“What is her last name?” Mother, closed her eyes and concentrated. “Rendell. Sylvia Rendell. Such a lovely young woman. She asked for my recipe for split pea soup. Her mother was one of the Pipsmeyers over in Great Neck. No one ever asked me for a recipe before. She’s gone now.”
“Sylvia’s mother, right? Not Sylvia.”
“Sylvia couldn’t ask for my split pea recipe if she had passed over, now could she? And you a detective with a certificate and everything,” Mother chided.
“Just trying to keep it clear.”
“Sylvia’s husband is overseas somewhere in the Pacific. They can never tell you exactly where, can they? I think her father lives with them. Here, not the Pacific. He used to be in plumbing --”
“Hold that thought, Mother,” Percy interrupted. “You can fill me in later. I’ve got to go change into work clothes and hop on the BMT. I told this guy I’d be there in an hour.”
Percy bumped the kitchen door with the side of her shoulder, setting it on an outward swing, and passed through. She stopped, held the door open, and wheeled around to face her mother.
“And remember, mum’s the word to Pop on what I’m doing for now. I’ll call you later. I’ll try to get some decent fruit when I’m in midtown, something that doesn’t have as many wrinkles as Winston Churchill’s face. They’ve got a few good farmers’ markets in Hell’s Kitchen. And thanks for pointing me in the right direction for the phone number; Murray Hill four-seven-seven-three,” she repeated, trying to memorize the number. “And tell Pop I’m taking his number two fedora.” Her mind flashed to his thick, silver hair, often covered by one of two favored hats.
“Did you lose your hairbrush, again, Persephone?”
“Yes, ma’am, and no time to search for it.” The doorbell rang. “Someone’s at the door, Mother. I’ll get it.”
Percy ran down the hallway, looked out the peephole, and swung the door wide open for the downstairs neighbor and friend, Rachel Goldberg.
“Mrs. Goldberg.” Percy’s tone was warm but hurried. “Come on in. Mother’s in the kitchen. I need to get dressed and go see a new client.”
“A client, Persela?” Short and tubby, head topped with salt and pepper-hair, good-hearted Mrs. Goldberg spoke with a heavy Yiddish accent. She was the only person in the world to call Percy ‘Persela’. It was a term of endearment from a family friend that had known Percy since she was a small child. She clapped her hands together in delight.
“So go! Who’s stopping you? Get on those clothes and see if you can make somebody happy with your detecting business, such a thing for a young lady to do, but if someone has to do it, Persela, it might as well be you, because you are such a clever girl, always with the thinking and the looking at things like nobody else does and who found my wallet, which I accidentally threw down the laundry chute all those years ago.” Mrs. Goldberg finally stopped talking in her run-on sentence and took a deep breath.
“I am here to try to teach your mother to make latkes like I promised, but she doesn’t want to make them with potatoes. She says parsnips because they are in the larder and they are going bad! Did you ever hear of such a thing?”
“Well, you know Mother, Mrs. Goldberg.” Percy laughed lightly, as she turned and opened the door to her bedroom. “You’ve been trying to teach her to cook for years and you see where it’s got you.”
“Oy! Not years, bubala, decades.” Mrs. Goldberg hollered to her. “Decades I’ve been trying to teach that woman to cook, as if I have nothing better to do with my time and my Henny wasn’t a man waiting for his own dinner, God bless him for waiting and never saying a word --”
“Mother’s in the kitchen. Go on in,” Percy interrupted, pointing down the hall, as she closed the door to her room behind her.
“Oy!” Percy leaned against the door, sounding a little like Mrs. Goldberg. “Sometimes it’s hard to get out of this place.”
Chapter Four
It’s working, Evelyn, just like you said. The show is coming to a halt. I’ve been practicing throwing the knife when no one is around. I’ll try to throw one during the show, if I can get away with it. Even if it doesn’t strike Sir Anthony, someone else will be hit. There are so many of them onstage, someone’s bound to see the blade of Macbeth’s dagger coming at them. I know I mustn’t feel so wicked. We’re only doing what needs to be done. Right is on our side. I miss you, too, so very much. Elsie
Chapter Five
Percy climbed up the subway stairs at Forty-second Street and Seventh Avenue, better known as Times Square. Ordinarily she enjoyed this part of the City, so different from the lower east side. Midtown Manhattan pulsed with energetic, stylish people, going here and there in their late-model cars or scurrying along the sidewalks on well-shod feet. Percy liked to observe this condensed part of city life. It was a study in human nature like no other.
