“How ya feeling?” Cal asked me.
It was later in the evening, and Cal was sitting at a small mahogany desk in my home office, my favorite place in the condo. I am an incurable collector, and I love to work in the office surrounded by all the collections I have painstakingly acquired. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on one wall hold some of my favorite books, mostly murder mysteries, some great pictures from a memorable trip to Europe, and a collection of rare first-edition detective novels. A storage case is filled with my favorite detective movies, along with a collection of Alfred Hitchcock classics. But the thing I like best about the room is the glass display case in the corner of the room that has a first edition of A Study in Scarlet, by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
I was stretched out on a brown leather loveseat, which was a new addition to the room.
“I’m fine,” I said as I stared up at the ceiling. “Just tired.”
As the sun set, a weak purple light filtered through the window, and the room became a series of dim shadows. My eyelids began to sag as I struggled to stay awake.
“This shouldn’t take too long,” Cal said.
I squinted at him. Brilliant white light from the computer monitor made his 5 o’clock shadow seem eerie, as if his jaw was covered in silt, but he was more at ease in front of the computer than he’d been all day helping me run errands.
We had stopped at a barber and I endured the stares while a young woman barely out of her teens evened out my hair around the stitches. She cropped my hair on the sides and left a dollop of curly hair on top. I looked like a Marine. I couldn’t wait for next week, when I would get the stitches out – at least people would stop looking at my head. Cal had ribbed me relentlessly about my haircut as we stopped by my office to check messages and get the mail. Finally, at close to six, I was able to pick up the 4-Runner. The manager of the shop was close friends with Bob Smith, so the shop fixed the car in record time.
Throughout the day, Cal had been doing such a good job of mingling amongst the human race that I didn’t hear a complaint from him until we arrived back at my condo. A tenacious elderly lady whose car was blocking my street finally sent him over the edge. He honked the horn loudly at her, then glared in her direction as she finally maneuvered her car on down the street.
Safely back in my condo, we had ordered a pizza, and after devouring it, we’d begun the research on Samantha Healy. To be accurate, Cal was researching. I hadn’t lifted a finger, and I didn’t intend to. I wanted to sleep. But Cal couldn’t keep away from the computer, settling comfortably back into his virtual world.
I closed my eyes, checking my eyelids for holes. None so far.
“Ah-ha!”
“What?” I turned on my side and faced the desk, tucking my arms under my head.
“I found Samantha’s acting class.”
“Duh. I gave you the name of the school and the class. It couldn’t have been that hard.”
Cal threw a pencil at me. “Denver Alternative College. A good place to know when you’re on the go.”
“What’s that, their slogan?”
“You got it. Man, this is like the community college’s community college. Where the nobodies go.” Cal’s bad one-liners continued as the mouse clicked.
“That’s terrible,” I said.
“I’m just kidding. Let’s see,” he mumbled to himself. “Acting classes, here we go.” Click.
“So are these acting classes for the off-off-off-off Broadway actors?”
Cal chuckled. “The class Samantha was enrolled in finished at the end of June, but there’s another class going on now with the same instructor. She might be able to verify Samantha’s alibi.”
“Uh-huh.” I didn’t have the energy to move.
“And lucky you, the class meets tomorrow night.”
I shut my eyes.
“Let me write this down for you.” Papers shuffling. “What’s this?”
I cracked one eye open. Cal was peering at a notepad on the table. “Doing some research on the Internet? Taking my job away?”
I tilted my head up. “That was Ned Healy’s. I used it when I went to his house. Those must be his notes.”
“The great detective misses nothing,” Cal said with a heavy dose of sarcasm.
“Yeah, how his client was able to use the Internet.” I yawned and closed my eyes. Cal’s laughter sounded like it was filtered through a tunnel, and I was vaguely aware of him leaving the room before I fell asleep.
*****
The next morning, I noticed that the soreness was ebbing slightly. That, combined with having my car back from the mechanic’s rather than relying on Cal, had me in a jubilant mood. Cal was my best friend, but a little of him went a long way.
