“Same thing I’ll do. I’ll live with it a while. Build it into myself. Understand a little more, grow a little more. Look at it again a year from now.”
The quick glance she gave him this time had a touch of resentment. “Use it for one of your damn emotional memories.”
“Maybe. That doesn’t make it any less genuine, you know.”
Jim’s voice, muffled, echoed down from the floor above, and they heard footsteps approaching the stairs. They stood up, and Nick smiled at her and blew her a quick kiss. She turned and went up the stairs, head bowed. Jim and Judy passed her on their way down.
Nick went into the greenroom. Rob, still in his tights, was inspecting the stuffed effigy Paul had started. He put it down.
“Safe to use the stairs now?” he asked mildly.
They looked at each other. “Sure,” said Nick.
“Well played, Uncle.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that, from an expert.”
Rob shrugged. “Not so expert at that stage. I specialize in nipping such fancies in the bud.”
“Wish I had. How?”
“I use the occasional flash of unmotivated viciousness. Keeps down ninety percent of them.”
They looked at each other again. The cut on Rob’s cheek had faded to a dusky red line. Nick found himself feeling very sympathetic toward this bright handsome man. Clearly being godlike had its disadvantages. He said, “Cruel only to be kind.”
“Well…” Rob shrugged again and started for the stairs. The pleasant face was weary. “One does what one must. Let us all ring fancy’s knell.”
“Ding dong bell,” said Nick.
Lisette had come down to join Nick, and the two of them were starting up the stairs to the exit when Cheyenne’s angry voice exploded through the stairwell.
“What the shit is this?”
He was in the scene shop. Nick and Lisette hurried down through the greenroom again and found him staring at the big double door that led into the stage. On it was taped a cheap target for a dart game, and on the target was Lisette’s photograph, tinted in rings to match the background.
In the center of the target, a steel-tipped dart had been pushed carefully through the pupil of her left eye.
“Damn,” said Maggie. She and Ellen appeared behind them.
Nick strode over to the door, pulled out the dart, and ripped down the target. Cheyenne said, “What the hell is going on?”
“Somebody around here thinks it’s a big joke to abuse Lisette’s photos,” explained Nick.
“Goddamn it! You mean there were others?”
“Several,” Maggie told him. “At first they were tucked in with her personal things.”
“Jesus! Fucking amateurs!”
Lisette said, “Don’t get upset, Cheyenne. It’s not so terrible.”
“You sound like a goddamn amateur yourself,” he said.
“Yeah. Professionals do their hating after hours,” said Nick. “But look, this is probably just some unhappy kid, Judy or one of her friends, maybe. We’ll be gone at the end of the term and everyone can get back to normal.”
Cheyenne stared opaquely at the spot on the door where the target had been taped. After a moment he said, “I’m not going to graduate people under my signature unless they know what comes first in this business. We’ll set a trap.”
“We tried that,” said Maggie. “We gave Lisette a big gaudy gift box and pretended to leave it unattended. We thought the joker would put his latest effort there.”
“What happened?”
“Worked like a charm,” said Nick, “except that the person watching, namely me, looked away for a couple of minutes and missed seeing whoever it was. And then I gave the game away by chasing after the joker and not even coming close.”
“So now this creep knows you’re watching.”
“Right,” said Maggie. “And it’s sort of worked. It’s been weeks since the joker has touched Lisette’s personal things.”
“So you’ve managed to push this person into crapping up the whole theatre now.”
“A spreading cancer,” said Nick. He had to agree with Cheyenne; it was pure luck that only Ellen and the designer had stumbled across the jokes, now that they were being left in public places. But he found himself angered by the lack of human concern for Lisette’s feelings.
Cheyenne stood for a moment, hands in pockets, frowning. Then he said abruptly, “We need a better trap. I’ll tell Brian. But here’s what we’ll do.”
