Brenda’s first priority when we’d arrived had been to insist that Jack and I eat steaming bowls of homemade chicken noodle soup, but once we’d complied with that, she joined us in our analysis of the evidence and speculation about what move we should make next. Not that it did any good. Hours later we were still where we’d started.
Cece had already gone to bed when we got there and nobody thought it would be a good idea to wake her. I did the next best thing and asked Gordon about my Paul-as-addict-informant scenario, but he wasn’t sold on it.
“The behavior you describe might just as easily be symptomatic of nerves,” he pointed out. “Or even an extreme case of low blood sugar. It does indicate the possibility of drug abuse, but that’s not the only possibility.”
He suggested I take a look around the dressing room Paul shared with Victor, and gave me ideas for typical places where addicts hide their paraphernalia.
“How do you know so much about all this, Gordon?” I asked.
He looked at me in a way I couldn’t read. “I think I’ll make more coffee.”
***
The next day Jack took me straight from Harry’s to the theater.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked for the third time.
I thought about what Eileen had said the day before. If we cancelled this show we might as well close the Rep for good. “I’m sure I have to.”
Flank stuck his head out of the theater door, looked both ways down the near-deserted street, and came out to the car. It didn’t look like he’d slept. Or changed his clothes.
“What are you going to say?” Jack asked.
With a little luck, something that would keep the cast and crew from panicking. “I wish I knew.”
***
Simon strolled into the office just moments after I got in. “What are you wearing, darling? Aren’t you cold?” He took his leather coat off and hung it on my shoulders.
“Thanks.” I slipped my arms into the sleeves gratefully. I’d been freezing in the UC Santa Cruz tee-shirt I’d borrowed from Brenda.
“We’ve called everyone in,” Simon told me. “Paris’ crew from the workshop,” the huge building in South San Francisco where the sets were built before being loaded into the theater, “and all Martha’s staff, as well as the lighting and sound crews. Everyone we need for an old-time revival meeting.” He looked at me. “Coffee?”
After the past night at Harry’s, another cup of coffee would probably make me gag. “Simon,” I said, “before Chip gets here, there’s something I need to tell you.”
I closed the office door and brought him up to speed on the investigation, such as it was. I thought it was only fair, given that Simon seemed to be the police’s favorite suspect at the moment.
For once, he let me get through an entire story without interrupting. He didn’t say a word until I let slip the name Jack and I had been using to identify the man we believed to have set everything in motion.
“Charley!” he exclaimed, and clapped his hand over his mouth.
“What?”
“What you said! The Scottish play! We’re in a theater, for God’s sakes!” Simon grabbed me by the shoulders and pushed me towards the door. “No! Wait! Is it turn around three times and then leave the room, or leave the room and turn around three times?” He stared at me.
Of course. The Scottish play. How could I have been so stupid? It’s a common superstition in the theater that bad things happen when a company stages a production of Macbeth. Sets collapse, actors are hurt in combat scenes or fall off the stage in rehearsals. People sicken and die mysteriously. When we’d staged the play in our second year, Simon himself had been accidentally stabbed with a dagger. But since he’d sustained the wound in the prop room, while engaged in a game of “lift the sporran” with the actor playing Macduff, I hadn’t thought it could really be blamed on the play’s curse.
In any case, the superstition is so bad that it’s considered an invitation to disaster simply to say the M word in a theater. That’s why it’s referred to as “the Scottish play.”
I shook Simon’s hands off me, knowing the cure for my indiscretion. I turned around three times, left the room, spit on the floor, knocked on the door, and asked permission to re-enter the office.
Simon opened the door. “Darling, if you had to give an evil criminal mastermind a nickname, why did it have to be something that would bring us even more bloody bad luck?”
“Jack did suggest we call him Dave,” I said.
Simon opened his arms. “Come here.” He hugged me for a minute, then said, “At least all this means there’s a possibility our friend Yahata won’t be arresting me for the murders.”
I broke away. “Has he threatened you?”
Simon shook his head. “Not in so many words, but when you lead as debauched a life as I do, darling, you get to know when someone’s starting to think you’re a bit fishy. Ah, Chip.”
Chip stood at the door with a thermos of coffee and a stack of paper cups. “Do we know what we’re going to do yet?”
I responded on Simon’s behalf. “We’re bloody well going to go on.”
***
Chip had asked Lisa to assemble everyone on the stage. Before going down, I tried to put my messenger bag on the way I’d been wearing it, with the strap diagonally across my chest. But with Simon’s bulky leather coat on it didn’t fit right. I knew I’d leave the bag behind somewhere if I just slung it over my shoulder, and Jack would kill me if I wandered off without the gun again.
The guys had left me alone in the office, so I took out the makeup pouch that served as a holster. I slipped the gun out, made sure the safety was on, and tucked it into my waistband at the small of my back. The oversized Diesel Jeans label held it in place nicely. It seemed secure enough, and I’d seen people wear guns that way in the movies. I jumped up and down a few times and it didn’t jiggle free, so I figured I was good to go.
