Speak Now (19 page)
The police were a constant presence at the theater for the first few days following the identification of our playwright’s body. They questioned everybody. Judging by the number of interviews, they were especially interested in what Simon had to say. Although it could have just seemed that way to me because Eileen had suggested him as their favorite suspect. She quietly lined up a lawyer for him just in case.
As far as I could tell, the authorities had made no progress towards finding Nancy Tyler’s killer. They speculated that the murderer might have sneaked into the suite behind a maid or a bellman who had delivered the assorted homecoming presents during the day, and done something to the lock in order to bring the body in unobserved some time later. Either that or he’d stolen a passkey. And she might have been only unconscious when he brought her to the room. She might have still been clothed. The fatal dose might have been injected somewhere else or right there in the tub. There were no clues.
Inspector Yahata finally made arrangements for us to view the tapes from the lobby security cameras, but they didn’t show anyone suspicious. Jack and I spent an afternoon watching the grainy black-and-white images. People came and went in jerky motions, but Jack recognized no one, and I thought everyone looked equally sinister.
There was no security tape of our hallway. The camera that was supposed to film it had developed mechanical problems about an hour before we checked in. Like Yahata, I’m not a big believer in coincidences.
Flank was joined at the theater by three more bodyguards. My clever story about him being my personal trainer had never seen the light of day. After learning about the playwright’s murder, the cast and crew were more than happy to accept the existence of a security force at the theater.
The next time I saw him, I told Inspector Yahata about Brian’s disappearance. He listened with intense politeness but didn’t seem terribly interested in pursuing the matter. I didn’t blame him. I wasn’t so sure there was anything suspicious about Brian’s disappearance anymore. Eventually I’d gotten around to showing his resignation note to Martha, who’d admitted the possibility that the handwriting was her ex-boyfriend’s hurried scrawl. Then she’d burst into tears and I’d had to send her home for some therapeutic time at her knitting machine. Or her cauldron. Whatever.
Nancy Tyler’s sister flew the body back to Boston to be buried in the family plot. When I got in touch with her, to see if there was anything I could do, she asked if she and her husband could come see Nancy’s play on opening night. Life went on.
***
After two weeks of rehearsals, I wanted to slap the entire cast. Olivia, playing the mother at top volume as a semi-hysterical neurotic attention-seeking bitch, wasn’t acting. And Victor, although he played the father nicely, was clinging to his script like a life preserver.
When I’d coaxed him into going paperless for one tiny bit where he only had one line, he’d completely frozen, then, turning red under everyone’s critical gaze, had hissed “Line!” at Lisa. Her tone dripping with condescension, she’d given him the line, “Hello, Anna.” Victor had stormed off to his dressing room, trailing a surprisingly versatile string of obscenities behind him. Lisa had looked from his retreating back to me and shrugged.
“I’ve heard worse,” she said. I instantly labeled her a treasure.
I suspected Victor was drinking. And I suspected Paul, playing the love interest, was on drugs.
“Perhaps he’s just excitable,” Simon protested when I shared my thoughts with him. We were seated in the dark orchestra seats, comparing notes on the first run-through of Act One.
“Excitable? He sweated and twitched his way through three scenes this morning, then came back after a break absolutely fine.” I scribbled furiously in the margin of my script. “A complete personality change in the space of a ten-minute break has got to scream drug use, don’t you think?” That’s the way it had always been with Cece, anyway.
“Assuming you’re right, what should we do?” Simon asked.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I don’t actually have proof he’s on anything.”
“Although that would explain the sleeves,” Simon said reflectively.
“What sleeves?”
“I, ah, suggested to Martha that we might want to show a little bicep on the boy. Costume-wise, you know.”
“Uh huh.” I knew.
“But she said he had tattoos. Not period, of course, so it was either sleeves or makeup, and sleeves are easier.”
“And hide things like track marks,” I said.
“Well, darling, what are we going to do?”
I thought about it, then sighed. “I think, for the first time in my life, I’m going to ask my cousin Cece for advice.”
“Good Lord,” he said. “I think I just saw a pig fly up to the balcony. Perhaps it was fleeing hell, which has just frozen over. Or—”
“Shut up and tell me about the advance ticket sales.”
The news had been full of the story of the murdered play wright for a few days, and, in a sad commentary on our society, that had sold a lot of tickets. Although it had never been mentioned that I had discovered Nancy’s body in my hotel room—I suspected Harry’s influence had something to do with that omission—it had been repeatedly reported that a play written by the murdered woman was in production by the Rep. Curiosity being what it is, we were now close to sold out for the first few weeks of the run.
