Audition for Murder
by
Susan Sussman with Sarajane Avidon


Also by Susan Sussman

Young Wives' Tales

Time Off From Good Behaviour

The Dieter

Audition for Murder

Susan Sussman with Sarajane Avidon

GOOD

PIATKUS

Copyright 1999 by Susan Sussman, with Sarajane Avidon First published
in Great Britain in 1999 by Judy Piatkus (Publishers) Ltd of 5 Windmill
Street, London W1P 1HF First published in the United States in 1999 by
St.  Martin's Press The moral right of the authors has been asserted A
catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

HARDBACK ISBN 0 7499 0506 9 C FORMAT-ISBN7499 3150 7

Typeset in Bembo by Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Polmont,
Stirlingshire Printed and bound in Great Britain by Mackays of Chatham
PLC, Chatham, Kent In Memoriam: Mary Shura Craig, a writer's writer.

SS

For Dick Simpson, Kate Donley, and August Donley.

SA

There is a generous spirit among Chicago actors that allows people to
learn their craft.  This same spirit exists among Chicago writers.  We
dedicate this book, in part, to all those in our professions who
consistently nurture the careers of others.  It is a great joy and
honor to work among you.

SUSAN SUSSMAN AND SARA JANE AVID ON

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Our thanks to those experts who so generously shared technical
knowledge: humorist Belle Lyman, chemist Liz Doherty, theater expert Sy
Sussman, Dr.  Ann Ressetar, Detective Art Erzler, theater lighting
maven Rob Nowicki, Susan and Arthur Goldner, Kenneth Denberg, the
Multiple Sclerosis Society of Chicago, Dennis Nilsson, Evanston Police
Department Commander Support Services Division, Jonnie Ballis, literary
agent Jane Jordan Browne, editor Kelley Ragland.  And, of course, for
Barry Sussman, magic-maker extraordinaire.  Prologue

It is a small theft.  What harm, after all, in one purloined piece of
fruit?  She picks her way through jagged backstage shadows, over rope
coil and rusty scaffold, prop furniture and dusty scrim.  Hamlet barks
from the depths of her audition bag.  "Just one moment, precious," she
says.  He barks again, offended by the intrusion of the giant
grapefruit.  "We're almost there."  A bit more light would help.  Her
world has grown gray over the years, colors and shapes clouded by
cataracts.  A nuisance at times like this when dark shadows shift and
unseen dangers lurk.  She isn't supposed to be mucking about back here.
But she does so want to enjoy her little treat in private and soon
there will be far too many Nosey Parkers primping in the lobby powder
room.  She is too old for morning auditions, all this rush rush rush.
She would never have agreed to this ungodly hour if Martin himself
hadn't called.  Begged her, begged her to read the Mother's part, 'for
old times' sake."  A dim light escapes under the door of the tiny
backstage bathroom.  She slips inside, glides past the pitted porcelain
sink, and locks herself in the privacy of the single stall.  Hamlet
yelps again.  "Hush, you naughty boy," she says, nuzzling the top of
his head, turning him loose to explore the room.  She sets her canvas
audition bag on the floor and lifts out the beautiful grapefruit,
thick-skinned, laden with juice.  Salivating, she sinks her teeth into
the rind, greedily tears off strips.  This is an altogether different
species from the shriveled fruit she buys by the bag at her grocery.
Quality will tell.  Oh yes.  Crisp citrus smell fills the cubicle,
teasing, tempting.  The juicy sections separate easily.  She eats the
first, barely stopping to spit out the occasional seed.  The second
section nearly fills her and, by the third, she is sated.  Carefully
wrapping the rest for later, she tests her voice.
"Aaaaa-Eeeeeee-Iiiiiii-Oooooo-Uuuuuuuu."  Lovely echoes in the small
room.  "Meee-mahhhhhh-rnayyyyyy-mooooooo-muuuuuuuu."  The citrus cuts a
path through the morning dust, gracing her webby voice with vibrant
tone.  "Aaaaa-Eeeeee ' A sharp pain shoots from navel to solar plexus.
Just like clockwork.  The nervous stomach before every audition arrives
like a peevish old friend.  As painful as it is, she will worry the day
it doesn't come.  "Meee-rnahhhhhh The pain again, sharper, more
insistent.  And again, striking like a jagged-edged knife, sawing up
and around and down.  By the time it occurs to her to call out, pain
clogs her throat.  The walls of her larynx constrict, shutting off air.
Crumpling to the floor, she clutches her stomach, sucking in short
sharp breaths, each a violent stab to the gut.  She falls back, her
head wedging between toilet and wall, eyes staring up at the small
overhead light.  With each jolt of pain, the light grows dimmer and
dimmer. Until, at last, it goes out.

Chapter 1

The murderer's walk from cell to electric chair lacks the raw terror of
an auditioning actor's walk across an empty stage.  I feel them
watching from the safety of the darkened theater.  Do I move like the
character they're casting?  Do I have Daughter's carefree gait, her
ballsy humor, her irreverent take on life?  She sucks in my stomach,
lifts my chin, squares my shoulders.  Daughter has attitude.  Yeah.
Drives her sainted mother crazy.  Yeah.  And now Daughter and Mother
will clash center stage in a knock-down-drag-out over Daughter's new
boyfriend.  Problem is, Mother neglected to show for the audition.  An
intern with hair shorn like a boxwood maze jogs onto the stage.  He
checks his clipboard. "Miss Ludwig?"  "No."  I hand him my head shot
and resume.  "Taylor. Morgan Taylor."  I point to my name at the top of
his list.  He frowns. "You were scheduled an hour ago, at nine."  "My
partner never showed." He checks my name off his list and disappears
into the dark.  I stand naked.  Exposed.  Try to keep in character
while waiting for Wexler's direction.  Damn you, Lily.  Where are you?
Lily London's name and mine, paired first on the morning call sheet,
crawled down and down while I let others go ahead.  I stood, helpless,
watching the parade of actresses who had no right auditioning, who'd
actually worked in the last six months.  Big fat juicy roles.
Rent-paying, grocery-buying roles.  They should step aside for other
actors me, to name a few who have been shriveling in a Sahara of a dry
spell.  If not for my temp job, a few voice-overs, and a couple of TV
commercial residuals, I'd have dried up and blown away by now.  I need
this job.  Papers rustle somewhere in the theater, the familiar sounds
of my head shot and resume being passed.  Vague forms shift fifth row
center.  Martin Wexler, director extraordinaire, and his entourage.
Attitude.  Yeah. Don't lose Daughter's edge.  Stay tough.  I'd paced
the lobby forty-five minutes waiting for Lily London to show.  Finally
rehearsed with the plaster cherub perched atop the drinking fountain.
Even the monitor at the Equity desk took pity on me, giving me fancy
fruit from a huge basket.  No better way to tame crazed bears and
frothing actors than to throw food at them.  I took a banana and an
orange, stowing them to eat after my audition, when my stomach wasn't
inching nervously toward my throat.  It would be bad form to toss my
cookies all over the infamous Martin Wexler.  All right, so I'm not the
first actress in history whose reading partner blew off an audition.
It's not as if Lily London is such a prize.  Still, with all her
upstaging and overacting, she's a thousand times better than some
stand-in stage manager who moves his lips while reading Walk/ Don Walk
signs.  A sonorous voice arises from the dark.  "You are reading with
.. . ?"  "I was paired with Lily London."  "Lily's not here?"  Wexler
stands, his shock of silver hair glowing under muted house lights.  At
seventy, the man still has presence, the kind of Gary Grant leading-man
looks audiences drool over.  Rumor has it he and Johnnie Walker Black
Label have been best friends since way back.  He seems sober enough at
the moment.  "Where is she?"  "We were scheduled at nine, but she never
showed."  "That's not the Lily I remember.  She was punctual to a
fault.  Frank' the intern snaps to 'see if you can track her down."  I
am about to say I've tried calling.  Several times.  That I plunked
hard-earned shekels into the lobby pay phones trying to hustle Lily
London's no-talent buns down to the theater.  But I sense that Martin
Wexler is a man who prefers finding out things for himself.  Thorough.
I've heard that. Determined.  Genius.  Demigod.  One of America's great
directors.  If he wants to call Lily, who am I to say no?  "Should I
wait until you find her?"  I ask.  "No.  Let's move on.  Rob will feed
you your lines." A gorilla in high-top gym shoes and neon suspenders
lumbers across the stage, knuckles scraping the ground.  He comes to
rest so close I can count the fleas jumping in his chest fur.  "When
you're ready," says Wexler.  I am a professional.  I am a professional.
I am a professional.  "So, what is it now?"  I ask.  The gorilla looks
puzzled. "What is what?"

I AM A PROFESSIONAL.

"That is my line," I say, running my middle finger down his script to
where it says "So, what is it now?"  "Oh, sorry."  "You're Mom."
"Right." "We alternate lines."  "Got it."  "Ready?"  "Shoot."  Love to.
I steady myself, shifting back into character.  "So, what is it now?"
"I.  Want. To.  Talk.  To.  You."  No inflection, no vocal movement, no
recognizable human emotion.  He doles out words with all the passion of
a brick.  It's hard to hear the gorilla through the sound of my blood
boiling.  The flip side is, I don't have to act angry.  I'm all over
the scene, erupting like Vesuvius, lashing out with force I would never
have unleashed at frail Lily.  I underplay my roles.  It's my style.
I'm a card-carrying devotee of the Clint Eastwood school of restrained
rage.  All that is forgotten as I rant and rave at the lug, trying to
shake loose a single sign of a Homo sapiens genetic link.  If I've
blown my shot at this role, at least I'll have a ripping good time.  I
blast through the reading, playing the scene as broad as vaudeville.
When it's over, I bow low to the stunned silence.  Wexler's voice
echoes from the dark.  "Thank you for your time, Miss ah Taylor."  Once
I vomit I'll feel better.  My nervous ritual isn't something I care to
share with the actresses crammed into the lobby ladies' room, making
their last-minute adjustments to hair and makeup, stealing furtive
drags off forbidden cigarettes.  I duck through the side door, around
the rows of scrims, cables, and backstage detritus more precious to me
than furs and jewels.  I'd appeared at the Heartland, this grand dame
of Chicago theaters, in five fabulous plays.  I'd prayed today's
audition would make it six.  But after my overblown reading, there's
not a chance in hell I'll get the part.  The power of my disappointment
surprises me. Rejection is built into the profession.  I know that.
But this time it's more serious than usual.  This was my last shot to
work enough weeks to keep my Actors' Equity insurance in full force.  I
close the door of the tiny backstage bathroom behind me.  A dim bulb
burns in the overhead fixture.  The door to the stall is closed.
Straps of a canvas bag trail out in the space under the door.  I grit
my teeth against the nausea.  "Will you be long?"  I ask.  No answer.
I knock on the door. "Excuse me.  Will you be much longer?"  Nothing.
I try the door.  It is locked from the inside.  "Are you all right?"
Something furry brushes my leg.  A rat!  I jump back, screaming,
bashing against the paper towel dispenser.  It crashes to the floor,
scattering brown towels everywhere.  A large rat hovers in the shadows,
backing away from me.  Barking.  Rats don't bark.  I bend down for a
closer look.  It's not a rat at all.  It is Lily London's little dog,
the one she carries in her audition bag.  "Lily?"  I say.  "Lily?"  No
answer.  I reach under the stall, tugging at the handle of the bag.
The dog yaps, running up and back, nipping my knuckles.  I work the bag
partway out until I see the familiar gray-and-white-striped canvas.  In
all the years I've known Lily, she's never been far from this bag.  I
bend down, laying my cheek against the cold floor, looking under the
stall.  Bits of grapefruit peel curl like dead leaves on the tile.
Just beyond, Lily's eyes stare back at me, wide and unblinking.

Chapter 2

"I can't believe she's dead," says Beth.  It is painful watching my
best friend grieve.  "A heart attack ..."  her voice a whisper.  "Lily
looked so vibrant when I picked her up.  So .. ."  She burrows deeper
into the corner of my lumpy sofa, cocooned in one of Grandma Ruth's
afghans.  I putter around, straightening old magazines, fluffing
pillows.  What am I supposed to say?  I want to comfort her, but don't
know how.  The newly orphaned Hamlet nestles in her lap, sound asleep.
"I wasn't even gone two hours."  She goes over it yet again.  "Dropped
Lily at the theater, went back to my apartment to throw in a load of
wash, ran a few errands, then came to pick her up.  By then, she was ..
. she was .. ."  She's crying again, adding soggy tissues to the
pyramid on the end table.  I become engrossed in neatening back issues
of People and Variety, none of which mentions my name.  Beth's heart is
as big as her talent.  I tell her people take advantage of her.  She
says I'm too suspicious.  Our unlikely but devoted friendship dates
back to sixth grade, when we landed roles as two of the sisters Von
Trapp in The Sound of Music.  I was a street tough from Skokie, a
multicultural village in Chicago's northern shadow.  Beth was an
innocent from Glen Ellyn, a far western suburb about as textured as
white bread.  Our opposites attracted and we stayed friends, appearing
together through the years in plays, light operas, movies.  I freshen
the chamomile in her cup, stifling my instinct to wisecrack.  For some
perverse reason, death brings out the smart-ass in me.  It doesn't help
that I always considered Lily London a royal pain, one of those
perpetually helpless types who can't seem to do anything for
themselves.  Lily and Beth met on a movie shoot a couple of years
before, and the old gal immediately latched on, calling Beth to do this
or that little favor, pick something up, drop something off.  "The
grandmother I never had," Beth had said.  "I have two grandmothers,"
I'd told her, "I'll sell you one." She thought I was joking.  I leave
Beth to her tea and tissues while I take four messages off my answering
machine.  Message One: "A Dr.  Billy Roth will be calling," says my
mother.  "He's Gail Witlin's second cousin's son.  Very bright, very
good-looking, and the divorce is nearly final."  Who calls a grown
doctor Billy?  Message Two: "Hello, Morgan?  This is Dr.  Billy Roth."
His voice has the crackly static of an old crystal radio set.  Either
he's calling from a cheap car phone or he is a hundred and fifteen
years old.  He promises to call back. Oh joy.  Message Three: "Hi,
sweetie."  Grandma Belle.  "Don't want to keep you.  What do you call a
father of twins?"  She pauses a few seconds to let me work on this.  "A
pas de deux.  Love you."  Message Four: "Morgan?"  Mom, again, to see
if the good doctor called and to ask why I'm never home.  "What do you
do with your time?  Oh," as if an afterthought, "Sylvia called.  Says
she's tried to reach you but you still won't return her calls."  I
listen to the long pause, feel Mom wanting to say more but knowing
better than to try to fight her children's fights.  I'm grateful she
hangs up without telling me how to deal with my back-stabbing baby
sister.  I erase the messages, making room for more of the same, and
curl onto the sofa next to Beth.  Her nose and eyes are bright red from
crying.  Dear Beth.  Although we're both hovering on the brink of
(gulp) thirty, she looks closer to thirteen.  Waiflike, she has the
kind of pale skin, large eyes, and soft speech that makes total
strangers want to take care of her.  It drives her crazy.  Which is why
I am the only person Beth called last month when her new doctor
diagnosed her long history of seemingly unrelated symptoms as multiple
sclerosis.

