A Song Across the Sea (43 page)

“She an actress?”

“She’s a star,” he whispered, too weary to speak any more. He closed his eyes, not even noticing when Damon left the room.

When he awoke much later, he remembered the letter. It was not from Tara, as he expected. The upper left-hand corner bore the name
Adrienne Millinder
rendered in an elegant script.

Frustrated that he only had one good hand to use, he nonetheless managed to tear the envelope open and shake out the sheaf of papers inside. He picked up the first page and began reading…

•  •  •

Sure and he was enjoyin’ himself. This little game was turning out to be even more delightful than he’d anticipated. How he loved toying with her. Batting her around with his paw—figuratively speaking—and feeding off her fear until he was ready for the kill.

He went to see “Rain or Shine.” Did she sense how near he was to her? Did she have any inkling? She must. He felt such a strong connection to her, as if he were grasping her slim hand and squeezing her fingers, feeling her frightened, quickened pulse as she tried to get away from him.

In her last moments, he wanted to be as close as a lover to Tara so that he could fully see the fear in her eyes, to hear her whisper for mercy as he choked the life out of her. It was important that it be personal.

As he sat in the theatre, he cast about for suitable ideas on how to accomplish his ends. She was protected by police officers at all times now, but that didn’t trouble Muldoon. It was a minor obstacle, as he’d prove tonight.

The show was really very good. It was a shame he’d only get to see the first act. During intermission, Muldoon made his move. He slipped away from the crowd and stealthily made his way through a honeycomb of rooms in the rear of the theater. In one cavernous space, sets from previous shows were stored. In another were props, costumes and other theatrical paraphernalia.

It was childishly easy to get near her dressing room. He hid himself behind some curtains, in the backstage darkness, and waited. In a few minutes, someone called out, “Places, please.” He watched as Tara left her dressing room and went to stand in the wings.

The second act began. Muldoon patiently observed the uniformed police officer guarding Tara’s door. The man looked bored. Human nature was such a predictable thing, Muldoon reflected to himself. A man who is trained for action and ready for crisis and who gets neither for too long a time stops believing that there is any imminent threat. Muldoon chuckled softly, still cloaked in shadows. The copper was about to get more excitement that he’d bargained for tonight.

The dressing room door opened again and the German girl, Lotte, emerged. She smiled shyly at the officer and he whispered something in return. Something going on there, thought Muldoon. Well, she wouldn’t much like what he was about to do to her boyfriend.

Lotte walked up a hallway, out of his sight. Just as Muldoon was about to make his move, a boy dressed in a Western Union uniform approached the guard. There followed a brief, whispered conversation, and some pointing toward Tara’s door. Muldoon guessed that the telegram being delivered was for her. Bad news about her rich fool of a husband? Was he confirmed dead instead of merely missing? The delivery boy handed a slip of paper to the officer, who pocketed it.

The boy left. Muldoon bounded out of the shadows and lunged at the copper. Surprise was such a simple element, so easy to pull off. He was on the man before he even grasped what was happening, swinging a heavy blackjack against the back of his head.

The copper dropped to his knees. Muldoon lashed out again and again with the blackjack, slamming it against the back of the man’s skull again, his cheekbone, his jaw—anywhere he could make hard and fast contact. The stunned officer’s attempts to ward off the blows with his hands were ineffectual. Soon, he dropped like a sack of flour to the floor and lay motionless.

Muldoon listened hard to see if the commotion had alerted anyone to what was going on. Onstage, the show went on.

Muldoon opened the door to Tara’s dressing room and went inside. He left the note where she’d be sure to see it: on her lighted dressing table, propped up against a lavender-colored jar of face cream. Like his other missives, it was short and to the point:

Did you imagine you were safe? I can get to you anytime I want.

-M

He wished he could be there to see her face when she read it.

He left the dressing room, stepping over the policeman’s prone body outside. Then he remembered something. He bent over and rifled through the man’s pockets until he found what he wanted: the telegram. The copper groaned softly, incoherently, and Muldoon kicked him.

