| AS QUICK AS CAN BE based on
| | I CAN FIND MY WAY OUT |
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| "Third Avenue and Battery," called the driver. Like a conscientious secretary, Samantha Hill walked off Metro and downhill to Second. To her very own production, to her very own flop. It was 6:31 now with doom an 1 hour and 29 minutes away. Never mind, she told herself but didn't hear.
The Morris Theatre: dirty green marble and granite from the 50s. White neon howling The Long & Short of It | music and lyrics by Samantha Hill. Glassed photographs of real stars dependent on her tiny, pathetic vehicle lined the entranceway. Samantha shivered at the responsibility born for Bill Brown, Carol Dailey, Alicia Russell, Koa Youngblood.Suddenly the baling wires holding her up broke. Her knees knocked. Her head filled with funky cotton, coarse like asbestos. Just how much damage would Koa Youngblood do if completely and totally smashed? Not necessarily enough to kill the show, right? More often than not, Koa could get a good piece off and get herself on to New York with powder up the nose and sauce in the gut. But this required extraordinary patience and work from everyone else in any way connected with the production. Still, what to do with a stoned genius occasionally better than good?Hill stared at the photos. She knew what she would like to do. Give up.Besides, any potential problems with Koa were moot because this was not a good production piece. Not even for Seattle. It was awful. The only thing that had kept Hill from, say, jumping off the Aurora Bridge or under the Monorail, was the story line with 2 numbers suggested by Bill Brown himself. "Sammy, I really like your stuff. It strikes the kind of post-millennial note we want to put over this decade particularly in Seattle where people prefer to believe civilization sustains. I do have an idea or two for sequence changes." She couldn't just abandon Bill Brown, could she?His suggestions had been more than an idea or two. They'd been sweeping but great. She'd rewritten the score and most of the dance numbers right away and before she knew it, was thinking of the material as her own although she'd said to him more than once: "Your name should be next to mine."He'd refused. "Just ideas. Ideas are nothing. Think of the ideas swimming in Hair and Grease and Cats and Evita and Porgy & Bess and Footloose," he added, "or, for that matter, the Cajun musical extravaganza that made me famous.""Please don't bring it up again, little Sammy" he'd finished with Bayou finality. "And please don't talk about it to others. There are those who would make bad use of the knowledge, who would dramatize my small contribution for all the wrong reasons. Promise me." So she'd promised him, figuring it had been colossally dumb to think world class Bill Brown would want his name next to some unknown bozo. And, boy, was he on the mark about that, she thought. He'd no doubt be glad to make the move to absolutely anything else; the farther away from this bomb, the better.Inhaling the old building's insulation and her own low self-esteem, she returned to the front of the Morris and reconsidered the night to come. What do Seattle ticketbuying audiences do when they've paid good money for entertainment and get royally shafted? Do they cruise through the presentation and clap a little like civilized people might, enough to let the entertainers off the hook? How about her own first night appearance? How minimal must applause be for the creator to totally bag it? Afterwards, they were off to the annual Gatesian Ball. God. She would give anything to stop the clock and the performance. Instead she hung by the frontdoors. Loitered like some street bum. There were lights in the box office. You don't always want to be seen. She crept over to a windowcase of posters for coming attractions, more promotional photos. Next to the advance notice for her ambitious production of I Can Find My Way In was a small photo of Jules Gray. Love or lose, girl, so choose. I'm nuts about him, she thought. A woman came out of the box office. "Aren't you Sammy Hill? We've got some messages for you."She took the slips of paper, ducking away into the light rain which had been going on for more than a week. The woman said, "break a leg tonight" and giggled like a true but wellmeaning fool.Long lines were forming on Battery; Seattle theatre goers were gathering to judge. |
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| At 6:30 pm, Bill Brown telephoned Koa Youngblood as he'd promised."It's Bill," he said when she answered and waited. He was a long way from pleased."Indeed it is, my dear, and I'm glad you called. You got my note, did you?" Koa was talking too loud and too fast. "I have been worrying about you, over what Brandy would do if she found out what you've pulled. You shouldn't have done it, you know; you shouldn't have given Brandy's material to that young wannabeastar. I don't care what it is that she's giving you.""Koa, stop it. That's slanderous and untrue. And why not use the material? We've been over this before. It's all art, for god's sake. And Brandy will never know about it." He paused and then said, his voice shaking, "do you hear me? We are not going to see Brandy again."
"In a community property state, don't you have at least a twinge about the legalities, Billy, dear? Do you have a lawyer you can turn to?"
"Leave it alone, Koa."
"What in the world will you do if she shows up? That would be just her sort of thing."
"She will not show up. Not tonight, not ever."
He heard the fake sigh. I am sick of this, he realized. This has grown old and ugly and I cannot bear it much longer. "Koa," he said into the receiver. But Koa had hung up. |
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| At 6:40 pm, Carol Dailey stood in front of her bedroom mirror for an appraisal. She examined her profile and was supremely satisfied. I have ten times more presence, she thought. My eyes are clear and lucid. My whole look is more upfront. I never blow performances. I don't drink or drug. I'm a better musician. In the best number, I'm the focus and Youngblood is in the wings. That's what's been staged and what little Sammy Hill wants. Good things are coming my way.
Quotes from the past, Broadway and roadway reviews, broke the present spell. Articles, media clips. Millions of words about Koa Youngblood. Occasional and despicable one sentence codas: Miss Youngblood prevailed while Miss Dailey hoofed acceptably. This Youngblood fan marvels at frills like Dailey; Youngblood is sufficient unto herself. The last insult: Carol Dailey appeared which is all that can be said about Carol Dailey. "Bastards and bitches!" she said to her mirror, applauding angry sparkle and sturdy stance. Alcohol and drugs did two very different ugly things. She lifted her index and third fingers. Proud of her hands, she extended the arm forward. Alcohol killed abilities but drugs instilled cunning. Youngblood could tear a play apart, ruin the equilibrium and look glorious in a way wrongly interpreted by critics and public as planned and intended. "But I," Dailey said expansively, "with my usual integrity, will do my usual excellent best."
