Get Even (27 page)

FIFTY-FIVE

MARGOT TRIED TO MAKE HERSELF COMFORTABLE IN THE
prompter’s box.

It was actually a corner of the stage left wing, set up with a stool and a music stand, complete with a small light shuttered and caulked with electrical tape so that the only direction the meager beam could shine was directly on Margot’s copy of the script.

There had been an alarming number of slipups and missteps during last night’s dress rehearsal, and though Mr. Cunningham assured the cast that “a bad dress rehearsal foretells a grand opening night,” Margot couldn’t help but worry about her ability to keep the actors on the script.

Especially since she was having her own focus issues.

She checked her phone approximately every one hundred and twenty seconds. She couldn’t help herself. Ed the Head had sent her one tantalizing text around lunch time and had then gone incommunicado.

He was supposed to dig into Christopher and Ronny’s past at Archway Military Academy and hopefully find a clue that would shed some light on the killer’s identity. But she never guessed he would go above and beyond, and his text had caught her off guard.

Hi, Sunshine! Don’t wait up for me. Had to take a field trip to Arizona.

Be back in time for the big show tonight.

Have a surprise for you that you’ll never see coming.

All her follow-up texts to him had been left unanswered, all her calls went straight to voice mail.

Based on the speed limit, current traffic and road conditions, the reliability rating on Ed the Head’s 2008 hatchback, and the personal reliability rating Margot had assigned to him based on their years of acquaintance, Ed the Head still should have hit the Bay Area an hour ago with the information he’d managed to dig up at Archway. Could he possibly have discovered the identity of the killer? Would they be able to put an end to the ordeal once and for all?

The rest of the girls clearly thought so. After Margot had briefed them, Bree had sent her a text approximately every thirty minutes, asking if she’d heard from Ed.

No, Bree. If I did, I’d have told you.

Another buzz from the music stand as a text came into her phone. Margot sighed as she picked it up. “Yes, Bree. I know,” she said out loud. “You want to know if—”

In Gilroy. Refueling. Should hit DuMaine in an hour. Meet you at the theater.

Bring your big girl panties because you aren’t going to believe what I’ve got.

Ed the Head. Finally.

Margot replied right away, typing as quickly as her virtual keyboard would process.

Meet us backstage. Prompter’s corner, stage left.

She was about to text Bree with the good news when she felt someone’s breath against the back of her neck. For an instant, she tensed, then she heard Logan whisper in her ear.

“You’re going to be amazing tonight,” he said.

Margot smiled as she spun around on her stool. Logan wore the same tight-fitting black jeans as the other members of the count’s gang, and through his low scoop-neck tank, Margot could still see the contours of his surfer’s body. Over that, he wore a silk brocade dressing gown, indicating his leadership.

“Aren’t I supposed to be saying that to you?” Margot asked.

Logan winked. “I’ve done this before.”

“And I’m the rookie?”

“Exactly.” He sidled up to the stool and placed both hands around Margot’s waist. “So . . .” He kissed her, sending a shock of electricity racing through her body. When he pulled away, she leaned into him, desperate to keep his lips against her own. “Have a great show. I’ll see you on the flip side.”

Bree was starting to despair, when she finally got the text from Margot.

He’ll be here in an hour.

She wasn’t sure if she was going to hug Ed the Head when she saw him, or throttle him. Probably depended on what kind of information he brought back from Arizona.

Either way, they finally had a leg up on the killer. In an hour, they might actually know who they were dealing with, hopefully with enough evidence that they could turn him over to the police and exonerate Don’t Get Mad once and for all.

At least, she hoped so.

The frazzled voice of the stage manager buzzed through her earpiece. “Five minutes. We’re at five minutes, everyone.”

Bree pressed talk on the headset. “Five minutes, thank you.”

They just had to get through this performance.

Olivia let out a tremendous sigh as she read Margot’s text.

Good to go. Break a leg.

Ed the Head had come through. With any luck, by the end of the evening Olivia would have an internship with the Oregon Shakespeare Festival and a captured killer to her credit. Not too shabby.

“More shading under your cheekbones,” her mom said, scrutinizing Olivia’s face in the mirror.

“The theater’s not that big, Mom,” Olivia said. “I don’t want to look like a drag queen.”

“Don’t you think I know how big the theater is?” Her mom sat back down, pouting. “Haven’t I been to every single performance you’ve given at this school?”

Yes, you have
. Without a word, Olivia picked up the contour brush and added several additional swipes of the dark beige powder below her cheekbones. It wasn’t worth the argument.

“So much better.” Her mom blew her a kiss. “Shall we go over your blocking for the duel again?”

Olivia turned around to face her mother. “Honestly, Mom, I’m good. I know it backward and forward.”

Her mom raised an eyebrow. “Even the final scene?”

“Even the final scene.”

Her mom sighed, then grasped Olivia’s hand and squeezed it. “You know I just want you to be perfect.”

