A Midsummer Eve's Nightmare (3 page)

After stealing from her father’s home, Desdemona arrived at Cypress in the midst of one of those howling storms that always signaled approaching doom to an Elizabethan audience. Flags whipped furiously from the ramparts as sheets of plastic waves lashed the set downstage, and a fanfare of trumpets blasted above the storm. All the time, in the background, the evil Iago wove his plot, showing how lies can play upon a simple man.

Then with another swift mood change, the stage erupted in a jubilant revelry as the soldiers and citizens of Cyprus celebrated the dual glad events: the destruction of the Turkish fleet by the storm and the joy of General Othello’s nuptials. While the population reveled on the stage below, Desdemona and Othello embraced in their tapestry-hung, candlelit bower above. “O, my lord, if I were now to die, would to be most happy.” From a Venetian glass beaker Othello filled two crystal goblets with a rich amber liquid. Desdemona drank hers in salute to her marriage lord, but Othello was distracted by the soft light flickering on the net of woven gold holding Desdemona’s hair. He gently pulled it off, releasing a cascade of pale locks. In concert with the stage lovers, Elizabeth linked her arm in Richard’s and laid her head against his shoulder.

As in Shakespeare’s day, the play was performed without intermission, and all too soon the network of twisted lies, woven to make everything look like something it wasn’t by Iago’s sinister machinations, moved to its inevitable end as Elizabeth’s mind cried with Othello, “The pity of it, Iago. Oh, the pity of it.” Elizabeth ached to have it all explained to Othello before the inevitable tragedy. She longed somehow to change what couldn’t be changed.

Desdemona, in a white, floating garment reminiscent of an angel’s robe, was kneeling at her prayers in a single shaft of light when Othello entered their chamber. Then the light diffused. Shadows streaked across the stage to the accompaniment of slow drumbeats and a low chant as Desdemona removed the ropes of pearls from her hair and began brushing it, preparing for bed.

The drumbeats intensified. Desdemona lay on the white satin sheets, her hair fanned across the pillows, and Othello moved with measured tread from his shadowed corner.

The chant rose, as if it would pull the viewers into the scene. Wisps of mist blew across the stage from the open window. In one violent gesture Othello ripped the satin bed curtain from top to bottom. The drum and chanters silenced.

“Put out the light.” He snuffed the candle.

Desdemona awoke.

“Have you pray’d tonight, Desdemona? I would not kill thy unprepared spirit.”

“Talk you of killing?”

“I do.” Othello grasped a white satin pillow in his powerful black hands.

“Then heaven have mercy on me.” Desdemona crossed herself.

The wind howled, fluttering the long white window draperies and streaking the candle flames. In a torment of anger and pity, jealousy and love, Othello pushed the smooth, pale pillow over Desdemona’s face and held it there, crying, “It is too late.”

Now the chant rose again, at first almost imperceptible, then higher and higher until it engulfed the emotion of the scene as Othello, horrorstricken at his own deed, raised the limp body of Desdemona and held her outstretched to the audience. “O Desdemona! Dead, Desdemona! Dead! O!”

He laid her lifeless body on the stage and drew his dagger. One last kiss of his beloved’s still lips. He plunged the dagger into his own breast.

The bell tolling death, the drum marking the cortege cadence, attendants placed the bodies on biers, and the stark mourning processions that had opened the play brought it to a close.

The audience sat, gripped with the tragedy, until the last toll of the bell faded. Then they broke into thunderous applause. But Elizabeth didn’t applaud. She gripped Richard’s arm with both hands, too horrified to speak the words.

At last they came. “Desdemona. I’ve seen death before. She wasn’t acting.”

Chapter 4

RICHARD GRABBED ELIZABETH’S HAND and, holding her close behind him, made for a small door down left of the stage that provided easy access to backstage for crew members. They had almost fought their way through the exiting audience when a piercing scream came from the wings. Not wasting time groping around the dimly lit, cluttered backstage, Richard led straight across the stage to the exit Desdemona’s cortege had taken.

The bier lay on the floor where its bearers had dropped it. And Desdemona lay just as she had been placed there. Grey, not breathing.

The actress who had played Desdemona’s nurse Emilia stood over her screaming and sobbing. Actors and stage crew milled around in confusion, looking at the still form on the bier, then recoiling in horror.

