“What if he stabs himself on opening night, will the show go on?” asked the figure in red, smudging the greasepaint lines of his stage makeup with long fingers.
“Why is it that you make such a perfect Mephistopheles and such a shitty person?” Danny snapped.
“If you’d stop being such a drama queen for once I’d be happy to explain it to you.”
“Stop this! I won’t have fighting amongst the cast.” Bayard glared at Morris, veteran company member, experienced Mephisto, and general pain in the ass.
Morris unfolded his lanky frame and stood up. “Hell, I’m going home.”
Bayard’s eyes tightened in his fox face. “Six-thirty Thursday evening,” he called at Morris’ retreating back. “Act three, all four scenes. Be prepared.”
“I’m quitting this damn play,” said Danny, tears glistening at the corners of his eyes. “You can find yourself another Faustus.”
Bayard reached out and took the young man by the arm. “Shhh. It was a regrettable mistake, and luckily no lasting damage has been done. Come with me, I’ll get you a drink and a bandage.” He led the young man down the steps beside the wings and toward the double doors at the back of the auditorium. Claire followed at their heels, wearing an expression of concern. Bayard sighed and stopped, waiting for her to catch up. “Was there something else, Miss Porter?”
“Are you sure it doesn’t need stitches?” She took Danny’s arm in her hands and unwrapped the wound.
“Lucky break, us recruiting an EMT into the company, huh?” Danny said. “You wouldn’t let me die, would you, Claire?”
She held his arm expertly. “Do you want me to bandage that properly—”
“No need,” said Bayard, steering Danny toward the door. “I have gauze pads and tape in my office.”
“I could use that drink. Jesus, I can’t believe I cut myself.” Danny cradled his right arm close to his chest. Slim-hipped and slightly built in just his T-shirt and jeans, he was no longer the imposing necromancer of Christopher Marlowe’s invention.
Out in the lobby, the theater was dark and cool. Two yellowed bulbs over the front door marked the exit to the city street. Bayard gave Claire another careful look as she stood at the base of the wide curving staircase that led up to the second floor mezzanine. She was taller than average and lean but strong, from lifting people on stretchers, he supposed. Her thick straw-colored hair, caught at the nape and falling in Botticelli ripples down her back, was lovely, and there was a certain charm to the dusting of freckles beneath those earnest blue eyes. But he had no time for such niceties. He held her gaze, willing her away. A moment later, she turned toward the exit, following the rest of the cast and crew.
Kit Bayard led his Faustus to the mezzanine, which housed a local ballet company’s rehearsal studio in a cavernous open room that occupied half the second floor. On the other side of the landing were the theater’s administration and wardrobe storage rooms. His own cramped office and apartment faced the busy street below.
Unlocking the door, he motioned Danny inside. A jumble of the business and the personal rubbed shoulders in the narrow room: modern executive-sized desk, rollaway bed covered in a green velvet spread, liquor cabinet the size of a small refrigerator, a carved high-backed chair that appeared to be the mate of the one onstage, bookcases along all four walls. Leather-bound volumes, piles of aging scripts, hundreds of playbooks from Aristophanes to Shakespeare to Pinter crowded the shelves. In the far wall, a narrow open door revealed a white-tiled bathroom.
“This is some place.” Danny sank down on the rollaway, his eyes wide.
“It’s my retreat,” said Bayard.
“Do you…live here, in the theater?”
“That I do.”
He went to the cabinet and took out a tarnished silver goblet and a bottle of Irish Mist, an intoxicating blend of whiskey, honey, and natural aromatic spices. Pouring three fingers’ worth into the goblet, he held it out. “Drink up. Steady your nerves.” He leaned against the desk and watched as Danny emptied the cup in a few gulps. “Another?”
“Yeah, that was good.” Danny blinked as the whiskey did its work.
“You might feel better if you lie down.” A slight push to the young man’s chest and Danny fell flat on his back. The empty goblet rolled across the floor.
Bayard picked up the cup and sat down beside him.