"Lily looked wonderful," says Beth.  "Had her hair and nails done
yesterday.  She was so excited about seeing the great director after
all these years.  Fluttery.  Like a schoolgirl.  She said Wexler once
had a terrific crush on her but she was interested in someone else at
the time.  Do you think that was it?  The excitement was too much for
her heart?"  She strokes Hamlet's silky coat.  "Is there something I
could have done?  Maybe if I '

"You can't second-guess the Grim Reaper," I say.

"She didn't complain of chest pain."

"Heart attacks don't always come with a warning."

"I mean, she'd get those scary palpitations now and then.  Kept that
vial of nitro pills in her bag."

"Death plays by its own rules."  I cringe at my fortune-cookie
dialogue.

"But this morning she was f-fine."  Beth tears up again.

"Look at the bright side.  She went fast.  No pain, no lingering
illness."

"I guess..  ."

"And she died in one of Chicago's grand old theaters, about to audition
for a great director in a play she'd starred in forty years ago.  If
you gotta go and we all gotta it's not a bad way."

She nods, unconvinced.  I know Beth, know her unlimited compassion for
the aged and infirm.  Probably explains why she hangs around me. She'll
spend the next few weeks agonizing over what one small thing she could
have done to save Lily's life.

The doorbell rings, startling Hamlet, who begins yapping and turning in
circles, snagging his sharp little nails in Grandma Ruth's afghan.  I
dislike dogs in general, and this one in particular.  He has all the
appeal of a long-haired rat, and none of the personality.  Beth, of
course, thinks him adorable.  I push the Talk button.  The intercom
crackles.

"Yes?"

"Miss Mfghrbuleyt?"  I swear that's how it sounds.  My intercom
attracts static from a three-mile radius.  Two tin cans with string
would have more clarity.

"Yes?"

"This is Detective Rozzlittykq from the Chicago polizzzynnk."

Not for me, after all.  "Who did you say you wanted?"

"Miss Morgan Taylor."

That's clear enough.

"And you are ... ?"

"Detective Roblings, Chicago polizzzce."

Polizzzce?  For moi?  Quickly scanning my larcenous life from birth to
present, I come up empty.  Oh, sure there's that ear of corn filched
from an Iowa field, the box of tissues lifted from the Four Seasons
ladies' room, and a bag of leftover candy liberated from the craft
service table at my last movie job.  All right, two bags.  But
certainly nothing serious enough to bring the Chicago polizzzce to my
door.

"What do you want?"  I say.

"May I come up?"

My finger hovers over the buzzer.  Is he really the police?  The
building has already had three break-ins this year, all from strangers
being buzzed in.  Our last tenants' meeting, a knockdown-drag-out
affair punctuated by energetic finger-pointings and loud accusations,
ended with a clear description of the acceptable buzzing-in procedure.
When in doubt, don't.

"What is this regarding?"  I ask.

"The dpthrrst of Msskkffll Lnnnnaas."

"Could you repeat that, please?"

"The death, this morning, of Lily Londskyyg."

A burglar's not likely to use Lily's death as entree.  Besides, should
I need help, I have the backup of Beth-the-waif and an attack-trained
rat.  I buzz him in, take my pepper spray from the hall desk, and slip
it into my pocket before stationing myself at the open door.

Chapter 3

The good detective in arches slow and even, landing by landing.  I run
up and down these same steps for half an hour every day, save myself a
fortune by not joining some fancy health club.  I'd have passed him
seven times by now.

He rounds the last landing and pauses to look up.  His face has been
around a while, has visited some unsavory digs, witnessed the
underbelly of man's inhumanity.  Sweat glistens on his forehead,
welling in furrows deep enough for planting.  He nods my way, then
lowers his head and trudges up the last flight.

The hand gripping the banister meaty, flat knuckled, powerful is not
one I'd care to meet in a fight.  I have a thing about hands.  And
feet.  I didn't grow up the daughter of Skokie Sam the Shoe Shop Man
without picking up a thing or three.  These particular feet are large,
housed in industrial-strength spit-shined oxfords, and walk with the
toes pointing slightly out.  Duck-footed men tend to be overweight,
creatively intelligent, and wickedly funny.  Zero Mostel.  Alfred
Hitchcock.  Jackie Gleason.  The good detective is trimmer than my
usual favorites, more powerfully built.  Probably just as well.  I
can't picture Zero sprinting after the bad guys.

"Miss Taylor?"

"Yes."

"I'm Detective Roblings."  He pulls a white handkerchief from his
pocket, blotting sweat from his forehead.  A delicate gesture for such
a lug of a man.  "I'd like to ask you a few questions."

"May I see some identification?"

He reaches in his jacket pocket and I tighten my grip on the pepper
spray.  No victim, I. Deft fingers flip open the ancient leather case
to badge and ID.  There is no mistaking the laminated face sad-eyed,
soft-lipped, broken-nosed.  The photo does not capture the flecks of
orange and green in his eyes, the glint of light when he looks directly
at you.  Which he does.  And it misses the coiled energy fisted just
below the surface.  A young Brando could play this Detective Roblings.
Yes, it would take that caliber of talent.  The Chicago city seal looks
genuine enough.  And the badge.  I decide to assume his credentials are
real.  At some point I have to trust that people are being honest with
me.  Otherwise I'd never set foot outside the house.  Like my Grandma
Ruth.  "What can I do for you?"  I ask.  "It's about Lily London."  The
Potters' dog claws the door across the hall, which means Mrs.  Potter
has her good ear planted firmly against the thin wood.  "Maybe it would
be better if we talk inside," says Roblings.  "Here is fine," I say.
No need for Beth to hear the grim details of Lily's death.  He shrugs,
exchanging his badge case for a small notebook.  Flipping it open, he
digs into another pocket for a pen.  Harpo Marx did pockets this way,
fumbling, looking, coming up with an endless supply of unlikely
goodies.  I wait for Roblings to pull out a rubber chicken, an
Autoharp, the running board off a Model T. "I understand you are the
one who discovered Miss London's body."  "Yes."  "Tell me about it."  I
do.  He checks his notes.  "The ambulance driver says you accompanied
Miss London's body to the hospital and took her belongings home with
you."  "They're in a shopping bag in the kitchen."  "You were very
close with Miss London?"  "Me?  Oh, no.  I brought her things to give
to my friend.  Beth is ... was like a daughter to Lily."  I give him
Beth's full name.  I probably could mention that she is ten feet away,
but I figure I can take care of whatever it is the good detective
needs.

"You called Miss London this morning," he says.

"Yes.  No.  I mean I never actually talked to her.  I was waiting for
her at the theater '

Mrs.  Potter's dog begins barking, which starts Mrs.  Potter shushing,
which gets Mr.  Potter yelling at both of them to shut the hell up.

Roblings raises his voice over the noise.  "I didn't say you talked to
her.  I said The barking and scratching and yelling make it impossible
to hear.  I have no choice.

"You'd better come in."

I intend to talk to him quietly near the door, keep him away from Beth.
But he strides past me into the room.

Hamlet leaps off the sofa, yapping in circles, nipping at Roblings's
feet.  These are not feet to fool with.  Each shoe weighs twice as much
as Hamlet, could crunch him like a roach.  Hamlet's attack is an act of
extreme bravery or abject stupidity, depending how you feel about
dogs.

Beth makes a soft kissing sound.  "Come here, sweetness.  Come here,
boy."  Hamlet gives Roblings's right shoe one last nip then jumps back
up to Beth's lap.  "Good boy.  That's a sweet boy.  Yessss."

"Hello," says Roblings.

"Hello," says Beth.

"I'm Detective Roblings."

Beth looked puzzled.  "Detective?"

"He's come about Lily," I say.

Beth's tear-ruined face and the mountain of wet tissues on the table
obviously pique Roblings's finely honed detective instincts.  "You must
be Lily's friend Beth," he says.

One large tear and then another trickle down Beth's cheek.  She barely
manages a nod before the deluge.

"Detective Roblings," I say, standing behind him, forcing him to turn
away from Beth to talk to me, 'you said you have a few more
questions?"

He nods, checking his notes.  "You called Miss London's apartment this
morning.  Several times.  Her answering machine logged your first call
at eight forty-five."  "Oh, that.  Yes.  I was trying to find her.  To
rehearse before our audition."  "Why did you need Miss London for your
audition?"  The question jars, a piece out of place.  "What does this
have to do with Lily's heart attack?"  Roblings shifts weight from one
foot to the other.  "I'm a little curious," he says.  "I don't know
much about theater, how it works.  I'm trying to reconstruct Miss
London's morning, and you were part of it."  "You mean I was supposed
to be.  The play's main characters are a mother and daughter.  The
director paired Lily and me so he could audition both roles at one
time."  He flips to a new page in his notebook.  "When Miss London
failed to show, why didn't you just ask one of the other actresses to
read with you?"  "I don't understand these questions," I say.  He
doesn't answer.  Doesn't change expression.  I try to read him but the
man gives up nothing.  "Actually, I did ask.  Early on.  There were a
couple of actresses I would have loved to read with.  The Equity
monitor said she'd ask the director."  "Martin Wexler?"  I nod.  "She
asked.  Wexler said no.  I had to audition with the person I was paired
with."  "Why?"  "Why?"  I sigh.  It's a pain when civilians try to
apply logic to the theater.  "Because Wexler ate bad shrimp last night.
Because the taps fell off his dance shoes.  Because he's depressed
about global warming."  Roblings's face is not amused.  "What happens
when your partner doesn't show?"  "You wind up playing the scene with
the drink concession kid, if you're lucky, the stage manager if you're
not."  Do I detect a slight hoisting of the right lip, the faintest
hint of a smile?  But Roblings's voice remains all business.  "You
sounded pretty upset on Miss London's answering machine," he says.

Beth looks at me, questioning, her long lashes clumped with tears.

"We'd been scheduled for nine o'clock.  I was checking to see if she'd
overslept.  Or forgotten."

"She wouldn't do that," says Beth.  "You know how seriously she takes
.. . she took her work."

"I know.  That is, intellectually I knew Lily wouldn't be late.  But I
kept waiting and waiting.  I mean, I never get first call.  I'm usually
slotted somewhere midday, which means rearranging my work schedule,
rushing to the audition, then twiddling my thumbs because, by then, the
auditions are backed up.  So I was thrilled to be scheduled first.  I
didn't know until I got there that I'd been paired with Lily."  And I
hadn't been happy about it.  But there is no need to say that.  "I
called and waited, called and waited.  I had to let a long line of
people go ahead of me.  So yes, I guess I was pretty steamed when I
left my messages."

Roblingsjots notes, his powerful hands delicately flipping pages of the
notebook.

"You should have known something was wrong," says Beth.

"Believe me, I ran through a whole checklist of things that could have
happened to her.  But being dead wasn't one of them."

"What time did you get to the theater?"  asks Roblings.

"Eight-thirty."

"Did anyone see you come in?  The janitor?  Another actress?"

"What is this about?"  He doesn't answer.  Holds his pen poised,
waiting.  I try to think.  "There were mobs of students going into the
art school next door."

"Anyone in the theater who might know you?"

"No one.  I walked into the entrance foyer, past the box office '

"Anyone there?"

"It doesn't open until ten."

"But someone could have been there, getting tickets ready or whatever
it is they do."

I think about that.  "I doubt it.  The curtain inside the box office
was closed.  I remember because, with the curtain drawn, the glass made
a good mirror for me to check my hair and makeup before going
downstairs to the theater."  "So, no one saw you?"  "No."  "And if
someone were inside the box office, you couldn't have seen them."
"Right." Roblings glances at his notes.  "You're sure of the time?"
"Excruciatingly sure.  I was late leaving my apartment.  Just missed
the El.  I was terrified I'd be late for the audition, watched the
minutes tick off the whole ride down.  By the time I ran the two blocks
to the theater, I was a wreck.  It was exactly eight-thirty."  "She was
already there," says Beth, so soft I barely hear.  Roblings whirls
toward Beth.  "What's that?"  "I said," her voice a whisper, 'she was
there."  "Miss London?"  Beth blows her nose, nodding.  "She had me
drop her off around eight-fifteen so she ' Roblings's left eyebrow
hitches half a centimeter in what I suspect is a wild show of surprise.
"You drove Lily London to the audition?"  "Why, yes, I ' "Detective' -
I try to gentle him away from Beth "I'm sure I can tell you everything
you need to know ab ' The energy shift in the room is powerful and
absolute.  Roblings shuts me out, hones in on Beth like a hound on
point.  "I want you to tell me everything you can remember," he says,
'from the moment you picked her up, until the last second you saw her."
Something strange is going on here.  Everything about Roblings's
demeanor tensed body, faster speech, tightening of those Brando-esque
lips says this is no casual questioning.  What is he not telling us
about Lily's death?  I study him for signs.  As Beth details her
morning, Roblings takes off his jacket and folds it neatly over the
back of Uncle Morrie's ancient La-Z-Boy recliner, the one Aunt Denise
donated to my apartment without first clearing it with Uncle Morrie,
thereby nearly ending forty-five years of wedded bliss.  To his credit,
Uncle Morrie recovered, developing a grudging attachment to the chair's
replacement and a respectful wariness around Aunt Denise.

Roblings pours into the recliner with the sensual flow of molten lava.
His body melds with the baggy cushions and sprung frame.  I have a
feeling it will be a long while before he flows back out.

