Chapter 173: 173. No place I'd rather be
Beckett does not wake early, or easily. In fact, her first reaction to a tentative quiver of her eyelids is to shut them very firmly and slide back into cotton-wool slumber. Half an hour later she vaguely considers opening them again, and rejects it. She’s warm, cosy and comfortable, and she doesn’t see much need to change that right now. She drifts in and out of sleep for a little while, until finally the out begins to exceed the in by a large enough margin to indicate the need for coffee.
She pads out in bare feet to her kitchen and switches on the kettle on autopilot. The hissing as it heats kick starts her brain and she decides on her special reserve supply of top-notch Ethiopian, only brought out when she absolutely feels that she needs or deserves it. She sniffs the aroma from the bag with delight: inhaling deeply, and smiles. She is going to enjoy this.
She does enjoy it. Every tiny sip. She enjoys her pastry too, and reflects that buying herself some French patisserie when she purchased the ingredients for Saturday had been an excellent plan. Settled down and contented, with still more than an hour before Castle might show up, she thinks back over yesterday and Alexis’s unwitting trigger question.
Truth to tell, she and her dad had already been pretty emotionally fragile before the collective Castles descended. The day had gone well – she had certainly expected to be unable to spend the afternoon with him, and had been astonished not only to be asked, but to be able to accept with relative ease – but that doesn’t mean it hadn’t been very, very stressful, even if they hadn’t noticed the level of emotional tension.
Alexis had asked a perfectly reasonable question, so it would be completely unreasonable to be upset with her. She herself had wanted to keep everything private, so it would be just as unreasonable to be annoyed that Castle hadn’t primed his daughter better. And her dad had already bared his scars to Martha and Alexis, so asking for more would also be unreasonable. Everything is so very, very reasonable.
And they didn’t fight. They cried, a little. They hugged, rather more. It was… it was shared pain, not antagonistic pain and anger. Quite, quite different. Possibly, even, a good thing.
She thinks about that for a while. Shared pain, just as there had been the shared fragments of memory, stiletto-sharp and piercing – but shared. She had thought about this, before, with Dr Burke, but not reached this point. Then again, that had been two weeks ago, and – oh. Part of what she’d thought then was at least partially wrong. She’d thought I’ve spent too long supporting him to think that he can support me. But last night – that hadn’t been entirely true. She’d said, at Dr Burke’s, He’s still my dad, even if he’s not the one I turn to, but last night she’d simply wanted her dad. He’d offered her Castle, but… they’re still a family. Nothing has changed the fact that he is still her dad.
Slowly, and not a little painfully, fuelled by coffee, she thinks it through. Yes, the fault was her father’s in the first place. He’s accepted that, long since: tried to make his amends and reach over the gaping crevasse. She… had tried too: been let down and then, thinking the fault was hers, tried to hide the fault in their relationship rather than trying to understand it. Now, they both understand.
Now, yesterday, they shared their understanding of their shared pain.
Maybe, now, that’s the breakthrough that they needed: not at Dr Burke’s but at her father’s apartment; the breakthrough not the shared family meal and watching, without agony, the Castle family relationships but a hug in a kitchen; tears dried on kitchen towel. Dr Burke, she thinks sardonically, will find that very mundane.
Oh. Oh. She had watched the Castle father-daughter relationship without pain. Okay, so maybe that’s because it had been swallowed by the other issue… but maybe not. Just maybe, not.
She quite deliberately revisits every moment of the previous day. Here in the fresh sunlight of a May morning; in the calm, unthreatening abstract softness of her apartment; she can do that. When she’s done, though she has certainly winced a few times, and then a few times more, just as when she had forced herself to look around Castle’s loft and absorb its family atmosphere: the photos and the knick-knacks, she can see that she had been far less tense – if not relaxed – with Alexis’s relationship with her father than the previous time. Progress. Actual, tangible, definite progress.
More, there has been actual, tangible, definite progress with her own father, even before Alexis’s naïve and triggering question. Which, it occurs to her, might have been the reason why she was less stressed about the Castle-Alexis axis – oh, Kate. Get your head in the game, Kate, she admonishes herself. Dr Burke had told her that, way back. You will be unable to forgive your father until you forgive yourself, I also do not consider that you will be able to forgive yourself until you have established for yourself your father’s feelings. And then later: If you do not come to terms with a revised relationship with your father, whatever that relationship may be or indeed if there is no relationship at all, then you will not be able to deal with Mr Castle’s family.
