Poor Butterfly

13

I tucked my shirt in and asked a pair of ladies carrying paper shopping bags how to get to the Opera-not the old Opera, but the one that was reopening.

“You mean the old barn where that guy got killed last week?”

“That’s the place,” I said.

“Dumb place to build a opera, you ask me,” she said, shifting her bag from her right to left hand.

“Or anything else,” said her friend. “Nobody goes there. Nothing around there. It’s a dump.”

After their critique and recommendations for urban renewal, they told me how to get to the Opera. It was about ten blocks away. I started out staying with the growing crowds, following a pride of young sailors for a few blocks, a gaggle of shoppers for another block.

It was somewhere near one in the afternoon when I hit the corner a block away from the Opera. I hid in a doorway and looked for the police. They weren’t visible, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. Reverend Souvaine’s troops were out in force, about twenty of them. This was a big day. Dress rehearsal. Special guests, the press would be there.

The placards were bigger than ever. One announced: FIRST SACRILEGE. NOW MURDER. Another claimed: BUY A TICKET, HELP THE JAPS. Souvaine himself was not in sight. He’d show up for the crowds.

Across the street from where I was hiding, a rusting abandoned delivery van sat in a little weed-covered empty lot. The flecked dead paint on the side of the van indicated that it had once distributed Fleecy White Laundry Bleach, Little Boy Blue Bluing, and Little Bo-Peep Ammonia. Now it sat without tires, without front doors, and probably without engine, but with a better view of the San Francisco Metropolitan Opera Building than I had from the doorway. I moved out of the doorway, back down the block away from the street the Opera was on, crossed the street, and approached the van from behind. The back of the van had two doors; one was rusted shut, the other hung on one hinge. I climbed up and in and tried not to cut my hands on the bits of glass and pieces of metal left by kids or bums.

“Use Fleecy White, you’ll find delight,” I mumbled. “It’s a peach of a bleach they say.”

There were enough holes in the side of the van so I could see the front of the Opera. I was tired. I was hungry. My back let me know that it wasn’t going to take much more of this without major complaints.

I watched for a while. Carpenters, painters, laborers, and guys with rolled-up blueprints under their arms came and went. It seemed as if the number of people working on the building had tripled and they were all moving fast to get the final touches done for the opening. The action inspired Souvaine’s people, who marched with the step of the truly righteous. Sloane, Cynthia, and the widow Bertha were there shouting and urging the elderly to remain vigilant in case some Jap tried to sneak past them without reading their placards.

I could see Gunther’s Daimler parked down the street in front of Stokowski’s limo. Stokowski’s driver leaned against the hood in full uniform, reading a newspaper and occasionally glancing over at the ancient army.

No cops, but they had to be there.

I sat for a few minutes, being careful not to get a splinter of something up my rear. Then, in one of the beams of light coming through the holes in the van, I found a discarded crushed can of Armour’s Treet, the all-purpose meat. I used the jagged top of the can to pry at a small, already crumbling hole near my face. I managed under cover of the shouting in front of the Opera to make the hole big enough so I could see through it while sitting. Life was getting luxurious.

After about an hour, just as I was beginning to consider something risky, my break came. Two things happened at once. An overweight ancient woman carrying a placard reading ABANDON YOUR COUNTRY ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE Suddenly collapsed. Cohorts screamed and abandoned their posts. Others continued to hold their banners high. Sloane knelt at the fallen warrior’s side, and she and he were surrounded. At that same moment, Stokowski, Gunther, and Shelly came out the main door and started down the steps of the Opera.

Behind them a uniformed cop and Inspector Sunset came running down the steps in the direction of the fallen woman. From a doorway across the street another uniformed cop emerged, heading in their direction.

Shelly, sensing the need for his services, put a finger to his glasses and held up his cigar as he charged into the crowd, shouting, “Let me through, I’m a dentist.”

The crowd parted and let him through. Gunther and Stokowski headed for the limousine, and I scrambled out of the back of the van. The limo was facing my direction. I hoped the driver wouldn’t make a U-turn and move away from me.

Stokowski, who was wearing a pink shirt, narrow green tie, gray suit, and what looked like tan suede shoes, glanced at the crowd, shook his shock-haired head, and moved with Gunther into the limousine. Sunset and the uniformed cops were breaking up the crowd of old people as I crossed the street and hid behind the corner of a small brick factory.

