License Invoked (8 page)

“Now just a minute . . .” Liz began, but Boo laid a restraining hand on her arm.

“Works for me, he said. “You're sure you can find your way back to the hotel by yourselves?”

“Positive,” Lloyd said, holding the door for Fionna. “If we get lost, we'll just take a cab.”

“Okay. You two enjoy your meal now,” Boo called, but the door was already shutting behind the pair.

“Well I never,” Liz fumed. “I know we were just talking about manners, but that was rude no matter how you look at it.”

“I'd have to say we're lookin' at it the same way, then,” Boo said, taking her by the arm. “C'mon. Let's get you somethin' to eat. There's a place just across the street here I think you'll like.”

Liz glanced at the white-fronted building Boo was steering her toward, then pulled up short as she caught sight of the sign.

“Antoine's?” she said. “I think I've heard of this place.”

“It's been around for a while,” Boo agreed, pointing at a sign that read SINCE 1840. New Orleans seemed to have the same gift of understatement as Scotland, where a “wee while” could be four hundred years.

“But isn't it kind of fancy?” Liz hesitated, glancing at Boo's somewhat bedraggled outfit.

“You forget, darlin'. The Quarter lives on tourist money. Not many places will turn business away just because they aren't dressed right.”

With that, he led the way into the restaurant's cool interior.

Liz still felt slightly ill at ease as she surveyed the rows of tables with their spotless tablecloths and more than spotless waiters. It certainly looked like an upscale place.

“Boo-ray! What brings you out in the daylight?”

One of the waiters swept down on them, pumping Boo's hand vigorously with one hand while pounding him on the back with the other.

“Hey, Jimmy. Just showing the young lady here a bit of the Quarter,” Boo said. “She wanted to see the most overrated restaurant we've got, so naturally I brought her here.”

“I'm going to tell Pete you said that,” the man said, hastily seating them at a window table. “You just sit here while I go tell him you're out here.”

“Say, Jimmy. Before you do,” Boo beckoned the man closer, “could you do me a little favor? Call Michelle across the street and tell her to give the couple that just came in special treatment. She can't miss them; the lady has bright green hair. Tell her particularly to pull the explanation sheet out of their menus.”

Jimmy retreated, grinning.

“I take it you're known here,” Liz said.

“I drop by once in a while,” Boo said with a shrug. “Like I told you, most folks in the Quarter know each other.”

“What was that bit with the `special treatment' for Lloyd and Fionna?”

“Don't you want them to have a nice meal?” Boo's face was a picture of innocence.

“Don't be evasive, Boo,” Liz insisted. “We're supposed to be working together, remember?”

“Well, I believe I mentioned that Lucky Chang's was different. Well, it's not the Chinese/Cajun menu that makes it different.”

“Could you clarify that a bit? What is it about the place that requires an explanation sheet?”

“Mostly, it's the help. Did you get a look at them at all?”

“Just a glimpse, but they all seemed to be attractive young ladies.”

“You're right. That's what they seem.”

Liz frowned, then her face brightened with a mischievous smile.

“You mean . . .”

Boo nodded.

“That's right. The waitstaff may look female. In actuality, though, they're some of the most practiced cross-dressers and drag queens in the Quarter. I think it could get downright interestin' if your friend Lloyd makes an after-hours date with one of 'em.”

They were still sharing the laugh when a black-haired cook dressed in a crisp, white apron emerged from the swinging doors and approached their table.

“Hey, Boo! Where y'at?”

“Pete, how many times have I got to tell you that you'll never get that `yat' accent down well enough to convince anyone?”

He quickly introduced Liz, who was still chortling.

“So, what can I get you folks to eat?”

“Actually, we haven't seen a menu yet.”

“Shucks, Liz,” Boo put in. “Just tell Pete here what you feel like eatin', and if he can't cobble it together in that kitchen of his, he'll just order out for it.”

Suddenly the tensions of the morning slid away from Liz, and she realized she was ravenously hungry.

