Show Business Is Murder (22 page)

“May I ask what you majored in in college?”

“What, a cop can't be literate? I read a lot, in between homicides. Luckily, there aren't that many.”

“You don't think a little experience might be of help?”

“Oh. Irony. I am cut to the quick. I may have to arrest you after all.”

“You were saying about Charlotte.”

“Charlotte?”

“Sorry. That's her stage name. I mean Shirley.”

“Ah, yes. The lovely Shirley Goodhue. Apparently the first of the decedent's affections. Which is significant in that if she felt herself replaced, so rudely and abruptly, by a married woman no less, perhaps to rub it in her face that she was nothing more than a brief dalliance . . .” He shrugged. “Well, a woman scorned. She would have every reason to hate young Mr. Greengrass. Wouldn't you say she made a dandy suspect?”

“I prefer her to me.”

“How ungallant of you. Anyway, those are your chief suspects. You also have Sam Dobson, a harmless old coot of a stage manager. Seventy-seven, retired postman, living on a pension. Some men his age are sharp as a tack; Sam isn't. Even with all the stories you hear about postal workers snapping, I bet you a nickel he didn't do it.

“An even longer shot is the light man, Randy Haines,
thirty-five, certified public accountant. He was in the light booth when it happened and didn't see a thing.”

“And he resents it bitterly. I agree, he's most unlikely.”

“So who did it? I gotta arrest somebody. Otherwise the people will feel I'm not doing my job. If you were me, who would you arrest?”

“I don't think you have the evidence to arrest anyone.”

“Is that wishful thinking?”

“No. I just happen to have the advantage over you in knowing I didn't do it.”

“You have any idea who did?”

“Not really.”

“Too bad.”

“Yes. But it occurs to me, there might be a way to find out.”

“Oh? And just what might that be?”

“Re-enact the crime.”

THE SUSPECTS WERE
all seated in the audience. Actually, they were seated in the gym on folding chairs, right under one of the basketball hoops, which in theory would be cranked up out of sight for performances, but was left down for rehearsals. The suspects consisted of the playwright, the director, the stage manager, the light man, and the three remaining actors.

I didn't count myself as a suspect. If that's unfair, sue me.

Also on hand were the cop and the detective, back from dropping the pin off at the lab.

The cop stood on the stage. “Ladies and gentlemen, I'm sorry to hold you here. But we must clear up this crime. Because it is a crime, without doubt. Fletcher Greengrass did not die of a heart attack, or stroke, or any such natural cause. He was killed by a lethal poison injected into the skin. The implement was a small straight pin. It is being analyzed
now. I have no doubt it will prove to contain a fast acting poison of some type. It remains for us to prove who injected Mr. Greengrass, and why. In order to do so, we are going to go over the movements leading up to his death.

“I am going to ask you all to take your positions. Randy Haines is in the light booth. Sam Dobson is at the stage manager stand, backstage next to the curtain. As to the actors, Becky Coleman and Dean Stanhope, you're both behind the left doorway, are you not?

“The right doorway,” the director corrected.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Stage directions refer to the
actor's
left or right. Assuming the actor is facing the audience. So that would be the stage
right
doorway.”

“Fine. You two are there. Shirley Goodhue, you're over there in the doorway that I've just learned is stage left.

“Mr. Hastings is on stage alone, about to be joined by the decedent, who will be entering by . . . that doorway there . . . now you've got me confused.”

“Upstage right.”

“Yes. Upstage right. Where Miss Coleman and Mr. Stanhope are.

“Mr. Wainwright, you're on your feet, directing this action. Mr. Farnsworth, you are sitting here watching.

“All right, that's everybody.

“Except Mr. Greengrass. Unfortunately, he is incapable of reprising his role.

“Mr. Farnsworth, you were sitting in the audience the whole time. We don't really need you to re-enact that. Why don't you come up here and play the role?”

“Thought you'd never ask,” the playwright said. He got to his feet, picked up his script.

“Don't you know the lines?” the director said ironically.

“I'm familiar with them. I haven't memorized them. Or the blocking.”