Which was scheduled to begin in exactly one month. Which accounted for the squeezed-accordion feeling I had in my chest most of the time.
“How are things with the rest of the cast?” Simon asked. “It’s clear you loath Olivia and Victor, and you think Paul’s a junkie, but aside from that?”
I squinted at the stage, now blissfully free of actors. “Sally’s fine when she’s on, but she’s a kid.” I shrugged. “She gets bored waiting around so she goes looking for trouble.”
“And,” Simon’s voice took on a reverent tone, “how is The Girl?”
“Regan?”
“The very one.”
“She’s…” I hated, absolutely hated, to say it. “She’s great.”
Simon patted my hand. “Don’t worry, darling. I’m sure she’s bad at something.”
***
I’d gotten into the habit of walking to the theater in the mornings with Flank, and usually Jack picked me up at night. But he called around eight and said he and Mike were going to work late, so Flank would drive me home. The staff of bodyguards may have increased, but Flank was still pretty much stuck to me. At least it cut down on the conversational burden.
I was too tired to think straight when I got back to the hotel. I curled up on the sofa, considered ordering room service, and worried about Jack.
He’d been spending most of his time with Mike, and if anyone asked I told them he was working on the business plan for the computer start-up. Of course that was a lie. He and Mike were hunting for the killer.
Jack remained the irritatingly strong and silent type when it came to the investigation. At first I expected him to come home any day announcing he’d captured the killer and made the world safe again—or at least as safe as it had ever been. But no announcements were forthcoming. It was maddening how little he told me about it all. I’d come to expect only a few frustrated words now and then, followed by a quick change of subject.
As time went on, I became more and more convinced the truth was they’d found nothing. Which meant, once again, that the killer would have to find us.
I must have fallen asleep because Jack woke me up when he unlocked the hotel door.
“Sorry, Pumpkin, I thought you’d be in bed by now.”
It was only eleven, but I’d been coming home so tired lately that I’d drop off regardless of the time. The catch was, I’d wake up at about three every morning and obsess for a few hours about the pace at which the actors were coming up to speed, the safety of everyone I knew, the three pounds I’d gained, who might be carrying on Macbeth’s work, whether my husband had ever killed anyone, and anything else that popped into my head.
I referred to that as my thinking time.
“What’s happened?” I moved my legs to make room for Jack on the sofa.
“Hang on.” He stuck his head into the second bedroom, where Flank was at his post, and told him he could leave for the night. I heard a response that may have been “okey dokey,” but probably wasn’t.
When we were alone Jack sank down next to me and pulled my feet onto his lap. “How’d it go at the theater today?”
“The usual. Tears, obscenities, possible drug abuse…all in Act One.” I stretched. “What about you?”
He rubbed my feet absentmindedly. “Nothing. We thought we had a lead in Johannesburg, but…nothing.”
“Johannesburg? As in South Africa?”
“Have you eaten?” And that was the end of the discussion. Maddening.
“I thought about room service before I drifted off.”
He made a face. “I don’t know if I can face that menu again.”
“It’s a little late anyway,” I said, knowing full well that late dining had played a significant part in the three pounds I had sprouted. “Maybe just some toast?”
“I’ll call.” But he made no move toward the phone.
“It’s not too late to order a pizza or some Chinese,” I suggested. “We could get that good crispy duck thing again, if you’re really sick of room service.” If I remembered where it had come from.
“Charley, don’t you miss real food?” he asked, in a tone I’d never heard him use before. He was exhausted, yes, but also…plaintive or mournful or something. Verging on pathetic. It was unnerving.
I sat up. “Real food? You mean like…” What did he mean?
“Food that you cook yourself. You know, so when you come home late and you go to the refrigerator you find leftover spaghetti and meatballs or something.”
“Spaghetti? Meatballs?” He looked positively tragic, and I didn’t think it was just because he was craving pasta. “Sweetie.” I rubbed his shoulder sympathetically. “If you want to find an Italian place that’s still open I’m sure we can.”
He let his head slump back into the cushions. “I don’t want Italian. I just want a home-cooked meal.”
Something icy slithered down my spine and landed in my belly. “Home cooked?” I repeated.
He looked at me. “I like going out just as much as the next guy, but, to be honest, this hotel life is starting to get on my nerves.” His head slumped again. “Especially the food situation.”
Situation?
“Um, Jack…I don’t quite know how to say this.” Could I just come out and say it? Did it really need to be said? I took a deep breath and embraced my personal truth. “I can’t cook.”
He gave me a startled look.
