Authors: Dianne Yetman
She called Sandra to cancel, put the car in gear
,
and peeled away.
9:30
pm
Roger pulled
up
in front of the theatre, placed the police sign in the windshield
of his Honda Civic
and grimaced at the sight of the TV crews, newspaper reporters and curious spectators gathered behind the erected barrier.
He badged the constable, stepped into the lobby
of the
Strand theatre, recently built on the downtown waterfront and named after the street in the City of Westminster, London, England.
The locals, loyal to the city’s first and only theatre,
stubbornly ign
oring its existence
at first,
however;
the younger crowd was beginning to put it on the map. It also picked up
some loyal patrons based on its policy
to
present
only
the work of playwrights written before 1970. The sound of waves
and smell of salt air
continue to add to the growing line of patrons.
Roger glanced at the
two line ups of patrons, one for ticket refunds, one for the bar
, as he headed towards the main body of the theatre.
The sound
h
is shoes
made on
the wide, bare boards of the floor
was absorbed into
the conversation of the patrons.
Tension and restlessness wired the air.
If we detain this lot too long, there’ll be hell to pay.
He ran up the
three
side steps to the
stage. Off to his left, he noticed a small group of people consisting of a
large woman snuffling into a hanky,
a tall, man blowing nervously into a hankie, and r
ocking back and forth on the balls of a pair of size 12’s,
was a white haired man, his
head bent,
his
eyes paying homage to his feet. And on the fringe stood a young, dark-eyed beauty staring at her hands as if she were seeing them for the first time.
He had seen
similar
group
s
at previous murder scenes
;
the looks on the faces always the same: shock and disbelief.
He
turned towards the stage.
Two crime scene cops, on their hands and knees combing the floor, dressed in white, looked like giant, white rabbits, sniffing out a burrow. Another two were brushing and dusting the hi-fi cabinet with the intensity of clean freak
s
armed with
their
trusty dusters.
The cabinet has to be a hot spot.
He spotted
Kate standing stage right
looking hot in her black jeans, red blouse. Looking better than he saw her when she left the precinct yesterday afternoon, a heavier rain cloud hanging over her head than the comic character in the Snoopy scenario. He wasn’t sure what was going on and he wasn’t he wanted to know. He had a good working relationship with Kate, was probably the only one in the precinct who did. He liked her, understood her mood swings, the temper, he grew up with five sisters. He tried only once to warn her off but never again. Not if he wanted to continue working with her and he wanted to
for she was one of the smartest cops he ever worked with.
And there she was, standing in all her glory, next to her nemesis,
Gordon
, who was haranguing three bewildered looking constables. He could hear the gruff instructions clear across the stage.
“
Cast and crew are to be rounded and taken into the Boardroom in the Office area of the Theatre. Take their names,
addresses
, and telephone numbers. Tell them to be back at the theatre by 8:00am tomorrow for preliminary interviews
, no excuses. Anyone not showing up will find themselves being escorted here in a police car.
Don’t let
yourself
be side tracked by
unnecessary
questions
. If you’re unsure of anything, check it out with Kate.”
Dismissing the constables, Gordon walked over to the man bent over the dead body.
Roger joined Kate who was
writing in her notebook. Leaning over her shoulder, he
gave her a nudge and a smile. She looked up and was about to say something but Gordon’s voice silenced her response.
“What a fine pair the two of you make decked out in your Saturday night finest. Practicing your poses for the front cover of
True
Detective
s
are you? Get the hell over here.”
“Do you feel like you’re being summoned to the Principal’s office”
,
Roger
asked.
“More like my father’s den”, Kate said.
The two crossed the stage. Roger looked at the man dressed in evening clothes who was crouching over the prone body.
“
L
ooking mighty spry
, George, my man
.
Glad to see there isn’t any truth to the rumour you’re suffering from honeymoon sleep deprivation.”
George Cummings, known around the precinct as the
Genius Pathologist
, or as Roger told it, the
Pathological Genius
, looked up and s
cowled.
“Well if it isn’t the man who looks like a black man, walks and talks like a black man, and dresses like fashion senseless yuppie.”
“Watch it, George;
you’re skating close to the edge with talk like that.”
“Stuff it you two”, Gordon said. “What can you tell us George?”
“The man was poisoned. Don’t know what with yet but it has
all
the
ear
marks of a metabolic. Autopsy will be tomorrow morning at 9:00am. Come one, come all if you can. Now, I’m off, back to the dinner table in time to catch dessert, I hope.”
The three detectives followed him with their eyes until he was off stage.
Roger stooped down for a closer look at the body.
