Dying to be Famous (8 page)

“So what do you think? Are we sure the stalker doesn’t exist?” I asked Graham. We looked at each other thoughtfully.

“It seems to be the most likely explanation,” said Graham.

“He’s been great publicity for the show, hasn’t he? It sold out, didn’t it? Maybe Tiffany and Jason dreamed him up in the first place as some sort of stunt. And then he was useful cover for getting rid of Geoff. And Cynthia. And us – if we’d eaten those chocolates.”

“But why did they want to get rid of us?” wondered Graham.

“For the same reason they got rid of Cynthia – we saw too much. We heard Tiffany singing, didn’t we? And you asked him about the sound equipment. It was enough to spook them into thinking we might work it out.”

“Which we have,” quavered Graham. “So will they try again?”

I breathed a deep sigh while I considered the answer. I surprised myself by suddenly feeling relatively safe. “You know, I don’t think they will. Tiffany really, really wants this show to succeed – she’s got a lot riding on it. They can’t afford to do anything that would stop it going ahead now. It’s opening night tomorrow: she’ll be focused on that. They both will be. We should be safe enough as long as we keep our heads down.”

So that was that. We had completely convinced ourselves that the stalker didn’t exist but we were wrong. Because the very next day he struck again.

Pretty
much everyone in the theatre was riddled with nerves the day the show opened. Everyone, that is, except Tiffany.

She arrived that morning in a kind of happy glow because – according to the breakfast news – she’d just been offered a part in a major Hollywood film. She looked like she was walking on air. She was all beams and smiles to everyone, even the Munchkins. Jason, on the other hand, looked furious.

When we started the rehearsal one of Tiffany’s microphones let out a terrible screech, then crackled and fizzled into nothing. Tiffany flicked a nail against it but it was totally dead.

Peregrine heaved a deep sigh and called for Jason, who came scurrying on to the stage.

Tiffany startled everyone by spitting furiously, “Did you do this deliberately?” I was amazed. I mean, they’d been so careful up until then not to give away the fact that they knew each other. But you don’t speak to a stranger the way Tiffany just had to Jason.

He took a step back, darting a look at Peregrine before saying deliberately, “Of course not, Miss Webb.”

I thought Tiffany was about to hit him but she pulled herself back when she saw the warning look in his eyes.

“Have you got a spare mike?” Peregrine asked Jason.

“No,” Jason replied. “Miss Webb’s microphone was … a special one… Non-regulation. It had its own specification … a particularly sensitive decibel meter…”

“He’s making it up,” Graham whispered to me. “There’s no such thing.”

Peregrine started rubbing his forehead with his handkerchief. “Get another sent down from head office. Sort it out Jason. In the meantime we’ll carry on without it.”

Three things happened when he said that. Jason stared at Tiffany, his eyebrows raised as if he’d asked a question and was waiting for her answer. Hannah grinned from the wings, her black lipstick making her look like a witch. And Tiffany exploded.

“I’ll strain my voice!” she screamed. “I refuse to work without a microphone! You can’t possibly expect me to put up with these conditions.” She stamped her foot like a toddler in a supermarket. I half expected her to lie down and start pounding the floor with her fists but instead she stalked off, ruby heels clicking across the stage as she made for her dressing room. Jason ran after her, and before they disappeared I heard her wail, “I’m going, I tell you. You can’t stop me! No one can.”

There was nothing Peregrine could do. He just stood there, aghast. We all did. The Munchkins were astounded to see a grown-up behaving like that. There was a long, dramatic silence.

And then Hannah stepped forward and said awkwardly, “Peregrine, do you want me to stand in…?”

Peregrine sighed despairingly and said, “It’s kind of you, Hannah, but frankly, my dear, I’ve given up. Our fate is in the lap of the gods. We’ll just have to keep our fingers crossed for this evening. I’m going to lie down in a darkened room and pray. I suggest the rest of you do the same.”

Shepherded by Daphne, we had to file back to the dressing room, where we spent a long and agonizing day fretting about the coming performance. Everyone showed their terror in different ways – talking non-stop or not talking at all; cheeks flushed red, or faded to a sickly pale; bursting into tears or giggling hysterically.

Graham and I sat together, muttering.