The smell of cheap Mexican food and wet wood assaulted me as I walked into Denver Alternative College, a two-story cinder-block building on East Colfax Avenue, a mile down the road from the gold-domed State Capitol. Yellow brick walls down the main entryway made me feel like I was walking through a tunnel painted honey gold. A few students roamed the halls. Most were dressed in business casual, presumably because they’d just come from their day jobs and were now ready to improve themselves through night classes.
I glanced at the notepad with the course information that Cal had written down last night. “The Art of Acting” was being held in room 103-A at seven o’clock. I was a half-hour early, and I hoped to find the instructor before the students arrived.
I made my way past a bulletin board covered in a kaleidoscope of papers and post-it notes advertising everything from job openings to party announcements. At the end of the hall, I descended six stairs down to a lower level, and, at the end of a short corridor, found 103-A.
I peeked through a thin rectangle window into an auditorium classroom with a large stage and ten rows of wooden chairs perched on an easy slope toward the back of the room. The auditorium was empty.
I eased the door open and slipped in, letting my eyes adjust to soft lighting coming from somewhere offstage. The rest of the room remained in deep shadows.
I was about to walk down an aisle on the left when the door opened behind me. I heard a loud click and bright lights immediately illuminated the room. I turned to see a shriveled woman in baggy turquoise pants, a flowing cream-colored silk shirt, stiletto heels a hideous shade of aqua, and an embarrassing amount of makeup.
“May I help you?” she asked, her voice like an electric razor.
“I’m looking for Xania Diviny,” I said, pronouncing the name “Zania”. I stared at her eyelashes, which seemed as long as my pinky fingers.
“Ex-ZAY-nee-ah.” She corrected. She held up a wrinkled and age-spotted hand, palm down, as if she wanted me to bow and kiss it. “Di-VIN-i-tee.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s Divinity. Xania Divinity.” That’s what I get for relying on Cal’s scribbled notes. “What can I do for you?”
I took her hand and shook it, giving her my best smile. She ran her eyes over me, then let her hand drop disappointedly to her side.
“You don’t look like an actor. You have poor posture, your eyes are too hard, your haircut is hideous, and your smile is nothing short of goofy.” So much for my charm. “I couldn’t possibly work with so little.”
“That’s good,” I said, “since I’m not interested in acting classes.”
“Oh?” She took a step back, hand now on her chest, still surveying me. “I’m glad you see the futility of this.”
I stepped back too, leaning on the back of the wooden theater seats.
“I’d like to ask you a few questions about a student of yours.”
“And who might that be?”
“Samantha Healy.”
“What do you want to know about her?”
I pulled out a business card from my wallet and handed it to her. Xania jerked as if I’d struck her. She now put her hand to her throat in what I could only guess was intended as a melodramatic pose, but the numerous silver and turquoise bracelets dangling from her wrist robbed the gesture of any real meaning.
“You’re a detective, Mr. – ” She glanced at the card. “Mr....Reed.” I guess Ferguson was too hard to read, or pronounce. “Is Samantha in some kind of trouble?”
“Samantha said she was in your class, Actors and Acting, last semester,” I said, ignoring the question.
“Yes, that’s true. She has been a student of mine for a few years.”
“I noticed that the school catalog shows the class is three hours long.”
Xania pursed her lips, then sucked a breath in through a slit and let it slowly out. “When you have so little to work with, you need a lot of time.”
“Samantha isn’t a good actress?”
“Most of my students have a lot of learning to do. That’s why they’re here. Samantha makes progress, but it will be some time before she will be cast in the student audition play.”
“The what?”
“The student audition play.” Xania frowned at me, and her rouge cracked into tiny red wrinkle lines. “At the end of each semester, our more experienced students audition for roles in a play that we perform in front of the rest of the theater students. It gives the best of our actors a chance to refine their skills, and we invite local theater directors to the plays. This way the actors get exposure and the directors get a chance to informally audition new talent.”
I feigned interest. “That sounds terrific.”
“We have had great success with this. In all my years of instructing, I have had many pupils go on to great careers. You’ve heard of John Sayers?” I shook my head. “Anna Fredricks?” I shook my head again. “Darren Joyden?” I didn’t bother this time. I figured the blank look on my face would be enough.
