The Cornerstone

by Anne C. Petty

  “Your question was worded to get an answer specific to Danny, and not just in general, right?”

  “Yeah…” Claire could almost hear the gears grinding.

  “You want to help me follow this up?”

  “Absolutely.”

  That went better than she’d hoped. Addie was on board. Claire wished she could have pulled Tom and maybe Morris into her little private investigation too, but Addie would have to do for now.

  “Tell you what. I’ll give Danny a call. Then we can decide where to go from there.”

  “Now you’ve got me worried. What are you thinking?”

  Claire chose her words carefully. “I think we’ve been lied to about Danny. I can’t imagine why Bayard would do that, unless he has something to hide. Something bad. And…it bothers me that nobody’s looking into it.”

  “You know something, Claire, I really admire you.”

  “Why? I’m just doing the right thing.”

  “You’re a brave person. To be honest, I’ve had some misgivings myself, but didn’t have the nerve to go poking around in Bayard’s business. He can be a little intimidating.”

  “More than a little.”

  They both laughed. “Maybe it’s nothing, and we’ve cast him in the villain’s role by mistake.”

  Addie agreed. “I would love it if you were totally wrong on this.”

  “Well, let me try to call Danny, and I’ll tell you what turns up.”

  Claire disconnected and dialed the number she’d written down for Danny, and held her breath. It rang once, twice, four times, then a recorded message came on. “Hey, Danny Ward here. Obviously I’m not home or you’d be talking to me right now. So, leave me a message, won’t you?” Chipper sounding. Claire wondered how old that recording was.

  “Danny, this is Claire…from the play, remember? Just wanted to see how that cut was doing. It looked to me like it could have used a suture.” She waited, but no one picked up. “Well, if you wouldn’t mind, just give me a call when you get a chance.” She let her breath out and hung up. Shit! She’d forgotten to leave her number. Claire fumed for a couple of minutes, then called again. To her surprise, a voice answered. It wasn’t Danny.

  “Yeah?” A male voice, not too old, probably a roommate.

  “Ah, hi. This is Claire Porter? I’m…trying to get in touch with Danny Ward.”

  “You and everybody else. Haven’t seen him.” Claire tried to gauge the voice. Irritated? Curious? Couldn’t care less?

  “When did you last see him, then?” She felt less self-conscious with this stranger who didn’t know her from Adam.

  “What’s it to you? You a girl friend or something?” Claire frowned. Maybe not a roommate, who would surely know if Danny had any romantic attachments.

  “I’m just a friend, a medic…I’m checking up on an injury he received about a week ago.”

  “Don’t know anything about that. He’s skipped out best I can tell. His rent was due two weeks ago, but he hasn’t paid. Another two weeks and I’m putting his stuff out on the street.”

  Claire’s brain went on high alert. “Who am I talking to?”

  “Apartment manager. Used my key to get in right when you called. You wouldn’t happen to know where else I might track him down, would you?”

  Claire gulped air. “No, I wouldn’t. Thanks for your time.” She put the receiver down and sat very still, thinking. There were any number of probable explanations for his absence—the improbable part was not taking care of his rent. Danny was, in her experience, much too detail oriented to let that happen. She wondered if there were any relatives who could be contacted and then decided that wasn’t a road she wanted to go down. Leave that up to missing persons and the police, if that’s what it came to.

  What bugged her worse right now was the idea that Bayard had kept something from them. Once again, she imagined him coming down the stairs, heading for the basement, and once again, she really wanted to go down there and have a look. But not alone. Maybe she could get Morris, or better, Tom, to go with her. Common sense warned her this was folly, possibly dangerous, but the worrywart in her was itching irrationally to see for herself that Bayard hadn’t somehow let the boy bleed to death and then hidden his body. What she wanted most in the world right now was to discover the secret Addie’s cards described. The scariest thing was that the foolhardy part of her brain was already on steroids trying to figure out a way, short of breaking and entering, to make that happen.

