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  “And the way Tom Nelson met Cece,” he continued. “The way he manipulated her—it’s classic Macbeth.”

  “It’s classic schmuck,” I countered. “If every guy who lied about being a doctor—”

  “Charley,” Jack spoke quietly. “There’s something else.”

  Not good news, I was willing to bet.

  “It was because of a woman that I found out what Macbeth was doing. She told me about it. She betrayed him.”

  I knew by now that any questions I had about what Macbeth was doing would go unanswered. So I asked the other obvious question. “What woman? Where is she now?”

  “She’s dead.” Jack’s tone was flat. “I found her the day Mac beth was arrested.”

  “Don’t say it.” But I knew. And I had to say it. “She was in a bathtub.”

  He met my eyes. “She was his wife.”

  I took a minute to wait for the room to stop spinning. “Right,” I said, my voice cracking. “So I guess this is about you.”

  ***

  I spent Sunday in bed with the covers over my head, but Monday morning I had a plan. Not a plan to figure out who had assumed Macbeth’s tactics in order to terrorize the people around me and torture my husband, but a plan nevertheless.

  First, I had figured out how I would explain Flank’s presence at the theater. I would tell people he was my personal trainer and a sort of food watchdog. The trainer bit was entirely believable, given the man’s physique. The watchdog thing would account for him going everywhere with me. I’d tell people it was Flank’s job to knock doughnuts out of my hands and force broccoli down my throat. Presumably that’s what trainers did. It was a stretch, but it sounded better than telling a roomful of actors that I might be in danger, and that by association they might be in danger, and the only thing between them and a homicidal maniac might be the oversized gentleman in the balcony.

  Part two of the plan was to make Chip my assistant director. He was obviously ready for the job. If I was totally honest with myself I would have to admit that he was more qualified to direct the play than I was. I looked guiltily at the script that I’d managed to ignore since Thursday, even though I’d vowed to study it before the first read-through, scheduled to begin at eleven o’clock.

  But I also had a much more selfish reason. With Chip as my AD, I’d be able to delegate a lot of work, which would leave more time for figuring out what had really happened to Brian, why Rix was meddling in my theater, and whether either was connected to the dead woman in the tub or Cece’s kidnapping.

  Of course, I wouldn’t tell my husband any of this. He’d made it very clear that he and Mike were still handling any investigations. They’d already started checking out all of Macbeth’s former associates, but I figured if I approached the puzzle from the other end, they’d never have to know about it until I found some crucial piece of information. And then it would be too late for them to be angry.

  So I smiled innocently at Jack when he emerged from the bedroom. “Just to let you know—I’m brilliant.”

  “I already knew that. I have something for you.” He was holding a shopping bag, which he placed on the table in front of me.

  “Not another gun?” I eyed the bag suspiciously.

  “Open it.”

  A cell phone. “Oh. Thank you.”

  “Try not to lose this one,” he suggested. “There’s something else.”

  It was one of those tiny electronic organizers that everybody seems to have these days. I regarded it suspiciously. “Do I have to learn some weird way of writing?”

  “You’ll manage. You’re brilliant, remember?”

  I flipped the cover open and turned it on. “There’s stuff already in it.” I looked up at Jack.

  “I filled in the address book with everyone I could think of,” he said.

  “When did you have time to do that?”

  He grinned. “You sleep a lot. I also put a few things on your to-do list.”

  I pushed the button that looked like a list. The first item to appear said “Screw your husband senseless.” I gave him a sideways look.

  “That one’s set up to appear daily.”

  “’Cuz otherwise I might forget,” I nodded.

  The next item said “Call Realtor.” I turned the thing off and shut the cover. “It’s great, Jack. Thanks.” I slipped the two gadgets into my purse, which was getting unfashionably bulky, and grabbed the script. “I’d better get going if I don’t want to be late for the read-through.” I opened the door and crashed directly into Flank. God only knew how long he’d been standing in the hallway.

  “Have a nice day, dear,” Jack called after me. There was more than a touch of mockery in his voice.

  ***

  I walked to the theater at a brisk pace. I figured if I was going to pass Flank off as my trainer I should make an effort to look like I exercised occasionally. I knew how demanding the rehearsal schedule would be, and that it would leave no time for indulgences like long runs along the waterfront. We only had six weeks to pull the show together. That would include all the time for rehearsals, technical run-throughs, building the sets, creating the costumes, and a thousand other things.

  I got to the theater early, counting on the assumption that Chip would be there before anyone else. I was right. He was heartbreakingly naïve about the new position. He worried that he wouldn’t be up to the job. He promised earnestly that he would justify my faith in him. And even though he was leaving the union protection of his current position, he didn’t ask about a pay raise.

  He did ask whether he could promote Lisa, his assistant, to replace himself as stage manager. Although I’d seen her around, I hadn’t actually met the woman yet.

  “She’s up to it?” I asked him.

  “She’s amazing,” he assured me.

  “Go for it.” If only everything could be that easy.

  The cast started filing in around ten thirty. Because the Rep owned the building outright, we didn’t use the kinds of rental rehearsal spaces other companies had to deal with. We’d be able to hold all rehearsals right in the theater. Chip had stopped for muffins on his way and made coffee before anybody else arrived. As expected, people began congregating around the food as they came in.

