Who's Kitten Who?

by Cynthia Baxter

  “But the three of them were inseparable. Surely you must have—”

  Clearly losing patience, he said, “I’m afraid I simply don’t remember him. I’ve taught so many students over the years. Frankly, it’s the really good ones and the really bad ones I remember best.”

  The fact that Professor Hendricks knew Simon and Kyle but didn’t remember Ian Norman gave me pause. It also made me suspicious. From the start, I’d sensed that there was something about Ian that didn’t quite ring true. The possibility that he’d lied about going to college with Kyle and Simon only increased my doubts about him.

  “Have you kept your records from back then?” I asked. “Class lists or grading sheets or any other documents with the names of all your students?”

  “I’ve kept everything. But, frankly, I don’t have the time to go through them. Not when La Cage opens in only two more days.”

  “In that case, would you mind if I went through them?”

  “I’m afraid I would,” he replied. “We’d both be committing a federal offense, since school records are considered privileged information under the Family Educational Rights and Privacy Act.”

  I sighed, unable to hide my frustration. “Professor Hendricks, is there any other way I could find out whether Ian Norman really took theater classes with Kyle and Simon?”

  His heavily-lipsticked mouth turned downward. “Not that I can think of…”

  I was about to admit to myself that I’d hit a dead end when he suddenly cried, “Wait! There is one way.”

  “Yes?” I asked, not yet daring to feel optimistic.

  “The programs.”

  “What programs?”

  “Any student who enrolls in an acting class at Brookside has to participate in at least one production,” he explained. “That includes Introduction to Acting, which is a requirement for every other course in the department. I’ve taught that class since the beginning. For each production, I make up a program with a list of the cast and crew members, and I’ve saved every single one. There’s no federal law against someone like you looking at old programs.”

  “That sounds perfect,” I told him. “And the sooner, the better. When can I see them?”

  “Whenever you want,” Professor Hendricks said with a little shrug. “They’re stored over in Quattrock—that’s the main library—in the university archives. That’s a collection of all the materials created over the years by the faculty, the staff, and the students. Most people don’t even know it exists, much less where it is. Everything you can think of is saved and stored: campus newspapers, yearbooks, posters from lectures and concerts, technical reports, you name it.”

  “And the original programs are all there?” I asked anxiously.

  “That’s right. They’re filed chronologically. Unfortunately, I don’t remember the exact years Simon and Kyle were here, so you’d have to go through them until you found the right ones.”

  I could hardly wait. “Do you know how late the library stays open?”

  “I’m pretty sure it closes at midnight.”

  “Thank you so much,” I told him sincerely. “You have no idea how helpful you’ve been. And, uh, break a leg.”

  “Thank you,” he returned, looking pleased. “Now, I wonder where I can get hold of some clear nail polish?”

  According to my map, Quattrock Library was a few buildings away from Morgan Hall. As I trudged over, I noticed that at this time of night, few students were wandering along the dark pathways. The lighting on this part of campus wasn’t very good, and once or twice I jumped at the sight of my own shadow.

  Reaching the library was a relief. I scanned the roster posted right inside the main entrance, reading through the list of departments: Architecture and Fine Arts, Engineering, Life Sciences, Special Collections…

  University Archives, Lower Level.

  In other words, the basement.

  I’ve already spent too much time in a basement this week, I thought with chagrin. But I headed for the staircase next to the information desk.

  As I tromped down the stairs, my footsteps echoed through the stairwell. The door at the bottom opened onto a single large room striped with row after row of shelves. The basement of the library didn’t appear to be one of the more popular spots on campus. In fact, the only sound was the hum of the fluorescent lights.

  I wasn’t exactly crazy about being here alone at night.

  Still, I had a mission to accomplish. Spotting a row of doors along the wall, I made a beeline for the one with the plaque that read UNIVERSITY ARCHIVES.

  Please don’t be locked, I begged silently.

  The room certainly looked locked, since the windows lining the door—two long, narrow panels made of thick, pebbly glass—were dark. But the doorknob turned easily in my hand.

  I flipped on the light switch, expecting to find a dignified homage to the university’s past. Thick carpeting, dark paneling, the whole works. Instead, the small room I stepped into was stark and uninviting. Its mustard-yellow cinder block walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling gray metal shelving, and the floor was covered with beige speckled linoleum. The only furniture was a gray metal desk with a swivel chair tucked underneath.

  Cardboard boxes and vertical magazine files were crammed onto the shelves. Still, it was clear that there was a system in place, primarily because of the neat, handwritten labels identifying the contents of each one. Thanks to a hand-drawn floor plan posted on the wall, I easily located the section allocated to the theater department.

  On a shelf just above eye level, I found a row of blue plastic magazine files labeled Theater Arts Department—Programs. Just as Professor Hendricks had promised, they were in chronological order, beginning in 1987 and continuing up to the previous year.

  I pulled down the file from fifteen years ago and brought it over to the desk. Perching on the edge of the swivel chair, I plucked out a wad of programs from the front. The one on top was from a production of Shakespeare’s As You Like It, dated November 20 through 23. I scanned the cast list but didn’t see any names I recognized.