Twelve
The Thursday rehearsal was supposed to be the last complete run-through before spring vacation, but Cheyenne had announced that it was the only time he could get the floorcloths painted, so the actors would have to work elsewhere. Brian, grumbling a little, finally announced a line rehearsal in the upstairs room they had used before. Ellen had arrived a minute or two early to find Nick playing a cocktail-bar tango and Rob dancing with the Uncle Sam effigy. He had removed its hat and borrowed a rehearsal skirt from Laura’s stock for it to wear. Everyone was giggling as he stared deep into its flat painted eyes and dipped and whirled it suggestively around the room. Overgrown children, thought Ellen. She noticed that her mouth was smiling and straightened it out firmly. The last chords sounded, and Rob bowed gravely to his stuffed partner, tucked a fake flower behind its ear, and then ran out to dump it heartlessly in the hall.
Brian and Cheyenne came in a minute later. “Ellen,” said Brian, “Cheyenne wants to go over the book with you for light and sound cues. Why don’t you do that now? Judy can manage the line rehearsal.”
“Okay,” said Ellen, and left. She was glad for the excuse. Ignoring Jim was much harder in the small room.
Cheyenne led the way downstairs and into the stage area. As they passed the pin rail, he adjusted a couple of the tied-off ropes. In contrast to Blithe Spirit’s arrangement, tonight the framing velours were pulled up very high; at the moment, even the front teaser, which formed the top of the proscenium arch, was flown high. Below, the damp floorcloth was spread across the stage. They went down the side steps and through the auditorium, then upstairs to the light booth behind the balcony.
“Hi, people. All set?” asked Maggie.
“Right. Kill ‘em,” said Cheyenne. Maggie pushed a couple of switches, and the stage and house were thrown into a velvety darkness broken only by the red glow of the exit signs.
“Well,” said Maggie, “we’ve got time. Let’s go over these cues.” They settled down to work, writing the proposed light and sound cues into Ellen’s master book. They were in the fourth act when Maggie suddenly stood, eyes fixed on the stage. Ellen and Cheyenne followed suit.
High above the stage, a glimmer had appeared. Someone had opened the upper door to the catwalks, the door Nick had once stumbled through. With the velours pulled high, they could see the light-rimmed edge.
Ellen, squinting, tried to make out what was happening. It looked like the silhouette of a tremendously fat child pushing its way slowly onto the catwalk. No, not a child, an adult bent over. Pulling something bulky. The door closed again, and she could see nothing. Then another light appeared, a flashlight beam. It gave her glimpses of folds of pale fabric, curly brown hair, glossy paper. Then, briefly, the beam hit the grid above, searching, and settled on a spot lower down, near the catwalk. The top of a sandbag, hooked to a flying harness. They watched a rope push through the hook while the light bobbled, then switched off.
“Crap,” said Cheyenne admiringly. “We were right.”
“Too bad Rob and Nick can’t see this,” muttered Maggie. “Should be spectacular.”
The light glimmered twice more, but Ellen could not make out what was happening. Then the beam shot across the stage, and below the catwalk level it caught motion, something swinging, something with brown curls.
Maggie hit the switches, and the stage flared into sudden noon. It was a repellent scene. Slowly, rhythmically, the body in the long cream-colored dress swung back and forth, its neck in a crude noose t
hat hung from the flying harness, its head at a grotesque angle. The face, smiling a dead smile, was Lisette’s.
On the catwalk, staring up at the lights in shock, stood Laura.
The tableau lasted only an instant. Then she reached down to her bag on the catwalk, jerked out a sheaf of pages, and fumbled for a moment. A cigarette lighter. She was lighting the papers.
“What the hell?” said Cheyenne.
Laura ran toward them on the catwalk, the blazing roll of papers held high like a torch, her eyes intent on something high on the wall beside the proscenium opening.
“Merde!” Maggie wrenched open the door and was gone, crashing through the doors that led back down to the auditorium.
“Fuck!” Cheyenne followed her out, but he ran the other way, toward the fire exit to the outdoors.
