Persephone Cole and the Halloween Curse

by Heather Haven

  “You should try smiling more often. You’ve got a good smile.” Percy took the costume and hat from Alice. “I need to sign for these or something?”

  “No, no, just bring them back after tonight’s performance. You can keep them in your dressing room in between now and then.” Alice moved away and toward a waiting actor.

  Percy looked at Elizabeth. “I got a dressing room?”

  “A hole in the wall with me and six other women, luv. We’re hardly in it, anyway. We’re onstage behind practically every scene, even the ones we don’t have any lines in. We’re there to represent the evil side of man.”

  “Do tell.”

  Elizabeth laughed. “Let’s go to makeup. They’ll draw and glue things on your face until you look like a monster out of a Lon Chaney movie.”

  “The glitter and glamour of show biz, huh?”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  “Places, everyone!” The director’s commanding voice from the front of the theatre house silenced cast and crew almost as one.

  Percy stood on the platform trolley in front of the caldron waiting for the safety curtain of the proscenium arch to be raised. The sound of trumpets and battle music came over the loudspeakers. The trolley Percy stood on began to vibrate. She glanced over to the wing area, and two stagehands were pushing the three witches onstage with a long, wooden pole, stopping at stage left. Dim blue lights became brighter. Three blinding flashes of white hot lights overtook the stage, and then a deafening clap of thunder.

  “What the hell was that?” Percy’s shocked voice filled the silence. A stagehand tittered.

  “Shhhh.” Elizabeth smacked Percy on the butt, took a deep breath, and began to act in a voice ‘projecting to the back of the house’, as she called it.

  “When shall we three meet again? In thunder, lightning, or in rain?”

  There was silence. Elizabeth reached out her hand again, this time prodding Percy to speak.

  “When the hurlyburly's done, When the battle's lost and won,” the detective mumbled, the sound distorted to her by the large bulbous nose glued over her own.

  “Louder.” The director’s voice cut through the dark beyond the footlights of the stage. “And project, for God’s sake. Say it again.”

  “When the hurlyburly's done, When the battle's lost and won.” Percy yelled out, her tone sounding nasal and flat. She coughed, unused to the strain it put on her throat.

  Alfred, the Third Witch, spoke next. “That will be ere the set of sun.” It could not have sounded more masculine or Brooklynese.

  “Alfred,” commanded Hugo Cranston. “Try it higher pitched and more British. You sound like you’re at a Yankee baseball game. Do it again.”

  Alfred repeated the line. The delivery sounded exactly the same as the first time. There was a moment of silence.

  “Where’s my assistant? Where’s my assistant?” Cranston screamed out to the universe.

  The sound of thudding feet running down an aisle from the back of the theatre house to the front could be heard.

  “Here I am, Mr. Cranston.” A stuttering, youthful, female answered in the blackness of the unlit audience, her voice radiating eagerness and fear.

  Another one of the possibilities, thought Percy. A little young, but she could be the kid sister, Elsie.

  The cast and crew listened to the conversation taking place in the darkened and otherwise empty house.

  “You find me two actresses to play the witches by tonight, the latest tomorrow,” Cranston roared, even though the girl seemed to be standing close by.

  “Yes, sir,” came the meek reply.

  “And I don’t care if they fly in on their brooms from the moon. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Go make the phone calls now, never mind following the light cues. Tell Equity we’ll pay double. Just send us two actresses who know how to act.”

  “Yes sir.”

  And stop saying ‘yes sir’.”

  “No, sir. I mean, yes, sir. I mean--”

  “Just go,” Cranston bellowed.

  There was another sound of thudding feet, this time running from the front of the house to the back.

  “Now then,” crooned the director toward the stage in mock cordiality. “Let’s start the ruddy play from the beginning, shall we? And let’s try to do it in such a way that Shakespeare won’t be spinning in his grave by curtain call.” His voice rose with each word until it reached a crescendo at the end. “Lower the bloody curtain!”

