Ellen Hart Presents Malice Domestic 15: Mystery Most Theatrical. Karen Cantwell
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.
WHEN THE WIND IS SOUTHERLY, by Leone Ciporin
Newly-widowed Marian may be along in years, but she’s shrewd enough to find answers in a senior production of Hamlet.
I’d so looked forward to seeing Hamlet, and now I didn’t want to be here. Fred should be sitting next to me, instead of my sweaty neighbor, Sally. Fred and I had loved coming to Sunset Manor’s performances, watching the resident thespians prove that age was no barrier to creating art. We’d even imagined ourselves joining the theater group when we moved to Sunset in a few years.
During Macbeth, I’d leaned into Fred’s chamois shirt, sniffed the bits of grass on his neck, and enjoyed the mischievous glint in his eye. Now, I was rubbing shoulders with Sally’s damp housedress, inhaling her odd vinegary odor, and watching her fan herself with the playbook.
“I haven’t read Hamlet since high school,” Sally said. “I didn’t even read it in high school, actually.”
“You didn’t have to come. I’d have been fine by myself.”
Sweat pooled in her neck creases as she turned to gawk at me. “Marian, I’m glad to be here! Something different to do. And I’m curious about this Sunset Manor retirement community you talk about.”
Curious meant nosy. Even when her husband was alive, Sally poked in everybody’s business, but in the two years since his death, she spent all day staring out from her window or porch swing, watching neighborhood comings and goings.
After losing Fred three months ago, I knew how it felt to be alone, so I’d invited her. Not that I needed the company. There were plenty of pleasant people here, robust, smiling people who shared my hair color.
“I didn’t realize how nice this place was.” Sally glanced around the auditorium, her gaze settling on one of the men, who wasn’t nearly as handsome as Fred. “Are you really moving here?”
“I’m thinking about it.” I’d already started the paperwork to escape the house where Fred once was, and now was no more.
Sally swiveled to inspect a pigtailed girl leaning on her grandmother’s shoulder. “Cute little girl.”
“Did I show you my latest photos of Benjy?” The first picture I pulled up showed us from the back. I imagined it from Sally’s perspective. A balding man in crisp khakis nestled a hand at his wife’s waist, while an intelligent older woman bent a helmet of flyaway hair to a beautiful boy’s auburn curls. From behind, we were a perfect family.
Right after that snapshot, I’d told Rollie to stop calling Sunset Manor “assisted living.”
Rollie had snorted. “Aunt Marian, please. It’s where old people live. Who cares what I call it?” Rollie’s shirt bore the crest of a fancy country club. I suspected he visited golf courses just to get the shirts.
In the next picture, I held Benjy as he grinned, one ear poking through woolly curls. Benjy was adorable, as always, but my denim dress made me look like a couch.
“Sweet boy,” Sally said as I scrolled to a photo of Benjy with his parents, with Alicia’s hand on Benjy’s shoulder while Rollie barely touched arms with his son. “Rollie looks like