by Linda Barnes
He pulled the shade on the window overlooking Huntington Avenue, resisting the impulse to open it and disperse the office’s stuffy sick-sweet smell, before flicking on the faint overhead bulb. The desk, the sideboard, a single two-drawer file cabinet; the search shouldn’t take long. Facts. He needed facts: résumés, programs, financial data. If he waited for Darien to “ascertain the propriety of releasing such documents,” the damn show would be over.
The bottom drawer of the file cabinet was the bonanza. Résumés neatly filed in alphabetical order, a program mock-up on oversized cardboard sheets. The file folder marked FINANCIAL was empty.
He searched the other drawers again. Maybe Darien had taken the stuff to his hotel room to glance over. Maybe the fat house manager kept those files. By the time he got the paperwork over to the all-night photocopying place in Harvard Square, replaced the originals, had that nightcap with Aunt Mary.… time for rehearsal again!
He paused for a moment with his hand on the light switch. A red leather blotter lay slightly askew on the desk. He retraced his steps.
The missing file wasn’t underneath. Financial records wouldn’t be stuffed into a small unsealed white envelope.
Spraggue straightened the blotter, then lifted it again. The printing, that’s what was familiar. There was more to go on here; this letter had been through the mail. Three whole lines of letters and numbers in penciled block caps. Not just a name, not just a few numbers.…
Spraggue slid the letter out of the envelope, spread it on the desktop. This one was easy to understand, too:
MR. DARIEN, the letter read. IS ONE SUICIDE ENOUGH FOR THIS THEATRE??? ENCORE!!!
Spraggue wrinkled his nose. The room’s odor seemed suddenly stronger. He crouched. Near the wastebasket, it was almost unbearable.
Using the tips of his fingers, staying an arm’s length away, he tossed aside a few discarded sheets of paper.
The bird was large, black, and dead. No signs of violence on it. Terrible stink, all the same.
At least, Spraggue thought, it’s not an albatross.
Chapter Six
A dark slim silhouette decorated the cover page of the program, a three-quarter back view of a man enveloped in black velvet. The long cape swirled fantastically into a border design. To the right of the figure, in bold, black caps, the title, Dracula. Underneath, in elegant script: “Directed by Arthur Darien.”
“I like it;” Spraggue’s Aunt Mary said. “Very Aubrey Beardsley.”
Spraggue turned the page. The cast list was next, in order of appearance:
JONATHAN HARKER Gregory Hudson
COUNT DRACULA John Langford
THE BRIDES OF DRACULA Deirdre Marten
Gina Phillips
RENFIELD Edward Lafferty
DR. JOHN SEWARD Frank Hodges
MINA MURRAY Caroline Ambrose
LUCY WESTENRA Emma Healey
DR. ABRAHAM VAN HELSING Gustave Grayling
Spraggue let his eyes close while his aunt pored over the list, shutting out the vast proportions of the balconied, two-story library of the old Spraggue house. Even the Cézanne over the marble fireplace offered no relief to exhaustion-blurred eyes. What time was it? One o’clock? Two? Never too late for Aunt Mary.
He grinned at the back of her variegated head. She had hoped for a smooth transition, a graceful fading from red to silver. But the process seemed to have halted halfway, leaving untidy patches of both colors. Oddly enough, it suited her perfectly.
“Well?” she said, her clear voice belying her sixty-seven years.
Spraggue took a long sip of syrupy amber wine, a ’59 Beerenauslese Aunt Mary had brought up from the cellar to celebrate his new job. He smiled his appreciation. Mary tapped the cast list sharply with a painted fingernail.
“That,” said Spraggue hastily, “minus one, plus one, is the list of suspects.”
“Who’s out?”
“Frank Hodges. I’ve got his part. He could have been playing the tricks up until last week, but he had nothing to do with today’s games. Definitely in New York. I spoke to him on the phone. He wished me luck.”
“Did you tell him you were investigating the—”
“No. Things like that have a way of getting around. I called to humbly ask him for any character insight he might offer me on Dr. John Seward. I had a hard time getting him off the line.”
