Offed Stage Left

by Joanne Sydney Lessner

  She grabbed his hand and put it to her breast. A bolt of electricity seemed to shoot through him.

  “Feel my heart, it’s beating like crazy at the thought of what you’ve done for me. At what you’re about to do.”

  He pulled her hand, still clasped around his, to his mouth and began to smother it with kisses. Isobel moaned in disgust, knowing Jethro would interpret it differently.

  “You know, and you don’t mind?” Jethro asked huskily.

  “How could I mind?” she whispered. “You wanted us to be together, right? And this was the only way?”

  “The others couldn’t see it,” he said breathlessly. “You were Jennie. It had to be you, and they wouldn’t let it be. It was never going to work with anyone else, so I had to kill her. That was the only way it could be perfect. But of course it wasn’t perfect—not quite. I had to be up there with you for the final, glorious consummation of my mission!”

  “The interloper upstairs,” she said urgently. “He must be stopped.”

  He flicked his cape dramatically. “I am on my way.”

  It was do or die time. For Sunil, literally.

  “Oh, darling,” Isobel breathed, “you’ve risked everything for our happiness. Let me do this one last thing for you. For us.”

  She could hear the applause as the international touring medley finished. In a moment, the running crew would be setting up the banquet. She threw her arms around Jethro’s neck and before she could think too hard about what she was doing, kissed him fully and deeply on his meaty lips. When she pulled away, his eyes were glazed with ecstasy.

  For the second time tonight, she asked, “Do you trust me?”

  He nodded eagerly and reached for her again, but she stopped him.

  “There’s no time. Later. I’m all yours for the rest of the performances.”

  She sent up a prayer of thanks to Roman Fried, whose text meant she could make that promise unreservedly.

  “Give me the poison.”

  Jethro stuck his hand inside his cape and withdrew a small, stoppered bottle. He was about to hand it to her when he suddenly became aware of the furniture moving above his head. The color drained from his face.

  “It’s too late! They’re already setting up the banquet.”

  Isobel could see the storm brewing on his face. “I have a better way. A more dramatic ending. One for the history books.” She held out her hand. “We must act now or all is lost!”

  He shoved the bottle into her gloved hand. “Nicotine,” he whispered. “One drop will do it.”

  “Yes, my darling, I know.” Isobel gingerly settled the bottle in her drawstring purse and pointed to the wooden chairs stacked by the stage left stairs. “Sit there and wait for me. If you’re not there when I come back, I will never allow my womanly treasures to be yours, do you understand?”

  Jethro’s lips quivered. “Yes, my love. Now, fly. Fly!”

  As Isobel fled upstairs, she wondered if that last bit had been too much. Then again, when you were dealing with full-on crazy, there was probably no such thing.

  FORTY-FOUR

  THE LIGHTS CAME UP on the banquet scene. Sunil turned to deliver his first line to Isobel, but she wasn’t there. His blood froze. It wasn’t like her to miss an entrance, and he hadn’t told her the truth about what happened in the alley. The door had been propped open slightly, and when he’d looked out, he’d seen the ghost’s cape on the ground. He’d taken a step outside, when he was knocked forward, landing on his knees. He’d felt the cape being swished away next to him, and then he’d heard the door slam and lock behind him. The ghost had locked him out. On purpose. And now Isobel was missing.

  He glanced into the wings stage left, but there was no sight of her. Next to him, Marissa gave him a quizzical look. He cleared his throat and ad-libbed.

  “Ah, Mrs. Blakely, I’m glad we resolved our differences so you could join this celebration of the band.”

  Marissa blinked at him.

  “Mrs. Blakely?” he prompted.

  “I’m not Mrs. Blakely in this scene. She’s dead,” Marissa muttered.

  Jesus, thought Sunil. Does she not know the basic rules of improv?

  “Pardon me, madam, it’s just that you very closely resemble the litigious widow of my late partner. But of course she is dead,” he spat the word, “and you are obviously someone else.” He smiled wickedly. “What is your name?”

