The Rest is Silence: The Shakespeare Murders, #1

By John Paulits

The director of the AWB Theatre Company, Lawrence Mickelman, has alienated everyone in sight with his tyrannical manner. When his body is found in the locked Bouwerie Lane Theatre, a sword from Hamlet in his chest, the troupe's owner asks Mark Louis, one of the actors, to dig a little deeper than she thinks the police will. The police investigation points toward Don Lovett, the play's Hamlet, but Mark's suspicions turn elsewhere. As the police prepare to arrest Don, Mark must bring the murderer out into the open before the killer strikes again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613094556

Book preview

Dedication

For Uncle Walter (1923-2011)

The family member with the

true Shakespearean gene.

Prologue

November 4. The Murder

A shadowy figure slips into the dark passage alongside the theatre and descends the stairs. The figure silently inserts a key into the lock of the door and enters the unlit basement. The door closes behind the figure, producing the faintest of clicks. The figure mentally goes over the necessary route.

Listen. Take two steps. Listen again. Two more steps. Something heavy, muted, dropping onto the stage floor above. Wait for silence. Two minutes...three. Move toward the narrow stairway. Up, step by step. Listen. Move to the back curtain. Push it aside, gently. There on the stage, a silhouette darker than all else. Rhythmic breathing. Sleeping in that sleep of death. Lines from a play, the play.

Now might I do it pat.

When he is drunk asleep...

And now I’ll do it

Silently return to the basement. Feel the way. Strike one match. Open the properties closet. Strike another match. Reach inside for the foil: Unbated and envenomed. Return through the darkness to the stage.

The stealthy figure holds the foil using a handkerchief and slides silently toward the sleeper lying on an old mattress pulled from somewhere in the rear of the theatre. The smell of alcohol is strong. Bend and whisper into an unhearing ear:

And in the porches of my ears did pour

The leperous distilment.

Leperous distilment turned into words. Now rise.

’Tis given out that while sleeping in my orchard

A serpent stung me.

Lift the foil high and bring it down.

The recumbent figure screams and thrashes for a moment, grasping the sharp thing embedded in its stomach, scarcely knowing if this is dream or reality. The mortally wounded creature feels sleep coming again and submits to it, breathless.

Withdraw the foil, raise it high, and bring it down again.

The foil bends into a crescent, striking bone. The murderer steps back, surprised. Prod for a soft spot where the heart should be. Lean over the foil, pushing mightily. Let go. The foil swings softly like a pendulum, then steadies.

Descend into the basement. Leave through the same door. Climb enough stairs to see into the street. Rise, seemingly from a grave. Slip away into the night.

One

November 3. The Day Before

Claudius leaped from his throne, his crown bouncing and resettling itself awkwardly over one eye. He grabbed the crown and held it tightly in his fist, but one of the points bit into the fleshy part of his hand, so he angrily tossed it backwards onto the seat of his throne. Hamlet and Laertes braced themselves.

Together! Didn’t I say together? Together means at the same time, in case you’d forgotten. You both step forward together to get my attention.

Gertrude laid a gentle hand on Claudius’s arm, but to no effect. "You both want my attention, but neither of you knows the other is planning an appeal. You look at each other with mild surprise. Hamlet expects to be recognized first, since he’s the prince; it’s his right. Plus, he’s in no mood to give place to anybody, least of all the son of my chief councilor, who has helped screw him out of being king while he traveled back from Wittenberg. Hamlet, my boy, a slight touch of arrogance toward Laertes for having the gall to try to precede you. Laertes, a slight bend as if acknowledging the prince’s right. Can you both do that? Can you both freaking do that?

I, now, will recognize Laertes as a sign of gratitude and respect for his father, and poor Hamlet must wait. I’ve insulted you, Hamlet. You both ask to leave the court and return to school, one to Wittenberg and one to France. I will tell Laertes ‘yes;’ I will tell Hamlet ‘no’—it’s payback time. I have screwed you, Hamlet; Polonius has screwed you; everyone has screwed you except perhaps Horatio, because he’s too busy running around getting you jobs. The king’s voice reached a crescendo as he made reference, not to the life of the play’s characters, but to the real life of the acting troupe. Hamlet hovered on the verge of telling his king to go and kiss a light socket, but Claudius held up his hand.

Please, please, please, tell me you comprehend the scene. Damn, we’re opening Thursday—two days from now. I know I explained the play thoroughly. I know I explained this scene thoroughly, so let’s get it right. The scene is pivotal. It sets up the whole conflict between Claudius and Hamlet. We do this scene right, and we’re finished for the day.

Since the hands of the clock had crept past seven o’clock, and the only other sound on stage besides the king’s ravings was the rumble of everyone’s empty stomachs, the actors made an inward vow to concentrate and get it right. Claudius returned to his throne, nearly forgetting in his agitation to take the crown out from under him.

Finally satisfied on the third try with the public humiliation of Hamlet the Dane, Claudius allowed the company to break for dinner. With a collective sigh of relief, the cast slipped backstage and went down the narrow stairway, past the properties closet to the two dressing rooms. Horatio fell into step beside Hamlet.

You know, Horatio whispered, if you keep fingering your dagger like that, I don’t think Claudius will have to wait until act five to get his.

Hamlet moved his hand away from his knife. You finding me a job... he muttered. He had to say that in front of the whole company?

"Shhh, Horatio whispered, indicating the other actors eager to change into street clothes and head out for dinner. We’ll talk in Phebe’s."

