* * *
I was glad to have work to do during the interval for once. Lori took the cast downstairs and gave them a thorough ear-bashing. I didn’t want to have anything to do with it.
I collected my motley range of glassware from the set and carried it back to the props room. The third act was all about coffee, which was a relief because the bunch of soaks being ticked off downstairs in the dressing room were in serious need of a bit of sobering up.
The third act was the shortest, revealing all the mysteries one by one, and the cast all started on with coffee in their hands. They made their own downstairs in the green room before they came up, but for authenticity’s sake I still had to set up a steaming kettle on stage and set out the milk and sugar on a silver tray.
By the time I was done the cast were gathering on the set for the third act, shamefaced and chastened, Lori’s word’s still ringing up the small stairwell. “I don’t care if there’s a psychopath with a chainsaw cutting through the back wall of the set, there’s no. more. drinking. on. stage.”
After Ben raised the curtains on the final act, Lori, Steele, Ben and I gathered in the props room. Steele had been questioning the cast during the interval, but as we’d said, everyone had been accounted for at the time of Marlene’s attack. None of us could really remember where we were when she thought she’d been pushed down the stairs.
“You should have cancelled the performance,” Steele muttered for the twentieth time, folding his arms across his chest.
“Over my dead body,” growled Lori. She plonked herself down in one of the old wooden chairs clustered around the props table. It squeaked under her weight. She glanced at our pack of cards and screwed up her nose at the Skittles. “Texas Hold’em?”
Ben grabbed the cards enthusiastically. “Bacon,” he said. “You in?”
Steele snorted. “Is this what you do back here? Drink and play card games?” He slung an arm over my shoulders. “And there I was thinking you theater folk were cultured.”
I digged him in the ribs. “Hey,” I complained. “We’ve got a TV for when there’s a big game on, you know.” I pointed to an antique, wooden framed television screen up on a high shelf above the sink. “You’d be right at home back here.” I’d been trying to tempt him to getting involved with the theater for a few weeks now, but Steele was steadfast in his stubborn refusal. In a way, I admired that too. At least the guy knew what he liked.
Ben looked up at Steele suddenly and grinned. “Hey. You’re backstage. We’re making progress. We’ll get you onstage one day, you’ll see.”
Steele grunted.
“Usually Tamara is here by this time,” I said. “She dies in the second act.” Steele arched an eyebrow. “But she comes back to life at the very end. We usually have a good half an hour of cards before the show comes down.”
“Where is she?” asked Ben.
“She could be outside having a cigarette,” said Lori, her mouth full of Skittles.
Steele looked annoyed. “I thought you said you’d locked the doors. We’re trying to keep the perpetrator contained, remember?”
Ben groaned. “Tamara has a key. I’d completely forgot. Her father is president.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “I’ll go find her and shut the doors again. And stop eating all my Skittles, loves!”
He left and I saw Steele react as a scream came from the stage. I put a hand on his arm. “That’s Jenny. That’s supposed to happen.” I could feel his muscles were tense under the fabric of his sleeve. He looked urgently out over my head towards the stage. A rumble of falling bodies crashed against the back wall of the set. I had to step between Steele and door to stop him running out there.
“That’s supposed to happen too?” He glared at me, doubtfully.
“They’re fighting over the gun now,” I said.
“The gun?!”
“It’s in the script, don’t worry.”
Steele grunted. A bark of laughter came from the audience and I saw him relax. Lori chuckled. “Not too much for you, Steele?” she asked.
Ben came back, jingling his keys. “Doors are locked,” he said. “Tamara’s in the girl’s dressing room, um, removing the Bacardi and Red Bull from her system.” He wrinkled up his nose. “Eew. Technicolor. I left her to it.”
“You’re a great friend, Ben.”
“I know,” he primped. “Ain’t I?” He tilted his head to listen to the show and then muttered. “She’d better hurry up though. I’ve got to go press buttons in my box for a bit.” He sailed out again.
I caught Steele raising an eyebrow at me again. “He’s got a few cues coming up,” I translated.
Police sirens wailed suddenly in the distance. Steele’s head snapped up like a sniffer dog catching the scent and he yanked his cell phone from his jeans pocket. “I didn’t call for back up,” he muttered.
I stared at him, bewildered for a few moments, then wrapped my fingers around his phone. “They’re sound effects,” I told him. “They’re the buttons Ben had to press.”
Steele strode out of the props room anyway his head to one side as he listened intently. The sirens faded away and the dialogue continued onstage. “Of course,” he said, softly. “Sound effects.”
Moments later the sound of croaking came through the back of the set. “What’s that then?” he said, jerking his thumb to the stage.
“That’s Leon,” said Ben, reappearing behind Steele. “He’s just been hypnotized and thinks he’s a frog.” He grinned, but Steele didn’t grin back.
“This is crazy,” he said, darkly.
