The War Against Miss Winter (18 page)

“Did you ever hear from him again?”

He held up the empty glass and the bartender tipped him another. “He wrote me a few brief notes when plays I directed received good notice, and one much-deserved scathing commentary on a piece of rubbish I was involved in that was loved by the public and reviled by anyone with a brain. As my experience grew, I planted the idea in his head that I would love to direct one of his pieces. Months passed and then one day I received a letter from him indicating he was working on something he
thought I’d be the perfect person to bring to life. He promised more was forthcoming….”

I finished the sentence for him. “And then he croaked.” Two new beers were dropped to the table and our old glasses were swept away. “So is
In the Dark
that play?”

He wrapped both hands around his mug until his fingers met. “No. There’s been a rumor circulating for some time about this incredible play that would change theater forever. Everyone with a subscription to
Variety
had heard about it, but nobody had seen it or knew what it was about. Fielding so much as confirmed for me the play existed and had poured from his pen. This was the play he had promised me.” I was feeling jingle-brained and not just because the room was filled with smoke. “I’m very happy to be directing anything of Raymond’s, especially a premiere. I’d be lying, though, if I didn’t admit I was disappointed in
In the Dark
. I have a feeling this is something he abandoned and never intended to have produced.”

The second beer put me on the roof. “The feeling is mutual.”

“You really didn’t like it?”

A dozen callous responses danced through my head, but I still had the wherewithal to choose something diplomatic. “It has…uh…weaknesses, don’t you think?”

Someone corrected the speed on the phonograph and changed the platter to Spike Jones and His City Slickers. As Spike told us what he wanted to do “right in Der Fuhrer’s face,” Peter removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I suspect the work was intended to have more bite than it does. I know it comes off as terribly facile, but with some smart choices I think there might be a strong story to tell.”

Right. And I’ve got this bridge in Brooklyn…“So how did you end up with
In the Dark
?”

“A very good question.” He paused and emptied his second beer. “The play was sent to me anonymously, though I suspect it was someone close enough to Raymond to know we had a working relationship. I knew immediately it wasn’t the right play, but I thought…”

I leaned into the table until my chest made contact with it. “You
thought what?”

He rolled his eyes as if he were going to dismiss away the whole matter without ever telling me, but something stopped him and he plodded forward. “I thought maybe it was a test of some kind, which is why I committed to doing it. If I succeeded with
In the Dark
, then whoever it was Fielding left as custodian of his remaining work would send this more important play my way.” He emitted a short burst of air to label his theory unworthy and ridiculous. “I know that sounds incredibly naive….”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

He sighed and rotated his glass as though a change in perspective could alter the taste of the drink. “I think it’s my way of avoiding the painful reality that he never intended for me to have the monumental play and this other script was to be my consolation prize: a poor play for a poor director.”

Oh, boo hoo,
I thought.
At least you have a job.

“What are you thinking?” asked Peter.

Since I couldn’t share my real thoughts, I blurted, “What if he
couldn’t
give you the other play?”

“What do you mean?”

I traced a line down the layer of frost on my mug. “What if something happened to it before he could give it to you? You said a lot of people heard rumors about the script. What if someone filched it?”

He licked his lips and moved as close to me as the table would permit, so close I could see the faint white line of a scar on his nose, long since faded by sun and age. “Are you merely positing a scenario to make me feel better, or do you know something?”

A chill from someplace other than the door crawled up my body. This was the last thing in the world I should’ve been talking about, and yet I felt I owed it to him to tell him. I knew what it was like to wait for something that might never come. “I’ve heard a rumor from a credible source that the play was nicked.”

Peter receded into the darkness until I could no longer read his expression. “In his obituary they noted his house had been broken into
twice.” I nodded, more frantically than I should have. “With all due respect, Rosie, I don’t think that proves anything.”

“I used to work for a private dick Fielding hired to find the play.”

“Has this detective had any luck?”

I lowered my gaze to the table, where the dim overhead light reflected back on me. “No. He was killed at about the same time as Fielding and his files disappeared.”

“Are you kidding?”

“I wish I were. Anyway, that should be all the proof you need that the great American play is missing and not being kept from you until you prove yourself. The question is, Who would’ve taken it?”

Peter splayed his hand across the table and tapped his fingers as he listed the possibilities. “A rival playwright. A bitter lover. A shunned actor.”

