Dead By Dusk (10 page)

“That's bad,” he said, joining them. Apparently, he wasn't a breakfast eater. He had brought only a cup of coffee to the table.

“Well, there's a voice of doom,” Drew said. “I tend to think that she found the right guy and eloped. This could be romantic rather than tragic.”

“She was supposed to be getting married to a local boy within a year,” Clay said.

“Oh?” Stephanie said.

“I talked to Franco late last night,” Clay said.

“Well, that's great. Just scare us all,” Lena said with a shiver.

“Maybe we should be a little scared—scared enough to be careful,” Clay said.

“That works for me,” Suzette said with a shiver. “We stick together as much as possible, then.”

“Since I'm your average ‘adorable' guy,” Drew teased her, “I can safely volunteer to hang around you girls and keep you safe.”

Clay Barton didn't crack a smile. “Seriously, we have a cast member missing, and a village girl who has disappeared. Yes, we should lock our doors, and look out for one another.”

“Well, if that's agreed, we should finish up and head over to the café,” Stephanie said, glancing at her watch.

“We're missing Doug,” Lena noted.

“Maybe he headed straight over to the café,” Suzette suggested.

“Maybe,” Stephanie said. “Anyway, I'm going over now. We need to get started. Finish your food, but then, let's get going.”

Clay stood. “I'll go in with you. We stick together, right?”

Stephanie smiled. “Well, that's fine, but I'm only going through the bar and the lobby to the club area.”

“And I'm not eating. I'll come with you.”

“Great.”

As she started through the tables, Stephanie had an acute moment of discomfort. A snatch of her dream seemed to come vividly to mind.
He had been there. In her dream. While Grant had been . . . doing very erotic things to her. If it had, indeed, been Grant.

It had been a dream, for God's sake! she told herself impatiently.

And still . . .

He set a hand upon her shoulder as they walked. Doug or Drew might have done the same.

Doug and Drew did not look like this man, or have his . . .

Raw sense of competence, assurance, power . . .

Sensuality.

“You know, you were a bit of a voice of alarm back there,” she told him.

“I just suggested that everyone be careful,” he said. He smiled at her then, and squeezed her shoulder. “Hey, I'm sorry. I know we've got a show Friday night. It's going to be fine, I'm certain. You'll do great.”

“Thanks.” The sense of discomfort left her. She felt the most bizarre urge to rest against his shoulder.

They came into the club area. Doug was there, sitting on the edge of the stage, reading over his notes.

“Morning!” he called cheerfully.

Stephanie felt a keen sense of relief.

“Good morning,” she told him.

“Hey, Doug! You mean you made it in here without coffee?” Suzette called out from behind Stephanie. She turned to see that the rest of her cast had assembled, coming right behind her and Clay Barton.

Doug laughed. “I came right in here, and that blessed young Giovanni fellow brought in a pot of coffee right away. Good fellow. Anyway, it's over there on the table, with cups and cream and sugar, so help yourselves, for those who are in dire need of more caffeine!”

Stephanie decided that she
was
in dire need. She got a cup of coffee, then said, “All right, guys, let's go through the first outline. Without scripts or notes.”

“You're Gema's character?” Suzette asked.

“I guess so,” Stephanie said. “Anyway . . . let's go. Lights . . . Lena, you enter from the back of the room.”

The rehearsal began, and despite the fact that she had to be on stage, Stephanie was pleased. She did have an incredible ensemble group. She let the first run-through go without stopping; the second time around, she did her role with her notebook in hand. Drew called out to her after they had picked up the action when she had given him a stage direction, and she had to jump down from the stage to watch the piece of business he was asking about.

“Stephanie, my question is this,” Drew said. “If you and Clay are stage right, and I'm coming in that way, won't I disrupt you while you're still in your intellectual argument about the guy in the audience you're going to be teasing?”

“Maybe, thanks, good point,” she said. “Let me take a look.”

“It is disruptive,” came a voice from the back of the room. “Stephanie, maybe you want him to circle either around the audience, or enter stage left.”

Looking to the rear of the café area, she saw Grant.

He was in jeans and a polo shirt, hair clean, damp, and somewhat slicked back. He hadn't been digging in the last hour or so, she was certain.

How long had he been there, watching them all in silence ?

She was immediately tempted to ask him to please get the hell away.