Downstairs, I looked around and saw everyone but Martha. No surprise there. I also saw Inspector Yahata, waiting in the wings. No surprise there either.
“Everybody, could I have your attention?” I called. Which was a bit unnecessary, since the entire cast and crew were looking at me expectantly.
“Did they get the bomb, Charley?” Lisa asked.
“There was no bomb,” I announced. A ripple of relieved sighs went through the crowd.
“You see,” Lisa said, “I told you all it was nothing.”
“There was something.” My words brought all conversation to a halt.
“Are we expected to stand around all day, Charley?” Olivia demanded. She was front and center in the group and clearly assumed she spoke for them all. “I demand to know why I was rushed out of here yesterday. It completely destroyed the moment I had created for my pot roast speech.”
“Your pot roast speech?” Victor yelled. “Nobody gives a shit about your pot roast speech, you stupid bitch. Chip’s already cut it twice! Yesterday was supposed to be the day we concentrated on my scene with Anna, and I was completely prepared.” He looked directly at Lisa, daring her to challenge him. “Now I don’t know if my concentration has been broken—”
“Gee, you mean you may need to go back to using your book?” someone said sarcastically from the back of the crowd.
“Who said that?” Victor screeched. “How dare you!” His eye caught little Sally Carter, giggling at him behind her hand.
“How dare you!” she mocked him, in that childish way that children have.
“You little monster!” Victor sputtered. “Where’s your mother?”
“Where’s your mother?” the girl mimicked.
“Darling,” Simon whispered to me. “I think the natives are getting restless.”
“All right, cut it out!” I yelled.
Silence.
“Victor, grow up. Sally, behave yourself.”
Inspector Yahata stepped out of the wings. “Mrs. Fairfax, if I may say a few words?”
The cro
wd turned to him, possibly the only man in a room full of performers who could actually command their attention.
The detective spoke in his standard clipped, precise tones. “Yesterday, a body was found in the theater.” There were little yelps as hands flew to cover mouths. The detective went on briskly. “It was the body of Brian Dexter, who had been hired to direct this play.” Yahata waited for the shocked murmurs to subside. “My officers and I will be here all day, asking you to think back to anything that may provide some insight into this affair. Thank you.” He turned and walked back into the shadows of the wings, where I could see his investigative team had gathered.
The silence lasted exactly three heartbeats. It was followed by pandemonium.
“Oh, that poor, dear, boy!” Olivia moaned in her most sell-it-to-the-back-row voice. “Killed in the prime of life!” As far as I knew, she’d never met the poor dear boy.
“And just like the playwright, what’s-her-name.” This was contributed by the sound engineer.
“Someone’s got it in for us! Someone’s going to kill us all!” I don’t know who said that, but it seemed to set the mood for the whole group.
“Well, I’m not going to stick around to be picked off by some serial killer,” called Paris’ master carpenter. “And anyone who does is crazy!”
Everyone began shouting at once. I looked around in desperation and caught sight of Flank, in the orchestra seats, with his gun drawn. I knew the cast and crew were quickly becoming an angry mob, but they didn’t pose a threat to me, and pulling out a gun was a good way for my bodyguard to get shot by the police.
“Stop!” I yelled. I meant it for Flank, who looked at me with surprise and reluctantly holstered his gun. But my shout had also had the effect of silencing all the yelling onstage. I took advantage of that.
“Everybody, just stop panicking. We don’t know if there is any connection at all between the death of Nancy Tyler,” I stressed the playwright’s name for the benefit of the sound engineer, “and Brian Dexter.”
“How can they not be connected?” a voice called. It was the wigmaster. “They were both working on this play. Just like the rest of us.” He looked around for confirmation.
“The point is,” I spoke over the muttered agreements, “that both Nancy and Brian died several weeks ago. And nothing suspicious has happened since.” At least nothing I was going to tell them about. Cast and crew began exchanging uneasy glances.
“This is a horrible thing to have happened, but we can’t let it stop us from doing the very best we can to help the police, and doing the very best we can to put on this production.” I saw Olivia about to protest, and stormed over her words. “I know you’re probably thinking we can’t go on. But we have to.” I tried not to sound desperate. “This is the only play Nancy Tyler ever wrote. Her whole family is going to be here on opening night to see her dream come alive.” Her whole family was one sister and an orphaned cat, but I was on a roll. “We can’t let her down.”
Help came from an unexpected source. “Charley’s right!” Regan said. “What is this play about but overcoming obstacles and following your dreams? We have to follow this through. We have to put this play on. For Nancy and for all of us!”
The cynical part of my brain, which is the larger part, knew that this play also provided a fabulous role for Regan, and that the publicity surrounding the murders would guarantee her maximum exposure. There was also the possibility that she had either committed the crimes or was working for the person who had. But she was agreeing with me, so I let it go.
“You heard what the lady said,” Paris called out. “If any one of my crew wants to leave you just go on out that door. Who’s going? Come on, speak up!” The group of builders, carpenters, stagehands, electricians, scenic artists, and engineers looked at each other uncomfortably. Since most of them were union employees, there weren’t exactly free to walk without legal ramifications. Still, Paris’ challenge set the right emotional tone.
