Saturday evening, July 12, 1947
I picked up Aunt Verbina from her apartment at the Cudahy Towers at 5:15 sharp according to the clock on the dash of my car, as I had inadvertently left my pocket watch on my nightstand, much to my chagrin. She was looking chic in a dark blue pencil skirt, just below the knee, and a dark blue blouse with white polka dots, over which she wore a simple, tailored white jacket. A small hat, low white heels, a cream clutch, a triple strand of pearls with matching earrings, and mid-length black gloves completed the ensemble. I whistled as she stepped out the door.
“You look, smashing, Auntie, as always.”
She smiled sweetly. “Thank you, dear. I’m not sure about this hat, but I do try to be considerate of those who may be behind me when I go to the theater.”
I opened the passenger door of my car for her, and she slid in. “It’s a charming choice. You smell wonderful, too,” I said, getting behind the wheel.
“It’s Goat de Minute, or something like that. Mary spritzed me. She just got a bottle. It’s French, you know.”
“Goat de Minute?” I said as I put my car in gear and headed toward the Circle Room in the LaSalle Hotel on Eleventh Street. “French? Do you mean Goût de minuit? That means ‘Taste of Midnight.’”
“That’s what I said. I’m glad you like it. I may have to get a bottle of my own. My goodness, it’s warm tonight, isn’t it?”
It was indeed a hot July night, and the air hung thick around us. I could smell it and taste it, but Auntie rolled up her window just the same. “Nevertheless, I can’t have my hair messed up. The wind and humidity will ruin my permanent. Just the vent window will do.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, dutifully rolling up my window as well.
Happily, we found a place on the street close to the entrance. Verbina would never admit it, but she was perspiring by the time we arrived, and we were both relieved to get inside the conditioned air of the hotel.
The Circle Room proved to be a good choice. The service was excellent, and the food plentiful and delicious. No Nat King Cole Trio tonight, but the music was lively, and the girl singer did a decent job. In fact, I was feeling so much better I even indulged in a couple vodka martinis while I entertained Verbina by recounting the events at last night’s party, as best as I could recall them.
In typical Verbina fashion, she was horrified at the behavior of Jazz and Shelby, but she hung on each word. After dessert and coffee, I paid the bill and escorted her back to my car. It was 6:25 as I steered toward the Davidson Theater, located within the Davidson Hotel on North Third Street and Michigan Avenue. I lucked out on a parking spot once more, and we entered the lobby at 6:40.
“I’ll get our tickets from Will Call, Auntie. Be right back.” The lobby was bustling with people, all dressed to the nines and chattering away like a murder of magpies. I had difficulty in locating Verbina again after I had gotten the tickets, because she was diminutive and had been surrounded by taller people. I finally pushed my way through to see her talking to an older, bespectacled gentleman with a short cigar and a large gray mustache. He was wearing a three-piece suit that seemed just a tad snug on him, and he seemed quite animated.
“I’ve got the tickets, Auntie.”
“Oh, good. Heath, this is Mr. Quartus Finch. Mr. Finch, my nephew, Heath Barrington.”
“How do you do?” he said, grasping my hand in a friendly shake.
“How do you do, Mr. Finch?”
“Mr. Finch is the president of First City National Bank,” Verbina said, with a twinkle in her eye. “He’s a widower.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, sir.”
“Thank you,” he said, “but Louise has been gone over fifteen years. Not that I don’t still miss her, mind you.”
“Of course.”
“She was a fine-looking woman, just like your aunt here. I was telling her she reminds me of the goddess Minerva in that painting over there.”
I glanced across the lobby to a large oil of said goddess in an ornate gilt frame. She was represented as a warrior figure, with a metal helmet and an owl perched on her shoulder as she gazed down at the crowds from her lofty perch. She was indeed quite lovely. “I can see the resemblance, Mr. Finch.” I turned to Verbina. “Good thing you left your owl at home tonight, Auntie.”
“Oh, Heath!” She smiled broadly and her eyes twinkled even more.
