Final Call

by Rachel Ann Nunes

  I’d saved his since, though, so I didn’t owe him anything. Or so I told myself.

  “You aren’t drawing anything because you don’t want to,” I said. “You never want to unless someone you know is missing or in danger.”

  Tawnia shrugged. “Think what you like, but I’m sure it’s gone, whatever it was. Maybe it was giving birth to Emma, or maybe it just went. I don’t know.”

  It wasn’t like my sister to be so deep in denial. Then again, she’d spent a lifetime trying to fit in, while I’d been taught to celebrate my differences.

  She peeked under the table. “I see you’re wearing the boots I got you.”

  “They don’t hurt my back.”

  “Ha. The only reason you’re wearing them is that it’s freezing out there.” She glanced through the window, where rain once again pounded the dark streets. It was a night when even single people would prefer to stay in and curl up with a good book.

  I, however, had a theater to check out. I glanced at my watch. “I hate to cut this short, but I’d better get going.” Jake and I hadn’t actually set a time, but the sooner I got this over with, the better.

  “Where are you going?”

  So much for not telling her. I’d have to give her something. “To a theater. You know, the kind that puts on plays.”

  “Oh? What are they performing?”

  “Actually, I don’t know. I—uh . . .” I didn’t even know if anyone would be at the building practicing, much less putting on a live play this evening.

  “Well, I’m sure it’ll be good. If Bret were home, I’d leave Emma with him and come with you.” She smiled mischievously. “Or maybe you’d rather I didn’t.” There she went with the eyebrows again. Sometimes married people had no idea how irritating they were.

  Tawnia laughed and bent to pick up the car seat where Destiny lay snug and sleeping. “I took care of the tip,” she said, “so don’t worry about that.”

  We hugged at the door, and she plunged into the night, a useless umbrella over the car seat. The wind blew the rain in every direction, and though Destiny probably wouldn’t feel it on her well-wrapped body, she’d likely awake and object to the rain hitting her face. If I were a vindictive person, I might have wished she’d scream all the way home to pay Tawnia back for her prying.

  Pulling my coat around me, I hurried to where I’d left my old Toyota hatchback, praying it would start. Tonight would definitely not be a good time for it to break down again. The wind pushed the rain inside my coat and chilled my body, and my teeth chattered at the onslaught. At this rate my jeans and the inside of my boots would be wet before I got to the car. I shoved my hands deep in my pocket for the keys, only to hit the weight of the Ruger still there. Darn that Shannon. What was I going to do with the gun?

  Thankfully, the car started. I’d pulled out my phone to call Jake, but the passenger door opened, and he climbed inside. “Saw you leaving,” he said. “I was catching up on some ordering.” He thumbed toward his shop.

  “Did you eat?”

  “I had a late lunch. I’ll grab something later. This isn’t going to take long, right?”

  “I hope not.”

  As I drove, we talked about Suzy and the possibility of finding Kendall’s mother. Now that we had a real lead, I felt a sort of strange dread. Maybe we should leave well enough alone.

  “Uh, Autumn, I’m pretty sure this isn’t the right way.”

  I pulled my attention back to the road and looked at Jake, who was studying the address I’d pulled up on my cell. I didn’t question him, because Tawnia and I had both long ago admitted that we were directionally impaired. “Which way, then?”

  “How come you don’t you use the GPS on this fancy new phone of yours?”

  “I’m not exactly sure how it works.” The new phone had been one of the conditions of my consulting with the police department. They wanted—Shannon wanted—me to be able to send text and pictures and probably to track me, too, but Tawnia helped me turn off the tracking device first thing. No way did I want Shannon to pinpoint me at the push of a few buttons on his phone.

  “Here we go. Push this application and put in the address here. Wait, first we have to turn on the GPS. Looks like it was off.”

