Show Business Is Murder (21 page)

“Dean moves up,” the director said.

“Not on your life,” the playwright told him. “No way Dean plays that part.”

“Well, who's gonna do it, you?”

“At least I know the lines.”

“Yes, but you don't look that part.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Barnaby, give it a rest.”

“I look the part as much as Dean does.”

“I'll get someone.”

“Who?”

“I'll get someone.”

“Not without my approval.”

“You approved Dean.”

“Not for that part, I didn't.”

My brain was having trouble catching up with the situation (which, as my wife could tell you, is a normal circumstance for me), but apparently while I was calming the fears of the two actresses, the playwright had returned from the locker room, and Dean, evidently the actor playing the part of Ralph, had been summoned to it. Which was why the two men felt free to disparage his acting talent so openly and bluntly. Besides having a very small part in the play, the actor Dean seemed by far the least likely murder suspect, but, hey, mine was not to reason why; if the police wanted him that was their business.

Dean was out about five minutes later and sent the director in.

The playwright immediately pounced on Dean, wanting to know what he'd been asked, what was going on, and whether the police seemed inclined to shut down the play.

Dean (I would say Mr. Dean, but I wasn't sure whether it was his first or last name), wasn't helpful. I saw at once why the playwright wouldn't want him in the part. He was a tall, shy, nerdy man, with a particularly nasal voice. Dean hadn't really established his presence in the few short lines his character had been given, but his vocal quality was certainly apparent now.

I had to sympathize with the playwright. Dean was
younger, taller, thinner, and had hair, but throw in the voice, and Barnaby Farnsworth was an Adonis compared to Dean.

“Geesh, so many questions,” Dean whined. “You're worse than he is.”

“What did he want?” the playwright insisted.

Dean let out a horsey-toothed guffaw, which further cemented the fact he would have been totally inappropriate for Fletcher's part.

“The murder, of course. He asked me about the murder.”

“Did he call it a murder?”

Dean frowned. “Dunno. Can't remember. Did he call it a murder when he talked to you?”

“If he
had,
I wouldn't be
asking,
” the playwright said witheringly.

“Oh. Then I guess he didn't.”

“So what did he want to know?” Charlotte said. “Did he ask you about me?”

“Or me?” Emily chimed in.

“He asked about everybody.”

“And what did you tell him?” Charlotte demanded.

“That he was a goofy guy, but everybody seemed to like him.”

Charlotte and Emily moaned in mutual distress.

“Did he ask you where you were when he died?” I said.

“Of course he did.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I was in the wings like everybody else.”

“I was in the light booth,” the light man said.

“He didn't ask about you.”

“Oh.” The light man seemed somewhat miffed at being passed over as a murder suspect.

Next up was Charlotte. Her mouth fell open in disbelief when the director came back and told her. One might have thought he'd just accused her of the crime.
“Me?”
she said. “He wants to see
me?
”

“He wants to see everybody,” the director said. “It's just your turn.”

“Did he ask for me, or did he just tell you to send someone?”

“He asked for you. But it doesn't mean anything.”

“What do you mean it doesn't mean anything? How can it not mean anything? What did you tell him about me?”

“I didn't tell him anything.”

“Then how did he know to ask for me?” Charlotte wailed.

“Relax,” I said. “It's simple police procedure. He's just taking all our statements. Trust me. The order doesn't matter.”

I WAS LEFT
for last. I knew what that meant. I was the chief suspect, and the cop was gathering all the evidence he could before he questioned me.

The boy's locker room had water and towels on the floor and smelled of sweat, and reminded me of my days on the high school basketball team, so many years ago.

The cop was straddling a wooden bench in front of a row of metal lockers. His notebook was open in front of him. He gestured to me to sit opposite him. I wasn't sure whether to straddle the bench, as he was, or sit sideways. I wondered what the women had done. I opted to straddle.

“Mr. Hastings, is it?” the cop said.

“That's right.”

“You're Stanley Hastings, you're a private investigator from New York City?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“It's been mentioned.”

I bet it had. What with my relative position to the corpse when he took a dive, the others must have been invoking my name every chance they got.

“Yeah, I'm a P.I. But nothing glamorous. I work for a negligence lawyer in Manhattan.”

“So what are you doing here?”

“My wife's aunt retired after twenty-five years of civil service, took a trip abroad. Gonna be gone all summer. She needed someone to housesit, water the plants. Alice thought it would be a free vacation.”

“Alice is your wife?”

“That's right.”

“How's it going?”

“So far we've run out of bottled gas, repaired the central air conditioning, had the plumber in twice, rewired the kitchen, and retiled the bathroom ceiling where the cat fell through.”

“That's very interesting, Mr. Hastings, but I have this murder.”

“You asked the question.”

“That I did. Anyway, you're here for the summer and you tried out for an amateur play?”

“I always wanted to be an actor. I just never got much work.”

“So this meant a lot to you?”

“I was hoping to enjoy it. Not much chance of that now.”

“Or then?”

I blinked. “Huh?”

