2 Death Makes the Cut (23 page)

“Did you hit him, Ed?” I asked slowly and forcefully.

“No!” he wailed the word. “I never touched him. I yelled at him. That’s all, I swear.”

I believed him. I wished I didn’t because it would have been an easy answer. It would have meant that no one had wanted to kill Coach Fred. A single blow in a moment of anger, instantly regretted. It was an explanation, the only explanation that made any sense to me. Although of course it didn’t explain everything else that had been happening ever since. But I believed Ed Jones was telling the truth.

I sighed and started to walk away. Then I stopped and turned. “You do know it’s dangerous to smoke and wear a patch, right?” I asked.

“I … well, of course. It would be stupid to do both.”

“Well you might tell that to your hand. I can see the smoke, Ed.”

He glanced down at the thin stream of smoke curling around his cupped palm, glared at me, then sighed. He raised the cigarette to his lips, taking a long grateful drag. I noted it was commercially made, filter tip and all. So much for the notion it might be a special version like those that Colin had found in Fred’s desk.

“Well, the patch isn’t exactly cutting it,” he said defensively.

*   *   *

Laura Esperanza made another appearance just as sixth period was ending and the kids in my last class were jostling and shoving their way into the halls like overeager salmon making their way upstream. Over the indistinct babble of voices, the sound of hundreds of feet slapping on concrete, and the clanging of lockers, I heard the staccato tapping of Laura’s shoes. She pushed her way through the knot of kids, not afraid to use elbows, and stormed up to my desk.

With a loud bang, she slapped a flier onto the surface in front of me and all but shouted, “Look what that bitch Nancy Wales has done now!”

Half a dozen heads turned to look our way, and a couple of kids went so far as to halt and watch. This was way more interesting than making it to seventh period. I waved my hand as though flicking them away.

“Go on, you don’t want to be late for your next class.”

They left reluctantly, dragging their feet and craning chins over shoulders until the last minute. I suspected they might wait outside the door to try to hear something more.

I lowered my voice. “What is this?”

“Just look!”

I looked. It was a flier for the musical, brilliantly printed on heavy glossy paper in full color. The elephant featured prominently in the middle, with a couple dressed in evening wear singing into each other’s faces on its broad back. The words
Moulin Rouge—A Stage Spectacular
floated above their heads. Below their feet, in golden script, another line proclaimed, “Original Stage Adaptation by Roland Wilding.”

“Wow,” I said, impressed in spite of myself. “This must have cost a fortune to print. Where do you think they’re getting the money?”

“No, no. That’s not the point! Look at the picture!”

I looked more closely. The girl, long fair hair falling in shiny curls about her shoulders was McKenzie Mills. The boy … I blinked, trying to clear my vision. It didn’t help. The picture did not change. The boy was no boy at all.

“That’s Roland Wilding,” I said.

“Exactly.”

“But…”

“Yes!”

“He can’t…”

“He is.”

I lifted my eyes from the picture. “Maybe this is just a publicity shot. The real kid wasn’t available that day and Roland subbed for him.”

“Nope. I already checked on that. He’s got the lead.”

“Please tell me you’re kidding.”

“Nope. According to my kids, that bitch Nancy Wales told them there wasn’t a boy with a strong enough presence to carry the role.”

I was speechless for a moment.

Laura paced back and forth in front of my desk, looking exactly like a wild panther, if that panther was wearing four-inch-high gladiator sandals.

“They can’t do this. It’s outrageous to cast Roland in a school play. He’s not a student. He’s not even a human. What the hell are they thinking?” I asked.

“She must be banging him, and she needs to keep him happy.”

Behind Laura, kids for my French III class were hovering uneasily by the door, not sure whether to interrupt or not. Exasperated, I waved them in.

“I’ll have to talk to you about this later,” I said to Laura.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “This is not going to happen. I’m going straight to Larry, and if he won’t stop it, I’ll go to the school board. My cousin is a board member.”