  Following Jake’s directions, I drove through the dark streets, which appeared even darker with the storm. “Are you sure it’s here?” I asked. “This neighborhood is . . . well, there’s nothing here. Just a bunch of old abandoned buildings and—”

  “There.” Jake pointed at a building awash with light, a beacon on the otherwise deserted street. Near it I spied the sign, a sad-looking fluorescent affair about three feet long, that announced Live Performances by the Portland Players Touring Theatre Company. There was another sign beneath, this one unlit, that might or might not contain relevant information.

  “Do you think they actually perform plays here, not just practice them?” I asked. “Who’d come here to watch? No wonder they have to tour.” I pulled into one of the parking places near the entrance and shut off the engine.

  “It says live performances,” Jake said. “But I wouldn’t drive all the way out here.”

  Even the darkness couldn’t hide the poor condition of the building. The area directly around the entrance had been painted recently—probably during the past summer—but even that was already beginning to peel again, as though no one had bothered to remove the old peeling paint beneath it before slathering more on top.

  At least the rain had abated slightly, I noted as I climbed from the car. My muscles tensed as we walked onto the rickety porch and up to the double-door entrance. My eyes darted back and forth as I contemplated any potential danger as I’d been taught to do in my tae kwon do training. Always alert and prepared. We sounded like Boy Scouts or something. With my earlier training as a teen and my recent intensive private and group lessons, I’d reached black-belt level in skill, though I had several tests yet to take before the rank was official. I felt confident with my training, especially as I’d come out on top during recent bouts with the black-belt students, but that was in the light of day, not in the dark at a place that looked straight from the set of a werewolf movie.

  The front door was locked. What a letdown.

  “It says it opens at seven for tonight’s performance,” Jake said, reading a printed paper taped to the door. “That’s only a half hour from now. I mean, assuming this paper is current. It doesn’t look too old.”

  “Let’s check around back. With all this light, someone has to be here.”

  Jake nodded but more to appease me than because he wanted to go. He’d been dragged around enough in my adventures. If I were less selfish, I wouldn’t have let him come.

  As we passed the signs, I was able to read the lower unlit sign: The Comedy of Errors. I wondered how long it had hung there.

  Around the back of the theater, a dozen cars crowded into a tiny lot. A back door was propped slightly open with a brick, so I pushed at the door and went inside. I couldn’t see much, as the room was poorly lit by a single, uncovered fluorescent tube on the ceiling, but at least it was significantly warmer inside. The room was filled with racks of clothing, tables of props, and pieces of sets.

  “Hello?” I called, glancing behind me at Jake, who fingered a set of swords on a narrow table.

  He grinned. “Painted wood.”

  “Figures.” I circumvented a rack of clothing, searching for a door leading somewhere else. On the other side of the rack, I ran into a short, rounded, balding man dressed in an ill-fitted dark suit. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead.

  “Oh,” he said, peering up at me through the gloom. “Who are you? What are you doing here? The theater doesn’t open for seating until seven. You’ll have to wait around the front.”

  “I’m not here to see the play. I’m looking for one of yo
ur actors.” I motioned behind me. “The door was propped open.”

  He gave an exasperated sigh and pushed past me. “I don’t know how many times I’ve told them to stop leaving the door open. Money to heat this place doesn’t grow on trees.” He hesitated when he saw Jake, who could be very intimidating with his dreads, especially while holding a sword—even a fake one. “Excuse me,” said the little man. He stalked to the door, kicked at the brick holding it open, and pulled it shut.

  “But Cheyenne isn’t here, yet,” said another voice behind me. The clothing rack that had cut off the path through the tables and pieces of sets rolled aside, revealing a second man.

  I started because I hadn’t heard anyone else approach.

  “Sorry,” the newcomer said.

  I shrugged. “It’s okay.”

  This man was also dressed in a suit but was taller than the other man by a few inches. He had a friendly smile, intelligent eyes, and what I could only describe as presence, despite his nondescript hair color and wiry build.

