Offed Stage Left

by Joanne Sydney Lessner

  She eyed him curiously and then hefted the bottom of the curtain. “Look at the stitching. It’s been opened and rebasted.” She gritted her teeth. “Dare me?”

  He nodded, and she ripped it open. The smell instantly intensified, and she turned the hem of the curtain inside out. About two dozen shrimp tumbled onto the floor.

  “Eeeugggh!” Isobel plugged her nose.

  “What made you even think to look?” Sunil asked, trying to breathe through his mouth.

  “I read about it on the internet. A jilted wife sewed shrimp into the curtains of her house before leaving it to her ex. The smell drove him so crazy he sold it back to her for peanuts but took the curtains with him, and she got the last laugh. I’m sure it’s urban legend, but it occurred to me our prankster might have decided to try it, proven or not.” She stood up and gazed into the house. “I wonder if it’s only in the curtains. The smell is everywhere.”

  Sunil grabbed her arm. “Let’s keep this quiet for now.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I’ve been an ass. You were totally right. I should have been learning my role all along, whether or not Jethro was telling the truth. I was hired to understudy Sousa. Lesson learned.”

  “Better here than on Broadway,” Isobel said.

  “I marvel at your continued faith in me. Lord knows I don’t deserve it. But right now I need to buy some time. There’s no way I’ll be ready to go on tonight. Let’s hold off telling anyone what you found, okay?”

  Isobel bit her lip. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

  “At least until this afternoon when it would be too late to get rid of the smell in time. Please?” he begged.

  “You really can’t be ready by tonight?” she asked reproachfully.

  He winced. “It’d be dicey. And do you want to play opposite Jethro?”

  “Sold.” She glanced at her watch. But only on one condition.”

  “Anything.”

  “That you start working on Sousa right now.”

  “Deal.” He pointed to the shrimp. “What about those?”

  Isobel used the material to scoop them back inside the hem and rolled up the bottom of the curtain to secure it. “If we throw them out anywhere, the smell will spread, and they’ll figure it out.” She stood up. “Let’s leave by the stage door and go around to the lobby that way. We don’t want anyone wondering why we’ve been in here so long.”

  He pushed the door open cautiously. “Coast looks clear.”

  Isobel followed him out, but they were stopped almost immediately by the sound of Felicity’s voice. She was speaking softly, but the intensity of her tone propelled her words around the corner to where they were standing.

  “I don’t take kindly to blackmail, Mr. Fried, and I don’t know where you got that information,” she said.

  Isobel inhaled sharply, and Sunil put his hand over her mouth. He shook his head ever so slightly.

  “Publish whatever you like. I’m sure you will regardless.”

  Isobel mimed talking on the phone, and Sunil nodded.

  “As I said, you can’t prove anything. Speculation is just that, and you’ll look foolish when you’re proved wrong.”

  There was a longer silence, and when Felicity spoke again, it was clear that she’d hung up on Roman Fried and placed another call. Their eyes widened as they heard her speak.

  “Magnus? Destroy your files. All of them.”

  THIRTY

  “ARE YOU SURE you heard her correctly?” Delphi asked.

  They were in the third-floor studio, on a break from Kelly putting Sunil through his paces. It hadn’t yet been determined whether or not the show would go on. In the meantime, Sunil was rehearsing, just in case. Isobel was pleased to note that he knew the role better than he thought. Kelly and Hugh had gone off to consult with Ezra about “Song of the Sea,” since it would save time if he didn’t have to review the new solo version with Sunil. Isobel was relieved that Hugh was out of the room. He had been perfectly gentlemanlike all day, but Isobel knew he was still upset by their conversation the night before. She was, too. And she wasn’t sure if he wanted to be included in their discussions of what was happening at the theater.

  “Earth to Isobel.” Delphi snapped her fingers. “Did Felicity really say that? It sounds pretty melodramatic to me.”

  “Sorry.” Isobel returned her attention to Delphi. “Yes, we both heard it.”

  “I can’t quite believe she would say something that sounds right out of a B movie,” Delphi said.

