Читать книгу Ellen Hart Presents Malice Domestic 15: Mystery Most Theatrical - Karen Cantwell - Страница 14

Asked to write about a deadly fall at the theater, Ham Laurence finds himself revisiting a place he had shunned and questioning the cause of another death.

“They want me to write about a mystery involving the theater?” Ham Laurence leaned back into the red leather corner banquette seat that reminded him of his worn-out Doc Martens. “Hasn’t that trope been done to death, so to speak?”

Ham took a long sip from his gin and tonic, the first in his evening routine in the dark NoHo bar: consume at least one too many while sneering at obviously underaged NYU students trying to hoodwink the bartender (rarely successful) and tourists trying to order food as though this was a British pub (never successful), as he made a valiant attempt at a freelance writing career (sometimes successful). Annabella Finnegan, his part-time girlfriend and a full-time writer at the Manhattan Monthly magazine, sat across the table from him in his de facto evening office space.

“Seriously, Ham,” Annabella said, pushing a thick strand of curly hair out of her eyes. “My editor has specifically requested you by name to write an article about that actress who fell to her death two weeks ago from the roof at the Gotham Theater. Apparently, she was his niece and no one really knows what happened. He just wants some answers.”

“And to sell more magazines. So, he sent you to convince me to figure it out. What’s the play anyway?” Ham searched the Internet on his open laptop as Annabella craned her neck to look. “Field of Hamlet? Dear Lord, it’s a Shakespearean parody about the New York Yankees. ‘Kill him and they will come.’ I’d probably jump off the roof too after acting in it.”

“Don’t be such a theater snob. With your background, you’d be the perfect person to investigate.”

“Because I’m a former cop? Or because my father used to run the Gotham and you think I can still get backstage?”

“You have to admit you bring a provenance to the topic.”

Ham took a long drink as Annabella ran her finger along the rim of her glass of cheap merlot while trying to persuade Ham with her most enchanting gaze.

“First, if I remember correctly, there was no evidence of homicide or malfeasance. Probably just another unwise selfie attempt.” He was impressed that he still could pronounce the word malfeasance after imbibing his generously poured drink. “Second, I haven’t been back to the Gotham in over five years when my sisters and I finally escaped our father’s downward vortex.” Vortex was another complex word. Ham was on a roll. “I swore I’d never go back. And I haven’t yet. Not even when he died.”

“Your father fell off a balcony there six months ago, didn’t he?” she asked. “Come to think of it, their deaths sound strangely similar.”

“He was a drunk and it was only a matter of time,” he said, looking at the glass in his hand while noting the irony. “Not suspicious or surprising. Maybe only shocking that it hadn’t occurred earlier.”

“There’s more here, something sinister.” Annabella leaned across the table. “This actress had just landed a huge role on Broadway. Why end it all now? She didn’t even have a trace of alcohol in her blood.”

“What was left of her blood,” Ham said, having been to enough suicides as a cop to know what the effects of a plunge from the top of a building were to the human body. Though the Gotham Theater was only three stories high, the concrete below was not a forgiving host.

“Fine. Don’t do it. But you’re not staying at my place when you can’t make rent.”

“Okay, okay,” he capitulated. “I don’t have any other pressing assignments. I’ll go to a show, ingratiate myself with the cast, see what I can find out. I’ll write something. It might be about a murder, it might be a review of a disastrous play.”

“Great. I’ll let him know.”

She gave him a quick kiss and left him to brood.

Ham swirled his glass, now only filled with ice. He had intended to stay sober for the month. Save some money and his liver. He assured himself he wasn’t addicted, like his father. He just had an issue with self-control. Impulsively downing multiple drinks a night. Regretting it the next morning. Swearing he would never do it again. Then, when presented with a similar opportunity that evening, repeating the torture. He had the same problem with Cadbury Creme Eggs.

Self-control was his weakness. He intended to work on it.

