A meeting with the stage crew was in progress. Those twenty people took seats down front. Barton stood, leaning against the stage, using its floor as a desk for his papers. He peered over half-glasses to a stage-hand who spoke. His actual words were lost by the time they traveled to the rear of the house. Penny, sitting with her feet dangling over the stage, set her bright, cheery face on me. I returned her wave. Barton glanced from her to me as I claimed a seat in the last row.
I knew only one side of Barton Reed: his work, every conversation about the play. At our first meeting in early April, I found him open and personable. By the end of the day, I pronounced him a good fit for Havens. But once the house lights came up, he became challenging and temperamental.
The meeting broke up in short order. I rose and stepped into the aisle, watching Penny drop to the floor and land on cushy tennis shoes. She fell into step behind Barton.
The well-built, six-foot tall director was on the high side of fifty and just shy of handsome. What his features lacked, I had yet to determine. He wore a stiffly starched white dress shirt and charcoal slacks. His dark hair was liberally streaked with gray and trimmed to perfection. He carried papers in one hand while he removed, folded, and slid his reading glasses into a breast pocket with the other.
At Barton’s side walked stage manager, Craig Bittleman. In his late thirties, he taught drama for my alma mater, City College. He played, watched, lived, and breathed baseball, dated only in the off-season, and, for some inexplicable reason, remained single. Clad in a Cincinnati Reds jersey and Levis, he chatted with Barton as they pushed up the main aisle my way.
“So what’s the real reason you missed seeing the game at my house last night?” Craig asked in a confidential tone, oblivious to being overheard. “You never miss. All the guys were there. You out with a lady?”
“I was home, doing rewrites. The boring life of a producer on a budget. Like I just said to the group, the Ellie character had to be written out, with Gina taking off like she did.”
“You know we kicked your butt. The Cubbies didn’t have it last night.”
“Next time, Craig. The Reds don’t stand a chance at Wrigley Field. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to speak with this nice young lady from the mayor’s office.”
The stage manager looked up. “Oh. Hi, Wrenn. Good to see you.”
I smiled and nodded a greeting. Craig and I were old acquaintances. He and Gideon played baseball in the same park league. Craig was first baseman for Tidwell’s Sporting Goods while Gideon played right-field for Night Sticks.
“Okay, then. Later.” Craig slapped Barton on the shoulder and went back down front.
Penny walked up beside the visiting director. Barton was a transient in Havens, here just for the grand reopening. Talk was, Craig wanted to move up to the theater manager’s slot when the time came. I knew he wouldn’t be offered the job.
Weeks ago, when Barton learned I knew his stage manager and scene painter, his reaction was, “Small towns. God love ’em.” I got the impression he thought we in Havens were an anomaly in a world of reality TV.
“The mayor kept his promise about the jack-hammering in the street out front,” Barton said. “Tell him I appreciate it. Even that disciple fellow gave up the ghost today. We had a quiet, productive morning.”
K.C. stopped a repair in Gatling Street the minute Barton complained about the noise interfering with rehearsals. Instead, he rescheduled the work to the few hours just after dawn. Surprisingly, this was Barton’s first mention of Hellfire’s intrusions. I doubted he filed a police report directly with the chief about the boisterous minister. He only whined to K.C. or me.
After checking to see that Craig Bittleman was out of earshot, Penny said, “It was as quiet as it could be with Craig talking baseball nonstop. I’d almost prefer hammering and sermons to stats.”
“Way to take one for the team.” Barton patted her shoulder. “All joking aside, Wrenn, tell the mayor we’re back on track over here.”
“He’ll be glad to hear the good news,” I said, waiting for the other shoe to fall. When nothing came, I continued, “This play is an important community project. He’s not going to put it on the back burner. It has the full weight of the mayor’s office behind it.” I felt myself blush. This was a bit of a faux pas, given K.C.’s chunky appearance.
“Take a minute with Penny, then come see me. I’ll be in my office.” Turning, he walked off toward the side door and the administrative wing.