Aunt Mary crossed off Hodges’s name. “And whose name gets added?”
“Don’t scrawl it on the cast list. She’s crew. The stage manager. Woman named Karen Snow.”
“Nice name.”
“Seems a nice person,” said Spraggue shortly.
“What about the rest of the crew?”
“Darien says they’re out. There’s a fat guy named Dennis, the house manager. I’d like to know more about him. But Darien assures me he’s out of the running.”
“And how reliable is Mr. Darien?” asked Aunt Mary mildly.
Spraggue yawned. “How reliable is anyone in this business?”
“What I meant was, is he drinking?” Spraggue’s eyebrow went up again. “You know about that?”
“Doesn’t everyone? Don’t you remember that business with the auto crash? The Boston papers hardly touched it, but the New York press went after Darien with a vengeance.”
“An accident—” Spraggue said, dredging up bits and pieces of the story from his memory.
“A woman was killed. I don’t recall the name. An actress, I think. Unknown.”
“And Darien was charged?”
“No,” Aunt Mary said positively. “The public prosecutor wanted to go for vehicular homicide. Said Darien was drunk. He so often was at that time. But someone slipped up. I forget. Either no breathalyzer test was given or the results were lost or tampered with. A police officer lost his job over the mixup. Darien got off with bruises and bad press.”
“As far as I know, Darien’s stone-cold sober.” Spraggue pulled a folded scrap of paper out of his pocket. “But even if he isn’t drinking now, this could encourage him to start.”
He handed a facsimile of the note he’d found on Darien’s desk to his aunt. “It came attached to a dead bird.”
She fingered the note thoughtfully. “Whose suicide does this refer to?”
“Samuel Borgmann Phelps.”
“Ah.”
“You knew him?”
“Of him. When I was a teenager, attending a performance at Phelps’s Boston Rep was the thing to do. He held the most marvelous parties, right up until the end. Thought he’d turn Boston into Broadway. No one knew how badly off he really was. The family had generations of wealth behind it. Or so everyone thought.”
“What happened to them?”
“The Phelps family? I don’t know. He had children, I’m sure.’ There was a huge turnout at the funeral. Would you like me to find out?”
“I can—”
“I would like to help, Michael. And I do enjoy snooping. One of the few vocations eminently suited to the elderly.”
“Well, I could use someone to do a résumé check. See if these folks have all done what they’ve claimed.”
“Wonderful.” Aunt Mary beamed. “And what about money, Michael? Who has a major financial interest in Darien’s success or failure? He’s no Sam Phelps; he can’t handle everything on his own. I could ask around Massachusetts Council of Arts membership, a sound credit rating, a reputation as an eccentric, and dithery ways go far when asking impertinent questions.”
“Terrific.” Spraggue smiled at his anything-but-dithery aunt. “I’ll keep my eye on the cast. If my eye will stay open.”
“Early rehearsal tomorrow?”
“Two-one, Two-two, and Two-three. All scenes I yak my head off in.”
“Don’t drive back to Cambridge then,” Mary said earnestly. “The tower room is always ready for you here. Dora cherishes the thought that someday you’ll get fed up with your own cooking and move back.”
“If I ever do, it’ll be for Dora’s str
awberry tarts.”
“Seriously, Michael, it is your house—”
“And you live in it for me. It’s too damn big, Mary. I’m uncomfortable here. We’ve been through this—”
Aunt Mary rang the bell on the desk top. Pierce ushered Spraggue out, wished him a safe drive. The butler refused to respond to Spraggue’s wink. Sometimes the dignity of his position overcame the memories of the hide-and-seek games he had played with Michael many years before.
Spraggue drove home at a leisurely speed. The wine had left him relaxed, a little high. To pass the time, he recited his lines, enjoying the baritone echo in the small space. Act Two, scene one finished. Now Two-two. Then Two-three. Numbers.
He pulled the car off to the side of Hammond Street, flicked on the dome light. Then he began to fumble methodically through his pockets. The note, Greg’s note in the bloody sack. What were the numbers?
He found it finally, carefully placed in his wallet. Yes. Four numbers—one Roman, three Arabic. The first one, Roman: that would be the act number. Then the scene. Then the line. Act One, scene five, line thirty-eight.