“I know.” Of course it was easier just to give in to her mom, but all she could think about was the pack of Ding Dongs in her bag, which she planned to bust into the second her mom left the dressing room.

Her mom straightened Olivia’s pleather vest. “My own
Twelfth Night
meant so much to me . . .” Her voice trailed off and Olivia wondered if her mom was going to launch into her favorite scene from act 2 yet again. Instead, she gripped Olivia by both shoulders and smiled.

“Your career is just beginning, Livvie,” her mom said, oddly serious. “So much promise. I remember—”

A knock at the door interrupted her mom’s reminiscence.

“Hello?” Mr. Cunningham cooed. He cracked the door and stuck his head into the dressing room. “Everyone decent?”

“Reginald!” Olivia’s mom squealed.

Mr. Cunningham threw the door open and genuflected before Olivia’s mom. “June! My mistress, dearest; And I thus humble ever,” he said, breaking into Shakespeare’s
The Tempest.

Olivia’s mom didn’t miss a beat. “My husband, then?”

“Ay,” Mr. Cunningham said solemnly. “With a heart as willing as bondage e’er of freedom: here’s my love.”

“My
hand
,” someone corrected from the hallway. His tones were round and mellifluous. “Ferdinand’s line is ‘here’s my hand.’”

A short, stocky man stepped into the doorway. He had a shock of white hair, close-cropped above the ears and tapered upward to allow the thick waves some space to poof up in a semi-obvious attempt to give him more height. He wore a black turtleneck under a black sports jacket, both loose but not ill-fitting, and pointy leather shoes, polished to within an inch of their lives.

“Fitzgerald!” Mr. Cunningham squeaked.

Olivia’s breaths came more rapidly. This was
the
Fitzgerald Conroy!

Mr. Cunningham scrambled to his feet. “Sorry. I got carried away.”

Mr. Conroy’s eyes were fixed on Olivia’s mom. “As one would with such a lovely creature.” He sidestepped Mr. Cunningham. “Fitzgerald Conroy,” he said, his eyes locked on to hers. “At your service.”

Olivia was shocked to see the color drain out of her mother’s face. She looked as if she’d seen a ghost, and her hand trembled as Fitzgerald raised it to his lips.

“Fitzgerald, let me introduce Ms. June Hayes,” Mr. Cunningham said, oblivious to Olivia’s mom’s discomfort. “Her daughter, Olivia, is starring in our production tonight, ironically as Viola.”

Fitzgerald tilted his head to the side. “June Hayes?”

“Livvie,” her mom said hurriedly, “I really should find my seat for the performance.” She tried to extricate herself from Fitzgerald’s grasp, but he held her hand firm as he scrutinized her face.

“Public Theater,” he said at last, bobbing his head. “Summer 1997. You were my Olivia in
Twelfth Night
.”

Olivia’s jaw dropped. Fitzgerald Conroy had directed her mom’s production of
Twelfth Night
? Why hadn’t she ever mentioned it?

Fitzgerald pulled Olivia’s mom closer to him. “You were magnificent.”

“Yes,” her mom said, blushing up to her hairline. She looked flustered as she scurried out the door. “Well, I’ll see you all after the performance. Break a leg, Livvie.”

Fitzgerald’s eyes followed Olivia’s mom out of the room. Then he seemed to remember Olivia. “If you’re half as good as your mother,” he said, his piercing blue eyes boring into her own, “then I’m very much looking forward to tonight.”

Kitty slipped into the seat next to Mika and tried to keep her hand from trembling as she read the front of the program.
Tonight’s performance is dedicated to the loving memory of Ronald DeStefano.

And in his loving memory, they were about to unmask his killer.

Mika eyed her for a moment, then laughed. “I’d think
you
were the one making your stage debut, not Donté.”

“Sorry,” Kitty said sheepishly.

“He’s going to be fine,” Mika said, misinterpreting Kitty’s nerves. “Tonight is going to be perfect.”

The lights dimmed, signaling the beginning of the performance, and Shane White, John Baggott, and the other members of Bangers and Mosh slipped out from behind the curtain, taking their places at their instruments in front of the proscenium on stage left. Once they were in place, the lights faded to black.

Kitty took a deep, controlled breath. “I hope you’re right.”

FIFTY-SIX

“YOUR MASTER QUITS YOU,” LOGAN SAID, TAKING OLIVIA’S
character by the hand. “And for your service done him, so much against the mettle of your sex . . .”

Margot didn’t need to look at the script during Orsino’s penultimate speech. Logan had never so much as stumbled over a line, let alone forgotten one, which meant she got to pay close attention to his performance, instead of hovering over the lines in the prompter’s corner.

He looked down at Olivia during that speech with so much love and tenderness it made Margot’s heart ache. Logan was amazing: smart, funny, talented. Margot still didn’t understand what he saw in her.

