Upstaged

by Aaron Paul Lazar

  On opening night, officers would be stationed outside the dressing rooms and backstage. I would observe from the front row, during all three shows.

  The orchestra began tuning up. The musicians had a few remaining rough patches to repair, but had been improving steadily and should be ready by Thursday evening. Most of the members were high school band and jazz students, but two adults from the university played the lead guitar and keyboards.

  Siegfried had offered to help with the crew, and now pushed a rolling wagon platform out from under the raised deck overhead. He arranged the chairs and tables to match their tape marks on the floor, and then disappeared behind the silver glitter curtains hanging from the platform above.

  The lights went out and the hall quieted, bristling with anticipation. The orchestra began the overture.

  Someone settled in the seat beside me, but my eyes hadn’t yet adjusted to the dark.

  “Professor LeGarde?” A whiff of whisky filled the air nearby. He leaned close to my ear. “It’s me, Lou Marshall. Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  I hadn’t recognized Marshall’s voice at first. The words slurred together in an alcoholic porridge. I leaned toward him and whispered. “Sure, where?”

  “In my office. It’s a private matter, Professor.”

  The lights went up slowly, illuminating Porter flipping burgers behind the counter. Celeste walked onto the set with her guitar case.

  “Okay, let’s go,” I said.

  Chapter Sixty-Nin e

  W e crept up the aisle and slipped out the door. I held it until it latched so it wouldn’t interrupt the actors on stage, and then turned to glance at Marshall. His flushed face and glazed eyes revealed the most. He stood unsteadily before me.

  “Are you okay, Marshall?” I already knew the answer, of course.

  “Do I look okay?” He scowled and abruptly motioned for me to follow, tottering toward the central office area. The lights in the hallway were off, but a small slit of light glinted from under his office door. He shoved the door open and walked to his desk, vaguely waving his hand at one of the chairs lining the wall.

  “Have a seat, Professor.”

  I dragged a chair toward the desk and sat down. He opened a drawer and pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniels. Next, he filled a small paper cup and pushed it across the desk toward me. Then he filled his coffee mug halfway and took a deep swallow.

  “What’s going on?” I didn’t really want the drink, but I took a sip of the burning liquid anyway, trying to make him feel comfortable. Maybe he’d open up if he considered me a friend. The fire trickled down my throat and settled in my stomach.

  “I’ll tell you what’s going on.” He tilted his chair back and nearly toppled over, caught himself, and righted the chair. “I’m being persecuted. That’s what’s going on.” He took another gulp from his mug and set it down hard on the table.

  “Persecuted?”

  “Yeah. By your friends at the police station.”

  Now it made sense. He must be talking about the court order to open his sealed records .

  Lou leaned forward, placing both palms on his desk. “You’re pretty close to those guys, aren’t you, Gus? Joe Russell, in particular?”

  I settled back in my seat. “Joe and I have become pretty good friends. What’s this all about?”

  Lou sighed deeply. “I need you to ask them to back off. They’re invading a part of my life that’s been dead and buried for decades, and which has absolutely nothing to do with this fiasco, nothing to do with it! I’ve spent the last thirty-five years rebuilding my life, and those cops are about to tear down my family all over again!”

  Marshall screamed the last three words and pushed his body halfway across the desk.

  Adam Knapp stepped into the doorway. “Everything okay in here, gentlemen?”

  I looked at Adam, and then back at Marshall, who was beginning to sputter about prying officials.

  “We’re okay for now, Adam. It’s under control.”

  “Just holler if you need me,” Adam said softly, backing out the door.

  “God-damned-Nosy-Parker-cops!” Marshall slurred the words together as if he was very familiar with the phrase. I suspected he’d been using it frequently over the past weeks.

  I turned back to him. “Do you want to tell me about it, Lou?”

  The use of his first name brought him up cold. He stopped mumbling and looked at me with a sad, hangdog expression. Expelling a long sigh, he lowered his eyes. “If I tell you, and you agree it has nothing to do with this psycho who’s stalking Camille, will you ask them to back off?”

