The War Against Miss Winter (30 page)

He stretched his arms wide. “How about Raymond Fielding’s missing play?”

I
LAUGHED AND ROSE FROM
the stool. “Nice recall, Peter. First rule of comedy: big jokes are the result of accumulated little jokes.”

He again took hold of my shoulders, forcing me back into my seat. “I’m serious, Rosie. You said you have a good lead on where the play is and I think we’d be fools if we didn’t take advantage of it. This is a career maker.”

I rested my hands in the nooks of his elbows. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, but there is no play. There never was.”

“But you said—”

“You were drunk and I was worried. I’m sorry.”

I expected disappointment, maybe grief, but what I got was a grip on my arms so tight my blood stopped circulating. “Don’t be preposterous. There has to be a play. McCain was hired to look for it.”

I tried to shrug free, but he tightened his grip. “How do you know about Jim?”

Peter released me and stepped away. “Why does it matter?”

“Because he’s dead, that’s why.” I stood up from the stool and walked the line of the dressing table. “Did you kill him?”

He started to speak, then stopped himself. He clasped his hands and brought them to his mouth. “He wouldn’t cooperate.”

The words froze me. “Let me guess: Fielding told you the play was missing and that he’d hired a dick to find it. You tracked Jim down and tried to find out what he knew, only Jim wouldn’t give you what you wanted, probably because he couldn’t find it and didn’t have the guts to admit it. You were convinced he was lying and tried to force it out of him, but things went wrong and you ended up with no play and a dead man on your hands. Maybe Jim ran at the mouth about the actress who worked
for him, so you hunted me down and invited me to your audition, hoping you could woo me into telling you everything you wanted to know.”

“It wasn’t like that, Rosie.”

I pursued him, wagging my finger in his face like a small-town schoolmarm. “You killed him, you son of a bitch. Over a play. A play, Peter! And not even one you’re named in, but one you’re desperate to direct. How sick is that?”

He brushed aside my attempt to be physically intimidating and moved toward me until my remonstrating finger hit his chest. “It was an accident. I didn’t mean to kill him. Things got rough on both our parts. You know how Jim was.”

“No, but I’m starting to know how you are.”

His arms again claimed mine. “You don’t understand, Rosie. I need that play. We both do. A piece like that would be dynamite in this town. Every career has a defining moment when it leaves ordinary and becomes extraordinary. This could be ours.”

“Did you kill Fielding, too?”

He released me as though he recognized that defending himself was much more difficult when he was threatening me. “Of course not. How can you say that? I adored Raymond.”

“Him? Sure, but what about his son?”

He put his fingers to his temples. “He wasn’t his real son. He didn’t care about Raymond’s work, only his own reputation. If he or his mother had found the play, they would’ve destroyed it.”

“How did you know they had the files?”

He didn’t respond.

“You were eavesdropping the day I called Jayne and told her Agnes had the files, weren’t you? You probably tried to get them yourself, but Edgar got there first. You broke into his apartment, filched the files, and got rid of the witness.”

“The play was promised to me,” said Peter.

“How so?”

He dropped his arms limply to his sides. “It just was.”

“How? What were Fielding’s exact words?”

He shook his head as if he were trying to jog the memory loose from the ether around him. “Raymond told me he’d created something extraordinary. Something that was going to change the face of drama and he wanted to make sure I was a part of it. He said I was the only director he wanted to come near it.”

I laughed. I couldn’t help it. Everything was so obvious now.

Peter frowned at what he took as my mocking. “He meant it, Rosie. He shared my enthusiasm. He wanted to help me make a career. He hated directors—did you know that? He believed they spoiled plays by imposing their own meaning on a script. He said a good writer gave actors all they needed and that directors only muddied up the process with their egos. He told me that, and yet he insisted he was creating a play just for me. Can you imagine?”

“There is no play, Peter,” I whispered.

“Stop saying that.”

I backed away until I made contact with the dressing table. “Fielding invented a play and planted the idea that not only could it ruin lives and make careers, but it was missing. We’re the characters, finding the play is our objective, and our obstacles are one another. Our tactic is to eliminate one another until the last person standing does so empty-handed. You were supposed to be that person, Peter. You rubbed out Jim and Edgar. Fielding expected you’d kill others to get your hands on the play. He didn’t value you. You’re a pawn, like me. He was trying to prove theater was its own organic beast, that drama didn’t need actors, directors, buildings, or even a script to exist. It just needed a central conflict to propel the action forward. I’m sorry.”