But it would be a mistake.

“Are you here for a while?” she called out instead, hoping her voice wasn't as brittle as it sounded to her own ears.

“However long you need me,” he said.

“Fine. Thanks. Then we'll run it again. And you can watch the blocking for me.”

He came forward. Stephanie heard Lena whisper, “Damn, he arrived at a good time!” There was pleasure in her voice.

Damn, he arrived at a good time!

No! Damn, it was purely bizarre that he had arrived at all!

Stephanie took her place next to Clay Barton. Their characters were the two who considered themselves to be the hot ones—he, the international gigolo, at least in his own mind, and she, the flirt, the tease, tsked at by the other two women, who still tolerated her and tried to clean her up all the time. They ran the piece.

She didn't miss a beat, or an innuendo, and she was rewarded by the laughter of her fellow cast mates.

And still . . .

She had done it all by rote.

Because again, snatches of her dreams were far too vivid in her mind.

And having Grant there, watching her . . .

She suddenly thought of him as a giant black panther, a shadow, then a man, stalking her in the night . . .

“He knows what he's doing, huh?” Clay Barton asked softly. He and Stephanie had just walked off stage, and Grant was courteously moving toward the rear of the café section, a casual motion that simply said he was turning direction back over to Stephanie.

“Yes. He's very good,” Stephanie agreed. And he had been. She was going to call it quits. They hadn't taken a lunch break, and it was nearly six. No one had complained. They'd covered three of the outlines, and she already knew they were going to be fine. They established the course of action for the nights, and the cast had already come up with great ad-libs. They'd run over a few of the songs, and every member of the cast had, at least, a pleasant voice. Drew had an exceptional tenor.

Each night, Lena was giving a few sentences and lessons in Italian, as it was part of her character to be a bit of a braggart and know-it-all and flout her ability with the native tongue in front of her co-world travelers. Stephanie had been a little worried about how that would work out, but it had been perfect. Suzette spoke fluent French and tried to turn the tables on Lena, only to be informed that hey, this was Italy.

Every night, of course, would be different. Some nights would be better than others—it was always so when the audience was an integral part of the performance. Fortunately, it appeared that they were going to have a hit, and, according to Arturo, they were definitely going to have an audience.

“The situation is totally bizarre, but I guess I should just be grateful,” Stephanie murmured to Clay. “Hey, guys!” she called, raising her voice and wending her way back close to the stage. “That was phenomenal, really. We've been together just a few days, and we seem to be doing great as an ensemble. Thank you all.”

“Hey, cool!” Drew called out, still center stage. “Does that mean it's Miller time?”

“Peroni!” Lena teased back. “This is—”

“I know, I know!” Drew groaned, breaking in on her. “This is Italy.”

“Are we breaking?” Suzette asked. “Since this is Italy, I'd give a lot for a glass of the truly delicious local red wine!”

“Yes, we're breaking,” Stephanie said. “Once again, I want to thank you all.”

“Suzette, does that mean you're willing to join me in the bar?” Drew asked.

“Only because we're an ensemble,” Suzette said.

“I'm with you—nothing like keeping the cast close,” Doug said. “And Lena . . . you're having a Peroni?”

“You bet,” Lena assured him. “Clay, Grant . . . Stephanie?”

“Sure,” Clay said.

“I'll be right along,” Stephanie said. “I've scattered a few notes around. You can order me a Peroni, too, okay?”

“Peroni for me, too,” Grant said. “I'll help Stephanie—I might have scattered a few of her pages.”

The others hopped down from the stage. Suzette was the last out, giving them a little wave. “Two Peronis—they'll be waiting.”

“Thanks!” Stephanie called. When they were gone, she turned to stare at Grant. “I really do owe you a thank-you,” she told him.

He shrugged. “I figure I can be around in the afternoons.”

“I appreciate what you did,” she said. “But you're really here for the dig. Carlo Ponti said that you're good, a help out there, too. You don't owe me, or this enterprise, anything.”

“I can work at the dig in the mornings.” He lifted his shoulders in a casual shrug once again. “As long as there are no rock slides, it's about thirty, forty minutes out and the same back in. I'd rather work there in the mornings—ten o'clock seems to be your choice of time around here, so I might as well get the early hours in out there.”

“You took a cottage here?” she said.

“Yes.”

