Uniformly Dead

by Greta McKennan

  She turned to me with an appraising look. “I’m Aster. Come with me. We’ll find you a suitable gown.”

  “Do I get to see the final choice, or do I have to wait until the ball?” Jim asked.

  “What would Scarlett O’Hara say?” I tossed my head in my best imitation of a Southern belle.

  Jim laughed and snagged a chair.

  Aster led me down a long passageway created from wooden flats and into the costume room. I gasped at the dozens of ball gowns in all colors lining the walls. I flitted from one to the next, lifting a sash, spreading a skirt. Silk and organdy and lace—all beautiful.

  Aster looked me over. “I think you’ll be blue, in the turquoise spectrum, perhaps. Size eight, would you say?” Without waiting for an answer, she scoped down a wall and pounced on a dress. “There’s no private dressing room,” she said, handing me the dress and turning to another prospective belle of the ball.

  I quickly shed my clothes and slipped the ball gown over my head. The bodice featured a row of pink silk roses adorning the low neckline. Puffed sleeves continued the rose motif. The tight bodice contrasted with the cascading silken folds of the skirt.

  Aster trotted up behind me. “Feel like you’re missing something?” She held up a mess of fabric and stiffening in her arms. “We usually suggest putting the hoop skirt on first.”

  I gathered up the billowing skirt, feeling like a preschooler playing with a parachute. Aster helped me step into the hoop skirt, which was no easy feat. It was basically a waist-high cage. Then I dropped the dress over it, watching it fall in shimmering waves to the floor. Aster smoothed everything into place and steered me to the mirror.

  I didn’t really look like Scarlett O’Hara—I didn’t have her saucy self-confidence. But I could have been her sister—her old-maid sister at the advanced age of twenty-nine. I smiled at my reflection. Looked like I only needed to try on one dress.

  Aster handed me a fan and sent me out the door. “Go show your young man,” she said.

  I swept out of the costume room for a grand entrance, skirt swirling, fan swishing. Jim was enchanted. He stood and bowed deeply. He had changed into his Confederate uniform, and looked dashing in his military gray.

  He took my gloved hands in his own, then bent to kiss my hand as I dropped into a proper curtsy. “You look lovely,” he said. His eyes glowed with admiration. “Shall we dance?”

  “I have to warn you, I’m not a great dancer,” I said. Jim smiled as he led me out onto the dance floor. He placed a hand on my waist and held my other hand to lead. I knew how to waltz in theory, but I really was not a graceful dancer. But Jim was very good at leading, and no one could see my feet anyway, so we did fine, aside from the few times I caught a foot in the hoop skirt.

  “Good thing we’re practicing before they shoot the scene.” I laughed as I stepped on the bottom of the hoop.

  “You’re a wonderful dancer,” Jim said gallantly. He swirled me around the dance floor, past a couple decked out in silk and feathers, an eager clump of soldiers waiting their turn to dance, and a stunning blonde dancing with Emmett McDowell. Great. That insufferable prig was going to be part of the dance scene too. I steeled myself to ignore him.

  The music stopped and Jim excused himself, “I’ll be back in a minute, Daria. I’m expecting a call.”

  I saw Emmett heading in my direction and turned to flee. I almost ran into Pete lugging a heavy cardboard box. His faded flannel shirt and Phillies cap contrasted sharply with the luxurious opulence of the ballroom.

  “Daria? Wow, you’re quite the Southern belle. Who would have thought?”

  I curtsied so low that I almost fell right over. “Are you filming the dance scene?”

  He nodded at the box in his arms. “Getting ready to set up the lights. We’re not shooting until tomorrow, so you’ve got plenty of time to learn how to waltz.”

  “Oh, and I need every minute, right?” I batted my fan at him.

  He laughed. “You said it, not me.”

  “Well, well, if it isn’t Hollywood Pete.” Emmett’s oily voice rang out behind us. “Schlepping boxes for the big boys, are we? No wonder your name is conspicuously absent from the credits.”

  Pete ignored him.

  “I’m surprised they would even offer you a job.” Emmett persisted. “Is it some kind of work-release program?”

  Pete’s lips tightened. He brushed past Emmett as if he didn’t exist.

  Jim walked up to me and bowed, elbow extended in invitation. “Care for another dance?”