  I tried the next one, then the one after that. Still no luck. When I’d looked through every program in that folder, I put it back on the shelf and grabbed the next one.

  Finally, in the third folder I checked, I found a program for Thornton Wilder’s The Skin of Our Teeth, one of the plays Ian had mentioned he and Simon and Kyle were in together.

  Bingo. I spotted Simon Wainwright’s name in the cast list right away. He was playing the male lead, the role of Mr. Antrobus. Kyle Carlson was also listed. Interestingly, he was playing Simon’s son, Henry Antrobus.

  Ian Norman’s name was nowhere to be found.

  I checked the list of crew members. I didn’t see it there either.

  That’s just one production, I told myself.

  I grabbed the next program. This one was for another play Ian had mentioned, David Mamet’s Glengarry Glen Ross. I knew it was about the workings of a real estate office, since I’d seen the movie. Checking through the cast list, I saw that Simon had played Ricky Roma, Al Pacino’s role in the film version. Kyle had played Kevin Spacey’s part, John Williamson.

  Once again, there was no mention of Ian Norman anywhere.

  I went on to the next one, then another. Simon’s and Kyle’s names appeared in the five or six programs that followed. And Ian’s failed to appear in any of them.

  Finally, I got to the point where I didn’t recognize any of the names. I returned the last magazine file to the shelf and contemplated what I’d found—and, even more interestingly, what I hadn’t found.

  Had I misunderstood what Ian told me? I wondered. It seemed impossible that I’d misconstrued what he’d said about Simon, Kyle, and him taking theater courses together and having so much fun that they’d even come up with a nickname for their happy little trio.

  Besides, Professor Hendricks had told me himself that every student who took an acting class was required to be in at least one productio
n. That included the most basic course, Introduction to Acting. Even if Ian had taken only one course in the department and exaggerated about all the plays he’d been in, his name would have appeared in at least one program.

  If Ian hadn’t gone to school with Simon and Kyle, why on earth would he have lied?

  And if Ian wasn’t an old friend of theirs, then who was he?

  I was still trying to wrap my head around that question when I heard a door slam. My heart instantly began pounding with the speed and ferocity of a jackhammer.

  Relax! I told myself. You’re in a public place. A library, no less. You’re not the only person who has a right to be down here. You’re simply reacting to your last visit to a basement. Besides, this time you’re on a university campus, not in an empty theater. A place of learning that’s filled with earnest students and dedicated teachers.

  My heart didn’t appear to be listening. My brain either. It clearly wasn’t about to relax, at least not until I found out who had joined me in the otherwise deserted basement.

  I stuck my head out the door, expecting to see a scowling college student wandering around, looking for some obscure document that was required for an assignment. Or perhaps a librarian type who wore an ID tag and looked very much at home.

  I didn’t see anyone.

  It’s a big place, scolded that same voice, the one that struggled to find logical explanations for things. With all these rows of shelves, there’s an excellent chance that whoever else is down here would be hidden from view.

  All of a sudden, the lights went out.

  In the big room, at least. Yet it was hours before closing time. Which made it likely that the person who had just joined me in the basement had decided to make it a dark basement.

  But the lights in the archives were still on. Which meant whoever was out there now knew exactly where I was.

  A sudden burst of adrenaline catapulted me into action. I pushed the door closed and locked it, then flipped off the light.

  I immediately heard footsteps. Fast, determined footsteps that were heading my way.

  Acting on the same instinct, I crouched behind the metal desk. By that point, my eyes had begun to adjust to the darkness of the small room. As they did, I realized that dim light was coming through the mottled glass alongside the door.

  It was probably from exit signs glowing somewhere in the main room, I figured. It didn’t provide much illumination, but at least I could see out better than the other person could see in.

  I kept my eyes glued to the windows, trying to brace myself for whatever was to come. But I still gasped when a silhouette suddenly appeared in the translucent window in the door. The thickness of the glass, as well as its uneven texture, made the silhouette look ghostly, with no clear edges. I couldn’t make out who it was—or even whether it belonged to a male or a female.

  And then I heard the doorknob click.

  My stalker was trying to open the door.

  I rummaged through my purse, trying to find my cell phone. Not an easy task, given how hard my hands were shaking. Call the police, I thought. But I knew it would take the police forever to get here.

  I was sure my pursuer realized that too.

  The doorknob began to rattle. Loudly. Angrily. The person on the other side of the door was clearly growing increasingly frustrated over being locked out.

  By that point, so much adrenaline was shooting through my veins that I felt nauseous. The lock on the door hadn’t struck me as particularly strong. And the two glass panels were thick, but not exactly impenetrable.

  I needed a way out—fast. Preferably one that didn’t involve flinging open the door and confronting my stalker face-to-face.

  Chapter 17

  “When the old dog barks it is time to watch.”

  —Latin Proverb

  Slowly I raised my head above the edge of the desk. I could still see the wavy silhouette of whoever had followed me into the library’s archives. He or she was out there, waiting—no doubt thinking that sooner or later I’d have to come out.

  You’ve got to stop spending so much time in deserted basements, I told myself.