The cop flipped through his notebook. “According to the other cast members, Mr. Greengrass gave you a pretty hard time. Kidded you, needled you, made fun of your age, your experience, your talent, or lack of it.”

I winced. “They said that?”

“Hey, this is not a review of your performance. They said
Fletcher
said that. That he was the type that was always trying to build himself up by tearing others down. I assure you, none of them had any illusions about Fletcher Greengrass.”

“Well, that's a relief.”

“Still, they pictured you as his chief rival.”

“Oh, for goodness sakes.”

“You take exception to that?”

“I take exception to the suggestion I might have killed him.”

“But you were his chief rival, and you were alone with him on stage.”

“And just how did I kill him, might I ask?”

“I have no idea. I was hoping you could tell me.”

I stared at him. “You're expecting a confession?”

He shrugged. “Well, it's so much neater. And it saves on detective work.”

“I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I didn't kill the gentleman.”

He shook his head. “Ah, the flat denial. I hate the flat denial.”

There was a knock on the locker room door and the detective stuck his head in. “Excuse me, sir. I found something.”

“What is it?”

“In front of the suspect, sir?”

“Absolutely. Confront him with it.”

The detective brought his hand out from under his coat, held up a plastic evidence bag. It appeared empty.

The cop squinted at it. “What's that?”

“It's a pin, sir. A straight pin, like a seamstress would use to pin clothes.”

“Well, it's a theater. You'd expect the costumes to be pinned.”

“Yes, but no one's in costume, sir.”

“Where'd you find it?”

“On stage. Right near where the body was.”

“What makes you think it's important?”

“Point's discolored, sir. Discolored twice. Black and red. It's been dipped in something black, goes nearly halfway up the pin. There's red on the point, looks fresh, could be blood.”

The cop nodded approvingly. “Run it down to the lab. If it's blood, have it analyzed, try to match it up to the victim.
Have the other substance analyzed, and alert the doctor to check for poisons.”

“I'm sure he is, sir. He's the one who told me to look for a sharp object that could have pierced the skin.”

The detective left on his mission.

The cop turned back to me. “You were asking how you could have killed him.”

“I stuck him with a pin?”

“You were close enough to do it.”

“So was everyone else. These poisons are not instantaneous. He was offstage with the other actors. Someone could have stuck him before he went on, the poison could have hit him just about then.”

“I suppose it's possible.”

I sighed. Good lord. Here I was, trapped with a small town hick from the sticks who hadn't got a clue, who had done nothing but listen to people tell stories about me all day, and who was going to arrest me for the crime, just because he was incapable of imagining it the work of anybody else. “Pardon me,” I said, “but since I seem to be your favorite suspect, would it be impolite to inquire if you have any others?”

The cop flipped the pages of his notebook. “The playwright, Barnaby Farnsworth. Forty-two-year-old bathtub enclosure salesman, fancies himself a man of letters. (That is the right term, isn't it—it's been so long since college). Considers himself an intellectual, finds his job beneath him. He was entirely less concerned with the young man's death than how it will affect his play. He didn't like the young man much in the role, but preferred him greatly to the actor, Dean.

“Dean Stanhope, assistant manager at Burger King, resented the decedent, thought he was an arrogant showoff. Jealous of his success with women, particularly the actresses in the play.” He looked at me. “That's your motive, also. At
least the jealousy bit. Anyway, that's him. Would probably be considered too ineffectual to do it, were it not for the cliché serial-killer profile of quiet, unassuming, kept to himself.

“The director, Morton Wainwright, resented the decedent because he eroded his authority by refusing to take direction and humiliated the poor soul whenever possible. You probably noticed that first hand.”

“I have. I can't see killing him over it.”

“Me either. But it's something to be considered.” He referred to his notes. “Morton Wainwright is thirty-seven, he's a high school English teacher, married, two children, been active in community theater for the last two years, this is his third play.

“Then there's Becky Coleman.”

“Who?”

“The actress playing Emily.”

“Oh.”

“You didn't know that?”

“No, I didn't.”

“No wonder Mr. Greengrass had more luck with the ladies.”

“I'm a married man.”

“She's a married woman. She's thirty-two, been married five years. Has two kids. That didn't stop her from finding Mr. Greengrass most attractive. Unlucky for her, the man was a bit of a jerk, wasn't at all discreet, practically everybody knew—except you, I guess—and she was quite concerned he might spill the beans to her husband unless she found some way to silence him first.”

“You've gotta be kidding.”

The cop shrugged. “I thought you didn't want to be the only one with a motive. Anyway, that's hers. As for the other actress . . .”

“Shirley?”

“Ah, you know
her
name. So you're not impervious to
feminine charm. You at least notice women without undergarments. Perhaps you would have cause to eliminate a rival.”

“I thought we were discussing other people's motives.”

“We were, we were. Miss Shirley Goodhue. Single, twenty-eight, hairdresser. Rumored to be the first of the two to be involved with the decedent. When I say
rumored,
that's because these witness statements are so inaccurate. The women themselves are reticent, the observations of their peers are deficient, and the result is hopelessly inadequate.”