Set the Stage for Murder (6 page)

“
Maybe that’s what Roz was talking about,” Vicki said, almost to herself.

“
Okay, spill it,” demanded Marc. “There’s something you haven’t told us. What did Roz say?”

“
Oh,” Vicki sighed, “I guess it’s pointless to try to keep something from you.”

“
You’re damn right it is,” Marc agreed as he refilled her glass. “You tell us everything you know and this time
really
don’t leave one thing out.”

So she proceeded to tell the two of them about Roz’s strange confession and even stranger request to handle the situation on her own.

“So do you think Sally Crandall could have sent that note because of what happened between Roz and Ed?” Ethan asked.

“
Well, it could be one explanation,” Vicki admitted. “Although it doesn’t really sound like Sally, does it? She must know that Ed sleeps around. If she wrote notes to every woman he’s been with, she have terminal writer’s cramp and wouldn’t have time to do anything else.”

“
Maybe it’s different this time because it’s Roz,” Marc offered. “Ed’s not going to leave Sally for a lovely, but destitute, chorus girl . . . ”

“
But he might for another wealthy, successful actress?” Vicki pondered. “You’re right, the stakes are certainly higher when the other woman is Roz Whiting.”

“
Good Lord, this weekend is going to be interesting.” Ethan stood up and started picking up the dishes, feeding Clementine scraps of bread from the leftover sandwiches. “We’ve got quite the gathering of personalities.”

“
And we haven’t even mentioned Connor,” Vicki said, draining her glass and putting in on the tray in Marc’s hand. “Who I understand is a bone of contention between Roz, Meg and Juliet right now.”

“
Yeah,” Marc said. “What’s
that
all about?”

“
I’m not sure. They’ve all known each other for years. Now I hear they don’t want Juliet to have anything to do with him. It’s all too much for me to figure out after two martinis.”

“
Well all I know,” Marc began as he started toward the house, Clementine at his heels, “is that we’re not putting out the best dishes, just in case someone starts throwing them. And there will not be steak on the menu; something tells me we shouldn’t set sharp knives on the table.”

Teddy McDowell’s family had been entrenched in the theater ever since his great-great grandparents had married. James and Lenore McDowell had instilled a love of all things theatrical in their children and that interest had grown exponentially over the generations. McDowells of both genders had worked in the theater for more than a hundred years. There had been performing McDowells, directing McDowells, and designing McDowells. There had even been other producing McDowells, the most successful being Teddy’s great uncle, Cyrus, who had backed a series of wildly successful revues in the 1920s before getting married to a French countess and moving to Paris. Through the years, McDowell homes, including the one in which Teddy was reared, had hosted the brightest and best that the stage had to offer. The great American composers had sat at his parents’ grand piano and played while some of the most famous voices of the twentieth century belted out early versions of songs that were now classics. And more than one gifted dramatist had relied on the generosity of a McDowell and his or her well-stocked liquor cabinet while writing a play or at least thinking about writing a play. At this point there was not a credible accounting of American Theater history that didn’t list the contributions of the McDowell family.