“Because . . . because you decided I needed help?”

“Because the tent in the wilderness thing was getting old,” he said impatiently. “I'm happier being around here, okay?”

She sighed. “Grant, there have been a few strange things happening here, but I'm not in any danger. I don't want you to feel responsible for looking after me.”

“Like I said, I'm happier here. And don't worry—I'm not expecting anything from you, I'm not looking for payback of any kind.”

She felt a flush cover her cheeks. “I didn't suggest that you were. You wouldn't. And that was hardly the crux of our problem.”

“What exactly was it, would you say?” he asked her flatly.

“You,” she whispered softly.

He lifted his hands. For a moment, it was as if he was going to deny that there had been anything different about him at all. But then he turned, starting toward the rear of the café. “Humor me, huh? I won't get in your way.”

“You won't get in my way?” she called after him. “Hmm. What if I decided that I wanted to get into an affair with another man?” she queried.

He turned, hands on hips, staring at her.

“Clay Barton?”

“I didn't say that.”

“Who else?” he queried. Then he said, “You should take your time. Take it slow, and take your time. Whatever.”

“And what if someone else wanted to rush?” she asked.

“Let me suggest that they don't.”

“And why is that?”

“I'd flatten him,” Grant said simply. “Anything else? My Peroni is waiting.”

“Please, go on. I wouldn't want your Peroni getting warm,” she said.

He started out, but then paused. “Are you coming?”

“Yes.”

She gathered her notes and stuffed them into her tote bag. She walked by him at a distance; he followed her, never close enough to touch.

They joined the others at the bar. The seats that had been left for them were not together. Stephanie was grateful.

She slid between Lena and Doug, who both greeted her. Clay, at Doug's left, had been speaking to him, and the men returned to the conversation. Lena moved in close to Stephanie. “Is everything all right?”

“It's great—why?”

Lena sighed, leaning back. “I'm envious, that's all.”

Stephanie shook her head. “Really, there's nothing between us now. We're professional associates.”

“He doesn't look at you like a professional associate,” Lena said. “And that one!” She indicated Clay. “He's always watching you.”

“I'm the director. You're all supposed to be watching me.”

Lena laughed softly. “I do—and you're doing a great job. And I admired you even more today when you were willing to hand over the reins and listen to other opinions. You don't have any of those insecure hang-ups where you're afraid to listen to others. I guess I'm just at that stage in my life where . . . I turned thirty-six this year. I've loved my profession—I haven't gotten rich, but I have managed to keep working. So I'm happy. But every once in a while . . . wow. I would just love to fall in love! Find the right guy, and fall in love. I think I'd trade anything for it, right now.”

“Well, you never know. Mr. Right could be in the audience any night,” Stephanie murmured. “But . . . well, you're beautiful, smart, and talented. A guy shouldn't be the focus of your life. Romance kind of happens when . . . when it happens.”

“Easy for you to say. The two hunks in our company are always watching you!”

Stephanie groaned. “Lena, I don't think that Clay Barton is looking at me in any special way. And as to Grant . . . well, there was a past history.”

“Yeah, yeah!” Lena said, waving a hand in the air. “Strange place, though, huh? I am Italian–Italian-American, all four grandparents from here—I've spent months of my life with family in the north, and I know the country well. But . . . this place is special. The beach, the colors of the water, the mountains behind . . . special, but strange. Jeez, the dreams I'm having!” She grinned suddenly. “Well, I guess they'll have to do for now. Until that guy shows up in the audience, huh?”

“He's waiting somewhere,” Stephanie said. “Just remember, don't be in such a rush! You could be out with Mr. Wrong when Mr. Right finally comes along.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” Lena said.

“Arturo, my man!” Drew called suddenly. They all fell silent, turning to watch as Arturo strode through the bar.

He stopped at the table.

“Any word on the missing girl?” Grant asked.

“I'm afraid not. We have had so many search parties . . . officers in from other towns and villages. They've questioned the boyfriend, and he is at a loss, too. Poor boy, he cries almost as much as the girl's mother.”

“We're so sorry,” Stephanie said.

“They've really checked out the boyfriend's alibi and all?” Doug asked.

They must have all stared at him because he continued defensively with, “Well, in the United States, sadly enough, I know the police always start with the husband or boyfriend. There have been terrible cases in the United States where a man who supposedly loved a woman brutalized her. Of course, wives have killed husbands, too.”

