Desert Winter (8 page)

“Miss Gray?” said Thad. I'd invited everyone in the production to address me as Claire, but he was characteristically polite and seemed more comfortable maintaining a traditional, respectful distinction between students and teachers. Needless to say, this was one aspect in which he and Tanner differed greatly.

“Yes, Thad?”

“My uncle Mark asked me to say hello for him. He's driving my car out here and should arrive sometime tomorrow.” Thad was referring to his guardian, Mark Manning, an investigative journalist of considerable renown, whom I'd met in Chicago. He had since moved to a small town in Wisconsin, where he was now publisher of the local paper.

“Wonderful!” I said. “How long is he staying? He'll be here for Friday's opening, won't he?”

“Sure. He wouldn't miss
that.
Neil is flying out to join him later in the week.” Thad's uncle was gay; Neil, an architect, was his partner. I knew through highly reliable sources—production scuttlebutt—that Thad himself was straight.

I told him, “I hope your uncle plans to save a bit of time for me.”

“Yeah. He wants to see you. So I was wondering—well, I know it's against policy, Miss Gray—but would you mind if Mark came to rehearsal with me tomorrow night?”

I frowned, then broke into a grin. “I'd be happy to make an exception for the illustrious Mark Manning. Sure, bring him along.”

Glenn Yeats strolled into our circle of conversation. “Making exceptions, Claire? For the illustrious who?”

“Hi, Glenn.” I stepped to him and offered a friendly hug. There was nothing unusual about the computer tycoon's appearance at our rehearsal that afternoon. The cast and crew had grown used to having him around; on several occasions, he'd even rolled up his silk sleeves to help with lugging this or that. Throughout his career, Glenn's approach to any project, including his newly built arts college, had been strictly hands-on. He'd avowed a special interest in theater—as well as in me—so it came as no surprise that he'd taken such an active interest in
Laura,
awaiting my first full-scale production at DAC like a nervous mother hen. Answering his question, I explained, “We were talking about Thad's uncle, Mark Manning.”

Glenn thought for a moment, then something clicked. “The reporter?”

“That's the one, except he's now turned his hand to publishing.”

Thad elaborated, “He bought the
Dumont Daily Register
three years ago.”

“Aha,” said Glenn. “I wondered why I hadn't heard the name of late.” The name Mark Manning had become a household word as the result of several high-profile stories he'd reported during his days at the
Chicago Journal.
“I'd enjoy meeting him.”

“You're in luck,” I said. “Mark is arriving from Wisconsin tomorrow. Thad's bringing him to rehearsal.”

“Great.” Glenn hardly needed to add, “I'll be here.”

A couple of stagehands appeared from the wings, hauling a tall, old cabinet onto the set.

Glenn grimaced. “
That
won't do.”

I told him, “I tried, but I won't have the clock till tomorrow.”

Tanner related to Glenn our intention to pick up the clock and transport it in Tanner's Jeep. Glenn offered to send a truck, but Tanner assured him that the plan was set.

As they spoke, it was difficult for me not to compare the two men. At fifty-one, Glenn was nearly twice Tanner's age, but still three years younger than I. No doubt about it—my romantic prospects had improved considerably since my move from New York, where the closest I'd come to any sort of protracted relationship had been with Hector Bosch, the noted theater critic for the
New York Weekly Review.
I was attracted to both Glenn and Tanner, but for different reasons.

Glenn offered wealth and power—heady enticements—as well as his open affection and his eagerness to woo me. He was gentlemanly, and I enjoyed his company. But I felt no spark. In spite of his vast accomplishments, Glenn was essentially a dressed-up techie, a nerd in designer clothing. What's more, I had lingering fears that this captain of e-industry harbored some ingrained control issues, and I had always cherished my independence.

As for Tanner—oh, God, the sparks. I had never been driven much by sexual quests, but Tanner had changed that the first time we touched. I couldn't get enough of him. Similarly, remarkably, his appetite for me seemed forever unsatisfied. Most attractive, though, was his sheer potential as both an actor and a mature human being. He was right there, on the verge, on the brink, of shooting to stardom—under my direction. What an aphrodisiac! But the difference in our ages—was I crazy?