  I looked across the table at the man who held such a prominent position in our community. He served the school well and demonstrated unwavering civic responsibility in many arenas. Lou led the Crop Walk for Hunger for the last three years, was the primary backer for the institution of the Food Pantry in Livingston County, and sponsored many a young cancer victim in Camp Good Days and Special Times. My gut feeling told me that he was a good man, a man who could be trusted.

  “Okay, Lou. If it’s unrelated, I’ll ask them to back off. I can’t guarantee they will, but I’ll try my damnedest.”

  Marshall nodded, laced his fingers together, and focused his bleary eyes on me. He took a deep breath. “My name isn’t Lou Marshall. Mein Name ist Heinrich Grossenmaier. ”

  I had suspected the name change part, but was stunned by his switch to German. I stared at the distraught man. Grossenmaier? The name was vaguely familiar. I tossed it around in my mind, repeating it over and over again. In a few seconds, I had it. It was Elsbeth who had discussed this man with such fire when he was apprehended. Field Marshall Dieter Grossenmaier. Arrested and evicted from Latvia. Tried, convicted, and hanged the year after. The man had been hunted down due to the abominations he had inflicted on the Jews in Buchenwald.

  Buchenwald.

  The name sent shivers down my back. It was the concentration camp where Elsbeth’s mother’s family had been tortured to death. Her mother had barely survived the horrors as a child and had spent the rest of her life trying to overcome the trauma.

  “Good Lord, Lou. Was Dieter Grossenmaier your father?”

  Marshall nodded slowly, unable to meet my gaze. He wiped his fingers across the corners of his eyes, trying to stop the tears that puddled and threatened to spill over. “Yes. He was my father. We were born right after the war. I was the eldest of three. We were raised under the name of Wagner in Latvia and were not told of Father’s connection with the Nazis. When he was discovered in Latvia, we were all deported to Germany, where he was tried and hung. My mother moved us to America. We lived there with her sister. Shortly thereafter, a local journalist discovered our family secret, and we were “outed”, so to speak. That’s when I learned who my father really was.” Lou stopped for a moment to regain control, then went on. “My mother was killed in an anti-Nazi raid on our house. After that, my aunt and uncle changed their names to Marshall, adopted us, and moved the family to Chicago. We became American citizens and started over. I attended college in Rochester and met my wife Daisy during senior year.” He stopped again and met my eyes with burning honesty. “I’ve been trying to atone for that bastard’s crimes ever since.”

  “Oh my God, Lou.”

  He shot a panicked look at me. “She doesn’t know about all this, Gus. Daisy doesn’t know I’m the son of a filthy Nazi.”

  My heart twisted for the man sitting before me. His obsession with philanthropy was now self-evident. “Okay, Lou. Take it easy. I understand. I really do. Let’s see if we can convince Russell to drop the court order and let sleeping dogs lie, okay?”

  Marshall looked at me as if he wasn’t sure he could believe me. He looked ready to pass out.

  I got up and went to his side of the desk. “C’mon, buddy. Let’s get you home. You’re in no shape to drive, anyway.” I helped the unsteady man into his overcoat and walked with him out to the lobby.

  Adam joined us and looked at m
e curiously. “Is he okay?” he mouthed from across the room.

  I left Lou’s side for a minute and spoke to Adam as quietly as possible. “He’s had a little too much to drink, Adam. I’m driving him home. He’s got some pretty heavy baggage to carry, and it’s really tearing him up inside.”

  “Is it about the murder, Gus? Did you learn anything useful?”

  I looked back at the miserable man who slumped against the wall. “No, Adam. It’s not about the murder; it’s got nothing to do with it. He’s not our man. Matter of fact, he’s one of the good guys.”

  Chapter Seventy

  O n the day of opening night, I left the university early and drove to Palmer’s Fish Market in Rochester to buy scallops for dinner. The trip was always worth the drive. On the drive back to East Goodland on Route 390, I turned up the volume on the radio.