Chapter 4

I am smoothing hot wax on my left upper lip between sips of wake-up
coffee when the phone rings.  I pick up to a Kiting Irish brogue.
"Miss Morgan?"  "Yes?"  "This is Martin Wexler's casting assistant?"
Be still my heart.  "Yes?"  "Mr.  Wexler would like you to read again
for him?" "Yes?"  "Tomorrow?  Ten o'clock?  At the theater?"  "Yes?"
"See you then?"  "Yesh."  The wax hardens.  Thanksh."  Yes!  Huzzah!
Fanfare, trumpets, bring on the elephants.  Martin Wexler actually
liked my overblown performance.  Go figure.  I tease up a corner of
cooled wax, then rip it off, taking most of the hairs and a thin layer
of skin.  My demons check in as I press an ice cube against the
welting.  A callback is not a job.  It ain't over till it's over.
Don't count your chickens. Wexler wants you to read again because he
couldn't believe how amazingly awful you were the first time.  Begone!
I flick the demons off my shoulder into a vat of boiling oil.  It's
hard not to smile as I smooth hot wax on the right side.  A callback!
This tiny crumb of hope is more banquet than I've had in months.  Part
of me wants to jump up and down and celebrate.  Another, the part
that's learned to love macaroni dinners and twice-used coffee grounds,
forces me to stay calm, realize there isn't a chance I'll get the role.
 I rip off hair and skin, press ice until the stinging stops.

Come on, Morgan, think positive.  A callback is one step closer.  I am
going to land this job.  Have to.  It is possible to live without food
but I refuse to live without insurance.  I've watched too many of my
uninsured friends and relatives, stricken by accidents or sudden
illnesses, dragged through financial hell.

The trouble is, Actors' Equity reckons I should work every now and
again if I want to qualify for its insurance plan.  Its free insurance
plan, as in no charge.  Which is exactly what my budget allows.  But my
Equity jobs have been too few and too far between.  I am dangerously
near the cut-off zone.  If I don't get this play, Equity will make me
go on self-pay, which costs $3,000 a minute.

The overflowing laundry basket beckons.  I left it blocking the front
door as a reminder I'm out of clean everything.  It will have to wait
until I complete my deforestation.  I bend over the magnifying mirror,
attacking my left eyebrow with tweezers while I dial Beth.  "Get any
sleep?"  I ask.

"Not much."  A sharp yelp breaks in.  "Shhhhhh," she says.  "That's a
sweet boy.  Yessssss.  Poor Hamlet.  He's such a lost soul.  Doesn't
understand why I don't take him home to Lily.  He paced all night.  I
think that detective scared him."

"Scared me," I say.

Beth drops her voice, hardening it to Roblings's West Side accent.  "I
just want to ask you ladies a couple questions."

I laugh.  "I still can't figure out what he wanted."

"I swear, you are so dense sometimes.  Here's a guy who lives in a
world of muggers and gang-bangers, and he suddenly finds himself in the
company of a couple of savvy dudettes.  I'm surprised you got him to go
home at all."

I can't quite conjure the image of the lumbering detective as come-on
artist.  Hamlet starts yapping again and, while Beth quiets him, I
debate whether to drop the joy of my callback into the middle of her
sorrow.  But I have to tell someone.  "Someone' used to be Adam, my
first phone call in the morning, last call at night.  That ended eight
months ago, 'round about the same time Sylvia my back-stabbing
boyfriend-stealing baby sister discovered what a great listener Adam
was.  Drop it.  Just drop it.  Hamlet calms down, whimpering.  "Poor
baby," says Beth.  I'm going to burst if I don't tell.  "I got a
callback," I say, softly.  "Oh, Morgan, that's fabulous!  When?"
"Tomorrow."  "You're going to be great!"  She pauses.  Sighs.  Pauses.
"What?"  "I hate to ask I'm afraid I already know the answer but have
you paid your Equity dues?"  "Shit."  "That's what I thought.
Tomorrow's May first."  "I'd better get down there.  Call you later."
I tear through the laundry basket in search of something wearable.
Beth would never say "I told you so."  But she has told me so, every
week for the past month.  Equity members must pay dues twice a year,
October and May, to receive the current card.  No card, no audition.
And tomorrow is May first.  May Day.  Cinco de Mayo minus cuatro.  My
slacks are hopeless, but I find a reasonably unwrinkled skirt and a
passable knit top.  The first pair of panty hose runs from toe to
thigh.  I scrounge another.  It isn't likely that I'll be asked to show
my Equity card at tomorrow's callback.  But I can't risk it.  I once
went on an important audition with an expired card.  The Equity
monitor, a Napoleonic nitwit aquiver with power, turned me away at the
door.  Wouldn't even let me plead my case to the director.  I call my
boss at Junque and Stuffe while I tug on the hose.  "Harold?  I'm going
to be a little late today.  I have to stop at the Equity office."  "Not
to worry, dear heart he says.  "I shan't need you until a positively
humongous shipment arrives tomorrow."  "Oh.  About tomorrow."

"Yes .. . ?"

"I'll be in.  Just maybe a little late.  Depending.  I have a callback
for that Wexler audition."

"Dearheart, how lovely for you."

"I'm scheduled early.  I expect to be in on time."

He sighs.  "Well, I shall just have to manage until you arrive.  Break
a leg."

Beth calls back as I'm flying out the door and asks me to track some
Equity insurance information for her while I'm at the office.  "I'd do
it myself," her voice shaky, 'but I'm not feeling up to making calls
just yet."

"Stop apologizing.  It's okay to ask a favor.  I owe you about five
hundred."

Why is it that Beth, who loves doing things for other people -the Late
Great Lily London, me, every hard-luck Harry with a sob story finds it
so difficult to ask favors for herself?  As I head out, I liberate a
rubber band from the stash on the front doorknob and put it around my
wrist.  A reminder not to forget.

Chapter 5

The Equity office looks like a convention of Who's Who in Chicago
Theater.  The Atlanta Shakespeare Theatre is holding auditions in the
Library.  Anyone who can pronounce "Shakespeare," and too many who
can't, wait to try out.  I plow through the thespian throng and head
down the hallway.  A few actors pore over the audition book, jotting
down dates and addresses.  Others wait to sign up with the person
making audition appointments.  A neon-clad messenger pushes through to
the out-of-towners' table and drops a package among the piles of
flowers, packages, letters, and telegrams.  He holds out his clipboard
to me.  "Not me," I say, leading him through the crowd to Rosie.
"Her." Moving at lightning speed behind the massive counter, Rosie
fields ten frantic requests at once, calming, cajoling.  Short and wide
as a fire plug, wispy white hair flying in all directions, she takes
one look at us, dispatches the messenger in two seconds, then
congratulates me. "Not many catch Wexler's eye, I can tell you.  Well
done.  Hold on, hold on."  She riffles through a stack of scripts.  I
don't bother asking how Rosie knows about my callback.  Her Equity
antenna picks up the slightest vibration.  "Here you go," she says,
pulling a packet from the middle of the pile.  "Your sides."  A chill
goes through me as I take the half-dozen pages Wexler selected from the
script.  Receiving sides is a giant step forward in the audition
process.  These pages are tangible proof that I am a heartbeat away
from being cast.  Sides give me something concrete to work on, words to
breathe life into, a key to plumbing the depths of my character.

Excited, I flip through the sides, scan the snip pits of unrelated
scenes, each calling for a different emotion.  There is meat here.  I
can do something with this role.  I am ready to run home and begin
working on my lines when I hear someone ask about renewing her Equity
membership.  Thank goodness.  I would have forgotten.

I move to the end of the counter to fill out my check, helping myself
to a couple of mints from Rosie's never-ending candy jar.  Industry
gossip flows around me, and I eavesdrop to see who is cast in what
role, which play is rumored to be coming to town.  An elderly man
mentions Lily's death at the theater.  "That's how I want to go," he
says.  "In the saddle."

I am handing Rosie my check when the rubber band around my wrist
reminds me.  "A friend has MS," I say.  "She's heard the disease might
be made worse by an allergic reaction to the old silver fillings in her
teeth."

Rosie snorts.  "Sounds like an old wives' tale."

"Might be.  But she's desperate.  Needs to know if Equity insurance
covers the cost of replacing her old fillings with some newer
material."

"We'll take a look-see."  Rosie snaps her fingers, dispatching one of
her interns to check it out.  I step aside to wait.

"Morgan  Diana Tuttle's voice axes the back of my neck.  She floats
toward me through the crowd.  I pull up my shoulders to ward off the
next blow.  "How wonderful you look."  She kisses the air next to my
cheeks.  "Whatever have you been up to?  It's been ages.  Simply
ages."

It appears as if she's speaking to me.  But Queen Tut never plays to an
audience of one.  Even her stage whisper projects across entire time
zones.

"I still can't believe the Rep cast that dweeb Louisa instead of you in
As You Like It.  And wasn't that audition for Under Milk Wood the most
dreadful thing?  Honestly, sometimes we actors are treated like such
cattle.  Why, you should consider yourself lucky you didn't get the
part.  You didn't have to work in that abysmal theater.  The heat
conked out opening night and every one of us in the cast about died of
pneumonia."  She is doing it to me again.  Sweet as sugar substitute
and as genuine Queen Tut is announcing to all present that I haven't
worked in a while and she has.  I try not to notice her perfectly
coifed hair, starched linen suit, unscuffed shoes, and manicured nails
as she rattles off the long list of auditions she's been on.  Even
though we're about the same age, I always feel like a little girl
around her. A poorly dressed, wrong-side-of-the-tracks little girl.
Queen Tut's one of those focused, humorless, annoyingly adult people
who seem to have been born old.  I'm thinking how to cut off her
oh-so-concerned inquiry as to why I wasn't at this or that audition,
her 'y u would have been so perfect for' such-and-so role, when she
offers up the ideal cue.  "And," she says, 'y u really should have
auditioned for Martin Wexler.  That man is ' "I did," I say.  "You .. .
?"  "Did. Audition."  "Oh.  Really?"  "And," projecting my voice across
the assemblage, "I have a callback."  "Oh?  How nice for you."
"Tomorrow." "Wonderful.  Well, wonderful.  Really.  Which role?"  The
Daughter."  Her smile freezes.  "Me too.  A callback, that is.
Tomorrow.  I expect, that is, I may see you there."  She becomes
suddenly engrossed in writing her dues check.  "So sad about poor
Lily," she says to Rosie. "I hear the police are concerned about some
irregularities."  First I've heard.  "What kind of irregularities?"
"I'm just repeating," says Diana, 'what a friend of mine overheard at
the theater."  "If anything's irregular, it's those police," says
Rosie.  "One of them looks like a cross between a bear and a basset
came nosing around yesterday."

Detective Roblings no doubt.  That man does get around.  "Do you know
why the police are so interested?"  I ask.

Rosie waves a dismissive hand.  "It's no biggie," she says.  "They
can't find any next of kin for Lily so they're hoping to get a line on
her through this office."  She peers at us over the tops of her
glasses.  "I tell you, that man was into everything, bothering us with
questions, wanting files looked up, copies made.  As if we don't have
enough to do."

Queen Tut, bored by any conversation not about her, projects her voice
to the last seat in the third balcony.  "I was in the theater when Lily
died."  She shudders prettily.  "If only I'd known she was having her
heart attack.  I could have used the CPR I learned for my role in
Stat!"

That does it.  I feel my weak-willed self sucked into Diana's
relentless game of one-upmanship, and heaven help me I am powerless
against it.

My voice rises from the depths of my diaphragm.  "I found the body."

Wonderful effect.  All the room goes quiet.  Then, slight murmurs swell
to a barrage of questions hurled at me from all directions.  And, as I
cast pearls of information before inquiring minds, I feel a twinge of
shame for using Lily's death to boost my miserable ego.

"Who wanted this info on multiple sclerosis?"  shouts die intern,
waving a sheaf of papers.

"Here," I say, grateful for the distraction.

"This is all I could find' he hands me two pages 'and here's the
section on dental care."

I leaf through.  There is nothing about removing old fillings.  Beth
will have to contact the insurance company directly.

I am halfway down the hall when Diana sings out, "See you at the
callback tomorrow.  I'm so glad things are finally looking up for
you."

Chapter 6

Beauty and the Beast stop by the next morning as I tear apart the
apartment searching for the exact same clothes I wore to the audition.
Beth holds out a Dunkin' Donuts bag.  "We come bearing gifts," she
says.  "Just in the nick."  I dash toward the bathroom, Hamlet chasing
after me.  "Coffee's ready.  Pour us a cup?"  I find the skirt hiding
on a bathroom hook under my kimono, the shoes kicked into opposite
corners of the hall closet.  But the blouse .. . where did I put the
blouse? Maybe my bedroom.  I search my drawers, the closet floor, the
random piles of stuff littering the room.  It is imperative that I wear
the same outfit.  "Superstitious," Lester-the-attorney used to say,
when Lester was still around.  "You actors are so superstitious."  That
isn't it, isn't it at all.  What if it isn't me the director remembers,
but 'the gal in the pink blouse'?  I once nearly lost a part because I
wore a striped blouse to the callback.  Who knew the director had
fallen in love with my gray fuzzy audition sweater?  I had to promise
to let the costumer copy it.  That's why I wear the same clothes for a
callback. It has nothing whatever to do with superstition.  Sure.
Blouse searching is hard work with Hamlet yapping around my ankles.  I
flip through my closet, hanger by hanger, in case, in a rare fit of
tidiness, I actually hung the damn thing.  Hamlet finds the pink blouse
before I do, dragging it from under the chair last inhabited by
Detective Roblings.  I wrestle the blouse away wrinkles wrinkles
everywhere wiping dog spittle and dark smudges off the sleeves.  The
smudges don't wipe.  I work a damp cloth over them.  Old stains.  Set.
They must have happened when I found Lily's body, when I bent down on
the dirty tile floor to look under the bathroom stall.  Lily's eyes,
that empty stare.  I shudder.

Breathe deep.  Let all things go.  Relax shoulders.  Roll eyes.  Waggle
jaw.  Feel the world fall away.  There is only the audition and me.
Slow breaths.  Slow.

Beth brings coffee and a chocolate doughnut, settling on the bed as I
finish dressing.  Lily's death has hit her hard.  She looks tired,
pale, her bright eyes dull.  The ready smile folds down.  Oh, the pain
of losing someone you love.  However it happens, through death,
distance, or a sister's betrayal, they're gone from your life,
forever.

I hand her the MS information.  "I don't think Equity will pay to have
your fillings replaced," I say, pulling on my last good pair of panty
hose.

"I know.  It's a long shot.  Probably won't help, anyway.  But, at this
point, I'll try anything.  My energy level is next to zero."

"That's because you're depressed over Lily's death."

"Even before, I was draggin' my wagon."  She tries a smile.  Doesn't
quite make it.

Hamlet zooms into the room, grabs hold of one leg of my stockings and
starts pulling.

"No!"  I yell.  "Let go.  Don't '

Beth makes a clicking sound and Hamlet releases my stocking, jumps up
onto the bed, and rolls over for a tummy tickle.

