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  Everyone had stopped what they were doing with Simon’s announcement, and the pause was getting awkward. I looked toward the orchestra seats, but the lights prevented me from seeing who was seated fifth row center.

  “Charley!” I heard, and turned to find Martha, the costume designer, waving from a group of people at the back of the stage. “Charley!” That was Paris, the set designer, calling down from the balcony. Then, “Charley!” from offstage, as Chip emerged from the gloom. A small crowd began to form, and Simon clapped his hands imperiously for attention.

  “All right, all right, everybody! We’ll all have a chance to socialize with Charley later on. For now, we must be all business!” He grabbed my hands again and pulled me offstage in the opposite direction from where we’d come. “A few brief words in private I think, darling, and then we’ll get down to work. Chip!” he interrupted himself. “We’ll see the Annas first.”

  Offstage, Simon propelled me up two flights of stairs and down a narrow, brick-walled hallway to the theater offices. He shoved me in the room marked Artistic Director and flung himself at the door to close it behind us.

  “Chaos!” he proclaimed. “Disaster and ruin! Thank God you got here when you did!” He sank into a red velvet sofa which had seen better days, and looked up at me like a man on his way to the scaffold.

  “Problems with the new production?” I guessed, sitting on the battered antique desk and crossing my legs.

  He snorted. “How I’ve missed your gift for understatement.”

  Now that I could look at him more closely, I saw how tired Simon was. There were dark circles under his fjord-blue eyes, and his hair, usually a perfect blond wave sweeping back from his brow, flopped down across his forehead. Worst of all, his clothes were rumpled. “Good Lord, Simon, you look like hell,” I said, causing him to wince. “What’s the matter?”

  “Brian bailed,” he said flatly.

  “Brian?” Brian the new director? The Brian I was here to investigate? The Brian who was now my leading contender for the role of Macbeth’s henchman? “What do you mean he bailed?”

  “As if enough hadn’t gone wrong with this bloody production already,” Simon said bitterly, “I got here bright and early this morning to find a note.” He shot me a glance of pure hatred. “A note! That sodding—”

  “All right,” I interrupted. “I get the picture. What did the note say?”

  Simon collapsed back into the cushions again and gestured toward the desk. “It’s right there. I wanted to keep it so if I ever see him again I can ram it down his ungrateful throat.”

  I looked around the desk and realized I was sitting on the edge of a piece of paper. I adjusted my position and retrieved the note.

  Simon,

  I’m really sorry, but I just got an offer that I really can’t refuse. I know it really sucks for me to leave you like this, but it’s Broadway and I’ve really got to go.

  Brian

  I cleared my throat. “That’s it?”

  Simon glared at me. “That’s it. That’s really,” he spoke the word with an exaggerated American accent, “it.” He shook his head. “Eileen will sue him, of course, for breaking his contract, but that doesn’t help us now.”

  “And you’re supposed to be auditioning today?” I asked.

  “Yes, we’re auditioning, and to make matters worse, the Begley excrescence is here. Anonymous investor my ass!” He gave me pleading eyes. “Charley, you’ve just got to help out. You’ve just got to go once more into the breach for dear old Simon and the good of the company. You’ve just got—”

  “Simon,” I cut him off. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? Darling, I want you to direct!”

  “What?” I responded, and then something he had said earlier caught up with me. “What do you mean by ‘the Begley excrescence’? What’s going on?”

  We heard a clatter of footsteps in the hallway. One good thing about having concrete floors and brick walls in the theater office area was that a producer could never be surprised by a mob of angry actors. In this case, though, I had the horrible feeling we were about to face a mob of something worse.

  “Where are they?” demanded a voice I knew and loathed.

  “Simon! Charley!” sang another voice, Chip’s, trying hard not to sound desperate. “Rix would like a word with you, if it’s convenient!”

  Simon had only time enough to entreat “Follow my lead,” before the door burst open.

