Blood Will Have Blood (11 page)

“Call me Caroline, Michael. Please.”

“Caroline.” He said her name lightly, approvingly. “I hope my knock didn't frighten you.”

“Oh, no.”

“Good. After what you've been through—”

“Just frightful, isn't it?” She shivered, then smiled at her pretense. “The things actors have to put up with.”

“You, especially.”

Caroline flushed with pleasure. “So you, at least, have noticed. There is such envy in the theater.”

“You seem to take it very calmly. If you had gone a few more steps down that staircase—”

She put a hand on his arm. “Please, don't even say that. I'm not calm, not at all.” She allowed a lip to quiver. “Really, I shouldn't have been left here alone.”

So John Langford had deserted her. For Emma? “I'm sorry,” Spraggue said.

“I'm being foolish, I know.” Caroline smiled bravely. “But I can't dwell on such things. It might affect my performance.”

It certainly wasn't affecting her performance at the moment, Spraggue thought.

“These things have happened to me before, you know.”

“Trip wires?”

“No, no. But my dressing room has been broken into twice—and I have had setbacks in my career. Jealous people who've taken advantage—”

“Do you know who set that wire?”

“Why, no, Michael. I
feel
it. I'm very sensitive to these things. I feel who my enemies are. I always have enemies.”

“Have you discussed your suspicions with Darien?”

“Arthur? He never listens to me. He believes in the goodness of humanity at large, particularly the female gender. It's one of the truly delightful things about him.”

“You've known him a long time.”

“We do go back a ways. But then,” she smiled archly, “I understand you know Arthur from your past as well.”

Terrific. Just what he needed: a discussion of his own past. Lesson number two: get the man to talk about himself. Even without a script, Caroline sounded programmed. He said nothing. Let her think he was hard of hearing.

After a moment's pause, she chattered on. “Arthur and I have been friends forever, really. I am so grateful to him. It's the old story: he took me under his wing from my first New York show, and we've never really lost touch. I depend on him so much. He and Spider and I were the three musketeers for a while. You could never find one of us without the other two.”

“Spider?”

“Dennis, Dennis Boland. I shouldn't call him Spider. He hates it, really. An old childhood nickname. Sometimes they can be so hard to lose.”

Spraggue murmured agreement.

“Haven't you met him? A dear man. He's the house manager here. So devoted to Arthur—and to me.”

With a start Spraggue realized that it was his line, that he was expected to say something like “That shouldn't be too difficult,” to take part in the flirtatious little skit Caroline Ambrose was constructing.

He picked up his cue, somewhat tardily. Caroline beamed. He had passed the test. From now on, he would be Michael Spraggue, that charming young actor. He bit his lip.

“It's rather a sad tale,” she rattled on. “Spider—Dennis—comes from a very cruel background, very poor. He and Arthur were boyhood friends in New York. They lost touch. It's so easy to lose touch. Arthur always had that genius, you know. Scholarships, Eastern colleges. And then when he was a successful New York director, he went to a party. And there was Spider, his best friend from the hard times. I don't think they've been separated since.” She sighed deeply. Every word had been spoken as if rehearsed many times before, each gesture, every graceful turn of the head choreographed. The sigh completed the tale. It was again his cue. Spraggue searched for the expected line.

“And you became Spider's friend, too.”

She opened her violet eyes wide. “But of course. He is a darling man. I was married to Domingo, my third husband, then. Domingo de Renza.”

She paused. Spraggue nodded encouragement. De Renza, huh? Emma hadn't exaggerated about the wealth of Caroline's ex.

“Domingo took a great liking to Spider.” Caroline laughed, a carefully calibrated trill. “He visited us at the plantation, almost lived with us.” With a graceful arm movement, she indicated a lush mass of spotted and streaked violet and yellow blooms. “Domingo still sends me flowers, you know. Every day. And Spider arranges them for me. He adores orchids, and he knows how much it pleases me to have them done really well.”

