Final Call

by Rachel Ann Nunes

  Seaver gestured toward the back wall, where a built-in bookshelf had been labeled with names. “That’s where they put their things, but everyone knows we aren’t responsible if something left there goes missing. Rosemary might not have used it at all. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get dressed myself. I’m in the second scene.”

  “You’re in the play and you direct it?” I asked, pulling my eyes from a woman with her red hair in an elaborate updo and so much eyeliner that her eyes dominated her face.

  He shrugged. “We’re a small company. Everyone does double duty.” Sure enough, a blonde woman in a maid uniform walked over to the woman with the red hair and began to lace up a decorative bodice over her full dress.

  “I won’t be long,” I told Seaver. He nodded and left the way we’d come in.

  Jake and I walked to the back of the room, now garnering more looks from the actresses as we encroached upon their territory. A slender woman with black hair and a pale face arose from a stool where she was applying makeup to another woman. Her hair was barely an inch long and dipped into a sharp point in front of each ear, which emphasized her small nose and heart-shaped face. Somehow she brought to mind a delicate faerie. “Can I help you?” she asked.

  I nodded. “My name is Autumn, and I’m looking for wherever Rosemary might have put her things.”

  “The new girl?” She pointed at the bookshelf. “There, I guess, but it doesn’t look like she left anything. I thought I saw something there yesterday, though, so she must have come in to get it.”

  “Think that means she’s sacked?” asked the redhead.

  “Probably.” The woman with the black hair shrugged. “You know how Walsh and Seaver are about missing rehearsals.”

  “Yeah, but Seaver thought she was his ticket out of here,” said the blonde who had been behind the privacy screen, pausing in her attempt to form ringlets on either side of her face with a tiny curling iron.

  “And what of it, Millie?” asked the black-haired woman, bitterness oozing from her young voice. “We all want a ticket out of here. That’s the only reason we stay with this lousy outfit. Otherwise, we’d kiss this stinking theater good-bye forever. Rosemary was just in the way, and I’ll admit it—if none of you will—that I’m glad she’s gone.”

  “Gosh, Erica, tell us how you really feel,” said Millie.

  “Just don’t let Walsh hear you,” added the redhead.

  “Walsh,” Erica snorted. “He’s nothing but an overweight womanizer in a bad suit. Anyone who falls for him is dreaming. He’ll never leave his wife. Or should I say her money.”

  Everyone suddenly became busy and wouldn’t meet my eyes. I wondered what sort of relationship this woman had with the producer that she would dare to talk about him so condescendingly in front of everyone. Was she speaking from personal experience? She seemed rather young and pretty to succumb to his questionable charms. I’d give her maybe twenty-five or twenty-six. With only a few exceptions, they all looked about that age.

  Jake shook his head slightly. I know, I thought, something isn’t right here. What had Rosemary stumbled into? She wouldn’t have been welcomed easily into this lot, so why had she accepted the role in the first place?

  The black-haired woman I now knew as Erica turned back to her makeup job. “Look around if you want,” she said, dragging an eyeliner beneath her subject’s left eye. “But I can tell you that there’s nothing to see. She wasn’t around long.”

  “So none of you really knew Rosemary?” I asked.

  She shook her head, eyeliner poised in the air. “She was someone Cheyenne knew—Cheyenne’s one of our actresses. But some friend Rosemary turned out to be, taking the Juliet role right out from under her. We shouldn’t even be doing that stupid play, as I keep telling Walsh. Only four actors. What are the rest of us supposed to do?”

  “The Comedy of Errors,” retorted the redhead, “on the off night. Fat lot of good it will do us. It’s old—no one important comes to see it anymore.”

  “At least we’re doing what we love,” Millie said, moving to stand next to Erica.

  “Doing what we love?” spat the redhead. “Easy for you to say since you have a part in that stupid play—and a chance to be noticed.”

  Millie shrugged. “Vera, you know that’s not my fault.”