“See, I think the play isn’t just this theater-altering masterpiece. I think it reveals something about someone or something. Something shocking.” Damn the beer—it was making it impossible for me to self-censor. “I think whoever took it wanted to keep whatever information it revealed from getting out.”

“Interesting theory. So you intend to find it?”

I bit my tongue. “No. If my boss and Fielding died because of this thing, I don’t want to be the next victim.”

Peter frowned. “I had you pegged differently. After your display this afternoon, I assumed you were someone who was willing to go after whatever she wanted.”

“What can I say? I’m all bark.”

“I don’t think that’s true. In fact, I’ll make you a deal: if you find this play and let me see it before anyone else, I’ll see to it that you star in it.”

I laughed; I couldn’t help it. The last thing I wanted was to star in one of Fielding’s disasters. “Let’s revise that: if I change my mind and find the play, I’ll let you see it before anyone else, but I get to choose if I want to be a part of it.
In the Dark
’s got me thinking that the only good Fielding play is a lost Fielding play.”

Peter smiled. “Touché, though I do promise you he produced some remarkable work.” In one smooth gesture, Peter glanced at his watch and signaled to the bartender that he was ready to pay up. “Forgive me, but I didn’t realize we’d been sitting here so long. Is there somewhere I can walk you?”

“No thanks. I can hoof it on my own.”

The bill paid and the remnants of my glass emptied, Peter helped me into my coat and we walked, side by side, into the night.

“Is there anything I can say to change your mind about leaving
In the Dark
?”

I chewed my lip and longed for a clear mind. Think of Jayne, think of Jayne, think of Jayne. “I don’t think so, Peter.”

“What if you stay with the production for the time being but continue auditioning for other roles? If you get a better offer, you’re free to leave, no hurt feelings.”

All he was doing was offering me the same arrangement Jayne had proposed. There was nothing wrong with accepting, especially if I promised myself I would absolutely, positively leave the production the minute another gig came along. And if, in the process, I learned more about Raymond Fielding, it would only be a coincidental benefit. “I could do that.”

A
S
I
APPROACHED THE
S
HAW
House that night, a man in an orange public works helmet turned off the last of the streetlamps, sending the block into a darkness so complete it was a wonder daylight could ever emerge. The interior of the building was no better. The lobby was empty and a lone lamp threw its meager radiance in a sphere extending only a foot from its base. I stumbled in this near blackness to the staircase and crept upward, half-expecting to find all of the other residents frozen like Sleeping Beauties removed from the activity of normal life.

The door to my room was closed, though from inside came voices engaged in a heated discussion. The male of the two was unrecognizable and much too refined to be one of Jayne’s normal companions. The female’s voice was low and soothing, even when made ragged with rage. I couldn’t figure out what they were talking about, but the fact that they’d invaded our space to chin meant something was very, very wrong.

I armed myself with a gun made of my hand. As I eased the door open, mindful of its squeak, our unwanted guests revealed themselves to be nothing more than Jayne, Churchill, and a new radio resting on the radiator.

“Hiya, Rosie!” Jayne chirped from her bed. Her welcoming grin became a pout as she observed the lump I’d shoved into my coat. “Is that a gun?”

I removed my hand to assure her I was unarmed and disentangled myself from my winter things. “You scared me half to death. Where did the radio come from?”

Her smile returned; only now it rippled with the warm suggestion of a secret. “Tony sent it over as a gift during my recovery.”

It was a newer Magnavox, smaller and more modern than the one in
the lobby, with a glossy mahogany box that looked as if it would’ve made a very nice piece of furniture. Fibber McGee and Molly ended their argument for a brief word from Johnson’s Wax.

“I’ve got news.” Jayne sat Indian-style, which only accentuated how childlike she was. Her bruises had faded in the few hours I had been gone and that, plus her changed attitude, stripped her face of its ghastliness.

“Well?” I asked.

Her lips disappeared into her mouth, than reemerged with less lipstick than they’d had the moment before. She shuddered with excitement.

“Out with it,” I said.

She took a deep breath and put her hands in her lap. “I’ve been cast in Lawrence Bentley’s new show.”

I hesitated, waiting for the punch line. “Really?”

“Really!”

I went to her side and gave her a clumsy hug. Her hair was freshly washed and smelled like gardenia. “When did you find out?”

She bounced as she returned to the bed. “Lawrence called me this afternoon. Personally. It’s a speaking part and everything.”

