Final Act Dianne Yetman (popular ebook readers txt) 📖

to the rumour you’re suffering from honeymoon sleep deprivation.”

George Cummings, known around the precinct as the Genius Pathologist, or as Roger told it, the Pathological Genius, looked up and scowled.

“Well if it isn’t the man who looks like a black man, walks and talks like a black man, and dresses like fashion senseless yuppie.”

“Watch it, George; you’re skating close to the edge with talk like that.”

“Stuff it you two”, Gordon said. “What can you tell us George?”

“The man was poisoned.  Don’t know what with yet but it has all the earmarks of a metabolic. Autopsy will be tomorrow morning at 9:00am. Come one, come all if you can.  Now, I’m off, back to the dinner table in time to catch dessert, I hope.”  The three detectives followed him with their eyes until he was off stage.

Roger stooped down for a closer look at the body.

“Who is the poor bugger”, he asked.

“Jeffrey Stone, the play’s Director”, Gordon said.  “According to the tall, skinny one with the extra tire below the belt, Henry Ward, the Producer, our murder victim was a famous New York Director who gave up his lucrative career three years ago for this dinky little theatre.  It was his last evening as the big boss, however.  He was scheduled to fly back to New York to direct some high-brow, artsy kind of play.”

“What was he doing on stage?  I thought Directors hung out at the back of the theatre, pacing back and forth chomping on finger nails”, Roger asked.

“Wanted to give a farewell toast to cast and crew.  It was a farewell one alright.  Drank from the glass and it was lights out.  Andrew Wilkins, the Stage Manager, the only one on the set trained in CPR, tried to revive him but it was no use.  He was dead within seconds.  As dead as his name - stone dead.”

Roger and Kate ignored the pun, everyone at the precinct ignored Gordon’s puns.

Gordon shot them a look.

“Maybe we should start by finding out the reason why he left New York in the first place”, Kate said.

“Did I hear the word start”, Gordon asked. “Sounds like a plan and the sooner the better. I’m off to the station to set up the incident room.  I’ll leave you two to handle the executive team that runs the theatre here. Make sure all bodies are accounted for – it took 20 minutes after the murder before we had a uniform at the back and front exits.  No sense getting into too much detail with the head honchos, by the looks I saw on those vacuous faces, all you’ll get is shock talk.  I’ve got two more recruits on the way to ensure the patrons all leave the theatre and in an orderly fashion.  Once they arrive, make the announcement that they are free to go under the direction of the police constables.”

“What about the interviews?  Here or at the station”, Roger asked.

“Here for the preliminaries.  We’ll haul any interesting ones to the station for the full treatment.  We’re starting early; everyone is to be here by 8:00am tomorrow morning, they should love that.  I’ll meet you in the briefing room tomorrow morning at 7:00am.”

He started to leave then turned around.

“With those actors, you’re going to get a lot of histrionics. Don’t let them distract you; keep that poor dead bastard’s face in front of your eyes.”

Roger snorted at his boss’s disappearing back.

“Who the hell does he think we are, new recruits?”

“It’s his one year from retirement spiel, you know how it goes.  Keep your eyes on the bouncy ball because I don’t want it hitting me in the face.”

The shadow of a movement caught their eyes.  A priest was advancing towards them from stage left.  He nodded at the two detectives then knelt and gave Stone the last rites.

Roger found himself strangely moved by the ritual.

“No doubt about it, Kate, this case is going to be an emotional zinger.”

10:30pm

Cast and crew were huddled together in the common dressing room.   Someone placed a bottle of Scotch on the table.  Ed rushed to the prop room for more plastic wine glasses.  By the time he returned, the lone bottle multiplied to three.

Once the glasses were filled and a couple shots consumed, there was a noticeable easing of shock and a loosening of tongues.  Small knots of people began to form and a verbal debrief began.  Only one person asked about the Henry, Andrew and Eleanor.  Someone said they were squirreled away in their offices located in the front of the theatre.

But not all the executives were together.  Henry Ward was sitting in Ed’s cubbyhole pouring whiskey into a dusty, coffee stained mug.  His hand shook as he raised it to his mouth.  Jeffrey’s death throes were playing with his head.  He switched his thoughts to their last conversation.

It had been a little over a week ago, at their usual meeting place, third row back from centre stage, free from knocks on the door and ringing phones. Once they saw where they were seated, actors and crew avoided them like the plague.

Their conversation got off to a rocky start and before it was over, it had advanced to crashing boulders.  It started innocently enough.  Henry had sat next to Jeffrey, nodded, smiled, and reached inside his jacket pocket, pulled out his pipe.  Jeffrey barked.

“I hope that thing isn’t lit, Henry.  We don’t want any complaints from patrons about the smell of smoke, do we?”

“For God’s sake, Jeffrey, do you have to be so anal?  Have I ever actually lit the damn thing?”

“No, but I don’t trust anyone who has to resort to soothers”, he said.

“Not a lot of people you trust are there? You know my pet peeve, Jeffrey, people who parade their ridiculous, stupid, affectations in front of others in the hopes of squeezing out a drop more attention.”

“What a sanctimonious, prissy little shit you are, Henry.  I don’t know how I’ve put up with you all these years.”

Henry