A Fatal Finale

by Kathleen Marple Kalb

  “I probably deserved it. Don’t think that because I misjudged you that first day that I would ever make such a mistake now.”

  “I misjudged you, too.” Do not slam the door.

  For a very long second, we looked at each other, and then he finally spoke. “Enough. We can take up my intentions on another day when we are not trying to stop a murderer. Suffice to say, my intentions are indeed entirely honorable.”

  “Good to know,” I managed. He hadn’t moved his hand from my wrist. The nerves under my skin danced from his touch, warm where his thumb still rested lightly at the pulse. The sun was shining outside, so I couldn’t even blame it on some weird electricity in the atmosphere. I could feel a blush creeping across my cheeks as I returned his gaze, and I took a breath. “I think I might look forward to that day.”

  “I know I shall.”

  We just stared at each other again. I could truly drown in those eyes . . . if he were my man. So much for married to my art.

  He carefully let go of my wrist and gave me a wry smile. “Next time, kindly take my word over that of some greedy, socially mobile nathrach of a mother.”

  I’d heard that word before. “What’s that?”

  Saint Aubyn shrugged. “Scots Gaelic. Means ‘snake.’ Not an especially unusual insult in the North Country.”

  Unusual enough that I remembered the place I’d heard it before. Backstage in New Haven that last night. The Scottish boy. Or was it a boy? “Take yer hands off me, ye nathrach.” And Frances had the handprint bruise on her arm. More pieces, very ugly ones, were falling together. “Your cousin, when you knew her, did she sound like you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “By the time she worked with us, she spoke almost like an American. Close enough that we believed she was Canadian.”

  “I suppose she spoke more like a Northerner.”

  “Which might sound almost Scottish to an American ear?”

  “Why?”

  “I think she argued with someone that night. And it led them to put an extra dose in her vial.”

  “The handprint bruise on her arm?”

  “Yes. Now I simply need to figure out how to prove it.”

  “Be careful, Miss Shane.”

  “As much as I can.”

  “Surely, a good Irish girl must know a kindly officer of the law.”

  I smiled a little at that. “At least I know how to find one.”

  “Good.” The cool blue eyes suddenly warmed more than a little. “I should truly hate to see you come to harm.”

  “All right, now,” I said finally, breaking the spell because I must. “Move along. Perhaps you can get a fencing lesson with Le Comte du Bois.”

  He managed a small laugh. “Or Mr. Woods from the Bronx.”

  “As Toms says, everybody’s got a confidence game.”

  “Not quite everybody, Miss Shane.” He bowed to me. “But I take your meaning. I will leave you to your plan. Please be careful. You are dealing with a murderer.”

  “I will be.” I returned his bow. “It would do you no harm to exercise caution as well.”

  “A beer wagon may not be just a beer wagon?” Saint Aubyn nodded. “It may be wise for us all to stay on our guard.”

  His eyes held mine a fraction too long, and then he turned and walked away.

  Anna shook her head as the door closed. “He’s an odd fish, but you’ve got the hook in his mouth but good.”

  I looked at her. I doubted my New York–born-and-bred dresser had ever even seen a fishing pole. I hadn’t, outside of books. “‘Hook in his mouth’?”

  “Good figure of speech.” She gave me a sheepish smile. The lyricist likes language. “He wants you.”

  I shrugged. “It’s been known to happen.”

  “Not like the fans and admirers, Miss Ella. I saw how he looked at you and Morrie. This one wants to be the father of your children.”

  All of the shocking things I’d been thinking the other day, he’d been thinking them, too?

  “Something to think about,” Anna said, finishing her check of the buttons on my doublet.

  A few minutes later, Anna and I were walking out as Arden stepped off the stage from his rehearsal.

  We exchanged superficially friendly greetings. I carefully maintained my pleasant demeanor, to avoid giving anything away; Arden spoke with a tiny, deliberate edge in his voice so we knew he was annoyed at having to change his rehearsal time. I ignored that as beneath my notice.

