Waiting For A Star To Fall (Autumn Brody Book 2)

by A. C. Dillon

  "Energizer bunny?" Autumn teased.

  "I'm out of practice. She took my breath away—literally. I was gasping when she let go," Evan confessed sheepishly.

  Autumn and Andrew laughed quietly, much to the dismay of the actors on stage. "Happy to hear it, Loverboy," Andrew whispered. "Now, I suggest we let the show go on."

  Forcing themselves to be silent for the sake of Veronica's professional reputation, they watched as the actors moved into position, each looking to the shadowed figure off-stage for confirmation. The music kicked in and a carefully choreographed struggle ensued between Zach and his fictional brother. As Connor and Camilla looked on in horror, pleading for peace between them, Veronica lunged into the fray. Jonathan took a swing and the retractable blade of the stage knife slammed into her side. Hand pressed to her wound, her expression pained and perplexed, Veronica stumbled backwards and sang—

  That was what was supposed to happen, anyway.

  The first notes from her throat quickly gave way to a scream as a low whistle signaled a spotlight plummeting to the ground. Autumn rushed towards the stage while cast members scattered, fleeing the projectile. Not more than a foot away, Zachary Parsons stood in stunned silence, staring at the shattered glass around his shoes.

  "Is everyone okay?" Autumn asked, glancing from side to side. "V?"

  "F-fine," her friend stammered in a corner.

  Autumn looked to Connor next, registering his nod as reassurance. "Anyone else hurt? The glass flew pretty far."

  "The X," Zachary mumbled.

  "X?"

  Camilla's eyes widened as she edged forward, glancing upwards and then back at the floor. "It marks the spot, as they say."

  Autumn followed her gaze, mapping the trajectory of the fallen equipment. It had, indeed, tumbled directly towards a small white 'X' marked on the stage in tape. With a sickening clarity, she understood now: this was no accident.

  "Zachary, there's glass in your pants," Jonathan observed quietly.

  "Whose mark is that?" Autumn asked. "Where the light fell—who uses that mark?"

  "No one now," Samuel Schatzman replied, emerging from the shadows. "We changed it today."

  "It was mine," Zach blurted out, his eyes boring holes in Autumn. "It was my mark for this scene, until today."

  NINE

  If the police were scoffing at Veronica's stalker before, they certainly weren't now.

  The evening's performance canceled due to "facility concerns", the theatre was crawling with various sundry of professionals: lawyers, insurance adjusters, agents, never mind police. Zachary Parsons, the apparent target of the sabotaged light fixture, had immediately called in a barrage of people to both stroke his ego and demand the capture of the perpetrator. Given his stature in Hollywood (And, most likely, his gender, Autumn thought bitterly), the police had responded with an arsenal of forensics and detectives. Veronica's letter collection was to be seized, along with all archived security footage from the theatre's meager security system.

  "I can't believe this is happening," Veronica mumbled, leaning against Evan's shoulder. "It's like a bad dream that I can't wake up from."

  "It's going to be okay," he replied softly, reaching for her hand. "You're not alone in this."

  Autumn's focus drifted from her friend's immediate need for comfort to the flurry of activity around her. How thorough were the police being? What had they found? It wasn't her business, really, but it had become reflexive. She wanted to know, wanted to gather the evidence and study it.

  Admit it: you have no faith in law enforcement after what happened with Chris.

  Her subconscious had a point: after her ex-boyfriend had decided to come after her in violent fashion, she'd obediently jumped through the myriad of hoops to protect herself from him. Peace bond, check. File charges, check. He'd evaded them for nearly a month. They’d even missed him breaking into another girl's home despite having it under surveillance. So yeah, maybe her faith in police was eroded.

  Curiosity, cats. Insert tired metaphor. She simply couldn't help herself.

  From what she'd managed to overhear, a support bracket in the lighting fixture had been tampered with. The existing screws had been removed, replaced with stripped screws that were rusted over. It wouldn't have taken long, according to an insurance adjuster, for the weight of it to tug free. Hours, at most. The activity on stage and motion of the lights during the matinee had surely brought it to the brink of a fall.

