Chapter 4

Picture this—

The story of a slave girl living within the palace walls of a tyrannical king. One day the king spots the beautiful young slave picking flowers in his garden, flowers to be laid at the foot of his bed that night. He decides then and there that the slave girl must become his flower. He announces that she will become his next bride. But the slave girl has her eyes on another, a poor snake charmer who lives in the village beyond the palace walls. One night, under the veil of midnight with the help of the other slave girls, she escapes into the arms of her poor snake charmer. She dances The Dance of the Cobra, and the two promise to be with each other for all eternity. When they hear word that the king and his guards have come to hunt them down and kill them, the lovers lay together one last time, unleashing a king cobra into their bed. When the king arrives, he finds the dead lovers wrapped in each other's arms. They have found happiness in their eternity, whereas the king will find only loneliness in his.

"What a loada crap!" Stella moaned at the end of the rehearsal. We were sitting far enough back in the auditorium so that nobody could hear her, thankfully. "What kinda ending do you call that? Everyone died except the bad guy!"

"It's a tragedy," I told her, my sensitive side making a rare appearance as thoughts of Harry floated through my head. I might have even shed a secret tear during the climax without Stella noticing. "It's a metaphor for true love, a love that can never die."

"Whaddaya mean, never die? They went to bed with a snake! You call that true love? I call it a dumpable offense! Besides, that cobra looked totally fake. I could see the strings when it was doin' its dance."

"You don't seriously expect them to use a real snake. It's supposed to be art."

"Art schmart. That opera just killed my dreams of showbiz with a blunt shovel."

"What did you think of the play?" asked Raja Khan as he approached us.

Stella blew a raspberry, and then added by way of compensation, "But hey, I'm just one opinion. He liked it," she said pointing a thumb at me. "Although he is kinda in love at the moment, so that's probably clouding his judgment when it comes to all things mushy."

Raja coughed politely, trying not to splutter on Stella's not-so-stellar review, then changed the subject. "Shall I take you to see Mr. Small now so you can question him?"

"Why not," said Stella. "Let's get this mystery solved before it bores me to death."

Raja led us through the dark, labyrinthine network of curtain-lined corridors and prop-crowded passageways that made up the backstage area before we reached the costume department, a small room packed with rows and rows of costume racks. Stanley was hanging—or rather stuffing—several costumes in place, shuffling them about so that they were in the correct order for the actors to pluck off the hanger and slip into. Raja left us, while Stanley continued working.

"Normally the costume girl takes care of this," he started telling Stella and me. "But we don't need her till we do the full production dress rehearsal later this week. Until then, it's easy enough for me to look after the costumes."

"We won't take up much of your time," I told him.

"Oh I don't mind," he said courteously. "So long as you don't mind following me around so's I can get my jobs done. Busy work, bein' stage manager. Especially in a theater like this."

"Oh? Why's that?"

Stanley took a step closer to me and lowered his voice, as though he were about to share a secret. "Tell me, Mr. Baxter. Do you believe in ghosts?"

I shook my head. "Call me cynical, but no, Mr. Small, I don't. I believe in cold hard facts. I believe there's an answer to every mystery. You just gotta look in the right places."

Stanley nervously adjusted the spectacles on his face. "Perhaps this place will change your views." He turned and exited the costume department. "Please follow me. I have to check that all the props have been returned."

The props room was even more cramped than the costume department. Packed shelves lined the walls and open boxes stuffed with everything from candlesticks to headless dummies filled almost every inch of floor space. As Stanley inched his way across the room, rearranging the props on the most accessible shelf in the room, I asked, "So it's true you were the last person to see Miss Duprey? Are you absolutely positive of that?"

"Yes," he answered, sliding the fake swords of the king's guards back into their sheaths. "It was late. We'd just finished a long, difficult rehearsal. Mr. Hemingway wasn't himself, he kept forgetting his lines. Perhaps he was tired. It was getting on Miss Duprey's nerves. Actually, it was getting on everyone's nerves. The closer we get to opening night, the longer the days and the more grueling the rehearsals become. Everyone's patience begins to fray." He looked around distractedly and asked himself, "Now where the heck is that cobra?"

