Scene Stealer (10 page)

We heard Lawrence Dunn descending the stairs. He sang snatches of
Celeste Aida
in a flat tenor that rang through the basement.

“He sings opera when he's in an especially good mood,” Annalise informed me. She opened the bathroom door a crack. “Good show, Larry?”

“They loved me,” he said. “I killed them. Annalise, tarry not. I need victuals.”

“Are you all right now?” Annalise addressed me. “He probably wants me to buy him more chicken and another container of milk. He drinks a lot of milk. He never used to eat chicken. Larry is a…was a vegetarian. Still won't eat Cowboy Bob's Burgers. Says they're loathsome. I have to walk three extra blocks to Cousin Cora's and buy Chicken Crisps. Sometimes I think he takes advantage of me.”

Kevin Corcoran was alive, thank heaven. The milk and chicken had to be for Kevin; at least Dunn was feeding the child.

“Annalise! Where are you?”

She shook her head and opened the door.

“In a minute!” Her reply to Dunn resounded throughout the basement.

“Annalise.” Dunn's voice was just as loud. “Annalise, do not scream. Project. Plant your feet in the ground and project. Your piercing scream can puncture eardrums. Where did you put the peroxide and Q-tips?”

“In the first-aid kit, Larry.” Annalise lowered her voice a decimal. “I'm talking to one of your fans.”

“You may introduce my ardent devotee as soon as I am dressed to receive.”

Heavens! I ignored the queasy feeling that attacked my stomach. I couldn't possibly meet Dunn.

“My apologies to Mr. Dunn, Annalise. My head is pounding; I must get a bit of air.”

“I'll help you upstairs and try to find you a taxi.”

“Thank you, dear. I'm able to take care of myself. Don't let me keep you from your errands. I'm sure Mr. Dunn is hungry after his performance.”

“Let him wait.” The girl's voice rose in volume. “Back in a jif, Larry. I'm helping a patron get a taxi.”

Annalise kept talking as we mounted the stairs, left the theatre and searched for a cab. “I help Larry with the theatre in return for acting lessons; clean my singing teacher's apartment so I get free singing lessons. I'm expanding my vocal range—I've added two notes and I'm going to a chorus call tomorrow just for practice—now all I have to do is find a dancing teacher I can make an arrangement with. Do you think I could blend into a chorus? I think I'd stand out too much. I guess it's stardom or nothing. What do you think?”

While Annalise chattered, I spied a cab a block away, waiting for the traffic light to turn from red to green. Annalise waved.

“I'm sure he saw us, dear. You can go. I'm fine now. You'd better attend to Mr. Dunn. Buy his dinner before the restaurant closes.”

“Don't worry about that. Fast-food places stay open all night. All Larry wants is junk food lately. Chicken, French fries, Cakewalks. Used to be, all he ate was yogurt. Sometimes fruit and sunflower seeds. Vitamins too, by the handful.”

The signal turned to green. The cab driver accelerated, sped to within five feet of us and came to an abrupt stop. No wonder, I thought, the vehicle looked ready for the junkyard.

“Goodnight, dear.”

“Bye. Come back and see
Richard III
anytime.” Annalise bounded back to the church.

“Thank you, driver, I've changed my mind.” Before the chap could remove a foul-smelling cigar from his open mouth, I left the taxi and entered a tavern I had spied across the street from Saint Genesis. I would bide my time, wait for Annalise to leave, find a way back into the basement and begin my search for Kevin.

Turning down the bartender's offer of a table, I managed to find a stool at the bar that granted a view of the church.

“What'll it be, lady?”

“Sherry, please.”

The saloon's regular patrons stared at a television set that sat on a shelf above the back of the bar. They appeared hypnotized by the grunts and groans of two wrestlers, glistening with sweat and oil, who had managed to contort themselves and each other into the most uncomfortable-appearing positions. One had shaved his head and was called “The Hairless Wonder.” He grasped a handful of platinum hair being tossed around by his opponent, who was known as “The Blond Bomber.” Five minutes of shouting and bodies being thrown through the air—one managed to land outside the ring—and the wrestler with the bleached blond ringlets was finally declared the winner.

The program ended with a close-up of the bald wrestler threatening and cursing his opponent. A news program followed.

Most of the bar's customers lost interest and turned their attentions to the bowls of thin pretzel sticks and beer nuts stationed along the counter.

“No comment is the only comment the police are making regarding the strange death of Robert Barton,” the news announcer told his viewing audience. “Barton was the president and founder of Cowboy Bob's Big, Bad Burger fast-food restaurants. Was his death an accident? The police have not issued a statement.”

I forgot about watching the church door and concentrated on the news broadcast.

“Barton was electrocuted as he waited to make an appearance on the Norman Bottoms talk show,
Hitting Bottom.
The public wants to know—is there a connection between the strange death of Robert Barton and little Kevin Corcoran, the missing child who appeared in commercials for Cowboy Bob's?” The camera focused on a woman sitting to the newscaster's right.

