I grabbed the book and said, “You got me. I want it.”
He laughed and tousled Fred’s hair.
“Say, Fred,” I asked. “Can you recommend an interesting volume of Macbeth?”
The youth rubbed his chin like a professor and replied in the professional voice of a forty-year-old, “I have just the thing. One moment, ma’am.”
Ben and I exchanged amused glances as Fred eagerly ran off. He came back quick as a flash and handed me a slim volume in deep burgundy leather. Macbeth was embossed in gold across the cover.
“Ooh, that is just the thing. I’ll take that, too.”
On the way back to the office, I felt a presence sidle up next to me. Then two behind.
“Good day, Lane,” growled the baritone voice of Uncle Louie.
I wasn’t exactly excited at this friendship that had sprouted. But I was curious about why he found me.
“Hello, Mr. Venetti. Out for a stroll this fine winter day?” I asked, my footsteps clicking on the pavement that had been studiously shoveled.
“I do like a nice walk in the city,” he said, his hands clasped behind him like an inspector. “There’s no city like ours.”
“I agree. I just bought a few new books,” I said, wondering why I was chatting him up.
“Oh, which ones—” he started, but then cut himself off. You could always tell a book lover; no matter the nature of the man or woman, a book lover is incapable of tamping down the excitement of a new find. Venetti cleared his throat and said instead, “I have some news for you.”
“Not a fan of the phone or messenger, huh?” I noted.
“You never know who might be listening in on the phones, Lane. And I never trust someone more than I trust myself for nuanced or important matters.”
Made sense.
“So, remember that man you said mistook you for Charlie at the Elmo?”
“Sure, Mr. Kirkland said he used to work with him. Sparks, they called him.”
“Yes, indeed. A radio man. I was aware that he’d worked with your parents and Kirkland. But I believe he may have been a double agent.”
I stopped abruptly. “What do you mean?”
“His body was just found at a little hotel on the west side. He was murdered.”
“How?”
“By hatpin to the base of the skull.”
“God damn,” I whispered, unconsciously rubbing the back of my neck.
“Yes. He would have died instantly. Whoever killed him knew what they were doing,” he said as we started walking again.
“Do you know who killed him? You sound like you know.” There was something about his tone. It wasn’t a wondering kind of tone; it held a note of surety.
“Mmm,” he rumbled. “I think I do. I don’t have proof for your boss, Lane. But Daphne was always fond of hatpins. For hats, of course, but one time, she killed someone else like that.”
I gave him a sidelong glance. “What’s your past with Daphne, Mr. Venetti?” I asked with a cocked eyebrow.
“I’ll have to debrief you on that at a later date. Suffice it to say, I know what I’m talking about. But what I can’t guess yet is why she would have killed Sparks.”
“Well, let’s see. Yes, he would’ve been a great weapon for her. If he in fact had been a double agent, the authorities were still unaware of that. He had to have done something that made her incensed enough to kill. Did he, uh . . . hmm, how to put this . . . ? Was he in a state of dishabille when he was found?”
Venetti made a funny noise, but said smoothly, “Actually, he was not indecent, but lacked enough thoroughly buttoned clothing that it would be easy to surmise that they’d had a romantic encounter.”
I started ticking through the options. “Okay. She’s irritated enough to kill. The reason was either personal, which I don’t think she would have cared enough. Or it was professional and he made some kind of error. Big enough to cost him his life.”
I glanced again at Venetti and he gave me a rare, full smile that made his black eyes dance. “Spot-on, Lane.”
CHAPTER 60
“So you killed him?” asked Murk.
“Mm-hm,” said Daphne as she wrinkled her nose and looked around at the ugly deli. She did not share Murk’s fondness for his place of business, invisible or not.
Wulf’s eyes darted back and forth as he tilted his derby hat down a little farther, trying to be invisible.
“Both Crusher and Sparks?” Murk asked, amusement written across his bland, greasy face.
