===============================================================
“And for my means, I’ll husband them so well
They shall go far with little.” - Act IV, Scene V
Impossibly, the next day turned out to be even worse than the one before.
Though it may vary somewhat according to director, most stage productions follow a fairly similar path from beginning to end. After casting, and an initial meeting to read through the script, the production typically moves into blocking rehearsals, where the director provides each individual or group of actors with the movements and stage positions for each scene. While this part of the process can be tedious, as the director blocks the scene, then reviews it and makes adjustments, it is also fairly low-key, with little strenuous acting involved.
For the next phase, Drake–like many other directors–utilized a process known as “French-scening.” This involved breaking the show and the rehearsal schedule down according to the sets of characters involved, to begin working intensively on each scene. In a typical night of rehearsal, for example, Drake might begin with all the scenes involving Hamlet, Gertrude, and Claudius, in addition to various courtiers and lords, rather than working on, say, the first three scenes of Act I. As the rehearsal moved forward, the number of characters involved gradually declined, so at the end of the evening, he might only be working with Gertrude and Hamlet, or just Hamlet alone.
With this method, actors would not be called for rehearsal only to sit for three hours and then act for ten minutes. In addition, they could go home when their portion of the evening was done. In most productions, this afforded everyone, including the leading actors, a few nights off during the rehearsal period.
The company had moved through single scene “working” rehearsals, which involved attention to every passage in the script, even the most apparently minor. They spent hours focusing on and adjusting details, attending to matters of motivation and relationships, and doing the scenes over and over to get the rhythm and emotions just right. It was a draining process, and a lengthy one, especially as the single scene rehearsals gave way to those covering entire acts.
Today was perhaps their last opportunity for a full working rehearsal, and Drake planned to make the most of it. He knew that once tech week began, he would be distracted by issues of lighting, sound, props, and costumes, and would not have the same energy to give to his actors. Thus, they were scheduled to work the entire show this Saturday, and the company braced itself for an day that could extend into the wee hours.
Seeing how the rehearsal was going, Hutch was grateful for the ten hours of sleep he had gotten the night before. Thanks to Drake and his insistent partner, he had woken that morning feeling much more rested and mentally alert. The rehearsal was proving to be grueling but somehow satisfying, and he was looking forward to relaxing that night at Starsky’s.
When they came off stage just before the climatic fencing scene, however, he glanced at his watch and winced. It was already after six, and the final scene promised to take at least a couple of hours to work, with its elaborate combat choreography and strong emotional elements. The odds of his making it to his friend’s at any kind of reasonable hour were looking like slim to none.
Drake called a dinner break before they moved into the final phase of the rehearsal. Hutch glanced around surreptitiously, saw that his fellow cast members were engaged in various occupations and conversations, and decided he could probably risk a quick call. He slipped backstage, then out the side door to the house, and made his way through the theatre to the lobby pay phone.
He didn’t notice the figure that followed at a discreet distance behind him.
“--probably at least another couple of hours,” Hutch was saying as the figure slowly and silently cracked open one of the lobby doors, then remained in the dark to watch the blond man and listen to his conversation. “So unless you’re planning on a midnight supper, I think we’re out of luck for tonight.”
‘Nothing,’ the listener thought. ‘Just telling some girlfriend he won’t be home for dinner.’ The door began to close, then froze.
Hutch had glanced around the dark and empty lobby; seeing no one, he decided he owed it to Starsky to talk about the case a little bit before he hung up. Lowering his voice, he asked, “You go into the station today?”
“Nah,” Starsky responded. He was looking at the ingredients spread out before him, debating his choices for the evening, and then shrugged. Hutch or not, it was great wonton, and he figured he deserved a helping of it--or two. “Hug came up with a few possibles, but he says there’s nobody out there who fits this exact description. Hang on, I’ll get my notes.” He put the phone down, went quickly to the other room to grab his notebook, then returned to the kitchen. He dropped onto a chair at his kitchen table and propped his feet up on the one opposite.
Hutch glanced again around the empty lobby again. The figure at the door held stock-still, melted into the shadows under the balcony overhang. There was no indication that Hutch was not alone. He relaxed enough to sit down on the floor beside the phone booth.
“OK, class, let’s review,” Starsky’s voice came onto the line again, and Hutch could hear him flipping pages in the notebook. “There’s Lenny Henderson--he got out five months ago after a few years in the joint.”
“Yeah, I can see how he might fit,” Hutch said thoughtfully. “He is pretty screwy, and he had a real fetish about guns.”
“Yeah, I think I’ll pay him a visit later tonight,” Starsky said, pleased to hear the two of them were on the same wavelength as usual. “See if that jailhouse shrink did him any good.” Hutch laughed a characteristic short, deep-throated laugh that was half-amused and half-cynical. Starsky flipped a few more pages. “George Carson,” he said. “Also freshly sprung, and from a nice little assault charge at that.”
“Carson?” Hutch echoed, frowning. “I don’t remember firearms being his weapon of choice...wasn’t his M.O. carving his victims up with expensive knives?”
“Give the man a cigar,” Starsky said. “But he was also bent on taking a souvenir or two with him...and guess what they were.”
Hutch searched his memory, but while he vividly remembered the particularly grisly attacker, this fine fact eluded him. “I can’t remember...you’d better tell me,” he admitted.
“Occasionally a finger or two,” Starsky said, in a neutral tone that conveyed just how innured they had become to the gross details of their job. “But his favorite was to bring home an ear and put it in a jar at home.”
Hutch sighed. “So we got a guy with a thing for guns, and another one who obsesses over ears,” he mused. “I gotta tell you, Starsk, it feels like we’re stretchin’ it.”
“Yeah, me too,” Starsky agreed reluctantly. “But at least it’s somethin’. How about you, anything there?”
“Nah, just a rehearsal that I’ll probably be at until next week,” Hutch said, with an attempt at humor. “I still get the feeling there’s some connection based on what we already know--”
“Whenever you get hold of it...”
“You’ll be the first,” Hutch assured him. He paused, then said apologetically, “Listen, Starsk, I’m sorry I can’t make it tonight. What was the surprise?”
