Chapter Twenty-two
The next morning was cold, less like autumn and more like winter. The heat wave had given way to a cold snap, temperature dropping from ninety-one degrees to thirty-seven in less than thirty-six hours. This severe type of weather didn’t happen often but when it did, Percy’s head ached. More like a tight band across her forehead, it was ever present and distracting. She’d read it had something to do with the barometric pressure, but whatever it was, she couldn’t let it get in the way of the job. Percy exited the subway deep in thought.
A few of the trees had dusty leaves beginning to turn the colors of fall. If the garbage strike had been over, New York City would be back to normal.
Or maybe a garbage strike in Manhattan is normal.
Percy entered the theatre at five minutes before eight a.m. Ned’s spot was vacant, but the Dutch doors were wide open. A small, overhead light showed on his empty stool. She reached inside and fisted a line of keys from the lower cubby holes. As she was more familiar with the theatre now, she knew these opened the prop, wardrobe, lighting, wig and hair rooms in the basement. She’d go there next.
The theatre was virtually dark, except for emergency lighting and the lone light center stage. Percy pulled the flashlight from her pocket and turned it on. While standing stage left in the open space, she studied her surroundings and listened intently. It was tomb quiet. Nothing moved, nothing sounded, yet Percy knew from experience that older buildings were filled with all kinds of creatures scurrying in hidden places. On occasion, there were two footed creatures, too, often much more dangerous.
She cast the light up toward the catwalk suspended thirty-five feet in the air. The breadth of the light widened until there was but the promise of illumination and nothing more.
‘If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly’.
“Man,” she said aloud, “I’ve got Macbeth on the mind.” Percy crossed over to the column of rungs on the wall leading to the catwalk. Flashlight between her teeth, she grabbed onto the first rung and began the climb, never looking down.
Two minutes later and out of breath, she saw the underside of the four-foot wide catwalk. Passing through a small opening, Percy arrived at the top rung of the ladder. She extended her foot and stepped out onto the metal grating of the walk. As she tested it, it felt sturdy enough for her to relax a little. She loosened the clamp of her jaws on the torch, removed it from her mouth, and wiped off her saliva.
Ever the lady. I drool when I’m nervous.
Taking hesitant steps to one side of the walk, she grabbed the railing, noting it was only as high as her hips.
A person could fall from here with no trouble. They could be pushed easily enough, too.
Grasping the rail, she turned on her flashlight, and leaned over enough to see below. Clouds of dust particles moved lazily in the thin thread of her searching light.
Taut brown ropes hung like parts of a huge sailing vessel in the black vastness down to stage level. There the end of each rope attached to the pulley system controlled by stagehands. Where she stood, thirty-five feet above and running the length of the catwalk, the other end of each rope was threaded through large metal rings tied off with enormous hooks. These hooks held sandbags, and larger, heavier pieces owned by the theatre itself and stored for rentals. Seldom used, one even held a life-size wooden horse.
Beside them were the flies owned by Dexter Wainwright Productions, consisting of painted canvas backdrops of battle scenes, castle walls, interior rooms, faux stone arches, and bigger set pieces. These were raised and lowered during each performance for specific scenes. The ropes were labeled on the pulley system below with what they held in the stratosphere. Deceptively simple. Potentially lethal. The more she knew about show business, the more dangerous it seemed to her. Better to be a private investigator, headache and all.
Percy straightened up, took in a deep breath, and wished she hadn’t. The air was dense, and dust filled, archaic smells of years gone by weighing it down.
Not for the faint of heart this catwalk, in any way, shape, or form.
She moved across the length of the walk with careful steps, looking for something but not sure what that something might be. As she hit the center, the walk began to vibrate, causing her to freeze mid-step. Instinctively, she reached out with her hands and hung on to both railings to steady herself. All thoughts of falling left her when she noticed the glint of something on the far wall near one of the rungs. Ignoring the feeling in the pit of her stomach, she hurried across what remained of the walkway. The closer she got to the end, the more the vibrating subsided.
Nearing the wall, she played her torch up and down in what she thought was the place she’d seen the glint. Perplexed, she dropped to her knees, ignored the metal grating that chaffed at them, and searched the wall closer to the floor.
About a foot and a half up, she found what she was looking for. A door handle made of painted-over metal. The location where the inside of the hand touched the handle was worn down to the metal from use over the years. In the dim light she ran her fingers over the seam of a short door, blending into the wall. No taller than two and a half or three feet, the door was nearly as wide as the catwalk.
What the hell is this for?
The handle turned easily in her hand. The silent door swung inward into dark obscurity. From a crouched position, she flashed the torch inside, and saw mounds of black and gray, in varying shapes and sizes, playing havoc with her eyesight and imagination. Nonetheless, she crawled inside.
