by JP Delaney
I call Henry so he can escort me back to the apartment. By the time he drops me off, Aidan is there with Patrick, talking through the implications for the production. The news is already trending on social media, apparently. I go into the kitchen area, but I can’t help but overhear.
“I’ve talked to Faith,” Aidan’s saying. Faith is Nyasha’s understudy. “She’s ready to step up. We’ll just have to do a small rewrite to take out her existing part.”
“Won’t the public expect us to cancel?” Patrick asks.
“I don’t think so. It’s rare for an actor to die during rehearsals, but not unheard of. Everyone knows the show must go on.”
And you know the publicity will help ticket sales, I think cynically.
“We’ll put out a statement,” Aidan adds. “We’re mourning a dear friend and a brilliant talent. Nyasha’s sudden loss is a terrible tragedy and she will be sorely missed. And we’ll get the cast back into the rehearsal room first thing tomorrow. Faith will need intensive run-throughs.”
* * *
—
“He seems remarkably calm about this,” Patrick says after Aidan’s gone.
“It’s his job. The cast will be looking to him for leadership now.”
“And you? Are you all right?”
I hesitate. “Can I tell you something terrible?”
“Of course.”
“When I heard,” I say slowly, “when Aidan told us…my first reaction was shock, obviously. I was horrified. And so sad for poor Nyasha. But then I felt…”
“Go on,” Patrick says.
“There was just a tiny, tiny part of me that was disappointed. Because this is the final proof, isn’t it? The proof Kathryn was wrong all along. Most likely Stella was this killer’s victim too, just as all those other girls were. Even though a part of me had hoped…” I stop. “I’d still half hoped it was you. That you had this terrible dark secret that, one day, you were going to share with me.”
He looks dumbfounded. “You can’t be serious!”
“You wanted to know the real me. Are you shocked?”
“But this isn’t the real you, is it?” he says slowly. “It’s her—Apollonie. Your character. You’ve gone in too deep again—”
I shake my head. “I based her character on me—you know that. This is always who I’ve been, Patrick. It’s just taken a long time for me to trust you enough to share it with you. I might wish I had more empathy or compassion or whatever, but the fact is, I’m just not wired that way. Blame it on being a child nobody wanted, or on being a bit borderline, or whatever the hell you want to call it, but I’m not like other people. I’m just not.”
93
We resume rehearsals the next day. Faith is professional enough not to change the role Nyasha’s created: She keeps everything the same, right down to the same pauses, the same movements and blocking, so the rest of us don’t have to start from scratch. It’s almost as if Nyasha’s back in the room. It shows how talented Faith is, I think. It’s what they always say: Today’s understudies are tomorrow’s stars.
A few times, I even catch myself calling her Nyasha by mistake. Laurence pointedly calls me out on it.
Of all the cast, only Laurence gives interviews to the media, telling them how much he admired Nyasha. I think about letting some blogger somewhere know she thought he was a buffoon, but I don’t. I have enough on my plate, and the Internet is awash with enough theories about her already.
After two days of intensive rehearsals, and with just five days to go before opening night, the entire production moves from the rehearsal studio into the actual theater. The set—which until now has been colored tapes on the studio floor—is suddenly a physical reality. As well as scene run-throughs, we have costume parades, tech calls, cue-to-cues for the lighting team. Advance ticket sales are excellent, apparently. The first two weeks are already sold out. But then, who could resist a show about Baudelaire in which there’d already been a murder?
I’m given my own dressing room, a cramped, dusty space in the backstage warren that would have been Nyasha’s if she hadn’t died. It has a dressing table, basin, mirrors, even a tiny daybed. I love it. Every time I walk in I stop and inhale the smell. Scenery paint, stage dust, and moth-eaten velvet. The perfume of the magic kingdom.
Soon it starts to fill with flowers. From Patrick, from Aidan, from Jess, from Marcie.
None from Laurence, I note.
And then a bouquet arrives that immediately catches my eye. Long-stemmed black roses, wrapped in a tall cone of paper bearing the logo of one of Manhattan’s most expensive florists. When I unwrap it, my heart thudding, the bouquet falls apart. The blooms have been mutilated; sliced from the stems, which have been shredded.
The typed note says:
Sometimes I punish flowers
Simply for daring to bloom.
I recognize the quotation instantly. It’s from “To One Who Is Too Cheerful.” One of the poems Baudelaire sent to Apollonie Sabatier. The poem that was later banned for obscenity, in which he described how he wanted to kill her.
94
“You can’t think I’m imagining this now,” I tell Patrick. “He’s saying it’s still not over. That Nyasha wasn’t the end of it.”
He frowns. “I’m going to call the florist.”
He hangs up looking troubled. “They say the flowers were fine when they left the shop. But they were delivered to an Internet locker, not the theater. Whoever did this must have shredded them before redelivering them to you.”
“Did the florist get a name?”
He shakes his head. “An online order. Paid with PayPal.”
“So I wasn’t being paranoid.”