  “Expect more of the same this afternoon. Snow showers, up to six inches in the northeast corridor along Lake Ontario. Whiteouts and strong winds will prevail. Temperatures will fall into the teens by evening, with wind chills below zero. Button up, Rochester, winter’s coming! This is Bartholomew Chancellor, from the WRLN Weather Center, saying it’s gonna be a cuddle-up-with-your-sweetie-night.”

  I reached over to turn off the radio.

  What a forecast for opening night. Wind chills of below zero.

  The air temperature had finally warmed in the Outback, although the wipers struggled to clear the snow that pelted and smeared against the cold windshield. I flipped the switch back to defrost, slid off my hood, removed my leather gloves, and checked the time on the console. It was quarter to three.

  I mentally reviewed the schedule for the rest of the day. Home by three-thirty, dinner with Camille and family at four-thirty, drive to the school by six, curtain opens at eight. A flutter of nerves danced in my stomach.

  The sun burst from a cluster of clouds on the western horizon. Shafts of light played over the sugarcoated landscape with heavenly promise. I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw a swirling black veil hovering over Rochester. The landscape brightened considerably as I traveled south along the slippery road. Broad expanses of rolling fields flanked the expressway. The corn and wheat had been harvested months before, and the earth lay barren, waiting for the sweet warmth of spring.

  Small white tornadoes of sparkling snow whirled across the fields. Dozens of mini-cyclones twisted like manic tumbleweeds, flying over the frozen turf. I watched in fascination, plowing through the white drifts that had collected in irregular frequencies between bare patches of pavement.

  A strong gust of wind pummeled the car and pushed it into the passing lane. I struggled to bring it back into the travel lane and gripped the wheel for the rest of the ride home.

  After thirty minutes of battling the snow and wind, I finally turned off the highway. Conesus Lake shimmered from the southeast. A bundle of tumultuous clouds rolled over the valley that cradled the long, narrow body of water. From my high vantage point on the crest of the hill, I could see contrasting patches of black sky next to blue. I figured the bizarre condition was due to a localized lake effect. I stared at the remarkable sky painting; my fingers itching for a camera.

  The cell phone rang, startling me out of my trance. “Yes?”

  “Hi, Gus. Almost home?” Camille’s voice bubbled with excitement.

  “I’m just turning onto Lakeville-Goodland Road. Be there in exactly eight minutes.”

  “Should we start the potatoes? Mrs. Pierce said you wanted the little red ones in the skins?”

  I glanced at the package of scallops that lay on the car seat beside me.

  “Good idea. I’ve got three pounds of fresh bay scallops. They look unbelievable. Just slice the potatoes in their skins and put them under the broiler with a little butter and paprika. I’ll pan fry the scallops when I get home and we can pull together a salad and some green beans if you’d like. Let’s keep it simple, okay?”

  “Sounds good to me, Gus. I’m so excited!”

  “Me, too. By the way, did you remember your photo albums? Johnny’s really looking forward to the pictures. ”

  We both had decided to share some quiet time with the family before bustling off to the show.

  “I’m looking at them as we speak. Pictures of me, when I was young, and Shelby’s baby pictures.” Her voice cracked a little. I knew it was hard for her to talk about Shelby's life before the accident, but she seemed ready to share, and I’d encouraged her, hoping it would be healing for her.

  “Okay, great. See you in a few minutes, Camille.”

  “You bet. Love ya, Gus.”

  “Love you, too,” I said to the dial tone.

  Chapter Seventy-One

  W e sat around the trestle table in the dining room and sipped coffee. They were out of this world. Flavor burst from their light, crunchy coating with an agonizingly delicious taste that transported me back to summers in Maine.

  Lobster rolls. Sandy feet. Suntan lotion.

  We all looked longingly at the empty platter, having collectively decided I should bring home four pounds instead of three next time.

  Johnny squirmed down from his high chair and made a beeline to Camille’s side. “Is it time?” He gave her an impish grin.

  “For what, sweetie?” She rubbed his back and leaned toward him.

  “I wanna see da baby. Opa said you have a baby who’s been sleepin’ for long time.”

