Authors: Dianne Yetman
The steely gaze pierced him.
He took a deep breath.
“To answer your question, our relationship was good. I’ve been around a long time; I’m a character actor and don’t require much direction. Jeffrey was satisfied with my performance, if he hadn’t been, I would have been the first to know. The last couple of weeks he wasn’t himself though
;
knocked things up a notch, if you know what I mean. He would lose it over the smallest things.”
“Do you have any knowledge of what was bothering him?”
“No, I don’t. He was edgy, quick to jump. His
behaviour
was unpredictable, erratic. Everyone on the set was uncomfortable around him, holding their breath, waiting for the next pounce. Strangely enough, towards the end of the production, he seemed to calm down, became very quiet. Perhaps he was relieved to be moving on. Who knows?”
Withers asked if he had noticed anything different, something out of the ordinary, on the last night of the performance.
James thought hard. He wanted to respond factually and for the first time in years, struggled to compose his words.
“Yes, yes, I did. I’m not sure it has anything to do with his death. It was when we were called to the stage for his farewell toast. I was standing
back, behind the assembly,
and I heard a soft rustling sound to my right, off stage, sounded like it was coming from the hallway, followed by a laugh. It was strange laugh – choked, eerie sounding. Curious, I peered into the hallway, but I didn’t see anyone. I swore that’s where the sounds were coming from. It may sound weird, but Sergeant, it’s the gospel truth.”
“There’s no need to bring God into it
,
Mr. Thompson. Did anyone else hear this laugh?”
God, this man is actually intimidating me; I haven’t felt this way since I was in middle grade. He thinks I’ve imagined the laugh
.
He took a
nother
deep breath.
“No, not that I’m aware of, at least no one gave any indication they did by turning around, looking puzzled or whatnot.”
He glanced up at Withers and his voice trailed away. He left the room feeling like a schoolboy who had failed to pass a test.
Withers shut off the tape, walked down the hallway and signalled to Shirley he was ready for the next one.
***
Brenda Parsons came in the room, her face wreathed in smiles. Seated across from Withers, she listened to him explain the necessity of the interview being taped with all the intensity of a disciple, nodding and smiling in the affirmative.
Withers was puzzled. He was used handling belligerence, insults and attitude, dealing with the withdrawn and timid, but someone who radiated sweetness and light, threw him. Too many years working in the precinct, he thought.
“Ms. Parsons, how long have you been with the theatre company?”
“About a year and a half. Mr. Stone gave me my first break.”
“How did that come about?”
“He heard of me through one of his friends. My sister, who was living with my husband and I at the time, was in a high school production that wasn’t going well. She knew I loved to write and asked if I would re-work the screenplay she and her two friends had concocted. I did and it proved to be successful. From there, I moved on to writing the plays put on in the summer by an amateur acting group at Point Pleasant Park. On
one of
his friend’s recommendation,
I can`t remember who now,
Jeffrey came, liked what he saw, and invited me to join the company. ”
“What was your role on this production?”
“Mine was a multi-tasked role. I ran errands, helped arranged the sets, sometimes took over the props from Ed, and made coffee. I didn’t mind
, the opportunity to listen and learn from a theatrical genius w
as worth it.”
She reached in the pocket of her sweater, pulled out a Kleenex and dabbed at the single tear standing in the corner of her eye.
“What was Mr. Stone’s behaviour like on the set?”
“He did get out of sorts from time to time, but not without reason. I don’t think he always found it easy dealing with lesser talents.”
“He didn’t respect the company’s talent. Is that what you’re saying?”
“No, not at all. It’s, well, it’s just that he was, you know, different and it’s hard sometimes for people to accept different.”
“How did you get along with him?”
“Fine. There were no problems.”
“Would you say he had made some enemies on the set?”
“He bruised a few egos, but no, he didn’t make any lasting enemies.”
“So, Ms. Parsons, what happens to you now the play has wrapped?”
“I’m not sure. Mr. Stone had assured me I had a promising future in the theatre but now that he’s gone, I can only hope others will see something of what he saw in me.”
“That’s all for now Ms. Parsons. Thank you for your cooperation. We may call on you at some point in the future.”
“You’re welcome. I am only too willing to cooperate with this investigation. The theatre has lost a great light. I consider it my duty to help in any way I can.”
Withers nodded and watched her leave the room. Taking out his notebook, he entered her name and scribbled a small note:
good candidate for
another
interview
, too much sweetness and light.
***
Andrew, summoned by the woman police constable for his interview, walked down the hallway, and knocked on the Eleanor’s office door. Disappointment stung him when he heard a male voice inviting him to come in. He hoped Sgt. Kate Fraser woul
d be conducting the interview
. Now that was a woman
he could consider giving up his selfish slutty self for the likes of her.
Her beauty
had
literally stunned him when
the detective in charge
introduced her
.
