Persephone Cole and the Halloween Curse

by Heather Haven

  A tentative knock on the door brought Percy back from the past. “Yeah.” She hollered in the direction of the door. “Come on in.”

  Mavis stuck her head in, dark glossy curls in her medium bob bouncing. She smiled at Percy, but did not enter. “You sure it’s okay?”

  “Sure, I said come in. I meant come in.”

  That’s an eight buck haircut if I’ve ever seen one. The dress ain’t no piker, either.

  “I’ve got that list for you, Miss Cole.” She walked inside carrying her clipboard, offering the eight by eleven white sheet of paper. “Can I do anything else?”

  Percy took the list and read it before answering. “Thanks. So the three items the cops took were a microphone, loudspeaker, and cord. I see this Dowell lives on Fifty-second and Seventh, and two more in Hell’s kitchen. What’s this one address unknown?” She looked up at Mavis, a puzzled expression on her face. “Don’t you have to know everybody’s address for tax purposes?”

  “That would be Bert Asher; he was an extra. As a rule, yes, we do. We have to send everyone a W-Two form or a Ten Ninety-nine at the end of the fiscal year. Bert was staying at a rooming house up on One-hundred and Tenth Street.”

  “Well, what about this rooming house? Don’t you have the address of that?”

  “I did, but it won’t do you any good. They had a fire ten days ago. You must have seen the article in the paper. It burned to the ground. It took the houses on either side with it. Two elderly people were killed. Very sad.”

  Percy sat bolt upright. “Was this before or after Asher quit?”

  “Let me think. It was around the same time, I think. Yes, it burned down the night before. The next day, he didn’t show up for rehearsal or the performance, either. At first we thought he’d been hurt in the fire, but one of the musicians said he noticed him outside the Automat that morning. When Bert saw him, he ran. We haven’t heard from Bert since. And we owe him two weeks salary.”

  “So he did a bunk. Very interesting. Any listing of relatives, people to call in an emergency?”

  “Just one of the other extras, Roland Gephardt. They’ve been friends for years. But when I asked Roland, he said he hadn’t heard from Bert and had no idea where he was. Vaudevillians are a different breed, Miss Cole. They often travel from one show to the next using just a post office box for forwarding mail, but we don’t even have that for Bert.”

  “You sound like you know something about these people.”

  “Theatre’s the same the world over, I guess.”

  “Where you from?”

  “California.”

  “Ah! I thought your accent was a little different. Lots of oranges. How long have you been working for Wainwright?”

  “Not quite a year. I came straight out of secretarial school and got this job.”

  “What are you, twenty-two? What did you do before?”

  “Why, I was in school, Miss Cole, and I’m only twenty.”

  “Nearly the same age as my kid sister.” Percy digested this. “Give me this Roland Gephardt’s phone number and address, just in case.”

  “Of course.” Mavis wrote down a name on a slip of paper. “Did you want me to leave the room while you make a call to Felicity for an appointment?”

  “Naw, I’ll just show up. Might be better that way.” Percy plopped her hat back on her head and moved toward the door. She turned around to face the young secretary. “Oh, Mavis, tell your boss not to hire anyone else for that assistant manager’s job. I’ll be stepping into it for a while.”

  A stricken look crossed Mavis’s lovely face. “You? The assistant manager? But I don’t understand. Do you know anything about the backstage management of a show?”

  “Listen, I’ve been running an office for seventeen years, I have an eight-year old son, and I’m a fast learner. How tough can it be?”

  “I see,” Mavis said gravely. “In that case, you need to be back for a one o’clock call, a half hour before the performers. I’ll let Mr. Wainwright know and alert Kyle, the stage manager, of the new hire.”

  “Do that.” Percy’s voice was equally grave. “And remember, this is a good cover for me, hanging around backstage looking into things. I’m counting on you not to tell anyone who I am or what I really do, not even the stage manager, what’s his name.” Not waiting for an answer, she wheeled around and left, the door shutting behind her.