“Minerva is the Roman goddess of wisdom and the sponsor of arts, trade, and strategy,” Mr. Finch said, his mustache moving up and down as he spoke. We all gazed at the painting once more. “Yes, a striking woman. Strong, too. I can definitely see the resemblance, Mrs. Partridge.”
“I agree on both counts,” I said.
Verbina giggled, which I had never heard her do before, and her cheeks were flushed. “Oh, stop! You both flatter me too much. The woman in that painting can’t be more than twenty-five years old.”
“True, but her beauty is eternal, and I can see that in you.”
The lights in the lobby flashed on and off. “Oh, dear. Looks like the show is about to start,” Verbina said. “What time is it?”
I felt for my pocket watch before remembering. “I’m afraid I left my watch at home.”
Mr. Finch glanced at his wristwatch. “Just seven now. I shall see you at intermission, I hope,” he said, smiling down at her.
“Oh, definitely. Enjoy the show.” I could swear she batted her eyelashes at him.
“Shall we go in?” I said.
Verbina took my arm as I handed the tickets to an usher in a short red jacket, cap, and black trousers, who gave us our programs and showed us to our fifth row center seats. I placed my fedora on my lap and unbuttoned my coat, trying to get as comfortable as I could within the limited confines of the seat. Eagerly I opened my program and flipped to the cast member page, where I saw Alan’s credit in fine print at the bottom. I smiled with satisfaction as I pointed this out to Verbina. She’d left her glasses at home, so she only nodded politely and said, “How nice.” The theater was about two-thirds empty. Not good.
The lights dimmed, the small crowd hushed, the curtain went up, and the show began. The first act moved along briskly, and I found myself thoroughly entertained until intermission, when Verbina and I found ourselves back in the lobby amongst the crowd.
“What do you think so far?” I said after we had each returned from our respective lounges.
“Oh, it’s wonderful. What do you think?”
“Excellent. Jazz Monroe’s makeup is a tad more garish than it was in dress rehearsal, though. I think it’s Hilda’s revenge from last night.”
“Who’s Hilda?”
“The makeup lady for the play. Just an observation is all.”
“If you say so. Where is Mr. Keyes? You said he plays a policeman, but I haven’t seen any policemen in the show yet. I thought at first he was that attractive fellow who plays the messenger and the brother.”
“That’s Henry Hawthorne. Alan doesn’t come on until the end.”
“Mr. Hawthorne is certainly good looking.”
I shrugged. “He’s all right, I guess. If you like the Clark Gable type.”
Verbina laughed. “I don’t know anyone who doesn’t, including you,” she said, glancing about the lobby.
“Actually, I prefer Cary Grant. Looking for someone?”
“Hmmm? No. No one in particular, dear. My goodness, there are so many people here, though. The theater seemed half empty.”
“About two-thirds empty, by my estimation. But the lobby area is small, and everyone is here at once. Don’t worry, he’ll turn up.”
“I don’t know who or what you’re talking about!”
At that point, Mr. Finch sidled up to us again, his large gray mustache twitching like a squirrel’s tail.
“Ah there you are, Mrs. Partridge. How are you enjoying the show?”
“Hello, Mr. Finch. Oh, I daresay it’s quite good. What do you think?” Her face was beaming again.
“I agree. Not bad, not bad at all.” He smiled warmly at her, and I felt like a third wheel.
“Do you have a good seat?” she said.
“I’m in the Buchanan box on the left. I came with one of my associates, but he’s a terrible bore. I do so appreciate you keeping me company.”
“Not at all. It’s my pleasure, truly. Our pleasure, I should say,” Verbina said, as if suddenly remembering I was even there.
Mr. Finch turned to me. “How are you liking the show, Mr. Barrington?”
“Quite enjoyable. Of course, I know how it ends, as I read the script. I did some advising on it in regard to the police aspect. I’m a Milwaukee police detective.”
Mr. Finch raised his eyebrows and his large mustache twitched again. “Well, how interesting. Please tell me more.”
Feeling included at last, I filled him in on my minor part in the show, and the three of us traded our thoughts on the plot, the acting, and the set until the lights flickered on and off, and we went in for the second act. Verbina and Mr. Finch agreed to meet in the lobby after the show.