  Vera did not deign to respond but turned back to her mirror. The other women in the room who hadn’t spoken averted their gazes from Vera, as though not wanting to risk her wrath.

  Okay, I thought, exchanging a wary glance with Jake.

  “So, did Rosemary have an assigned vanity?” Jake asked.

  Erica shook her head. “We share them all.” She capped the eyeliner. “All done,” she told the actress in front of her. “Sit down, Millie, and I’ll do you.” The women exchanged places.

  Convinced that was the extent of the help we would receive, I began to do what I do best: touch things. One of the women had left a vanity, so I started there. I was aware of the heavy, subtle stares from the actresses as I intruded upon their space, though they averted their gazes if I looked their way.

  Imprints. A lot of them but old, faded, or irrelevant to my investigation. Resentment, excitement, and friendship were the reigning emotions, which, given the competitive and yet family-like nature of theater seemed about right. There was nothing about Rosemary. Vera, Erica, and some of the others might have been resentful about her, but there was no imprint that indicated foul play. Since she’d only recently won the part and had come only for the tryouts and one rehearsal, it was unlikely she had left many imprints in this room.

  Still, I tried, trailing my fingers over everything until I could feel the animosity build in the room to a point that I became uncomfortable. Erica, now wearing a long raven wig that matched her own hair color, had given up all pretense of doing anything and simply watched me. At least she didn’t look away as the others did when I met her gaze.

  Jake was looking around, too, inside the closets and cupboards that were built into the walls. When I finished the vanities, I started doing the same, but by then I’d lost hope of finding anything useful. Rosemary simply hadn’t been here long enough. I’d need to find some other place to pick up her imprints.

  “It’s nearly curtain time,” Erica said, bending to retrieve a dress that was spread over a chair. “What exactly are you looking for?”

  “Something she might have left behind,” I hedged. “There was a threatening note someone left her. Maybe it’s here.” It was probably a clue I wouldn’t have divulged if I’d been a real detective.

  “A threatening note?” Erica asked. “Poor thing. I had no idea.” A few others nodded in agreement. The animosity fell a notch.

  I opened another closet door. This closet had only top shelves and was home to a bucket, mop, broom, and a large round plastic garbage can lined with a black bag. Oddly, a high-heeled shoe stuck out from behind the garbage can.

  It still had a foot inside.

  Chapter 4

  I drew in a quick breath and reached for the can, my heart pounding furiously in my chest. Oh, Rosemary, I thought. What am I going to tell Liam?

  Jake appeared at my side, helping me pull the plastic can from the closet. Tucked in the small corner space behind it sat a woman propped against the wall, her head tilted at an uncomfortable angle that told she me wasn’t sleeping, though I couldn’t see any blood or notable injury. She had long brown hair and was wearing some sort of costume. I didn’t recognize her, but that did nothing for the anger I felt that someone could have hurt this poor woman and stuffed her in a closet. Behind a garbage can, no less. I felt no imprints from the garbage can, which was a good thing given the circumstances.

  I heard a scream behind me and turned in time to see Vera falling to the ground in a faint, her beautiful red hair twisting in an unnatural angle. A wig.


  Because there was no one else around to do it, I knelt down and put my fingers to the still woman’s throat to confirm what I already knew. Nothing.

  “She’s dead,” I announced.

  “Rosemary?” Jake asked in a low voice.

  The hair was similar, but I didn’t think this was the face I’d seen in the mirror when reading the brush, though it was possible I hadn’t been reading Rosemary’s brush at all. Liam might have taken someone else’s by mistake. I turned to Erica, whose pale face had become even whiter.

  “Not Rosemary,” Erica said in a faint voice. “That’s Cheyenne.”

  Ah, the actress who’d missed this evening’s final call. There was no stench, and I suspected she hadn’t been here long, since they’d all been expecting her to show up any moment, and no one had mentioned her missing rehearsals.

