176. Say you'll help me Mama

“Now what?”

“Huh?” Beckett asks, staring at her screen as if it might have some better information.

“Well,” Castle mumbles uncomfortably, “we need to work out how to use Mother.”

Beckett cringes at the thought, though she knows it has to be done. “Got any ideas?”

“I could take her to a rehearsal.”

“I want them to talk, not be terrorised.” She stops. “Why don’t you get her to watch Ryan’s mash-up of all four videos. Then take her to see a rehearsal.”

“Mm, might work.” He fidgets in his chair. “Um, why don’t I get her gossip on all the actors and the director and crew?”

“Sounds good.” Beckett smiles evilly. “Why don’t you take Ryan with you? He likes theatre. Espo and I will review the ME’s report, build a timeline, and try to work out who couldn’t have been on stage when she got stabbed.” She looks over. “Ryan, got a job for you.”

Both Ryan and Espo are right over. “What is it?” Ryan asks.

“You’re going to the theatre,” Beckett smirks.

“Okay,” Ryan says, not yet suspicious. “When? Why?”

“Later tonight. You and Castle are going to the theatre.” Ryan’s smile starts to slip. Castle doesn’t look stunningly enthused either. “But first,” she carries on, “you’re both going to go and show Castle’s mother your video compilation.”

“What?” Ryan wails. “First you make me go to the theatre with Castle rather than a date” –

“I thought you two were in a bromance?” Espo jibes.

“Not cool, bro. Not cool – and now I have to watch that video again? What did I do, Beckett? I’ll never do it again.”

“Enjoy,” Beckett smirks even more widely.

“But…”

“Off you go. Have fun.”

Ryan droops, and both men leave muttering blackly and continuously until the elevator doors cut them off.

“Okay, Espo. We get to build a timeline and try and apply some logic to the situation.”

Espo grins widely at her. “Sneaky. Very sneaky.”

“Yep.”

Espo stops grinning. “So why ain’t you goin’ with Castle? ‘S not like you to send him off with Ryan. They’ll get into trouble, you know.”

Espo watches Beckett’s back tense and her visage smooth into a perfect poker face. “Castle’s mother is… unique. Castle’s best to handle her.”

His face reflects considerable scepticism. “If it affects the case, Beckett, you gotta tell me.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Okay,” he says slowly. “But if it does, you gotta say so.”

“It won’t.”

Espo’s honour satisfied, they turn to the ME’s report. Time of death was less than an hour before the corpse had been found. The timeline begins to take shape. A cast list is organised. Beckett walks Espo through the basics of the play, which does not impress him at all: he dismisses it as nonsense.

“People like this shit?”

“Yeah.”

“They’re crazy. What’s wrong with baseball?” And there in a nutshell is the Esposito doctrine.

“Tomorrow, we’ll start to interview the actors.”

“Shit. Do I have to put up with their crap all day?”

“Yes.”

“Why’m I with you, Castle?”

“Uh?”

“Why’s Beckett not here? You’re always following her. Why not now?” Castle says nothing. Ryan looks across from the driver’s seat. “It’s all connected, isn’t it?” He looks back at the road, and keeps talking. “What’s been up with Beckett for months. Why she’s gone at odd times. Her benching. That sparring match where she hurt her wrist. An’ now me coming with you to talk to your mom.” Castle continues to say nothing. “Okay, you won’t tell me anything. But she better be okay with you.”

“She is,” Castle says calmly, and leaves it at that. Ryan makes an indeterminately disgusted noise, and continues on the route to Broome Street.

“Is your mom going to be there?” he asks.

Neither of them had thought of that. Castle looks at the car clock.

“It’s before six, and after lunch. Most likely she’ll be there, drinking my best wine. If she’s not, we can have a beer and I’ll give her a call. C’mon up.”

Ryan stops just inside the door and whistles. “Impressive.” Then he remembers he’s a cop. “But a bit showy. Who’re you trying to impress?”

Castle snickers. “My agent. It annoys her. And my editor. Want a beer?”

“Sure. Just don’t tell Beckett – or Espo. He’ll be jealous. She’ll rip me a new one for drinking on duty.”

“You’re not on duty. It’s after shift end, and I’ve invited you to meet my mother to talk about the theatre,” Castle says happily. “See, sorted. I’ll just find her.”

“I am here, Richard,” Martha says. “Who is this?”

“Detective Kevin Ryan,” Ryan says, without waiting for Castle.

“I am Martha Rodgers,” she says grandly.

