Reg didn’t seem to hear.
“‘Horrible sight!’” yelled Andrew. He winked at Addie. “Thank goodness we don’t have to put up with the manager’s son every day.”
“What are you talking about? He’s amazing!” Addie turned her attention back to Reg.
“‘Horrible sight!’” he cried in a strangled voice. “‘Now, I see, 'tis true; For the blood-bolter’d Banquo smiles upon me, and points to them for his. What, is this so?’”
Hettie Longmere stepped toward him, offering no comfort. “‘Aye, sir, all this is so...’”
He nodded slowly and slipped the mirror into a breast pocket. It was safe. But as Addie watched him pick up the threads of the scene, she was still filled with foreboding—of what, she didn’t know. The duke of Lennox ran in at Macbeth’s bidding, and the plot to attack Macduff’s castle was hatched. But Reg’s presence had changed utterly. He said his lines like a boy repeating the periodic table for a chemistry test.
“Oh, yes, he’s quite amazing,” Andrew murmured. “Speaking of which, I need Macduff’s sword so I can get out there and start amazing all and sundry myself.”
As she headed back to the prop table Addie could hear Meg Turner bawling Reg out. “What was that all about, King Macbeth? Has slaughter and pillage become dull all of a sudden? I know you’re only filling in, but remember, understudies do perform on occasion!”
Addie handed Andrew his sword and glanced up to see Reg coming toward her. He looked furious. Andrew smirked at him and went off to his entrance.
“What is this?” he demanded, handing the mirror back to her.
Quickly, almost guiltily, she slipped it into her pocket. “What do you mean?”
“I think you know.”
“It’s—” She didn’t know what to say. There was no way to explain. “It’s just a mirror.”
“No, its not.” Reg shot back. “I don’t know what that thing is. But whatever gag you were trying to play, it wasn’t funny. Who are you, Miss Addie McNeal? Where are you from, really?”
Addie’s mouth went dry. “I told you. I live in Wallingford. Near Densmore Park.”
“And you’re a neighbor of Megs. Isn’t that what you said? I don’t think you’re telling the truth, quite honestly.”
“Of course I am!” She managed to sound indignant, but she felt like a liar.
“Really? You’d obviously never met her before today. And she definitely didn’t recognize you.”
Addie caught her breath. If only she could explain....
“You know what I think?” Reg went on. “I think you must be one of those girls they hire at the vaudeville houses, with a trick mirror like that. Are you trying to work your way into a legitimate operation? Is that why you’re here?”
“What?” Addie blinked. “No!”
“That’s why you’ve got props like that looking glass. Used it in a magician’s act, did you? Though what you’re trying to accomplish with a charlatan’s trick like that—”
“What trick?” Addie stepped back as he leaned toward her across the prop table.
“The trick in the glass. The picture it shows.”
“I don’t know what you mean!” But her voice caught in her throat. She didn’t know what the mirror was capable of. “What picture?”
“The kings? Carrying the coffin?”
“That doesn’t make sense,” she said faintly. “There’s no coffin.”
He gave her a withering look. “No, Miss McNeal. We don’t have a coffin in the scene. Especially not with an American flag draped over it!”
Addie braced herself against the table. She glanced around quickly at the backdrops and furniture and machines all higgledy-piggledy backstage, half-hoping to see that he was wrong. But, no. He was right. No American flag.
“I have to tell you, Addie McNeal. You’re uncanny.”
“I’m not!” She insisted. ‘And its not a trick mirror. I don’t know what’s with it. Maybe it’s hexed or something.” She gave him a pleading look. “I tried to keep you from taking it, didn’t I?”
Reg considered this. “That's true,” he admitted, sounding a fraction less angry. He pulled the crown off his head and unceremoniously dropped it into the open prop box.
“Maybe...” she offered hesitantly, “maybe, since you’re thinking about joining the army, you just imagined it. You know, with all this talk of war...”
Reg had started unfastening the pin holding the plaid across his shoulder. He stopped, regarding her through narrowed eyes. “Imagined it? Are you saying I’m yellow?”
