by Linda Barnes
“Both brides,” Karen said. “Jonathan Harker, Renfield.…”
“What?” Spraggue said suddenly.
“Nothing. I’m just renaming them, the ones who were attacked. Saying their character names instead of their real names—”
“Say them again. Just the same way!”
“The brides of Dracula, Jonathan Harker, Renfield, Lucy Westenra—what is it, Michael?”
Spraggue was too deep in thought to notice that Karen Snow had finally used his first name. “The order, Karen. Dracula must have attacked the brides, right? Or they wouldn’t be vampires. Then he gets Harker. He’s the first victim in the book, while he’s visiting the Count in Transylvania. Then it’s off to England and Renfield. And who’s the next victim?”
“Lucy,” Karen answered eagerly.
“Emma,” Spraggue said at the same time.
“You think the prankster is playing according to the script?” Karen said.
“I hope not.”
“Why?”
“Because Lucy is the first to die.”
“But if we know who’s next, if we understand the message, then we can prevent—”
“Message,” Spraggue said. “The message. You’re good for me, Karen. Look around. If I’m right, there should be a scrap of paper around.…”
“Wait.” Karen halted in midsearch. “What about Frank, Michael? You forgot Frank.”
“Shit.” Spraggue sank down onto a platform. “You’re right. Frank was attacked and he played Dr. Seward—”
“And Seward is never attacked by Dracula,” Karen finished the thought.
“Damn.”
“Could be the exception that proves the rule,” Karen said hopefully.
Spraggue smiled. “You’re too kind.”
She flashed that half-there smile at him. “I mean it. I don’t think you should throw the theory out yet. It could help us prepare for the next attack.”
Spraggue thought back to the script. “On Caroline,” he said.
“Unless there’s a repeat attempt on Emma.”
“Let’s find the note.”
It was behind the counterweight carriage, slightly crumpled. Spraggue picked it up gingerly with the edge of a handkerchief. The surface was probably too rough to hold fingerprints anyway. He recognized the printing immediately: numbers again: III4122
“Karen,” he said. “Downstairs in my dressing room. A book on the makeup table. Old brown leather. Macbeth. Look up Act Three, scene four, line one hundred twenty-two.”
She stared at him blankly for a moment, then disappeared.
Spraggue continued to search the stage. What for, now? Some clue, any item the joker might have dropped in his hurried getaway. Something to make up for the lack of description, the failure to apprehend. Karen’s footsteps clattered up the stairs. They hesitated, then crossed the stage.
“Yes?” he said, not looking up.
“Blood will have blood,” she said, holding out the battered volume.
Spraggue took it and read:
“It will have blood, they say; blood will have blood. Stones have been known to move and trees to speak;”
They stood immobile for a minute. Karen shivered. “I think it’s time to call Darien,” Spraggue said.
Chapter Eleven
“Not now, Spraggue!” Darien whispered furiously the next morning. “Haven’t I got enough to worry about? Repairmen all over my stage—”
“Karen can take care of that. I have to talk to you.”
“Look, I talked to you damn near all night—”
“Now, Arthur,” Spraggue said firmly.
Red-faced, the director excused himself from the bustle onstage. He dodged the scaffolding stage right and huddled with Spraggue in the wings.
“Make it brief,” Darien said, softening his words with a crooked grin.
“Arthur,” Spraggue said bluntly. “Why aren’t you playing straight with me?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Darien’s blue eyes stayed cool.
“Recognize this?” Spraggue held up the copy of the note he’d found while searching Darien’s office.
“Where did you—” Darien began, then stopped abruptly.
“Right.” Spraggue smiled. “You blew your line. You’re supposed to say ‘What’s that?’ Then I might have believed you when you said you hardly ever look at your desk. But now it’s too late for that.”
“Where do you get off searching my office? Going through my personal things?”
“If you’re not going to cooperate—”
“I don’t have to tell you anything, Spraggue. You hear me? Anything!”
“That’s right, Arthur. And I don’t have to work for you. Find someone else to listen while you spin half a fairy tale—”
“I told you the truth!”