  Chapter 12

  Thursday night, following week

  Tom piloted the Harley through evening traffic with an ear on its distinctive engine growl and an eye on the cloud of vehicles in several lanes around him. The bike seemed to be working fine since coming out of the shop, but Tom wasn’t taking any chances. The bike was his lover. He’d gone through withdrawals the few days he’d been without it.

  He could see the Janus Theatre up ahead, dominating the corner of the block with its two-storey art deco façade, a little shabby but still demanding respect. Its namesake, the two-faced Roman god of beginnings and transitions, looked north and south along the street. The Gatekeeper. Tom pondered the significance of that particular epithet most often associated with Janus. He knew from his travels through Italy and down the Iberian peninsula that Janus was a part of much local mythology, having jurisdiction over doors and passageways as well as the power to open and close them. He wondered about the doors he’d opened by joining the Mummers Theatrical Company. Of more concern was whether or not he’d be able to close them, if it came to that.

  Tom thragged around the corner at the light and up onto the sidewalk in front of the theater and then cut the engine.

  Rolling the bike into the entrance alcove, he dismounted, pulled off his helmet, and chained the wheels. Taking a deep breath, he stood for a moment facing the street, watching cars and trucks roll over its asphalt surface. Not a crack or crevice to be seen. He’d come straight out here as soon as the bike was repaired to get a close-up look at the roadway, but there was nothing unusual. Maybe he’d hallucinated those earthquake shocks. But he didn’t think so—he had a copy of a photo on his cell phone that said otherwise.

  He turned and went into the theater lobby, wondering what had caused Bayard to call off last Sunday’s rehearsal. Addie had been a little vague about the reason for the cancellation, so she probably didn’t know either. One less rehearsal really didn’t matter to Tom. He knew the part as if he’d lived it and could recite the lines as if he’d written them himself. Onstage, he wore the part of Faustus like a second skin. He relished the moment when they would have a live audience to respond to their artifice of words and stage magic, to sense them falling under the spell of the story unfolding in front of them. Opening night couldn’t come soon enough.

  In the dim lobby others of the cast and crew were milling around, shooting the shit and waiting for the call to places. The upstairs area was lighted and busy, with the ballet company holding their final rehearsal classes before relocating across town for the next two weeks to the university theater where they would be performing. Near the base of the staircase he spotted Adelaide, Morris, and Claire in a huddle, deep in some discussion that looked serious, a fact telegraphed by their expressions and body language. Well-meaning and earnest, Addie was easy to read…the Porter girl not so much. She gave off a steady, reliable vibe on the surface, but he sensed a jumpiness underneath, an edginess she kept a tight lid on. She had hidden issues, which made her more interesting. Morris he thought he understood pretty well—intelligent, educated, moderately ambitious, closeted. They played off each other with appropriate intensity onstage.

  He started to approach them, then hung back for a moment, just observing. It looked like the two women were trying to talk Morris into something, and he was resisting, a skeptical expression on his face and his hands jammed deep in his pockets. Maybe he needed a rescue.

  “Oh, here’s Tom.” Addie waved and beckoned. He joined them, wondering what he was ab
out to be roped into.

  Morris glanced at the helmet under his arm. “Got your bike back, I see.”

  Tom nodded. “If I ever buy a car, I know what I’m not getting.” They laughed. A cosmetic reaction, covering more serious business. He waited for them to broach whatever it was.

  “I was going to smudge the building—”

  “But we talked her out of it—”

  “Wouldn’t want to set off the fire alarms.” Morris had adopted an air of benign amusement, but Tom read something else as well. The faux Mephisto was uneasy, but not admitting it.

  Tom filed that away and turned to Addie. “Why would you want to do a cleansing ritual?”

  “I thought we went through this. To release the restless spirit, or spirits, trapped in the building.”

  “Has anybody actually seen this so-called restless spirit?” Tom looked from one to the other.

  Claire turned to Morris. “You’re the one who first mentioned it to me. You even gave me a description…hair like floating seaweed, I think you said?”