“Who tampered with her microphone?” he asked. “Do you think it was Jason?”

“It can’t have been! He wouldn’t have helped her all this time just to stop now. It doesn’t make sense,” I replied. “Who else knew about her miming?”

“I don’t know. Do you think Peregrine worked it out?”

“Might have. But why would he wreck his own show?” Then I remembered Hannah’s face. “Maybe Hannah did it. I think she guessed ages ago that Tiffany was miming. And she did just offer to stand in for her, didn’t she? Maybe she did it so she can play the part tonight.”

“Well if it was Hannah who fixed the mike I hope she doesn’t let on,” said Graham gloomily. “I wouldn’t fancy her chances if Tiffany finds out.”

The trouble was, we couldn’t really think straight. As the afternoon wore on we got more and more paralysed with stage fright. Graham looked like he was going to his own execution. I didn’t think it was physically possible to feel so scared without actually passing out. I kept having to rush to the toilet and each time I stood up I felt faint and dizzy. It was horrible.

Half an hour before curtain up Elizabeth tapped on the dressing room door to give us our thirty-minute call. She continued down the corridor knocking on all the doors. Two minutes later she let out a blood-curdling scream.

Graham and I stared at each other. “Hannah!” we both shrieked.

But it wasn’t Hannah who was lying dead.

When Tiffany hadn’t answered the knock on her door, Elizabeth had pushed it open.

Tiffany was dead. And the writing on the mirror said: I A
LWAYS
K
EEP
M
Y
P
ROMISES
.

The
police wanted to stop the show. For a while I wondered if Peregrine would let them and if he really had done away with Tiffany to collect the insurance money. But no, Peregrine was adamant the production would go ahead. We could hear him in the corridor saying urgently, “ ‘The show must go on.’ That’s not a cliché, Inspector Humphries, it’s the simple truth. It really cannot be cancelled.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” came the policeman’s reply. “I can’t allow…”

“There’s a full house out there,” Peregrine persisted. “If we don’t proceed, the financial loss will break the company. As it is I’ve had to remortgage my house to cover our debts. An awful lot of jobs are dependent on this production’s success. I beg of you. Please reconsider.”

There was a long pause but eventually Inspector Humphries said, “Very well. You can go ahead. I’ll take statements after the show.”

Dizzy with shock and sick with nerves, we took our places.

Cynthia had been right, I noticed. Without her Goth make-up, Hannah – who’d had to get costumed up in five minutes flat – was very pretty. Very pretty and faintly familiar – I had the vague feeling that I might have seen her face somewhere before. And I wasn’t the only one. When Jason – fingers shaking, lip trembling – tried to pin a microphone to her dress, she turned away and muttered, “I can manage without amplification, thanks.”

She put a hand up as if to shield her face, but the movement just focused Jason’s attention more closely on her. He stared, frowned and said, “Katie…?”

But he didn’t get a chance to say any more because it turned out that Hannah was sick with nerves too. Literally. At that moment she spun round and threw up into the fire bucket, which brought their conversation to a sudden halt.

As for me, I was shaking so much that my petals were rustling like I was caught in a stiff breeze. I was deeply regretting having had anything at all to do with the production. I wanted to go home. Go to bed. Hide under the duvet and not come out until spring. I felt cold inside, as if I’d swallowed a ghost. Graham had lost the power to talk. He was swaying like his knees were about to give way.

But Hannah looked worse than both of us. I really couldn’t see how she would be able to perform. Why was Peregrine putting us through it? Why hadn’t he cancelled the show? What kind of sadist was he?

Peregrine made an announcement telling the packed theatre that Tiffany Webb was unable to perform and that the part of Dorothy would be taken by her understudy. This was answered by a howl of disappointment from the audience. Hannah was sick again.

But then something weird happened.

I’d read about actors whose fear disappears the moment they step out into the spotlight. As soon as the overture struck up, Hannah was suddenly transformed.

She stood up straight, flicked one of her plaits across her shoulder and smiled the kind of smile that fills everyone who sees it with a warm glow. She looked positively radiant. Star-like. When the curtains opened, she filled the stage with her magical presence.

