The Last Line

ACT 1

The sudden hand of Death close up mine eye!

Chapter One

On the last day of his life, Reginald Thornton IV was forty-five minutes late to call. When he finally decided to appear, he swung open the door to the Kaleidoscope Theater and strode into the lobby in the manner of a conquering emperor. He stood for a moment, seemingly waiting for those in the lobby to bask in his magnificence. When fanfare did not materialize, he resumed his course, entering the lobby filled with the murmurs of a crowd anticipating a show and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee drifting from the concessions area.

A corpulent man with a ruddy complexion, Reginald’s commanding presence drew immediate attention the moment he entered a room. People could not take their eyes from him, a charisma he had parlayed into a reasonably successful career as a local actor. However, he had been known to bite the head off anyone who dared refer to him as an actor. He was, should anyone ask, a finely trained and highly sought-after thespian. Peerless and without equal, as he believed himself to be, he wore his disdain for those around him like a black velvet cape at a formal ball.

You’re late, Reg, said Ellie Marlowe as he breezed past, refusing to even offer her a glance of recognition. She used a nickname he hated purposefully, to show her displeasure. Call was half an hour ago. She kept her voice low and her smile plastered on to avoid a scene in the lobby, which was steadily filling with patrons.

Reginald ignored her and continued his meticulous stride, peacocking for the patrons waiting for the theater doors to officially open. Most were older women dragging their husbands out for a bit of culture—what Ellie and the other board members of the theater referred to as the blue-hairs, the bread and butter of the theater, the demographic that kept them afloat.

Curtain is in thirty-five minutes. The house opens in five, Ellie said. He didn’t acknowledge that Ellie had spoken, didn’t turn his head in her direction as he passed her. She added, I almost asked Dana to put Steve in your costume.

Reginald halted mid-stride. He turned toward her, cold gray eyes cutting a laser-hot line across the lobby to where she stood. Ellie held his look—not an easy task considering his intimidating glare contained a ferocity she had rarely experienced.

You. Wouldn’t. Dare. He spoke slowly. Something in his voice sounded strange to Ellie, slightly off. He swayed, and Ellie wondered if he was drunk. But he couldn’t be. Reginald Thornton IV would never put his stage reputation on the line for a few drinks.

Steve knows all the lines, she said. He would be the perfect understudy.

I will end this theater, he rasped at her. I have more than enough clout in this area to ensure that you never put on another show. Ever.

Ellie tried to match the death-stare he gave her, but the tension grew to be too much for her. Her head bobbed suddenly, several times in quick succession, a staccato motion followed by a few grunts, a few sniffs, and a round of exaggerated eye blinks.

Her movements invariably drew odd looks and sometimes direct, if not indelicate questions from people: Was she okay? Was something wrong? Was she having a seizure?

I have Tourette syndrome, she would answer, almost always followed by, This is standard for me. I’ve dealt with it for most of my thirty-two years on the planet.

Normally her Tourette syndrome was simply something she lived with; she accepted who she was and tried not to worry about the things she couldn’t control. But in this battle of wills, it mattered very much to her.

Nod-grunt-blink.

Reginald smirked as if he’d won some unspoken contest. And maybe he had, Ellie thought ruefully.

We can talk afterward, Ellie said, trying to reestablish her authority. It’s opening night. Let’s give them one they’ll remember.

He cut her with his eyes a few seconds more, then turned sharply and strode away. Ellie watched him go. Tonight was the first performance of the theater’s production of Murder in a Teacup. Publicly she’d made the usual noises about how enjoyable the experience of producing the show had been, but she would be relieved to see it wrap up. It had in fact been a miserable experience, and the reason was walking away from her as she spoke.

Reginald started through the side door that led backstage, pausing long enough to say, It is always a show to remember when I’m involved, you twitchy bitch. Then he was gone.

Ellie’s face flushed, her mouth a thin, bloodless line. She heard her costume mistress, Dana Nugent, mutter from behind the ticket counter, Miserable prick. Ellie let go of the stranglehold on her tics, and they owned her for a few painful seconds.

She sighed, and once again questioned the casting decisions of the director, Merilyn Chambers. Ellie wished she had stepped in as the owner of the Kaleidoscope Theater and vetoed Merilyn’s choice of Reginald for the star of this show. But theater owners who second-guess their directors develop bad reputations.

She took a deep breath, held it, and then she felt calmer. She picked up her phone and fired a quick group text to the rest of the cast and crew:

He’s here.

Chapter Two

Jerry Moynihan got the text too late to avoid his nemesis. He knotted his bow tie for the fifth time, staring at it, tugging the sides, then pulling the knot loose and starting over. He tried to get the top of each end level with the other and, failing to do so with small tugs, finally gave up and pulled the damn thing apart to start yet again.