Bewildered, Ellen stayed in the booth. What was worrying them? The body still swung, but that was no problem. Even from here you could see it was only Paul’s Uncle Sam effigy, outfitted now with Lisette’s mad-scene costume, a brown wig, and Lisette’s smiling photo for a face. Unpleasant but harmless. Laura was out of sight now, but that was no problem either. They knew now who it was; they could always find her later.
Maybe she meant to start a fire.
But even that wouldn’t be a major problem, would it? The sprinkler system would come on, the asbestos curtain would fall, and no major damage could occur. Yet Maggie was flying down the aisle toward the stage as though a life depended on it.
In the next instant calamity fell. Ellen heard the hiss of water, the first clanging bell, saw the fire curtain plummet before Maggie could get up the steps past it. Without breaking stride, Maggie shifted direction, up the side stairs to the outside exit. Ellen realized that no one could get into the stage area now; it was sealed off, though Laura could use the emergency bar of the catwalk door to escape. And the bells were ringing, and water was sluicing down. Ellen came to her senses, hit the stage-light controls to turn off the power. Theatre lights were not made for immersion.
In the clanging darkness, she fumbled her way downstairs. Only the emergency lights were still burning. She stumbled out to the parking lot. Cheyenne was there, giving a last twist to a big outdoor water valve and cursing. The actors and crew members were pouring out onto the lot from other exits, calling questions to each other above the clangs. As Ellen hurried toward them, sirens screamed. A campus police car skidded into the lot, and just behind, grinding up the hill, came a big hook and ladder.
Cheyenne said something to the firemen, but they shoved him back rudely and ran into the building. Ellen, dazed, walked on with the others to a distance where the clanging was not quite so unbearably loud. Brian began grilling Cheyenne, who answered in sullen monosyllables.
“God, we should never have tried it,” said Brian.
The others stood quietly, watching the activity. It was not quite real, the clanging bells, the cool night, the festive lights pulsing, the tense silent friends, the busy shouting strangers, the occasional sputters of metallic radio voices. No smoke. No lights from the building, except the bouncing circles from the powerful flashlights carried by police and firemen.
They waited. The clanging stopped, but still the firemen and policemen bustled about the building. Dean Wagner, summoned by his son, joined them. He looked very old, the slack jowl dismayed. He kept saying, “I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it.”
Maggie reappeared, looking tired, and went to talk to Rob and Nick. Rob put a consoling arm around her shoulder. Ellen joined them. “Did you catch her?” she asked.
“No. I tried to head her off but she must have come out another door. I went to her dorm room, but she didn’t show, so I came back.” She sounded exhausted.
Nick said, “God, if I’d only caught her the first time. Goddamn it.”
“Do you think it’s on fire in there?” asked Ellen. Her stomach was crawling around uneasily.
“Oh, probably not,” said Maggie wearily.
Eventually the firemen started doing something different. They seemed to be rolling up the hose, collecting around the truck. Ellen frowned at them, not quite understanding. Then a campus policeman came up.
“Dr. Wright?”
“Yes?” said Brian.
“They’ve got things under control. It took a while to check all the rooms, but apparently there was no fire, just a small paper fire by one of the detectors on stage. You’re very lucky. It’ll be safe to go in soon.”
“No fire?”
“Looked like just what your designer told us. A torch. Seemed to be made out of a bunch of large photographs rolled together, then lit.”
Brian asked, “Is the stage all right?”
“Sure, no real damage. The automatic fire curtain and the sprinkler system worked perfectly. Everything was under control by the time it was shut off.” He looked resentfully at Cheyenne. “You were lucky. Only authorized personnel should turn it off.”
Dean Wagner said, “So things are basically all right?”
“Absolutely, sir. You can see for yourself in a few minutes.”
“Thank God,” said Dean Wagner. “You open the twenty-eighth, right, Brian?”
“We were supposed to,” Brian replied unhappily
“That gives you three and a half weeks.”
“Except that we have to get everything done by tech rehearsal or we can’t pull it together. And spring break starts Wednesday.”
“Not for us,” said Cheyenne.
“We’ll get the custodial staff to help,” said Dean Wagner. “Support you however we can. All the alumni activities are scheduled around this show and the fair.”
