Persephone Cole and the Halloween Curse

by Heather Haven

  The producer raised his eyebrows in appreciation. “Do you have a theatrical background, Miss Cole?”

  She shook her head. “I read a lot.”

  “You’re right about most of it. Carlisle was only one of a string of accidents we’ve been having. All serious but nothing’s been fatal until last night. You know about the Scottish play?”

  “Macbeth? Sure. It’s --”

  “Shhhh,” he interrupted, adding to the shush of his words with a wave of his hands. He pushed the air currents around him, as if warding off cigarette smoke or something evil. “We don’t say the name. We only say it when performing the play; when the lines dictate.”

  “You’re putting me on. You never use the word ‘Macbeth’ otherwise?”

  “Will you stop that?” Fear tinged his annoyance. “Listen, I didn’t believe in the Curse, either, until we started rehearsals, but I’m convinced now, believe you me.”

  “I still think you’re putting me on.” Percy’s voice was riddled with doubt.

  “I wish I was.” He rose and began to pace the small, narrow room. “We were supposed to have opened two weeks ago, but cast members keep getting sick or hurt or just plain dropping out. We need to keep rehearsing just to bring the new ones up to speed. First our leading lady, Felicity Dowell bowed out.”

  “That would be Lady Mac--”

  “Shhhh! Don’t. Say. The. Name.” Wainwright emphasized each word individually.

  Percy laughed. “Okay, no names. Why did she bow out?”

  “She got food poisoning the day after we arrived in New York and was almost run down by a truck three days later. She says the driver was coming right at her. Then she got a threatening letter. Her agent gave us the bad news the following day. Last week a twenty-five pound sandbag fell from one of the flies and nearly killed our stage manager. As it is, the weight of it crushed his shoulder. If he had been standing a little more to the left, he’d be dead. Carl’s going to be in the hospital for a long time. He may never be able to use his arm again.”

  “You said there were other people who dropped out. Who are they?”

  “You mean aside from our leading lady? A spear carrier, the gentlewoman, and one of the witches, all called in saying they weren’t coming back. Unlike most productions of the Bard’s play, this one has the witches in the background of nearly every scene, silently casting their spells. We’re playing up the curse of the Scotsman to the hilt, as if he has no control over what he does.”

  “Sort of Halloween meets Shakespeare. Any black cats?” Percy kept a straight face, although it was tough.

  “We thought of it.” If he noticed Percy’s humorous take on the subject, he didn’t indicate it. “We even considered using Sir Anthony’s own cat, but he’s not black. Anyway, that’s why Hugo asked you about the witch audition. She’s very important. We have one witch of normal height, one really tall and one very short. It’s Hugo’s idea of a sight gag. He’s a good director for all his ridiculousness.”

  “Can actors drop out like that? Don’t they have a contract?”

  “A good agent can get you out of any contract. That said, performers don’t usually walk out on a show. There are so few jobs out there, when they get one they tend to stay no matter what. Some of these people came across the pond to do the show. I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  “What about the three who legged it? They come over from England?”

  “No, they were doing lesser parts. We picked them up here in the states. Two called to have us forward their paychecks. One hasn’t even done that. That’s why I don’t get this. It’s like the cast has got the willies or something. You’ll see it. You’ll see how they behave. Like we’re cursed.”

  “Give me the names of those three. I’m going to pay them a visit. Actually, I’d like a cast list.”

  Wainwright nodded but his mind was elsewhere. He didn’t answer but chewed on his thumbnail for awhile, deep in thought.

  Percy watched him in silence then said, “I can tell there’s more. Let’s have it.”

  He studied her for a moment, walked back to the chair, and sat. He leaned into her and touched the top of her hand lightly with his. His face broke out into what Percy liked to think of as the ‘used vacuum cleaner salesman’ smile.

  “I don’t know if you’re aware of all the aspects of what a producer does, Miss Cole. Ah, may I call you Persephone?”