  “If you need to tell someone to destroy evidence, how else are you going to say it?” Sunil said. “She didn’t know anyone was listening.”

  “She could have sent a text,” Delphi said. “People are always lurking around a theater. And if not people, then ghosts.”

  “Don’t tell me you believe in theater ghosts, too?” Sunil asked.

  “Yes, I do.” Delphi prodded his chest. “And so should you.”

  “Not everyone texts,” Isobel pointed out. “That guy Magnus, the president of the board, doesn’t look like he’s first in line at the Apple store for the next-generation iPhone. Besides, then it would be in writing.”

  “But what’s going on? What does Fried think he has on her?” Delphi asked.

  “That’s the question, isn’t it?” Sunil agreed.

  Isobel stood up abruptly. “If that’s the question, then we should ask it.”

  “What?”

  “We should ask Roman Fried.”

  “What, you mean, like, call him up and say what did you know and when did you know it?” Sunil asked.

  Isobel turned to him. “Exactly.”

  Sunil held up a hand. “Wait a minute, let’s think this through.”

  “Does either of you think Roman Fried killed Arden and Thomas?” Isobel asked.

  Sunil and Delphi shook their heads.

  “Neither do I. But somebody told him to cover Sousacal, and now he’s threatening Felicity. He’s got information, and I want it.”

  “What makes you think he’s going to give it to you, even if you ask nicely?” Delphi asked.

  Isobel stretched her right leg onto the ballet barre bolted to the studio wall. “Information trade. He’s a gossipy theater columnist. I give him what he wants, he gives me what I want.”

  “That’s a terrible idea.” Delphi elbowed Sunil. “Tell her it’s a terrible idea.”

  “It’s reckless, and potentially dangerous, but not necessarily terrible,” Sunil said slowly.

  “You’re a big help,” Delphi grumbled.

  Sunil ambled over to the barre. “What information are you going to give him?”

  “Nobody knows about the shrimp.”

  “The what?” Delphi asked, trailing him.

  “See, you don’t even know,” Isobel said. “Um, could you help me with my leg? I can’t…quite…”

  Sunil gently lifted her foot off the barre. Isobel lowered her right leg, shook it out, and decided against repeating the exercise with her left.

  “Thanks.” She hobbled two steps toward Delphi and said softly, “We know what’s making the theater stink, but we aren’t telling anyone until Sunil is ready to go on or Chris gets released.”

  “What is it?”

  “Shrimp sewn into the curtains.”

  Delphi’s eyes widened. “Why would someone bother with a silly prank like that after killing two people? I mean, we know why they hid the stage manager’s book—to get rid of the incriminating note. But this? What’s the point?”

  “To keep the show from going on.”

  Sunil gazed thoughtfully at the ceiling. “Isn’t it curious that with two people murdered, rotten seafood might be the thing that finally keeps the curtain from going up? Shows you how messed up people’s priorities are.”

  Isobel paced to the piano and ran her fingers over the keys. “Except that whoever planted the shrimp had to have done it before today. It takes time before it starts to smell. It may even predate the masking
.”

  “Okay, but it accomplishes the same thing.”

  “It does, but…”

  “What?”

  Isobel shrugged. “I don’t know. Something seems off, and I don’t just mean the smell. I’m not sure what I mean.”

  The door burst open and Hugh and Kelly came in. She returned to the table, and he joined them at the piano.

  “‘Song of the Sea’ is still in, tempting though it is to take this opportunity to scrap it completely. But this way if Chris is released in time for the show and they clear the smell, we aren’t scrambling to put it back.” Hugh turned to Isobel and Delphi. “You guys can take a break for about two hours. I’m going to run music with Sunil, and then Ezra wants to do scene work.”

  “That’s fine,” Isobel said, rushing to gather her things. “We’ve got stuff to do.”

  She caught Sunil’s eye and after a slight hesitation, he nodded his approval.

  When they reached the hall, Isobel clutched Delphi’s arm.

  “Roman Fried,” she said.

