Freshly painted white walls displayed framed reviews, pictures of celebrities, and posters of productions in which Sir Anthony had starred. Along one wall, a small brown leather couch sat holding a curled up, sleeping cat. A light brown fur throw was draped on one armrest; a throw pillow leaned against the other. In front of the sofa a gleaming walnut coffee table rested, laden with books and scripts, tidily piled on one end. A matching leather chair sat to one side of the sofa, wearing a pillow in the same fur as the throw.
Vases of different types of flowers, some local, some exotic, topped every available surface of the room. The worn tile floor was covered with a zebra rug, Percy guessing it was real, probably shot by Ernest Hemingway, pictured in one of the photos.
On another wall and next to a built-in sink, was a small make-shift kitchenette. To the left of the sink, a similar refrigerator to Wainwright’s sat in the middle of a rectangular table. Next to the tiny refrigerator was a hotplate. Off-white coffee mugs and dishes, cooking utensils, and silverware were stacked neatly beside it. The stack was topped with a folded dishcloth. The opposite end of the table held half-filled liquor bottles, glasses, and a silver ice bucket. Against the remaining wall was a dressing table with a large mirror. Telegrams and cards were laid within the four sides of its frame in an orderly fashion.
Either this guy is very neat or he’s got a butler. I’m voting butler.
“Come in, my fiery Persephone, and sit down.” He smiled a cat-got-the-canary smile at her. “Make yourself comfortable.” He gestured to the sofa.
He must be kidding.
Ignoring him, she walked over to the dressing table and leaned against it. “Nice digs. Who does your decorating?”
Sir Anthony crossed to the sofa, picked up the sleeping cat, and sat down setting the cat in his lap. The animal’s fur was almost as white as the walls, except for the legs, face, ears, and tail, which wore a rich dark brown. The exotic feline yawned, circled and lay down again on the man’s lap. Stroking the cat, the actor looked up at Percy with a smile.
“I have a man who travels with me.”
I knew it.
“He’s a bit of a stuffed-shirt, but faithful. This is Ananda Mahidol. I call him Anny.” Sir Anthony gestured to the sleeping animal. “He’s named for the King of Siam, who gave him to me.”
“What kind of cat is it?”
“A Siamese. I think he’s one of the few in America. I had to pay a fortune to get him into the country, but I don’t travel anywhere without Anny.” He lifted the cat, kissed it several times on the top of the head then returned it to his lap, where the actor continued the stroking session.
“Uh-huh. Well, he’s a cutie. So I understand this production of Macbeth was once yours,” she said, getting right to it. “You sold off the rights to Wainwright or something like that.”
The smile faded from the actor’s face. He stood, returned the cat to the sofa, and crossed over to the liquor and began to fill a glass with ice from the bucket.
Percy went on, “Some people are saying you like to play pranks; that you’re responsible for what’s been going on around here.”
Sir Anthony wheeled around so quickly, an ice cube flew out of the glass. “I think you should leave, young lady. I want to be alone.”
“You saw how far that got Garbo, so forget it.” Smiling, she went to him and took the glass from his shaking hand. “Besides, you offered me a drink and I’m going to collect.” She poured herself a large whiskey, crossed back to the dressing table and set the glass down, untouched. A stack of playing cards on the coffee table attracted her attention. “I understand you’re a gambling man, so I’ll make you a little wager. I’ll bet you know something about Carlisle being here until midnight last night.”
The man visibly shuddered before trying to recover. He became the caricature of a haughty Englishman before saying, “What makes you say that?”
“Just a hunch.” She reached inside her pants pocket and pulled out the bag of pistachios. “Want a nut?” He shook his head. “Good, more for me. Okay, so one, I understand you’re at the theatre all hours playing cards with the boys and two, you’ve been drinking. You’re known for never touching the hooch before a show and yet here you are, boozing it up. There must be a reason.” She pointed a finger at him. “I think you saw something last night.” She grinned at him.
“Who are you?” he demanded. “You don’t sound like any ASM I’ve ever known.”
