Persephone Cole and the Halloween Curse

by Heather Haven

  “Does the connecting door have a lock on your side?” Percy walked past the actor and back into his dressing room. He followed.

  “Not that I know of. I haven’t seen one. I never thought of anyone coming in that way.”

  Percy picked up a small wooden chair with a high back and crammed it under the door knob. She tried pulling the door open several times but it stayed firmly in place.

  “You’re scaring me, fiery Persephone,” Sir Anthony said, after watching her for a spell. “Why all these precautions?”

  “Let’s just say I like the way you do the ‘I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more is none’ speech. You’ve got a knack with words.”

  “Why, you care, my sweet girl.” He advanced toward her.

  “Just lock the door and keep your pants on. You never know when you’ll have to make a hasty exit.” She turned to leave his dressing room.

  “One more thing, oh daughter of Zeus,” Sir Anthony called after her. “You do know Wainwright has the production insured for a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. If anything happens of a catastrophic nature and this show comes to a grinding halt, he gets that lovely bundle of money.”

  Percy stopped in her tracks and turned around, then walked back to the actor standing in the doorway. “I thought if something happened and the production didn’t get mounted, it would revert back to you.”

  “That’s only if I’m still alive, dear girl, only if I’m still alive.”

  “You know he sold Cranston forty percent of the show.” Percy watched the actor closely. “Why would he do that if he was trying to close it?”

  “Did he?” The actor’s answer was smooth. “I couldn’t say. You must ask him.”

  “Is that standard? An insurance policy like that? How’d you find out?”

  “It’s been done.” The actor transferred the purring cat from his arms to one shoulder. He held it like a child. “But could he collect? That’s another thing.”

  “Why wouldn’t he be able to collect? This is a fascinating discussion, Sir Anthony. You seem to know a lot more than you’ve been spilling.”

  “In answer to your question about how I know, the man told me. It was his way of warning me off, to try to make me to stop disrupting the production. But if it’s proven he incapacitated his own production, then, of course he couldn’t collect, could he?” He rubbed the cat’s neck.

  “So which way is it? In your considered opinion,” Percy challenged. “And enough with the cat, already. Put him down and talk to me.”

  With gentle hands, Sir Anthony removed the cat from his shoulder, dropped it to the floor of his dressing room, and closed the door. Leaning against it, he turned back to Percy, with a more serious expression on his face.

  “You mean, is there really an insurance policy? I can’t say I’ve seen the documents, but I wouldn’t put anything past that prick. Over-insure a production then sabotage it to prevent it from opening, sounds a lot like the Dexter Wainwright I’ve come to know and despise.”

  “So you say. Or is this feud on the up and up? Possibly you’re in this together. You both sabotage the production, each sending up a smoke screen for the other. In the end, he gets the one-hundred and fifty grand and you get your production back. Almost a win-win situation for everyone except the dead.”

  “Why, Persephone, what fire in your eyes as you say that. One would almost believe you thought me capable of such dastardly deeds.”

  They stood for a moment in a face-off, Sir Anthony wearing a smirk and Persephone with a cool detachment. She was the first to break off.

  “I’m beginning to see that you are in every way Dexter Wainwright’s equal. And I do not mean that as a compliment, your nibs.” She turned on her heel and strode away.

  “You’ve hurt me to the quick, oh fiery goddess,” he called after her.

  I’ll hurt you someplace else, if you push me too far, Percy thought, but kept walking back to the office.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  She slammed the office door behind her, the sound reverberating in the silent theatre.

  Control yourself, Percy. Maybe that’s what he wants, to throw you off your game. Everybody’s got an angle.

  She rubbed her forehead, the ache inside her head increasing with her annoyance. Reaching inside her pocket, she pulled out a small bottle of aspirin and downed two, swallowing them with the tepid tea.

  This damned headache. I can’t let it interfere with my thinking. Where was I? Oh, yeah. If his nibs is to be believed, Wainwright has kept something from you once again, and it ain’t something small. I’m going to punch that son of a bitch in the nose one of these days, just to hear it break. Stop, Percy. Leave that delicious thought for later. Okay, take a deep breath.

