top, black skinny jeans, and a pair of black loafers, Charlotte walked Rupert to the hotel parking lot where Barnes was waiting for her with the Van Dusen Rolls-Royce. She lifted Rupert onto the back seat, climbed in after him, and they set off.
The winding road led past farms with roadside displays of locally grown squash, beets, tomatoes, cucumbers, and corn for sale. Banks of gold-and-purple wild flowers flanked the highway, and the trees were showing the signs of heat exhaustion that would lead to next month’s change in the color of their foliage. Charlotte sank back in the luxurious leather seats, relishing the ease and comfort in the midst of all the turmoil.
Paula was waiting for her on the steps of the mansion with her own corgi, a red-and-white puppy called Coco, at her heels. She handed Coco’s leash to Barnes and indicated Charlotte should do the same with Rupert’s. “Just let them have a nice little run in the garden, Barnes, and when you’ve tired them out, bring them ’round to the kitchen door and make sure there’s water for them.”
Paula and Charlotte made their way quickly and silently through the great hall to the sitting room at the rear of the house where Paula mixed a gin and tonic, added a slice of lime, and handed it to Charlotte. She mixed her own drink, then sat close to Charlotte on the sofa.
“How absolutely dreadful for you,” she said. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine. But I’ve just realized what a good idea it was to come here, to get away from . . .” As the sentence trailed off, Paula gave her a reassuring hug.
“When you’re ready,” Paula said, “I’d really like to hear about it.”
She listened intently while Charlotte described, step by step and in great detail, everything that had happened that morning.
“And what did he look like, if you don’t mind my asking?” Paula said, looking at Charlotte over the rim of her glass. “I’m just curious. I’ve never come across a dead body before. I suspect few people have.”
“He was slumped over to his left, and it was obvious from the blood stains on his clothes, mainly on his shirt, that something terrible had happened. The curtains were closed, but from the available light in the room, I could see that there was a gun in his hand, so it looks like he died of a gunshot wound. I didn’t go in the room. Just looked from the doorway. Didn’t want to disturb anything.” Charlotte spared her the description of the smell.
“And do the police think it was suicide?”
“I don’t know what they think. They’ve just started the investigation, but that’s something they’ll consider, I guess.”
“What did you think?”
“Well, I’m not an expert, of course, and I don’t want to speculate, but that’s what it looked like. I’m sure the police will determine what happened with all their forensics testing. Ballistics and gunpowder residue and all the other CSI stuff you see on TV. But I can’t think of any reason why he would do such a thing. He seemed happy to be working here and excited about the possibilities of the new production. Especially after last night, when you gave him the board’s blessing to go ahead.” She wiped some condensation off her glass with her napkin. “And where on earth would he get a gun?”
“Oh, they’re not hard to come by,” said Paula.
“Well, maybe not for an American who lives here, but surely you must need to know how to go about getting one or at least where to go,” said Charlotte. “I wouldn’t know where to start, and I’ve lived here for ten years, although I suppose if I were really desperate, I could grab Ray’s. But I wouldn’t know to use it.
“Anyway, I’ve never wanted a gun, or even thought about it, really, but all the same. So how would Edmund know how to get a gun? He’d only been in the country five minutes. And besides, guns just aren’t something an English person planning to commit suicide would think of.”
“No? What would they think of?”
“Hanging would be my guess.”
“Okay, so setting the gun aside for now, you discovered the body when you went to his bungalow,” Paula mused, “when he wasn’t expecting you, and you weren’t even sure if he was home.”
“I know. I got swept along with what Audrey wanted. She said she wanted to apologize to him for some things she’d said. I don’t know if she was referring to the things she said to him at rehearsal, like telling him to sod off, or if she’d said other things to him, in private.”
“I’ve been thinking about Audrey and Edmund,” said Paula, “and it seems to me something personal must have been going on between them back in England. There�
��s a history there, don’t you think? Why else would she want him to come out here and direct her in this play? No, not ‘want him to,’” she corrected herself, “insist that he did. We had a perfectly good director lined up, and she invoked the director approval clause in her contract.”