Chapter Twenty-three
Evelyn, I got caught with the dagger! I didn’t know what to do. First Carlisle was on to us and now his girlfriend. I didn’t mean to stab her, I swear! I saw that detective woman come into the theatre snooping around. I’m frightened. We need to go home. Call me tonight. Evelyn, please. We have to talk about this. I think I killed her! Elsie
Chapter Twenty-four
Percy sat several feet inside the darkened cavern of space, keeping the small door in her sights for a hasty exit, if necessary. She shone the flashlight above her and saw she could stand. She rose and slowly pivoted, playing the light up and down as she moved. The small room overflowed with wooden and cardboard boxes, once regal crystal chandeliers clownishly lying on their sides, parts of balconies resting against walls, even sections of stairs had been dragged in and were strewn everywhere.
Storage for stage pieces, but not from recently. Too dust-covered.
She began to relax, but continued to search the dark with her small torch, until she came to a figure.
A man! A man holding a club over his head!
She felt an adrenalin rush. Then her mind came back to reality. She moved closer.
You ninny, it’s a human sized Statue of Liberty.
She reached out and touched the gray-green folds of the plaster dress, encrusted with layers of grime. “How the hell did they get you in here? They must have laid you on your side and gave you a good shove through the doorway,” she said aloud.
She stepped behind the statue and ran into a card table. A kerosene lamp filled with the liquid sat at one end.
There’s a fire hazard.
Percy ran fingers over the surface of the table. No dust. A fountain pen, tea cup, and lavender ribbon lay next to a small, yellow upright container, cylindrical in shape. She picked it up and twisted it around to read the label. It was emblazoned with a red skull and crossed bones.
“Rat poison,” Percy muttered and shook it. The box felt nearly full. Nothing else was on the table. She returned the container to the table exactly as she found it, withdrew a clean handkerchief from her pocket, and picked up the pen with it. Wrapping the pen with care, she stashed it in her pocket.
Time to leave. Get out while the getting’s good.
Percy did a full one-hundred and eighty degree turn, patted Lady Liberty on the backside, and returned to the door. Down on all fours, she crawled through the opening and out onto the grating of the catwalk. As she re
ached back for the handle to pull the short door closed, she heard the slap, slap, slap of leather soled feet coming up the rungs on the far side of the catwalk. A slight echo followed each step, further announcing the approach.
Percy’s mind raced as she closed the door with a near-silent click.
Whoever they are, they’re nearly one hundred feet away. They can’t see me in the dark and they won’t be able to hear me going down. Thank God for my rubber-soled shoes.
She extinguished her flashlight, dropped it in her pocket, moved to her side of the rungs, and began to descend as quickly but as quietly as possible. She put out of her mind the thirty-five foot drop to the stage below as she placed one foot beneath the other on the metal rungs.
It’s just a ladder, she kept thinking. It’s just a ladder.
Once on the stage floor and breathing hard, she held on to the last rung and leaned against it, waiting for her head to stop pounding. Percy strained her eyes up into the vast darkness above, but saw nothing. There was the imperceptible sound of something up there, but it could have been her imagination playing tricks on her. An empty theatre inspired feelings of fear unlike no other place in the world, she decided, especially when a murderer was loose in it.
On the opposite side of the theatre than she’d started, she moved into the second to the last wing and looked across the stage at the platform on which she’d found Laverne. The top platform was now gone, having been ripped off and thrown away. The police felt it was no longer of any value to their investigation and you couldn’t ask actors to step in the dried blood of one of their colleagues. Supposedly, a new platform was being built in the shop and would be brought here to replace the original in time for the rehearsal.
What the hell was somebody doing up on that platform when Laverne surprised them? How far away is that, anyway? The width of the stage is sixty-five feet, that’s right. That’s too far to throw a dagger. But midway. Hmmm. Maybe so.
Percy stepped out onto the stage and began to walk slowly across it, studying the floor as she went. It felt weird to be on an empty stage in front of an empty house, but Percy concentrated on something else. She paused midway in her trek across stage and squatted down. Amidst the scuffs and scratches on the old wood floor, she found fresh nicks and small gouges in the middle of the stage.
She ran back to where she’d come from, sprinted around the heavy curtains and into the last wing, the wing holding the second Weird Sisters platform. Up the stairs and to the ‘diving’ end of the platform she ran. Pausing, she removed her flashlight from her pocket and balanced it in her hand.
If I remember right, this weighs about the same as the dagger, maybe an ounce or two more. Close enough for jazz. Okay, toots, they say nothing can break this flashlight. Let’s see if it’s true.
And with that thought, Percy took aim and threw it with all her might, aiming for center stage. Spinning through the air, the flashlight struck the floor with a thud then rolled a few feet and came to a stop.
I thought so.
Looking around to make sure no one was observing her, the detective dashed back down the stairs of the platform and across the stage to retrieve her torch. She tested the flashlight to see if it still worked. It did. Percy bent down and examined the floor again. She sat on her haunches and closed her eyes.
Percy envisioned what scenes took place in this spot. Many. This was a favored location of Macbeth to say his famous speeches or soliloquies. It was also a spot where most of the battle scenes took place. In fact, there were so many people performing here at certain times, if something got thrown, it couldn’t help but strike someone. But was the dagger being practice thrown at someone in particular, like Sir Anthony, or at anyone who happens to stand here?
Good question, Percy.
Percy glanced up into the murky rafters again. Now that she knew what was up there, she could visualize the dangling scenery and equipment some thirty or forty feet away. Another thought came to her.