His head tilted toward the floor. “This can’t be true. Of course there’s a play.”

I brushed the air before him with my hands. “Think about it: No one’s seen it. Everyone who’d heard about it had a very different understanding of what it was about. He fed on ego and paranoia to make a point about his work being important. He even left someone behind to record all of this. I’ve met him. He’s the one who admitted the truth about what’s going on.”

Peter stood in silence, slowly taking in all that I’d told him. As recognition sunk beneath the surface, anger bubbled upward until the cords in his neck grew prominent. His peepers left the floor and searched out the room for something at which to direct his anger. He picked up the vase of flowers and flung it into the mirror, shattering both objects. As debris flew through the air, I ducked and crawled toward the door.

The air grew taut with the distinct sound of a rod being cocked. “I didn’t want to make this ugly, Rosie. I hoped you’d be cooperative.”

I turned and found a gun aimed at me. “Be rational. Why would I lie about this?”

He gestured me to the dressing table stool and put his back to the door. “I don’t know the answer to that. I only know what makes sense. Tell me where the play is.”

“I just did.”

He straightened his arm to ready himself for the gun’s kick. “You have ten seconds. What’s more important: the play or your life?”

Before I could comment on the irony of that statement, Jayne threw open the door. It slammed into Peter’s back, knocking him off his feet and sending the gun skittering across the floor. As it reached the middle of the room, Peter’s head slammed into the ground.

“Oops,” said Jayne. She took in the broken vase and the rod in the middle of the room.

“Nice timing,” I said.

“Is he out?”

“If he were any more chilled, we’d be sending his ma our condolences.” I smiled at her like a simpleton. “Would you mind getting the gun?”

“That won’t be necessary,” said a voice. I turned and found Alan Detmire in the dressing room doorway, his own rod pointed at my heart.

I cleared my throat. “Nice to see you, Mr. Fielding. It is Raymond Fielding, isn’t it?”

“You’re smarter than I thought, Miss Winter.”

“Don’t be too impressed—your disguise didn’t have a leg to stand on. Did you get to see the show?”

“I’m afraid not. It was sold out.”

“Had you mentioned my name, the girl at the door would’ve gotten you in.”

“I wish I had thought of that. I heard you were very good.”

“Thanks. I never get tired of hearing that.”

He gestured me over to where Jayne was standing. She remained unfazed, which only rattled me more. “If memory serves, I told you two to let things play out. Nothing good comes from interfering.”

“I understand,” I said, “but I got a little jittery when my own death became a part of the plot.”

“We must be willing to sacrifice for art, Miss Winter.”

“Couldn’t my first sacrifice be on a smaller scale, like, say, a goat or a lamb?”

Peter groaned and his eyelids flickered.

“Step away from Mr. Sherwood, please,” said Fielding.

Jayne and I did as he instructed, our bodies growing closer the farther we moved from him. “With all due respect,” I said, “isn’t this a little too deus ex machina for you?” Jayne tossed me a confused look. I told her with a wave that I’d explain it later. “I mean, how can a plot progress normally if you’re strutting in here directing the action?”

“A necessary evil, Miss Winter. Had Miss Hamilton stayed away, I would have happily remained uninvolved. By the way, I made sure the theater doors are locked, just to make sure we don’t have any further unscripted interruptions. Naturally, things will have to change now. The good thing is I think two murders are much more interesting than one. They certainly will help to speed things up. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Not really, no.”

He nudged the body on the floor with his foot. “Alas, it’s not your decision, it’s Mr. Sherwood’s. Isn’t that right, Peter?”

Peter groaned again and Fielding backed away to make sure he was in full view when Peter came around. “Peter? Peter?” he called out. Peter’s eyes fluttered as he fought to focus. “Peter,” Fielding said again, the word no longer a name but a taunt. “Wake up. The show isn’t over yet.” Peter’s eyes finally opened and remained that way. Slowly he sat
up, one hand steadying his body while the other massaged the growing goose egg on his head. “That’s a good boy,” said Fielding. “Do you know where you are?”