  Chip darted in ahead of the crowd, but the man that followed swept him aside as he entered. He stood at the doorway. Tall, lean, handsome in an impossible, matinee-idol sort of way. He took in the shabby room and its inhabitants with distaste. Several other people stood behind him, trying to peek in the doorway at whatever scandalous exchange might take place.

  Rix Begley. Damn.

  “Rix.” I preempted any attempt he might make to speak. “It’s been a long time.” I crossed the room, smiling in what I hoped was a relaxed, charming manner. “Simon was just telling me how delightful its been working with you on this production.” You miserable bastard.

  Simon snapped forward. “Yes, Rix old sock, we’ve just been doing a little catching up before we carry on with the auditions. Isn’t it marvelous of Charley to step in for us? What a trouper! Honestly,” he moved closer to the scowling man and spoke in a low, confiding tone, “I think this is the best thing that could possibly have happened. I mean,” he rushed on, when it looked like Rix might respond, “she’s simply head and shoulders above Brian. So talented! I would have died before hiring him if I’d known Charley was coming back. It’s simply wonderful.” He paused for breath. “Don’t you agree?”

  Rix regarded me darkly. The look on his face, angry embarrassment mixed with frustration, matched exactly how I felt, but for Simon’s sake I wasn’t about to show it. Of all the people who could have put money into the Rep, why the hell had they gotten involved with this back-stabbing, filthy, lying, scum-sucking bastard? I was going to kill Eileen the next time I saw her, and then I was going to kill Simon.

  Need I say I had dated Rix? He had pursued me energetically, romanced me relentlessly, seduced me tirelessly. I was just beginning to get bored with his unflagging perfection when he’d asked Harry for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars to get out of my life. Apparently he’d had a pile of gambling debts. He’d told Harry that if he didn’t get the money he’d propose. Harry, the idiot, had thought I might accept. So he’d done me what he’d thought was a favor and had bought the creep off.

  Rix interrupted my short trip down memory lane. “Charley,” he said. “What the fuck are you doing back?”

  Charming. My smile grew brighter. “How could I stay away?” I practically purred. “When everyone I love is here.” I moved closer to Simon and put my arm around his shoulder. “This is my home.” Then, with more force than I should have given it, “This is my theater.”

  The pause that followed lasted too long. I turned to Simon, as much energy and enthusiasm as I could muster in my voice and on my face. “Shall we get to it, sweetie? The actors have suffered long enough, don’t you think?”

  “Absolutely, darling!” I was probably the only one to see the relief in his eyes. He turned to Rix. “As much as we’d all like to catch up…” He maneuvered himself past the group at the door, dragging me behind him, and practically sprinted toward the stairs when he hit the open hallway. “Work, work, work!” he called as we fled. “That’s the way to ensure a successful production!”

  But by the time we reached the stage we knew we hadn’t made a clean escape. “Bannister!” Rix’ voice commanded. “I want a word with you.”

  All conversation, both onstage and backstage, ceased. Experienced actors, recognizing the tone of a pissed-off backer, exchanged worried looks.

  Rix’ group had come to a halt at the bottom of the stairs. Simon raised his eyebrows as if he couldn’t for the life of him imagine what the man might want, and walked nonchalantly back
across the stage to him, discreetly pulling me along. “Yes?”

  Rix took him by the arm and dragged him away, out of earshot. What they said I could only imagine, but Rix was a picture of ill-contained fury and Simon did his best to maintain his British sangfroid. The members of Rix’ entourage, two men who looked like bodyguards and an efficient-looking girl with thick glasses and thin lips, followed the action.

  The argument went on for a few moments, but Simon must have scored some winning point, because eventually Rix shut up, glared at him for a moment, then looked over at me. He approached me with a set face, coming close enough to speak without being overheard.

  “Charley, I’d hate to think you’d fuck this show up just to screw me.”

  I decided not to reply.

  “But your boy Bannister has made the very good point that you can’t screw me without screwing yourself, so I’m willing to go ahead with you as the director.”

