Dangerous Benefits (The Ruby Danger Series Book 2)

by Rickie Blair

  She reached for the makeup lined up on the dressing room table and began her own transformation into Mollie Ralston: foundation, a little blusher, brown eye shadow and a swipe of liner, finished off with a dash of dark red lipstick and a puff of baby powder. Nothing too striking. Ruby’s character was a modest young woman running a bed-and-breakfast with her husband Giles in a remote English town. Far too busy to fuss with her appearance.

  At least her dress was attractive. A ’50s-era button-front lilac frock with a wide skirt, fitted bodice and elbow-length sleeves. Ruby slipped it on, smoothing the collar’s wide, satin lapels and standing up to check the skirt’s drape in the mirror. Every aspect of this dress was perfect. She turned into Mollie the moment she fastened its carved bone buttons. She imagined that Mollie had purchased the dress on a rare trip into London, knowing she was spending too much, but eager to make a good impression on Monkswell Manor’s first paying guests. Mollie’s shoes, on the other hand, were abysmal. Ruby stepped into the heavy black pumps and fastened the straps over her instep. Why had shoes been so unattractive in the ’50s? Perhaps Mollie’s budget wouldn’t stretch to new pumps as well.

  She sat down and picked up her hairbrush.

  “Do you need help with your hair?”

  “Oh please. You know what a klutz I am.” Ruby handed Dorothy the brush, picked up a handful of hair clips and held them out for her.

  Dorothy pulled back her hair on one side, rolled it over her hand with the brush and reached for the pins. She did the same with the back and the other side and stepped back. “There. I think that will do.”

  “It’s lovely. Where did you learn how to do that?”

  “Years of practice, dear. Especially summer stock, where hairdressers are few and far between.”

  “Thank you, you’re a sweetheart.” Ruby reached for the single strand of fake pearls—a gift, she had decided, from Mollie’s in-laws on the day of her wedding—and fastened it around her neck. Finally, she slipped on the wedding ring that completed her metamorphosis. Then she stood and slid Mollie’s plain brown wool overcoat and worn leather handbag off their hangers. Her gloves were tucked inside the purse and she tugged them on, followed by the coat, then hung the purse over her forearm.

  The loudspeaker over the dressing room door crackled with Henry’s voice.

  “This is your beginners’ call. Part one beginners. Miss Delaney, Mr. Evans, your beginners’ call.”

  She took one last look in the mirror and then hustled along the hall and up the single flight of stairs that led backstage. Arthur Evans—who played Mollie’s husband, Giles—sat on a wooden box, mumbling his lines. He glared at her as she hurried past him to the props table to pick up the parcel she needed for the first scene.

  But before she reached the props table, a lean man wearing a microphone headset walked in front of her. His angular face was topped with black hair so short it was barely more than a shadow. The suspenders of his black pants were snapped tightly over a white shirt and his sleeves were rolled in precise folds.

  He frowned, covering his headset mic with one hand.

  “Where have you been?”

  “What do you mean? I’m not late.”

  “You should have been out here twenty minutes ago. What do you think half-hour call is? A joke?” Henry uncovered his mic. “Stand by the cast, stand by curtain, stand by house lights, stand by sound cue,” he said in a modulated tone before covering the mic again.

  “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it,” Ruby said. “But there’s still plenty of—”

  “This isn’t one of your film productions, where people come and go as they please. This is live theater. We get one chance to do it right, one chance—”

  “For heaven’s sake, Henry—”

  He held up a finger to silence her and spoke into the mic again, in the same modulated tone. “House lights, go, sound cue one, go.” The plaintive notes of Three Blind Mice trilled through the darkened theater.

  “I didn’t mean to—”

  Henry glared, his finger still aloft.

  “Curtain, go. Sound cue two, go.”

  Ruby turned to walk back to the props table, but he grabbed her shoulder with one hand.

  “Henry, let go, I have to—”

  “Shhhh!” He raised a finger to his mouth and tightened his grip as she tried to pull away.