“Nope,” Starsky said firmly. “You gotta pay if you wanna play. Next time--if you’re not too busy signin’ autographs and soakin’ up all that glory and fame.”
“Very funny,” Hutch said. “Maybe it was just the fact that you were actually cooking instead of heating up a box.” Starsky laughed. Hutch glanced at his watch, and pushed himself to his feet. “Listen, I’d better get back there. How about Huggy’s for lunch tomorrow, so I can hear what you found out from crazy Lenny.”
“Okey-dokey,” Starsky said. “Be careful out there--we still don’t know who’s doin’ this.”
“Yeah...you too,” Hutch responded. “Remember how fast Lenny can be when he wants to--especially since I won’t be there to watch your back. Frisk him before you lock yourself in a room with him.”
“Yes, Ma, I promise.” Starsky grumbled, rolling his eyes. “See ya tomorrow.”
Hutch grinned, then hung up, glancing around one last time. He was relieved to see that the lobby remained dark and silent. The figure at the door had allowed it to close quickly and quietly when the apology had started, so by the time Hutch strode back into the house, there was no one in sight. The stage manager was taking orders for sandwiches, to refuel the hungry and tired actors before the final leg of the rehearsal. As Hutch went down to join the small group, the figure mimicked the blond detective’s actions of ensuring he was clear, then slipped into the lobby for his own phone call.
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“Well,” the familiar cultured voice said somewhat peevishly. “You have certainly taken your time contacting me. What’s it been, over a week?”
“Hey, take it easy! I told you I’d call when I had something; nothing’s been happening.” The caller paused, craning his head around the lobby to be sure he was still alone.
“And?” the voice at the other end prompted, still piqued. “Am I to assume by that remark that something now has happened?”
“I’m not sure, but I’ve got a funny feeling,” the caller whispered. “We might want to check it out.” He paused again, and the listener wait for a moment and then sighed with exaggerated patience.
“Don’t be so damned melodramatic,” he said crisply. “Just tell me what has occurred.”
“Well, I just overheard that Ken Hyde on the phone, and he wasn’t talking like an actor.”
“Overheard?” The listener’s voice raised slightly in pitch. “Are you mad? Don’t you remember how important it is that no one suspect you are involved in these events?”
“He didn’t see me,” the caller said indignantly. “What do you think I am, an idiot?”
“Very well,” the listener snapped briskly. “Tell me what he does sound like, if not an actor. What a ridiculous observation.”
“I’m telling you, there’s something wrong here. I swear, he sounded like a cop.”
There was an extended silence on the other end of the line. When the listener’s voice returned, it was calmer, and deadly serious. “Well, that is an interesting development, and one that must be pursued immediately. Have you any suggestions for how to proceed?”
“We start tech tomorrow,” the caller replied, his tone indicating that he had been thinking about precisely this detail. “That means full costume on the second go-round. I’ll look around the dressing room, go through his clothes, see if I can find out anything.”
“Excellent.” All trace of impatience was now gone from the listener’s voice. “Hear me, young man. I have been planning this for too long not to see it through to the end. If he is a police officer, we will need to deal with him accordingly, but not hastily. Tell me what you learn, and we then will prepare our next steps.”
“Got it.”
“Now, you had better return to your rehearsal before you are missed,” the listener instructed.
“Right,” the caller agreed. “I’ll call sometime tomorrow evening.”
“Very well.”
Both hung up, and the figure in the lobby looked around one last time, then returned to the house. Like Hutch, both his presence in the lobby and his absence from the theatre seemed to have gone unnoticed. Particularly by the tall blond man he now watched more closely than ever.
==================================================================
“If he steal aught the whilst the play is playing,
And scape detecting, I will pay the theft.”
-Act III, Scene II
The second half of the tech rehearsal was in full swing--or as close as tech rehearsals get when a company first puts acting together with lights, sound, and props. Hutch was onstage, poised to kill a hidden and eavesdropping Polonius, but at the moment joking through the curtains with the actor playing his soon-to-be victim. In the house, Drake and Sarah discussed the position of the Hamlet follow-spot, positioned and gelled to constantly bathe Hutch in a soft glow that lit his blond hair to a halo. Hutch didn’t know what the effect looked like from the house; he did know that it seemed to raise the temperature wherever he was by about ten degrees. He shifted his feet, resisted wiping his sleeve across his forehead, and hoped that his stage powder held out.
Not to mention his antiperspirant.
“Hey, Ken.” Jack Perry’s voice caught Hutch’s attention again from behind the curtains. “How much longer, do you think?”
“Before what?” Hutch said. He shifted the sword in his hand and eyed again the preset hole through which he would “stab” Polonius.
“Before they go on, dummy,” Jack hissed back. “It’s hot as hell back here...if they look to be a while, I’d like to come out.”
Hutch glanced at Sarah and Drake, and saw no sign that they would be breaking up their little conversation any time soon. “I think you’re safe, man,” he responded. “C’mon out and let me practice this while you’re not back there.”
Jack Perry slipped from behind the heavy drapes and welcomed the relative coolness of the stage with a grateful sigh. He watched as Hutch checked his position, then repeated the thrust that would signal Polonius’ death. Hutch sank his sword tip into the six inches of styrofoam that had been placed behind the curtain, so the sword strike would look as realistic as possible. “Glad to see you’re attending to that little detail,” he said, dead-pan. “I’d hate like hell for you to miss.”
“Nothing to worry about,” Hutch said somewhat absently, concentrating once more on the movement, and shifting his position so he could put his full weight and Hamlet’s fury behind it. “Fencing team, four years in college. Besides, look--” He tucked the sword under his arm and spread the folds of the curtain. Unseen from the house, but clear to his eyes, was a small black target, painted in a moment of whimsy around the hole in the cheap material. “There’s one on your side too, so as long as you don’t get anywhere near it, you should be fine.”
Jack snickered and mopped his forehead with his hand. “I’ll be to the right of it, so just remember that, all right?”
Hutch grinned. “Your right, stage right, or my right?”