When the crowd cleared, the fat woman was sitting up and downing a bottle of Royal Crown Cola. She held it in two hands and took it like a baby getting its morning bottle. Shelly stood triumphant and looked around as if expecting applause. No one paid him any attention. The cops helped the fat lady up, and Shelly reluctantly ambled to the limousine. The second he got into it, the driver pulled away slowly, careful to avoid the bevy of the aged who had spilled into the street. The limo was about to turn the corner when I stepped into the street.

I waved my hands and the limo stopped. The back door opened and I scrambled in, tripping over Gunther’s feet and landing on my face on the floor. The door closed and the limo pulled away down the street.

I rolled over on my back and found myself looking up at Stokowski. “There is something appropriately operatic about you and your entourage, Mr. Peters.”

He reached down to help me to a sitting position and Shelly, sitting in the front seat next to the driver, peered down on me excitedly.

“You should have seen it, Toby,” he said. “I just saved a woman’s life.”

“I’m proud of you, Shel,” I said.

“Are you all right, Toby?” Gunther asked.

Even by his usual standards, Gunther was resplendent. His three-piece gray suit was neatly pressed, his tie new and silk, his face cleanly shaven, and there was a distinct smell of cologne in the air.

“I’m alive,” I said. “How are you and Gwen getting along?”

I think Gunther blushed.

“A most accomplished young woman and a researcher of the finest quality,” he said. “We spent much of the night putting together the charts.”

“Blammed her right above the heart,” Shelly said to the driver, demonstrating a solid bang with his open palm. “Started to breathe right away.”

“Can you ask your driver to pull over for a second?” I asked Stokowski.

Stokowski nodded and reached over me to touch the driver’s shoulder. The car pulled over.

“I didn’t kill her,” I said.

“I did not think that you had,” Stokowski said. “I’ve so informed the police. They are polite but not inclined to consider possibilities which will complicate their lives. It is easiest for them if you killed Miss Bartholomew.”

“How long did she work for you?” I asked.

“A few weeks,” he said. “Mr. Lundeen hired her to serve as my liaison for this engagement. Her work was adequate and her temperament erratic, which is not unusual for a former soprano.”

“What do you know about her?” I went on.

Stokowski shrugged.

“Very little. As I said, she informed me that she had left a career, apparently not a greatly successful one, as a singer. She wished to remain close to musical life and because of her knowledge of opera had taken a variety of jobs in the area as they became available. I am very sorry, but I can’t say that I am deeply grieved by what has happened to Miss Bartholomew. I am, however, deeply offended. The guilty must be punished.”

“Like in an opera,” Shelly offered.

“In opera, everyone is punished,” said Stokowski.

I got off the floor, pulled down the jump seat, and sat facing Stokowski so I could see through the back window in case a patrol car headed our way.

“It might be a good idea to cancel the opening tonight,” I said.

“That,” he said, “I cannot do. It would be an act of cowardice. There is destruction, horror, going on in Europe in this war. It cannot be forgotten. The feeling in our hearts must be respected. Music can play a part. I know it’s only a small part, but it’s a very important one because music can bring consolation, respite. It can remind us that with human life something exists of beauty to comfort and look forward to.”

“Right,” said Shelly excitedly. “It’s like good dental hygiene.”

“It is not like good dental hygiene,” Gunther said precisely.

“Matter of opinion,” Shelly said, beaming at us all.

“Mr. Peters,” Stokowski said, “I assume you have joined us for a purpose. What can we do for you?”

“Short list,” I said. “First, I need some money. The cops took my wallet.”

“I am, unfortunately, carrying no cash,” Stokowski said, turning up the cleanest palms I have ever seen.

Gunther came up with his wallet and handed me a pair of twenties.

“Next,” I said, turning to Shelly, “I need to find a guy named Farkas, Snick Farkas. Skinny, about forty, carrying a blue shoulder bag. He’s got a beard and should be wandering the streets around here. He’s an opera buff. But he doesn’t make much sense. I think he saw the person who killed Lorna Bartholomew.”

“I’ll find him,” Shelly promised, clamping his unlit cigar in his teeth.

“He does not sound like an ideal witness,” said Stokowski, with a sigh.

“Gunther, I’ve got some research for you.”

I handed him the sheet of paper on which I’d written the message Lorna Bartholomew had painted on Miguelito. Gunther looked at it.