  I took his arm automatically, throwing an anxious glance after Pete.

  Emmett followed behind Pete, laughing on an ugly note. “Could it be they don’t know you’re a felon?”

  Pete’s knuckles whitened as he gripped his box. “Everyone knows you’re a jerk,” he spat out through clenched teeth. “No secret there.”

  Emmett’s face darkened. He could dish it out but he couldn’t take it, evidently. “You better watch your step, Dembrowski. I know you’re the one who stole my family’s priceless doll from the museum. All I need is proof to get you thrown back in jail.”

  Jim clasped my hand, lifting it into position for the waltz. “Shall we dance?” He steered me gently back into the swirl of dancers, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from Pete and Emmett.

  “I didn’t steal your old doll,” Pete snapped. “I wouldn’t be caught dead with that mangy old thing.” He turned his back on Emmett.

  I didn’t see any need for Pete to disparage Angeline, who was a breathtakingly beautiful doll, but nobody asked me. Jim said something about my gown, but I didn’t hear every word. I watched as Emmett continued to harass Pete.

  “Did you have a good afternoon today, Dembrowski? Entertain any unexpected visitors, perhaps?”

  I gasped, pulling Jim to a halt.

  Pete dropped the box in surprise. It crashed to the floor, splitting open and sending hundreds of tiny light bulbs spinning off in all directions. The dancers stopped to watch the commotion.

  “What do you know about those thugs?” Pete demanded.

  Emmett smiled coldly. “Thugs? I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. A friend of mine was looking for you, so I obliged with your address. I trust they found you okay?”

  Pete yanked off his Phillies cap and slammed it to the floor. He advanced on Emmett with clenched fists. “You just crossed the line,” he spat out. “You sent those thugs to threaten my sister! Now you’re gonna pay for it!”

  “No, Pete!” I ran over and grabbed his arm. “Stop it! He’s not worth losing your job over.”

  “Come on, Dembrowski.” Emmett goaded, even as he backed away. “Give them a reason to throw your butt back in jail!”

  Pete wrenched his arm out of my grasp. He turned and slammed both fists into the top of the mangled box. Jim looked questioningly at me, as if wondering if he should interfere.

  “You stay away from me and my sister,” Pete growled, pointing at Emmett. “Keep your friends away from my house, or so help me, I will send you straight to hell!”

  Emmett laughed. “You can’t touch me. You’re trapped between the cops and Kinney—you’ll be lucky to come out alive.” He shrugged and turned away. “You got nothin’, Dembrowski.”

  Pete started to lunge forward, and I grabbed his arm again, my hand shaking. “Just walk away, Pete.” I turned him around so his back was to Emmett. “Just walk away. I don’t want you to end up back in jail.” I shook his arm. “Who would clean the bathroom and make the lasagna?”

  Pete snorted and strode away, robbing Emmett of his victory in getting the last word. I peeked behind me to see Emmett standing at a loss, bereft of any audience. Stupid, evil little man, I thought with a shudder. What would he do to us next?

  Chapter Nine

  I took a deep breath and turned back to Jim, embarrassed that he had witnessed that scene. He held out his arm and led me back onto the dance floor.

  “I’m
sorry about that stuff with Emmett,” I said. “Pete knows him from Hollywood, and they’ve always hated each other.” I glanced at him, hoping he wouldn’t think I had a closet full of enemies, too.

  Jim shrugged, his eyes on Pete’s back where he knelt to pick up the scattered lightbulbs. “Emmett seems like someone who attracts trouble.” He flashed a smile at me. “In camp, all the guys avoid him so they won’t have to listen to his long-winded stories.”

  I returned his smile gratefully. “Want to come to Aileen’s gig with me and Pete? We’re going down to the Foundry at eleven-thirty. It’s incredibly loud and vulgar—you can tell from their name, the ‘Twisted Armpits.’ What do you say?”

  Jim laughed. “How could I pass up the Twisted Armpits? I’d love to come.” He bowed deeply as the dance ended. “May I have the pleasure of driving you there?”

  * * *

  Jim drove slowly past the dark warehouses. He frowned slightly. “I wanted to ask you about your brother, Daria. Is he in some kind of trouble?”