  “I don’t know about this,” Delphi wavered.

  “I don’t either, but it’s all I got.”

  Their heels clacked against the slick floor as they headed toward the stairwell.

  “How are you going to find him?” Delphi asked.

  Isobel pulled out her phone and tapped until she had pulled up the phone number for the New York Post. “I’ll call his office.”

  “But he isn’t there. He’s up here somewhere.”

  “I learned a few things temping at Dove & Flight Public Relations, one of which is that most reporters leave their cell phone numbers on their outgoing voicemails. And a gossip columnist wouldn’t want to take the chance of being scooped because he missed a tip.” She dialed and waited a moment until the operator answered.

  “Roman Fried, please.”

  There was silence while she was connected. “Get ready to remember a number,” she whispered to Delphi. She held up a finger as she repeated the digits aloud.

  “Okay, hit me.”

  Delphi rattled off his cell number as Isobel dialed. He picked up after two rings.

  “Mr. Fried?”

  “Yes?”

  “I want to thank you for my first real review in the New York press. But I take issue with your All About Eve comment. I had absolutely nothing to do with Arden’s death.”

  There was a moment of silence.

  “Who is this?”

  “Isobel Spice, of course. Can we meet?”

  THIRTY-ONE

  SUNIL WAS SURPRISED to discover he enjoyed singing “Song of the Sea.”

  “That’s much more gratifying than the marches,” he remarked when he finished.

  “That’s because it’s an actual song set to actual lyrics, which is infinitely more satisfying than singing words shoehorned into melodies that were never intended to carry them,” Hugh said.

  “It works nicely with the one verse,” Sunil said. “I feel disloyal saying this, but I don’t understand how Delphi could have moved to New York thinking she was competitive. She sings on pitch, but it’s all scoopy and her vibrato is so fast and throaty.”

  “I’m sure you wouldn’t have minded too terribly much singing a love duet with her.”

  Sunil raked his fingers through his hair, then smoothed it down. “I’ve pretty much given up. She’s not interested.”

  “All the more reason to enjoy it onstage when you can,” Hugh said.

  Sunil tried to catch Hugh’s eye to communicate an opening in case Hugh wanted to confide in him. Delphi had told him earlier that Hugh and Isobel had had a bit of a falling out. But Hugh’s gaze was fixed on the music.

  “Thinking about how much better Geoff’s score must have been?” Sunil asked.

  Hugh gave an amused sniff. “No, actually. I was thinking how strange it is to be around Isobel when she’s in detective mode.” He turned a candid eye on Sunil. “I once told her I’d back her one hundred percent, but the truth is I don’t like it.”

  “You’re concerned for her safety,” Sunil said. “I get it.”

  “That’s part of it, of course it is,” Hugh said, “but she gets so focused that…”

  “She gets a little single-minded?”

  Hugh leaned on the piano and rested his forehead on his arms. “I’m not expressing myself well. I suppose I feel left out. You seem like the three musketeers, all for one and all that, and she’s choosing you over me.” He raised his head. “I can’t believe I just said that. I sound completely selfish and stupid. Forget I said anything.”

  “Nobody’s leaving you out on purpose. I think it’s probably because we’re all in the acting company, and you’re on the creative team. We’re thrown together more. We’ll totally make an effort to include you.”

  Hugh sighed. “That’s not it either. We’re imbalanced as a couple, for want of a better word. We’ve decided to keep things professional for the time being. Do you want to try the song again? I don’t know what’s held Ezra up.”

  “I’d rather run ‘The Washington Post’ again if you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all. But you sounded fine on it.”

  “That’s not the problem. I have to make sure I don’t slip and sing my parody lyrics.”

  “Oh!” Hugh brightened. “Let’s hear them.”

  Sunil launched into his version of the song. “I’ll die if I ever have to sing that! I’ll fall off the stage and land on my head, and then I’ll be just as good as—”

  Sunil stopped when he saw the color drain from Hugh’s face. He turned to see Jethro looming in the open doorway.