  If the stagehands hadn’t been putting up the arc lights just as he turned, and he hadn’t been at exactly the right angle to the beam, he might well have walked away free. But the light struck the little drop on his watch chain, and when I saw the spark, I knew. Paste doesn’t flash like that.

  It was just one piece. I imagined he’d sold the other, somewhere. But this one was worth a good sight more. His life. It was the evidence that would prove what he’d done.

  Now I just needed a plan.

  Chapter 30

  In Which We Seek Counsel with the Good Father

  After that stunning end to rehearsal, I sent Anna home in a hansom, and had mine drop me at Holy Innocents instead of the town house. The realization that Arden was a blackmailer and a killer made me heartsick enough, never mind the possibility that he might get away to Philadelphia before we could figure out how to prove it. A few minutes with Father Michael might help. Or, at least, his sunny, sensible charm might jolly me out of this terrible, dark mood.

  More useful than spiritual consolation, however, might be a recommendation to his “Cousin Andrew the Detective,” as he was always known in the family. Cousin Andrew was probably no more open to the unproven theories of ladies than any other man, Irish or not, but a word from his sanctified cousin might help.

  “Miss Ella. You are looking both lovely and troubled today,” Father Michael said as I stepped out of the cab.

  “Troubled, for sure. I should have known you’d see it immediately.”

  “Come into the parlor and we’ll talk. Mrs. O’Bannon doesn’t make nearly as good a tea as Mrs. G, but I doubt that’s the point just now.”

  It only took a few moments for us to get settled, with Mrs. O’Bannon providing mediocre tea and impressive dirty looks. While she treats Tommy like an emissary from the pope, as far as she’s concerned, I’m not quite respectable—and I think she fears I will seduce Father Michael if she gives me the least chance. It’s not for me to point out the inaccuracy of those concerns. On this particular day, the attitude was especially grating.

  “So, Miss Ella,” Father Michael said finally, taking a good look at me over his cup. “Does this have to do with your man, the duke?”

  “He’s not my man.” I was willing to tolerate this line of conversation for a few moments before pulling it over to the real matter at hand.

  “Not for lack of wanting on either side, I suspect.”

  I just shook my head. “Neither here nor there, Father.”

  “Too bad. You may have finally found a man who’s almost your equal.” He watched me for a moment. “Miss Ella, how is your Gaelic?”

  “About as good as your French.”

  “Fair enough.” The priest grinned. “All right, you’ll have to take my word for it. Have you ever heard the phrase ‘anam cara’?”

  “No.”

  “Your duke’s Scots mother may have taught him this one. It means ‘soul friend.’ A person, not necessarily a husband or wife, but someone with whom you can share your true self and deepest thoughts and concerns.”

  I nodded slowly.

  “We can live without romantic love, Miss Ella, and many of us choose to, whether for God, or art, or family.” He took a sip of his tea. “But we can’t live without a good friend.”

  “Very true.”

  “Of course, you know Tom is my soul friend and I am his.”

  He said it matter-of-factly, and I left it there. “Of course.”

  “Well, I think your duke might make tha
t for you.”

  “A friend is good,” I said slowly.

  Father Michael twinkled at me. “Of course, in this case, a husband could be better. He might well prefer to be that.”

  “Suffice to say, my intentions are indeed entirely honorable.” “But what if he does? It doesn’t change who or what we are.”

  “Doesn’t it?”

  “I’m a singer, Father. Even a clerk expects his wife to give up her work. What would a duke expect?”

  “But is a singer all you are, or want to be?” Father Michael smiled a little. “And is he so narrow-minded that he would expect you to give up who you are?”

  I did not have a good answer for that.

  “You have much to think about.” He looked down into his tea for a moment. “I know there are many barriers to love when you two are so different. But none to friendship, surely.”

  “A good insight, Father.”

  “Does that help a bit with your troubles?”

  I sighed. “It would, if it were only a matter of love.”

  “ ‘Only a matter of love’? What’s more important?”