“They don't think it was the boy,” Arturo said.

“Did he have an alibi?” Suzette asked.

“I think not. Actually, Maria never even showed up to work the day she disappeared. She left her house when her mother was still sleeping. So . . . she might have gone out anytime in the night, even. It might not have even been morning yet.”

“Maybe she'll still turn up,” Lena said hopefully.

“Maybe,” Arturo agreed. He sounded sad. “Ah, well. You are having dinner in the restaurant here again?”

“Yes, I guess so,” Stephanie said, looking around. It seemed as if they were agreed to spend the evening together again.

“Sure, why not?” Clay said.

“There are a few local places. And of course, part of starting this place was to pick up all of the local tourist trade, but . . . I'll see that the chef prepares a meal especially for you tonight,” Arturo said. “I'll have that calamari you like so much brought to the table, Lena. And for you, Suzette, the shrimp pasta dish.”

“Sounds lovely, thank you,” Suzette told him, and Lena echoed her sentiment.

“Anything else?” Arturo asked.

“Everything here is great,” Grant said.

Arturo smiled at last, pleased with the compliment.

“
Grazie
. I'm pleased you are all happy. The first real test of tourism begins this weekend. We've had guests here, of course, as you've seen, but local so far . . . some people down from Naples and even Rome. But what we really want is to bring in foreign money, of course!”

With a wave, he left them.

“Well, shall we all tromp on in and have dinner, then?” Doug suggested. “We skipped the whole lunch thing, remember?”

“And actually, that's a sin in Italy,” Lena said.

“Let's go eat, then,” Stephanie said.

They filed into the restaurant area. As Arturo promised, they were quickly served appetizers, the calamari, and an antipasto. For the area, they were dining fairly early, and the chef was able to come out himself, and bask in their pleasure. The conversation revolved around their work that day, and Stephanie was pleased with herself when she was able to tell them all casually that Grant had said that he'd work with them every afternoon.

“What about for the actual shows?” Suzette asked.

“Sure. I can stage manage for you once they open. We never dig in the dark,” Grant said.

Stephanie dug in her bag and found her notes and schedules. “Tomorrow morning, the wardrobe mistress is supposed to bring around the costumes that were ordered. Lena, thank God we have you, because my Italian wouldn't be good enough if we were to encounter any problems. For now, we'll worry about having the right costume for our original roles. Next week, she'll come back and we'll be physically fitted for the other characters so that once we're under way, we can switch characters around so it will be fresh, and keep ourselves stretching.”

“That's good—have our tailoring done when Grant isn't here, and work when he is,” Lena approved. Stephanie thought that she sounded a little distracted. She had been looking across the room as she spoke.

Turning around slightly to see what had caught Lena's attention, Stephanie saw that the back door to the restaurant was swinging closed.

She shrugged. “Everything all right?” she asked Lena.

“Of course!”

The pasta bowl had been going around the table. She turned to pass it on to Clay Barton, at her left.

But Clay was watching Lena, and he seemed tense. His eyes, too, strayed to the rear door.

“Clay? Pasta?”

“Sure. Thanks,” he said, recovering quickly.

And yet . . .

Strange. Very strange.

After a few minutes, Lena yawned suddenly. “Wow, guys, forgive me. That was so rude. It wasn't the company, honestly. You know, I'm going to have to forego dessert and coffee. Will you all excuse me? I'm heading for bed.”

“Are you really that tired?” Clay asked her.

“Really.” She flashed him a rueful smile. Clay didn't seem assured, but the men stood as Lena rose, bid them all good night, running around the table and kissing them, Italian style.

“Look what's coming. You're going to miss the tiramisu!” Doug warned her.

She grinned, and left.

After that, it seemed that the night broke up quickly. Suzette said she felt like exploring a few of the streets and local places. Doug and Drew volunteered to go with her, and Clay appeared to want to join the group as well.

“Stephanie?” Suzette asked.

She shook her head. “I'm feeling like Lena. Tired.”

“Grant?” Suzette asked sweetly.

“I'll take a rain check.”

“Hey, just because I'm opting out, you feel free to go,” Stephanie said.

“I do feel free to go. It's just a long day for me, digging—and gophering,” he said.