  “Oh!” Marissa started. “I’m Mrs.…um…Miss…”

  She was saved by the appearance of Isobel, who fluttered in from the wings and cried, “Darling!” She threw her arms around Sunil and hissed in his ear, “Had to make a call.”

  Before he could respond, she drew back and jumped into the scene.

  “Oh, Philip, what an honor.”

  Relieved, Sunil picked up his cue. “And tomorrow I launch my new venture in Philadelphia. Jennie, dear, I only wish you could join me.”

  “If you had not established your silly ‘no wives on tour’ rule, I could. Hoist by your own petard once again, you darling old meddler.”

  The scene continued without further incident, but the moment the lights came down, Isobel grabbed his arm and steered him into the wings with surprising force.

  “It’s Jethro, and you’re next.”

  “What are you—”

  “Play dead in the next scene.”

  “Well, it is my death scene.”

  She yanked him closer. “No, I mean really dead. Your life depends on Jethro thinking you, Sunil, are dead.”

  “Oh, shit,” he breathed.

  “One other thing. When Delphi leans over you to check your pulse, tell her to scream, ‘Oh my God, Sunil is dead.’”

  “What the hell?”

  “I’ll explain later.”

  “What if she won’t?”

  “Make her.”

  DELPHI PACED BACKSTAGE in her maid’s costume, waiting for the crew to set up the Philadelphia hotel room. Isobel and Sunil had been on edge all night, but there was nothing she could put her finger on beyond the obvious. Although now that she thought about it, she’d hardly seen either of them backstage during the show. And then Isobel was late for that last scene, which wasn’t like her at all. Delphi heard the ad-libbed exchange between Marissa and Sunil over the monitor. Sunil had seemed off during the act one finale, not that she could blame him since it was his first time going on as Sousa. But again, it wasn’t like him. Even when he didn’t know exactly what he was doing, Sunil’s confidence never seemed to falter.

  The scene change seemed interminable tonight, but finally the lights came up. Sunil was sprawled on the bed in a strange position, with his head upstage, the opposite of the way he’d been blocked. It meant that when she bent over him, she’d be giving the audience a charming view of her backside. Sunil must have realized that, the swine. He’d done it on purpose. She’d make sure to give him grief for it afterward.

  She strode onstage, breakfast tray in hand, and paused outside the wooden doorframe.

  “Mr. Sousa? I’ve got your breakfast.”

  She sighed and set down the tray, then knocked on the door and slowly nudged it open.

  “Mr. Sousa, you ordered your toast for nine o’clock.”

  She approached the bed and bent forward at what she knew was an unattractive angle and put her fingers on his neck. To her surprise, he grabbed her hand and pulled her close.

  “Scream, ‘Oh my God, Sunil is dead,” he whispered. “Just do it.”

  “What? Why?”

  He opened one eye. “Isobel.”

  Delphi screamed.

  ISOBEL HOVERED ON THE STEPS to the vom, directly above the spot where Jethro, if he was following orders, was sitting on his chair, waiting for her triumphant return.

  She was prepared for the gasps and shrieks from the audience when they came, but she put the sound out of her mind. She had to focus. It was imperative that this next scene play out according to the script in her head. She glanced behind her and then took the
last few steps at a bound.

  “It’s done! Did you hear? Just like I promised!”

  Jethro was seated, his head bowed, his hands before him as if in prayer. His hat was in his lap, and when he looked up, his eyes glittered feverishly and a foolish grin overtook his pudgy features. In that moment, he resembled an overgrown child granted his greatest Christmas wish.

  “You’ve killed the impostor,” Jethro said in awestruck tones. “Then you do love me?”

  “I’ve proven it, haven’t I? I gave your poison to him. Now it’s only you and me, Jethro.”

  “Philip!” he snapped. “I’m John Philip Sousa!”

  Of course you are, in a Robert Livingston costume, thought Isobel. Ah, well, first rule of improv.

  “Yes, and I am your Jennie. How did you arrange it?” she asked wonderingly.

  “I got rid of the people in the way,” he said. “I killed that tart and the meddling costumer. And now the two impostors are gone.” He grabbed her arm. “I had to kill them so we could be together, my dove, and now we are!”