“Rance, Johnson, and Minnie,” he read. “Cherokee, Texas. March 15, 1936. Those are characters in …”

“La Fanciulla del West. I know,” I said. “See if you can find out what it means. Where’s Jeremy?”

“With Miss Tenatti,” replied Gunther.

“Anything else?” asked Stokowski. “I must eat and get back to rehearsal.”

“I’ve got to get back and into the building,” I said.

“You have a plan,” said Stokowski.

“Your chauffeur and I are about the same size,” I said.

“Ah,” said Stokowski. “Charles, do you hear all this?”

“I hear,” said the driver with a definite English accent.

“And …?” Stokowski asked gently.

“There’s an extra uniform in the trunk,” said Charles.

“Good,” I said. “I’ll put it on. Charles, you get out here. I’ll drive back, walk in as if the Maestro forgot something. Shelly, you wait till I’ve been inside for two minutes, and then drive back and pick up Charles. I’ll get the uniform back later.”

Charles nodded.

“Anything else?” Stokowski asked.

“I could use something to eat,” I said.

“Take my lunch,” said Charles, handing me a paper bag. “I’ll pick up a hot dog.”

“Charles, you’ll lunch with Mr. Wherthman, Dr. Minck, and me,” said Stokowski. Sounded like a generous offer, but I had the feeling Gunther would wind up with the check.

“You might get in trouble for this, Maestro,” I said, getting out of the limo.

“Trouble is not unknown to me,” Stokowski said. “There are those who say I have courted controversy and both bedded and wed her.”

“Be cautious, Toby,” Gunther said.

“Am I ever anything but? Let’s meet in Lundeen’s office at seven.” I moved to the rear of the car.

I could hear Shelby’s voice as the trunk popped open.

“See his teeth, Stoki? Nice, huh? My doing? A year of work.”

“That’s admirable,” Stokowski said.

I opened a box in the trunk that looked right. It was. A freshly pressed uniform. I looked around for someplace to change. The street was deserted but the sun was high and bright. Hell. I took off my clothes and started putting on the uniform. I got it on without interruption.

“Good fit,” Charles said.

He was standing next to me, his cap off. He was older than I thought. He wiped his brow with a handkerchief. His hair was curly, short, and white. His skin pinkish.

“Thanks,” I said.

“When the war started,” Charles said, “the Maestro moved to Columbia Records. One of the first things he recorded was ‘God Bless America’ and ‘The Star Spangled Banner’ coupled with the Pledge of Allegiance to the Flag. I was in the orchestra. Bass viol.”

“What happened?” I asked.

Charles pulled off his right driving glove and revealed a hand with a thumb and two fingers.

“Went back to England,” he said. “London bomb patrol. War turned me into a driver. Got a son in the RAF and another on bomb patrol. Truth is, Stoki’s not that much fond of the British. His mum was Irish, but he made an exception in my case. Got me a job driving here in Frisco. He asks for me whenever he comes to town. The Maestro’s trying his best. I’d hate to see something happen to him.”

“Nothing will happen. I look okay?” I asked.

“Smashing,” he said with a smile, moving to the curb and pulling a newspaper from his pocket.

I got in the driver’s seat, pulled the cap over my eyes, made a U-turn and headed back for the Opera. It took no more than three minutes. The boys and girls of the Church of the Enlightened Patriots were back in business, even the fat lady, though she no longer had her bottle of RC and was sitting on the steps conducting the camp meeting rather than participating.

I pulled up to the curb, got out, winked at Stokowski, who gave me a small salute and said, “For some reason, I am hearing the Brahms First Symphony, which I have always found plaintive.”

“Shelly, find Snick Farkas,” I said. “Gunther, I’m counting on you to find out what happened in Cherokee, Texas.”

“I’m on the job,” said Shelly.

Gunther simply nodded.

I turned and started up the steps, head down. I got through the main doors and out of the corner of my eyes spotted Sunset in a corner, showing a uniformed cop who looked about twelve the proper stance to take against a right-handed pitcher. Sunset glanced over at me as I walked quickly toward the corridor. Then he went back to his batting clinic.

I went through a side entrance to the auditorium. A crew of women was dusting the seats and sweeping the aisles. On stage, about twenty men and women in overalls were putting up a Japanese house set. No Vera. No Lundeen. No Passacaglia. A few musicians were in the orchestra pit adjusting their instruments, playing a few bars.