Of course we’d never rehearsed with Hannah, but she was so good it wasn’t a problem. It was like she picked up the whole cast in her arms and carried them along. You could feel the audience’s love for her like great waves of warmth washing over the stage. She sang “Over the Rainbow” with the same familiar sad longing that we’d heard from Tiffany, but Hannah’s voice seemed richer and fuller somehow. Maybe it was the difference between a recorded voice and a live one, I thought.

I was mesmerized. Captivated. Bewitched, just like everyone else. Even Graham wiped a tear from his eye. My brain was completely incapable of rational thought. So it wasn’t until we got to the flying monkey bit that I realized who she was. We were holding her by the arms and were just taking off when the stage light caught the side of her face and lit up her profile. Suddenly I remembered the photograph of Tiffany’s school production. Dorothy. Played by Katie somebody. It was her!

We soared up onto the platform. Down below us the non-flying monkeys were terrorizing the Cowardly Lion and the Tin Man, and beating up the Scarecrow while Toto yapped his head off. They were making so much noise that I knew no one in the audience would hear me if I spoke.

“You were at school with them!” I said. “Your name’s not Hannah. It’s Katie.”

Which was possibly not the cleverest thing to say to a suspected murderess when you’re wobbling on a narrow ledge ten metres above the stage. But Graham and I were both over-excited.

“The girl from the photo!” Graham pointed at her too. “No wonder you wore so much make-up – you’ve been in disguise, haven’t you?”

“You tampered with Tiffany’s microphone!” I accused her.

Graham gasped. “It was you, wasn’t it? It was all you. You killed Tiffany!”

Hannah hadn’t said a word but Graham and I started to back away because her pretty face was suddenly contorted with rage and hate.

“Tiffany deserved it!” Hannah spat. “I’m glad she’s dead! She took everything from me!”

We were right on the edge of the platform and Hannah looked evil. She took a step towards us, and at that moment Graham and I turned and fled. There was nowhere to go but up the ladder and into the lighting grid.

We climbed through it with Hannah in pursuit. Or so we thought. We couldn’t really see much to be honest. She could have been escaping in the other direction for all we knew. I suppose we panicked. We were right in the middle of the grid when there was a lighting change. The big lanterns either side of us suddenly flared into life. They were hot as well as blinding and the shock made Graham lose his balance. He slipped. I tried to grab him and we both fell.

I thought we were done for: that we’d be splattered on the stage in front of a live audience. Our mums would never forgive us. But I forgot we were still in our harnesses.

We curved through the air in an elegant arc, kicking the Tin Man clean off his feet and knocking the straw out of the Scarecrow. The Cowardly Lion was sent spinning and poor little Toto weed all over the floor.

We were left dangling helplessly a metre above the stage in the full glare of the spotlights. The audience was in a confused uproar.

The Wizard of Oz
had come to a sudden and dramatic end.

The
safety curtain came down with a thud. Graham and I were still dangling a metre or so above the stage when everyone spilled out from the wings, including Inspector Humphries and Hannah.

“Arrest her!” I screamed, pointing at Hannah.

The inspector looked startled. “Why?”

“She’s not called Hannah, she’s called Katie. She’s been in disguise,” shouted Graham.

“She killed Tiffany!” I yelled.

“She just admitted it!” bellowed Graham.

“No, I didn’t,” Hannah said scathingly.

I looked at Graham to back me up but before he could speak Hannah explained, “I said she deserved to die. I didn’t say I killed her.”

“But you tampered with her microphone,” I told her.

“Not guilty,” Hannah answered firmly.

“But you knew Tiffany was miming, didn’t you?” Graham chipped in.

There was a gasp followed by a chorus of disapproval. “Disgraceful!” said Peregrine. “Outrageous,” agreed Timothy. “Appalling,” grumbled Brad.

“Oh, yes, I knew all along she couldn’t really be singing,” said Hannah calmly. “I went to school with her: I knew full well she couldn’t hit a note. I guessed she and Jason were going to work some kind of trick the minute I saw him. But then it was worse than I’d expected.” She glared savagely at Jason. “That was the recording of the school production wasn’t it, Jason? Cleaned up and edited, and then played through her own special microphone. Did you think you could get away with stealing my voice? She deserved what she got.”