by P. N. Elrod
“That’s great.” I think. “So Isabel already knows you’re here.”
“She’s the one who recommended me to the casting agency. But I wanted to get the part on my own, not just because she told you to put me in.”
“That’s very considerate of you both. What if I’d turned you down?”
“Then it’s back to the agency to nag my agent for other jobs. No point being in a show if the director doesn’t like me for the part.”
He respect for him went up a few notches. “Just as well it worked out, then. Let’s introduce you to the others. Rehearsal starts in an hour. We’ll go over the blocking for Act One.”
“All right. How’s the curse going for this production?”
At this out-of-nowhere shot, Cassie paused in mid-boost from her desk, and sat down again. Rather abruptly. “Curse? Who told you?” she blurted before thinking.
“This is the bad-luck play,” he said, eyes twinkling again. “So what troubles have you had?”
“I don’t believe in the curse,” she answered dismissively.
“The Weird Sisters’ spells are supposed to be real, and it’s always been bad luck to quote from the Scottish play while backstage.”
“Only because in the old days it meant the current production was about to close early. Companies could throw Macbeth together quickly to fill up the schedule gap. If an actor heard anyone rehearsing lines from it backstage, it meant his show’s run was doomed.”
“I’ve not heard that one.” He fixed her with a more intense look. “But you’ve not answered my question, Miss Sullivan.”
“Cassie,” she said automatically, and let it hang between them for a very long moment. Or did time just telescope when he looked at her like that? But he does have such riveting eyes. She broke out of their spell and came up with a reluctant response. “We’ve had a few glitches that we blame on the production poltergeist.”
“Your theater’s haunted?”
She smiled. “Strangely, it is not. It’s old, but the only deaths here have been the fake kind on stage. Mishaps happen in theater, it’s the nature of the craft. My stage manager started calling things like that the work of the production poltergeist. He’s fond of alliteration. We’re having no more problems now than for any other show.”
“Forgive me, but that’s not what I’ve heard.”
Cassie could fix people with a formidable look herself, and did so now with Quentin, her green eyes stiletto-sharp. “And just what have you heard?”
Unlike others she’d ever used it on, he didn’t seem to recognize the danger signal and leaned forward, not remotely intimidated. “When I found out I was going to be sent to replace Trevor Hopewell, I phoned Bel to thank her for the boost. She gave me an earful. I know about the missing costumes, props breaking, sets falling down, electrical shorts, flooded bathrooms—the works.”
“We found the costumes in the trash and put that down to cleaning staff error, the rest is just accident and coincidence. It’s an old building. It would be odd if things didn’t go wrong with. . .things.”
“What about the rash Bel got from her makeup?”
“Allergic reaction to a new brand. We changed it.”
“And Trevor Hopewell finding that dead rat in his codpiece?”
“It crawled in there to die. We made him a new one and set out traps.”
“And the needle that turned up in Bel’s corset? She got a bad scratch from that.”
Good grief, he knew everything. Cassie fought down her anger. “The costume crew was careless. They apologized. The rest is coincidence. What are you getting at with all this, Mr. Douglas? Do you think someone is after Isabel?”
“I think Isabel thinks someone is out to kill the production.”
“That’s ridiculous. I’ve been with the people here for years, there’s no way—”
“Bel worked herself into a good upset once she started talking. She’s willing to lay the blame on the play’s traditional curse, but she’s also willing to consider non-supernatural alternatives. You may know and trust everyone here, but she’s an outsider.”
“Mr. Douglas, I can tell you right now that all the people in this company are two hundred percent behind this production. We’re working to make it a success because we need the money. Isabel’s agent approached me with her offer to foot the bill for the whole thing so long as she gets to play Lady Macbeth, and I gratefully accepted. The publicity this playhouse will get from her name will give us the financial help we’ve always needed. There is no way anyone here is going to jeopardize that.”
“But maybe talk about a curse might embarrass her in some way? The tabloids love this kind of thing.”
