Lights Out Tonight (11 page)

“Thanks for putting the time aside to show us around like this, cupcake,” said Nick as the group walked down the long corridor that led to the backstage area of the theater.

Meg beamed her response. But when Caroline offered her own thanks, Meg ignored her. Caroline caught the look Lamar and Boomer exchanged, signaling that they got the picture of the relationship between the two women.

“This is the greenroom,” said Meg, waving her hand at a large space filled with couches, chairs, and a cot. “This is where mostly the crew waits between scenery changes. But I think there’s an Actors’ Equity rule. That’s why there’s the little bed.”

Down the hallway was the laundry room, outfitted with several washing machines and dryers. It adjoined the costume shop. Long tables for spreading out and cutting yards of fabric
dominated the room. Bolts of cloth stood in large canvas bins. Dress forms were stationed next to the numerous sewing machines and irons. Lamar’s camera captured it all.

“Now this is where I’ve been spending a lot of my time, Dad,” said Meg, ignoring the rest of the group as they approached the next door. “This is Belinda Winthrop’s dressing room.”

Lamar was still recording as Meg opened the door. The camera caught a willowy blond, dressed in a green velvet gown, standing in front of the mirror. With an annoyed look on her face, the young woman turned to face the strangers.

“Excuse me. What do you think you’re…” Her voice trailed off and she blushed as she recognized Meg.

“Hi, Langley,” said Meg.

“Oh, Meg. Hi. I was just practicing. I wanted to go over my lines and see if it felt any different wearing the costume. You know … just in case I ever have to fill in for Belinda.”

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Zeke Ambrose whistled to a tune on the radio as he turned his station wagon in to the driveway of Curtains Up. He was eager to see Remington’s portrait of Belinda as Valerie in
Devil in the Details
for the first time. All the buzz about the play compounded
the usual enthusiasm that Ambrose Gallery patrons expressed when they knew that a Remington Peters exhibition was scheduled. Zeke and Jean were expecting an excellent crowd for tomorrow night’s opening.

Zeke wished for the umpteenth time that Remington would allow his portraits of Belinda to be sold. If he had done that, the portraits would have been in private collections and not destroyed in that horrible studio fire three years ago. Zeke tried not to think about all those fabulous works of art reduced to ash. The idea broke his heart, not only because of the tragic waste but because Remington had lost the most important pieces of his life’s work.

Zeke and Jean had worried that Remington would be crushed, sinking into a depression that wouldn’t allow him to paint again. They’d done all they could think of to support him, enlisting Belinda’s assistance. Her offer of the carriage house as a new home for Remington and his studio had brought the first postfire smile to the painter’s face. Once Remington had moved into Belinda’s place, he was able to begin working again.

Now, with the addition of the painting Zeke was picking up this morning, there would be three Remington Peters portraits of Belinda in her Warrenstown roles. Also already hanging on the wall at the Ambrose Gallery were various landscapes of the Berkshires that Remington would allow to be sold.

Pulling up to the carriage house, Zeke parked, got out, and went to the back of the car. He opened the rear hatch and lifted out the box containing the batting he would carefully wrap around the portrait before transporting it to the gallery. He carried the box to the front door, putting it down to knock.

No answer.

Zeke knocked again, then a third time. He walked around to the back of the carriage house, cupped his hands against the large window, and tried to see inside. He couldn’t detect any movement. A large canvas stood on the easel, but it was positioned so the painted image Zeke was so anxious to see was obscured from view.

He went back around to the front and was about to get into the station wagon when he saw Remington walking up the driveway.

“Hello,” Zeke called. “I was afraid you were standing me up.”

As Remington approached, Zeke could see his shoulders were slumped and his mouth was turned down. When the two men shook hands, Zeke could feel grit on Remington’s.

“What have you been doing? Gardening?” asked the gallery owner as he looked at the dirt on Remington’s hands and clothes.

Remington brushed at his pants. “No. I just went for a walk in the woods.”