“I’ll make you a deal. You tell me what I want to know and I’ll tell you.”
His eyes narrowed and he stood up to his full five-foot ten inches, looking every inch the Scottish king. “Wainwright sent you, didn’t he? That prick. He wants to see me off the show, that miserable pr--”
“Yeah, yeah,” she interrupted. “‘Prick’, I got it. Everybody’s a prick around here. But he seems to have good reasons for wanting you gone. You keep doing not so funny practical jokes, like moaning sounds coming from a loudspeaker on the catwalk. The catwalk from which Carlisle fell to his death. Doesn’t make you look too good.”
“The police already questioned me about that.” His famous rumbling baritone voice became shrill. “Rudy Carlisle is the one who put it up there for me. Have you seen those rails up to the catwalk? I couldn’t climb those if my life depended on it. Bad knee.”
“Now why would he do that for you?”
“Let’s say he was a better actor than card player. He was settling a debt.” The actor relaxed a little, and sat down beside the cat, stroking the animal’s head with the index finger of his hand.
Percy heard the cat purring from across the room.
“Very soothing that,” the actor said, looking down at the cat. “The purr of a cat is the most tranquilizing sound in the world.”
“What happened last night?” Percy’s voice was gentle, as soothing as she could match to the cat’s purr.
She watched him as he stroked the cat, waiting him out. Finally he began to speak.
“You’re right. We were playing cards last night, just Rudy and me. He was trying to recoup some of his losses. I let him win something back and he decided to leave. It must have been around eleven-thirty. We said good night and he went on his way. I asked him to leave the door slightly ajar. Sometimes I like to circulate the air, but I only do it when I know Anny is sleeping and won’t try to get out. About ten minutes later I heard voices, two, echoing from somewhere out on the stage. I couldn’t make out whose voices they were, but they sounded angry, combative.
“Two men, a man and woman, what?”
“I couldn’t tell; it was all distorted by the time it got to me. I rose from my dressing table and went to the door, just when there was this bone-chilling, blood-curdling scream.” The look in his eyes got far away, as if he was reliving the moment. “I ran out to the stage following the sound, and saw Rudy lying in a heap on the floor, his body all mangled and bleeding. I knew in an instant he was dead. I’ve seen enough of it during the Blitz.”
“What did you do then?” Percy prodded in a half whisper.
“I…I…heard someone descending the rungs from the catwalk. It was so dark, I couldn’t see anything. I panicked. I backed away and hurried to my dressing room, as quietly as I could. I locked the door and stayed here all night until the police arrived this morning. I don’t think he saw me. And I certainly didn’t see whoever it was coming down those rungs. That’s what I told the police and that’s the truth.
“You said ‘he’. Are you sure you couldn’t tell if both voices were men?”
“I can’t say. In thinking it over, I realize one of the voices was more in a softer, monotone, but the second was loud and aggressive. I think the second voice was Rudy’s, but to be honest, I can’t say for sure. It was too distorted. The other voice could have been a man or a woman.” He looked at her in a sincere manner. “The police believe me, you know. They know it wasn’t me who pushed Rudy from the catwalk.”
“That’s what they want you to believe, for the
moment. If I was you, I’d have a good lawyer at hand. Or do you call it a solicitor?” She popped a pistachio in her mouth. “Cops tell you not to leave town?”
He sat up erect and proper. “I told them I couldn’t leave town, anyway. I have a show to do. Eight performances a week.”
“Speaking of that, I’d better get going.” Percy looked at her watch. “I’ve got a job to learn.” She opened the door to his dressing room.
“Hey!” he said, as she breezed out the door. “You didn’t tell me who you are and what you’re really doing here.”
She turned back to him, hand still on the doorknob. “Like you said, I’m fiery Persephone. Don’t get too close or you might get burned.” She laughed as she closed the door.
Chapter Seventeen
Elsie, I’ve seen the woman detective. She looks bovine and lazy. I don’t think we have anything to worry about with her but we have something much more important with which to deal. Laverne came to me this morning. She said Carlisle told her he was watching us. She wants money to keep silent, even though she doesn’t know yet who we really are. Respond to this as soon as you can. I will be looking for your answer. Evelyn.