  In utter silence, a stagehand lowered the safety curtain.

  * * * *

  “There’s not much to say about this acting business, is there?” Pop crept to Percy’s side in the one instant neither of them were onstage.

  “It has its drawbacks, Pop. You see that platform I stand on most of the time at the back of the stage? That’s the spot I found Laverne.” She pointed in the direction of the platform now pulled out of sightline from the audience.

  “You mean the one in front of those backdrops that keep going up and down? I’ve never seen so much stuff flying up in the air only to come back down again ten minutes later.”

  “Keep your eye on the platform, Pop, and if anybody’s up there not dressed as a witch, let me know. Someone’s been practicing throwing a dagger from it to center stage, where the troupes fight their battles.”

  “I don’t think I like that much, Persephone, especially as I’m one of the troupes.”

  “Intermission’s coming soon. Let’s talk during the break between Act One and Two. Sir Anthony is starting his ‘If it were done when tis done’ speech.”

  “He’s pretty good. I don’t know what he’s saying half the time, but I believe he means it.”

  “I’m going up the platform soon. I have to wave my arms around and look menacing. I’m supposed to do the first half of the ‘screw your courage to the sticking place’ speech by myself, then the other two witches join me and we cackle together. I’d better go stand by. See you later.”

  Pop grabbed onto her arm and pulled her near. “I don’t suppose you could keep that costume to take Oliver trick or treating in? I’ve never seen such an ugly getup.”

  “Not a chance, Pop.” Percy moved to the back of the side stage, listening to the voices of the onstage actors playing Lord and Lady Macbeth. Though young for the part, the woman was good, Percy decided. You couldn’t tell she was American.

  ‘Prithee, peace:’ Percy heard Macbeth say. ‘I dare do all that may become a man;Who dares do more is none.’

  At her cue to move into place, Percy climbed the darkened steps, trying to maneuver the trailing sleeves and long train out of harm’s way. She stood in place at the end of what she liked to call the ‘diving board’. While she waited to be pushed onstage, she practiced doing threatening gestures with her arms. Yards of material impeded her movements, no matter how hard she concentrated.

  “Persephone, look out! Look out!!”

  Her father’s voice, loud and filled with alarm, broke into her reverie. Percy spun her body around and saw a mammoth archway, usually roped up and attached to the inside wall of the theatre by large hooks, coming at her like a wrecking ball. In that instant, she knew even dropping to the floor of the platform could not save her; it had to be removed from the area when this archway took its place.

  With only the sparse lighting from the stage to guide her, Percy calculated the distance from the side of the platform to the hanging velvet curtains of the wings, three to four feet away. She sprang and tried to wrap her arms around the fabric to get some sort of hold to prevent her falling twenty feet to the floor below. Hampered by the yards of fabric clinging to her body as well as her body weight, she slid down a few feet before her hands got a solid grip. Her face buried in old, grimy velvet, she heard the crash of the heavy wooden archway as it struck the platform like a battering ram. Shattering the platform into smithereens, what was left of it careened onstage. The impact of both large objects caused a slight shudder in t
he area, causing her to momentarily lose her grip and drop down an inch or two more.

  Everywhere around her, Percy heard the screaming of men and women, and then a ripping sound. Overhead, the old and worn material she was clinging to gave in to her weight and tore above her. She began to swing like Johnny Weissmuller in a Tarzan movie. Down, down she went, until she toppled to the floor, buried under yards of heavy cloth.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  By the time Percy was uncovered from pounds of velvet, the show had come to a complete stop and the backstage lights were on. She felt hands pawing at the fabric, pulling and twisting it, often catching the sleeves and bodice of her witch’s gown by mistake. Thoughts of suffocation overtook her until they were surpassed by anger. She fought her way to the top of the mound, and the first face she saw was Pop’s.

  “Persephone! My sweet child,” he said, trying to embrace her.

  “We don’t have time for that, Pop, but thanks for the warning.”

