The Jewel and the Key

by Louise Spiegler

  He was a short, whiskery young man with a book called Thus Spake Zarathustra sticking out of his coat pocket.

  “Did he tell you his plan?” Tom asked Addie once they’d been introduced.

  “You mean my plan?” she corrected sweetly.

  “Ah,” Tom said airily. “I must listen more closely to Mr. Shaw on the cunning of the female sex. But—” He hiccupped, releasing a sour aroma of hops in Addie’s direction. “But how exactly will it help to replace our piece of truth-telling journalism with a mildly inspiring jaunt into Mrs. Powell’s undertaking to buy socks and bandages for the troops with proceeds from a benefit performance?”

  “You’ll see,” Reg told him as they reached the car. “When’s opening night, anyway?”

  “Friday.” Addie glanced at Reg to double-check. He looked up over the hood and nodded as the engine started to splutter.

  They stopped at a three-story apartment building long enough for Tom to run in and return with a canvas bag slung over his shoulder and a rectangular leather-covered camera in his hands. Then they roared across town at twenty miles an hour, maximum. It was crazy, the amount of roaring you could do at that speed with no muffler and no windows.

  “As I see it,” Tom continued when they climbed out of the flivver near the Jewel, “there are two possibilities. Either Reg is selling out—”

  “Or I need a new cover story to fool the provost and we put the Wobbly story on page two.”

  “You’ll get in trouble,” Tom said mournfully. “Booted out of school, I bet.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. The worst that can happen is I get fired as editor. It’s nearly the end of the quarter in any case, and who knows where we’ll all be next year?”

  They walked around to the front of the theater. It was the first time Addie had seen the outside of the Jewel in Reg’s time. She fell back, staring. The ticket window was ready for business, the brass on the doors was shining, the doorways were swept, and the early dahlias were blooming in pots by the entrance. The place was positively majestic against the clear blue sky. If only Becky Powell could restore her sad wreck to this! Addie's gaze traveled up to the marquee and she read MR. FREDERICK HARRISON IN MACBETH—RED CROSS BENEFIT OPENING NIGHT.

  “Take a shot of the front,” Reg told Tom. He stepped back on the sidewalk. “This is a good angle, over here.”

  “You'll need interior shots as well,” Addie put in quickly. She felt a little guilty, using their difficulty with the provost to further her own ends. But how did it hurt anyone if she helped get Reg's article published while Tom shot the pictures Becky Powell needed at the same time?

  “Interior shots?” Reg said impatiently. “What’s the point of that?”

  What is the point, as far as they’re concerned? Addie wondered. “Well, you're not going to have a lot of text, are you? Why not fill up space on the front page with photos?”

  “But Tom will be taking pictures of the rehearsal, right? Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  “Right, but...” Addie scrambled to think of something convincing. “The promotion shots for Macbeth are one thing, and the photos for your decoy story are another. Besides, if you get interior shots of the Jewel, they can be standbys, you know, any time a freelancer wants to write an article about the theater.”

  Tom, who was surveying the façade with a critical eye, said, “It's probably worth taking extra shots of the theater anyway. Candids are tricky. If they turn out, we’ll use them. But if not—we just need something to paste into that story tonight.” He gestured at the big camera bag at his feet. “Good thing I’ve got flash equipment.”

  “As long as you don’t set the place on fire.” Reg sounded as if he thought this marginally possible.

  “Take a lot of pictures,” Addie told Tom, trying not to look too delighted. “The stage and the box seats, and the pharaoh above the proscenium, and the dome. All of that. We’ll also need a photo of the auditorium,” she rushed on. “And, Tom ... can you develop an extra set for me?”

  “An extra set for Miss McNeal,” Tom said pleasantly and, looking through the viewfinder, stepped back as far as he could on the sidewalk. “No, this is no good,” he complained. “I’ll have to stand in the middle of the road. Be a good fellow, Reg, and hold the traffic at bay while I get this shot.”

  Reg looked dubiously at the carts and automobiles careening along the street behind them. He pulled the rolled-up copy of the Daily out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Addie. In a low voice, he said, “Give this to our friend, will you? I mean, in case I perish in the attempt to get this shot.”