I check for runs.  "Listen up, you little rodent," I say

Edward G. doing Silence of the Lambs "I am going to roast you slowly
over hot coals.  Serve you up with fava beans and a nice Chianti."

Hamlet growls.

"No she won't," says Beth.  "Don't you worry."

"You're spoiling him."

"It's not his fault.  Lily was a fastidious housekeeper.  She never
left things lying around."  Beth nuzzles his neck.  "This pkce is just
one huge playground, isn't it, you sweet thing."

"Just because I'm from the hurricane school of housekeeping..  ."  I
pack my audition bag with tissues, comb, hair spray, breath mints,
makeup, extra head shots, and other exotic tools of my trade.  Beth
stands to walk me to the door and falls back onto the bed.

"What's the matter?"

"Dizzy .. ."  Her breath comes in short bursts.  "Stood too fast.
Nothing serious."

"Something."

Her skin is waxy white.  A small twitch jerks her right eyelid.

"A little flare-up," she says.

"MS?"

She nods.  "Tis the nature of the beast.  I'll be all right."

"You're staying right here.  Don't move until I get back.  There should
be something moderately edible in the fridge."

"I'm fine."

"You're staying."

"Come on, Morgan, you can't stand sick people."

"Just the goldbrickers and complainers.  You don't qualify.  Besides,
if you stay a few days, I can coach you for your industrial and you can
help me with my lines."

She manages a half-smile.  "You know you'll get the part, don't you?"

No.  "Sure."

She promises to think about staying.

On my way to the theater, I wonder if all my acting jobs until now have
been flukes, if I was ever any good.  The demons have returned with a
vengeance.

Chapter 7

I should zero right in on the blue-and-whites parked akimbo on the
theater walk, but I don't.  I don't even question why I have to flash
ID to Security at the door.

On a normal day, I might assume there's been a terrorist threat from an
obscure fringe group.  Barely a play opens without offending someone
with obscenity, nudity, politics.  Lately it seems every play has at
least one character urinating onstage.  Heck, even Snow White has its
detractors.

But this glorious day is anything but normal.  I have a callback!  I'm
totally concentrated on the audition.  By the time I reach the theater,
I've shuffled off this mortal coil and fallen into the world of the
play.  I enter the theater, oblivious.

If my first go-round was the audition from hell, the second is pure
heaven.  A dynamo with a wild frizz of red hair replaces the
flea-infested stage manager.  Too young to be cast as Mother, too old
for Daughter, the woman is nonetheless wonderful, feeding me lines with
brilliant tone and tempo.  Her performance empowers me.  Instead of
drowning in audition sweat, I stride around the stage, easily becoming
the tough-talking character Wexler responded to the first time.

After a couple of read-throughs Wexler comes onstage, giving us crude
blocking, suggesting things to think about as we go through the scene
again.  "The Wexler genius," they call it.  He has an eye, all right.
There is the hawk about him, tense watchfulness, sure movements.  He is
at once opinionated and innovative.  The kind of director who would be
off-putting if his instincts weren't so perfect.  I'd missed the fun of
it.  The excitement of layering art form upon art form playwright's
words spoken through actor's interpretation shaped by director's eye.
And all this before the set designer, costumer, lighting director, and
sound engineer work their magic.  Add audience and shake well.  Ah, the
exhilaration, the tension, the creation of a world where none existed.
I become not someone other, but a heightened part of myself.  As Wexler
moves us around the stage, I sense an intimacy between him and the
redhead.  She's imported from New York, that much is clear from her
accent and style.  Wife?  Mistress?  An old friend helping out until he
casts Mother?  Maybe he doesn't want to appear insensitive by
auditioning for Mother so soon after Lily's death.  Whatever his
reasons, I am grateful.  This woman brings out the best in me.  The
rear exit doors open and close.  Two policemen station themselves like
sentinels.  "Damn," says Wexler.  He hops off the stage and strides up
the aisle.  I can't make out the words, but Wexler's body language says
he's not happy the cops are here.  His voice rises and falls, his arms
gesture wildly.  The cops don't move.  I tighten.  It's one thing to be
observed by theater people who understand the ragged edges of an
audition.  It's quite another to have rank amateurs look on, seeing
only half-played scenes and interrupted movements, unformed characters
repeating the same lines five different ways.  Wexler storms back.
Great.  An angry director.  Every auditioning actor's nightmare.  I
redouble my efforts: breathe in the role, breathe out the tension.
Erase the cops completely.  Luckily, the actress playing the mother is
so good she sweeps me out of this world into the one on stage.  We hit
the climactic scene full tilt, Mother raging about the sacrifices she's
made so her children can enjoy the sort of life she's only been able to
dream about, Daughter refusing to accept guilt any longer.  I finish,
drenched in sweat, my heart beating a thousand times a second, my
character vindicated, liberated, triumphant.

Wexler lets the delicious silence play itself out before saying, "Thank
you, Miss ah Taylor."  He waits as I come down from the stage and
gather my things.  "I'm curious," he says.  "Your mother, is she
anything like this mother?"

"My mother?"  I laugh.  "Mom would chew this woman up and spit her
out."

"Why is that?"

"This character nails herself to the cross with solid gold nails."

"So?"

"My mother hates martyrs.  Can't stand people who blame everyone but
themselves for their unhappiness."

Wexler smiles.  "Unfortunately," he says, 'well-balanced mothers make
for boring drama."  He asks me a few questions about my professional
and personal life, then says, "Thank you very much.  We'll call you."

I walk toward the exit, agonizing.  Did he love my performance?  Hate
my performance?

"Miss Taylor?"

His voice stops me cold, raises goose bumps.  You're hired.  You have
the role.  We'll pay you triple the going rate.

I turn.  "Yes?"

"Is it true you're the person who found Lily London's body?"

"Yes."

He nods, turns away.  Dismissed.  Don't call us ... I push past the
cops to the lobby, practically mowing down Queen Tut.  Diana is a
spring vision in a pale salmon linen ensemble and meticulous makeup. We
force smiles as she walks past me into the theater for her audition.
Old dressing-room shtick pops into my head.  "To be a good actress you
must have a good lip line."  If there is even a modicum of truth to
that, Diana is one of the truly gifted actresses of all time.

I am about to leave the theater when I am overwhelmed by the need to
revisit the bathroom where I discovered Lily's body.  It is critical
that I re-create the moment, isolate my exact feelings,

recall every detail of my reaction.  "Everything is copy," says my
mother the journalist.  It would be criminal to let the experience of
discovering my first dead person go to waste.  I duck backstage.  The
area looks less cluttered and brighter than on the day Lily died.
Yellow police tape cordons off the area.  A couple of cops wander
around.  Crime investigation signs are posted on the door.  What crime?
"Miss Taylor."  Detective Roblings emerges from the shadows.  "Just the
person I want to see."  "What's going on?"  "Exactly what the signs
say." A crime scene?  It takes a moment to sink in.  "Y-you think Lily
was murdered?"  Roblings stays silent, waiting, watching.  He studies
my face for reaction.  Suddenly, Roblings's interview at my apartment,
his odd questions to me and Beth, make perfect sense.  "But I was here
when the paramedics tried to resuscitate Lily.  She died of a heart
attack. Everyone said so."  I stare past the police tape into the small
bathroom.  And then it hits me.  "I may have been nose-to-nose with a
murder victim?  Inches away from her murderer?"  My legs go rubbery.  I
try to pretend I mis-stepped but my legs won't hold.  Roblings slides a
strong hand under my elbow, supporting me without making a show of it.
"I'd like you to accompany me downtown," he says.  "Why do you think
Lily was murdered?"  "I have a few matters I'd like to discuss."  He is
leading me out, past the blue-and-whites pulled up on the lawn.  Cops
and onlookers turn as we pass.  It is not the sort of audience I crave.
"Do I need an attorney?"  Roblings looks both surprised and amused.  "I
don't know, do you think you need an attorney?"  "Don't you ever answer
a question?"  "Don't I?"  On the ride downtown, I curse my perpetually
lousy timing.  I broke up with Mel, proud owner of a forty-five-foot
luxury sailboat, the month before they invented the seasick patch.  I
broke up with Barry, Vogue Fabrics mogul, the night before my upstairs
neighbor's bathtub overflowed, raining bubble bath over my uninsured
drapes and slipcovers.  And now I split with Lester-the-attorney just
before the police invite me downtown to discuss the body I happened to
find.

A quick mental scan of friends and relatives comes up empty for an
attorney type who might be willing to help pro bono.  My racquetball
buddy Walter once played a lawyer on All My Children, but I doubt that
qualifies.  Why didn't my parents force at least one of their children
to become a lawyer?  Or doctor or plumber or carpenter or anything
useful?

The police station is a scary place.  We pass through metal-detector
portals and ride an elevator surrounded by too many people wearing
guns.  I decide to swallow my pride, bite the bullet, and any other
cliche I can think of, and call Lester.  Roblings directs me to a pay
phone down the hall from his office.

Lester's secretary, a romantic who had hopes of standing up at our
wedding, is genuinely happy to hear from me.  "He's on the phone," she
says.  "I know he'd love to talk to you.  Can you hold?"

"Three more dimes' worth."

Elevator music clicks on, soft violins creating a surreal background
for the parade of drunks and hookers marching past.  Lester, a
perfectly nice estate planning attorney, had been sent with impeccable
references by way of Mother's poker club.  They'd intended him as balm
to soothe the pain of losing Adam.  Ha!

I worked at creating a relationship with Lester, truly I did.  Listened
for hours to his scratchy collection of Count Basic, Duke Ellington,
and other royalty of the swing era, all the while trying to convince
myself that Lester was the strong silent type.  Boring as mud was the
truth of it.  When the boredom became unbearable, I made up some
excuse, sent him and his toothbrush packing.

Two dimes later, he picks up.  I talk as fast as I can, give him the
short version before my money runs out.

"Where are you?"  he asks.

"Eleventh and State."

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

No questions, no excuses, no third degree.  Just a simple "I'll be
there."  Now, I ask you, why would any sane woman, especially one on
the verge of spinsterhood and starvation, break up with a gent like
that?  Must be out of her ever loving mind.  I'll have to give Lester
another good hard look.  Maybe I'd been too hasty.  Believe it or not,
I've been wrong before.

Chapter 8

I sit on the hardwood bench outside Roblings's office, wedged between
Boris Karloff and Vincent Price.  A gaggle of homicide detectives argue
sports around a battered coffeepot.  They pause as an elderly woman,
bent enough to remind me to eat more yogurt, is led past by a
solicitous young officer.

"Whacked her husband," says one detective.

"You're shittin' me."

"Married sixty years.  This morning she ups and cracks him on the head
with a cast-iron skillet."

I wonder how someone so frail can hoist a cast-iron anything.  I also
wonder what her husband did today that was so different from anything
he'd done the last sixty years.

Boris snores softly, his body sagging against mine.  Smells waft, an
exotic mix of onions, mothballs, urine.  I lean toward Vincent, who
coughs delicately into a nail-bitten hand.  It occurs to me that, if
Roblings thinks I killed Lily, he wouldn't leave me alone where I could
amble out.  Maybe he really does just want to ask a few questions.

Why did I call Lester?  Dragging in a high-powered attorney makes me
look guilty of something.  My whole life I've put things off, been a
veritable pinnacle of procrastination.  Why, today, did I have to be
Little Miss Efficient?  Maybe it isn't too late to call him back and

Lester strides in.  Fit, handsome, impeccably dressed, he exudes the
kind of natural authority that turns heads and hushes voices.

Homicide's polluted sea of humanity parts before him.  Even the
cofFee-klatch cops show mild interest as Lester reaches out, says
"Morgan," helping me up from the bench, embracing.  None of the other
attorneys moving through the place look remotely like Lester and, the
whole time I've been here, nary a one has hugged a client.  "Where can
we talk?"  "This is your turf," I say.  "Never been here."  Of course
not. Death and Taxes may be sure, but they inhabit separate
courthouses. "There's a stairwell over there," I say.  "Might give us a
little privacy."  The enclosed space reeks of cigarette smoke.  Ghost
whispers echo from floors above and below, other attorneys, other
clients.  We huddle on the landing while I tell Lester what I know.
"It doesn't sound serious," he says.  "You discovered the body.  The
police want your statement on file.  Not to worry."  "I shouldn't have
bothered you with this."  "I'm glad you did."  He squeezes my arm
gently.  "It's good to see you again."  I brace for his "Let's get back
together," but he guides me toward Roblings's office.  Lester stands
behind my chair tapping impatient fingers as Roblings shuffles papers
on his desk.  The office smells faintly of aftershave.  There are no
photos on desk or wall, no personal items to indicate hobbies or
family.  From where I sit, I can see the bent old woman in the office
across the hall.  She seems calm, composed, with none of the nervous
fidgets I would use to play an accused murderess.  "Is my client under
investigation?"  asks Lester.  "Why would you think your client is
under investigation?"  "You won't tell her why she was brought down."
"Invited down."  "Then she is free to go."  "There is some
information..  ."  I watch them dance.  For all his lumbering and
stumbling at my apartment, Roblings moves with animal grace on his own
turf.  By contrast, Lester seems stiff and deliberate.  Roblings begins
by taking me back over the questions he'd asked me and Beth in my
apartment.  Lester rests a reassuring hand on my shoulder.  "You don't
have to answer anything you're uncomfortable with."

"Do you have a problem with these questions?"  asks Roblings.

"I have a problem," I say, 'with why you think Lily was murdered."

"Oh?"

"Wouldn't the paramedics have noticed if something was wrong?  They're
the ones who said Lily had a heart attack."

"That's because everyone at the theater told them she had a heart
attack."

I shake my head, recalling the scene.  "There was no blood, no sign of
violence."  Just pale white skin and staring eyes.  "She was locked
inside a toilet stall.  Her money was still in her bag.  Her jewelry
was still on."

Roblings leans forward, his eyes intent on my face.  "This is one of
those deaths that can skate through.  An old woman with a history of a
bad heart is found dead.  Who's going to think anything about it?"

"Exactly."

"Except .. ."

"Except what?"

"Homicide received a call suggesting perhaps Miss London didn't die of
a heart attack."

"What do you mean?"  I ask.  "Who called?"

"Didn't leave a name."

"Don't you have caller I.D.?"

"They used a gas station pay phone."

"Did they say she was murdered?"  asks Lester.

"They weren't in a chatty mood.  I've had the medical examiner pick up
the body from the funeral home to run an autopsy."

I groan.  "This will kill Beth.  To think of Lily .. . What they do to
the body when .. . I'd better call her.  Break the news."