Ouch. He knew how to hit low. “Miss Graham wants to prove to the world she can play high drama as well as middle-America comedy, and a little bad publicity is not going to stop her. She’s a total professional and knows that the show must go on.”
Quentin, his gaze still steady, nodded slowly, as though he’d found something he’d been looking for and liked it. “You’re aware of how important this is to her.”
“If she blows it the critics will be merciless. She’s put a lot of trust in me, an unknown backwater director—”
“Whose parents were the darlings of Broadway once upon a time.”
It was no secret, but she was surprised he knew that. “Yes, they were, and they taught me everything they knew when they invested in this theater. I want to do proud by their memory, and I will give Isabel my best effort.”
“Then we’re all in accord.” He suddenly relaxed and smiled.
She couldn’t help but smile back. “Yes, I suppose we are, but—”
Someone banged urgently on her red door. “Cassie! Emergency!”
It was Willis Wright, stage-managing in overdrive from the sound of him.
Heart thumping, she shot from her chair, on full alert. In any given production there were a hundred emergencies, but his tone of voice made this one serious. She hauled the door open and nearly collided with him. “What is it?”
“We’ve found a body up on the gridwalk.”
“What?” She pushed past, tearing toward the stage. There she saw the whole company staring upward to the dark heights of the grid, the steel construction that held the lights and backdrops. She stared herself, trying to pierce the shadows. “Flashlight!”
Willis slapped one into her hand. Its beam was pale from use and didn’t reach far, but she saw a man-sized shape dangling ominously over stage center.
“Oh, my God. Is that for real? Someone get up there and find out.”
Willis himself saw to it, scrambling up the metal ladder affixed to the backstage wall. He reached the grid and gingerly stepped onto it. The hanging figure swung heavily. Several of the people around her gasped.
“Everyone back out of the way!” she snapped. Still staring up, they reluctantly moved clear. And only just in time. Willis yelled, “Look out!”
The thing high above suddenly plummeted. The body smacked into the stage with a resounding thud, inspiring screams. Cassie jumped in reaction, but held her place. She became aware of someone looming behind her. Quentin. Generating a lot of heat. He stared over her shoulder at the body.
It was only a dummy from props—for which Cassie heaved a great sigh of relief—but its appearance sent a chill up her spine. With a hangman’s noose around the neck, it was dressed in her own distinctive working uniform of jeans, cowboy boots, and her best blue work shirt, which had gone missing yesterday. Topping all was a red wig, the color matching her own mane. Most disturbing was a huge prop butcher knife, smeared with dark red paint, sticking out of the thing’s chest.
She felt Quentin’s warm hand on her shoulder, gripping tight.
“Good God. . .that’s supposed to be you.”
She recoiled at the suggestion. “I hope not.”
“That’s sick!” Nell all but shrieked. “Absolutely sick! Who did this?”
No one stepped forward; no one looked
the least bit guilty or smug, but then, most of them were actors.
No. I’m not going to go there, Cassie thought. These are my friends, they’re family!
An unfamiliar hollowness invaded her guts. Fear. Real fear. That fake knife had been buried right to the hilt in her effigy’s chest. Like it or not, she had to deal with it. She steeled herself, went over, and pulled it out. All eyes were on her as she held it up like a trophy.
She fully milked the moment, making a slow turn to take them all in, keeping her voice rock-steady. “All right. Listen up. I am not amused. Somebody could have been killed if this thing had fallen at the wrong time. There’s no harm done, but no more tricks. I’m talking zero tolerance, folks. I find anyone, absolutely anyone, screwing around and I will personally bury them. Is that clear?”
Nods of comprehension and sober looks. She tried to read their expressions and body language for any clue as to who might be the guilty party, but it was impossible, so she concentrated on not trembling from the adrenaline rush. Rule One for any good dramatic scene: never let them see you sweat.
“Cassie? What’s going on here?”
