“When he walks in, look him right in the eye and apologize.” I gave her a reassuring nod. “When you make a mistake, you admit it and do what you can to fix it. It’s not just the right thing to do. It also usually ends a lot better than you think it will.”
I opened the door. “Booth, Miss Mack here has something to say.”
She choked out an apology, and he took it with the gravity it deserved, with only a small glance over her head at me. They ended by shaking hands.
“Now, Miss Mack, since we’ve mended fences, perhaps you’d like to help me make the calls?”
She beamed. “I’d love to. And then I’d best go home.”
“Thank you, Booth,” I said, exchanging smiles with the stage manager.
“Candle lighting as usual?” he asked.
“Of course.”
An hour later, Tommy blew in just before Anna lit the candles, and he quickly whispered that Albert was on his way home. Gil was nowhere to be found. But I wasn’t troubled by his absence; this was still a special and joyous moment, our last Shabbat together as a cast before London.
“God in the room, Heller,” Toms said after Anna finished the blessings. “And joy.”
We smiled together, and I realized his eyes were the happiest I’d seen in weeks. He was starting to heal a little. Perhaps helping Albert had helped him.
“Joy is a good thing,” I said.
“I’ll take it.”
Chapter 29
In Which We Ruminate by the Stove
After a surprisingly uneventful show that night, neither Tommy nor I felt like going right to bed. We slipped down to the kitchen to forage.
“Oh, dear! Miss Ella! Mr. Tommy! I was just setting some cinnamon rolls for brunch . . .”
Mrs. G’s pink cheeks and her usually implacable opposition to brunch would have been quite enough to give the lie to that without Preston’s presence at the kitchen table, with a cup of coffee and a plate of what certainly looked like the favored lemon tarts.
“Hello, kids.” He gave us a hard look that dared us to comment.
Toms and I are cheeky, but not idiotic.
“Well, how kind of you to stay and walk Mrs. G home,” I said gracefully, sitting down at the table.
He gave me a little smile and took the lifeline. “Even in this comfortable neighborhood, a lady really shouldn’t be without escort.”
“Exactly right, Pres.” Tommy took the corner chair and stretched out toward the cookstove. “Is there maybe a drop more coffee?”
Mrs. G gave us a relieved smile. “Wouldn’t warm milk be better for you two, considering you still have one show to go?”
“It’s been quite a day and night.” I sighed. “I’m not sure we’ll be sleeping.”
Mrs. G shook her head. “I’ll make you some nice cocoa.”
“We don’t want to be a bother,” Tommy said quickly.
“No bother at all.”
“And I’ve been busy with that welterweight bout tonight. What’s been happening in the world of arts?” asked Preston.
Tommy took a lemon tart. “Quite a lot. Starting with the release of Albert Reuter.”
“Release?”
“I never thought that poor boy did it,” Mrs. G tutted a bit as she poured milk into a pan for cocoa. She’d met Albert exactly once, when the company came over after final dress, but that was apparently enough to settle matters for her. “Such a sweet boy. Loves his mother.”
Preston shook his head. “So, too, did John Wilkes Booth.”
“Nonsense, Pres . . . Mr. Dare. I knew he was a good boy.”
Preston smiled. We carefully didn’t and were wise enough not to bring up the fact that Aunt Ellen shared Mrs. G’s belief in Albert’s innocence, whether by the second sight or the clear fact that a boy who loved his mother must be all right.
Tommy just shot me a glance and moved on. “At any rate, the barrister figured out that Albert wasn’t tall enough to strike the fatal blow. We talked to Cousin Andrew today, and Albert should be home with his mother by now.”
“Singing tomorrow?” Preston asked.
“I doubt it.” Tommy shook his head. “I spent a few minutes with him while he was waiting to be freed, and he had a nasty cough. It’ll take time to recover.”
“Pity.” Preston shook his head.
“We’ll take him to London, of course,” I said, “and perhaps he and Ruben will alternate.”