As we took our seats, I leaned over to Verbina. “Perhaps Mr. Finch could join us for drinks later.”
“That’s sweet of you, but no. I want that to be my chance to get to know your Mr. Keyes. I don’t want to be distracted.”
“And Mr. Finch is rather distracting, isn’t he?” I said, giving her a wink.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, but he is quite distinguished. And a bank president.”
“And a widower.”
“Don’t be cheeky.”
“Just don’t let him slip away, Auntie.”
“My dear nephew, I’ve been married twice before, so don’t you worry,” she said with a wink herself as the lights dimmed and the curtain went up. Verbina put her pocketbook in her lap, and I shifted in my seat to peer around the ostrich feathers in the hat of the lady in front of me, who was clearly not as considerate as my aunt when it came to millinery at the theater. She wasn’t sitting there in the first act, so she must have changed seats at intermission. Since the seats to Verbina’s right were empty, we both shifted over for a better view.
The second act commenced, and I thought everything was running smoothly. The comments from the audience members that I had overheard during intermission were favorable, so Oliver would be pleased.
Claire was back at Lochwood, standing by the fireplace. The scene played out just as I remembered from rehearsal. Eve’s character, Charlotte, came in and left, then the butler entered with the tea tray. When he had left, Shelby’s character, Roger, entered again, wet, miserable, and evil. I could feel the tension in the audience as people gasped. Everyone was silent as they played out their scene, exchanging their dialogue effortlessly. There were more gasps as Claire poured the poison into the teapot and Roger drank it. Then Claire laughed a big Jazz Monroe laugh.
The scene continued, and Roger nodded as he moved toward her, taking the cup and saucer from her hand. “Thanks. You may be older, and you’re certainly not a girl anymore, but that’s all right. You’re a big, mature woman.”
Ooh, I thought, he slipped that “big” comment in again. He’d hear about that later.
Claire opened her mouth to speak, but he held up his hand in front of her.
“Don’t take offense. A mature woman doesn’t play hard to get, and I like that.”
She glared at him, “You’re right. I don’t play hard to get. I am hard to get. And you’re not getting it.”
He took another drink. “Oh, Claire. I thought better of you, I really did.”
“Really, Roger? I never thought better of you. You disgust me.” Another clap of thunder and flash of lightning.
“No, I arouse you. I can tell. I always could tell.”
“Don’t make me laugh even more. You’re not getting Lochwood, or me, or anything else, not tonight, not ever.”
He laughed, but it was a strange laugh that morphed into a coughing fit, and instantly everyone in the audience seemed to know something was wrong.
“Something the matter, Roger?” Claire said, arching her painted-on brows. Another bolt of lightning flashed, followed by another clap of thunder. I made a note to mention to Oliver that the thunder and lightning was too distracting.
“My head, it’s suddenly pounding. And my stomach is cramping. What did you do, Claire? What did you do?” He bent over, dropping the teacup and saucer, which shattered across the floor. Oh, Oliver was going to be mad about that, and Shelby went off script, too, I thought. But it didn’t stop there.
Shelby slumped to the ground, writhing and convulsing wildly. Good grief, that wasn’t in the script, either. He was overacting, and Jazz and Oliver were going to be furious. I watched Jazz’s face and could tell she was really angry as she stared down at him jerking back and forth, his face white, gasping, frothing at the mouth, until suddenly he froze, jerked once more, and then stilled. I had to admit it was a convincing death scene, though I noticed his toupee had come loose and was hanging absurdly to the side.
Jazz crossed to him and put her foot in the middle of his back harder than she should have, but he didn’t move. She kneeled beside him and checked for a pulse. Then again. She was supposed to stand up at that point and smile at the audience with an evil grin and say, “Good riddance, Roger,” but she didn’t. She put her ear to his chest and checked for a pulse again, her face almost as white as his.