She finished dressing, plaited her hair and looked one last time in the mirror. "Listen," she reminded herself, "she's done it too often. This could easily be a night to settle old scores."
Personal scenes call for action and reaction. Dailey got her umbrella and the travelcase with her costume for the Ball, the most important social event of the year. She left her Magnolia condo purposefully for live entertainment at the Morris. |
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| At 6:50 pm, Alicia Russell threaded her way through a cluster of men fans of rather advanced age. "Bless you, babies," she said in her bluesiest voice. She heard whispers as she continued, light as air on her 3 inch heels, past the stagedoorkeeper or paid security and up onto the stage itself. She paused in the shadows, with only the working lights. The props were up and the backdrop for the opening number, in place. Joan Miller, the hassled stagemanager, spotted her and said, "hi, there, Alicia. We've changed the dressingrooms, got you third on the left, your stuff moved in. Okay by you?"
"Beats nothing, honey, and I've had plenty of that. Naturally, the second billing room is taken by the magnificent Youngblood (poor pun unintended)?"
"True."
"And who's in the only other room that is not under chronic remodel, honey?"
"Well, to be honest, we put Carol Dailey in there to avoid problems. You know what a fuss she can make and we figured you'd be understanding."
"Well, yes, I am that, honey, and, fortunately, so is an audience." Russell entered the passage to the dressingrooms. Miller turned back to the stage and began to assemble fake fiddlehead ferns with a hand. "What's got her so up tight?" the hand asked? "She wanted one of the new dressingrooms." "Figures," said the hand. "The older they get, the more they want the new."
Stars were painted on the doors of the two dressingrooms nearest the stage. These rooms faced one another and the door on the right was open. Russell smelled Mennens and Bay Rum. Bill Brown's helper Harry was brushing a velvet plum jacket. "So where is he, honey?" Russell asked; "you can tell me."
"He'll be here," Harry answered tersely.
Russell shrugged and jigged a competent 2 step back into the passage, humming. The other star room door was shut although Koa Youngblood's dresser was making busy noises behind it. On the next door (starless) was pasted the formal "Miss Carol Dailey" notice. Russell shook her curly head. She opened the third door, flipped the ancient switch.
Truly the pits. No central heat. No comfort. Charred dust smells from the boxy gas heater. Stacked in one corner, pressboard and open paint cans. There were, however, 2 floor length mirrors and telegrams, letters, cards and phone messages on the scarred dressing table. Still humming, Russell picked up the posted mail, exposing some obvious duns and one letter, addressed in a bold and terrible handwriting.
She grabbed at her throat. Breathing harshly, she read. |
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| At 9, the housephone rang and Lee Ward let it go to voicemail for screening. After Tory's message clearly identifying the residence of Lee Ward and Tory Mann, the caller, an angry man, said, "Speedy Movers, you people stink! What does it take to get your attention? The cops?" Ward picked up the receiver. "This is not Speedy Movers;" she explained. "This is not 206-789-4300. This is a private residence. No, I cannot take a message for Speedy Movers." She hung up and turned back to Tory and Princess Artemisia. "What to do?"
"A new number?" suggested Tory.
"The sooner the better. Will you do it? And I'll get some spare cellphones." She held the sleek, useless instrument to her ear.
The housephone rang. Ward dropped the cellphone, put her charcoal grey head in her hands. "Let's move to the kitchen, angels" she said; "I can listen with one ear from there."
"They're 4300 and we're 4309," Tory told the Princess. "It's a matter of misdialing but you can't imagine how angry people get. It's as though they suspect us of lying, of trying to cover something up. Now, tell us why you want to become a police inspector, especially in Seattle."
"It's not that exciting, you know," put in Ward, rounding up cups, batteries, laptop, notes.
The Princess stretched tawny arms, jingled silver bracelets, examined manicured fingertips. "I don't expect to play games and I am willing to work hard. I am healthy and strong for a beautiful woman. And very street smart for a rich one."
"This pick up and delivery message is for Speedy Movers," the voice began.
"Why do they ignore your excellent message?" asked the Princess; "here, allow me." She started to interrupt the caller and then stopped. "Please, could you repeat that for me?" she asked and listened intently. "1242 Eastlake, Suite AB, and one suitcase for immediate delivery to Ms. Samantha Hall at the downtown Morris Theater. Collect? Surely. Thank you for your order!"
The Princess hung up. She appeared incredibly pleased with herself.
"You better square that away immediately," said Ward, frowning.
"Oh, you know the staccato voice -- ratatat tat -- won't let you speak."
"But little Sammy Hill may be counting on the delivery," said Tory. "Isn't this her opening night?"
"I believe you are correct," said the Princess, beaming.
"So?" Tory said. "Come on, Princess, what are you plotting?
"Sammy and I attended school together, Career University in DC; she was already putting on her shows, playing the organ herself, quite amazing."
"Put the order through, Princess," said Ward; "789-4300 will get you there."
"No, I will deliver. I did try to purchase tickets but they were sold out."
"Best hurry then," Ward said.
"But this is an opportunity to learn, it is not? To delve deeply into the observational person's role? Do you think you could loan me the, how you call it -- appropriate duds?"
"Are you implying I have a Speedy Movers wardrobe?" Ward asked.
