Set the Stage for Murder (A Broadway Backstage Mystery)

By Brent Peterson

New York actress Victoria Locke and her producer husband Teddy McDowell cast themselves as detectives when someone threatens Hollywood icon Rosamund Whiting, the star of Teddy's next Broadway show. What starts out as a bit of fun sleuthing turns deadly when someone is murdered at a pre-rehearsal gathering at the McDowell's upstate New York home. Vicki and Teddy, along with a highly theatrical supporting cast, realize that they must unmask the killer before he or she strikes again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brent Peterson
• Release date: Feb 19, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301599233

Brent Peterson

Brent Peterson is a playwright and stage manager who divides his time between Manhattan and Upstate New York.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Her hand shook as she reread the note that had been taped to the mirror. The pen had been applied with such force that the expensive writing paper, her own engraved stationery that she kept on the side table by the telephone, was torn in more than one place. The message’s simplicity might have made it innocuous, almost laughable, were it not for the desperate energy emanating from the note and filling the star dressing room in the Duchess Theater. Thank God it was closing night; she wouldn’t be able to return to this room, not ever, not after this.

She thought she was going to be sick, but the moment passed. She folded the paper in half and then kept folding again and again, as if the smaller she made the paper would somehow diminish the horribleness that certainly was to come. She put it away so she didn’t have to look at it anymore, grabbed a cigarette from the pack in her purse, lit it and inhaled deeply. A tear ran down her cheek as she thought about the sins, past and present, which had led to the note and to this moment. It shouldn’t be like this, she thought, as her tears fell more steadily. It isn’t fair.

Ladies and gentlemen, the call is places. The booming disembodied voice over the backstage address system caused her to jump. Places, please, for the top of Act I. She took another drag off the cigarette before stubbing it out in the small Baccarat bowl that served as her ashtray. Slowly, she looked up at her reflection in the mirror. The color had drained from her face and even to herself, she looked frightened; no, she looked terrified. Pull it together, Roz, she whispered in a voice that was barely there. This is going to be the most difficult performance of your life.

*****

"I suppose it would be bad form to shout ‘off with her head?’" Teddy McDowell murmured in his wife’s ear as they watched the final performance of The Scottish Queen.

Shush! Vicki whispered, pinching his thigh.

Nice try, Teddy scoffed quietly, but you’ll have to do better than that. I'm numb from the waist down. If I don’t stand up soon, I’ll never walk again.

Victoria Locke couldn’t keep from smiling as she sat in the center of the fifth row and silently cursed the long-dead designers of the very cramped Duchess Theater. Her shapely legs were wedged firmly into the hard wooden seat in front of her and her husband, whose strong Scottish genes had supplied not only the obligatory black hair and blue eyes but a 6’5 frame as well, had contorted his body into an awkward and apparently painful position. Clearly, the actors strutting and fretting upon the stage of this 103 year-old theater were infinitely more comfortable than the audience members who had paid top dollar to watch them.

The numbness has spread, Teddy whispered. I’m dead from the waist down. I hope you aren’t set on having children; well, my children, at least. Vicki fought back laughter and thought of ways to torture her husband when they got home. He really was behaving horribly. The fact that Teddy was talking to her during the performance and that she was thinking about her aching knees instead of the Scottish Queen’s imminent demise did not speak well of the night’s entertainment. Oh it was good, but Vicki had seen the play previously (from an opera box with plenty of leg room, thank you very much) and the leading lady, her occasional co-star Rosamund Whiting, had been much more on her game at that performance.

Vicki and her husband, producer Theodore McDowell, aka Teddy, as well as a veritable who’s who of the theatrical community, were in attendance tonight to witness Rosamund’s final performance in the play. The role had been yet another jewel in the actress’s crown, earning her a third Tony and garnering reviews which did everything but nominate her for sainthood. A team of young designers and an upstart British director had dusted off a tired, almost forgotten play from the 1930s and somehow made it relevant for a contemporary audience in a new century. But it was the leading lady’s explosive performance that had made it the not-to-be-missed event of the season. Tonight’s audience was there by invitation and all of them had jumped at the chance to see Rosamund’s portrayal of Mary, Queen of Scots, one last time.