He read the telegram once he was clear of the theatre. Tara’s husband was alive and en route to New York. The time and date of his arrival were noted. No doubt Waldron expected his loving wife to meet him at the dock that night.

Muldoon pocketed the telegram. Like manna from heaven, a brilliant scenario for his finale had been delivered into his hands. He would punish Tara more than he’d even imagined.

He would kill Reece Waldron while his adoring wife was forced to watch.

•  •  •

Reece stood on deck, scanning the horizon for signs of land, even though he knew they were still days away from New York. This was the first time he’d felt strong enough to venture out of his quarters.

The letter from his mother had been quite a restorative. How much time had they wasted in a pointless hell of misunderstanding and hurt feelings! He would never again let circumstances or schemers come between himself and the people he cared about. How had Tara managed to uncover the truth about Emory’s forgery scheme? His wife was amazing, he thought.

His wife. Funny how easily the phrase came to him, considering the short space of time they’d had together as husband and wife. How was it that he felt so…connected to her, over such a long distance. If he listened hard, he imagined he could hear her lovely voice singing, traveling over the waves to him.

But he couldn’t dispel the nagging notion that she was in some sort of trouble. Was it just some irrational fantasy he’d conceived when he lay senseless?

When he got home and held Tara in his arms again, he’d feel better about everything. He wished the ship were faster. Or that he could avoid the waves altogether and pilot a plane high over the ocean, going faster than any ship could.

A transatlantic flight. Now that was a crazy thought!

I
t was puzzling, this letter. It did not ask for a photograph signed by Tara or for a charitable donation, as most of the others did. Lotte read it again to be sure she wasn’t missing some important clue.

Dear Miss McLaughlin:

You may not remember me at all, but I was there on the Titanic. I tried to speak to you to you outside the theater one night but you didn’t see me. I know you are a famous lady now but nonetheless I must talk to you soon. I am too sick to come to you. Please come and see me. I implore you. It’s very
important
.

(signed)

Mrs. Siobhan Flanagan

The word “important” was underscored three times. This woman was probably some crank who wanted money. She may indeed have been on the Titanic, but Lotte truly doubted that she had any more than that tenuous connection to Tara.

Lotte sighed. Tara’s high profile made her a target for every charity-seeker for miles around. Lotte was afraid that her generous-hearted friend would go to the Lower East Side address given and meet with this correspondent who claimed a kinship with her based on an ill-fated voyage which Tara would rather forget.

Lotte was made especially wary by the reference to sickness. The influenza epidemic was claiming many victims. If she responded to this plea, Tara might well be exposed to a deadly illness.

Lotte crumpled up the letter and threw it away. Tara had enough problems right now.

•  •  •

Tara wasn’t there to meet him.

Reece was dumbfounded. He was sure she would be waiting for him at the docks, eager to rush into his arms.

But there was no Tara. He stood there for a long, disbelieving minute, wondering if there was some mistake.

His disappointment took a physical toll on him. The trip home had been a strain, but the thought that Tara would be waiting for him at the end of it was a much-needed tonic. Now, the weakness he’d been holding at bay through sheer will power threatened to overcome him.

Maybe she hadn’t gotten General Damon’s telegram.

A man in a tweed brown topcoat and cloth cap approached him. “Mr. Waldron? Mr. Reece Waldron?”

“Yes.”

“Yer wife asked me to bring you to the Ardmore Theater. She’s performin’ there tonight.”

The man looked disturbingly familiar but Reece’s confusion over this new turn of events prevented him from placing him in memory. With the brim of his cap pulled down low the man’s face was hard to see in the poor light of the docks but Reece could make out a stubborn chin, a thin mouth, a pug nose that was slightly awry, perhaps by having been broken.

“Right this way, sir.”

Reece climbed into the back of the waiting automobile, still perplexed. Something wasn’t right. No matter how important Tara’s show was to her, she would never have missed meeting him at the docks herself. He’d bet his life on it.

And this driver. He wasn’t right, either. The Irish brogue only reinforced his familiarity.