  “No, but go on.”

  His smile faltered then he rallied instantly. “It’s not just the job of finding backers, but often on new projects, we work with the playwright, the composer, even the lyricist on development. Sometimes this process can take months or even years.”

  “You’re being evasive. What has this got to do with Shakespeare?”

  “Nothing, nothing. I’m just telling you sometimes there’s more to a producer’s job than meets the eye. Sometimes you make enemies.”

  “So sometimes you make enemies. Like who?”

  He thought for a moment, opened his mouth to speak, but shook his head. There was a gentle knock on the door. The producer stood, walked a few feet, but ignored it.

  “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

  Percy studied him, and shook her head, setting her empty soda bottle on the counter. “I think you’d better give me an advance while I’m still willing to work for you. Then I’ll need to look around, meet some of the cast of characters. Got any papers from the cops? Something about Carlisle’s death? What part did he play, anyway?”

  “Macduff.”

  The knock came again, this time a little louder. Wainwright continued his ignoring routine.

  “That’s a big part.” She looked over at the door.

  “I see you know something about the play.”

  “Enough to get by. Who’s your stage manager now? Can I speak to him?”

  “The assistant stepped into the position, but I don’t have anyone to fill his shoes yet. That’s what I’m doing here. I’ve been wracking my brain, trying to come up with someone. And, of course, Broadway’s a small community. Rumors are spreading like wild fires. Not many people want to work for us now.”

  The knock became more persistent. He still didn’t respond.

  “Get the door, Wainwright. Never know, might be something important.”

  “Come in.” Wainwright didn’t move but called out in a voice filled with exasperation.

  The door opened slowly and an attractive young woman, brunette hair cut in the latest fashion, stuck her head in. Seeing only Wainwright standing near the door, a slow smile crossed her face.

  “Hi, boss.” Her voice radiated familiarity. “I didn’t know if you were in here or not. Bad news. The Fire Marshall says we have to move the scenery from blocking the back exit. After that, I thought I’d run over to Schraffts and bring us back some breakfast.”

  “Ah, Mavis,” the producer said and gestured to Percy. “This is Miss Persephone Cole. Miss Cole, Mavis Hewitt, my private secretary.” Producer and assistant exchanged a look Percy couldn’t quite place.

  Percy nodded her head in a greeting. “Miss Hewitt.” And just how private is private, I wonder?

  The smiling girl, no older than twenty-two or twenty-three, stepped inside. She was tall, five- foot six or seven, slim, and dressed in a bias cut powder blue dress, more suited for an afternoon tea than working backstage in a theatre. The only sign she was a working girl was a clipboard she carried in her right hand, thick with well-used papers.

  “Good morning, Miss Cole. Dexter, ah, Mr. Wainwright told me he hired you to find out why we’re having so many accidents around here. Unlike everybody else, I don’t think the bad luck we’ve been having has anything to do with our production of Macbeth.”

  Wainwright pointed a finger at the girl. “Don’t say the name. Have you no respect?”

  “I see you think this is all nonsense, Mavis.” Percy smiled. “Why don’t you tell me more about the curse associated with performing this play?”

  “It’s just a
silly superstition, Miss Cole, centuries old.” Mavis flipped her well-groomed curls in distain. “It has no more validity than throwing a hat on a bed or whistling in a dressing room. Many people in the theatre believe real spells are called upon when the three witches’ scene is spoken. Then when you say the name ‘Macbeth’ off-stage, you invoke these spells, which can cause great harm. That’s why it’s taboo for actors and anyone involved in the play to even utter the name in or outside the theatre. It’s referred to as the Scottish Play or Bard’s Play. It’s silly,” she repeated with a superior air. Her face broke out in a likable smile.

  Annoyed, Wainwright jumped in. “You can say what you like, Mavis, but something’s going on around here. And people’s beliefs are powerful. Don’t dismiss it out of hand.” She continued to look unabashed but shrugged amiably.

