Fourth Wall (An Anthony Carrick Mystery Book 8) Page 7

  “Where’s the actress?” I asked.

  “She was taken to the Good Samaritan,” said Roberts. “EMT was first on scene and she was still alive at that time.”

  “Now?”

  “She was declared DOA,” said Roberts.

  “I thought you said Dr. Deerstalker was here,” I said.

  “No, I said he thought it was poisoning. He’s down at the ME’s office doing the autopsy.”

  I nodded and took off my fedora. The stage lights were on and it was hot under them.

  “Then what have we got?”

  “We’ve got the scene where she died. At least we can put it like that.”

  “Give me the deets,” I said to Roberts, “I need the deets.”

  “Deets?” he said, frowning at me. “And you’re worried about me using the word ‘grill’.”

  I shrugged.

  “I’ve been hanging out with Aibhilin all day. What can I say?”

  “Alright, the deets, like you say,” and he dragged out the Es for a mile, “are like this. Twardosz says he noticed that Beale started acting strangely during scene nine.”

  “Twardosz plays Mitch if I remember correctly.”

  “Right. He has a scene where he comes in drunk and pissed off at Beale slash Blanche because he’s found out that she was a hooker or something like that from Stanley slash Orpen.”

  “I remember the scene, I was here just last night.”

  “Exactly. So when the scene ends, Twardosz asks Beale if she’s all right. She waves it off just says she’s got a headache and that she doesn’t feel too great but to carry on. Orpen’s there too and he asks her if she’s sure. Yeah, yeah she says. But she also complains of being lightheaded.”

  I nodded. I didn’t see any of the actors standing around.

  “Where are they?”

  “Back stage with a uniform. We haven’t released them yet. So scene ten starts and Orpen says he’s having a hard time figuring out what she’s saying. He says she’s either really drunk which isn’t supposed to happen or she’s high. That’s also not supposed to happen. He says it gets so bad by the end of the scene that he can’t even make out what she’s supposed to be saying by then. At one point he asks if she’s okay. She doesn’t respond and carries on with her lines. She just manages to finish her last line as she collapses and Orpen catches her and takes her to the bed as the scene ends.”

  “This is the bed?” I ask, as all three of us look down at it.

  “Yup.”

  “No fluids, no evidence?”

  “Nope.”

  “So then what happened?”

  “Once on the bed Orpen notices that she’s unresponsive and he tries to wake her. He’s whispering to her loud, because he doesn’t want to frighten the audience. The stage lights are off at that time. He gets up and rushes off stage, tells the director that he thinks she’s dead. The director’s assistant dials 911 while a stagehand goes out to give CPR.”

  “I’m assuming they also drew the curtains and all that.”

  Roberts nodded.

  “Yeah, they were drawn when we got here.”

  “What about the audience? Did you interview them?”

  “Jesus, Anthony, how many cops do you think we’ve hired since you left. We’re understaffed as it is.”

  “Just asking,” I said, grinning at him. “You sensitive about your lack of resources?”

  “Damn straight I am.”

  “Burton’s been on your ass, hey?”

  “Don’t get me started. He’s as political as they come and the good people of our lost city don’t want to pay for more resources, not while crime is down.”

  “But I heard it’s up.”

  “Yeah, homicide is up a little over the last couple of years, but still way down from the seventies and eighties. And most of it’s outside the good neighborhoods. You know how it is. If it’s NIMBY then it ain’t a problem.”

  “Back to the audience,” I said.

  “We polled those in the first few seats. Most of those are season tickets so we have the names if we need to reinterview. None of them said anything different from what Orpen and Twardosz said. All agreed she seemed to be slurring her words and wobbling on her feet in the last scene when she was standing at the end. They couldn’t understand her at the very end. But they didn’t think too much of it. They saw Orpen carry her to the bed then shake her and then run off stage. At least some of them said that’s what they saw. It was dark on stage by then. The last they saw was someone else run back out to the bed and start what looked like CPR and then the stage curtains closed everything off.”

  I looked out towards the audience. Only it was now just empty seats. The first row was still a good twenty to twenty-five feet from me.

  “Hard for them to see a lot of detail, especially with the lights out.”

  “Yeah, exactly, that’s why we didn’t bother too hard with their statements. And really, there’s nothing to see from there, not if she was poisoned.”

  “And how do we think that might have happened?”

  “From what she was drinking. We’ve taken it in for testing. She got a gift basket from her husband. It was filled with pomegranate gifts. Pomegranate fruit, pomegranate fruit rolls, pomegranate hard candy and a few bottles of pomegranate juice.”

  “Yeah, which brand?” I asked.

  “Pommie.”

  I nodded. I hadn’t heard of them.

  “It’s not the most popular brand, but it’s considered exclusive. Most likely because of its high cost.”

  “And how much did she drink?”

  “She’d gone through two of them and had started on her third.”

  “She really liked the stuff, hey?”

  Roberts shrugged.

  “I dunno, these actor types, hard to figure out sometimes.”

  “I’d like to speak to those who worked with her,” I said.

  “Sure, they’re back off stage.”

  “Beeves could you bring them out one at a time to the front here.”