“My--” Jack stopped, pondered. “No, your--” Momentarily perplexed, he turned to face the house, then Hutch again. “Very funny,” he chided the blond man. “Just--”
“All right, let’s get started again!” Drake’s voice came from the house, interrupting the good-natured teasing. “Ken, Jack, let’s take it from the top of the scene if you don’t mind. Ken, I think I’d prefer that you enter from stage left this time...that will give you time to build up a good head of steam before you reach Gertrude.”
Hutch signaled his acknowledgment, dropped his sword back into his hand, and walked quickly across the stage to the left wings, disappearing into the darkness.
“Crew ready?” the stage manager called. There was a chorus from the follow-spot operators and the backstage running crew, followed by a similar refrain over the headset, from the booth. Lowell turned to Drake and nodded.
“All right, ladies and gentlemen, let’s proceed.”
Hutch delivered his offstage lines, paused for Gertrude’s response, then strode onto the stage, the very picture of mad and righteous indignation.
A silent figure took Hutch’s entrance as a cue, and moved away from the wings, noticed and acknowledged but not perceived as unusual in any way. He nodded to the other members of the cast and crew, then made his way downstairs and into the dressing room Hutch shared with two other male actors. At the door, the figure paused and looked around.
The corridor was empty. Everyone was either onstage, preparing to make an entrance, or watching the show from the house. There hadn’t even been anyone in the greenroom when he passed by. He knocked on the door as he normally would.
When there was no answer, he poked his head inside and looked around the empty room, then entered and went directly to Ken’s station at the makeup table. Debating with himself for a moment, he picked up the jeans draped over the back of Ken’s chair and took them with him to one of the bathroom stalls at the end of the room. He didn’t know how he would explain having them with him in the john if someone walked in, but it gave him a little more protection than standing there rifling the pockets in full view of the door.
Digging through Ken’s pockets proved fruitless. Everything in his wallet read “Ken Hyde”...credit cards, miscellaneous pieces of paper, even the driver’s license. The figure sat back with the jeans in his hand, and forced his frustration down so he could think. You’re a cop, he said to himself. You’re undercover...of course you have all the credentials to back that up. So where’s your real stuff?
Where?
He tapped the hand holding the jeans against his own leg, trying to drive his thoughts...and heard the jingle of keys.
Bingo.
He knew that Ken drove an ancient brown Ford--but of course, that fit the description of half a dozen cars in the actors’ parking lot. He tried two other light brown sedans before he found the correct one, and by this time he was sweating, glancing at his watch. He had selected this particular scene knowing Ken would be on stage for a lengthy period and he himself would not be required, but this was all taking time.
Be calm, he told himself. Don’t mess this up by being in a hurry.
He attempted to be careful while searching the glove box, then realized that he needn’t have bothered given the chaotic state of the compartment. He found the car’s registration buried under a pile of cryptic notes; it gave the owner’s name as Hutchinson, not Hyde. That proved nothing, as many actors changed their names in the course of their careers. The Venice address was also inconclusive; it was a somewhat bohemian neighborhood, and a number of performers made their homes there. There was nothing in the glove compartment or in the mass of newspapers, magazines, and other material in the back seat, to give him any of the answers he sought. He popped the trunk.
This was by far the cleanest area in the entire car, since Hutch had removed everything but the jack and a small toolbox. The man lifted the carpet and searched the wheel well, finding nothing more than the spare tire and a rusted lug wrench. He swore to himself and was about to slam the trunk lid when he spotted a small, locked compartment to the right of spare tire. Custom, has to be, he thought, his excitement rising. Never saw one of those in a car like this. He flipped quickly through Ken’s keys until he found one that looked like it might fit, and inserted it into the lock.
Well, look here.
Gun, .357 Magnum; nice piece, too, with a customized grip to help dampen the recoil. Too expensive, and too serious, for an actor. He picked it up with an edge of his clothing, and peered underneath. Ah, there it was--the final piece of the puzzle, and just as he had suspected. Badge and ID in a flipout wallet, identifying one Detective Sergeant Kenneth Hutchinson, of the Metropolitan division of the BCPD.
Jackpot.
He glanced at his watch, then hurriedly returned the badge and the gun to their places and relocked the compartment. He replaced the jack and the tool box to their original positions, and slammed down the trunk lid. Then he walked back to the theatre, purposefully, but not fast enough to attract attention. Calmly, as if he had just gone out for a mid-act smoke, he went through the backstage door and down to the dressing rooms, where he returned Ken’s keys.
Outside the dressing room, he paused, trying to determine the best place for his phone call. The greenroom seemed best, if it were still empty, because ceiling speakers broadcast from the stage and would enable him to keep track of the action. He headed down the hall to the large room, which was in actuality painted a warm cream, and furnished with an array of cast-off furniture, a soda machine--and, in the corner, a telephone booth.
The man cocked an ear to the speakers, and was somewhat surprised to learn the scene was not as far along as he had thought. Nerves, he decided. Making me think I’m moving slower than I am. As he was listening, he had a further stroke of luck: Drake stopped the action so he could confer with the lighting crew about the ghost effect.
At this rate, it’ll be an hour before I have to be back up there.
He closed himself into the booth and began to dial the number, then paused. The gun and the ID were fairly indisputable evidence, but his colleague was both meticulous and suspicious. A doublecheck would save him time and trouble.
He hung up, dialed zero, and asked the operator to connect him to the BCPD.
“Dispatch,” a crisp female voice said in the middle of the first ring.
“Yes, I’d like to speak with Detective Ken Hutchinson please.” The caller pitched his voice high and gave it a quaver.
“One moment.” There was a series of clicks and whirs, then another ringing sound. This time the phone rang several times before it was answered by a weary male voice.
“Squad room.”
“Yes, Detective Ken Hutchinson please.”
“Uh...I think he’s off duty today,” the voice said. “Hang on a second and I’ll check.” The phone dropped with a clunk that made the listener wince, then the voice returned. “Yep. Won’t be back until tomorrow evening. Can I take a message?”
“No, thank you, young man,” the man said politely. “I’ll just try back tomorrow night. Thank you so much.”
“Sure.”
The caller hung up, chuckled at himself and his small ploy, then inserted another coin and dialed the number he knew by heart. As usual, it was answered immediately, with a decidedly tense-sounding hello.