She turned her head smoothly to him, her eyes piercing him with a displeased grimace.
Murk immediately stopped rubbing his stomach and sat up a bit straighter, wiping the grin from his face. Her face had a kind of mask on it that slipped occasionally. Nothing good came of that mask coming down. You wanted to do everything in your power to keep that nice and tight and secured in place. Part of his success was knowing how to do that.
Wulf sat back a little farther, desiring the shadows, not wanting any attention to be brought to himself.
Murk charged into the business at hand, shoulders down and as professional as he could be. “So, now that those two are out of the way, we need to work on the next step. I think we can get Finn Brodie out of the way and if we’re lucky, Lane, as well.”
“Oh no. Lane’s mine. I made the mistake once of not finishing the job. I’m ending it,” said Daphne, smiling like the Cheshire cat.
“Excellent. Anything you have in mind? Or will you do the job in conjunction with our mission?” He was pleased that his vocabulary rose to the occasion. Maybe watching some of those Perry Mason movies like his favorite, The Case of the Velvet Claws, was rubbing off. The Case of the Stuttering Bishop was coming out in June.
“Murk,” she said with a bite, abruptly drawing his attention back. She took off her gray hat after slowly pulling out the long hatpin. They all knew where that had been recently. Murk swallowed hard. Wulf stopped breathing altogether, not wanting to move a muscle.
“Pay attention,” she purred, pleased that she had him sweating. “I think it would be better to work at the same time as your plan. More diversions that way. Now. Where will this plan take place?” she asked.
“Okay.” Murk stood up and walked over to his desk. “I think this will cause the most damage. We can take out Finn, blame it on racial tensions, and cause the most chaos possible. It’s feasible. And the public will easily want to blame it on the anti-police sentiment in that community.” He circled his paunch, pleased again that he sounded professional.
“Not bad. How?” she drawled.
“Here. We’ll handle it here.” He pulled out five tickets to the next night’s performance. “They have tickets the same night. I had a tail on Lane.”
Daphne’s eyes glistened with possibility. As she took the tickets into her own hands, red glossy nails folding over the tickets, she whispered, “Voodoo Macbeth. Perfect.”
CHAPTER 61
I slowly flipped through the family journal that my parents left me. I stopped on the page where my mother was wearing the same white gown and snowy mink stole that I had worn the night we went to the El Morocco. Her hand was flung out to the right, her face alight with imagination and the love of life.
My heart ached a little that her life had been snuffed out so early. That she hadn’t been able to fully realize those dreams and desires that were written all over her countenance. Uncle Louie Venetti, infamous mobster, was standing with her, most definitely a member of her party. I could not escape the fact that he knew something.
Because there was definitely something tying together that Sparks character and his subsequent death via Daphne’s own hand, and me and my mother. It seemed too coincidental that he was murdered directly after her night at the Elmo. What else had happened that night besides my dance with Venetti?
We went to Ophelia and the girl in the red dress had been mistaken for me. We apprehended the guy who tried to kidnap her, devising a way to distract Finn and take out an
other NYPD officer.
I was nearing the answer. I felt tingly as I leaned over to the side table next to my green velvet chair and took my glass of red wine into my hands. It was on the tip of my tongue, at the tip of memory, elusive and tantalizing.
I looked down at the photograph of my mom, her divine white dress that fit like a dream. Her face. Her hidden intentions and clever abilities. She knew something.
Charlie.
The night of the Elmo, I had two encounters of mistaken identity. One with the girl in the red dress. The other, Sparks had grabbed my arm. Shortly after, he was murdered. This was about my mom.
He knew Charlie. He let me know that he was acquainted with Charlie.
And Daphne did not want me to know that.
CHAPTER 62
His glossy, behemoth desk was like the altar. Supplicants entered, made their claims, and he either doled out grace or wrath or direction.
Today, his closest, most-favored man entered in.