“We have with us tonight, Felicity Silk, the managing director of Cousin Cora's Chicken Crisps. In the fast-food market, Cousin Cora's ranks as number one. Miss Silk, thank you for being with us tonight.”

My word, I thought, Felicity Silk is actually granting an interview. From what I had researched, it was completely out of character.

The interviewer turned toward the woman and asked a series of questions. “Miss Silk, Cousin Cora's biggest competitor is Cowboy Bob's. Would you give us your reaction? How do you feel about the death of Robert Barton? Do you think some fanatic is out to destroy the fast-food industry? Are you afraid? Do you feel threatened?”

“First of all, Eric; I may call you Eric? I feel I know you so well after watching your news broadcasts. First of all, Cousin Cora's does not serve fast food. Our family-oriented restaurants serve plain, honest, family fare, just like your grandmother made, at prices a family can afford.”

“What do you think happened to Robert Barton?” Eric asked. “Was it murder?”

“We don't know that, do we, Eric? The police haven't informed us. I think it was natural causes. Indigestion, perhaps?” Her voice was rock-candy sweet and sad. “Yes, it might very well have been indigestion.”

Indigestion! The very idea. I glared at the woman as the camera moved in for a close-up.

The newsbreak ended, and a wrestling match returned to the screen. I turned my gaze back to the church door. A few minutes later I saw Annalise leave. I paid for the sherry, added a small gratuity for the bartender and returned to the church.

Except for the swish of tires and the occasional blare of a horn drifting over from Broadway's traffic, the neighborhood was quiet. Rain clouds drifted across the city and a shroud of murk hung over the block. The streetlight nearest the theatre had been shattered by vandals, and I discovered the front doors of Saint Genesis were now locked. I fumbled through my purse and finally found my key ring. A miniature flashlight was attached; I removed it and shaded the glow with my hand as I took small, careful steps following an old cobblestoned path that led to the rear of the church, hoping I would have better luck gaining entrance there.

Somewhere nearby, a child cried out.

“Kevin, where are you?” I froze but the only sound I could hear was the accelerated beat of my heart.

The beam of light cut through the darkness, identifying old headstones that marked the final resting-place of parishioners long gone. The back yard of the church, I realized, had once been used for burials.

The wail I had heard became clamorous and insistent. A cat stared at me, then ran behind a headstone. A cat, only a cat.

I spotted a window close to the back door conveniently situated at ground level. My luck held—I inserted a nail file through a break in the window pane and pushed the latch to its open position. The window, loose in its frame, was easy to raise.

The penlight illuminated an old kitchen and warned of a heavy iron pot resting on the sill. I lifted the pot to one side and managed to climb over, thankful that a strict regimen of exercise, proper dietary habits and good genes had furnished protection from the scourge of arthritis. Dishes, covered with grime, occupied an open cabinet. The plop-plop of a leaky faucet revealed a sink discolored by a large rusted spot. A spider had built a web in a cozy corner next to an ancient stove.

I opened a door and found myself in a carpeted hallway that led to an area that must have once been the chancel. Here, the carpeting ended under an archway that led to the right wing of the stage, the carpeting replaced by a highly polished wood floor. A work-lamp barely lit the center area of the stage, casting shadows that might have unnerved someone of lesser will or discipline of mind. I was just able to see an old-fashioned light-board set against the wall. To its right stood a table cluttered with a king's crown—its brilliant glass gems shining through the gloom—surrounded by false hair, gauntlets, cuffs, a tin of powder, rouge and a box of tissues. Next to the table was a second set of stairs. It would, I was sure, lead to the room in the basement where Lawrence Dunn dressed.

Careful,
I thought;
you never saw him leave.
He must still be in the theatre and so, if my reasoning was correct, would Kevin.

The thought of notifying Lieutenant Brown of my suspicions grazed my mind. I quickly discarded the idea; I had to be sure. The detective would demand proof. If it wasn't supplied, if I were wrong, he would dismiss me as a meddlesome, old spinster with nothing to do but get into mischief.

The basement was silent. I spied a splinter of light peeking from beneath a door decorated with an oversized star that managed to twinkle and glitter in the near dark. Dunn, I decided, would be in that room. I needed a place to hide until he emerged and led me to Kevin. A rack of costumes occupied a corner close to Dunn's dressing room. I hugged the wall and moved, at a snail's pace, in the direction of the rack.

The costumes that had served Dunn's various characterizations would now serve as my screen. The waistcoats and doublets, pantaloons, padding, cloaks and robes were made of heavy stuff. The materials were brocade, velvet and fur decorated with jewels and chains. They appeared rich and royal in the gloomy light, but an unpleasant odor of perspiration and mildew hovered over this section of the basement. Age and improper cleaning of the costumes, bought second-or third-hand, worn by generations of nervous actors sweating under hot lights in cold theatres I suspected. I felt the glow of perspiration on my brow, but if I were to rescue Kevin, I had to be brave.