I tried to push aside the coincidence of Jayne’s getting the radio and a plum role all in the same day. Tony knew how Jayne felt about his making arrangements for her. Surely he wouldn’t risk her wrath when things were so shaky between them.

“What’s the script like?” I asked. “Is it awful?”

She put her palms on the bed and stretched catlike. “I don’t remember; the audition was ages ago. I’m sure it’s bad, but who cares!”

“So you’re not going to do the musical?”

“Of course not. I already called them and gave them my regrets. Bentley’s rehearsals start in a few days.” Her hands traced her cheekbones and lips. “I figure with a little powder and lipstick I’ll be ready for my public.”

“Absolutely. You’ll look great.”

“So where have you been?” asked Jayne.

I turned down the radio’s volume and tried to remember what I’d told her earlier. Rather than selecting a lie that might contradict an earlier one, I offered the truth, or part of it anyway. “I had lunch with a friend. I brought you a little something.” I removed the sack of fudge from my pocketbook and passed it to her.

She opened the bag and seemed ready to devour both my gift and my explanation until she remembered that all of my friends were her friends and if I was dining without her, it meant she’d been deliberately excluded. “Who?”

“Al.”

Her eyes widened and she rose onto her knees. “If he’s bothering you, say the word and I’ll tell Tony…”

I waved her down. “Easy—no reason to call out the cavalry. We’re friends.”

Her eyebrow rose and whispered possible lewd interpretations of that word.

“Just friends,” I said. “Nothing more. It turns out he was pretty close to Jim and has been keeping an eye on me as a favor. We had a nice chat and on my way home I ran into Peter Sherwood.”

“Did you talk to him about leaving the show?”

The beer reexerted its force and I struggled to strip our conversation down to its relevant points. “Yes. He was surprisingly nice about the whole thing. He said I can stay with the production until I find something else, so either way I have a job.”

“Oh. That’s good.” Her tone suggested otherwise.

“Just so you know: this isn’t a Raymond Fielding thing; this is a money thing.” I could’ve repeated that claim all night long and she wouldn’t have believed me. There was only one rationale Jayne might be willing to accept. “Plus, I find Peter Sherwood…intriguing.”

Jayne pressed her right hand against her left until her fingers contorted into an
L
. “What about Jack?”

“What about him?”

Her voice became irritatingly precious. I half-expected her to use
baby talk. “It’s strange hearing you interested in someone else is all. Especially with Jack having just shipped out.”

“He didn’t just ship out; he’s been gone over a month. And you’re the one who sent me on a fix-up the other night, remember? I didn’t realize my ex-boyfriend’s being at war meant I couldn’t look at another man.”

“It doesn’t, but”—she switched hands and mauled the fingers on her left—“I didn’t realize you’d officially broken up.”

“If we haven’t, he has a very peculiar notion of what a relationship is. Why?”

Jayne shrugged. “No reason. I thought, since you talked about writing him, maybe, you know…” She swallowed the end of her sentence, which was just as well; I’m sure I wouldn’t have liked what came next.

“You’ve been listening to too much radio,” I said. “Just because Jack went off to war doesn’t mean either of us has grown up.”

“People change.”

“People? Maybe. The only way an actor changes is if there’s a dresser, another costume, and a long enough scene to warrant it.” I left her side and sat on my bed. “He’s the one who left without saying good-bye. The last thing he deserves is my loyalty.”

“All right already.” Jayne lowered her eyes to her lap.

“I’m sorry.” A pounding started at my temples and threatened to take over my whole head. I squeezed my nails into my palms and changed the subject. “Where is everyone tonight? It’s a graveyard downstairs.”

Jayne shifted onto her backside and stretched her legs. “Rehearsals, I guess. Belle decided to take advantage of the quiet and go see Sonja Henie in the ice show at the Garden.”

“What about Ruby?” I kicked off my shoes.

Jayne smiled and rubbed her hands together. “She’s out too, and I have some interesting information about her. Remember how she’s supposedly in a new show at WEAF that was starting today? I’ve been listening since you left and I’ve yet to hear a peep out of her. Not only that, but when Lawrence called, he asked that I have her call him.”

I lay back and closed my eyes. “Maybe they’ve etched the show in wax instead of broadcasting it live. So what? I’m her understudy, Jayne,
not her mother.”