  Addie nodded and went inside. She headed to the stage and then went through the door leading to the small side hallway.

  Outside the janitor’s closet, she saw a girl placing a tray carefully on the floor.

  “Frida,” she said quietly.

  The girl whirled around, her hand on her chest. “Sweet Saint Lucy!”

  “I’m sorry I scared you.”

  “It's all right.” Frida flung her flour-covered arms around her. “I never got to say thank you for what you did!”

  “What did I do?” Addie asked, hugging her back.

  “When the coppers were here. You were so smart and quick!”

  Addie smiled and pulled the Daily from her bag. “Reg wanted your father to see the article he wrote.”

  “He’ll like that.” Frida gave a soft knock and hoisted the tray from the ground. Addie could see that it was heaped with cold chicken and cooked carrots and bread and a hunk of cheese. Frida must have been cooking for her dad in Mrs. Powell’s apartment.

  Peterson opened the door and they stepped in. Frida put the tray on the low table and hugged him with her usual rough enthusiasm. “Hello, darlin’,” her father said.

  Addie closed the door behind them. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she regarded Frida’s dad with concern. He didn’t look ill exactly, but he didn’t look well either. His face was pale, his brow furrowed with worry. His hands, creased and scarred with the marks of old injuries, clasped each other nervously. When he released Frida, he turned to Addie and said, “Welcome, miss.”

  “Hello, Mr. Peterson. Are you—are you all right?”

  “Stir-crazy.” Lightly, he slapped his hand against the door. “I ain’t free yet, I guess that’s all it comes down to.”

  “I brought you something.” Addie handed him the paper.

  Peterson managed a weary smile. “Now that brings some light into the day. Stay a minute. I’ll read while I eat.”

  Poor man, Addie thought. The Wanted poster with Peterson’s picture flashed into her mind. How much were they offering for a reward? And what would happen to the Powells if he was caught? Considering how much trouble the provost thought Reg would get into for just writing about the men in prison, the punishment for hiding one of them must be pretty severe.

  “I got to get to work, Dad.” Frida smoothed her apron. “I’ll come back and get the plate later.”

  Addie said goodbye and followed her back out into the hall and then started violently as a voice called, “Miss McNeal! Is that you?”

  She swung around and saw Andrew Lindstrom heading down the corridor toward them.

  “Oh—hello,” she managed to say. Don’t look guilty, she told herself. After all, there was nothing wrong with being back here, was there? Nothing at all.

  Except that Peterson picked that moment to stick his head out of the closet and put the newspaper in Addie’s hand. “I’d better not keep this—”

  “Who the devil are you?” Andrew demanded.

  Oh, no. This is it. Addie's mind whirred. What should they do?

  Frida grabbed her hand. To Addie’s dismay, a spark of defiance had flared in Peterson’s face. She and Frida exchanged a frightened glance. But then—thank goodness—Peterson slumped his shoulders and looked deferentially at the ground. “I’m the new janitor,” he said, “sir.”

  “Let me see what you gave Miss McNeal.” Andrew grabbed the new
spaper out of Addie's hand. “‘Wobbly Prisoners Held Under False Charges.’” His eyebrows shot up. “What’s this?”

  “It’s the Daily, that’s all,” Addie said quickly. “I must have dropped it.”

  “Dropped it where?” Andrew asked, but he wasn’t paying attention. His eyes swept across the page and stopped as they came to the byline. “‘Reg Powell,’” he read and looked up at Addie triumphantly. “Well, well. The things you learn about people.”

  Addie had to fight down the desire to smack him. “Can I have it back now?” she asked, but Andrew was reading and didn't seem to hear her. Pretended not to hear.

  Frida glanced at her dad and jerked her head toward the auditorium. He gave a faint nod and went off in that direction, careful to pull a mop out of the closet as he went. Andrew raised his eyes from the page and watched him. Could he have recognized him from the Wanted poster? Addie wondered nervously. Even though the picture on it was only a sketch, it was a fairly good likeness.

  “Come on, Miss McNeal,” Frida said, as if resuming a conversation. “You too, Mr. Lindstrom. I’ve got a roast chicken upstairs for all of you, nearly ready for carving. Aren’t you lucky I work Saturdays?”