  This encounter with yards of heavy, dusty fabric didn’t help her headache, but she ripped off her putty nose and fake chin, threw them to the ground, and stood straight up. Her stance was unyielding. “Help me get out of this stupid costume, Pop, will you?”

  Perplexed as to how to do it, he took hold of a drape in the sleeve and gave a tug. Elizabeth appeared from nowhere, attaching herself to Percy’s other side.

  “Percy! What happened? Are you all right? Let me help.” She began trying to free the costume from the pile of velvet on the floor. Others stood by, unsure of what to do or even if they should try to help.

  Kyle came running over to her as Percy tore out the neck of the garment, dropped it to the floor, and stepped out, dressed in her white blouse and black pants underneath.

  “Are you okay?” He reached out to steady her, when she had a wobbly moment. She brushed him off.

  “I’m fine. I’m just fine, although you have some cleaning up to do back here.”

  “Who is the person responsible for this?” Kyle yelled in his best stage manager’s voice. “Where’s the set crew?” His fingers snatched at a thick rope overhead still heaving in the dust laden air. “My God, look at that. It’s been cut. Who did this? Who did this?”

  “Never mind,” Percy said, touching him on the arm to get his attention. “You won’t find anyone taking responsibility for this.” She turned to her father and Elizabeth, standing next to one another and whispered. “Pop, go get dressed and meet me in Wainwright’s office. Elizabeth, take what’s left of my costume back to wardrobe, change, and then you meet me in the office, too.”

  Cranston now arrived on the scene, coming from the audience to the back of the stage. He pushed his way through the small crowd.

  “What the hell is going on around here? What happened now?” He looked at the damage done to the shattered archway and the platform beneath, reduced to rubble. “Lord love a duck. This is the end. This is the veritable end.”

  “Not quite,” Percy said in a low voice. “But it will be ended and by me. Come on.” She grabbed hold of the director’s sleeve and pulled him along. She released her grip on him when she saw he trotted alongside her willingly, trying to keep up.

  Without knocking, she barged into the producer’s office. She opened her mouth to speak, but stopped when she saw the faces of Dexter Wainwright and Mavis as they turned to the sound of her entrance. Cranston, too, froze standing beside Percy, when he saw the two others.

  Wainwright was seated, the receiver of the telephone still grasped in his hand, lying on the desk top. His face was ashen. Mavis stood behind him, one hand placed lightly on his shoulder, a tear running slowly down her cheek.

  “What happened?” Percy closed the door after she and the director stepped inside.

  “That was the police,” Mavis said, in a barely audible voice. “Laverne is gone.” She turned away, covering her face with her hands and sobbed into them.

  “Poison,” Dexter said in a dead tone. “Someone put poison into her intravenous tube. They have to do tests, but they think it might be rat poison.” His face took on a puzzled, uncomprehending look. “How would anyone do that? Why would anyone do that?”

  “Posing as a nurse or doctor, most likely,” Percy replied. She didn’t answer the second question, but reached over, took the phone from his hand, and replaced the receiver on the telephone base. “Do they have a time for this?”

  “They said around eight-thirty this morning. What was that noise out there? Did something happen?” He looked from Cranston’s face back to Percy.

  This was a different man than Percy met only the day before. Wainwright seemed beaten down, unable to keep up with or comprehend anything.

  “You could say that,” Percy said. “That big archway stage left came down like a sledge hammer on the Weird Sisters platform. No one was hurt.”

  Mavis dropped her hands, took a sharp intake of breath, and spun around to stare at Percy.

  “The police are coming at two o’clock to begin fingerprinting everyone in the theatre. Oh, my God,” Wainwright said. It was his turn to bury his face in his hands. “I can’t believe this, I can’t believe this.”

  “Believe it,” Percy said. “It will be better that way.”