  A large table had been set up center-stage. The first read-through of a play was often grueling. The actors all sit around the table with their scripts in front of them and simply read the play. It sounds easy enough, but it was the first real work the cast would do together, and egos would be at their most fragile.

  We would need the whole cast to be present. A few minutes before we were scheduled to start I came down from the office, sent Flank up to the balcony, and assessed the situation.

  Regan was there, looking ready to get to work in comfortable jeans and a long-sleeved tee-shirt. Her hair was in a simple ponytail and she wore no discernable make up, but she was still, in Jack’s vernacular, drop-dead gorgeous. She also seemed a little nervous, a fact which I noted with some satisfaction. Thankfully, today she had no escort.

  Two of our regulars, actors we’d cast in several productions in the past, played the parts of the parents. Olivia Hamilton was the mother. Hearing her voice come belting across the stage, I figured she would need to have her standard direction reiterated. Tone it down, Olivia. Not quite so far over the top, Olivia. But she learned her lines quickly, and was generous with the other actors.

  Victor Swartz would play the father. Victor, I knew, was capable of brilliant moments on the stage, but he wasn’t the most dependable of performers. He had a hard time getting his lines, and tended to blame those actors around him for his inadequacies. Once he got it, he’d be letter-perfect. But getting him to that point, I knew, would take patience and hard work.

  The tomboy little sister was played by Sally Carter. At twelve, she already had more experience than some actors get in a lifetime. She’d danced in a Gap ad, played with a golden retriever for an allergy medicine, and eaten french fries for a major fas
t food chain. Knowing her mother, I felt confident Sally would cause no serious problems during the production and, honestly, that’s about all you can hope for in a twelve-year-old.

  I noticed with a flicker of annoyance that Paul Collins, the “dishy” Paul, hadn’t shown up yet. Although he didn’t have any lines until the second act, everyone was expected to participate in the full read-through. I didn’t care how fabulous Simon thought the guy looked in tight clothes, he wouldn’t be exempted from the rules. There was a stand-in waiting in the proverbial wings, and I wouldn’t hesitate to use him if I had to.

  I looked around. Paris and his master carpenter were going over some drawings at the far rear of the stage. In the shadows of the wings stage left, Martha was murmuring quietly to her head stitcher and tailor, the three of them looking with professional, critical eyes at the bodies they’d be dressing over the next few weeks. I tried to refrain from thinking they looked like a trio of witches, muttering incantations.

  Chip was with his serious-looking assistant in the first row of the orchestra seats. They were talking intently, presumably about her new duties as stage manager. If she was half as capable as Chip, things would be fine.

  Looking at her closely, I realized she was older than Chip—at least in her late thirties. Her sleeveless shirt revealed the kind of defined arms I would have killed for. This woman was no stranger to the gym. She looked up suddenly, directly at me. I jumped as if I were guilty of something other than over-burdening her boss. Then she gave me a confident smile.

  Chip followed her gaze and waved me over. “Charley, come meet Lisa.”

  I went to the edge of the stage and crouched down to shake hands with the woman. “I hope Chip’s letting you know the full range of insanity you’ll be dealing with as stage manager.”

  She grinned. “I live for insanity.”

  “Then I’m sure you’ll be great.”

  “Thanks, Charley. I won’t let you down.”

  The only other person I had expected to show up was the play’s author, Nancy Tyler. I was surprised she hadn’t arrived yet. I imagined it would be pretty exciting for an author to see her work come to life for the first time. I also wanted to meet her for my own sake. I’d worked on so many plays whose authors had been dead for several hundred years, I was looking forward to collaborating with a live one on this production.

  I was catching up with Olivia and keeping an eye on the stage door when I saw Simon come in. He looked like he hadn’t slept since I’d seen him five days before. He glanced around the stage wildly, saw me, and headed straight over.

  “Olivia, darling, how nice to see you again,” he said automatically. Then, “Charley, a word if I may.” He grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the stairs that led up to the office.

  “Simon,” I gasped as he dashed up the stairway, still holding my arm, “didn’t we play this scene before? If you’re going to tell me that another of my ex-lovers is about to walk through the door, I really don’t think I can take it.”

  He remained tight-lipped until we got to the office, where he closed the door, released me onto the battered couch, and stood, hands on hips, towering over me.

  “Charley, what’s going on?”

  I was completely baffled. “Well, for one thing, we’re about to be late starting the read-through.”

  He let his breath out impatiently, running a hand through his already-disheveled hair. “Don’t kid me, Charley. When you left the pub the other night Eileen was manic with worry. I thought she’d gone mad until she told me about your cousin being kidnapped and you and Brenda chasing after her and getting caught, and Jack getting shot and…bloody hell, Charley!”

  “Oh, look, Simon, I would have told you about all that, but—”

  At that moment the door burst off its hinges and Flank filled the doorway, then filled the room as he grabbed Simon and threw him against the brick wall, holding his arms behind him.

  Simon, understandably, screamed. I screamed. Flank hollered something unintelligible and held Simon’s arms tighter.