She tapped off down the hallway, small shoulders squared and stiff with rage. I thought about calling her back to tell her I’d go with her, but I had a class to teach, and I decided it could wait. She could go see Larry on her own, and I’d return with her for a follow-up visit if it became necessary. As a plan, it made perfect sense. I just wished I knew why I felt so uneasy.

Chapter 15

CASH AND CLOCKS

Tennis practice was almost over when Michael Dupre and Carl strolled over from the area behind the school where the movie trailers were parked. Cigarette dangling from his bottom lip, Carl carried a clipboard in one hand, while the other was busy scratching at something under his greasy blond hair. Beside him, Michael Dupre seemed like an advertisement for cleanliness and personal grooming. I went to meet them, conscious that I’d pulled my hair back into a ponytail of my own without using a brush or looking in a mirror and that a trickle of sweat was running down the side of my face.

“Hi guys. What can I do for you?” I asked.

Michael Dupre cocked his head to one side, looking at me. “You look a lot better than when I saw you last.”

“Always the ladies’ man,” I responded with a grin.

He smiled back, a flash of white teeth in his lean face. “I hope you are fully recovered.”

“Yes, I am, thank you.”

They continued to stare as though considering what camera angle to use on me, and the silence moved into the awkward zone.

“How did the shoot, or whatever you call it, turn out on Friday? Are you here for the kids again?” I asked.

Carl shifted from one foot to another and shot a sidelong glance at his boss.

Michael pondered for a long moment. “That is what we’re here about. The shoot was perfect. Your kids did great, and in fact when we looked at the rushes, we realized it turned out far better than we’d planned. There’s just one small problem.”

I waited for him to elaborate, but he just stood there as though waiting for me to say something. I wondered how long the silence could continue and had a brief vision of darkness falling and we three still standing in the parking lot in the moonlight. I decided I didn’t have that kind of time.

“What problem?” I asked.

“You, actually. You made it into frame near the end when you came up the path.”

My memory of that event was blurry, but I had a vague recollection of seeing running, screaming kids and cameras on rails before I passed out.

“I’m sorry. Did it ruin the scene? Can’t you cut that bit out?”

“Yes, we could,” he admitted. “And I was going to. Until we saw the rushes. It was brilliant. Scariest thing in the entire scene. Changed the whole focus of the chase. See, it made it look like there was something even worse in front of the kids, like they were being herded forward. I loved it.”

I looked at him uncomprehendingly.

He went on. “I’ve got writers working right now on the script. The thing is…” and here his voice trailed off.

Carl cleared his throat as though to speak, then thought better of it, and inhaled a long drag on his cigarette. The tip glowed orange.

Michael Dupre tried again. “The thing is, well, we’d sort of like to keep that scene.”

“Well, okay, that’s good news, right?”

Carl spoke. “We need your permission. We didn’t have you signed on as an extra—we only had the tennis players.”

Michael added quickly, “We’ll pay you, of course. Double, in fact. We can even throw in a screen credit.”

So that’s what this was about. He didn’t want to have to reshoot the scene. I gave a relieved laugh.

“Wow, I thought something was really wrong. No problem, I’ll sign whatever. You don’t have to pay me, and I definitely don’t need credit. I can’t imagine what I must have looked like, but I’m pretty sure I won’t want anyone knowing it was me.” I gave a little shudder at the thought.

Michael gave a whoop and threw his arms around me before Carl muscled him aside and thrust the clipboard into my hands.

“Sign here and here,” he said, pointing as though worried I’d change my mind.

I heard the sound of running feet behind me, and turned my head in time to see Roland Wilding flying across the parking lot toward us. He really was very pretty, I thought dispassionately, with his golden hair aglow in the sunlight and his fine figure almost graceful in motion. Too bad he was such a worm.

“What’s going on?” he cried, panic very near the surface. “Are you signing the tennis team for more work? I told you before, the drama department is ready and able to do whatever you need.”

Michael lifted a hand. “No, it’s nothing like that.”

“Then what…” Roland’s voice trailed off as he glanced from Michael to the clipboard in my hands.

I decided to take pity on him. “I accidentally made it into one of the shots, Roland, and they need my permission to use the footage. That’s all.”