Two

Mark Louis and Don Lovell were the first actors out the door of the Bouwerie Lane Theatre, a grime-encrusted building, once a bank, which sat dowager-like on the corner of Second Street and the Bowery, anchoring a row of ancient tenements and abutting a somber-looking delicatessen. They headed to Phebe’s Bar and Restaurant, two blocks north. Not only its convenient location, but its five-dollar-a-glass wine and its twenty-percent discount on food for card-carrying actors made Phebe’s a downtown theatrical hub. Actors congregated there for gossip, job information, and, when necessary, commiseration. Glassed-in sections of the restaurant extended onto the sidewalks along both the Bowery and Fourth Street, but neighborhood actors never sat outside. They chose a table in the darker recesses of Phebe’s nearer the fireplace, which on this night burned cheerfully. Mark turned his back to the flames for a moment and acknowledged its warmth with a sigh.

Don draped his worn denim jacket over the back of a scarred wooden chair and sat down with a gloomy thud. Don Lovell was a glass of fashion and a mold of form in every respect. Tall, well-built, twenty-four years old, blond, handsome, and talented, he dedicated himself to acting.

Now, my friend, Mark said, spill. Why does our esteemed director have it in for you?

Wait for the wine.

Mark Louis, a shade taller, a few months older, not quite as handsome, nowhere near as blond, and far less dedicated to acting than Don, preferred writing mystery stories. He’d published a few, one in Ellery Queen Magazine, but still had to make a living. Okay, Mark agreed, but don’t order any food.

Why no food? I’m starving.

Mark caught the waitress’s eye and beckoned. He ordered two glasses of merlot.

Did you see her as we were leaving?

Don shook his head. He understood her to be Ashley Warrington Brunner, the financial support and namesake of the AWB Theatre Company.

Happy as can be. She’s going to feed us tonight and has something wonderful to tell us, too.

And that would be?

Besides the free food here tonight, she’s inviting the cast to a dinner party at her place tomorrow after dress rehearsal. An early one so her troupe can get to bed and be well-rested for opening night. It’s supposed to be a surprise, though, so act surprised when she announces it.

I’ve never been to her place. You have, I know.

Mark had met Ashley at a summer fund-raising theatre party which Ashley had held in her apartment. It so happened she had recently misplaced some jewelry—small but valuable trinkets. In chatting with Mark at the party, she confided the fact to him. He surprised her with his response.

Maybe I can find your missing jewelry for you, he replied, telling her he had published a few mystery stories and created and solved fictional mysteries as part of his craft.

Ashley, intrigued, had allowed Mark to question her about her daily habits. Once he’d reconstructed her routine, Mark thought the jewelry could only have been taken from her purse, since she frequently took her earrings and such off in the car to be more comfortable. He had but to station himself across the street from a few of Ashley’s stops over the course of a week to catch her newly-hired driver red-handed. Ashley, he found, habitually left her purse in the car as she dashed about doing quick errands, and the driver would search the purse for something of value. As the driver explained later, he would not take anything he spied the first time, but if he found the item in question on a subsequent trip, then Ashley had no doubt forgotten about it and poof! It was gone. When Ashley heard Mark’s report, poof! Her driver was gone.

One thing led to another, and Mark became a member of the AWB Theatre Company. Lawrence Mickelman, the in-house director and Ashley’s live-in lover and current Claudius, did not approve of Ashley’s selection, but since she paid the bills, he could not argue.

Yes, I’ve been there twice, Mark answered. Ah, here’s the wine. Now, Hamlet, my friend, talk to Horatio. What is Lawrence’s problem? Does he suspect a continuance of you and Karen? You led me to believe the two of you were amicably terminated.

Yeah, well, you know us; we can’t live with each other...

You can’t live with each other period. I know your sordid history. Is she why Lawrence is so hostile to you? We don’t...you don’t, need anything to jeopardize the Ashley Warrington Brunner paid positions we dumb-lucked our way into. The horrors of substitute teaching, a part time occupation which had paid his bills until Ashley and her theatre company came long, flashed through Mark’s mind.

No argument there. I thank the theatre gods every day for allowing this to fall into my lap. Thanks also to you, of course, and Ashley. I don’t know what the man’s problem is. Don sipped his wine and went on. I’ve kept you up to date on Karen and me. We talk, but we’re too similar to be together all the time. As you recall, it caused problems. We don’t, won’t, give away any time we could otherwise devote to— Don gestured with his right hand.

The pursuit of acting. The monomaniacal sublimation of every element of life—to acting. Mark stopped and smiled. Could the estimable Lawrence Mickelman be picking up subliminal bursts of sexual and emotional fireworks still floating in the air between the two former lovers?

I don’t know what he’s picking up, but I know he’s having a hormone problem because of Karen.

So you’ve told me.

She tells me about the gifts he buys her, the dinners he takes her to. She said she’s getting a real bank account saving up money she’d otherwise spend on groceries. Now, he’s gifted her with this Ophelia role.

She in love with him?

"Pfft! Don scowled. I think not. A ‘marriage’ of convenience, if you will. I don’t know why Ashley doesn’t catch on, the way he buzzes around Karen during rehearsals."

"Don’t be so sure Ashley doesn’t catch on. I assure you, she’s not the mere blind, smiling philanthropist she’s taken for. Are they...you know, lovers?"

You’re so discreet. She hasn’t told me, and I don’t want to know. Here comes Lawrence.

Probably looking for Carl Spooner before Ashley gets here. They’ve been plotting together here for the past week. Carl must need help with his theatre again.

Carl Spooner had founded the Classic Stage Company—CSC—ten years before and had been hop-scotching from financial crisis to financial crisis. Before meeting Ashley, Lawrence had acted for him, helped out in his theatre, and turned down one half-hearted request very early on to be a partner in CSC. But two years ago, things had changed; Lawrence had become the successful one, thanks to his having four drinks in the space of two hours with the fabulously wealthy Ashley Warrington Brunner.

Ashley had made