She turned to face Isabel Graham, the show’s patron, producer, and leading lady. Though known as a brilliant comedic star by means of her hit TV series, at the moment Isabel truly resembled Lady Macbeth. Her blue eyes were wide with shock, her mouth set in a grim downward turn. She looked at the bloody knife, then at the dummy.
“Just a sick joke, Isabel,” Cassie wearily explained, wishing she could lose the knife.
“Another one?” This came from Isabel’s manager, James Keating, also her most recent fiancé. Like Nell, Isabel fell in love a lot, but had been careful not to follow through to marriage just yet. According to the tabloids, though, Keating just might be the one to break the rule. He was movie-star handsome, had a shark’s attitude when it came to business, and was totally devoted to Isabel. He was shocked enough to put away his ever-present cell phone to stare at the dummy sprawled over center stage. Quentin was on one knee, his back to them, examining the “remains.”
“That’s supposed to be you?” asked Isabel, horrified.
“It’s a rotten likeness. I have a much better figure.”
Isabel puffed out a short, mirthless laugh. “Not funny.”
“Absolutely not,” agreed James. “This is a deliberate and cold-blooded. Bel you—”
“Quentin!” Isabel squealed, suddenly noticing her new co-star. Cassie dodged clear just as Isabel launched herself at him. He rose with a grin and obligingly grabbed her up in a full body hug and spun her slender form around.
Short attention span, thought Cassie. Isabel had loads of talent, but when she wasn’t performing she was as easily distracted as a kitten was by a new piece of string.
“You’ve grown!” crowed Isabel when Quentin set her down.
“Nope, you just got shorter.”
“Did not! You get those big muscles in the navy?”
“They’re rented, but if they work out, I might buy them.”
James Keating watched the exchange between the two old friends with thin-lipped tolerance. Cassie knew how he felt. Her last—completely last—actor-boyfriend had thrown her over for someone else. He’d been just as public about it, too. Was James worried about a rival?
Willis came up then, or rather down, having just quit the metal ladder. He also inspected the “body,” especially the noose rope. His focus served to draw Isabel back to the immediate problem.
“What is it, Will?” Cassie asked.
He shook his head. “This was set like a booby trap. I found fishing line leading from the dummy’s noose to the ladder and down the rungs on the inside. The noose was just barely snagged on a hook up there with a loose loop knot; one good pull on the line and it’s off and dropping. I accidentally tripped the gag when I got to the top. Whoever set it wanted to pull it down from a distance. It would have worked, but the setup was clumsy. If there’d been a good draft it might have come tumbling down beforetime and killed someone.”
She went cold. All over.
“Cassie, you should call the cops on this. James is right, this isn’t a joke anymore. Maybe the rest of the stuff you can fob off on the poltergeist, but somebody put work into this thing—and it had to be somebody with free access to the building. This came from the basement props and costume storage.”
“Not the clothes,” she said.
“Those are yours, aren’t they?” asked Isabel.
“Don’t hold it against me. I’ll buy something nice for opening night.”
“Stop with the joking already,” said Nell. “This a deliberate act of terrorism!”
“I agree,” said Quentin. “You need to report it.”
Keating echoed him, putting a protective arm around Isabel.
“And have the tabloids eat us for lunch? I don’t think so.” Cassie had already dealt with several overly-friendly reporters looking for the inside scoop on a perfectly—well, almost—ordinary production of Macbeth. They’d been interested in getting dirt on Isabel, of course.
Isabel shook her head. “Never mind the so-called press. I can take a little heat so long as they spell my name right. This could be a life-threatening situation. You have to call the police!”
Cassie raised her hands in a placating gesture. Unfortunately, the prop knife was still in one clenched fist, causing everyone to back away a step. “Okay! I’ll phone them, but I am not terrorized, I’m mad as hell. Everyone here should get mad, too.”
Nell visibly thought that one over. “What? Like an acting exercise?”
“No! I mean if you put all the poltergeist stuff together, most of it doesn’t mean squat, but this is different. Someone wants to kill this show, for reason or reasons unknown.”