  “Let him go!” I shouted, banging on Flank’s arm with my fist. “Let go of him! He wasn’t hurting me!”

  Flank released Simon with evident reluctance. I think he said “Sure?”

  “I’m sure,” I said. “Look, I should have given you some signal that it was all right for him to pull me away like that.”

  Flank grunted in agreement.

  “In the future I’ll wave at you if I need your assistance, okay?”

  Another grunt, possibly in assent.

  “Now please put the door back on its hinges and wait outside, all right?”

  He gave Simon one last look, then picked up the door and, from the hallway, propped it back into position.

  Simon was rubbing his elbows eloquently. “What,” he asked, sitting cautiously on the couch, “the bloody hell—” he winced as I sat next to him— “is going on?”

  “Oh, sweetie.” I reached out to touch his arm, but thought better of it when I saw the look in his eye. “I’m sorry. It’s just that Jack, after the whole thing with Cece, got worried about me.”

  Simon looked pointedly at the door, then back at me.

  I nodded. “So he hired that guy to watch after me until we find the person who kidnapped Cece.”

  It was an abbreviated version of the truth, at best, but I though Simon deserved more than the “oh, he’s my personal trainer” line I’d prepared.

  Simon closed his eyes and leaned back into the cushions. “You’re so buying me a massage after rehearsal tonight.”

  “I promise,” I said. “At your favorite spa.”

  I waited a moment in silence.

  “Do you think we should go downstairs now? I think everyone is here except for Paul—”

  Simon’s eyes flew open and he jumped back to his feet. “Seriously? Is she here? Nancy? Did she show up?”

  Nancy? Had we cast a Nancy? “Oh!” I got it. “The author!”

  His head bobbed impatiently. “She’s here?”

  “No.”

  He sagged down into the chair.

  “Simon, what’s the matter? Did you talk to her this weekend? Did she have a conflict—”

  “She wasn’t home,” he said dismally. “I left her a message.”

  That didn’t seem to warrant his current level of depression. “Well, maybe she got the dates confused, or something came up, or—”

  “That’s not what the police think.”

  “Police? What police?”

  “The ones who showed up on my doorstep this morning.” He ran his hand through his hair again, not without some signs of stiffness from his experience with Flank. “They’re investigating her disappearance. They heard my message and thought I might be able to shed some light.”

  The word “disappearance” seemed to echo in the room. Or maybe it was in my head.

  “Disappearance?”

  He nodded. “Her sister called the police after she hadn’t heard from Nancy in a week. Gave them a story about Nancy having met the man of her dreams and apparently run off with him.”

  I gulped.

  “So after what Eileen had said about Cece running off with some guy and winding up held hostage…” Simon looked at me mournfully. “Charley, what’s going on?”

  “Charley?” We heard Chip’s voice through the door. “What’s going on?”

  It seemed to be the question of the day.

  “This guy won’t let me in,” Chip said, sounding more than a little irritated.

  “Flank, let him in!” I shouted.

  Beefy hands appeared on each side of the door, which was lifted away long enough to let Chip slide in.

  “What are you two doing up here? Everyone’s onstage and ready. It’s quarter past.” He looked at us in exasperation.

  “Has the author shown up?” I asked, with a faint flicker of hope.

  “Not yet. We don’t have to wait for her, do we?”

  I looked at Simon. “We’d better not.�
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  Chapter 20

  I went down to the stage with Chip, after telling Flank to stay the hell up in the balcony unless I waved at him. Chip gave Flank a “who are you?” stare, but didn’t ask.

  Paul had shown up at the last possible moment, earning a frozen smile from his stand-in, and Simon joined us at the table onstage after a few minutes. He’d changed his shirt, brushed his hair, and splashed cold water in his face. “Hello, darlings!” he called in a general greeting and, for all the world knew, he was as exuberant as ever.

  After air-kisses all around and a bout of introductions, we opened our manuscripts and the actors began to read.

  I have to say my attention was divided. Now and then someone would make a statement or raise a point that would involve the whole group, and I’d find myself listening with interest, arguing for or against something, or telling them to move on. But more often I was turning the news about our playwright’s disappearance over in my mind, exchanging furtive worried looks with Simon, and counting the minutes until I could tell Jack what I’d learned. On the bright side, Chip was off and running as my assistant director. At least someone was giving the script and cast his full, feverish attention.

  ***

  I staggered out of the theater at nine that night. The read-through had dragged on until six, and then Chip had insisted on a point-by-point review with me. I was too tired to even regret that I hadn’t found the time all day to pull Martha aside and get her opinion on the handwriting of Brian’s purported farewell note.

  I’d sent Simon off to the Kabuki Hot Springs in Japantown for a soak and a massage around eight. I felt it was the least I could do to make up for Flank’s enthusiasm.

  I was just about to ask that gentleman to hail us a cab when I saw Jack double-parked in front of the theater.

  “Hey!” I waved and squeezed between two parked cars to knock on his passenger-side door.

  The window slid down. “Excuse me, ma’am, but I’m looking for someplace nice and quiet to take my girl tonight.”

  I grinned. “Lucky girl.”