Rehearsal for Murder (Maggie Ryan) (2 page)

They worked through “Nine Children” again on their bruised knees, then on to the act-final “Death of Albert—Widow of Windsor” sequence. Derek talked them through it. “‘Death of Albert’ is a poem, Victorian music-hall style, a few chords under the spoken lines. The poem ends with Albert’s death.”

“Same business as the old king’s death at the beginning?” asked Larry.

“Right. You pull on the black gloves and step back into the shadows. Albert and Victoria will do a series of heartrending tableaus while Edith recites, and—”

“I don’t say anything?” exclaimed Ramona.

“Not till you sing ‘Widow of Windsor’ at the end.”

“Ramona, really, tableaus look better when the mouths don’t move,” said Larry.

The watching girl giggled.

Ramona didn’t speak for a moment. She bent over the prop box, pulled out the black gloves Larry would use, and then hurled them at his feet like gauntlets. Their eyes met for an ugly instant before Ramona said mildly, “Okay, Derek, Edith recites. But I’ve decided the second act is too long. Let’s drop the Disraeli solo.”

Nick tensed. In the second act he and Larry played Victoria’s two prime ministers, Gladstone and Disraeli; and Larry’s solo as Disraeli was vital to both plot and character.

Derek exclaimed, “Ramona, that won’t do!”

Larry, rage contained except for the bunching of muscles in his jaw, said, “It’s my only solo, Ramona. If I offer abject apologies and promise to keep my mouth shut for the rest of the day, can we keep it? Pretty please?”

“We don’t want to bore people.”

Derek said desperately, “Ramona, we’d better talk this over. We need the information in that song.”

With her dark head flung back, hands on hips, Ramona set the air quivering with unspoken demands. Yet her voice, except for the huskiness, seemed reasonable. “Come, Derek, no need to be totally faithful to your ideals! Besides, we could just add a verse to another song!”

Nick could see that they were pushing her into a stance she’d regret in a sunnier mood. Time to attempt a daring rescue. Enter Bozo O’Connor, superhero of petty squabbles. Or superklutz? Nick leaped to stage center and exclaimed, “Hey, great idea! We could add the whole second act to ‘Nine Children!’ ‘First a girl, then a boy, then an empire, then a death!’” His mimicry of Larry’s voice was exact as he flipped a prop crown onto his bald head only to cover it in turn with the pair of black gloves. They drooped rakishly over his eyebrows.

For a quaking instant Ramona stared at him. Then she guffawed, slapping her knee. The tension in the room dissolved into chuckles.

“All right, you clowns, let’s get on with this rehearsal!” Still smirking, she abandoned the fight and moved on. “What’s the first tableau?”

Nick watched from the sidelines as Derek and Daphne worked with Ramona and Larry to set the first pose. A handsome pair: Ramona’s riveting intensity set off by Larry’s languid virility. Surely the critics and the public would be enchanted too. Nick allowed himself the luxury of a little hope. He could use a long run about now. Even a medium run. His fortieth year could be glimpsed on the horizon. And although he had a solid reputation among casting directors and producers, he was not famous, not bankable. He still had to make the rounds, had to attend dozens of auditions for every job he landed. And there were new responsibilities. A smidgen of security would taste very good just now.

Derek and Daphne were still adjusting the pose when Ramona’s expression darkened again. Following her gaze to the door, Nick saw a man in a pinstripe suit, jowly and regal as a Great Dane, reminiscent of President Nixon himself.

“Well, Simon! Slumming?” asked Ramona, breaking the pose.

“I want to know what you’re doing.” The big man sounded sad.

“None of your business.”

“It’s my money.”

She laughed. “Sorry, honey. Not a penny is yours.”

“Prove it!” Sadness turned to anger; gray brows bunched. A shiver of unease ran through the company.

Ramona lifted her big Italian shoulder bag from a rickety chair, rummaged in it, and pulled out a desk-size maroon leather appointment book. “I will, Simon, at—let’s see, eleven thirty tomorrow. I’m seeing Martin about the property division. He’s got all the proof you’ll need.” She smiled again, but Nick was aware that she was trembling a little. “Don’t worry. It’s watertight. The money belongs to the production company, free and clear. Nobody can get it back now.”

