“I love her,” Anderson said, reveling in the chance to rub it in. “She and I are together now. And you’re out of the picture.” He shoved Hank back with one hand, holding up the bat in warning. “If I ever catch you sniffing around her again,” Anderson said, his voice deep and threatening, “I’ll cripple you.”
Rage filled Hank’s eyes, and before Anderson could react, a flash of metal glinted in his hand.
“Is that so?” Hank waved the knife back and forth. “She loves me. She’ll come back to me.” He danced sideways, his face now full of joy. “And she’s just screwing you because she’s sorry for you. You gimpy old has-been.”
Fury streamed through Anderson, and before he could register his own movements, his instincts kicked in. He swung the bat hard, knocking the knife to the ground and crunching bone in the process. He was sure he’d broken Hank’s wrist.
Howling now, Hank dropped to the ground. The porch door flew open. Sunny held a phone to her ear, deep in conversation with someone.
“Yes, Officer. I see him now. He had a knife, but my niece’s fiancé disarmed him.”
Anderson kicked the knife away, and it landed out of reach behind a clump of bushes. “Move and I’ll hit you again. You want two broken wrists?”
Hank screamed now, “I’ll kill you, you son of a bitch. You broke my arm!”
Sick of the histrionics, Anderson grabbed Hank’s hair and leaned down close to his face. “Shut the hell up. I’ve got time before the cops arrive, and there’s nothing I’d rather do than beat you to a pulp. You hear me?”
Finally, Hank slumped to the ground, moaning. “I’m bringing you up on charges.”
Sunny appeared at his side. “Really, scuzzball? ‘Cause I caught the whole thing on my video camera. You peeping at my girl. You pulling the knife. You’re going down, fella.”
Anderson glanced up at the porch, where Caroline appeared in her nightgown and robe, brandishing a fireplace poker.
She marched straight for Hank, raising the weapon high. “Really?” Her words came out in a screech. “You’re still here? You pulled a knife on my boyfriend?”
Hank growled at her. “You’re a slut. You slept with him.”
“What the hell, I broke up with you weeks ago. How can you be so stupid?”
He collapsed in a limp bundle on the wet grass. “I know you didn’t mean it, Caroline. You still love me.”
She bristled, and it seemed to take a great deal of control for her to lower the poker without stabbing him first. “No,” she wheezed. “I never loved you. I tolerated you. And now,” she leaned toward him, her face an ugly mask, “Now I hate you.”
Hank began to whimper. “No. I don’t believe you.”
“Believe this,” she said, and to Anderson’s surprise, she slammed the sharp end of the poker a few inches from Hank’s head into the ground.
A weak cry escaped him. “No!”
Caroline’s face tightened with anger. “You leave us alone. And if you don’t, I’ll see you are sent to jail for harassment. Understood?”
Chapter 31
For the next six weeks, Hank lay low. Anderson watched him lounging in the back of the auditorium or out in the hallways, and he even had to sing some duets with him when their star, Antonio Ballero, had a scheduling conflict. Hank wore a cast on his wrist, but didn’t seem otherwise affected.
What bothered him was Hank’s swift shift in behavior. Why was he so quiet now? Did they really scare him? Did the threats work?
Much to Anderson’s dismay, Caroline had decided not to press charges, having received a number of promises from the jerk that he’d leave them alone.
Anderson didn’t buy it. People didn’t change that fast. And he watched the bastard like a hawk.
Now, on the first night of dress rehearsal, he glanced over at Hank, who sat in the second row, just to their left. He sat quietly, with his eyes on the stage.
Caroline was singing “Angel of Music” with Antonio Ballero, already casting a spell over the group of actors sitting in the hall. Her voice—so pure and bell-like—almost brought him to tears. She stood like an angel, her eyes shining with unshed tears. Her facial expressions were mobile and real, and she seemed to truly feel Christine’s anguish.
Antonio was a strong counterpart to her sweet innocence, and for the millionth time that week, Anderson realized just why Gambino had cast the man as the Phantom.