“Whadd are you…?” The actor’s tongue sounded thick in his mouth.
“Did you know,” said Bayard, his voice no more than a whisper, “that Marlowe had it wrong at the time he wrote the play?”
Danny’s lips mumbled something inaudible, his eyes liquid-bright. Drunk or spellbound, his will was no longer his own.
“No one has to write anything or sign anything,” the soft voice continued. “Think about it. How can you write a readable message in blood on a piece of parchment?” He touched the young man’s lean neck where the lifeblood throbbed just beneath the skin. “If the blood’s been spilled by the Master’s blade, all you have to do is say ‘yes.’ Do you understand me?”
Danny gasped for air. “Y-yes…”
“Done.” Bayard smiled. “And now, I think we’ll just end this quickly, if you don’t mind. She’s hungry and not very happy with me of late.”
He held the goblet ready, then swiftly produced the pearl-handled blade and opened the artery under the young man’s jaw line. The bright red stream pulsed into the silver cup, filling it ruby red. Danny’s startled eyes bulged, then rolled up, milky white.
Claire stood on the sidewalk in front of the theater in the crisp night air, frowning and watching the stream of headlights flowing across town. She was only the prompter and keeper of the master script for the Mummers, a role that didn’t require much rehearsal preparation and accommodated her somewhat erratic work schedule. But that wasn’t what concerned her. Danny should have received proper medical treatment for that cut. She knew it, and yet she’d let the director lead him away for a drink instead. She stood a moment longer under the theater portico, its fluted twin pilasters framing a stone archway upon which rested two immense faces, a product of the stonemason’s art from over a century ago when the ornamented two-story playhouse had been erected, a monument to the muse in dark-red brick and white granite. She stared up at the sightless faces, one laughing, the other weeping. They faced away from each other, joined at the back of the head like Siamese twins: Janus, the two-faced god, depicted as Comedy and Tragedy. Claire reached for the door.
Slipping back inside the shadowed lobby, she waited for her eyes to adjust. Her intent was to go upstairs to Bayard’s office, but then she froze—someone was coming down.
“I’m on my way, harlot!” The accent was unmistakable—aristocratic, with a touch of nasal London East End, blunted by years of living in the States. Had he spotted her? If he had, why address her like that? She didn’t think she’d ever heard him use that kind of language to anybody in the five months she’d been part of the Mummers crew.
Claire hung back in a darkened corner of the lobby vestibule. The size and gait of the descending figure confirmed his identity, and she watched with curiosity as Kit Bayard quickly crossed the lobby to a small side door. She’d been told it led down to the basement where discarded scenery and broken equipment were stored. Holding what looked like a prop chalice in one hand, he unlocked the door with the other and disappeared into darkness, closing the door behind him.
Where was Danny? She’d watched while others of the cast headed for their cars or the pub up the street, but there was no sign of him. Her emergency medical training had kicked in at the sight of his injury and now kept her from abandoning an untended patient. Claire shifted from one foot to the other in the shadows, debating what to do. At a light touch on her back she whirled, swallowing a shriek.
She held her chest, gasping, the adrenaline flood almost painful. “Fuck it, Morris. You scared me to death.”
“Well, obviously not quite.” The faux Mephisto hunched his shoulde
rs in a seeming apology. “I thought you might want a walk to your car. It’s not the best of neighborhoods.”
Claire was calming down, her heart no longer banging around inside her chest. Even so, he looked damned scary in the shadows, towering over her like that. “Christ, don’t ever do that to me again. You just took a few years off my life!”
Morris took a step backward. “Sorry.” He looked somewhat less intimidating as he held the door open to the street.
She followed him outside and sized up the shadowy side street where she’d parked. “Yeah, it is pretty dark. Thanks.”
They fell into step, crossed at the light, and followed the cracked sidewalk toward her aging Honda a block away.
“I enjoy watching you rehearse,” she said, making conversation. “You’re good.”
He laughed. “Well, they need somebody tall to be the villain.”
“No,” she said, “I can tell. You’ve had training.”
