The Role Players (21 page)

I glanced at Jonathan, who was looking at me with a Mona Lisa smile.

“Down, boy,” he said.

We made our way to the bar to order our drinks, and as we looked around for a fairly uncrowded place to stand, I noticed a small stage beside the piano, on which were four tall backless bar stools. Too bad they were for the quartet, I thought.

“Max! Chris! Over here!” a voice called as we wove our way through the pack. We looked around to see a hand raised above the heads of those in front of us, gesturing us over. As the people between us stepped aside, I could see it was Brent Freeman from the Whitman—and standing beside him was Cam Roberts.

Serendipity!
one of my mind-voices said.

And right back to the case
, another sighed.

Everyone exchanged greetings and, by forming an informal circle, we were able to talk for a few minutes before the quartet came back for their next set. Cam asked Jonathan and me how our vacation was going, and Jonathan gave them a blessedly
Reader's Digest
version of our past few days, then the talk naturally got around to
Impartial Observer
and its apparent success.

At that point the quartet got up on the small stage beside the piano, the crowd quieted, and they began to play…the song from
Deliverance
. First one banjo, then two, and by the time they got to all four, the audience was totally theirs. They were fantastic. I'd almost forgotten what an exhilarating instrument the banjo can be.

They launched into a medley of college football fight songs, encouraging everyone to sing along. When he heard the first notes of
On, Wisconsin
, Jonathan let out a war-whoop that caught me so by surprise it nearly made me jump.

Max leaned over to me and said, “You know, Dick, we've got to find some way to bring that boy out of his shell.”

*

When the set ended, we all—Cam and Brent included—decided to stay for another. And
I
decided to take the bull by the horns with Cam.

“If you guys don't have any plans after this,” I said, “why don't we all go out for dinner?”

Jonathan and Chris exchanged a quick glance; Cam and Brent a slightly longer one.

“Uh, sure,” Brent said. “The play's kept us so busy we haven't had any real time to just relax and socialize.”

I gathered from the “us” and “we” that Jonathan had been right when he'd asked Chris if Brent and Cam were a couple. I was mildly concerned about getting home in time to do the gun switch, but decided that a few more hours couldn't hurt.

The quartet's next set was as lively as the first, and everyone was in a pretty upbeat mood as we left the bar. Cam suggested a small, quiet place not far from Billy D's, run by two lesbians, one of whom had graduated from a famous cooking school in Paris.

It was a good choice. The restaurant was small and comfortable and there were only about eight other customers in the place when we arrived. The waitress, who looked like she was just out of high school, was cute, friendly, and very efficient. She brought our drinks almost immediately, gave us all menus, and excused herself, asking us to signal her when we were ready to order or if we needed anything.

We sat around the table relaxing and exchanging general background information. Brent was a native New Yorker and Cam was from New Hampshire. Both had been drama majors in college, and Brent had been doing off- and off-off Broadway productions since graduation. Cam had done summer stock, dinner theater, and been in a touring company of
Carousel
.
Impartial Observer
was his first try at New York theater.

Jonathan was fascinated. “How did you ever even find out about the Whitman and
Impartial
Observer
?” he asked.

“Keith told me about the audition, and the play's story.”

“Keith?” I asked. “Tait's Keith?”

He smiled. “Well, I don't know anything about
that
, but, yeah, Keith and I went to college together. I was in Theater and he was in Business. We lived in the same dorm. We ran into each other a couple of months ago, right after I moved to New York, and in the course of catching up on what we'd been doing, Keith mentioned that Gene Morrison was doing a new play at the Whitman, and suggested I try out. Sure glad he did.”

“I didn't know you knew Keith before,” Chris said. “I don't think I've even seen you talking together.”

“Well,” Cam said, “this may sound a little strange, but I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention to Mr. Duncan that we knew each other before I auditioned at the Whitman.”

“Really?” I said. “Any particular reason, if I may ask?”

Cam sighed, looking mildly uncomfortable. “It's no big deal, but Keith thought that if Mr. Duncan knew Keith had suggested that I audition, he might think Keith was trying to influence the casting. It's not as if Keith and I were ever really close friends, but I can understand his reasoning. Keith works for him. He thought we should just play it cool, so that's what we've done.”

“Interesting,” I said. “You know, I've heard quite a bit about Rod Pearce from Max and Chris and some of the others at the Whitman—I'm curious what you two thought of him?”

Brent and Cam looked at one another quickly.

“I'm really sorry he's dead,” Brent said. “But actually, I hardly knew him. I didn't have much contact with him except for rehearsals.”

“You never spent any time with him outside the theater?” I asked, knowing that I was pushing again. “To study your lines, I mean.”

Brent cleared his throat. “Well, yeah,” he said. “Rod suggested it and we tried it a few times the first week, but then he decided it worked better with the whole cast around.”

Well, now, there was enough space between those lines to read
War and Peace
.

“How about you, Cam?” I asked. “How did you get along with him?”

Cam took a sip of his drink, then said, “Same as Brent. I didn't have all that much to do with him either, really. I was just his understudy. Like everyone else in the cast, I had a couple of my own parts to learn, and when I wasn't learning them, I was studying Rod's.” He paused for only a second before saying,“I never saw him outside the theater.”

He said it without so much as twitching an eyebrow. So why didn't I believe him? Maybe he just didn't want Brent to know.

Chris, sensing I might be heading off on another “interrogation,” said, “How about another round?”

Max signaled the waitress, and we all picked up our menus.