“All right,” said Brian, depressed.
Rob said uneasily, “We’ll play it in the parking lot if we have to, Brian.”
“We’ll play it anywhere,” said Jim. Brian didn’t answer them.
The hook and ladder went away. A moment later the lobby lights came on. “You can go in now, sir,” said the policeman, responding to a signal from a fireman.
Cheyenne said, “Maggie, take a fireman up to the booth and see if anything works.” Ellen realized the implications suddenly, the weeks of work that might have to be redone if the circuits had been damaged by the water.
Maggie ran on ahead, and the rest of them filed into the lobby. Through the doors, the auditorium was inky except for the beam of a fireman’s flashlight. Then, startlingly, the houselights blinked on. One circuit okay. So far, so good. They filed in and looked around.
The main thing was the wetness. Seats and carpeting were soaked. A little pool glistened at the foot of the sloping aisle.
“How about switching to The Merchant of Venice?” suggested Rob flippantly. “We could bring in the audience on gondolas.” No one answered him.
Ellen walked a few steps ahead of the others, down the soggy carpet. It would dry out, she told herself, pausing to inspect a damp seat.
There was a creak ahead of her, and she looked up to see that the gray asbestos fire curtain had begun, slowly, to rise. She watched it hopefully, not quite knowing what to expect. She could see that the stage floor was glistening, sprayed protectively by the sprinklers. No real damage. But as the curtain rose slowly, Ellen’s stomach cringed, and her ears began to roar.
Water.
Gallons of water flushed all over the stage.
Gallons of water on the painted surfaces of the platforms. Water on the floorcloths. Water in the heavy velour of the tormentor curtains that masked the sides. In the canvas and gauze of the giant cyclorama. In the instruments and sockets and electrical cables of the onstage lights. And on the fragile curtains of the platforms, the curtains painted so carefully over the weeks to look like tapestries.
The bones of the Hamlet setting, columns and arches, stood forth in the murky light from the auditorium, erect and sturdy. But the life and flesh of paint and fabric drooped sodden from the arches, the colors puddling and sagging like candle wax into the gleaming pools on the floor. We
eks and weeks of work dribbling away like blood onto the stage.
Above it all, twisting slowly, the grotesque effigy still dangled.
Through the roaring in her ears Ellen was faintly aware of the others around her, a little moan from Lisette, a string of curses from Rob, most standing silent and appalled. She could not look anymore. She turned and fled for the only shelter there was in that glaring roaring night. For a moment he stood rigid, unbelieving; then his arms came around her, stroking her hair, and she clung silently to him, the unmoving point in her lurching world.
Brian said, “Dean Wagner, it’s hopeless, sir.”
There was work to do.
Her stomach was all right again, and her ears. She released Jim and said, “Guess it’s time to get to work,” and even sounded calm.
“Okay,” he said.
He followed her up the side steps to the forestage. Maggie and Cheyenne and Paul, who had an electric lantern, joined them there, and they stood on the sodden floorcloth and looked things over.
“Number one,” said Maggie, “let’s dry things out. Two, let’s start making lists of what needs replacing.”
“We’ll need people,” said Cheyenne.
“I’ll get that organized,” said Ellen.
“Right now,” Paul said, “I’ll get the vac.”
“We could use some fans too,” Cheyenne said. Maggie thrust her flashlight into Ellen’s hand, and Jim and Ellen went to get them. By the time they returned Maggie had strung cable from the working outlets in the house, and they could plug in the big fans and the commercial vacuum cleaner fitted with its wet nozzle.
“What’s the broken glass?” asked Ellen, looking at the fragile shards scattered thinly on the puddled floor.
“Cold water on the hot bulbs,” Maggie explained. “Didn’t help my gels much, either.”
The gels. Those carefully tinted transparent colored sheets that made the lights warm or cool, human or supernatural, gay or sombre, and that were so soluble that even high humidity in the air could wrinkle and spoil them. Ellen said, “God, Maggie.”
Audition for Murder Page 15