  From the corner of the theatre came a sudden outburst. Autumn felt zero surprise that it was Zachary Parsons creating the commotion. He'd been stomping his feet like a petulant toddler for the last two hours.

  "What do you mean, you need to talk to her first?" he snapped. "I'm the one this psycho tried to murder! Do you have any idea who I am?"

  "I certainly do," a woman in crisp grey slacks responded, her voice calm. "I also know that this is the result of someone preoccupied with Ms. St. Clair. Contrary to what you may think, Mr. Parsons, it makes more logical sense to understand the entire timeline. You'll get your fair share of my attention, I assure you."

  "Fair? You want to talk about fair? How is it fair that he's attacking me because of her?"

  With an upward roll of her eyes belying her exasperation, the woman replied, "Life isn't fair. If you're still struggling to grasp that concept, perhaps you should return to the Mickey Mouse Club and have another go at growing up. Excuse me."

  Studying the confident gait and classic white blouse of the approaching woman, Autumn confirmed her initial suspicions: cop. No uniform, which meant higher rank. And while she didn't necessarily radiate warmth, her features did convey some level of concern for Veronica.

  "Veronica St. Clair? Detective Morgan Barrington, NYPD. I'd like to ask you a few questions regarding the unwanted contact you've had recently with an unknown person."

  "Sure," Veronica assented, rubbing her eyes and sitting upright. "Anything I can do to help."

  Flipping open her notebook, Detective Barrington tapped her pen on the page. "From what the responding officers have provided, you began receiving a series of letters on the opening night of this production. Is that correct?"

  "Yeah. The first one actually came before the performance. It arrived via the production office. It was pretty benign. Nothing unusual."

  "Is it normal for fan letters to precede a performance?"

  "Theatre fans are very devoted. In the case of this show, the anticipation of it being launched led to a huge interest before we even announced the preview dates. I'd received forty letters prior to his first one. I didn't think anything of it."

  Turning over her shoulder, Barrington called out to a uniformed officer nearby. "We took the letters into evidence?"

  "Officer Burke took a car by Ms. St. Clair's home and retrieved the letters stored there. Forensics will be looking at them later for latents."

  "Which reminds me," the detective mused, turning back to Veronica. "Who else has handled the letters, aside from yourself?"

  "My friend, Autumn," she replied, gesturing in the redhead's direction. "Andrew, did you touch any of them?"

  "Hmm... Yeah, I think I did read one of them."

  Barrington made a note in her book. "We'll have to fingerprint all of you then, just in case we do find latents on the letters. I suspect that our perp's too smart for that, given that the envelopes aren’t sealed, but we'll try anyway. Everyone slips up eventually."

  "I certainly hope so," Veronica mumbled, clearly despondent.

  "Now, there was also a gift delivered to you here at the theatre? When was this?"

  "Yesterday, during the evening performance. Shoes..." Veronica gasped. "Oh! I just remembered: there was another letter today."

  Evan’s hand shot out, rubbing Veronica’s arm. "Another one? Why didn’t you tell me?"

  "I didn’t get a chance to. I found it in my drawer before the matinee. He wrote it to go with the shoes, I guess."

  "And where is this letter now?" Barringto
n interjected.

  "I kicked it under my dressing table." Seeing the woman's puzzled expression, Veronica threw her hands up in the air. "I was fed up! I am fed up. It was inappropriate and disgusting and I didn't want to see it again."

  With a snap of her fingers, Barrington called over another officer. Judging from the way he obeyed, Autumn suspected that she commanded a great deal of respect or fear (maybe both) from her colleagues. Given her youthful appearance—no more than thirty-three at her estimate, her hair cut in a runway-ready, chin-length shag—Autumn was impressed.

  "Carpenter, could you please ensure forensics collects a letter from beneath Ms. St. Clair's dressing table? It's vital to this investigation."

  "On it," Carpenter replied, moving to consult with the nearby member of the Crime Scene Unit.

  More notes. Scribble, scribble, scribble. Autumn hated this part most of all in dealing with cops. It all felt so bloody impersonal. Like a matter of life or death could be boiled down to a few simple words on a page.

