Shatter the Night

by Emily Littlejohn

With the director now to my rear and side, I was free to roll my eyes without him seeing. Could the man make a single move without the dramatic gestures, the mysterious showmanship? I gripped the doorknob, turned it, and pulled open the door.

  It was a coat closet; or rather, it had been a closet at one point. It was now a water-soaked, smoke-scented, ash-filled chamber of destruction. On the floor was a pile of burnt logs and what appeared to be kerosene-soaked rags.

  “My God. This whole place could have burned.” I turned to Nash. “This is getting out of hand. Someone’s going to get hurt.”

  Nash shook his head emphatically. “Not until after opening night, Gemma. I will say, it was incredibly lucky that our contractor talked us into automatic ceiling sprinklers. We’ll get this closet cleaned; it will be as good as new in no time. But you’ve got to find out who’s doing this.”

  “How the hell am I supposed to do that, when you won’t even allow me to question your actors, your contractors?” I sighed, then stepped closer to the closet and crouched down. Something glittery lay among the ashes. I removed a tissue from my purse and gently dislodged the item from the soot.

  “What is it?” Nash asked, a funny look on his face.

  “An earring. Looks like real gold,” I said and held up the tiny ball in my hand to the light. “Your perp is going to be missing this.”

  “Your first clue,” Nash said with more than a trace of sarcasm.

  I ignored him and pocketed the earring, safely wrapped in the tissue. “Look, at the very least, I should speak to Waverly. You said that besides you and Gloria, she’s the only person with a key to the theater. And these three ‘incidents’ have all happened after hours, when the theater is supposedly empty.”

  Finally, the director relented. “You can talk with Waverly, but not tonight. She’s out sick … speaking of which, you’ll make a perfect witch.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Nash looked me up and down. “Your stature, your bearing … it’s marvelous. My Hecate is out tonight, too, with a touch of the flu and we’re running through Act III. It’s a critical scene. I need you, Gemma. You must be my Hecate.”

  “Wait a minute, I’m here to find your vandal and hopefully speak with Gloria about Caleb Montgomery’s murder. Don’t you have an understudy that can step in?”

  “Gloria won’t be here for another hour, at least, if she comes at all. She’s very disturbed by Caleb’s death.” Nash shook his head sadly. “And Hecate’s understudy is filling in for our third witch. She’s out, too; there must be a nasty bug going around. I can only pray everyone is recovered by opening night. Come on, what do you say? It’ll be fun. Besides, you owe me.”

  “I do?”

  Nash nodded. “Well, you owe Gloria. Don’t you remember? She introduced you to Brody.”

  Nash was correct, though it had been a long time since I’d thought about the early days in my relationship.

  It had been a chance encounter; I’d run into Gloria at the ski shop six years ago. It was the beginning of the season and the place was busy, so we stood making small talk. By the time we reached the front of the line, Gloria had persuaded me to take a friend of hers, an attractive and single geologist, out for a date. I agreed, thinking little of it, but by the next day dinner plans had been arranged.

  The rest, as they say, is history.

  I sighed. I guess I did owe the Dumonts.

  And who knew, maybe after the seriousness of the day, a little levity would do me good. But my throat was already dry and the small laugh that escaped my lips was a weak, nervous cough. “Well, I’m happy to help, but my theater experience is limited to selling tickets in the high school auditorium to our class production of Little Shop of Horrors. I’m no actress.”

  “No, you’re certainly not, which makes you perfect. You’re relatable. Come on, let’s get you the script. Do you know the story? It’s one of Shakespeare’s greatest tragedies and, personally, my favorite play,” Nash said in a low voice. “For many reasons.”

  “Mac—”

  “Egads, shhh, whatever you do, don’t say the name of the play. You may call it ‘the Scottish Play’ if you have to reference it.”

  “Why on earth can’t I say Mac—”

  Dumont practically threw his hands over my mouth. “I’m serious, Gemma. I’ll have to ask you to leave if you keep that up.”

  Was that all I had to do?

