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