They were perfect together.
The next night they arrived early enough to see Gambino head-to-head with an elderly school administrator in the back of the hall. The gray-haired woman seemed upset about something, and kept nodding her head vigorously. Gambino ushered her off to the side, apparently for privacy. When the hall filled, the administrator left and Gambino walked slowly to the front of the auditorium.
“People. Please. Simmer down.”
Anderson sensed something different about the professor. Something… deflated. The troupe of actors seemed to feel it, too. They quieted down immediately.
“I need you to listen,” he said, settling heavily on the edge of the stage. “Something’s happened.”
A pinprick of unease traveled up Anderson’s spine. In the seat beside him, Caroline gripped his hand.
“I have some bad news,” he continued. “About Mr. Antonio Ballero.”
A synchronized intake of breath filled the hall, followed by hushed whispers.
“Please. Let me speak.”
He held up his hands until the group quieted.
“Mr. Ballero was in a very bad car accident early this morning.”
Another rush of whispers and gasps flew around the hall.
“I’m afraid he didn’t make it.”
Caroline stiffened at his side, turning to stare at Anderson. “I don’t believe it.” Her eyes filled with tears, and she leaned into him.
Anderson held her while she cried, all the while looking over his shoulder at Hank, who wouldn’t meet his eyes. The guy sat stone-faced and silent.
Could he have been responsible? Was he that kind of crazy?
“Hank Turner?” Gambino gestured to him. “Come up here, please, son.”
Hank clambered up to the stage, now wearing a solemn expression.
Gambino put an arm around his shoulder, and faced the crowd. “Folks. This is why we have understudies. In view of this horrendous tragedy, we will have to support young Master Hank here, who will have to try to fill the shoes of the great Ballero.” He paused as if overcome by emotion. “And in honor of Mr. Ballero, the show will go on. We know he would have wanted this.”
The crowd went silent again.
“Anyone have a problem with that?” Gambino shot a narrow-eyed glance at Anderson.
What the hell? Why was Gambino glaring at him? Had Hank already poisoned Gambino against him? Told him he beat him up, broke his wrist?
No one said a word.
“We’ve only got two more nights of dress rehearsal, folks. So in spite of the shock, I’m afraid we’ll have to go on as planned tonight. But let’s take a half hour to collect ourselves, and we’ll reconvene at,” he checked his watch, “Seven fifteen.”
∞∞∞
The next few nights of dress rehearsals were torture. Anderson watched Hank jump into the role of The Phantom with poorly disguised glee. In the scenes where he touched Caroline, particularly where he caressed her shoulders, waist, or face, Anderson had to steel himself to avoid going ballistic. More often than not, Hank shot him veiled smiles, and touched Caroline in more daring exhibitions than Gambino had originally directed, by running the back of his hand across her breasts, or touching a finger to her lips.
But Caroline surprised him. She’d held it together so beautifully that no one could have guessed the turmoil spinning through her. She sang as she’d been schooled to do, and didn’t miss a note.
It was only at night that she let down. She cried on Anderson’s shoulder, shaking and sobbing as they speculated about Hank’s involvement in Antonio’s deat
h.
Could he have been responsible? Was it such a wild-assed idea to imagine Hank killing his competition? They had pored over the newspaper reports, which detailed a hit and run incident. Someone in a white van had reportedly hit Antonio’s little MINI Cooper from the side, smashed it into a brick wall, and sped off without stopping. So far, they hadn’t found the van and no one had been charged.
On opening night, Gambino made a moving speech about Antonio, and after a moment of silence, the overture music swelled, and the audience’s mood seemed to lift. The cast pulled together, making up for Hank’s faltering moves when he forgot his lines. All in all, the show was a success, earning rounds of enthusiastic applause. Caroline sang like an angel and Anderson thrilled to the acclaim she received at the end of each song.
Singing with Caroline never failed to delight him, and those magical moments when they stood together on stage singing their duets brought him to paroxysms of joy. This helped the “Hank,” situation, but just barely.