Truth be told, however, Teddy and Vicki would have manufactured some sort of excuse to miss the evening’s festivities were Rosamund not the star of Teddy’s next show and, as a result, a houseguest in a few days. Rosamund was to spend the following weekend with the McDowells at their Upstate New York house, along with the other cast members and the creative team behind the new production. The gathering was no small undertaking and Vicki couldn’t help but wonder if she and Teddy had covered all their bases. Tomorrow, she would go over her lists, yet again, just to make sure everything was in order.

But her mind was wandering again and she really should be paying attention. After all, she would be expected to deliver some sort of appraisal of tonight’s performance to the star and Rosamund was one on which pat phrases were totally wasted. You were great! or That was incredible! were not the sort of comments that would fly with Rosamund. She expected specifics and unfortunately, Vicki couldn’t think of anything positive to say that was exactly accurate. Rosamund had seemed off balance all evening, even stumbling over lines as if her attention were elsewhere. It was all very uncharacteristic of an actress everyone knew to be fanatical about her craft. Vicki couldn’t imagine what would cause her friend to behave like this, but as she watched Rosamund seemingly go blank on stage, she became alarmed. The audience around her held its breath until the star recovered and went on with the scene. Everyone relaxed, but any sort of spell they were under had been broken and it wasn’t long before bodies started shifting in creaky seats and throats demanded to be cleared.

Still, the curtain call was met with a lengthy and boisterous standing ovation and a florist’s shop supply of flowers was thrown at Rosamund’s feet, perhaps more out of respect for the actress’s stature than for the evening’s performance. Vicki suspected that Rosamund would sense this ambivalence and would probably be devastated. She had a knack for reading an audience and tailoring her performance to fit them perfectly. However, much to Vicki’s surprise, Roz didn’t appear to be devastated at all. In fact, she appeared to hardly notice much of anything, going through the bows as if by rote. It wasn’t until a small bouquet of black roses tied with black ribbon landed squarely in front of her that Rosamund Whiting showed much reaction at all and then it was the most dramatic thing she had done all night; she screamed and fainted.

******

What the hell was that? William Putman asked, as he caught up with a hastily exiting Ted and Vicki. William, or Billy as he was known in the theatrical community, was an old friend of the McDowells’ and of Rosamund Whiting’s, as well as the director of Teddy’s upcoming play. At 43, Billy’s boyish good looks were mostly intact, which was a very good thing since they served to distract from a litany of insecurities and a complete absence of anything remotely resembling tact. I’ve never seen anything like that.

Well Billy, I think it’s pretty clear that she was terrified by those flowers, Teddy said, as he took Vicky by the elbow and headed toward the stage door.

No. I’m talking about her performance. Honestly, I’ve never seen her like that.

Neither have I, Vicki agreed. She was distracted the entire play. Something had her rattled long before that bouquet showed up on the stage.

The three of them pushed their way through the near-manic crowd, which had erupted from the theater onto the sidewalk and even out into the street. There was electricity in the air and a palpable feeling that the drama wasn’t quite over, so no one wanted to leave just yet. What had happened tonight would be internet fodder for the theatre chatrooms in a matter of minutes and all over the papers tomorrow morning. This group of Broadway insiders, who so prided themselves on being in the know, wanted to make certain that they were just that. Soon, the beat cops would arrive and strongly start encouraging people to be on their way. The self-important among the group, which comprised approximately ninety eight percent of them, would be incensed and demand to speak to a superior. The question Do you know who I am? would be asked over and over again of the celebrity-weary officers.

Teddy wanted to make sure they were backstage before all hell broke loose. Fortunately, he had produced more than one show in the Duchess over the years and the stage doorman recognized him right away.

Mr. McDowell! Miss Locke! he exclaimed excitedly. Boy am I ever glad you’re here. She’s gone crazy! Locked herself in the dressing room and won’t let anyone come near her. Maybe she’ll listen to you.

Which room is she in, Bob? Do you have the master key?

