Incurious

I'm wearing a dead woman's costume.

Not just any woman, I should note, but Blair Heflin - a well-connected young stage actress, newly graduated from Brandeis. You may have seen her widely circulated headshot on the news. A picture that only does her partial justice: an old Hollywood-style portrait spotlighting a versatile, oblong face and sharp collarbones. Jet-black hair in a dancer's bun. A delicate row of pearls.

She got her start in ballet, I learned. Born and raised in New York. LaGuardia alumnus. I admit I was a rather incurious understudy before the headlines broke. Never in my life would I have expected to be jolted out of my passive role as spare. Back-up. Especially not for someone as perfectly poised and professional as Blair. An untouchable talent.

Indeed, one could remain begrudgingly content with an easily missable credit on the playbill, precautionary run-throughs after hours to an audience of empty chairs. As a lapsed theatre kid turned daycare worker, local plays were a low-commitment creative cubbyhole for my quarter-life crisis.

Yet, about three weeks into rehearsals, Blair vanished. Fellow lead actor, Lloyd Monckton, was the first to sound the alarm, albeit incidentally. A scuffle over street parking. Blair's car had been left sitting in front of the building overnight, forcing him to park in the backlot. Not an uncommon occurrence, except for the fact that her front tires were slashed.

The two of them routinely squabbled in the weeks prior about which lead roles necessitated priority parking and which were second-rate enough to require an additional on-foot commute. But these were nothing more than petty technicalities, the whole cast insisted. Lloyd was uptight and knew how to bicker, but he was far from malicious. Nor was he a prankster.

Rain or shine, I always parked a ways off by the surrounding artisanal cheese shop or overpriced bookstore, passing Blair's ostentatious BMW on the way in. The theatre belonged to an idyllic, chic pocket of Litchfield County in a town whose charm was rather cold and transient. Conditional.

Yes, you could enjoy the upscale resort lodging and dimly-lit taverns but only as a tourist would. There was no web of familiar faces characteristic of small-town living. No real locals or coffee shop regulars. A couple of isolated, resident artists, sure, but nothing overtly welcoming to the outside world.

I made the 25-minute drive up from New Milford a couple of times a week to put in my hours at Northwest Hills Theatre Company. Like the rest, I came purely on behalf of social engagement and duty. Smile, perform, and leave. It was not the sort of place where one felt at liberty to unduly linger. Certainly not the kind of place to eternalize you. Never a place to die in.

And yet, Blair astounded us all and broke the mold - her death, a dead end. After her car was noted a permanent, extraneous fixture in the center of town and she missed back-to-back rehearsals, the police were notified. By then, I'd already gotten a no-nonsense text from the director telling me to "stand by."

//

Dan Kellard, our director, sat me down the day that Blaire's body was found just shy of the New York border. Bruised wrists and a slashed throat. Missing teeth. No immediate suspects.

I half-expected him to pull the plug on the whole production amidst all the fuss and sensationalization but he was unalterable. Stubborn. Though pushing sixty, he was a voracious flirt, flaunting a beard that always held crumbs from his quotidian lunch: a microwaved Marie Callender's chicken pot pie.

That afternoon on September 18th, he seemed equally bereft over the loss of his lead starlet and deadset on pigeonholing me into an underdog narrative.

"I need someone who can bear the pressure of an expedited rehearsal dynamic. Pick up where she left off..." he pinched his frowning temple, "Christ, this is unreal." I watched him toss his script onto the ramshackle desk. A well-worn yellow copy of Thornton Wilder's The Skin of Our Teeth.

I'd be playing Sabina - an over-rouged maid with seductress undertones. A lead personality with her heels dug into the ground - apt to break the fourth wall on stage.

I was quite enthused that despite the focus on her looks, she was hardly a one-dimensional character. Ironically, she vocalizes her unhappiness in playing this role, of gracing the stage, of putting on this farce for trite moral instruction. Layers of her self-awareness mingle with defiance throughout the three acts. Admittedly, I looked forward to adding myself to the built-in stratification. Sabina - Miss Somerset - Blair Heflin - and me, Luci Barrie.