  “I don’t care if Cheyenne shows up at all,” growled the short man, returning from closing the outside door. “If our actors can’t be here by final call, they don’t deserve to be in the play at all. One of the others will have to do her part. It’s easy enough.” He glared at me as if it were all my fault before adding, “How many times have I told you to have your friends come at a better time?”

  The taller man shook his head, barely concealing his impatience. “Carl, I don’t know these people, but for all we know, they may be with the press.” To me, he added, “I’m Paxton Seaver, the director. This is Carl Walsh, our producer and stage manager.”

  “I’m Autumn Rain, and this is Jake Ryan.”

  Walsh’s attitude changed abruptly. “Nice to meet you.” He smiled so wide his teeth seemed to take up his entire face. A frightening thing to behold, and I wondered if he was wearing dentures. “I would be glad to answer a few questions for the press, but it’ll have to be quick. We’ll be seating people in a few minutes, and our play begins shortly afterward. We’re performing The Comedy of Errors. It’s one of our most well-received plays when we’re touring, and we like to do it frequently for our supporters when we’re in town.”

  “We’re not with the press,” I said. “I’m investigating the disappearance of Rosemary Taylor.”

  Walsh’s round eyes narrowed. “Well, when you find her, tell her she’s out as Juliet. We’re giving the role to Cheyenne, as we should have in the first place instead of trusting an unknown, no matter how talented she might be. People who don’t show up for rehearsals even once are out, and she missed yesterday and today. These actors think they’re all irreplaceable, but they aren’t. We definitely made a mistake casting her.”

  I knew he wasn’t talking about The Comedy of Errors. “So you haven’t seen her?”

  Walsh shook his head. “Not since Thursday when we did a blocking of our next play as we always do at the first rehearsal.”

  “For the Love of Juliet!” I said, remembering the script Liam had brought me.

  “Yes. It’s a modern play that we don’t typically put on, as it only uses four actors, but I’ve been wanting to do it for years.” He straightened and took a breath that puffed up his chest. “It’s a special favorite of an important family member.” His confiding tone seemed to indicate that I should be aware of this person and should hold him or her in as high esteem as he did.

  I glanced at Paxton Seaver for a clue as how to proceed. He smiled at me and shook his head, his expression of disgust vanishing as Walsh looked his way. “I haven’t seen Rosemary, either, and as Carl said, now is not a good time to talk, since we are about to open.”

  I felt it prudent not to mention the lack of cars or patrons in the front. “I would appreciate if I could just look around on my own,” I said. “I won’t be long.” Anxiety emanating from the prop room had worked its way into my voice. Imprints buzzed all around me, and I wished I could know before I touched them which might have something to do with Rosemary.

  Walsh looked heavenward and shook his head. “I don’t have time for this. Paxton, handle it. I must go make sure the doors open on time and that Lucas and Millie have made up. I won’t have their antagonism ruining the play.” With that, he took another self-important breath and hurried down the path and through the door.

  Seaver’s nostrils flared, but he didn’t say anything about Walsh’s request, though I didn’t think getting rid of unwanted guests typically fell under the duties of a director. “Maybe you can come back tomorrow?”

  For all his apparent friendliness, I had the distinct feeling he didn’t want me here. I’d rather have dealt with rotund Walsh, who was at least transparent.

  “I’m sure you know that the initial hours after a person disappears are the most important. Rosemary’s been missing more than a day.”

  Seaver arched a brow. “Are you here in some sort of official capacity then?”

  I could tell he didn’t think so, what with my jeans and Jake’s dreadlocks, and he would have been right, but I didn’t want him to refuse to cooperate. “I do consulting for the police department,” I said. “My investigation is not yet official, but Rosemary’s brother is talking with a detective now. Depending on what I find, I may call them in.”

  Jake cast me a look that said he was fighting not to roll his eyes and laugh. With a return stare I dared him to do so.

  Seaver frowned. “I think you’ll find no one here knows anything. She was new to our company. None of us knew her well. In fact, Cheyenne knew her best, and she’s not even here yet.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “If I can’t speak to the cast, I’d like to at least see where Rosemary might have stored any personal belongings or anyplace where she might have spent time.”

