Gregory descended the steps from the stage with casual arrogance, “I don't appreciate people observing my classes uninvited.My students are exploring private emotions.It's not a spectacle.”
Jenna noted how he emphasized the word “my”—my classes, my students—the language of possession rather than mentorship.
“That's not why we're here,” she said.“We'd like to ask you about Claudia Kingsley.”
Something flickered across Gregory's face—too quick to name.His assistant, Bridget, stilled completely.
“Claudia,” Gregory repeated dismissively.“Another student who couldn't handle the demands of serious acting.What about her?”
“When was the last time you saw her?”Jenna asked, keeping her question deliberately vague, watching for his reaction.
Gregory sighed dramatically.“I’ve got nothing to say about her,” he said.“She’s through with me, and I’m through with her.Some people simply don't have the fortitude for real artistic work.”
“And you haven't seen her during the last few days?”Jake asked.
“No, I haven't,” Gregory said.“Look, what is this about?I have a design meeting in twenty minutes, and I need to prepare.
Jenna studied him—the careful arrangement of disdain on his features, the deliberate casualness of his posture.She decided on directness.
“Claudia Kingsley was murdered yesterday.”
Bridget gasped, her notebook slipping from her grasp and hitting the floor with a soft thud.Gregory, however, maintained his composure, his expression shifting only slightly—a tightening around the eyes, a faint clenching of the jaw.
“I see,” he said after a moment.“And naturally, as her former teacher, I'm a suspect.Is that it?”
“We're speaking with everyone who knew her,” Jenna replied evenly.
Gregory's laugh was brittle.“Well, I barely knew her.She was a mediocre student with delusions of talent who couldn't handle constructive criticism.That's the extent of our relationship.”He folded his arms across his chest.“And now, I assume, you're here to interrogate me about my whereabouts yesterday, my relationship with the deceased, and other details that might incriminate me.”
“We just have a few questions—” Jake began.
“No.”Gregory cut him off.“I've watched enough crime shows to know how this works.I'm not saying another word without my lawyer present.Not because I have anything to hide, but because I'm not naive enough to think the local sheriff's department wouldn't love to pin this on the outsider from New York.”
“Mr.Ashton—” Jenna started, but Gregory turned away.
“I'm leaving now.If you want to talk further, contact my attorney.”He glanced at his watch again.“Besides, I have that design meeting.We're doing 'Little Mary Sunshine,' did I mention?A saccharine operetta for the unsophisticated palates of Trentville.It's a far cry from the Beckett and Albee I staged in New York, but one adapts or dies in this business.”
Without waiting for a response, he strode toward a door at the side of the auditorium.“Bridget, bring the production sketches to my office in five minutes,” he called over his shoulder, and then he was gone, the door swinging shut behind him.
Bridget knelt to retrieve her fallen notebook, her movements jerky with tension.Jenna exchanged a look with Jake.
“His reaction was—interesting,” Jenna said, as she turned back toward the main auditorium doors.
“It sure was.”
A voice called out.
“Sheriff Graves?Deputy Hawkins?”
They turned to see Bridget Henderson hurrying down the aisle after them.She glanced over her shoulder toward the door where Gregory had exited, as if worried he might reappear at any moment.
“I'm sorry to bother you,” she said, her voice low and anxious.“I don't think I should be telling you this, but … I think there’s something you really do need to know.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Jenna studied Bridget Henderson's face.Stress showed in the tight pull at the corners of her mouth, the uncertainty in her eyes.Jake stood beside Jenna, his notebook already open, pen hovering in anticipation of words that might prove crucial to Claudia Kingsley's murder case.
“It's just—” Bridget faltered.“It's hard to believe Claudia is really dead.”