“Oh my God, I think he’s dead!” she cried out, stumbling to her feet and backing away from him as if he could somehow grab her. This was definitely not in the script. “Oliver! Oliver! I think Shelby’s dead! Oh, my God!” She screamed again, so high pitched I reckoned all the dogs in the city were howling.
The audience members started whispering. I heard a man behind me say, “Who’s Oliver? I don’t remember any Oliver. And who’s Shelby?” A woman nearby answered. “Shelby Berkett is playing Roger. I think she made a mistake.”
I turned to Verbina, who was also looking confused. “Stay here,” I said. I got to my feet and went toward the steps that led up to the stage. At the same time, Oliver came out from the wings looking shaken.
“Lights! Turn up the lights!” he yelled as he approached Shelby. The house lights came on, and the audience grew more vocal. Oliver repeated what Jazz had done, checking for a pulse and a heartbeat. “Is there a doctor in the house?”
I had reached the stage by that time, and most of the cast had come out, each talking to someone else. Alan was talking to Henry, but when he saw me he came to my side.
“What’s happened, Heath?”
“I think Shelby’s really dead. Better go call the station and an ambulance. I don’t like the looks of this. Get the coroner and a lab crew down here, too. Tell them I’m here.”
“You think…”
“No time to think right now, Alan. Just do it.”
“Yes sir.” He moved quickly offstage as two men from the audience approached, one carrying a small black satchel.
I heard the older one say, “I’m a doctor,” as he knelt at Shelby’s side. The younger man said he was also a doctor, and he kneeled on the other side of Shelby. “Can’t say for certain without an autopsy,” the older doctor said, “but it doesn’t appear natural.”
Oliver looked stricken.
“Bring down the curtain! Bring down the curtain!” he yelled, but his voice was shaking as the curtain came down, cutting off the audience’s view of the stage.
“Oliver,” I said to him, “Alan’s calling the police. I think you’d better clear the theater until we can figure out what happened”
“What?”
“Go out front and clear the theater,” I said again, slowly and distinctly, as he appeared to be in shock. “Tell everyone to go home. Tell them you’ll refund their ticket price.”
“Refund? You mean give them their money back?” Oliver looked like he might faint. His milk white complexion was even paler, if that was possible.
I took hold of both of his arms briefly. “Yes, Oliver. Do it now before the police get here, but don’t let any of the cast members or crew leave just yet.”
“Right, right,” he said. He stood there for the briefest moment; then, staring at me, his upper lip trembling, he stepped between the curtain part at the side of the stage to address the crowd.
At that point, Alan returned. “I called the station. They’re sending a black-and-white along with a lab crew. The coroner is on his way, too.”
“Good. Go out front and explain to my aunt what’s happened. Call her a cab and tell her I’ll talk to her tomorrow. She can be feisty, but be firm. I don’t want her here right now.”
“I’ll take care of it. How will I find her?”
“She’s sitting fifth row center, near the aisle, third seat in. She’s wearing a white jacket over a dark blue blouse with white polka dots, and a dark blue skirt. She looks something like the goddess Minerva.”
“Huh?”
“Just find her.”
“Right.”
As he went out front, I surveyed the stage. Lochwood was suddenly full of people. The entire cast was onstage, as well as most of the crew, all chattering away with each other and staring at the lifeless body of Shelby Berkett. The only one missing was the lights guy, Tony, and I assumed he was still up in his booth wondering what the hell was going on.
I got closer to the body. “Everyone stay clear of Mr. Berkett, please. I’m Milwaukee Police Detective Heath Barrington. Move to the wings or backstage, because the police are on their way,” I shouted. Some people moved off, but others ignored me. Typical. “Please, everyone clear the stage at once. This is a potential crime scene!” I shouted louder. The remaining people grumbled and shot me looks but obliged and moved to the wings, where they turned to watch what would happen next.
Dick was standing near me. My heart went out to him as I saw him staring at the body. He looked at me then, a shocked expression on his face. “Is he really dead?”
“Yes, Dick, I’m afraid so. I’m sorry,” I said, putting my hand on his bony little shoulder.
“What happened?” he said, his voice small and soft.
