The Jewel and the Key (18 page)

Too late. He was already gazing into it.

And—thank goodness!—nothing seemed to happen. Addie let out the breath she was holding. It was fine.
Stop panicking.
In a few minutes the mirror would be back in her hands.

Reg was continuing on with the scene. As he stared into the glass, describing the horrors he saw there, he drew it closer, giving the impression that it was pulling him in, casting an evil spell upon him.

But then all the color drained from his face. He looked over his shoulder, and then back into the mirror again.

Silence filled the theater.

Addie froze. Ten seconds went by. Twenty. Reg stood there without saying a word. Addie saw one of the witches shoot a questioning glance at another.

She should do something, she thought. But what?

“Line!” a voice hissed. Andrew jostled her elbow. “You've got the script. Give him the line. He's dried up.”

Flustered, Addie flipped through the pages until she found the procession of kings. More was wrong than that he'd just forgotten a line. She knew it. Reg was still frozen, holding the mirror close to his face.

“‘Horrible sight...'” Addie whispered.

Reg didn't seem to hear.

“‘Horrible sight!'” yelled Andrew. He winked at Addie. “Thank goodness we don't have to put up with the manager's son every day.”

“What are you talking about? He's amazing!” Addie turned her attention back to Reg.

“‘Horrible sight!'” he cried in a strangled voice. “‘Now, I see, 'tis true; For the blood-bolter'd Banquo smiles upon me, and points to them for his. What, is this so?'”

Hettie Longmere stepped toward him, offering no comfort. “‘Aye, sir, all this is so...'”

He nodded slowly and slipped the mirror into a breast pocket. It was safe. But as Addie watched him pick up the threads of the scene, she was still filled with foreboding—of what, she didn't know. The duke of Lennox ran in at Macbeth's bidding, and the plot to attack Macduff's castle was hatched. But Reg's presence had changed utterly. He said his lines like a boy repeating the periodic table for a chemistry test.

“Oh, yes, he's quite amazing,” Andrew murmured. “Speaking of which, I need Macduff's sword so I can get out there and start amazing all and sundry myself.”

As she headed back to the prop table Addie could hear Meg Turner bawling Reg out. “What was that all about, King Macbeth? Has slaughter and pillage become dull all of a sudden? I know you're only filling in, but remember, understudies
do
perform on occasion!”

Addie handed Andrew his sword and glanced up to see Reg coming toward her. He looked furious. Andrew smirked at him and went off to his entrance.

“What
is
this?” he demanded, handing the mirror back to her.

Quickly, almost guiltily, she slipped it into her pocket. “What do you mean?”

“I think you know.”

“It's—” She didn't know what to say. There was no way to explain. “It's just a mirror.”

“No, its not.” Reg shot back. “I don't know what that thing is. But whatever gag you were trying to play, it wasn't funny. Who are you, Miss Addie McNeal? Where are you from, really?”

Addie's mouth went dry. “I told you. I live in Wallingford. Near Densmore Park.”

“And you're a neighbor of Megs. Isn't that what you said? I don't think you're telling the truth, quite honestly.”

“Of course I am!” She managed to sound indignant, but she felt like a liar.

“Really? You'd obviously never met her before today. And she definitely didn't recognize you.”

Addie caught her breath. If only she could explain....

“You know what I think?” Reg went on. “I think you must be one of those girls they hire at the vaudeville houses, with a trick mirror like that. Are you trying to work your way into a legitimate operation? Is that why you're here?”

“What?” Addie blinked. “No!”

“That's why you've got props like that looking glass. Used it in a magician's act, did you? Though what you're trying to accomplish with a charlatan's trick like that—”

“
What
trick?” Addie stepped back as he leaned toward her across the prop table.

“The trick in the glass. The picture it shows.”

“I don't know what you mean!” But her voice caught in her throat. She didn't know what the mirror was capable of. “What picture?”

“The kings? Carrying the coffin?”

“That doesn't make sense,” she said faintly. “There's no coffin.”