  The curtain rose and the music faded, replaced by a man whistling the Blind Mice tune, then a woman’s scream and the blare of police whistles. Finally, a radio announcement, “…the murdered woman was a Mrs. Maureen Lyon. Police are anxious to interview a man seen in the vicinity…”

  Henry shoved her toward the stage.

  “Well, go!”

  Ruby walked out, paused while the audience applauded her entrance, and then opened a cupboard door to put away her parcel.

  Damn. The parcel. She glanced backstage where Henry held the missing package aloft. Arthur stood beside him and they both glared at her. It couldn’t be helped now. She delivered her lines, completed a few bits of business, then exited Stage Left.

  Right into Henry.

  “What are you playing at?”

  “I’m sorry, I made a mistake, but it’s not my fault, Henry.” She pointed at the props table, “you wouldn’t let me…”

  His eyes widened and he placed both hands on his hips.

  “Are you blaming me?”

  “No, but you stopped me from—”

  “It’s my fault you’re completely unprofessional?”

  “That’s not fair, Henry. I tried to get the parcel and you—”

  Dorothy, standing behind Henry, ran a finger across her throat and mouthed no. Ruby stopped talking.

  Henry shoved the parcel at her. “Do I have to tell you where this belongs?”

  “Mollie, where are you?” a voice called from onstage.

  Ruby pressed her lips together and took the parcel, walked onstage for her scene with Arthur, delivered her lines, put the package in the cupboard and exited Stage Right.

  Right into Natalia.

  Her acting coach tilted her head.

  “Weren’t you supposed to put that parcel away the first time?”

  Wincing, Ruby turned to walk onstage for her next scene. She delivered her lines while trying to ignore Henry scowling at her from one side of the stage and Natalia scrutinizing her with a puzzled look from the other.

  Her next exit was Stage Left, accompanied by Dorothy in her role as Mrs. Boyle. Once they cleared the stage, Ruby held her breath and looked around. Henry was gone, thankfully. Hopefully he had forgotten her mistake. With a loud sigh, she turned to face the stage to prepare for her next entrance. Her stomach sank. Henry had walked behind the stage to the other side and was talking with Natalia, who looked grave. Natalia put a hand on his arm, but he pulled it away and stalked off. Ruby bit her lip. What could they have been talking about?

  “He’ll get over it, love,” said Dorothy at her elbow. “We’ve all done much worse.”

  “I wish Natalia hadn’t been here.”

  “She’s a sweetheart, love, and she thinks the world of you. If she seems strict, it’s just her way. She’d do anything to help her friends. Why, she even convinced her business manager to get me into that fund everybody’s talking about.” Dorothy waved across the stage at Natalia, who waved back.

  “What fund?”

  Dorothy prodded her with her elbow.

  “Your cue, love.”

  Ruby squared her jaw and marched back onstage.

  At intermission Henry stood outside her dressing room with his arms crossed. She tried to smile.

  “Let it go, Henry, please. I forgot one prop. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  He raised a finger.

  “Theater is a living, breathing thing. You have a responsibility to the audience—”

  Ruby interrupted. “I agree it was more spontaneous tonight, but I don’t think—”

  “Spontaneous?” His nostrils flared. “It’s a mu
rder mystery, it’s not supposed to be spontaneous.” He shook a finger at her. “You have no sense of—”

  “Don’t waste your breath, Henry, it’s nothing to her.”

  She turned. Arthur Evans stood behind her.

  “Miss Ruby Danger doesn’t give a tossed rat about this play,” Arthur said. “It doesn’t matter to her that this is our livelihood.” He gave a snort of derision. “It’s amazing she has the time to show up at all, what with the interviews and the photo calls and the parties—”

  “Oh, come on,” Ruby broke in. “That’s not fair. I never—”

  “And to think that much better actresses could have had this role.” Arthur shook his head. “And you call that an English accent? She sounds like a leprechaun.”

  Ruby’s jaw dropped. Natalia had spent weeks grilling her on her dialect. It was perfect. Perfect.