“Really,” I insisted, “I can make coffee in a French press, and I can usually manage to do toast, but not necessarily to butter it without tearing holes in the bread. Jam’s easier. People keep telling me pasta is so simple, but they’re wrong. And, you know, you can do popcorn in a microwave, but you have to be really careful not to burn the bag, and—why are you laughing at me?”
He was. Bastard!
“Look, mister, just because I don’t possess some archaic feminine skill is no reason for you to—” and then his mouth was on mine and I couldn’t argue any more.
Eventually he came up for air and mockery.
“I wish I had a camera. The look on your face is priceless.”
“What the hell is so funny?” I demanded.
He gained control of his features. “I cook.”
Oh.
“
Oh
,” I said, “so the home-cooked meals would be…”
“Supplied by me.”
I considered the scenario. “I think I like that idea.”
“Something told me you would,” he said dryly. “Although…”
“Although what?” I snuggled closer to him, visions of gourmet meals dancing in my head.
“Although if a person’s going to cook it helps to have a kitchen.”
Damn.
I sat back up. “Jack, I know I said I’d deal with the realtor, but with everything that’s happened, and with as crazy as things are at the theater—”
He shut me up by kissing me again. Not the worst way to be silenced, I reflected.
“Jack,” I said when he released me, “the play will open before you know it, and then I’ll devote myself full-time to finding a house.”
He pulled me towards him. “Perfect.”
“I just hope,” I said before he covered my mouth again, “that we won’t need a guest room for Flank.”
The question of real estate settled, or at least postponed to a more convenient time, Jack and I had found something more creative than dinner to occupy the rest of the evening.
I was just the slightest bit stiff in the morning, having drifted off in a somewhat unorthodox position. And for once I hadn’t woken with my usual three o’clock case of insomnia. But the stiffness was nothing a brisk walk to the theater couldn’t work out. All things considered, I was in a damn fine mood.
Which was destroyed the instant I set foot on the stage.
“Charley, dear, I must speak with you immediately!” Olivia’s strident voice didn’t simply project to the upper balcony, it slapped the far wall and stampeded back. “Chip made some ridiculous comment about shortening my pot roast speech, and I think you’ll agree—”
“Charley, we have to talk,” Paris called out from his position high on a ladder. “First thing!” He shot Olivia an evil look.
“Charley, there you are!” Victor strode forcefully towards me. “We need to discuss the attitude of certain people.” He glared at Lisa, who had fed him his famous line the day before. “And the complete lack of respect—”
“Charley! You’re simply not going to believe the printer costs for adding one bloody page in tribute to our dead playwright!” Simon waved a mock-up of the program at me, his sense of fiscal outrage having rendered him tactless on the subject of our dead playwright.
I wondered if this was how preschool teachers felt, always having children climbing on them as they tried to make their way across the classroom. This reflection was cut short by the sight of Sally walking along the balcony railing as if it were a balance beam.
I pushed away the program that Simon had thrust under my nose. “Simon, sweetie, go make sure our child star doesn’t kill herself.” I gestured toward the balcony.
“Christ on a bike,” he muttered. “You! Infant! Come down from there immediately! Where’s your mother?”
“Don’t worry.” Lisa appeared out of nowhere, the way all good stage managers should. She set off purposefully. “I’ll take care of it.”
I couldn’t watch. I turned and came face to face with an indignant Olivia. “Really, Charley, this simply can’t wait. If you intend to have Chip do your dirty work for you, I completely understand,” this said in a way that was not at all understanding, “but I’d like to hear it from you if you intend to butcher the most soul-defining speech my character makes in this entire—”
“Olivia, sweetie, let me talk to Chip,” I said. “We all know the first act is running long, right?”
Her eyes flared. “That’s no reason—”
“So doing a little trimming here and there—” I ignored her sharp intake of breath, “isn’t out of the question. But I’ll talk to Chip,” I rushed on, “all right? Martha! Isn’t it time for Olivia’s fitting?” I thrust the old girl into Martha’s surprised arms before she could respond.
“Charley!” Paris called. “When do we deal with the refrigerator problem?”
Refrigerator problem?
“Can it wait until lunchtime, sweetie? It looks like we’re already going to get a late start on Act Two.” That was mainly due to the fact that, although Regan was sitting quietly at a table looking over her lines, there was no sign of Paul.
“If you say so,” Paris said. “But don’t come crying to me when you’ve got no kitchen on opening night.”
Where was Paul? “Chip!” I called, looking around the stage. Where was Chip?