  She did and felt better. Was the aspirin working so fast? Probably not. Sometimes just the idea of something helps.

  Why would Wainwright hire you if he was doing this to himself? To give him more credibility, of course. If the insurance company contested payment, he could say he even brought in a private detective to find the culprits. That means if you don’t solve this, your career might be over before it starts.

  Okay, so after that dandy thought, what do you know; what are the facts? Two people have died, four if you count the ones from the uptown fire two weeks ago. Someone sent threatening letters, maybe to even more people than have stepped up to the plate. There could be a lot more. In fact, maybe every cast member got one. If I don’t get a break soon, I’ll talk to the remaining actors and see what I can learn.

  Next, Felicity Dowell. If she is to be believed, someone tried to poison her then run her down with a truck. Maybe true, maybe not. Maybe she’s taking advantage of what’s been going on around here. It could be a ploy on her part to get out of her contract and into working with Lawrence Oliver. I can see it. He’s a little on the short side, but he can put his shoes under my bed anytime.

  Don’t get off the track, Percy. Keep your Libido in check. Aspirin working. Good.

  Okay. For the moment, let’s say I believe all these things happened exactly the way people say they did. That means this has been well-planned, far-reaching, and gone on for awhile. Done by one person, it would be tough. If it is Wainwright, he had to have had help. He doesn’t strike me as a guy that likes to get his hands dirty.

  But who? Could be his new partner, Hugo Cranston. Forty percent of a hundred and fifty grand is not a bad return on twenty thousand bucks. Or another candidate is his seemingly mortal enemy, Sir Cat Lover. This feud thing could be an act to throw us off. All three have access to everything in the theatre, any time, night or day. Huge buckos is usually the number one motive.

  But if it ain’t the bucks, then there are the two daughters of Jacob Cohen. Vendetta with a capitol ‘V’. From what I know, they have plenty of reason to want to do more than punch Wainwright in the nose. If they’re in the theatre, they too, have access to just about everything.

  Motive and access. It comes down to that either way. So, Persala, as Mrs. Goldstein would say, don’t let anyone throw you off with their emotional claptrap.

  A knock on the door interrupted her wrangled thoughts.

  “Come on in.”

  Percy was glad of the interruption and looked toward the door. Wainwright, Pop, and Elizabeth walked inside.

  “You can see he’s safe and sound,” Pop indicated the producer. “Here’s what you asked for from the glove compartment of the car.” Wrapped in a white towel, he handed her the German Mauser pistol brought back by her uncle as a souvenir of World War One. “You be careful now.” Pop’s tone was pointed.

  “I don’t mean to be rude,” said Wainwright, in a churlish tone, “but I need to use the Gents. Am I allowed to go to the john?”

  “Not alone,” Percy replied. “Pop, you want to go with him?”

  ”Come on, fellow.” Pop moved toward the door. “We’ll be right back, ladies.”

  Percy nodded, setting the towel and its holding on the table besi
de her.

  “Elizabeth.” Percy turned to the petite actress hovering in the doorway. “Come on inside. I’d like your help with a few things.”

  “Me?” Elizabeth looked flustered. “What could you possibly want with me? Don’t I have to get ready for the run-through?”

  “Not yet. Nobody else is back. Sit down.” She gestured to the chair opposite her in the small room. “I’ve been going through the files, Elizabeth, and I see that you’re listed as Elizabeth Henning, a woman who was raised in an orphanage in Glasgow. That’s in Scotland.”

  “I..I…” Elizabeth stuttered and then stopped.

  “You told me you were born in East London and that your ‘mum’ said to take refuge where you could get it. We have a few discrepancies here.”

  Elizabeth never looked into the older woman’s eyes, but licked her lips several times, saying nothing.

  “I want to see your passport. I know you have one. You can’t get into this country without it. You’re going to have to show it to the cops soon enough, anyway, unless I can solve this. Tell me the truth. Maybe I can help you.”

  “No, no, why? I ain’t done nothing. They can’t…I can’t…Oh, sweet Jesus.” She grabbed Percy’s hand in hers, tears spilling from her eyes.