He gave her a withering look. “No, Miss McNeal. We
don't
have a coffin in the scene. Especially not with an American flag draped over it!”

Addie braced herself against the table. She glanced around quickly at the backdrops and furniture and machines all higgledy-piggledy backstage, half-hoping to see that he was wrong. But, no. He was right. No American flag.

“I have to tell you, Addie McNeal. You're uncanny.”

“I'm
not!
” She insisted. ‘And its not a trick mirror. I don't know what's with it. Maybe it's hexed or something.” She gave him a pleading look. “I tried to keep you from taking it, didn't I?”

Reg considered this. “That's true,” he admitted, sounding a fraction less angry. He pulled the crown off his head and unceremoniously dropped it into the open prop box.

“Maybe...” she offered hesitantly, “maybe, since you're thinking about joining the army, you just imagined it. You know, with all this talk of war...”

Reg had started unfastening the pin holding the plaid across his shoulder. He stopped, regarding her through narrowed eyes. “Imagined it? Are you saying I'm yellow?”

“Of course not!”

He went back to the pin. “Because if you feel that way, why don't you go on and find a white feather in those crates.” When she looked at him blankly, he added, “Haven't you heard? The girls give them to fellows they think are shirking.”

“A white feather?” Addie threw up her hands. “That's ridiculous.”

Reg yanked the tartan off his shoulders and dumped it on the table.

She swallowed hard and said carefully, “I just ... I don't want you to go fight. I'd like to—” A loud buzzer made her jump. “Oh! They're ready to start.”

“That's not a stage call. It's the back doorbell.” He turned and walked away.

“Wait a second!” Addie cried. She didn't want him to go. Not like that.

But he went. She watched his figure grow dim in the murky backstage light as he made his way to the stairs.

“Miss McNeal!” Meg Turner called from the stage. “Props for the mad scene! Are you ready?”

She crouched down and dug Lady Macbeth's props out of the crate. Her head was spinning. What did it mean, what Reg had seen in the glass? She shivered.

“That looks more like a dog dish than a washbasin, if you ask me.” Addie looked up and saw Frida lifting the tea tray that she'd left on one of the chairs. “Just finished washing the tea dishes and already it's time to start tidying up the dressing rooms. It's as bad as when Ma and I slung hash at Dad's bunkhouse.” She grinned. “More polite company, though.”

Addie stood up slowly. Frida's grin faded as she examined her more closely. “Are you all right? You look like you've seen a ghost.”

A ghost? She studied Frida's bright hair, the edges of the terrible bruise clear across her forehead. “Maybe I did,” she said.

“It's a warning, then.” Frida paused, looked around quickly, and added, “My dad seen a ghost once. Night before he went down to Everett, he saw his pal Abe, clear as day, lying in a pool of blood. And sure enough, next day Abe was one of them the deputies shot.”

A stab of light dazzled Addie's eyes. Reg had swung open the door to the back staircase, and the brightness from the stairwell cut across the dim backstage area. She heard loud men's voices down below him, and then the door shut again and the voices were cut off.

He hurried over to Frida. “Its the police,” he said quietly. “They want to talk to you.”

Frida's freckles flamed against the sudden pallor of her skin. “Already?”

Startled, Addie looked from her to Reg, but neither of them seemed aware of her.

“It'll be all right,” Reg told Frida. “I promise. I'll stick by you.”

For a moment, the girl's lips trembled, but then she brought her features under control. “I ain't afraid,” she said. There was a trace of pride in her voice.

“What's going on?” Addie asked.

But Reg just went and shouted down the stairs, “I found her. Come on up!”

Frida was searching frantically through the pockets of her apron. “Is this about the guy who threw the brick at you?” Addie asked.

“Hush! No. It's worse than that.” The girl looked up. “Please don't ruin it for me!”

“Ruin what?”

Frida pulled something out of her pocket. “Don't ask, just—” She reached out and pressed an iron key into Addie's palm. “They can't find this on me.” Her expression was fierce. “I'm trusting you.”

Puzzled, Addie dropped the key into her skirt pocket. “I don't understand.”