“He’s upstairs,” Victor pronounced in a tone of grim satisfaction. “Probably getting blown by that bitch stage manager.”
This was a new side to Victor.
“Charley, I insist you get rid of her,” he pressed, following me as I headed for the stairs. “The way she treated me yesterday was inexcusable. I won’t have some fucking nobody making a fool of me in front of the entire cast and crew. Who the hell does she think she is? She’s worked at this theater for all of five minutes, and she thinks she can —”
“Victor.” I turned on him at the foot of the stairway. “That’s enough. I’ll talk to her about her attitude but nobody has time to find yet another new stage manager, all right?”
His eyes narrowed. “If she ever—”
“Thanks, Victor.” I walked away.
I found Chip behind the desk in the office. “Oh, Charley, there you are.” He looked pointedly at his watch.
If my gun hadn’t been buried at the bottom of my bag I might have shot him. “Chip, what the hell—”
“We’re running late,” he interrupted, and threw in an accusatory look for good measure. “And I’ve got this whole list of issues to go over with you before we get started. Do you need coffee?”
I sat on the couch and rubbed my temples. “Lots.”
***
By the time we made it through Chip’s issues list, the cast had been waiting for over an hour. Except for Paul, who’d only just rushed in, late and full of excuses again.
The day’s goal was to get through all of Act Two. The first scene, which included only Regan and Paul, was relatively painless. But then came the scene where Regan had a heart-to-heart that was supposed to turn into a heated confrontation with her father, Victor.
It was excruciating. Despite the fact that her character had the bulk of the dialog, Regan was already off book. Although nobody expected the same from Victor, he seemed to take it as a personal insult that the girl could do what he couldn’t. He played the scene like a sulky child—a sulky actor—instead of as a well-meaning father.
When we broke for lunch, I pulled Regan aside.
She began with an apology. “I’m sorry, Charley, but I don’t know what I’ve done to get Victor so upset.” Her huge green eyes were twin pools of sincerity. I wished I could get over the impulse to slap her.
“I think you’re just a little intimidating for him,” I told her.
She looked stunned. “Intimidating?” She shook her head, sending her smooth golden ponytail rippling. “But he’s so old.”
I assumed by “old” she meant “experienced.”
“Well, yes, that’s part of the problem,” I said reasonably.
She gave me a blank look.
“You’re very young, and you’re coming up on your lines faster than he is.”
“Oh.” She looked at me with an expression that clearly said she had no idea what to do.
“Regan, sweetie,” I began.
“Yes?”
Sometimes a woman can appear to be very beautiful just by the way she looks at you. I’ve seen it happen with actresses who know just how to turn their heads, just how to gaze with the right mixture of…something. It’s as if they can blind you with their personality so you don’t see their little laugh lines or the bumps on their noses. They can dazzle you.
Regan had this gift. On top of being extraordinarily beautiful. And enormously talented.
So what the hell was she doing in my beloved but admittedly second-rate Rep company? And why on earth had she thought she needed Rix’ influence to get her there?
And then it hit me. And I knew. And I had to talk to Jack.
“Um, Charley?” Regan said hesitantly.
“Just hold your script when you’re working with Victor, okay Regan? I know you don’t need to, but it’ll make him feel better.”
The tiniest of vertical lines appeared between her perfectly shaped brows, but she shrugged and said “Okay.”
“Charley!” Paris yelled from somewhere up in the rigging. “If you go running off before we talk about the refrigerator situation I swear I’ll never speak to you again!”
Right. The refrigerator situation. I told Regan to go get some lunch and turned my face toward the dark catwalks above the stage. “Chip’s got some sandwiches,” I called into the darkness, not entirely sure where Paris was. “Come up to the balcony.”
I had started carrying a messenger bag (Kate Spade, of course) instead of a purse. I usually wore it hands-free, with the strap across my chest, because I knew Flank would rat me out to Jack if I ever wandered away from it—and what was in it—again. Now I fumbled in its depths to find my cell phone. I had to tell Jack what I’d just figured out. I pulled out the phone and started punching buttons.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Paris said from behind my left shoulder. He plucked the phone out of my hand, hung up, and handed it over. Then he stood back, making a gesture that would have smoothed every hair into place, except he’d been shaving his head bald for the past several years. “We need to talk.”
I sighed and dropped the phone back into the bag. “Let’s find Chip.”
He was in the balcony. He said “What’s up?” through a mouthful of tuna salad and handed me a tomato, basil, and fresh mozzarella on foccacia. Paris grabbed a ham and Gouda. “Charley, I know we used a refrigerator in that ridiculous outer space play we did last season.” He turned to Chip. “Didn’t we?”