“The theater,” said Peter.

Fielding smiled. “And do you know what’s happened?”

Peter scanned the room, taking in Fielding, Jayne, me, the broken vase. They made the trip a second time before settling on the old man with the gun. His gaze widened, his mouth moved noiselessly, and the hand intended to diminish the pain in his noggin left his body and pointed at Fielding. “Who are you?”

Fielding clucked his tongue. “I’m disappointed, Peter. For a man who claimed to worship me, you haven’t done your research.”

Peter rubbed his eyes to confirm the vision was real. “You’re dead.”

“Shhh…,” said Fielding.

Peter shook his head, then winced as the activity worsened his agony. “How can it be? Raymond Fielding’s dead. I went to his wake.”

“It was a setup,” I said. “Nobody had seen Fielding for years, so he knocked off a fellow named Alan Detmire and pretended it was him.”

“That can’t be right,” said Peter. “Why would you do such a thing?”

I stepped forward and tried to find in Peter a shred of the person I’d known for the past month. “It’s like I told you: There was no play. The whole idea of this controversial, life-altering script was invented by Fielding as an experiment to test the concept of theater. Detmire probably disapproved of his methods and Fielding recognized he needed something to keep the action moving before people’s interest waned. So he killed his lover, made it look like it was himself, and planted the idea that the death was over the missing play.”

Peter moved his focus back to Fielding. “Is it true?”

Fielding stepped toward him and bent at the waist. “Miss Winter has a very active imagination. I have not killed anybody. I didn’t have to.”

“Eloise?” squeaked Jayne.

“Close, Miss Hamilton. My dear, dear Eloise couldn’t stand the thought of our little secret getting out. She’d killed for lesser things in the past, and I had no doubt that she would be willing to do it again to
protect her money and her reputation. I was wrong, though. She sent her son to do her dirty work. I will confess that I engineered things. I let her know that I was going to bed early one night and was planning on taking a sleeping tablet. Pity Edgar had never met me, so he wasn’t able to verify who the man in my bed was.”

“That’s it?” I said. “No tears for a man you supposedly loved?”

“Alan was a character like everyone else, Miss Winter. It was his time to exit in order to help me further the story. Had he a choice in the matter, I’m sure he would have gladly given up his life for me.”

Conveniently, we’d never hear what Alan had to say on the matter.

“So you see, Peter, you can’t believe anything Miss Winter says. Just as I didn’t kill Alan, there is a play. Rosie just doesn’t want you to have it. She had it herself, and while you were unconscious, I took it away from her. And now if you agree to help me out, I’m going to give it to you, its rightful bearer.”

I tried to step forward, but Jayne grabbed my arm and held me back. “Don’t listen to him, Peter. He’s a murderer and a liar!”

Fielding kept his eyes focused on Peter, who was as unaware that I’d spoken as an ant is that a tax hike is in progress. “That’s right, Peter: the play is yours, with a few caveats. I know you killed Jim and Edgar. I have sufficient evidence to prove it. And judging from Miss Winter’s comments, she knows, too. You also know I’m alive. If you keep my secret for me, I’ll do the same for you. We will be bound to each other. Understand?”

Peter nodded his agreement. Fielding sighed and waved the gun toward Jayne and me. “The problem, of course, is these two. Neither is trustworthy; nor do they have anything invested in seeing that our secrets remain such. Therefore, in order for me to give you what you so desperately want, you must eliminate them. Once that’s done, I’ll hand you the script and help you plant evidence that proves this whole incident was at the hands of any number of people who have spoken up against Miss Winter. Are we agreed?”

Peter stared at the floor, contemplating his options. “I want to see the script.”

Fielding straightened and his smile grew so wide I expected it to spill off his face. “I thought you might say that.” He reached into his coat and pulled out a thick packet of paper bound with brass brads. “The play is right here.” Peter’s hands reached into the air. Fielding drew the script back into his chest. “As soon as the deed is done, it’s yours to do with as you please.”

“Don’t believe him,” I said. “That’s a decoy. There is no play. This is all a game.”