Method for Murder

Method for Murder

“You know, I really never could stand the woman,” she said, fumbling to pull a cigarette out of the pack I’d brought her and lighting up. “It’s been that way since college. Me versus Ivy Mason, as she was known then. She only became ‘Kara Alexander’ after graduation.” She waved her arm in grandiose fashion. Then she shook her head. “She and I were always up for the same parts in the school’s theater productions, and she nearly always got the lead.” She took a drag and exhaled smoke, creating a cloud between us.

I coughed, but she didn’t seem to notice. I was just there to tell the client what to expect during arraignment—a quick in-and-out—but she clearly wanted to make her moments out of the cell last as long as possible.

“I’m sure she was sleeping with the director. even back then,” she said, locking her eyes on mine. I looked away first, as she continued. “But she always pretended this…” She shook her head, waving her cigarette in a circle, searching for the right word. “This doe-eyed innocence and mock surprise when the casting lists were posted.” She flung her hand, spraying ashes into the air. “Ridiculous. No one bought it. We all knew the fix was in. That I was the more talented of the two.” A bit of an accent had crept into her speech and I wondered if she was channeling a character she’d once played.

“Well, nonetheless—” I began, but she cut me off.

“I was always prettier, too. Okay—not beautiful, but better looking than she was even then. I should have had the starring roles.” She shivered. “I mean, with that horse-face of hers. No wonder she did all her work on Broadway.”

I must have looked confused because she clarified.

“No close ups.”

I couldn’t stop my eye-roll in time, but fortunately she wasn’t looking at me. I leaned back in the hard chair. It was nice to get away from the stress of the office for a change, even if the change of scenery was a consultation room at the local jail. I thought I might as well let her talk.

She gazed off into the distance and continued her monologue. “I always should have been the star, but I ended up playing her mother or her best friend. That was no way to showcase my talent.”

I shifted my position and pretended to take notes. Who knew? Maybe some of this would be interesting to my boss.

As an associate at my law firm, I would normally never have a chance to talk to a high-profile client, but my supervising partner, “Iron Lady,” had even bigger fish to fry that day, and Glinda, her other senior associate, was tied up in court. So here I was, across the table from a delusional, washed-up, second-banana actress.

“So anyway,” I began, “Judge James is on arraignments tomorrow, and…” I could see she wasn’t listening. When your client is a “creative,” you can’t always be sure you’re getting through to them, but I was supposed to try.

“It’s not my fault, you know,” she said as if I hadn’t spoken. “I just finally had enough.” It sounded like she was quoting from a play. “Enough of getting the scraps from her table. Enough of playing second fiddle. I knew this play was my ticket. Two leading female roles. Finally, it would be clear to everyone that she and I were at least equals, right?”

She expected me to fuel her delusion, but that wasn’t my job. “I’m afraid I don’t know much about the play.”

“Then how can you possibly defend me?” She squinted at me, appraising me. I could tell I didn’t come out well.

I didn’t dodge her stare this time, nor did I think I needed to go into the office politics that put me in this seat today instead of the high-priced counsel she expected. Actors are so self-centered. They think the whole world pays attention only to them. Who had time for Broadway shows when trying to make partner, anyway?

Still, helping to get a famous actress off a murder charge should help my chances for advancement—but Glinda and I were both up this year, and the firm had said they’d only elevate one of us. I closed my eyes. I knew I was the better lawyer, but Glinda was better at office politics. Still, I had more billable hours, and a law firm runs on its billables. Maybe spending a little more time listening to a well-heeled client couldn’t hurt.

“Why don’t you tell me about the play. I’d like to learn about it from your point of view,” I said in my practiced “I’m in control here, not you” voice.

“Well then,” she began, leaning forward. “The director contacted my agent about it. Said they really wanted me to star in this new play, Jackie and Jill, by that wonderful young playwright, Sarah Townsend. You know her?”

I looked up from my legal pad and shook my head. I got another disdainful look that said, “plebeian.”