  “We need to call the police.” I fished for the cell phone in my coat pocket.

  “Wait,” Erica said. “We’d better talk to Paxton first. We’ve got a play tonight.”

  “Who cares about the play?” Millie said, tucking a blonde ringlet behind her ear. “We’re calling the police now, not after.”

  “You’re right, of course.” Erica shook her head. “Who cares what Walsh wants? Poor Cheyenne. I can’t believe someone would do this to her.” She wiped tears from under her eyes. “I’ll go tell the others.”

  Millie knelt down next to me. “She looks so uncomfortable.” Her hand reached out, but I pushed it away.

  “Don’t move her.”

  Millie blinked. “Oh, yeah.” She stood and backed away to stand with the other women who were either staring or helping the fainted Vera.

  I stood and pushed Shannon’s number on my cell phone without even considering calling anyone else. Jake watched me, his brown eyes occasionally going past me to the body.

  “Hello,” Shannon said. “What’s up?”

  I could hear rock music in the background. “I have a problem.”

  “Oh.” I had the faint sense that he was disappointed, but what did he think, that I was suddenly going to start calling to ask him out? I hadn’t come that far in my acceptance of my feelings. Or his. Or become that careless of Jake’s.

  “Does this have something to do with that pup you gave my number to? Did you absolutely have to give him my cell number?”

  “Sorry. I meant to give him the precinct. Actually, his case might be connected. It’s hard to tell, but it probably is. I think.”

  “Spit it out.”

  I tend to babble when I’m nervous and with a dead body in the same room, I couldn’t have been any more stressed. “I’m looking at a dead body right now.” I wasn’t actually, since my back was to the closet, but it was the same in principle. I’d actually touched the poor woman.

  “Where are you?”

  How nice of him not to ask for details, because I knew nothing more to tell him. “I’m at the theater where Rosemary had just started working before she disappeared, but it’s not her.” I gave him the address.

  “Don’t touch anything.”

  “I need to see if there are any imprints.”

  “Later. After the police finish. And don’t let anyone else touch anything.”

  “Okay.” I hung up, for once glad to comply. My stomach felt queasy, and I wondered if I was going to lose the wonderful dinner Tawnia and I’d shared.

  I looked at Jake, but his face was inscrutable as it often was where Shannon was concerned. Once the two men had openly baited and mocked each other, but after the last case where Shannon and Jake had fought members of the Japanese mafia side by side, they’d actually become friends, much to my consternation.

  “He says not to let anyone touch anything,” I said.

  Jake stepped in front of the closet door and folded his arms, looking official and more than a little breathtaking.

  “I knew we shouldn’t do that play,” Vera was saying. She was conscious again, and the other woman had helped her to a chair. Her wig was completely removed, and I saw through the hair net she wore underneath that she was also a brunette, though her hair was slightly lighter than that of the victim’s.

  “It’s bad luck,” Vera continued. “At least for us. You know what happened the last few times this company tried it. People ended up dead! Now it’s happening again. Walsh has to cancel.”

  This was interesting. A play evoking such bad luck that people died? “What do you mean?” I asked.

  Vera looked at me and sniffed, one finger going under her eye to wipe away smeared mascara. An older actress whose name I didn’t know knelt in front of her and gently dabbed at Vera’s face with a tissue. This was the sense of family I’d experienced in some of the imprints earlier. When things got tough, loyalty and love overrode jealousy and competition.

  “It’s ridiculous,” Millie said. “A play can’t be bad luck.”

  Vera didn’t take the bait but continued to look at me, as if aware that she was now center stage. “It’s not ridiculous. I wasn’t here then, but I’ve heard the stories. Every time the Portland Players tried to perform this play, something terrible happened. The first time two of the characters—the ones playing Juliet and Alex—missed final call on opening night. They were never found. That was like eight years ago. Two years later when they tried to do the play, Juliet died of some mysterious illness. Then the last time, four years ago, Juliet broke her leg during rehearsal, and the Ginger character was in a car accident and died. They’ve had to cancel the play every time.”