“It’s me.”
“Well, hello, me,” the cultured voice said, seeming to relax a little. “This is fast work indeed; what have you learned?”
“I was right,” the caller said grimly. “Hyde’s a cop. Real name’s Detective Sergeant Ken Hutchinson, from Metro.”
There was a long silence from the other end. “How much time do you have?” the voice said at length. Its typical amused resonance was gone; the tone was hard and urgent.
The caller cracked open the booth door and listened. There was no acting going on up there; he could hear actors’ casual conversations and the occasional sound of Drake calling a question up to the booth.
“Plenty, I think,” he replied.
“Good,” the voice said crisply. “Listen very carefully. Take no notes; I want nothing in writing to incriminate either one of us. This is what I want you to do.”
==================================================================
“A fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy.” - Act V, Scene I
It was opening night.
Well, technically it was eight hours before opening night--but Dave Starsky was already vastly entertained.
He knew his partner did not have rehearsal today, and he knew from his conversations with Hutch that most of the actors were taking the day off to relax, meditate, and indulge in whatever superstitions each had before going onstage.
But Starsky was well acquainted with his partner’s patterns, and as soon as Hutch had walked in the door of the squad room, he had a pretty good idea of how Hutch’s morning had gone. Body clock wakes him up at 5:30 or 6, he rolls out of bed, runs a couple miles, then hits the shower. The fact of the day begins to nag at him, and breakfast looks less and less appealing. He whips up a container of that nauseating “health elixir” and brings it in, because he knows he needs the fuel but doesn’t want to risk anything embarrassing at work.
Even from across the room, Starsky could fairly feel the butterflies racing around in Hutch’s midsection. And there were still hours to go before he actually had to step on a stage.
The dark-haired detective felt genuine sympathy for Hutch’s anxious state, and he tried his best to hide his amusement and just be alternately supportive and distracting. Eventually, however, it was no use. This man who could fence and ski with unbearable grace and scale curtains with confidence was a complete klutz under these circumstances, and he now was on a roll unparalleled in Starsky’s experience. After Hutch knocked himself out of his chair, winged Minnie with the squad room door, and sent a thick file full of paper snowing all over the bullpen, Starsky intervened, trying desperately to keep a straight face. “Hey, buddy, calm down,” he coaxed. “Have a seat and try some of those ‘deep cleansing breaths’ you’re always pushin’ on me.”
Hutch obeyed without even commenting, sitting down at his side of the table and reaching for his cup of coffee.
Which he promptly knocked across not only his own files, but those of the two detectives next to him.
That was all Starsky could stand. He felt for his friend, but the laughter escaped him and he collapsed in a fit of mirth that eventually left him helpless in his chair, wiping tears from his eyes.
Across from him, his partner did not join in. He was too busy mopping up coffee and apologizing to his colleagues, his face flushed with embarrassment. Occasionally he flicked deadly glances at Starsky, but held his tongue for the time being. Starsky tried to pull himself together but every time he looked at Hutch he set himself off again. The other detectives tried to ignore his unusual outburst, but there were amused smiles all around.
Hutch’s blush deepened.
“Thanks, pal,” he said wryly to Starsky, handing him a tissue to wipe his streaming eyes. “Nice to know I can entertain you before the show even starts.”
“Aw, Hutch, come on,” Starsky said teasingly, finally able to enter the conversation “You gotta admit, that was a classic, even for you.” Hutch took in a deep breath and let it out, trying to relax his unbearably tight shoulders.
“Yeah, I guess I’m a little nervous,” he admitted.
“‘A little’?” Starsky echoed. “You’ve been calmer facing a crime boss wearing nothing but a towel, a holster, and your devastatingly handsome smile.”
Hutch winced. “Starsk, you know I love you, but you’re not helping, you know?”
“OK, OK, I’m sorry,” Starsky said contritely. “What can we do?”
“I don’t know,” Hutch said, in a voice that was so unfamiliarly uncertain that Starsky nearly lost it again. “Maybe if I can focus on some of this stuff...” His voice trailed off, and Starsky nodded his head once, very soberly. In tacit agreement to give it a try, they both turned to the folders and papers on their desk.
They were trying to track down all the founding members of the company. However, actors are a notoriously transient lot; thus, it had been a tedious process, with printouts and tidbits of information filtering in with agonizing slowness. Both detectives had been trying to organize the data into something they could work with, follow up on the few tenuous leads they did have, and fit new pieces into the still mystifying puzzle. They were both growing uneasy with the passage of time; their instincts told them the killer wasn’t finished, and each passing day increased the odds that another murder was going to occur.
Hutch opened a file. Skimmed its contents. Closed it with a slap, then began to dig through a stack of notes. He got to the bottom, made an annoyed sound, and started over. When he still couldn’t find what he was looking for, he went to another pile of notes and began shuffling through that.
Starsky reached across and stopped his partner’s hand.
Hutch raised his eyes to Starsky’s. “Sorry,” he said.
“Look, what say we get outta here?” Starsky suggested.
“Starsk, I appreciate the thought, but we’ve got a ton of work to do and–“
“And you’re in no shape to do it right now,” Starsky pointed out. “Come on, let’s grab some lunch.”
Hutch turned slightly green, and he waved a hand toward the thermos he’d brought in that morning. “I don’t--that’s why I--it’ll--“ he stammered.
Phase two, right on schedule. Time to get him on his feet and moving.
“Huh-uh,” Starsky said firmly. It wasn’t often that he got the chance to good-naturedly bully his partner, but when he was in this condition it was all too easy, and Starsky intended to enjoy it while he could. “You gotta lot to do tonight, and you can’t do it on that dessicated wheat and liver germ oil whatsit you brought in here.” He came around the side of the table and nudged Hutch, but gently. “Come on. I’ll take you to that health food joint you been wantin’ to try out..I’ll even treat.”
Hutch’s brows shot up.
“Am I dying and you haven’t told me?” he managed to quip.
“Yeah, of idiocy,” Starsky shot back, but with a grin “On your feet, blondie. We’re gonna get some fresh air and clean out that head of yours.”