“Selections from the truth! It’s not the same thing.”
“If you hadn’t let the bastard waltz by you last night—”
“You’re right, Arthur.” Spraggue lowered his voice, “With the information you gave me, all I could hope for was a lucky break. I had one last night, a break that could have been very unlucky for me. Maybe the next time—”
“I doubt there’ll be a next time, Spraggue. For you. I don’t need anyone questioning me, searching my office, treating me like a criminal! I hired you!”
“And you can fire me, Arthur. Anytime,” Spraggue said. He waited for the words to come. After all that uncertainty over taking the job, Spraggue found himself surprised at how fiercely he longed to keep it.
“Boss?” The fat man stepped silently out of the shadows.’ Spraggue wondered how long he’d stood there, hidden by the glaring lights and the dark enveloping curtains.
“What do you want, Dennis?” Darien said sharply.
“Nothing to get excited about. Business. Sorry. I didn’t realize I was interrupting an important conference—”
“It’s all right, Dennis,” Darien said, his voice granting reluctant forgiveness.
“I haven’t met Mr. Spraggue, you know,” the fat man continued. Spraggue gazed at him, puzzled. He’d expected the house manager to take the rebuff, excuse himself, and melt back into the shadows. Didn’t realize he was interrupting an important—Dennis Boland knew exactly what he was butting in on, unless he was deaf.
Darien performed perfunctory introductions.
“I’ll talk to you about my little problem later, boss,” the fat man said. “Sure hope nothing else happens to disturb your cast. They’re plenty upset as it is.”
“I know that, Dennis,” Darien said.
“Good. I’ll be getting back to work then. Come by and see me when you have a chance. Nothing urgent.”
The fat man shook hands all around, effaced himself, and disappeared back into darkness. Spraggue listened to his surprisingly light footsteps fade. Too soon? Had Dennis stopped to hear the end of the conversation?
Darien ran a hand through his wispy, thinning hair and sighed. “I don’t have to tell you how upset I am, do I?” he said.
Spraggue let out his breath. He wasn’t going to be fired. The fat man’s intrusion had taken the wind out of Darien’s sails. A timely interruption.
“I still have to know why you didn’t show me that note, Arthur.”
Darien shrugged. “It seemed so silly at the time,” he said lamely. “Anonymous notes.” He wrinkled his nose in distaste.
“If I’m going to find out who the joker is, I have to know everything that’s going on,” Spraggue insisted.
“Would it have made any difference if you’d seen that note at the beginning?”
“Maybe. I would have placed the joker in a different league. I thought I was dealing with a bizarre sense of misplaced humor at the start. Now I believe he—or she—is serious. That letter might have led me there sooner. ‘One suicide not enough.’ Not the sort of sentiment I’d have expected from a common prankster.”
“But it’s so damned ridiculous!” Darien exploded. “Does wh
oever-it-is imagine that I’m going to cringe in terror and throw myself out some window?”
“The thing is,” Spraggue said, “whoever-it-is seems to be sending someone in the company messages. Messages I’m sure at least one person understands.…”
“I don’t follow you.”
“There are messages that go with the tricks. So far all of them, except yours, have been sent in code—”
“Can you understand them?”
“I think so.”
“Mine wasn’t in code,” Darien said. “He must have realized I wouldn’t understand.”
“Maybe.”
“What about the others, Spraggue? What do they mean?”
“They’re all warnings. And I think we have to take them seriously.”
“Against anyone in particular?”
“Against almost everyone, in time,” Spraggue said.
Darien raised a questioning eyebrow.
“Right now,” Spraggue continued, “I’m most concerned about Emma and Caroline. Emma should have been the victim of last night’s prank. The joker may not be satisfied with a botched attempt.”
“Why Caroline?”
“She’s after Emma.”
“Can’t you explain, Spraggue?”
“I’d rather not. It’s only a theory. But what I want to do is to call in the police and have those two women protected at least until the opening—”
“No police.”