  “Why’s that?” asked Roberts.

  “This is where it happened. I’d like them to be at the scene when I talk to them.”

  “And I thought actors were strange,” said Roberts. He nodded at Beeves who looked at me.

  “Orpen,” I said.

  NINE

  Broken Fourth Wall

  ORPEN came out from somewhere in the back of the stage. His face was tight and haunted and he didn’t look as tanned as he usually did. He also hadn’t done a good job of taking all his stage makeup off. That probably made him look worse. He was tall and lean and handsome in a way. If you liked backpfeifengesicht. A pouty, surly face that I wanted to slap. But I was on the clock and I needed to be a professional. He was dressed in older coveralls. Looking the part of a nineteen forties workingman and drunk.

  “Mr. Orpen,” I said, looking at him as he came in and not knowing who wanted to speak with him. Roberts, Beeves and I were crowded by the bed. My hat now rested on it. Orpen looked at me. He didn’t say anything.

  “You noticed she wasn’t doing well at the beginning of the scene, is that right?”

  He nodded.

  “Yeah, like I told these guys,” as he looked at Roberts and Beeves, “she seemed like she’d been drinking from the beginning of the scene. But she doesn’t do any drinking during it.”

  “And the only thing she’s been drinking then is this pomegranate juice?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “Yeah, it’s one of her superstitions. She won’t start a play or a film if she hasn’t got pomegranate juice.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Well, she told me that the very first gig she got was one where she’d been drinking a pomegranate juice while waiting in the waiting room for her audition. That was years ago, but she said she’d struggled for years before that. Before she got that job. I guess it’s her lucky talisman.”

  “Or unlucky as it turns out. Did her husband drop off the gift baske
t himself?”

  He shook his head.

  “I don’t think so. I mean I didn’t see him here. He only came on opening night. That’s when he brought a similar gift basket for her. Tonight I don’t know. You might want to ask Gina.”

  “Gina?”

  “Yeah, she’s the director’s assistant. She usually handles those sorts of things.”

  “Does she usually bring her own juice?”

  “I think so. I mean, I don’t pay much attention to that sort of thing.”

  “You don’t believe in talismans?”

  “No. I believe you create your own luck.”

  “And tonight. Did you notice if she had her own pomegranate juice with her?”

  “No, I didn’t notice.”

  “Did she have any enemies that you can think of?”

  Orpen looked out towards the empty seats. He had his hands in his pockets. I noticed he hadn’t been crying. He shrugged.

  “I don’t think so. We weren’t that close. Her husband though, he was pretty controlling from what she told me. Always wanted to know where she was. He’d call her a lot too, after the play.”

  I turned to Roberts.

  “Was he here?”

  “No, he’s been notified and he went to the hospital. We said we’d speak to him tomorrow at his house.”

  I turned back to Orpen.

  “So you think he could’ve killed her?”

  He shrugged again. He did a lot of that. Maybe he was trying to build his traps.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t know him that well.”

  “Tabloids have you as sleeping with her. Is that true?”

  He glanced away. He looked at Roberts and Beeves and then back at me. He tried to laugh it off.

  “You can’t believe everything you read in the tabloids, detective,” he said. I didn’t correct him.

  “I don’t. But you’re not answering my question.”

  He tried to hold my gaze steady, but there was awkwardness to it.

  “No, I didn’t. Now granted, I’m looking for the right woman, but I draw the line at married women,” he said.

  He broke my gaze and looked over at the bed where my hat was. Then he looked back at me.

  “If you don’t mind, this whole thing has been very upsetting and I’d like some time to digest it.”

  He didn’t look like a man overwhelmed with grief.

  “You said you weren’t close with Mary Beale.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And yet just last night you were at Ancher’s party with her.”

  “Look, I try to get along with my cast. Mary wanted to go to Ancher’s party and I went along to be sociable.”

  “How well did you know Ancher?”

  “I knew her socially.”

  “You sleep with her?”

  He tried to give me a hard look. All it made his face do was pout more and turn more sour. I wanted to slap him so bad.

  “We dated a few times a while back. Look, I didn’t kill her if that’s what you’re trying to insinuate. And if there’s nothing else I’m outta here. If you’ve got any more questions for me you can speak to my lawyer.”

  I smiled at him. He turned to walk away. I grabbed his arm and he looked down at it surprised.

  “You want to help us find out who did this to Mary or not?”

  He turned back to face me.

  “Her old man did it, right? He gave her the poisoned juice.”

  “How do you know it was poisoned?” I asked.

  “Just assuming. What else would have killed her and made her act the way she did. I gave it to the paramedic when they came in and took her away.”

  “Gave them what?”

  “Gave him the unfinished bottle of juice she was drinking. Now if you don’t mind, I’m leaving. If I’m not under arrest I don’t have to talk to you.”

  He glared at me. I nodded at him and he turned and stormed away.

  “Nice going, Sid,” said Roberts.

  “I don’t like him. Matter of fact I want to punch him in the face. Doesn’t he give you that feeling?”

  Roberts smiled and Beeves laughed out loud.

  “Yeah, he’s got one of those faces,” said Roberts. “Still, Sid, you know you get more bees with honey.”