He ran through his lines in his head, his mouth moving, silently rehearsing the words. This show was taxing, and each night his routine never strayed, including disconnecting from every little ping and distraction. He placed his phone in Airplane Mode, as they always did before shows, and focused on getting into character. Every fragment of his concentration currently focused on the bow tie.

He caught his reflection in the mirror and frowned. He didn’t have leading-man looks. His face was too long, his mouth was too wide, and his ears were too small for his head. Laugh lines pulled at the sides of his mouth, and his hair showed the beginnings of salt-and-pepper coloring. What did you expect for forty-four? But his eyes were still young—a deep blue, almost a royal blue, and bright. Easily his best feature. The new frown line between his bushy eyebrows, which drew attention away from his best feature, made him irrationally angry.

He yanked the tie out again, looking at his feet and shaking his head.

Deep breath. You can do this, he thought.

It had been a trying production. He’d started doing theater almost by accident fourteen years ago, when his then-girlfriend had dared him to audition for Twelve Angry Jurors. Surprising them both, he landed a part, and had been hooked ever since. Some roles had been better than others. Some productions were rocky, and some ran smoothly. But none had ever been like this one. Shit Show in a Teacup, as he had come to think of it. An infection in the production—an infection known as Reginald Thornton IV—had spread misery among the cast and crew. An infection nothing could alleviate.

Well, almost nothing.

When he looked up again, the mirror reflected a florid-faced man showing a repugnant smile. Jerry jumped and gave a little cry, inwardly cursing how he sounded. He tended to be jumpy by nature, and this asshole Reginald loved it. Jerry turned away from the mirror to face the pestilence.

Very masculine, Jerry, Reginald said, his voice rich and warm as he spoke in the slow deliberate manner of a veteran stage performer.

I’d appreciate you not sneaking up on me when I’m warming up.

Do you always warm up by speaking to your feet? Or by tying a bow tie fifteen times in a row? Reginald’s speech was slower than usual, without his usual snap. Jerry looked in his eyes and saw the pupils were wide, much wider than he would have expected for a room full of light.

I don’t need costume advice from you, thank you very much, Jerry snapped.

Perhaps you should let Kyra do it for you. I hear she likes tying things up.

Jerry’s cheeks, already rouged with stage makeup, flushed. Reginald smiled in self-satisfaction, and waited. Jerry opened his mouth to respond but he couldn’t find any words. His mouth worked, but no sound came out.

Witty reply, Reginald said. You’re very masculine and very witty. The boys must eat you up. He winked at Jerry, blew him a kiss, and walked away.

Jerry stared at the older man’s back, his hands shaking, his jaw clenched so hard his teeth hurt. Someday, he thought. Someday that asshole will be dead, and I’ll dance on his grave.

Kyra Bennett caught the text out of the corner of her eye. She had set up her makeup on a little table in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirrors in the rehearsal space in the theater’s basement. The space was marked by linoleum tile, laid to provide a surface on which to dance. There were several rooms off the dance space, some housing the costumes amassed over the theater’s thirty-year history, some holding unorganized jumbles of small props. Kyra stood in front of the mirrors fussing with her hairpiece, fixing it in place with bobby pins.

At Reginald’s insistence, and much to the annoyance of Dana, one of the costume closets had been temporarily transformed into a dressing room for him. The rest of the more reasonable cast each found a spot in the basement to call their own for the run of the play.

Kyra’s setup was next to the remaining costume closet so she could use the mirrors. She tried to be ready and gone from the space before Reginald showed up, given his tendency to be late to call. But she had struggled with her period costume, and tonight her hair would simply not behave itself. Her phone dinged, she peeked at it, and without a second glance she threw all of her makeup back into its case with a sweep of her arm across the table. She slammed the lid shut and stood too quickly, knocking over her chair.

What on earth—? Merilyn Chambers, the play’s director, started in her seat at the sound of the crash.

You get the text?

Merilyn shook her head and fished her phone out of her pocket. She read the text and sighed. Kyra grabbed the rest of her costume in one hand, her hairpiece in the other, and her makeup case under her arm. Sorry, but I gotta find somewhere else to finish up. I can’t be around that guy anymore.

I understand, Merilyn said. She got to her feet, slowly—and to Kyra’s eyes, painfully. Anyone could see that Merilyn was sick, and it hurt Kyra’s heart to see her diminish day by day. She had wondered sometimes whether Merilyn would live through the end of the show’s run, but the old director’s toughness and determination was winning out over her cancer. At least for now.

Merilyn slowly reached down to right Kyra’s chair. Go. Find a safe place to finish up. I’ll deflect him down here as much as I can.

Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou, Kyra said, all in a rush. She vanished down the hallway and started up the stairs at stage right. Reginald usually came down to his dressing room via the other set of stairs on stage left. She turned, and turned again, and reached the top of the stairs.

Only to find herself face to face with Reginald.

Kyra had gambled and lost. For some reason, Reginald had changed his routine. She tried to control her face. Eyes wide, breathing hard, she tried to tamp down her revulsion.

Oh, just you, he said dismissively. Something thundered up the stairs, and I thought it might be an elephant.

Her lip curled slightly, and she said through clenched teeth, Nope, just me.

Well, he said, eyeing her up and down deliberately, letting her know he was assessing her. You can certainly understand my confusion.

Kyra wasn’t fat. She knew that. She worked out four times a week, splitting her workouts between a boxing club and a barre studio. She ran three times a week. At twenty-seven, she was in the best physical shape of her life. Her goal was to be a professional actress, and she knew she would stand no chance in Hollywood, or anywhere, if her body did not conform to a specific type. Standing five-six, she clocked in at 116 pounds. She could fit into anything she wanted, and all of her best girlfriends would die to be in her shape.

Yet something in the way Reginald looked at her, something in the tone of his voice, made her feel like the heaviest, least attractive woman in the world. The man thrived on being mean-spirited and vindictive. He held grudges. Everything he said was designed to cut. Just a little. A little cut here and a little one there. Death by a thousand pinpricks. Comparing her to an elephant was just another small cut. But its cruelty made her catch her breath.

Reginald spied the costume and a makeup case in her arm, the hairpiece dangling from her fingers, and said, Looking for a place to get ready? You could join Jerry on the other side of the stage. He seems to be having trouble with his costume.

I’m sure he’s got his costume under control.

Reginald shrugged. I think his bow tie would tell a different story. I told him to come find you. I figured you had experience tying things up.

Her mouth dropped open at the innuendo. Reginald added, Nice pose. I imagine that’s something Jerry would appreciate. You should definitely offer that. Though watch out you don’t bruise your knees.

Her mouth snapped shut.

Reginald brushed past her and started down the stairs. As he descended, he said, Assuming, of course, Jerry is straight. I think the jury is still out on that account.

Then he was gone, leaving Kyra dazed, unable to move. The blood had drained from her face, and now her cheeks prickled as the blood rushed back in. Tears stung behind her eyes as she repeated to herself, under her breath, Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry. She didn’t want to have to start her makeup over again.

Injury turned to rage, and her lips curled back to a snarl. She turned to watch Reginald descend the stairs.

Why don’t you kill yourself, she thought at his back.

Merilyn watched Reginald reach the bottom of the stairs, wheezing and trying to hide it. He was a large man, and seemed to be having trouble catching his breath today. Standing at the bottom of the stairs, leaning against the wall, he huffed and puffed before spotting Merilyn sitting in a chair, watching him. He took a deep breath, stood, and snorted as she looked at him with tired eyes.

The number of useless individuals in my life tonight expands, he said.

Merilyn, lacking enough energy for a full-fledged fight, merely smiled at him. She sat in an old, high-backed chair, a leftover prop from a previous show. She leaned heavily on an upholstered arm, legs crossed, and shook her head. Her body was thin, her skin fragile like parchment, with a sickly yellowish hue as if she was jaundiced. Her eyes were sunken, her face pale much of the time. She offset her sickly coloring with a bright floral scarf tied around her bald head.

Good evening, Reginald.

It will be when this train wreck of a show is over tonight.

And here you are after demanding the lead.

I expected you to bring vision to the show. That is what a director is supposed to do, wouldn’t you agree? You should try it sometime.

She sighed. Amazing you don’t have more friends, Reginald.

I have plenty of friends, you old bag.

I know everyone you know. None of them like you.

He waved her off and headed across the linoleum floor toward his dressing room. Her eyes tracked him without turning her head, which took almost too much energy to move.

This is the last time you ever work with me, she said. But I suspect this won’t be a surprise to you.

He looked back at Merilyn, the first time he truly had seen her in weeks. Saw how far gone she was. No doubt she was down to mere days. A brief pang tugged in his chest, as if some invisible hand of his past fumbled for his heartstrings, feeling its way like a sightless reader along a book of Braille. Part of him, deeply hidden, remembered a younger time, a happier and healthier time. With her. He thought about the past and, for the first time since starting this show, was almost overwhelmed with regret.

Almost.

He recovered, then answered, Judging by the way you look, Merilyn, I expect this is the last time you work at all.

In a previous lifetime, she might have been insulted, but she had come to expect the worst from him and didn’t bat an eyelash. The benefit of a terminal sentence, she realized, was that she stopped caring about what someone said about her.

