Authors: T Davis Bunn
He had to pause and swallow. “I feel like a yo-yo, swinging back and forth between what I want and what my mind is telling me I’ve got to do.”
“I know,” she whispered, “just exactly what you mean.”
A pair of shared breaths, then he asked, “Tell me you want me to come up.”
So much. “We can’t walk away from this.”
“I would, though.”
“Marcus, do you think we can work things out?”
“I’m not looking for perfection, Kirsten. I passed the point of thinking I deserved that a long time ago.”
“What are you saying?”
“Whatever you can give, whenever you’re ready. How does that sound to you?”
She bit her lip against the hunger. Then, “Do something for me.”
“Anything.”
“Run through the way all this started. What you haven’t told me before. I have the feeling what we’re looking for is right in front of us.”
“I’ve covered pretty much everything important.”
“The small things. The details.”
He expelled a long breath, pushing away what they both wanted to talk about. Then, “You were there for the first meeting with Dale. After that …”
“What?”
“I just thought of something.” Sharper now. Focused. “Sephus Jones.”
“The man who attacked me?”
“Yes. This might be the key.”
A young woman appeared from the back hallway, and was pointed over by the guard. “Ms. Stansted?”
She said into the phone, “I have to go, Marcus.”
“Come home.”
“Soon.”
“Now.”
She gave the young woman a one-moment signal. “You know I can’t.”
“This is turning very dangerous, Kirsten. What could be more important than staying safe?”
“Finding the child. I’ll call you as soon as I can.” She shut off the phone and rose to her feet. “Sorry.”
“Mr. Lloyd will see you now.”
D
EACON AND
F
AY
W
ILBUR
’
S HOME
was located two miles east of the church, out in an area that was one step away from pure country. Marcus climbed from his car and passed under an oak canopy so tall there was no real shadow, just a gentle veil of verdant green.
The Wilbur home was a single-floor brick ranch whose side porch was almost as large as the house itself. Fay had lined the painted concrete slab with tubs of hydrangeas and hibiscus, the flowers so tall now they formed a solid wall encircling their outdoor parlor. The roof had been extended over the patio, then broadened to where the edges almost met the highest blooms. Overhead four ceiling fans spun gentle circles. Fay had linked woven reed mats to form a tatami-style flooring. Even in late July, the room held to cool and serene shadows.
Marcus found Yolanda seated by the cast-iron table, a schoolbook opened in front of her. Her older baby played at her feet. The young mother’s eyes widened when she realized who he was. But before fear could push her away, Fay opened the screen door and said, “Marcus Glenwood, I’ve got a bone to pick with you.”
“Afternoon, Fay. How are you doing, Yolanda?”
“She’s getting along just fine. Ain’t you, honey. Got herself into summer school, teacher says she’s never seen a smarter lady.” Fay emerged carrying Yolanda’s younger child on her hip. “Listen up,
Marcus. It’s been years since I’ve gotten you over here for Sunday dinner. You don’t like my cooking anymore?”
“It was three weeks ago and you know it.”
“That can’t be right.”
“I don’t want to be a bother, Fay.”
“Listen to you. Like another mouth at my dinner table’s ever been a bother.” She turned to Yolanda and said, “Honey, this child needs feeding. I’m gonna go heat him up a bottle.”
Marcus pulled another chair to the table. “Fay, do you ever sit down?”
“Got all the time I’ll ever need for sitting, once I find my place at heaven’s table. You want I should bring you a lemonade?”
“No thank you.”
“How ’bout you, Yolanda, you thirsty?”
“No thank you, Miz Fay.”
Fay waved a hand at the child by the table. “Honey, why don’t you come inside with me, let these grown-ups have a word. I think maybe I could scare you up an oatmeal cookie.”
When they were alone, Marcus asked once more, “How’re you doing, Yolanda?”
She frowned at the schoolbook. “This stuff sure is hard.”
“I need to ask you something about what you told me the day we brought you back from Raleigh.” He gave her a chance to object, then said, “You told me Hamper Caisse came around from time to time.”
“Unh huh.” Her face remained pointed straight at her schoolbook.
“Did you ever see another white man? Red hair swept straight back, pale gray eyes, almost no forehead at all, jailhouse tattoos across his knuckles.”