  Big of him. When I still didn’t reply he grunted to his entourage, then walked swiftly to the stage door, his faithful followers faithfully following.

  After he left there was a tangible release in the theater, as if everyone had been holding their breath.

  Simon was suddenly standing next to me. “Well,” I murmured, “I hope my upper lip is as stiff as yours.”

  He kissed me lightly on the forehead. “Only way to play it, darling,” he said softly. Then he came to attention, clapped his hands sharply, and called “Chip! We’ll see the Annas now!”

  ***

  Everyone on stage snapped into action as Simon and I took the makeshift stairs from the stage to the orchestra seats. A desk with few small lamps had been set up among the seats, and I saw a stack of head shots. Seated in the relative darkness of the orchestra seats, I realized I was still wired after seeing Rix, and still feeling blindsided by Simon’s request that I direct. I looked at my watch. I’d been in the theater for half an hour and I felt like I’d just run a marathon.

  “All right, darling?” Simon was looking at me closely.

  I reached for the first pile of head shots, all twenty-something women who were auditioning for the female lead, Anna. “When we’re finished here,” I replied, “we’re going out for the biggest margarita this town has to offer.”

  “Done,” beamed Simon.

  “And then,” I continued, “you’re going to tell me what the hell has been going on around here.” I gave him my most serious, don’t-even-think-of-bullshitting-me look.

  His smile faltered. He swallowed and nodded. “Done.”

  I took a deep breath. “Can we start now? Is the playwright here?”

  “She still hasn’t returned any of my messages. She has casting approval, but we can’t just wait forever.”

  “Maybe we should call Eileen and ask her if we’re going to get into legal trouble if we cast without her,” I suggested.

  “Maybe the author ran off with Brian and we need to sue them both,” Simon responded darkly.

  “Okay!” Chip called from the stage, “We have Heather Magruder here. Heather is going to give us a monologue from A Doll’s House. Quiet everybody!” The first actress took center stage, smiled out confidently to where she couldn’t see us, and began.

  The first several actresses were competent, but unremarkable. Chip’s assistant efficiently ushered them on and off the stage, but I have to admit that I only gave them half my attention. I couldn’t even begin to think of the ramifications of Brian’s disappearance to my Macbeth investigation, or of how I was going to deal with the Rix situation. I also wondered how, exactly, I was going to explain to Jack that I’d been pulled into this project. Especially after I’d made a fuss about him even thinking of taking a job.

  Of course, I knew I could back out. My response to Simon’s panicked entreaties could hardly be considered binding. But did I want to back out? I loved the play. So what if I had been manipulated into the seat I was now occupying? That didn’t mean I couldn’t do the job. In a bizarre way, I felt good. I felt comfortable. I was in my theater and I was home. And I would probably be much better at this than at chasing down criminals.

  “Thank you,” I said to the actress who had just finished a selection from The Crucible. “Very nice.” She bounced on her toes a little, beamed, and said “Thank you!” with a little wave before surrendering the stage.

  “Next,” Chip announced, “we have Regan Welsh. Regan will be giving us a selection from Cyrano.” In the picture of Regan Welsh I had in front of me, she was stunning. Perfect features, radiant skin, startlingly clear eyes staring frankly at the camera.

  “Ah.” Simon shifted in his seat beside me. “The lady in question.”

  “Who is she?” I asked. She hadn’t stepped into the light yet. “Do you know her?”

  “Only by reputation. She’s a friend of our friend,” he said, his voice loaded with innuendo.

  “Who’s our friend?” Then I caught his tone. “Rix? She’s Rix’s…what?”

  “Friend.”

  She stepped forward. The photograph hadn’t done her justice. She was extraordinary. Her hair shone under the lights, and her face, dominated by those amazing eyes, was classically beautiful. But what struck me the most was her presence. She was the first of the actresses to look like she actually belonged on the stage. In fact, she looked as if she couldn’t exist anywhere else.

  She gazed out into the orchestra seats, and I could have sworn she was looking straight at me. Then she lowered her eyes and began the scene.