Cursing his return to the Gotham, he rubbed his day-old stubble and the prematurely graying hair on his head. Ham figured that there would be plenty of tickets still available for the eight o’clock show, as there always had been years ago. His bottomless brown eyes scanned those around him one last time, looking for an excuse to not go. Seeing none, he stashed his computer in his fraying messenger bag and pulled on his faded leather jacket. He gave a wink to the bartender while settling his tab and turned down Bleecker Street toward the Bowery. As much as he dreaded returning to his childhood haunt, he needed that paycheck more. And the Manhattan Monthly paid well.

On the way, Ham called an old buddy, Detective Joey Peralta, at the 9th Precinct for any details that hadn’t been broadcast in the news. It was good to have connections.

“This is all off the record, understand?” Detective Peralta continued without waiting for a response. “Coroner ruled Sophie Beale’s death a suicide. No alcohol in her blood. No cell phone or note on her person. According to the director and another actress, she had been depressed. She wasn’t happy with her performance and didn’t get a role in an upcoming play. You know how moody these artistic types can be.”

“Yes, I do,” Ham agreed. “I owe you.”

Ham immediately picked up on the discrepancy about Sophie’s future on Broadway but understood the need to exaggerate to family about one’s professional success.

The Gotham Theater was located in the heart of the East Village just off the Bowery and down the block from the former nightclub CGBG before it became a trendy clothing store. The neighborhood protested its gentrification: brick walls covered in graffiti memorializing Blondie and Basquiat were surrounded by art galleries and million-dollar apartments. The theater, an old Vaudeville relic, continued to showcase experimental and avant-garde productions as well as punk rock concerts.

Ham entered the Gotham, shocked at how familiar it still felt and how nothing had changed. The black walls and exposed industrial pipes were plastered with randomly placed posters and stickers. A threadbare red carpet led into the auditorium. The Clash thumped over the loudspeakers.

At the box office, the ticketing agent recognized him and gave him a fist bump.

“Hey, man, long time no see! You chose a good night to return. This will be the first show since that incident a few weeks ago.”

He handed Ham his ticket and playbill. As he glanced at them, Ham noticed that his former college roommate, Nate Berkshire, was the playwright. Hopefully, he’d run into Nate later.

“So tragic. I’m sorry I never got to know her.”

“On the bright side, we sold out tonight for the first time ever. You got the last ticket.”

Ham wanted to talk to him more about “that incident,” but the dimming of the lights indicated that the play was starting soon.

“Come to our backstage party afterwards. You’re practically family. Everyone would love to see you again.”

Ham accepted his invitation and, after excusing himself to find his seat, relaxed in his realization that this assignment might be easier than he thought. Mingle at the party, get some free booze, overhear some gossip, and then go home and write it all up. If it was just a suicide as the police concluded, Ham was sure that there was plenty of theatrical drama he could wax poetically about.

The five-act play concluded with the Yankees star attacking Laertes, the Chicago Cubs pitcher, with a poisoned bat in the World Series. Ham rolled his eyes, relieved that the Shakespearean sacrilege was finally over, and waited until the audience filtered out to make his way unimpeded behind the stage.

As he wove through actors dressed as baseball players and crew members clad in black t-shirts and Converse high tops, it struck him that no one was smiling. That’s not how he remembered it in the past when there were always thankful celebrations of another job well done.

Sophie Beale’s death appeared to be casting a pall over everyone.

Ham always felt at home at the Gotham. His father devoted all of his time to writing and directing plays here. Ham and his two sisters joined him after school, learning all about the stage. The Gotham later served as a refuge after their mother walked out on the family. His father, hit hard, spent the subsequent years drowning himself in alcohol. Ham carried him home more than a few times. When they were old enough, the Laurence siblings exited stage left one by one, vowing never to return to the Gotham—and their father—to avoid reopening old wounds. But here he was doing just that.

“Ham Laurence! It’s been forever since I saw you last. At a creative writing workshop at NYU five, six years ago, wasn’t it?”

Ham smiled as Nate Berkshire, tall and lanky and dressed in impossibly skinny jeans, an indigo blazer, and matching square glasses, emerged from a gaggle of baseball players and bear-hugged him.

“Congratulations! Interesting concept for a play. I was curious how it was going to be pulled off.” Ham struggled to get his words out with a straight face, not wanting to mock it in front of the whole theater company.