  He continued, “It’s bad luck to say the word inside the theater except as part of an actual rehearsal or production. You could bring terrible disaster down upon us. Already I’ve got some punk messing with my theater and more than half my cast is under the weather. Oh, and also, do not under any circumstances recite the witches’ incantations, except, again, as part of rehearsal.” Nash pulled his shirt collar from his neck and exhaled. “Wow, that was a close call. You’re worse than my actors, I only had to tell them once. Of course, most of them already know about the curse.”

  Vague memories from my high school English class came back to me. Macbeth, Shakespeare’s cursed play …

  “Do you truly believe in the curse?”

  Nash nodded solemnly and pointed skyward. “For me, it’s the same as believing in God. If he exists, I’m in the clear! And if he doesn’t, well, no big deal.”

  I thought back to my senior year English class and the semester we spent on Shakespeare. “I read the play in high school. I remember Lady M gets blood on her hands, and of course there are a handful of witches, and some battle scenes. I guess it’s obvious that literature wasn’t exactly my strong suit.”

  Nash chuckled. “No kidding. Come on.”

  I followed him down the corridor and into the theater itself, marveling again as I had the first time I’d seen it. “It really is beautiful. You’ve done a fantastic job.”

  Nash nodded, beaming. “She’s a beauty, isn’t she? I’ve always wanted to own a theater.”

  The seats, nearly five hundred of them, had been reupholstered in burgundy velvet. The floors and aisles gleamed with a fresh coat of wax. On the walls, the original trompe l’oeils had been cleaned and were offset with dim lights, built to resemble the theater’s original gas lamps. Perhaps most impressive was the gorgeous sparkling chandelier that hung over the house seats. It glowed with what must have been thousands of tiny bulbs, each light reflected in the hundreds of crystals that made up the chandelier.

  “It’s stunning. You must be thrilled.”

  “I’m very pleased. Gloria and I sank two million dollars of our own money into this place. Thank God for wealthy Texas oil-baron fathers who love their little girls, am I right? Gloria didn’t think I had the tenacity to see this through … but just look at this place!” Nash straightened his fedora, then rubbed his hands together. “Right, then. The play. You’re on the right track. It’s the story of an ambitious, flawed man, whose ascent to the Scottish throne is prophesied by three witches. Along the way, there’s murder, deception, even ghosts. I am, of course, simplifying things greatly, but you get the idea.”

  “Murder, deception … sounds like an average day in the office for me.”

  Nash grinned. “Exactly. Now, imagine being told by powerful witches your twisted fate: that you will one day be king but the children of another—Banquo, your fellow Army captain, no less—will be the future kings of Scotland. Then imagine your wife is even more ambitious than you are and bam, there you have it, the perfect recipe for murder, mayhem, and intrigue.”

  Nash led me down the aisle to the stage, where the actors, a good-size group of men and women, sat referencing their scripts and talking to one another. Many of them wore pieces of period clothing, or heaps of costume jewelry, perhaps the better to channel their characters. Three of the cast members stood by themselves in a corner, whispering about something.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, everyone, please! Listen up a moment, we have a guest joining us tonight. Gemma, meet … everyone. We haven’t settled on a name for the troupe yet, so we call ourselves Will’s Cre
w for the time being.” Nash pointed to each cast member, quickly and exuberantly rattling off their name and character. When he got to the group of three in the corner, he said, “And our stars! Milo Griffith and Maggie Armstrong as the tragic M and Lady M, and Danny Grimes, who plays Banquo, Thane of Lochaber.”

  “Hello, everyone. Hi, Maggie,” I said, relieved to recognize at least one person. Maggie was the daughter of my colleague Lucas Armstrong. She’d graduated from college in the spring and moved back home to study for the law school entrance exam. I remembered she was also working part-time at the courthouse in an administrative assistant role.

  I walked onstage to greet her, nearly tripping over the bottom step of the stairs to the stage. An older actor with a heavy British accent caught my elbow. “Watch your step, love.”

  “Yeah, right. Thanks.” I managed to climb the remaining stairs, my cheeks already warm and I hadn’t said even a single line yet. I’d read once that public speaking is the most common fear, ranked even higher than death. And at that moment, if I had to choose, I decided I’d probably go with death.