  I wanted so much for her to be terrible. I wanted her voice to be thin and her acting to be wooden. That’s the only way it would make sense for her to have anything to do with Rix. I wanted her to be the worst actress we’d seen that day, the worst actress I’d seen in my life.

  She was brilliant.

  When she finished, the theater was completely silent. I had to shake my head a little to break the spell she had cast. I looked over at Simon, who was staring with an open mouth. He blinked.

  “Bugger me,” he said. “It can act.”

  Chapter 16

  After the auditions, my promised drink with Simon turned into something more like a staff meeting. No doubt wanting to delay our conversation about Rix, Simon had invited Martha, Paris, and Chip to join us.

  The auditions had gone on for several hours after the revelation of Regan’s performance. As much as I had hoped to find someone else, we’d cast her as Anna, the lead. Connections to miserable bastards aside, she was the best actress by far for the part.

  We’d cast another unknown, Paul Collins, as the love interest. He was about as bland as his name implied, but there hadn’t been a wealth of male talent to choose from.

  The remainder of the cast was filled out by actors we had cast repeatedly from season to season. They were all known quantities—not without their quirks, but at least these were quirks we knew how to handle—and it was a relief to know we’d be able to count on them with two newcomers in the lead roles.

  So, satisfied we’d put the production back on track, we headed down O’Farrell Street to Foley’s, the best Irish bar in town, or at least the best within walking distance of the theater.

  Simon, unsurprisingly, chattered incessantly, while Paris and Chip settled into a technical discussion of the rigging necessary to achieve a particular effect the script called for in the second act. Martha walked silently beside me, looking distinctly upset.

  I put my arm around her. “What’s the matter, sweetie? Too many costume changes in this one?”

  She smiled quickly. “No, it isn’t that.” She looked at me sideways, then back down at her feet. “I’m just expecting to hear from a friend.”

  Simon pounced on her. “A friend? Martha darling, have you got a beau? Please don’t tell me you’ve fallen for an actor. You deserve so much better than that. Oh, but I know,” he rushed on, “it must be the dishy Paul, our new leading man. I knew he had to know someone because he came in without an agent. It’s him, isn’t it darling?”
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  “Simon, it’s possible Martha would rather keep her private life private,” I said, although Martha’s red face should have spoken for itself.

  “Private? I’m not familiar with the word.”

  We stepped into the bar. Martha mumbled something and made for the ladies’ room. I glared at Simon.

  “What?” he asked innocently. “Mary, my love,” he called to the woman behind the bar, “five pints of your best, if you please. We’ll be in the back room.”

  “Anything for you, Simon, my dear,” she called back cheerily.

  Simon was something of a regular.

  “Do you really think Paul’s dishy?” I asked him as we snaked through the tables to the back room, a comfortable, wood-paneled space with portraits of Irish poets and politicians on the walls. There were six tables, only one of which was occupied by a couple of men deep in conversation.

  Simon pulled two tables together in the corner. “Dishy, dreamy, de-lovely, whatever you want to call it, that boy is it.”

  Paris snorted. “When are you going to grow up? There’s more to life than a pretty face.” He spoke from experience. In his mid-fifties, Paris had been in a solid, happy relationship for eighteen years with one of the ugliest, nicest men in the world. It was a classic San Francisco story. Paris had come from Dallas in the seventies—where it was hard to be out and impossible to be black and out—only to end up falling in love with someone who’d come from Fort Worth for the same reason.

  “But when you’ve got a pretty face, who needs more? Ah! Spirits!” Simon gave the waitress his most endearing smile.

  “Speaking of a pretty face…” Chip said.

  “Regan,” the three of us said in unison.

  “She’s something,” Paris said. “And the girl can act, too.”

  “I thought she was amazing,” Chip agreed.

  Martha joined us again, looking a little red around the eyes. “Are we talking about Miss Glamour Face?” she asked, picking up her pint.

  “Put your claws back in, darling,” Simon said.