Nate eagerly led Ham to a group congregating in the back of the stage whose nods and smiles eliminated any need for formal introductions. In the center stood a tall, thick man wearing an expensively tailored suit. He looked out of place, like a former professional football player who had bought the team after retirement and was visiting the locker room. “You remember Mason Bryce, our theater manager?”

“The prodigal son returns,” Mason said, extending his meaty paw to Ham. While his mouth smiled, his eyes glared in derision. “Mr. Laurence, what are you doing back here?”

“Weren’t you just the accountant when I left?”

“I took over after your father died. Being competent and committed leads to success. You should try it,” Mason said. “I understand you quit the NYPD after graduating NYU with high honors in English. Delayed teenage angst?”

“You could say that.”

“What a waste. But you’ve always been so melodramatic.”

“I’m a freelance writer now, so I’m taking full advantage of my melodramatic angst. Thank you very much.”

Attempting to break the tension, the actress who played Gertrude offered them red plastic cups of cheap Prosecco.

“I don’t touch the stuff,” Mason said, waving her off. “No drugs, no alcohol. I need to stay mentally focused at all times.”

Too bad Mason’s midsection did not evidence his abstinence, Ham thought as he happily accepted the rejected cup in addition to his own. Ham’s attention caught on Miranda Alvarez, the actress who played Ophelia, while toasting the actors surrounding him. As he sipped from one of his cups, his eyes slowly drank in her aggressive sensuality, entranced by her long dark hair and curvaceous body which spilled out of her costume. Miranda cocked her head, relishing his attention.

Self-control. He reminded himself of Annabella to break from her spell. Self-control.

Ham turned to Tony, an old scenic designer standing next to him. “I’m so sorry about Sophie.”

“Thank you. She was the biggest star we ever had and brought a lot of acclaim to our productions. She will be missed.”

Miranda rolled her eyes.

“How are your sisters?” Tony asked.

“Susannah is acting in noir plays in Copenhagen and Judith is in Hollywood writing scripts.”

“I’m glad the theatre has stayed in the family blood since William’s passing.”

“Excuse me. Your father was William Laurence, Gotham’s former artistic director and Shakespearean expert?” Miranda asked Ham, deducing his pedigree and attempting to regain his attention. “You are Ham and your sisters are Susannah and Judith? Aren’t they the names of—”

“Shakespeare’s children. Yes, Ham is short for Hamnet. My father thought it would be funny to name us after them. A regular riot, he was. Hamnet Shakespeare died at age eleven. But I have survived to at least twenty-seven in spite of myself. So, there you go.”

“If you keep hanging around this place, you might not see twenty-eight,” the dark bearded musical director interrupted as he walked through the crowd carrying a trumpet. “The life expectancy of our company is dropping precipitously, like the paint chips and ceiling tiles here.”

“Oh, please,” Miranda said. “I don’t know why everyone is so torn up. She wasn’t a very good actress. I told her that all of the time including right after her opening night performance. She obviously couldn’t handle the truth.”

“Show some respect,” Tony said. “You’ve been here, what, four weeks? Yet you act like you run the place.”

“I’m not saying anything new. She was turned down for a role on Broadway.”

“She told you that?” Ham asked. “I heard she got the part.”

“I learned otherwise from some colleagues on Broadway,” Mason said. “Ms. Beale wanted to leave the company but couldn’t get another job. Sadly, she really wasn’t as good as everyone here thought.”

“She didn’t get along with Mason,” Miranda said. “Though he was always looking out for her best interests. If she had been smart, she would’ve listened to him.”

Mason led the actress away, his hand briefly circled quite low around her waist with ease and familiarity. She did not flinch, but leaned into him, looking up with wide, adoring eyes. Ham was relieved to be free from the two and the mood eased considerably among the group. While Ham was certain there was some obvious quid pro quo’ing going on between the pair, Miranda had the most to gain from Sophie’s suicide. Not exactly the most reliable or empathetic witness, Miranda had told the same story to the police, so at least she was consistent. It was clear that the others didn’t agree with their assessment of Sophie.