  “Please don’t let them send me back to England. I hate it there. It’s ever so much nicer here.”

  “Who’s passport is it, Elizabeth? Or is that even your name?”

  Elizabeth dropped Percy’s hand and threw herself back in the chair. When she spoke her voice sounded tired and far away.

  “Elizabeth is my true name, but nothing else.” She shivered, as if suddenly cold, and closed her eyes. “It was right after the Blitz. There were so many bombs. They kept falling for hours. I’ll never forget it; the falling bombs, the explosions, the people screaming.” She cupped her hands over her ears, as if trying to block out the sounds. After a moment, she went on in a monotone.

  “Mum and me, we ran to a shelter in the middle of the night. When we come back the next morning, the whole block was gone. I couldn’t even tell where our flat had been. Mum got taken in by some rich old bitty she worked for. She could sleep in a little room off the kitchen, the larder. There wasn’t room for me. That night I went back to dig through the rubble, trying to find my best shoes. That’s when I seen her purse with this passport in it, didn’t I? Elizabeth “Betty” Henning from Glasgow; same first name as me. Not much older. And she looked like me, too, at least, on her passport. I never saw her… alive.” Elizabeth gulped after the admission.

  “Her hand was sticking up from under some bricks about three feet away from where I was digging. Looked right eerie in the moonlight. But I dug for her ‘til me own hands were bleeding, trying to save her. She were as dead as you can be. There was some money and a third class ticket on the Oceana in the purse. I found her journal, too, saying she’d saved up enough money to go to New York. She wanted to be an actress, you see. She don’t have no next of kin, said so right there on the passport. If anyone asked, I was going to tell them I was sent to London after I was born. Nobody asked.” She shrugged. “So I took over her life; mine were so bloody awful. I tried to do a Scottish accent in the beginning, but I ain’t much of an actress.”

  “I think you’re pretty good, Elizabeth, when you concentrate.” Percy smiled at her.

  “I’m a damn sight better than you,” Elizabeth said, wiping her eyes and returning Percy’s smile. “You going to squeal on me?”

  “No.” Percy paused. “Elizabeth, living a lie is tougher than you think, but I’ll keep your secret for you.”

  Elizabeth thought about it then nodded. “I wouldn’t a done it if we didn’t have the same first name. It seemed like fate. “You know, ‘what’s in a name?’ What’s the rest of that quote? Romeo and Juliet, innit?”

  Percy smiled. “Actually, the meaning is just the opposite. ‘What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell —’” Percy broke off speaking and slowly rose from the chair, her face showing a sudden comprehension. “I have been so stupid. Of course."

  The office door banged opened and Pop staggered in holding his head. Wainwright was nowhere in sight.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Elsie, it’s now or never. Everything we’ve been working for might come to a crashing halt thanks to that fat woman detective. At first, I didn’t think you were right about her but now I see. She’s not as stupid as she looks. We need to stop her then do what we planned from the beginning. The cabinet was locked, but I broke the glass. The two daggers are mine. Meet me in the secret place, but be careful. This is for father and mamma and all that was ours. Now is the time. Evelyn

  Chapter Thirty-four

  “Pop! What happened?” Percy jumped up and ran to her father, who was leaning against the door frame for support.

  “Are you all right?” Elizabeth stood and took a step toward him.

  “I’m all right. I don’t know what happened,” he mumbled. “Somebody snuck up behind me and hit me on the head in the men’s room. I was standing there talking to Wainwright and --”

  “Where is he, Pop?” Percy stepped out in the hallway, looking both ways.

  “I thought maybe he was back here. I was only out for a minute or two.”

  “You better sit down, Pop, while I go look for him.” Percy picked up the white towel and unwrapped the Mauser.” Elizabeth let out a gasp when she saw the gun. “Elizabeth, lock the door behind me and call the cops. Tell them to get down here right away. Take care of Pop, too.”

  “No siree bob. I’m going with you.” Pop shook his head, as if to clear it, and stepped out the door, heading back to where he came from.