He
had
stood like an adolescent, nodding his head and smiling, unable to croak out a word. She was tall
est woman he had met
, would come up to his chin in her stocking feet, the
image
stung him with excitement. Probably got a thing going with
someone.
Sighing, he opened the door and entered the office. Gordon
Ramsey sat behind the desk. M
aking like a Howard Hughes,
he
ignored
Andrew`s extended
hand, and invited him to be seated.
He didn`t waste time with polite talk, turned the tape recorder on and began.
“So, Mr. Wilkins, how long have you worked with Jeffrey Stone?”
“Since he first joined us
three
years ago.”
“Did the two of you get along?”
“As well as anyone.”
“That’s not an answer, Mr.
Williams
. Yes or no.”
“A yes or no doesn’t work, too limiting, doesn’t take in all the little nuances found in working relationships. I guess I would lean towards yes, I mean, he could be difficult but it goes hand in glove with genius.”
“Care to elaborate on
genius?”
“Just my personal observations, of course, but I’ve found gifted people to be a bit unbalanced, that is, they can swing to extremes very easily and can be temperamental when people don’t grasp their vision.”
“So, he had temper tantrums, did he?”
“Yes, by times.”
“Did he pick on anyone in particular?”
Andrew crossed on leg over another.
“Not really. He could be mercurial but he was over it quickly. He wasn’t one to hold a grudge.”
“He made an enemy though didn’t he? Must have really pissed someone off. Any idea who?”
“No, none at all.”
“Who looked after stocking the liquor cabinet?”
“Ed, the stage hand did. He’d refresh the apple juice after 5 performances or so. Other than that, the bottle stayed untouched.”
“Any idea when Stone put his own bottle of bourbon in the cabinet?”
“No. I assumed he transferred it from his own stash to the cabinet sometime before the toast. It wasn’t ther
e at the beginning of the week.
I was searching for the glasses that were always placed on top of the cabinet and the bottom compartment was empty.”
“A man carrying a bottle of bourbon to the stage would attract a bit of attention, don’t you think?”
“Yes, but Jeffrey was constantly in and out of the theatre at all hours of the day and night. He could have moved it when the place was empty.”
“So, Mr.
Williams
, what happens now? Any idea who will step into the Director’s chair?”
Andrew brushed a piece of lint from the shirt sleeve.
“None at all.”
“Is it something you’d be interested in?”
“Certainly. But not interested enough to poison someone’s whiskey
.
”
“Is that so? Well, I’ll keep that in mind. Any thoughts on who may have placed the poison in the bottle?”
Andrew’s face paled.
“None at all, no one associated with this production.”
“What does that mean? Do you have someone outside the production in mind?”
Andrew did but he’d be damned if he would mention his suspicion to him or anyone else.
“Of course not. Just a figure of speech.”
Gordon asked him a few more questions about procedures - placing of props, locking of doors - then dismissed him with a warning not to leave town.
Andrew stomped down the hallway, muttering to himself.
Arrogant, silly bastard, hung up on John Wayne, no doubt sees himself cleaning up the theatre corral.
Chapter 2
It took the team of detectives three days to finish their interviews with the cast, crew and Board Members of the waterfront Theatre.
On the same day
they wrapped it up
, forty-six kilometres southwest of the city,
9:30 in the evening,
t
he tired, elderly
Evelyn Rogers was
trying to
open
her front door.
She muttered to herself about forgetting to put the front porch light on when she left last week to visit her daughter and grandson in Toronto.
Hoping not to have to resort to turning the car’s headlights on, she took off her gloves, fumbled around until she felt the keyhole then married it up with her key and she was inside.
Walking carefully down the hallway, she trailed her hand along the wall until she found the light switch. It was as dark inside as it was outside for Evelyn Rogers lived three kilometres from Peggy’s Cove, on a private gravelled road with no other dwelling except for a hunting cabin one kilometre past her house.
As soon as she had lights, she went down into the basement, turned on the hot water tank and raised the furnace temperature setting. Climbing back up the steep stairs, she walked straight to the front door, out to the car, opened the trunk and lifted out her suitcase.
Thirty minutes later, she sat in her rocking chair, sipping tea and listening to the news broadcast on the radio. She looked over the stack of newspapers she had brought in from the box her husband had built at the end of the driveway. She never cancelled her subscription when she went away because she loved nothing more than reading the paper each morning, front to back, finishing with the crossword puzzle.
Walking over to the pile, she sorted them by date and placed them in the magazine rack by the rocking chair. Tomorrow morning she’d go into the village to pick up her mail and once that was sorted; she’d be able to begin a thorough scrutiny of the daily newspapers.
If Evelyn Rogers had read the papers beginning with the latest edition, she would have seen the picture of Jeffrey Stone, learned of his murder, and contacted the police station much sooner.
***