“They’ve worked together before,” Charlotte reminded her, “and I think she has so much riding on the success of this play she wanted a director she could trust to make her look her best. And then he dropped that bombshell about the Civil War theme, and she was very unhappy with him.”
They had finished their drinks, and Paula suggested they move into the dining room. “We’ll talk about where we go from here over lunch.”
Two place settings graced by a small centerpiece of apricot-pink roses in a silver bowl had been arranged at one end of the table.
“Lovely roses, Paula,” Charlotte said, leaning over the table and inhaling their subtle fragrance.
“Yes, they are. They’re called Ambridge Roses. Poor Ned’s had a terrible time with his roses this summer. Always going on about the black spot, and in the most mournful way, as if he’s about to burst into tears.” She laughed. “He takes great pride in the Oakland rose gardens, and we’re so lucky to have him. He grows some roses that you just don’t see anywhere else. Those”—she nodded at the centerpiece—“are his particular favorite this summer. He planted lavender bushes near them because he likes the combination of colors.”
They took their seats, and Charlotte admired the table setting.
“Do you always eat lunch like this?” she asked as she unfolded her napkin and placed it on her lap.
“No. Only when I’m lucky enough to have someone like you join me. If I’m on my own, sometimes I skip lunch altogether or have a tray with something light in the sitting room or my office,” Paula said. “But this is much nicer, so I’m glad you’re here, even though the circumstances are so unpleasant.”
“Me too.”
“With so much going on, we’ve got a lot to talk about.”
A server appeared with two small Caesar salads and a bottle of white wine. “You can just leave that here,” said Paula, nodding at the wine bottle. “We’ll pour it ourselves.” She filled their glasses, and the server set down their salads.
“I rang Roger Harrison as soon as you called me,” Paula said, “to get his opinion on what the board should do. I know what I thought, but just wanted to make sure I had support. We think the production must go ahead.”
“I agree. Absolutely it must.”
“So I called Wade Radcliffe to see if he’s available to direct this production, and fortunately, he’s still willing to take on the project.”
“What about Audrey and the director approval business that brought Edmund Albright here in the first place?”
“I’m sure she’ll approve Wade now. And if she doesn’t, we’ll have to find a way to get her out of the contract. But I’m sure it won’t come to that. She’s a professional, and she’ll want to get as much mileage out of this as she can. She’ll also understand that enough time has been wasted and we’ve got to move forward.”
“Yes, as Harvey said a while ago about this production, we’re burning daylight. Oh, well, so much for Aaron’s Civil War sketches. I guess Audrey’s going to get her way after all, and we’re back to a traditional look. But she seemed to be coming around to the idea.”
“Well, that’s good.” Before Charlotte could ask her what she meant, the server reappeared and stood silently behind them, with her back to an elaborately carved oak sideboard with dozens of silverware drawers. When Paula indicated they had finished their salads, the server removed the plates and left the room. She returned a few minutes later, her hands wrapped in white tea towels, carrying two piping hot plates. She set a plate—each with a small portion of grilled salmon in dill sauce on a bed of rice with sautéed red-and-yellow peppers and carrots—before each woman.
“This looks delicious,” said Charlotte, picking up her fork. “Now tell me. What did you mean when you said, ‘That’s good?’”
“Roger and I are of the opinion”—Paula paused to take a sip of wine—“that there are good reasons to continue with the Civil War theme—the publicity it will attract, to give the cast some continuity, and to honor the memory of Edmund Albright, to name three—so we want it done that way.”
“And have you told Wade this?”
“Well, no, I’m not a theater person. I don’t really have the expertise to discuss it with him. I don’t know what it would involve.”
“Oh, no!” groaned Charlotte. “You want me to tell him.”
“Well, wouldn’t that make the most sense? You’ll be working closely with him, and since you’re essentially running the company now, we thought you should be the one to tell him.”
“But Paula, do you realize how difficult it will be for Wade to present another director’s interpretation of this play? Each director sets the mood and finds different themes within the script.” She emphasized her words with an open hand gesture. “Simon’s version was going to be light and comedic. And then Edmund was going for a darker concept. He wanted to focus on the gender politics.” She shook her head. “You know what they say about a camel being a horse designed by a committee? This will be the third director attached to this production, and I can’t imagine what the end result is going to look like. Is there anything else that can go wrong with it, I wonder?” She sliced a julienned carrot in half. “Tell you what. I’ll break the news to Wade if you break the news about Edmund to Brian Prentice. He should know what’s happened, and it would be better coming from us, before it makes the British newspapers.”