“I’ve already sent word to Henry to start looking for good roles for him as soon as he’s able to sing again.” Tommy took another tart. “And he’s talking to Hetty tonight, so people will get his side of the story.”
Preston smiled. “And she’ll get above the fold.”
“Well, yes,” I agreed. “But it’s really about doing what we can to help him get back his reputation.”
Tommy nodded. “We can’t let Albert pay for someone else’s crime.”
“Who else’s?” Preston asked, looking sharply at us both.
“There are at least two stagehands who are the right height,” I said rather reluctantly. “And even though one seems to be a very good fellow, both have had brushes with the law. After Edwin Drumm—”
“He was mean and reckless, not homicidal.” Tommy shot me a glare. “Eamon is a better possibility.”
“That big redheaded wretch? The one you should have sent packing two days ago? You’re still sharing a stage with him?” Preston wheeled on Tommy. “And you’re allowing it? There’s a scene where he smothers her, for God’s sake.”
“We have no proof, Pres. And I’m with her all the time . . .”
“And she’s still in the hands of someone you know is rotten and might be a murderer!”
“Really, Pres . . . Mr. Dare.” Mrs. G tried to calm him.
“What does the barrister think of this?”
Not only had Gil not appeared at the theater, but I had been too busy thinking about other tall men to spend much thought on that or his opinion on my activities. Just as well.
“We haven’t discussed it.” Tommy glared at Preston. “And you’re not going to.”
“Gentlemen, I am perfectly capable of defending myself.”
Both of them turned on me with scorching glances. I knew what that meant. If I argued, they would yell at me and then do exactly what they wanted to do to protect me. Or I could just skip the yelling.
“Oh, just do what you want,” I said with an irritated sigh.
“Men do, anyway, dear.” Mrs. G shared a knowing and exasperated glance with me.
“All right, Tom, so why don’t you round up some of your sturdy boxer friends for some extra security tomorrow night?” Preston suggested.
“Eamon might notice,” Tommy pointed out.
“I hope he does. If the barrister is right, he’ll be cornered, and maybe he’ll just confess and be done with it.”
“And when has any murder case ever ended that way?” I couldn’t resist asking the sarcastic question.
“Well,” Preston said with a wry little smile, “it’s pretty close to the way the murder of Florian Lutz’s wife ended.”
“Really?” Tommy asked.
“Here now. The cocoa’s ready.” Mrs. G handed out mugs. “And Mr. Dare can tell us the story.”
The cocoa was, as always, magnificent. So, too, the storytelling, even if the material didn’t rise to the same level.
“Just a few sentences, really,” Preston began after taking another lemon tart. “It was the hottest day of the summer in Cleveland. No breeze, no air, a horrible time to be living in a tiny little room above a cookshop. Which is exactly what Florian and his wife were doing, because it was the only place they could find.”
He paused and flicked an apologetic glance at the ladies. “He might really have done better to stay at a players’ boardinghouse. But rumor had it his wife was concerned that he might partake of the pleasures of the road.”
Mrs. G and I nodded solemnly, understanding that Preston would offer no further detail
s to spare our womanly sensibilities.
“At any rate, the poor thing, apparently a tiny, delicate blond girl, was keeping house in that hot little room while Florian played ball.”
“No children,” I said, not asked.
“Mercifully, no.”
“Really a blessing not to bring a baby into that.” Mrs. G shook her head sadly.
“Indeed.” Preston put down his half-eaten tart and took a sip of coffee. “So, on this very hot afternoon, Florian came home from yet another loss and found his wife stabbed to death in their apartment.”
“Terrible.” I looked down at my cocoa. “What an awful shock.”
“Horrible,” agreed Tommy.
We all knew Preston was thinking of his wife and child, dead in a cholera outbreak thirty years gone. He took a breath and another drop of coffee and continued. “The police, of course, talked to Florian first, as the husband, and then started through the building to look for witnesses.”