  “We’ll perform in your masterpiece as ourselves, in love, as we were always meant to be,” Isobel said, although the words made her sick.

  “Yes. Yes!” Jethro crowed. “We’ll be together in death as we never were in life.”

  Over the monitors, the clamor of the audience was reaching a fever pitch.

  “Wait—what?” she stammered.

  “I said we’ll be together in death. For all eternity!”

  Jethro lunged toward her. Isobel stood, horrified and rooted to the spot, as strong arms grabbed her and threw her roughly to the ground.

  FORTY-FIVE

  ISOBEL WAS LUCKY she landed on her ass. If she had landed face down, her drawstring purse would have hit the floor and the nicotine bottle would have smashed and drenched her. Even worse, her iPhone would have broken. Ironically, it was her wire bustle that protected her, although it made for a painful landing. Sergeant Pemberthy helped her to her feet while Detective Dillon and another officer pinned Jethro against the wall and cuffed him.

  “I’ll take that,” Dillon said, prying a nasty-looking switchblade from Jethro’s trembling hand.

  “You okay?” Pemberthy asked Isobel.

  She rubbed the back of her thighs under her skirt. “I’ll mend. Even though I knew you guys were behind me on the stairs, when he said that about being together in death…” Her breath caught. “I’m just glad you were backing me up.”

  “It’s a good thing we were already on site to pick up Felicity Hamilton when you called. Otherwise we would never have made it in time,” Dillon said as he jerked Jethro away from the wall. “Come on. Let’s go join Auntie in the lobby.”

  “What exactly did Roman Fried find?” Isobel asked.

  Dillon gave a snide chuckle. “Yeah, your secret source. He called me a few hours ago. He found evidence that Felicity and the board president were in the habit of raising more funds than were budgeted for every show and siphoning money off the top. It’s been going on for years apparently, but she made a few mistakes with this one. When the state funds dried up, some muckety-muck New York producers—”

  “The Donnelly Group?”

  “I think so. They had seen the show or something and were interested, and they ran their own numbers to see what it would cost to produce. Then Felicity came back to them and gave them something so wildly inflated that they went back and looked at another show of hers they’d put money into—some musical about Starbucks, if you can believe it—and realized she was planning to take them for a ride. They called Fried and asked him to check it out.”

  “Why did they call Fried and not the cops?”

  “They didn’t have evidence. But I gather he’s something of a dirt-digger, and even if he couldn’t prove it, he could always print something in the paper damaging enough to the theater’s reputation that it would get the Feds interested.”

  “I can’t believe the Donnelly Group was ever actually interested in this show,” Isobel said.

  “Apparently, they only wanted it if they could get someone else to write the story.”

  “You mean the score—the music and lyrics,” Isobel clarified.

  Dillon shook his head. “No, apparently they loved the music, but they thought the play part was sappy and didn’t have enough dramatic tension. I gotta say, I thought the whole thing was a snore.”

  “That’s a lie!” Jethro bellowed suddenly. “They wanted the book! They hated the music. They wanted my story! They wanted my Sousa!”

  “Doesn’t matter now, does it? Come on, big boy.”

  The other officer led Jethro up the stairs. Dillon paused next to Isobel.

  “You were very impressive. Really kept your cool. Even with me, which is saying something.”

  “Thanks,” Isobel said, secretly pleased. “Though my heart hasn’t stopped pounding.”

  “You know, if the acting thing doesn’t work out…” He winked. “Send Sergeant Pemberthy the recording of your little encounter with Jethro, but keep it on your phone as backup, please. We’ll be in touch.”

  He followed Jethro up the stairs. Isobel handed Pemberthy her drawstring purse.

  “The nicotine is in there. I had my gloves on the whole time. Jethro’s prints should be the only ones on the bottle.”

  “Dillon’s right. You are a cool customer,” Pemberthy said with admiration. “You got Jethro to say exactly what we needed. Between his recorded confession and the nicotine, we’ve got pretty solid evidence. What put you onto him anyway?”