So. Easier with her own father, easier with Castle’s fatherly aspects.
She tries to take another mouthful of coffee, and discovers that it’s finished. She wanders back to the kitchen to make more, still thinking in the clear morning light, streaming through her large windows. She takes it to the table where her little stone bird stands jauntily, the smooth red quartz beside it, puts the pot and mug down beside them, carefully, each on a mat, and stares out, a serene half-smile creeping on to her face, into the bright day, the cheerful sunshine, the people bustling through the streets below in bright summer clothes.
Her contented reverie is interrupted by a knock on the door, at which point she remembers that Castle is coming over – is here, in fact – and she is still in a very sloppy sleep tee, panties and not a stitch else.
She doesn’t have much choice about opening the door – and anyway, why is she even worried, it’s not like Castle hasn’t seen her in considerably less – so she keeps herself carefully out of view of casual passers-by and opens it wide. Castle bounces in, wide awake and full of the joys of life and sunny days, tidily closes the door and then stands looking at her, mouth agape and eyes twinkling merrily.
“Cute,” he says happily. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this messily casual.” Beckett scrunches her nose up at him, and humphs. “I like you all messy and cute.” He takes a stride. “C’mere,” he says, completely pointlessly since he’s already secured her, and kisses her: first affectionately and then, with barely a pause, much harder and very possessively. “I really like it.” His hands wander under the sloppy tee and slide up her back. “Oh, yes. Perfect.” One hand slithers round to her front, and investigates. “Perfect for petting,” he murmurs, and then falls to kissing her again: sure and slow with hand and mouth. She sighs softly into the kiss and flows against him, letting him balance her.
They move slowly to the couch, as delicate as a dance, Castle’s broad hand and strong forearm around her waist, the other now buried in the hair at the back of her head. He sits and pulls her down after him, her smooth, bare legs swung across his lap in exactly the right alignment for stroking, her torso half-supported in the corner of the furnishing, and gives himself up to kissing for a while, interspersed with some not-quite-wholly seductive petting. He wants to have his Kat firmly established, before any conversations about the previous night take place.
Before Castle does, however, Beckett, much softer but not as far towards Kat as he might have wanted, pulls back from his mouth. Her arms remain around him, which is some consolation. He rumbles wordlessly in disappointment.
“Stop it,” she says briskly. He whines again. “We could start this conversation with ‘We need to talk’,” she says with an evil smirk. This time he emits an offended noise. “Now that I’ve got your attention…”
“Yeah?”
“I know you want to talk about last night, so let’s get it over with.”
“Urgh?” says Castle, who had not expected Beckett to take the initiative. Not when it comes to talking, at least.
“I’m not upset with Alexis.”
Castle manages not to say Thank God for that. He had spent some considerable portion of the cab ride home trying to reassure Alexis that Beckett wouldn’t hate her for ever and that she hadn’t completely screwed up.
“So I think maybe we should all go for pizza or something simple this week – with Dad if you want, but we don’t need him there – just to prove it?” Beckett sounds remarkably uncertain.
“Yes, sure,” is all Castle says about that, for now.
“Okay,” Beckett says decisively, putting a period to that aspect of the conversation. “Dad and I are okay. I think.”
“You said that last night, too.”
“So? I think it’s true. We spent the whole day together and okay there were some sticky moments but we got through.” She pauses, and leans into him. “We shared it.”
Castle tries to process that. He’s not at all sure what Beckett means, either by shared or indeed it. “Mm?” he hums, in default of saying something dumb.
“Memories,” she murmurs. “Maybe even the start of forgiveness.” That last is even quieter, but Castle still hears it clearly, and inwardly rejoices. Her voice rises to its normal pitch. “I guess I’ll have to talk about it with Burke.” She doesn’t exactly sound enthused. “He was right, again. Huh.”
Conversation appears to have closed. Beckett wriggles herself into a much better alignment, which also – Castle does not mention this – gives him an excellent view down the neck of her t-shirt, and nestles in.
“Anything else you want to talk about?”
“No.” She wriggles a little more, and settles down. “Just be here.”
He can certainly do that. There are not many places he’d rather be. There is a serene interval, while they both muse on various matters.