“You know,” she said, “I think what I'd really like is some of the hot Cajun cooking I keep hearing about.”

“Darlin', Gen do that for you in a flash,” Pete said, charmingly. “How does a bowl of gumbo sound?”

“Make that two,” Boo said. “And be sure to make mine extra-extra spicy.”

“Mine too!” Liz nodded. “Extra-extra!”

“Are you sure you want to do that?” Boo asked as the cook disappeared into his realm. “I though you British liked your food kinda bland.”

“Don't believe everything you hear,” Liz said with a smile. “Haven't you ever heard of the English Raj? We invented vindaloo curries. I believe there's more Indian restaurants than Continental in London today. And lately Thai food has been all the rage in England. We adore hot spices.”

“Well, all right, ma'am.”

True to her word, when the food arrived, she proclaimed it delicious and finished every drop, though in actuality she found it a little disappointing. There wasn't enough spice in the mix to raise a sweat. Still, she felt it would have hurt the cook's feelings to complain or add seasoning, as he had hovered over their table anxiously through the whole meal. Both he and Boo watched her as though they expected her to burst into flames. They looked almost sorry that she didn't seem discomfited. It would have been rude if she hadn't reacted, so she fanned her face with her hand.

“Oh, my,” she said, echoing one of her elderly aunts who, it would have astonished both men to know, had lived in India with her army officer husband, and had come home from her years abroad with a book of curry recipes and a trunkful of chilies. Both men relaxed, satisfied, and Liz, with a secret smile, finished her lunch.

Walking back to the hotel, she found herself in a surprisingly pleasant mood. Lunch, with the jokes and the prank on Lloyd, had left her feeling well-fed and relaxed. Even the heat didn't seem as oppressive now. She mentioned as much to Boo, and enjoyed watching his ready laugh.

“It's the Big Easy,” he said as he held the door into the hotel lobby. “That's why they call it `the city that care forgot.' Once you get into the pace of things down here, you can just kind of float along and believe that whatever happens, it will all be all right.”

“Speaking of that, “ Liz said, looking around, “didn't Lloyd say they were going to meet us here after lunch?”

Boo-Boo shrugged. “Well, `after lunch' isn't really a precise time down here. Hang on a second and I'll check with the desk to see if they left a message.”

Despite the fact that she had just eaten, Liz found herself idly studying the posted menu for the hotel restaurant as she waited. It was extensive and delightfully varied. She guessed that Boo was right. Eating really was a major pastime down here, and the more you got into the pace of things . . .

“Sorry, darlin', but we've got problems,” Boo declared, materializing at her elbow. “We've got to get over to the Superdome fast.”

He had her out the front door and into a taxi before she could collect her wits.

“What is it?” she asked, following in his wake. “Was there a message?”

“They didn't bother to leave one for us,” Boo said grimly, “but the desk clerk remembered the message that came in for Lloyd and Fionna. It seems that one of Fionna's costumes burst into flames. This time it was on stage in front of half the crew and the band.”

Liz and Boo pushed their way into the mob of people crowding the barrier set up by the firefighters across the rear entrance to the Superdome. Three fire trucks, surrounded by miles of unreeled hose, flashed their revolving lights weakly in the oppressive New Orleans sunshine. An equal number of chunky white vans bearing parabolic dishes on top announced the arrival of the media. Reporters were clustered to one side by a police officer, but it was clear the cordon wouldn't last long.

Liz and Boo showed their backstage passes to the sweating security guard at the door. Very reluctantly, he let them crawl underneath the barrier, while shouldering aside a couple of rabid fans with cameras who tried to follow. After the press of the crowd, the soaring, concrete room seemed cavernously empty, all the better to pick up the noises coming from far down the passage. The roar of voices behind them grew louder. Liz spun on her heel.

“Oh, no,” Liz groaned, as the media came jogging toward the entrance, turning the cameras their way. “We don't need this.”

“Cheer up,” Boo said, waving to the reporters over the security guards' heads. “You can tell your mama you were on American television.”

“My super told me not to attract any attention!” Liz said.