Ham and Nate emerged through the curtains onto the empty stage and sat down with their legs dangling over the edge. They toasted together and Ham reverently tipped his plastic cup to the second-floor balcony from where his father had fallen. Red velvet topped the balcony’s wooden rail and balustrade with matching curtains framing a sea of red seats. Theaters were not made like this anymore and Ham predicted it wouldn’t last much longer with rents skyrocketing. At least his father died in the place he loved the most.

“What were you thinking writing this travesty?” Ham said after a long quaff. “I’m sorry, I know this was a big accomplishment for you. But Field of Hamlet is such a departure from your previous existential work.”

“I know,” Nate said. “Your dad encouraged me to write it to expand my repertoire into Shakespearean parody. If he were around to help finish it, he would’ve made it better.”

“He would’ve burned it. When did you start working here anyway?”

“Your dad took me in after you left, probably to atone for pushing you away.”

“Oh, I don’t think he really cared about me, only about drinking himself to death. He couldn’t even make it to our college graduation, remember?”

“He seriously regretted that. He gave up booze and joined AA after you stopped talking to him.”

Ham stared up at the balcony, sorry that he missed his father’s transformation.

“He always sat up there while watching rehearsals,” Ham broke the silence. “Claimed it gave him a clearer view of what the audience saw. You said he was sober? He must have relapsed.”

“He didn’t. I honestly don’t understand how it happened. He had a fear of heights. Why would he be leaning over the edge? The police didn’t ask me, so I didn’t get to tell them he was definitely not drinking that day.”

“But he reeked of vodka. The police never conducted a blood-alcohol test since he was a known drunk. Maybe they should have.”

While on the force, Ham read the police report. A terrorist attack in Midtown prevented his father’s death from being given its proper attention. Bad accident. Open and shut. Move on.

“Now that he’s gone, the Gotham has gone downhill. Mason arrogantly runs the theater like a tyrant. His choice of productions has been poor and he barks at all of the actors for not being good enough. There’s never been enough money for props or improvements, but it’s gotten worse recently. I just overheard him on the phone complaining about super high interest loans coming due. He is always threatening to sell the theater. I don’t know how much longer it can go on like this.”

“What do you know about Sophie’s death?”

“Not much,” he said. “She was particularly in his crosshairs, getting criticized for everything. Mason favored Miranda, who overacts most of the time and has a piss poor work ethic, but she fills out her dresses better, I guess. Sophie was the better actress by far.”

“What happened just before Sophie fell?”

“After the show, she had a fight with Mason backstage and ran out in a ripped skirt yelling that he was making a big mistake treating her like this. I don’t know, maybe he told her she was being replaced. She actually did a great job that night, the perfect Ophelia. Next thing I hear is that, well.…” Nate looked at him. “Ham, you need to come back. We could collaborate like old times and save this place.”

Nate and Ham stood, looking for someplace to stash their empty cups. A member of the lighting crew pulled Nate aside to ask about how to better direct the spotlight during the final scene.

“The garbage is off stage,” a voice boomed out from behind the curtain.

“Why aren’t you with everyone else?” Ham asked, peeking through an opening to find a stagehand climbing up a ladder.

“I have work to do,” he said. “Too busy for celebrations.”

“Sorry about that, you should have help.”

“Not enough money in the budget. Do more with less, I’m told. It’s the same every night. It’s not like anyone notices when I’m around anyway, only when I’m not. Mason chewed me out for missing opening night when my son was born. Maybe it was a good thing I wasn’t working. He probably would’ve made me clean up the mess afterwards.”

“Were you here when my—when William Laurence died?”

“Sure was. I heard him arguing with Mason earlier in the day, which was not unusual because no one gets along with Mason.”

“They were fighting about what? Do you remember?”

“William warned him to keep his hands to himself or else he was going to the police with some kind of proof. It’s no secret Mason flirts with the actresses, and I know he’s getting it on with Miranda. Maybe he went a little too far with Sophie.”

Ham knew that his father avoided confrontation at all cost. If he did have it out with Mason, it would not be surprising that he started drinking afterwards.