“Who is
the poor bugger”, he asked.
“
Jeffrey Stone, the play’s Director
”, Gordon said
.
“
According to the
tall
,
skinny
one
with the
extra tire below the belt,
Henry Ward, the Producer,
our murder victim
was a
famous
New York Director
who gave up his lucrative career three years ago for this dinky little theatre.
It was his last evening as the big boss, however. He
was scheduled to fly back to New York to direct some high-brow, artsy kind of play
.”
“What was he doing on stage? I thought
D
irectors hung out
at the back of the theatre, pacing back and forth chomping on finger nails”
, Roger asked.
“Wanted to give a farewell toast to cast and crew. It was a farewell one alright. Drank from the glass and it was lights out. Andrew Wilkins, the Stage Manager,
the
onl
y one on the set trained in CPR
,
tried to revive him bu
t it was no use. He was dead within seconds. As dead as his name
- s
tone dead.”
Roger and Kate ignored the pun
, e
veryone at the precinct ignored
Gordon’s
puns.
Gordon shot them a look.
“
Maybe
we should start by finding out the reason why he left New York in the first place”, Kate said.
“Did I hear the word
start
”, Gordon asked. “Sounds like a plan and the sooner the better. I’m off to the station to set up the incident room. I’ll leave you two to handle the
executive team that runs the theatre here.
Make sure all bodies are accounted for
– it t
ook 20 minutes after the murder before we had a uniform at the back and front exits.
No sense getting into too much detail with the head honchos, b
y the looks I saw on those vacuous faces, all you’ll get is shock talk.
I’ve got two more recruits on the way to ensure the patrons all leave the theatre and in an orderly fashion. Once they arrive, make the announcement that they are free to go under the direction of the police constables.
”
“What about the interviews? Here or at the station”,
Roger
asked.
“Here for the preliminaries. We’ll haul any interesting ones to the station for the full treatment.
We’re starting early; everyone is to be here by 8
:00am
tomorrow morning
, they should love that. I’ll meet you
in the briefing room tomorrow morning at 7:00am.
”
He started to leave
then turned around.
“With those actors, you’re going to get a lot of histrionics. Don’t let them distract you; keep that poor dead bastard’s face in front of your eyes.”
Roger snorted at his boss’s disappearing back.
“Who the hell does he think we
are
,
new
recruits?”
“It’s his
one year from retirement
spiel
, you know how it goes.
Keep your eyes on the bouncy ball because I don’t want it hitting me in the face.”
The shadow of a movement caught their eyes. A priest was advancing towards them from stage left. He nodded
at the two detectives
then knelt and gave Stone the last rites.
Roger found himself
strangely
moved by the ritual.
“No doubt about it, Kate, this case is going to be an emotional zinger.”
10:30pm
Cast and crew were huddled together in the common dressing room. Someone placed a bottl
e of Scotch on the table. Ed rushed to the prop room
for
more
plastic wine glasses.
By the time he returned, t
he lone bottle multiplied to three.
Once the glasses were filled and a couple shots consumed, there was
a noticeable
easing of shock and a loosening of tongues. Small knots of people began to form and
a
verbal debrief began.
Only one person asked about the Henry, Andrew and Eleanor.
Someone said they were squirreled away in their offices located in the front of the theatre.
But not all the executives were together.
Henry Ward
was sitting in
Ed’s cubbyhole pouring whiskey into a dusty, coffee stained mug.
His hand shook as he raised it to his mouth. Jeffrey’s death throes were playing with his head. He switched his thoughts to their last conversation.
It
had been a little over
a week ago,
at
their usual meeting place, third row back from centre stage,
free from k
nocks on the door
and
ringing phones.
Once they saw where they were seated, actors and crew avoided them like the plague.
Their conversation
got off to a rocky start and before it was over, it had advanced to crashing boulders. It started innocently enough. Henry had sat next to Jeffrey, nodded, smiled, and reached inside his
jacket pocket
,
pulled out his pipe.
Jeffrey barked.
“I hope that thing isn’t lit, Henry. We don’t want any complaints from patrons about the smell of smoke, do we?”
“For God’s sake, Jeffrey, do you have to be so anal
?
Have I ever actually lit the damn thing?”
“No, but I don’t trust anyone who has to resort to soothers”, he said.
“Not a lot of people you trust are there? You know my pet peeve,
Jeffrey,
people who parade their ridiculous, stupid, affectations in front of others
in the hopes of squeezing out a drop more attention
.
”
“What a sanctimonious, prissy little shit you are, Henry. I don’t know how I’ve put up with you all these years.”