The playwright scampered up the steps on the side of the stage, took his place with the other actors.

“All right, Mr. Hastings. What are you doing?”

“I'm alone on stage, waiting for Emily to enter.”

The cop hopped down from the stage, turned to the director, said, “It's all yours.”

The director seemed slightly disconcerted to find himself running the show. I guess he'd assumed the cop was going to do it. But after a moment he said, “All right. Let's treat this as a real rehearsal. We can certainly use it. Stanley, Charlotte has just exited stage left, you watch her go out, and . . .”

I watched her go out, whistled to myself, then strolled over to the mantlepiece and adjusted the trophies on it. This being nowhere near the dress rehearsal, the mantle and trophies were yet to come. I pantomimed them, then turned at the sound of footsteps, expecting to see Emily.

Instead it was the playwright, with his script, reading the Fletcher Greengrass part.

“Surprised? You shouldn't be. Things come full cycle. More often than not. Or so it seems. And what's she to you but a casual fling.”

He put his hand on my shoulder. I brushed it off.

“Do you recall those words?” he went on. “Uttered many times, I'm sure. On many occasions, about many different women. Like those trophies you were perusing. Chalk up one more.”

He snatched the samovar, our one lone prop, from the downstage table. “And the award for the most ignominious, self-serving, egotistical, manipulative matinee idol, goes to. . .”

He turned and handed me the silver samovar.

It was time for my big speech. The one the dead Fletcher Greengrass had dorked me out of. The one I'd feared I'd never get a chance to play.

I was getting another crack at it now.

I didn't take it.

“Hold on,” I said. “That's not what happened.”

The cop turned to the director. “Is that true?”

“It's basically what happened.” The director looked up at me. “What are you getting at?”

“Yeah, what do you mean?” the cop asked.

“That's not when he gave me the samovar. It's not the same line.”

“It's the line in the script,” the director said. “Did you give it to him on, ‘manipulative matinee idol goes to . . .'?” he asked the playwright.

“Yes, I did.”

“Yes, you did,” I said. “But Fletcher Greengrass didn't. He said something else entirely.”

“Right,” the playwright said. “He was paraphrasing his lines because he wasn't using his script.”

I shook my head. “He was paraphrasing his lines, all right. But it had nothing to do with his script. He'd been paraphrasing them from the first day of rehearsal. Even when he was
using
his script. What he said today was a lot closer to what he'd been saying in rehearsal than to what you just read.

“Which had to be very frustrating. You finally get your first play produced. It's only community theater with amateur actors, but even so. People will see it. People will hear your words.

“Only they won't. Because all those nice verbal constructions, that must have been a labor of love, that had to be the reason you wrote the play in the first place, they're never gonna be heard. Because Fletcher Greengrass is gonna say any damn thing he feels like right up to and including performance.

“The director can't do anything. He won't take direction. He's a loose cannon, wrecking your play.

“He must be stopped.

“Lucky for you, Fletcher Greengrass is the type of man people hate. He's involved with the two women in the production, he's belittling my acting ability, you can bet he dumped on Dean. So if you can just kill him onstage during rehearsal, in the midst of all those actors, while you're out in the audience, it would be the perfect crime.

“So, how'd you do it?

“Easy.

“Fletcher Greengrass was stuck with a poison pin. Where'd the pin stick him? According to the doc, right in the hand. Yes, where I could have easily done it during the scene, but I didn't. Nor was he stuck by anyone backstage before he came on.

“No, he delivered his line and grabbed the samovar. The pin was wedged in the handle, sticking out. He pricked himself with the poison, handed the samovar to me, and fell over dead. The pin fell to the floor, where it was discovered later by the detective processing the crime scene.”

I shook my head pityingly at the playwright. “You're going down for murder. But if it's any consolation, you got to play your scene. Just now, in front of all of us. And you were good. You did a good reading. With all the right lines. The way it should be done.”

The playwright stood there, on stage, tears streaming down his cheeks. He offered no resistence when the detective handcuffed him and led him away.

“YOU MIGHT HAVE
told me it was him,” the cop complained.

“I didn't know for sure until we ran the scene.”

