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B
est laid plans. I didn't manage to call Morty until four-thirty because chaos had broken out at the Windjammer a couple of hours earlier. Lunch had been fine, a decent crowd for a Wednesday, and folks were scarfing down Henry's secret cheeseburgers, zucchini frittata, and gazpacho. Then all hell broke loose. Enrico dropped a pot of beef stock that Henry had planned to use for the evening's stew; there was a quarter-inch slick of liquid and grease spread across the kitchen floor. Luckily, no one was scalded. Gillian called in traumatized and crying because she had just broken up with her boyfriend, again, and Pauli arrived with the final version of the website. Minus any publicity for the Windjammer's primary competitor. For two cents, I'd have closed the place down for the night.

By the time I'd calmed Henry down and talked him into a simpler dinner special, gotten Enrico calmed down enough to clean up the kitchen, calmed Benny down and assured him I would cover Gillian for the night, and calmed Pauli, guaranteeing him that Henry would have already forgotten about the La Famiglia debacle and would still pay him, I was frazzled and bushed. I had forgotten that my main mission for the afternoon was to reach Morty. I tapped on his cell phone number, and no one answered. I left a message for him to call me and went back to work.

At seven, I deposited two dishes on a table for the Banger sisters, who were on high alert.

“Dodie, how is the show going?” one of them asked.

“Just fine,” I said. Then my cell phone rang. It was Mortimer. “I'm sorry. I have to take this.” I stepped to my back booth and tapped the ANSWER button. “Hello, Mortimer?”

“Yes. Sorry I am just now getting back to you. It's been a hectic day.”

I could identify with that. “I was calling to see if we could meet tomorrow afternoon. Around five?”

“Tomorrow is good, but it will need to be later. I'm booked all day. How is ... eight? Eight-thirty?”

We hadn't counted on Morty's not being able to make it at five. I thought quickly: Walter had been starting rehearsal earlier and ending things by nine-thirty. “If we need to meet in the evening, nine-thirty would be better.”

Morty agreed, and I went on to tell him that we would meet in the theater since I would be working there. He wasn't overly surprised; he probably was used to unusual meeting places with clients.

Bill, on the other hand, wasn't thrilled when I called him about the change in plans. Meeting at night didn't feel right to him.

Lola was equally dismayed when I caught her on a rehearsal break. “How are we going to get everyone out of the theater?”

“Rehearsals have been ending around that time anyway, right?”

“I'll do my best.”

Benny flagged me down. “Dodie, can you give me a hand here—?”

“I'm coming,” I said. “Talk to you later, Lola.”

Now all I needed was a good night's sleep so that I would be at the top of my game.

* * *

I awoke at eight and yawned, stretching my arms over my head. Light flooded my bedroom and beckoned me into another day. I assessed the evening's upcoming events: the wheels were turning, the stage was set, and the players would be in place. I lingered over coffee, took a long hot shower, and dressed carefully, casual in black slacks and a pale green silk shirt that complemented my eyes.

I had to pick up the copy of the Lincoln letter that Bill had made and I offered to stop by the station after the lunch hour. I popped into the Municipal Building at three and caught him just as his squad car pulled into the space labeled C
HIEF
. His fierce blue eyes lasered through me.

“Are we all set for tonight?” he asked as he held the door for me.

“Yep,” I said, more nonchalantly than I felt. In reality, I'd been jazzed all afternoon in anticipation of my big night.

“Look, this is probably going to be short and to-the-point. You let him take a look at the copy of the letter, you ask a few pertinent questions.. . . You do have pertinent questions ready, right?”

“Of course I do.” I needed to get some pertinent questions ready.

He strode down the hallway, tossing his directive over his shoulder. “And you make a date for a next appointment, at which time you will bring him the actual document.”

“Got it.”

Edna looked up as we passed her window. She nodded knowingly, as though she knew something was up. “I'm on duty tonight so I'll miss rehearsal. Walter's doing Juliet's death scene. I think he's going to have Abby stand in for the Nurse.”