Glenn was asking Tanner, “And where exactly
is
the clock?”

“It belongs to someone in Rancho Mirage.”

I told Glenn, “The clock is from Stewart Chaffee's collection. We're picking it up at his estate. He was a hotshot society decorator, but now he's elderly and concentrates on collecting art and antiques.”

“Sure, I know Stewart. Back in his prime, he was the most highly regarded decorator in the valley, and with good reason. His interiors speak for themselves; they're timeless.” Glenn paused, then shook his head, adding, “But I have to wonder if Stewart's years aren't catching up with him.”

I admitted, “He has some health problems,” an understatement.

“I mean, up here”—Glenn tapped his noggin. “I've seen much of Stewart's collection, and frankly, I feel he's lost his ability to discern between fine art and the merely mediocre.”

I grinned. “I'm sure that's an exaggeration, Glenn.” More to the point, I was sure it was sour grapes. Glenn himself had become an avid art collector, with virtually unlimited funds for the pursuit of his genteel pastime. His background in the arts, however, was relatively recent, while Stewart Chaffee's knowledge had a pedigree—a provenance—stemming from his long career.

“Costume parade! Ten minutes!” Kiki Jasper-Plunkett whooshed down the aisle, rattling two armloads of bracelets as she called to the cast.

Tanner and Thad darted off.

From the side of his mouth, Glenn asked, “Costume parade?”

I explained, “It's a final review of all the costumes for the show, onstage, with full lights and makeup. We'll check to see that everything visual has gelled.”

A tall woman of dramatic demeanor, Kiki jangled over to us. “It's
so
exciting, isn't it? I
love
this moment—assuming I
don't
discover that it's back to the ol' drawing board.” She laughed too loudly, a touch of hysteria coloring her voice.

I assured her, “Everything will be gorgeous, Kiki. You've outdone yourself, as usual.” Kiki was my oldest friend, having attended theater school with me more than thirty years earlier. Her career path had led to costuming, mine to directing. Glenn had recruited her to his faculty ahead of me, assuming correctly that her presence at DAC would further entice me to make the move. Now Kiki and I were neighbors, living in the same condominium complex as Grant Knoll.

“Madam Director,” bellowed a voice from the back of the hall.

All heads turned.

“Maestro Caldwell,” I answered. “Have you come to deliver your new opus?”

“I have,” he intoned, “I have.” His voice filled the auditorium as he bounded down the stairs. Our sound technician, noting the composer's arrival, followed.

Caldwell was on the school's music faculty. Glenn greeted him, “Hi, Lance.”

“Glenn,” Caldwell acknowledged our employer, then returned his attention to me. “Yes, Claire, it's ready. I think you'll be
very
pleased. And I think you should know how
proud
I am to be a part of this project.” With a flourish, he produced a CD from the inside breast pocket of his nubby tweed sport coat.

“Stan,” I told the soundman, “let's cue this up and take a listen.”

Stan snatched it from Caldwell's fingers and rushed back to the control booth.

The composer was explaining, “Once I hit upon the central theme, the rest just flowed. It
flowed.
There's a longish prelude or overture, to be played prior to curtain, then the two entr'actes, as well as incidental music for key scenes throughout. I decided on a synthesized performance, not only because it allowed me complete control, but because it has a certain ‘detached' quality that seems to fit the mood of the script. Then I burned everything onto a CD, which should facilitate cuing.”

Stan's voice came over a loudspeaker: “Ready, Miss Gray.”

Shielding my eyes with my hand, I looked up toward the booth, calling, “Let's dim the houselights to half—better to set the mood—then go.” Turning toward stage, I called, “Quiet, everyone, please.”

Instantly, a hush came over the auditorium as the houselights began to fide. Caldwell, Glenn, and I took seats in the fifth row, center, waiting for the sound to wash over us. I held my breath. I'd had lengthy discussions with the composer regarding the tone I wished to establish with his music, but I had yet to hear even a theme, a phrase, a note, so I had no idea what to expect from an artist known for his ego as much as for his skill.