“We don’t know for certain, but I’ve called for the police, and I’m going to investigate.”
“I can’t believe it,” he said, still staring at Shelby’s lifeless body. “He was supposedly my father, you know.”
“I know. This must all be a terrible shock.”
He nodded. “I never knew him, though, not in that way. To me, my dad and mom died in that flood when I was a baby. That’s what I was always told.”
“You still have Jazz,” I said.
“Yes, and she still has me.”
I felt in my pocket for my watch but remembered once more I had left it on my night table. “Do you have the current time, Dick?” I said, knowing I’d need that for the record and hoping to take Dick’s mind off the death briefly.
Dick gave me a blank look, then glanced down at his right wrist. “Eight twenty-seven, Mr. Barrington.”
“Thanks.” I made a mental note of that as Dick turned his gaze once more to the body, seemingly oblivious to anyone and everything else going on around him. I surveyed the rest of the group nearby. Not far from us, Peter was talking loudly, his words slurred, about how the show must go on, and how they should drag Shelby’s body off so the play could proceed.
“He was supposed to die, anyway. So what if he really did?” Peter said, waving his hands about wildly. “It just makes the play more realistic. Let’s get on with the show. Those people paid good money to see a show and we have to finish what we started. The show must go on, isn’t that what everyone’s always saying?”
“Oh, shut up, Peter!” Jazz snarled, her nerves apparently at an end.
Peter glared at her, walked back on the set, picked up the tea tray, and dropped it, shattering the pot across the stage and causing everyone else to jump.
“For God’s sake, leave that alone! Shelby is dead! What the hell is wrong with you?” Jazz shouted at him again, her voice almost more loud and disturbing than the breaking of the teapot.
I cringed, knowing the mess would make the investigation more difficult, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he had done that deliberately.
“I need a drink, that’s what’s wrong with me, you loud, obnoxious cow, and I need my pills,” he said, walking back to the wings unsteadily. “Where’s Oliver?”
“Oliver is on the other side of the curtain, Peter, and I think you’ve had enough for tonight,” Eve said, pouncing on him like a cat on a mouse. “Do you mind?”
He turned and stared at her, a wild expression on his face. “I do mind, dear Eve.” Then he glanced once more at Shelby’s body. “Sorry about your boyfriend.” Then he weaved away as Jazz disappeared in the opposite direction.
“Everyone stay off the stage, or I’ll be forced to place you under arrest!” I shouted once more, still wondering what had possessed Peter to drop the tea tray. Was it just to get attention and piss off Jazz? Or something else?
I glanced at Dick, who was still standing nearby.
“I really think you should go sit down, Dick. The police will be here soon. They’re going to want to talk to everyone.”
He looked up at me, his eyes glazed. “Yeah, I guess so. Do you want me to clean up this mess first?”
“No, don’t touch anything onstage.” Had I not made myself clear?
“You know, I’ve never seen anyone dead before, not in person. It’s like I’m watching a movie, but it’s real life. Strange, hard to believe.”
“It is strange, Dick. Unfortunately, I’ve seen my share of dead bodies, and I must say I never got used to it.”
“I suppose not. I’ve seen this part in the play several times during the rehearsals. Shelby’s character dies, the curtain goes down, and then he gets up and walks off. But he’s not getting up this time, is he?”
I shook my head, my heart aching for him. “No, not this time.”
From backstage, Peter called out loud and slurred. “Where the hell is Oliver, goddammit? I need my pills.”
“That Mr. Holloway is crazy,” Dick said. “I guess it’s a good thing Mr. Crane locked his pillbox up. He sure seems to want it bad.”
“Oliver locked up his pillbox? I thought it was missing.”
“It turned up before curtain. Mr. Crane took it away from him and locked it up in his office.”
“Interesting.”
Dick shrugged his tiny, bony shoulders. “I suppose. Anyway, I guess I better go check on Jazz. She must be pretty upset by all this, too.”
“Right, good idea. Maybe bring her some water,” I said.
“Okay.” Dick strode off slowly, hands still shoved in his pockets, his head down, and I couldn’t help but feel for him.