  I gave Maggie a hug, careful to avoid her big dangly hoop earrings and heavy sequined choker. She had her father’s dark skin and her mother’s physique; she moved like a dancer, a natural on stage. I’d been surprised to hear that she had chosen to pursue a law career, as she’d always talked about wanting to be a schoolteacher.

  Maggie turned to the man next to her. He was older than me, maybe thirty-five, though he’d been blessed with the sort of skin and bone structure that was ageless. “Gemma, I’d like you to meet Milo Griffith. Milo, Gemma works with my dad at the police station.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Milo and I said in unison to each other. He had a short crop of brown hair and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of his hawkish nose. He wore a tight, short-sleeved white T-shirt that showed off sleeves of tattoos on both of his muscular arms.

  It felt awkward greeting two out of the three actors standing in the small group, so I nodded to the third, Danny Grimes. He was a quiet, serious-looking young man with an American flag tattoo on his forearm and a large hunting knife strapped to the utility belt he wore low on his camo pants.

  He saw me eyeing the weapon and said in a dramatic stage whisper, “The knife helps me get into character.”

  “Hey, whatever works.” I turned as Nash approached us. He handed me an earmarked old script, noticing my bandaged hands for the first time.

  “Good lord, what happened?”

  “Some minor scrapes, it’s no big deal.”

  “If you say so. Okay, we’re reading through Act III, beginning with scene five. You’re Hecate. Don’t worry about being dramatic or overly theatrical,” Nash instructed.

  “Got it.” I nodded and smiled tightly even as the flush on my cheeks deepened. The thought of all the people in the theater, the experienced actors, watching me stumble through an Old English script was horrifying.

  Another few moments, then suddenly Nash was glaring at me. “Well, come on, Gemma, let’s get to it. Jesus Christ, we haven’t got all night. Stand there, right there … and ready … begin.”

  A pale young woman in a shroud of black who’d been introduced to me as the First Witch spoke in a pleading voice. “Why, how now, Hecate! You look angerly.”

  I felt feverish, dry-throated, my knees apt to knock together. I slowly walked to the center of the stage and began reading from the script. “Have I not reason, beldams as you are? Sauce … I mean, saucy and overbold, how did you dare to trade and traffic with Macbeth in riddles and affairs of death…”

  My speaking parts were long, though few, and shortly I was able to retreat from the bright stage lights. No one seemed to notice the look of relief in my eyes or the fact that I proceeded to guzzle an entire bottle of water in one long desperate drink. I quickly scanned the theater and was relieved that Judge Gloria Dumont hadn’t seen my performance. It was embarrassing enough that Maggie Armstrong had to watch it. I took a seat with the other actors to watch the rest of the rehearsal. The cast was good, surprisingly good for a community theater group that had been pulled together over the last few months.

  It was clear, though, why Milo Griffith, Danny Grimes, and Maggie Armstrong were the stars of the show. Each shone with a vitality and confidence that seemed spun of gold; on stage, they could do no wrong. I watched, rapt, as they threw themselves wholly into their roles. When they were finished, I clapped along with the others.

  Nash Dumont jumped up and down on the stage with glee. “That was fantastic. You’ve all nearly got it. I’m wondering, though, Danny, about something. We know Banquo’s motives are unclear throughout the play. He suspects M of regicide and yet does nothing. What do you think about showing even a bit more weakness to the character? Really drive his indecisive nature home? Banquo’s got to be a true foil to M for us to feel for him. For both of them. And feeling is everything in this play.”

  Danny swore, loudly. “That’s fucking ridiculous. We talked about this, Nash. Banquo’s not some patsy. I won’t play him if we take things that direction.”

  Dumont clenched his jaw, an ugly look coming into his eyes. It was so ugly, in fact, that I found myself tensing in anticipation of a coming blow. But just as quickly the moment passed and he smiled tightly. “Sure, Dan. I’m just the director. You’re the actor. You inhabit the character however you see fit.”

  Dumont turned to the rest of the cast and I watched, with curiosity, as the group seemed to sigh a collective sigh of relief that the conversation between Nash Dumont and Danny Grimes was over.

  It clearly hadn’t been the first instance of tension between them.