“He's not here; how will he know?”

“They have cameras!” Liz said. “Our images will be on the evening news all around the world . . . never mind.”

Boo seemed utterly unconcerned about security. He was even enjoying the attentions of the press. He waved to an attractive, blonde woman holding out a microphone. She shouted something at him, but he held his hand behind his ear, pretending he couldn't hear her. With a sigh Liz reached into her pocket for the strands of yarn she carried there, and twisted them together. The cantrip should fuzz her image sufficiently so it would be difficult to identify her. Ringwall still wouldn't be happy, but at least the damage was under control. Now to see what had caused all the to-do. She grabbed Boo's arm to turn him.

The steel-and-glass doors were pinned wide by dumpsters rolled up from the nearby loading dock. Boo hopped over lengths of hose flung everywhere in the corridor. Liz followed him, wishing she had worn lower-heeled shoes. A couple of people hung out of the dressing room doors, gawking at the two agents as they ran by. Everyone was yelling over the alarms, sirens, and crackling radios.

“Where'd it happen?” Liz called to Boo. He skipped nimbly over a twisting section of hose fifty feet ahead of her. Watching him, she stumbled on the same length and cursed her high-heeled shoes.

“Just follow the trail, I'd say,” Boo said, stopping to wait for her. He grabbed her arm, and pointed ahead toward the double stage doors, braced open with crates. Half a dozen firefighters in yellow rubber coats, shouting to each other, rushed past them with extinguishers and axes. The two agents ran to catch up.

When she reached the stage, Liz stopped beside Boo to stare.

“What happened?” she asked. “With all the equipment they've brought in I thought the entire Superdome was coming down!”

After the round-shouldered cramping of the hotel and the restaurant in the Quarter, the chamber before Liz was vast. It engulfed the forty people on the raised stage at its heart like gnats in a multicolored bathtub. Yellow-skinned insects dragged long strands of hose behind them here and there through glistening puddles and heaps of overturned equipment. A bright yellow fire engine a third the size of the ones on the street sat beside the stage, its emergency lights rotating while men in coats and boots scrambled all over it. At the center of all the hubbub stood a single, tiny, forlorn, dripping figure. Two of the firefighters dragged a still writhing hose away from him. It was Thomas Fitzgibbon, the costumer, drenched to the skin. He saw the two agents and waved a hand weakly toward them, dribbling a stream of water from his sleeve.

“I can't explain it,” the costumer said, when they reached him. He moved locks of his curly hair out of his eyes, and plucked at his wet shirt. He looked close to tears as he held out a scorched wisp of green cloth. “I brought Fee's dress out here on stage to see how it looked under the lights. The sleeves are gauze, like dragonfly wings. They would be so beautiful. Then suddenly, poof! Flames everywhere! It happened so quickly I didn't have time to move. I thought I'd be burned to death.” The thin man's eyes were huge with fear, but he appeared to be uninjured. “And then someone pulled the fire alarm.”

“Was anyone hurt?” Boo asked, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket and offering it to the man. Fitzgibbon looked at the grimy square and shuddered.

“No, but the dress is ruined. I can't stand it.” He turned woefully to face Patrick Jones, the publicist, who was jogging toward them up the main aisle of the theater. Fionna, dogged by a grim Preston, strode behind him. Jones started to speak, but Preston pushed by him and shook a fist in Liz's face.

“What I want to know is, you think you call this taking care of the problem?”

“Shush, Lloyd,” said Jones, patiently. “Can anyone tell us what happened? You, sir?” He snagged the arm of a passing firefighter, dressed in rubber coat and boots. “Are we in any more danger? Can we stay here?”

“The fire seemed to be localized right here,” the man said. His dark-skinned face gleamed with sweat, and Liz empathized with him for having to wear a heavy costume like that in the middle of the hellish heat of the city, let alone a conflagration. “We're examining the rest of the scene right now.”

“Well, can't you speed it up?” Jones asked. He looked peeved, but was trying to remain reasonable. “We've got a show to do.”