Ham left the stagehand and snuck into one of the back rooms that was lined on either side with wheeled clothing racks jammed with costumes. Ham ran his hand along the fabrics. The costume designer, a woman with purple hair and a nose ring, appeared from behind one of racks.

“There are some good memories here, Kirstie.”

“Like that time back between the dresses?”

“You were my first.” Ham blushed.

“I could tell.” Kirstie briefly returned the smile. “Ham, why are you back?”

“I’m writing a story for the Manhattan Monthly about the death of Sophie Beale.” Ham felt he could trust Kirstie with the truth. “Do you think she committed suicide?”

“Poor thing.” Kirstie’s face fell. “She was so unhappy a year ago. Once, when I was fitting her for a dress, a big pink frilly thing, she totally broke down crying.”

“Because she had to wear a hideous costume?”

“No, she wouldn’t let that stop her from immersing herself in her role. She said that Mason kept trying to force himself on her. I told her that was illegal, and she needed to tell your father. Maybe he’d fire him. I guess he confronted Mason, because it didn’t happen again.”

“That’s surprising Dad would do that.”

“You know, your father was a good man.”

“How was Sophie on opening night?”

“She was elated. She confided to me that she got a part on Broadway and had signed a contract for a really expensive new apartment. Anyway, she was planning to tell Mason after the show that she was leaving. Later, I heard that the role had been given to someone else. I don’t know what could have happened in the meantime, but the news must’ve devastated her.”

“I can’t even imagine.”

The electricity that had flowed through Ham as an awkward sixteen-year-old making out with the twenty-year-old costume designer shot once again down his spine.

“Wanna go explore behind the dresses again for old times’ sake?” Ham smiled, blushing again.

“Sorry, I’d love to, but I’m married now.”

“That’s okay, I was just kidding anyway,” Ham said, backtracking. Annabella would go ballistic if she heard he’d hit on Kirstie.

“Do me a favor?” Kirstie said as she hugged him. “Do Sophie proud in your article. She didn’t deserve her fate.”

Ham returned backstage and watched as Mason and Miranda moved through the crew. Mason caught Ham staring and shot him a warning glance to stay away: this was his domain now.

Wanting nothing to do with any turf battles, Ham eased down the aisle toward the exit. Near the front doors, he recognized an usher cleaning up. His dark hair was now silver streaked, and his thin, bony hands gripped the top of a seat in the last row as he righted himself. The years had not been kind to him.

“Just getting ready for a tour of some VIPs tomorrow. If I were them, I’d stay away.” He leaned in close to Ham. “This place is cursed.”

“Cursed?”

“I’ve seen too much. I was one of the first to find Sophie’s body. It was so sad to see her broken like that. She wasn’t a diva at all, unlike some others around here. She always talked to me. In fact, just the day before she died, she helped me straighten up the front of the house for another tour by these same executives. I wouldn’t be surprised if that shady Mason Bryce was involved.”

“Why do you say that?”

“When your father died, God rest his soul, Mason told the police that he had been up there alone during rehearsals. But I saw Mason rushing down the stairs from the balcony after he fell, shoving a book and a bottle of vodka in his briefcase. I just figured they were celebrating their new play. It must have been a wild party, vodka was spilled all over the floor. You know, back in the day your dad could drink anyone under the table.”

“Unfortunately, I remember those days too well.”

The old man yawned. Ham was growing tired, too.

“It’s getting late,” Ham said. “I should let you finish so you can get home. Take care of yourself.”

Wanting to be alone, Ham ducked into the side staircase and climbed until he reached the roof. He dropped his messenger bag, relieved of the physical but not emotional weight that had been pressing on his shoulders all night. He looked out along the skyline. The East Village was like the crease in an opened book: squat brownstones with glittering skyscrapers surrounding it to the north and south. New York City was in his blood and he couldn’t run away from it like his sisters had. But after tonight, he regretted abandoning everyone here. He swore he was going to accurately portray what was going on at the Gotham in his article.

Ham leaned over the side of the building, gazing at where Sophie had landed below. He tried to piece the story together to understand how she became so depressed to believe that jumping was her only option. But things weren’t adding up, too many questions were still unanswered.

