Authors: Dianne Yetman
He
t
reat
ed
her like a sob sister. Their intimacy took a nose dive, her passion cooled.
She became bored followed by guilt. He was a great guy who deserved another chance. But not with her.
S
he kept stalling, worried about his damned helplessness and how it would affect him. She’d
decided to call him
in the morning.
Her decision haunted her dreams.
She reluctantly turned off the shower.
It was the ultimate of showers; a shower that wraps water, sound, light and steam together with the push of a button. Most people, when choosing a condo, fall in love with the layout, the kitchen, the gardens, or the balcony. She had fallen in love with the shower.
Towelling off, she didn’t think about what she would wear. When an investigation was running in the fall of the year, it was always the same: a black turtleneck
, black jeans
,
red blazer, and black
Doc Martens
.
Finishing her breakfast
of coffee, orange juice and lightly buttered toast
, she punched in David’s cell number. It went to voice mail. She left a message that she was on a case and this weekend wouldn’t work. Told him she would call when things slowed down. She left the condo and headed for the
precinct.
***
The team met in the small boardroom and judging by the looks on their faces, it was obvious to
Kate
she
wasn’t the only one who thought the morning arrived too soon.
She took the empty seat next to Roger. Gordon seemed at a bit of a loss because a round table has no helm. As a consequence, he sat higher in his chair than the others.
No doubt there were a couple of New York
City
directories under
his butt.
She sat in the empty chair
b
etween Roger and
Sgt.
Withers.
Withers,
whose
normal duties consisted of supervising new recruits,
collating and filing overtime reports, and
in control of the hated, most debated, ever changing document in a police precinct, the duty roster.
Withers was the man for the job. He was incorruptible, rigid, dogmatic, bribe resistant; an iron will that hell on earth would not bend. He had obviously been seconded to the interviewing team. Pity the poor actors he had on his list.
Cst. Shirley Proctor sat directly across from
Kate. A computer whiz who seemed to be able to capture the goods on the most obscure on the internet in record times, she was a highly valued member of the murder investigation team. Shirley had entered the police force at a greater age than most recruits but Kate had no doubt that with her talents, she would zoom by the
more
senior recruits.
Strange to see her part of the interviewi
ng team
, Kate thought
.
Minutes after Gordon star
ted the meeting, she understood
. Shirley was coordinating, escorting the actors and crew to the interview rooms and would keep the interviewing team on schedule. The meeting was
quick. They had to be at the theatre by 8:00am. Once
Gordon
briefed them on how they were to proceed, he ended the meeting. The team exited the room together and made a mad dash to the police car pool.
***
A
bleary eyed cast and crew of
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
sat in the front rows of the theatre.
No one spoke but a lot of body language was happening
- everything from facial twitches to drumming fingers and feet - a nervous group ripe for the picking.
At the sound of footsteps, all heads turned in unison to watch
six
police officers march down the aisle, mount the steps and stand centre stage in parade perfect formation. Kate, Ro
ger, Gordon, Withers,
Shirley
and Tom
looked out at their audience with blank faces.
Charlotte leaned into Andrew.
“Heaviest grand entrance I’ve ever seen”, she said.
Andrew swallowed his response.
Gordon stepped forward, introduced himself and
the
team. He extended his thanks to everyone for making the effort to be here on time after such a long and no doubt, stressful night.
Promises of a speedy process were made and reassurances of confidentiality given.
Tuning Gordon’s spiel out,
Kate scanned the faces.
No surprises in the facial expressions; it
was always the same
. T
he majority people looked at police the way they looked at strange dogs
- a
lert, wary.
Her gaze halted for a moment on the Stage Manager she met last evening, Andrew
something
.
The rush of instant attraction to the man she felt last night was still there, his charisma, and dark good looks pulled her under with the force of a surfer’s wave. Dangerous stuff. She moved on.
Scanning the back row, two seats from the aisle, she recognized a face. Camira Paul, the actor who played Maggie the Cat. She missed her last night; Gordon or Roger must have spoken with her. She was Hanya’s cousin. Kate met her
months ago
when she picked
Hanya
up at the end of her shift on the suicide line. A beautiful woman, modelling at the time, if memory served her correct, I’m not surprised she moved onto acting.
Finishing her scan
,
she looked
in disbelief at the woman seated in the last row.
It was June
, her hairdresser,
minus her scissors. What the hell was she doing here? Hairdresser to the stars
? Or part-time thespian?
A rumbling noise caught her attention. A beat up trolley,
loaded down with
pastries, a large coffee urn, cups, spoons, milk and sugar, was being pushed down the aisle by a
tall, thin man with a slight paunch below the belt. Kate identified him right away. I
t was the producer
of the production
, Henry Ward
. She had spoken briefly with him
last evening.