Hutch sighed and finally gave in. He didn’t have much choice; once Starsky got something like this into his head, there was no dissuading him.
Once out in the Torino, Hutch seemed to relax somewhat, though his expression still vacillated between thoughtful and slightly panic-stricken. They began to discuss the facts of the case from memory, as they often did when they were stuck. As was their habit, Hutch reviewed the info Starsky had provided him and vice versa, to see if the opposite perspective offered anything fresh.
“Well, so far we’ve found about half the founding members,” Hutch said when they were finished.
“Yep,” Starsky agreed. “And all of those are happy and healthy.”
“Except the ones doing dinner theatre in Florida.”
Starsky snickered as they pulled up to the Organic Marketplace, where he left the engine running and instructed Hutch to stay put. “I’ll grab something for you, we can swing by a burger place for me, and then we can go somewhere else to eat.”
Hutch looked dubious. “You’ll get something for me,” he echoed.
Starsky shrugged. “I’ve been watching you eat this glop for a long time, Hutch,” he pointed out. “I think you can trust me just this once.”
Hutch still looked skeptical, but he agreed.
Food procured, Starsky steered the Torino toward Venice, thinking that his partner might relax even more near his beloved beach. He pulled onto a narrow, private stretch they both knew well, and turned off the engine. In the silence, the cooling engine ticked and pinged.
The tension from Hutch was nearly tangible.
After a beat or two, Starsky glanced at him, and saw that his face was pale and the furrow between his brows was deeply etched. All levity forgotten, Starsky opened his mouth to express his concern; but Hutch spoke first, his eyes never leaving the water outside the window.
“Starsk,” he said hoarsely. “I don’t think I can do this.”
“Baloney,” Starsky said bluntly, sensing correctly that his friend now was in need of straight talk. “You’ve been workin’ your tail off for weeks, and you heard that director. If he didn’t think you could do it, he wouldn’t have kept you in the part, right?”
Hutch had to concede that point.
“Besides, this is different from getting up there and singing by yourself,” Starsky pointed out. This was probably dirty pool, to play on Hutch’s sense of responsibility toward others, but one he knew would probably work. “There’s a whole lotta people counting on you, buddy, so you better put this behind you.”
Impossibly, Hutch momentarily turned even paler under his typical summer tan. Then he closed his eyes, nodded slightly, and let out the breath he had been holding. “You’re right,” he said quietly.
“Naturally,” Starsky said immodestly. “I’ve known you for a long time, pal, and I know how you are with these things. You panic for a while, and then you go on and you’re fine. I’m bettin’ this is gonna be the same way.”
“Yeah.” Hutch’s voice was still quiet, but at least that green look was gone from around his eyes. He took another deep breath. “Well...let’s get out of the car, huh? Shame to waste a perfectly good beach by sitting in this striped tomato.”
Starsky permitted himself a self-congratulatory grin as Hutch stepped out of the car. Did he know his partner or what?
Now he just had to get him through the afternoon...and then survive an evening of Shakespeare himself. Fortunately, he had invited Rose to come along, to help lighten the mood--and keep him awake.
CHAPTER 13
==============================================================
“...one may smile, and smile, and be a villain.” - Act I, Scene V
Hutch stepped off the stage into the wings. He was drenched in sweat and spattered with stage blood, and he felt light-headed with relief. The audience had responded enthusiastically at the curtain call; he could tell Starsky’s location by a particular noise from the back of the house. Though he rolled his eyes at his partner’s enthusiasm, he had to admit the whole thing felt pretty damned good.
“Time for everyone to shower and get changed,” he heard Wayne called to the actors milling around backstage. “Cast party in the reception room in one hour...and the press will be there, so please be on your best behavior, ladies and gentlemen!”
There was a chorus of good-natured teasing and ribald comments in response, then the tide began to turn toward the dressing rooms. The actors were tired and sweaty, but they knew the show had been well-received, and they were pleased with the success of their efforts.
Roz caught up with Hutch as he was about to enter his dressing room. “Ken,” she said, “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
Hutch glanced in the door of the dressing room and found the other two actors already there, which meant the shower would be tied up for at least fifteen minutes. He let the door close and smiled down at the attractive young woman. “Sure,” he responded.
She beckoned him to a spot several feet from the dressing room, took both his hands in hers, and raised her eyes to him. Her face was lively with excitement, and yet sober with some important purpose. “I just want to thank you,” she said softly and somewhat shyly. “You did such a wonderful job...I’m so glad that Wayne found you and dragged you in here with us.”
Hutch was truly touched by her appreciation--and not immune to her looks--but praise always seemed to turn him into an awkward adolescent again. “Thanks,” he said sincerely. “That’s--nice.”
“Listen, Ken...” she hesitated, then rolled her eyes and laughed that full laugh that had enlivened many a rehearsal. “Geez, I’m no good at this...I can’t beat around a bush with a tennis racket.”
Hutch couldn’t help chuckling at the analogy. “All right,” he said. “Suppose you just give it to me straight.”
She looked at him, thought for a moment, then blushed and turned away. “You know what?” she said. “Never mind...I just...wanted to tell you that I thought you did a great job. Wayne’s a great guy, and I know this meant a lot to him.” She rose on her toes to kiss his cheek, then gathered her white robes around her and disappeared down the hall, to the women’s dressing rooms on the other side of the theatre.
Hutch looked after her, bemused. He could have sworn she was about to express some interest in him, but...maybe not. The Hutchinson charm was almost as well-known as the Hutchinson temper around the station, but it wasn’t infallible. And you got no business getting involved with anyone right now, anyway, he told himself, and went into the dressing room to clean up and change his clothes.
It took him a while, as he had to wait for the other two actors to finish their ablutions, so he was the last of the cast to arrive at the party. A number of people surrounded him almost instantly, including Jim, Jack, and the actors playing Laertes and Claudius, to shake his hand and congratulate him on a fine performance. Hutch managed a gracious smile and true appreciation, but continued to be somewhat uncomfortable with the praise, and so cast an eye around for Starsky.
