“Dean Stanhope, assistant manager at Burger King, resented the decedent, thought he was an arrogant showoff. Jealous of his success with women, particularly the actresses in the play.” He looked at me. “That’s your motive, also. At least the jealousy bit. Anyway, that’s him. Would probably be considered too ineffectual to do it, were it not for the cliché serial-killer profile of quiet, unassuming, kept to himself.
“The director, Morton Wainwright, resented the decedent because he eroded his authority by refusing to take direction and humiliated the poor soul whenever possible. You probably noticed that first hand.”
“I have. I can’t see killing him over it.”
“Me either. But it’s something to be considered.” He referred to his notes. “Morton Wainwright is thirty-seven, he’s a high school English teacher, married, two children, been active in community theater for the last two years, this is his third play.
“Then there’s Becky Coleman.”
“Who?”
“The actress playing Emily.”
“Oh.”
“You didn’t know that?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“No wonder Mr. Greengrass had more luck with the ladies.”
“I’m a married man.”
“She’s a married woman. She’s thirty-two, been married five years. Has two kids. That didn’t stop her from finding Mr. Greengrass most attractive. Unlucky for her, the man was a bit of a jerk, wasn’t at all discreet, practically everybody knew-except you, I guess-and she was quite concerned he might spill the beans to her husband unless she found some way to silence him first.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding.”
The cop shrugged. “I thought you didn’t want to be the only one with a motive. Anyway, that’s hers. As for the other actress…”
“Shirley?”
“Ah, you know her name. So you’re not impervious to feminine charm. You at least notice women without undergarments. Perhaps you would have cause to eliminate a rival.”
“I thought we were discussing other people’s motives.”
“We were, we were. Miss Shirley Goodhue. Single, twenty-eight, hairdresser. Rumored to be the first of the two to be involved with the decedent. When I say rumored, that’s because these witness statements are so inaccurate. The women themselves are reticent, the observations of their peers are deficient, and the result is hopelessly inadequate.”
“May I ask what you majored in in college?”
“What, a cop can’t be literate? I read a lot, in between homicides. Luckily, there aren’t that many.”
“You don’t think a little experience might be of help?”
“Oh. Irony. I am cut to the quick. I may have to arrest you after all.”
“You were saying about Charlotte.”
“Charlotte?”
“Sorry. That’s her stage name. I mean Shirley.”
“Ah, yes. The lovely Shirley Goodhue. Apparently the first of the decedent’s affections. Which is significant in that if she felt herself replaced, so rudely and abruptly, by a married woman no less, perhaps to rub it in her face that she was nothing more than a brief dalliance…” He shrugged. “Well, a woman scorned. She would have every reason to hate young Mr. Greengrass. Wouldn’t you say she made a dandy suspect?”
“I prefer her to me.”
“How ungallant of you. Anyway, those are your chief suspects. You also have Sam Dobson, a harmless old coot of a stage manager. Seventy-seven, retired postman, living on a pension. Some men his age are sharp as a tack; Sam isn’t. Even with all the stories you hear about postal workers snapping, I bet you a nickel he didn’t do it.
“An even longer shot is the light man, Randy Haines, thirty-five, certified public accountant. He was in the light booth when it happened and didn’t see a thing.”
“And he resents it bitterly. I agree, he’s most unlikely.”
“So who did it? I gotta arrest somebody. Otherwise the people will feel I’m not doing my job. If you were me, who would you arrest?”
“I don’t think you have the evidence to arrest anyone.”
“Is that wishful thinking?”
“No. I just happen to have the advantage over you in knowing I didn’t do it.”
“You have any idea who did?”
“Not really.”
“Too bad.”
“Yes. But it occurs to me, there might be a way to find out.”
“Oh? And just what might that be?”
“Re-enact the crime.”
THE SUSPECTS WERE all seated in the audience. Actually, they were seated in the gym on folding chairs, right under one of the basketball hoops, which in theory would be cranked up out of sight for performances, but was left down for rehearsals. The suspects consisted of the playwright, the director, the stage manager, the light man, and the three remaining actors.
I didn’t count myself as a suspect. If that’s unfair, sue me.
Also on hand were the cop and the detective, back from dropping the pin off at the lab.
The cop stood on the stage. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sorry to hold you here. But we must clear up this crime. Because it is a crime, without doubt. Fletcher Greengrass did not die of a heart attack, or stroke, or any such natural cause. He was killed by a lethal poison injected into the skin. The implement was a small straight pin. It is being analyzed now. I have no doubt it will prove to contain a fast acting poison of some type. It remains for us to prove who injected Mr. Greengrass, and why. In order to do so, we are going to go over the movements leading up to his death.
“I am going to ask you all to take your positions. Randy Haines is in the light booth. Sam Dobson is at the stage manager stand, backstage next to the curtain. As to the actors, Becky Coleman and Dean Stanhope, you’re both behind the left doorway, are you not?
“The right doorway,” the director corrected.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Stage directions refer to the actor’s left or right. Assuming the actor is facing the audience. So that would be the stage right doorway.”
“Fine. You two are there. Shirley Goodhue, you’re over there in the doorway that I’ve just learned is stage left.
“Mr. Hastings is on stage alone, about to be joined by the decedent, who will be entering by… that doorway there… now you’ve got me confused.”
“Upstage right.”
“Yes. Upstage right. Where Miss Coleman and Mr. Stanhope are.
“Mr. Wainwright, you’re on your feet, directing this action. Mr. Farnsworth, you are sitting here watching.
“All right, that’s everybody.
“Except Mr. Greengrass. Unfortunately, he is incapable of reprising his role.
“Mr. Farnsworth, you were sitting in the audience the whole time. We don’t really need you to re-enact that. Why don’t you come up here and play the role?”
“Thought you’d never ask,” the playwright said. He got to his feet, picked up his script.
“Don’t you know the lines?” the director said ironically.
“I’m familiar with them. I haven’t memorized them. Or the blocking.”
The playwright scampered up the steps on the side of the stage, took his place with the other actors.
“All right, Mr. Hastings. What are you doing?”
“I’m alone on stage, waiting for Emily to enter.”
The cop hopped down from the stage, turned to the director, said, “It’s all yours.”
The director seemed slightly disconcerted to find himself running the show. I guess he’d assumed the cop was going to do it. But after a moment he said, “All right. Let’s treat this as a real rehearsal. We can certainly use it. Stanley, Charlotte has just exited stage left, you watch her go out, and…”
I watched her go out, whistled to myself, then strolled over to the mantlepiece and adjusted the trophies on it. This being nowhere near the dress rehearsal, the mantle and trophies were yet to come. I pantomimed them, then turned at the sound of footsteps, expecting to see Emily.