*

Dinner was every bit as relaxed and enjoyable as the rest of the day had been. The food was very good, and the conversation was easy and covered a lot of subjects, with one notable exclusion—Rod Pearce. I'd decided after my little exchange with Cam and Brent not to press the issue since it was fairly obvious that neither wanted the other to know exactly what might have gone on with Rod, and I could respect that. Though it wasn't hard to figure out.

But while I found the fact that Keith not only knew Cam but had recommended that he try out interesting, I didn't pick up any vibes at all that either Brent or Cam might have been involved in Rod's murder. They seemed like the kind of guys who knew their way around the gay world well enough to know guys like Rod aren't all that uncommon. So while either or each of them might naturally be a little jealous over Rod's having seduced the other, I couldn't imagine that either of them would kill over it. Besides, I'd gathered from the conversation that they hadn't really started to get involved with one another until Cam took over Rod's part. If Jonathan had decided to bump off every guy I'd slept with before I met him, he'd be a very busy boy, and there'd be a hell of a lot fewer gay guys in the world.

Well, at least it was another couple of potential suspects more or less ruled out.

Which left, basically, Gene Morrison and Joe Kenyon, and I had all but ruled out Joe Kenyon because…uh, well, just because I didn't think he did it.

Good thinking, Sherlock!

*

Monday morning. Five full days before we had to leave for home. Not much time to try to solve a murder, but it's all the time I had. So the first order of business was talking with Morrison again.

Jonathan, who had as usual been the first one up and had already showered by the time I got out of bed, had volunteered to not only go to the grocery store to pick up some things for breakfast, but to make it, an offer Chris was happy to accept.

While he was gone, Chris and Max took turns showering and I went to the bedroom to get my wallet and find Gene's phone number. It was still pretty early, but I remembered him saying he was an early riser, so I took a chance and called.

It rang twice, and then, “Gene Morrison.”

“Gene, it's Dick Hardesty. Sorry to bother you, but I really need to talk with you—today, if possible.”

There was only a slight pause. “Of course,” he said. “Is anything wrong?”

Other than Rod Pearce being murdered and you being my number one suspect?

“No,” I lied. “It's just that my mind has been working overtime the past few days and I have several questions you might be able to help me with.”

“I'd be happy to,” he said. “I've just started packing up some of Rod's things to send to his parents, so I should be home all day. Stop by whenever you wish.”

“Thank you. I'll call first, of course.”

“Very well. I look forward to seeing you again. Until later, then.”

Max and Chris emerged from their bedroom just as I hung up, and shortly thereafter Jonathan, who had not taken the key with him this time, rang the bell. When I opened the door for him, I could see he probably would have had a devil of a time trying to manage the key even if he had it. His arms were filled with two large and very full grocery bags, plus he had a good-sized bag from the bakery in one hand.

“Invite the Sixth Fleet?” I said as Chris took one of the bags from him.

Jonathan grinned. “Nah…I just got stuff for breakfast and a couple of things I thought looked interesting.”

“Like?” I asked.

“Well, I got a jar of garlic-stuffed olives and, for you and Max, a jar of anchovy-stuffed olives and a couple other things.”

I didn't ask.

*

During breakfast (scrambled eggs with diced ham, onions, green pepper, and cheese, plus orange juice, coffee, rolls and—at Max's and my insistence—about half the jar of anchovy-stuffed olives on the side) I told them I'd called Gene Morrison and needed to go talk to him at some time during the day.

“Sorry to screw up another day,” I said, “but I've really got to get moving on this if I have any hope at all of even coming close to resolving who is most likely responsible for Rod's death.”

“No problem,” Max said. “I've got to find my gun and get it over to the Whitman for the switch, so it should work out fine. Was there anything special you wanted to do today when we all get back together?”

Jonathan and I looked at one another. “What haven't we seen yet that you really want to see?” I asked.

Jonathan thought for all of two or three seconds before saying: “Rockefeller Center? Radio City Music Hall? The Chrysler Building? The U.N.? Harlem? Brooklyn? The Brooklyn Bridge? The Staten Island Ferry? The…” he broke off, grinning. “More?” he asked.

“Uh, that should do it for this morning,” I said. “But we'll have to figure out something to do
after
lunch.”

“Well, we can play it by ear again,” Chris said. “That be okay?”

“That'll be fine,” Jonathan said.

“So when did you plan to see Gene?” Max asked.

I shrugged. “I wanted to check with you guys first, but I would like to do it as soon as possible. I told him I'd call him back. Again, it shouldn't take too long.”

*

I'd taken a quick shower and gotten dressed while Chris unpacked the groceries and Jonathan started breakfast, so as soon as we'd finished eating I called Morrison and asked if it would be convenient for me to come over shortly. He said “of course,” so I called a cab.

“Can I go with you?” Jonathan asked. “I mean, I wouldn't have to go to his apartment with you, but I could wait outside.”

I knew my being alone with a possible killer concerned him. It was typically sweet of him, but I assured him that everything would be fine. Telling the guys I'd be back as soon as I could, I went downstairs to wait for the cab. It arrived within minutes, and as I opened the door I glanced up at the apartment to see Jonathan standing in the window. We exchanged a wave, and I got in.

On the way to Gene's apartment, I did some serious thinking on how to handle my questions. The minute I asked him about changing flights and arriving in New York the night before he was supposed to, he'd know I had been checking up on him. And if by some chance he
did
kill Rod, letting him know he was a suspect might…might what? Well, there were quite a few options there, ranging from fleeing the country through trying to kill me, to killing himself (I do tend to lean toward the melodramatic). None of them seemed really very viable. But he
might
try to get rid of the gun, which, again, was the only physical link to the crime. I hoped Max would have made the switch by the time I left Morrison's.