Patrick busies himself opening a bottle of red wine. As he hands me a glass he says carefully, “Not paranoid, no. But there are other possibilities besides a stalker, aren’t there?”
“Like what?” I say, bemused.
“A practical joke.”
“What?” I begin, but he cuts me short.
“Laurence, for example. He would have seen how freaked out you were after you got that first bunch. Maybe this is his revenge for that little stunt you pulled on him.”
“Which completely ignores the fact he didn’t send me the first bunch. And he still doesn’t know I have that video.”
“Aidan, then. Directors have been known to deliberately frighten actresses, haven’t they?” He hesitates. “Particularly actresses they don’t think are up to the job. Hitchcock did it with Tippi Hedren—”
“It isn’t Aidan. Patrick, it isn’t. He didn’t want to cast me, but once he did, he’s been nothing but professional.” I push my wine away, untouched.
“Claire…” Patrick falters.
“Yes?”
“I have to ask you this,” he says quietly. “Did you send yourself those flowers?”
“You’re joking,” I say disbelievingly.
“I would understand.” He looks into his glass. “If it was a way of getting yourself into the part. Of feeling as Apollonie must have felt, when Baudelaire sent her the poems. But if it is, you must tell me.”
“You cannot possibly think I would do that.”
“I know you’re capable of some amazing things. I know you throw yourself into your roles. It’s one of the things I love about you. I just don’t know how far you’d take it.”
“I didn’t send myself those flowers, Patrick.” I reach for my glass after all and take a long swallow. “It’s him. He’s doing this.”
That night, I call Jess and ask her for a favor.
95
“I finally managed to get on the site,” Henry tells me as he walks me to the theater the next morning. “The hidden part of Necropolis.”
“And? Did you find anything?” There’s a street kiosk on the corner of 116th, just where it becom
es College Walk. I stop to buy a copy of the Times to see if there’s any news about Nyasha. I flick through quickly. There doesn’t appear to be. Just yet more speculation, along with several mentions of the play. Ms. Neary was playing opposite the actor Laurence Pisano, along with up-and-coming British newcomer Claire Wright. It’s the first time anyone’s used the phrase up-and-coming about me.
Henry shakes his head. “It’s a reciprocal thing—unless you upload, you don’t get to see the downloads.”
“Oh,” I say, disappointed. I’d been so sure that would be the answer.
“But I could read the titles of the available pictures on a list.”
Something about the way he says it makes me look at him. “How does that help?”
“The most recent one was titled ‘The Ghost.’ ”
“That’s Nyasha,” I say immediately. “It must be.” I feel almost light-headed at the realization I was right.
“There’s something more, Claire.” He hesitates. “There was another image—one that didn’t exist yet. It was titled ‘Coming Soon: My Heart Laid Bare.’ ”
“The name of our play.”
He nods.
“Henry, you have to tell the police.”
“Theoretically, I agree. But realistically, what are they going to do? The whole reason people use those sites is because they’re anonymous. You and I both know it could take the cops months to find out who the users are.” He reaches out and squeezes my shoulder, clumsily. “Listen, Claire. Don’t worry, okay? I’ve got your back. I’ll keep you safe.”
96
I step into my dressing room and close the door. The technical run-through has gone well. Now there’s just this evening’s dress rehearsal. The show opens tomorrow.
More flowers have arrived. Flowers come every day now, so that’s nothing out of the ordinary. But even so, my heart is pounding as I go and read the note.
It says:
My Heart Laid Bare.
Nothing else, no signature or name. I unwrap the bouquet fearfully. But the flowers are beautiful, and intact. The blooms haven’t been mutilated in any way.
Perhaps, I think, these have been sent to everyone, and the florist simply wrote the name of the production, instead of the sender.
I lie down on the daybed and run through some sense memory exercises, trying to recharge my batteries ahead of the dress. But it’s difficult to concentrate. Henry’s words earlier keep running around my head. I’ll keep you safe.
And something else, too. His touch. The way he’d squeezed my shoulder. Maybe I’m overly sensitive to male attention, but there’d been something odd about it.
And then, suddenly, everything rearranges itself, like stage scenery shifting on fly-lines around my head.
Henry.
I remember how, the very first time I was interviewed by the police, I asked if they’d questioned Henry. Frank said they had. But as an ex-cop, Henry would have known exactly how to handle himself in that situation.
How to throw suspicion away from himself…onto me.
He said himself, he’ll probably lose his job soon. He needed Stella’s money too. And as someone who’d worked undercover, he’d have had the necessary presence of mind to rig the crime scene, make it look like more than just a robbery.
Was I just the fall guy for Henry’s murder of Stella?
After all, I was perfect. The law firm was about to ditch me because of my supposed criminality. He could use Rick the scumbag lawyer’s allegations to paint me as a skilled liar as well as a thief.
He even got me to come and meet Stella beforehand, so it looked as if I’d had time to plan it. What was it Stella said to him that night? I knew this was a mistake. As if this was all something he’d persuaded her to do.