  Chapter Eight

  Being back out in the real world was a shock in more ways than one. The sharpness of the sun and blistering heat hit Percy straight on even when she walked on the shadier side of the streets. Blasts of hot air coming from subway vents or vehicular exhaust made her feel like she was standing in front of an open pizza oven. Small particles of grit smacked her in the face and bothered her eyes.

  Damn strike. Oy! All this schmutz floating around, as Mrs. Goldberg would say. I’m going to a take a bath the minute I get home, which sounds grand. Cool water.

  Trying to avoid the hoards of servicemen standing in line at the entrance to the USO, she crossed the street back into the sun looking for Felicity Dowell’s address. She came to a tall but modest pale yellow brick building, maybe thirty stories high. Surprised to find no doorman, she went to a chrome intercom near the glass double-door entrance. Below were four rows of buttons next to names and apartment numbers. Further surprised, she found the actress’s name listed with the others. She remembered Felicity Dowell as a British transplant during the late twenties, early thirties who became a big star. She’d be in her forties by now, at least. Apparently no one was haranguing the actress any more like the old days.

  Hmmm. That’s right. Performers, they’re sort of like athletes. Nobody wants you when you’re old and grey.

  She depressed the button and held it down for a second or two. After a moment, there was the noise of static and a recognizable, albeit tinny sounding female voice. “Yes?”

  “I’m looking for Miss Felicity Dowell. Is she available?”

  There was a slight hesitation. “Who is it?”

  “My name is Persephone Cole and I’d like to speak with her in person.”

  “What about?” The voice was on its guard.

  “Miss Dowell, I have a small bequest for you and I am required to give it to you in person.”

  “A what?”

  “A bequest.” Percy repeated the lie that came easily to her. “For you.”

  “Well, who’s it from?”

  “You know, I’d really rather not discuss this down here where just anybody can listen in. Can I come up or should I just go away?” Percy stopped talking and waited. If she was any judge of humanity, the combination of curiosity and greed should get her through the locked door. A few more seconds of silence and the door buzzed and she heard the click of the lock being released.

  She pushed open one of the glass door and stepped into a musty smelling lobby filled with plastic greenery and one or two dentist-style waiting room chairs. In front of her was an unmanned elevator, door open, waiting for a customer. She’d heard about these new-fangled elevators, as Pop called them, but had never ridden in one. Percy stepped inside, hoped the box would take her where she wanted to go, and pressed the twenty-seventh floor button. She had little concern about the fib she’d told.

  I’ll deal with it later. Before I leave, I’ll get something out of her. I always do.

  Percy exited the elevator and followed the numbers. Waiting at the end of a long hallway stood a woman wearing a grey and black bias-cut pants suit, her shoulders covered with a multi-colored scarf. Dyed black hair was artistically piled on top of her head.

  Percy sized up the woman as she walked toward her. The actress leaned against the door jamb, swirling a glass of amber liquid and ice in her hand. The clinking sound of the cubes against the glass had a steady rhythm to them, sounding cool to Percy. The closer she got, the more she saw the beautiful face was covered by artfully applied makeup, not quite masking that she was a woman of a ‘certain age’. The actress stared at
Percy suspiciously then turned and called out to someone inside the apartment.

  “Derek, Derek, darling. Come here, please.”

  A man in his late thirties came to the door. He was dressed in loose white trousers, wearing only an undershirt on top. A towel was thrown over a well-developed and muscular neck and shoulders. His muscles rippled as he watched Percy walk down the hall and toward them. Even his ripples had ripples. He flexed his hands and arms repeatedly, his jaw grinding in unison.

  I get it, buster. You’re a strongman and if you have to, you’ll take me down. Got it.

  “How’d you know it was me? On the intercom?” Felicity Dowell said not quite guarding her doorway but not moving from it either.

  “I’d know your voice anywhere, Miss Dowell. I’ve been listening to it on the radio for years. The RCA Drama Hour, wasn’t it? And then Westinghouse Presents. You’ve been on a lot of those shows. You’re a household name...and voice.”

  Okay, laying it on a little thick but these theatre types seem to like it.

