A Question of Murder (22 page)

What about GSB “Georgie” Wick? As much as I admired her as a writer, and liked her as a person, I would be less than candid not to acknowledge that she was “strange.” Not that “strange” people necessarily go around killing others. But Georgie certainly had a problem with separating fact from fiction. She’d been in love with a young man who, I surmised, had died prematurely. He looked like Brody, she’d told me, and she claimed that he still visited her, bearing flowers. Had she imagined that Paul Brody was her deceased former lover and stabbed him to death while in some sort of delusional state?

Georgie’s friend, Harold Boynton, could hardly be considered a viable suspect. But both he and Georgie claimed to have seen Brody very much alive after the actor had been stabbed to death. Was Boynton, who’d spent his adult years cavorting around a morgue surrounded by dead bodies, mentally unbalanced? He didn’t come across that way to me, but then again I hardly knew him.

That left other members of the cast aside from Catarina and the Savoys.

Cynthia Whittaker had complained about Brody groping her. But her reaction at the cast meeting conveyed something else. Laura Tehaar, the young woman in charge of props, had displayed overt affection for Brody at that cast meeting.

Monroe Whittaker, the veteran actor who played the father, disliked Brody, according to the script. But what were his views of him off the stage? The same question held for Victoria Whittaker. She seemed to know quite a bit about the deceased. She knew his real age and was aware of his failed Hollywood career. Had she known Brody in Hollywood, perhaps been involved with him romantically?

There was also Ms. Carlisle, the redheaded lady who was part of the Savoy troupe. It was hard to gauge her because I’d had so little interaction with her. She’d not appeared onstage, at least not yet. What was her theatrical background? Had she known Brody from previous show business adventures? Had she been the woman arguing with Brody the first night at the hotel when I came in out of the cold and found him there? Had he been smoking? He’d quit, according to Larry Savoy, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t sneaking a smoke now and then. Ms. Carisle certainly was a heavy smoker, based upon the odor emanating from her suite.

My thoughts kept coming back to Chasseur and his wife. According to Larry, Chasseur had lobbied hard to be part of the weekend, and jumped at the chance when another writer, Tony Tedeschi, dropped out for personal reasons. Chasseur had wanted to be there, yet seemed disinterested in the event and his role in it. Why?

Who’d followed me through that fourth door on the third floor? Whoever it was had been smoking a cigarette.
No, wait,
I told myself. A cigarette had been lighted, but that didn’t mean the person was actually smoking it. Did the man or woman following me want to implicate someone else who was known to be a cigarette smoker?

What was the stagehand, Jeremy, doing in one of the third-floor VIP suites? I knew nothing of him except that he resembled Brody to some extent. Had he and Brody been vying for the attentions of the same woman, leading to a fatal altercation between them? I had nothing upon which to base that, but I wrote it down anyway. So many possibilities, so few answers.

I capped my pen, sat back, closed my eyes and pondered the notes I’d made. The reason there were too few answers to the many questions I’d noted was that I hadn’t been actively seeking them by speaking with the right people.

I opened my eyes. Two hours until dinner. I freshened up in the bathroom, slipped my notepad and pen into my pocket, and headed for the auditorium, where I hoped the rehearsal would still be in progress. The snow had stopped. Soon the road down the mountain would be clear, and everyone would be leaving, including Paul Brody’s killer.

I couldn’t let that happen.

 

 

I was on my way to the auditorium when I made a sudden change in plans. I went to Mark Egmon’s office and found that he’d just returned from his latest meeting.

“Mark, I was wondering whether you have a spare computer I could use to go online. I usually travel with my laptop but left it home this trip.”

“Sure. No problem. Looking for something specific?”

“Anything about Paul Brody. I’ve read his bio, but he might have a Web site that would provide additional information.”

He led me into a small, spartan room off his office that contained a computer, a desk, a chair, and not much else. “Make yourself at home,” he said. “This may be an old building, but the computer system is wireless. Log on to your heart’s content.”