“A bit.” He stopped and seemed to be thinking something over. “Want to go for a cup of coffee?”
Claire smiled. “That sounds good.” But then she remembered. Rehearsal had run overtime, and there was someone needing her at home. She backtracked. “Eh, I’m afraid I can’t.”
Morris nodded toward the row of shops along the sidewalk. “Café’s just down the block. I’m going there anyway…wouldn’t mind if you came along.”
Not the most appealing of pickup lines, but that was Morris. Still, she was a little flattered that the scariest member of the Janus troupe thought he might enjoy her company, chatting over coffee. She didn’t even know his first name. Everyone in the company just called him Morris and he didn’t seem to mind. Maybe that was his first name. She’d never thought to ask.
“My mother’s sick at home… I don’t like to leave her alone too long.” Claire hesitated. “I have an early shift tomorrow, too.” She was already running late because of the situation with Danny, but as a medical professional she couldn’t just ignore someone getting injured on the set. Stopping for coffee afterwards? That was verging on irresponsible. Calling home wasn’t a viable option, either, because she knew her mother wouldn’t be able to get out of bed and go down the hall to answer the phone. She wavered, wanting to take just a little time to socialize but feeling guilty as hell for it.
Morris gave her a thin smile and motioned in the direction of the coffee shop.
She followed him down the sidewalk. “One cup only, then I have to go.”
Once inside, with a steaming cup of Mocha Java between her palms, Claire tried to relax into the cushioned barrel chair. “Nice little place—I’ve never been in here.”
Morris nodded. “I come here to decompress. When I was starting up the newspaper, this was my office. Even got Bayard in here once.”
Claire chewed her lip. That image of Bayard coming down the stairs was stuck in her mind.
“What do you think of him?” She sipped her coffee and watched Morris’ narrow face. Black eyes regarded her over his beak of a nose, as he took a thoughtful breath.
“Not an overly pleasant person, bit too full of himself, but occasionally a brilliant director. Don’t know why he’s wasting his abilities in a small theater like this.”
“Um.” Claire nodded. She’d heard others say something similar. “What do you think happened to Danny?”
“Prop mix-up.” Morris leaned back in his chair.
“No, I mean, do you think he’s all right?”
Morris shrugged his boney shoulders. “Why wouldn’t he be?”
“Well, that cut looked to me like it could use a stitch or two. I just wondered.”
Silence followed, the buzz of coffee-shop voices surrounding their little table.
Claire cleared her throat. “Have you…” Her question hung between them while Morris traced the rim of his cup with a long finger, waiting. “How long have you been with the Mummers?” It wasn’t what she wanted to ask but it was in the vicinity.
“About five years, off and on. Why?”
“Has anything else weird like tonight ever happened?” It was a lame question, and she was sorry it had popped out like that. She hated that it made her sound stupid when she was trying to be interesting and intelligent.
“Of course. Place is possessed. Didn’t you know?” He wore his Mephistopheles face, with no trace of humor that she could see. With his short-cut black hair and eyes that looked right at you until you looked away, Morris wasn’t someone you trifled with. At least, that was her impression.
“You don’t really mean that. Right? I can never tell when you’re being straight with people or pulling their leg.”
“Dear Claire, I would never pull your leg. Except by permission.” He actually smiled. “What’s on your mind?”
“I just wondered…have you ever gone down into the theater basement?”
Morris nodded. “I’ve helped Bayard move flats and prop furniture down there for storage. Rancid smelling place. Thank god we don’t keep the wardrobe there.”
“Really.”
“So what’re you asking? It’s just a stuffy, foul-smelling basement in a ninety-year-old building. No bodies buried down there that I know of.” He was laughing, sort of.
“Yeah, good to know.” She smiled back. “I was just curious.” She wasn’t sure if confiding in Morris about having seen Bayard descending the stairs with his silver cup was the smart thing to do. For all she knew, he and the company director were BFF’s, although neither of them seemed the type to friend each other on Facebook.