"Yarg, you 2," Tory admonished, "the main item on the agenda is getting Sammy Hill's briefcase and whatever's in it to her without any further delay."
"I will return everything," said the Princess sincerely as they assembled her unisex costume: khaki pants, loafers, denim shirt, baseball cap, hazard vest, toolbelt.
"And there she goes," said Ward, watching the Princess drive off in her lime green Acura.
"Do you think this is okay?" asked Tory, from the livingroom. "I'm sort of uneasy."
"From what I know of the Princess, she will enjoy herself and the production thoroughly, then schmooze with the leading man as she seems in the mood for men. It's Bill Brown, you know, twice her age and straight as a rail so he's likely to go for it." Ward watched Tory take down her guitar. "Remember his wife? Brandy Alexander? Claimed it was her real name and maybe it was. A wildly dangerous woman. But she wrote good stuff for Brown. She also tried to kill him. More than once. Took off for St. Louis or Kansas City or Omaha. Divorce was the answer but Brown had property settlement problems. She wouldn't agree or something. Wonder what became of her." |
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| "Speedy Movers," the Princess said, pulling on the bill of the cap. "Here," said the woman overfilling the doorway. "Take it easy; it doesn't lock and the clasp is screwed up."
"You can relax; your goods will get where they are going with Speedy Movers."
The woman snorted and the Princess took the case to the car in an atmospheric whirl. It was an exciting night in the hills. The cool rain velvety, the streetlights gauzy. Capitol Hill flush with the skyline. On Magnolia Hill, Beacon Hill, Broadway and downtown along the waterfront, sirens and whistles started and died without excuse or explanation.
The Princess pitched the broken case onto the backseat and she wasn't gentle enough. "Bien, bien, bien," she said, shining the borrowed flashlight on the forest green floor.Bushy red wig, gloshine red spike heels, padded red body suit, red mesh hose. The Princess laid these red items carefully on the seat. Still on the floor, red velvet mini. Still in the case, Merry Widow corset from Maidenform and Bachelor's Carnation tube lipstick from Revlon.
The Princess thrust her hands into the vestpockets. She found an official embossed and encased card which read: Lee Ward, Special Inspector, Seattle Metropolitan Police. Here I come, ready or not, she told herself; seizing the day; adventure is mine.
10 minutes later a car parked on Third 3 blocks south of the Morris. The driver emerged and, carrying a sizable box in both arms, hustled down the Avenue to the stagedoor entrance, heels clicking. There, under mothclad light, only the bright red of the heels showed. The doorkeeper, grabbing a smoke and scratching an armpit, asked the question, "yes?"
"I need to deliver this item to Ms. Samantha Hill."
"I'll take it in for you; she's here."
"I am under an obligation to deliver it into her own hands; I am sorry."
"So am I; you're not going in without proper ID."
"Proper ID is no problem for me."
The Princess held out the card. The suspicious doorkeeper backed over under the light to read.
"Well, shoot, why didn't you say so? What's up, Inspector?"
"Nothing for you to know. Do not concern yourself. And this is most important. Do not tell anyone you have seen me."
"You got it."
"Keep your eyes open;" said the doorkeeper to a stagehand; "the law's here, dingbatty and foreign and in some pretty crazy plainclothes. Now what you suppose?"
"For this thing," marveled the hand, "you got to be kidding!"
"Weird disguise," said the doorkeeper; "wouldn't fool anyone."
"In your face pile of phony, red hair," agreed the hand, watching the strange law disappear.
Dominating and from the stage proper came melodious and articulate tones: "People, I cannot stand the yellow look but if that's what you expect the audience to appreciate, I'm the one to give it to you. Dim the lights, please. Do you see what I mean, people? Are you listening?"
"Careful, careful." The voice was so near the Princess almost yipped. "Closer and closer and in you go," said someone over her head. The lights on the stage glowed blue. "Start the strobe; can the working light." "Strobe on; working light gone."
Curtains closed and yellow beamed dead center stage. The famous Koa Youngblood appeared and, leaning towards the Princess, seemed to be saying directly to her: "I can't stand it, people!" From beyond the stage, the noise was deafening. "House lights!" sounded over the din. The Princess withdrew, making for a passageway where the only light came from an open door. She tried to sneak into this sanctuary just as famous Bill Brown swept through the door. He was beautifully dressed and made up. For a moment, he stood like a stone. Then, faintly waving with his fine right hand, he moaned and fell at her feet. |
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| Sammy Hill was shredding hardcopy programs onto the floor of the camouflaged, soundproofed room where the monitor showed and recorded the crowd, sometimes noisy, sometimes quiet, sometimes launching out as though mission driven, rising and clapping as one. Like now, as Koa Youngblood, mean as a viper pirouetting in the corn light, said, "people, it's history."
"No, no, no!" Hill wanted to scream. How she despised Youngblood and Dailey for letting Youngblood take over and twist the scene and the crowd for eating it up! They were about to move into a love ballad; the segue was important. The curtain came down and battering rainfall filled the theatre, growing louder as sidelights came on.
"Well, looks like we have ourselves a hit." Jill Pollard, who owned the Morris, was Hill's prime underwriter, sponsor, backer.
"She's ruining it. This is Carol Dailey's scene; it precedes the love ballad."
"Hey, whatever, the audience is in love. Just listen to them."
"I think Koa Youngblood is dangerous and I can't stand it."
Pollard took her hand. "Koa's giving money's worth. Chin up here, bunky. Folks are watching. This is a big, big night and going really, really well. Come have a wine with some fans. Talk about the August production and your future."
"Forgive me, Jill, I can't; I've got to go try to reason with her, to do something."
"I wouldn't," and Pollard gripped her hand harder. "You know," she began but Sammy pulled away and was off through the door, headed for the stage.