He strung out a pause carefully. “And downstairs, they heard yelling in the kitchen of the cookshop. That’s where they found the couple who owned the place. He was sobbing. She was holding a bloody knife.”
“Oh, dear,” Mrs. G sighed.
“And she saw the cops at the door and confessed at once.”
“Did she hang?” Tommy asked.
“It’s Ohio, so you’d think she might, right?”
We all nodded. Cleveland was not known as a center of enlightened, progressive thought.
“But no. She ended up in the mental hospital—probably wishing she’d hung. Apparently, the husband had been watching Berthe, and Berthe, being a flighty young thing, had smiled back and been friendly.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” I said, thinking of all the times I’d smiled at men toward whom I had no intentions at all.
“Not a bit.” Preston no doubt knew what I was thinking. “But the wife saw it the wrong way, and that hot, hot day made her a little crazy.”
“A lot crazy, ask me,” Tommy cut in.
“Just so. But there she sits in the mental hospital. And tiny Berthe and Florian Lutz are now together in the hereafter.”
“Possibly with some help from Eamon,” I admitted. “Though I still hope not.”
“You won’t give up on one of your singers until they drag him away in irons—and not even then, considering what you’ve done for Albert, kid.”
“And we were right this time.”
“But Eamon no longer deserves the benefit of the doubt, and we’ve been wrong before,” Tommy admitted, an oblique reminder of a former employee who had killed Gil’s cousin and very nearly me, as well.
“Well, don’t be wrong this time.” Preston returned to his tart, but not before fixing Tommy with a sharp glare over the dainty pastry. “And make damn sure your pals keep our girl safe tomorrow.”
“Anyone who wants her has to come through me,” Tommy reminded him.
“All of us.”
Of course, they were being old-fashioned and overly protective. But they were still my men, and I loved them. I just smiled into my cocoa.
Chapter 30
A Tense Day for the Company and Friends
I scarcely need tell you I was not alone for so much as a second the next day. Tommy, Preston, and Gil were waiting downstairs when I rose well after eleven. Since I suspected something of the sort, I dressed in a very simple gray-and-violet-striped merino day dress and put my hair up before going downstairs in search of coffee. There was no tray, which was a strong hint that something—or someone—else had drawn Rosa’s attention.
Several someones, as it transpired.
The gents had clearly been amusing themselves in some sort of amiable conversation verging on a play fight, apparently over some questionable historical detail in the opera’s final battle scene.
“All due respect, Mr. Dare, but she really should be carrying a much larger sword. Medieval weapons weren’t designed for fine fencing—”
“Barrister, you tell her, and good luck. Ella chooses her own weapons.”
“And uses them,” Tommy added with a chuckle.
“Well, a fine morning to you all, as well.” I walked into the parlor, shaking my head. “What, precisely, is wrong with my weapon?”
Gil actually blushed, as he’s been known to do on occasion. It’s rather appealing, and it quite diluted the impact of whatever critique he was planning to offer. “Well, Shane, I’m sure you’re aware . . .”
Preston and Tommy were too well bred to snicker, but it was a close thing.
“That swords in the medieval era were actually much larger and designed for hacking rather than fine dueling?” I asked.
“Just so.” Gil poured a cup of coffee and held it out, no doubt as a peace offering.
“Thank you.” I took the cup with a smile. “And you are undeniably aware that while we endeavor to provide as much historical authenticity as possible, our first duty is to put on a good show.”
“Which you would not be able to do if you just hacked away at Richard.”
“No.” I sat down in one of the chairs. “And it wouldn’t be safe, not for him or me. Which outweighs either authenticity or showmanship.”
“And speaking of safety,” Preston cut in, “we’ve got a nice selection of Manhattan’s most dangerous boxers providing security tonight.”
“Good.” I took a sip of my coffee and waited. I knew what was coming.
“One of us will be within arm’s length of you all night,” Tommy pronounced. “No arguments.”
The hard look can be rather intimidating, especially if multiplied by three. But I was a little amused this time, more by the fact that the gentlemen had joined forces than by their efforts to scare me into submission.
