This Enemy Town

CHAPTER 9

Two days before opening night, and panic set in. The cast had been banished to a rehearsal room in Alumni Hall so that the tech crew-working dangerously close to the deadline as usual-could finally hang the backdrop and wait for a last minute coat of paint to dry.

Opening night, minus one. Dorothy and I scrutinized the set and pronounced it as good as it gets. My fingers itched to touch up the red on the antique barber pole, but it was too late even for that; the cast was already straggling in. A few midshipmen at first, followed by a violinist, two flutes, and a drummer, then the Pair-o-Docs strolling side by side, conferring, shooing everyone along like mother hens.

Not much to do but find a seat and enjoy the show. We’d seen it, of course, but in pieces and bits, fits and starts, but this was dress rehearsal, the first complete run-through. We prayed it would come together-the costumes, the music, the dialogue, the sound effects, and the sets-like a jigsaw puzzle, complete at last.

Act One was a triumph. Sweeney’s dark “Epiphany” and Mrs. Lovett’s brilliant take on “A Little Priest” would bring the opening night audience to their feet.

Around six everyone broke for dinner, served buffet style on long tables set up in the lobby. Dorothy and I parked ourselves on a marble step, balanced our plates on our knees and worked our way through a passable beef stew served over egg noodles. Between the noodles and the carrot cake, I brought Dorothy up to date on my daughter and her family, fishing recent photos out of my bag of Chloe, now five, on her first day of kindergarten, and Jake, age two, posing with his stuffed chick, their top-knots standing in identical (and adorable!) spikes.

“I’m crazy about my daughter,” I told my friend as she handed the photos back to me, “but my grandchildren? I’m certifiably nuts over them.” I shrugged. “How do you explain that?”

Dorothy thought for a moment. “Maybe because you can play with them for a while, then give them back. Let the parents deal with the dirty diapers, the runny noses, the bad report cards.”

I had to laugh. “I guess it’s a grandparent’s prerogative to spoil them. It’s part of the job description.” Dorothy hadn’t told me much about her home life, so I was curious. “Is Kevin your only child?”

She nodded. “I would have liked to have more kids, Hannah, but it wasn’t in the cards.”

I tried to draw her out about that, but she squirmed a bit uncomfortably and changed the subject. We ended up in safer territory, chatting about the latest installment of Harry Potter until the food went away and Act Two began.

“Fingers crossed,” said Dorothy as we returned to our seats. I knew she was referring to Sweeney’s chair. Would it work as we had planned?

The opening number, “God, That’s Good,” went off without a hitch, and I began to relax and enjoy the show. Several scenes later, while Mrs. Lovett distracted Tobias with one of her delectable pies, Perelli, upstairs, confronted Sweeney. Perelli swaggered to the washstand and picked up one of Sweeney’s razors. “But I remember these… and you, Benjamin Barker,” he sneered, blowing Sweeney’s cover. In a carefully rehearsed move, Sweeney knocked the razor from his rival’s hand.

“Ooooh, well done,” said Dorothy.

The two men struggled. Advantage to Sweeney as he grabbed Pirelli by the throat and began to squeeze.

Suddenly, Tobias appeared on the stairs. Afraid of discovery, Sweeney dragged Pirelli-foot-dragging, arm-flopping limp-across the shop, tumbled him into the trunk and slammed the lid.

I held my breath. The next bit of shtick was my favorite.

Tobias rushed upstairs, adjusting his wig, looking for his boss. He’s supposed to say, “Ow, he ain’t here!” and sit down on the trunk with Pirelli’s hand still dangling from it, but before Tobias could move, the trunk lid flew open, Perelli crawled out and sprawled on the floor.

I gasped, and looked at Dorothy. “That’s not part of the script!”

“Maybe Sweeney got a little carried away with the strangling?”

On stage, the actor playing Perelli rose unsteadily to his feet and backed away from the trunk, wiping the palms of his hands on the trousers of his costume. We watched in silence as the lid of the trunk bounced back against the wall-once, twice-teetered, then slammed shut.

Perelli was wearing a body mike, so everyone heard what he said next. “Oh, Jesus. Jesus. Shit!”

“What’s gotten into him?” I wondered aloud.

The music, which had been building steadily from allegretto to poco accelerando suddenly quit-fermata-as Professor Tracey cut the orchestra off with an impatient wave of his hand. He slapped both hands flat on top of the piano; the first violinist started, fumbled, and nearly dropped her bow. “What’s going on, folks?” Professor Tracey yelled. “Have we got a train wreck up there?”

Mrs. Lovett, too, was aghast. She stood in her pie shop, hands on hips, gazing up.

Tobias and Sweeney exchanged glances and shrugged.

Medwin Black shot out of his seat, clapping his hands and bellowing, the glasses on his forehead like a second pair of eyes. “You’re half dead, Perelli! You’re supposed to stay in the trunk, not leap out of it like some demented jack-in-the-box!”

The midshipman playing Perelli didn’t appear to be listening. He bowed, resting his hands on his knees, as exhausted as if he had just run a marathon. His panting came to us in ragged gasps, amplified a thousand times by the speakers.

Tobias stood to one side, whipped off his wig. He approached Perelli and laid a hand on his back. “You all right, man?”

Perelli waved at the trunk with a long index finger. “There’s something in there! Jesus Christ, there’s something already in there!”

Sweeney crossed to the trunk and threw back the lid. He bent, bobbled, then staggered backward. “Tim!” he shouted. “Give me a hand here!”

Tim/Tobias hurried over, his ridiculous wig forgotten. Together they reached into the trunk and pulled something out-it looked like a bundle of laundry-and laid it on the floor.

Medwin Black was already huffing his way up the steps to the stage, followed closely by John Tracey. I started to get up, but Dorothy grabbed my arm. “What is it?” she whispered, her breath hot against my cheek.

I pressed a hand to my chest, as if that would do anything to quiet my racing heart. “I think it’s a who,” I said, noticing that the bundle wore a blue and gold track suit and white Nikes.

“Cell phone! Who’s got a cell phone?” someone yelled, nearly bursting our eardrums as his request blasted out over the speakers.

There wasn’t a midshipman at the Academy who didn’t own a cell phone-Sprint cut them a sweetheart deal-but after a mid took a call during rehearsal in the middle of “City on Fire,” they’d been summarily banished from the set. The rule didn’t apply to me, so I rushed to the stage, hauling my phone from its holster as I ran.

I held out the phone, then felt like an idiot when Professor Tracey just waved a hand and yelled, “Call 911, for heaven’s sake.”

I did as I was told.

While we waited for the paramedics, Tobias and Sweeney began CPR, Tobias doing compressions and Sweeney breathing into the victim’s mouth. From the edge of the stage I could see only the victim’s head, and it made my stomach churn. Blood covered the forehead and cheeks, and the eyes stared up, unblinking, into the spotlights in the fly gallery.

Sweeney checked for a pulse, shook his head, and the two began again, keeping up the rhythm until the paramedics clattered onto the stage and took over. It took less than five minutes for them to arrive, but I’m sure that to everyone-especially to Sweeney and Tobias-it must have seemed like hours.

It was, as I had suspected, too late. Their body language said it all. While one paramedic packed up their gear, two others lifted the body and laid it gently on the stretcher they’d brought with them. As the paramedics straightened the limbs, a twist of hair separated from the bloody mess that had once been a forehead and hung darkly down over one ear. Blond, I thought. The victim was a blonde. A blanket appeared from somewhere, and in the instant before the blanket covered the face, something clicked in my brain and I knew. The victim wasn’t a midshipman at all.

It was Jennifer Goodall.