  “That’s a wrap, folks! See you tomorrow. We’ll pick up where we left off!” Nash hung back as the actors trickled out of the theater. The cavernous space grew dim as he switched off light after light. We walked together up the narrow, carpeted aisle.

  “Promise me you’ll find this jerk who’s out to get my theater. You must have a list, names, of local punks who get their rocks off by doing these sorts of things.” Nash exhaled loudly. “I’m losing sleep over it, Gemma. But hey, listen, you did wonderful tonight. If you ever want a role in one of my plays, just ask. You’re a natural.”

  He looked surprised at my hysterical laughter in response.

  “Thank you, but no. That was painful. It was as bad as high school speech class,” I said. “I was happy to be of help, though it looks like I missed Gloria. Is that typical of her, to skip rehearsal? Her clerk was certain she would be here. I was hoping to talk with her about a few things related to the case.”

  Nash adjusted his fedora and shrugged. “Like I said, she’s very shaken by Caleb’s death. I offered to stay home with her tonight and keep her company, but she knows how much the play means to me, and to the actors. She insisted I come and did express an intent to join me. I haven’t even told her yet about the fire in the lobby coat closet. She’s got enough on her plate as it is.”

  As Nash flicked the last light switch and we left the dark theater for the bright lobby, an uneasy feeling settled in around my shoulder blades. We paused a moment while Nash searched his pants pockets for his keys.

  I asked, “When was the last time you spoke with Gloria?”

  “Oh my God.” Nash stared at me, his keys forgotten. “You think she’s in danger, don’t you? Is she? Damn it. She told me Caleb’s murder was unrelated to his judgeship.”

  Nash dropped the scripts he was carrying and yanked out his cell phone. He stabbed at it with a shaking finger, then jammed it to his ear and listened.

  “Come on, come on,” he muttered. “Pick up, darling, pick up … Gloria? Oh thank God. Where are you? What?… I’m at the theater with Detective Gemma Monroe. You may be in danger … what? No, I haven’t been drinking … Oh, for Pete’s sake, hang on.”

  Nash held out the phone to me. “She wants to talk to you.”

  I took the phone. “Hello, Judge. I was hoping to finish our conversation from y
esterday with you tonight, here, at the Shotgun.”

  “My apologies. This thing with Caleb … as soon as I left the courthouse, I went straight home for a soak in the hot tub and a glass of chardonnay.” Gloria Dumont cleared her throat. “I can assure you, though, you have my full attention. Is this about the warrants? I’ve signed what I can but you’ll need more for the warrant on the Montgomery house, considering Caleb wasn’t living there and Edith is not a suspect.”

  The judge paused, then added, “Or is she?”

  Once more, I got the sense that I should be careful with what I shared with her. “This isn’t about the warrants. And you can ignore the request for the residence; Edith invited us to search the house this afternoon. She knows enough of police procedures to know we’d come knocking eventually. I took a look at Caleb’s cases, all the way back to when he was a prosecutor. Really just skimming, but nonetheless trying to see if anything jumped out at me. I’ve got an intern eliminating those who have already passed away, but you worked with Caleb a number of years. Is there anyone who truly stands out as someone we should look at?”

  “Well, I’ve been thinking about that, too, and to tell you the truth, there’s no one in recent memory that comes to mind. By the way, how’s Bull taking Caleb’s death?” Dumont asked.

  “He’s dealing with it as best he knows how, which is to say likely with equal parts whiskey and prayer.”

  “Good. Please do keep me informed as the investigation progresses, Detective. This is personal. I want to be kept abreast of things,” the judge said. “Caleb was family.”

  “I understand.”

  She asked to speak to her husband, so I handed the phone to Nash and took my leave, exiting the lobby of the Shotgun Playhouse through the front glass doors, their bronze handles gleaming in the glow from the outside streetlamps. Most of the cars had left the parking lot, the cast and crew gone off to late dinners or home to their families. As I passed by a blue sedan, I caught a glimpse of a couple fervently making out in the front seats. Not wanting to be nosy, I turned away, but not before catching a glimpse of dark skin and another of a short-sleeved white shirt and an arm, covered with tattoos.