Except she had to stop for Jules Gray who was leaning against the post, smiling like a rainbow. "There she is," he said.
"Oh, Jules; Koa is stoned out of her mind and blowing the whole thing."
"No, no; she's finished early in the second half. It's going great, just as it should."
"But, can't you appreciate --"
"I do; I appreciate everything you've done and will do. Most of all, I appreciate you. Listen. Feel it. Understand it. It's in the air. This is a smash. You are a success."
"Jules," she murmured.
Then someone was shaking her hand again and again as the graffiti boards were clipped and tied to the backdrop. In front were strategically placed hibachi pots, spaced like chessmen. "Fires," yelled the stage manager. Fake flames popped up. "Second half, take your places."
"Bill okay?" yelled Joan Miller. She was frowning.
"He's fine. He's got another ten," said Bill Brown's dresser Harry who was very near Hill.
What's wrong with Bill?" Hill asked and was ignored. Oh, no, she thought; what now?
"Sammy, I'm late, got to get back and so should you. It's great. Keep saying that to yourself because it's true."
"Jules," she began after he was gone.
Synthesized music swelled from behind the curtain, raw xylophone and zither.
"Clear for the second half." The stagehands cleared.
"Strobelights set."
"Sidelights."
"Sidelights gone."
"Stand by."
Hill was no closer to the action when the curtain rose on the opener. Youngblood and Russell softshoed and tapped and warbled. It was short. |
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| Kneeling by the prostrate Brown, the Princess sensed an observer. Someone else wasn't watching the stage and 4 famous legs warming their way around a silicon globe prop. The Princess twisted her body and saw a silhouette flatten against the wall.
A man came through the door.
"We need help," she said unnecessarily.
The man bent down and the shadowy actress, actor, worker, doctor, lawyer, merchant or thief vanished through a door on the right.
The man glared at the Princess but held Brown up. He put a flask to his mouth and fanned his face. "What in hell did you have to come back for?" he shouted at her.The lights came on in the passageway and the Princess got real. "Excuse me. This misunderstanding must cease." She took off the wig. The man stared. Brown made a clearing noise in his throat and raised himself up. "Harry?" he said.
"Nothing to worry about, boss. It ain't her. And you're gonna be fine." Harry glared at the Princess. "Take it all off," he ordered.
"Certainly," said the Princess; "and I am sorry." Slinking off, she heard a girl yell, "3 minutes to curtain." "Tell them to wait," Harry said, "Bill's in trouble."
"No, Harry. You were right the first time. I'm fine. Don't say anything to anyone, please." He must have been talking to the girl. "Harry," the Princess heard him say in a cracked voice as they went into the room on the left, "who was that?"
The Princess sought shelter behind a stack of palm tree props out of the passageway but near the entry to it. She saw Sammy Hill talking to a man. In the bustle on the stage, the girl called to the stagemanager who shouted out, "Bill okay?" Harry came back into the passage and responded. "He's fine. He's got another ten." The girl called, "clear for the second half." The manager was in a directorial furor. Tiny Alicia Russell, sprightly but no pullet, came and stood just offstage, smoothing silk and chiffon. Odd music whipped the air. Koa Youngblood lunged from the room on the right. The Princess smelled booze, something like charred appleskins. Up went the curtain.
Hidden behind the props, the Princess shed the rest of the Dangerous Redhead costume, glad she'd had the sense to bring in the case with the borrowed Speedy Movers clothing. She made the switch from vamp to valet while listening to running commentary from the stagehands about Youngblood: "She's flying." "Great." "And how come she's great?" "Because she's flying."
Maybe 10 minutes passed. Convinced of a new spanner in the works, the Princess felt the growing tension. A setdoor opened on stage. Youngblood could be heard but the voice was smudged, then harsh and jangly. "People, you cannot find soul without a 10 foot pole. Sooner, consumers, as well as later, gators." The setdoor shut. Youngblood came to stand next to the Princess. A big bang came even closer. Props and the Princess shook. Youngblood went into her dressingroom, snapped the lock. Booze, appleskins and gunpowder. Off stage, a hand put a pistol on a sidetable. Alicia Russell exited, talked with the manager who was Joan Miller, the Princess tried to remember. Russell clicked off to her room.
The Princess threw away music, dialogue, noise. She was distracted by smells. Trappings, cardboard. Phew. Suppressing what was in the ears, she concentrated on what was in the nose: Elmers glue, old velvet curtains, pancake, Cold Cream, warm rouge. Then the girl tapped on doors and the Princess snapped to attention. "Miss Dailey, please. Mr. Brown, please." Brown came out first with Harry brushing. She heard a door handle rattle and Brown said something. A voice she could barely make out answered. They all passed by with Brown drawing himself up, shaking his shoulders, and the others talking simultaneously. He drew himself up even more and strode to the setdoor, stiffarmed it and danced on stage, followed by Dailey. The Princess had never cared much for Dailey.
Back to the smells: sandpaper, paint remover, old upholstery. Gas. Definitely gas. Yes, gas.
Stagehands were shifting from side to side as the Princess crept from cover. She could see the prompt corner with Miller, eyes glued to the stage. Players and musicians who were not on ranged behind the manager. Harry and another dresser, apart from the rest, swayed as the overheads lit their caught faces. Brown sent his hot and cold fevers through audience and cast.
The Princess looked down around her feet. Had she kicked some line open? The girl was calling 5 minutes in the passageway, rapping harder. Russell, the fall chicken, appeared, complaining about gas. "Really a problem, huh?" said the girl cheerfully. Both stared at the Princess and then joined the group by Miller. Russell said something to the manager who sniffed and shrugged and turned back to the promptbox which was silently clapping. Miller made a frantic gesture and a hand went flying. Everyone was jumpy. Everyone stared back towards the passageway as the hand scuttled to the first door on the right. "Ms. Youngblood, you're on; you're on." She wrestled with the doorknob. "Ms. Youngblood." The Princess raced into action.
