Just Murdered (22 page)

A voice came from behind a dark wood door. “Donna Sue! Is that you yakking out there? Get your ass in here.”

“Is that him?” Helen lowered her voice.

“Charming, isn’t he? Must have snuck in the back way.”

“I better run,” Helen said. “I don’t think he’s in a good mood for a condolence call.”

“He’s never in a good mood,” Donna Sue said. “That man’s got a temper like a stepped-on snake. I can’t wait to tell him good-bye.”

It was the first act of
Richard III.
The evil Richard began his powerful speech. “Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer by this sun of York—”

Jason, the production’s new Richard, paused. The tiny noise had distracted him. He recovered quickly. “And all the clouds that—”

Helen heard the small sound all the way in the back of the theater. After she’d seated the last latecomers, she’d propped herself against the wall. The house was sold out.

From his first words, she knew Jason was no match for Luke. Helen missed Luke’s crazy energy and high emotion. Luke’s Richard was crippled in mind and body, bent on revenge for imagined slights, hungry for power.

Jason was correct but dull. The only good thing was his speeches seemed much shorter. Otherwise, Helen felt trapped in a PBS special.

Clink. Clink.
That sound. There it was again. Where was the stage manager?

Helen tiptoed across the empty lobby and slipped through the velvet curtains to the backstage entrance. A table in the narrow hall was piled with props: a crown with glass jewels, an evening purse, a dagger.

She threaded her way through a fire marshal’s nightmare of costume racks and stacks of scripts. Sagging gray curtains divided the men’s and women’s dressing rooms.

The sound was louder now. Helen thought it came from the other side of the dressing rooms. She slid past a bearded actor going over his lines, his costume damp with flop sweat. He didn’t notice her.

A plywood partition was just beyond him. Helen peeked around it. Chauncey was sitting on a kitchen chair at an old wooden desk, a bottle of bourbon in front of him. He picked up the bottle and poured sloppily into a water glass, hitting the rim with a loud clink. His shirt was open almost to his waist and there was a bandage on his neck.

Helen felt a cold hand touch her shoulder and stifled a scream. It was Donna Sue, in a black gown and silver crown. She raised a finger to her lips, brushed past Helen, and held out her hand with a regal gesture.

Chauncey sheepishly surrendered the glass. Donna Sue poured the bourbon into a foam coffee cup and gave it to him. Helen wanted to applaud.

Chauncey stared at the foam cup moodily. His too-red lips trembled, then sagged. He poured his next drink in silence.

Helen followed Donna Sue through the plywood passages to a small kitchen. The counter was cluttered with half-eaten veggie subs, bottled water, and boxes of doughnut holes. Actor food, all of it.

“What—” she said, but Donna Sue shushed her. Helen watched as she rinsed Chauncey’s glass in the sink, then pulled a lighter and a pack of Virginia Slims out of a purse and slipped out the back door.

Helen followed her into the chilly night. There was no one else in the bleak staff parking lot, but a mound of cigarette butts and a rank nicotine odor said this was where the pretend princes and peasants smoked between scenes.

Donna Sue the actress was more self-assured than Donna Sue the secretary. The theater was her world. “Sorry to shut you up.” She took a deep draft of her cigarette. “But sound carries backstage. We can talk out here.”

“I didn’t know that Chauncey drank,” Helen said.

“He doesn’t,” Donna Sue said. “Well, every so often, he goes on a bender when the pressure gets too much. The production isn’t the same without Luke.”

“It’s the first act of his first night,” Helen said. “Jason may get better as he warms up.”

Donna Sue shook her head. “We knew there was trouble in the rehearsals. Jason forgets lines like crazy. He missed about a third of his speech in that last scene, and forgot the cue line. Ben—he’s the Duke of Clarence—covered for him, thank God.”

“I hardly noticed it,” Helen said. “Really.”

“But you did, just the same. Jason’s memory gets worse and worse. I don’t know what’s wrong. Chauncey spent hours rehearsing him. Poor Chauncey. All that, on top of Kiki’s death. No wonder he hit the bottle.”

“Literally,” Helen said. “I could hear the clinking in the back of the theater.”

“I figured,” Donna Sue said. “That’s why I took the glass away. You’re wondering why I didn’t take the bottle, too?”

Helen nodded.

“I’ve seen Chauncey like this before. In a day or so, he’ll come back apologetic and hungover with some clever way to fix the play. It’s how he works.”

“Why did Kiki’s death upset him?” Helen said. “I saw that woman publicly humiliate him. Besides, she left him lots of money.”

“Humiliation is no big deal for anyone in the theater,” Donna Sue said. “Some of us even like it. I know a few cast members who are into S and M. Chauncey depended on Kiki. She was his patroness. She brought big donors to his shows. She was a good critic. She could watch the rehearsals and tell him where the weak spots were. She spotted Luke’s talent and made him a leading man. Of course, she didn’t expect him to audition for son-in-law.”

“Was she upset when he got the role?” Helen said.

“I don’t think she liked it. But Desiree could do a lot worse than Luke, and Kiki was smart enough to know that. I was there the night Desiree met him. Her mother had dragged her to a production of
Midsummer.
She sat there like a bundle of old clothes. Then Luke came onstage. I think he had a small role as the changeling boy. Desiree couldn’t keep her eyes off him.”