I moved to the stage, cap still covering my eyes, went up the steps, and moved toward the back of the stage.

“Hold it,” a voice I recognized called from the rear of the auditorium.

I stopped and turned, pretending to shield my eyes from the light to cover my face.

“What the hell you trying to pull?” called Sergeant Preston.

He stepped out of the shadows under the balcony and pointed at me.

It had been a good try but I hadn’t made it. I considered running, but decided I was twenty years too late to make that a reasonable option. I reached up to take off the cap as Preston took another step forward yelling, “You, take that cap off!”

Since I was obviously in the process of doing just that, I paused. It was enough of a pause to realize that he wasn’t pointing at me but past me, at a workman about my size in overalls and a painter’s cap.

“Get out of the way,” Preston said, this time to me.

I stepped out of the way. The workman took his cap off. He was Oriental.

“All right. All right, put it back on,” Preston said. “Jesus, I should have been the second-rate crooner my mother never wanted me to be. And you,” he went on, pointing directly at me. “Stokowski says he wants you to hurry up.”

I nodded, touched the brim of my cap, and hurried into the wings.

Jeremy was standing, arms folded, leaning against the wall next to Vera’s dressing room. He glanced in my direction. His eyes seemed focused on a distant planet, but he took me in.

“Are you all right, Toby?” he asked.

“How’d you know it was me?” I asked, stepping in front of him.

Jeremy shrugged.

“The walk, the change in pressure on the backs of my hands, a sense of you.”

“Touch of the poet,” I said.

“It’s there for all of us to take,” he said, “It is the feminine within each of us we fear to explore, even women.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” I said. “What happened to Ortiz?”

“Following his hospitalization, he faces extradition to Mexico for a variety of crimes,” said Jeremy.

“How’s your back, where he bit you?” I asked.

“I’m directing my energy to it. It will heal.”

“Good. Vera all right?”

“She is fine,” he said. “The tenor is in there with her. There are police in all directions.”

“I know,” I said. “If they come by, keep them out if you can.”

“I can,” said Jeremy with a gentle smile.

“I know,” I said, knocking at Vera’s door.

Her “Come in” had an undertone of urgency. I went in and closed the door.

Passacaglia had Vera pinned to the wall. They didn’t recognize me.

“Get out,” said Passacaglia.

“Stay,” cried Vera. “Call the big man.”

“Out,” Passacaglia insisted. “You are intruding on a lovers’ quarrel.”

I stepped forward and put my hand on Passacaglia’s arm.

“Old man,” he said. “You are about to be embarrassed.”

I took off my cap, put it on Vera’s head, and showed Passacaglia my face.

“Toby,” Vera said with relief.

Passacaglia pushed away from the wall and hit me across the bridge of what was left of my nose with the back of his hand. It was a reasonably powerful clout. I didn’t reach up to check for blood. I didn’t want to mess up Charles uniform.

“Killer,” hissed Passacaglia. “Killer of women.”

I grinned and took a step toward him. He backed up.

“Do not hit,” he warned, with one hand up. “Do not touch my face or my diaphragm.”

I pushed his hand out of the way. He tried another backhand. I caught that with my shoulder and threw a short right to his stomach. He doubled over. Vera gasped behind me. Passacaglia held one hand on his stomach and threw another backhand at my face. I stepped back and slapped at his face. He turned away from the slap and it caught him on the neck. He went down gasping.

“I told you no face, no diaphragm,” he moaned. “Are you deaf?”

I helped him to his feet and looked at Vera. The chauffeur’s cap sat at a rakish angle on her head. She looked cute as hell. I told her. She touched my cheek.

“My throat,” croaked Passacaglia. “I … you fool. I won’t be able to sing tonight.”

“You’ll recover,” I said.

“Not in time,” he said, “You’ve damaged a delicate instrument.”

His voice did have a sandpaper rasp.

“You sound better,” I said.

“I’ll sue you,” he said, pointing a finger at me.

“Fear is striking my very soul,” I said. “The police are looking for me for murder and you threaten me for temporarily cancelling a tenor?”

“Remorse,” he tried, looking at himself in Vera’s mirror. “Contrition. Apology. Is this too much to ask?”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I couldn’t think of anyplace else to hit you.”