“What’s wrong?”

“Did she faint?”

“Emilia, what’s—”

“She’s not—”

Then more screams and cries.

In the background a voice of authority barked, “Somebody call an ambulance!” Trevor Stevens, still wearing his director’s headset pushed his way through the melee.

“It’s too late for an ambulance,” Emilia insisted. “She’s not breathing. I’m calling the police.” She turned sharply and cannoned into Gregg striding in from the far side of the stage where he had made his curtain call exit. He had pulled off his black wig and his blond hair stood out incongruously above the dark greasepaint. “What’s all the noise about?”

Emilia gave a sharp cry and hit at him with her fists. “You did it! You killed her.”

“What are you talking about? Stop screaming, woman. Who’s—” He pushed Emilia aside and started forward.

He came to an abrupt stop, the prostrate form of Desdemona at his feet. “Oh, my God.” He sank to his knees and took the white hand in his. “Sally. Sally!” He would have said her name again, but his voice caught on a sob. “This isn’t possible.”

Just then Tori rushed in from the costume shop in the basement. “Dead? She can’t be!” Tori fell to her knees beside Gregg, her arms around him. “What happened?”

Gregg shook his head. “I don’t know. I can’t have killed her. I did the scene just like I’ve done it dozens of times. I couldn’t. . .” He held his hands out and looked at them as if they were covered in blood. “I couldn’t. . .” He dropped his head into his hands. “No.”

The initial hysteria gradually gave way to a shocked silence as the sight of Gregg’s grief brought home the reality of the situation to the company. By the time the ambulance and police arrived, the actors and technicians were standing in small groups, talking in hushed tones or sitting in stunned silence.

The medical people went right to the still form on the bier. The uniformed officer spoke quietly to Trevor Stevens. “All right, boys and girls,” the bald, bearded director’s authoritative voice called them to attention. “We don’t know what’s happened here. There’s no need to jump to any unfounded conclusions. But due to the unusual circumstances Sergeant Carson thinks it wise to call in a detective task force. So—” He looked at his watch. “Sorry about this, but we’re going to need you all to stick around a bit until they get here.”

His announcement was met with groans. “Everyone go on down to the green room. Ingrid—” he turned to the stage manager, “see what you can do about organizing some coffee for everybody.”

Muttering their complaints, the company began to move slowly toward the backstage exits. Gregg rose unsteadily to his feet and started to follow. “Gregg.” The actor stopped at Trevor’s voice. “I think you can help us here.” He looked at Richard and Elizabeth standing next to Tori. “Who are you?” he asked.

Just then Sergeant Carson returned from making his call. “MADIU will be here soon. We’ll try not to keep you too late.”

“Who?” Stevens asked.

“Um, sorry. Major Assault Death Investigation Unit. Awful mouthful, isn’t it? Fancy name for a couple of detectives, a photographer and a medical examiner. They’ll be here as soon as they can, but they aren’t normally on duty at this time of night.” He looked around as if he had misplaced something. “I need to secure the area, but I don’t have any crime scene tape.”

“We don’t even know that it is a crime scene,” Trevor Stevens reminded him.

“No, that’s right. But still. . .” He looked down at his feet as if he might be trampling footprints left by a killer. Then he turned to Richard. “Who did you say you are?”

“I didn’t say yet,” Richard said, then explained their presence there.

“Hm. Might be helpful to have an account from the audience. You better stick around, too.”

It was just as well their presence was mandated by authority, because Elizabeth had no intention of leaving her sister. And Tori would not leave Gregg.

Sergeant Carson took a notebook out of his pocket and turned to interview Gregg. “I believe you’re the accused?”

“Really, Sergeant, that’s much too strong. She was hysterical. There’s no reason to assume—” Trevor jumped to Gregg’s defense. But before the interview could go any further a tall, sandy-haired man that looked like he had donned his jeans and a polo shirt hastily and a stocky black man in a plaid sport shirt and slacks entered the back of the theatre.

Sergeant Carson turned with obvious relief. “Oh, Detective Sergeant Lempson, up here, sir!” The young policeman’s face relaxed and his shoulders dropped as tension left his body. He all but leapt downstage to bring the detective supervisor up to speed on the happenings.