“How'd you know then?”

“Easy. He may not look the part, but his line reading was right on the money. Those were the words he wanted said,
in the manner he wanted to say them. I'd never heard them before, and I never would while Fletcher Greengrass played the part.”

“He really killed him for a bad performance?”

“Basically. I'm sure Fletcher being an arrogant creep didn't hurt.”

“I suppose it made it easier.” The cop grimaced. “Even so, I'm going to have trouble selling this to the prosecutor. Some motive. I'm mean, killing a guy for changing the lines he wrote. Can you imagine someone doing that?”

I chuckled ironically. I've done some writing myself, and I once had a screenplay produced. So I had no problem answering the question.

“Oh, yeah.”

SUSANNE SHAPHREN

I WILL BURY
Cameron at the top of the hill. Under his favorite elm tree. Solid bronze hardware on a casket that costs almost as much as the candy-apple-red Jaguar he lusted over before settling for the Volvo and the minivan.

His partners will litigate right up till the moment the service starts over who should deliver the eulogy. Agonize over the script until the words achieve perfection.

Hardly a secret what the winner dares not mention. Not a whisper of how Cameron slept with each and every partner's wife except Henrietta. Not even her very own husband did that except maybe once. The boy looks exactly like him.

There won't be bragging about how Cameron racked up more billable hours than the rest of the partners combined and still managed to play golf three afternoons a week. Not a word about the late nights and nearly dawn sessions trying to keep the firm's most famous clients out of the headlines. Cameron was a master at cleaning up, covering up, making sure witnesses never dared sell their stories to the tabloids.

The
Entertainment Tonight
crew will walk away without the prize soundbites. Not a word about Cameron's collection of conquests. No mention of the aging beauty queen with the face of a twenty-year-old whose body made Cameron laugh as he tortured me with details of their weekend together. The
tiny blonde with braces is perfectly safe. She can go right on playing the innocent teen on her weekly series. Nobody will ever know what she and all the cookie-cutter starlets like her did with Cameron. Nobody but me.

Will the triumphant partner say Cameron was a good husband, a loving father? Lie with words as well as silence?

All of the partners will want to be pallbearers. Who else? Cameron's favorite cousin. The firm's highest-grossing rock star if he's vertical. One of the movie stars if he's sober. Papa of course. Ramrod straight with no trace of a limp to tell the world about the fiberglass leg he brought home from Vietnam along with a Purple Heart and enough nightmares to last a lifetime.

No. Not Papa. After all these years, you'd think I could remember that Papa screamed through his last nightmare three months after he walked me down the aisle and gave me away to Cameron.

Papa woke up sweating, shaking and alone in a stinking motel room two states from home. Scrawled a few bits of gibberish in the Gideon Bible on the night stand. Reached for his gun and redecorated the drab room with his splattered brain. Finished the job started in Nam long before I was born. Bequeathed his father's chain of sinfully successful auto dealerships and his very own beloved daughter to Cameron.

So many arrangements. Should I hire a caterer or just pick up a few things at the supermarket? Hope it's not just an outdated custom that nobody would dream of ringing the doorbell unless they're juggling a tuna casserole and a coconut cake, a standing rib roast and a peach pie, or chocolate chip cookies and a honey-baked ham.

Perhaps I should call my mother to help. She's not dead like Papa . . . or is she? How strange that his presence is so strong after so many years of being cold in the ground and it's like my mother never existed at all.

We never had a maid or a nanny so all those soft clean
clothes must have been her handiwork. Just like the freshly baked cookies still warm from the oven that were on the kitchen table to help with all that homework. She must have mixed the meatloaf with her fingers, mashed the potatoes, peeled the carrots. I can't remember exactly what she looked like or what she wore. All I remember is a shadow in front of the TV laughing at what seemed to be the same six
I Love Lucy
reruns again and again.

That's how I got my name, Lucie, just like Lucille Ball's daughter.

The rumpled detective at the door wears a shabby raincoat just like Columbo's, a hat identical to Ricky Ricardo. He sounds like Ricky Ricardo, too. “You got some 'splaining to do, Lucie!”

