by Chassie West
Duck looked up from the newspaper article. “Today?”
“One of Gracie’s students described her to a T, so when I saw her on the street earlier today, I recognized her as Georgia Keith. I even stopped her and talked to her and she gave me this perfectly convincing story about how she came to be in the lobby on Monday. The thing is, she looked nothing like the photos from the Bridal Bower. I saw no resemblance at all! The woman’s a damned chameleon. Gracie’s student said there was a possibility that the teenager was related to Nell Gwynn because there was a slight resemblance, but no one else mentioned it. And Miss Colby? No, Cobey. She went on and on about how much foundation Gwynn was wearing, which makes sense now. Stage makeup. But as far as all of them were concerned, they were two different people. She fooled them all. Hell, she fooled me. I even showed her the pictures of herself. She didn’t even blink!”
“Are you sure the names aren’t a coincidence?” Tina asked.
“All of the names have a connection to the theater. Helena dug out a volume of Encyclopedia Britannica and showed me the section on Nell Gwynn. She might have been a king’s bit of stuff on the side but she was also the Sarah Bernhardt of her day. I’d never heard of the play that has a Georgia Keith as one of the characters, but Bev auditioned for it at Arena. They mounted a production of it last year. Perhaps our nutcase was in the play, or saw it. Who knows? But everybody knows about Sarah Bernhardt.”
“Well, okay, but why go after you?” Duck folded the review and dropped it on the coffee table.
“She said I’d kept her from getting to the auditions because I knew Bev, knew she was trying out, too. Which I didn’t, of course. None of us even knew she was in town. Seeing us together in front of Helena’s must have driven her over the edge, for her to call me there. By the way, Tina, she said she was sorry about Claudia.”
Tina sat up straight. “She admitted it?”
“Only to being sorry about her. Any word on the autopsy yet?”
“Tomorrow.” Relaxing again, she scowled. “They were too jammed up today. Oh, and Tankie, tell them what Willard said.”
“The day she called the police, she used a cell phone stolen from a Steve Castello, who moved here recently from Florida. The phone still had a Florida area code. It hasn’t been used since, so she probably tossed it afterward.”
“Terrific,” I said, not the least surprised. “But at least there’s a better chance of tracking her down now. We know the general area where she lived, at least back in the spring. We know she’s an aspiring actress, which means checking local theater groups to see if anyone recognizes her.”
Duck leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, and fixed a penetrating gaze on me. “Let’s define some terms here, specifically this ‘we’ you’re talking about. It includes Evans and Thackery. They investigate murders, suspicious deaths. And if Bernhardt/Keith/ Gwynn said she was sorry about Claudia, that’s proof at the very least that she was there. I’ve left a message for Thack and Evans, letting them know there have been new developments and you’ll fill them in tomorrow.”
“Fine.” I wasn’t looking forward to it, but they did need to know.
“‘We’ also includes Willard,” Duck continued. “He’ll need copies of the photographs. This Castello might recognize her. And she’s made threats by phone, another black mark against her he’ll want to add to his list.”
“Eddie made plenty of copies for me.”
“Good. Now, as far as the three of us are concerned, Tank will keep in touch with Willard, who evidently appreciates all the help he can get. Tina’s riding herd over her contact at the medical examiner’s and is also trying to find out what happened to Claudia’s car. She obviously drove it here to pick up Clarissa. Our girl may have used it to get away last night. Me, I’ll be dogging Evans and Thackery. Thus ends the ‘we.’ You, my love, are getting the hell out of town.”
I looked at him sidewise. “Excuse me?”
“I’ve packed a bag for you and I’m driving you to Ourland tonight. If we’re taking the house, we might as well use it.”
Not only did my hackles rise, they stood at attention. “Now, just wait a minute, buster,” I began, simmering.
“Hear me out, babe. I should have thought of this last night, but I was more concerned about how Clarissa was holding up. This crazy woman’s done enough. For the moment, let’s forget the Hawaii reservations and your suit.”
“No,” I interrupted. “Let’s not.”