He left, and I sat down in front of the monitor. I connected with Google and typed in the name
Paul Brody
. I was given a choice of 613,000 sites. I added
actor
to his name. A picture of Brody came to life, embedded in his home page’s text, which began with a bio. It confirmed that he came from a theatrical family—his father a producer of Broadway shows and a few motion pictures, his mother a former ballerina. Besides being a producer, his father was also founder and head of a small pharmaceutical firm that had struck it big when a controversial cancer drug it had been developing received FDA approval. No surprise that his business success had preceded his foray into theater and film. Raising money is the primary job of a producer. Having one’s own millions to invest in a play or film certainly eases the path.

Paul was born in New York City and attended private schools there before enrolling as a theater major at NYU. He dropped out after two years and studied acting with various teachers in the city, none of whose names registered with me—Stanislavsky and Adler weren’t among them. The bio listed various off-Broadway shows in which he’d appeared, small roles it seemed. Then he’d left New York and moved to Los Angeles, where he pursued a motion picture career. Those credits were few; none of the films in which he’d appeared were familiar to me, their titles hinting at their subject matter: violence and sex.

One credit caught my attention, however. His most substantive role had been playing a female impersonator in a motion picture targeting the gay audience. A few reviews were included, each praising his performance.

Interesting,
I thought as I continued to peruse his credits. I would have thought after success in the gay role, he’d have found similar film parts to play, but none were listed. The bio ended by saying he’d moved to San Francisco, where he’d become a featured performer in that city’s well-known female impersonator clubs.

I stopped reading, sat back and tried to reconcile the Paul Brody I’d seen at Mohawk House with the one depicted on his Web site. The Paul Brody I’d encountered appeared to be a virile, masculine man who had a reputation for pursuing women, over-aggressively, it seemed in too many cases. Of course, that didn’t mean he wasn’t talented enough to shift gender roles and play a woman—or a drag queen, as such performers are called.

The bio went on for three pages, complete with photographs of him in male clothing and a couple of shots of him dressed as a woman. There were additional pages, but I didn’t bother to read them. An ink-jet printer was connected to the computer, and I printed out everything.

“Get what you need?” Egmon asked.

“Yes, thank you. I got exactly what I needed—I think.”

“You don’t sound too sure.”

“I’m not sure of anything these days,” I said. “Did you get the trees cleared?”

“They’re working on it. Should be done by now, which means the plows will be here any minute.”

I reacted to that news with mixed emotions. On the one hand, it was good that the mountain road would finally be open and people could come and go as they pleased. On the other hand, it meant that whoever killed Paul Brody would be on his or her way, perhaps never to be brought to justice. That latter possibility was unacceptable.

“Mark,” I said, “I saw the fellow who works backstage coming out of one of the VIP suites upstairs. His name is Jeremy. Do you have any idea why he might have been in a suite?”

His “No” was accompanied by a shrug and “unless he roomed up there with Brody.”

“Brody was in one of the suites?”

“For one night. You asked me to check where he’d been put after leaving your room. He was moved to a VIP suite until a lesser room opened up. But that third suite has been empty ever since.”

“Well,” I said, standing and collecting the pages from the printer, “perhaps Jeremy still has a key. Thanks for the use of the computer.”

“My pleasure. Where are you off to?”

“The rehearsal. Have you spoken with Detective Ladd lately?”

“Yes. I sense that he isn’t making much headway in his investigation.”

“I don’t wonder,” I said. “There are so many people—”

“So many suspects?”

“Exactly. Thanks again.”

The rehearsal was in full swing when I walked into the auditorium. Judging from the tension I sensed in the room, things weren’t going well. Larry was pacing the stage in front of Monroe and Victoria Whittaker. Catarina, the maid, and the daughter, Cynthia, sat together on a couch, their faces grim. I spotted Melinda seated at the rear of the house and joined her.

“How’s it going?” I asked.

“Not good,” she said.