  “Dead. Isn’t that what you were going to sing?” Jethro strolled over to the piano. “You don’t want to telegraph the rhyme like that. It’s the sign of a lazy lyricist.”

  Sunil glanced at Hugh, who was watching the exchange warily. “I’m…I was only playing around. It’s not…I’m not…”

  “You’re not ever going to have to sing it, because you’re the second cover. I’m going on tonight as Sousa.”

  Hugh stiffened on the bench. “Does Ezra know this? Does Felicity?”

  “Of course they do. Sunil was only ever the second cover.” Jethro cast a disdainful look at him. “We can’t possibly have Sousa played by someone who isn’t white.”

  Sunil’s temples started to throb. He took a breath and tried counting to ten. He made it to three.

  “You did not just go there,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “Benjamin Swallow is one thing—people have never heard of him. But John Philip Sousa is a beloved historical figure everybody knows. You’re a contingency plan. Worst-case scenario. You understand. This sort of thing must happen to you all the time.”

  Hugh put out a restraining arm, but Sunil shoved past him toward Jethro, his fists clenched at his sides.

  “You know, for someone whose name actually is Hamilton, you’re pretty fucking clueless about the way shows are being cast these days. You’re lucky you’re not my actual employer and I can’t sue you for discrimination. But fine. Go ahead. Nothing will sink this piece of shit faster than you going on as Sousa. You know what? That’s the best thing that could happen. That way no more people will die. Literally and figuratively.”

  Sunil looked over his shoulder at Hugh, whose lips were pressed tightly together.

  “Good luck, mate.” Sunil saluted him and left.

  THIRTY-TWO

  “YOUR CALL WAS UNEXPECTED,” Roman Fried said. “What was it you wanted to discuss, and why couldn’t you tell me over the phone?”

  Isobel took a sip of her Diet Coke and leaned back against the banquette in the bar of the Hilton Garden Inn. “I’m offering an information trade.”

  “I don’t work like that,” Fried said curtly.

  “Let me put it this way,” Isobel said. “Judging from your column, I know a lot more about what’s going on at Livingston Stage than you do. Unless you’re sitting on the good stuff.”

  “If you mean the
fact that Arden was murdered, well yes, I’m sitting on that.”

  “Why?”

  Fried waved her off. “Not relevant.”

  Isobel snorted in disbelief. “Not relevant?”

  “Not to my overall story, no,” Fried said. “And don’t bother asking me what that is, because I’m not telling you. So unless you have another information bomb, enjoy your soda on me.”

  He pushed his chair away from the table and stood up.

  A sardonic smile spread across Isobel’s face, and she applauded slowly.

  “Nice exit line, but your delivery needs work. I don’t think you’re going anywhere. If you were planning to give up that easily, you wouldn’t have bothered to meet me.” Isobel folded her arms. “Let’s cut the drama, which we both know is best left to the professionals. Do you want to know what I know or not?”

  After a long moment, Fried sat down again.

  “Ground rules. You tell me something, then I tell you something. If I already know yours, you don’t get mine. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  “You first.”

  Isobel paused for effect. “The show might or might not go on tonight.”

  “That is a completely content-free sentence.”

  Now it was Isobel’s turn to stand. “Okay, bye.”

  “Please don’t play games with me, Ms. Spice. You will lose. I have far more experience at this than you do. Sit down and tell me whatever it is you’re dying to tell me.”

  Isobel was happy to comply. “There might not be a show tonight, because there’s a terrible stench in the theater. If they can’t figure out what it is and get rid of it in time, it will be impossible for the show to go on.”

  Fried let out an exaggerated sigh. “That’s not much of a tip. Knowing that it might not happen will be irrelevant as soon as it either does or doesn’t.”

  “But I know what’s causing the smell.”

  “Because you’re responsible for it?”

  “No, because I figured it out. But for reasons of my own, I am choosing to keep it to myself. So if Felicity is forced to cancel the show, you’ll be able to tell people why. And if the show does go on, you’ll be able to spill the beans and reveal the problem after Felicity thinks she’s made it go away.”