He held up a hand. “Leigh, it was one thing when she was simply a pain in the butt, but she’s crossed the line. She invaded my apartment under false pretenses, removed personal property. She’s been stalking you; that’s a crime in itself, her e-mail to you may be, too, for all I know. But now a perfectly innocent woman is dead. For all we know, Clarissa may be in danger, too. And that call to you tonight says she’s completely out of control now. She’s gone way past harassment. I’m taking her threat against you seriously. If I had my druthers, I’d put you on the next flight to Asheville, but I know you’d go kicking and screaming. So Ourland will have to do, and I don’t want to hear any argument.”
My simmer had escalated to a full, rolling boil. “Who died and made you boss?”
“Claudia,” he said quietly.
He had a point but it was beside the point. The other one, I mean.
“I’m not going, Duck. I refuse to run away. If nothing else, I owe it to Claudia and Clarissa to stick it out and put an end to this reign of terror. As far as I’m concerned, the wedding suit is the least she’s stolen from me; that’s replaceable. She’s stolen my name, my identity, my peace of mind. I want it back, all of it.”
“Don’t think I don’t understand that, babe. But how am I gonna concentrate on the job if I’m worrying about whether you’re okay, whether you’re safe?”
I stood up. “Seems to me we’ve been down this road before. If I remember correctly, it’s the same argument you put to me earlier this year when you backed me into a corner so I’d have no choice but to break our engagement. You couldn’t concentrate on the job if you had to worry about me out on the street doing my job. I fell for it then. Not this time.”
“It’s different this time,” he said, his hands on my shoulders forcing me to sit again. He got down on one knee. “I’m not trying to break our engagement. I’m trying to protect the life of the woman I love.”
Tina and Tank got up. “Uh, we’ll leave so you two can talk.”
“Sit down,” Duck ordered, still focused on me. “I want us married, babe. I want you alive! If you were in Ourland—”
“I wouldn’t be any better off than I’d be here. She followed us there, remember? If your precious manhood depends on my giving in to you on this, we’re in big trouble because I’m not running, Duck. No way, José.”
Rising, he glared down at me, his temple throbbing. “God protect me from hardheaded women!” He stormed out, went into the bedroom, and slammed the door.
Tina folded her hands in her lap. “Well. I’m not absolutely sure, you understand, but if I had to guess, I’d have to say I think the man’s really upset.”
I’d never had occasion to sleep on my couch, and after spending the night on it, I swore at the first opportunity, it would be history. I hadn’t expected to be able to sleep at all; I couldn’t turn my head off, working out how to get the chameleon’s real name and what the hell to do once I’d gotten it.
Peeking from behind all the upheaval in my brain was the fight with Duck. It wasn’t our first set-to. I just prayed it wouldn’t be our last.
The clock above his desk moved like a snail through syrup. The last time I’d looked at it, it was three-twenty. When I woke up, I knew the apartment was empty. Duck was gone. No coffee, no note, no nothing.
“So be it,” I said, and consoled myself in the shower.
I was wrapped in a towel, trying to decide what to wear, when the phone rang. I sprinted to answer it, planting my still-damp fanny on Duck’s side of t
he bed.
It was my beloved. “Take this number.” No “good morning,” “how’d you sleep?” or anything else. I grabbed a pencil and notepad from my everyday purse.
“Yes?” Two could play this game.
He rattled off a number. “DePriest’s parents,” he said, and hung up.
I spent thirty seconds feeling weepy. It was no fun having Duck mad at me. I blew the next fifteen railing at myself for wanting to cry, and the fifteen seconds after that trying to adjust to the knowledge that Plato dePriest had parents. I’d never imagined him as a member of a family. Screwballs like Plato were hatched, not born.
It was an upstate New York number. I checked the clock. Eight-thirteen. Hopefully, they were awake.
The voice that answered the phone sounded alert and full of piss and vinegar. “Meow, the Cat House. Prissy speaking.”
Cat House? “Uh, hello. I was trying to reach the dePriest residence.”
“You’ve got it. Can I help you?” A decidedly feline voice yowled in the background. “Hush, Roger. Mommy’s on the phone.”
