Scene Stealer (12 page)

“Not more than hour ago, this handsome cop—he's in plain-clothes—a detective, comes in flashing identification at me. He wants to talk to Miss Silk,” Cissy Love told the group gathered at the Mr. Coffee machine. “I couldn't care less about identification, when I'm about to drown in his sea-green eyes. Wasn't wearing a wedding ring either…”

“He has a policewoman with him,” the receptionist interrupted.

“Foxy chick,” the mailroom boy threw in. He might have braces on his teeth and zits dotting his forehead, but he knew a pretty woman when he saw one.

“This has to be mailed, Floyd. Now!” Cissy handed the boy a stack of envelopes and he dragged his feet as he moved toward the elevator bank, his ears straining to hear what he hoped was something bad about Felicity Silk. The big boss never said “Hello” to him. Treated him like the invisible man; like he wasn't there. To his disappointment, an elevator arrived within seconds.

“What did she do, Cissy?” the receptionist asked. “Embezzle scads of money from Cousin Cora?”

“Maybe she stole a chicken.” The head accountant broke himself up, then, remembering his position as lower management, looked around as if the laughter had come from somebody else.

“Seriously, Cissy, what are the police doing here?”

“I don't have the foggiest,” Cissy said. “Miss Silk doesn't confide in me, my crystal ball isn't working, I forgot to bug the office this morning and, unfortunately, the lieutenant didn't want to question me.”

The police were, in fact, questioning Felicity Silk about her relationship with Robert Barton.

“Casual acquaintances,” Felicity said.

“Perhaps the relationship was something more than casual acquaintances?” Sergeant Harris spoke a little louder than necessary.

Felicity ignored Marjorie and concentrated on Lieutenant Brown. He received one of her professional smiles and returned it.

“We often attend…attended the same charitable functions,” Felicity said. “One or two events hosted by restaurant associations.”

Marjorie placed the photo of Barton and Felicity, smiling at each other, in Silk's hand.

Felicity barely glanced at the picture. “Publicity photos can often be deceptive.”

“Where were you last Friday evening, Miss Silk?”

“Should I contact my lawyer? You act as if I'm a prime suspect, Sergeant…whatever your name is.”

“Harris. Sergeant Harris.” The muscles at the base of Marjorie's neck grew tight.

“Purely routine, Miss Silk. For elimination purposes; it's all part of the job. We need to ask questions of anyone even remotely connected to Robert Barton.” Lieutenant Brown flashed his version of a professional smile.

Marjorie popped a handful of peppermints into her mouth.

Felicity played along with the lieutenant, reached for her desk calendar and flipped back a page. “Last Friday, just another busy day. I worked late and had no social engagements that evening, Lieutenant. I went home and stayed home.”

“Can anyone vouch for you?” Marjorie asked. “You” emerged from Marjorie's mouth as “ya.”

The green eyes that impressed Cissy Love twinkled with amusement. Timothy Brown could always tell when Sergeant Marjorie Harris thought someone was a pain in the butt. Her pattern of speech reverted to pure New York.

“I was home alone. You'll have to take my word for it. Won't she, Lieutenant?”

“When was the last time you saw Robert Barton, Miss Silk?”

“I couldn't possibly remember. No doubt it was at an association function.”

“Miss Silk.” Timothy Brown spoke softly. “Are you familiar with an actor named Lawrence Dunn?”

“Should I be familiar with Mr. Dunn?”

“He worked on one of your commercials.”

“Lieutenant,” Felicity Silk said. “We interview and audition, as well as employ, hundreds of actors. All types. All age categories. If one isn't available, we hire another. At my level, I am barely involved, certainly not to the point of meeting the actors. How could I possibly remember your Torrance?”

“Lawrence. Lawrence Dunn.” Marjorie's forehead creased with annoyance.

“Miss Silk.” Lieutenant Brown stopped smiling. “We need to check your records and screen your commercials. The category would be older men.”

“Cissy!” Felicity stabbed the intercom with her index finger. “Cissy, set up an appointment for the lieutenant with the advertising department.”

“Yes, Miss Silk.” Cissy sounded breathless.

“Now, if there's nothing else,” Felicity turned her calendar toward the lieutenant, “Today is Monday and I have an extremely busy day.”

Felicity Silk fingered the keys to Lawrence Dunn's theatre and opened the door. No, my theatre, she thought, bought and paid for in return for the self-styled Shakespearean actor's assistance. The spare set of keys was easy to lift, taken while Dunn was giving her a mind-numbing “Grand Tour.” She had feigned interest in his plans and swallowed yawn after yawn; it took a good deal of effort on her part. At the time, Felicity did not need the keys; taking things was just a game she enjoyed playing. The fun was realizing no one would suspect a woman in her position. Surprisingly, the keys had come in handy. Felicity could enter and leave the theatre whenever she chose, useful when she needed a costume to disguise herself.

