Show Business is Murder

Line Reading by PARNELL HALL

FLETCHER GREENGRASS HANDED me the silver samovar and fell over dead.

I must say I resented it. That was the cue for my big speech, I’d been working on it all week, I was really looking forward to it, and I wanted to do it right.

Now, don’t judge me too harshly. You gotta understand. I was nervous about my performance. For one thing, I hadn’t acted in years. When I had it was in summer stock, at an Equity theater, where the actors got paid. I’d also appeared in movies, granted only fleetingly, but still enough to hold a Screen Actors Guild card. All of which made me a professional. And this was community theater. Amateur theater. And as a professional acting in amateur theater, I was expected to be good.

I had a lot to prove.

Which, if the truth be known, I probably wasn’t capable of. Because if I’d been any good as an actor, I’d still be doing it, instead of working as a P.I.

I also didn’t know he was dead. Because Fletcher Greengrass was one of the hammiest actors I’d ever met, and when he fell over on his face, I, like everyone else in the cast, assumed he was pulling another one of his outrageous stunts just to upstage me, and undercut my big speech. So I was justifiably pissed.

It was near the end of act two. I was alone on stage, awaiting the object of my affections, the virginal Emily, when young Mr. Greengrass emerged from her room instead.

“Surprised?” he inquired in an exaggerated mocking tone. “I don’t know why. These thing happen, don’t they? How do you like it? So I got to her first, what’s the big deal?”

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

“Remember what you said? About women being like trophies?” He snatched up the samovar, held it out to me. “Here’s the award for the world’s worst ladies’ man. I think this belongs to you.”

His delivery was so over the top that when he proceeded to take a nose dive, I naturally figured he was clowning.

So did the director. A little man with no hair, except on his chin, he was given to histrionics, whether in an attempt to match Fletcher Greengrass’s tone, or because he had seen a director portrayed that way on TV, I couldn’t say. At any rate, he vaulted up onto the stage, which was at the far end of the Ridgewood High basketball court, to tell Fletcher Greengrass off.

“Fletcher,” he declared. “That’s the last straw. You cooperate, or you’re out of the play. You think I can’t replace you, well I can. I’ll play the part myself, if I have to, rather than put up with this.”

That was a brave boast. Fletcher Greengrass was our leading man, our young love interest, the one enamored of both Emily and Charlotte, the two young women in the piece. I say Emily and Charlotte-that’s their stage names. Emily was actually a young housewife whose name I didn’t know. Charlotte was Shirley something or other, a voluptuous young woman with auburn hair and a most remarkable collection of shirts, sweaters, and pullovers, none of which ever seemed to be hiding a bra.

But I digress.

Anyway, the director descended on the fallen body of Fletcher Greengrass like Washington marching on Richmond, (if that’s where he marched; as I grow older, my American history fades with everything else).

“Get up and stop screwing around,” he ordered.

Fletcher Greengrass had stopped screwing around, but he didn’t get up. He just lay there, doing a marvelous impression of a dead man.

The aforementioned Emily and Charlotte crept out of the wings, where they had been waiting to enter after I had delivered my big speech. Also from the wings crept the other actor in the piece, whose name I couldn’t remember, though his name in the play was Ralph.

The stage manager also poked his head out from behind the curtain. An elderly, often befuddled man, he inquired, “Where do you want to take it from?” a totally inappropriate comment, even if one of the actors hadn’t been dead.

“Fletcher, get up now or you’re replaced.”

“Now, now, I want him in the show,” Barnaby Farnsworth declared.

Mr. Farnsworth was the playwright, and I only knew his name because it appeared in huge letters on the front of every script. A balding, middle-aged man, with pudgy features and twinkling eyes, Barnaby Farnsworth was a bit of a joke to the actors in the cast. The joke was that his play, Ride the Wild Elephant, was largely autobiographical, and that the part of Brad, modeled after him, was the one played by young, handsome, studly Fletcher Greengrass.

Emily and Charlotte repressed giggles when Barnaby declared he wanted Fletcher in the play.

“Yes, I know you want him in the play,” the director said. “But he can only be in the play if he stands up. I cannot direct an actor who takes naps in the middle of scenes.”

The director placed his toe in Fletcher Greengrass’s ribs. He pushed, not gently. His eyes widened.

I followed his gaze.

The director was staring at the white froth dribbling from the corner of Fletcher Greengrass’s mouth.

I FELT SORRY for the cop. As the local chief of a small town in Westchester county, the poor man couldn’t have had much experience with murders. Not to mention on-stage murders involving a full cast of characters and a silver samovar. While this was his jurisdiction, still I wondered how long it would be before a homicide sergeant arrived to relieve him.

“So,” he said. “Who saw what happened?”

Everyone began talking at once. The actors, director, playwright, stage manager. Even the light man, who had climbed down from his booth when it was clear something was wrong.

The cop put up his hand. A large, overweight man, he was sweating profusely in his uniform. It was mid-July, and the gym was not air-conditioned. “One at a time, please. Who’s in charge here?”

The stage manager attempted to assert his authority, but was quickly shouted down.

“I’m in charge,” the director said.

“And you would be?”

“Morton Wainwright.”

“Splendid. And where were you when it happened?’

“In the audience.” He grimaced, shrugged. “I mean on the basketball court. Right here, watching the action on the stage.”

Our eyes were drawn to the current action on the stage, which consisted of a doctor examining the body, while two EMS workers stood by with a gurney waiting to take it away. There was a crime scene ribbon up, and a police detective was searching the stage for evidence. Frankly, I had my doubts.