  “Just a second,” Percy called out. She ran to Ned’s hole in the wall then checked the back stage entrance of the theatre, as well. She came back to her father’s side. “Ned’s not there and the door is locked. Whoever else is in here has a key. We don’t know where they are.”

  They both stood motionless for a moment assessing their surroundings. The theatre was still. Only the work lights illuminated necessary areas, such as stairs and pathways. Other parts of the theatre seemed recessed, mysterious in their gloom. It was the perfect place for all types of chicanery to happen.

  “Whatever we’re going to do, Persephone, we need to do it quietly. I don’t like this.” Pop’s voice was barely a whisper.

  “Me neither.” Percy answered in kind. “Did you check the bathroom stalls before you came back to the office, just in case?”

  Pop nodded.

  Before Percy could say more, they heard a noise overhead, maybe a cry, mixed in with the echoes and creaks of the old theatre. A smattering of dust rained down on upstage center, directly under where the catwalk soared above.

  Father and daughter looked up and then back at each other.

  “I’ll climb up this set of rungs, Pop.” Still whispering, Percy pointed to the rungs a few feet away. “You take those on the other side of the stage. Be careful, Pop. Be quick but as quiet as you can be. Maybe we can surprise whoever’s up there.”

  Pop nodded. “That’s why I always wear rubber-soled shoes, just like I taught you. Be careful with that weapon, child.” He gestured to the pistol in her hand. “I don’t care if you are a better shot than me.”

  “Safety’s on, Pop.”

  He nodded again before taking off on silent feet and dashing across the stage.

  Percy tucked the Mauser in the waistband at the back of her pants and began her climb. At one point, not even half way up, her hands became so sweaty, her fingers started to slip on the metal. She paused for a second, wrapped one arm around the inside of the rungs, while she wiped her hand off on her pants then repeated the process with the other hand. Starting the climb again, she had a serious talk with herself.

  Calm down, Percy. Think about Oliver and taking him trick or treating. And you need to get him a stuffed parrot. These are the important things. And not getting killed. Concentrate on not gett
ing killed.

  At the top of the ladder, Percy swung her foot over to the catwalk and turned on her flashlight. In its sharp beam of light, she caught two men and a woman in a dramatic scene at the heart of the walk. The tall man in the middle was leaning backward over the low railing, near the point of toppling over the side, as he tried to get away from a dagger at his throat.

  “Evelyn!” Percy called out to the stage manager, in a loud and authoritative voice. “I know who you are. Your name is Evelyn Cohen, not Kyle. And you’re the son of Jacob Cohen. In England, Evelyn is not an uncommon first name for a boy. Next to you is your sister, Elsie, not your girlfriend. Everything is out in the open, Evelyn. It’s over.”

  The stage manager turned around at the sound of her voice, waving the dagger, the steel glinting in the light of Percy’s torch. The producer dropped down to the floor of the catwalk. Sobbing, he covered his head with his arms in a protective manner.

  “I admit it.” Percy moved closer. “You had me going with your first name. I thought I was looking for the two daughters of Jacob Cohen, instead of a brother and sister.”

  On the other side of him, Elsie aka Alice, continued to wield her dagger, but in a less aggressive manner. She took her attention off Wainwright and looked at Percy.

  “Go away,” the assistant wardrobe mistress cried. “Leave us alone.”

  “Can’t do that, Elsie.” Percy continued to walk slowly toward them. “You’ve been a bad girl.” She focused on the stage manager. “And he’s been a bad boy. Evelyn, throw the dagger down. It’s no use. Like I said, I know everything.”

  “You know nothing,” Evelyn said, spittle spraying from his mouth. Even from this distance, his frenzied agitation and the intensity of his anger seemed to pump through him like an electrical charge.

  “Yes, I was his son and heir. I was set to inherit everything until him.” Evelyn pointed with the dagger to the crouching producer. Evelyn began to sob. “He poisoned our father. And because of him, our precious mamma jumped to her death. Now he’s going to jump to his. He destroyed our family. We lost everything.” The sobs turned to screams of rage. “He has to die. So you back off, lady.”