“Arthur.…”
“Absolutely not. Look, I agree with you. We’re dealing with someone who has to be taken seriously, with someone very disturbed. But what has he accomplished so far? That attack last night wasn’t meant to harm you, that’s what you said. And a bucket of blood would have upset Emma dreadfully, but it wouldn’t have killed her! And my note—what harm is there in that? I’m not suicidal. Even if I were, I doubt I’d have been driven off my nut by an anonymous communication.
“I think you’re getting very close now, Michael. You know where to look, who the next victim might be. You can handle this without the police, without the publicity. I’m sure of it.”
“Mr. Darien.” The voice was Karen Snow’s. “We’re ready. Do you want to go with the scene? Only thirty-five minutes to lunch break.”
“A whole morning wasted!” Darien’s fingernails dug into his palms. “Let’s try to salvage something, Spraggue. The joker won enough last night; he’s ruined a morning’s rehearsal. Let’s not give him any more satisfaction. No publicity. Let’s just get back to work.”
“It’s your show, Arthur.”
“Call places for Act Two, scene three, Karen. Quickly!”
Spraggue took a seat in the audience, third-row center, to wait for his cue. He nodded to Gregory Hudson, slouched comfortably four rows back, sandwiched between Deirdre and Georgina. A breathing contradiction, that tall effeminate man always surrounded by women. Were the ladylike manner, the high voice, only outward tricks of nature?
The two brides of Dracula giggled and whispered with Harker, their laughter reaching a peak when Caroline Ambrose, in a simple but expensive black dress, entered and dropped languidly into a front row seat next to Arthur Darien.
The scene began, a full technical run-through with lights, music, and sound effects. The fog machines hummed faintly. Blue mist poured out over the rocky coast of Whitby, England. Music played—plaintive lingering strings joined by a lonely clarinet. A wolf howled an eerie descant. A pleasurable chill crept up Spraggue’s spine.
Emma Healey appeared stage center on the highest platform, eyes wide and vacant, unnaturally pale in the indigo light.
“Enter Lady Macbeth, mad,” whispered a voice from behind. Spraggue turned sharply: Hudson’s voice. Deirdre smirked and covered her mouth with her hand. Spraggue wondered: did Hudson often quote Macbeth?
Emma’s hair flamed around her oval face. She wore the same low-cut blue leotard with the addition of a long rehearsal skirt “to give her the feel” of the floaty nightgown she would wear in performance. She held out her arms to an invisible presence and spoke. Spraggue drew in his breath.
Her voice was deep and throaty, loud enough to be heard at the back of the house, yet somehow intimate. “You bade me come, Master,” she said, pausing before the final word. Her delivery was supremely sexy—a suntan-oil commercial oozing with class. Spraggue could hear Greg Hudson’s running commentary behind him, envying the luck of the vampire. Silently, Spraggue agreed.
In a rush of wind, young Lucy Westenra heard Dracula’s answer, deep and melodious.
“Come closer!” the voice beckoned, tempted, as well as commanded. Spraggue searched for the actor, His voice came from everywhere, careening off the walls.
Lucy-Emma’s voice was longing, yet afraid. “Nearer the edge? I dare not.”
“Fear not, my child, my Lucy. I will protect you. You will come.”
Slowly, the woman descended the twisting, rocky steps.
“No!” Darien’s shout broke the mood. “Look up, Emma. Up! Focus on your vision of the vampire.”
“I’m afraid I’ll fall. I’m not used to the steps.”
“Tell her Deirdre would be happy to try, Arthur,” Greg Hudson volunteered. “That’ll get her eyes off the floor.”
“Shhhhh.”
The offstage voice continued hypnotically. “Come, my Lucy, my bride. Blood of my blood, you will be. Flesh of my flesh. Years have I waited since your image first enthralled me—”
“But Arthur,” Caroline Ambrose stage-whispered, “just look at her! She should be virginal, don’t you think? Not panting.”
“Shhhhh.” This time the hiss came not from Darien but from Hudson. Caroline glared over her shoulder.
On stage: a materialization. The heavy cover of a sarcophagus shifted magically. Fog billowed from within. A black shape arose, back to the audience, cloak outstretched.