She glanced at her watch. “Oh shit! I need to go.” She scrabbled around in her purse for a couple of bills to leave for the coffee and stood up.
Morris leaned forward, his elbows on the table, chin in hand. “Too bad, I think we were just getting to the good part.”
She gave him a look. It was so hard to tell if he was joking. “What good part?”
“The Janus Theatre and its resident ghost.”
Claire stopped. Pulling her chair out again, she sank down and put her purse on the table. “So tell me.”
Morris grinned at her. “We’ve all heard the stories. Hair like floating seaweed, dead silver eyes. If she laughs, it’ll scramble your brains.”
Claire was paralyzed. “And…she’s in the basement?”
“I offered to hire a medium to prove whether the theatre was haunted or not, but nobody took me up on it. Too bad, would’ve made a good Arts & Entertainment piece for the paper.”
“But you think there might be something to find?”
“I’m a non-believer. But it’s a very old structure—probably best not to go down there by yourself. Vagrants, rats, that sort of thing.” He wasn’t smiling.
“I wasn’t planning to,” she said, clenching her hands in her lap. That was a lie—she’d been thinking of doing that very thing.
She stood up again. “I really do have to go.”
Morris handed her money back. “My treat.”
Claire hesitated, then took the bills. Money was tight. “Thanks.”
“My pleasure, and Claire, don’t worry about Danny. People come and go from the troupe all the time. If he quits, the understudy will take his role and after a few rehearsals nobody will miss him. He wasn’t a particularly memorable Faustus, anyway. Can’t imagine why Bayard cast him.”
Claire gave him the slightest of smiles. “On the other hand, you’re an excellent Mephistopheles.”
“The part’s an actor’s dream. Villains are always more fun to play.”
“You really didn’t know the knife was sharp?”
Morris frowned. “No, I didn’t. We have a box full of prop knives. I just pulled one out. Guess that’ll teach me to take a closer look next time.”
Claire took a few steps away. “That was a joke, right…about the ghost?”
He was getting up. “Walk you to your car?”
“No, really, it’s fine. I’ll walk fast.” Somehow the idea of being alone in the dark with Morris had lost its
appeal.
“See you at Thursday’s rehearsal, then.”
“Right.” She wedged her way between crowded tables, heading for the door. When she looked back, he’d already pulled a newspaper out of his backpack and started unfolding it. Probably an issue of Heads Up, the inner city paper he owned and published. Claire wondered how good a living you could make as a publisher. Probably better than a paramedic’s wage, with less chance of burnout. She trudged back to the car, her thoughts as bleak as the side street where it was parked.
Chapter 2
Friday, same night
Gwendolyn Porter lay in her damp bed, listening to the silent house. The bathroom was too far away, and she was too weak to make the long trip down the hall in the dark. Poor Claire would have to change the sheets when she got home.
Claire. The thought flushed warm over her chilled skin. Having her daughter back in the house after her husband’s death was a comfort, almost a reason to live. Except she felt shamed at putting her daughter’s life on hold while her own slowly flickered out. Claire had smarts, ambitions, a developing career…and a half-dead mother. It was a shame. Jimmie Porter’s demise from unexpected heart failure had left them in a financial vise that grounded Claire’s university studies in mid-flight and left almost no way to pay for her mother’s medical needs. Such a shame. At least the mortgage on their small brick bungalow in Ormewood Park had been paid off for years.
She adjusted the nosepiece of the home oxygen support system and struggled for breath, the flow from the generator her bedside lifeline. She was cold. Even in summer she was never truly warm. The chill of diminished old age had moved into her bones and paid the rent up for life. Wheezing, she hunched over onto her left side. That was better. The pull of gravity was always worse if she lay on her back, even with half-a-dozen pillows propped behind her. Emphysema smothered you to death in slow motion as the lung tissue collapsed in on itself day by day, hour by hour, breath by ragged breath. Everyone agreed it was a tedious way to die. By comparison, she counted her husband lucky. A few struggling moments and he was gone. How easy was that?
The Cornerstone Page 3