Sure thing, Bob said as he opened the top drawer of his tiny desk and pulled out the ring of master keys. Funny, no one else has thought of that. I guess that’s why you are where you are, Mr. McDowell. Miss Whiting is in number three. Eyeing Billy suspiciously, Bob asked, Is this fellow with you, Mr. McDowell?

Yes, Bob, Teddy replied, suppressing a grin. He’s with us.

What the hell? Billy exclaimed, as they hurried up the stairs, past curious dressers, cast members and a stage manager who all appeared too frightened to get very close to the dressing-room door. Doesn’t that guy know who I am? I’ve directed two shows in this theater!

That guy’s name is Bob, Billy, and I suspect he knows exactly who you are, Vicki said, her brown eyes twinkling. He probably just doesn’t care.

After all, he’s seen your work, Teddy chimed in as they arrived at Rosamund’s door.

The production stage manager, a man named Gilbert Percival, was outside the door speaking through it as if to a frightened child. Rosamund, you need to let me in so that I know you are all right. We’re all worried about you. I’m going to have to call maintenance and have them remove the door if you don’t respond to me soon, Sweetie.

Step aside, Percy, Teddy ordered. With one swift move he unlocked the door, pulled Vicki and Billy inside the room behind him, and immediately locked the door again. They heard Gilbert Percival gasp like a startled girl on the other side. It was only a matter of time before he asked whoever was standing next to him, Doesn’t he know who I am?

*****

Rosamund Whiting hardly noticed that her dressing room had been invaded. She was still in her elaborate costume, sitting on the end of a peach velvet chaise lounge. The upholstery fabric had been selected because it matched the color of the hybrid tea rose named for her. The walls and carpet were the same color. It was a flattering hue for just about everyone; it made Rosamund Whiting look positively luminous. Although the actress, who had often been called a modern-day Grace Kelly, was somewhere in her early forties, she could have easily passed for Vicki’s age, thirty five.

Vicki immediately rushed to Rosamund’s side and took her visibly shaking hands into her own. Roz, what in the world has happened? Are you okay?

Oh, Vicki. Was I just awful tonight?

Of course you weren’t awful, but it was clear that something was wrong.

I just couldn’t concentrate. I’d find myself in the middle of a line and I would have no recollection of where we were in the play; that’s never happened to me before.

Roz, don’t you think you’d better tell us what’s the matter? asked Ted, as he poured her two fingers of scotch from the decanter on the table. Here, drink up.

Rosamund took the glass and downed most of it in one gulp. She handed it back to Ted and stared at her reflection in the lighted mirror over her dressing table for what seemed like forever. Then, as if some decision had been made, she got up, crossed to the table and opened the carved jewelry case that sat among her makeup, crèmes and perfumes. She took a folded piece of paper from it and handed it to Ted. I found this taped to my mirror when I unlocked my room tonight. Ted opened the envelope and pulled out a piece of paper with two tragedy masks crudely drawn on it. Under the drawing there was a handwritten message:

What is this about, Roz? Ted asked as he handed the note to Vicky.

At first it appeared that Roz hadn’t heard the question, but as she stared out the window of her dressing room at the marquee of the Gotham Theater, across the street, it became evident that she was struggling with something; something she was definitely reluctant to share with them.

Roz, Vicki said, as she passed the note to Billy, this is frightening and the person who wrote it is sick. If you know what it’s about, you should tell us and maybe we can help.

At the very least, Teddy said, you should tell the police.

Rosamund’s reaction was quick and vehement. No, she exclaimed as she tore the note out of Billy’s hand. The police cannot be involved.

For God’s sake, why not? Ted asked.

I can’t afford any sort of scandal. The press would have a field day with this. No; no police.

Wouldn’t they treat something like this confidentially? Vicki asked.

Oh Vicki, Rosamund said, don’t be naive. You know as well as I do that nothing is confidential if you’re a celebrity, especially in this day and age. It would be posted online before I was out the stage door.

Vicki was adamant. Roz, you cannot put yourself in danger because you’re afraid of scandal.

