“John’s in Toronto?”
Andrew looked at his watch. “Yep, plane should’ve landed an hour ago.”
Someone poked their head out of the main dressing room.
“Hey, Philip, give ‘em hell tonight buddy. And don’t forget the party at Salty’s.”
Philip turned, waved at the actor, and took a deep breath.
“Okay, Andrew, I’ll go on. My ulcer is jumping. I’ll be in bed for a week, I know it.”
“You’ve made the right choice, Philip. You’re exuding positive energy. Why don’t you give the deep breathing exercises another try? If they don’t work, I think I have something in my office that will fix you up.”
That’ll keep him puzzling for awhile.
The door next to Philip’s opened up and Camira, a black eyed Aboriginal beauty, a truly graceful woman, aka Maggie the Cat, smiled and winked at him. The young woman was a gift from the gods, talented, warm, and caring. Andrew returned the smile, signalled her not to speak and hurried down the hallway before Philip changed his mind and made another anxious appearance.
He mounted the three steps to the empty stage, the two men at his heels. He looked around the stage expecting to see Jeffrey. He wasn’t there. His hopes and heart plummeted. He had acted too soon. He wasn’t going to New York. Andrew hoped the two men couldn’t see the tremor in his right hand.
He his heart leapt at the sound of footsteps mounting the stairs. Eleanor Foster-Sutton, Set and Costume Designer, made her way across the stage, embraced Andrew, the breath from her air kiss tickling his left ear. He introduced her to the Board members. They chatted for a few moments. Andrew fought to quell his anxiety and broke into their conversation as soon as opportunity allowed.
“Eleanor, darling, Ed’s on a prop mission. Can you do me a huge favour and round up the troops for the toast? I’d better wait here for Jeffrey.”
Eleanor nodded her perfectly coiffed head and left.
He watched her exit; a glorious performance. A tall, cool, award winning, blonde, aristocratic beauty nearer 60 than 50, possessing a regal stance that some had been heard to compare to the famous Ms. Hepburn. But no fear of her coveting the Director’s chair, the woman, after countless awards and kudos, was still striving for the perfectly designed set, having no clue it would never happen. Andrew couldn’t never understood why some people stalled but he knew there were more that did than didn’t.
She’s a talented woman, but she’s cold, cold enough to cause a toothache.
Andrew smiled at the Board members and did what he always did so well. Started a conversation and turned on his never fail charm. He nodded, smiled, and chuckled his way through the conversation as he tried to subdue his mounting anxiety. A familiar voice broke his tension in two.
“So this is what you do when you’re not being watched, Andrew”, Jeffrey said. “Making time with the power brokers, shame on you.”
Andrew smiled and said nothing. Jeffrey bantered with the two men for a few moments then walked over to the stereo, opened the liquor cabinet, took out his bottle of bourbon, grabbed one of the crystal glasses from the tray on top of the cabinet and poured himself a generous amount for the toast.
Andrew hid his disgust at the thought of the toast. A time wasting, stupid, arrogant affectation he insisted on every night of the last performance; the only difference, this time it would be done as quickly and quietly as possible on stage. It was nothing but an ego trip. A waste of the actors’ time who had better things to do than stand on stage and watch him slurp his bourbon. One consolation, he thought, it’ll be the last one he makes.
“How are the troops doing, Andrew? Are they on their way?”
“Yes, Eleanor’s rounding them up now.”
Murmurs of conversation amplified as actors and crew drew closer to the stage. Within minutes, everyone stood huddled together like circus performers before the ring master. Henry Ward, the show’s producer, his planned late minute entrance catching everyone’s eye, crossed centre stage and stood next to the Director.
The sounds of the audience beat against the closed curtain.
Jeffrey, his usual sonorous voice lowered to a gruff whisper, gave his toast (Charlotte miming the well known speech behind his back) lifted his glass and downed the contents in one swallow. Within three minutes, the convulsing ceased and Jeffrey Stone lay dead centre stage.
8:00pm
Kate finger combed her short chestnut curls, slipped on her new jeans and blouse. She reached in the closet for her white cashmere sweater, warmth minus fleece, for a cool evening. Deciding to wear her black, leatherette platform boots, she muttered under her breath for the five minutes it took her to get them on. A quick glance in the mirror then out the door.
The streets were congested; it took almost thirty minutes for her to drive across town. Finding a parking spot in the popular night life of the inner city wasn’t going to be easy. She was circling the block for a second time when her cell rang. She checked caller id – Sandra.
“Kate, there’s a slight change in plans. Abir phoned. She’s running late and so are the taxis. I’m going to take my car, pick her and Hanya up. It means a twenty minute delay getting to The Dock.”
“That’s fine. It’ll take me that long find a parking spot. See you in a bit.”
Circling the block for the third time, Kate began to lose patience; a start up frustration grumble in her belly. Was Gordon right? Was she losing control? Did she need professional help? The very thought made her wince. She would be damned if she would contact a precinct psychologist. She didn’t trust the politics.
She could try to get Sandra alone for a few minutes tonight and ask her if