On cue, actors and crew rose as one body and made a beeline for the cart. Henry motioned for the police to join them. They shook their heads and waited patiently for the group to resettle. They knew the value of caffeine stoked people during interviews.
Once everyone was
back in their seats,
Gordon cleared his throat and addressed them again. “We have temporarily taken over the Director, Producer
, Set Designer
and Chief Publicist
’s offices
. The interviews will be taped.”
Shuffling noises and nervous coughs could be heard following his remark.
“There’s no reason to be anxious. Taping is a routine procedure for information gathering sessions. The members of our team are experienced interviewers so it shouldn’t
take too long. We need two days to speak with everyone so we
are proceeding alphabetically
. Some of you will leave and return tomorrow morning once you register your presence here with Cst. Tom Adams. We would appreciate it if one of the crew would find
him a table and chair to use.
Ed volunteered set the table and two chairs up on the main stage. Gordon nodded his thanks.
“
We will now proceed with the first four persons, the rest of you remain seated until called upon to register or escorted to an interview.
W
ould Charlotte Beauvoir, Eleanor Foster-Sutton, June Grayson, and Philip Lawson please follow us to the
office
area; Constable Shirley Proctor will summon the rest of you as needed.”
Charlotte lifted her heavy body out of the front row at the same time as June. Eleanor, rose, back rigid and followed behind the other two women. Philip uncoiled his long, lean body, and like a gazelle loped his way down the aisle.
The remaining cast and crew watched the ordered recessional, thanking the gods above they weren’t the first.
***
His office in use by the police, Henry
walked backstage
and open
ed
Charlotte’s dressing room
door
sat in the large swivel chair and stared with uns
eeing eyes at the mirrored wall, his mind on the call he received at home early this morning from the Chair of the Board.
The call
came in at 6:30am.
An official invitation to direct the next scheduled production,
Death of a Salesman,
was made. Henry
remained calm.
He had rehearsed
his response
over and over again. Hedging, he thanked the Chair for his confidence but producing was his field; he wasn’t sure if he could meet the rigors of the Director’s position.
“Don’t so modest, Henry. Jeffrey, God rest his soul
,
and I were talking only a week ago and he sang your praises, recommended you, in fact, for the Director’s chair. Give it a go Henry, if not for your sake, for Jeffrey’s. And for the sake of the actors and crew. If you don’t take the position, it means we will have to refund season tickets, we’ll be in the red and everyone could be out of a job.”
Henry
hesitated for ten seconds, sighed, and then
accepted.
Graciously.
Now he had to work out the logistics. He wanted Eleanor on board as Producer. Given her years of experience in the theatre business, it wouldn’t take long for him to teach her the ropes. It wouldn’t cause any flack among the rest of the cast either. Eleanor’s manner prohibited jealousy.
He hoped he could convince Andrew to stay on as Stage Manager. The man could multi-task and knew what he was doing. He needed him. It would take careful coaxing.
Brenda Parsons was a different matter. Loud, aggressive, talented, and when she thought it was required, an excellent people pleaser
but he
didn’t trust her. She had been schooled by Jeffrey;
he was her mentor. And he had been more than delighted to have a
protégé.
N
o request from Jeffrey had been too demeaning for her. She swept the stage floors, pinned up hems, removed spots from the actors clothing,
and did take out food runs.
The rest of the time she followed Jeffrey around the theatre, scribbling like mad in the little notebook she carried. Henry thought she was a bit long in the tooth for a protégé but
knew she was
more valuable on the roster than off.
He decided to make her
assistant stage manager. Andrew can handle her.
As much as Henry despised Jeffrey, he never discounted his talent. His ability to encourage, motivate, inspire and coax the best performance out of a complex, multi-talented team of actors had been astounding.
He’d be a t
ough act to follow.
But he would succeed. He had to.
He heard a sound
of approaching footsteps.
He slipped out of the dressing room before anyone saw him.
***
Roger entered the deceased Director’s office followed closely by Charlotte Beauvoir.
His eyes swept around the room. H
e was s
urprised at its
beauty. It was pristine, immaculate, furniture well placed. He sat in the executive chair that was so deeply cushioned a small child could hide in its folds.
I feel like Captain Kirk taking the command seat.
The room bore no traces of the feminine. There was a faint aroma of pipe and cigar smoke. The dark mahogany bookcase was filled with leather bound volumes on the history of the Canadian and American theatre.
With a nod, he directed Charlotte to the plush twin of the executive chair facing the cherry wood desk. He ignored the loud slight protest of the chair’s springs as she seated herself.
Wonder if Scotty would be able to beam her up?
He could hear his mother’s voice, it sounded like it was coming from behind his chair.
Lose the fat jokes, Roger, and grow up.
He smiled at Charlotte.