A Fatal First Night

by Kathleen Marple Kalb

  “Of course.” I knew this was another of the things I was not going to ask about. “You’ll be at the theater tonight?”

  “Naturally. My other duties shall never outweigh my role as a friend of the company, Shane.”

  It was more than a pleasantry, and we all knew it. I caught an approving nod from Tommy and held out my hand to Gil. “I’ll see you tonight, then. You’ll know we entertain a few friends after the final show . . .”

  “I’d be delighted.” He kissed my hand and held it for a long moment. “Please do as you’re told and stay safe.”

  I didn’t cross the fingers of the other hand, but I also didn’t consider a vague response a binding promise. “Of course.”

  Gil and Tommy exchanged glances and a nod, and then Gil took off, with Rosa sneaking in a good long look at him and giving in to giggles.

  “Nursing a crush, Rosa?” Tommy teased. “I’m afraid he’s already dead gone on Heller.”

  “Not even a little, Mr. Tommy. But I sure do like to look at him.”

  I shrugged. “No harm in a look.”

  At least not an innocent girlish look like Rosa’s.

  * * *

  The rest of the afternoon was uneventful, as was our trip to the theater, Tommy riding along with Rosa and me and entertaining us with a colorful tale of his visit to the boxing gym, where two young fighters had gotten into some sort of foolish argument that led to a real scuffle, several black eyes, and the suggestion that both find another gym.

  Ruben appeared in my dressing room before the group vocalization session, looking nervous and concerned.

  “Miss Ella, I have an idea, and I wonder if you’d help me.”

  “Certainly.” I glanced back at Tommy, who nodded. “Anything we can do.”

  “I wonder if you’d like to make this last night a benefit for Albert. I’ve talked to Ellsworth, the men in the chorus, and a couple of the supernumeraries, and they’re ready to throw in.”

  “I think it’s a capital idea. We’ll make the announcement at vocalization, and anyone who wants to contribute can do so.”

  “Good.” His face relaxed a little, but his eyes were still troubled. “Thank you. I hate the idea of poor Albert missing his chance because he was accused of something he didn’t do.”

  I knew it was more than that. “You also feel guilty that you got your chance because of it.”

  “Of course I do.”

  Tommy gave him a reassuring smile. “Well, don’t worry. We’ve put Henry Gosling on helping Albert make up ground, and if he’s still available, you’ll both go to London and alternate Richard and Neville.”

  Ruben nodded. “I would like that.”

  “And, of course, both of you may find other interesting opportunities flow from that,” I pointed out.

  “My mother might like Europe for a change . . . ,” Ruben mused.

  It was likely more than a casual comment. I had heard that the French, especially, are far less concerned with singers’ provenance. “Well, perhaps you’ll find a start on that in London.”

  “Right, then,” Tommy said briskly, quite reasonably leaving the future to itself. “Let’s head out and get to vocalizing.”

  We three walked out to the stage where the others were waiting, with Louis idly tracing a scale and the cast in various stages of dress and movement.

  Tommy stepped to the center of the stage. “Some good news about our friend Albert.”

  A murmur through the cast. Most had probably not read the Beacon, since it’s a morning paper, and this late in a run, singers rarely trouble with mornings. Both Tommy and I were watching Eamon, who was maintaining a carefully stony face.

  “He’s been cleared of any wrongdoing and is free and home.”

  Eamon blinked. Hard to take much from it, since he had to know Albert’s return would mean the end of his run as Neville.

  “Unfortunately,” Tommy went on, “he’s in no shape to perform tonight. But Ruben has an idea to help and encourage him.”

  Ruben took the floor on Tommy’s signal, and I did my best to keep my eyes on Eamon.

  “Right. We’ll do tonight as a benefit for Albert, and anyone who wants to contribute . . .”

  “I’m in,” Ellsworth, the tenor, called out first.

  “So am I,” Marie agreed.

  “Add us!” her two young soprano maids-in-waiting chimed in.