"You can use my phone when we're through," says Roblings.  "But first I
need to fill in some background information."

An officer walks into the room across the hall carrying a large
cast-iron skillet wrapped in a plastic evidence bag.  The old woman
looks at it with affection.  Roblings asks questions about Lily and I
tell him what little I know.  "I don't like to speak ill of the dead,"
I say, 'but the truth is Lily was a terrible actress."  "She couldn't
have been all that bad," says Roblings.  "We found boxes of press
clippings in her apartment."  "Lily was a gifted self-promoter who knew
how to get her name in the columns."  "Isn't that good?"  "I would have
killed for that kind of press."  I wince.  Bad choice of words.  "But
if you check those clippings, you'll find more gossip columns than
theater reviews.  Half the information Lily leaked was grossly
exaggerated and the other half was out-and-out lies.  All that mattered
was to get her name in print.  It's an art form all its own.  I don't
know how to do that."  "But you wish you did?"  "Yes."  He's quiet a
moment, then leans back in his chair, rocking slightly.  "Had Lily ever
been threatened?"  "Not that I know of."  "Did she have bad business
dealings?"  "I wouldn't know."  "Had she been bothered by prowlers?"
"Look, most of what I know about Lily are things Beth told me."
"Like?" "Like Lily's weak heart.  Like some great tragedy in Lily's
life." "What?"  "Beth never said.  That's one of the great things about
Beth. When you confide a secret, it stays a secret.  Personally, I
always thought Lily laid the Camille routine on a bit thick.
Especially around Beth, who is much too trusting."  "Unlike you," says
Roblings. "Exactly."  He shuffles through some papers, setting one on
the top of the stack.  "Do you know that Beth is Lily's sole
beneficiary?"  I laugh.  "Of what?  Old scrapbooks?  Lavender bath
salts?"

"She seems to have left an estate of some value."

This doesn't compute.  Lily never had money.  Lived a frugal life.
Roblings waits for me to say something.

"I'm happy Beth will get something out of this.  I never thought Lily
appreciated her, the errands she ran, chaufFeuring Lily to and from
auditions, doctors, grocery stores."

"If there's nothing more," says Lester, "I should get back to my
office."

"And I'd better call Beth, break the news about the autopsy.  I'd
rather she hear it from me than .. ."

"Just one more thing."  Roblings sets a tape recorder on his desk and
presses Play.

My recorded voice booms across the room.  "Lily, it's Morgan Taylor.
I'm at the Heartland Theater."  The tape from Lily's answering machine.
"You and I audition in fifteen minutes.  I sincerely hope you're not
still home to hear this, that you will show up any second."

Click, beep.

"Lily, you once told me if you miss an audition you must be dead at the
side of the road.  I trust you were joking.  Where are you?"

Lester fidgets behind me.  I feel myself splitting in two half of me
cringing at my flippant messages, the other half critiquing my voice.
Evidently, when I'm nervous or anxious or whatever the hell I was when
I called Lily that morning, hard Chicago edges creep back into my
speech.  I'll have to work on filing them down.

Click, beep.

"Lily, I swear I'm going to kill you if you don't get down here right
now."

Lester's left eyebrow twitches.  "These messages are obviously Morgan's
little joke," he says.  "We're hearing them out of context."  He shoots
Roblings a guy-to-guy smile.  "I can vouch for the fact that Morgan has
a rather, I would say, unconventional sense of humor.  Macabre for a
woman."

I clench my teeth and force my big mouth to stay shut as Lester
explains me to Roblings.  Lester's turn-of-the-century solicitousness
is one turn of the century too late.  The gentility so admired by
Mother's poker club gives me cramps.  Lester never understood why I
refused to attend parties at his exclusive country club, the club that
denies women equal membership, that segregates wives and daughters to a
separate golf course.  This same man who won't set foot inside private
clubs discriminating against a particular race or religion, who
genuinely considers himself a champion of human rights, doesn't have
the slightest problem relegating women to second-class citizenship.  I
could never fit into his world, couldn't trust myself to be civil
around its inhabitants.  Why had I called him today?  It was a mistake.
Roblings rewinds the tape.  "If I were going to kill Lily," I say, "I
certainly wouldn't broadcast my intentions."  "Unless you want to
establish an alibi."  Roblings leans forward on his desk, his stare
hard and unblinking.  "You pretend to look for Lily, pretend to be
upset that she's late for your audition, all the time knowing she's
dead."  The sheer absurdity of that stuns me to silence.  "That's
enough," says Lester, fairly pulling me out of my chair.  "My client
has no involvement with this murder.  If, in fact, that's what this
is."  Roblings watches us leave but doesn't move.  "I'll be in touch,"
he says.  We step into blinding sunlight and fresh spring air.  The
fear of confinement, no matter how remote, makes freedom all the
sweeter. "You think Lily was murdered?"  I ask.  "From what they're
saying, it does seem to be a possibility."  "They can't think I did
it."  "You really shouldn't have said those things on the phone."  "But
that hardly makes me a killer."  "I don't get the feeling they think
you're involved."  Lester brushes imaginary lint from his lapel.  "I'm
not so sure about Beth."  "Oh, come on.  You know Beth couldn't hurt
anyone." "Yes, I know.  And you know.  But the police are looking for
motive." He chews his bottom lip thoughtfully.  "Evidently, Beth stands
to inherit a good-sized estate."

"Beth doesn't know that."

He hesitates, weighing his words.  "What if she does know?  What if she
just never said anything to you about it?  Take it from an old estate
planner.  The promise of a large inheritance often brings out the worst
in people.  Especially people unwilling to wait."  I must look forlorn
because Lester puts a comforting arm around me.  "How about I buy you
lunch?"

On cue my stomach growls.  It takes great strength to refuse what I
know would be a fine restaurant with as many courses as I care to
order.  But as my much-married Grandma Belle often says, "The Krumpke
diamond comes with the Krumpke curse: Mr.  Krumpke."  And though I feel
indebted to Lester for rushing to the police station, I don't feel
strong enough to sit through an entire lunch with him and his stories
of the big band leaders of the forties.

"You're a doll," I say, 'and I can't thank you enough for helping me
out, but I've got to get to work if I hope to pay my rent sometime this
millennium."

Lester flashes one of his boyish smiles, content to be cast as my
knight in shining armor.  He kisses me on the cheek, hops into his
trusty cab, and rides off into the sunset.  My stomach growls again.
"Hush," I say, "I'll buy you a Snickers."

Chapter 9

My boss, Harold, is a spats-and-cane kind of guy, forever frozen in the
1920s.  A trim gent who admits to being 'seventy-two and change," he
sports a pencil-thin black mustache dyed to match his slicked-back
hair.  For all his bluster and bravado, he is at heart a fragile sort.
At the moment, he seems more hyper than usual.  I decide to hold off
telling him about my command performance at Eleventh and State.  He
darts like a ferret through the narrow aisles of Junque and Stuffe,
fussing over several huge crates.  Their layers of ancient grime and
dust have turned his hands coal black.  He unwraps yellowed newspaper
from a lamp.  "Tiffany.  Oh He gasps, presses a hand to his chest,
leaves a black print on his once immaculate white shirt.  "Oh, dear."
I whistle.  "What is this stuff?"  "A fortuitous happenstance, my
dear," he says.  "Positively."  He sets the lamp reverently on the
counter. "Three Winnetka sisters all in their nineties would you
believe?  never married, not a one, lived their whole lives in the
house where they were born.  Where their father was born.  Died of
pneumonia last month, all three.  What are the odds?  I mean, really.
Dame Fortune has truly smiled upon me."  He digs into the crate,
unwrapping the next treasure. "Where do you want me to start?"  I ask.
"Be a love and open that last crate.  No, no, no.  That other last
crate.  Yes."  Balancing an armload of old hats, he climbs into the
display window.  I toss my coat and audition bag on a counter, find the
crowbar, and start prying up aged pine planks.  Nail heads break, wood
splinters.  My hands and clothes turn black with dust.

"How old is this stuff?"  I ask.

"Lord knows.  These crates were found stacked in the old coal room."  I
swear he seems about to cry.  Harold, who has seen it all, rarely
effuses over people's family treasures.  That Ming vase in your family
for generations?  A copy.  That painting by someone you thought might
be Someone?  A rank amateur.  Aunt Sophie's mismatched candlesticks
hand-carried from Russia?  Richer in sentiment than marketable value.
Not the sort of appraisals people like to hear.  But Harold knows his
stuff and doesn't bandy about when it comes to setting a realistic
price.  Inevitably, it is people who lug in mildewed boxes bound with
frayed twine, the ones who tell Harold they'll take whatever he can get
for the damned stuff, who provide the real treasures.

I pry up the last board.  The items inside are lovingly wrapped in
yellowed newspaper.  I scan the ancient headlines: BREAD, FIVE

CENTS A LOAF.  STEEL-TOED WORK BOOTS, THREE DOLLARS.  My fingers itch
to unwrap, but this is Harold's party.  "Ready," I say.

Harold clambers from the window, nearly trips in his rush to the crate.
He begins unwrapping crystal, a cut-glass creamer, sugar bowl.  "Oh,
oh, oh.  Lovely."

An incredible collection.  Sylvia would go crazy if she saw it, which
she won't since I'm not going to tell her.  I push away niggling guilt.
Even as a toddler, my baby sister loved glassware.  I'd bought her a
piece every birthday.  First, penny stuff from garage sales and flea
markets, then better goods from dealers.  On her twenty-first birthday,
I hit up the rest of our siblings to pitch in for a Waterford vase.
That was before she walked off with Adam.  Now she can damn well buy
her own glass.

A woman clicks the front window with a coin and points to her watch.

"Time to open," I say.

"Away.  Send them away."

"If you don't sell something you won't be able to afford my exorbitant
salary."  The woman clicks again.  Two more women walk up.  An elderly
gent.  A decorator and client.  "Want me to wait on customers while you
finish here?"  Harold glances up at the madding crowd.  The coin lady
clicks harder.  "No, no, that's all right.  That's Mrs.  Thisder come
to see the hat-pin collection.  The old girl's rich as Rockefeller but
won't part with a penny unless I fawn and grovel."  He wipes the dirt
from his hands on a neatly pressed kerchief and runs a knuckle across
his mustache.  "You may unwrap.  Careful, mind.  Windex the glass, dust
the china.  I'll be back to help you price."  There is joy in a
mindless task.  I spend half an hour unwrapping, sorting, dusting while
I rehearse ways to break the news to Beth.  Direct: "The police say
Lily may have been murdered."  Indirect: "Remember the other night, all
those questions Detective Roblings asked .. ."  Beth is so weak,
physically and emotionally.  When I tell her Lily may have been
murdered, how will she bear the shock?  But this needs to be done.  I
walk back to the office, dreading having to make the call.  Mrs.
Thisder has commandeered the phone, loudly rearranging a dressmaker's
appointment. A reprieve.  The unpacking goes quickly.  The crate smells
as musty as an old man's closet.  My grandfather's smell.  He'd moved
in when I was eight, claiming he was too ill to care for himself after
Grandma Belle divorced him.  Grandma Belle tried to warn my parents.
They ignored her, gave Grandpa my room, and fixed a corner of the
basement for me, slapping white paint on crumbling brick.  I hated that
dank, dark netherworld, crawling with demons and spiders and things
that went slither in the night.  A wrong place for a young girl with a
vivid imagination.  My grandfather died with us for years, always
complaining that I didn't appreciate how sick he was.  A week after I
left for college, he did die hit by a car while crossing the street to
place a bet with his barber-bookie.  I've hated illness since, hold it
suspect, not believing when people complain.  Beth is the one
exception.  She developed MS after we were already best friends
forever.

I empty the last items from the crate.  Mrs.  Thistler is long off the
phone.  All right, Morgan.  Quit stalling.  I force myself back to the
office, warding off the image of Lily laid out on the autopsy table.  I
have to tell Beth as gently as possible, have to do it before some
insensitive stranger botches the job.  I dial my apartment, still
uncertain what I'll say.  Beth picks up immediately.

"Morgan.  Thank God.  They've stolen Lily's body."

"It's not '

"Right out of the funeral parlor.  She's at the morgue.  The morgue!"
Her voice jerks and jumps.  "The police say she was murdered. Murdered!
 What an idea.  Who would kill Lily?"

"They're not sure about anything, yet," I say.  "They're
investigating."

"What could they possibly '

"Someone called the police, hinted it might not have been a heart
attack."

"That's dreadful.  Who would do something like that?"

"Probably some nut cake getting his jollies.  You mustn't worry.  It
will all sort itself out."

"They, the police, asked all sorts of questions about Lily, about our
relationship, as if I had something to do with her death.  How could
they think that?"

"It's not you," I reassure her.  "The police asked me the same sorts of
questions.  They're just trying to piece things together and you're the
one person who knew Lily best.  You can be a great help to them."

Harold keeps glancing at me from the other room.  I know the look.  It
means: How can you chat on the phone when we have so much work to do?

"Let me call you later," I say.  "Will you be all right?"

"I'm drained.  Can't seem to force my limbs to move.  I want to take
Hamlet for his walk but my legs are in spasm."

"That sounds awful."

"It's more annoying than painful.  But Hamlet '

"Don't worry about him," I say.  "Toss the newspaper in a corner, let
him do his business on that.  You need to relax.  Watch the soaps,

take a nap.  I'll call after work, maybe cook up one of my famous
spaghetti dinners."  The last customer leaves around six.  Harold and I
work together, marking items from the crate.  Usually he has all the
juicy gossip.  Tonight it's my turn.  Harold is wide-eyed as I describe
Lily's death, how I discovered her body, how the police are hinting
that Lily may have been murdered.  "Terrible.  Horrible."  His delicate
hand trembles as it pats mine.  "Why, you might have been the one
murdered had you, and not Lily, visited that washroom before the
audition."  "I've thought of that."  He sighs.  His eyes glisten with
tears.  "It is such a thin line, between life and death.  A mere
instant, an inch, the taking of one small step left instead of right."
I am touched by his concern.  For all his theatrics, Harold rarely
seems deeply affected by the human drama.  We finish our work and he
settles into a Queen Anne chair, pours us each a glass of brandy.  "If
you ask me," he says, 'that play's the problem.  Jinxed, one might
say."  "How do you remember that old chestnut?  It's been in mothballs
for years."  "You know I have a fabulous memory for all things theater.
Names, dates, who did what to whom and when."  "Still .. ."  He swigs
half his drink.  Most unlike Harold the sipper.  "It is," he says,
'quite a mediocre play.  I assure you, if this weren't Heartland
Theater's fortieth anniversary celebration, neither the play nor Wexler
would have been dug up from under their respective rocks."  "He's a
famous director."  "Was," says Harold.  "Martin hasn't had a hit since
bell-bottoms were in."  "You have to admit the play is an interesting
period piece."  "The play, my dear, attracts death and controversy."  I
snap to.  "Death?"  "When the play premiered, a young intern died under
mysterious circumstances."