There was no consensus among the crew about whether Sophie was depressed at all. Did Miranda talk her into committing suicide? Did Mason convince his Broadway connections to give her role to someone else? What were they fighting about after the show? Another attempted assault could have pushed her over the edge. Interlaced with all of this was his father’s death. Mason seemed to have a role in that as well. There was more here than just the tragic destruction of an actress’s career after resisting her boss’s sexual advances.

Suddenly, it all became perfectly clear. He retrieved his phone from his bag and called Detective Joey Peralta.

“Joey, you need to come to the Gotham Theater. It was murder and I can prove it. Everyone involved is here now. I can’t promise that tomorrow, especially if this theater closes after tonight, which I think it will.”

The metal stairway door suddenly slammed shut. A figure was illuminated from behind by the surrounding high-rise apartment buildings. Ham instantly recognized him by his rotund shape, though he couldn’t see his face or what he was holding behind his back.

“Mason, I had a feeling you’d join me.”

“What are you doing nosing around here?” Mason asked.

“Trust me, I didn’t want to come back. I am the last person who wanted to dredge up old memories.”

“Ah, yes, old memories. I despised it when you and your clan ran amok in the theater.”

“Now that my father’s out of the way, you seem to be profiting nicely.”

“Profit? This hole is losing more than it will ever take in.”

“Then why stick around? Waiting to get top dollar when you sell it?”

“It’s time to wake up and burst out of your artsy punk bubble. The Gotham’s only redeeming value is the land it sits on.”

“Or are you using it as your own personal brothel? Did you punish Sophie when she wouldn’t agree to your advances?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about. I played no part in Sophie losing her big Broadway role.”

Mason continued forward toward Ham.

“That’s true. You were not responsible because she never lost it. In fact, you wanted her gone and Broadway would have been the perfect escape. Then she might have stopped blackmailing you, right?”

“What are you talking about?”

“For the past year, you’ve been paying her off to keep her from telling my father or the police that you tried to rape her. When she discovered right before opening night that real estate developers were coming for a tour, she demanded a large percentage of the proceeds and you couldn’t abide that. So, you pushed her off the roof. You told everyone afterwards that she lost the role to make it look like suicide. Tomorrow, the same developers are returning to seal the deal and no one would blame you for wanting to sell after suffering two horrible tragedies.”

“Always the melodramatic one. You should have followed your father into the theater. It seems you are already heading down his doomed path.”

Mason inched toward Ham, his hands still behind his back.

“You killed my father, too, to stop him from reporting to the police that you were embezzling from the theater, money which you used to pay Sophie off. When there was no money left for an upcoming production, Dad analyzed the books and figured out you had been stealing from the accounts. Moreover, he was preventing you from selling the theater to pay down your debts. You doused him with vodka and then pushed him over the railing, making it look like he was drunk, and you took the accounts ledger back so no one else could discover the truth.”

“Try to prove it, punk.”

Mason swiftly swung a baseball bat from behind his back at Ham’s head, forcing him backwards towards the edge of the roof. Ham’s police training kicked in. After ducking away from the attack, he grabbed Mason’s arm, forcing him to drop the bat and placing him in a headlock. Ham then tipped him over the side of the building.

“Was this what it was like when you killed him? Did you just push him over or did he put up a struggle? You worthless piece of shit.”

Rage surged through Ham’s blood, as all of the bottled-up emotions from the past finally erupted. The veins in his temples throbbed under a beet-red flush.

Mason’s bulky girth made it difficult for Ham to continue balancing him and their feet began to slip. Mason begged for his life as he struggled to keep from falling.

The metal door slammed open again. Led by Nate, Detective Peralta rushed through the doorway and across the roof, helping to pull Mason back to safety.

“What’s going on here?” Detective Peralta shouted as he separated the two.

“Arrest him,” Ham said, breathing hard as he picked up the bat and pointed it at Mason. “He murdered Dad and Sophie Beale.”

Ham handed the bat to the visibly confused detective and collected his messenger bag after straightening his jacket and hair.

“Nate, I like your idea. Let’s take over the Gotham and make it successful. This is my home and I want to make my father proud.”

Self-control. Ham was working on it.