"Gas!" the hand gagged, pointing at the door.
"Break it in."
"Can't. I'll get help. I'll get Joan."
There wasn't much room but the Princess tried, running at the door, bruising her shoulder. She moved the door a little, getting a larger dose of the smell, reeling. There was an enormous din from somewhere. The Princess decided it must be hailing outside. Global warming was a theme she had trouble with. She got set for another try.
"Hold it, please."
The manager hammered a screwdriver head between the lock and doorpost without much wasted effort. The Princess pulled the door open and the smell rolled over them like oil. "No windows." Miller backed away.
The Princess covered her face with the Speedy Movers scarf. The room spun but she could see a woman in the chair, head hanging forward. The Princess charged.
She banged into plenty on the way out, lugging the woman's dead weight. She knew nothing about emergency medical procedures for gas victims and a high keening noise filled her head before she woke up. From the floor, she could see many pairs of legs. She heard someone in the distance. "You are good to put up with our timing screwups and clumsy attempt at something different." More hail. Delicious gasless air. The Princess sat up. |
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| The phone rang, went to voicemail. Tory suggested Lee unplug it for all of eternity.
"Someday, love," Ward said, waiting for the message. It could be the office; she was always available; 24 and 7 for 12 times 5, they called it these days.
"Is this the residence of Special Inspector Ward, SMPD?" Ward picked up the phone. "Yes."
"I'm calling from the Morris Theatre to tell you the SI's had a little accident. Seems okay but maybe you want to come pick her up and drive her home?"
"What kind of an accident?"
"Well, gas, actually. But she's okay."
"Gas! I'm on my way. Thanks."
"What in the world?" asked Tory. "Suicide attempt?"
"No, no; but the Princess is up to something at the Morris. Not to worry. Nothing I can't handle. You go to bed and I'll tell you about it tomorrow if it proves interesting."
Having temporarily centered her most important relationship, Ward drove to the theatre. The marquee was dark. She went around to the back where she was stopped.
"SMPD," she said and showed her badge and identification.
"Hell," said the doorkeeper. "How many of you are there?"
"The person inside is working for me," Ward said with plenty of trepidation. She went through the entrance. Mumbling, the woman followed her.
Double doors had been rolled back and the Princess was sitting on a sofa. She was pale, especially in contrast to those around her. 3 women and 2 men: sparkling in millennial finery, glistening in skin paints. Behind the sofa, stagemanager, Ward guessed, and hands. To the side, 2 expensive women in playwatching not playperforming mode. Everyone shocked and upset.
"I am very, very sorry," said the Princess. "I have been trying to explain. Please, please, everyone," she said, "this person of authority is Special Inspector Lee Ward."
"What's going on here?" barked the doyen of the playwatchers. "You told us --"
"Yes," said the doorkeeper, "because she showed me ID."
"Yes, but --" began the Princess.
"This is Princess Artemisia of the Spanish Lowlands," said Ward forcefully. "She is a recruit to the Seattle Metropolitan Police Department and under my supervision. Now tell me what's been happening here. I understand one of you is a doctor?"
The other playwatcher came forward. "Dr. Barbara Reason."
"Thank you. Would you fill me in, doctor?"
"Certainly, Inspector," With doyen Jill Pollard's assistance, Dr. Reason performed introductions. "Listen, it's very good you're here," they all seemed to agree.
"Now if you'll come this way," said the doctor. |
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| They climbed onto the stage. At stage center, a long table had been put to use. The lights were low and the gas heavy. The body, covered with old army blankets, remained very much a body.
"And this is?"
"Koa Youngblood. The door of her dressingroom was locked and although your brave little recruit dragged her out, there was no chance. I was sitting in the front, here because Jill's a friend of mine and had asked me to the Gatesian Ball afterwards. In my opinion, this was suicide, done in exactly the flamboyant way you would expect of this poor, famous creature. I was her treating physician, you know."
"I'll be interested in the medical history but now I need to look at the room. Has it been disturbed in any way?"
"No. We were careful. Nasty still. No windows. Even though the gas is off at the main and the doubledoors are open. Unbearable."
They entered the passageway. "Lifethreatening," said the doctor. "You'd better keep close to the floor if you go in. First room on the right. Can't miss it. They had to break the lock."
The 150 watt lights over the mirror were burning. Ward knelt against the lefthand wall by the gas jet which was turned on, the handle parallel with the floor. The heater, nozzle and handle, and rug were covered with tawny silt or powder. This powder was in a box on the end of the dated dressingtable extending towards Ward. Behind the powder were tubes and pots of makeup and a mirror, then a sink. The chair in front of the sink was thrown aside, overturned. There were marks in the rug, indicating something or someone had been dragged to the door. By the sink was a half-empty fifth of Old Mr. Boston Spot Bottle Gin. Next to it, an envelope with a different powder. Unconsciously marking exhibits, Ward got out of there none too soon.
"Seems pretty self-evident, right?" asked the doctor, unprofessionally.
"Can you show me the other dressingrooms?"
The next room was similar but of a reverse design and smaller. The dressingtables and heaters were identical and back to back. The heater in this room was also turned on, brass nozzle parallel to the floor. Ward took the time to look it over carefully. Nothing unusual. Lead-in pipe, flexible metal tube and rubber connection, all in apparently good working order. There was a second tap in the pipe and Ward removed the tube and studied the fittings. Everything seemed okay. She baggied and pocketed a tube fitting, careful of a whitish stain with a tiny grayish blue thread attached -- possibly packing material. No powder spilled on the carpet. She looked once more around the room and read the card on the door as she left: "Ms. Carol Dailey".