  Andrew stuck the paper in his jacket pocket, still gazing suspiciously at Peterson’s retreating back. Addie’s ribs ached with tension. He wasn’t going to follow him, was he?

  “Mrs. Powell was setting up the table,” Frida continued, with a worried look. “I know she’s waiting for you.”

  She took a step in the direction of the auditorium entrance and glanced back to see what he would do.

  Addie put a hand on Andrew’s elbow for a second. “We’d better hurry,” she said. To her relief, the light touch caught his attention and he turned and accompanied her as she set off toward the entrance to the auditorium.

  “Meg’s looking for you,” he said. “Where did you and the heir apparent disappear to?”

  “Out for a drive.”

  “Oh, that’s what they call it these days?”

  Addie shot him a look as they mounted the stairs to the stage. She hadn’t disliked Andrew before, but suddenly she was beginning to.

  A table had been set up backstage and Meg, Emma Mae, Hettie, and Peter were settling down around it. Emma Mae had an earthenware jug in her hand and was pouring cider into everyone’s glasses.

  Meg scowled at Addie. “Well, well. If it isn’t my assistant. If you’re going to be slipping out with Emma Mae’s wicked son at every opportunity, I don’t know how we can work together. I don’t need a helper who’s asleep at the switch.”

  Addie froze, stricken with remorse. It was true. She’d just run off without a word. Again. And Meg had told her there was an evening rehearsal. “I’m so sorry! Please, Mrs. Turner, I didn’t mean—”

  The director’s stern look dissolved. “Ooo, I love a little kowtowing from my troupe,” she teased. “It’s all right. This time. I’ve already told Emma you’ll be working on Peer Gynt. Just keep your eye on the track. And come have some supper, unless that boy fed you in some unsavory den of vice somewhere.”

  “No, no, he didn’t.” She turned to Emma Mae, who had finished filling the glasses. “And I’d love to work on Peer Gynt. If that's all right, Mrs. Powell.” She knew she was ignoring all the problems with this scenario. But it was just too tempting. The thought of working with Meg, becoming part of the life of this theater—it all made her feel so happy, she couldn’t let herself come to her senses about it. Not quite yet.

  “Of course it’s all right,” Mrs. Powell said, picking up the jug again and pouring her a glass. “Though I’m not sure about disappearing with Reg. We may need to have a talk about that.” Addie’s eyes widened in alarm, but Emma Mae went on, “Not now. Please, do sit down and have some food.”

  “I’d love to...” Remember what you’re here for, she reminded herself. “But I’m supposed to be helping Reg and Tom. With publicity shots for Mac—the Scottish play. Have you seen them?”

  “Oh, yes. Pointing that silly Brownie camera at everything. Apparently we rate a headline in the college news. A tiny conflict of interest, I thought, but Reg didn’t seem bothered. They’ve gone back to the newspaper office to develop the film. He said to tell you he’d be back soon.”

  “I thought they were staying for the rehearsal.” Addie clicked her tongue in annoyance.

  “It seems not. Something about meeting a deadline. I couldn’t understand what they were going on about.” Emma Mae turned back to Meg and the others. “So tell me what you think about the new play—”

  Addie stifled a groan. She’d meant to go with them. How else would she get the photos? Besides, she thought with a pang, I can’t stay here forever, can I?

  “How long till dinner?” Meg called after Frida, who was on her way to the stairs.

  “Ten minutes,” Frida called back.

  “Good. We have time.” She sprang out of her chair. “Come with me, Addie. I have something to show you. Excuse us, all of you.”

  The theater was strangely quiet as Addie followed Meg down the stairs and into Mrs. Powells office. Inside, Meg swept aside the papers on the desk (as if it were hers, Addie thought) and stooped down to pull some things out of a box on the floor.

  “Come take a look,” she said. “I’m so proud of my acquisition!”

  Addie watched curiously as Meg placed four or five carved wooden objects on Emma Mae’s desk. It was a set of brightly lacquered masks painted red, yellow, and green with bold black lines around the eyes and lips, and golden designs on the cheeks. The noses jutted like huge curved beaks. The one on the far left was a half-mask. Under the nose, a black mustache bristled in every direction. The mouth was a large empty O.