“Better than standing in for Juliet.”

Edna snorted and went back to work.

“Dodie?” Bill called out.

“Coming.”

He handed me the copy of the Lincoln letter in a manila file like the one Mary had used for the original. “Remember, we don't have proof these guys have anything to do with Jerome's murder. All we know is that Jerome contacted them,” he said seriously.

I nodded solemnly. “Bill, I've been thinking this through.”

“Uh-oh, what now?” He moaned.

“What if the copy doesn't satisfy Morty? What if he won't talk without the original?”

“Then we call it off.”

I paused. “We probably only have one shot with him. How about if I have the original as a backup?”

Bill raised his hands as if to ward off my idea. “No way.”

“Hear me out. I won't show it to him unless I need to. But this is our big chance.”

I saw hesitation and I pressed my advantage. “With you in the theater, no one is going to get away with anything. Right?”

He reluctantly nodded. “I'll bring it with me. If he wants it, you say that you need to retrieve it from a secure location. Like the office. Then you come backstage by way of the emergency corridor and get it from me.” Then his tone softened and he gestured for me to sit while he perched on the edge of his desk, twelve inches away. “In the unlikely event someone tries to pull something, don't take any chances. Just get out of the way. I'll be watching, and Suki's on the street. Edna will always be able to reach me if for some reason we lose touch. Okay?”

I was staring into his eyes and got lost for a moment.

“Dodie? Okay?” he asked again.

“Uh-huh,” I said quickly.

He leaned forward. “Be careful, you hear?”

* * *

Despite the impending episode with Morty Wendover, which might have proven a distraction to a lesser actor, Lola's Lady Capulet was in peak form, equal parts mother love and devious sexpot. For several weeks now, Abby had been both faithful dog and whining thespian, and rewarding her with the stand-in role for the night apparently seemed appropriate to Walter. The maternal, nurturing Nurse went out the window the minute Abby stepped into the scene. Walter had spent an hour on Juliet drinking the magical vial that would put her to sleep and then collapsing in terror and resignation on the platform bed. I was getting nervous. It was eight-thirty and Walter didn't look as though he had any intention of ending rehearsal soon.

Abby stood over Juliet, facing upstage. “
How sound asleep she is. I needs must wake her
.” Abby shook Juliet's shoulders so hard the poor girl's teeth clattered.

“Hey!” Juliet protested.

But Walter was busy signaling Lola that it was nearly time for her entrance. I also tried to catch Lola's eye and give her the universal signs for “hurry it up” and “cut it off.”

Juliet lay back down.

Abby went back to work. “
Alas alas! Help help! My lady's dead
.”
Thwap.
She slapped Juliet across the face and caught her unawares.

“Stop it!” Juliet screamed.

“What?” Abby asked innocently.

I rose from my seat and headed down the aisle. If someone didn't stop Abby, we might have a real death scene. “Penny, go up there and stop Abby. She's going to kill Juliet.”

Penny chuckled. “Juliet's already dead.”

“Penny!”

“Haven't you ever heard of method acting?”

“Lola, love, move a little farther downstage,” Walter called out.

Lady Capulet swept into Juliet's boudoir, lamenting at her death until Abby, just for good measure, picked the top half of Juliet off the platform, in pretended grief, then bounced her off the bed, yelling, “
She's dead, deceas'd', she's dead, alack the day
!”

“That's it,” Juliet squawked and grabbed Abby's hair. She yanked hard and Abby's head snapped back. Abby reached for Juliet's throat.

Walter finally noticed what was going on and signaled for Penny. “Abby! Decorum!”

Penny had heaved herself out of her seat. “Cat fight,” she said and dove between them.

“Get off me!” Abby squealed. “She doesn't know anything about acting. I should have been Juliet.”

“Abby, please,” Walter said. “This is not suitable behavior for rehearsal. We need to conduct ourselves as professionals,” he pleaded.