The overheated subway had smelled of urine and sweat. Along with all the other bodies, she emerged from the bowels of the City looking for fresh air. What she found was broiling hot streets and sidewalks, littered with piles of garbage and trash. Gusts of scorching air from the exhausts of passing vehicles blew bits of rubbish around, the only moving air in this hot spell.
What a time for the teamsters to pull a garbage strike, as if the City doesn’t stink enough.
She threw the dark blue jacket of her pants suit over the other arm of her damp, tailored blouse, allowing the previously covered arm some cooling off time. Adjusting Pop’s fedora over the red curls piled on top of her head, she pulled the brim forward to shield her face from a remorseless sun. Masses of tourists, civilians, and soldiers jousted with her for space on the crowded sidewalks the four short blocks to Forty-Sixth Street.
Arriving at the Royal theatre, a large marquis overhead announced the previews of Shakespeare’s Macbeth. The marquis featured a stark black and white drawing of the face of what some people considered one of Britain’s finest Shakespearian actors, the newly knighted Sir Anthony Slattery. Sir Anthony’s strong features were surrounded by smaller caricatures of people brandishing swords and archaic weaponry, all looking grim and murderous. Strategically placed bright red lettering used words like “brilliant” “riveting” and “wonderful” followed by lots of exclamation points. Similar posters were plastered everywhere possible on the building’s façade.
Percy pulled out a ripped newspaper clipping on New York City theatres from her pocket and read. The Royal Theatre was one of the last bastions of the golden age of theatre, having been built in the late eighteen hundreds. At that time, productions included not only straight plays and musicals, but operas, as well. The theatre’s proscenium arch, which framed the stage, was close to forty-feet high, accommodating the most opulent of operas. Reportedly, Aida marched two elephants onstage, plus a cast of eighty. Eleonora Duse, Sarah Bernhardt, Enrico Caruso were just a few of the performers who flocked here to be a part of its magic. So did the audiences. Seating capacity was fifteen hundred people.
Jeesh, fifteen hundred people in one place eight times a week. That’s a lot of hoi polloi.
The front of the theatre was closed and locked, it being nine-thirty in the morning. Percy looked for a side entrance and found a narrow alleyway. She walked down it noting the trash piled high on one side. A slender fledgling tree fought for survival amidst the rubble. Three quarters of the way in, there was a door with an overhead sign marked, ‘stage entrance’. Percy shrugged into her jacket then pulled on the handle only to discover it was locked. She rapped on the metal door, and it sprung open immediately.
An old man stood on the other side of the door, sparse grey whiskers sprouting here and there on an unshaven, sad face. A hat similar to the one Percy pilfered from Pop’s hat rack sat atop his head, but more faded and beat up. He looked her up and down.
“You’re a big one. You that detective lady?”
“I am. You that stage door Johnny?”
“Very funny.” His voice had a disapproving edge to it. “Everybody’s go
t a wise crack around here. I’m Ned. Mr. Wainwright is waiting for you in his office.” He gestured with his thumb. “Third door to the left.”
Ned flattened his body along the wall to let her pass. Percy stepped up the one tread into the theatre. She paused for a moment, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dark, so different from the merciless glare of the unrelenting sun. The air, too, was different, cooler, but stagnant and ancient, reeking of old ropes, dust, and gears.
To the right was a small booth carved into the wall. A Dutch door wearing a sturdy lock had the top half open to reveal a wall lined with tiny, numbered square cubicles. Each cubicle held a matching numbered key. In front of the cubicles, a single weathered wooden barstool sat, a messy newspaper tossed on top.
The man reached around her, undid the latch on the lower half of the door, and pushed. He passed through, picked up the newspaper and sat down, scrupulously ignoring her.