Chip nodded and swallowed. “It’s what the frozen replacement body parts were kept in.”
I’m so sorry I never got to see that play.
“Well, where is it?” Paris demanded. “I need to outfit a whole kitchen, and I can re-use that.” He turned to me. “After remodeling it, you know, painting it that fifties green and sticking on some chrome.” Back to Chip. “So where is it?”
Chip took a swig of grape soda. “That’s right. You went on vacation before we closed last season.”
Paris looked at me. “Girl, that last play was just about all my nerves could handle.”
I nodded sympathetically and drained my mango iced tea.
“We took out a lease on Mangia’s back room,” Chip informed us. “They made us an offer we couldn’t refuse.” He grinned.
“The restaurant next door? We leased their back room?” I hadn’t heard about that.
“Their storage room. They weren’t using it, and it’s where that door in the back of the prop room leads to. Their building used to be part of the theater before it was cut down.”
I thought back to all the documents I’d read when I’d bought the theater. The building had been built in the 1930s, and originally had included office space occupied by song writers, music publishers, talent agents, and assorted other theatrical types. The office building had been separated from the theater and sold off sometime in the sixties. It now had a decent Italian restaurant on the ground floor and an Asian import/export business on the other three.
“Weren’t all the connecting doors sealed up?” I asked.
“Sure, but just with one layer of brick. Mangia’s said we could break through, then they’d seal up their door to the room and we could have sole use of it.”
“Is that legal?” I asked.
“Simon approved it,” Chip said. “We took sledgehammers to the brick wall after the party on closing night.”
I wondered if Simon had consulted Eileen. Or a structural engineer.
“And you’re saying that’s where the refrigerator is?” Paris brought us back to the point.
Chip nodded. “All the big stuff that was crowding the prop room. Remember the pool table? And the purple couch?”
“Well, what are we doing here?” Paris exclaimed. “Let’s go have a look.”
I checked my watch. We were due to resume rehearsing Act Two in ten minutes. Looking over the balcony, I could see Olivia and Regan sitting on opposite sides of the stage, and Lisa bustling around efficiently.
“Let’s make it quick,” I said. I really didn’t need to go with them on a refrigerator hunt, but I was curious about the new storage room.
“Simon’s got the key, I think,” Chip said. “I’ll go get him and meet you there.” He dashed off, calling back over his shoulder, “Charley, we’ll have to plan on staying extra late tonight, since we’re wasting lunch.”
Perfect.
Paris and I headed for the prop room, which was quite a bit tidier than I’d ever seen it before.
“Someone’s been busy,” I said.
“I’ll bet it was Lisa,” Paris said. “That girl is amazing.”
“She is, isn’t she?” Neatly typed labels marked the proper places for everything on the wall-to-wall shelves.
Paris turned a footstool upside down to look at the workmanship. “I think I’ll ask Chip for help the next time I hire someone. He’s got the magic touch.”
I looked more closely at the labels. Were they alphabetized? I wondered when Lisa ever found the time to sleep.
Simon barged in with Chip. “Charley, didn’t I mention the new storage room? It was just what we needed.” He gestured at the shelves filled with candelabras, paintings, swords, and other bits and pieces from productions gone by. “This place was bursting at the seams.”
“It looks a lot better than the last time I was in here,” I said.
He flourished a key and headed for the new door at the back of the room. “I don’t suppose we need to lock it, really,” he said. “Oi, that’s weird.” He turned the handle. “It wasn’t locked.”
“Really?” Chip asked. “I thought we agreed, since the more valuable pieces were in there…”
“Someone must have forgotten.” Simon opened the door and fumbled for the light switch.
The room was musty, with an undertone of the olive oil and Parmesan that Mangia’s must have stored there before abandoning the room. The light showed furniture under dust covers and various out-of-place-looking portions of sets. Against the back wall was the refrigerator.
Chip frowned. “Aren’t there regulations about how abandoned fridges are supposed to be kept?” he asked. “Aren’t you supposed to remove the door?”
“I don’t really think any unsuspecting child is about to come in here and play in it,” Paris scoffed.
“But we do have a child in this production,” I pointed out. “And the door was unlocked.” I reached for the refrigerator handle. “Although I don’t think any harm’s done.”
I opened the door. There was something in it.
“What’s that?” Chip asked, right about the time I screamed.
Slowly, stiffly, as if against its will, the body fell from the refrigerator to the floor.
“Good Lord,” Simon whispered. “It’s Brian.”
Our missing director. With a small round hole between his eyes.