  “Besides,” he went on, “superstition is the reason I wanted to premier around Halloween with this production, to play on people’s fanciful notions. Winchell’s column mentions ‘the curse’ nearly every day. We’re trying to use it to our advantage. But we’ve got to open soon. As for the actual curse, there may be something to it; there may not be, as you say, but it has to be stopped. I need to talk to the Fire Marshall.”

  Wainwright crossed to the door. Without looking at the girl, he threw an order to her, his voice filled with impatience. “Cut a check for forty-five dollars for Miss Cole.” He turned back to Percy. “A three-day advance should be sufficient, shouldn’t it?”

  “Yeah, sure.” Percy was barely able to keep from stammering.

  Forty-five smackers in advance! We eat tonight!

  “But I’m going to need some expense money, too.” Percy’s tone was easy, as if she did this every day.

  “As you wish. She’s asking for any paperwork we have from the police, too, Mavis.” The producer waved his hand in a curt manner. “See that she gets five dollars from petty cash and I’ll need receipts for that, Miss Cole. For God’s sake let’s try to get this production back on track. I’m losing a fortune with all these postponements and recasts.”

  He walked out and slammed the door. Both women stared after him for a beat and then looked at one another.

  “Big shot, huh,” commented Percy.

  “What’s that?” Mavis asked with a smile.

  “An important man.”

  “He’s one of the country’s leading producers. England’s, too. They call him charismatic. Many stars will only work for him.”

  “Uh-huh. Who’s the detective assigned to the case?” Percy took off Pop’s fedora and fanned herself. “Man, it’s hot.”

  “Yes, I know. I’m sorry. The cooling system isn’t turned on until a half an hour before each performance, not that we get much of it back stage.” Mavis pulled a silken hanky from her sleeve and blotted at her brow. “Although the radio says there’s a cold front coming in from Canada sometime tonight. It should drop fifteen to twenty degrees, closer to normal.”

  “From your mouth to God’s ears.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Just a saying. Forget it.”

  The girl smiled and glanced down at the clipboard, lifting page after page until she came to the one she was looking for. “Ah, here it is. It’s Detective Michael O’Malley.”

  O’Malley! Pop’s beat partner from the old days. Maybe I’m catching a break on this.

  “Detective O’Malley took a few items with him for which he gave me a receipt.”

  “Thanks. I’ll give him a call. You want to write down the stuff he took? And while you’re at it, give me a cast list and the names and addresses of the performers who hoofed it.”

  Mavis stared at her. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Dropped out of the show, took off. You got a phone around here I can use?”

  “Oh, I thought by ‘hoofed’ you meant a dancer. The only public phone backstage is hanging on the wall right outside the door, but you can use that one over there. Mr. Wainwright won’t mind, I’m sure.” Mavis pointed to a black telephone on the corner of a desk strewn with papers. “I’ll make up a list for you now.” She retreated to a small table in a corner, sat down, and began to write.

  Percy hesitated. “Ah, could I have a little privacy for this call?”

  Embarrassed, Mavis stood. “Of course. I’m sorry.” She moved toward the door. “I’ll come back with the list when I’m finished.” She closed the door silently behind her.

  Percy waited a beat and picked up the receiver, listened for a dial tone, and dialed zero.

  “Operator, you want to give me the police station at midtown, south precinct? No, this is not an emergency.” The dispatcher answered on the other end of the line, announcing the precinct with pride.

  “Detective Michael O’Malley around? Good. Tell him it’s Percy Cole. Thanks, I’ll wait.”

  She sat back down, put her feet up on the desk, continuing to fan herself with her hat. Her wait was long, nearly five minutes, and just when she was beginning to wonder if the dispatcher forgot about her, she heard the voice of her father’s long-time partner.

  “Saints be preserved. Is this you, Percy?”

  “It is, Mick.”