"You mean the fakest snake I ever seen?" asked Stella. "You're standin' on its stupid head."

Stanley looked down and saw the snake puppet under his feet. He quickly jumped off it, picked it up and dusted it down before placing it on a shelf and continuing his story. "That night when we were done with rehearsal, Mr. Blake decided to calm everyone's nerves with a glass of champagne. I guess the bubbles went straight to Miss Duprey's head. When she left, I was concerned for her safety. As it turned out I was right."

"You knew someone was going to attack her?"

"Lord no. But a gentleman doesn't let a lady walk home alone, especially after one or two nightcaps."

"You walked her home?"

Stanley finished fussing with his props and left the room with Stella and me in tow. "I offered to call her a cab. She didn't want me to. She said she was fine."

"Where exactly did this conversation take place?"

"In the side alley of the theater." He pulled open a curtain that led across the wings of the stage before stopping and turning to face us, a look of worry on his uptight face. Stella and I both stopped where we stood as he asked, "You don't suppose people think it was me, do you?"

"You were the last one to see her. That makes you a prime suspect."

Stanley scrunched up his fists anxiously before saying out of the blue. "I wouldn't stand there if I were you."

"Stand where?" I asked.

"Beneath that sandbag," he said, pointing up. "As stage manager, I pride myself on my work. Everything must happen precisely on cue. When the timing is right, everything is perfect. Yet there are some things in this place that appear to be out of my control. I tighten that rope every night, but it has a habit of constantly slipping loose."

Stella and I both looked up to see a large sandbag hanging directly above our heads. We glanced back at each other and both decided to err on the side of caution, taking a few steps forward. The moment we did so, the sandbag came plummeting to the floor, crashing onto the boards where we had been standing a second ago with an almighty THUD!

"What the hell?" Stella shrieked as she and I turned from the crumpled sandbag to Stanley.

"I suppose you're gonna tell me that was a ghost?" I asked skeptically.

He simply shrugged innocently. "You tell me. I'm not the one who thinks there's an answer to every mystery." He turned and walked out through the wing and onto the stage. We continued to follow him until he stopped once again—this time just to the left of center stage—with an anxious look on his face. "If I'm the prime suspect, will the police arrest me? I didn't do anything, I swear. I'm just a simple stage manager."

"Slow down, nobody's suggesting you call a lawyer—"

"Yet," Stella added. She liked keepin' 'em on their toes.

"—but what I would like to know is exactly what you saw the night Miss Duprey vanished."

Stanley took a deep breath. "The first time I went outside, asking if Miss Duprey was alright, I saw nothing. Nothing but her, stumbling down the alley."

"Stumbling?"

"Like I said, I think the bubbles went straight to her head."

"You say that was the first time you went outside?"

Stanley nodded. "That's right. I asked if she wanted me to call her a cab and she said the night air would do her good. The night was still and cold, a fog had drifted in. I told her not to get a chill this close to opening night."

"What'd she say?"

"She told me she knew how to look after herself. That I fuss too much. And that I'd never get a girlfriend if I smothered women like that."

"You smother women, huh?" Stella asked suspiciously. "Sounds to me like you're guilty, guilty, guilty!"

"No, she didn't mean it literally," Stanley said. He drew in a deep, regretful sigh. "I guess she was just stating the obvious. Maybe I care too much. That's why I'll always be alone."

Stella groaned. "Oh pah-lease! If you wanted sympathy I'd have brought my violin along!"

"Let's get back to the night in question, shall we?" I asked, givin' Stella a glare. "So, Mr. Small, what happened after Miss Duprey turned down your offer to call a cab?"

"I returned inside, took a few steps, then heard her scream. I raced back out into the alley to see a man in a hood and mask trying to strangle Miss Duprey."