“The shoulder,” he said, voice going quickly, pointing to his shoulder. “Or you could have kicked me in the ass. Peters, you may be assured that this incident ensures that there is no way we can ever be friends or that I can even be cordial to you. I am leaving.”

His voice was just about gone now.

“Martin,” Vera said. “I’m sorry, but you did …”

Passacaglia had one hand on the doorknob, the other at his neck. I knew where he was heading.

“Martin,” I said. “We may not be friends, but we are going to make a deal. You don’t tell the cops I’m here, and I don’t make a call to your wife and tell her you’ve been trying to do some extra rehearsals with Vera.”

Passacaglia sneered in my direction.

“Traitor. Robber. Scoundrel. Imposter,” he rasped and left, slamming the door.

“I think the exit line was from the chorus of Gianni Schicchi,” Vera said.

“Puccini?”

“Yes.”

I kissed her. She tasted like the memory of lilacs.

“Maestro Stokowski will be upset,” Vera said, in my arms. “We have no understudies.”

“Let’s see what we can do about it,” I said, leading her to the door, taking my cap back and planting it on my head.

“Which way did he go?” I asked Jeremy.

Jeremy nodded to the left, down the corridor toward an exit sign.

“Let’s find big John,” I said, and led the way to the stairway just outside the backstage door leading inside the auditorium. There was no one in the darkened corridor. The three of us went up the stairs and made our way to Lundeen’s office. We didn’t hear anything inside.

I stepped back and Vera knocked.

“Come in,” Lundeen boomed, the weight of the opera on his broad shoulders.

He was not alone in the room. The Reverend Souvaine stood next to the broad desk facing Lundeen, who stood behind it. They were almost eyeball to eyeball-teeth, fists, and stomachs clenched.

“Now get out,” Lundeen shouted at Souvaine, who had the best of the moment sartorially. The reverend was wearing a near-white Palm Beach suit with a ruffled white shirt and a powder blue tie. Lundeen was wearing baggy slacks and a sloppy brown wool sweater too large even for him.

“I came in peace to talk reason and righteousness,” bellowed Souvaine, without looking back at us.

I hid behind Jeremy, which was easy to do.

“You came to dictate pious lies!” shouted Lundeen. “You came like a Wagnerian Nazi in the night to stifle art.”

“At least,” said Souvaine, “we agree about Wagner.”

“Out,” Lundeen said, his hand sending a pile of charts flying across the room.

“If you try to open,” said Souvaine, standing erect, “God will surely strike you with the lightning staff of the flag of the nation which he loves above all others.”

“Fool!” bellowed Lundeen, coming around the table. “Mixer of metaphors!”

“Overweight blasphemer,” said Souvaine softly.

Jeremy stepped between the two men, leaving me exposed. I pulled the cap farther over my eyes and moved behind Vera. Lundeen tried to reach past Jeremy to get at Souvaine, who stood his ground.

“Pompous swindler!” cried Lundeen.

“Cartoon,” said Souvaine.

“Fart!” screamed Lundeen.

“Fart?” echoed Souvaine. “Is that the height of your creativity?”

Lundeen growled and pleaded with Jeremy. “Let me kill him. Just a little.”

“You have my prayers, my pity, and my warning,” said Souvaine, who paused at the door and turned to Jeremy. “And you will suffer both the wrath of the Lord and the law for the unprovoked attack you made on the Reverend Ortiz. ‘The Lord is far from the wicked; but he heareth the prayer of the righteous.’ Proverbs Fifteen, Verse Twenty-eight.”

“It’s Verse Twenty-nine,” Jeremy corrected. “Verse Twenty-eight is ‘The heart of the righteous studieth to answer, but the mouth of the wicked poureth out evil.’”

“You are wrong about the verse,” said Souvaine, his face turning pink.

I wanted to put up the forty bucks in my pocket on Jeremy’s being right, but I kept my mouth shut and Souvaine went out, slamming the door. Lundeen moved back behind his desk and sat with his head in his hands.

“Peters,” he said without looking up. “What are you doing here? The police are fluttering around the place like bats.”

“Great disguise I’ve got here,” I said, taking off my cap. “Only the police don’t recognize me.”

“I’m an actor,’’ said Lundeen. “Or I was. I can see through a costume, a mask.”