  “Sorry to keep you waiting but we was running a line-up. Pickpockets are rampant on Times Square, especially with sailors and soldiers on leave and drinking too much. What can I do for you, sweetheart? Everything all right with the family? That mischievous father of yours behaving himself?” His Irish brogue was thicker than ever now, but the joviality and friendship in his voice was still the same.

  “Everything’s fine, Mick, but I have a favor to ask of you.”

  “Ask away, darling. If it’s mine to give, it’s yours.”

  “I understand you are in charge of the investigation of the actor who died at the Royal Theatre, a Mr. Rutherford Carlisle.

  “Yes.” His voice was a little wary now. “That I am. What’s it got to do with you?”

  She stopped fanning her face and dropped her legs to the ground. What she said now mattered, if she was to get any help.

  “Cole Investigations has been hired by Dexter Wainwright to find out what’s going on behind some other mishaps around here during their production of…” she thought for a moment. “…the Scottish play. Something about a curse. It’s a good job, Mick, even if it’s only for a few days.” She stressed the word job and avoided saying her part in it.

  “So that fancy pants producer hired your father to go behind our backs and…” He cut himself off. “I knew I should have shut him down when I had the chance. Now La Guardia is in on it and wants to keep the show open for ‘general good will’. Seems him and fancy pants are pals. But I’m still in charge here, and I won’t be brooking no interference, even from Pop Cole.” His voice was harsh and edgy.

  Percy did some fast thinking. “Even if we can help you out? I’m on the scene. I’ve been hired as their assistant stage manager.” The lie came out of nowhere and she went with it.

  “What’s that you say? They hired you to work there? I thought you said your father was snooping around--”

  “Just on the curse thing, superstition stuff, mostly for Halloween.”

  “Halloween? What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Publicity. They get to say they hired a private investigator to look into the curse hanging over this production of Macbeth. All those gory witches. Sells tickets.”

  “Oh, it does, does it?”

  I’m winning him over.

  “Sure.” Her answer was glib. “And remember, one hand washes the other, Mick. These people will tell me a lot more than they would the cops. You know that.”

  The other end of the line went silent, but she could feel him thinking. As tempted as Percy was to press her point, she said no more, letting him stew over it.

  “It would have to be unofficial,” he finally said. “And you would have to tell me every time one of those characters passed gas.”

  There’s an image I can live without.

  “I’ll be
your very own private stool pigeon. But I’m going to have to know a few things, myself. What you found at the murder scene, stuff like that.”

  “Tell you what, you bring me a pastrami on rye, I’ll give you a few tips, just so you or your father don’t run aground. Where is Pop? Can I talk to him?”

  More fast thinking. “Ah, no, he’s winding up another case. I should be seeing him soon, though. I’ll tell him I spoke to you.”

  “Ummm,” O’Malley grunted. “You tell that son of a sidewinder to mind his P’s and Q’s while he’s nosing around in this. I don’t broo--”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. You don’t brook no interference. I’ll see you at noon. You want slaw with that?”

  “Sauerkraut,” he said, and hung up.

  Chapter Six

  Evelyn, I can’t believe you killed him. What have we come to? Now I’m afraid. Not only were the police here, but I heard a rumor Wainwright has brought in a detective. It’s only a woman, though. We can still be safe, but please don’t take any more chances. Elsie.

  P.S. I found Mamma’s pearls packed away in a cardboard box. We could sell them and go back to England. Please!

  Chapter Seven

  Percy glanced at her watch and remembered she’d forgotten to wind it. She ripped it off her wrist, and put the piece to her ear. Still ticking. As she wound the stupid thing, she noticed it was just past ten-thirty a.m.

  Good. If my luck holds, maybe I can visit one of the people who took a powder, if they’re still hanging around the City. Then get the pastrami on rye for O’Malley. And one for me, too.

  Pop saved Mick’s life in the line of duty. That was before the depression hit and most of the force got laid off, including Pop and Uncle Gil. Mick got lucky, with only six-month’s seniority over the two Cole Brothers, who were the last to go.