Ever present Dr. Reason escorted her across the passageway to star Bill Brown's room where a full table was devoted to wellwishing gifts: champagne, books, shirts, cigars, yellow roses and many cards which Ward read. "From Sammy who can't say thanks" tucked in Richard Russo's latest novel. "Here's to you and cheers to you, honey" with a bottle of Dom Perignon.
Next door, in a smaller room assigned to Jules Gray hung a beautiful white silk shirt with a card which read simply, "from Sammy with love".
Ward examined the gas heaters in both these rooms, especially the connections.
"Nothing wrong with them, is there?" asked earnest Dr. Reason.
"No. Seem fine. Sound material, tight connections."
"Okay, well --"
Down the passage on the left was one more room, empty. Opposite was the room of Alicia Russell as handwritten on a 3x5 card tacked to the door. These two rooms had no heaters. Russell's dressingtable was more of a cardtable and covered with the necessary makeup, 1 blue, 1 red and 2 black wigs; lots of paper: cards, congratulatory notes, mostly bills."Listen, about what to do with the body," said Dr. Reason, and looked hopeful.
"We'll call the morgue wagon, doctor; nothing for you to worry about.""Isn't that a bit dramatic for suicide?"
"This is no suicide."
"What! But what kind of hideous accident could --"
"This is no accident, doctor." |
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| It was midnight and the Morris premises were brightly lit as Seattle's finest did what they do. A uniformed officer stood at the stagedoor and the SMPD mortuary van was parked in the alley. Lights were dimmest in the audience area as the distance from the stage increased. Close to the foyer doors and huddled together in aisle seats were Bill Brown, Jill Pollard, Carol Dailey, Alicia Russell, Jules Gray, Samantha Hill, stagemanager Joan Miller, dresser Harry and the callgirl. Uniforms were beside and behind. Programs littered the empty seats and floor. Someone smoked, the smoke rising thinly like it knew it shouldn't be there.
Ward and the Princess were in the Morris management office. "Are you sure you've told me absolutely everything and you've exaggerated nothing?"
"Oh, yes, everything. I was there the whole time and saw them when they came on and went off but not one of them could see me. It was too dark."
"We'll have something for you to sign."
"I am pleased to sign, certainly."
"Bailey, Miss Pollard and Mr. Gray can leave. I'll see Mr. Brown."
Bailey left and the Princess said, "please accept my apologies for the mistaken identity confusion and the terrible trouble I have caused. I never thought about the implications of my harmless little impersonation trick."
"Comic masquerading won't cut it on the force."
"God, I am so stupid," the Princess moaned.
Ward held out the wig to the Princess. "Here, put it on."
"Why? How cruel! So he can faint again?"
"I don't think that will happen. Good. Now add the glasses and let's see. You can come in," Ward said to Bill Brown. Master Sergeant Bailey had a laptop, sat at the far end of the desk.
Brown looked as though his face would like to take a break. His skin was patched with color and his pupils were opaque. He seemed exhausted as he stood, staring at the Princess. "Is she back in Seattle?" he asked. "Why are you doing this? For god's sake, take that wig off; it's not even a good wig, nothing like the real thing." He shivered. "Who's paying you?" he demanded.
"No, sir; I am not paid but I am solely to blame. I was playing this little trick on Sammy Hill --"
"Sammy! I can't believe she would be party to such a sad parody. Of course --"
"Yes?" encouraged Ward.
"Well," Brown said; "it's no secret Sammy was very upset with Koa's interpretation of the role. And with a certain amount of justification," he added.
"She says it was to be her costume for the Gatesian Ball," the Princess said. "The one that I brought here and, like a fool, put on. I did not intend to offend."
"Ask Samantha Hill to come in," Ward said and MS Bailey came back with pale Sammy. "I've explained to the Princess; it was my costume for tonight. I got busy and bored with trying to figure out what to come as so I ordered it over the web with local delivery. Established website. Invoice. Looked legit. Jules reminded me and called to have them bring it to the theatre. He was trying to make it easy on me."
"And what was your reason for the choice of costume?" asked Ward.
"I didn't choose it. That was one of the selling factors. They said they were sending a bunch our way as specified and if I gave them the size, they'd fix something up for me. They said we'd all resemble flower children, 60s characters."
"Who said this? You had an email exchange or phone conversation?"
"No, actually it was Carol Dailey."
"Oh, come on!" said Brown; "not Carol."
"Please explain why everyone is so upset with red mesh stockings, miniskirt and red wig," begged the Princess.
"Because," Ward said, "redheaded Brandy Alexander often wore minis and mesh. Aren't I right, Mr. Brown? I saw your wife --"
"My wife was seen by and well known to the police on several continents," Brown interrupted. Grabbing the arms of the chair, he began to moan softly. Bailey and the Princess kept their heads down. Hill took hold of Brown's shoulder, gently kneading it. "Come on, general," she said; "I'm sure the truth can't hurt."
Focusing completely on Ward, Brown told his story. "It's important you understand the background. I can see that. For years, my wife had me in a kind of economic prison. When I finally worked up the courage to sue for divorce irrespective of the fiscal ramifications, she produced compromising videos taken of me and Koa Youngblood. The 3 of us had it out -- ugly scene. Brandy said she was leaving for her birth country which is the Netherlands as you probably know. She threatened to return if I pursued the divorce. She left behind her the first draft of a musical drama she'd been writing with some especially wonderful pieces in it for Koa and me. 'But you won't have the chance,' is what she told us; 'nobody but Brandy could put this together for you.' My wife was vindictive. She returned to Amsterdam," he told them, MS Bailey recording, and that was the last he heard of her. In a short time, notice publication and the statute of limitations might have made him a free man. Meanwhile, the relationship with Youngblood had soured. Always a substance abuser, Youngblood had gotten out of control. "She was obsessed with Brandy's return. Used to dream Brandy was in town. Would call me at all hours and go on and on."