“I’m glad I don’t have your job. I don’t think I could get in there.” Ned grunted but did not look up from his papers. “So, Ned, tell me what’s your schedule? How many hours a day do you sit here?”
He looked up into her face, wariness coloring his features. “The theatre’s open, I’m here. Nobody supposed to be here without someone at the stage door. Them’s the rules.”
“Were you here last night at midnight?”
He pointed an arthritic, twisted finger at her. “I knew you was going to try to blame me for this. I done nothing. Got no call to. I just sit here and mind my own business.”
“Ned, you misunderstand me.” Percy crooned, leaning into the small room and bathing him in a warm smile. “No one’s blaming you for anything. I just wanted to know if you’d seen anything when you were here.”
“Whatever I seen, I told the coppers.”
“Good. That’s good. You mind your business, sure, but you’re a smart man. You see everybody coming and going. I could use your help, that’s all.”
“My help?” He looked up at her, mystified.
“Sure. You see what’s what. I need that.” She reached inside her pocket, pulled out three one-dollar bills, fanned them out, and laid them on the top of the narrow shelf of the Dutch door.
Ned dropped the newspaper to the floor. He looked up at her, his face breaking out into a toothy, yellow grin.
“Maybe I can help you, lady.” He preened. “There’s a lot to see around here, and I sees it. Not much gets by me; that’s the truth.” His hand slipped over the fanned bills.
Percy opened her mouth to speak, but heard a deep, base voice calling out from inside the darkened theatre.
“Miss Cole, are you out there? I thought I heard someone knock on the door. I’ve been waiting for you.”
“That’s Wainwright.” Ned whispered and pulled back into his booth. “You’d better go. He’s not always the most pleasant of fellows.”
Percy nodded. “I’ll catch you later, Ned.” She started down the hall.
“You know where I’ll be,” he called after her.
She glanced back, as Ned picked up the money. She smiled; he winked. He was her new pal.
The detective continued down a narrow hallway wearing a mish-mash of neutral colors. Splatters of beige, grey, white, and yellow paint covered irregular walls, walls plastered and re-plastered many times. What color the interior was supposed to be was difficult to say.
I’m going with drab.
Near the ceiling, low wattage bulbs, protected from breakage by steel mesh screens, were screwed into wall sockets every five feet or so, and provided a minimum of light. In between, eighteen by twenty-four inch posters, encased in dusty glass, showed previous productions, some dating back to the turn of the century.
If she hadn’t been summoned by the commanding voice and saw the shadow of an imposing man standing in a door frame, she would have stopped and read a few. Even someone from a non-theatrical background such as she, knew the importance of New York City’s Royal Theatre. It was legend.
The man hovering in the doorway, probably in his late forties, was tall even by her standards. Dressed in a three-piece pinstriped, charcoal gray suit that fit impeccably, white shirt and deep red tie, he had a certainty about his place in the world. This was a man used to being obeyed and believed his existence counted, probably more than most. Percy was on her guard from the first minute she saw him.
“Mr. Wainwright?” She approached him in the door way and extended her hand. “I’m Persephone Cole.”
She wasn’t sure if he would take her hand or turn away. It would tell her a lot, his initial gesture, so she measured his reaction to her carefully.
“Miss Cole.” He gripped her hand in his, holding it for a brief moment, then shook it. A smile broke out on his face, which transformed it instantly from cold and imposing to warm and compelling. Beautiful, even white teeth were set in a strong face with a Dick Tracy jaw line. “Dexter Wainwright. Thank you for coming on such short notice.”
Percy fought to keep herself in check. He was as handsome as any leading actor she’d seen on the silver screen and a good four inches taller than she. It was novel, looking up to someone not standing on a stepladder. Plus, she wasn’t completely sure how to deal with this man who could turn charm, intelligence, and animal appeal on and off at will.
“Yeah, hey, so I’m here.” Oh, grand, Percy. Good going. Clever repartee and all that.
“Please come in.” If he found her reply to be wanting, he didn’t indicate it.
The producer gave her hand a small tug and pulled her into the small white office. Percy looked around at a room that contained mismatched office furniture in what had once been a dressing room for several people. Naked bulbs surrounding six large make-up mirrors on all four sides provided lighting for the room. Side by side and evenly spaced apart, the mirrors hung above one long makeup table bolted to the wall. A desk, chairs, and two filing cabinets were shoved haphazardly into the remaining area.