  It was the mask in the photo from the bookstore.

  Wonderingly, Addie picked it up and held it to her face. “Reg will wear this one,” she said quietly, almost to herself.

  Meg’s lips crooked in a quizzical smile. “That’s right. How did you know? The next time we do the troll-king scene, I’ll have him try it out. What do you think?”

  Addie’s throat was dry. “I think they’re wonderful. Are ... are you going to cast Reg for sure?”

  “If he’ll take it.” Megs elfin features pinched in exasperation. “Stupid boy. Everyone seems to know how good he is except him. I actually wanted him for Peer—don’t tell Andrew—and the only reason I didn’t broach it, other than the small matter of college, is that he’s so unreliable. It seemed safer to offer him a smaller part.”

  Addie walked over to a mirror on the wall and held the mask to her face. She knit her brows into a terrific scowl, the way Reg had during the read-through. It made her laugh. “This will look fantastic.”

  “I thought so.” Meg beamed. ‘And I’ve got another idea. Remember what you said about the motes in the trolls’ eyes?”

  “Yes.”

  “We can get that across using pocket mirrors.”

  Addie turned around to face her and lowered the mask. “How?”

  “By catching the light on—oh, never mind. Here, I’ll show you. Where’s my mirror?” Meg thrust her hand into the pocket of her jacket, and drew it out again. “Drat! I don’t know where it’s gone. You don’t have one, do you?”

  Addie put the mask back on the desk. “I do,” she said slowly. “But it’s kind of special.”

  “Oh, I won’t hurt it.” Meg held out her hand and snapped her fingers impatiently.

  Addie hesitated, wishing she hadn’t said anything. But what did it matter? Meg wouldn’t run off with it. She’d just have to get it back quickly. Carefully, she pulled out the mirror and passed it face-down to Meg Turner.

  Meg’s face froze. “Where did you get this?” she demanded.

  “I found it.”

  “You found it?” Meg gave her a look of incredulous fury. “But this is my mirror!”

  Addie actually took a step back, as if dodging a slap. “What? How—how could that be?”

  But even as the words were
leaving her lips, she knew Meg was right. She should have realized! Those were all Meg’s things in the crates, weren’t they? The costumes. The props. The papers. Even—she glanced down at herself in dismay—even the dress she was wearing.

  A dull heat spread across her face. Meg must think she was a thief! “I had no idea it was yours! I found it in an old crate in my dad’s bookstore—”

  “Well, I don’t know how it turned up there... if it did.”

  “I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you’re saying.” Addie’s head was pounding. She pressed her fingers to her forehead, wishing just once she could blurt out the truth. “I think...” she began unhappily. Oh, how to explain it? “I think its both of ours. I think it’s a very weird, creepy mirror, and it belongs to both of us at the same time.”

  Meg threw herself into Emma Mae’s leather chair and put the mirror down on the desk. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said shortly. “But it’s certainly ridiculous to say you discovered it in some bookstore when I’m the one who had it made in the first place! How is that even possible?”

  Addie stared. “You ... had it made?”

  “Of course I did. Which is why I have trouble believing—”

  “Oh, pl ease don’t be so angry!” Addie burst out. She felt near tears. “Please, please believe me. I would never steal anything from you. I don’t understand at all,” she went on softly, “but—please just tell me about it. About how you had the mirror made. Maybe I can figure it out then.”

  Meg examined her warily. ‘All right,” she said. “But only because up to this point, I’ve had a good impression of you, Miss McNeal.” Addie's heart sank. Up to this point... But to her relief, Meg went on. “I designed the mirror specially. And I paid a silversmith to make it.”

  “Why?”

  Meg smiled a thin, sardonic smile. “Because I had no luck,” she said flatly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Have you never been down on your luck? Have you never thought other people lived charmed lives and why didn’t you? That it’s all so hopeless that you need something, some kind of lucky amulet or wishing ring to help you change your life?” She raised her eyebrows in self-mockery. “Sad, yes? But that was how I felt once, long ago. And since no fairy godmother seemed likely to swoop down and give me anything like that, I custom-ordered it.”