  “And me,” Eamon added quickly. I wasn’t sure if I heard a false note in his voice, or if I just thought I did. But his face was definitely flushed, a dead giveaway to anyone who is, or knows, the fish belly–pale Irish.

  “Can friends of the company join in?”

  Gil, of course, as he walked in from the wings.

  “And they are welcome, too.” Tommy greeted him with a handshake.

  “Then consider me a friend, as well.”

  Connor Coughlan walked out of the same area of the wings where Gil had been, to a startled blink from Tommy and probably the same from me. What was he doing here? I would have assumed he had somehow got wind of the danger from one of the boxers, except for Tommy’s reaction.

  “All right, then, we’re unanimous,” Tommy said quickly, covering his surprise with managerial calm. “Our last night is a benefit for our friend Albert. And we’ll see him soon, when we leave for London.”

  “For Albert!” Ellsworth called.

  “Albert!” cheered the rest of us, with applause. Sometime tomorrow, probably quite well into the day, we would round up Ellsworth and some of the others and head over to Albert and his mother’s to present the money and, equally important, encourage him with plans for London.

  But first, we had a show to do.

  “Come along, now,” Louis called from the piano. “We’ve got to get ready and put in one more good night.”

  “Save the best for last!” Marie proclaimed.

  Louis started in on the scales, and I noticed Gil and Connor were already gone from view. I wasn’t sure what to make of that, and soon enough, the weight of preparing for the show drove all other thoughts from my mind, at least for the moment.

  Chapter 31

  A Battlefield Promotion at Bosworth

  As that final performance wore on, I admit I was a bit distracted, worried about how we would bring everything to a safe and successful conclusion. Not, I hasten to add, the run. It had been a great success, and very little short of actually burning down the theater would take away from that.

  No, my concerns lay in a graver direction. Even though Albert was free, because the district attorney didn’t have any trouble believing that the killer was taller than he, thanks to Gil’s criminology, we were no closer to our villain; in the eyes of the law, the height argument did no more than clear Albert.

  A good defense lawyer would note that in addition to Eamon, the obvious choice, Tommy, Preston, Father Michael, and Booth, the stage manager, were all backstage and tall enough, whether or not they had any motivation. And, of course, the stagehand Rodney Jones, who merited consideration for his height and connections but also seemed to be seriously lacking in motive, not least because he was clearly on the opposite side of the ledger as the unpleasant Mr. Drumm. Not to mention an audience full of potential suspects, any one of whom might have wandered backstage with a knife easily enough in the excitement of premiere night.

  Of course, there was still much else hanging fire. I had no trouble believing that Eamon was the killer or that he’d been smart and desperate enough to admit to a few lesser crimes in hopes of covering the most heinous one.

  But he was not a good bet for the gunshot at Connor, and I had to rate Jones unlikely for that, too, because he would have been busy with the after-curtain work when it happened. Really, the shooter might even have actually been the unfortunate who ended up in the East River, raising a whole new set of questions. Who knew what else might be lurking out there, just beyond our vision, if Connor was part of this?

  His presence tonight certainly suggested he might be. I was quite
sure that any number of people might wish to put a bullet in Connor’s head on a given day, and probably more than a few would kill for a good role, too. We might, I thought, have more than one plot in play.

  No idea how we’d sort out that kind of mess.

  Still and all, it was my last performance night for a while. After I made my change into my costume for the final battle, I nodded to Toms and slipped out of my dressing room to wander about the wings for a bit. It was perfectly safe, with boxers lurking practically within arm’s length, and I was glad for the chance to enjoy just being in a theater, my natural habitat, as one might say of the fauna of the Hawaiian rain forest.

  Tommy had already lined up a small but select number of bookings for the weeks between closing and London, benefits mostly, and I would be on a stage again before I had time to miss it. But still.