“Mother,” Castle starts, as Ryan takes in the vision that is Martha Rodgers, in lurid turquoise with cerise beading and fringes, “we want to talk to you about the theatre.”

“Oh? You need my expertise?”

“Yes,” Ryan says, commendably promptly considering that he is currently blinded by the dress. “We caught a case at La Mama yesterday, and we need the low-down on the actors and director. So Castle and Beckett thought of you right away.”

Martha preens. Castle’s face twists into an expression of reluctant admiration, directed at Ryan.

“When Beckett mentioned your name everyone was really impressed. They’d all heard of you. They all want to meet you.”

“Really?” Martha asks, puffing up.

“Yeah. Anyway, before we let them meet you – one of them’s a murderer, and we don’t like our expert consultants getting hurt – we wanted your take on the names.”

“Oh,” says Martha with pleasure at being an expert consultant. “But why didn’t Katherine come herself?” Castle winces. Ryan clocks it, but parks it for later.

“Because I go to the theatre a lot, and I wanted to meet you,” he says. It’s not precisely truthful, but it’s not exactly a downright lie.

“Well, what would you like to know?”

Ryan explains. Martha listens carefully, and Castle pours the drinks.

Drinks arranged, Castle sits quietly and ponders the difference in his mother from her usual flamboyantly over-stated personality. As she talks, Ryan taking neat notes, it dawns upon him that she is in possession of a great deal of information about the technical side of theatre as well as her own undoubted acting talents.

“Thank you,” Ryan says. “That’s really helpful. Now, we took a series of videos on our phones, and I stitched them together – of the rehearsal,” he adds, at Martha’s questioning look. “If Castle can set it up on his laptop, you could watch what they were doing.”

“Set it up, then, Richard. What am I looking for, Kevin darling?”

“We don’t know,” Ryan says, blushing beautifully at the endearment. “That’s why we need you. Our victim was playing Titania, but she was only killed less than an hour before we were called. We want you to look at the rehearsal and see if you spot anything odd.”

Castle messes with his laptop for a moment or two and finally manages to hook the video up to a TV screen. The feed comes up. Martha takes possession of the remote, but at first watches it right through without a pause. Castle winces just as often as he had when it was live. Martha is riveted to the screen. When it finishes, she sighs.

“Well, really! I see Carl hasn’t improved as a director in the slightest. That’s appalling direction. Quite, quite terrible. Those poor actors. Being murdered must practically have been a relief to your victim.”

“Mother!”

“Pish. You know what I mean, Richard. How did you manage to sit through this?”

“With difficulty,” Castle says.

“I’m glad to see my teaching wasn’t wasted.” She runs it back, and restarts, tutting.

Halfway through, she stops, goes back a couple of moments, and replays it. She frowns, and repeats.

“What is it, Mother?”

“That’s an odd place to pause the rehearsal. It would ruin the pacing and flow.   I know Carl is a dreadful director” –

“He worships you” –

“but that’s basic. He’s not even doing anything in that space. If there had been an error… then again, since his vision is clearly entirely misconceived – or possibly miscommunicated – I wouldn’t be able to tell if someone made an error… Well. If there was an error, he hasn’t even corrected it.”

Castle and Ryan exchange a look. This sounds like a clue.

“Mother,” Castle grins, “how would you like to come to the La Mama theatre with us?”

“Better call Beckett and Esposito,” Ryan points out. “Otherwise… so not cool to be shot, man.”

“Good point. Mother, do you want to go find a coat?” Castle is already dialling.

“Beckett, it’s me.”

“Don’t criticise my grammar. Mother’s spotted something. No idea what. We’re taking her down to La Mama. Will you meet us there?”

Ryan observes Castle become serious, and his voice drops into a much softer, reassuring tone.

“Yeah. Don’t worry. You’re in charge.”

“No, I won’t be upset. But I don’t think it’s going to happen.”

“Yes, I’ll tell her. ‘S okay. See you there.”

Castle swipes off, notices Ryan’s interested observation, and fails entirely to explain the last part of the conversation. There is a certain look in Castle’s eye which discourages Ryan from asking any questions.

“Ryan, I’ll take Mother in my car. You need yours. I’ll see you at La Mama.”

“Okay,” Ryan says, slightly confused, and departs.

Martha swishes down the stairs, having added a not-quite-matching fuchsia wrap to her outfit. “Let us begone, Richard.”

“Dad? Where are you going?”