Robert Barton had been a stupid and greedy man. A thief. After he had wined and dined and yes, courted her, Barton had the audacity to steal the recipe for Cousin Cora's Cakewalks, lavishing gifts on her private secretary to obtain it. And then the stories he planted in those dirty rags some people call newspapers! The day the salmonella story came out in that cheap tabloid, Cousin Cora's stock dipped twenty points. Barton had to be stopped before he did any more damage to the chain's image. As the company's director, she was responsible.

It shouldn't have come to violence: Barton should have been scared witless with his loss of Kevin. She was a reasonable woman, and all she asked for was a groveled apology and a sworn statement, admitting in a televised press conference that he had stolen the brownie recipe. Kevin Corcoran would have been released; dropped off at a Cousin Cora's restaurant upstate by a disguised Lawrence Dunn. Photos, taken of the kid surrounded by the most photogenic of the old crones and codgers who waited on tables at Cousin Cora's, would have made all the newspapers. She had pictured Kevin holding a Chicken Crisp in one hand and a Cakewalk in the other, interviewed by reporters, on prime-time news. Wouldn't that have made Robert Barton squirm! The kid would have been free and no one hurt except Cowboy Bob's Big, Bad Burger.

Instead of the expected apology, Barton just laughed and thanked her for the free publicity. She could still hear the sound of his laugh; like the screech of an obscene rooster. Her former lover had actually threatened to name her as Kevin's kidnapper on network television. The arrogant fool deserved to die; Felicity wasn't sorry about that. His death was his own fault. Cousin Cora's good name had to be protected. Anyone who made a fool of Felicity Silk deserved what they got.

The hair-dryer was right there sitting on a shelf next to the sink and she had thrown it…no…Lawrence Dunn had thrown it at Barton's detestable face. Unfortunately for Barton, the dryer was plugged in.

His death did complicate things. She was proud of her appointment as director of Cousin Cora's Chicken Crisps. But becoming involved with Robert Barton, a man totally unworthy of her affections, was a foolish mistake. A mistake she needed to rectify; she had worked too hard to lose everything now.

Felicity smoothed the feathers on the hat she had borrowed from the storage room; the hat worn when she visited
Hitting Bottom.
She admired the hat, the tilt of its brim; too bad it had to be returned, but the hat belonged to Larry. A master of disguise, he could have dressed as a woman and worn it the night Barton met with his unfortunate accident.

When Felicity had glanced through his portfolio, she knew Dunn was the right man. She had wanted to stop Barton before his company overtook Cousin Cora's. Dunn, with a grudge against the kid already, was the perfect instrument The one thing that simpleton actor could do well was apply make-up. The photographs in his thick album exhibited the man in a multitude of disguises. Flattery, a bit on a television commercial and a few romantic walks, making a pretense of listening while he spouted Shakespearean sonnets, and Dunn became a willing accomplice. Lawrence Dunn would do anything she asked—including taking the fall for her, if need be.

 

The lukewarm tea left in the pot served to soothe Annalise's sore throat.

“I was really into Desdemona,” she said. Though her voice had the rough quality of a rasp, the poor child kept talking.

“Larry surprised me, Miss Weidenmaier. He never rehearses a scene full out. He indicates. Larry believes in saving himself for the performance but this time he really let himself go; I'll have to remember that feeling of fear and use it.”

Kevin's moist hand kept a firm hold on mine. We would have no trouble remembering.

“Sip the tea, dear,” I said. “Don't gulp. It causes hiccups.” Rehearsing. My word! I had no trouble believing Lawrence Dunn's intention had been to frighten if not murder the girl. We, all three, needed to escape before the man snapped entirely. But how?

 

“Damnation!” The man's curse carried through the locked door.

I checked my watch. An hour before the curtain rose and the play began. Dunn was setting up the props and lights without Annalise's help and having a difficult time with his chores.

“Larry.” Annalise's voice cracked as she called, “Larry, why don't you let me set your props?”

“Don't treat me like an addle-pated lack-wit, Annalise. You'd call the police. You will not be released until our plan succeeds.”

Our?
Lawrence Dunn had used the possessive form of
we.
My suspicions deepened into certainty; another scoundrel must be involved in Kevin's kidnapping.

“I won't call the police unless you want me to,” Annalise said. “Larry, you have no one to work the spotlight; let me help you. Your spotlight needs the new pink gelatin; the white light will age you. Larry? You'll disappoint the audience.”

We stared at the door. Silence was our only reply.

“Ah hah! I found it!” Dunn bellowed in triumph. A moment's quiet then his footsteps sounded again right above our heads. Of course, I thought. The storage room was directly beneath the stage.

“I don't suppose you have the key to this room?” I asked Annalise the question without expecting an affirmative answer.

“It was never locked until the last couple of days. I guess that's because he had you.” Annalise nodded to Kevin and he gave her a modest grin in return, still oddly proud at having been kidnapped.

“Put on your thinking caps,” I commanded, remembering I had used those words when teaching my first-grade students. “We must find a way out of here.”

“If my dad knew where we were,” Kevin said, “he'd burst in here with a platoon of men and rescue us just like that.” The child snapped his fingers.