  “On any other day, Father, nothing. But it’s not a matter of love. It’s a matter of murder.”

  He put down his teacup and stared at me. “Murder?”

  “I am reasonably sure, but cannot yet prove, that someone killed the duke’s cousin.”

  “And you know who.”

  “I believe I do. I don’t know how to flush him out.”

  Father Michael’s usually-rosy face went pale. “Miss Ella, have you done something foolish?”

  “No.” I scowled. Of course, I’d considered just confronting Arden, but that likely would not have done much good. “I’m hoping your Cousin Andrew the Detective might be of some use.”

  Father Michael smiled, relieved. “All right. I’ll talk to him. You haven’t told anyone of your suspicions.”

  “No. I’m not even sure there’s enough evidence to bring in your cousin. But it’s probably our only chance to catch the killer before he leaves for Philadelphia.”

  “So, how do you propose to do that?”

  “He’s wearing a jewel on his watch fob that I think is from a necklace Frances took from her family.”

  “Your duke friend can identify it.”

  “Exactly.”

  The priest nodded. “And that might just be enough to convince him to give up the rest, you think.”

  “In Cousin Andrew’s hand? Quite possibly.”

  “So, what do you propose?”

  “Perhaps Cousin Andrew could meet me backstage tomorrow night?”

  “I’ll ask him. In the meantime, why don’t you go home and stay safe with Tom.”

  “Father, there’s no danger.”

  “Miss Ella, you are mixed up in murder. Of course, there’s danger.” The good priest glared down at me like any other Irishman concerned for the safety of his women. It was likely only the Holy Orders that prevented him from yelling. Tommy would have no such scruples.

  “Not much at the moment,” I said irritably. “Unless, somehow, my suspect reads minds.”

  “Be that as it may,” the priest began with a glance that was supposed to squash me, and failed miserably, “I am walking you home and handing you over to Tom, who will not let you out of his sight. And then I am going to the police station to talk to Cousin Andrew the Detective.”

  “That makes sense.” I could give him that.

  The usually amiable priest shot me one more glare, which I knew was only a shadow of what I would get from Tommy, once he tattled.

  Indeed it was. There was a good bit of yelling (mostly from him), a little crying (from me) and plenty of sulking afterward (both).

  I had barely hung up my coat and put away my hat when the fireworks began.

  “Have you taken leave of your senses?”

  Tommy warmed to his theme from there. It is the Irish way; men yell when they are concerned about their women, and we would not feel loved if they didn’t. And usually we yell right back. The problem is, an angry and concerned Irishman can yell much longer than a woman can respond in kind. Eventually we just give up and start crying.

  Wretched as it is, the crying has the desired effect. It stops the man cold and gives us an excuse to run from the room. This argument unfolded perfectly to pattern. Before it was even fully dark, I had locked myself in my room to cry, and Tommy had holed up in the sitting room across the hall, after yelling that he was still going to be here watching over me, even if I was acting like a baby.

  Mrs. G, who has seen the occasional scene before, shepherded Rosa out before the crying started. As for Montezuma, the bird wisely decided to hide in the studio, after squawking at us both.

  Well after dark, my temper cooled, and I realized I hadn’t lit my Sabbath candles. Which only made me cry again, and harder.

  After all of that, it’s fair to say that nobody had a restful night. Except possibly Montezuma. Tommy and I didn’t really make up until breakfast, when I lobbed a muffin at his head and made him laugh despite himself.

  “All right,” he said, catching it. “You don’t have to waste any more baked goods. I’m good and mad at you, but you’re still my little coz.”

  “I didn’t put myself in any danger, Toms. I asked Father Michael to bring in his cousin.”

  “And now you’re going to have some kind of donnybrook backstage tonight.” Mama Bridgewater might not be able to set me on fire with her eyes, but Tommy was making a very strong effort at it.

  “I don’t know any other way to stop Arden. It’s not dangerous.”

  “Anything involving murder is dangerous.”