  I exchanged sad smiles with Siegfried. Camille had told him about Shelby the previous weekend.

  “Well, Johnny, she’s not a baby anymore, but she has been sleeping for a long, long time. Would you like to look at the pictures now?”

  Johnny nodded vigorously, his long locks bouncing.

  I gently pulled Camille aside. “Are you sure you want to do this?” I circled my arms around and leaned down to kiss her lips.

  She kissed me back and then slid her arms around my waist, laying her head against my chest. “I’m sure. It will be good for me, you know, to talk about her and keep those early memories of her alive.” She looked up at me wistfully, and then smiled through shimmering eyes.

  I hugged her and leaned down into her softly scented curls. “I just worry about you.”

  “I know, Gus. I’m glad you do. ”

  We parted slowly and walked into the great room. The family assembled on the couch around Camille. Freddie and Mrs. Pierce had just returned from taking the babies up to their bedroom for their evening baths and bedtime rituals. I sat on one side of Camille and Johnny sat on Freddie’s lap. Mrs. Pierce settled into the Lincoln rocker with her crocheting, and Siegfried pulled an armchair up to the coffee table across from us.

  “Okay. Well, then, let’s start with the Shelby book.” Camille opened a red bound album. Her voice quivered. “Here’s Shelby when she was just born.” She pointed to a tiny infant in a car seat.

  Johnny sat up straight and looked at the photo with interest.

  Camille turned the page. “And here she is at her first birthday party. Do you like her cake, Johnny? It had kitties on it.”

  Johnny slid from his mother’s lap and moved closer to the picture. He ran his fingers over the picture of the cake. “Mmm. Yum. Is it all gone?”

  Camille laughed and hugged Johnny’s shoulders. “Well, the cake’s been gone for a long time, but I could make you one just like it if it's okay with your mother.”

  Johnny looked happily at Camille. “Now?”

  “Well, not today. But how about next week some time, after the show’s over?”

  “Okay. Who’s dat?” He pointed to a picture in the book.

  “That’s Shelby when she was older. Just before she went to sleep nine years ago.”

  Johnny looked confused. “How many nights is dat?” he asked.

  Siegfried sat forward without a second’s hesitation and answered, “Drei tausend, zwei hundert, funfundachzig.” He shook his head as if in apology. “I mean, three thousand, two hundred and eighty-five.”

  Johnn
y’s mouth dropped open. I looked across the table to my gentle friend, remembering the math genius he’d been at twelve. Brief spurts of the pre-accident Siegfried occasionally burst forth, usually when we least expected it.

  “Will she wake up soon?” Johnny asked.

  He turned his head up to me, but before I could answer, Siegfried looked off in the distance and whispered.

  “Ja . She comes back soon.”

  I had told Camille about Siegfried’s occasional premonitions. He would often predict the outcome of a situation based on his intuitive nature. He had proven to be correct more often than not.

  Siegfried tossed his ponytail over his shoulders and smiled broadly at Camille and Johnny. “We hope. We hope the little girl wakes up soon. Nicht wahr ?”

  “Right.” I squeezed Camille’s hand.

  She squeezed back. “We sure do.” With a brave smile, she flipped to the next page in the album, taking us through the years of pre-school and kindergarten. As always, Johnny asked a thousand questions, and before we knew it, it was time to head up to the school.

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  W hen we reached the school that night, we parked and headed through the falling snow toward the school. Right in front of the entrance a patrol car idled with Joe Russell and Adam Knapp inside. He’d told me earlier that by parking his patrol car right out front, he hoped to deter our would-be murderer from daring to misbehave on opening night.

  Joe lowered his window. “Big night tonight, huh?”

  Camille leaned toward him. “Hi guys. Yeah, we finally made it to opening night.”

  Adam raised a hand in greeting. “Camille, Gus. Break a leg.”

  Camille smiled. “That’s what we say in show biz. Thanks, Adam.”

  Joe added his well wishes, cautioning us yet again. “Be careful. Remember the game plan. Report anything that strikes you as weird or different.”