“None at all.” I drank a bit more coffee. “Friends of the company are always welcome.”
“Good. I’m going down to the gym for a bit now that you’re up.” Tommy nodded to Preston and Gil. “Just have to get through tonight, Heller.”
“Just have to get to curtain time . . .” As I said it, the germ of an idea stirred in the back of my head.
“What are you thinking?” All three saw it, but Gil spoke.
“Perhaps just an announcement during vocalization that since Albert is out of jail, he will be joining us in London. . .”
“Which might inspire Eamon to some rash action?” Tommy glared at me.
“Which will surely not involve me, since I will be exceedingly well protected.”
“It could work,” Preston admitted.
“We’ll consider it,” Tommy said. “I’m not giving you anything but that right now.”
“Fair enough.” I smiled. “I know you’re going to be watching me like a hawk.”
“Not just me.”
Tommy headed off, and Preston, surprisingly, did not sit back down with me.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
“Nothing, er, wrong.” Preston suddenly looked very awkward and uncomfortable. “Um, I was planning to take a walk . . .”
When we are in a run, Mrs. G often takes Saturday afternoon off, since there’s little for her to do with us out at the theater. A nice walk in the park would be an excellent time to perhaps make one’s intentions known.
A muffled thud from the drawing room across the hall reminded me that Rosa was still busily training her little sister Sophia to take over as housemaid in the wake of her promotion to dresser and lady’s maid. “You know, I’m quite sure Rosa would be happy to stack books here for a while.”
“I don’t think you really need a chaperone,” Preston said with a little twinkle.
“Not when the fair maiden is so skilled with weapons,” Gil agreed, with a conspiratorial nod to me.
“And I would like to get going . . .”
Rosa was more than happy to leave Sophia to dusting the whatnot and to come over to the parlor to bring order to the bookshelves.
Once she had set to work, I looked to Gil. Decently chaperoned, and
with entirely legitimate reasons to be together for a while, I wasn’t at all certain what we should do.
“Well, Shane. How ever shall we spend this unexpected gift of time?”
We smiled together for a measure or two, just basking in each other’s presence. Unfamiliar as it was, the idea of simply being at home with him was quite appealing. I picked up the neglected Hawaiian study. “I believe we had gotten to the chapter on volcanoes.”
“Volcanoes.”
Our shared smile was not without a certain crackle of attraction, though, of course, one could not in propriety acknowledge the apt symbolism at play.
“Perhaps,” Gil began as he took the volume from me, “we shall enjoy our copies of Volcanoes of the World together in London.”
“That could be lovely,” I agreed.
“Perhaps one day we shall need only one copy.”
There was, of course, only one way that might happen, and for a breath or two, we watched each other’s reaction to the thought. A happy, if unrealistic, idea.
“At any rate,” he said finally, “we should really enjoy the book on Hawaii before it must go back to the library.”
I sat down on my chaise, and he took the chair beside it, as he’d done before. “You truly are an excellent reader,” I told him.
“High compliment from one who should know.” He opened the book. “So, volcanoes.”
Once again, it was entirely innocent and appropriate. And once again, it felt nothing of the kind. Lava, magma, and the various configurations of volcanic ash are likely exciting only to scientists, but reclining on my chaise, listening to Gil read, was rather amazing. Nor was I the only one enjoying the performance. Every once in a while, I heard a little sigh or giggle from Rosa.
Tommy returned a chapter or two later, to find both Rosa and me blushing like the fair maidens we no doubt are, and Gil diligently keeping his focus on the text as the author outlined the finer points of local religious practice.
“Well, I’m glad to see you’re behaving yourself,” Toms observed with a chuckle as he walked in. “Did you get to the part where they throw offerings into the volcano?”
“Some time ago, actually.” Gil closed the book and carefully handed it to me. “I have another matter to address this afternoon. I hope you can forgive me . . .”
A Fatal First Night Page 23