“Mr. Venetti, you called for me?” he asked, his long legs folding down as he took the low chair before the dais.
“Indeed.” Venetti took out a cigar, lit it, and began to puff while keeping an eye on the deep blue orbs watching him intently. “We need to be watchful the next few days. I think Daphne will be making her move soon.”
“I agree. I’ve got people on City Hall, the townhouse, the main precinct, and a couple of other haunts that I’ve heard they might go to for entertainment.”
“Which ones are those?” asked Venetti, hoping to get a feel for any inkling pointing him in the right direction. “We need to get ahead of that woman,” he said with a snarl.
“Let’s see, for sure that little place in Little Italy, Copioli’s. Their favorite movie theater. Can’t hurt to keep an eye on Radio City Music Hall given Lane’s history with that place. And lastly, Voodoo Macbeth at the Majestic Theater in Brooklyn.”
“That’s it. That’s the one.”
“What do you mean?”
Venetti leaned back in his chair, reaching out crossed ankles onto his desk and puffing with a sublime look on his face. “Don’t worry about the other places. That’s where she’s aiming. I know it.”
“All right, sir. I’ll focus our efforts there.”
“Good job. We need to end it. She’s been a thorn in my side for too long,” he growled. “Charlie died knowing we didn’t finish her off. And I’m the only one left besides yourself that knows the truth. Everything to stop the Red Scroll from beginning again in earnest depends on us stopping her. At Voodoo Macbeth.”
His guest stood abruptly with resolution. “I’m on it. You can count on me.”
His guest walked out and left Venetti alone, puffing his cigar. He decided to pour himself a bourbon as he ruminated on the days ahead and all that was at stake. Out loud, to no one but himself, he uttered the famous words from Macbeth . . .
“Out, out, brief candle! Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more.”
CHAPTER 63
We arrived at the Majestic Theater. The sky was heavy and gray, snuffing out the stark white glow of the winter moon. The snowy weight of the clouds created a ceiling like a thick blanket over us. The golden windows of nearby buildings surrounded us, but in spite of feeling the excitement of the night, of a time that I had anticipated for Finn and for me and the Battles, I felt a tremor of anxiety.
A string of past moments where I’d felt a strange apprehension flooded my memory. I remembered the static of the air outside of the deli before Peter was killed. Another time when an escaped convict arranged his getaway and Roarke and I came upon the scene with an eerie stillness. The time I walked into Daphne’s room at the lunatic asylum for the first time, when her mask came crashing down. I couldn’t escape those old ghosts. They were with me like Banquo’s ghost was with Macbeth.
Finn, whose arm was linked with mine, must’ve felt the shiver that went down my spine. He said, “You cold, Lane? Here . . .” He put his arm around me, pulling me close as we walked to the theater with thousands of others, the marquee announcing Voodoo Macbeth in rippling lights. Maybe I was feeling these strange emotions because of the realization that Finn would be seeing this after his time facing his parents and his extremely close call in England.
I caught Big Sam’s eye and we exchanged a grim smile. He must’ve felt the charge in the air compared to our last time at the play, too. But in an instant, the spell of anxiety was broken with a ray of sunshine in human form.
“Lane! So good to see you again!” greeted Orson Welles, his face alight with indefatigable energy. “We are nearing the end of our run. I tried to keep it going longer, but it’s time to move on, I guess.” We all greeted him with handshakes and hugs.
“Say, Lane, come backstage when you can. You’re here early enough, I’d love to introduce you to some of the cast,” said Orson, eyes ablaze with excitement.
“I’d love that!” I gushed, squeezing Finn’s hand in delight.
We joined the masses and headed into the full house. The sounds and sights filled us with the joy that only going to a theater performance can give. Anticipation, art, everyone all dolled up, instruments tuning, programs being handed out, seats taken, waiting for the lights to dim.