Sammy Hill had to ask, "my production was --"
"Oh, definitely. It was uncanny and I could tell immediately where to work in Brandy's material, which scenes would beef up your central message. Koa didn't want me to give it to you. Carol was all for it. Of course, she was hoping for Koa's part and was furious when she didn't get it. Naturally, when she suggested you should masquerade as Brandy -- well, you can see how it looked." He stared evenly at each of them.
"When she saw you, what did Koa Youngblood do?" Ward asked the Princess.
"She whipped her hands about herself as though she required protection and dashed into her room. She appeared frightened. She must have thought Brandy Alexander was back."
Brown nodded somberly.
"Do you know if you were alone after you passed out?" Ward asked him.
"I'm sure I wasn't. Harry was taking care of me like he has been for 25 years. He stayed with me in my dressingroom until it was time for me to go on again."
"One more thing. Any recollection at all of something unusual about the heater or temperature in your room?"
"Yes," Brown replied; "I distinctly remember the heater crackling and popping. It bothered me."
"And you went straight from your room to the stage?"
"Yes, with Harry. I wanted to reassure Koa and tried her door but it was locked. She yelled, 'go away' and I told her, 'it's okay; it isn't Brandy.' She didn't answer and I went on."
"I heard him," volunteered the Princess.
"She must have planned it while dosing; she was zonked out when she did her last number." Brown turned to Ward; "I'd like to go now if you're done with me."
"I've got a car to take you; Princess, please see if it's ready. Mr. Brown, you can wait out in the foyer if you like."
"Okay to take Harry with me?"
"Sure. We'll have the sergeant locate him. Anything else we can do for you?"
"No, thanks, but I'm grateful for the considerate treatment."
Ward opened the door and walked with Brown to the foyer. "Find Harry the dresser for Mr. Brown," she told MS Bailey; "then I want to talk to Alicia Russell."
She watched Brown, leaning against the wall, rubbing the back of his neck. Not far away on an easel, in a rather bad but huge oil, Koa Youngblood smiled." |
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| Russell's mascara had run. She now wore a crisp black wig which had slipped, exposing a pale patch of skin over her left ear. Waving her cigarette holder, she resembled an aggressive concentration camp escapee. "Listen, sugar," she said, "this lady wants to go home!"
"I won't keep you long, I promise;" said Ward, thinking how often you risk breaking a promise because she'd keep her as long as necessary. But, Russell's information jived with the story told by the Princess. Ward asked if Russell had visited other dressingrooms. "Mercy, no! I stay where I'm put. Rain, sleet and snow. Stars mingle. I support."
"And is this what Koa Youngblood did? Do you know if she stayed in her room?""Well, she didn't come in mine."
"That's not quite an answer, Ms. Russell."
"I don't know the answer, sugar, and it's Alicia."
"What about ideas or theories? Do you have any?"
"Are you asking why she did it? It's obvious? She was drunk and/or doped up on something lethal. Ask anyone, especially Carol. Koa ruined Carol's last number, made her look a bigger fool than she is. Poor theater but that was Koa and the more stoned, the more so. She simply overdosed." Russell's eyes were black, bloodshot slits. "Ms Dailey must be feeling pretty punk at this juncture," she said and laughed in a nasty way. "suicide's hard to upstage."
"I assure you it was not suicide," said Ward.
Russell made a sharp noise. "Oh, no," she said; "not like Carol warned us, not like she warned the management. She told us this whole city block should be condemned."
"Are you talking about the gas heaters?"
"What else? Wearing one of her stranger hats, Carol did some radio for Seattle City Gas years ago. Got chummy with the plant manager who told her more than you'd ever want to hear about gas feeders and lines. Said she had a real head for the business." Russell looked at Ward as though she expected Ward to laugh.
Ward didn't. She stood up.
"Alicia, maybe you can help us. There's one more person we have to see and then something I'd like to try. Could you wait and give us a hand?
"Sleep was more what I had in mind. But if you really --"
"You have my word we won't keep you long," Ward said, thinking there I go.
"Praise the lord and pass the congregation," said Russell fervently. |
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| Carol Dailey wore the doll makeup from her last number. She looked as though she'd never seen the sun, feathers under her pinched eyes and mouth designed for a surviving, brokenhearted lover. In the harsh light of the office, she launched into how sorry and upset she was, how Koa had certainly been a trial more than once but wasn't it awful what could happen to people, especially theatre people? As for her, well, she wasn't sure if she would recover from tonight. What could have possessed Koa? What had she taken to make her do such a thing?
"Bill Brown has a theory."
"Really," said Carol Dailey. "That's entertainment. Do tell."
"He thinks Koa Youngblood saw a woman masquerading as the missing Brandy Alexander and, terrified, altered her mind and body with everything she could get her hands on and simply went too far. The costume which had such startling success was ordered by you, was it not?"
Dailey got excited. She rattled away. She'd no intention of imitating Brandy who was probably dead. What would have been the point? They were all supposed to dress like hippies. Nothing more complicated than that. She shook her head several times. Began to rub her hands. "Just what do you mean?" she yelled; "just what are you implying?"
"Murder is not an implication; Koa Youngblood was murdered."
"That's ridiculous. If she didn't kill herself, it was the faulty gas system. I've been warning them."
"Yes, Ms. Russell told us you had expressed concerns."