“Conduct this,” Abby roared, flipping Walter the bird, and flounced off the stage.

Penny grimaced. “That Abby's loopy. I told Walter to steer clear of her ever since she threw a tantrum over the casting for
Little Mary Sunshine
. As if she could carry a tune in a bucket.”

“She's mad she didn't get my role,” Juliet announced to everyone and sat in the first row.

I caught up with Lola and pointed to my watch. “Lola, we've got to get everyone out of here.”

“I know,” she said anxiously. “Walter agreed to stop at quarter to nine, but now with this disruption, and Juliet's upset . . . he says he wants to run it again.”

“He can't do that,” I wailed. “Morty Wendover is due here in thirty minutes.”

Lola twisted her hands. “What should we do?”

“Can I help?”

We spun around and faced Elliot.

“Is there a problem?” he asked kindly.

I made a quick calculation. No one else was supposed to know about the meeting with Morty except Lola; but I needed help and Elliot was the most trusted person here next to us. “Elliot, we need to clear the stage, the theater really. Rehearsal has to end. Now,” I said emphatically. “It's life or death,” I added for good measure.

Elliot's quizzical expression could have triggered a lengthy explanation; instead, he nodded. He crossed to Walter, made a firm proclamation, and then gestured to Penny. Whatever he said worked, because in ten minutes the cast was packing up and splitting. Juliet was accompanied by two Ladies-in-Waiting, who commiserated mightily. Walter, with Lola's sympathy, swallowed two aspirins for his headache.

Penny tapped her clipboard. “I'm usually the last one out,” she said meaningfully to me.

Elliot swept up the aisle, escorting Penny ahead of him. At the door to the theater he turned back and smiled at me. “Thanks,” I said softly. It was nine-fifteen.

No sooner had Elliot exited into the lobby than Bill walked on stage.

“All set?” he asked.

“How did you—?” I gasped.

“I've been here for an hour. Your cast is pretty crazy.” He checked his watch. “Stay alert.” Then he went backstage again.

I sat in the first row of seats. The series of small spotlights that lit the house were distributed randomly across the ceiling and gave off just enough illumination for audience members to read their programs. The platforms and flexible cubes, that comprised the now-affordable
Romeo and Juliet
set, were covered in shadows, and the black curtains stage right and left looked ominous. Even though I knew Bill was standing guard, the atmosphere felt weird and haunted. I shuddered.

The door to the theater opened, and Morty stepped through it. “Ms. O'Dell?”

I was relieved to see his courteous face, atop a brown suit and tie. He looked so normal.

“Mr. Wendover? I'm down here.”

He shaded his eyes, then walked slowly down the aisle. “I must confess, this is the most unusual spot I've ever conducted business in.”

“I appreciate your coming here at such a late hour.”

“So you work in the theater?” he asked, surveying the stage.

“Yes. I'm a production manager.”

“Like uncle, like niece,” he said.

I stared blankly at him. “I'm sorry?”

“Your uncle Jerome? He was a part of the theater, yes?”

My heart skipped a beat and my palms were damp. That was a weird comment. Had Jerome mentioned the ELT? “Yes, of course. He used to work the box office.”

I steadied myself by leaning against the lip of the stage.

He smiled. “As we discussed, the usual first step is an examination of the document,” he said politely and waited.

“Sure.” I pulled the copy out of my bag and handed it to him.

Morty raised an eyebrow. “This is a reproduction.”

“I thought maybe you could make an initial determination based on the handwriting.”

He seemed to be weighing his options. “Ms. O'Dell, authenticating your uncle's document can only be done with the original. There are many excellent Lincoln forgeries. But the only way to validate a letter like this is through examining the paper and ink. I must see the original if you want an assessment. Do you have the letter with you?”

My silence told him what he needed to know.

“I understand your reluctance. You might have a fortune in your possession. Let's have a look. I might be able to save you time and money.” He watched me consider his offer. “If you would be more comfortable in my office, we can arrange another meeting.”