  But this wasn’t exactly the best time for contemplating lifestyle changes. Frantically, I scanned the desktop, hoping I’d find some way of escaping—safely. But all I saw were the usual office items: a neat stack of file folders, a pencil mug, a telephone…

  All of sudden, a burst of optimism exploded inside me like a firecracker. The solution was right in front of me.

  It came in the form of a small white sticker that was affixed to the phone. It read, For Campus Security, Dial 4-3232.

  I made a point of speaking loudly as I told the dispatcher that I was in the basement of Quattrock Library and that I wanted a security guard to walk me to my car. Just as I expected, the silhouette disappeared almost as soon as I got the words out.

  The moment I heard footsteps heading away briskly, I dashed over to the door and opened it, just a crack. But from that vantage point, I couldn’t see anybody.

  Still, the fact that he or she was now running away from me, instead of toward me, gave me confidence. I was suddenly angry that this mysterious person had been causing so much trouble in my life lately.

  If I could only get a good look, I thought, even if it’s just from the back…

  Treading as softly as Cat, I took a few steps into the big room, then immediately cozied up to a tall shelf that I knew would keep me hidden. Even in the dim light, I could see that I was having a close encounter with the complete history of Rules for Dormitory Living at Brookside University. Cautiously, I peered around the side.

  I caught sight of my stalker, all right—at least, his or her left foot, clad in a white sneaker, right before it disappeared behind the door to the stairwell along with the rest of the body attached to it.

  My thoughts raced as the sound of footsteps hurrying up the steps grew fainter and fainter.

  To chase or not to chase? I thought.

  Before I’d even made a conscious decision, I found myself heading toward the door and racing up the same stairs. When I reached the top, I threw open the door.

  And found at least twenty people coming into the library, leaving the library, or holding casual conversations in the entryway.

  At least half of them wore white sneakers—and not one of them looked familiar.

  I dashed to the front entrance and out into the night. But none of the few souls I saw wandering around campus had on white sneakers.

  I decided to wait for the security guard I knew was on his way. Calling the campus security office and requesting an escort had just been a ploy designed to scare away my stalker. But having a little company on this dark, unfamiliar campus suddenly seemed like a good idea.

  “I should never have asked you to get involved, Jessica,” Betty said with a sigh as the two of us crossed the Theater One parking lot the following evening. “Too many frightening things have happened. First I got that strange threatening phone call from that actress. Then you were lured to the theater under false pretenses and trapped in the basement. And now you’re telling me that last night someone at the Brookside University campus was following you.”

  “But, Betty, how can we be sure any of those events were related to Simon Wainwright’s murder?” I asked. Not that I believed for a moment that they weren’t. Still, I was looking for a way to soothe Betty’s anxieties. Now that I’d come clean about the mysterious goings-on of the last two days, she blamed herself.

  I regretted having told her anything at all. Ordinarily, I would have done my best to protect her. Then again, ordinarily I would have had Nick to confide in. With no one else to talk to, I’d given in to the temptation to tell Betty. I realized immediately that I’d made a big mistake.

  “Such terrible occurrences,” Betty continued as we strode through the lobby. “I can’t help but wonder what’s next.”

  That was a question I’d learned never to ask. And the wisdom of subscribing to that policy
was reinforced as soon as we walked into the theater.

  “Oh, my goodness!” Betty cried, her hands flying to her cheeks. “Look at this place! What happened?”

  The entire theater was in chaos. My first thought was that maybe this was just another case of tech week wreaking havoc. But if Betty’s reaction wasn’t enough to tell me otherwise, all I had to do was look around to figure out that the theater had been vandalized.

  Signs of destruction were everywhere. The scenery at the back of the stage had been smashed, loose cables dangled from the ceiling, and the pieces from broken props littered the floor. The newspaper with the headlines LADY LINDY LOST had been torn into strips, and the carefully crafted bushes had been ripped completely apart, the blobs of foam strewn about like giant pieces of green popcorn. The red velvet upholstery on at least a dozen seats had been slashed.

  Even the costumes had been shredded. I immediately recognized the ball gowns Lacey had so lovingly festooned with sashes and flowers. Only now they had been reduced to bits of fabric and crushed ribbons that were mixed in with the debris scattered throughout the theater.

  Most of the other cast and crew members had already arrived. Like Betty, they were milling around the theater, looking stunned. No one spoke. It was as if the entire company had gone into shock.

  “My costumes!” Lacey shrieked as she appeared in the doorway. “Look at them! All that work for nothing!”

  “Where’s Derek?” I asked, my voice a hoarse whisper. “He must be crushed.”

  Before Betty or anyone else had a chance to answer, Corey, the lighting designer, cried out, “The lighting board! Somebody fried it!”

  I turned and saw Corey and Derek at the back of the theater, sitting at what had once been the control board for the entire theater’s lighting system.

  Derek moaned, “That lighting board cost fifteen thousand dollars!”

  “Not to mention all the hours that went into programming the computer, setting up the cues,” added Jill, who stood in the aisle, looking stricken.

  I turned back to Betty. “What does he mean, ‘somebody fried it’?”