  Sure enough, Felicity Dowell broke out into a smile, and stepped to the side allowing Percy to enter her apartment. The strongman didn’t budge.

  “It’s all right, darling. Let her in.” She turned to Percy. “This is Derek. He takes care of me.”

  In more ways than one, I’ll bet. Percy gave him a nod. Wordless, he turned on his heels and retreated behind a curtain into another room.

  Once inside, Percy could see it was the apartment of a person who had seen better times but wasn’t seeing them now. Large pieces of ornate furniture, in the style of Louie the Sixteenth, were crammed into a room far too small for them. The furniture was of a higher quality than the ones Percy had to contend with in her family’s apartment, but it was still a lot of fake gilding, fancy stenciling, and clearly not the real thing.

  When the king said, ‘Apres moi, le deluge’ or after me, the deluge, he probably hadn’t meant a flood of horrible, imitation furniture. But that’s so often the way. You get remembered for something that sends you spinning in your grave. Go figure.

  As if reading her thoughts, the actress said, “You’ll have to forgive the rooms. This is not my style. I’m post-modernist, myself. I’m borrowing the apartment from a friend of mine who’s on the west coast making a movie with Orson Wells. Not a very large part, but significant in demeanor. That’s all we can hope for these days, parts of significance,” she said, lowering herself into a throne-like chair and posing significantly.

  Percy looked around. Walls, tabletops and counters anywhere there was free space was covered with photos and memorabilia of the once famous actress, touting her glorious and glamorous life.

  “Impressive, aren’t I?” Miss Dowell took a long drink of the liquid. “Don’t let the press clippings fool you. I still put my makeup on one eyebrow at a time. May I offer you some refreshment? And before you get any ideas, this is iced tea. I haven’t had a drink in three years, despite what Louella Parsons says. Sit down anywhere and tell me about the bequest.” The woman threw her an ingenuous and disarming smile.

  Percy remained standing. She was torn. She liked this woman and despite her best efforts, she was impressed.

  This isn’t going at all like I expected, and when you don’t know what the hell to say, shoot for the truth.

  “I have a confession to make, Miss Dowell.”

  “Oh?” Well plucked eyebrows shot up. She glanced in the direction of the departed Derek, as if anxious to summon him again should the need arrive.

  “I don’t have a bequest. I just said that to get in, to see you. I’m a private detective hired by Dexter Wainwright to look into the Macbeth curse. Apologies and all that, Miss Dowell, but I’d still like to ask you a few questions about what’s been going on around there.”

  The regal pose gone, the actress stared at her for a brief time then burst into laughter.

  “A lady detective? My goodness. Now we’ve all read Agatha Christie, but I thought lady detectives, if there truly is such a thing, were supposed to look like Miss Marple.”

  “You mean about a hundred years old, white-haired, and wearing a hand-crocheted pink shawl?” Percy grinned at Felicity Dowell. “I left my shawl at home.”

  “What color is your hair underneath that man’s hat?” Percy removed the hat, allowing long, tangled red curls to fall, covering her neck and shoulders. “Ah! A glorious, flaming red. Hair the color of which many an actress has ruined her own trying to attain. And then it never looks quite natural, as does yours. My hair color was a glorious raven black, but now it requires attention to keep it that way. Can you tell?” The actress ran ring-covered fingers through the darken hair. She looked at Percy’s dubious face. “Never mind. They haven’t perfected the black color any more than the red. So you want to know why I left the production when it was supposed to have been a comeback for me?”

  “I didn’t know it was a comeback, Miss Dowell, but that makes your leaving all the more interesting. And I’d love some iced tea.”

  “Derek darling.” The actress called out to the man in the next room. “Be a sweetie and bring Miss…Cole, is it?” Percy nodded. “Bring Miss Cole a glass of tea. Lots of ice.” There was a muffled reply. “Thank you, sweetie.” The actress looked at Percy and whispered. “He’s a little on the simple side but quite appealing. And he’d lay down his life for me. With everything that’s been going on, I need that.”