Catching the slight chill in his departing words, Penny asked, “What was that about?”
“Nothing. Just business,” I said, watching him go, then dropped into my gossipy-girlfriend voice. “We need to talk.” I led her toward the nearest lobby door.
A procession of four, equally spaced, round couches—tufted and velvet-covered reproductions of the originals—marched across the heart of the lobby. Penny and I sat knee to knee, speaking in low tones even though we were alone. All morning, I felt trapped on a carousel whirling at an impossible speed. I wanted nothing more than to pour out my troubles to Penny. I hoped that would slow the ride down enough that I could get off and stand on solid ground.
We possessed a familiarity with one another’s day-to-day life. She knew of my research project for our former police chief and had a rudimentary background on the Egyptian collection, so I skipped past details. Naturally, she was stunned to learn the murder victim was Trey Rosemont. The university’s theft garnered a second round of sympathetic murmurings. I lingered on Clay Addison’s currently unknown, but apparently volatile history with Lieutenant Frank Elmore. Throughout, she expressed concern for me, allaying my fears with her earnest brown eyes. Her rationale sounded quite sensible when she sided with the mayor, as confident as he that the accusations made against Clay would soon be straightened out. I went on to relevant facts about the theft, mentioning both the injured guard and yet another cop with a history. The history lesson included Gideon.
“Oh, and by the way, I met another of Gideon’s old girlfriends. This one’s a cop. She’s handling the theft.”
“Not another one,” she erupted. “I love Gideon. You know I do, but he must’ve been dating two and three at a time to rack up this many. How could he manage it?” She tapped her chin with an index finger. “What’s that make it? With the cop, an even dozen, I think.”
A difference existed between Sherrie Lippincott and the other eleven, if Penny’s count was accurate. The larger subset moved on with their lives. When our paths crossed, I experienced very little hostility or resentment. There was interest, of course. In their minds, I tamed him when they could not. Many mentioned this feat. At some point, I supposed the tally would end. While it continued, while Gideon’s and my closeness strengthened, I kept jealousy at bay. In the beginning, maybe jealousy crested. But now, the increasing number gave me a feeling of personal pride. I was set apart in Gideon’s eyes. I felt truly chosen. Our souls were linked. Penny said it better.
“Bless Gideon for smartening up and hanging onto the best thing that ever happened to him. And he for you. It’s easy for anyone to see,” she paused while her heart opened, “by the way you look at each other.” She glanced at her watch. “Look, I need to meet Max at the bank. We’re signing the clinic’s loan papers today.”
“Finally. How long has he promised getting a loan for the remodeling?”
“Those plans have been rolled out on one end on my dining room table for six months,” she said with feigned irritation. “The closing was supposed to be this afternoon. He called a little while ago to change the time. I planned on going home first, but now I have to go like this.” Her outstretched hands revealed paint-splattered jeans.
Max was a procrastinator and a veterinarian, and Penny, if given a chance, would introduce him in pretty much that order. She was also a breeder of chocolate and black Labrador retrievers. Her kennel of Labs and his animal hospital were located on the sprawling acres of the old dairy farm she and Max owned. Their two busin
esses go paw-in-paw, so to speak.
I looked over her shoulder to the outside doors by the ticket booth. A young man, carrying a box large enough to hold a layered birthday cake, entered and walked our way. His hair and face were red. Stitched on his shirt was Cummings Office Supply.
“I have a delivery for Mr. Reed,” he said, stopping six feet away and hefting the box on his fingertips the way a waiter holds a tray.
Penny turned in her seat, looked up at him, down at her watch, then over at me.
“You go. I’ll take it back to Barton. I need to see him anyway.”
“Thanks.” She gave me a hug, then rushed to the doors, her ponytail swinging madly.
I took the box and trundled toward the door labeled Administrative Offices. It opened to a hallway running the length of the theater. I passed the door Barton exited through earlier. Beyond that, a door placarded Backstage cut across my path. I found it unlocked and trained to latch itself. Doors on my left opened to dressing rooms, the greenroom, and lounge with Barton’s office bringing up the rear. Opposite Barton’s door, a ladder and some maintenance supplies sat against the wall, out of the way of the wide opening into the wings.