“Sorry, sir. These things have got to be done in the right order,” the firefighter said, patiently. “You don't want hot spots to break out. Burn the place right down.”

“Oh, marvelous,” Jones said, throwing his hands in the air. The fireman walked in an ever-increasing circle around the center of the stage, studying the floor, and occasionally stooping to touch the wooden boards. Jones watched him go with an expression of worry. Liz felt sorry for him. This would be a very public public-relations nightmare.

Other firefighters searched around in the outer reaches of the Superdome, clambering up into the tiers of multicolored seats. Liz spotted the ant-sized figures in their yellow protective gear, and marveled at how large the arena was. Without figures to compare for scale, it seemed no larger than a circus tent, but it was fully as big as a football stadium. Which, she recalled wryly, it was.

A few of the band members and some of the security staff were following the firefighters around, asking questions. The rest were frozen in a huddle on one side of the stage, staring at the sodden costumer.

Liz surveyed the scene, puzzled by the lack of evidence. When the accident, or attack, or whatever it was had occurred, there had been a blast of some kind. Fitzgibbon stood in the center of a ring of ash. It was marked by footprints of every size, left by firefighters, the members of the band, and now her and Boo. The pattern radiated outward from the costume itself in a complete circle, interrupted only where the costumer's body had blocked the burst. But it must have been a remarkably mild explosion. Fitzgibbon was unhurt, though badly frightened, and she couldn't say she blamed him.

“Who was near you when it caught fire?” Liz asked.

“No one!” Fitzgibbon exclaimed. He was still clutching the soggy remains of the dress. “I was standing here, holding up the gown for the lights. Robbie can back me up on that. Can't you, sweetheart?” he called to the special effects coordinator, who was sitting on a folding chair at the stage rim with her hands and knees together and ankles apart like a little girl.

The special effects coordinator nodded her head solemnly. She looked puzzled and worried.

“Take me through it,” Liz said briskly to Fitzgibbon. “Just what happened?”

The costumer threw up his hands. “Nothing! I came out of the dressing room with the green number for the ballad at the end of the first set. The crew can tell you. Some of the spotlights were moving up and down, and I saw some laser lights flashing. Fionna's key light was pointed down onto the center of the stage. I went into the beam to see how her costume would look. That's all. Then, whoosh! Look at it! Those perfect, filmy sleeves, reduced to ashes. I don't want everyone blaming me. I didn't do anything!” His eyes filled with tears. “It was supposed to match her hair.”

“Now, now,” Boo-Boo said soothingly, patting the costumer on the back. “No one's callin' you names. Could anyone have booby-trapped that dress?”

Fitzgibbon looked indignant. “Certainly not. I had just finished tacking the hem. I had the whole thing inside out on my cutting table. If there had been any . . . infernal devices, I would have seen them. There was nothing there!”

“I told you all this was real,” Fionna spat, striding up with Nigel Peters trotting behind her. She glared at the publicist. “Now do you fokkin' believe me?” Jones held up his hands to fend off her fury. “Things like this have been goin' on again and again. I'm at me wits' end!” Fionna turned to Liz and Boo-Boo. “Yer supposed to prevent this, right? Why didn't yer fancy machines tell you this was happenin'? Didn't you bug everythin' I own in the world?”

Liz marveled that Fionna's accent stayed intact even under stress. “You weren't injured, Fee—Fionna,” she said, stumbling deliberately over the name. The look of suspicion in her old schoolmate's eyes verified that there would be no more hysterics, or Liz might let her secret out.

“This dress didn't exist until an hour ago, sweetheart,” Peters said, soothingly. “Fitzy's only just finished it.”

“I haven't even been here yet, and they're already trying to kill me!” Fionna shrilled. “And you've done nothing!”

“We couldn't prevent an attack until we knew where it was coming from,” Liz said, looking at Boo-Boo for support. The American was on his knees, scooping ashes from the floor into his hand.

“And where is it coming from?” Fionna demanded.