“Did Luke see her?”

“Oh, yeah. He saw her all right—as his meal ticket.” Donna Sue took another drag.

“Kiki may have helped Chauncey in the past, but she was withholding money lately,” Helen said. “Chauncey said the theater would fold unless she gave him five thousand dollars. She refused. I heard her.”

Donna Sue shrugged. “It was a game they played. At the last minute, after he begged her hard enough, she’d give him the money. She always did.”

But what if this time she didn’t? Helen wondered. What if the game went too far? Masochists died when their games went wrong.

“What happened to Chauncey’s neck?”

“Cut himself working on the set. It’s just a scratch.” Donna Sue blew out a long curl of smoke like a forties movie actress. Helen thought she’d smoke if it made her look as romantically world-weary.

“How’d he do that?” Helen asked.

“I didn’t see it, but I think it happened late Friday night. Chauncey is obsessive. He’ll come back to the theater at two a.m. and rearrange the set. Makes the set designer crazy, not to mention the actors. We’ll get our parts blocked and he’ll move all the furniture and we’ll have to reblock. But he’s not bad, as directors go. I’ve seen some throw chairs or scream at actors until they cried.”

“Does Chauncey have a temper?”

Donna Sue ground out her cigarette on the stucco wall, careful to keep from breaking the half-smoked butt.

“I hope you’re not measuring Chauncey for a frame,” she said. It sounded like a line from a play. “Because Kiki was worth more to him alive than dead.”

She turned her back on Helen and walked inside, like the queen she was.

Donna Sue would not talk to Helen during the intermission after the first act. But the actress didn’t hold a grudge. After the second act, Helen found an excuse to make conversation with her backstage.

“What’s in that locked cabinet?” Helen asked.

“That’s where we keep the stage knives, sword canes, and guns,” Donna Sue said. “The stage manager has the key. Actors love them, especially the sword canes, but they can get killed playing with those things. The actors can use them only if they sign a release and take special training. I need a smoke. Want to join me outside?”

The actors’ parking lot was a desert of broken asphalt with a rusty chain-link fence. Helen thought she saw something interesting. She wanted to examine it alone.

Three actors were huddled at the far end of the lot, puffing on their cigarettes. Donna Sue waved at them, then lit her half-smoked butt.

“I should quit,” she said. “Funny, I don’t smoke at the office. But get me onstage and I crave nicotine.”

All the cars on the lot were clunkers, except one. A black Eclipse was parked beside the battered Civics, Neons and rusting Toyotas.

“Who owns the hot new Eclipse?” Helen asked.

“Jason.” Donna Sue spat out the word.

“He must have a good day job.”

“I don’t think he has any job at all,” she said.

“Really? Where’s he get his money? It can’t be from acting.” Helen hoped she wasn’t pushing too hard again.

But Donna Sue had no protective instincts toward Jason. “Don’t know. I stay away from him. I don’t like touchy-feely creeps. His hands are all over the younger actresses, and they’re too dumb to see past Jason’s good looks. I call him the Green-Eyed Monster.”

“Those green eyes are compelling.”

“He doesn’t bother flashing them at me. He likes younger women. Real young. Some of his dates have lollipops.”

Jason liked younger women? Then why was he hanging all over the much older Kiki?

The outside light flicked three times, the signal to return. “Gotta go,” Donna Sue said. “Are you coming in?”

“No, thanks,” Helen said. “Think I’ll enjoy the night air.”

Donna Sue tossed the butt into the pile by the door, then went inside. The other actors followed. Helen waited a few minutes, then examined the cast’s cars. Young actors lived in their cars, sometimes for real when they couldn’t make the rent. Looking in their cars was like peeking into their homes.

Helen saw piles of scripts, demo tapes, photos, and resumes. There were college textbooks, old carry-out bags, and whole wardrobes, from skirts and jeans to high heels and running shoes.

Jason’s Eclipse stood out from this sorry pack. The sleek outside was polished. The interior was pristine. There were two odd touches: dozens of stuffed animals were in the backseat—bears, elephants, kittens, even a fuzzy fish. A bouquet of lollipops was stuck in the drink holder.

Jason was not in touch with his inner child. He was selling Ecstasy. Helen knew the drug left people extremely sensitive to touch, especially soft, plush surfaces. The suckers relieved the clenched teeth it could cause. Jason must hand them out to his customers. Dr. Feel Good gave a little extra relief.

“Some of his dates have lollipops,” Donna Sue had said. Not because they were young. They used X.

She remembered Lisa’s taunt at the rehearsal when another bridesmaid mentioned a newly thin friend: “It’s the South Beach Diet—Ecstasy and Corona. Right, Jason?”

Helen slipped back inside as the actors were taking their final bows. She stayed to clean up. “You are the greatest,” the stage manager said when she found Helen vacuuming the lobby rug. “I wish all our volunteers were like you.”

No, you don’t, Helen thought, and gave a traitor’s smile. She wasn’t there to help. She was planning a little drama of her own tonight, as soon as Jason showed up. The elements were worthy of Shakespeare: Money, murder, sex, and blackmail. If she succeeded, it would be curtains for the struggling playhouse.

Helen was out to prove their new leading man murdered their major benefactor—then blackmailed her only daughter.