With that he looked up at the three of us and swept his hand in an arc. “All these papers,” he said. “That little man and Gwen spent the night. And what was the result? Everyone still has an alibi.… Listen to me. I’m using dialogue from cheap radio shows. That’s what my life has come to. Everyone has an alibi for either the workman’s death or the attacks on Lorna. No one was unseen by someone else for at least one of the incidents. The more incidents we get, the more charts we do and the less sense it makes.”

“Maybe it was more than one person,” Vera said.

“Ah,” sighed Lundeen, pointing at her. “Suddenly sopranos can think. Yes, it’s a conspiracy. I’m beginning to agree with you.”

He laughed without enthusiasm.

“Let’s see,” he said. “Souvaine, Raymond, and I have conspired with the police. Everyone is in on it, perhaps even Lorna, who was not killed by our Mr. Peters but committed suicide because she couldn’t stand the guilt and the complication.”

“Lundeen,” I said.

“And,” Lundeen went on, “Gwen tells me she is leaving after Butterfly, assuming we actually get to perform. I think she is running off to Los Angeles with your German midget.”

“Gunther’s Swiss,” I corrected.

“Swiss,” sighed Lundeen. “This is as bizarre as a Mozart opera.”

“It gets worse,” I said.

Lundeen looked at me and went silent.

“There is nothing worse,” he said after a moment.

“Martin Passacaglia can’t sing Pinkerton tonight,” I said.

“They killed him, too?” Lundeen’s mouth fell open to reveal a limp red tongue.

“I hit him in the neck,” I admitted.

“You …” he began.

“… hit him in the neck. He was mauling Vera,” I said.

“Mauling Vera,” Lundeen repeated, looking at Jeremy.

Jeremy had no answer.

“Toby has an idea,” Vera said softly.

“You are a tenor who knows the part of Pinkerton?” he asked calmly, folding his hands on the desk.

“No, but you’re a baritone who knows the part,” I said.

“I … me … sing Pinker … You’re mad,” Lundeen said, suddenly standing.

“You’ve got a better idea?” I asked, moving to a chair and sitting. I pulled Charles’ lunch out of my pocket, opened it, and fished out a sandwich. I think it was Spam and ketchup. I didn’t care. I was hungry.

“I haven’t sung on stage in years,” he said. “And it’s not written for …”

“You know the role, Mr. Lundeen,” Vera said. “And this is only the dress rehearsal. By opening, Martin will be fine.”

“If you don’t go on, you may be kissing Butterfly good-bye,” I said.

“The Maestro would never …” Lundeen began.

“I think he will,” I said. “He wants this to go on. He’s a patriot, remember.”

“A patriot who is getting a generous fee for his services. The costume would never fit me,” he tried, his eyes on Jeremy.

“Call in your costume people,” said Jeremy. “I’ll help. Sewing is a meditation with which I am familiar.”

“It will be a disaster,” Lundeen protested, throwing charts and graphs on the floor.

“Consider the alternative,” said Jeremy.

Lundeen stopped ranting and appeared to consider the alternative.

“Yes,” he said.

I finished the sandwich and went to work on Charles the Chauffeur’s apple.

“That’s settled,” I said.

“Perhaps,” said Lundeen, “but there is more to this hoary tale.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. He handed the paper to Jeremy, who handed it to me. I uncrumpled it and read:

If she sings tonight, at midnight she will be the third to die.

Erik

“It was pinned to my office door when I arrived this morning,” Lundeen said.

“What does it say?” Vera said, reaching for the note.

I considered keeping it from her but it was her life, her choice. I held it out and she took it. She read it quickly and then read it again.

“Do you think he …?”

“I don’t know, Vera,” I said. “But you sing and we’ll see that no one touches you.”

“Can you guarantee that, Toby?” she asked, her large brown eyes looking down at me.

“No.”

“I’ll sing,” she said.

“There’s a good chance we’ll have the Phantom before the performance,” I said. “Gunther’s following up a lead I got from Miguelito.”

“The dog?” Lundeen asked.

“The dog.”

Lundeen shook his head in disbelief.

“Ruined,” he said. “Vera, we must get on stage. We must rehearse. I’ll have to go over the blocking.”

“Jeremy,” I said. “Stick with her.”

Jeremy blinked once to show me that he understood. I left the room, closing the door behind me. I could hear Lundeen’s voice through the closed door calling on the phone for the costume shop.

Something was bothering me, but I had too many pieces to put together.