A hand grabbed him from behind, but the grip was familiar, and he turned to find himself in his best friend’s embrace. “That was incredible, man,” Starsky said sincerely. “I never saw anything like that before in my life. I usually can’t sit through this stuff, but you--” Atypically, he found himself at a loss for words, so he just grinned at his friend and clapped him on the shoulder.
Hutch grinned back, pleased despite himself that his partner was so impressed. “Thanks, buddy,” he said quietly. “You know that means a lot to me.” They exchanged a look, and Starsky’s smile became somewhat lopsided, as it did when they were both feeling particularly affectionate or moved.
“All right, you two, break it up,” a no-nonsense voice interrupted. “Ken, darlin’, let me have at you here.”
Hutch’s smile grew even broader as he greeted Rose Starsky with a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Rosie! So this guy dragged you out to see the show, huh? Hope it was worth the trip.”
“Oh, it was and you know it was,” she said, laying a hand on the side of his face (quite a trick, since Hutch stood about nine inches taller than she was). “You were beautiful,” she told him, gazing directly into his eyes. “Absolutely marvelous. I was very moved.”
It was fine, Ken...what do you want me to do? Gush?
Oddly, Rosie’s praise did not have the usual effect on him. Instead, he felt something pricking at the back of his eyes, and was somewhat mortified to realize that it seemed to be tears. He blinked several times, then conjured up another of his most charming smiles. “Ah, Rosie,” he said teasingly, “You say that to all the tall blond Hamlets you know.”
Rose rolled her eyes in a gesture that was so identical to her nephew’s that Hutch laughed out loud. “I give the boy a compliment and this is how he answers?” she said to Starsky, who was watching with tremendous amusement. “I ought to take it back.”
“Don’t you dare,” Hutch said, giving her another hug. “Thank you, Rosie...that means a lot to me, it really does.” He drew back, put an arm around her shoulders, and indicated the side of the room with his head. “Come on, I think they’ve got some food and champagne over here.”
*********************************
“Man, I have to tell you,” Jim Harrison said as the cast and crew ate, drank, and made merry in the wake of their success. “When Drake first brought you in here, and no one had seen you around anywhere, I was pretty nervous.”
“Sure,” Hutch said, trying without success to find something on the buffet table that wouldn’t interfere with his regular food regimen. He finally gave up and settled for some melba toast and a variety of cheeses. “That makes sense...awful lot riding on this.”
“But you really pulled it off,” Jim said sincerely. “And I for one am grateful. I’ve been waiting to play Horatio my whole life, and if you hadn’t come in I thought I was going to end up as Hamlet.”
Hutch laughed. “Wanna switch?”
“No way,” Jim refused. “You’re doin’ just fine...and you really saved a bunch of butts here.”
“Well...” Hutch said, shifting his feet somewhat uncomfortably. “Thanks, Jim. It helps that you guys are all so great.”
“But of course,” Jim said, sweeping a bow and widening his expressive eyes dramatically. “Damn,” he went on with a sigh of enormous pleasure, looking around the room. “I do love it when a show is a hit.”
Drake approached them at that moment, bearing another bottle of champagne in one hand and the arm of a middle-aged woman in the other. “Jim,” he said, “this is Judith Henderson from one of the local radio shows. She would like to talk with you if you can spare her a moment...then she would like to talk with you, Ken.”
Hutch opened his mouth, closed it, stymied. “Uh--well--I--” he stammered, trying to find an excuse. None came to mind, so he finally acquiesced with a shrug. “Sure.”
“I won’t bite, Mr. Hyde, I promise,” the reporter assured him, and then turned to Jim. “Mr. Harrison, why don’t we find a quiet corner where we can talk uninterrupted?”
“Whither thou goest,” Jim said lightly, and followed her away and through the crowd. Drake turned to Hutch, looking tired but beaming happily, and reached out to grip his hand.
“Thank you so much, Ken,” he said quietly but with great feeling. “I hope you have some idea how superior that performance was. You--saved my neck, as it were, and to do it so beautifully-- I am truly grateful.”
By now, Hutch was truly overwhelmed by all the compliments, but he found it easier to be gracious in his response to Drake. “Thanks to you, Wayne,” he said. “I really appreciate all the help you gave me.”
“My pleasure, believe me.”
They stood there for a few moments in companionable silence, then Drake gave a satisfied sigh and a shake of his head. “You know,” he said reflectively, “there were times when I never thought this show would happen.” He laughed nostalgically. “Then again, there were times ten years ago when I thought this company would never happen.”
“What do you mean?” Hutch asked curiously. Something in his detective brain instinctively came to life, sensing there was something important here.
Drake took a sip of his champagne. “Well, when we first started, the press was...well, not this kind, to be sure,” he laughed, waving his hand at the reporters who were mingling among the company personnel. “In fact, there was one gentleman whose reviews were absolutely scathing. He predicted we would be closing our doors within the year...indeed, within the month.”
“What happened?”
“Well...” Drake looked down at his champagne glass, clearly somewhat embarrassed by the memory. “It so happens that the founders of this company included some very wealthy and very powerful people.” He met Hutch’s gaze. “Enough to ruin a certain young reporter’s career.”
The director now had Hutch’s total attention. “How did they do that?”
“Well,” Drake said again, noting that Hutch had slipped into what he thought of as “cop mode,” albeitly much more subtly than before. “They learned that he had had a disastrous acting career on the East Coast...had essentially been laughed out of town due to his dismal--talents. They made a point of making this information known, and absolutely humiliated him. Of course, he lost all credibility among the theatrical community, and his paper dropped him almost immediately.” He took another sip of his champagne and gave a thoughtful sigh. “He didn’t seem to be such a bad sort, really...just very brash and arrogant. In retrospect, it seems a bit extreme...but at the time, we were fighting for our very lives, and thought the means justified the ends.”
Hutch’s eyes flicked across the room and found Starsky as if by a homing beacon. The dark-haired detective seemed to sense his partner’s gaze, and managed to tear his attention away from Sarah, who had been thoroughly enjoying his sense of humor and his Bogart imitations. He smiled sweetly and excused himself, making his way across the room to Hutch.
“Do you remember the name of this reviewer?” Hutch asked intently.