“Hey, there’s Roarke. He made it,” I said, leaning close to Finn. Sam and Florence had an extra ticket and offered it to us. I waved to Roarke as he wound his way over through the crowd. I greeted him with a hug and Finn stood to clasp his hand. He took the seat next to Finn.
I leaned over to Florence next to me and said, “Thanks for the ticket. He’d been dying to come.”
“I can tell,” she said impishly, looking at Roarke’s full dimples, grinning happily to finally be here. I clasped her hand warmly, filled with the pleasure of the whole event and good friends.
The lights flickered and everyone hurried to take their seat. The air grew even more excited, then the house lights went down. The curtain opened to an eerie stage with jungle vines, earthy rhythms of drums being pounded, and a throne with skeletons wrapped around . . .
By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes . . .
The witches’ speech had always rippled with the delight of spectral thrills and chills. But tonight, I felt an apprehensive tingle through my spine like a cold blast of wind that escaped a door and sent shivers through your entire body. I looked around the dark theater as if I could possibly glimpse anything. It was futile, but I had the distinct impression that someone was watching me.
I took a sidelong glance at Finn, whose face was already fully rapt. I smiled, the odd sensation dissipating quickly against the warmth of his delight. The fact that he got to bring this full circle, after all he’d battled in London and worrying about being charmed, cursed. Dealing with the betrayal of his family and the injustice he’d faced. Then defeating it. What a night. I sat back in the velvet chair and allowed my heart and mind to be swept up into the magic of the next few hours.
Welles had changed the witch’s role to a male voodoo priest and I’d never, ever forget his closing line. I glanced at Finn, knowing what this line would mean to him. At the very end of the play, as the seconds ticked toward the final moment, the voodoo priest came to the front of the stage, aglow with theater lights that couldn’t compare to his own inner light. With bated breath, we awaited that final line, that final curtain. With all-knowing eyes and a radiant countenance, the voodoo priest declared, “The charm’s wound up!”
The entire audience leaped to our feet. I’d never known such an ending to a play. The audience shook the theater with applause and cheers. I looked at Florence and Sam, to whom this first all-black and extremely successful production meant the world, their genuine pleasure shining through their glistening eyes. I turned to Finn, who was also completely taken with the whole thing. He clapped with vigor, trying to give back the thanks and appreciation with his clamorous applause. He turned to me and we sha
red that powerful moment with moisture rimming our eyes and joy filling our hearts. Finn looked valiant.
I took an enormous breath, trying to cement this moment into my mind, forever. All the inspiration, the satisfaction, and the wholeness of excellent art.
Just then, a man came down the aisle and quickly dropped a note into Finn’s hand, then left precipitously. Finn read it and turned to me. “Love, the note’s from a contact. I need to go have a chat with him. I’ll be right back.”
He quickly kissed my hand that he’d taken up as he told me about the message. “Okay, I’ll meet you out in the lobby.”
A motion caught my eye and Orson was waving at me, trying to get my attention. I mouthed to him, Now? He nodded happily and I asked Roarke if he’d like to go backstage with me. Florence and Sam declined, having already enjoyed that tour with Orson. We told them we’d all rejoin in the lobby, then Roarke and I went with giddy steps toward our tour guide.
We met Maurice Ellis, Macbeth. And Charles Collins as Macduff, Canada Lee, who played Banquo, and Edna Thomas as Lady Macbeth. I was the most excited to meet Eric Burroughs, the voodoo priest, who had trained at London’s Royal Academy. I still got chills thinking of that last line.
Orson took us around to all of the fabulous actors and stage technicians. At last, the ruckus behind the stage began to die down as costumes were changed, makeup was taken off, and the stage cleared and prepped for the next performance.
The backstage was a dark labyrinth full of ropes, curtains, and miscellaneous stage equipment. As we wound our way around, having seen every nook and cranny that Orson wanted to point out to us in detail, he said, “Oh, hold on a second.” He quickly disappeared on the hunt for something else interesting to show us.
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