"What do you mean mysterious?"

"Oh, to be sure, the witch doctors spouted some medical mumbo jumbo,
but I've always suspected there were darker forces at work."  He
refills his glass.  "As for the play's controversy, you should have
seen the costumes.  Exquisite beyond belief, to be sure.  But also
outrageous, absolutely indecent for the times.  The more Chicago's
civic and religious groups blasted the play's immorality, the more the
public fought to come."  The ends of his mustache twitch up into a
smile.  "There was actually a fistfight at the box office over the last
two seats for a Saturday night performance.  Of course, the press
played all of this up.  You can be sure it was their titillating
publicity rather than the quality of the play that filled the house
every night."

"The play seems so tame."

"Think of the times, my dear.  You must remember things in context."

A horn honks and Harold waves out the window.  "My ride," he says.
"We'll finish tomorrow.  My love to Beth.  Tell her how sorry I am
about Lily.  Wait.  Wait."

He dives into the retro jewelry display, rummaging furiously.  Most of
my theater friends, including Beth, have worked for Harold from time to
time.  He is one of those angels who understands our need for jobs
flexible enough to accommodate auditions and the occasional role.

"Here."  He hands me a Bakelite brooch.  "For Beth.  She's always been
one of my favorites.  A great talent, with a kind heart and modest
soul.  Would there were more like her."

We raise our glasses to Beth, kill the last of our brandy.  I think it
best not to mention that the police are interrogating Beth about Lily's
death.  Harold has delicate sensibilities.  He tends to dwell on
things, to work himself into an agitated state over perceived
injustices.

The horn honks again and we hurry out.  Maybe, when this whole ugly
business passes, I'll pump him for gruesome details about the play's
dark history.  In exchange, I'll regale him with stories about
basset-faced detectives and cast-iron murders.  We will sip brandy from
heated snifters and discuss life and theater into the wee hours.

Chapter 10

The instant I unlock my front door I feel the stillness inside.
Absolute.  Complete.  Where is Beth?  Where is the yapping little
beastie?  Cold silence fills the space where the warmth of living
creatures should be.  Fear prickles my spine, radiates out to fingers
and toes.  All this chitchat about murder has made me just the
slightest tad paranoid.

"Beth?"

Nothing.

"Hamlet?"

I leave the door open behind me, move cautiously into the apartment.
It's one thing to walk into an empty house when you expect it to be
empty.  But this void sucks energy like a black hole.  I lift the sofa
skirt.  Dust balls and an old TV Guide.  I press against the wall next
to the tiny coat closet.  Slowly twisting the knob, I yank the door
open.  The cramped mess inside out-of-season clothes, rusty golf clubs,
boxes not yet unpacked since my last move two years ago is exactly as I
left it.  All right, the living room is clear.

I tiptoe along the edges of the hall floor, avoiding creaks as I head
for the bedroom.  Bring up the scary music.  My heart's chugging worse
than when I jog the front stairs.  What am I doing?  If I think there's
the faintest chance something's wrong, why don't I get the hell out?  I
hate those movies where the heroine, ignoring a zillion warning signs,
goes alone at midnight into the house/factory/attic.  I mean, if I'm
scared enough to leave the front door open in case

I need to flee an attacker ... I hear the audience scream warnings at
me, beg me to go across the hall and call the police.  The bedroom is
clear.  Everything in place.  Neater, in fact, than when I left.  That
leaves the kitchen.  I move noiselessly, holding my breath, listening
against the silence for any telltale sound.  The reason the frightened
movie heroines don't call the police is because they're embarrassed by
their fear.  It's probably nothing.  It's probably all in my mind.
Better to risk a mad attacker than public embarrassment.  I don't draw
an easy breath until I spot a note propped on an exquisite bowl of
fruit, the pieces so perfect they look more wax than real.  Beth's
normally flowing handwriting jerks at odd places: Thanks for being such
agoodjriend.  Lyle (Yes, the Lyle!  I'll tell you later) drove me to
Lily's apartment to pick up Hamlet's food and toys.  I brought you this
fruit and a few other goodies (see foil bag in fridge) from Lily's to
help stave off starvation.  May I have a rain check for the spaghetti
dinner?  P.S. Should you feel the need of canine companionship, I'll be
happy to share custody of Hamlet.  Fat chance.  I bite gratefully into
a tart Granny Smith, savoring it as I close and double-lock the front
door.  Exhausted, I run a hot tub, ignite the forest of scented candles
lining the ledge.  It's nice that Lyle's back in the picture.  He's a
sweet guy, a lighting genius in demand by theaters around the country.
That's what broke them up, the two of them traveling so much for work.
They drifted apart.  Looks like they've drifted back together.  I pick
up messages as I soak.  Message One: "This is Betsy again, from
Steven's Dry Cleaners.  Please pick up your order."  Love to.  As soon
as I have money.  Message Two: "I met an overbearing woman today," says
Grandma Belle.  (Beat.) "She has eleven children."  She leaves space
for my laugh.  "Love you.  I'm off to Vegas with a nice gentleman.  Not
to worry.  Gentleman is the operative word.  I'll call when I'm back.
Love you."  No wonder some women never find a man.  My grandmother has
used up their share.  End of messages.  Wexler hasn't called.  I dial
my mother.  "I think the audition went well," I say, even though
optimism is usually the kiss of death.  It's the auditions I think I've
loused up that turn out to be winners.

"I'll keep my toes crossed," she says.

I tell her about Queen Tut in her crisp linen suit with matching shoes
and purse.  "Maybe I should have gone for the irony of a tough-talking
daughter dressed like a Sunday school teacher."

She makes soothing mother noises.  "At least if Diana does get the
role, you'll know it's because of that outfit."

"It sure won't be because of her acting."

"You did your best, Miriam, now let it go."  Sometimes she forgets,
calls me by my birth name.  A sweet name, Miriam, no edge to it.  I let
it pass.  "Life's too short to walk around second-guessing yourself,"
she says.  Lets it hang, knowing I'll read in volumes about sister
Sylvia and Adam and how the three of us might have played our triangle
better.  It is killing Mom to have two of her daughters estranged, two
children ailing from jealousy and betrayal and perhaps a dollop of
pride.

I hang up without mentioning the possibility that Lily was murdered.
There are some things one doesn't tell one's mother if one doesn't want
to listen to lectures on safety the rest of one's life.

Sensually soaked and perfectly powdered, I wrap myself in my Chinese
robe and pad to the kitchen to heat water for spaghetti.  Drizzling
double virgin olive oil into a pan, I chop a melange of fresh veggies
and slide them in.  Pasta primavera, la specialite de la mais on  The
sizzle is so loud I barely hear the doorbell.  I turn down the fire,
press the intercom.  "Yes?"

"Detective Roblings."  His voice comes loud and clear.  I buzz him in,
quickly finger-fluffing my wet hair as I race to the bathroom to brush
blush on my winter-pale cheeks.  A flick of mascara.  Spritz of Opium
damn.  A gift from Sylvia I vowed never to use again.  No time to wash
it off.  Quick brush of tooth and gum, spray of Binaca, small gold-hoop
earrings.  Pull on jeans, shrug on a tank top.  I make it back to the
door before he mounts the last flight.

"I was .. . passing by on the .. . way home," he says.

Not only is he out of shape, he's an appallingly terrible liar.  We
actors know bad acting.  Roblings wasn't just 'passing by."  "I have a
few more questions ... for you and your friend."  "Beth?"  "If you
don't mind."  "She's not here."  His disappointment is genuine.  "When
do you expect her?"  "She's probably at her place."  He hoists his left
eyebrow. A small scar bisects the end of it.  "She doesn't live here?"
"Here?" "I thought you were roommates."  "I live alone."  Somehow he
has moved into the apartment.  I close the door behind him.  "I assumed
.. ."  He clears his throat.  "Your friend seemed so at home the last
time I was here.  And she answered the phone today when I called."
"You're the one who told her about Lily?"  He looks contrite.  "I'd
assumed you'd already broken the news.  In my office, you said you were
going to call."  "You're the one who told her Lily's body's at the
morgue?"  He winces.  "She didn't take it well."  I explode.  "What did
you expect? Beth loved Lily.  How would you feel if they yanked your
grandmother's body from the funeral home and dumped it on a cold morgue
slab?" Roblings doesn't move, takes everything I throw at him.  My
intellect tells me he is just doing his job.  My emotions tell my
intellect to shut up.  Emotions usually win these little conflicts, but
this time logic reminds me that Robhngs came here alone.  Wouldn't he
bring along another warm body if he intended to
interrogate/arrest/torture someone? I reckon it is a friendly enough
visit.  "You're steaming," he says. "You'd be angry too if ' He nods
toward a large cloud pouring out of the kitchen.  The spaghetti water
and I have come to a boil at the same time.  Roblings follows me into
the kitchen, leans against the counter. "Don't let me interfere with
your dinner," he says, handing me the pasta.  I slide it into the pot,
bring the vegetables back to saute. He breaks a piece of celery off the
stalk and munches thoughtfully.  "I interviewed the Equity monitor this
afternoon," he says.  "The one on duty at the theater the day Lily
died.  She says she gave you a couple of pieces of fruit from a gift
basket."

I'd forgotten the banana and orange.  "She felt sorry for me, pacing
the lobby waiting for Lily, having to let so many other people audition
ahead of me."

"Did you eat the fruit?"

I have to think.  Between the audition and finding Lily's body, that
was one hectic morning.  "I think they're still in my bag."

"Could you bring me the bag?"

The fruit?"

"No, don't touch the fruit.  I want the whole bag."

I lower the flame and go to the bedroom, liberating my audition bag
from under my audition clothes.  By the time I return to the kitchen,
Roblings is adding oil to the spaghetti water with one hand and
expertly stirring the vegetables with the other.  I'd pegged him as a
frozen-TV-dinner kind of guy.  Which is why I'm the actress and he's
the cop.

He relinquishes the cooking tools and takes a plastic bag from his
jacket pocket.  Pulling on plastic gloves, he carefully sifts through
my collection: spare stockings, scripts, makeup bags, hairbrush,
magazines, tissues, tapes, glossies, toothbrush, toothpaste, waxed
floss, breath spray, spray cologne, deodorant, one half-eaten stick of
beef jerky, pens, scratch pad.  Watching his large hands pick through
my most personal possessions strikes me as unspeakably funny.  I manage
to suppress a laugh.  Death is serious business, after all.

When he concentrates, he develops deep furrows from eyebrow to widow's
peak.  He does something wickedly sexy with his lower jaw.  I'll have
to study this face a while.  There are nuances to be learned.

He lifts out the fruit.  The once perfect banana is bruised and brown,
the orange shriveled, their pretty gold stickers lost somewhere in the
wilds of my bag.  As he places them carefully

into the plastic bag, I remember the grapefruit peelings on the
bathroom floor around Lily's body.  My stomach lurches.  "The
grapefruit," I say.  "You think someone poisoned it?"  "I won't know
until I get the ME's report.  It's entirely possible Lily died of
natural causes."  "Like a heart attack."  He studies me a moment,
debating something, deciding.  "Lily didn't have a heart attack.
Whatever else she might have died from, her heart was healthy."
"That's wrong.  She had a history of heart disease."  "Not according to
her doctor's records."  "She carried nitro pills in a vial in her bag.
I've seen them."  "Little silver round ones?"  "Yes."  "Candy."
"Candy!"  "Like you use to decorate cakes.  It seems she fabricated her
"heart problems."" A sympathy ploy.  Why doesn't that surprise me?  He
picks a mushroom out of the pan and pops it into his mouth.  "Mmmmm,"
he says, reaching for another.  I slap the back of his hand.  "You can
check the spaghetti."  He lifts a strand out of the pot, throws it
against the wall.  It hits, drops to the floor.  A little too al dente.
"You didn't tell me about the fruit when I interviewed you yesterday,"
he says.  "I forgot about it."  "Anything else you might have forgotten
to mention?"  He makes it sound like I intentionally forgot.  I feel my
hackles rise.  "I also didn't mention I went to the bathroom five times
-audition nerves.  Or that I back-combed my hair to make it look wild.
Or that the cigarette smoke in the lobby ladies' room made my clothes
reek.  How was I supposed to know what information you wanted?"  "If
you'd like to call your attorney ' "Do I need my attorney?"  He shrugs,
an almost playful gesture.  Then it hits me: Roblings is flirting.
Although, with his face, it's hard to tell.  Its features are We eat,
exchanging growing-up stories, a Miles Davis tape cushioning the space
around us.  Roblings has impeccable table manners, his large hands
precise and delicate.  This is one elegant book you can't tell by its
rough-hewn cover.  He helps clear the dishes and I set Beth's bowl of
fruit on the table by way of dessert.

"My local store never carries produce this beautiful," he says.

"Mine either.  Beth brought it from Lily's this afternoon."

"That's not possible.  My men cleared all the food out of the
apartment."

"They must have left this."

He shakes his head.  "All foodstuffs were brought to headquarters for
testing.  There was an open bag of grapefruits in the fridge.  Small,
thin-skinned, sold ten to the bag.  Nothing like this.  This kind the
kind Lily was eating when she died comes from designer food shops."

I watch him pack Beth's gift into a bag.  "You're wrong about this," I
say.  "This fruit has nothing to do with Lily's death or anything like
that."

"Then why did Beth lie to you?  Why did she tell you she brought this
from Lily's house?"

I have no answer.  I think about the Granny Smith I ate.  My stomach's
been churning, cramping, but I thought it was from the excitement of
getting the role in the play.  What if it's the apple?  What if Stop
it.  Beth couldn't poison anyone.  Roblings might not know that, but I
sure do.

The second he leaves, I call Beth to find out what's going on.  Her
phone rings until the answering machine clicks on.

I hang up without leaving a message.  I don't trust answering machines
anymore.  Things you say into them have a way of coming back to haunt
you.