“Oh, let’s see...” Drake began to search his memory, then stopped short and looked at Hutch. “Do you think he’s connected with Carl’s murder somehow?”
“It’s possible,” Hutch said. “Anyway, it’s another lead to follow.”
Starsky reached them then, and Drake was intrigued to see how he, too, had changed from a festive, party guest to a detective focused on a case. “What’s up?” he asked. Hutch relayed the information that Drake had just provided, then sat back to gauge Starsky’s reaction.
“It’s a lead,” Starsky agreed. “And the guy would certainly have motive. Worth checking out, anyway.”
Hutch turned back to Drake. “What was his name?”
Drake frowned thoughtfully. “Oh, dear, I’m not sure I remember. Seems like it was...Richard something.” He shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t think of the last name...but I know that all the press clippings for the company are on file here in the theatre. It would be a simple matter to find out.”
“We have to track him down--and the rest of the founders,” Hutch said urgently to Starsky. “Right away.” Starsky nodded in agreement. “Look, Wayne, we need you to go see if you can find those clippings.”
“I’ll go wait in the lobby,” Starsky chimed in. “Then you can pass them off to me, and I’ll catch up with Ken later.” He and Hutch exchanged one last look, nodded like two football players getting ready to leave the huddle, then turned to make his way back across the room. Drake headed in the opposite direction, toward the lobby. Starsky managed to find Rose, who had to say one last goodbye to Hutch before she would permit her nephew to escort her out. That was fine, Hutch thought; it would reduce the likelihood that Wayne’s departure and Starsky’s would be connected.
Though his concerns about Starsky were somewhat misguided. It wasn’t his partner who was being observed.
CHAPTER 14
“Murder most foul.” - Act I, Scene V
Saturday was busy but uneventful. The two detectives spent most of the day at the library, looking for all available information related to one Richard Caldwell, the reviewer who had lambasted the company during its first season. They read dozens of his articles on the local theatre companies, noting that he saved his most vitriolic comments for the Bay Shakespeare Company, while offering lukewarm, but certainly less critical reviews of other productions in the area. Though the reasons for his negative attitude were not, his dislike for the company was abundantly obvious. And Drake was right; the man repeatedly predicted that the company would experience a rapid demise.
After several hours of staring at microfilm, Hutch had to go to the theatre. Starsky plowed through and printed out the last articles of interest, then obtained a recent copy of the paper from the librarian, and jotted down the phone number of the entertainment editor for a phone call on Monday.
The performance went well Saturday evening, with the usual settling down after an opening night high. The house was packed and the audience’s response was enthusiastic. Hutch went to bed around 2 a.m. Sunday morning, relieved and actually proud of what he had accomplished.
He followed his normal routine on Sunday morning, though he started somewhat later than usual. After his two-mile run, shower, breakfast, he called Starsky to see what he was up to that day. Starsky had plans to meet his newest lady friend for a picnic lunch, and suggested that the three of them hook up for dinner after Hutch’s matinee.
The matinee, too, went off without a hitch...until approximately thirty minutes after the final curtain went down.
Hutch was in the dressing room, half-dressed and toweling his hair dry when the scream came. He yanked his shirt over his head and raced up the stairs, half-wishing that his gun wasn’t locked in the back of the Ford.
A crowd of murmuring and crying actors and crew members had already gathered around something in the right wing when he reached the stage. He made his way through, knowing in his gut what he was going to find, but hoping–
No such luck. In a corner of the wing lay Troy Melbourne, one of the crew members, with a sword sunk into his chest.
Damn.
Hutch noticed that Lowell Abbott was moving toward the corpse. Without thinking twice, Hutch stepped forward and grabbed his arm. “Don’t touch anything,” he warned. “Go call the police.” Lowell nodded and ran out the side stage door and through the house.
Hutch was sure Melbourne was dead, but he crouched beside him and pressed his fingers to the man’s neck anyway. Sure enough, there was no pulse, and the flesh was cool enough that Hutch guessed Troy had been dead for some time. He sat back on his heels and frowned, then remembered his cover and pushed himself to his feet.
“Hey, come on,” he said gently but firmly to the pale and frightened faces that had been watching his every move. “Why don’t we get away from here and show the guy some respect, huh?”
All the company members dispersed except Drake, who looked absolutely devastated by this latest development. “When so much time had passed...” he said numbly. “I just assumed...Oh, dear Lord.”
Mindful of his cover, Hutch placed a comforting hand on the man’s arm, but said nothing more until he was sure they were alone. Then he moved close to Drake and said in a low voice, “I think it’s time to bring my partner in. Did this guy do something he can pick up fairly quickly?”
“I believe so...Troy was one of the follow-spot operators,” Drake responded in an equally quiet tone.
“Good. What are you doing for dinner tonight?” Drake looked at the blond detective sharply, then chuckled mirthlessly.
“I presume I’m meeting with you and David.”
“You got it,” Hutch said tersely, then glanced at his watch. “We’ll be meeting at a bar called The Pits–it’s (need address). I’m going to try to catch him at home and see if he can leave his date behind; I think this is a conversation the three of us should have alone.”
“I believe I can find that,” Drake said. “What time should I meet you there?”
“About seven–or whenever the coroner and the crime lab get done here,” Hutch replied. He heard the wail of sirens growing from outside. “Look, I’d better make myself scarce in case anyone I know is on this crew. I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”
Drake nodded, and Hutch headed downstairs to the greenroom to call Starsky.
Three hours later, the three men were just completing their meals. Understandably, none of them had much of an appetite.
“I cannot believe this is happening,” Drake said, pushing away his plate with most of the food uneaten. “I’ve known Troy for years. He was a consummate professional--a man who took his job very seriously. To lose him and Carl so close together...” He sighed and stirred sugar into his cup of coffee. “He just had his first grandchild, too.”
Hutch and Starsky exchanged glances, and both knew they were thinking the same thing: They had to start turning something before anyone else died.
“We gotta crank this up,” Starsky said. “When can I get installed onto the crew?”