  Morris shrugged. “Yeah, well, it’s just what I’ve heard. It’s been the rumor around here for years.”

  “I’ve felt its presence a number of times,” Addie said, rolling the smudge sticks between her palms. “It’s frustrated.”

  “I would be too, if I were forced to live in the basement.” Morris’s mouth quirked into a sort-of smile.

  “You don’t have to be a believer in the supernatural to feel its effects, you know.” She stuffed the smudge sticks back in her bag.

  Tom shifted his booted feet. “That’s not the real issue, is it?” He’d been reading the tells of people with secrets for way too long for these three to fool him. He was certain they’d been plotting something a little more worrisome than spreading lemongrass smoke around the lobby.

  “I did a card reading for Claire…well, it was really for Danny…and the message was loud and clear. Something’s being kept secret.”

  Claire spoke up. “I’m suspicious that something bad has happened to Danny, and I think Bayard knows what it is, or at least he knows that Danny is missing.”

  “Who says he’s missing?” Tom was pretty sure Claire was the real instigator of the “plan,” whatever it was, and not Addie.

  Claire laid it out for him. “His landlord says his rent’s unpaid, and nobody’s seen him since the night of the rehearsal when he got cut.”

  Tom licked his lips. Now they were getting to it. “Maybe you should call the cops and file a missing person’s report. If what you said’s true, he’s been off the radar longer than forty-eight hours.”

  Claire backtracked. “I didn’t want to go that far, just in case there was a legitimate explanation, like an out-of-town family emergency, something that would make him drop everything and leave.”

  Tom couldn’t help smiling. “You won’t call the police, yet you’re intent on doing something. Don’t tell me you’re going to confront Bayard and accuse him of removing his lackluster Faustus so I could have the part.”

  Morris stifled a guffaw. “Good one. I concur.”

  “Of course not!” Claire’s cheeks flushed—a fleeting effect but he’d seen it—and her blue eyes narrowed. She was exasperated, a look that appealed to him. “I just thought it might be worthwhile to look around, maybe in the basement, if we can somehow get in there.”

  “We?” Morris rocked back on his heels, another tell Tom recognized, which likely meant Claire would have to count the journalist out of whatever little scheme she was trying to sell them.

  “You told me Bayard let you go down there before,” she said. Stubborn, single-minded. Tom could see she wasn’t going to give up on this idea any time soon.

  Morris parried. “So what do you want me to do, dear Claire? Ask him for the key and his blessing to conduct a thorough search of the premises? What shall I say we’re looking for?”

  “I’d rather look around without him knowing about it.”

  “So we’re back to secrets,” Tom said, cutting a look toward Addie.

  She met his eyes. “I don’t want to get anybody in trouble, but I think Claire has a point. Danny’s missing, and the last person who may have seen him is Bayard.”

  “Hey, you guys. Places!” Drew, Tom’s Lucifer, was waving at them from the auditorium double doors. The lobby was empty. While they’d been talking, everyone else had gone inside for the final rehearsal before dress.

  “Coming?” Morris headed toward the theater doors. Addie trailed after him, and Claire followed, a scowl on her face Tom had no difficulty reading.

  He wondered how long it would take before Claire figured out a way to snoop around on her own. Not a smart move—he didn’t know what might be hidden from prying eyes, but he wasn’t fool enough to think the building was completely safe. Maybe he should hang around after the rehearsal to see what foolhardy thing she would do next. He was starting to like Claire, in her baggy sweatpants and oversized sweaters. Too bad he had no intention of getting involved with her…it might have been interesting.

  Light pooled around three figures in Faustus’ study: an elderly academic, the doomed scholar, and his satanic companion. In a desperate voice, Faustus addressed the audience.

  “Damned art thou, Faustus, damned. Hell claims his right and with a roaring voice says, ‘Faustus, come, thine hour is almost spent.” He fell to his knees, face upturned to the old man, who stretched a hand toward him.