“We don't need a platoon,” Annalise said. “I know how we can get out.”

“You do?” Kevin and I spoke at the same time.

“Up there. Look at the ceiling,” Annalise said. “See? To the right, that's a
Macbeth
trap; it's built for Banquo's ghost. We'll escape through there.”

“Shh!” Kevin said. “You're not supposed to say the name of that play in the theatre. It's bad luck. Evil things happen.”

“Say what?” I asked.

“The name of The Scottish Play.”

“Macbeth.”

“You just said it again, Annalise,” Kevin said. “Not that I'm superstitious.”

“Of course not,” Annalise said. “But maybe we'd better turn round three times and spit over our left shoulders just to make sure.”

“I suggest we save our saliva and make our exit before Mr. Dunn returns,” I said. “His catching us in the act of departure would be extremely bad luck.”

“All we need is a ladder,” Kevin said.

“Over there.” Annalise pointed to an empty space against the wall. “Well, it used to live right there.”

“Chairs?” Kevin asked.

The unmatched chairs appeared inadequate to the task, but desperate situations call for desperate actions.

“Let's try,” I said.

We stacked three chairs, losing the fourth when one of its spindly legs collapsed.

“The table should give us sufficient height.” I motioned to the others. “One. Two. Three. Everybody lift.” We placed the table beneath the trap and steadied a wobbly leg with a scrap of plywood before resetting the chairs.

“Annalise!” Larry shouted from the stairway. “Where did you put my crown?”

We had become so involved in planning our escape we hadn't heard him leave the stage. If he came into the room we were lost. We quickly took down the chairs.

Annalise ran to the door. “It's on your make-up table, Larry.”

The door to Dunn's dressing room slammed shut.

“Maybe we should wait 'til he leaves the theatre to carry out our plan,” Annalise whispered.

“What if he doesn't leave the theatre?” Kevin asked.

“He feeds you after the show, doesn't he? If he keeps me locked up, he'll have to go out himself.”

Unless, I thought, he decides to do away with us.

Annalise must have read my mind. “Larry won't hurt us,” she said. “Actors are too sensitive to hurt anyone.”

I did not mention John Wilkes Booth.

“All right, plan one,” I said. “When he leaves the theatre, we make our escape through the trap door…”

“Mr. Dunn made the trap himself but he keeps it locked,” Kevin said, clearly suddenly remembering that fact. “He told me it wouldn't be safe if he didn't.”

We stared at the trap. “I have a nail file,” I said. “But perhaps we should think of a contingency plan.”

“Maybe I could lasso him,” Kevin said, sounding a tad uncertain. He bent over a heap of ropes and tried to lift a length from the tangled pile.

I picked up the pot used for boiling tea and shifted it from hand to hand. Cheap aluminum; it would never knock out Lawrence Dunn.

“I know what we can use.” Annalise rummaged through several cartons. She was about to hand me a heavy iron skillet.

“Mee, my, moe, moo.” Dunn was right outside the door.

“Hi, Mr. Dunn,” Kevin said. His boyish soprano changed sharply in pitch and timbre, then broke. “We're helping Annalise check the props.”

Dunn stood, framed in the doorway, staring at Kevin. How long had he been there?

“What is wrong with your tone and resonance?” Dunn asked the child.

“I think my voice is changing, Mr. Dunn.”

“Nonsense. You're much too young. You have not, as yet, reached the awkward age. Some of us, fortunately, never do. I went from light tenor to resonant baritone with no discordant interval.”

“Gee, Mr. Dunn, I'd like to be just like you.”

Was the child sincere? Lawrence Dunn believed he was. The man blushed. For a moment he seemed to have forgotten why he had reentered the room.

“Annalise,” he finally said, “where is my dagger? I cannot find my dagger.”

“On the top shelf. Where we keep the hand props.”

“I checked the shelf,” Dunn snapped.

I slipped my hand into my skirt pocket. The dagger was there.

“Let me look,” Annalise said. “Larry, let me help you get ready for your performance. A star shouldn't have to do everything for himself. Your wardrobe needs to be laid out. And your props, Larry. What will you do without your dagger? The lights? Lighting is so important. You taught me that yourself. You must have your moment in the spotlight. And who is going to prompt you? Just suppose you drop a line? A long stage wait and you'll lose your audience.”

Dunn hesitated. I held my breath. If only, I thought, if only the child could convince the man.

 

Kevin Corcoran couldn't be released now, Felicity thought. Too bad, the publicity would have been priceless. Lawrence Dunn's dislike for the boy would be to her advantage; he would be happy to do one last assignment for Cousin Cora and get rid of the kid. Lieutenant Brown would find the actor's photograph and see his commercial when he talked to Cousin Cora's casting department. That would lead to the theatre and, of course, she was helping the police by replacing his hat. Dunn had worn so many disguises during his long undistinguished career. Why couldn't he have been disguised as a woman? The woman in the audience at Norman Bottoms's television show, perhaps he was caught on film the very night of the murder…

Felicity Silk opened the door to the storage room.