I figured the best course of action was to cut to the chase. “My name in Leigh Warren and I’m—”
“Oh! Our Plato’s friend! How nice of you to call. How’s he doing this morning? We haven’t talked to him yet.”
I wondered if I needed to do some pussyfooting of my own. “That’s why I’m calling, Mrs. dePriest. I stopped by his house yesterday and he didn’t answer. It worried me.”
“Oh, you poor thing. I can imagine what you thought. Plato’s in George Washington University Hospital. He tripped over some equipment—no doubt you know what his house is like—and broke his leg, quite badly since they’ve got him in traction. We just left there yesterday, had to get back for the cats. We raise Siamese, and they get so put out when we’re away. Please go see him, Leigh. He’s got his laptop but I’m sure he’d appreciate seeing a friendly face.”
I exhaled a sigh of relief and promised I’d see him as soon as I could. I’d just replaced the receiver when the phone rang again.
It was Bev. “Mornin’, sunshine. You up?”
“Up and squeaky clean. Thanks again for the loan of your car and driver.”
“Glad to do it. Lookit, darlin’, I called a friend who works at Arena Stage and asked about August Flames. Only one male in the whole play. There are several roles for women our age and the cast was mostly Equity, but some were local amateurs, so your crazy woman might have been in it. He’s pulling the cast photos for me, but has a late-morning appointment downtown. Think you could make it to Arena by eleven?”
I perked up. “You bet.” I assumed that Tina had bought the Corvette back here.
Bev gave me her contact’s name. “I’d go with you, but we’ve got a tech rehearsal this morning. I’m at the Marriott at Thirteenth and Pennsylvania so leave me a message, let me know how it went, okay?” Bang! She was gone.
Fifteen minutes later I was dressed and ready to go, with a couple of hours to kill before going over to Arena Stage, which wasn’t that far away. I wanted to check the cast photos before seeing Thackery and Evans. With luck, and I admitted I’d need a lot of it, I could present them with a name and a professionally done head shot.
I nibbled on toast and guzzled some orange juice, then decided to change my footwear. My navy tunic and slacks would probably look dressier if I dumped the boots. In the guest room, I unearthed the box marked “Shoes,” and removed my black Ferragamos. Properly shod, I was about to leave the room when I spotted the two boxes Neva had signed for earlier in the week. Assuming they were wedding gifts, I’d wanted Duck and me to open them together. Since I couldn’t be sure when we’d be opening anything together now, I got the scissors from the lap drawer of my desk and started snipping tape.
The contents of the smaller box contained a slinky black peignoir, so silky and sheer that wearing it would be next door to being nude. I checked the card. From Janeece. It said, This ought to prime his pump. No lie, assuming I ever got to wear it. I returned it to its cushion of tissue paper, and tackled the second box. In it was a smaller one. In that, one smaller still.
I stopped, ice crystals forming in my veins and visions of letter bombs exploding in my head. I checked the outer carton. UPS. Typewritten labels. Return address: M. Smith, a five-digit number on Jeff Davis Highway, Arlington. I knew a Marian Smith and had worked with a Melissa Smith. Melissa had moved, but I wasn’t sure it had been to Virginia.
Sitting back on my Ferragamoed heels, I tossed some mental dice. Melissa knew I was getting married. And the box had not been handled with tender loving care since I’d received it; it had been tossed around, had survived a ride in Tank and Tina’s Explorer, and hadn’t blown up. It was very light, about the same weight as the peignoir, and had arrived before last night’s pointed threat on my life. I’d chance it. Carefully.
I exchanged the scissors for a box cutter, slitting the transparent tape carefully. With the flaps now free, I retreated to the kitchen, got the broom, and stationed myself on my knees behind my old rolltop desk. Reaching around it with the broom handle, I nudged the flaps of the box open. No explosion. I could just barely see inside. Newsprint? I poked the interior. Nothing.
Time to bite the bullet, I hoped, not literally. I eased from behind the desk, put the broom aside. Clippings from newspapers. I flipped through them. Reviews of the Shakespeare repertory’s performance from every place they’d been since mid-April. And scribbled in the margins of each, Bitch! Or You owe me! Or This was supposed to be mine! And others of that ilk. She’d coveted the roles of Juliet, Regan, Lady Macbeth. And I’d kept her from them.