A few minutes later Lempson asked the little group still standing on the stage to come down to the theatre seats and set his team to work securing and photographing the scene. The stocky detective, who had been introduced to them as Detective Rory Fellows, and Sergeant Carson wrapped the stage area with yellow crime scene tape. As a photographer began firing flashing light bulbs from every angle, the medical examiner opened her kit. Activity swirled around the lifeless Desdemona, as immobile on her bier as a stone effigy.

Lempson turned to the little group sitting in the front row of seats. “Now,” he turned to Gregg. “Tell me what happened.” Gregg explained about Desdemona’s death scene, stressing how thoroughly all the action had been rehearsed.

“I held the pillow over her face. I mean, it looked to the audience like I was really pushing down hard, but I left air space upstage. Always.”

“But that was with a different actress, is that right?” The officer looked back at his notes.

Gregg gasped and hit his forehead with the palm of his hand. “Oh, no. Could that have possibly been it? Erin knew to turn her head when the pillow came down. Maybe Sally didn’t know. You don’t think. . .?”

“She didn’t struggle.” Elizabeth said.

“What?” Everyone turned to her.

“Desdemona—Sally. She didn’t struggle. I thought it was an oversight in her acting. But she should have, shouldn’t she? Wouldn’t a person being suffocated struggle?”

The officer looked at her for a full three beats. “Yes. They would. That’s good, lady.”

“Could she already have been dead?” Tori’s voice was thin. It was clear how desperately she wanted this awful situation to be anything but Gregg’s fault.

The officer shrugged. “That’s for the medical people to decide. I just want to get a picture of what was going on.”

The medical examiner stood up and put her stethoscope in her bag. “Looks pretty straightforward. All the symptoms of cardiac arrest. Of course we’ll need a full postmortem, but I’m betting on natural causes.” She looked at Elizabeth. “You’re quite right. There are no signs of struggle. If she’d been suffocated there would be
petechiae
.”

“Huh?”

“Small broken blood vessels. From the neck up. Especially in the whites of the eyes. And bruising. There would be bruising around the nose and mouth.” Dr. Hilliard sketched a circle around her own features with her forefinger.

Gregg gave a deep, shuddering sigh as if he had been holding his breath for hours. He hadn’t inadvertently smothered her, then.

The medic turned to the Detective Sergeant. “I can tell you more some time tomorrow. That’s all I can do here.”

Lempson called Officer Fellows over. “Right. Looks like that’s it for tonight. Get the name and contact information of everyone involved in the production tonight, then let them go. It doesn’t look like you’ll need to take statements tonight.”

Trevor Stevens strode forward gesturing toward the bright yellow plastic tape circling his stage. “Now see here, what about all that? We have rehearsals tomorrow morning.”

“It will have to stay that way tonight. I’ll let you know as soon as I have Dr. Hilliard’s report. You may need to postpone your rehearsals.”

Trevor opened his mouth to argue, but apparently changed his mind. Mouth still open, he turned on his heel and strode off.

It seemed that the little group remaining down front was free to go as Lempson had already taken their names and addresses, but no one moved. They all sat in silence until the tiny, lifeless form of Sally Wallace, who such a short time ago had been a compellingly vital Desdemona, was placed on a stretcher and covered with a sterile sheet. Elizabeth crossed herself as the little procession passed before her on the stage.

Behind the authorities, actors and crew trailed out talking of their shock, their palpitations; the tragedy, the horror—each one suddenly Sally’s very dearest friend in the world who would never recover from her death. Soon all were gone except one electrician who squinted nearsightedly even through his glasses and periodically flipped his thin brown hair out of his face. As lighting console operator, it was his job to wait with whatever patience he could muster to throw the final switch that would leave the stage in darkness for the night.

Only four remained. Elizabeth, Richard, Tori and Gregg stood like a silent island, as the chatter and footsteps receded. Victoria spoke first. “I can’t imagine what the shock will do to Erin. She’s so tightly strung anyway, and she and Sally worked very closely together.”

Richard glanced at his watch. “It’s too late to see her tonight. Let’s hope that strong-eyed nurse can keep the news from her until morning.”

“Come back to our place with me,” Tori pleaded. “I don’t want to be alone just yet.”