“You? You made it into a shot?” he whispered, stricken. “In a Michael Dupre film?”

“Entirely by accident,” I tried to reassure him.

Carl grunted. “Yeah, she got mugged. Bummer for her, but gold for us.” He tapped the clipboard impatiently. “Here and here,” he reminded me.

Roland went as white as it was possible to get under his spray-on tan. “Getting mugged got you into the film?”

“Yeah. Weird right? But I’m fine, thanks for asking,” I said, signing the form with a flourish. I handed the pen and clipboard back to Carl.

Carl gave an unexpected grin.

“Told you she’d be cool about it,” he said to Michael, and then slouched off, reaching behind as he walked to give his sagging pants an upward tweak.

Michael gave me a little nod. “Thank you,” he said simply, turning to go.

“Wait!” Roland grabbed Michael’s arm, then realized what he’d done and snatched his hand back. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

“I’m very sorry, but I don’t have any roles for your group,” Michael said with some coldness.

“No, that’s not why I came over here. Look!” Roland pulled out a handful of brightly colored theater tickets. “Tickets for our production. Opening night is Friday. It’s going to be spectacular.”

Spectacular, spectacular, I thought to myself, thinking of a song in the show.

Michael looked pained. “We’re going to be extremely busy wrapping up our production here. That’s our final week of shooting. I’m very sorry, but…”

Roland cut him off, something that probably didn’t happen very often. “Don’t say no! Look, you’re known in the industry as a director with an eye for bright new talent. You’ve discovered dozens of new actors. I … we’ve got some serious talent this year. The best I’ve ever seen. Come. Just for half an hour if you can’t manage more than that. You will be seriously impressed.”

Michael hesitated, and Roland thrust the tickets at him again.

“Please. Half an hour. I’ll reserve you seats in the back. Or the front. Whichever you prefer.”

Michael reluctantly held out a hand, taking the tickets with the enthusiasm of someone receiving a religious pamphlet from a beaming swami in saffron robes. “The back. Near the door.”

“You got it,” said Roland. “You won’t regret it.”

Michael’s expression said otherwise, but he managed a nod before walking back toward the set.

Roland watched him go, then turned back to me, eyes spiteful. He opened his mouth to spew out some kind of nonsense, but I held up a hand.

“Whatever you’re going to say, save it. I didn’t tell him you only want him to come so that he can see you perform as Christian. Or that the only reason the play is happening this week at all is because it’s the last week he is here. But I will if you don’t leave me the hell alone.”

A lie. I was hardly likely to see Michael Dupre again, let alone talk to him about Roland Wilding of all subjects, but Roland didn’t know that. He closed his mouth with a snap and scuttled off as quickly as possible.

I watched him go with a feeling of revulsion. I couldn’t wait to tell Laura that I’d figured out the reason for all the expensive props, the killer rehearsal schedule, and the casting choices. All done to give Roland Wilding his chance to audition for director Michael Dupre. What a weasel.

*   *   *

Returning to my classroom to prepare for a quiz I planned to give the next day, I noticed the door to Coach Fred’s classroom stood slightly ajar. Inexperienced substitutes had been known to trample a kid or two in their hurry to leave at the end of the day, so occasionally a door was left unlocked or even open. This door in particular required a good hard pull to make the latch click into place, and Fred used to bang it shut quite loudly. It was always my cue to go home. I crossed the hall to close it, thinking about poor Fred and how much had changed in such a short time.

As I put my hand on the doorknob, a sound caught my ear and I paused, listening. Inside, someone was rustling through various papers and opening and closing drawers in a hurry. Of course, it could have been the substitute, but that was unlikely so long after the school day had ended. I opened the door wide enough to peek around the corner.

Pat Carver sat in Fred’s chair, busy going through his desk. I straightened, then entered the room, but Pat was completely absorbed in her search and didn’t notice me. I watched her pull open the file drawer and start pawing through the folders, muttering to herself. I cleared my throat.

The effect was spectacular. She jumped an inch off the seat and slammed her own fingers in the drawer in her haste to close it. A brick red flush crept up her neck and into her cheeks, but she met my gaze defiantly.