"I must say, you have the platinum blonde hair I originally envisioned. Will look absolutely amazing under the spotlight. Also, you must know that Ms.Heflin ultimately outranked you on the cast list strictly because of her resume, because of her training. Formal education. You understand?"

"Of course. I wouldn't have expected it any other way. You don't have to explain," I deflected, leaning by the door. We locked eyes. "Technicalities," I added airily.

"You've been so good to this little troupe, Luci. You're a solid asset," he winked. "So let's bang this out in three weeks, what do you say? Don't second-guess yourself for a minute."

I only got the chance to nod, as he got up to leave. Touching my waist lightly as he passed me.

//

"At first, I thought Dan must've driven her away with all his overbearing advances. Drinks after hours and brunch at the tavern. I thought maybe Blair split out of the blue so she could, I don't know, hole up with a lawyer and sue his ass for all he's worth."

Aubrey still talks like a high schooler. A ringleader. A student council president. She enjoys being in control of the conversation. She's the youngest of the cast but acts so impeccably assertive on and off the stage that no one would mention it, let alone take a friendly jab at her youthful ego.

"He definitely has a thing for blondes," Bre paused, taking a decisive final swig of her Celsius. "Not to say that you're a beauty hire and not a talent hire, oh my god!" she grabbed my arm mid-laugh. An inflated gesture. "You were so good tonight."

"Thanks," I replied demurely. The chilly fall evening had made my head feel rather woozy all of a sudden. After overheating under stage lights for hours on end, my sweating scalp now felt exposed and just shy of freezing.

It was almost 10 pm. Our first dress rehearsal had run long. Prop and lighting woes in what was, I think, an eccentric show. The kind of production that audience members end up hating or loving. No in-between.

"You know, Bre, I think Dan forgot about updating the goddamn playbill. I'm supposed to go with Clayton last minute tomorrow for updated headshots," I struck a pose, eliciting a polite laugh from Aubrey's empty grin. I could feel stray bobby pins splayed across the back of my skull.

"Ah, Clayton crawled out of his studio for his yearly duties," Aubrey rolled her eyes. "You know, he only shoots in black and white. Very old-fashioned."

"Hmm. Where is his studio, anyway? I didn't ask."

"Toward Macedonia Brook, I think. The State Park. He shares some acres with this small pottery company. I looked at their website once, it was stupid expensive."

"Can I tell you something?" I instigated. Confessionals are her kryptonite. All I ever had to do was put out the bait, and Aubrey's head would lean in, ready to whisper. "For a one-man audience, his presence was a bit...imposing. Lurky. Kind of creepy, at least for me. It almost tripped me up."

"Really?! You know, it's probably just the presence of the camera. And, well, it's different for you with those long audience-facing monologues. You can properly zone out and focus when there's like a full house but one man staring at you through a camera lens… I get it, girl. I get it."

"Yeah, you're probably right," I conceded. Though, I was more unnerved than I let on and a bit surprised that Aubrey didn't run with the narrative of the photographer being somewhat creepy. For once, she seemed to be void of any gossip to impart.

With all the lights dimmed, all I could see from center stage was a tall, ghostly shadow gliding around the cabaret-style theatre. Every once and a while, he'd sit down at a lone table to scrutinize his work. A black mass.

//

The next morning, I made my way to the studio at 11 sharp, as Dan casually imparted the night before. On Google Maps it looked just like a residential address - a behemoth modern mansion poking out of the woods. I looked for any sign or marker welcoming me to "Clayton Blaese Photography" but the gravel road (turned driveway) was featureless and likely impassable in the winter. An anonymous fortress.

Turning my music down, I inspected the location in earnest. The place looked well-maintained and dignified yet wholly deserted. Lifeless, even. With my purse on my lap, I reapplied my lipstick with precision, straightened my shoulders, and attempted to shoot some confidence back into my eyes. The lead role in action. No longer a stand-in waiting in the wings.