Had he not been raised in such an environment by such a family, there is no telling what Teddy would have done with his life. Most likely, he would have gone into the other family business, the one that kept all the McDowells afloat. It had started as banking many years ago and grew to encompass just about anything involving money. It was now known as McDowell Financial and it had been around for almost two hundred years. There were branches of MF in every major city in the world. Teddy’s father, John Jr., ran the company until his death. Although both Phoebe and Teddy sat on the board of directors, it was Teddy’s brother, Andrew, along with his cousin Meredith who now held the reins. So Teddy was free to do the thing that he had wanted to do ever since he was that little boy who had sat under his parents’ grand piano during parties; he put on shows, and he did it well. His track record over the past 24 years was enviable. Business rivals were quick to call it luck, but the savvier among them paid close attention to just how Teddy went about doing what he did. Of course, that was when he still had business rivals because in the current state of American theater, Teddy McDowell was an anomaly. In a rather small section of Manhattan between 41
^st
and 53
^rd
and between 6
^th
and 9
^th
avenues, a section known all over the world as Broadway, Teddy was now the only independent American theatrical producer. It was extraordinarily expensive to produce a Broadway, shows these days. A straight play with simple sets and even simpler actors could cost upwards of two million dollars, whereas a big musical with a big cast with big egos might be budgeted at eight million and end up costing twelve. Individuals who could afford to and who had an interest in backing these sorts of uncertain ventures were few and far between. Today, the single name above the title was almost a thing of the past in the world of theater. Gone were the days when a producer would build a theatre and produce whatever he wanted to, whenever he wanted to do it. Gone were people like David Belasco, Florenz Ziegfeld, and David Merrick, who once ruled over the Great White Way with iron fists that were able to pummel the best out of the talented people they had assembled. Nowadays, if people produced theatre, they did it in groups or by committee. It wasn’t unusual for a dozen or more persons to be associated with backing a new show. More likely than not, individuals and committees alike had been replaced by corporations and international conglomerations. The maker of the taxicab that dropped you off in front of the theater might also be producing the show you were about to see. Or maybe it’s the distiller of the scotch you had at the bar or the Hollywood studio that hopes to make the film version of the play. This sort of corporatization was now the norm. What was
not
the norm was one person calling all the shots, paying all the bills, and making or losing all the money, which is why Teddy McDowell was an anomaly. He did it all and he did it all alone. Oh, he listened with an open mind to the advice of his directors, his designers, and even to his actors, if he’d had a drink or two. He also had a small but brilliant support staff. And, of course, he had Vicki, whose advice and opinions he valued as much as he did his own acumen. But at the end of the day, when the buck had to stop, it did so on Teddy’s antique desk in his mahogany-paneled office in mid-town Manhattan. In fact, it stopped at the very place where his assistant, Clea, had just placed a box of Cuban cigars. Teddy could not take his eyes from the box.

“
I guess Sir Anthony doesn’t know you quit,” she said with a mischievous grin on her face. “Shall I get them out of your sight, or do you want to open it and sniff one just to torture yourself? ‘Cause if you’re gonna do that, I wanna watch.”

‘
Maybe you could light one and smoke it for me? Then I’ll just observe … and inhale ” Teddy countered, never taking his eyes from the cigars.

“
Hmmmm …” Clea muttered as she picked up the box and closed the lid. “It might be fun to put you through all that, but I don’t think I’ve got the stomach for it. How ‘bout we put’em away ‘til we need to bribe a theater owner or an agent or something?”

“
Okay, Clea, but put them in your desk … and lock the drawer … and under no circumstances should you let me have the key or leave it where I can find it. Got it?”

“
Yeah, I got it,” Clea answered, “although, you know, a real man could break into that drawer in nothin’ flat.”

“
Well, then,” Teddy began, “we’re awfully fortunate that I’m only a pale facsimile of those gentlemen with whom you choose to spend your evening hours.”

“That’s for darn sure, T.M.,” Clea said.

“
Now, get those things out of here before I fire you,” Teddy commanded.

“
Not worried one little bit,” Clea countered over her shoulder as she exited. “Not only do I know where all the bodies are buried, I know who we’re killin’ next before you do.”

And with that totally accurate statement she shut Teddy’s door, leaving him alone in his still smoke-free office. Like many of his employees past and present, Clea was a former actor; if indeed, such an animal existed. An actor might stop getting paid to act, but it was Teddy’s experience that he or she rarely stopped performing. Clea was a fine example. She constantly entertained him with her deep-from-the-heart-of-Texas routine, which was pretty close to the real Clea. However, visitors to the office or callers on the phone would swear they were speaking to the headmistress from some East Coast boarding school when they encountered the formidable Ms. Clea Lucille Green of the Amarillo Greens. She had been with Teddy for 16 years and with the exception of asking Vicki to marry him four years ago, hiring Clea was the smartest decision he’d ever made.

“
Come back in here for a minute,” he yelled through the door.

Clea opened the door, poked her head in and said “you do remember that we’ve got a real expensive intercom system and don’t need to be shoutin’ like street vendors, don’t you?”

“
You know everything,” he said. “What horrible thing has Roz Whiting done?”

“
You mean besides flirting with her married ex-husband in public or carrying on with her sweet daughter’s new boyfriend?

