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