“New case, pumpkin. It’s in a theatre, and they’re all actors. Grams might be able to help.”

“Can I come? What play was it?”

“A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

“That’s what I’m studying. Let me come too, pleeease. I’m so bored of looking at the words.”

Castle mentally casts up his eyes and hands to Heaven. “Okay. But you do exactly what the detectives tell you. Or me,” he hastily adds. “Go get what you need.” He turns to his mother. “Mother, do not upset Beckett in any way whatsoever. If you mention coming to the loft, or anything at all that isn’t related to the play and the crime, we’ll find a different expert.”

Thankfully, after the shenanigans and highly emotional temperatures and temperaments of the last week or so, and his giving and then enforcing his ultimatum to her, his mother seems to be listening. Then again, she’s still muttering under her breath about the director’s (in)artistic incompetence.

Martha mutters blackly all the way to the theatre, to Alexis’s ill-concealed amusement and Castle’s mild consternation. He is astonished by how seriously she is taking this.

When they get there, the rest of the team is waiting at the door. Beckett is, to Castle’s eye, showing very tiny signs of stress, but none of the others notice. She steps into the light.

“Alexis?”

“Alexis is studying the play, and asked to come. She won’t get in the way, will you?”

“No. Promise.”

“Okay. Go and sit out the way.” Beckett dismisses Alexis from her purview. “Mrs Rodgers,” she says extremely formally, to everyone’s surprise, “thank you for coming. Castle says you noticed an anomaly on the videos?”

“Yes,” Martha says, without bothering with pleasantries and, more interestingly, without trying to divert the conversation into matters relating to Beckett, her family, or her absorption into Castle’s family. “The direction is appalling, and there is no coherent vision or structure. But Carl paused the rehearsal at a very strange point.”

“What do we need to tell him to do?”

Castle watches with utter amazement as Beckett and his mother continue a conversation of two equivalent-weight professionals jointly doing a job. He’s so stunned he fails to follow the words.

“Okay,” Beckett says. “Let’s do this.” She strides into the theatre. Martha is barely behind. The men, and Alexis (who has stayed very quiet and out of Beckett’s sight until she’s allowed in to find somewhere to sit), follow.

Rehearsal is in chaotic progress. Lee Kraven is clearly already stepping up to the role of Titania. Beckett, wholly controlled and locked down, walks down the centre aisle, reaches midway, and pauses.

“All stop,” she announces in commanding tones that hit the back of the stage. Everyone does.

“Not again,” Carl bitches.

“Quiet.” He is.

“We’re going to go through the rehearsal from Sunday night again.”

“Why?” comes from several spots at once.

“Because I intend to watch it,” Martha comes in, right on cue, and makes her entrance.

Pandemonium ensues. The main flavour is It’s Martha Rodgers! In seconds the entire cast is surrounding her and all talking and fawning at once. Beckett slips backwards and, without apparently looking, finds Castle and reaches for his hand, unseen in the darker areas of the stalls. She is very reassured by his firm grip, and, since all attention is on Martha, leans back into him.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Guess so,” Beckett manages, stress fracturing each syllable. “I’d rather not be doing this.”

Castle’s hands slip on to her waist and briefly hug her in. “No-one would know,” he reassures. “And Mother’s behaving herself.”

“Yeah.” She leans against him for another second, then straightens up and moves several steps forward. “Everybody quiet!” Silence falls. Martha is swamped in bodies. “Right. You’re going to go through the rehearsal exactly as you did on Sunday. Take it from the top. Mrs Rodgers will watch. Places!”

She sneaks quietly all the way forward and taps Ryan and Espo on the shoulders. “Sit with Castle’s mom. Listen to everything she says. I’m going to be up in the circle. I want a better view of the whole thing. Alexis, you stay absolutely quiet, and you can take notes too if you like.”

Ryan casts her a dyspeptic and highly cynical glance. Beckett glares. Ryan subsides. She strides off to the circle, followed by Castle. They take seats in the centre of the front row.

“Why up here?”

“I want to see the way people move and where they move to. Better view,” she says again. Rather surprisingly, she takes his hand. Castle concludes that she also wants some very unobtrusive reassurance. She might have come through the earlier conversation, but her fingers are cold and he is perfectly well aware that she is locked down against considerable stress. He can hardly blame her. His mother may be behaving now but Martha Rodgers is – well, unpredictable. He is astonished that Beckett could even contemplate using her on a case, and is in awe of the focused and ruthless professionalism that Beckett is displaying. He has no doubt at all that every instant that his mother is in Beckett’s presence adds another turn of the screw to the ratchet of her discomfort. He lets go of her hand, snugs his arm around Beckett’s tight shoulders, and then takes her hand in his other and draws it gently across to his knee. There is a tiny easement next to him, and then Beckett’s focus is solely on the stage and surrounds.