Another man in his late twenties or early thirties sat at one end of the makeup table, studying a thick mound of papers clipped together in one corner. He raised his head, an appraising look coming into his eyes as he saw her. With slicked back, sandy brown hair and soft brown eyes, he had an easy smile.
He, too, wore a crisp white shirt, but there was no jacket in sight. The shirt sleeves were rolled up, giving an air of casualness, but were precise in their uniformity. Collar turned up, the starched shirt’s top three buttons were open to the man’s chest, once again suggesting a studied casualness. Around the waist of his black cuffed trousers, a patterned gray, yellow, and blue tie ran through the belt loops instead of a belt, finished off in a square knot.
Percy had seen something like that worn by Fred Astaire in a movie once. It looked as odd to her then as it did now. In fact, she wouldn’t have been surprised if the man before her leapt up and began to tap dance, breaking into a Cole Porter song. Instead, he turned to her with a questioning look on his face.
“Are you here for the tall witch’s part, luv?” Unlike Dexter Wainwright, he spoke with a clipped British accent. “You’re going to have to lose a few pounds first, dearie. Sorry, but do come back after that. Yours is an interesting face.”
“Ah, Miss Cole.” Dexter Wainwright stepped in between them. “This is our illustrious big-mouth director, Hugo Cranston.” He turned to the director. “Hugo, this is the private detective I’ve hired to find some answers to the problems the production’s been having.”
Cranston shot the producer a sideways look of surprise. “A lady dick? Cor blimey, I never heard of such a thing.” He stood up, stared into her face, and extended his hand.
“Then you need to get around more, Mr. Cranston,” Percy said, shaking his hand firmly. “We’re out there.”
Sure, maybe I’m the only one you and I have heard of, but there has to be a few more scattered across this great nation of ours.
“Then I stand corrected, Miss Cole.” He gave a short bow. “I like the look. Very Marlene Dietrich, alth
ough with those eyes, I’d stick to green. I’ll leave you both to it. I have auditions soon, anyway.” The director dropped her hand and threw her a warm, genuine smile. He moved to the door, pausing for a moment. “I jest not about your face, Miss Cole. When and if you should drop a few pounds…” He stopped speaking but looked her up and down.
“Gotcha. Should I find myself coming out of an eight-month coma, you’re going to be the first person I call.”
Hugo Cranston tossed his head back and gave off a hearty laugh. She could hear the sound of it resonating as he walked away. Despite his backhanded compliment, Percy liked him.
“Sit down, Miss Cole.”
The American producer pointed to a chair. Percy remained standing.
“Want a Coke?” Without waiting for an answer, he opened the door of a small refrigerator kept under the makeup table and took out two bottles. He reached for a church key and pried the caps off, while Percy gaped at the small appliance.
“That little thing is a refrigerator?”
“Yes, brand new. Paid a king’s ransom for it, but I’m here at the theatre for hours at a time and I like having cold sodas in my office.” He handed her one and took a long pull off his bottle. She watched him for a moment then did the same. After he swallowed, he went on. “You’ll have to forgive my Limey friend, Hugo. He doesn’t always --”
“Forget it, Wainwright. We’ve got more important things to talk about than perceived insults. Thanks for the Coke.”
“Good.” He looked relieved and sat down. She dropped into a chair across from him. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and looked into her eyes. “I want you to know, you impressed me on the phone.”
“Did I?”
“Yes, that part where you said I had to tell you ‘all of it’ when you got here. How did you know there was more to this than Carlisle’s tragic fall?”
“The cops don’t threaten to close down a show after one death, even if it’s suspected foul play. And you’ve been in previews in this theatre for nearly a month. That’s a long time. Usually, there are pre-Broadway tryouts, Boston, Philadelphia, some place like that, to work out the bugs. Then the show hits Broadway doing previews for maybe a week, two weeks tops. It’s an expensive proposition the way you’re doing it.”
Persephone Cole and the Halloween Curse Page 2