The half-hidden face creased with a grimace far older than her years. “Terrible bad smell.”
Marcus fought to keep his voice calm. “You don’t remember ever hearing a name, do you?”
“Of the red-haired man?”
“Yes.”
The young face scrunched up tighter. “Sephus?”
Marcus could not completely mask his excitement. “Did you ever happen to see him with the attorney who represented your former landlord?”
Fear hitched her voice up an octave. “You ain’t gonna make me say something in court?”
“Nobody can ever force you to testify against your will, Yolanda. I won’t let them. Think carefully now. This is important.”
She gave a fraction of a nod. “That lawyer fellow, he used to call Sephus his walkaround man.”
T
HE ONE NICE ELEMENT
to Kedrick Lloyd’s office was its window. Framed posters from previous galas only partly hid the water-stained walls. The ceiling bowed slightly above Kedrick’s desk. The carpet was time-grayed and stained. The furnishings were functional and cheerless.
Kedrick Lloyd was a cadaver in tailored summer blue. His lion’s mane of silver hair framed a face that had been sucked dry of all juices, all muscle, all tone. His skin slumped such that the edges of his eyes and mouth folded into constant disapproval. He did not rise at Kirsten’s entry. “Illness has a few benefits, Ms. Stansted. One is the opportunity to do away with many senseless courtesies.”
He was obviously expecting her to take offense, which is why Kirsten gave no indication she had even heard. As she crossed the carpet toward him, there was a knock on the door behind her. “A moment, Kedrick?”
“Sorry, Maestro, I have a visitor.”
Nonetheless the heavyset gentleman slipped inside. “A second, then. I am rehearsing the full orchestra. Stanley phoned me during our break. He needs to have a word with you about our new
Tosca
. He told me the most disturbing news.” He flashed a smile. “There, you see? A second and no more. All conductors must learn to count time with great precision.” He slipped out.
“Unlike the Met’s former leaders, this intendant has quite a rare appreciation for people’s schedules. Most particularly my own.” Kedrick Lloyd pointed her into a chair. “Evelyn insisted I give you a few minutes. The clock is now ticking.”
She elected to be equally blunt. “Could you tell me why you objected to Dale Steadman marrying Erin Brandt?”
His only indication of surprise was a lifting of his eyebrows. “A strange sort of question, seeing as how the parties are now divorced and one of them also happens to be dead.”
“But the problems related to their union remain.”
“Oh, very well. Steadman has far too much trust in human nature. I saw it as my duty to try and correct that fatal flaw.” He shrugged. “I failed.”
“You call him overly trustworthy, yet you bankrolled him out of a tight spot.”
“Dale is a fool only in his selection of mates. Whatever else he might enter into, he would win.”
They were dancing, really. A step up, a step back. Watching and gauging and neither speaking of what was just below the surface. “You warned Dale away from Ms. Brandt, or tried to. Yet you repeatedly pressed the Met to hire her.”
“Really, Ms. Stansted. This should be obvious. I was proposing the Met take on a talented singer. Not join her in unholy union. Our senior conductor disagreed. Erin was not invited. End of story.”
“There was no other reason?”
A vague shifting of the currents behind his gaze. “What are you suggesting?”
Kirsten danced away by lowering her gaze. She asked the next question to the hands in her lap. “What about the child?”
A longish pause was by far the clearest answer he had given thus far. “What about her?”
Before she could decide how to respond, the phone rang. She lifted her gaze to find him inspecting her, head cocked to one side, eyes squinted in tight disdain. Finally he reached for the phone. “Lloyd.” A moment, then, “You wish to know what I do with my time these days, Ms. Stansted? Behold. This is the budget director for our new production of
Tosca
.” He punched the speaker button and declared, “You have thirty seconds, Stanley. I have a visitor.”
“It’s star chamber time,” the sharply accented New Yorker declared. “They’re going for the jugular.”
“From the maestro’s agitation, I take it this means they’re after your budget again.”
“Last spring they whittled a quarter million extra for the first production
by that woman with the name like a poisonous creeping vine. Now they’re back for the rest.”
“I’m sure I can find you another hundred thousand or so from somewhere.”