"Strangle her? Using what?"

"Her boa. I remember seeing black feathers blowing through the air."

"Blowing?" I asked. "I thought you said the night was still and cold."

Stanley shrugged. "I guess a breeze blew in."

I took a mental note of that twitch on his face again. "You said the attacker wore a mask?"

"Yes. It was gold," he answered. "It was the two masks of the theater combined, one side tragedy, one side comedy. I'll never forget it. He looked at me for a fleeting moment… then before I knew it, he simply vanished. And Miss Duprey vanished with him."

"He?"

Stanley looked at me. He had only one answer. "The ghost. I know it was the ghost who took her. I've been working in this theater for over ten years now, Mr. Baxter. I've heard footsteps on the stage when nobody was there. I've seen shadows pass when I've been the only person in the building. I've felt chills in the air and watched candles blow out when not a door or window is open. It was the ghost that took Miss Duprey. I know it." He spoke with such conviction it was difficult not to feel a slight tingle down my spine.

Stella obviously didn't feel the same tingle. "What a load of baloney!"

Stanley simply turned to her and said, "I wouldn't stand there if I were you."

"Stand where?" she asked, looking up for another sandbag.

"On that trapdoor," he answered. "The latch is loose."

"What trap—"

Before Stella could even see the outline of the trapdoor, the door's hatch swung open and Stella screamed as she plunged into the darkness below followed by a heavy THUNK!

I dropped to my stomach beside the open trapdoor, shouting into the blackness, "Stella?"

The reply I got from down below was a loud groan, followed by, "Jesus, Mary and Joseph with a staff up his ass! This place is a goddamn deathtrap!"

Stanley was already scurrying for a nearby ladder. He lowered it into the hole and Stella emerged up its rungs, adjusting her blonde bob wig as she clambered back onto the stage, her stumpy legs a little wobbly on account of one broken shoe heel.

"God, are you okay?" I asked, helping her with one skew-whiff shoulder strap.

"I'm okay, but it beats me how there's anyone left alive at all in this joint!"

"I sometimes ask myself the same question," Stanley said. "I have to climb up to the lighting rig now, if you'd like to follow me this way."

"Lighting rig!" Stella practically screeched. "Are you kidding?"

"I think we're done with our questions for now," I said. "We'll be talking with the others. I'm sure we'll have more questions for you later."

"Till then, have fun up on your death rig," Stella added. "See you at your funeral, sucker!"

As I guided Stella away, I muttered to her, "We need to talk about your bedside manner."

"Whaddaya mean! I'm one of the best hookers in Wilde City. Ain't had no complaints so far."

"I ain't talkin' about that bedside manner."

"Ahh, build a bridge and get over it, toots. Now, who's next on our interrogation list? I feel like makin' that pretty little gal with the big brown eyes cry. She looks like a crier to me."

Olivia Overton's eyes welled up and the tears started to flow. "It wasn't me. I'm just a simple farm girl in a big city trying to make her dreams come true."

"Oh quit with the crocodile tears or I'll give you a purple nurple," Stella threatened.

Olivia sobbed even louder. "I don't even know what that means."

I pulled Stella back. "Easy, tiger."

We were in the ladies dressing room, a room shared by all the women of the supporting cast, although there was nobody here now except the three of us. Olivia sat in front of one of a dozen mirrors framed by burning light bulbs. She wiped her eyes with a handkerchief and looked at us through the mirror. "I know what you're thinking, that Miss Duprey was the one thing standing between me and a promising career. But don't you think that motive is a little too simple? I'd be a fool to be that obvious, wouldn't you agree?"

"Perhaps," Stella said. "Or maybe you're smart enough to admit you'd be a fool to do that, hoping to throw us off the scent."

"I'm too dumb to be smart enough to admit to being a fool," Miss Overton replied, batting her eyelids a little more.