  “I think you mean flies. You catch more flies with honey than vinegar.”

  Roberts looked at me.

  “Now I want to punch you in the face for being an asshole. You know what I meant.”

  “I did. I think he’s hiding something,” I said.

  “Yeah, probably the fact that he’s banging her,” said Roberts.

  “True, but something else too. He’s got means and he’s got opportunity. We’ve just gotta give him motive.”

  “Maybe she’d had enough of him. Maybe she was breaking up with him and she told him if he wasn’t going to be cool with it that she’d ruin his career. You know who her husband is, right?” asked Beeves.

  I nodded.

  “He’s one of the biggest directors out there. More powerful in Hollywood than Weinstein, so I hear.”

  “You hear right,” said Roberts. “Lavan Emmett’s his name.”

  “I like the motive,” I said, looking at Beeves, “but it’s pure speculation at the moment.”

  “Then get the evidence, Sid,” said Roberts.

  “I’d like to get the director first.”

  Beeves nodded and headed back stage to collect him.

  “I’m trying to figure out if these two murders are connected,” I said.

  “I’m just trying to stay on top of them. I figure if we treat them properly and not worry about whether they’re connected, any connections will come to light with our due diligence,” said Roberts.

  I nodded. Beeves was walking back on stage with the director. The director was a young guy. Probably as old as his cast which put him in his early thirties. He had a well groomed dirty blonde beard and hair to match, down in a pony tail. He wore round glasses on a simple frame and had a thin mouth. He was average height but carrying twenty pounds of lard all in his stomach. I put out my hand.

  “Anthony Carrick,” I said.

  He smiled. He had a warmth and congeniality about him. He shook my hand.

  “Sigmund Marmol. Sig to my friends, please call me Sig.”

  “Call me Anthony,” I said. “How’s the play been going?”

  He shrugged. Made me feel like I was at a Gold’s gym.

  “We were doing well,” he said. “I’d like to have seen twelve, maybe sixteen weeks, but the producer’s cutting it off after the tenth week. Sales have dropped off a cliff.”

  “This might just pick them back up,” I said, smiling at him.

  “Well yeah, I suppose. But that won’t change the producer’s mind. The next play is already in production.”

  I nodded.

  “How well did you know Mary Beale?”

  “Well, that depends,” he said, clutching his arms behind him and rocking back and forth on his feet. “I hadn’t worked with her before. But these last twelve weeks we’ve gotten close I’d say.”

  “Twelve weeks. I thought the play has only been on for six?”

  “Yes, that’s right. But we spend a couple of weeks before the play starts finding our principals and other actors, then for four weeks we practice the play. Thereabouts. That’s about average.”

  “And how did you get such expensive actors?”

  “It’s been a trend lately. They both put word in through their agents that they wanted to do some theater. In the off season the last few years we’ve had some big names looking to do theater. Though I’m not sure I’ll be entertaining it much after this.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because frankly, they’re not very good. Mary was the best of them. It’s not that easy to transition from film or TV to stage.”

  “It seems to have worked out,” I said. “You’ve been sold out for weeks now.”

  “Yes, but they come with their big egos and
big demands. They expect assistants, each of them. But that’s not how it works in theater. There’s no budget for it, so they’ve got poor Gina run off her feet. And I’ve got her doing enough as it is.”

  “She’s your assistant?”

  “That’s right, the director is the only one who gets an assistant. There’s lots to do.”

  “I have to ask, but did you poison Mary Beale?”

  Marmol laughed heartily at that. But he saw that I wasn’t. Not that I liked him for it, but you couldn’t rule anyone out at this stage. And you’d be surprised how often you snag a perp just by throwing out that line.

  “Uh, no I didn’t. How would I? You said it was likely the pomegranate juice that poisoned her and she got that from her husband not from me.”

  “I haven’t said anything of the sort.”

  Marmol looked at Roberts. Roberts looked at me.

  “I might have said as much,” he added.

  I nodded and looked back at Marmol.

  “And was he here tonight?”

  “Not that I saw. The basket came by courier so Gina told me. Mary was frantic. She wanted me to send Gina for pomegranate juice before the play started. I was almost tempted to accommodate her infuriating superstition when the basket came. Bless him for sending it. Though I can’t imagine why he’d poison it.”

  Marmol stroked his beard and looked off in the distance across the empty chairs.

  “So she hadn’t brought her own juice this time?”

  Marmol shook his head.

  “No. She’d been quite upset by the events from this morning, having heard of her friend Anna Ancher as you know.”

  “Were they good friends?”

  “I think so. Though I’m not sure. Anna was here on opening night. A whole bunch of her friends were. They all went back to Mary’s house for an after-party.”

  “Were you invited?”

  “Yes. I went. Just for a short while. It was fun, if not subdued.”

  “Were you expecting more?” I asked.

  “Yeah, I’ve heard these people are big partiers. Nothing but some drinking and music. Very relaxed. But then I left just after midnight.”

  “Doesn’t the play end around ten thirty?”

  “Usually, but on opening night we opened at six thirty.”

  I nodded.

  “When did you start to notice Ms. Beale acting strange?” I asked.