  “Chloe died because she had cancer,” Millie said. “That was right before I started here. And car accidents and broken legs happen. I bet you those first two ran off together to work for another acting company. Good grief, Vera, it’s just coincidence.”

  “Coincidence? Three times in eight years? And now a fourth time? I don’t think that’s coincidence. That play is cursed.” Vera looked at me. “What else can it be?”

  I would have thought it coincidence, if not for the fact that this time someone had obviously put Cheyenne in the closet. But whatever I might have responded was swallowed in Carl Walsh and Paxton Seaver’s arrival. Seaver, the director, was wearing makeup and some kind of medieval outfit, complete with tights up to his knees. He was followed by Erica and one of the male members of the cast, also in costume and makeup. The new actor was broad and tall with dark, wavy hair, the epitome of what I’d always expected from an actor. Likely a spoiled, self-centered one.

  “Where is she?” Seaver demanded, his voice gruff and a line of anxiety creasing his forehead.

  I motioned toward the closet Jake was guarding. “Don’t touch anything. The police are on their way.” Ignoring me, Seaver and the male actor went to stand beside Jake, their gazes locked on what was inside.

  The rotund Walsh clapped his hands together. “I know this is a tragedy, ladies, but we have a play to put on tonight. We’ve got a full house out there. Curtain call is in fifteen minutes.”

  “We’re still doing the play tonight?” Vera wailed.

  “Of course we’re doing the play,” Walsh said. “We sold the tickets, and if we don’t do this play tonight, we won’t have money to pay you.”

  “Again,” mumbled someone, but I couldn’t identify who. Neither could Walsh, apparently, because he ignored the remark.

  Seaver and the good-looking male actor turned from the closet. Seaver’s face was tinged with green.

  “Are we sure she’s dead?” asked the actor. I almost smiled because his voice didn’t match his looks but was at least two octaves too high for any man. If I’d been watching a play, I’d expect a character with his looks and voice combined to be the comic relief.

  “Oh, Lucas, of course we’re sure.” Millie shot him an evil look, which reminded me of something Walsh had said about Millie and a male actor being at odds with e
ach other. Apparently they hadn’t made up, though fighting with Lucas didn’t seem to go with the rest of her positive character. Maybe it’s his fault, I thought.

  “Well, she could be unconscious.” Lucas shivered.

  “Someone killed her and put her there,” Vera said.

  Lucas shook his head. “She could have had a heart attack.”

  “And then walked to the closet?” shot Millie. “And sat behind the garbage can?” Lucas obviously wasn’t the brightest bulb in the box.

  “She’s dead,” I said. “I checked for a pulse. And someone definitely hid her here.”

  “Does this mean I don’t get to be Alex?” Lucas asked in his falsetto. “I mean, if we have no Juliet, we can’t do the play.”

  Silence as everyone stared at him. He shrugged uncomfortably and said to me, “Who are you? Are you a new member of the cast?”

  I sighed and shook my head.

  Walsh clapped his hands together again. “Never mind. Everyone, back to your places. I’m opening the curtain in a bit, and you’d all better be ready.”

  With an accusatory glare at me, he marched to the door. “Come on, Lucas, before the others find out what’s going on.” By others I assumed he meant the rest of the male cast.

  “The detectives will want to interview everyone,” I said to no one in particular.

  Seaver sighed. “They’ll have their chance.”

  “After the play,” retorted Walsh. “Now get going, ladies!”

  I wondered how Shannon would react to that. Certainly this was a murder scene and no one would be allowed to leave, not even the customers I was sure were figments of Walsh’s imagination. Well, that would be Shannon’s responsibility and his call. I was sticking around only for the imprints.

  “Hey,” I whispered to Jake, “can you keep an eye on things here while I look around? Now that everyone’s going to be on stage or busy, I might find something more.”