She flipped to the last page of the play as the actors prepared for the final musical number. Opening night was almost over, and no one had been attacked. Perhaps their bluff had worked?

Now they just had to figure out who they were dealing with, and gather enough evidence to turn him over to the police. She wondered what Ed had found out about Christopher Beeman that had made him so excited. Margot’s eyes drifted to Logan onstage, leading Olivia through the final dance sequence, smiling out at the audience. Suddenly, his face clouded, the smile replaced by a cross between confusion and fear, as if he’d seen something in the house that disturbed him.

The choreography shifted and Logan disappeared from her view. That nagging doubt about Logan flared up. Was it her logical brain telling her that Logan was the best candidate to be Christopher Beeman? Or was it her insecurity trying to sabotage her new relationship?

A creak from behind her broke Margot’s concentration. She spun around in her stool, but there was no one behind her. Clearly, thinking about a killer had made her paranoid, jumping at each and every sound.

She turned back to the stage. The play was almost finished and no one had been attacked. DGM had won.

Another creak. Closer this time.

Margot turned her head in time to see a dark shadow lunge at her.

As the final strains of the last Bangers and Mosh song faded into the heights of the theater, the applause washed over Olivia like sunshine piercing through the grayness on a cloudy day. She and Logan held their final pose from the dance finale for a count of three, then along with the rest of the cast, they lined up, hand in hand, across the stage for a group bow before breaking in the center and opening the stage for their individual curtain calls.

Olivia felt as if she’d emerged from a dream. From her first entrance until the final applause exploded throughout the house, Olivia’s memories were hazy and indistinct, as if they’d passed by her eyes on the opposite side of a foggy lens.

The band jammed on a reprise of the final song as one by one the cast members cycled through their individual bows. It had been a bone of contention at the final dress rehearsal as to who got the last bow. Usually it was reserved for the character with the largest role in the play, in the case of
Twelfth Precinct
, clearly Violent. But as with everything else in this production, Amber had pulled a variety of strings, and with a rambling explanation that no one quite understood, Mr. Cunningham had informed the cast that Amber would be getting the final bow, with Olivia directly preceding.

The audience was clapping along with the beat of the music, crescendoing politely as each cast member took their turn. Logan got a nice round of cheers and whistles, which made Olivia smile. He’d given a tremendous performance, one that actually made Olivia’s better, and she was glad the crowd recognized it.

Then it was her turn.

There was always a part of Olivia that expected crickets when she took center stage under the spotlight, that never assumed she’d touched the audience in the way that she’d hoped and would therefore be booed off the stage for her lackluster performance.

So when the audience vaulted to their feet for Olivia’s curtain call, her eyes welled up with tears. She bowed as a boy, since she was still in her boy’s costume, and took the opportunity to wipe the tear streaks from her cheeks.

Then she relinquished the stage to Amber, who swept in like an opera diva at the Met, and brandished her arm over her head before sinking into a deep curtsy.

Olivia noticed right away that though the crowd remained standing, their reception was politely enthusiastic at best.

Mr. Cunningham glided onto the stage, taking Amber and Olivia each by the hand to present them for one last bow. He led Amber forward first; the nasty look she shot him over her shoulder adequately expressed how she felt about that. Then with a wink, he brought Olivia forward.

The reaction was instantaneous. The applause, the whistles. In that moment it didn’t matter if Fitzgerald Conroy chose to work with her or not.

Olivia had already won.

Bree almost felt bad for Amber. She’d given a good performance, based on what Bree had seen in rehearsals, especially considering her notorious inability to remember her lines. Olivia, on the other hand, had literally stolen the show. Bree didn’t know shit about acting, but she knew watching Olivia under the lights that she was in the presence of something special. Whatever damage had gone down between them, Bree could say without prejudice that Olivia was an amazing actress.

As Olivia finished her second bow, a short older guy, dressed all in black with blindingly white hair, took the stage. This must have been the British director everyone had been drooling over since the start of production. He approached Olivia and took her hand, pressing it to his lips.

Even from Bree’s vantage point way up in the spotlight crow’s nest, she could see Amber turning bright red, a mix of embarrassment and rage. She stormed off the stage, much to the amazement of the rest of the cast, but Mr. Cunningham didn’t even bat an eyelash. He joined hands with Olivia and brought the cast together for another group bow, then gestured to the band.

Shane’s fist shot into the air, while Bangers and Mosh continued to jam. John didn’t look up, just focused on his Fender, but even he couldn’t ignore the riotous applause. His songs had been perfect, his performance immaculate.

Mr. Cunningham now started throwing nonverbal shout-outs to the crew, pointing to the stage manager, the lighting booth, even Bree in the crow’s nest, while the music and applause continued. In the end, Olivia, Shane, and John had all gotten what they wanted. Even Bree, in her way. She’d managed to keep their anonymous friend from ruining opening night. Now she just had to make sure—

A scream ripped through the theater.