“Oh. Well, let’s get to it, man,” said Zeke, his face brightening. “Let’s go look at the portrait.” He turned toward the front door.

“Zeke, wait.”

“What is it?”

“I can’t give you the portrait.”

Zeke looked at Remington. “What do you mean?”

“It’s not ready.”

“You’re too hard on yourself, Remington. I’m sure it’s glorious.”

“It’s not. Believe me, it’s not.”

“Please, Remington, let’s go look at it. Let me give you my opinion.”

Remington looked down at the ground and spoke softly. “I respect your opinion, Zeke, you know that. But I just can’t let anyone, not even you, see this portrait yet.”

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Another check of the computer revealed there was still no answer from Brightlights999.

With an e-mail address like that, odds were that the person Amy had tried to contact in the last minutes of her life was a female. But whoever it was could bring a lot of unwanted attention if he or she went to the authorities with the image captured by Amy’s cell phone.

It had been pure luck that Amy and Tommy had been smoking weed just before they were forced off the road. With the autopsy reports showing marijuana in their systems, the police had been able to close the case.

But there was no way the police were going to think the death of the nosy librarian was an accident. It would be painfully obvious that the piercing of her wrinkled throat had been deliberate.

Law enforcement was going to be all over a murder case in charming little Warrenstown. And if Brightlights went to the cops with the digital picture of the car that Amy had sent just before she died, that could cause a suspicious detective to come knocking on the door.

Come on, Brightlights, respond to my message. I need to know who you are.

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Victoria puttered around the kitchen, taking a bowl from the cupboard and some eggs and milk from the refrigerator. She cracked the eggs against the side of the bowl and emptied the contents into the milk she had already poured. After adding a bit of vanilla extract, she whisked everything together and dipped a couple of slices of sourdough bread into the mixture.

While she was waiting for the French toast to cook on the griddle, she washed and sliced some strawberries. Halving two oranges, Victoria thought of Daniel as she juiced them. It had
always been their custom to have large breakfasts on the mornings their plays opened.

The usual coffee and cigarettes wouldn’t do today. This was the day that
Devil in the Details
would finally be performed for the public. This was the day she’d been waiting for, ever since Daniel died.

Everyone had said that she wouldn’t be able to go on without him, and Victoria understood why. Daniel had been an established, successful playwright even before they married. She had been a virtual nobody. When she’d begged Daniel to give cowriting a try, everyone had just assumed that he was the one who was really doing the work. And Victoria had to admit to herself that everyone had assumed correctly. It was only after Daniel’s death that she’d actually come into her own. Now a Pulitzer Prize might actually be within her grasp.

Finding the syrup in the cabinet over the refrigerator, Victoria poured some of the thick, sticky liquid into a small pitcher and zapped it in the microwave. Cold syrup wouldn’t do on her nice, warm French toast. Nothing but the best this morning, nothing but the best to begin this wonderful day.

Victoria closed her eyes as she chewed on the first bite, thinking it was good to let Belinda sleep as late as possible. Belinda had to be refreshed in order to give Valerie the energy she deserved on the stage and on the videotape for the Pulitzer committee.

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Meg led the way through the rest of their theater tour. She showed her father, Caroline, and the crew the storage area under the stage, filled with crates of wires and scenery flats; she showed them the hydraulic lift that raised and lowered a portion of the stage; she pointed four stories up to the catwalk and explained how three chandeliers rose and fell from that height for three scenes in
Devil in the Details.

Caroline was impressed, and she said so. “It’s wonderful how you know your way around this theater, Meg.”

The compliment was answered with a shrug. Caroline looked at Nick for his reaction to his daughter’s response, but if he had noticed, he wasn’t showing it. He was beaming at Meg. “I’m proud of you, sweetheart,” he said as he put his arm around Meg and squeezed her closer.

“I’ve got to change tapes,” said Lamar as he checked his camera.

“We’ve already got enough,” said Caroline. “You guys can take a break, and we’ll meet back here after lunch for the interview with Keith Fallows.”