“Of course not!”
He went back to the pin. “Because if you feel that way, why don’t you go on and find a white feather in those crates.” When she looked at him blankly, he added, “Haven’t you heard? The girls give them to fellows they think are shirking.”
“A white feather?” Addie threw up her hands. “That’s ridiculous.”
Reg yanked the tartan off his shoulders and dumped it on the table.
She swallowed hard and said carefully, “I just ... I don’t want you to go fight. I’d like to—” A loud buzzer made her jump. “Oh! They’re ready to start.”
“That’s not a stage call. It’s the back doorbell.” He turned and walked away.
“Wait a second!” Addie cried. She didn’t want him to go. Not like that.
But he went. She watched his figure grow dim in the murky backstage light as he made his way to the stairs.
“Miss McNeal!” Meg Turner called from the stage. “Props for the mad scene! Are you ready?”
13. Two Gentlemen
She crouched down and dug Lady Macbeth's props out of the crate. Her head was spinning. What did it mean, what Reg had seen in the glass? She shivered.
“That looks more like a dog dish than a washbasin, if you ask me.” Addie looked up and saw Frida lifting the tea tray that she’d left on one of the chairs. “Just finished washing the tea dishes and already it’s time to start tidying up the dressing rooms. It’s as bad as when Ma and I slung hash at Dad’s bunkhouse.” She grinned. “More polite company, though.”
Addie stood up slowly. Frida’s grin faded as she examined her more closely. “Are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
A ghost? She studied Frida's bright hair, the edges of the terrible bruise clear across her forehead. “Maybe I did,” she said.
“It’s a warning, then.” Frida paused, looked around quickly, and added, “My dad seen a ghost once. Night before he went down to Everett, he saw his pal Abe, clear as day, lying in a pool of blood. And sure enough, next day Abe was one of them the deputies shot.”
A stab of light dazzled Addie’s eyes. Reg had swung open the door to the back staircase, and the brightness from the stairwell cut across the dim backstage area. She heard loud men’s voices down below him, and then the door shut again and the voices were cut off.
He hurried over to Frida. “Its the police,” he said quietly. “They want to talk to you.”
Frida’s freckles flamed against the sudden pallor of her skin. “Already?”
Startled, Addie looked from her to Reg, but neither of them seemed aware of her.
“It’ll be all right,” Reg told Frida. “I promise. I’ll stick by you.”
For a moment, the girl’s lips trembled, but then she brought her features under control. “I ain’t afraid,” she said. There was a trace of pride in her voice.
“What’s going on?” Addie asked.
But Reg just went and shouted down the stairs, “I found her. Come on up!”
Frida was searching frantically through the pockets of her apron. “Is this about the guy who threw the brick at you?” Addie asked.
“Hush! No. It’s worse than that.” The girl looked up. “Please don’t ruin it for me!”
“Ruin what?”
Frida pulled something out of her pocket. “Don’t ask, just—” She reached out and pressed an iron key into Addie's palm. “They can’t find this on me.” He
r expression was fierce. “I’m trusting you.”
Puzzled, Addie dropped the key into her skirt pocket. “I don’t understand.”
Footsteps were coming up the stairway. A moment later, two police officers came through the door behind Reg. Both of them were young and wearing blue serge jackets and trousers and hard helmets with chin straps. One was stocky, with a sullen expression and a close-clipped mustache that reminded Addie of photographs of Hitler (who isn’t even in power yet, she thought). The other was tall and skinny, with a friendlier expression.
“Which of you is Frida Peterson?” the mustached cop asked.
“I am. What do you want?”
“Ah, don’t be that way, gal.” The skinny cop lifted his cap to reveal a shock of sandy brown hair. “We want to talk to you, not lock you up.”
“’Less you got something to do with Gustaf's escape,” the other added.
“My father?” Addie couldn’t tell if Frida was delighted or frightened. “He ran away from jail?”
“And you didn’t know?” The mustached cop jeered, examining Frida so intensely, it made Addie squirm.