  Cranston, who had stood quietly by, not uttering a sound, began spewing words. “Dex, we’ve got to close the show. And I want my money back. I gave you twenty thousand dollars in good faith, but we need to close the show, walk away from this, before anyone else gets killed. I want my money back,” he said crossing the room and standing in front of the producer, nervous twitches charging through his body.

  “I’m not returning your money,” the producer said, coming to life. “There is no money to give back. It’s all gone. I’m ruined, ruined.”

  Cranston grabbed the taller man’s jacket collar in a threatening way. “Listen here, you son of a --”

  Wainwright, in turn, took hold of the shorter man. They began to tussle in place, jockeying for the superior position, like two wrestlers in a ring.

  Percy crouched down, stepped in between, and under the men’s interlocked arms. She stood abruptly and brought her own arms up then down, breaking their grip on one another. She faced the director, the shorter man, and gave him a shove into a nearby chair.

  “That’s enough, both of you. You’ve been watching too many George Raft movies.”

  Wainwright pointed a shaky finger at Cranston. “He started it.”

  “Yeah, yeah. We’re not in the school yard now, boys. Sit down, Wainwright. And shut up.”

  Wainwright ignored Percy and remained standing, glaring down at the director.

  “Do what I’m telling you. Sit.” She gave Wainwright a push. He plopped back into the chair at his desk.

  “How can either of you behave like this?” Mavis fisted her hands and dropped them by her side, her body taut with emotion. She looked at both men with contempt on her face. “Laverne is dead. Carlisle is dead.”

  “And somebody tried to kill me just now,” remarked Percy. “And if you don’t mind my saying, I’m taking it personally.”

  “What?” Both men gaped at Percy, saying the word in unison. Mavis drew in a sharp breath.

  Percy looked from director to producer. “You think that arch came down by itself? What are you, delusional?”

  “We’ve got to close the show,” Cranston repeated. “I’m going out there right now and dismissing the cast. Oh my God, my entire savings lost to you, you son of a --”

  “I didn’t tell you to invest with me! You begged me. Forty percent of a show for twenty thousand --”

  Percy moved between the seated men that were precariously close to standing and getting into a skirmish again. “Shut up, both of you.” She raised her voice above theirs. “I’m not telling you again. And make one move out of these chairs before I say so, I slap the two of you silly. You got that?” She glared first at the director, who nodded then to the producer, who leaned back in his chair and looked away.

  �
��Well, I see this projecting your voice thing can get you somewhere. That and the threat of a knuckle sandwich.” She turned to the director and spoke at a more normal level. “Cranston, tell me about your assistant.”

  “My assistant? Thelma?” Cranston appeared flummoxed.

  “Who is she? What do you know about her? How long has she been with you?”

  “Thelma?” Cranston stopped speaking and stared at Percy.

  “Well, at least you know her name. Let’s take it from there.”

  “My regular assistant joined the RAF last summer. When we came to the States, I couldn’t find one decent man for the job. This bloody war,” he muttered.

  “Yeah, it seems to be interfering with a lot of people’s lives,” Percy said.

  “I looked over the resumes of what was left.” Cranston warmed to the subject. “And, frankly, I chose her because she was the cheapest. It comes out of my salary. I don’t know one damned thing about her. Oh, yes. She studied drama at Cornell or some such place. She’s good for bringing me coffee, not much else.”

  “Okay.” Percy took a deep breath. “Here’s what’s going to happen, Mr. Illustrious Director. You’re going to go out there and tell the cast and crew to take a two-hour break and come back at one-thirty to pick up where we left off with the run-through. And you’re not going to mention anything about anybody being fingerprinted. I want the theatre cleared of everyone and all the doors locked, including the front of the house. Nobody stays but me.”

  “The stagehands have to clean up that mess,” protested Cranston.

  “I’ve seen them hustle when they have to. Tell them ten minutes and then out. You got me? Just make the announcement that the show will go on, no matter what.”

  Cranston stared at her in disbelief then let out a scoffing chuckle. “I’m not going to do any such thing. I --”