“What’s the problem?”

“Larry is being unusually difficult. I mean, he’s always difficult, but this time he’s impossible. He’s on everyone’s case. You’d think he was directing an Arthur Miller or Edward Albee play on Broadway. This is supposed to be fun, broad, slapstick comedy, not a serious drama. He’s got everyone on edge. We’ll have a mutiny on our hands if he doesn’t let up.”

That mutiny suddenly seemed a reality. As Larry berated Catarina yet again for her overacting and high-pitched voice, aping the way she spoke in his falsetto, Cynthia stormed from the stage and came to where Melinda and I sat. She was on the verge of tears.

“I’ve had it, Melinda,” she said. “Enough is enough.”

“Calm down,” Melinda said. “He’ll get over it.”

Larry’s bellowing at Catarina continued from the stage.

“Tell him to leave her alone,” Cynthia said, slumping into the chair next to me.

Melinda got up and went to the stage, where she engaged Larry in a private conversation off to the side.

“Nerves are frayed,” I said.

“Tell me about it,” Cynthia said.

“Paul’s murder has everyone on edge,” I said. “Has Detective Ladd spoken with you?”

She gave a rueful laugh and blew a strand of hair from her forehead. “Twice,” she said. “You’d think he considers me a murderer. Or is it murderess?”

“I don’t think it matters what we call it,” I said. “Had you known Paul Brody before he joined the cast?”

She didn’t answer.

“I’m only interested because—”

“The detective asked me the same question.”

“I’m sure he did.” I waited. “Did you?”

“Yes. In New York.”

“How well did you know him?”

“Did I sleep with him? Is that what you’re asking?”

“I’m only asking how well you knew him.”

“Well, if you must know, Mrs. Fletcher, I didn’t sleep with Paul.”

I looked at the stage, where Catarina was now alone.

“I understand the young actress playing the maid had an affair with Paul in New York. Did you know that?”

“Sure. Everybody in the cast knows it.” She turned to face me. “She didn’t kill him,” she said flatly, as though to think otherwise was demented.

“That’s good to hear,” I said. “Did Paul play any of his female roles when you knew him in New York?”

She looked at me as though
I
was demented. “Female roles? What female roles?”

“Maybe I’m mistaken,” I said, “but the bio on his Web site says he did, in Los Angeles and San Francisco.”

“Paul Brody play a woman? Oh, my God, what a joke. He always considered himself Mr. Macho, trying to bed every woman he met, young or old, fat or skinny, beautiful or plain.”

“I wasn’t suggesting he wasn’t masculine. After all, many heterosexual male actors have successfully played females in movies and on the stage.”

“Not Paul,” she said.

“You seem certain that Catarina had nothing to do with his murder. Is there anyone else in the cast who might have had a motive to kill him?”

“He wasn’t a well-liked person, Mrs. Fletcher. He crossed a lot of people. But would that be enough for someone to murder him? I can’t imagine anyone going to that extreme.”

“I can’t either,” I said, “but someone did—go to that extreme.”

“Cynthia!” Larry called from the stage. “Come on. Let’s do that scene again. We haven’t got all day.”

“Excuse me,” Cynthia said, standing and straightening her clothing. “Simon Legree is calling.”

I smiled as I watched her join Larry on the stage. He was obviously a demanding taskmaster, but despite how upset some cast members were, they seemed to respect him and tried to please.

The scene Larry ran through now involved only Cynthia and Catarina. As I watched, Victoria took the seat next to me that Cynthia had vacated.

“Things going well?” I asked.

“Things are going terribly,” she said. “I don’t know what’s gotten into Larry’s head. He’s wound tighter than a spring today.”

“He’s under a lot of pressure,” I offered. “The play
and
the real murder.”

“Paul’s murder shouldn’t concern him,” she said.

“It concerns everyone,” I said, a little taken aback at the callousness of her comment. “It’s hard not to think about it, especially for you and the others on the stage. After all, that’s where he died.”