Some guys, the gray takes hold of them, and they can’t make it let go…
I shake my head, freeing it of these thoughts. The police checked Henry out, just like they said they would. That clumsy hand squeezing my shoulder was because he felt protective, nothing more.
And maybe because, if I’m honest, Henry has fancied me a little ever since I first auditioned for him, when I pretended to flirt with him in that bar.
Henry’s keeping me safe. I’ve got to stop being so paranoid.
There’s a knock. “Who is it?” I call.
“Hair and makeup.”
I open the door. A young man is standing there. He has well-groomed short hair, a big smile, and he’s wearing a discreet amount of eye shadow. Over his shoulder is one of the ubiquitous folding cases makeup people keep their stuff in. He’s wearing a theater security pass on a lanyard, just like all the staff have been told to.
“Hi,” he says brightly. “I’m Glen, Ms. Wright. How are you doing today?”
“Oh—hi.” I know Laurence and Nyasha insisted on having hair and makeup assistants written into their contracts, but I’d been assuming I’d do my own. “Come on in. And please, call me Claire.”
“Pleased to meet you, Claire.” He unslings the case from his shoulder and pulls it open. The top section ladders out into a series of trays crammed with brushes and makeup pencils. “Shall we get right to work? You’ll need to put on a robe.”
“Sure.” Aidan wants my whole body pale for the statue scene. I turn away from Glen, take off my top, and pull on a bathrobe. As I do so, I glance into the mirror.
He’s watching me.
Which is, on the face of it, unprofessional. But perhaps he’s just looking at what he’s got to work with. Mustn’t be paranoid.
I sit. Together, we examine my face critically in the mirror. “If you can do anything about this…” I say, pointing to a pimple high on my forehead. Even though it’s ten weeks since I stopped taking Banner’s meds, my skin still breaks out.
“No problem,” he says, taking my head in his hands and tilting it this way and that. His fingers, through the thin white rubber gloves he’s pulled on, are cold. “By the time I’ve finished with you, you’ll be the most beautiful corpse this theater’s ever seen.”
I flinch. I can’t help thinking of Nyasha. “Strictly speaking, I’m a statue. And only for one scene.”
Glen reaches down to his case and pulls open another layer, selecting a colored concealer from one of the compartments. “Love the show, by the way. I just caught the tech. Everyone was good, but you were terrific.”
“Thank you,” I say modestly.
He rubs the concealer on my forehead skillfully, working in small circles toward the pimple. “To be honest, I have quite a thing for Charles Baudelaire.” He pronounces the name the way Patrick does, with a French accent. Sharler Bod’lair.
Pausing what he’s doing, Glen looks at me in the mirror and quotes dreamily:
“Let us now be tranquil, O my sad and restless soul.
You wanted evening: see, now it is here.
Dusk has engulfed us in its dark embrace,
Which brings some people peace, but others, fear.”
I glance down at my arms. I’ve got goosebumps. “You speak it very well.”
“Thank you…Do you know how that one ends?”
I shake my head. “Patrick’s the Baudelaire expert, not me. You should really talk to him.” Though even Patrick, I suspect, won’t relish the attentions of this superfan.
“Oh, Patrick. The translator.” Glen waves the concealer at me in the mirror like a wagging finger. “To the true aficionados, some of his translations can seem a little free. Not that one, admittedly. It’s almost like a lullaby, isn’t it? A lullaby of death.”
His eyes still on mine, he continues:
“The weakened sun slips out of sight:
Death, triumphant, sweeps in from the sea.
Listen, my love, listen, to the sweet approach of night.”
It’s always in the eyes.
That hint of satisfaction as Glen said the word triumphant. Why? What does he have to be triumphant about?
He reaches down to replace the concealer in his case. That’s when I see that the lower levels are full of steel implements: scalpels and needles and ugly hooks that look as if they’d be more at home in a dentist’s office.
Suddenly everything clicks into place.
The images. The flowers. The poems.
My Heart Laid Bare.
Not Henry. Not Patrick. Not anyone I know, after all. But this gentle-looking stranger with the groomed hair and the gleaming smile.
“Could you hand me my script?” I say. “It’s over there.”
“Sure.” He turns to reach for it. In that moment, I’m on my feet. But the chair topples to the floor and his head snaps around. He grabs at something in his case and comes up with a scalpel.
I jump back, but the dressing room is tiny and I stumble against the daybed. The wall’s at my back. There’s nowhere to go.
The expression on his face as he comes at me is one of sheer joy. Like a kid on a theme park ride.
Reaching down, I fumble for Jess’s gun under the daybed’s mattress. I assume that when he sees it, he’ll stop. But he doesn’t. And now I have a split second to decide. A split second that lasts an eternity.
Don’t think. Act.
So I do.
97
They closed the theater.
They didn’t really have a choice. Even those who say the show must go on can’t ignore the practical requirements of a forensic team conducting a detailed examination of the scene of a killing. Plus there were all the police interviews to deal with.
I’d broken laws, of course. Even in America, foreigners can’t carry guns without a license. But the fact it was self-defense gave Patrick’s lawyer some leverage.