Ben’s grin widened. “Oh, you ain’t seen nothing yet.” He picked up Tamara’s frying pan from the props table near the upstage entrance. “Just wait til you see what Tamara does with this.” He brandished the frying pan above his head and whisper-yelled “Bansai! Achtung!”
“Where is Tamara?” Lori said, emerging from the props room. “She’s only got another page or so.”
I ran down the stairs to check on her. The ladies dressing room was empty, so were all the bathrooms, the green room and, I checked since I was down there, the orchestra pit.
“I can’t find her anywhere,” I announced when I got back upstairs.
Steele sprang into action. “Ben, you check those office rooms you were telling me about. I’ll cover the outside of the building. Give me your keys.” He held out his hands.
Ben handed over the keys, but then listened to the show. “I’ve got cues coming up.”
“You’ve got a cast member missing and a potential killer on the loose,” Steele thundered. “Go check the offices.”
“Shhhh!” Lori admonished him. He almost snarled with exasperation and ran for the stairs. “Kath can do your cues, Ben,” Lori continued. “Move it.”
I scurried around to the stage manager’s booth. There was one more police siren effect to cue, but my mind was on Tamara. I flicked forward through the marked up stage manager’s script in the booth. Her entrance was coming up quickly and the show was going to grind to a halt if she didn’t go on. Where was she?
When I returned to the back of the set I was treated to the appalling sight of Lori wrapping a tea towel around her head like a turban then picking up Tamara’s frying pan and sucking in some deep breaths. She had a purposeful attitude about her and I didn’t like the possibilities my imagination was presenting me.
“What on earth are you doing, Lori?”
“I’m going on as Tamara,” she said. “The tea towel’s to hide my hair. It will be OK. She’s the cook, after all.” She gripped the frying pan tighter and tilted her chin.
“I don’t think a dish cloth is going to make any difference, Lori. Tamara is ten years younger than you and-“
“Fifty pounds lighter,” finished Ben, arriving breathlessly behind her.
“Thank you for pointing that out, Benedict. I’m the director. I know the lines. The show must go on,” Lori whispered, turning her attention markedly back to the upstage entrance.
<
br /> Steele ran into the gloom. “Where is she?”
“She’s not in the offices.”
“She’s not outside.”
“Well, there we are,” said Lori, smugly. She almost seemed pleased. It had been a while since Lori had trod the boards herself, but I knew she preferred directing to acting these days. I looked at her a little more closely. She was muttering under her breath. “Just like riding a bike...”
A sudden crash came from the top of the stairs – not the small stairwell, but the big stairwell, the stairs that were currently blocked by a huge piece of set for the next musical, the ones we hadn’t been using for a few weeks. No one had checked there. We all jumped as the noise came again. A banging sound and a muffled yelling.
Ben, Steele and I ran over to the piece of set. There wasn’t much room to move it – the whole reason it was there in the first place – but we managed to drag it a few feet away from the top of the stairs.
Tamara came jumping out. Her feet were bound, her hands were tied behind her back and one of the green room dish cloths was tied around her face as a gag. She looked frantic. Her eyes were wide above the dish cloth.
Steele pulled out a pocket knife and cut her ropes while I eased the tea towel from her mouth. “It’s OK, you’re alright, it’s OK,” I soothed, as much to calm myself as Tamara.
She pushed right past us. “That’s my cue!” she hollered and threw herself towards Lori.
Ben grabbed her arm, but she shook him off. “Who tied you up, Tamara?”
“I need my frying pan,” she said, grabbing the cookware from Lori. She put her other hand on the door of the upstage entrance.
“Who tied you up?” Ben, Steele, Lori and I insisted but she was gone, her face lit up by the spotlights as she marched onto the set, frying pan held high.
“You people are mental,” Steele moaned.
“Bansaiiiiii,” came Tamara’s impassioned yell from the stage.
“Shit!” yelped Ben, and disappeared down the wing to his booth.
“Achtuuuuung!” screamed Tamara.
There was a muffled curse from the stage manager’s booth.
“Biiiiiiiillllllll!” yelled Tamara at the top of her lungs.
Lori and I spun to stare at each other. “What?”
Booooiiiiiinnnnng, came the frying pan sound effect, five seconds too late.
The audience roared.
I turned to Steele. “Bill! She said Bill!”
“Isn’t that in the script?” he asked, blankly.
I thumped him on the chest. “Bill is the guy who died in the first act. He’s Marlene’s ex-husband. He’s probably jealous she’s moving in with another guy tomorrow. He tried to kill her by pushing her down the stairs then trying to strangle her through the office window. He heard Tamara guessing it was probably him, so he tied her up in the big stairwell.” I spun around checking out the backstage area, peering into the blue lit space. “And he’s not here!”
“He’s got bows in two minutes,” said Lori, pulling the tea towel off her head. “He’ll be here.”
“Not if we catch him first,” said Steele. “There are so many corridors in this building, so we have to corner him somehow. Lori, you check the offices. Kath, you take the small stairs. I’ll go do the big stairs. If we get this right, he’ll be herded into that tea and coffee lounge you have down there.”