  He shrugged. “There’s a women’s dressing room next door. Look around, but please don’t move anything or upset the cast. Actors are funny—the littlest thing can set them off, and we do have a performance tonight.”

  “All I want to do is look around. You won’t even know I’m here.”

  He gave me a flat grin. “That I doubt. As I said, actors are very aware of the unspoken. They’ll assume something nefarious happened to Rosemary.”

  Nefarious? I bet before becoming the director, he’d been an actor himself.

  “Come on,” Seaver said. “I’ll show you the room. Oh, wait, I need to prop the door open again for Cheyenne so she can get in. The door automatically locks, and our actors don’t have keys.”

  “She’ll be in the play anyway?” Jake asked, setting down the sword.

  Seaver nodded. “Carl may be the producer, but I’m the director, and I have final say about who is in the play. Cheyenne’s a great actress, and her part, though small, is crucial. Anyway, he’ll barely notice.” The derision in his voice was clear, and I wondered how he could stand to work with someone he obviously didn’t like or respect. At any rate, it was a question that might or might not be related to Rosemary’s disappearance. I filed it away in my mental bag of evidence.

  “I only gave Cheyenne a small part in the first place because I’d expected her to take the lead in the Juliet play,” Seaver continued. “That was before Rosemary auditioned, of course. With Rosemary missing, it’s fortunate I did it that way. Cheyenne will need all her attention for her Juliet character.” Without waiting for a response, he brushed past us, heading for the outside door.

  While we waited for him, I removed my antique rings, shoving them into my pocket before reaching out to let my hand run over a table of props. Imprints immediately jumped to life, but I let my hand stay on each item only long enough to determine that they had nothing to do with Rosemary. There were strong imprints on many of the props, but, strangely, I couldn’t tell if the events were real or lived only by the actor playing his role—jealousy, rage, love, excitement
, expectation, hope.

  “Autumn?” Jake yanked my hand away from a glass that contained a particularly virulent imprint of someone planning to poison someone else. I knew it wasn’t real since I’d experienced several retakes of the same scene, and yet it felt real.

  It was the first indication I’d had that imprints could be faked. Or rather, that fake imprints could seem real if the actor was good enough at his job.

  “I’m okay.” I looked past Jake to where Paxton Seaver had returned and was watching us. “Ever thought about going on stage? Either of you?” he asked. “You have the right look, and presence. The chemistry between you is . . . good.”

  I wanted to laugh. Plays had been Tawnia’s thing, not mine. She’d been involved in theater in college and had performed in community theater when she’d lived in Nevada, but pretending didn’t sit well with my personality. “No, I haven’t,” I said.

  “Me either.” Jake’s voice held mirth and a bit of mockery, but I doubted Seaver would be able to tell.

  “If you’ll come this way.”

  He took us past the rack of costumes, through a door, and into a narrow hallway illuminated by an even dimmer light. Our feet clunked on the wood floor as I touched the wall to guide myself. I was relieved when Seaver tapped on a door on the right and opened it a crack. “Coming in!” he shouted, waiting mere seconds before pushing the door all the way open.

  This room had ample light, which revealed a half dozen women sitting in front of mirrors or standing about in various stages of dress—petticoats, tights, and numerous layers seemed to be the theme. Only one woman had stepped behind a dressing screen for privacy, and even as we took steps into the room, she emerged to ask another woman to zip her up. Except for a few curious glances at me and a couple of admiring ones at Jake, no one paid us any attention. They were apparently accustomed to interruptions and lack of privacy.

  The room seemed familiar, and I realized I’d seen it before in Rosemary’s imprint on the brush, though only a slice of the room had been visible in her imprint, which probably meant she’d been sitting at one of the vanities close to the wall. That meant others could have been present during the brush incident, and I might not have seen them if she hadn’t been thinking about them or looking in their direction.