“How kind of him,” Spraggue said, feeling that he'd become enmeshed in a drawing-room comedy, seeking vainly to return to the question of who she thought had arranged the trip wire. Not that her opinion would hold much water. She lived in fantasyland.

“I love coming down to the dressing room each morning to find something delicate and exotic. Domingo understood that part of me so well.” She detached one violet spray from the arrangement and held it against her cheek. “I rarely wear them, but just knowing they're available picks up my spirits. That's why I think she took them that day.”

“She?”

“
Emma
, darling. That
is
what we're talking about, isn't it? Who set up the trip wire. Perhaps I shall wear some of my orchids to Arthur's party.”

“When did Emma take your flowers?”

“Let me see. Not long ago. Last Monday, I think it was. Naturally, she denied it. But I knew. I always know. She wants everything I have. She already has that lovely role and now—” Caroline caught herself. She had been frowning. She checked her image in the mirror to make sure no wrinkles remained. “Arthur must have told you about his party. Tomorrow night. Right here in the theater—”

“What about dress rehearsal?”

“Check your schedule, darling. The technical people will be doing some dreary run-through onstage, but the front-of-the-house areas will be devoted to the party. Black tie, just like the galas old what's-his-name, that man who killed himself here—”

“Phelps.”

“That's it. Arthur's so keen on the idea. Just like old Phelps used to throw. All the actors, members of the press, plenty of photographers.…”

Darien had mentioned it. The chance to meet the backers of the show.

“I suppose you already know most of the people really involved in producing the show. As the star—”

Nothing he might have said could make her happier. Her eyes lit up.

“Well, I do know some of the more influential backers—”

“Any of them coming up from New York? Or is Arthur keeping this a local venture?”

“Why, darling”—she batted her eyelashes—“I really couldn't say. Jamie Blakeley
could
be considered local. He has
pieds à terre
in so many cities. He practically
insisted
on my being in the show. He's the one who gave me my little dog.”

Spraggue filed the name away. Blakeley. Aunt Mary would know him and he would know the other backers. Caroline chattered on, leaving him no chance for escape.

A huge party at the theater. Actors, director, press. Terrific. What an opportunity for the joker.

Spraggue heard wary footsteps behind him. Caroline halted in midsentence and gushed: “Oh, Dennis, darling, I was just telling Michael all about you and how much you do for the company and here you come right on cue. Michael Spraggue, meet Dennis Boland.”

The fat man smiled, but the smile wasn't pleasant. “We've met,” he said. Spraggue was forcibly reminded of the despised childhood name, Spider. The house manager looked like a great bloated spider hanging in the corner of the room.

“How nice,” Caroline said blankly. “Mr. Spraggue's been asking me absolutely penetrating questions about the company ghost. I think he's been hiding his true vocation from us.”

Neither of the men responded.

“And you did my flowers so exquisitely this morning, Dennis. It's too sweet of you.”

The fat man oiled his way over to Caroline's dressing table and took her hand in his. With surprising grace, he bent and kissed it.

“It's nothing, Caroline, nothing in the world,” he murmured. Spraggue sat up straighter. He had heard that voice before. In the wings that morning, yes. But somewhere else.…

Caroline smiled graciously. The performance would have been perfect, except for the tiny red mark that remained on her wrist when Spider let her hand slip away.

Spraggue stood. “I'll leave you two,” he said. “It's a busy day for me.”

“I'm sure it is,” Boland said.

Spraggue left them there, a frozen tableau, and walked down the hallway, lost in the memory of an unctuous voice. Then he had it. One line: “I just hope you know what you're doing,” spoken behind Darien's closed office door.

Chapter Thirteen

“Psssst!”

Spraggue stopped in his tracks. The conspiratorial hiss came from his left, somewhere up ahead, off the passageway. It was repeated, louder. A handle turned and a doorway pushed open an inch. Dracula himself motioned Spraggue inside his dressing room and swiftly closed the door.