Spraggue’s fingers scrabbled through the blue-bound Dracula script. Act One. Act one, scene two. Scene three. He flipped the page, stopped, turned back.
He was wrong. Dracula had no fifth scene in the first act.
He drove the rest of the way home in silence.
Chapter Seven
For the fourth time in two minutes, Darien glared at his wristwatch.
“I’ve called his apartment twice, Mr. Darien,” Karen Snow said. “No answer.” She hesitated, then added, “Look, he only lives a few blocks from here. I could walk over and—”
“I’m sure you have a great deal of work to do here!” said Darien loudly. “Technical rehearsal tomorrow. Don’t tell me you can spare the time! If Eddie Lafferty isn’t ready to go onstage in ten minutes, we’ll rehearse with his understudy. And make sure Lafferty is fined!”
“Arthur—” The stage manager’s voice was soft, but the protest was there.
“It’s his business to be here! What’s the matter with you, Karen?”
The stage manager’s face became stonier than ever. Only her mouth moved as she snapped, “I’m worried. Eddie’s never been a minute late before. With all the weird events around here.…” Her voice trailed off.
“Karen’s been like a sister to Eddie,” Georgina said quietly. She and Spraggue sat five rows behind and slightly to the right of Arthur Darien, waiting for rehearsal to proceed. “He’s the baby of the company. Karen showed him the ropes.”
“At least that’s what he says,” interrupted Greg Hudson. “It’s my opinion that older sister, for one, is ripe for a little incest!”
“Be quiet, Greg!” Georgina’s cheeks flamed. “Do you want her to hear you?”
“I really don’t care,” Hudson said calmly, and walked away. Hit and run, that was Hudson’s style, thought Spraggue.
Georgina let out her breath soundlessly, watching Karen. The argument over Eddie continued; the stage manager couldn’t have overheard. “Sometimes I think Greg’s crazy!” she said, moving closer to Spraggue. “He seems to want to hurt everybody—”
“Do you think he’s the company joker?”
“No,” she said swiftly. “I’m sure he’s not.”
“Why?”
“Not the type. He lets all his nasty feelings out. Wouldn’t you think that the kind of person who’d do things like that would be—well, all quiet and polite on the outside?”
“And dark and twisted inside?”
Georgina nodded gravely. “Yes. Sick and mad.… To play such cruel jokes—”
“He’s done something to you.” Spraggue kept his voice light but firm. If there were no question, there would be no denial.
“Yes,” she murmured. The memory of the beheaded doll clouded her gray eyes.
“Deirdre told me about the doll,” Spraggue said.
“She did?” Georgina stared at her fingernails.
“Why didn’t you say anything about it?”
She kept her head down and answered lamely but doggedly. “It wasn’t the kind of thing I wanted to talk about.…”
“You might have told Darien.”
“What could he do? It was over. I wanted to forget it ever happened.”
“Georgie, was there a piece of paper stuck to the doll?”
She looked up finally. “Yes.”
“Do you still have it?”
“I might.”
“Do me a favor.”
She smiled at his pleading. “Okay.”
“Lunch break. Go get the paper. Don’t tell anybody else about it. Don’t mention where you’re going.”
“But, Michael—”
“Spraggue!” Darien’s voice shot across the rows of seats.
“Yes.”
“Come here!”
Spraggue gave Georgina’s cold hand a squeeze. “Don’t forget,” he said. Georgina’s eyes avoided his, but her hand squeezed back. He walked rapidly over to Darien.
Karen Snow’s dark, angry eyes were still fastened on the director. He seemed flustered, but kept command of his voice. “I wondered, Spraggue,” he began meekly. “We wondered if you’d mind going over to Lafferty’s place and taking a look around. Just to hoist him out of bed, I expect.” Darien tried a laugh. It fell flat. He raised his voice; the rest of the conversation was for Georgina’s curious ears. “I thought you’d be the best person to send. All your Act Two scenes are with Eddie, so I can’t very well rehearse you without him. And Karen has volunteered to go over your blocking tomorrow night, if that’s okay—so any time we miss can be made up. I can work the women’s scenes while you’re gone—”
Maybe he’d go on talking forever, Spraggue thought. He stopped the anxious voice with a word. “Sure,” he said easily. “Just give me an address.”