“Well, she’s wonderful. Writes women particularly well. Great, meaty roles that get to the heart of a woman’s passions. Obviously, I was very interested.”

“Of course,” I said, trying to be encouraging, but I got another look from her that told me I had best not interrupt again. “Go on,” I urged.

She flicked a cigarette ash across the gray, metal table that separated us and looked out the barred window.

“Anyway, they had me read both parts, Jackie and Jill. They were fairly equal in importance, so I didn’t much care which one I played.” She looked at me through narrowed eyes. “I really didn’t care.”

By then, I knew better than to respond, so I simply nodded.

“Then they brought us both in to see us together.” She paused, apparently to let me know that this was when the trouble started. “As I said, I didn’t care which part I played, but Ivy had set her heart on the Jill role.” An arched eyebrow said this was all part of an evil plot.

“But if you didn’t care…”

“Well, I didn’t want her to get first choice and leave me with her leftovers again, so I said I preferred to play Jackie.” She stubbed out her cigarette and folded her hands, staring at them. “Top billing,” she said, sotto voce. “That means I’m the star.”

“So, you read both parts together?” I asked, trying to draw her back to her narrative.

“Yes. It went perfectly well no matter which part either of us played. You see, Jackie and Jill are supposed to be best friends, but they secretly hate each other. It’s a very complex play.”

“I see,” I said, hoping I hadn’t said too much.

“Yes, so our natural antagonism toward each other really worked in those scenes. I could say things to her that I had wanted to say for years, but of course could not. I wouldn’t want to appear petty. It wouldn’t look good, and I wouldn’t do anything to damage my career.”

I took in the stale room, the bars, the gray furniture, the locked door with a reinforced window and wondered how much good this would do for her career.

“Anyway,” she continued, “I got the part of Jackie, and she got Jill. We pretended to be happy to be working together, but I knew it bothered her as much as it did me.” She pulled out another cigarette but didn’t light it. “But before all the world, it would finally be clear that I was the better actress.”

She opened her arms as if embracing the globe—or perhaps “her public.” Wasn’t that what actors called it?

“Together we made great box office. Tickets were snapped up as soon as they were made available.” She tapped the end of the unlit cigarette on the tabletop. “In fact, if you want to know the truth, Jackie really was the better part. It demanded that I plumb the depths of human angst in a way that the Jill part just didn’t allow.”

“Good for you then,” I said. She looked at me quizzically, so I added, “That they trusted you with the tougher role.”

“Yes, you’re right,” she said. “It was a tougher role. All through rehearsal, the director kept giving me lots of notes. Of course, the great Ivy hardly got anything but praise. But her role was easier. Anyone could have played Jill.”

“So, what turned things nasty?”

She lit the cigarette and took a drag. Smoke puffed out as she spoke, “Well, clearly the actor playing Jackie should have gotten top billing, but when the marquee went up, her name was first.”

“Well her name comes first alphabetically—”

“That’s not the point!”

I tried to keep my look steady and again pretended to take notes.

“So, in the play, Jackie stabs Jill, you know?”

I couldn’t help arching my brow, but I looked down so she might not notice.

“It actually helped to unleash some of those feelings that one tries to suppress. And I was magnificent.” She took another drag and let out a long stream of smoke. “You see, I’m a method actor.”

I looked up, afraid to ask for an explanation of what that meant. She must have understood my expression as confusion.

“Stanislavski? Strasberg? Meisner? Adler? Haven’t you ever heard of The Method?”

I shrugged. I’d heard the term, but if pressed, I couldn’t define it.

“It’s about experiencing your character’s life by re-experiencing things from your past, immersing yourself in your emotional memory. Some of the best actors use it: Olivier, Brando, De Niro, Pacino, Day-Lewis, Jack Freakin’ Nicholson?”

I nodded to indicate I got it. I sort of did. I had heard about actors starving themselves, breaking their bones, or pulling their own teeth without anesthesia so they could appreciate what their characters were going through. Some, I’d heard, stayed in character the whole time they were filming, refusing to talk to their coworkers except as their character while involved in a project.