“It's coming from . . . beyond,” the costumer said, clutching himself. His eyes were wide with horror. “Oh, my God, what if all the green silk is cursed? Couldn't we, you know, call in a priest to bless it and make it benign? Otherwise, I refuse to work with it. Heaven knows what it'll do to my sewing machines.”

“Will you calm down?” Peters snapped. “The fabric is not cursed. There's a perfectly sane explanation for what just happened. Right, Liz?”

“What are these things?” Boo-Boo asked, standing up with wires trailing from his hand.

“They're from the LEDs. They were arranged in mystical symbols sewn into the cloth. They light up on stage. There's no power source, though,” the costumer said, suddenly looking worried. “We hook Fionna up with a battery pack before she goes on.”

“We've done it a thousand times,” Fionna said, her eyes wild. “There's no earthly reason why the dress should have gone up in flames. Someone's trying to kill me!” She turned and, finding herself in Lloyd Preston's arms, allowed herself to shiver. Robbie Unterburger glared at her from the sidelines.

“Could the dress have been exposed to any flammable substances? Or high temperatures?” Liz asked. “Could the spotlight have set it off?”

“We're in that spotlight now,” Robbie said, pointing upward. Liz stared up into the blinding glare. It focused into a single point, far in the back of the amphitheater. “It's no more harsh than strong sunshine.”

“It don't look like these two busybodies can do a thing,” Preston said, hulking over them all as usual. Liz turned a high-power glare towards him, then dismissed him. “I'll look this place over myself. Fionna's security is my business.” He stalked off to confront one of the firefighters.

“What about those laser lights?” Boo-Boo asked. “Could that ignite the fabric?”

“You couldn't even light a cigarette with them,” Robbie said, scornfully. “There's stronger lasers in a food store checkout. Besides, the laser never touched this stage. I was testing it on the far wall.”

“All right,” Liz said. “I'd like to talk to everyone who was here when it happened. One at a time, please.” She turned to the publicist, who looked as if his ulcer was kicking up again. “Can we use one of the dressing rooms?”

Everyone protested at once. “We've got work to do, lady!” Robbie Unterburger said. “Tomorrow's the show!”

“That's enough,” Nigel Peters said, wearily. “There'll be no show if there's any danger to Fionna, so we have to let these people ask their questions, right? A little cooperation, please? God, I could murder a cup of tea.”

“Could you make us all some tea?” Liz asked the costumer. “It'll give you a chance to calm down.”

“I'm a highly paid professional, with respect throughout the entire music industry,” Fitzgibbon protested, head high, but Liz thought he looked grateful for something ordinary to do. He threw up his hands. “All right. Tea.”

“I'd rather have a whisky,” Fionna said, crossly.

“You had four drinks at lunch,” Liz said.

“Well, I need one now! And how the hell did you know that? Have you got a bug on me now?” Fionna demanded.

“She's already got one up her . . .” Robbie muttered to one of the other stagehands. Fionna couldn't hear her, but Liz could. Tactfully, she pretended she hadn't. She didn't want to revisit the matter anyhow. Fee would have had furious hysterics all over again if Liz had explained the psychic monitor she'd planted on her for security.

“Come on, sweetheart,” Laura Manning, the makeup artist, said, putting an arm around Fionna's narrow shoulders and leading her away. “I've got a bottle in your dressing room. We can wait for the tea there.” She glanced back at the two investigators. “That's where you'll find me. I've got things to arrange for tomorrow.”

“We all have,” Michael Scott complained, his blue eyes flashing with indignation. The other members of the band added their voices to his.

“This won't take but a short time,” Boo-Boo promised him. “We just want to know where everybody was when the dress went up. We don't even have to go down to a dressing room. We can talk right here.”

Eddie Vincent frowned. “I don't like this. You're accusing us? Us? We've been with Fionna for yonks, mate.” He planted a finger in Boo-Boo's chest and poked it a few times for emphasis. “Now, she may not be the world's easiest broad to live with, but we back her up in more ways than one. Got it?”