“Have you worked for Miss McLaughlin long?”

“Not long a’tall, sir. Just a few weeks.”

Reece brooded as they drove through the city. Perhaps he was being unnecessarily suspicious. Maybe Tara was planning some sort of surprise for him at the theater. He decided to test the waters.

“Maybe I’ll have you take me directly to my mother’s house. I can see my wife later.”

The driver glanced back at Reece, looking surprised. Or was it irritated?

“Ah, your wife wouldn’t like that at all, sir. She said I should make sure to bring you right to the theater.”

“All right, then.”

They drove the rest of the way in silence.

•  •  •

After Lotte helped Tara get into her gown for the closing number she announced that she was leaving for the night.

“I am having a late supper.”

“Lotte! You’ve been keeping secrets from me, haven’t you?” Tara smiled, narrowing her eyes playfully. “Who is the young man, if I might be so bold as to inquire?”

“Richard.” Lotte’s fair complexion colored in embarrassment. “I mean, Officer Baxley. The one who got hurt outside your door.”

Tara adjusted her bodice, patted a few stray hairs in place and placed an extravagant hat on her head. She met Lotte’s eyes in the mirror. “I didn’t realize that the two of you were friends.”

“Sometimes we would talk a little. He is so nice.”

“Why, Lotte! I’ve never seen you like this. You’re positively beamin’!”

“I went to visit him in the hospital and we talked and talked.”

“That was a terrible beatin’ he took that night.” Tara shuddered with the memory of finding him lying, bloody and battered, in front of the door to her dressing room. “How is he feeling now?

“He is much better. Out of the hospital.” Lotte smiled mischievously. “He is very handsome, I think.”

“Yes, he is. Not that I, as a respectable married woman, would even notice. But if I were to notice, I’d say that the lad is easy on the eyes. But Lotte, what will your father say? About you courtin’ some young man he doesn’t even know?”

“I am a grown woman now,” Lotte said firmly. “Papa knows that. And you, Miss Tara, had better hurry. It’s almost time for your entrance.”

•  •  •

The mysterious driver dropped Reece off at the curb and drove away.

Reece presented himself at the box office.

“The show’s almost over, sir. Would you like tickets for another performance? Tomorrow night, perhaps?”

“No. I’d like to go backstage. I’m here to see my wife, Tara McLaughlin.”

The startled girl behind the window gaped at him. “You’re…her husband? But I thought—” She held up a hand, directing him to wait, then hurried to confer with a balding ruddy-faced man Reece guessed was the house manager, interrupting a conversation he was having with a uniformed policeman.

“He says he’s Tara’s husband,” he heard her say excitedly.

The house manager frowned, evidently suspicious of Reece’s claim. He and the policeman quickly crossed the richly-carpeted lobby and made their way toward Reece. He hoped to wait for Tara in her dressing room. Truth to tell, he was exhausted. His endurance was flagging and he could feel the damnable pain from his wounds returning. If he was not allowed to sit in a comfortable chair before very long, he might very well fall down.

“You say you’re Tara McLaughlin’s husband?” The house manager’s sidelong glance took in the cloth sling cradling Reece’s left arm, the bandage covering part of his forehead.

“That’s right.”

The policeman looked skeptical. “I’m sure you won’t mind showing us some identification.”

Reece dug into his pocket for his billfold.

The policeman seemed satisfied with the U.S. Army civilian identification which Reece produced.

The house manager turned suddenly warm and solicitous. “Sorry to have doubted you, Mr. McLaughlin, but I understood that you were…well…”

“Dead?”

“Precisely.” He was holding out a hand for Reece to shake. “I’m Abner Folden, the manager here.”

“My name is Waldron, actually. Reece Waldron. My wife uses her maiden name professionally.”

“Yes, yes. Of course. And I do apologize for doubting who you were. It’s just that with the threats against your wife lately, we can’t be too careful.”

“Threats? What are you talking about?”

The policeman answered. “There’s been some very unpleasant business involving a man named Muldoon.”