John Langford was a good two inches taller than Spraggue's six feet one. He dressed with a contrived casualness that must have cost. Designer jeans, leather vests, elegantly tailored shirts that clung to his broad shoulders and fashionably tapered torso. A thin gold chain around his neck. The intensity he gave to every performance was visible now. It kept him from looking ridiculous as he raised a warning finger to his lips and jerked open the connecting door. No eavesdroppers.

Spraggue felt as if he'd been dragged into some den from the Arabian Nights. Caroline Ambrose had restricted her dressing-room decor to orchids and some twenty photos of herself in various roles, including an unmistakable Lady Macbeth. Langford's dressing room had been completely transformed.

It had a rug. None of the others did. A worn but garish Oriental too large for the space, it rolled at one end. Spraggue decided that it must have been confiscated from the properties department. All chairs but one had been removed and replaced by piles of bright orange and purple cushions. The single ornate chair was the mate to Darien's office throne. What gave the place such a cavernous air was its lack of light. Heavy dark cloth had been tacked over the two high windows. Candles in ornate brass holders flickered.

“I cannot allow the sunlight,” said Langford tersely. “I told Arthur we should rehearse only by night, but he would not accommodate me. Often, when the sun is too bright, when I feel I cannot stand the glare, I sleep here, on my cushions, until such time as the vampire can safely walk.”

Spraggue nodded, grateful that no other response seemed expected. The late-afternoon sun hadn't seemed to bother the vampire when he'd run off with Emma in his chauffeured car. Spraggue felt the hypnotic power of Langford's presence and voice. The tone was full and deep, with faint traces of English upbringing, controlled by years of American acting. The result was diction that made everyone else on stage sound like they were reciting through mouthfuls of Cream of Wheat. The voice, a stage whisper, filled the room. What made it so special, Spraggue decided, was its enormous
power
. At absolute full volume, Langford always seemed to have a lion's roar still in reserve.

The actor sank cross-legged to the carpet, spread his palms on his knees, nodded at Spraggue to join him. When their eyes were on a level, Langford spoke:

“I do think Arthur might have consulted me before bringing in a detective.”

Spraggue grinned. His identity was no secret anymore.

“He's overreacting, of course,” Langford continued. “No real harm done yet. If Arthur had just asked me—”

“I'm sure Arthur didn't want to distract you from your performance,” Spraggue said. A little flattery seemed called for.

Langford beamed.

“I'd be very glad to hear any ideas you might have about the joker.” Keep it humble.

Langford's face turned solemn. “I take the psychological approach myself,” he said condescendingly.

“Ah.” Spraggue nodded, young Hawkshaw to veteran sleuth. All he had to do for this investigation was to figure out which part he'd been cast for in each actor's fantasy. Caroline wanted flirtatiousness; Langford wanted respect, recognition of his authority. Spraggue found himself wholeheartedly sharing Karen's antipathy for members of the second oldest profession. Difficult, since he had to count himself among the membership.

“Take a man like Gus Grayling,” Langford said sagely.

“I haven't met him yet.”

“No need. I'll show him to you. Gus is the perfect second banana. All his life he's done the stooge parts. No heroes. No romantics. No leads. So naturally, those are the only parts he wants to play. He tries to create romance for himself. He has a tortuous theory about Van Helsing's frustrated passion for Mina. Don't mention it to him; he'll talk about it for days! What does a man like that want most, Spraggue?” Langford hesitated, but not long enough for an answer. He was doing a soliloquy, not a dialogue. “Attention!” Langford boomed. “And what might a man do to get attention?” He nodded slowly at Spraggue. It was time for the bright pupil to answer.

“Tricks?” suggested Spraggue.

Langford smiled. “If it weren't for one thing, I'd say that Grayling had the perfect psychological makeup for our joker. But that one thing is very powerful. Georgina!”

“Georgina? She's after Arthur Darien.”

Langford closed his dark eyes, gave a careless half-smile. “They
all
love Arthur. He's a teddy bear. But he's not interested in a real woman. His mistress is this theater, this play. Gus wants Georgina. And he will get her. And that will satisfy his urge to hurt me, because, you see, I have been carefully leading him to the conclusion that
I
am interested in our young ingénue.”