Speak Now (14 page)

The first several actresses were competent, but unremarkable. Chip’s assistant efficiently ushered them on and off the stage, but I have to admit that I only gave them half my attention. I couldn’t even begin to think of the ramifications of Brian’s disappearance to my Macbeth investigation, or of how I was going to deal with the Rix situation. I also wondered how, exactly, I was going to explain to Jack that I’d been pulled into this project. Especially after I’d made a fuss about him even thinking of taking a job.

Of course, I knew I could back out. My response to Simon’s panicked entreaties could hardly be considered binding. But did I want to back out? I loved the play. So what if I had been manipulated into the seat I was now occupying? That didn’t mean I couldn’t do the job. In a bizarre way, I felt good. I felt comfortable. I was in my theater and I was home. And I would probably be much better at this than at chasing down criminals.

“Thank you,” I said to the actress who had just finished a selection from
The Crucible
. “Very nice.” She bounced on her toes a little, beamed, and said “Thank you!” with a little wave before surrendering the stage.

“Next,” Chip announced, “we have Regan Welsh. Regan will be giving us a selection from
Cyrano
.” In the picture of Regan Welsh I had in front of me, she was stunning. Perfect features, radiant skin, startlingly clear eyes staring frankly at the camera.

“Ah.” Simon shifted in his seat beside me. “The lady in question.”

“Who is she?” I asked. She hadn’t stepped into the light yet. “Do you know her?”

“Only by reputation. She’s a friend of our friend,” he said, his voice loaded with innuendo.

“Who’s our friend?” Then I caught his tone. “Rix? She’s Rix’s…what?”

“Friend.”

She stepped forward. The photograph hadn’t done her justice. She was extraordinary. Her hair shone under the lights, and her face, dominated by those amazing eyes, was classically beautiful. But what struck me the most was her presence. She was the first of the actresses to look like she actually belonged on the stage. In fact, she looked as if she couldn’t exist anywhere else.

She gazed out into the orchestra seats, and I could have sworn she was looking straight at me. Then she lowered her eyes and began the scene.

I wanted so much for her to be terrible. I wanted her voice to be thin and her acting to be wooden. That’s the only way it would make sense for her to have anything to do with Rix. I wanted her to be the worst actress we’d seen that day, the worst actress I’d seen in my life.

She was brilliant.

When she finished, the theater was completely silent. I had to shake my head a little to break the spell she had cast. I looked over at Simon, who was staring with an open mouth. He blinked.

“Bugger me,” he said. “It can act.”

Chapter 16

After the auditions, my promised drink with Simon turned into something more like a staff meeting. No doubt wanting to delay our conversation about Rix, Simon had invited Martha, Paris, and Chip to join us.

The auditions had gone on for several hours after the revelation of Regan’s performance. As much as I had hoped to find someone else, we’d cast her as Anna, the lead. Connections to miserable bastards aside, she was the best actress by far for the part.

We’d cast another unknown, Paul Collins, as the love interest. He was about as bland as his name implied, but there hadn’t been a wealth of male talent to choose from.

The remainder of the cast was filled out by actors we had cast repeatedly from season to season. They were all known quantities—not without their quirks, but at least these were quirks we knew how to handle—and it was a relief to know we’d be able to count on them with two newcomers in the lead roles.

So, satisfied we’d put the production back on track, we headed down O’Farrell Street to Foley’s, the best Irish bar in town, or at least the best within walking distance of the theater.

Simon, unsurprisingly, chattered incessantly, while Paris and Chip settled into a technical discussion of the rigging necessary to achieve a particular effect the script called for in the second act. Martha walked silently beside me, looking distinctly upset.

I put my arm around her. “What’s the matter, sweetie? Too many costume changes in this one?”

She smiled quickly. “No, it isn’t that.” She looked at me sideways, then back down at her feet. “I’m just expecting to hear from a friend.”

Simon pounced on her. “A friend? Martha darling, have you got a beau? Please don’t tell me you’ve fallen for an actor. You deserve so much better than that. Oh, but I know,” he rushed on, “it must be the dishy Paul, our new leading man. I knew he had to know someone because he came in without an agent. It’s him, isn’t it darling?”

“Simon, it’s possible Martha would rather keep her private life private,” I said, although Martha’s red face should have spoken for itself.

“Private? I’m not familiar with the word.”

We stepped into the bar. Martha mumbled something and made for the ladies’ room. I glared at Simon.

“What?” he asked innocently. “Mary, my love,” he called to the woman behind the bar, “five pints of your best, if you please. We’ll be in the back room.”

“Anything for you, Simon, my dear,” she called back cheerily.

Simon was something of a regular.

“Do you really think Paul’s dishy?” I asked him as we snaked through the tables to the back room, a comfortable, wood-paneled space with portraits of Irish poets and politicians on the walls. There were six tables, only one of which was occupied by a couple of men deep in conversation.

Simon pulled two tables together in the corner. “Dishy, dreamy, de-lovely, whatever you want to call it, that boy is it.”