For a second, she felt confused. Frida’s dad was in trouble for who knew what—enough trouble to get locked up in jail—and Frida was definitely hiding something. And now her dad had escaped. She glanced at Frida, and drew in a sharp breath.
She knew already!
Was it as obvious to everyone else as it was to her? The pleading in Frida's voice came back to Addie: Please don’t ruin it for me!
“I asked you if you knew anything about it.”
“I don’t,” Frida said. Oh, my gosh, she’s unconvincing, Addie thought.
“When did it happen?” Addie broke in, making her voice as nervously excited as she could. “Are you saying there’s a criminal on the loose?”
It worked. Both policemen turned to her. The mustached one scowled. But the skinny officer said patiently, “Two nights ago, miss. But there’s no reason to be concerned. We doubt he’d stay in the city once he broke outta jail downtown. But then we heard he had a daughter working here, so we thought we’d see what she knew.”
Reg glanced over at Addie and raised an eyebrow when neither of the policemen was looking.
“I wouldn’t go that far, Wallace,” his partner snapped. “Peterson’s wanted for murder.” He turned back to Frida. “So what have you got to say for yourself?”
Addie’s interruption had helped; Frida had collected herself. “I didn't know, but I’m glad he’s out.” She jutted out her chin. “My dad didn’t murder anyone. It was the cops started shooting. They should be in prison, not my dad.”
“Oh, we’ll get him back in the clink, don’t you worry.”
“You couldn’t even keep him there in the first place!” Frida said.
She’s too reckless for her own good, Addie thought. What if they decided to drag her down to the police station? Could they arrest her for obstructing their investigation or something?
The skinny cop glanced at Reg, then looked back at Frida. “Your employer gave us his word you would cooperate with us.”
“All right. I’ll cooperate, if Mr. Powell says so. But I ain’t doing anything to get my dad in trouble.”
“He’s in trouble already, you stupid—”
“Oh, lay off. She’s just a kid,” the skinny cop interrupted. He turned to Frida. “Just answer the questions the best you can.”
“Don’t you have to show me your badges first?” Frida asked. It was bravado, but she was scared. Her voice was small.
“I’ll tell you what I’ve got to show you—” The other cop raised his fist. Instantly, Reg stepped between him and the girl. He was very still, very calm, but his eyes locked with the policeman’s, and Addie felt the electricity of the moment before a fight.
But then the skinny cop put his hand on his partner’s arm, and mustache man reluctantly backed off. “This is Detective Bryant,” the skinny one said, digging a badge out of his breast pocket. “I’m Sergeant Price.”
“All right, then.” Frida pressed her lips together.
“Is there somewhere quiet we can conduct the interview?”
“You can talk to Miss Peterson in my mother’s office,” Reg said evenly, though Addie could see a spark of hatred in his eyes as he took the measure of Bryant. “You’ll both interview her? Or would you like me to be present?”
“You?”
“No need for that,” Price said. “We’ll both talk to her.”
That’s a relief Addie thought. He won’t let the other guy bully her.
“You treat her well,” Reg said to Bryant. Then, reluctantly, he added, “Go back down the stairs. Its at the end of the hall on the left.” Addie bit her lip, trying not to think of the old musty office where she and Whaley had unloaded the crates only the day before.
“Much obliged, sir.” Price put a hand under Frida's elbow and led her away. Bryant followed. When they reached the door, he nodded to Reg. “We’ll let you know when we’re finished.”
“Thanks.” Reg shut the door behind them, then turned to Addie. “Did she give you something?”
“A key”
“Good. I wouldn’t put it past them to search her. I just hope Sergeant Price can keep the gorilla on a leash.” He put a hand over his mouth, thinking. Addie watched him carefully and frowned. If Frida already knew her dad had escaped, then Reg probably did, too.
“Um, Reg?”
“What?”
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
“No. I can’t. I—” He stopped, looking apologetic. “I feel bad enough that you’ve gotten dragged into this. It would just be better if you didn’t know.”
A thump from the stairwell made them both turn sharply toward the door.
Reg grabbed Addie’s arm. The touch raised the hairs on her arm. “I need you to help me. Without any questions.”