  I didn’t want to get into the details. “Nothing he can’t handle.”

  Jim kept his eyes fixed on the road. “I’m not thinking about him.” He looked at me, his dreamy eyes filled with concern. “The question is, how much can you handle?”

  I took a breath to reply, but he kept talking. “Sounds like he’s been in some trouble with the law, like maybe he’s done time?”

  I nodded, twisting my hands in my lap like a truant schoolgirl facing disapproving nuns. The catechism continued.

  “Was it theft? Assault?” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Murder?”

  “Good grief, no! It was drugs.” Still, I couldn’t look him in the eye. “He went to jail for drugs.”

  Silence stretched out between us. I inwardly cursed Pete for his stupidity, hoping that it wouldn’t taint whatever relationship might be developing between Jim and me. Would Jim draw the line at seeing the sister of a drug addict? Would he feel unsafe to be around me?

  Jim drove silently into the lot and eased his Jaguar into a tiny space between an ancient pickup and a shiny new Prius. He killed the engine and leaned over to lay his hand against my cheek. My pulse quickened.

  “Daria, I’m just worried about you. Fact is, once someone gets hooked on drugs, it’s almost impossible for them to ever get clean. Chances are your brother is using right now.” His hand dropped to my lap, to lace his fingers with mine. He squeezed my hand gently. “I’m sorry. I really am.”

  I shook my head, pulling my hand away as I pushed back my own doubts. “No, you’re wrong, Jim. Pete told me that’s all over. I’m sure he’s not taking drugs.”

  “Has your brother ever lied to you?”

  An image flashed into my mind, of Pete in high school, swearing he spent his evenings at the library, when I knew he was hanging with the potheads on the corner. I’d never forgotten the shame on his face when I busted him with the whole alto section as witnesses. He stayed home after that, but it was a long time before I could believe anything he said.

  “Well, sure, what brother doesn’t tell lies?” I stammered.

  “Daria.” Jim’s voice was gentle, caring, inexorable. “I’m sorry I said anything. It’s just . . . you can’t trust someone on drugs. They’ll seem like your best friend, but they’ll let you down when it counts. I know he’s your brother, but you can’t trust Pete right now.”

  I opened the door. “I’d trust him with my life.”

  He nodded. “I knew you’d say that. Forget I said anything—let’s not ruin a lovely evening with my sordid suspicions.” He smiled, suddenly light and carefree. “I think I can hear the Twisted Armbands from here.”

  I took a deep breath, trying to catch up with his mood shift. “Twisted Armpits, actually. I think the Foundry is practically soundproof, just to let you know.” I laughed at his theatrical groan, and the somber moment passed.

  We got out of the car and walked toward the door. Jim took my hand, waving at Pete standing in the doorway. I glanced sharply at Pete, wondering if I would be able to see evidence of drug use if it was happening. He looked the same as ever. I shook off Jim’s suspicions. I was going to believe Pete unless he gave me a reason not to. Innocent until proven guilty, right? I smiled at my brother, and the three of us strolled into the Foundry.

  A wall of sound assailed us. We had entered a different world, far from the opulent elegance of the antebellum ballroom. A cavernous space with black-and-purple painted walls, the Foundry was sparsely furnished with metal tables and chairs, and lit by Chinese lanterns hanging from metal girders in the ceiling. The band was in full swing—the beat filled my chest the minute we walked in. The bar was packed—a rough-looking crowd of teenagers dressed entirely in black and older folks with tattoos and multiple body piercings. I knew I stood out in my conservative heels and pantyhose. I should have worn black leather and chains if I wanted to fit in. A heavyset man wearing a Mad Max jacket and clutching three beers jostled past me, sloshing beer onto my arm. I shied away, accidentally stepping on Pete’s foot. There was no way we could find a seat in this crowd. I looked at Jim apologetically, but he had his eyes on Pete.

  Pete wormed his way through the press of people around the bar and caught the eye of a waitress. “I’m looking for Lazlo,” he shouted above the noise. The waitress pointed to a small man with jet-black hair and turned to fill another beer glass.