Paris snorted. “When are you going to grow up? There’s more to life than a pretty face.” He spoke from experience. In his mid-fifties, Paris had been in a solid, happy relationship for eighteen years with one of the ugliest, nicest men in the world. It was a classic San Francisco story. Paris had come from Dallas in the seventies—where it was hard to be out and impossible to be black and out—only to end up falling in love with someone who’d come from Fort Worth for the same reason.

“But when you’ve got a pretty face, who needs more? Ah! Spirits!” Simon gave the waitress his most endearing smile.

“Speaking of a pretty face…” Chip said.

“Regan,” the three of us said in unison.

“She’s something,” Paris said. “And the girl can act, too.”

“I thought she was amazing,” Chip agreed.

Martha joined us again, looking a little red around the eyes. “Are we talking about Miss Glamour Face?” she asked, picking up her pint.

“Put your claws back in, darling,” Simon said.

“Didn’t you like her?” I asked. This was important. If there was something off-putting about Regan it might come across to the audience.

Martha made a face and shrugged. “She’s just so perfect. It isn’t interesting. I stopped making costumes for Barbie when I was eleven.” Martha herself would never be called perfect in the age of supermodels, but she was definitely interesting. She had an exotic look that she played up with lots of black eyeliner and a wardrobe she designed and constructed herself, consisting mainly of column-like knit garments overlaid with drapey, drippy scarf-like swaths. It gave her an Indian/Asian/something else look that would have worked better, admittedly, on someone taller than her five-foot-two self, but she made the best of every inch she had.

“Well, I have no problem with her perfect, uninteresting, gorgeous face,” Simon said. “No problem whatsoever. In fact—”

“Simon,” I interrupted. “Promise.”

He widened his eyes in innocence. “Promise what, darling?”

“Promise you won’t get involved with her,” I said firmly. “Not during production. The last thing we need is broken hearts on opening night.”

Simon pointed to himself in a gesture that said “Moi?”

“And…” I continued threateningly.

He sighed, and lazily raised his right hand. “I promise, in front of all these witnesses, not to get involved with our leading lady.”

I gave him a stern look.

“Or our leading man,” he finished.

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” Chip commented. “About Regan, at least. She’s otherwise engaged.”

“Yes,” I said. “She is. A friend of our new patron.” I put an extra helping of venom on the word.

“Ah.” Simon made a strangling sound. “Darling, have I thanked you properly yet for agreeing to direct? You simply can’t know how fabulous you are, and—”

“I can’t believe that bastard Brian,” Chip interrupted. “We should find out who hired him in New York and let them know what he did to us. We’re suing, right?”

“Completely unprofessional,” Paris agreed. “I thought so all along. The man didn’t know the first thing about stage lighting. And it wouldn’t surprise me,” he lowered his voice, “if he’d never worked in a union shop before.”

I suddenly remembered that the point of my attending the auditions had been to learn more about the mysterious Brian. I could wait until later to berate Simon for his involvement with Rix.

“What made you think that, Paris?” I asked. “Did he seem inexperienced?” I turned to Simon. “What had he done before he signed on with us?”

Simon shrugged. “He seemed solid. He’d been doing a lot of decent-sounding work in Seattle and LA.”

Chip made a sound that was halfway between a “ha” and a “hrumph.”

“What?” I asked him.

He shook his head. “I don’t believe half of what was on his resumé.”

Simon looked surprised. We all must have, except for Martha, who still looked miserable.

“Why not?” Simon demanded.

Chip leaned forward intently and began counting on his fingers. “One, he claimed to have directed
Midsummer Night’s Dream
but when I said something about a certain person making a perfect Bottom, he had no idea what I was talking about. Two, he was supposed to have worked at the Pasadena Playhouse two years ago, but he didn’t know the name of this guy I went to Cal with—who happened to be the set designer that season. Three, when I asked him where he’d lived down South, all he said was ‘near the beach.’ Nobody who lives in LA would be that vague. They’d say ‘Venice’ or ‘Malibu’ or something. Not just ‘near the beach.’” He gave a disgusted shake of his head.

“So you think he was a complete fake?” I asked. “Everything?” That would fit if he was working for Macbeth, but then why would he have left? Was keeping up the pretense too much for him as the actual production got closer?

“I can’t believe that,” Simon protested.

“Neither can I,” Martha spoke up. “I don’t know why you all hated him. He knew you did. That’s probably why he left. He couldn’t stand your petty—” she choked back her words and stood. “I have a headache. I’m going home.” She practically ran from the room.

“Well,” Simon said dryly. “I think we can guess who’s broken young Martha’s heart.”

“I should go after her,” I said, reaching for my purse.

“Let her go,” Paris said. “She’s a big girl. She’ll be fine.”

Chip looked stunned. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I had no idea. I never would have said all those things about him…”

“Never mind,” Paris said. “Let’s have another round. This one’s on me.” He headed for the bar.

I looked at my watch. “I need to call Jack if I’m going to be much later.”

“Darling, if you have to go…” Simon said hopefully.

“You’re not getting off that easily,” I assured him. “Give me your cell phone.” Reluctantly, he handed it over.