Chapter Eighteen
Percy headed for the stage manager’s podium and noticed Kyle’s girlfriend, the assistant wardrobe manager, had joined him. Heads together, they seemed serious and intimate, talking in low, hushed tones. When they heard her footsteps, both heads snapped in her direction, her blue eyes and his brown riveted on her. The girl nervously tugged at the collar of her blue smock, turned and hurried away, waist length, light brown hair reminding Percy of Alice in Wonderland just a little. That’s right. Her name is Alice. Very apropos.
“It’s about time you showed up here.” Kyle’s tone was peevish, as if he couldn’t wait for her to get into earshot. A good looking young man, if on the short side, his dark eyes flashed at Percy in annoyance. He tossed his dark head like a frustrated horse that had been waiting at the gate too long. Searching through papers, he gathered them in a pile. He handed them to her, and topped the pile with a stapled three-page, single-spaced typed document.
She took the papers and removed the top document without saying a word. She heard a clanking sound of an electrical switch being turned on. A minimum of lighting came on in the theatre.
“Where’d that come from?” Percy pivoted her head toward the sound.
“The light box is over there.” Kyle pointed to an off-stage metal box on the wall. “It must be one o’clock. Hal turned the work lights on. Nobody else is allowed to touch that box. Remember that.”
“Got it. Who’s Hal?”
“Head of Lighting. His office is in the basement.”
Percy glanced around. Although the lighting was flat and in some places almost nonexistent, the entire backstage area was marginally lit, unlike before.
“You’re name’s Percy, isn’t it?” His mood had softened somewhat and he smiled.
“It is. And you’re Kyle.”
“Mavis has given me a W-Two form for you to fill out when you get a chance, but let’s do that in between shows. Agreed?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. That list is the order of when you do parts of your job. See?”
Percy nodded, angling the document toward the small but strong covered-light taped to his podium.
Kyle tapped a line of the paper with his finger. “The first thing you do when you arrive one hour before the show, which is one p.m. matinee days and seven o’clock in the evening, is to check in with me. If there are any changes, I’ll let you know.”
“Changes? In what?” She looked up into his face.
“Changes in cast, wardrobe, scenery; if any equipment is malfunctioning, things like that.” His tone was impatient. “Haven’t you ever done this before? Wainwright said you know what you’re doing.”
“Yeah, I know what I’m doing.” Her answer was a little too gruff. “Each show is a little different, that’s all,” she added in a softer tone.
“All right.” He appeared to be somewhat mollified. “Then you check in with the prop master, the wardrobe supervisor, hair and wig stylist to see if they have any problems they need settled. If they do, you come to me, and I settle them.”
Letting me know from the git-go who the boss is.
“That should take you to half-hour. At half-hour you do the usual knock on the dressing room doors to make sure everyone is in and accounted for and you check them off. Look at the bottom of this stack,” he said grabbing the pile from her hands. “Here is the paper with the names of every cast member. There are thirty, eighteen men and twelve women.”
“That’s an interesting ratio. I didn’t think there were so many women in his plays.”
“With the war on, we have a dearth of men. Most are playing ten, fifteen years younger and some of these so-called actors wouldn’t be able to step foot on a stage in ordinary times. We have even more women, if you count the crew. Many of the walk-on roles and foot soldiers are played by mannish looking women. Brenda could double as a Sumo wrestler. Then there’s the tall ones, like yourself. Except for Alfred. He’s playing the tall witch until they can find somebody. I understand they offered you the part.”
“No.” Boy, half-truths and rumors spread like wildfires back stage. Like a lot of other places.
“Alfred did the role in summer stock, he says.” Kyle went on, as if Percy hadn’t replied. “Speaking of the Weird Sisters --”
“I didn’t know we were,” interrupted Percy. “Tell me though, why aren’t you in the service, a fine looking example of manhood like you? You’re old enough. How old are you?”
Kyle blushed and swallowed then looked away. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I have a heart murmur.”