A childlike lisp strangled Jayne’s words. “No, she was definitely lying. Aren’t you a little curious why she would’ve made something like that up?”

Because she’s evil and wanted to make me feel bad about my own accomplishments just when something good was starting to happen for me. “Who knows?”

Jayne shifted and lowered her voice to the pitch used by German spies. “Here’s my theory: when Lawrence called, I asked him who else was going to be in his show. He listed some names but said he still hadn’t cast the leads and was planning on seeing a few more people before rehearsals start. I’d bet my left arm he’s trying to get Ruby to rejoin the cast.”

If Jayne was right, that would explain why Ruby needed an understudy. She took the People’s Theatre part to guarantee she had work, knowing if something better came along she’d have somebody ready to take her place to alleviate any guilt—or professional damage—dropping out of the show might cause.

“Anyway,” said Jayne. “I told Lawrence I knew somebody he should have read.”

“You want me to audition? Why would I do that? The part’s as good as Ruby’s.”

Jayne smacked me on the thigh. “You’ve got more talent in your pinkie than she’s got in her whole body. If I forget to give her Lawrence’s message, but tell him I did, he’ll think Ruby wants nothing to do with him. Not only might you get a good part in a high-profile play, you could fix her good for what she did.”

Plus, I’d get out of the People’s Theatre show. I knew her grift. So that’s why Jack was suddenly boyfriend of the year. If I was still thinking about Jack, I wouldn’t be thinking about Peter. And if I wasn’t interested in Peter, I wouldn’t have any excuse for not leaving the People’s Theatre show for Lawrence Bentley’s gig. She was pulling out all the stops to
make sure I had nothing to do with Raymond Fielding and his missing script. “He wouldn’t cast me, Jayne. I’m a nobody.”

“You know that’s not true. He cast me, didn’t he?”
Yeah,
I thought,
but only at the urging of the butter and egg man
. “Rosie, you’re too talented to be an understudy. We both know that. I’ve got a good feeling about this. I know if you show up tomorrow he’s going to give you that part.”

Even if I was part of whatever deal Tony had cut, I had what it took to be in one of Lawrence Bentley’s shows. And there was no telling what an enormous effect being in such a show would have on my career. But…

I rose and moved toward the window. “I don’t want to audition for Bentley. I’m sorry about what happened to you, Jayne, but just because some thug decided to strong-arm us doesn’t mean we should ignore what happened to Jim and Fielding. Two men have been murdered. We can’t pretend like that didn’t happen.”

“I’m not suggesting that. I’m just saying things have gotten dangerous and it’s time for us to step back and let the cops take care of it.”

“They won’t.”

“Of course they will…” Her voice faded as she noted the look on my face. “You didn’t call them that day, did you?”

“I tried to, but it was the same lousy copper they put on Jim’s case. The guy’s crooked.”

“Then you talk to someone else,” said Jayne.

“There wasn’t someone else. There was just him.”

“You lied to me.” Her face crumbled. I’d never disappointed her before. It was an awful feeling.

“I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

Her expression told me she didn’t believe me. If I wasn’t careful, from this moment on I’d always be a liar to her.

“Look, I know I should’ve been straight from the beginning. But I also know part of you understands why I did it. Why else wouldn’t you have buzzed the cops the night you were worked over?” I’d gotten her there. She couldn’t have spent all these months with Tony without realizing there were moments when the law was an insufficient remedy. “I
didn’t intend to become wrapped up in this, but everywhere I turn it’s like someone keeps trying to drag me back in. I could walk away from it and play it safe, or I could get to the bottom of what’s going on. It’s like the president said the other day: we know the fight’s going to be hard, but that’s no reason to back down, not when we’re doing it for the right reasons.”

“He’ll kill you, Rosie. Whoever he is, he’ll kill you.”

“I know now,” I said. “I know that this person means business and I have to keep my yap shut. From this moment on, I won’t tell a soul that I’m looking for the play. And I’ll make sure nobody else comes after you.”

“How can you promise that?”

“You have protection.” I told her about Al. “I’ll do this if you want me to, Jayne. I’ll audition for Bentley and hide in his show and never say Fielding’s name again. But I’m asking you to reconsider.”

Jayne’s hand followed the line of her jaw before landing in her lap. I was wrong that her bruises had faded; they were still there, as crisp as stained glass.

“All right,” she said at last. “Do what you need to do.”