"Oh how stupid do you think we are to buy that you're too dumb to be smart enough to admit to being a fool?" Stella piped up. "We're way too clever for that."

"I know you're clever enough not to be stupid to buy that I'm too dumb to be smart enough to—"

"Oh stop it, both of you!" I interrupted. The conversation was making my head spin. "Can we just get back to the events of last night?"

Miss Overton nodded.

Stella rolled her eyes. "I was just gettin' somewhere with that."

"Put a clamp on it," I said.

"Fine," Stella grumbled. "I'm gonna go look for clues someplace else in this creepy joint. I'll leave you to deal with Miss Googly Eyes by yourself."

"Googly Eyes?" Miss Overton asked, more shocked than offended.

"You heard me," Stella said. "You could poke someone else's eye out with those peepers."

"Go!" I ordered.

Stella gave a grumpy "Humph!" then turned and walked away.

I held back my sigh of relief in an attempt to remain professional in front of the suspect then began asking questions.

"Assuming you are innocent—since I highly doubt anybody is ready to put their hand up and plead guilty at this stage—do you have any reason to believe anyone else in the theater may have had plans for Miss Duprey?"

"No!" Miss Overton said emphatically. Then after a moment's hesitation, and something of a dramatic tilt of her chin, she said, "Well… perhaps…"

"Perhaps what? Or should I ask who?"

"Oh, I don't want to put any ideas in your head. It's really nothing."

"What's nothing?"

Miss Overton paused a moment longer, made sure there was nobody within earshot, then said quietly, "I suspect Mr. Hemingway has… feelings for me. He's practically admitted his undying love for me. Once."

"Was he drunk?"

"A little."

"Men will do that. They're assholes sometimes."

"You sound like you speak from experience, Mr. Baxter." Miss Overton fluttered her eyelids at me again. "You know, you're a very handsome man. I dare say you've broken a few hearts yourself."

My thoughts flashed back to my morning with Harry, and how things had ended on such a note of uncertainty. I quickly deflected the subject back to the matter at hand. "Why do you think Mr. Hemingway's supposed affection for you has anything to do with Miss Duprey's disappearance?"

"Goodness, I hope it doesn't. And as I said before, I don't want to put ideas in anyone's head, or get anyone into trouble." She leaned forward and whispered even more quietly, "But once, he told me I was destined to be a star. He told me he'd do anything to help my career. Anything!"

At that moment, a piercing screech echoed through the entire theater, making Miss Overton jump with fright. I turned quickly, knowing exactly who that nasally scream belonged to. "Stella!"

I followed not only the sound of the scream, but also the stampede of footsteps that rattled the floorboards of the theater as myself and the six suspects arrived in the open doorway of Errol Hemingway's private dressing room.

"What's going on?" Errol said, putting away a hipflask and pushing his way to the front of the small gathering of stunned onlookers peering into his dressing room.

"It looks pretty obvious to me, pal," I said, looking into the room to see Stella standing beside an open trunk, inside which was the dead body of one Dominique Duprey.

Sitting on top of the body was a gold mask, one side comedy, the other side tragedy.

Barnabas Blake gasped melodramatically.

Miss Overton buried her face in Raja Khan's chest and began crying again.

Stanley Small crossed himself.

Serafina Somerset groaned and rolled her eyes as though someone had just told her a bad joke.

Errol Hemingway took his hipflask back out and took a long swig.

Meanwhile, Stella announced, "Well Buck, I'd say we got ourselves a stiff." Unceremoniously she picked up the dead woman's limp arm and let it flop over the side of the trunk before noticing the ring on the corpse's hand and adding excitedly, "Ooh, nice rock!"

"Stella, leave it alone," I ordered.

"But that baby's worth at least—"

"—six months in the cooler. Stealing from a dead person is illegal. We're here to solve a crime, not commit one."

"Killjoy."

I ignored my assistant and turned to Raja. "Mr. Khan, I hate to be the one to tell ya this… but I think it's time to get the cops involved."