“
What?” Teddy asked, suddenly forgetting all about his plan to break into Clea’s drawer once she had left for the day.

“
Which what?” Clea asked.

“
Whichever,” Teddy replied. “Just talk.”

“
Well,” Clea began, “you know how I occasionally stop by
Overture
for a drink after work?”

Teddy nodded and smiled.
Overture
was a theater-district bar popular among actors, backstage crew and just about anyone else who worked in the theater. It was also where Clea held court almost every night of the week. Because of her connection to Teddy and because she was a hoot, everyone in the industry knew or wanted to know Clea. She had a regular table at there, where the owner and staff catered to her and her guests. While sitting at that table, Clea had rescued more than one deal that Teddy had bungled. Oh yes, Teddy knew she
occasionally
stopped by
Overture
for a drink.

“
Well,” Clea continued, taking a seat in one of the chairs in front of Teddy’s desk, “two nights ago, about 11:00, in walks Roz Whiting, big as ya’ please, with none other than Tony Dupree on her arm. They took the back booth – you know, the one folks sit at when they don’t want ya’ to see anything? That one. They laughed a lot.”

“
How long did they stay?” Teddy asked.

“
Oh,” Clea said as she made a show of demurely examining her manicure, “until the dame walked in … and by ‘dame’ I don’t mean just some gal off the street, I mean …”

Teddy sat bolt upright in his chair. “Caroline walked in and found them?”

“
Uhmm hmmmm.” Clea said. “She was with that silly Walter Boscobel and his man friend, Kirby. And let me tell you that Tony Dupree has pretty quick reflexes for a 70-year-old so and so. He was on his feet and scooting Dame Caroline out the door before you could say ‘the British are coming’.”

“
Well, that’s very interesting, isn’t it?” Teddy mused. “And what do you mean, Roz with Juliet’s boyfriend? I didn’t know she had a boyfriend. It’s always seemed to me that Roz, and especially Meg, pretty much kept the boys at bay.”

“
Well, they’re not doing a very good job at keeping that Cortez boy at bay, are they?” she asked, raising one eyebrow.

Teddy’s eyes widened as he leaned forward and put his elbows on the desk. “Connor Cortez? Those kids couldn’t be more different. You’re telling me that Juliet Whiting and Connor Cortez are seeing each other romantically? Clea Greene, are you sure about that?”

She cast a withering glance at him. “T.M., do I say it if I don’t know it?”

“
No,” Teddy sighed. “No, you don’t.” He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. “Well, we’ve certainly got some interesting dynamics happening in our new production, haven’t we? And rehearsals aren’t even under way.” He looked out the window, wishing he hadn’t banished those Cuban cigars to Clea’s safekeeping. “Okay, what
about
Roz and Connor? Did you see them at
Overture
, as well?”

“
Uhmm hmmmm,” Clea murmured as she got up from the chair and headed for the ringing phone on her desk. “It was at the bar and it was quicker than a New York minute, but I’ll bet you my Daddy’s prize heifer that Roz Whiting is up to no good with that boy.” And with that parting shot, she closed the door.

Yes, Clea Lucille Green was handy to have around, thought Teddy as he picked up the phone to call Vicki.

****

Vincent Spiritos took a great deal of delight in schedules, regimens, and rules; as far as he was concerned, a life well ordered was a life well lived. One only had to visit his tiny apartment in Hell’s Kitchen to see efficiency at its finest. Everything coexisted harmoniously in an environment that would make any minimalist proud. A few select pieces of white mid-century furniture sat atop a rug with a simple geometric pattern in white, black, and chartreuse. A very large contemporary painting depicting an untouched crossword puzzle, a gift from an artist friend who knew of and shared Vincent’s love of games and conundrums, hung above the sofa. A plasma television was mounted on the opposite wall and under it was a custom-built low, wall-to-wall bookcase, stained ebony to match the hardwood floors. Displayed on those shelves, next to a small but excellent stereo, were the few personal items and books that had survived Vincent’s periodic and keen editing. The bedroom and kitchen, both also black and white, were similar in style to the main room, yet contained even fewer items.