  Marie was singing the short reprise of her vengeance aria, “My Sons’ Blood Cries Out,” setting up the final battle, and I stopped for a moment to listen to her. Every time she sings, I’m reminded that she is incredibly gifted as well as accomplished in technique. And then there are nights like this, where the virtuoso’s skills meet the perfect music and the emotion of the song to produce something amazing.

  Sometimes, it just awes me that I share a stage with such an artist.

  After a few moments, I took a breath and walked along, pulling my thoughts back to my own performance. I hoped I could send the audience home with a good finish in the final aria. While I don’t bring Marie’s coloratura fireworks, I have my own impressive instrument, and thanks to Louis’s brilliant score, we’re both shown to best advantage.

  We would be a sensation in London. At the moment, no need to think about what else we, or I, might be while there.

  As I walked past Ruben’s dressing room, I heard a strange thud and turned. Odd. He should have been taking a moment to rest after his big aria, which had drawn him a huge, nearly showstopping ovation. No one responded to my knock on the half-closed door, so I inched it open a bit farther.

  “Ruben?”

  He was on the floor, unconscious, his face battered. As I tried to absorb that, I saw two pairs of large male feet, one standing and tense, the other scrabbling and nearly limp. I pushed the door open a little wider, to see Eamon choking Connor with a forearm from the back as Connor struggled to break his grip.

  Eamon’s eyes flicked to me. “This isn’t for you, Miss Ella.”

  Under other circumstances, I might have argued. But Connor’s face was already purple, and he didn’t look like he had much fight left, a truly terrifying realization. So I didn’t spend too much time contemplating. I just did what I’d done as Tommy’s hellcat helper.

  I jumped on Eamon’s back and pulled his hair.

  It was still a great way to finish a fight.

  Eamon roared and let go of Connor, and I thumped him on the head with my elbow for good measure. It had always worked in the street, and it did just fine now. As I pushed back from him, Eamon’s knees gave way, and he fell on his face, at least as dead to the world as poor Ruben.

  Connor staggered over to the dressing-table chair and sagged into it, hanging on to the back and gasping. He managed a rictus of a smile and forced out, “Glad you still fight dirty, Ellen.”

  The door slammed fully open.

  “Shane, what on earth?”

  “Heller?”

  “Great heavens, kid!”

  Gil, Tommy, and Preston filled the doorway, staring at us in absolute shock.

  “Are you trying to convince me that women are good at killing, kid?” Trust Preston.

  “Street fighting again, Shane?”

  I glared at them. “I stopped Eamon.”

  Tommy laughed. “I can tell that. You got a piece of him.”

  I followed his eyes to my hand, where I still held a large tuft of orange hair. I threw it down and wiped my hand on my hose. “Ugh!”

  They laughed, and Connor let out a rusty noise that was probably a laugh, too. Men.

  Ruben groaned just then and struggled to sit up.

  “I think Eamon tried to kill him,” I put in quickly, moving the gentlemen on to more serious matters. “He’s probably going to need a doctor.”

  Preston, the Gettysburg drummer boy, and veteran of many scraps in taverns, moved to Ruben, then bent down beside him as he opened his eyes. “It’s all right, friend. You’ll be fine.”

  Ruben muttered something unintelligible, shaking his head a little.

  “Mr. Avila, call for final duel!” Booth knocked on the door and froze when he saw the scene inside. “Good, sweet Lord in heaven. What now?”

  The question we must never ask.

  “He can’t go on.” Tommy shook his head. “Send for a doctor, Booth. We need to make sure he’s all right.”

  “Call the police, as well, for that one,” Gil added, indicating Eamon, who was breathing but not moving.

  Booth nodded. “Do you want me to call the end of the show, too?”

  Tommy and I looked at each other.

  “I hate to end the run like this,” he said.

  “He already sang his last aria. There’s just the duel . . . and my finale.”

  “All we need is someone who can fence convincingly,” Tommy agreed.

  We both knew the answer to that, and as one, we turned to Gil, who had been watching us with dawning horror.

  “You will have noticed I am not a basso,” Gil started as Tommy took King Richard’s cloak from the chair where Ruben had left it.