Dailey nodded. "I mean, look at this place. Alicia and I took a tour. She's an old high school physics teacher and I know a bit about gasworks. Outrageous. As for murder, the room was locked. They had to break down the door to get to Koa. No other way to get in, no windows."
"Please," said Ward; "let's concentrate on what we know. Ms. Dailey, you knew Brandy Alexander as well as anyone. Are you saying that when you lined up Samantha Hill's costume, you had no idea this would upset Bill Brown or Koa Youngblood?"
"Now, wait a minute," snapped Carol Dailey; "Alicia knew and if it had scared Koa into behaving herself, where's the harm. This would have meant the end of the road for Bill. He'd had it so where's the problem there? The silly masquerade has nothing to do with murder."
"I'm sure we'll find that to be the case." Ward stood. |
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| In Dailey's dressingroom, Assistant Inspector Thompson and other uniformed or evidentiary experts grouped either by the heater or the door. Dailey stumped about and complained.
"Why am I being put through this? Can someone please answer me? Where is that official woman anyway? Where are official women when needed?"
Ward was next door, in the deceased's room with Russell, the Princess, and MS Bailey who slept in the armchair nearest the dresser, head down and eyes closed. The air had cleared; the hvac was fine if a little warm.
"Now, this is the background, Alicia," Lee said, waking Bailey. "You and Ms Youngblood have made your final exits; Ms Dailey, Mr Brown and Mr Gray are on the stage. The Princess is just outside the passageway entrance. The dressers and crew are watching from the side. Ms Youngblood has locked her door. There she sits, in a stupor from a combination of drugs and, of course, the autopsy may show she died before the gas could kill her, but indulge me. There she sits with the gas heat turned on, the thermostat at 70. She had applied her makeup earlier and on the gas tap, there is a thick layer of facepowder. Now watch."
Ward gently rapped the wall.
The gas fire went out with a crack and gas began hissing through the pipe until Ward turned it off. "Observe,"she said; "a good print in the powder. Now, come next door with me, please."
Carol Dailey started in immediately: "I don't know anything about this and demand an explanation."
"Impossible to get an official gas expert at this time of night, Ms. Dailey, and your opinion could be valuable. Are you willing? Just show us, Thompson."
The leadin was disconnected from the tap on the heater. AI Thompson bent down and turned on the tap in the pipe and blew down the tube.
"It's oldfashioned physics; an airlock. Works like a charm."
Russell was staring at Dailey who was staring at Ward and looked genuinely horrified. "But I don't know the slightest thing about pipes and locks or physics. All I know is gas marketing. For god's sake, speak up for me, Alicia --"
"There's more," said Ward. She lifted the cloth that had covered the corner of the dresser. The rubber connection piece lay underneath on a sheet of paper.
"Would you look at this stain through the magnifier, Alicia? Notice it's bright red. Greasepaint, don't you think? And see the wiry bluish hair above? Spiraled, almost like thread. Distinctive." Russell lowered the lens.
"Here, let me help," said Ward. She reached out and up. Holding Russell's head, she plucked 3 or 4 black hairs to drop on the paper. "Perfect match except for color and the one found was stuck to the connection with Select hairspray. Common enough but your brand, I believe."
The lens hit the floor. Russell attacked, scratching and spitting. Small as she was, it took both Bailey and Thompson to subdue her.Thompson administered temporary first aid. "Sure makes it easier, boss. None of this rights reading and call your lawyer biz. So long as you're okay, of course, " she added, grinning.
"Thank you, Thompson," said Ward, touching her lacerated cheek.
"She must have gone into the dressingroom right after Brown and Dailey were called, before they even went on."
"Yes, quick as lightening in order to get back for her own call. Surprisingly quick for her age, thanks to working out 2 nights a week, something I learned inadvertently. Dailey's revelation of her earlier stint as a high school physics teacher sure helped. Personal bio tips are invaluable."
The Princess let that pass. "Yes, but what were her reasons? Why did she do it?"
"Oh, you mean motive. Well, Princess, you're now seeing the boring side of homicide and the reason we're still in this depressing place at 2 am. Are you up to it? Want to go home?"
"No, no; give me my assignment."
"Okay. See that trash over there by the prompting entrance."
"It was almost 3 when they'd been through all the dressingrooms and Ward called a timeout. The Princess beckoned from the door of Carol Dailey's room. "Si, si, si," she said, pointing her dirty thumbs up. "I hope," she added.
They gathered around the dressingtable. Ward laid out paper fragments the Princess had found pushed to the bottom of Dailey's trash.
"Like I said, very quick and slick in covering tracks," Ward arranged and rearranged the tiny pieces, this way and that. MS Bailey and AI Thompson withdrew and chatted; the Princess put on ear phones and listened to KZOK.
"Finally," Ward said; and there it was: the letter Alicia Russell had opened in a different room 6 hours and 45 minutes earlier.
Dear Alicia, I discovered through a friend in Brussels that Brandy died 6 years ago and that you took care of the funeral arrangements. I'm telling Bill tonight. How could you do this? I'm furious and will make you pay!
"No signature," remarked MS Bailey.
"Take a look at the handwritten message with the roses in Brown's room. Still think you want to be a copper?" Ward asked the Princess.
"I am even more certain."
"I may regret this but come see me downtown. You know where the office is.""Thank you! You will not regret. You will not be sorry. You will be proud of me."
They trooped out into the rain. Pausing by the uniform left on duty, the Princess looked up. She had to lean back to see the neon letters of the Pollard marquee. The Long & Short of It jittered. To the right of the box office was a glassed display for coming Morris attractions including I Can Find My Way In by Samantha Hill. "I wonder," said the Princess to herself. |
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