“All right.”
He glanced back and listened a minute. Then he said, “You know those stairs in the right wing? By the prompt stool?”
Addie nodded.
“Go down those and through the exit on your right. There’s a hallway running to the back of the building. At the end of it, there’s a closet marked Custodian. Just make sure it’s locked—it should be. But if it’s not, for some crazy reason, make sure you lock it. Then come right back. Can you do that?”
“Of course,” she said, baffled, and a bit nervous. “You’re not kidding about all this cloak-and-daggers tuff,a rey ou?”
Reg half smiled. “No jest, lady,” he said in his Macbeth voice. He let go of her arm and brushed his hand along her sleeve. “And I apologize for rumpling your clothes.”
“Mr. Powell?” It was Bryant calling up the stairs. “Can you come down here a moment?”
“Go!” Reg gave Addie a gentle push. “I mean, please.”
She nodded and quickly threaded her way through the clutter of chairs, candelabra, and thrones toward the wing, letting the curtain fall behind her. Fortunately, no one was there, though she could hear the cast milling around onstage.
“Is Reg hiding away somewhere?” Meg’s voice floated above the rest. “Drag him out, will you?”
Addie found the little stairway beside a carving of a falcon-headed god, and she hurried down into the side of the auditorium and stepped out into a hallway. The walls were covered with emerald velvet. Far down at the end, she saw a broom and a dustpan leaning against a door. It had to be the janitor’s closet.
She walked up to the door and stopped short. Now that she was alone again, a disturbing thought struck her: What if she wasn’t back in time at all, and this was just a figment of her imagination? What if she had really been alone in the theater this whole time, psychotically talking to shadows, like old Macbeth and his crazy wife?
But then Meg Turner’s voice thundered through the ceiling, berating some poor actor. “You’re meant to be a villain! So be a villain! You’re about as menacing as a stuffed bear!”
; No. It was really happening. Someone that real couldn’t be a figment of her imagination. Frida was in trouble, and Reg was tangled up in it, too. And she wanted to help. It was that simple. Whatever was happening to him and Frida involved her as well. She was tied to them and had been ever since the afternoon she first saw them, coming up Salmon Bay Drive.
She put her hand on the knob and tested it. It was locked.
She turned to go, but hesitated. What was so important it had to be kept locked up like this? How was she supposed to keep a secret if she didn’t know what it was?
Frowning, she pulled out the key, turned it in the lock, and opened the door.
At first, she could make out nothing in the gloom. Then she jumped as a large shape detached itself from the darkness. A man in muddy overalls emerged, his eyes fixed on her face, the whites gleaming. Stubble bristled his cheeks, and a ragged mustache hid his mouth. As her eyes adjusted, she could see grime on his face and hands. Like the homeless man she’d seen in the alley.
With a muffled cry, Addie whirled around to make a run for the stairs.
But before she could, a heavy arm encircled her waist. The man dragged her into the closet and shut the door.
14. Timber War
Addie's heart pounded. She tried to yank herself away, but the man’s arms were like iron. It was a nightmare she’d had many times, ever since the day John Dorsey had grabbed her after school and shoved her up against the lockers in the empty hallway. She remembered his tongue in her ear and the pressure of his body grinding against her. That time, Whaley had heard her scream. He’d found her and bashed John Dorsey’s head into the wall. Now she thrashed about, trying to free herself, to no avail. And who would come for her this time?
“Wha—!”
The man shoved his hand over her mouth. She tried to jerk away, feet scuffing the floor.
“Calm down!” he growled.
She wrenched her head to the side, but his hand slammed over her mouth again as she started to scream.
“Var tyst!” His breath smelled of coffee and tobacco. “I won’t hurt you.” Addie’s eyes darted around, looking for anything she could use to defend herself. She saw a lamp casting a dim light on a low table by a threadbare couch. Nothing there. The room was cluttered with buckets and mops. A mop wouldn’t be very fearsome.... The only option was to be quicker than him if she could wrench free. But there was only one door, and the man had shut it tight.
The Jewel and the Key Page 14