Xania clucked at my ignorance. “These actors were nothing, but I molded them so they were able to go on to grand things.” Like what – billboards, underwear ads in the local papers, commercials on late-night cable?
“But Samantha isn’t one of those,” I said.
“If she keeps working with me, her acting will improve.”
“Samantha said she was here on June 6th.”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“How can you be so sure?” I asked, surprised that anyone could remember a seemingly random date pulled out of the air.
“We performed the student audition play for last semester that night.” Xania put a gnarled hand on my elbow and guided me to a series of posters scotch-taped to the back wall. She pointed to a red poster with black letters, advertising the play “A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
“Shakespeare,” I said.
“We must all bow to the Bard if we want to ascend to greatness,” Xania spoke with reverence.
Under the title was a list of actors, and then the line “One night only!” The date for the performance was June 6th, at 7:00 in the evening.
“But Samantha’s name isn’t here,” I said. “Was she in some minor role?”
“She was not in the play, Reed,” she said, her friendliness making me uncomfortable. “She is not at the level of these actors.”
“Then...”
“Because,” Xania interrupted me. “All enrolled students are required to attend the plays. It is an important part of an actor’s development to study the performance of others.” She pulled away from me and stood in a practiced pose. “This is why I teach. So others can learn from me, so they can benefit from my experience in theater and film.”
In what, B-grade horror movies from the ’50’s?
“You remember seeing Samantha that night?”
“Of course.” She gestured around the room. “The lights are on before the play starts. You can see everything, and I make it a point to note if a student misses my class. A lack of dedication is the ruin of any actor.”
Before Xania could share more of her vast knowledge of herself, the rear door of the auditorium opened and a couple of students walked in, laughing and talking. When they saw Xania, they immediately straightened their postures and began whispering. They moved quietly to the front row and sat down, staring at the empty stage.
“Was the theater full for the performance?”
“Yes. We had a very talented group in the play, and the auditorium was full. We even had to bring in some extra chairs,” she said proudly.
The door opened and more students shuffled in.
“As you can see, my class is about to begin.” Xania surveyed me again. “Perhaps I have misjudged you. You have strong bones. Would you like to stay for a while and watch? We’re rehearsing for our next play, Romeo and Juliet. You might find that you would want to work with me.”
I accepted, but not because of Xania’s flirting. I was dying to see how the class performed Shakespeare’s classic.
At seven o’clock sharp, Xania began her class. I counted a total of twelve students, mostly young, and all in awe of Xania Divinity. Maybe she was a better actress and teacher than she was a dresser.
I slipped into a seat in the back row and watched Xania instruct the students in some techniques. She was actually quite good, her self-aggrandizing manner disappearing as she demonstrated various acting techniques.
After ten minutes, some of the actors assumed positions center stage, and the others sat in the front row seats. Xania settled into an end seat and stared up at the stage. Someone turned off the lights, plunging all but center stage into obscurity. Sitting nine rows back, I could barely make out the students in the front row.
I watched the first few lines of Act II, Scene 2, Romeo’s speech to Juliet, in which he compares her to the sun. The acting wasn’t bad, but when Juliet got to “Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou, Romeo”, I grimaced. Juliet needed some work. If Samantha was worse than this, it was no wonder that she hadn’t yet made it into a Spielberg movie. I stood up to go, eyeing Xania. She was intently watching the actors on stage, mouthing the lines as they spoke them. At least she knew her Shakespeare.
I tiptoed to the rear door and paused, turning back toward the stage. No one had noticed that I’d gotten up to leave, especially Xania. Her attention was riveted to the stage and the actors. The play had her full attention.
I eased out the door, watching to see if anyone noticed my leaving. All eyes were on Romeo and Juliet. No one turned when a sliver of light from the hallway penetrated the darkness.
As I walked up the stairs to the main hallway, I realized a few things. I’d never heard of Xania Divinity, but since I wasn’t into B-grade horror movies, that probably explained this. I hoped I would never have to sit through a play that Xania directed. And, Samantha Healy could have easily shown up for her class, then slipped out once the play began, and no one would’ve known. Least of all Xania Divinity.