  "Aside from your professional life, what is your relationship with Zachary Parsons?"

  Veronica groaned. "Absolutely nothing. The guy's a leech. Don't believe everything you hear in the gossip rags, Detective," she added, seething.

  Barrington rocked back slightly on her heels, mulling this over. "Gossip, hmm? So there's been some speculation about the nature of your relationship?"

  Lowering her voice, Veronica leaned closer. "Yeah, all thanks to some blurry photo from TMZ. All they managed to capture was Zach drunk as shit, attempting to grab my ass while asking me if my vagina was as tight as my choreography. He's a pig."

  Andrew quickly moved to restrain Evan, who was halfway to his feet before being slammed back down into his seat. "He did what?"

  Veronica immediately placed a hand on his arm, her tone intended to soothe. "Evan, calm down. Samuel threatened him with a formal complaint of sexual harassment and being removed from the show. He's been blissfully distant and begrudgingly professional ever since."

  "I'm sorry; Evan, is it?" Barrington asked. "And you are...?"

  "My boyfriend," Veronica replied. "We were on a break until recently. Long distance is a bitch," she added, trying to keep it light.

  Autumn, however, saw the wheels turning in Barrington's mind. Oh, hell. If she catches wind of why they were on a break... Hadn't Autumn pointed out herself that his behaviour of late had been unusually clingy and possessive?

  But he's been depressed.

  And now he was here, right at Veronica's side to play hero, just as her stalker took matters to a whole new level.

  It's Evan!

  And who had nearly been cracked in the skull with a heavy lighting fixture? Zachary Parsons.

  Autumn, it's Evan. Big brother Evan... who once slugged a guy for sexually harassing his girlfriend.

  "Do you live in New York as well, Mr....?"

  "Kowalczyk," he replied, shaking his head. "Toronto, like Autumn and Andrew."

  And you only arrived today, the same day things turned physical. Autumn shook herself, forcing the increasingly horrifying train of thought out of her head. It was ludicrous to even believe that Evan could be capable of stalking Veronica. But he had opportunity, didn't he?

  I can't even say for certain when he got here, or whether he went anywhere else prior to arriving at the hotel. Veronica's show was only blocks from where she and Andrew were staying; it was a major reason he'd booked that specific hotel for their trip.

  Barrington's barrage of questions continued, but Autumn lost her focus on the exchange. A flicker of light from the periphery drew her attention to her right, where a young man stood, perhaps age twenty at most. Dressed in police attire, she thought little of him at first—until a Crime Scene Unit investigator walked through him.

  Fuck!

  "Is something wrong?" Detective Barrington asked her.

  The spectre waved her closer, gesturing backstage.

  "I... I don't feel well. Anxiety," she blurted out quickly. "I just need the restroom."

  "Did you want me to come with you?" Andrew asked.

  "No, it's okay. I just need to splash water on my face," she insisted, rising to her feet. "Be right back."

  Autumn inwardly cursed herself for the words as soon as they'd escaped her lips. Be right back? Jesus, Autumn, are you trying to die in a horror movie? Steeling herself with a slow inhale of air, she forced herself to approach the ghost waiting for her near the stage.

  Who the hell are you? she wondered, studying his clothing further.

  The uniform was definitely police, but on closer inspection, she realized it didn't quite match up with the other officers on scene. His hand raised slowly, wiping at his brow and holding out a translucent palm. Make-up. You're an actor. Were.

  The man nodded, moving away down the corridor she knew well. It was the primary access to the dressing rooms, as well as the restroom she was claiming to require. Reluctantly, she followed, brushing a bead of sweat away from her forehead. She passed the occasional forensics specialist, nodding to them in greeting. Calm. Casual. When the bathroom appeared on her left, she dove inside, locking the door and slumping against the sink.

  What the hell am I doing here?

  Oh, right: she was following ghosts again, without any extenuating circumstances like a pursuing killer to blame. Andrew would be furious if he knew she was allowing this... man to lead her around. Turning on the tap, she splashed cool water over her skin, allowing the droplets to cascade and fall from her chin into the white porcelain basin.

