Ellen Hart Presents Malice Domestic 15: Mystery Most Theatrical. Karen Cantwell
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