Chapter II

It's a pity Lily's dead.  She'd love her funeral.  At long last, she's
the full-blown Center of Attention, Queen for a Day, the raison d'etre
for an industry circus.  Chicago's theater world has turned out in
force for one of its own.  It's one part our desire to pay final
respects, one part our constant hunger for community and I admit one
part the faint possibility of making contacts.  Lily's funeral has an
added edge. In the week since her death, word of a Murder Investigation
has somehow leaked to the press.  Lily's mysterious exit in a city of
mostly shoot-'em-up murders is the stuff of front-page news.  The smell
of Story brings members of the fourth estate sniffing like bloodhounds.
Newspaper, radio, and television reporters snake through the mob
seeking pabulum to feed an insatiable public.  Crowds loiter on the
church steps, the best place to see and be seen.  I squeeze through,
passing actors giving heartfelt interviews about their dear friend
Lily.  Never mind that some of them never met her.  Strands of
whispered conversations tighten around me.  "There's the one who found
the body." "That's her."  "Discovered Lily's body."  I pretend not to
hear as I inch my way up.  I don't want this kind of attention.  Still
.. . When I was ten, already craving stardom so much I got cramps, I
assumed everyone sought the spotlight.  Until, one day, leaving the
planetarium with my family, Sylvia ran out the revolving door just as a
tourist aimed his camera.  Sylvia ducked out of his way.  I whisked out
the door behind her and, seeing a camera pointed at me, smiled broadly
as I walked directly toward it.

A pivotal moment.  I immediately understood the innate difference
between me and the rest of the world.  Most people duck.  Sylvia and I
didn't grow up and decide to become Actress and Writer.  We were cast
in the womb.  I to seek the light, she to dart among the shadows.

I think of that childhood moment from time to time.  We actors are
often labeled difficult, moody, unpredictable.  But I've learned it's
the quiet ones you have to watch for, the ones who creep from behind,
grab what they want, steal away silent in the night.

"If only I had stayed with poor Lily."  Queen Tut's voice grates my
nerves.  I skirt the church stairs around Diana and the reporter, feel
her voice crawl up my spine.  "I held the door to the theater for her..
. She was so very frail.  But I needed to prepare for my audition and I
left her..  ."  She dabs a hanky.  Best tears-on-demand in the
business.

I keep moving.  "That's Morgan Taylor .. ."  Voices all around.  '..  .
found Lily's body .. ."  At the top, I squeeze through the thick crowd
blocking the church doors.  I am out of breath by the time I join Beth
and Lyle in the front pew.

In the week since I've seen Beth, the one-two punch of illness and
sorrow have drawn dark circles around her eyes, dulled her vibrant skin
ash gray.

"You gotta come early if you want a good seat," she says, patting the
space next to her.

These seats are much too close to Lily's body.  Beth honored Lily's
death directive, which specified an oak coffin, pink satin lining, and
open casket.  I risk a quick look, bracing myself for a gash of
Frankenstein-style autopsy stitches bisecting Lily's forehead.  She
appears remarkably unremarkable.  Whoever did makeup applied the
too-dark foundation with a trowel, the too-bright lipstick with palsied
hand.  But, if the pathologist left any telltale marks, they've been
hidden by makeup and covered by a silk scarf bowed at Lily's neck.

I take Beth's hand, try to warm the icy flesh.  My feet brush the cane
hidden under the pew.  Beth and Lyle arrived early so they could sit
before anyone saw how difficult it is for her to walk.  For the
hundredth time I want to ask about the beautiful fruit she left in my
apartment.  Why did she say it was from Lily's place?  For the
hundredth time, I back off.  It hurts that Beth lied to me.  But I
won't push the issue until she's stronger.  One thing is sure: Beth
wouldn't He without good reason.  I just can't imagine what that reason
is.  A young minister paces in front of us, hugging his Bible like a
shield against the animated conversations, wild outbursts of laughter.
This is not his usual crowd.  No one seems in need of comforting words.
I feel a twinge of pity.  We actors are a tough house, no doubt about
it.  It is a relief when mourners parade past the casket, blocking our
view.  Of the many familiar faces actors and union people, theater
staff and board members precious few are visibly saddened by Lily's
death.  Even Lily's agent seems more interested in chatting up the
young actor in line behind her.  Harold, dressed much snappier than his
usual Junque and Stuffe work clothes, passes the casket escorting a
costume designer older than God.  I thought she'd died years before.  A
crony of Lily's, no doubt.  Her silk floral dress is hot off the Junque
and Stuffe vintage designer rack and her shoes, hat, and gloves are
from our better stock.  Dear Harold probably liberated the woman from
her nursing home and dolled her up for the occasion.  What a love he
is.  Beth cries softly throughout the service.  Lyle rubs her back.  I
am grateful for him, for the easy way he deals with her pain.  While
checking the house, I spot Detective Roblings in the back pew.  My
protective instincts snap to and I brace myself, ready to head him off
if he dares make a move toward Beth.  She said he's been phoning her
all week, going over and over her relationship with Lily.  He has to
back off, has to.  Luckily for him, he keeps his distance.  Near the
end, a few people share stories about Lily, some tempered, some wildly
overblown.  I think of the truth behind the fictions.  From what I saw,
Lily London was a selfish woman who devoted her life to pleasing
herself.  But that would never be said today.  This Lily London is
without fault, a sainted woman taken before her time.

What harm?  If you can't star at your own funeral, why bother going?

During the closing prayers, Beth leans over, whispering, "Did you see
Lily's obit in the morning paper?"

"No."

"They put in her age," she says.  She lowers her head, her shoulders
shake.  "Her real age."  I think Beth is crying until she says, "She'd
die if she saw it.  She'd just die."

That sets us off.  We bow our heads together, covering our mouths to
stifle laughter, struggling mightily to maintain some semblance of
decorum.  A kindly soul behind us pats our backs comfortingly.

Martin Wexler walks to the front of the church, "Lily London was an
actress," he says, his strong voice booming over the assemblage.  "She
paid her dues and then some.  You all know what a long and
distinguished career she had.  Some of you appreciate the great
personal hardships she overcame to continue this work she loved more
than life itself.  Lily always found time to mentor young actors, was
available day and night to lend advice and comfort."

As he drones on, I am thinking, this is one huge crock of stuff.  But
the tender-hearted actors around me buy into it.  Sniffing breaks out,
tears flow freely.  Beth's hand trembles on my shoulder, and her
mournful sobs remind me not everyone shares my view.

"And now," says Wexler, 'she is gone.  Her passing has left a great
void in our world.  What suitable homage can we offer one of our own?
How do we bid farewell to a valued friend?  Ladies and gentlemen, Lily
London was an actress.  Let us all rise and give her a standing
ovation."

The casket is carried down the aisle to the applause of the traditional
actor's farewell.  I rise and follow as the mourners file out.  Beth
stays behind.  She will visit the cemetery to say her good-byes at a
more private time.  She can't risk letting anyone in the business see
her in such poor condition.

Roblings stops me on my way down the stain.  His large hands worry the
rim of a hat.  "The fruit I took from your house checked out okay."

"I told you.  I trust this means you'll leave Beth alone."

He tries to say something but I stride off, shoulders squared in
righteous indignation.  No one accuses my friend of trying to poison
me.

Cars form a funeral line.  I, who have no stomach for sickness,

death, or cemeteries, decide to put in a couple of hours at Junque and
Stuffe, shoot over to my folks' house for dinner, then go home and work
on my words for tomorrow's rehearsal.

Chapter 12

Thank you thank you thank you thank you.

I chant hosannas to the theater gods as I make my way from the El to
the old loft building owned by the Heartland.  It would be so much
better if we could rehearse in the theater, but there's a play in
production.  Alternative space is never as good as the real thing.  The
proportions and size are different.  Blocking doesn't translate
correctly to the main stage.  Actors go bumping into props, get in each
other's way, pacing is off, exits and entrances mis-cue.

Thank you thank you thank you,

Forgive me, oh fickle gods of Gielgud.  I don't mean to sound
ungrateful.  I will gladly rehearse in a closet if it means a chance to
perform.  Truly.  I am most deeply and humbly grateful.

An arctic blast hits me as I turn the corner.  Head down, shoulders
hunched, I struggle against the wind whipping off the Chicago River.
Small whitecaps dance on murky water.  Clouds vie with sun.  Winter
never leaves this town without a fight.  My Ethel Merman gene kicks in,
launches my mezzo-soprano clear across the river, "Let's go on with the
show."  The last note echoes long and loud down concrete pilings.  A
flock of pigeons flies off and settles on the far bank.  Everyone's a
critic.

The rehearsal building, an aging brick fortress scarred by a century of
battling river weather, cowers between spiffy urban renewal condos.  I
jog the steep flight of stairs wondering if Old World charm will
translate into ancient plumbing, poor heating, no air conditioning.

Thank you thank you thank you thank you.  One can never be too
careful.

Activity in the loft is a P. T. Barnum wet dream.  Actors, director,
producers, artistic and producing directors, manager, stage manager,
assistant stage manager, box office, publicity, lighting, sound set,
costume, music director, union representatives, assorted assistants a
Cast of Thousands all vie for center ring.

A small room has been set aside for stuff that would otherwise clutter
the rehearsal space.  I drop my coat and bag in a corner, then join the
crowd in the main room.  I spy a comforting number of familiar faces,
smile.  They smile back.  We are preparing alliances, lining up
cliques, some of which will shift in the weeks ahead, while others will
remain constant to closing night.

Lyle spots me and waves me over.

"Beth said to tell you she's feeling better," he says.

"And I'm the Queen of England."

He laughs.  "No, really.  She says '

"I saw Beth at the funeral.  Lily looked healthier, and she'd been dead
a week."

Lyle does a one-eighty: happy to sad, invincible to vulnerable.  I have
that effect on men.  "Well, she has been crying," he says.  "It's
really not like her."

"I'll call her later.  Try to cheer her up."

His cheeks and ears turn bright red.  "Sh-she's at my house."  He's
embarrassed.  I'd forgotten how shy he is.  "I-I've managed to convince
her to stay with me until she gets her strength back."

There is a sudden push of activity around us as we prepare to begin.
Lyle's tech assistant calls him over and he turns to leave.

"Hold it!"  I grab him.  "Where did you get that fruit you and Beth
left at my apartment?"

He looks like a cornered squirrel.  "W-what do you mean?"

"Her note said you brought it from Lily's apartment."

"Y-yes."

"Lyle, Lily's cupboard was bare.  The cops took all her food for
testing."

Tiny beads of sweat dot his forehead.  "Beth will kill me if she finds
out I told."

"I'll kill you if you don't.  And I'm a hell of a lot tougher."

"We bought it on Oak Street."

"At the Fruit Boutique!"

"See?  She knew you'd be upset.  That's exactly why she didn't '

"Three dollars an apple?  You bet I'm upset.  What kind of '

"She wanted to do something nice, to thank you."

"For what?"

"Everything.  Finding Lily, staying with her body when they took her to
the hospital, bringing Hamlet home with you, offering Beth your place
to stay.  She figured you couldn't be angry if we said we found the
fruit at Lily's."  His eyes go all puppy-cute.  Not my type, but he
makes Beth happy enough.  "Don't tell her I told?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Promise?"

"Right."

I'm furious with Beth for forking out a fortune she can't afford, but
I'm relieved to know why she lied.  Lyle is right.  I would have gone
ballistic.

The actors gather around the long rehearsal table.  I settle between
Brenda Moore, who is teasing her hennaed hair to amazing heights, and
the very laid-back Murray Banks.  I am delighted Murray landed the role
as my brother.  He's a good solid bread-and-butter actor who gives
lovely gifts onstage.  He also has a deliciously biting wit.

"Hey, sis," he says.

"Yo, broS' up

"What it is."

We high-five, and I follow his easy lead into a convoluted hand-jive,
which ends with a triple-clinking of elbows.  Brenda Moore stares,
open-mouthed.  "Are we doing this black?"  she asks.

"Purple," says Murray, pushing up from the table.  "Coffee?"

"Love some," I say.  "Milk, no sugar."

"You got it."

Brenda, totally confounded, watches him go.  "Purple?"

"It's a joke," I say.

She turns her back on me.  Brenda doesn't like jokes and takes offense
when people make light of our profession.  She is, she once told me, a
Serious Actress.  Dumb as a brick is more like it.  Still, this
rat-haired wonder manages to work twice as much as I do.  She has a way
of ingratiating herself with management, producers, promoters.  Unlike
me, she follows direction to the letter.  The more direction, the
better she likes it.  I once worked a job where she pressed the
director to tell her how he wanted her lines presented, then
tape-recorded his reading to get them exactly right.  Is it acting or
is it Memorex?  Murray brings my coffee.  It should go well with sour
grapes.  While Wexler and his assistant work at one end of the loft,
chalking off an area to serve as a stage, Rosie from Equity gives the
usual "You know your insurance will come in force ..."  union spiel,
then answers our questions.  "When do we get paid?"  "Friday."  "Will
we get out of rehearsals in time to get our check to the bank?"  "I'll
ask."  Petty trifles?  Perhaps to people who eat on a regular basis.
But it's serious business for those of us who, while playing kings and
queens and scions of industry, exist hand-to-mouth.  My father, who
should know better, sends me clippings about the latest
multibillion-dollar deal just signed by yet another moderately
talented, highly connected Hollywood actor.  He means them as signs of
hope, but has no idea how painful such astronomical figures are for
those of us struggling in the trenches.  "While I ask Mr.  Wexler about
your checks," says Rosie, 'why don't you go ahead and elect the Equity
deputy?"  She leaves, ignoring our groans.  We all slide down in our
chairs, avoid eye contact, try to become invisible.  One of us must
become the Equity deputy, responsible for taking our fellow actors'
complaints and passing them on to management.  It is a horrible,
thankless job.  Still, the union says rehearsal can't begin until we
elect someone.  I once saw the process drag on for an hour.  "Oh, what
the hell," says Murray.  "I'll do it."  We applaud his sacrifice.  He
holds up his hands for quiet.  "And I'll buy a beer for every single
one of you who goes through the entire run of the play without once
griping to me."  This gets a laugh, since complaining is something we
actors have honed to a fine art.  "Okay, Rosie," he booms, 'coast is
clear."

While she gives him the weekly forms he'll need to fill out,
conversations about our production weave around the table.

"The production is haunted..  ."

'..  . mysterious accidents, illnesses .. ."

'..  . jinxed .. ."

I toss Harold's bit of gossip into the pot.  "A young intern died," I
say, 'during the play's premiere."

"How?"

What had Harold said?  "Mysterious circumstances."

"Like Lily."

That quiets us.

As soon as Rosie leaves, Wexler joins us at the head of the table.  "I
want to welcome you all," he says.  "We have a superb cast, a fabulous
script, and the best theater in Chicago."  Applause, applause.  I
settle into the cozy comfort of family all around.  He introduces the
various trades, shows a mock-up of the set, allows a couple of the
designers to explain their vision for our production.  He then thanks
them for their time and we are alone, actors with their director.
Excitement twists my gut.