And the last time you work in this theater, she said.

As if this theater is worth working in.

And, she said, continuing as if he had not spoken, possibly the last time you work in the theater at all.

He halted as he crossed the room and turned a hard gaze on her. Eyes half-lidded, breathing hard, he said, What are you jabbering about?

Merilyn had seen that look before. Reginald was at his most dangerous when backed into a corner. He had been known to purposefully ruin careers over the tiniest of perceived slights, back when his influence reached farther than it did now. His opinion still carried weight, depending on the ear. But she didn’t care. She thought about the peace and tranquility awaiting her on the other side of the curtain. Soon, she would be dead, and beyond Reginald’s reach. Ruining him the way he ruined others would not be a moral thing to do before she died, she thought. It would be mean-spirited, and the repercussions might be more wide-ranging than she anticipated.

She should probably go to confession before she died. For several things.

Reginald, you’ve been a jackass most of the years we’ve known each other. And you’ve only grown worse. The way you’ve treated this cast, this theater, everyone who volunteers here. For you to treat them like garbage has simply been too much. So the word is out. I’ve been doing this for a long time. I know lots of people. I’m making sure no one casts you in anything ever again. Not in this county, maybe not even in this state. If you want to keep performing, you’ll have to pick up and move.

She used all her breath to finish talking.

Reginald stared at her, nose flaring. No one talked to him like that, not since he was a young actor struggling to make a name for himself in New York. He hadn’t tolerated it then, and he certainly didn’t plan to do so now. He took a step toward Merilyn, his hands clenching into fists. Merilyn didn’t move, unafraid, watching with sad and tired eyes.

He regained control, lifted his chin, and turned his back to her. He stalked across the floor to the costume closet and, just before closing the door, said, Like anyone would believe the word of an old whore like you.

The door slammed.

She smiled.

Chapter Three

We have a gift basket we’re raffling off, full of all kinds of wonderful things like gift certificates to Starbucks and Regal Cinemas, as well as gift certificates to Kaleidoscope Theater, Arthur’s Restaurant, and Ned’s Diner, plus some DVDs of our favorite murder mysteries …

Ellie stood on the stage, lights shining down as she gave the curtain speech, a brief soliloquy where she tried to cover as much about the theater to the seated crowd as possible. Information about the raffles, upcoming shows, and concessions in the lobby, as well as encouragement to patronize the advertisers in the program, and other such things. She gave the speech before every performance and had it down to a science. Cover specific things, don’t go into too much detail, announce shows, suggest they sign up for the mailing list, don’t forget to follow us on social media. Start to finish, she could deliver it in under two minutes, which meant holding her tics back for two full minutes. No problem. Once done and back in the lobby, she would let go with a bevy of noises and twitches.

Steve Walker, the stage manager, stood in the wing off stage left. In his forties, edging toward fifty, he exhibited the good looks of an actor, and what Dana once described as the hair of a god—thick, blond, lustrous. Dana practically drooled over Steve every time he entered the room. Ellie once whispered to her, Pace yourself, Dana. You’ll give yourself a heart attack.

Can’t help it, Ellie. He comes into the room and I go weak at the knees.

He’s too young for you.

You’re only as old as you feel.

Ellie, still smiling, had shaken her head and left Dana to her fantasies.

Now Steve waited for Ellie to finish. When she did, she stepped off the middle of the stage into the audience, down the aisle that split the audience in two. As with many community theaters, Kaleidoscope was a black box, primarily a room painted floor-to-ceiling in black paint to absorb the light, the stage just a few feet off the floor. The Kaleidoscope building had once been a small roadside mission church. Thirty years earlier, the congregation had outgrown it, and the church built a newer, larger building across town. The old building was sold and converted to a theater, with a stage built over the small raised dais where the altar once jutted. It traded hands twice more before Ellie bought it five years ago, walking away from her corporate job to fulfill a lifelong dream of owning a theater.

Ellie walked up the aisle to the double doors in the back. Halfway there, Steve pushed a button on his headphones and said, Kill the lights. At the other end of the headphones in the light booth sat Tony Roper, a teenager who ran the lights and soundboard for the show. Tony had glommed onto Kaleidoscope as a high school freshman, and immediately declared he had found his tribe and was never going to leave. He hit a button and the theater went dark for a few seconds. Steve waited, watching under a black light bulb in the wings as the cast took their places. When the movement stopped, he pushed the button again, and said, Okay, bring them up.

The curtain rose, the stage lit up, and the show began

Chapter Four

Alex Hillman had bought a ticket and slipped into the theater with the rest of the crowd. No one there knew who he was, which was how he liked it. He wasn’t eager to draw attention to himself, being there for a