  “What exactly has been going on, Miss Dowell?”

  The woman took a sip of her tea before replying. “It didn’t start until we came to America. Frankly, I’ve done Lady Macbeth several times before and never had any trouble.” She paused for a moment, reflecting on something in the past.

  Derek entered the room carrying a small glass of iced tea, the sound of ice cubes tinkling within with each step he took. It was a lovely sound. He thrust the glass in Percy’s outstretched hand.

  “Thanks.”

  Again, without saying anything, Derek turned on his heels and left. “Not much of a talker,” Percy remarked.

  “No, but he does other things so very well.” A slight smile splayed across her face. It hardened, as she changed subjects. “About Macbeth, I am reminded of one time on the London stage, back in nineteen-thirty. We had a rash of bad luck. One or two of my fellow actors were involved in accidents, nothing fatal, and part of the scenery caught fire and burned. The theatre closed down for three days. I’m glad nothing fatal has happened on this production, but I had a close call with that lorry.”

  Apparently, she hasn’t heard about Carlisle yet. Sure, it happened too late to make the morning papers. It’ll be out this afternoon. I’ll keep a lid on it for now. It’ll just rattle her.

  “Lorry,” Percy said aloud. “That’s British for truck, right?”

  “Yes, sorry. He came out of nowhere and headed right for me. It was ghastly. I had to throw myself on the sidewalk. Ruined my silk stockings. I don’t have to tell you how hard those are to come by these days.”

  “You said ‘he’. Did you get a good look at him?”

  “You mean, while I was flying through the air? As a matter of fact, I saw his face through the windshield or rather, the beard, that odious beard. It was hideous.”

  “Beard? What color?”

  “A long, scruffy black thing. Frightening. Covered over half his face. I don’t remember anything but that beard. I have nightmares over it.”

  “Is that when you decided to quit the show?”

  “No, not even that would have driven me away from a part like Lady Macbeth. It was the letter.”

  “What did it say?”

  “I’ve got it somewhere here, if you’d care to see it.”

  “Yeah, I would.”

  “Derek,’ she called out again. “Would you be a love and get that letter to show Miss Cole? He’s such a dear.” She turned to Percy.

  Derek entered the room instantly, as if he’d been standing on the other side of the door waiting to be summoned. He crossed to a sm
all secretarial desk, opened one of the drawers and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. He crossed the room to Percy, handed her the paper and left the room again.

  Percy unfolded the creased and tattered paper. The first thing she noticed was the different sized, cut out letters used to form words, and pasted on the page. Some were underlined for emphasis, others were in capital letters.

  Leave the show or you will die. This is your only warning. The next time, I will not miss. Forever.

  “You got the envelope this came in?”

  “No I threw it away. I threw the letter away, as well, but Derek rescued it from the trash can.”

  “Have you shown it to the police?”

  “No, I haven’t.” She hesitated.

  “Why not?”

  “I…I…”

  “You’re stuttering.”

  “I…showed it to Dexter and he told me he’d let me out of my contract if I didn’t take it to the police.”

  “I see.” Percy’s eyes narrowed on the still beautiful actress. “Why do you think he did that?”

  “I have no idea, and I don’t care.” She paused and took a deep breath. “It might have something to do with Macbeth. Or the musical I did before it, Stars and Stripes Forever.”

  “You mean, because of the word ‘forever’ at the end of this note?”

  Felicity Dowell nodded, biting her lower lip. “You should talk to Dexter about this, but it was right around the time there was that trouble with his partner’s death. I didn’t follow it all, but Dexter did his usual raping of the innocent souls routine, I’m sure.”

  “Stars and Stripes Forever.” Percy mused. “Wasn’t that an American musical revue? I thought you were a classical trained, English actress.”

  Miss Dowell let out a throaty laugh. “When you’re at the end of your career, it’s the same as starting out. You’ll do almost anything. And I can do an American accent, sing a little, and I’ve always been a dancer. Dexter thought I’d give the production a little class. As I was between engagements, so to speak, I opened the show on London’s West End for a twelve-month contract.”