Vicki’s right, Rosamund Billy agreed, as he poured himself a scotch. Besides, the scandal boat has already sailed. There were camera crews filming the curtain call, so by now, you’ve screamed and fainted on all three network newscasts and CNN. Trust me, people are already talking.

Roz, Vicki said, flashing a withering look at Billy, you’re probably better off admitting what happened upfront; if the press starts speculating, there is no telling what they’ll come up with. It could get really ugly.

Perhaps not uglier than the truth, Roz said in a voice barely above a whisper. And with that admission, the other three people in the room became the captive audience that had eluded Rosamund Whiting all evening. They waited patiently for her to continue as she got up from the chaise, crossed to the dressing table, and took a cigarette from the pack in her purse. Billy quickly provided her a light and she inhaled the smoke as if it were a magic elixir that would cleanse her. From anyone else, this deliberate cessation of what promised to be a juicy confession would be, at the least, trite and at the most, infuriating. From Rosamund it was exactly what was expected and it was expertly done. After all, the lines between what happened on the stage and what happened outside the theater had blurred a long time ago for everyone in the dressing room; a well-played moment was a well-played moment whenever and wherever it occurred.

We didn’t get to where we are without stepping on a few toes, she said, her back to her companions. She turned around and smiled wanly. "Well, at least I didn’t. And I’ve also stabbed a few backs, just for good measure. I’m afraid I’ve made some rather formidable enemies."

You couldn’t possibly have done something to inspire this sort of hatred, Vicki said.

Vicki, you’re a good friend to say that and I wish it were true. However, sometimes events occur which require us to do things we could never imagine ourselves doing otherwise. And sometimes other people get hurt.

Does that mean you know who sent this note? Ted asked, watching her closely.

I’ve thought of a few possibilities, she said, looking at the cigarette as if she couldn’t remember having it. She stubbed it out in the ashtray on her dressing table and turned back to face the group. But I’m pretty sure I know what they want, whoever it is.

What? Vicki asked, anxiety creeping into her voice.

To ruin me. And believe me, it could happen. That is why you have to promise me that there can be no police; I have to handle this on my own. And as far as the press goes, well, I’ll just have to make something up that will satisfy them for now, because if they catch the scent of what really happened, then my career could be over.

*****

FROM THE MONDAY, AUGUST 17, EDITION OF THE NEW YORK TIMES

Rosamund Whiting collapsed yesterday during the curtain call of the final performance of The Scottish Queen at the Duchess Theatre. News crews there to film the bows captured footage of Ms. Whiting fainting after apparently becoming alarmed when a bouquet of black flowers was thrown to the stage. In a statement released last night by the actress’s publicist, Ms. Whiting said, I feel so silly about the whole thing. It was a prank played on me by a friend. I was exhausted because it was the end of the show and the end of the run and I simply overreacted. But believe me, I’ll get back at my friend. I want to express my sincerest thanks to everyone for their concern. Ms. Whiting was unavailable for further comment.

Chapter 2

The following day, Vicki sat on her mother-in-law’s terrace and stared across a very green and lovely Central Park. The weather was mercifully mild for August, a time, normally, when a city constructed mostly of concrete and steel heats up like an oven by 10:00 am. The reservoir sparkled under the morning sun as compulsively fit New Yorkers ran circles around it. However, Vicki was noticing neither the fair weather nor her fellow citizens jogging through the verdant landscape. Instead, she was lost in her own thoughts, replaying last night’s events over and over in her head, especially Rosamund’s confession in the dressing room. How could you know so little about someone you had known for so long? The woman who admitted to doing things horrible enough to generate a seething hatred in other people was a stranger to Vicki, although she had known her for nearly twenty years.

It had been a sleepless night and today, her thoughts were dark and depressing as she and Teddy breakfasted with his mother, Phoebe Russell McDowell, at her Fifth Avenue apartment. All of New York society would immediately know of whom you were speaking if you simply said Phoebe. However, she was almost always referred to by all three names, presumably as a reminder that her money came not only from her wealthy husband, but from her wealthy family as well. There were those in society to whom this sort of thing was very, very important. Phoebe Russell McDowell was not one of those people, nor did she suffer them