Brian Prentice, the company’s previous star actor, had opted out of his contract on medical grounds to return to England for treatment and been replaced by Audrey. Having had a long, successful career in British theater, he knew everybody, and because of his affiliation with the Catskills Shakespeare Theater Company, Charlotte knew he’d be more than interested to hear about Edmund.
“We’ll telephone Brian right after lunch,” Paula said. “Now I hope you’ve saved a bit of room. There’s raspberry and white chocolate cheesecake. We’ll each have just a sliver.”
Charlotte laughed. “A sliver. I knew a woman once who ate a whole cake, a sliver at a time.”
“It wasn’t you, was it?”
“I’ll never tell.”
“What kind of cake was it?”
“Lemon drizzle.”
*
When they’d finished dessert, Paula asked for a tea tray to be delivered to her ground-floor office. The room had once been her mother-in-law’s morning room. Back then, it was paneled with mahogany, dark and closed in with heavy furniture and massively tall plants. Now it was bright and spacious. Paula’s desk was positioned near the tall windows to make the most of the natural light that poured in. A butterscotch-colored leather sofa, part of a comfortable seating area, took up a corner of the room, and it was from here that Paula conducted most of her business. One wall was taken up with a whiteboard, now blank.
When Paula and Charlotte were settled, with a tea tray on the low table in front of them, Paula dialed Brian in London. He answered on the third ring and seemed really pleased to hear from her. “Charlotte’s here with me,” said Paula, “and I’d like to put you on speakerphone so we can all be part of the conversation. Is that all right with you?” A moment later, Brian’s deep booming bass voice filled the room.
“Charlotte, love, how are you?”
“Fine, thanks, Brian. You sound well.”
“Oh, I am. I’ve finished the treatment, and it’s gone well. Doctors are very pleased. Feeling fine.”
“Good,” said Paula. “Brian, I’m afraid we’ve had some bad news here at the theater company, and we wanted you to hear it from us before you read about it in the British press.”
“Sod those buggers!”
“Yes, well, it’s about Edmund Albright. We had brought him in as a replacement director
for Simon Dyer.”
Because Brian had invested in the theater school project, Charlotte had notified him of Simon’s departure and let him know that his investment would be returned when the project’s business and legal affairs were wrapped up.
“Yes, I’d heard that. He can be a bit of a loose cannon, young Edmund, but by all accounts, he gets spectacular results. What’s happened? Is he not working out?”
Paula and Charlotte exchanged a quick glance before Charlotte responded.
“It’s not that. Worse, much worse. He died last night, and well, there’s no easy way to say this. Gunshot. Looks like suicide.”
“But that’s impossible!” Brian said after a pause. “He rang me about the job just before he went out there. Keen as mustard, he was. Had come up with the idea of an American Civil War backdrop. Made it sound so damned exciting, I would have leapt at the chance to play Leonato. Why would he do such a bloody fool thing? He was starting to get noticed. He was in talks with the RSC, and it looked like he was in line for an artistic director’s position. They just wanted him to get a bit more experience, and everybody agreed doing this play in America would give him exactly the credentials he needed. It was the perfect career step for him at this time. He had high hopes for good notices in the New York Times.” Charlotte and Paula exchanged puzzled glances. “It doesn’t make sense,” Brian concluded. “I don’t believe for a minute he committed suicide. There’s got to be some mistake.”
“Well, the police haven’t officially ruled it a suicide,” Charlotte said. “That’s just what it looked like.”
“What it looked like,” Brian repeated. “You mean, you . . .”
“Yes,” said Charlotte. “I found the body.”
“Well, I suppose things could have been going on in his life that we know nothing about,” Brian allowed. “After all, there’s more to life than work, and we all have skeletons in our closet. Things we’d rather other people didn’t know about. Maybe he was having personal issues. Woman trouble. Or money. Debt. That sort of thing.”
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