On Sunday afternoon, the final curtain had just come down. The cast and crew had taken their last bows, and Gambino gathered them all together in the chorus room.
“Folks, you were splendid. I’m so proud of you all.”
Actors in various stages of makeup removal and partial undress sat on desks and chairs in the room, still buzzing from the high. Hank stood close to the professor, his face aglow.
“I wanted to especially thank Mr. Hank Turner, here,” he beamed at Hank, “for stepping up to the plate in the most egregious of circumstances.”
Hank took a little bow, smiling at Anderson.
Gambino continued. “As you know, I’ve invited you all to a cast party today. Starting in about one hour. My house is about five minutes due east,” he pointed in the direction. “You can’t miss it. It’s the only lavender Victorian on Cross Street.”
Excited whispers flew across the room.
“This is open to all cast and crew members. Be sure to bring your swimsuits. And there will be plenty of food.”
Caroline squeezed Anderson’s hand, leaning into him. “Shall we go?”
Anderson glanced at Hank. “You want to?”
“Sure,” she said. “I won’t let anyone stop me from celebrating what has been the best experience of my life.” She smiled up at him. “Okay?”
“Of course,” he said. “Whatever you wish, m’lady.”
Chapter 32
The professor and his wife greeted the students at the door, welcoming them into their charming period home. She hung on his arm like a crystal ornament. Jewels sparkled in her ears, around her neck, and on her fingers and wrists. Cinnamon-skinned and beautiful, she cast her limpid eyes at Anderson. He tried not to stare at the daring décolleté neckline on her red silk dress. She resembled an actress he’d seen recently in a TV movie, and he wondered if this really could be the popular Renata Corsina.
“Come in, Raoul and Christine. Welcome.” Gambino chuckled and ushered them into the hall. “I’d like you to meet my wife, Renata.”
“Renata Corsina?” Caroline said. “Oh my gosh. I had no idea!”
“Aren’t you sweet,” Renata cooed in an Italian accent. “You’ve seen my work?”
Caroline’s eyes went wide. “I adored To Kill or Die. We just watched it a few weeks ago.”
Renata beamed at her. “Oh. I knew I loved this young woman when I saw her on stage last night. Not only does she sing like an angel, but she knows good television.” She let a tinkling laugh trail out over her words before turning to Anderson. “And by the way, dear boy, you were truly spectacular.”
Anderson shuffled in place, a flush creeping up his neck. “Thank you, Ms. Corsina.”
Gambino clapped his hands. “Well, let’s not hold up the line any more. Go ahead and join the others by the pool. And feel free to swim if you’re so inclined. There are towels in the back.”
Gambino’s property featured an in-ground pool behind the antique gem he and his exotic wife had carefully restored. Most of the students gathered by the poolside and in the water. Bluesy music wafted out of strategically hidden speakers, and manicured lawns stretched back toward the woods.
So far, no sign of Hank.
Anderson estimated that the back yard alone was at least three acres. Punctuated by soft lights thrown by lamps strategically placed on curving walkways, the entire area was park-like, manicured, and designed to soothe and impress.
This kind of landscaping didn’t come from a college professor’s income; it had to be courtesy of Renata’s salary.
Caroline walked with him up and down the pathways, looking longingly at the pool. “Shall we?”
He nodded. “Why not? We’ve earned a break.”
She gestured toward the house. “I’m going inside to change. Meet you back here in five?”
He leaned down to lightly brush his lips against hers. “It’s a deal. I’ll grab our bags from the car.”
A light winked in the woods, as if someone had just flicked their cigarette lighter. Anderson did a double take, but saw only black in the distance. Could it have been a firefly? He shrugged and headed out past the crowd of splashing, laughing students and community players, past the tables of heavily laden food from which delicious aromas curled upward, through rooms of elegant period furniture, and to the edge of Gambino’s lawn, where he’d parked about a quarter mile down the street.