“Well, we’re staying,” the lead stitcher called, the tailor and wigmaster nodding enthusiastically. “We won’t abandon Martha!”
“I’m absolutely staying,” Lisa spoke up with determination. “Nothing can keep me from finishing this job.” She turned to the cast. “How about the rest of you? Olivia? Victor? Paul? Sally?” She looked at each of the actors in turn.
Victor spoke up loudly. “I want police protection!” he declaimed. “I won’t stay in this theater without it!”
“I think we can count on Inspector Yahata to maintain a police presence for the time being.” The detective met my eyes. Yep, we could count on a police presence all right.
“I’ll have to ask my mom,” Sally said.
“I’ll talk to her about it,” I reassured her.
“I’m in,” Paul said simply.
“Then we’re all staying!” Olivia trumpeted regally. As if she had been the force for keeping the group together. And then she uttered the inevitable line. “The show must go on!”
I returned everyone’s hugs and handshakes gratefully in the general surge of enthusiasm that followed. But I couldn’t help wondering if, by convincing these people to stay at the Rep, I had just put them all in horrible danger.
***
“Mrs. Fairfax.”
I’d felt Yahata’s presence before he’d spoken my name. I looked up from the desk in the theater office to find him standing in the doorway.
“Inspector. Thank you for your help down there.”
He inclined his head a fraction. “Of course.” He took a quick survey of the room. “Is your husband here?”
“No. Can I give him a message?” I was dying to know what those two talked about when I wasn’t around. “Come in.”
The detective moved into the room. “We have learned something about Brian Dexter which might be important.”
“Oh?”
“Your colleagues were correct in their assessment that he had lied about much of his experience.”
“Oh.” Was that all?
“It seems Mr. Dexter had worked mainly in television. In fact, his most recent job was as a producer of a television reality show.”
“You’re kidding.”
The detective looked at me with mild surprise. Of course he didn’t kid. “The name of the show was Cheaters Paradise. The premise was that couples were invited to a luxury resort. At the resort a group of actors, posing as gigolos, seduced the women away from their husbands.”
My jaw dropped.
“Mr. Dexter’s responsibility was to provide the actors.”
The real impact of Yahata’s statement took a few seconds to hit me. When Macbeth had needed an actor to seduce Cece…I gulped. Brian had been working for Macbeth.
I stared at the detective. “I’ll tell Jack.”
“Thank you.” And he was gone.
Chapter 25
After the meeting, the cast and crew pulled together in a way they never had before. There was less bickering, less backstabbing. And when a week passed with no further corpses turning up, people gradually stopped jumping at the slightest noise and abandoned the use of the buddy system when going from dressing room to stage. We were making steady progress, and the production was coming together. Which was good, because we opened in two weeks.
Jack had learned from Yahata that Tom Nelson had indeed been one of the actors on Brian’s list of rejected applicants to Cheaters Paradise. So had a man named Blake Blaine, who had admitted to having been hired to romance Nancy Tyler.
“His story is almost identical to Nelson’s,” Jack told me. “He was hired over the phone, given instructions over the web, and told to take Nancy to the hotel that night, then leave her in the room while the TV crew explained that it had all been a show.”
“Does he have any idea who actually came to the room? Who actually killed Nancy and brought her to our room?”
Jack shook his head. “He has no clue.”
Just like the rest of us.
***
At least I was finally getting into the directorial thing, possibly because it provided a convenient distraction from my complete lack of progress in the murder investigation. In any case, it gave me something else to obsess about.
Currently I was obsessing over a line from a poem by Shelley that Regan’s character, Anna, quoted in Act Two. I couldn’t figure out how much significance to give it. Had our playwright not been murdered, I could have discussed it with her.
“Jack?” I reached over and nudged him a little. It was a Sunday, and I wasn’t going to the theater until the afternoon, so we’d both slept in.
“Mphrrmmph?”
I chose to interpret that as “Yes, my beloved?”
“Do you know much about Shelley?”
Jack rolled onto his back, blinking. He cleared his throat. “Shelly who?”
“Percy Bysshe Shelley.” I have a degree in English literature, but I’ve never been sure how to pronounce the man’s middle name. “The poet.”
Jack sat up on one elbow, rubbing his eyes. “Shelley the poet. Do I know what about him?” Sometimes Jack wakes up slowly.
“Can you place the quote ‘Gives grace and truth to life’s unquiet dream?’”
“Can I place it?”
“Do you know what poem it came from? I need to know what gives grace and truth to life’s unquiet dream.”
He looked at the clock. “At eight in the morning?” He slumped back into the pillows. “Pumpkin, I hate to say it, but it’s possible you married the wrong guy.”
“Like hell I did,” I reassured him. “You have other uses.”
His mouth twitched. “Oh, sure. You just want to have your way with me, then you’ll cast me aside to go buy a book of poetry or something.”
“The bookstores probably don’t open until noon on Sunday.”
He eyed me speculatively. “Think that’s long enough?”
***
Later, after Jack had left for Mike’s, I yawned and stretched and wondered what to do with the remains of the morning.
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