“One hundred forty-one Hemenway,” said Karen. “Apartment 5.”
She hadn’t left Darien’s side to look it up. Too quick a response for an “older sister”?
“You take a left out the front door, then a right at the corner,” she said.
“I know where it is.” Spraggue turned and left.
Does she know about me? he wondered as he walked the few blocks to Eddie’s apartment. Had she suggested to Darien that he send me? Her dark eyes were intelligent, hard to read. She had a way of using them to close people out; her eyes were shields, hard and opaque. Maybe he could break them down during the extra blocking rehearsal. She’d be a good ally. If she wasn’t the joker.
Whatever he was getting paid, Eddie Lafferty wasn’t squandering it on rent. One hundred forty-one Hemenway was ugly yellow brick, a narrow five stories high, flanked on either side by fragrant alleys. The building to the right was a burned-out hulk. The street-level windows were haphazardly boarded over with plywood.
The neighborhood wasn’t exactly quiet. Rock blared from an open window across the street. Voices called from the Laundromat on the corner. Usual day-to-day noises. No wailing police sirens. Whatever had happened to Eddie, at least it didn’t rate that. Or, thought Spraggue, maybe it just hadn’t been discovered yet.
Up three crumbling cements steps. A scrawled yellowed notice advised callers to ring and wait for the buzzer. Spraggue tried the door; it swung open at his touch. Some security.
Apartment five. He climbed two flights of narrow steps.
Spraggue wasted three seconds trying Eddie’s door. Considering the ease of entry downstairs, each apartment probably boasted five or six locks—chains, deadbolts, anything to soothe the fear.
He knocked, expecting no reply. The picklocks were already active in his hands when he heard it: a low moan followed by a sharp crash.
“Eddie?” Spraggue called.
Again the moaning, grunting noise.
Spraggue made short work of the feeble main lock. There were no chains or bolts. He entered quickly, closing the door behind him.
The room was dark and stuf
fy; heavy curtains obscured the windows. Spraggue took a step, kicked something hard but insubstantial. It skittered across the floor. His hands searched the wall to the left of the door, found the light switch, clicked it on.
Later, he noticed the slit pillows, overturned furniture, tumbled-out drawers. Later, he had time to read the scrawled inscriptions on the walls. At first, all he saw was Eddie.
A pajama-clad Eddie Lafferty balanced precariously on tiptoe on a chair near the center of the room. His mouth was gagged. His blue eyes stared wildly. His hands were tied behind his back. There was a noose around his neck. The rope stretched up over a pipe running the length of the room. It was tied off taut on a closet handle.
Lafferty stared at him blankly, then his eyes rolled up and he started to sag. Spraggue opened his pocket knife as he sprang across the room. He cut the rope with one hand, broke Eddie’s fall with the other.
He eased the limp body down to the floor, removed the gag. He pushed Lafferty over on his side and untied his hands. The rope yielded easily. His hand closed over Lafferty’s wrist. Pulse fast and faint. Spraggue dodged debris and found the tiny kitchen, ran cold water from the tap into two glasses. One he poured over Eddie. He drank half the other then offered it to the still spluttering actor.
“You’re all right, Eddie,” he said soothingly, seeing the wildness come back into the huge eyes. “It’s all over.”
“My God.” The boy’s voice was a feeble croak.
Spraggue grabbed a cushion that had lost its chair and shoved it under Eddie’s head. “Better?”
Eddie tried a tremulous smile. His lips shook.
“Can you tell me what happened?”
“More water.”
Spraggue held the glass for him. A lot of it dribbled to the floor.
“What time is it?” Eddie asked.
“Eleven thirty-five.”
“My God,” Eddie said again.
“How long have you been perched up there?”
“I don’t know. I was still asleep when he came in.”
“Who came in?” said Spraggue.
“Something. I was asleep and something hauled me out of bed. It was dark.”