Suddenly a series of strange sounds penetrated the dressing room door and interrupted the silence of the theatre. Dunn, practicing vocal exercises over and over and over again.

Tears welled in my eyes as, unable to find my handkerchief, I stifled a cough with the back of my hand.

“Mee…mo…ma…mo…moo. Mee…mo…ma…moo.” He stopped and took a deep intake of breath then exhaled (an extremely long slow hiss), before he began to speak.

“Big, Bad, Brownie Bonanzas, Big, Bad, Brownie Bonanzas. Cousin Cora's Cakewalks, Cousin Cora's Cakewalks.” Dunn recited these lines over and over again; warming his vocal chords. Finally using the same grandiloquent sound he had produced in his characterization of King Lear, Lawrence Dunn addressed an unseen audience. “It is with heavy heart I appeal to my public…”

I poked my head between two robes, trying to fathom his words. Dust particles invaded my nose and throat. I swallowed a sneeze. Oh my word! That tickle in my throat again. I rummaged through my purse. Where was that tin of lozenges? The tin dropped out of the purse and hit the bottom pipe of the costume rack. The bell-like ping of the tin against the metal of the pipe brought Dunn to the door of his dressing room.

He was attired in a tatty, red velvet robe; a towel tucked like a bib into the collar. His legs, deprived of the padding that enhanced the shape of his tights, were sticklike and the absence of wigs and hats proved his natural hair to be pure white, collar length and blessed with a natural wave. Framed in the cruel, white light of the dressing room, barefaced, he appeared a good deal older than his stage presence had led me to believe.

“Annalise? Are you back?” A cough drop crunched beneath a shoe as Lawrence Dunn stepped forward.

“What…?”

I tried not to breathe.

Dunn grabbed a flashlight and dagger—it appeared to be Falstaff's—from a bookcase standing against a near wall. The beam of light searched the corners of the basement, delved under a table and climbed to the top of a stack of crates; finally coming to rest on my oxfords. The only shoes, I realized, peeping from beneath the costume rack.

“Out, out damn spot,” he ordered.

Oh, my word. The only weapon I carried was my handbag.
Think quickly, Augusta Weidenmaier,
I thought,
perhaps you can improvise your way out of this imprudent position.
Keeping an eye on his dagger, I parted the doublet and padding, smiled and stepped cautiously over the bottom pipe of the costume rack.

“What are you doing here?”

Had he recognized me? Was his verbal emphasis on the word
you?
I decided to try flattery.

“Your dramatic presentation was extraordinary tonight, Mr. Dunn. I came backstage to tell you how touched I was by your performance. Such versatility. If it isn't too much to ask, I would treasure your autograph.” The words that tumbled from my mouth were wasted. The scoundrel knew who I was.

“This way, Miss Weidenmaier.”

Dunn knew my name. I had found Kevin's kidnapper. Was he also little Bertie Barton's murderer?

Dunn's flashlight pointed toward a door on the other side of the basement.
At least,
I thought,
he hasn't plunged the dagger into my chest. Not yet.
I would have to follow the ruffian's orders until the problem could be thought through. My choices at the moment were severely limited.

“Larry…I'm back.”

It was Annalise. Of course! The child had returned with the chicken. Should I cry out? Involve the girl?

“Don't lock the door, Larry. I haven't buried the props,” Annalise called from halfway down the steps. “Besides, we really have to talk.”

Lawrence Dunn unlocked the door, thrust me inside a room as dark as India ink, and locked it again. The momentum made me stumble against a chair, bruising an ankle in the process.

At least the chair was something to sit on. My hand trembling with nerves, I gingerly touched the contusion while contemplating my next move.

Was that breathing I heard? I could sense another living creature in the room.
Thank goodness,
I thought,
I have never been afraid of small mammalia.
Rodents do not upset me. In that respect, I knew I had been a severe disappointment to several of my pupils.

“Go home, Annalise,” I heard Dunn say. “You look tired. Besides, I want you to look over the props tomorrow. My stool needs to be painted and the goblet polished.”

“I painted the stool last week.”

“Goodnight,” Dunn said firmly.

I took my penlight out of my pocket. The light flickered and died.

“I thought we could talk while you ate your Chicken Crisps,” Annalise said.

“Just give me the box and go home.”

“Gee…Larry. I know you've been busy but you haven't given me a lesson all week and I've been working extremely hard on my Ophelia.”

“I want you to work even harder. We'll schedule a time tomorrow.”

“Right Thanks. Goodnight.”

It was now or never. I took a deep breath.

Hands were clapped over my mouth. A child's hands.

“Lady,” the soft voice of a little boy pleaded. “Lady, don't scream.”