“It’s not enough, big guy. Not this time. Word is she’s after another half a mil.”
Kedrick could not hide the shock. “You can’t possibly be serious.”
“They’re sucking me dry, I tell you. I’ve got sets that haven’t been redone since trench warfare was in vogue. Last rehearsal the soprano broke through the top stair, did a balancing act long enough to hit an F above high C, then crashed to the floor.”
“This is utterly unacceptable,” Kedrick snapped. “We have put off new
Tosca
sets far too long already.”
“You’re telling me. Imagine if it’d been Placido under her. We’d have made headlines all over the globe. Diva makes Domingo marmalade. But they’re so far behind schedule, only some serious money will bandage the wound.”
Kedrick checked his calendar. “They’re seven weeks from opening!”
“Tell me.”
“All right. You want me to call the director. What do you want me to say?”
“The truth.”
“Yes, yes, yes. But what bits of the truth?”
“The truth I can’t say.”
“In other words, you want me to play the butcher’s boy.” Another silence. “I had always thought my swan song would leave them in tears, but of a rather different sort.”
“You’ll do it?”
“Of course, dear boy. Have I ever let you down?” Lloyd hit the disconnect, then immediately buzzed his secretary. “Get me Barry Schonfeld.”
“I’m not certain he’s in the building, Mr. Kedrick.”
“I didn’t ask for his whereabouts. I said get him!” He hammered the disconnect, swiveled his chair to the window, and sat feasting upon his upper lip. As he waited, he said idly, “Popular operas like
Tosca
bring in the dollars. New radical pieces keep a house on the artistic and critical map. The problem is, you get directors and artistic designers who have won their stripes doing Hollywood sets or theatrical
numbers with twice our budget and half our stage dimensions. Every new production is a tournament between the artistic director and the budget committee. When it moves into rehearsals, the conductor’s ego is added to this potent mix. It’s a wonder we don’t see bloodletting more often.”
“You truly live for this,” Kirsten observed.
He turned and stared at her, clearly wondering what she had heard. Then his secretary buzzed through with “I have Mr. Schonfeld on line three.”
“Thank you.” His hand hovered over the receiver, beset by indecision, before hitting hit the speaker button. “Barry, I have been asked to insert your nether regions into the fryer.”
A laconic voice replied, “Everything’s under control, Kedrick.”
“Quite the contrary, from what I hear.”
“Don’t tell me Stanley’s gotten to you with his woe and agony routine.”
“I could build a house in the Hamptons for what your set is costing. Not to mention the fact that your designer is six weeks late and a mil over budget. Why? Because you contracted the same designer who demolished our budget last year!”
“You have a point. I’ll take a personal look at how we allocate this overspend.”
“Allocate?
Allocate?
” Kedrick’s ire lifted him from the chair. “You’re seven weeks from your opening night! Fire the woman! Sue her! Burn her at the stake!”
A horrified silence. Then, “This is Louella Rhyther you’re talking about. She’s the most famous set designer in LA.”
“She won’t be when this goes down! She’ll be toast!”
“She wants another week.”
“Of
course
she does. The closer we come to our final deadline the more we’ll be willing to throw money at her problem!”
A sudden case of nerves oozed from the speaker. “Apparently she was slowed down by a severely sprained ankle.”
“Oh. Dropped her wallet, did she?”
“She’s splendid, Kedrick. The best.”
“I find her an absolute shambolic mess, if you must know. To have you say otherwise leaves me questioning your own abilities.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Well, the board can hardly be expected to maintain a strong rapport with a director whose judgment they question.”
There was an audible gulp. “I’ll handle it.”
“You really must be fierce with her about this deadline. And if she balks even by a half hour …”
“Yes?”
“Fire her. Or I shall personally fire
you
.” He punched the button and declared, “No doubt our famous new director will now give birth to a nine-pound ulcer.”
Kirsten rose to her feet. The smoke and mirrors were complete about this man. She would gain nothing more here. “Thank you for your time.”
“Go home, Ms. Stansted. That’s my advice to you. Marry your nice little lawyer friend, raise some beautiful children, forget there is a big world out there beyond the confines of what you find comfortable.” He smirked a superior farewell. “Leave these other matters to those of us who understand how the world truly works.”