Caroline, Nick, and Meg left the crew as they packed up their paraphernalia. As she usually did when she was with father and daughter, Caroline found herself feeling like an outsider. “You know what? I think I’m going to leave the two of you alone for a while so I can get caught up with work,” she said.

Meg’s face brightened, while Nick looked at Caroline with a quizzical expression. Caroline noticed, though, that he didn’t try to dissuade her. She was beginning to walk away when a young man approached Meg.

“Did you hear?” he asked. “Somebody was murdered at the town library.”

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The sandwiches at Oscar’s Deli had names like “Julia Roberts,” “Hilary Swank,” “Halle Berry,” and “Charlize Theron.” Only Academy Award winners had the honor of having their names written, along with the lists of ingredients in their sandwiches, on the giant chalkboard that covered most of the deli wall.

Caroline stood in line and studied the menu. She was tempted by the “Tom Hanks”—corned beef, Swiss cheese, lettuce,
tomato, and Russian dressing—and the “Angelina Jolie”—sautéed peppers and onions, mushrooms, melted provolone, sprouts, and tomato. But by the time it was her turn to order, Caroline had decided it might be bad luck not to order the “Belinda Winthrop”—turkey, Swiss, lettuce, tomato, mayonnaise, and cranberry sauce on rye.

“You on vacation?” the man behind the counter asked as he slathered mayonnaise on the bread.

“Actually, I’m working,” said Caroline. “But it’s a nice assignment.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a film and theater critic.”

“Oh, yeah? For a newspaper?”

“No, television.”

The man looked up from making the sandwich and studied Caroline’s face. She could tell he didn’t recognize her.

“What show would I see you on?” he asked as he went back to covering the mayonnaise with sliced turkey.

“KEY to America,”
she said.

“That explains it,” said the man. “I never watch television in the morning. I have to get in here early to set up. But my wife watches it. I’m gonna tell her you were in. She’ll get a real kick out of that. What’s your name?”

“Caroline Enright.”

“Hello, Caroline Enright. I’m Oscar Dubinsky. I’d shake your hand, but…” Oscar held up his hands, which were covered by thin plastic gloves.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Caroline.

“So, you’re gonna review
Devil in the Details
when it opens tonight?” Oscar asked.

“That’s the plan,” said Caroline, eager now to get her sandwich and leave.

“This your first time in Warrenstown?”

“Yes.”

“Too bad you have to come when all this upset is going on. Warrenstown is usually such a nice, quiet place. But between those kids killed last weekend and the cops finding the librarian murdered this morning, I don’t know what our town is coming to.”

“I just heard about that,” said Caroline. “What a horrible

thing.”

“Yeah. One of our officers was just in for lunch, and he told me he never saw so much blood. Her carotid artery was completely severed.” Oscar finished wrapping the sandwich and handed it across the counter. “Poor Theresa.”

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It hadn’t been smart to cancel the interview with KEY News yesterday, thought Keith as he entered the theater. He needed all the positive press he could get, and it did no good to alienate Caroline Enright. He was determined to be much more agreeable today.

Caroline and her crew were waiting for him on the stage.

“You told me to pick the place for the interview,” she said, “and I pick this.”

She was right, thought Keith. Having them up on the set was much more visually interesting than just sitting out in the audience. He tried to be patient as the rotund soundman wired him. He waited as the video guy checked his white balance and made the necessary adjustments. He smiled as Caroline asked him her questions. He answered, mustering up all the charm he could. After fifteen minutes, Keith had had enough, but Caroline wasn’t finished.

“Tell me about your plans for this play,” she said.

“At this point, Caroline, I just want to get through opening night.”

She persevered. “Of course, but if
Devil in the Details
is the
success everyone expects it to be tonight, what would you like to see happen next?”

“Well, I’d like to see it please audiences for the two-week run here in Warrenstown, and after that I have little doubt that it will go on to Broadway.”

“With you as director?”

“Perhaps.”

“What about a screen version?” “What about it?”