“Now what?” Castle eventually asks.
“Hm. More coffee. I should get myself together. I’m supposed to be on call, and it’s just lucky that nothing’s dropped yet.” Castle makes another disappointed noise, which has very little noticeable effect on Beckett. “Do you mind making the coffee – there’s a packet of Ethiopian on the counter – while I get decent?”
“Can’t you stay indecent?” Castle queries provocatively.
“No. I am not turning up to a crime scene in my nightwear.”
“Ow!” is Castle’s next noise. Clearly his unverbalised thought of but it would be so sexy had either popped out his mouth or – more likely – been written on his face.
Beckett slithers off the couch and his knee and departs for her bedroom, closing the door firmly. Castle throws her retreating form a regretful look and seeks consolation in the kettle and coffeepot. Naturally, Beckett’s phone does not ring at any stage before he reluctantly leaves for home. His only bonus is an enthusiastic make-out session, and even that remains relatively suitable for general viewing.
Just as Beckett is beginning to think about dinner, Dispatch calls. She laments her empty stomach for a moment, and then hurries to the door, Glock and shield in place. She’s dialling Castle as she goes.
“Rick Castle,” he answers, and then, “Beckett! Have we got a body?”
“We do. Meet you behind La Mama Experimental Theatre Club.”
“Oh boy,” he says enthusiastically. “There before you!”
He cuts the call before Beckett can. Fortunately she’s attained the driver’s seat of her car and can get going. It’s always annoying when he beats her to the scene.
The corpse is in full stage make-up, wigged and gowned. Besides that, it appears to be a mid-twenties woman. Until she is cleaned off, which in the face of Lanie’s protective growling will not happen until she arrives in the morgue, it is rather hard to decide on any other notable feature. Naturally, there is no wallet or driver’s licence in her costume, which is absolutely no help at all. She appears to have been stabbed, though Lanie won’t be definitive.
The four of them enter through the stage door in the alley behind the theatre, leaving a precautionary uniform on each door into the alley, sending a group round to the front to cover anyone trying to sneak out of those exits, and letting CSU happily do their thing around the whole area. Esposito’s eyes are flicking here, there and everywhere: a little tense at the evidently unfamiliar setting. Beckett rapidly concludes that he was never a theatre kid. This is entirely unsurprising. She tries to picture Esposito in a theatre at any age and fails. Ryan, of course, is trotting round after Castle, who is entirely confident and probably knows the backstage area of every theatre north of Alabama by heart. Possibly the stage area, too.
Beckett, courtesy of her musical theatre society experience (albeit that was ten years ago), is relatively familiar with the layout of a theatre. She strides through the backstage corridors and rapidly finds herself front of house. It appears that a rehearsal is, or was, in progress.
“Where the hell is Cali?” a relatively normally (for theatre) clad man, clearly the director, is yelling. “That was her cue! If she can’t pick up her cues what the hell is the point of having her?”
“What was the cue?” Beckett enquires, in clear, cool tones which cut straight through the chaos. It is entirely unclear to her what the production or indeed the role might have been from the set and actors in front of her.
The director emits a disgusted noise. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Detective Kate Beckett. What was the cue?”
“What would it mean to you anyway, cop? We are following in the great tradition of Thespis.”
“Really?” Beckett drawls, unimpressed. “Cue,” she raps, in a tone of absolute command.
“Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania,” the director declaims disdainfully, obviously writing her off as an only semi-educated thug.
“What, jealous Oberon!” Beckett returns. “Now, who are you?”
“I’m the director and where the fuck is Cali?”
“She’s corpsed, literally,” Castle says from behind Beckett. Beckett elbows him hard. “Ow! What?”
“Respect, Castle!”
“What the hell?” the director says again.
“Your Titania has been murdered,” Beckett says, without finding it in herself to soften that statement at all.
The assembled company immediately displays enough histrionic overacting to fill every one of Broadway’s theatres – unfortunately, only for one night, as the quality is sadly lacking. Despite her current dislike for and differences with Martha, Beckett can’t help thinking that, given that she had won an award, she’d be likely to act this bunch so far off the stage they’d be into the gods.
“Silence!” she yells, and receives it instantly. The director opens his mouth, catches Beckett’s vicious glare, and shuts it again. “Right. I need all your names, contact details and your role in this production. You! Director. You come with me. The rest of you, line up over there. Ryan, Espo, get listing. Nobody leaves till I clear it. Castle, with me.”