  “How dare you—”

  Henry turned abruptly and walked away. Arthur fell into step beside him, inclined his head and mumbled something. Both men laughed.

  Her hands balled into fists as she watched them. The nerve of those two.

  “Well, parcel or not,” she called after them, “the killer won’t change.” Neither man turned, and Ruby closed her eyes. Why did she always have to have the last word? She pushed open the dressing room door, waved weakly at Dorothy and Natalia, and sank into her chair.

  Natalia handed her a bottle of water and watched her for a few seconds. Then she pulled up a chair and sat down facing her.

  “Did I ever tell you about the time I was in No, No, Nanette and forgot to tie one of my shoes?”

  Ruby flicked the cap off the bottle and took a sip.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “It was at the Majestic. There I was, doing a fan kick, and my shoe went flying off into the audience. Whoosh! Like a pop fly in baseball. Everybody stood up and tried to catch it.”

  Ruby stared, the water bottle poised halfway to her mouth.

  “No!”

  “Oh yes, my dear. It landed in the sixth or seventh row. Anyway, a stagehand decided to retrieve it right in the middle of the performance. Everyone in the theater watched to see if the man who had caught my shoe would give it back.”

  “And did he?”

  “Oh yes, quite cheerfully. He got a round of applause for it, too. Then the stagehand trotted up the aisle and handed it to me over the footlights. By that time my fellow actors were splitting their sides. I thought I’d never live it down.”

  Dear sweet Natalia. Ruby smiled, sipping her water.

  Dorothy grinned. “Tell her about West Side Story, when you played Maria.”

  “Oh no, no, no. Too embarrassing.”

  Ruby put her water bottle on the dressing table.

  “Oh, now you have to tell me.”

  “All right, but remember, we were in previews and we hadn’t hit New York yet. Things were still a bit rough around the edges and we were using a starter’s pistol as a prop.”

  “What happened?”

  “You know at the end, after Tony dies, when everyone is standing around and Maria, overcome by grief, grabs the gun from Chino and waves it about, saying she could kill somebody, too? And then she changes her mind and drops the gun?”

  “A moving scene as I recall.”

  “Yes. Well, I got a bit too enthusiastic with the emoting and the waving around and … the gun went off.”

  “Oh, my.”

  “That’s not the worst of it. I was pointing it at Consuela at the time.”

  “What did she do?”

  “What could she do? She had to die. And she did, but not before saying, very loudly, ‘Bitch!’”

  Ruby laughed until tears rolled down her face and she doubled over, holding on to the dressing table with one hand to keep from falling. Dorothy and Natalia were roaring, too.

  Eventually she straightened up, reached for a tissue and wiped her face.

  “Oh, my God, what did the audience do?”

  Natalia wiped tears from her cheeks.

  “The ones who knew the ending laughed, and the rest were,” she shrugged, “puzzled.”

  Still chuckling, Ruby turned and reached for her makeup to touch up her tear-stained face for Act Two.

  Hours later, after the cast had jammed into two wooden booths at the crowded Joe Allen’s on West 46th, Ruby ordered a beer for herself and one for Henry. She handed him the chilled bottle.

  “Peace offering?”

  He took the beer and clinked it against hers.

  “You’ll be the death of me, Ruby.” He pulled over a paper coaster and placed the bottle on it. “Perhaps you think my rules are silly, but for three decades in the theater they’ve served me well.”

  “I don’t think they’re silly.”

  “It’s a finely honed balance. It doesn’t take much to throw it off—”

  “—really, I don’t. You’ve been very patient with me—”

  “—and one cast member ignoring the rules can affect the whole ensemble.”

  Good grief, give up already. She placed one hand on Henry’s arm and the other on her chest.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  He picked up his beer and took a sip.

  “Apology accepted.”

  Ruby smiled at Arthur, who sat across from her. His mouth twitched and he looked away.

  “Is that Ford?” Natalia said, peering across the crowded restaurant. “It is! Ford!” She waved an arm above her head. “Ford!”

