Final Act by Dianne Yetman (best free ebook reader .TXT) 📕

by His Majesty, no sir, not one.  Eleanor didn’t take any of his shit.  She gave it back.  I heard plenty of screaming matches between them off stage.”

“You know what they were about?”

“No, I couldn’t make out the words, heard the loud voices, that’s all.  But I could take a good stab at the reason behind all the noise.”

“And what would that be?”

“He and Ellie go way back, to the New York days.  They were close, very close.  But something happened a while back.  I’m not one for rumours but I did hear they had a thing going at one time.   Certainly nothing on the go between them recently.”

“I see.  Did you notice any other changes?”

“Yes.  He became crueller when he critiqued, didn’t take the dignity of the person into consideration.  I guess the problem I had with him on this production, what I took exception to, was the fact he thought my performance as Big Mama was lacking in southern authenticity.  I couldn’t believe my ears.  Why I’ve vacationed in the southern states for the last ten years – not authentic my ass.  I told him just what I thought – I lost my temper, maybe went a bit too far with the male menopause bit, but I never did roll over easily.”

No kidding. He asked a few more questions then shut it down. The whiskey fumes were getting to him.

“Thank you for your cooperation Charlotte.  You’ve been most helpful.”

He came around the desk, took her arm and escorted her to the door.

“You know Sergeant; I admire your interview skills.  Why you managed to soothe my fears. And if you don’t mind my saying so, you’re very easy on the eyes as well.”

Smiling, he watched her leave; her flag of anxiety flying much lower.

***

Kate looked around Henry Ward’s office.

The furniture, she thought, had to be bought at yard sales.  Where else could you find those scratched, glass coffee tables, yellow cardboard coasters, the red plaid chair with buttons hanging by a thread, the old white Formica table, mahogany lamps shades covered in yellowed, torn plastic, and the eyelet curtains.  A tasteless jumble that belied the immaculately dressed man.

She sat behind the pressed wood desk that wobbled with the weight of her briefcase.  She ejected the tape of her earlier interview with Ed Smith, the theatre’s janitor, labelled it and put it in the envelope.

Snapping the case shut, she looked up at PC Shirley Proctor standing in the doorway.

“Ready, Kate”, she asked.

“Yes, send her in.”

Kate stood, shook hands and motioned Eleanor Foster-Sutton to the turquoise plastic chair facing the desk.  The set designer sat gingerly on its edge.

“I’m curious, Ms. Sutton, is everyone responsible for providing their own office furniture?”

Eleanor nodded and looked around the office.

“Charming isn’t it?  The room was used as storage for unwanted furniture and props.  Henry doesn’t give a damn about his surroundings, never did, especially if changing it would cost him money, so other than re-arranging its disgusting contents, he left it as it was.”

“I see.”

Kate seated herself, her knees grazing the bottom of the desk.  Although it would never hang in her own closet, Kate admired the designer’s clothing; the classic navy blue skirt that fell to the top of her knees, the long sleeve button down white shirt, the navy white capped shoes, the tasteful silver hoop earrings, silver chain link watch, thin white gold wedding band, and the small, leaf shaped silver broach pinned to the collar of her shirt.

Wow, an authentic 1950 fashion statement.  55 going on 70.  Tiny wrinkles nestled around the eyes and mouth.  A hint of loosening skin around the jaw line.   Sandy brown hair expensively cut.  A manicured, carefully crafted, cool package.

Kate began.  It didn’t take long to gather the vitals:  25 years as a set designer, born and raised in Canada, attended an all girls private school, attained a Fine Arts Degree from Acadia University, went on to study theatre design, left Canada for New York city in her late twenties where she made her mark.  Her set designs caught the attention of Jeffrey Stone, a fast rising talent.  He wooed her to the new production he was directing and she won a Tony for her set design.  That cemented their working relationship.  She met Donald Sutton and fell hard.  Jeffrey did everything in his power to persuade her to stay but she left New York, returned to Canada, and married Donald.  They had one child, a daughter.

“When did you resume working with Jeffrey Stone?”

“Three years ago.”

“Did you have a good working relationship in New York?”

“It wasn’t always a comfortable relationship.  It never is when you work with highly talented people but genius covers a lot of sins.”

“How would you define his sins?”

“Like all great artists, he was moody, temperamental, would throw his weight around when frustrated.  He didn’t have a lot of tolerance for the less gifted.  He never gave me a hard time though.  He knew better.”

“Did you notice a difference in your working relationship from the New York days?”

“Yes.”

This one’s going to be a tooth puller.

“In what way?”

Eleanor smoothed her wrinkle free skirt.

“I think fame and adulation changed him.  He added histrionics to his repertoire.  There were more temper tantrums, shouting, ranting, and putting people down.”

“Were you a target?”

“Once, but I set him straight.”

She looked down at her nails.

“Do you know of anyone in the company who may have held a grudge against him?”

“I’m sure there are some but I don’t know who they are.  There were flare ups of course, but I wasn’t aware of anyone who harboured resentment.  But I keep to myself, don’t get involved in the theatrics.”

“Did his behaviour change happen gradually or was it obvious from the beginning of this production?”

She lifted her eyes from her cuticles.

“I would say it deteriorated rapidly over the last few weeks.”  A miniscule smile appeared.  “I asked him if there was something wrong, if everything was okay with Catherine, his wife, and the family.  He