“I didn't do anything, detective. It was the cancer.” Such a long and painful way to die. All those operations. All that radiation. The chemo. Even the alternative medicine therapies we tried. So much time for Cameron to reflect on a lifetime of sins that might merit such divine retribution.

I try to explain to the detective with Columbo's raincoat and Ricky Ricardo's hat that the real crime is that Cameron never found a moment to say how much he loved me, how sorry he was for sleeping with anything in a skirt that glanced his way. Never once apologized for shattering our carefully crafted arrangement.

We agreed that I would postpone college, slave at any kind of minimum wage job I could find to put him through law school. Then, it would be my turn. No matter what.

We made love in those hectic first years. Passionate love worthy of big screen exposure that somehow faded into dutiful sex with three wonderful exceptions. Two nights of passion that followed Cameron's almost never spoken “I'm sorry.”

We celebrated Cameron's law school graduation with a bottle of decent champagne. I proudly showed him my application and tentative class schedule.

“I'm sorry, Lucie. That will just have to wait a bit longer. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for me. I've been offered a full partnership in the largest firm in town. We have to buy a sinfully expensive house suitable for entertaining clients, put on an impressive show.” Cameron kept pouring champagne, kept trying to convince me everything would work out fine.

Tyler arrived precisely eight months and three weeks later. Just a few short months ago, Cameron said “I'm sorry” again. I hadn't told him about the new baby yet. One magical night in between, Cameron said “I love you” for the first and only time during all our years of marriage.

In all those years, would it have killed Cameron to mumble a simple apology for all those nights he abandoned me in a sea of strangers without so much as a kind word or a strong arm to lean on? Treading murky water to stay afloat. Praying for a scriptwriter's magic to give me something to say that wouldn't make me sound stupid, make Cameron look bad.

Wishing I could magically make myself disappear on that nightmare evening when I finally realized how impossible it was for me to successfully play the role of glamorous wife. Wasting more on having my hair done than I usually spent on a week's worth of groceries and raiding Sasha's college fund to acquire a lavender silk cloud to match my newly frosted nails hadn't transformed me into one of the perfect trophy wives proudly displayed on their husbands' Italian-suited arms.

Sasha! My night-of-passion-I-love-you baby is wide awake in her soggy crib. She whimpers like an abandoned orphan when I lift her. By the time we get to the changing table, her cheeks are fire engine red and her screams could easily drown out the most powerful of sirens.

I imagine her angelic face on one of those missing children milk cartons, force myself to wonder what it would be like to spend my days staring at progressively older strangers and mentally adding years to what baby Sasha looks like. She
could be gone in an instant, snatched away forever. So helpless. So precious that I could never ever consider hitting her just because she won't stop crying.

Finally. Her stiff stubborn body softens as we rock with her love-tattered teddy bear. She's almost asleep when the car door slams, starting the screaming even louder than before.

Cameron fills the nursery doorway with his pinstriped bulk. “Can't you keep that child quiet? I had a really lousy day at the office!”

I make his martini just the way he likes, shaken not stirred, with two olives and an onion. Push the salty chips and salsa where he can reach them without effort. Grill him a steak big enough to clog the cleanest of arteries. Butter, real sour cream, and bacon bits on the baked potato. Asparagus with fresh Hollandaise.

I will bury Cameron at the top of the hill. The prevailing partner will drone on and on about Cameron's big good heart, tell the Central Casting crowd how it just stopped without any warning. Cameron's cardiologist will put his strong comforting arms around me and assure me there was nothing more either of us could have done.

“Lucie, you were the perfect wife. Making sure he gave up alcohol. Cooking with no fat and very little salt. You mustn't blame yourself.”

“Earth to Lucie. Come in please.” Cameron saws off a huge piece of steak, lets it bleed all over the snow-white tablecloth as he dangles it as if to capture my attention. “There will be sixty for dinner on Saturday. Hire a caterer if you like. The last one was adequate.”

Adequate my foot! At least a dozen of your guests including the movie icon and the television idol wannabe tried to hire the caterer out from under me. If only they knew. If only you knew!