There are two ways to drop whatever is up there on someone down here. You can cut a rope at the top or you can maneuver a pulley.
None of the ropes were cut that she’d been told. That meant whoever dropped the sandbag on the stage manager did it from below at stage level.
Percy stood, shook out her legs, and pocketed her flashlight once again. Single-purposed, she trotted across the remainder of the stage and to the outer wall where the pulley system lived. Ten feet away from this contraption stood the stage manager’s podium. Traditionally he was the person who gave cues to the stagehands to raise and lower the pulleys. An important job, Percy decided.
No wonder a good stage manager is so well thought of.
Percy studied the pulley mechanism, probably ten feet high and fifteen feet in length. Attached to the brick wall, dozens of simple wheels with grooves along their outer circumference gripped the ropes from above. Below that, soldered rings on a thick metal railing held each rope securely tied, but within easy reach of a stagehand to either release or pull when given the cue.
All anyone has to do is walk by, reach out a hand and yank on a rope and something comes crashing down. It’s taking a chance but, by God, anybody could do it. Especially when each rope has been so nicely marked for our murderer.
The stage door slammed, sending echoes of wood and metal banging against each other. The discordant sounds of two men talking and laughing rang throughout the theatre. She strained her eyes at her wrist watch and saw it was eight-thirty. Though it sounded like Wainwright and Cranston and she needed to tell Wainwright about his new thespian, she didn’t want to see him quite yet. She still had work to do.
Percy backed away from the pulleys and snuck down the stairs to the basement. On the way down, she wondered what the producer and director had to be laughing about. As far as she could tell, they were on the brink of financial ruin.
* * * *
“What are you doing?” Percy wheeled around at the sound of a male voice sounding accusatory and self-righteous.
“You must be Ralph,” Percy said with an easy smile. She put out her hand to the tall man, probably in his mid- to late-sixties, with graying hair and deep circles under intelligent hazel eyes. His lanky frame matched hers in height but maybe only wore half the poundage.
“I’m Percy,” she said. “The new ASM.”
His demeanor and tone of voice changed instantly. “Oh.” He drew the one word out, as he took her hand. “Sorry to sound so gruff. It’s just with all that going on around here and I find someone fooling with the lock to the prop cage, I get a little nervous. Percy, is it?” He shook her hand amiably.
“Yes. I thought I’d come in early and check out my duties. I understand I’m supposed to help you hand out the armor and equipment to the actors for the battle scenes.”
“That’s right.” Ralph stepped in front of her, retrieved a set of keys from his pocket, and with a practiced hand, unlocked the padlock. He flung the door open and reached for an overhead light. “Here they all are.” He lifted a breastplate from a pile with one hand. Up close, Percy could tell it was a lightweight material and painted to look like metal.
“What’s this made of?” She reached out and took it, expecting the body armor to be heavier. It weighed virtually nothing.
“Latex. And it’s made from a mold. I prefer the paper machete, myself, although they weigh a bit more.” He took it from her hand and turned it over. “See here?” He pointed to a white tape with a name scrawled on it. “Here’s the actor’s name, so that’s who you hand it to when the battle scenes come up.” He glanced closer to the name. “Never mind with this one. This was Carlisle’s. I didn’t remove the tape yet.” He gave the tape a good pull at one end and it came off with a small ripping sound. Ralph replaced it on the mound with a tender hand. He looked at the neatly stacked piles of armor, helmets, breastplates, and swords. “We’re running out of people to hand these out to. The next thing you know, they’ll be asking me to put one on myself and run out on stage.”
“Certainly not.” There was a touch of insult in his voice. “Despite what outsiders think, the theatre is a cleanly run business. Oh, you have your hotheads and people who are in it for only the glamour or the money, but for most of us, it’s the art itself.”
“Wainwright in it for the art?” Percy made her way in between wooden sawhorses, stacks of books, lamps, and knickknacks to the back of the room where a locked glass cabinet sat.
“What Mr. Wainwright is in it for, is between him and his conscious.” His voice became more reserved.
She turned and faced the man, trying for a disarming smile. “I only ask because I’m new to the theatre. I’m learning my way.” She watched him thaw. Man, a smile can get you a lot around here. I need to remember that for the future.
“Of course, I understand. You have to ask questions. But let’s keep it about the work itself, shall we?” He returned her smile with a genuine grin. Nice man.
“Tell me about this cabinet.” Percy turned back to the glass and metal encased container. She pulled her bag of pistachios from her trouser pocket.
Ralph weaved through the props and came to her side. Both stood looking at the weaponry inside. He cleared his throat. “As you can see, this holds what we call hazardous props, like guns, knives, hatchets, things like that.”
“Is this where the dagger that stabbed Laverne came from?”
“Yes.”
“I see two of them still in here. Have a pistachio.” She extended the bag in his direction. “Take two, they’re small.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” he replied with a laugh, taking a small handful. “Thanks. Regarding the daggers, we always have extras, in case one gets broken.”
“Or confiscated by the police in a crime.”
Persephone Cole and the Halloween Curse Page 12