C. Lawrence: Silent Stalker

“I’m afraid I have some bad news,” Butts said.

“Dear me,” she replied, crossing her generous thighs under the purple kimono. “Is one of my cast members in trouble of some kind?”

Butts cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to have to tell you there’s been a murder.”

“That’s terrible!” she cried, but Lee sensed more glee than alarm in her response. This was a woman who fed off drama like a vulture off carrion.

“Mindy Lewis was found dead early this morning in her apartment building.”

“Oh my lord!” Davillia replied, her eyes wide, but she wasn’t a very good actress, and failed to hide the thrill in her voice. “The poor dear! How was-how did she-?”

“We are not releasing the details of her death at the present time,” Butts said.

“But she was definitely-murdered?”

“Yeah.”

“Have you any idea who-I mean, do you have any leads? Any suspects?”

“We were hoping you and the rest of the cast might be able to help us with that.”

“Of course!” Davillia proclaimed, rising from her chair. She swept a fleshy arm majestically over the auditorium. “Anything we can do. Feel free to look around, ask as many questions as you like. The others will be here shortly, and I will put them at your disposal.” She took a stance like a general commanding troops, and Lee had to admire her flamboyant self-assurance. “We will help you find Mindy’s killer!”

Lee had seen a lot of responses to the news of murder, but never one quite like this. He glanced at Butts, but the detective’s face was impassive as he scribbled in the notebook he always carried with him. Butts had a memory like a steel trap, so he rarely needed to take notes on anything, but it was a departmental requirement. A detective’s notes could be called upon during a court testimony, so it was important to have them.

“What can you tell us about the deceased?” Butts asked.

“Oh, she was a lovely girl-talented, hardworking. Had a ways to go as an actress, but then, this is off-off-Broadway, after all. I don’t expect the young people I work with to be at the top of their game.”

Butts plucked a flyer from the seat next to him and held it up.

A Comedy of Errors by William Shakespeare

“Is this what you’re rehearsing?”

“Yes. I was lucky enough to find two sets of identical twins for the male leads and their servants.”

“Twins?” said Butts.

“It’s a comedy based on mistaken identity,” she explained.

“How’d you manage that?”

“This is New York, Detective. You can find anything if you look hard enough. We’re also double and triple casting the show to make the cast as small as possible. I’m even playing a couple of roles myself.”

Butts looked at Lee. “You know this show?”

Lee nodded. “I’ve seen it.” What he didn’t say was that he had played a minor role in a college production when he was at Princeton.

“It’s one of Shakespeare’s earliest efforts, but he only wrote one other play that observed the Aristotelian unities,” Davillia remarked, her bangles jingling as she waved her arms to emphasize her point. “And that was The Tempest, the masterpiece of his old age. Interesting, don’t you think?”

“The Aristo-what?” asked Butts.

“Unities,” said Davillia. “The entire play takes place in twenty-four hours. It was one of Aristotle’s theories about theatre.”

Though her extravagant personality and mannered language should have irritated him, Lee was finding Davillia Metcalfe-Smythe hypnotic. Maybe it was the lack of sleep or the warmth of the stuffy room, but the sound of her voice was somehow soothing, and he felt his eyelids growing heavy as she rattled on. For all her artificiality and pretense, Davillia was a big, comfortable earth mother-everything his own mother wasn’t. Lee shifted in his seat, fighting to stay awake. The radiator at the back of the theatre clanked and moaned as steam rattled its aged pipes-a percussion section to the cadence of her voice as it rose and fell, gliding smoothly over the landscape of her speech…

Lee felt an elbow in his ribs and jerked back into awareness.

“… as I was saying, they should all be here soon. Poor dears-I hate to think how they’ll take this terrible news.”

“You use any swords in this production?” asked Butts.

“Why, yes. Why do you-”

“Mind if I have a look at them?”

“They’re just prop swords.”

“Plastic?”

“No, they’re metal, but the blades have been capped.”

“Meaning?”

“Here, I’ll show you.”

She led them backstage to an umbrella stand full of metal swords-foils, epees, even a couple of rapiers. Lee recognized them from his days on the fencing team in high school. Butts put on a pair of latex gloves and pulled out one of the foils to examine it. A square metal cap had been soldered onto the tip to blunt the weapon.

“Are they all like this?” Butts asked.

“Of course. You can’t use real swords in a stage production. Someone might get hurt.”

Butts grunted and examined the rest of the collection. “You notice any missing lately?”

“No, but I don’t keep an exact count of how many we have. Props come and go here all the time, and other theatre companies use this space as well. Why do you ask?”

Her question was interrupted by the arrival of two tall, good-looking young men who could only be actors-the New York variety, funkier and earthier than their California equivalents, but actors nonetheless. Their energy was unmistakable-boisterous, overly cheerful, and needy. Behind their eyes lurked a thirst for approval, the search for love and acceptance. What was more remarkable was that they were clearly identical twins. Dark-haired and lean, with deep-set brown eyes, they were almost a cliche of what a leading man should look like.

“I did not!” one of them said as they entered the room, the metal door clanging shut behind them.

“Like hell you didn’t!” said his brother. “I saw you!”

When they saw Lee and Detective Butts, they ceased chattering and looked uncertainly at Davillia. She drew herself up with dignity and spoke with calm authority.

“These gentlemen are from the NYPD.” She turned to Butts. “This is one of the pairs of identical twins I told you about, Keith and Fred Wilson.”

“Detective Leonard Butts, Homicide,” Butts said.

“No kidding?” exclaimed the taller and thinner of the twins. “Has someone been killed?”

“If you don’t mind, Keith, I’m going to wait until all of the actors are here to break the news,” said Davillia.

They didn’t have long to wait. A middle-aged black man with a noble profile and an impressive head of salt-and-pepper hair entered, followed by another set of male twins, short, muscular redheads with pink skin and pale blue eyes. The only noticeable difference between them was that one of them wore glasses. The last to arrive was a lovely young woman who bore a striking resemblance to the murdered girl, with white skin and curly black hair. She looked around nervously upon entering, and when she saw Butts and Lee standing there she joined her colleagues.

“What’s going on?” she said timidly.

“I’ll tell you in a minute, Sara,” Davillia replied gently. “Is everyone here?”

“Yes,” said one of the redheaded twins. “Present and accounted for.”

“Thanks, Danny,” said Davillia. “That’s Danny Atkins,” she explained to Lee and Butts. “He’s also our stage manager.” She turned back to her actors. “I think some of you may want to sit down.”

“Why? What’s happened?” cried Sara. She looked terrified, whereas the rest of the cast looked merely apprehensive.