“Over my dead body,” said Isabel, her eyes flashing blue fire. “I’ll call in a security firm and lock this place up like Fort Knox before I let that happen.”
“Right,” said Cassie. “That’s what I’m looking for—I want you and everyone else mad and on red alert. If we all play watchdog, look out for each other, anticipate problems before they happen, then they can’t happen. Am I brilliant, or what?”
“Or what,” Nell deadpanned. “You want us up here twenty-four/seven to revoke Murphy’s Law?”
“Whatever it takes,” said Cassie.
“Lemme tell you, girl, when it comes to theater, Murphy was an optimist.”
* * *
Cassie filed a report with the police, but knew they couldn’t do anything. It was not a crime to dress up a dummy and hang it from anything; no harm was done. The officer was sympathetic, but even the promise of free tickets for opening night wasn’t enough to lure him into staying until then. He did ask if she could have Isabel’s autograph, which Cassie got for him, since he was kind of cute.
Her pep-talk galvanized the company. For the rest of rehearsals Cassie concentrated on directing, which almost made her forget about the poltergeist—for whole minutes at a time.
It helped to have amazing actors to work with, though. Quentin Douglas’s romantic, hot-blooded—if slightly psychotic—Macbeth quite overwhelmed the brooding, anger-driven version Trevor Hopewell had attempted. Even without the drawing power of Isabel Graham’s star name, this production was shaping into something special. Cassie was thrilled. She wanted the audience to see the characters, not the actors playing them.
Complications still arose. Mostly in the form of Quentin finding all kinds of ways to stick close to her when he wasn’t busy killing people on stage. She pretended not to notice his attentions and focused on business, which drove Nell up the wall.
“He likes you, Cassie! Are you nuts? Total studs like him are thin on the ground.”
“He’s an actor. Actors are off my menu.”
“Unbend a little, girl. At least have coffee with him sometime so he doesn’t think you hate him.”
“I don’t hate him! I’m being professional. Go for him yourself.”
“I t
ried—but all he did was get me to talk about you. The least you can do is date him so I can have a vicarious thrill when you tell me about it.”
“I’ve no time. The play opens soon, and in two weeks it closes; he’ll be history. End of problem.”
“You wish.”
* * *
Despite everyone looking out for each other, Murphy’s Law continued with a vengeance. Opening-night jitters became the norm days too early, with more missing or damaged costumes, broken props, and damaged scenery flats. Frustration rose, tempers shortened, and arguments were frequent. Isabel’s presence helped; she could stop a fight with her smile alone. At her own expense she had the locks changed and hired off-duty policemen to keep an eye on things. To no avail, with so many crew and actors milling hurriedly about to bring the production together it was impossible for the security types to watch everything. The incidents continued.
After the effigy business, Cassie started sleeping in the theater. She’d often done so when work had gone too late to drive home. With spare clothing, a comfy couch in her office, and showers in the dressing rooms, it was no hardship. She rather liked it.
She was well over her fit of denial, facing the ugly fact that someone in the group was out to kill the show. Cassie absolutely hated the idea, but found herself looking at familiar faces with new eyes. She began to come up with motives for each and had to bite her tongue to keep from blurting out an accusatory question that could destroy a lifetime of friendship.
So she kept quiet about her after-hours guardian duty, hoping that if she did discover the culprit they could settle things privately. As for the possibility that an anti-Shakespearean ghost had taken up residence in the theater. . .well, Cassie had yet to meet a poltergeist who was any match for a furious redhead armed with a baseball bat.
The nights were uneventful, giving her much time to think back on the various pranks—especially the deadliest. The guilty party behind the effigy had to have access, time, and privacy to set it up. The knots made her think of sailors, but Quentin Douglas was newly come to the show, unfamiliar with the layout of the theater, and had no motive. Besides, most of the company knew how to do special knots; it was part of normal stagecraft training.