  “Do you two compare notes so you can give me the same lines?”

  Tommy sighed, refusing to dignify that with a response. “Does your friend the duke know about this?”

  “Not much.”

  “And what do you think he would do?”

  “Do British aristocrats yell?”

  He smiled. “You may yet get to find out.”

  I looked down into my coffee.

  A muffin bounced by my plate. “Hey!”

  “ ‘Hay’ is for horses.”

  “Thanks for the grammar lesson.”

  “You could use a little reminder on deportment, too.”

  Chapter 31

  “O Happy Dagger”

  Cousin Andrew the Detective, a short, round-faced redhead, with sparkly eyes much like his reverend relative’s, posed as my newest bewitched admirer, appearing at my dressing-room door before performance time with a straggly bouquet to cover his notebook. His rumpled red-brown tweed jacket covered his gun, which I devoutly hoped he would not need.

  “I don’t mind telling you I don’t like your plan, Miss Shane. But I imagine my cousin and the Champ have already read you the riot.”

  “Quite loudly, as it happens.”

  He twinkled at me. “Well, I’m going to just sort of hover about the wings and see what I can see. And perhaps have a word with the unfortunate young lady’s cousin.”

  “I expect him backstage any moment.”

  “Good. I’ll leave you to your primping. Just come get me when Mr. Standish is on, so I can search his dressing room.”

  I didn’t see the duke before I went on. I assumed that he’d been buttonholed by Cousin Andrew, and gave it no further thought. Tommy was, of course, also lurking about in the wings, periodically coming into the dressing room to check on me. I couldn’t imagine how Arden might miss all of this, and I wondered if they would scare him into doing something intelligent, like hiding the evidence.

  As the benefit concert wore on, I was beginning to worry that perhaps I’d been wrong. Or worse, that I was right, and nothing was going to happen. If that damned jewel wasn’t in Arden’s possession, we’d have no chance of proving anything. All Arden had to do was hide the thing, keep his head and walk away, and he’d be free to torment the good people of Philadelphia with his Radamès. By curtain time, I was starting to t
hink that was exactly what he was going to do.

  Arden was the last act before Marie and me, and he was at the top of his form, offering a very acceptable “Celeste Aida,” one of those arias I wasn’t at all sure he could carry off night after night in Philadelphia. If I was wrong about that, I wondered with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, could I have been wrong about the rest of it?

  As the tenor sang away, I slipped into the wings. It took longer than I’d expected to find Cousin Andrew, then climb the stairs to the men’s dressing rooms. I was keenly aware of the passing of time as I walked him to Arden’s door and pointed to the dressing table. I breathed a little prayer of thanks as I saw that the watch chain, with the fatal jewel, was clearly visible. Whatever Deity was listening, it was helpful of Him to leave Arden arrogant and stupid to the end. The detective nodded to me and slipped inside, closing the door.

  As he did, I realized Arden was no longer singing.

  I turned away to head downstairs to prepare for my entrance, but there he was, standing at the top of the stairs.

  “You!” he snarled.

  “It’s over, Arden. We know.”

  “It’s over for you, too, then.” Arden lifted his sword and lunged for me. There was only one place to go. The stagehands’ catwalk, a few steps up from where we were, and far into the flies.

  I took off. The catwalk, a little metal bridge with a thin rail on one side, was significantly higher than the balcony, but I didn’t have time to be scared. Arden followed me, swinging his sword, the big heavy blade of his character, an Egyptian Captain of the Guard. I heard a couple of slashes and dings as he hit things on his way.

  I drew my own sword. I was going to need it.

  As I stepped onto the catwalk, there was suddenly a lot of light—and an almighty crash. The scenic drop that hid the bridge from the audience had fallen away. I guessed Arden had slashed the rope with one of those wild sweeps of his sword.

  Applause from the audience, which likely thought it was part of the evening’s entertainment; and five feet below, a scream from Marie, standing on her balcony, waiting for me. She looked up at us, stunned for a second.