  Why am I doing this?

  "You know why."

  Startled, she slammed her knee against the cupboard as she spun around, facing the source of the male voice. Her very own Casper was standing behind her, somewhat amused by her fear. If she thought there was any point, she would have slapped him.

  "You don't need to speak out loud," he continued. "I'm in your head."

  Obviously, since you're clearly a delusion.

  "She warned me that you'd resist. You're fun." He folded his arms over his chest, smirking at Autumn as she fumbled behind her and shut off the water.

  She?

  "Louise. Look, do you want my help or not?"

  Autumn nodded reluctantly, despite her better judgment. If this... being... could either confirm her worst fears about Evan or, better still, exonerate him, she needed his help.

  "Before you ask, I don't know who did it. I only know who didn't."

  I don't understand.

  "I only come out mid-afternoon. I'm trapped in limbo between Wednesday shows." Pulling up the sleeve of his uniform, he revealed a series of jagged lines on his left wrist. "It was my last day in the role. I didn't take it very well."

  Autumn winced, her fingers tracing the faint lines upon her own skin. While she'd ultimately never tried to die that way, she'd once run a razor lightly over her skin, longing to feel something different than fear. With a knowing look, he shoved the polyester sleeve back into place and steeled himself against her concerned look.

  "If I help you, I need you to do me a favour," he continued.

  Of course. I'm the Servant of the Dead. Lucky me. Autumn huffed angrily, turning towards the door.

  "It's nothing big!" he insisted, reaching out for her shoulder. As he made contact, a sharp chill ran through her spine. Her teeth chattered as she slumped against the sink for support.

  What do you want? she pleaded silently.

  "It's my mother's birthday tomorrow. She died two years after I... No one brings her flowers."

  His hand fell away from her and she inhaled sharply, reluctantly facing him again. Okay, she agreed. I can do that. Now, tell me what you know.

  "I'll show you," he replied, gesturing to the door. Autumn stepped aside, allowing him to pass through it before opening the door for herself.

  With trepidation, Autumn followed her companion, taking care to remain as casual as possible. They were entering a far more congested area of the theatre now: much
of the forensics recovery was centred on Veronica's dressing room and the stage door, where it was presumed the saboteur had entered. A few eyebrows were raised in her direction, but she ignored them.

  Fake it 'til you make it.

  Pausing in front of Veronica's dressing room, Officer Casper gestured to the floor with a cocky grin. "Your friend is innocent. Newark can verify it."

  Bending over slowly, feigning scratching her bare ankle, Autumn's fingers carefully slid the rectangle of cardstock-quality paper towards her shoe. Hoping no one would spot her, she flipped it over, immediately recognizing the significant of it and the hidden slip of paper beneath it.

  Evan's boarding pass... and his Newark shuttle ticket. He got here exactly when he phoned me. Which means he hasn't had time to mess with that rig. It was so obvious now that her paranoia had gotten the better of her. The shuttle had arrived at Penn station only twelve minutes prior to his call from the lobby. He had no opportunity to take a detour.

  Of course Evan didn't do it, she chastised herself.

  "I died in December, 1991," Casper whispered, evaporating into thin air.

  As Autumn rushed back to her friends, evidence in hand, she realized that if she had made the leap to questioning Evan's involvement, Detective Barrington would surely do the same. And really, Autumn couldn't blame her: from her own knowledge of stalking behaviour, jilted ex-lovers were common perpetrators. Hell, they'd just had to restrain him from attacking Zachary Parsons!

  Evan's in trouble. I have to make this right.

  One brief survey of the scene unfolding in her absence affirmed her fears: Evan is being accused. Her friends were arguing fiercely with the Detective, Evan's gestures erratic and doing nothing to dissuade her from thinking him unstable and potentially violent. Veronica, in turn, was torn between disbelief and the dread of the last few weeks.

  "I just got here today!" Autumn heard him snap. "Someone's been delivering letters for weeks. This is ridiculous!"

  "Wouldn't be the first time someone employed another to handle the physical work of a crime," Barrington countered coolly.