Outside, it was quiet save for a few crows in the distance. I padded over to the back of my white sedan and got my heels out of the trunk. Might as well make a formal impression, attempt to stand toe-to-toe with this taciturn photographer.

There's always a silent power struggle between photographers and their subjects, but it usually doesn't occur until the camera stands decisively between them. With Clayton Blaese, it was immediately evinced from a handshake.

When he opened the door, he was barefoot in wide-leg khaki trousers, a wife beater, and an unfastened light blue dress shirt. He greeted me with the kind of formality and well-oiled charisma that immediately proved him keen on disarming women.

Though not conventionally attractive, he was at least 6 foot 4 and had a domineering quality to him that could easily translate as sultry. Seductive. He was handsy in his friendliness but had a knack for making his touch feel like a compliment, not an impertinence.

"Please, make yourself comfortable," he gestured to an industrial-esque, monochromatic space. "You can set your bag down wherever. Just give me a second, though, if you don't mind. I have to run upstairs. So, hang tight. There's coffee and tea over there on the marble. Help yourself," he spoke hastily before bounding up the stairs two at a time.

I went to meander toward the marble slab table but each step of my heels on the floor sounded deafening in the high-ceilinged space. I froze like a deer in the woods. Ears perked up. The first-floor studio was cavernous like a vault. One couldn't help but feel exposed and vulnerable.

The silence was, for a moment, all-consuming and ominous. I glanced up at the skylights, fighting the urge to bolt. Suddenly, a loud pop split my ears. I felt my stomach recoil, as I instinctually brought my hands up to my head, bracing for impact.

With my fingertips fiddling with my diamond earrings, I listened wide-eyed to a couple more undecipherable thuds, perhaps the moving of furniture? It was hard to tell. Sound carried oddly in this cold, open room. My heart pumped uncomfortably in my chest, punctuating the stillness.

I waited for Clayton to appear on the staircase again and offer a funny explanation for the raucous noise. Was this a prank? An emergency? I was torn between a sort of primal fear and indignation.

10 minutes pass as I toil with the urge to bolt. From the cut-out window in the door, my Volkswagon looks miles away. I feel I've entered an alternate dimension. Time has contorted and stretched, leaving my skin buzzing.

The Luci that drove out here with 2000s pop music blaring is long gone. There is no more time for such lighthearted pleasantries, for preparation, for pretense. Time to improvise.

Kicking both of my heels off, I scurry up the stairs, leaving sweaty footprints on the wood. Upstairs I find a studio apartment in post-tantrum disarray leading off to a red-hued walk-in closet space. An old-fashioned darkroom, I realize.

Clayton is missing from the shambolic tableau.

Soundlessly, I tread over to the foreboding red room and take in the display. The prints hanging dry on clothes hangers are all striking, chilling without context. A clavicle bone - tense, gasping. An emaciated woman folded in on herself in a bathtub. Dinosaur spine. Bound hands casting shadow puppets. A single, startled eye peeking out of a blindfold. Human teeth lodged into wet clay still being shaped on a pottery wheel.

It's all Blair, I'm sure of it. Even the teeth. I've studied her features onstage as any dutiful, despairing understudy would. Her versatile features, her perfect row of teeth haunted me to the point of resentment. So much so that I slashed her tires that night in an act of petty jealousy. Then, I made the sullen drive home. Obviously, Blair had then been forced to call someone nearby. A supposed ally. A lover.

Or, someone was already watching her... waiting for the opportunity to step in and play the hero/villain. With that in mind, I almost feel bad for being responsible for leaving her stranded that evening at the turn of autumn. But without that violent unforeseen turn of events, I wouldn't have had my chance to take center stage.

Still pawing through the photographs, I come across a more pornographic piece. Blair is topless, leaning back into the grasp of a man who is not Clayton (how could it be, he's always behind the camera?) Yet, his face is not unfamiliar, either. I remember it from when I scoped out the property online.