Belatedly, I thought about fingerprints. Dusting the outer box would be a waste of time, but the inner ones all had a glossy finish. I repacked them and took the box into the living room. An aspiring actress, for God’s sake. A crazy, wily aspiring actress who blamed me for missing what she must have considered the audition of her life. She’d obviously hit a dry spell if she was free to stalk me day and night, changing characters with apparent ease.
I passed the full-length mirror on the bathroom door, then backed up a step to gaze at myself. As soon as I left this apartment, I’d be a walking target. She knew what I looked like. But who would she be today? I had no way of knowing. The least I could do, if only to save my own neck, was to make it harder for her. I was no actress, but in my early years with the department, I’d spent more than one night walking the streets, playing the prostitute for unwary johns. I must have been fairly good at it; Vice had more than half a dozen arrests to thank me for. Unfortunately, I wasn’t equipped for role playing of any kind now, but I knew where I could get whatever I needed, since it was the same source I’d used back then. Thank God today was Saturday.
I went to the phone, dialed, heard it ring five times, then the answering machine did its thing.
“Janeece,” I yelled. “Pick up!”
It worked. “Leigh?” she answered groggily.
“Yes, it’s me. I’ve got a favor to ask.”
“Name it.” She yawned.
“Bring me all your wigs and every bit of makeup you have. And I mean PDQ. I’ve got to be out of here by ten forty-five.”
I could hear her sitting up. Her bed squeaked.
“You goin’ out on the block again?” she asked. “You can’t be. You’re an engaged woman, betrothed and shit. What kind of games are you playing, girl?”
“Tit for tat, Janeece. Tit for tat.”
16
BY THE TIME I LEFT TO MEET BEV’S CONTACT AT Arena Stage, I had eyelashes. I’d always coveted Duck’s, which were indecently long for a male, and now I had some too, dark, swoopy things that made me feel as if I was peering from under a pair of awnings. I also had shoulder-length sandy brown braids, D-cup breasts, and, God forbid, hips. I fought like a tigress against the hips, since I already have fanny aplenty, but Janeece insisted that if I was going to play the game, I needed to go whole hog. Which is initially the way I felt under all
that padding. But she was right. I bore little surface resemblance to me. Add the two-inch platform shoes with the Kleenex stuck in the toes to make them fit and I wouldn’t be walking like me either.
I knew I’d passed muster when Chet showed up with the keys to my car and didn’t recognize me when I answered the door.
“Uh,” he said, staring at me as if he still wasn’t sure of my identity, “you can see a little of the spray paint on the sides but it sorta looks like it came that way new. The only way to get rid of it is to get an all-over paint job.”
I thanked him, exchanged his car keys for mine, and realized that I was still in a bind. I couldn’t use my car. It would be a dead giveaway.
“No big deal,” Janeece said, cramming yet more tissues down my bra. “I’ll drive you over to Arena, and from there to a rental agency.”
“Oh, yeah, as if they’ll rent me so much as a kiddy car when they see my driver’s license and compare it to the bimbo standing on the other side of their counter.”
“You do not look like a bimbo,” Janeece said, clearly insulted. “You just don’t look like you. Tell you what. I’ll take the rental and you use mine.”
Drive her Cadillac? I was speechless. Nobody drove Janeece’s Caddy. Nobody. Not even her assorted husbands. She was making the ultimate sacrifice.
I choked up. “You’re a good friend, Janeece.”
She ogled me, horrified. “Don’t you dare cry, girl! That mascara’s not waterproof! Come on. You’re gonna be late.”
As it was, it wouldn’t have mattered. Beth’s contact was gone but had left the August Flames cast photos with a chunky young woman who introduced herself as Sunny. Her name suited her personality.
“You know Beverly Barlowe?” she bubbled. “I saw her in Lysistrata when I was in high school. She was absolutely fantastic. Here, have a seat. You wanted to look at these?” She handed over a file of eight-by-ten glossies.
I flipped through them quickly. Lots of females, none even closely resembling the she-devil. I showed Sunny my photos, hoping she might recognize the face.