  “Stay these desperate steps, good Faustus. Even yet the angel of mercy hovers o’er thy head. Call for mercy, and grace may yet be yours.”

  The tall figure of Mephistopheles with his billowing cloak stepped between them. In his white hand, a dagger caught the spotlight. “Traitor! Disobey my sovereign lord and I’ll tear thy flesh in pieces.”

  The old man backed away, terrified at the emissary of Hades yet reluctant to abandon his friend. The crouched figure of Faustus turned his back on the old man and reached for the blade held out to him.

  “Sweet Mephistopheles, entreat thy lord Lucifer to pardon my unjust outburst.” He took the dagger and held it up at eye level, facing the audience. “With my blood again I will confirm the vow I made before.”

  Mephistopheles stood behind him, caped arms outstretched like a carrion crow.

  “Do it then, Faustus, with a truthful heart, lest greater dangers may attend thee.”

  “Cut!” Bayard stepped out of the wings. “Bend over him more, as if you mean to swoop down on him and carry him away.”

  Morris stooped and curved his arms. “Like so?”

  “Exactly. Otherwise, gentlemen, the scene is excellent.”

  “Are we taking a break?” Tom put the dagger on the floor in front of him and sat back on his haunches. He’d made sure it was dull as a butterknife before handling it.

  Bayard rubbed the back of his neck. “We can, if you like. In fact, I think it’s a good idea.” He spoke to the cast in the wings. “We’ll commence in twenty minutes. Act Five, scene two, at the point where Faustus sees the end and bids his university friends farewell.” With that, he turned and went down into the theater, striding along a side aisle toward the back without stopping to chat with anyone. Tom sat on the stage, watching his receding back. The man seemed tired, his shoulders held stiff against absent but remembered pain. Tom knew this body language well, having experienced it himself recently. He stretched, flexing the muscles in his arms and back.

  “Serious tats you got, man. Fierce.” It was Ruben, the lighting guy, marking the spotlight for Morris’s crow effect. “What’s that design, barbed wire?”

  “Vines with thorns. It’s a climbing rose…the loops connect in a Celtic knot. Here.” He held out his arm to give Ruben a better view.

  “Does it go all the way around?”

  “Yeah, it does.” Tom pushed up his T-shirt sleeve. The trail of thorns wound around his bicep and up, presumably, onto his shoulder.

  “Sweet.” Ruben crooked his head approvingly. “Where’d you get that
done?”

  Tom got to his feet and noticed Claire watching him from the wings. “Not in town. I’ve had ‘em a long time.”

  “I got these done down at a shop down in Little Five Points. Guy I know there is the best in town.” Ruben displayed a pair of crossed swords on his forearm. Italian, sixteenth century, Tom guessed, looking at the details—diamond section blade, hilt cuspidate in the center with arms bent downwards, floral motif on the pommel.

  He nodded approvingly. “That’s nice work.”

  Ruben beamed. “Gerrara blades, if you know anything about sword history. I’m getting a German longsword, early sixteenth century hand and a half, on the other arm. Gotta get enough money saved up, though. These babies aren’t cheap.”

  “I know that’s true.” Tom caught Morris’s eye. He seemed to be finding this macho comparing of tattoos highly amusing. Whatever. Tom didn’t make a big deal of his body art, but he didn’t try to hide it, either. It was what it was…a part of him.

  Morris turned toward Claire and addressed her directly. “So what do you make of our director’s new fashion statement?”

  “The white streaks in his beard?” Claire bookmarked the script in her lap. “It’s no mystery. He explained it to Addie. Told her that he’d been coloring his hair and beard to look younger, but now he’s decided it’s too much trouble. He washed out the dye, and that’s how it really looks.”

  “Au natural, how charming.” Morris looked anything but charmed. Tom sensed issues there as well, but he wasn’t interested. He focused his attention on Claire and joined them in the wings.

  “Just for the record, I don’t think it’s safe for you to poke around the building on your own.”

  Claire’s steady gaze challenged him. “Who says I was going to?”