“The green room,” corrected Lori.
“Whatever,” said Steele. “Go!”
I ran to the small stairs and practically flew down the first flight. As I turned on the landing my heart jumped up into my throat when I saw Bill heading up the stairs towards me. He had a big, sharp-looking knife in his hand.
“Hey Bill,” I said, carefully. This was the second time in as many months that some crazy man had pointed a knife at me in this building and neither of the blades had been fake. So much for the illusion of theater. “You don’t, um, use a knife in the last act, do you?” I tried to keep my voice light. Maybe he’d think I really just had a question about stage props.
He trudged up the stairs towards me and I backed up to get away from the blade. “I might,” he said. “There isn’t a death in the third act. Maybe I should fix that. Liven things up a bit.”
I reached the top of the stairs and flung a glance over my shoulder. The backstage area was empty. Where was Ben? Don’t tell me he was conscientiously sitting in his stage manager’s booth for once?
“Get in the props room,” Bill grunted.
“No, I think I’ll-“
He reached out and grabbed my arm. It took me by surprise and I stumbled backwards. All it took was a twist and Bill had tossed me sideways through the door of the props room and slammed the door shut behind me. A very tiny part of my mind protested at the unnecessary noise backstage, but the other part launched into full panic mode.
I threw myself at the door, but Bill had kicked the wedge from the stairwell door underneath it. I was stuck. Through the speakers I could hear the show drawing to a close, the audience laughing, the actors delivering their final lines. I pounded on the door, yelling with all my might, knowing that no one would hear me above the noise of the laughter.
Hamish delivered the final line and Ben’s final police siren echoed through the speakers. A roar of applause crackled through the props room and I screamed as loudly as I could. I could hear the cast rearranging themselves on the stage. The curtain would be down, they’d be jumping into their final positions, then Ben would lift the curtain for bows.
I suddenly realized what Bill’s knife was for. He’d be back onstage for the bows, the knife still in his hands. His bow position was upstage of Marlene – and everyone else for that matter. As the butler and the first character to die, his place on the stage was behind everyone else. When the lights flicked to blackout, he’d be perfectly placed to plunge that blade into Marlene’s back then take off in the confusion. If he really played it right, he could make it look like the knife-arm mechanism had malfunctioned.
I kicked and screamed at the door. It sprang suddenly open and I fell into Steele’s arms.
“He’s on stage and he’s got a knife!” I yelled.
We charged into the wings, running right down to Ben’s corner. He was waving and goofing around pulling faces at Hamish and Nick but behind them we could see Bill gripping the knife at his side, his eyes fixed intently on the back of Marlene’s head.
“He’s going to do it!” I yelled at Ben over the roar of the crowd. “He’s got a knife. He’s going to kill her now.”
Steele was pounding on the walls of the set. “How do you get in there?” he demanded and vanished into the darkness.
The cast took their second bow and I had a split second to see Bill raise his knife hand above his head. I raced up the wing to the fake closet door and dived onto the stage, at exactly the same time as Lori and Steele crashed through the upstage entrance and Ben jumped over the desk of the booth. All four of us took at flying leap at Bill.
The butler went down, primarily sent spinning from the shock of Lori’s bulk ploughing into him. Steele, Ben and I landed in a painful pile of arms and legs. Somehow Ben managed to grab the knife.
There was a shocked silence as the cast turned to stare at us, aghast, and the audience paused, unsure, their hands still, their smiles frozen on their faces.
Ben stood and flicked back his hair. “I got it!” he minced and held the knife above his head for everyone to see.
The audience seemed to decide it was all part of the act and the cheering broke out again. Hamish was the first to recover his composure and held out his hands to direct the applause towards Ben. Ben straightened his shoulders a little and seemed to swell as the adoration of the audience washed over him.
Lori stumbled to her feet and Nick dragged her forward. “Our director,” he yelled to the audience. The applause intensified.
Steele held Bill pinned to the floor and the rest of the cast formed a wall of bodies in front of us, hiding u
s from the audience’s view. The bright lights pounded into my vision, pressing down on my eyelids as I knelt beside Bill’s prostrate figure. Through the legs of the cast members standing in front of us I got a glimpse of the front row. The crowd were on their feet, clapping and smiling, clearly enjoying what they plainly thought was a bit of added theatricality during the bows. The cast - and Lori and Ben - joined hands again for one last bow.
I took a look at Steele. He had his knee between Bill’s shoulder blades, his strong hands clamped around the man’s wrists, but his eyes were dancing all over the stage, flicking up to the lights then down to the audience. He was either scanning the scene of the crime for detailed evidence or he was caught on the hook of showbiz. His eyes met mine. He was dazzled.
“You’re onstage!” I grinned at him.
For a split second he grinned back at me then his eyes narrowed.
With the cheers of the audience ringing in my ears and the knowledge that Ben, our stage manager, was standing vainly in the front row lapping up the applause, I crept into the wings and brought the curtain crashing down.