“Tomorrow, as far as I’m concerned,” Drake replied. “If you can come in a bit early, I and John–he’s the other follow spot operator–can show you the basics. Troy operated Ken’s special, so we can do a dry run with just the four of us. I’m planning on a meeting with the cast in the afternoon...I want to make sure everyone has a chance to talk about this.” He sighed again and replaced his spoon on the saucer. “In fact, I want to see if they want to go on at all.”
The two detectives exchanged another look. “Do you think they won’t?” Hutch asked.
“I honestly don’t know,” Drake admitted, his eyes on the dark liquid in his cup. “But I want to give them that option. Two people have died due to their involvement with this production, and I don’t want to endanger anyone else if I can help it.”
Hutch dropped his eyes to the table; both his and Starsky’s expressions were glum. There was nothing more frustrating or guilt-inducing that having a series of murders with a paucity of clues, and there was nothing that preyed on their minds more than having people die while they seemed to be running in circles.
“Can you think of any connection, anything at all, between the two murders and Gretchen Talbot’s disappearance?” Starsky asked.
“No, nothing...other than the fact that they were all with the company from the beginning,” Drake replied. “In fact, Troy actually started out as an actor–he portrayed Claudius in the original production.”
“What about Gretchen Talbot?” Hutch asked, with increasing interest.
“Yes, Gretchen was in the original production as well,” Drake said. “She was Gertrude–and a positively luminous one.” He smiled slightly at the memory. “Of course, that was before she started drinking.”
“There’s something there,” Hutch said to his partner. “Something important--I can feel it.”
Starsky nodded, then spoke to Drake. “Look, when we get to the theatre tomorrow, we need to get all the documentation you have about that original production--every person who was involved and in what capacity, programs, information about the cast and crew, all the publicity, any financial or production records–every piece of paper you can get your hands on.”
“We’ll meet at my place after the rehearsal with the files for all three cases,” Hutch chimed in. “And we’ll just sit and bury ourselves in this stuff until we figure it out.”
“Agreed.” Drake looked at his watch and rose with a sigh. “Well, gentlemen, I hope I have been of some assistance–but now I really must go. This has been far more excitement than I bargained for, and added to an opening weekend...”
“Sure,” Hutch said immediately. “Go home and get some rest, Wayne. We’ll see you tomorrow–what time?”
“How about eight, if that’s not too early,” Drake suggested. “That way, we’ll have time to go through the entire show before the cast meeting at one.”
“OK,” Hutch said. His later-rising partner began to comment, then caught Hutch’s eye and nodded his agreement instead.
The rehearsal went smoothly, though the acrophobic Starsky was not pleased to discover the follow spot operators worked from a catwalk suspended high above the house. He threw a raised eyebrow glance at Hutch, who gave him a “Hang in there, buddy,” nod and a slight smile. Shrugging, Starsky resigned himself to his fate and followed John backstage and up the ladders to the lighting grid and the catwalk. He was relieved to learn that the structure was equipped with a safety harness for each operator, though he sensed from John’s indulgent smile and avoidance of his own harness that he would probably take some teasing for using it.
The light was awkward but not very heavy. After a little practice, Starsky found he was able to maneuver it with ease, and he rapidly picked up the basic positioning and movements. And during the first few scenes, he realized that he had an advantage that exponentially accelerated his learning and proficiency curve: he and Hutch had known each other for so long that he had an excellent “read” on the blond man’s movements and could track him almost instinctively. To everyone’s relief, they were able to run through all of Hutch’s scenes in fairly short order and with relatively few adjustments.
After lunch, a somber cast and crew assembled, and Drake handled the unenviable task of talking with them about the murders, and presenting the possibility of shutting the show down. To the two detectives’ surprise, there was little debate and the decision was unanimous: to continue the production. A number of the company members, Sarah and Roz included, voiced strong and heartfelt sentiments that Carl and Troy would have wanted them to adhere to the timeless tradition that “the show must go on.” It appeared that most of the company considered the run to be a memorial to those who had been killed.
“Isn’t someone investigating these things?” Jack asked from the front row of the theatre. From the apron, Drake nodded, assiduously avoiding looking at Starsky or Hutch. “Well, do they know anything yet?”
“Well, I’m not well-versed in this type of thing,” Drake responded smoothly. “But it’s my understanding that they are giving this their most serious attention and are following up on a number of theories.” There was a general stirring among the company, and Drake held up his hand to stem the tide of dissatisfaction. “Please, ladies and gentlemen...these things take time. These have been great losses for all of us, but I feel certain that the police are doing everything they can to find the people who killed Carl and Troy.”
The two detectives inwardly winced, but were far too professional to let their discomfort show.
Drake fortuitously--and perhaps intentionally--chose this moment to reveal his own grief and fatigue with a shaky sigh and a hand passed over his suddenly weary face. The company respected and genuinely admired him, and almost immediately forgot their disapproval in compassion for their director. “My friends, you have elected to continue this production as a tribute to Carl and Troy,” Drake said with tremendous feeling. “As difficult as it may be, I implore you to concentrate on making it as fitting and stellar as possible...and leave the detective work to others.”
There was a beat of silence, then the actors and the crew nodded in silent agreement. Drake took a deep breath, forced a smile to his face, and began the rehearsal by introducing the company to “Dave Scott,” who would be taking over Carl’s duties with the follow spot.
After the brushup was complete, Drake gathered the company one final time for a few notes and a quick runthrough of a few moments which he felt could stand further polishing. Starsky was relieved to climb down from the catwalk and park himself in a seat with the rest of the crew. He was watching the process on the stage when someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned to see Lowell Abbott behind him.
“There’s a phone call for you in the office,” he whispered. “Someone named Harold–says it’s important.”
Suppressing a grin, Starsky got to his feet and followed the stage manager through the house and lobby and into the office. Aware of Abbott’s presence but also spurred by the usual Starsky humor, he said jovially into the phone, “Hello, Harold. What’s up?”
“Save it, Starsky,” Dobey’s voice growled on the other end of the line. “Are you and Hutch about done out there?”
“Yeah, should be getting out any minute,” Starsky replied, keeping Abbott in his peripheral vision.
“Both of you need to get down here as soon as you can without attracting attention,” Dobey ordered. “Something’s come up, and it isn’t good.”