“Those are mostly movie actors,” I ventured. I couldn’t imagine an actor staying in character for months on end in a successful Broadway show.

“Good acting is good acting, whether on stage or screen,” she said. A self-satisfied smile curled her lips.

“You mean your character plotted to kill Jill, so you started to plot to kill the actress who played her?”

She looked at me as if I were insane. “Of course not. That would be crazy. Without her, the show might close, and I would be out of a job.” She shook her head as if she doubted my intelligence. “I won’t do anything to hurt my career, remember?”

“Sorry,” I said. “Go on.”

“Well, the set was being built in the theater, so we had to rehearse in a different space. All perfectly normal.” She stubbed out her cigarette, then reached for another. “Rehearsals went well. The playwright tweaked the story, gave us new lines, cut others. The director played with the blocking. We were getting some really good stuff to work with. It was, you know, therapeutic I think, to finally get out some of those long-held emotions. I could tell her what I thought of her without anyone knowing it was the real me talking to the real her. I was having a pretty good time of it, actually.”

“So, what changed?”

She shifted in her chair, turning away from me to look toward the window. I waited.

“It came time for tech rehearsals—you know—when the set is ready, and we move into the theater to work on all the sound and lighting cues. Tech is a long, laborious process. You say a line and wait while the crew figures out how to light you and checks your mic balance.”

“Sounds like a drag,” I said, more to have something to say than because I cared. I didn’t. This little break from the office was getting old. I wished for a more comfortable chair, better smelling air, a fresh cup of coffee, and gentle music in the background. Here, the chairs were straight and hard, the air reeked of smoke and sweat, and the background music was muted voices, shuffling feet, and the occasional clanging of cell doors.

“These are the longest rehearsal days. Tiring—no, exhausting. The only bright side is that we get to go to our dressing rooms when there’s a break.”

I put my pen down. I was ready to leave.

“But what should happen when we went for our first break?” she asked rhetorically.

Okay—she had my interest. “What?”

“I found out that Ivy’s dresser had moved her into the largest dressing room.”

I knew the client well enough by now to realize this must be a big deal. “What do you mean her ‘dresser’?” I asked. Wasn’t that a piece of furniture?

She gave me another impatient look. “In a play, we need to make quick costume changes, and our dressers help us do it. I always get one assigned to me for each play—not that they’re ever any good. I’ve had to fire so many of them, I can’t even…” She drifted off for a moment, as if lost in the memory of dressers she had fired.

“But Ivy is such a diva,” she continued. “She insists on having the same dresser for every show she’s in. They’ve been together for years and, they say, the two were as close as sisters. I never much liked my sister, so I was never sure whether that was a good thing or bad.” She snickered, then continued. “But in this case, her dresser just wedged her into my dressing room, and had it all set up just the way she likes it before Ivy ever set eyes on it. Soft chairs, a thick carpet, a Tiffany lamp, roses on the makeup counter, a box of imported chocolates, a mini-fridge, and a coffee bar. It was…” She spat out the last word. “Elegant.”

“What did your dresser say about that?”

“My dresser was the usual incompetent staffer provided by the theater. She hadn’t done a thing to protect my rightful territory. Not a single thing. She’d let Ivy’s dresser steal the bigger room without so much as an argument. Here I was, the star, and my room was at least a foot narrower than Ivy’s. Unacceptable.”

“Had she at least gotten it set up nicely?”

She stood and loomed over me. “Of course not. The idiot.” She threw down the cigarette and started pacing. “She hadn’t put anything more in my room than a single, rolling clothes rack. That was it. One metal chair, a wall mirror surrounded by bare bulbs, and an empty clothes rack.”

She was shrieking, and I noticed a guard peer in through the meshed window in the door. I nodded to indicate I was okay, and he disappeared again despite the continuing rant.

“Not even a pitcher of ice water was there when I went in during the break. It was intolerable, and I told her so. ‘I didn’t know how you’d like it,’ she said in a whiny voice. ‘Well not like this,’ I told her. But at least this one was smart enough to quit that day before I had a chance to fire her. I told her she would never work in this town again.”

