Читать книгу Cue the Dead Guy - H. Mel Malton - Страница 14

SERPENT: What you believe ith true ith an imaginary notion / The thingth you thee and touch are real, the retht ith jutht emotion.

-The Glass Flute, Scene vii

When the overhead lights came on, Meredith could be seen in the box, struggling to remove the black flag that was draped over her head. A tubby figure stood next to her, with its arms crossed. Since Shane and Amber were out front, Meredith’s flag-man had to be Brad. He was still wearing his hood, but I swear I could feel him grinning.

Meredith was in full hissy-fit mode. “You think that’s funny, Brad? Dicking around with the props? These aren’t toys, dammit. I thought you were a professional.”

“Merry, dear, you are taking yourself way too seriously. This is the first day of rehearsal. If you keep this up, you’ll blow an artery before we open,” Brad said.

“Uh, folks,” I said, “police’re here.” Nobody but me seemed to have heard Becker’s remark. He stood in the doorway, wearing that baffled expression you see sometimes on non-theatre people who interrupt a rehearsal and can’t figure out what’s real and what’s not. Meredith’s remark about Shane would definitely bear checking out later, but it struck me that an in-house investigation might be more diplomatic. Becker, I figured, could be kept in the dark for now. Theatre people do sometimes over-dramatize things—I admit to that tendency myself—and if you take everything they say at face-value, you could wind up reaching the wrong conclusions.

“I have a few questions I’d like to ask,” Becker said. “Can you take a break for a few minutes?”

I suggested that the cast go and change back into their street clothes first. “We’ll work in full blacks later in the week,” I said. There was no point in making the actors endure an interview with an OPP officer while they were dressed like dorks.

While they were changing, Becker sat down at the SM’s table and took out his notebook.

“Did you check out the scene downstairs?” I asked, trying to make light conversation.

“No, Polly, I thought I’d just come up here and ask questions without knowing what the hell was going on. Of course we’ve checked downstairs.” Boy, Becker was touchy.

“I was just asking,” I said.

“Are you going to be able to get fingerprints from the amp cables?” Ruth said.

“And you are . . .?” Becker asked, flipping to a new page in his notebook. Ruth introduced herself as Becker unfolded the contact list I’d given him in the lobby and made a little check mark next to Ruth’s name. I looked over his shoulder and saw that he’d checked off Tobin already. At the bottom he’d added “Rico Amato, antique dealer and hanger-on” and there was a check mark beside that, too. Yay, I thought, with some satisfaction. I knew that list would be useful.

“Now why would you think we’d need to check the cables for prints, Ms. Glass?” he said.

“Well, somebody obviously tied the vest to the side of the pool . . . don’t you think?” she said.

“Never mind what we think. Right now I’m just trying to get some details down,” he said. “How well do you know Jason McMaster, Ms. Glass?”

“Hardly at all,” she said. “He came up here, when, Polly? About a week before the cast did?”

“Yup. The SM—that’s stage manager, Becker—is usually contracted for a week before rehearsals start. It’s called pre-week. That’s when they do all their paperwork and stuff. He came up last Monday.”

“I gather he lives in Toronto,” Becker said.

“You kind of have to if you’re an SM or an actor,” I said. “There’s not a lot of professional theatre work around here—except for Steamboat.”

“Where do people stay?” Becker asked.

“Sometimes they’re billeted with local staff, or they get rooms in B&Bs. Some of them stay in motels until the show hits the road. I think Jason was at the Falls Motel. The address and number are right there on the contact sheet.”

“Mr. ah . . . Boone said that McMaster is from around here originally, though,” Becker said. “Doesn’t he have family he could stay with?”

I shrugged. “You’ll have to ask someone who knew him better, Becker. He wasn’t exactly forthcoming about his background.”

“Well, we’ll have to get in touch with his family and find out if they’ve seen him,” Becker said. “He could have gone back to Toronto.”

“You mean you don’t think he’s in the river?” I said. “I thought that was obvious.”

“Look, Polly, we’ve got one wet leather vest and no body. I know you love to get involved in a good murder, but there’s no indication at present that we’re dealing with a death here. Right now, according to you folks, Jason McMaster has gone missing for a few hours. That’s all. It’s hardly worth investigating at this point.”

“But he’s a stage manager. An obsessive one. Obsessive SMs don’t just blow off a rehearsal. That’s why we called you in the first place,” I said.

“I know, and we appreciate that,” Becker said. “But until he’s been missing at least 24 hours, this is just a courtesy call.”

The cast filed in from the wardrobe room.

“But what about the vest?” I said.

“I’m not convinced that a vest in a pool of water necessarily means murder, Polly,” he said, in a tone that was so condescending, I wanted to smack him. “Now, you folks are the actors, I take it? Take a seat, everyone, and we’ll have a chat.”