Castle, who thinks that the production should have been strangled pre-birth, is far less interested in the goings-on on stage than, it turns out, in his mother. As he watches, it becomes clear to him that she is restraining herself, (his mother? Exercising restraint? Is this a dream?) with some difficulty, from contradicting Carl at every turn. Her hands are moving and her posture shifting as the actors do. Several times she starts to hold up a hand, and brings it back to a tight clutch on her purse or wrap.

Finally his mother intervenes.

“Stop!” she announces. “That’s not right. Carl, the last time you stopped rehearsal there. What happened?”

Carl cringes. “I… something I ate.”

“Pah!” Martha emits. Carl looks devastated at disappointing his idol. He’s been casting her glances all the way through, hoping for approval, and the longer he hasn’t had any the more desperate his directing has become. “Take the pause, then.”

Up in the circle, Beckett is still completely focused. Castle recognises her stalking of the oddity, and marvels that she isn’t getting involved. He matches it up to her ability to let him take the lead when it was he who would get best results (baby Callie, and dumbass Donbass; Venetia Lingham) and concludes that whatever Beckett’s personal feelings, she is still terrifyingly able to subsume them into the hunt for justice for the victim and consequences for the killer. He hugs more tightly, and then eases off.

The pause occurs. Beckett stiffens. Not only has Carl left the room in the direction of the men’s restroom, but three others have vacated the stage too. One, as expected, is the hapless Derren. Also leaving are Kane Travers (Bottom) and Charles Wentway (Oberon). That’s the top four for her interview list tomorrow, then. Derren will repay a harder grilling, and the rest have some explaining to do. She lets the rest of the rehearsal play out, and watches with interest as Martha fidgets more and more, while Carl gets more and more nervous, which transmits itself to the cast. Cues are missed, lines mangled, and the nadir is reached when a stage left exit results in a collision and much profanity.

Beckett is about to intervene when Martha’s patience with poor stagecraft and directing expires, not with a whimper but with a theatrical flash-bang.

“Stop!” she declaims, and everyone freezes at her tone. “Are you actors or oak trees? You!” she points at Derren-Egeus. “I remember you from Pygmalion, twenty years ago. You used to be able to act. And you!” – Oberon-Wentway shudders at her glare. “You can do better.” She swishes magnificently to the front, Carl scuttling out of her way.   She doesn’t spare him a single glance.

“Explain the concept to me,” she directs at the cast. Their words fall over each other to explain.   “Really?” she says disbelievingly. “And this is how you expect to convey that? Hopeless,” she dismisses the last ninety minutes. “Utterly hopeless. We will return to the beginning. First scene!”

The cast rearranges itself into an attitude of terrorised compliance. Up in the circle, Castle is now as riveted as Beckett had been. He hasn’t seen his mother perform in anything good in twenty years, what with living his own life and then her troubles with her ex, and he’s never seen her direct. If he’d known thirteen years ago what he is watching now… he’d have funded her himself, if she’d allowed it.

Under Martha’s dictatorial gaze and completely confident, swashbuckling direction, matters are clarifying faster than suspensions in a centrifuge. Suddenly Castle realises where his mother’s total confidence and lack of doubt is best used, and determines that he will ensure, by hook, crook or outright bribery, that she is directing plays within the next month. No wonder she isn’t picking at Beckett – she’s got a much larger stage to play with. This is what she should be doing; this is what she should have been doing all along. And somehow, over a corpse, she’s found her lost way again.

“No!” she orders. “Do it again.”

“I think we should go,” Beckett murmurs. “Your mother has matters well in hand, but this isn’t advancing my investigation any more. I wanna interview Travers, Derren, Wentway and Carl.” She smiles very edgily. “Doesn’t look like Carl’s got anything to do right now. We could take him with us.”

“Beckett, it’s after ten p.m. If you try and interrogate him now his lawyer’ll claim harassment.”

“Ugh,” Beckett says gloomily. “I know you’re right, but I want to move this along. First thing tomorrow, then.” She stands up and starts for the exit. “Derren last. Give him time to sober up.” She thinks. “No. Second to last. Carl last.”