Then, out of silence, it began. By the second measure, I knew that Caldwell had truly delivered. It was impossible not to compare his music to David Raksin's sumptuous film score, and it proved a worthy rival. Plus, it was original. It was ours.

Sitting next to the composer, I put my hand over his and gave it a grasp of thanks. Without question, his music would add an important dimension to the production, a dimension that I hadn't even realized, till now, had been lacking.

After a few minutes, the introductory music had finished, and the remaining sections proved to be variations on the same wonderful theme. I began an animated discussion of the music with both Caldwell and Glenn, and sensing that my demand for silence had expired, the cast and crew broke into discussion as well. Someone was humming the infectious melody, and I became ever more confident that our show would be a smash.

When the houselights ramped up again, Kiki clapped her hands for attention. “Costume parade! All actors onstage, please.” And within a minute or two, my cast of eight young charges had entered from the wings, modeling their finery for my scrutiny as well as Kiki's. We had taken a straightforward, realistic approach in designing all of the costumes, which were stylish street wear of the 1940s.

Tanner was predictably handsome in his wide-lapeled suit as Lieutenant McPherson. Thad was drop-dead endearing as Danny Dorgan, the nineteen-year-old son of the superintendent of Laura's apartment building, a small role, but the first to speak. And then, of course, there was Laura herself, played by the beautiful Cynthia Pryor—remember that name. She, as well as several other cast members, had a number of costume changes, so the parade took a bit of time, as each costume needed to be viewed in combination with other characters. Before long, Kiki herself had climbed the stairs to the stage, poufing dresses, adjusting seams, and fussing with jewelry while dictating notes to an assistant.

During all this hubbub, a backstage door opened, admitting a shaft of daylight. I heard voices raised in greeting while something big was hauled inside. The heavy door closed with a reverberant thump, and moments later, from the wing, a man, fifty-something, strutted onstage as if he owned it, parting the cast like the waters of the Red Sea.

“Atticus!” Glenn hailed him from the auditorium. “You've brought the painting?”

Good God. In the hectic to-and-fro, I'd forgotten that we did not yet have one all-important set piece, the portrait of Laura. The bare wall above the fireplace awaited the painting that would inspire our intrepid detective's obsession with a woman thought murdered. Atticus Jones, from the school's painting faculty, had been chosen to produce the portrait, which needed to readily resemble the young actress playing the role.

I was skeptical. Atticus—professionally, he went by the single name—was renowned for an abstract, violently expressionistic style of painting. This was totally at odds with the haunting, romantic style appropriate to the script, which specified that the portrait had been painted by Stuart Jacoby, a fictitious imitator of American artist Eugene Speicher. But Glenn had assured me that he had recruited the talented Atticus because he was a master of many styles, a flexibility that served him well as a teacher. “Having Atticus is like having a painting faculty of six, all in one,” Glenn had told me.

I was not inclined to second-guess Glenn, but the moment of truth had arrived.

“Yes,” Atticus was saying from the stage, “the canvas has dried. Your portrait is ready, and it is, I must say, magnificent. Shall we take a look?” And with that, he clapped his hands sharply, twice, as if summoning slaves. He backed up a step and waited. Clearly, the painter's ego was an easy match for that of composer Lance Caldwell.

Two stagehands entered with the painting, still enticingly veiled. Another stagehand positioned a ladder at the fireplace and climbed a few steps. The crew of three raised the covered portrait into position and secured it to the wall. Then Atticus stepped to the fireplace and, with a snap of his fingers, dismissed the crew, which fled.

“I give you…,” he said, pausing to reach for the veil, “Laura!” And the covering fell, revealing the framed portrait.

There was a moment's silence, then a collective gasp.

“Jesus,” said Glenn standing next to me, fingers to his mouth.

The cast members stood agog, some of them pointing to the picture.

Cynthia Pryor, Laura in the flesh, dropped her jaw upon seeing Laura in oil.

“Atticus,”
I called to him, “I'm stunned. It
is
magnificent!”