As Aubrey told me, Clayton Blaise Photography was shared with a pottery company owned and operated by a man named Ryan Brycen. Such was the man in the photo. Clean-shaven with blonde eyelashes and a thin-lipped smile. He's easy for me to place.

Clayton and Ryan know each other well, I also learned from a quick social media search. Private school boys who formed a life-long bond. I passively scrolled through an array of old Instagram candids just last night. Two lean youngsters posing on the squash court or downing water bottles of smuggled vodka in their dorm rooms. Later, photographs of Ryan at the pottery wheel, a catalog of his early work. Mostly tea cups and ashtrays.

If any women appeared in the feed, it was only in group photos. Dark-eyed brunettes or corset-wearing blondes sandwiched between the two of them. A duo for the ages whose career hinged on the allure of secrecy and manipulation. Pushing boundaries.

//

When I stepped out of the darkroom, eyes fighting to adjust to the natural light, I found Clayton sitting on his white sectional, pouring tea from a handcrafted pot. No doubt, one of Ryan's overpriced creations.

I stared at him, watching him match my scrutiny with a sort of acquiescence. He sighed once, and then began:

"I'm not a murderer, you know. Just an observer."

"Doesn't mean you're innocent," I retort. He bristles.

"Ryan's art is different than my art. He creates and destroys. It's unmeditated and quite...roguish. Messy."

"And, what's your art?"

"I simply reveal and preserve. It's clear-cut and detached. No grime on my fingers," he paused, looking up.

"I slashed her tires that night," I confess apathetically. He looks surprised for a moment, understanding that I, however ignorantly, sent Blair to her death. Without his camera blocking the sincerity of his gaze, we read each other keenly. Both of us locked into a twisted vein of fate, dancing with brutality.

"I'll take care of Ryan," Clayton breaks the silence. "He's lost himself, he's spiraling. You should see his medicine cabinet" he chuckled joylessly, scratching the back of his neck. "He's become too...unpredictable. Unhinged."

"And you're so very sane? I find that hard to believe, given you two are such chums."

"I didn't think he'd really kill Blair. It was like sordid fun..." he drawled. "You know when you see something so grotesque you can't look away? How your eyes linger even when you want to crawl out of your skin. That's what being behind the camera is like. You're just watching, defenseless save for the incriminating finality of the photograph. A crystallized moment."

It's weird to see him like this, frazzled, especially in juxtaposition to his well-rehearsed overbearing greeting at the door. His art of distraction.

"Art can be dangerous. Deluding," he bares a sheepish smile. A voyeuristic man with a victim complex.

"Or entirely mundane," I deflect. I feel ten feet taller than him, as was my plan. All method acting blurs one's sense of self, I've learned. The best kind of character work is achieved in a sort of tunnel vision. Your mind and morals at the periphery so you can't find your way back.

"Listen, I have a show this Friday night, as you very well know. So get downstairs and do your job. Take my picture. Then, you can worry about covering your own ass. I really don't care."

//

On opening night, Clayton is in the audience again, sheathed in shadow, taking photos for the local paper. My updated headshot would accompany a rave review on the back cover tomorrow, deeming me "an up-and-coming star with staggering presence."

The front cover, however, was reserved for the shocking "suicide" of local craftsman turned crazed artist, Ryan Brycen, whose grisly clay artifacts posthumously tied him to the murder of Blair Heflin - a young stage actress who wore a size seven and a half shoe. The same as me. I scratched out her initials and replaced them with my own "LB” before curtain call.

By Act 3, my feet are sore and my eyes burning. Yet, I set my resolved gaze on Clayton's camera lens and speak for his ears directly: "We're all just as wicked as we can be, and that's the God's truth."

At curtain call, flowers land at my ankles. With a smile, I touch Blair's pearl necklace, now resting on my clavicle. That night, I dream about shards of pottery and bone.