  “The ghost of Robert Livingston. Jethro was the only one who claimed to have seen him in this theater, although Kelly saw him at the old vaudeville house. Ghosts haunt places, not people. If there really is a ghost, he’s still there, playing to an empty house. When I remembered Jethro wrote historical mysteries, I searched them on Amazon and confirmed that Robert Livingston is his fictional detective.”

  “How come only Sunil saw him?”

  “Jethro knew Sousa’s track by heart. He waited to show himself when he knew Sunil would be alone. I think he must have been hiding out in the stage right bathroom. There’s less room on that side. That’s why most of our entrances and exits are blocked from the left.”

  “I still don’t see how you made the connection.”

  “It was something he said to me on the stairs. About how much he wanted me as Jennie all along, and I remembered how he described my first time in the role as uncanny. When rehearsals started, he told me to look up Jennie Sousa online, and I do resemble her quite a bit. When I thought about Chris disappearing and Sunil seeing this crazy ghost, his motive finally clicked. Jethro wanted everyone else out of the way so he and I could do the show together. Speaking of Chris, is he going to be okay?”

  “I think so. He was knocked out with chloroform. I wonder why Jethro didn’t kill him.”

  “You’d have to ask him, but I think he actually admired his performance. And I don’t think Jethro much cared what happened after tonight. It’s clear he was planning a Liebestod kind of thing.”

  Pemberthy frowned. “A what?”

  “Tristan and Isolde? An apotheosis in love and death?” Isobel tried again.

  “Oh, I see. I think.”

  “Anyway, by the end, I think he believed he was Sousa and I was Jennie. He was going to kill me and then himself so we could be together forever.” Isobel shuddered. “And he would have killed Sunil. First Jethro tried to spook him and get him out of the way by dressing as the ghost of Robert Livingston, and then he locked Sunil outside. That’s what made me suddenly remember the noises I heard in the costume shop. The banging wasn’t as loud, but it was a déjà vu moment.”

  “Good thing, too,” Pemberthy said. “If Chris had passed out, we might never have found him. But how did you know what Jethro was going to do?”

  “I had a hunch he’d go back to nicotine, and I calculated that his best opportunity was to spike Sunil’s glass in the banquet scene. But I managed to di
stract him long enough for the crew to get the props onstage before Jethro could do it.”

  “And Thomas?”

  Isobel’s heart twinged. “I blame myself for that. Jethro saw that Delphi had taken off Arden’s bustle during act one that night. I sent Thomas on a wild goose chase looking for it in the wings by the alley door, but of course it wasn’t there, because I’d brought it to you. Jethro must have assumed Thomas removed the bustle because he’d figured out how the nicotine had been delivered, so Jethro lured him outside and killed him. Thomas was the one feeding information to Roman Fried, but the irony is he knew nothing about the poisoned bustle. And he was killed for it anyway.”

  “What about all the other stuff? I mean, I get that Jethro was hoping the masking would fall on Arden and kill her, but why did he bother putting a laxative in the coffee, and messing with the music, and sewing the shrimp into the curtains?”

  Isobel paused. “I don’t think that was Jethro.”

  Sergeant Pemberthy cocked her head to the side. “Then who was it?”

  Isobel thought a moment. “I might be wrong about the ghost. Maybe when the company left the old vaudeville house it did move in here. You know, I think it must have been the ghost.” She blinked innocently. “Because I can’t for the life of me think of another explanation.”

  “WILL YOU HURRY UP?” Delphi shouted up the stairs. “We’re going to miss our train!”

  “I’m coming! Hold your horses!”

  A moment later, Isobel came galumphing down with her suitcase. “Okay, I’ve got everything.”

  “The boys are already in the cab. Come on.”

  They let the front door slam behind them, and Isobel rolled her suitcase down the path.

  “Wait!”

  Isobel turned to see Talia flying down the sidewalk toward them. “I thought you already left,” Isobel said.

  “I’m taking the four o’clock. I just went over to Geoff’s to say good-bye. A real good-bye, as in good-bye and good luck.”

  “Ah.”