Jack wasn’t there, but I left a message on the hotel voicemail. I was a little relieved he wasn’t in, because that meant I didn’t have to explain why I was out drinking with friends instead of being with him for the second night in a row. Then I started wondering where he was. Probably with Mike, I assured myself, still hunting through the records of a certain maximum security military prison. And if I hadn’t left the cell phone he’d given me in Brenda’s VW on the night of Cece’s rescue, he’d have been able to call and tell me so.

“What’s the matter?” Paris asked, returning with four fresh pints and giving me a shrewd glance.

“Not a thing,” I told him. Probably not a thing. “So, about Brian—”

“Enough about Brian,” Paris interrupted. “The boy is gone and good riddance to him.” He raised his glass, and Chip and Simon did likewise.

“Oh, all right,” I agreed, joining them in the toast. I could always do some digging into his past on my own.

“Now, Charley,” Chip said, leaning forward expectantly. “I’m worried about the second act. Do you think the whole comedic thing with the mother subverts the dramatic tension?”

Oh, hell. I was directing a play.

***

We talked shop for a while, and I was surprised to see how far Chip had come professionally while I’d been away. He was still dauntingly intense, in a squirrelly sort of way, but his instincts were good and his ideas, particularly for specific pieces of business, were impressive. I wondered how long he’d be satisfied with his current role of stage manager at the Rep. It occurred to me that Chip might be training his assistant to take over when he moved on. Clearly, he was ready for bigger and better things. Equally clearly, I had to spend a lot more time with the script.

“Shall we have another?” Chip asked, and I realized we’d all drained our glasses while talking. “It’s my turn, I think.”

“Ah.” Simon was looking at the doorway to the main bar with a mixture of nervousness and relief. “Reinforcements have arrived.”

I turned to see Eileen approaching us. Reinforcements indeed. Simon had probably called her when he realized I wasn’t going to go home without hearing how Rix Begley had come to be a patron of my theater company.

“Eileen, darling!” Simon enthused. “So glad you could make it. You know everybody, of course? Have a seat. Chip was just off to get another round.”

“Please.” Eileen sat heavily in the chair next to me. For a size four, that’s not as easy as it sounds. “No alcohol.” She grabbed my hand with both of hers. “Promise you’ll never let me drink again.”

“Maybe not four martinis on an empty stomach,” I agreed, wondering how she’d made it through her work day in her hungover state.

“I think it’s time for me to go,” Paris said, rising. “It’s my turn to cook tonight, so I’d better stop for a pizza somewhere. You want to come over?” He gave Chip a look that translated roughly into “let’s run for our lives.”

“Oh.” Chip looked from Paris to the rest of us. “Oh. All right. See you tomorrow.”

As soon as we were alone, Simon began to babble. “Eileen, darling, what’s all this about four martinis? What were you up to last night? Something to do with the new man in your life, I suspect. Darling, you know what I always say—”

“Simon,” I interrupted. “Shut up and tell me how you got involved with Rix Begley.”

Eileen jumped, her eyes seeming to focus for the first time. “Is that what this is about?” She turned to Simon. “You told her?” she demanded.

“He didn’t have to,” I stopped her. “He was there.”

“There?” Eileen looked at me blankly. “Who? Rix? Where? At the theater?” She turned on Simon again. “How did you let that happen?”

Poor Simon. He had expected Eileen to be on his side, and now he was faced with two angry women and he was all alone. He smiled weakly. “He wasn’t supposed to be there.”

“Damn right he wasn’t.” Eileen reached into her purse for her phone. “I’m calling his lawyer. He was supposed to be one hundred percent hands-off. That was the only way I’d ever have agreed to it,” she explained to me. “You would never have to know where the money came from, because he’d be invisible, and it was only for one season, and—” She must have seen the betrayal on my face, because she put the phone down and grabbed my hands with hers. “Oh, Charley, I’m so sorry. We didn’t even know if you’d be back in town for this season, and his offer, and the timing, and his promise to stay away, were just too good to be true.”

“Clearly.”

“We really are sorry, darling,” Simon said. “If we’d known from the beginning who he was, we’d never have entertained the idea—”

“He used a lawyer,” Eileen interrupted. “Until Rix showed up to sign the final paperwork, we didn’t know who we were dealing with, and by then…”

They both looked miserable. “Oh, hell,” I said. “It doesn’t matter. It’s not like I’m some fragile flower who has to be protected from every guy who’s ever turned out to be a jerk.”

“Darling,” Simon said, “you’re too forgiving. I simply must kiss you.” Which he did, twice on both cheeks.

“Okay,” I said, “but now I want the details. I’ve been thinking it over, and I can’t figure it out. The basic question for Rix is always ‘what’s in it for me?’ Why would he, of all people, want to help the Rep?”

Neither of them answered.

“Eileen, you say his lawyer came to you? You didn’t go out looking for backers?”

“No.” She shook her head. “That was what made it all so easy. Right about the time Simon finally convinced me to go for outside funding, in marches Rix’ lawyer with an offer to bankroll one third of our seasonal expenses.”