As I approached Barton’s office, he stepped out, closing the door and testing the locked knob.
When he yawned into his fist, I said congenially, “You look like I feel. I didn’t get enough sleep last night either.”
“Sorry. I was up late with rewrites,” said Barton, droopy-eyed.
“I bet that’s what this is. It was just delivered from Cummings.” No need to peek inside. The work order taped to the lid was generically ticketed “Scripts Xeroxed—Hold For Delivery.”
“Thanks for bringing it back,” he said, taking the box.
“Just another service of the mayor’s office.” I honestly hadn’t intended my manner to be sarcastic, but he seemed primed to receive it that way.
“Are you taking exception to my one little request, comparing it to the menial task of delivery boy?” he huffed, squaring off in defense of his PR idea.
“Not at all. You’ve misinterpreted my—” I started, but he plowed right through me.
“Because it was your council that wanted a professional face on this play. I’m glad to do it, but I want to be appreciated, my expertise respected.”
“No question, Barton, your expertise is respected. But you’re used to big backers with deep pockets. This is Havens. The majority of business leaders here are struggling to make payroll week to week.”
“A theater is a business. It’s not a hobby. And it can be a money-making venture. You know, I’ve done this a time or two,” he said, giving me a news flash. “It takes money to make money—an old cliché, but true.”
“This theater’s an amenity for Havens that the Friends of the Baxter believe in.”
“Then they need to make it happen. Maybe the problem is you. Maybe you don’t want to see the auditorium filled?”
“Of course, I do,” I shot back.
“Then take my direction, spend some time on your lines, and you’ll snag someone. Just a little more effort, please.” His voice rose in volume, then died off into a ringing silence.
I stared at him while his chest heaved and fell. Seconds passed. With them, my temper ebbed enough that I could speak with an even tone, yet not enough to keep sassy determination out of it. “I will find someone to fill out the program, and I will have them by Monday before it goes to the printer. Don’t worry. It will all be taken care of. Now, if there’s nothing else, I’ll slip out the door here.”
His jaw tightened in reply, then he shifted the box under one arm and pushed the alleyway door open with the other. We mumbled our farewells, and I stepped out. The door thumped closed behind me. A gravelly sound made me turn.
A slight middle-aged man, wearing a white painter’s jumpsuit, sat placidly behind the door, smoking. His seat was an upended five-gallon plastic bucket of wall-texturizing. He didn’t look up when he spoke, just stared at the smoke curling from the cigarette he held between bent knees. “Get booted out the back door?”
“My choice,” I said, matching his emotionless drawl. “Taking a break?”
“Just waiting for his royal highness to get rehearsal started.”
Amused by his remark, I said, “Shouldn’t be much longer.”
He took one last puff, tossed the stub under his boot, and ground it out. Totally devoid of eye contact or any personality whatsoever, he opened the door, flipped a gizmo on the latch, and went inside.
I heard the latch click into place, then added, “Nice talking with you.”
Out of curiosity, I depressed the thumb latch and pulled. The door didn’t budge. I tried again. Nothing. I gave it a sideways look and reached the conclusion that Mr. Bubbly’s monkeying locked out entry from this side.
Spinning on my heel, I sent myself in the direction of Piedmont Alley. At the corner of the theater, where I could see down the narrow lane between buildings, I caught sight of Midnight parked in the lot behind City Hall. In that instant, I remembered the Ohio Council of Mayors speech, and I veered off, reneging on my responsibility to alley and editor. I could be home and back with the new draft before the item came up on K.C.’s calendar.
I smiled to myself, thinking back to my fellow compatriot. Mr. Bubbly’s mere presence equaled a soothing ointment for my irritation with Barton Reed, and he made me chuckle as had K.C.’s exorcism joke. In the next beat, my creativity took the reins. I would gladly move heaven and earth if a royal exorcism could be worked out for his highness.