The cop cleared his throat for attention. “Who was on the stage at the time?”

“Just the two of them,” the director said.

“The two of who?”

“Him and the other actor. Stanley Hastings.”

The cop looked me over. I tried not to look guilty. Try that some time. It’s like trying not to think of an elephant.

The cop didn’t seem convinced. He grunted the police equivalent of harumph, and turned back to the director. “What were they doing?”

“They were playing a scene. They were doing okay. Not great, but okay. This was the first rehearsal off book-that means without scripts-and they had to be prompted a few times. No more than average, still it’s hard to get any pace going when you keep blowing the lines.”

“That’s a fascinating inside look at theater,” the cop said dryly. “But I have this dead body.”

The director flushed. “Yes, of course. Anyway, they got to the point where Fletcher hands Stanley the silver samovar and he keeled over dead.”

“You say he handed Stanley the whatjamacallit?”

“Samovar. Yes, sir.”

“And that would be this gentleman here?” He fixed me with a steely gaze.

“That’s right.”

“Then you must have been rather close to him.” He tried to say it casually, without insinuation.

“I was standing right next to him.”

“And you two were the only ones on stage?” This time, the insinuation crept in.

“Were you thinking of fitting me for handcuffs?”

“This is no laughing matter, Mr. Hastings.”

“Yes, I know.” I tried to appear properly grave. Still, with the officer regarding me seriously as a suspect, it was all I could do to keep from giggling.

“Stanley wouldn’t do anything like that,” the actress playing Emily said. I found myself more favorably disposed toward her, wished I knew her name. The actress playing Charlotte, whose name I did know, said nothing. Emily was looking better, bra or no bra.

The author chimed in. “What’s going to happen to my play?” he wailed.

I was pleased. It distracted the officer from me. He wheeled on the unfortunate man like an elephant about to crush a bug. “That remains to be seen,” he said ominously.

THE COP COMMANDEERED the boys’ locker room and proceeded to interrogate us one by one. First up was the playwright, probably, it occurred to me, just to teach him to keep his mouth shut.

As soon as the cop was gone, all of the actors huddled together, as no one had been assigned to ride herd over us.

“What do we do now? What do we do now?” Charlotte shrieked. I found my opinion of her plummeting, even though her agitated state was causing her chest to rise and fall in a most appealing manner.

“Yeah,” the director put in. “You’re the big P.I., aren’t you? Why don’t you tell us what to do?”

I found the big P.I. remark uncalled for. If I had mentioned casually during some rehearsal or other that I worked as a private investigator, I am sure it was only in response to some direct question by someone in the production, and not an attempt to influence anyone with the fact I had an interesting job.

It annoyed me that I had to keep making such self-assurances.

The stage manager, as he was wont to do, totally misunderstood the director’s statement. “That’s right,” he said. “You’re a professional actor. How does something like this affect the show?”

The question was greeted with audible groans. Luckily, I don’t think the old boy’s hearing was keen enough to notice.

Up on stage, the doctor finished with the corpse, and nodded to the EMS crew to wheel him out.

I excused myself from the actors, hurried across the basketball court, and caught up with the doctor.

I reached in my jacket pocket, pulled out my I.D., flipped it open. “One minute, doc. You got a preliminary cause of death?”

The medical examiner was a thin man with a trim moustache and a languid look. He regarded me with amused eyes. “Nice try. Is that a real I.D., or did you make it yourself?”

“Very funny.” I pointed to the boys’ locker room. “The chief’s in there conducting interviews. It would probably help him a lot to know how the guy died.”

“Thanks for the hint.”

The doctor went out the gym door, following the gurney.

“So, what did you learn?” the director demanded as I rejoined the theater group.

I shook my head. “Doc’s not talking.”

“What does that mean?” Charlotte cried. She seemed particularly concerned.

“It means he doesn’t feel we have a right to know.” I shrugged. “In this assumption he is entirely correct.”

“Oh, hell,” the director sighed.

Charlotte was bouncing up and down in her pullover again. “What are the police gonna ask us? What do we have to say?”

I shrugged. “No big deal. Just tell the truth.”

“About what?”

“Whatever they ask you. Most likely, what were you doing when the guy dropped dead? Were you watching? What did you see?”

“Nothing personal?”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

Charlotte had her face twisted up into a particularly unappealing knot. “I mean, like, you know. Relationships.”

Oh.

I must say it should have occurred to me. That the studly what’s-his-name and the curvacious Charlotte had been an item. I guess I’d chosen not to see it. Hadn’t wanted to acknowledge the fact that Fletcher was still a ladies’ man, while I was an old married fogey, a noncombatant, totally out of the running.

“If they ask you about relationships, tell them,” I said. “Don’t volunteer anything, but don’t hold anything back. And, for goodness sakes, don’t lie.”

“Even about something like that?” Emily said. “What difference could it make?”

“Police mentality,” I explained. “If they catch you in a lie, they’ll think you committed the crime.”

“Oh,” Emily said. She didn’t look pleased.

I blinked. Good lord. Emily, too? Wasn’t she married? I was almost sure she was married.

At a rumble of voices off to my left, I turned to find the director and playwright arguing hotly. The bone of contention was obviously the play, though what the dispute was I couldn’t imagine. It was, of course, recasting. The only reason I didn’t think of it was I was so caught up in the homicide.

“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.”

“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.”