I was the caterer. I shopped the Farmer's Market and the discount warehouse store. Peeled and chopped, baked and
broiled, froze and thawed. Produced a veritable garden of radish roses and carrot curls to decorate tray after tray of hors d'oeuvres. Designed a gourmet dinner that Julia Child would have been proud to serve. Baked a picture-perfect dessert buffet that tasted as heavenly as it looked.

Paid the babysitter's older brothers to rent tuxes and serve. Stashed the difference between what I spent and what it would have cost to hire a caterer in my secret bank account along with the profits from the newspaper route.

Four hundred houses each and every morning when Cameron thinks I've driven Sasha and the ritzy jogging stroller to the park. Over the years, I've perfected the routine and learned how to avoid complaints by doubling back to deliver a spare paper to the houses where neighbors snatch the first delivery. A spotless record earns generous tips added to the regular fee without any face-to-face contact with customers. No chance of being recognized.

By the time Tyler and Sasha and the new baby are in school, I might actually have enough to pay for my tuition. Just like Cameron promised he would do.

If the balance were larger, maybe I could afford to leave. No! I'd be lucky to walk away with the clothes on my back. This isn't a community property state. No-fault divorce means Cameron's adultery doesn't count. He'd pull every string in the book to win custody of children he never bothers to pay attention to. There's only one way to be free. I will bury Cameron at the top of the hill. Someday.

The flowing black dress is perfect for Saturday. Smocked at the top with tiny pink rosebuds. Big enough to hide the first bulge of pregnancy just in case I change my mind. Maybe that's why I haven't said anything to Cameron yet. No! Even though I marched my quota of miles and then some, carried my share of signs proclaiming a woman's right to choose, there is only one choice for me.

Matthew . . . this has to be another boy like Tyler. He's
already heavy and demanding in my womb, nothing at all like Sasha. Matthew will be born in exactly seven months and one week if he's as punctual as his older siblings.

The dress looks like crushed velvet, but it's really washable polyester just in case there's a kitchen disaster to contend with while I'm expertly playing the role of carefree hostess. If I cut off the tiny rosebuds, the dress will be perfect to wear to Cameron's funeral.

I will bury Cameron at the top of the hill, try to ease my grief by volunteering to speak at those anti-drunk-driver rallies. Only a matter of time before Cameron's luck runs out. All those late hours spent at the office or wherever he really strays when he should be here helping with baths and bedtime stories . . . surely it's only a matter of time before some drunk driver proves the Volvo isn't really safe after all.

The party comes off without a hitch. My mother would be proud. Is proud? I can't quite force myself to use the speed dialer and find out once and for all if she answers or if the number's been disconnected.

My “caterer” would be an instant success if only I could figure out a way to hide that sideline as easily and efficiently as I do the paper route.

Cameron disappears into the study the instant the last of the guests departs. No need to try to hide the cleanup. The babysitter and her brothers are thrilled with their pay, thrilled enough to stick around and help.

My internal alarm clock goes off precisely as Grandma's clock chimes four times in the living room. I'm not in the master bedroom or the guestroom where I wake up most mornings. The kitchen chair is hardly a comfortable resting place. There's an icy mug on the table with the hardened remnants of what was once hot chocolate. A half-eaten bag of mini-marshmallows and crumbs of carefully crafted pastries from the party complete the scene. Didn't I ever go to bed last night? I can't quite remember.

Tyler will want bananas sliced on his favorite sugary cereal with just enough nutrition hidden in it to make it acceptable to me. Instant oatmeal and strained peaches for Sasha. Bacon, eggs, and hash browns for Cameron, or maybe a nice four-egg omelet oozing with cheddar cheese and ham. I'll ask him what he prefers as soon as the shower turns off.

Something's wrong. I don't hear the shower. The master bedroom is dark. I tiptoe to the edge of the cavernous bed that seems so small and suffocating on those rare occasions when I still bother to go though the motions of playing loving wife to Cameron. Dear God, there's so much blood. I should pick up the phone and dial 911, but it's obviously far too late for that. I should call the police. No. I'm beginning to remember why that would be a bad idea, a very bad idea.