Spraggue searched for the familiar stage mechanisms, fixed on the area below the sarcophagus, carefully screened from audience view, postulated the hydraulic lift, the trapdoor. The illusion was perfect.
Arthur Darien’s voice interrupted Spraggue’s concentration. “You better get ready for your entrance, Caroline,” he said.
“What? And miss the sexy part?” Greg intoned to his giggling camp followers.
Spraggue watched as Caroline shot him a grim look, walked briskly up the stairs, and disappeared into the wings.
The Count, John Langford, majestic in profile, held out his arms toward Emma. Helplessly drawn to him, yet somehow repulsed, she moved unwillingly down the steps, awake but entranced. The scene was more ballet than theater. The principal dancers turned, eyed each other hungrily. Their hands met. As she neared the bottom of the staircase, the Count swept her off her feet. His hand stroked her hair, fondled her throat. She fell back in his arms, accentuating the line from long neck to swelling breast. The vampire bit. She sighed, cried out. Gently the Count draped her fainting form over the sarcophagus; carefully he loosened the high collar of her imaginary gown. With a flourish of black velvet, he leaned over her—
“Damn, she’s good!” Georgina breathed from the back row.
Someone grunted agreement.
Spraggue found himself caught up in the action in a way he thought he’d outgrown. They were on fire, those two. Their eyes, the way they claimed each other—some of the best theatrical moments came in silence.
The Count smoothed Emma’s fiery hair. His hand slid down her cheek, lingered at her neck, caressed her breast.…
A terrified cry from offstage shattered the mood. Caroline Ambrose made her entrance.
“Hold it!” Darien shouted. “Give them more time, Caroline! When John puts her on the bench, give him a full five count, even an eight. Better still, forget the offstage yell. Too distracting. Come on in silence. Let us get used to seeing you up there. Lights! Get a baby spot on her as soon as she enters. Not too bright. Then look around, Caroline. Right! Remember the fog. Try to see through it. You think you see her, but you’re not
sure. Right. So the cry is more tentative. Lovely work, John and Emma. Take it from the bench.”
“Think the Count needs a stand-in?” Spraggue was surprised to find Greg Hudson in the seat beside him. The brides of Dracula were gone. “They’ve got to get ready for the next scene,” said Hudson, “in case the master decides to go right on. We have to anticipate his moods.” Hudson leaned back in his seat, eyes fastened on the set. “They do work well together, don’t they?”
Spraggue nodded agreement.
“Almost as if they’d been practicing a long time. Emma’s a very busy little girl.”
Spraggue said nothing.
“I don’t see how Langford could have managed it,” Hudson went on speculatively, almost to himself. “Not the way Lady Caroline smothers him with affection.”
Darien interrupted the scene again. Caroline had come in too fast.
“I wonder which of them will explode first,” Greg said.
“What do you mean?”
“One of the ladies is about to throw bricks. Probably Emma. She’s keyed up, you know. Scared.”
“About the role?”
“Are you kidding? Look at her. She’ll steal this show away from Caroline Ambrose without dropping a bra strap.”
“Then what’s she afraid of?” Spraggue kept his voice low. He didn’t want to disturb Darien, who stared so attentively, so single-mindedly at the stage.
“Nothing, I suppose,” Greg said. “Some phone calls.”
“Anonymous?”
“Yeah. The breather routine. Calls in the middle of the night. Usually I get the phone. Waste of the guy’s efforts.”
“It’s a man?”
“Man, woman. I can’t tell. But it gets on Emma’s nerves. She’s having trouble sleeping.”
Is this meant to tell me that Emma confines her fornicating to you? Spraggue wondered. Warning me off? Spraggue searched Greg’s intent face. His eyes never left Emma … or John Langford.
“Watch her!” Greg said. “Caroline. She’s going to blow the scene again.”
Caroline made her entrance in the grand manner, distracted. She was panting, flushed with exertion. Her devotion to Lucy was such that she had run all the way from the house to the cliffs. She posed, tragic in the fog.