  Pete forged on through the crowd to Lazlo’s side. He said something to him, then Lazlo motioned for Pete to follow him. Jim and I held up the rear, as Lazlo led Pete to a table piled high with dirty glasses and bar rags. Lazlo snagged a passing waitress to clear the mess, conjured up three chairs out of thin air, and seated us with a flourish worthy of a circus ringmaster. The waitress appeared at our table with a pitcher of beer before I had even sat down.

  Jim leaned an elbow on the table. “How did you do that?”

  Pete laughed and poured himself a beer. “Aileen had it all fixed up for us.” He handed us each a pair of earplugs and settled back to enjoy the music.

  It was incredibly loud. Even with the earplugs, the sound swirled around me and inside me in a driving, urgent beat, punctuated by howls. Sitting and listening was different from beating on the drums. I wanted to be part of the music, not a spectator.

  Jim reached over and took my hand. The touch of his fingers sent shivers dancing up my spine. A blush crept up my cheeks, and I tried to play it off with a quick sip of beer.

  A flash exploded in my face.

  I threw up my hands and blinked away the blinding echoes of the flash. McCarthy stood next to me, grinning, camera in hand. “Enjoying the show?” he said.

  “I wish you would stop taking random photos of me.”

  “I’ll pose this one.” He cocked his head and looked me over with mock seriousness. “Tilt your head a little more to the left . . . a little more . . . there. Perfect.” He fired off half a dozen shots. “Nothing random about that. I’m putting together a photo montage. You know, like the Helga pictures? The Daria Photos. They’ll hang in the Tremington someday, you watch.”

  “Talk to my agent,” I said, unable to keep from laughing.

  He snagged a chair and made himself at home. “That Aileen sure is something to see—and hear.” He turned admiring eyes to the band.

  Aileen certainly was a sight. Dressed in skin-tight black leather pants and a black-and-red lace corset, her face heavily made up with the inevitable black motif, and the studded dog collar around her neck, she dominated the stage. Her band mates were dressed similarly, but they faded into the background in the face of Aileen’s personality. McCarthy’s camera clicked away.

  I stole a glance at McCarthy, Aileen’s words echoing in my mind. Did he seem like the murdering type? He was quick-witted, and certainly ruthless and unprincipled—I couldn’t rule him out. Not by a long shot.

  He caught me looking and grinned impulsively. “May I?” he said with an exaggerated bow, and aimed the
camera at me. I folded my hands and smiled for the camera, wishing he were nothing more sinister than an obnoxious photographer.

  The band brought their tune to a crashing halt and announced a ten-minute break. Aileen forged through the crowd to our table.

  “Hey, the obnoxious photographer!” she said.

  McCarthy chuckled. “I seem to be making a name for myself.”

  “And the Civil War dude,” Aileen went on. “Careful who you hang with, Moron.”

  Jim and McCarthy stared, but Pete laughed. “She means me,” he said good-naturedly. “Aileen, have you met Jim Laker, the ‘Civil War dude?’ He’s really enjoying your show.”

  Jim held out a hand to Aileen. “Pleased to meet you,” he said stiffly.

  She nodded briefly and turned to me. “Want to do a riff on the next tune, Daria? Pinker said he’d let you play the drums if you want.”

  I caught my breath. “Really? You wouldn’t mind?

  “I wouldn’t ask you if I did, would I? If you think the basement’s a rush, you should see what a live crowd can do for you.”

  I jumped up. “You’re on!”

  The bar looked different from the stage. Everyone was ogling me, probably wondering where my spiked hair and black leather was. I looked over at our table. Jim sat with his arms crossed, frowning slightly. Pete leaned back in his chair, relaxed. McCarthy was gone.

  Aileen kicked me before I could figure out where he’d gone. “Just follow the beat.” She launched into her crashing guitar riff.

  I pounded away, forgetting everything else in the need to create the loudest beat possible. The crowd loved the song. They danced in front of the stage in a black-garbed frenzy. I laughed and howled along with the band.

  McCarthy circled the stage, camera clicking away. These would be great pictures for his Daria Photos exhibit.

  I glanced back at our table, hoping that Jim was enjoying himself. That’s when I saw them—those two goons, Ivan and Karl. They sat at a table directly behind Pete, deep in conversation with a slim young woman dressed in a slinky black top accented with an array of swingy gold necklaces. Her thick, sandy curls fell loose across her bare shoulders. With a start, I recognized Torey.