He’d almost reached the Corolla when he noticed the white van parked tight behind it, blocking any chance of movement. A trickle of annoyance was soon replaced by a stirring of unease in his stomach. A white van? Could it be the same one that killed Antonio Ballero? Or was he being paranoid? He shivered, glanced around, but saw no one.
Leaning down, he popped the Corolla’s trunk to collect their swimming clothes. A dark shadow emerged from nowhere, and he felt a sharp blow to the back of his head. He analyzed it as he fell, trying to react but too stunned to move his arms or swivel around to see who’d done it. The last thought he had before he hit the ground was Hank.
Part III
Saving Grace
3 years ago
Chapter 33
Grace trudged up the stairs to the second floor where Professor Anderson Rockwell’s office was located down at the far end of the hall. At twenty-two, she was already sick of the drill of college. There was just too much work and too little fun. She missed partying, and sorely missed her friends who knew how to let loose back home.
But those days were probably over. She’d been busted one too many times with those kids, and if she got caught again, there would be hell to pay.
Her dad had really lost it the last time she’d been arrested. He’d laid down the law. Get through a successful rehabilitation, go back to art school, and stay clean… or else they’d disown her.
Disown her? How could parents even say that?
Dirk and Daisy Lamont had always been sweet and patient and understanding. Yet now, what was this? Tough love? Someone must’ve given them this advice, because it sure didn’t feel like it came from the parents she’d grown up with. They’d always rescued her when she screwed up—translate that as got arrested for possession—and they’d always taken her home to her beautiful little bedroom in their Vermont farmhouse at Bittersweet Hollow, their Morgan horse farm.
She stomped down the hall toward the drama teacher’s room. Why the hell had he called her up here, anyway? She’d just tried out last night for the musical, “Grease,” on a wager. Her friend Sal had bet her she wouldn’t dare to sing in front of all those people.
Yet she had.
She’d enjoyed it, and she’d won ten bucks off her gay pal, to boot.
Long before the drugs had taken over her life, she used to sing in church. People told her that she had an even prettier voice than her older sister, Portia, who used to be their coveted soloist. Those words had made her dance with joy. To be better at anything than Portia was unimaginable. Portia was always smarter, taller, prettier, a better rider, superior in
social situations, and, oh, the list went on and on. And of course, precious Portia had never been in trouble. Not once.
But since Grace had started singing, and Portia had thankfully left for college, she’d been the star of every church event. She even sang “Oh Holy Night,” last December, and the parishioners had roared with appreciation. In church. On Christmas!
So, she figured, why the hell not try out for the college musical?
She knew the songs from the movie pretty much by heart. So that part had been easy. And most of the girls who tried out for Sandy sang off key. She’d tried not to react, but she had to admit, they’d been pretty awful.
She reached the office and knocked on the pebbled glass window in the door.
“Come in.”
Pushing open the door, she slid inside. “Um. You wanted to see me?”
“Yes. Please take a seat, Grace.”
The guy wasn’t bad looking. Tall with sandy hair and a nice build, he wore boat shoes, jeans and an Oxford button-down shirt. A well-worn navy blue jacket hung on the coat rack. She figured he had to wear that for staff meetings. She idly wondered if he was married.
“Is something wrong?” She settled in the plastic chair opposite his desk, plopping her backpack down with a loud thud.
He gave her a frosty smile. “No. Not at all.”
Not much warmth in those eyes. Then again, there was something almost haunted in them, wasn’t there? As if he’d been through hell and back again, but was sitting here in his warm little office pretending that everything was okay.
He shuffled through some papers, and she realized they were the audition forms for last night’s tryouts. “I have a few questions for you, Grace. About your entries here.” He tapped at the page, meeting her eyes. “You didn’t say much about your past performances.”
Past performances? I’m not an actress, for God’s sake. She managed a smile. “That’s because there weren’t any.”
A startled look crossed his face. She’d caught him off guard, and somehow, that pleased her.
“You’ve never performed before?”
Devil's Creek Page 11