Ramona waggled the embossed leather book right under the man’s nose, and he turned and strode out. “Sorry, sweeties,” she said to the actors as she slid the appointment book back into her bag. “Ex-husbands can be difficult. Especially when they aren’t quite ex. Come on, Derek, let’s get on with it.”

They got on with it.

Steve Bradford paced the damp streets of SoHo. It wasn’t raining, though it was humid as the jungle. Cooler, of course. Couldn’t mistake the Hudson for the Orinoco. Self-portrait of Steve: thirty-five, a handsome man with blue-gray eyes, a first touch of gray in his hair, a solid job that made use of both his ready smile and his logical mind. Logical. Yes, thought Steve, but passionate too. Adventurous
.
A ruddy fire-eater
,
as Hemingway would describe it. Ready to take on great lions or jaguars. He stepped around a pile of drizzle-soaked lumber on the sidewalk. SoHo was booming now. Seemed like every third building was being renovated. That was all right with him. His firm had its share of investments here.

He turned the corner and stopped abruptly. A pair of female ankles hovered just above his startled eyes. Lean ankles in neat business-height heels. A lanky young woman, dark hair and red scarf stirring in the misty breeze, was balanced on the bar of a builder’s scaffold, fingering the pattern in the cast-iron facade.

“Note the acanthus leaves,” said Steve.

Blue eyes, quick and intelligent, glanced down at his cashmere scarf and Burberry and classified him as harmless. “I was noting the floral swag, actually. I wanted to see how it turned the corner above the door.”

“Yes, interesting design. Do you need a hand getting down?”

“Nope. But thanks.” She turned a little and for the first time Steve noticed that a carrier holding a small baby was strapped half under her coat. But she grasped the bar and sprang down easily to the sidewalk before he could protest, her black curls and red scarf blowing, bright as toucans.

Steve was enchanted. Sometimes the gods were kind. He said, “Haven’t I seen you around here the last few days?”

“Possibly,” she acknowledged.

“Do you live here?”

“No.”

Coolness in the syllable. He was going too fast. He shifted to a better subject. “Your little one seems to like architecture too.”

“Yeah. A great kid.” Beaming down at the baby snugged against her breast, the young woman’s smile was as radiant as Susan’s. “She’s helping me in my research.”

“Are you an architect?” Her clothes and the briefcase she was now retrieving from the scaffold looked professional.

“No. But we’ve got an old brownstone we’re fixing up. They were kind enough to put up this scaffold, so I thought I’d take a look at the decoration up there. Reminds me of our mantel.”

“Yeah, it’s interesting, isn’t it? Some friends of mine up in the Village have been working on their place for years. Love it. And I may be in for the same thing. I’ve just rented a pied-à-terre in an old factory they’re converting around the corner here.”

“Good for you. A cast-iron building?”

“Yes. Not as fancy as this one, though, and the apartments are pretty straightforward. But it’s what I need. Your baby’s so cute! A girl, you said?”

“Yes.”

“Mine too. My little Muffin. She’s two and a half.”

“Sarah’s five months.”

“Well, she’s the cutest! Except for Muffin, of course. Listen, good luck with your brownstone, Miss—um, Mrs.…”

“Maggie.”

He approved of her caution; friendly yet reserved, no last names broadcast to strangers. He said, “My friends call me Buzz. Nice to meet you, Maggie. See you around, maybe.”

“Maybe.” She smiled that vivid smile again and left him standing by the scaffold.

The gloom was lifting, he was sure.

“Last stanza, Edith, Larry’s death, right?” said Derek.

As Edith pulled her thick little body up to its full five foot two and began the verse for the last tableau, Nick saw a young woman slip into the rehearsal loft. A liquid fall of blond hair, strategically tight flare-leg jeans, leather jacket. She glanced at the scrawny teenager and eased into a folding chair next to her by the flaking side wall, listening to Edith’s words and watching as Larry rose gracefully, pulled on the black gloves, clicked his heels and bowed as he had on first meeting Victoria, and backed slowly into the area that would be in darkness when the final lighting was in place. A pause; a choked sob from the crumpled Ramona; and then the pounding dirge from chorus and piano.