  “It’s really fine,” I assured him. “You don’t need to sing a note. All you have to do is let me vanquish you and sing my triumph aria over your prone form.”

  “Is that quite all?” His voice was a tad waspish, and his stance tense.

  Tommy didn’t especially care, and he advanced on Gil. “All right now, let’s get that jacket off and this cloak on. You’ll look just fine from the dress circle.”

  “Shane? Really?”

  Tommy gave Gil the command stare. “Do you really want anyone else out there with her tonight?”

  Gil was silent on that one, but not compliant.

  “And,” Tommy continued coolly, taking King Richard’s crown from the dressing table, “we must, of course, finish the show and the run.”

  “Must we?”

  “Come on, Saint Audrey, be a sport.” Connor put in, then finished on a lighter cough. He was probably going to be all right, as long as Gil didn’t do what it certainly looked like he wanted to do.

  Gil bit back some sharp comment and turned to me.

  My turn. I met his eyes with my own version of Toms’s force majeure gaze. “Please? For the show?”

  I had no idea if my feminine wiles, such as they were, would carry any weight. For a couple of very long measures, I listened to the orchestra playing the martial music that signaled the change of stage for the battle scene.

  Finally, Gil sighed. “Oh, all right. I rather fancy the thought of expiring at your feet.”

  “Excellent.” Tommy settled Richard’s diadem on Gil’s head and handed him the cloak. “Break a leg.”

  “Break something.” Gil seemed resigned. “I’m merely going out there to let her kill me, aren’t I?”

  “Yes,” I said, handing him Ruben’s new sword, “but kindly make it look good.”

  “I hear and obey, My King.” He gave me a faint smile as we ran into the wings, the battle music already beginning.

  As it turned out, he did indeed make it look good, instinctively following my lead. Ruben and I had moved well together because we’d spent so much time practicing. Gil and I were actually better because we knew each other well enough to anticipate the next move.

  It became almost a dance. We matched each other, strike and thrust, forward and back, the connection and understanding between us guiding our moves. Unlike a waltz, though, I was leading, and he followed, with absolute care and respect. In an odd way, it was more intimate than a dance, because it required such concentra
tion and sympathy to do safely and well.

  We made good partners.

  Finally, the music reached its peak, and I held his eyes for a full measure. Now.

  He came at me with Richard’s last, desperate move. I blocked it with only a little effort and then returned with the killing thrust, probably a bit more careful than usual to keep the sword well clear of him, because he was not a trained stage fighter.

  The Latin chant slowed as Gil crumpled to the boards, then ended in echoing silence.

  Now it would be the same as any other night. Except that his eyes met mine as I bent to take the crown, reminding me that whatever else happened tonight, our connection was real and serious and true. What other man would take the stage and die for me?

  What other man would follow my lead with such respect and understanding?

  Bashert. But meant for what?

  I wrenched my thoughts back to the performance once more as I held the diadem, then crowned myself, cueing the music for my final aria.

  As I sang, Gil, God love him, lay patiently at my feet, clearly trying not to breathe too much and give away the illusion. I don’t know if it was a good finale or not; of course, I usually have a very strong sense of how I’ve done on the given night. This time, though, I was just grateful to reach the end.

  I must have done well enough, though. The audience was silent for longer than I’d ever heard before bursting into thunderous applause as the curtain fell.

  Once it hit the stage floor, I offered a hand up to Gil, as I always did my partner.

  He took it, stood, and started to draw me in. For a fraction of a second, as our eyes held with the full intensity of that insane night, I wasn’t sure what would happen. We might have fallen into each other’s arms and then . . . who knows what?

  Not right then, though. The ridiculousness of all that had happened struck us both at the same time, and in unison, we started laughing.

  As magical in its way as any embrace.

  “You have a promising career in the theater,” I teased.

  He shook his head, still laughing. “I do not think I wish to pursue that.”

  “Well, prepare for your first curtain call as a supporting player at least.”