Footsteps were coming up the stairway. A moment later, two police officers came through the door behind Reg. Both of them were young and wearing blue serge jackets and trousers and hard helmets with chin straps. One was stocky, with a sullen expression and a close-clipped mustache that reminded Addie of photographs of Hitler (who
isn't even in power yet,
she thought). The other was tall and skinny, with a friendlier expression.

“Which of you is Frida Peterson?” the mustached cop asked.

“I am. What do you want?”

“Ah, don't be that way, gal.” The skinny cop lifted his cap to reveal a shock of sandy brown hair. “We want to talk to you, not lock you up.”

“'Less you got something to do with Gustaf's escape,” the other added.

“My father?” Addie couldn't tell if Frida was delighted or frightened. “He ran away from jail?”

“And you didn't know?” The mustached cop jeered, examining Frida so intensely, it made Addie squirm.

For a second, she felt confused. Frida's dad was in trouble for who knew what—enough trouble to get locked up in jail—and Frida was definitely hiding something. And now her dad had escaped. She glanced at Frida, and drew in a sharp breath.

She knew already!

Was it as obvious to everyone else as it was to her? The pleading in Frida's voice came back to Addie:
Please don't ruin it for me!

“I asked you if you knew anything about it.”

“I don't,” Frida said.
Oh, my gosh, she's unconvincing,
Addie thought.

“When did it happen?” Addie broke in, making her voice as nervously excited as she could. “Are you saying there's a criminal on the loose?”

It worked. Both policemen turned to her. The mustached one scowled. But the skinny officer said patiently, “Two nights ago, miss. But there's no reason to be concerned. We doubt he'd stay in the city once he broke outta jail downtown. But then we heard he had a daughter working here, so we thought we'd see what she knew.”

Reg glanced over at Addie and raised an eyebrow when neither of the policemen was looking.

“I wouldn't go that far, Wallace,” his partner snapped. “Peterson's wanted for murder.” He turned back to Frida. “So what have you got to say for yourself?”

Addie's interruption had helped; Frida had collected herself. “I
didn't
know, but I'm glad he's out.” She jutted out her chin. “My dad didn't murder anyone. It was the cops started shooting. They should be in prison, not my dad.”

“Oh, we'll get him back in the clink, don't you worry.”

“You couldn't even keep him there in the first place!” Frida said.

She's too reckless for her own good,
Addie thought. What if they decided to drag her down to the police station? Could they arrest her for obstructing their investigation or something?

The skinny cop glanced at Reg, then looked back at Frida. “Your employer gave us his word you would cooperate with us.”

“All right. I'll cooperate, if Mr. Powell says so. But I ain't doing anything to get my dad in trouble.”

“He's
in
trouble already, you stupid—”

“Oh, lay off. She's just a kid,” the skinny cop interrupted. He turned to Frida. “Just answer the questions the best you can.”

“Don't you have to show me your badges first?” Frida asked. It was bravado, but she was scared. Her voice was small.

“I'll tell you what I've got to show you—” The other cop raised his fist. Instantly, Reg stepped between him and the girl. He was very still, very calm, but his eyes locked with the policeman's, and Addie felt the electricity of the moment before a fight.

But then the skinny cop put his hand on his partner's arm, and mustache man reluctantly backed off. “This is Detective Bryant,” the skinny one said, digging a badge out of his breast pocket. “I'm Sergeant Price.”

“All right, then.” Frida pressed her lips together.

“Is there somewhere quiet we can conduct the interview?”

“You can talk to Miss Peterson in my mother's office,” Reg said evenly, though Addie could see a spark of hatred in his eyes as he took the measure of Bryant. “You'll both interview her? Or would you like me to be present?”

“You?”

“No need for that,” Price said. “We'll both talk to her.”

That's a relief
Addie thought.
He won't let the other guy bully her.

“You treat her well,” Reg said to Bryant. Then, reluctantly, he added, “Go back down the stairs. Its at the end of the hall on the left.” Addie bit her lip, trying not to think of the old musty office where she and Whaley had unloaded the crates only the day before.