  A pudgy, bald man with a salt-and-pepper goatee got to his feet, gave a quick wave, and headed for their booth. Natalia stood to hug him, then everyone moved down and he wedged in between Natalia and Ruby.

  “Ruby, this is Ford Robinson, my business adviser,” Natalia said.

  Robinson smiled and shook Ruby’s hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  “Yeah.” She grimaced, remembering the Times article. “Hasn’t everyone?”

  He chuckled and patted her arm.

  “I mean from Natalia. She says you’re very talented.”

  “She’s too kind.”

  “I am not.” Natalia glared at her and put a hand on Robinson’s arm. “Ford, I promised Ruby you would explain about our fund. She has some questions.”

  He turned to face her.

  “Are you interested in investing?”

  “You mean there’s still room?”

  “Well, they keep telling me no, but then they take the money anyway. I can ask.”

  “I need to know more about it. Like what it’s invested in, for starters.”

  “Options trading, derivatives, that sort of thing.” He waved a hand. “Very complicated stuff. But you needn’t worry, these guys know what they’re doing. As I’m sure Natalia told you, the fund provides ten percent every year, without fail.”

  Dorothy leaned toward her.

  “It’s fabulous, darling. We’re all in it.” She swept her arm to indicate the others at the table.

  “All of you?” Ruby glanced around the table. “Even Henry?”

  Henry nodded.

  “And none of you know what this fund is invested in?”

  Robinson narrowed his eyes.

  “Look, I don’t think you understand. I was lucky to get my clients into the fund. It’s closed to new investors.”

  “I know, but—”

  He extracted a card from his wallet and handed it to her with a flourish.

  “Since you’re so interested in the nuts and bolts, here’s Vincent’s info. He’s the investment adviser who collects the money and sends it along to the fund. I’m sure he can answer any technical questions.”

  She looked at the plain white card. It bore the name Vincent Quinn and a phone number. Nothing else.

  “Also,” Robinson continued, “anyone who withdraws their money won’t be allowed to reinvest. So alarming your friends like this could end up costing them a very nice retirement asset.” He smirked at the others. Arthur glared at her.

  Ruby sighed. Give it a
rest, Arthur.

  Robinson leaned closer.

  “I’m warning you,” he whispered in her ear. “If I lose clients because of your meddling…” He straightened up and raised his voice so everyone at the table could hear. “Just because your ex-husband was a crook doesn’t mean everybody is.” He chuckled, and someone else snickered.

  Ruby swallowed hard and put Vincent Quinn’s business card into her purse. Maybe Hari was right. Maybe she should let it go.

  Chapter Eight

  “Hari? Hari Bhatt? I can’t believe it.”

  Hari had just placed his pizza order—tomato, peppers, and basil, extra cheese—when he heard his name. He turned and found himself looking into the intense blue eyes of a young woman with short blond hair and full lips. She wore a baggy loose-knit gray sweater, with sleeves that trailed past her wrists, over tight black leggings. Hari tilted his head.

  “I’m sorry, I—”

  She held out her hand.

  “I wouldn’t expect you to remember. Leta Vaughn. We met at Jason Brothers. It’s been a few years.”

  “It’s hard to believe I wouldn’t remember a face like yours,” he said, shaking her hand.

  Her smile set off dimples in her cheeks.

  “Thank you. I had only just started when you left for Carvon.”

  He winced. “Carvon. Yeah, right.”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned—”

  He waved a hand. “Don’t worry about it. How are things at Jason?”

  “Fine, I guess. I’m not there any more. I’ve been working at Capital Street Management for the past two years.”

  “That’s quite a leap. Congratulations.”

  “Next!” A white-aproned man behind the counter motioned to Leta. She put a hand on Hari’s arm as she brushed past him to place her order. Even with the heady aroma of tomato sauce and garlic that permeated Grimaldi’s, a whiff of jasmine teased his nose as she swept by.

  He waited for her, and pointed to a table for two by the window.