I was beginning to wonder about an insanity defense when she took her seat and continued.

“But I am a pro,” she said in a manufactured calm. “I don’t let such things get in the way of an excellent performance. Previews were only a few days away. Reviewers would start coming so they could write their reviews and release them on our official opening night. And, after all, the show must go on despite such hardships.”

“So, you’d had a couple of weeks of shows before the incident, right?”

“Yes, and I knew I was wonderful in the part. ‘Magic! Yes, yes, magic! I try to give that to people.’”

The way she said it, I was pretty sure that was a quote from a play—or maybe a film. With my job, I didn’t get to watch any movies either.

“It’s from Streetcar,” she said with a dismissive wave.

“So that’s when you decided to kill Miss Alexan…er, Ivy?”

“No. You haven’t been listening. If I killed her, the show could close, and what good would that do? I would be out of work, and…” She waggled an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t do anything to hurt my career.”

“But, you…”

“I didn’t want her dead. I just wanted her to look bad. More to the point, I wanted her reviews to be bad. That way, everyone would have to acknowledge that without me, the show would fold. I am the star.”

“Okay, but you substituted a real knife for the prop knife in the scene where your character tries to kill hers.”

“Ah yes, but I didn’t use it in the scene, did I?”

“But, you…”

“I threw it off stage where I knew her dresser always stood. I have great aim. I once played a knife thrower, you know. Got her right in the heart.” Her smirk was a mix of evil and bloodlust. “I knew without her precious dresser, Ivy would be too distraught to go on. Either her understudy would have to take her place, or she’d go on and give a bad performance. Either way, the reviewers would crucify her.” She laughed deep in her throat. “A perfect crime.” She laughed again.

“But it wasn’t perfect,” I said. “You didn’t get away with it. You’re going to be arraigned for murder tomorrow.”

“So what?” she said with a flip of her hand. “It was an accident as anyone could plainly see. You will make sure they know that, won’t you?”

I winced. At least I wouldn’t be the one standing up in court trying to make that argument. Iron Lady would—if it ever got to court.

“And, best of all, Ivy will never be the same. Jackie killed Jill after all.” The smirk returned—more smug than evil this time.

I’d had enough and stood to go. After getting the guard’s attention, I gave her one last bit of advice. “Remember not to talk to anyone. Not the guards, not your cellmate, no one. No matter how proud you are of what you’ve done, just act like a nun. You ever play a nun?”

“Oh sure,” she said. “Mother Superior in Sound of Music. Wise, strict, compassionate. I can do that.”

“Great, but this nun has taken a vow of silence.”

She flashed an “okay” sign, and silently left with the guard, her cuffed hands pressed together as if in prayer. I hoped she was as good an actor as she thought she was.

As I left the jail and descended the concrete stairs, I had to shake my head. I couldn’t believe how deeply into her delusion she had sunk. The lady was batshit crazy, that was certain, but not in a legal sense. She was lucky New York no longer had the death penalty.

On one level, though, I could understand her desire to promote her career. Don’t we all want to do that? But all she had accomplished was to make her play notorious and to give her understudy her big break—to co-star with Kara Alexander. As Iron Lady says, they’re not in jail because they’re smart. Nope. Not smart at all.

Now if she were really smart, I thought, as I took the subway back to the office, she would have gotten rid of the competition. She could have arranged an “accident.” Like maybe a piece of scenery falling at the right time. Or maybe an assisted stumble in front of a bus. After all, accidents happen every day.

I turned it over in my head as I reached the crosswalk near our Midtown office building. Looking up at our windows, I couldn’t help but worry about the partners’ promotion vote next week.

With a glance at my phone, I realized that Glinda should be by any minute. Maybe I could wait in the corner Starbucks and help her across the street. Her balance is bound to be compromised by the five-inch heels she wears to court.

Like I said, you have to be smart if you want to promote your career.

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