Ramona straightened slowly, as though lifting a crushing weight, and pulled a black shawl about her. The chorus moved back with measured steps, leaving her solitary in the center of the stage. The music modulated, and very quietly she began to sing “The Widow of Windsor.” For the first time that day she did not have to worry about new dance steps or new movements, and she invested the words with a powerful emotional energy. “Alone,” she sang, “in the crowds, still alone; among the princes, alone; forever alone.” Nick, standing in the silent chorus, felt his throat tightening. The small isolated figure, the husky beauty of the voice that shimmered on the edge of tears, communicated a human truth that transcended history, geography, wealth, gender. She bound them all into Victoria’s grief.

The last chords faded.

Then the stage manager cleared his throat and said, “Blackout,” in his flat twang.

The spell was shattered. Derek exclaimed, “Super! But you know that, Ramona. On to act two?”

“Let’s stop a minute early today, Derek. It’s been a long afternoon.” Ramona, drooping, pulled the shawl from her shoulders, then noticed the blonde onlooker for the first time and stiffened. “Well! So Larry’s evening revels have begun already. Though the brunette that came for him yesterday was prettier. Treat him well, sweetie.” She winked at the young woman. “Your competition is formidable.”

The few words reawakened the sizzle of rage in all of them. Derek dropped the piano lid too hard, and Nick repressed an appealing image of his own fist connecting with Ramona’s famous chin. Larry himself, jaw set, tossed the gloves to the sideline and scooped up his own jacket and street clothes. He swept the lithe blonde from the room, murmuring reassurances. Ramona lit a cigarette and watched them go, her expression unreadable. Behind her back the teenager stuck out her tongue at her, but at a curt, almost terrified gesture from Daphne she again put on a polite face. The other actors were preparing to leave, but Ramona walked over to talk to Edith and Jaymie, who were handing the stage manager their rehearsal props. All three tensed as she approached.

Nick, in no hurry, stripped off his soaked sweats to don jeans and turtleneck. The other actors had scrambled into their street clothes quickly, but Ramona had removed only her rehearsal skirt and was still in her dark tights and pink leg warmers. She left Jaymie and, appointment book in hand, walked over to Derek at the piano. A trim figure for forty, thought Nick. Very trim. He sat down on the edge of the platform to wait.

Most of the actors left in a subdued clump. Daphne joined Derek, however, and they bent over the book at the piano as Ramona approached Nick.

“Still hanging around?” she asked.

“Waiting for Maggie,” he said cautiously, hoping he wouldn’t inadvertently reignite her rage.

“As usual.” She stood looking down at him a moment, then sat beside him, laid her cigarette carefully on a used Pepsi can next to her Italian bag, and began to pull the leg warmers from her elegant ankles. She smelled of jasmine and smoke. She said, “Don’t know what you see in a bony kid like her, Nick, when you could have a sexy little tiger like me.”

“Guess I’m kinky.”

She laughed and rolled up the leg warmers carefully. Derek and Daphne, their consultation finished, put on their coats. Daphne waved good-bye, said, “C’mon, Callie,” to the teenager, and hurried out with her. Their clog shoes rang on the old stairs. Derek paused at the door.

“How about a drink right now, Ramona?”

“I’m having one in half an hour. It’s in my book.” She tapped the appointment book that lay on her bag and picked up her cigarette again.

“And the book is sacred. I know! Well, we’ll talk soon. See you later, then. Bye, Nick!” Nick could see that he was still upset, though he went out bravely humming “Nine Children.”

They were alone now in the cavernous loft. Ramona turned to Nick again. “I wasn’t kidding, Nick. I like you.”

“Of course. Us big, bald woolly mammoths are irresistible. Best-sellers from Fisher-Price.” He stood up, wondering uneasily if he should wait downstairs and hoping the faint noises he heard were footsteps coming up the stairs.

But Ramona was laughing. “Nick, you’re never serious! Pay attention!” She bounced up, locked her arms around him, snuggled her dark, jasmine-scented head against his chest. She felt good. Hot blood begets hot thoughts. Unfortunately Nick had other commitments. Gently he put his hands on her shoulders.