“Ah! Sorry.” Percy smiled in what she hoped was a disarming manner. “Any chance you want to become an actor? I hear there’s a production with a dearth of men.”
He returned her smile for a moment. “I prefer backstage. Now where were we? Oh, yes, this is important and a major part of your job. On both sides of the stage are platforms on wheels. Come with me; I’ll show you.” He hurried along and Percy followed him about twenty-five feet back to the last entrance and exit wing delineated by the velvet curtains. “See that?”
He pointed to a contraption that looked straight out of the dark ages. A rectangular wooden platform was elevated about twenty feet in the air and sat on a wooden frame supported by three crossed two by fours forming ‘Xs’ in the center. The frame sat on another platform at the base attached to four large wheels, two in the front and two in the back. One end of the top platform extended out from the frame by about ten feet and onto the stage. A set of stairs ran up the other side to the top. The whole thing looked like a movable diving board for a pool only there was no water. Percy was glad she was not playing one of the witches.
“There’s one just like it on stage right,” Kyle said. “Once up there, the Weird Sisters are rolled on and off the stage by the stagehands. The witches are behind most of the scenes taking place on stage. Their costumes are cumbersome, as you will see. Your job is to help the three witches get up and down the stairs, and to let the stagehands know when it’s time to roll the platform out onto the stage and pull it back again. See that white line?” He pointed to a painted line running down the side of the platform. “It shouldn’t be pushed out any farther into the sightlines than that. The cues for moving the platforms are written on the last piece of paper. Memorize them. The actors say their cues fast and you don’t want to get it wrong.”
He pivoted and walked across stage. “Let’s go to the platform on the other side, so you can see it for yourself. It’s a duplicate of this one. The wheels are kept locked so it doesn’t slide onstage when it’s not supposed to. It did that once in rehearsals.” Kyle let out a chuckle and Percy dutifully chortled, too. She walked behind him across the sixty-five foot wide stage and glanced out at the empty house once more.
This is the spookiest pl
ace I’ve ever been in, and I’ve been in some pretty spooky places.
Unaware of her discomfort, Kyle prattled on. “So, after you check in all the actors and let me know who is absent, if any, then you go back to props and help Ralph set up the battle equipment, the armor, helmets and swords.”
“Are they real?” Percy was surprised. This acting business sounded more dangerous by the minute.
“No, of course not. Paper Mache, mostly. Except for two of the daggers and Sir Anthony’s paraphernalia. He said his had to be real, so we bought a set from an English earl who fell on hard times. And the daggers are very real, as they are almost characters in the play.”
Percy was maybe half way across the stage, when she came to a stop. “Wait a minute. What the hell is that?” She pointed to the top of the platform at stage right, barely visible in the poor light.
Kyle paused, turned, and followed her pointing finger. “What?” But he was too close to the platform and too short to see the top of it. “What? What is it?”
Percy didn’t answer, but dropped the papers and started running, passing the bewildered stage manager. She dashed to the other side of the platform, ignoring a sputtering Kyle, and took the steps two at a time.
“Holy Toledo,” she cried out, moving forward as fast as she dared on the narrow platform. She dropped down on all fours and crawled out until she could grab a still hand extended above the inert body of a woman. As she got closer, her knee hit something hard and sharp. She looked down. A lethal dagger, metal glittering in between streaks of blood, lay on the platform.
Kyle clamored up the stairs, but she didn’t turn to face him. For a moment there was silence, as if he had frozen in place when he saw the horrible sight.
“Oh, my God! Who is it?” He moved forward close enough to the kneeling Percy to see the face of the fallen when he leaned over. “Oh, my God, it’s Laverne. Is she…?” He couldn’t finish the sentence.
“No! She’s alive! She’s unconscious, but I can feel a pulse. Call an ambulance.” Her voice was cool and calm, unlike how she felt inside. “Then make another call to the cops. I’ll stay here to see if I can help.” She looked up into his drawn face. “Hurry!”
Persephone Cole and the Halloween Curse Page 8