Beckett leads the director to the back of the stalls. “Sit down,” she says briskly. “Name?”
“Carl Caterham. I’m the director of this production. We open in two weeks. I don’t have time for this.”
“You don’t have a Titania for your Midsummer Night’s Dream either, so you’ve got bigger problems than talking to me,” she points out.
Beckett is already tired of this pretentious piece of bogus artistic integrity. He’s dressed, now she’s close enough to notice details, in velvet jacket, floppy bow tie, Prohibition-era pants and spats. His dark hair is greased back, and he has a goatee. None of this endears him to Beckett in any way at all. She is also entirely irritated that he seemed to think that being a cop means that she has no literary knowledge at all.
“What would you know about it?”
“Plenty. But even if I didn’t, allow me,” Beckett says very sarcastically, “to introduce you to my expert civilian consultant, Richard Castle. Son,” she says nastily, “of renowned actress Martha Rodgers.”
The director looks as if she’d punched him out. “M…M… Martha Rodgers? The Martha Rodgers? You” – he regards Beckett as if she’d sprouted two heads each wearing a dozen Emmys on a hat – have met Martha Rodgers?”
Oh, shit. How did she get the biggest Martha Rodgers fan in all fifty states? Well, she has. And now she’s going to use it. If only Castle doesn’t say anything, she can pull this off. She can act. She’s going to act. Right now.
“Not only have I met her on several occasions, but she has been to my apartment,” Beckett pronounces. She can feel Castle trying not to splutter. She just hopes that’s with laughter.
“I…I don’t know what to say,” the director stammers, overcome with awe. “I… I would be so honoured to meet Mrs Rodgers. Humbled. She’s a legend.” Castle’s shudders are becoming rather too persistent to be ignored. “And you’re her son?” Carl seizes Castle’s hand and pumps it vigorously. Fortunately he’s too star-struck to notice Castle wiping it fastidiously on his pants as soon as he lets go. It’s Beckett’s turn to try not to splutter, quite definitely with laughter. “Would you…”
“That would be entirely inappropriate while our investigation is ongoing, except under strictly controlled circumstances,” Beckett interjects.
“As Detective Beckett says,” Castle agrees, suavely. “However, as soon as she permits it, I could ask my mother.”
Oh, thank the small gods of detecting that Castle has a brain and can pick up his cues. Unlike their corpse. Time to switch this up.
“Okay, Carl,” Beckett begins, best intimidating stare at full wattage. Carl cringes slightly. “Tell me about this production.”
Carl puffs up again, until he meets Beckett’s eyes. “It’s a completely new take. We’re focusing on how the Oberon-Titania dynamic represents the patriarchal hierarchy of sexual dominance and women’s subjugation in a male-dominated society and zeitgeist, with all other relationships being male-male to show that sexuality has no place in the theatre and also refer back to the original intentions of the Bard where all actors” –
“Were male,” Beckett says, boredly.
“Yes,” Carl says rather sulkily. He doesn’t appear to appreciate Beckett’s knowledge. “Anyway. We open in less than two weeks.”
“You said that. So, who’s Cali?”
“Calista Corday.”
“And now her real name, not her stage name.” She taps her pen, meaningfully.
“Betty Warden.”
“How’d you choose her for the lead female role?”
Unwittingly, she’s hit the nuclear launch button. Carl ignites: theatrical gestures and oratorical declaiming in full front-of-stage flow.
“I did not choose her,” he enunciates. “She was thrust upon me. Sponsors,” he spits out. “My artistic vision made to give place to mere lucre. I had chosen Lee Kraven as the embodiment of my vision of a powerful woman reduced in scope by a masculine realpolitik” –
“Who were the sponsors, and what was Betty Warden’s relationship to them?”
“The Carriblanes. You know?” he asks, looking at Castle.
“Yeah,” Castle says. “They finance a lot of off-Broadway works. How did Betty fit in?”
“She was their protégé. It was their one condition. I’d have walked, but” –
“But you need some credits on your resume.”
“Yes.”
“What happened to Lee?”
“Understudy,” Carl pinches out of tight lips.
“I guess you’ve got your replacement, then.” Carl goes pale. “Ready made.”
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