And if it could be ever so slightly painful.
Connery’s
After Midnight and I punched through the lunchtime traffic on Hattersfield Road, I speed-dialed Gideon. I expected he would be deep in a meeting with Eastwood’s President Stuart Dillon, forcing me to leave a message, so I was surprised when he answered.
“We’re waiting on Herman Foss to get here. Dillon wants Foss to make the calls to the Collegiate Foundation about the theft and get the process started for the insurance claim. All the board members have been contacted. We’re trying to get everyone here as soon as possible for an emergency meeting.”
Foss was the university’s legal counsel out of Columbus. He was fifty minutes away by interstate and billed at an obscene hourly rate. A dozen board members were spread across the country, all but one or two, alumnus of Eastwood.
When I told him I was heading home, he asked, “Will there be cake?” The leer in his voice was so audible, I laughed aloud. That was a code between us, the way we prearranged a midday sexual encounter. If my response was, “and ice cream, too,” then the deal was sealed.
“No, dear, there will not be cake.”
“I’ll just have to take my chances later, then. That is, if you’re sure?”
I assured him I was. He promised to call me when he got out of the next meeting and broke the connection.
Is it just men? Is it all men? The world could be crumbling around them, and all they thought about was sex. Well, now he had me thinking about it, too.
Gideon and I lived in the old caretaker’s quarters on the Hancock Farm in the far northeast corner of town. From Hattersfield, it was just past the first crest on Somerset Road. I’ve lived in this cottage abode for seven years, the last three with Gideon. A year ago, Mary Hancock split off the quarters from her place and sold it to me quite reasonably, I’m happy to say. I owned all the land from seventy-five feet behind the cottage to its frontage on Somerset Road. The largest portion was densely wooded. The smallest portion was caretaker’s quarters.
Well-built in 1910, the cottage was roughly forty-foot square and saw many renovations over time. The greatest improvement is the addition of the second-floor loft, designed to be the master bedroom suite. For the most part, the living space downstairs flowed openly without walls. The immense stone fireplace was the focal point. A mud porch was tucked off the kitchen. Kept hidden behind a creaky hinged door was the cellar I hated.
I scuffed across the flagstone path to the front door and let myself in. Neither the temptation of the front yard’s weedy flowerbeds, nor the thirsty cardinal-red geraniums partnered alongside a decorative wrought-iron bench wooed me away from getting my day back on track. The half-dozen pages of handwritten paragraphs penned on yellow legal paper lay in their prominent place on the coffee table, just where I left them last night so I would be sure to see them and pick them up this morning. The best laid plans.
I headed toward the couch, thinking another read-through made sense while I had a quiet moment. The couch faced the fireplace and was a casual blue-green plaid. I grabbed a pillow in the same cross-hatched fabric out of a solid azure side chair. Laying keys and phone on the coffee table, I sat down, slipping the pillow behind my back and my shoes off.
The yellow pages lay loosely in my grasp when my ringing cell phone woke me. My head jerked up. A quick glance at the wall clock said I dozed for nearly twenty minutes. Crap! I tried not to sound groggy and give my dismal work habits away when I answered, but apparently missed the mark on success.
The voice belonging to Clay Addison spoke. “Were you sleeping? Where are you?”
“I came home for K.C.’s speech,” I yawned, “and fell asleep on the couch, rereading it.” Then I came fully awake. “Clay, it’s you! Are you okay?”
“Well, kiddo, let’s say, I’m not happy to be on this side of a murder investigation.”
I told him that bombshell dropped in K.C.’s office.
“How about you?” His tone softened. “Are you okay? After your morning, I was just wondering.”
Rising from the couch, I smiled. He was being sweet. “I’m fine. At least I didn’t have nightmares. And I’m hungry. That ought to count for something.” I padded across area rugs to the kitchen’s black-and-white tiles, laid out like a gameboard.
Deadly Homecoming at Rosemont Page 6