"Lily London's death is a great loss to Chicago's theater community,"
he says.  A lovely beginning.  "She will be missed.  I had hoped ... I
haven't found anyone I like for Mother, the role I hoped Lily might
play.  For today, I'll '

"Sorry I'm late."  Queen Tut rushes in.  What is she doing here?

Wexler motions her to a place at the table.  "Diana Tuttle," he
explains, 'will be understudying the role of Daughter."

On fire.  My face, my hands.  The other actors shoot sidelong glances
my way.  I burn with humiliation, affect a benign expression before it
shows.  No one else at the table has an understudy.  Why me?  Does
Wexler think I'm so weak I need to be covered?  I glance at Diana.  She
flashes a smile.  I know that smile.  She is up to something sneaky.  I
become suddenly busy opening my script, digging through my purse for a
pen, yellow highlighter.

"All right, ladies and gentlemen," says Wexler.  "Shall we?  Diana, why
don't you read Mother today?"  Scripts open around the table as my
heart thuds double-time.  If Diana reads Mother too well, Wexler might
reconsider, cast her as Daughter.  "Let's take it once through
beginning to end, then we'll break for lunch."  Brenda gasps.  "Aren't
we going to discuss it first?"  "I prefer to begin with the
read-through."  Thank you thank you thank you thank you.  Bless Wexler
for getting right to it, meeting our dread of the first reading
head-on.  Some directors, trained in the Marquis de Sade school of
theater, lead all-day discussions about the play before ever opening a
script.  The Agony and the Agony.  There will be time enough for all
that later, if we survive.  But my relief doesn't overcome the sheer
terror of a first read-through.  Like my comrades around the table, I'm
convinced I'll be found out as a no-talent wanna-be.  If this reading
is out of joint, it will be because of me.  If there is no energy, it
will be because of me.  If the words stay dead on the page, it will be
because of me.  I believe that.  Every actor at the table believes that
about him- or herself.  Good old actors' paranoia.  Except, today, mine
is worse than usual.  I have Diana the understudy sitting here as proof
positive Wexler doesn't think I'm up to the job.  The read-through,
done at breakneck speed without a tinge of ensemble, is every bit as
awful as I expect.  The best I can say is Wexler doesn't jump up and
fire me.  We don't quite make it through the whole way.  "We'll finish
after lunch," says Wexler.  All of us heave a communal sigh as we push
away from the table, the condemned given a last-minute reprieve.  We
manage weak smiles and weaker jokes as we break for lunch.  I follow
the masses to the back room, half of them rummaging in bags and pockets
for the cigarettes banned in the rehearsal room.  They race downstairs
to light up.  I search the mess of coats and bags for my particular
pile of stuff.  Famished, I open my rehearsal bag and take out my
lunch.  A piece of noodle kugel is missing.  I comb through the bag,
take everything out, double-check.  Gone.  Last night Mom sent me home
with four pieces of her kugel, thick noodles languishing in
cinnamon-sugary cottage cheese, sour cream and raisins, each piece
carefully wrapped in silver foil.  I'd brought two to rehearsal.  And
then there was one.

"Hey, little sister."  Murray, a pristine Camel dangling from his lips,
has his lighter primed and ready.

"Hey, bro," I say.

He disappears before I can complain about the theft.  I join a small
group eating around the table.  Should I say anything?  I mean, it's a
theater truth that food left backstage is fair game.  But I've never
heard of someone filching food the very first day of rehearsal.  I scan
the group for suspects.  Brenda cracks a hard-boiled egg on a piece of
waxed paper, delicately peels away the shell.  A carrot stick, two
celery sticks, and a rye crisp complete her meal.  Not a kugel kind of
gal.

Where is Queen Tut?  Anyone who would try stealing my role isn't above
copping my kugel.  I bet she was late to rehearsal because she was
rifling bags in search of sustenance.  I don't see her anywhere.
Probably hiding out enjoying my lunch.  From now on I'll keep my bag
with me.

When I finish, I find a pay phone out on the street and call Beth at
Lyle's place.  I can tell from the remaining tremor in her voice that
the last MS flare-up hit her hard.  Not that she'd admit it.

"I think the strength is returning to my arms and legs," she says.
"Enough for me to work on the industrial."

"Can you walk without the cane?"

"I've told everyone I twisted my ankle."

"What about your voice?"

A long pause.  "You hear the difference?"

"Of course."

"That's because you know me so well.  No one else has noticed."

I doubt that, but don't say.  "Should you push yourself so hard?"

"I'm taking it slow.  Pampering myself.  I'll stay at Lyle's a
while."

"He told me."

She sighs.  "What else did he say?"  "Just that you're staying until
you're stronger."  "He isn't reading anything more into it, is he?"  I
laugh.  "That man's been crazy about you since forever.  And now you've
moved in.  What could he possibly read into that?"  "Come on, Morgan.
It's not like that."  "Sure."  "I'm going back to my own place as soon
as I get my strength back."  "Methinks the lady doth protest too much."
"Don't you go making something out of nothing."  "Moi?"  A few minutes
into the afternoon rehearsal, I get the uncomfortable feeling that
Wexler and his staff are watching me.  Closely.  Are they still
weighing my performance against Queen Tut's?  Am I on some sort of
secret probation?  One bad reading, one mis-spoken line, and Shazam!  -
Wexler switches me with Diana?  I try to flick the demons off my
shoulder.  When does an actress become sure enough of her talent to
stop worrying?  Never, that's when.  I should give it up, sell aluminum
siding, marry Lester, join the ladies on their segregated golf course.
Now, there's a lifestyle devoutly to be wished.  As we near the end of
the play, I launch into my big scene, the passionate monologue setting
up the climax between Mother and Daughter.  Suddenly, Queen Tut slaps
her hands on the table and pushes herself up.  Her face contorts into a
snarling sneer.  Damn her.  If she doesn't like my reading, she could
at least have the common decency to talk to me later.  Not that I'd
listen.  Not that any actor with a modicum of professionalism would
dare give another actor notes.  How can she upstage me so blatantly?  I
refuse to watch, continue my reading even though I feel everyone
watching Diana.  I hear Diana scrape back her chair, send it crashing
to the floor.  This time I do stop and look.  I wish I hadn't.  Diana
claws her throat, staggers away from the table to the area Wexler
chalked off as the stage.  We sit gaping as Diana, gone rigid as a
tree, falls straight forward, her glasses making a sickening crunch as
she crashes against the wood floor.

"My reading wasn't that bad," I say.

No one listens in their rush to where Diana sprawls, lifeless.

Chapter 13

An eerie stillness becalms a group when one among them is freshly dead.
Silence blankets sound.  Inertia cripples movement.  Small warning
pulses scuttle along arms, legs, necks.  Unfortunately, only Diana,
star of Stat!"  knew CPR.  "She should be on her stomach."  "On her
back." "Check if she swallowed her tongue."  "I'll push down, you blow
in her mouth."  "You blow in her mouth."  "Pinch her nose shut."  A
couple of cast members valiantly apply what they can recall from high
school Red Cross life-saving classes.  But it's obvious to one and all
that Diana won't be coming back for any encores.  The group separates,
half escaping to the coat room, the rest choosing to keep Diana company
until the police arrive.  I opt to stay with the body.  Considering how
many people die every day in this world, how often do we witness the
actual moment?  There is life and then there isn't.  An eye blink, no
more.  What passes in that instant?  How do we capture the essence?
I've heard that the heart stops before the brain.  I've left careful
instructions that my family is to keep talking to me at least fifteen
minutes after I'm 'gone."  Hate to be abandoned on my way out.  Diana's
body draws us down into a circle around her.  I sit to her left,
watching for the lift of breath in body, the throb of blood through
vein.  Nothing.  I push aside thoughts of my own mortality.  Brush away
feelings of unfinished business between me and my sister Sylvia.  Think
of my grandmothers, alive and well, too ornery to die.

Wexler paces.  The only one of us up and about, he seems nervous,
charged, like a wild animal suddenly caged.  I remember Harold saying
that Wexler loves sensationalism, used it to create box-office
excitement.  If so, Diana's demise is made to order.  Gossip about
sudden deaths and ancient ghosts makes for lively ticket sales.

Occasional crying seeps from the other room, from those faint hearts
who prefer death at a distance.  Those of us willing to cozy up to the
corpse sit dry-eyed, speak in hushed tones.  What a fine time for a
seance.  Got the people, the body, fresh spirits.  I have the good
sense not to mention this.  My macabre take on death isn't to
everyone's taste.

The revivers give up.  Murray drapes his coat over Diana's body.

"You're disturbing the evidence," says Brenda.

"Evidence?"  I say.  It takes a second to register.  "You think she's
been murdered?"

I glance around the circle.  The others quickly look away.  Tag, I'm
it.  First I discovered Lily's body, and now here I am again.  Just a
walking death-meister.  I've been too busy analyzing my reaction to her
death to wonder why it happened.

The police arrive and it takes them about two seconds to determine that
Diana might have shuffled off her mortal coil a tad early.  They
declare the loft a crime scene and invite all of us to headquarters. We
watch each other the whole ride down.  It's a creepy feeling knowing
the person next to you, the perfectly ordinary-looking chap with the
oh-so-pleasant smile and spot of dried egg on his lapel, might
cheerfully do you in.

Police stations are strange places.  I know I didn't kill Diana, yet I
can't help but feel guilty of something.  They've separated our troupe,
members tucked away on benches and chairs, so we can't talk to one
another.

A stone-faced policewoman takes my fingerprints.  "Why this?"  I ask.

She shrugs.  "No big thing.  We want all your prints on file.  In case
the investigators need to compare them with prints at the scene."  The
press arrives en masse, darting through the building like a school of
fish, first one way then another.  How did they hear so soon?  I slouch
on my bench, dropping my head in my hands, cringing at the thought of
lurid jailhouse photos splashed across tomorrow's papers.  Not to
worry.  The reporters hurry past, massing at the end of the hall,
recorders on, notepads out, cameras clicking.  I crane to see the
Chosen One.  Wexler.  Of course.  I bet he tipped them off to the
story.  Bought himself and the play a frenzy of free publicity.  After
forty minutes, I'm led to a drab room decorated in early Formica.  The
one small window, set high on the wall, is protected by a metal grid
bolted to concrete.  Waning afternoon sunlight glows red through the
filthy glass.  Minutes pass as I watch the grid's shadows crawl along
the table.  How would it be to mark a lifetime like this, endless days
spent watching shadows of prison bars crawl across a cell floor?  The
weight of the thought overwhelms me.  I turn my eyes to the rest of the
room, have time to commit an entire wall of particularly uninspired
graffiti to memory before the door opens.  "Hello, Morgan."  Roblings
walks in, notepad in hand, slides into the chair across from me.  I
study my cuticles, still angry with him for suspecting Beth of killing
Lily.  I tend to hold grudges.  "We really have to stop meeting like
this," he says.  When I don't answer, he sighs and flips his notebook
to a clean page.  "We'd like you to go over your morning, everything
you can remember."  When Lily died, Roblings accused me of giving him
incomplete information.  I won't make the same mistake this time.  I
recount every detail of my day: the brushing of my teeth, the washing
of my face, the eternal search for something clean to wear.  This seems
to amuse the good detective.  "I left my apartment at eight thirty,
stopped at Junque and Stuffe to pick up my check ' "Anyone there?"  He
doesn't add 'who might have seen you."  But I know he's thinking alibi.
I don't like it.  "The shop doesn't open until noon.  Harold, the
owner, is a night owl, rarely comes in more than a few minutes before
the shop opens.  I usually let myself in with my own key on the days I
work.  Monday mornings, I pick up my check, which Harold writes out
Sunday night and leaves on his desk."

"And after you left the shop?"

"I went straight to rehearsal."  I take him through the rehearsal to
our lunch break.  Which is when I remember.  "Someone stole food from
my bag."

He doesn't appear to move, yet everything about him shifts subtly, a
hunting dog going on point.

"What kind of food?"

"Noodle kugel."

"From?"

"From my audition bag."

"No, I mean where did you buy it?"

"I didn't.  My mother made it."

"Was anyone else's food stolen?"

"No one said anything.  But then, neither did I."

"Why not?"

I study Roblings.  Mistake.  His is a remarkable face.  Powerful.
Intelligent.  Battle scarred.  Bright.  Stop!  This is neither the time
nor the man.  He is looking at me.  I've forgotten the question.

He asks again.  "Why didn't you tell anyone your food was stolen?"

"Sometimes, too often, things get tight for actors, food becomes an
issue.  I've been there.  I didn't feel the need to embarrass whoever
took it."

"Wait here."  He leaves the room, returning with a clear plastic
evidence bag.  He tosses it onto the table in front of me.  "Look
familiar?"

Inside is a wrinkled piece of aluminum foil soiled with bits of noodles
and raisins.

"That's the foil my kugel was wrapped in."

"We found it balled up in Diana's bag."

So she did steal from me.  He watches me closely.

"You think it was poisoned?"  I say.  "That's ridiculous.  I ate the
other piece and I'm perfectly fine."  "The other piece?"  "I brought
two."  "Do you have more?"  "At home."  This seems to catch his
interest. He checks his watch, stands.  "Let's go," he says.  "Where?"
He picks up the evidence bag, hefts the enclosed foil in one meaty
palm.  "To pick up the rest of this."  "Mom always said her kugel was
to die for."  He doesn't smile.  "C'mon, Roblings, that was a joke."
He holds the door open.  "What?  You think my mother killed Diana?"
"Humor me," he says. I hear him tell someone in the hall he's leaving
for the day then he looks at me and takes out his car keys, waiting.
An exit cue, if ever I saw one.  I wonder, sitting next to him in the
intimacy of his small car, if he is using the kugel as an excuse to
spend time with me.  It is not an altogether unwelcome thought.  I
sneak a few glances, feel his cologne getting to me.  Damn.  If the
good detective would leave Beth in peace, I might consider becoming
interested.  Halfway to my apartment he casually asks if Beth was at
the rehearsal.  "Beth?  Why would she be there?"  He shrugs.  "Just
wondering."  "Let it go.  Beth never hurt anyone."  He doesn't mention
Lyle, so why should I?  So what if Beth's boyfriend is our lighting
designer and just happened to be at the loft this morning?  I have to
be careful not to make any connection, no matter how thin, between Beth
and this latest murder. She has enough trouble in her life without
Roblings nosing around.  It is a relief when he shifts the conversation
to Diana.  What kind of person was she?  Was she well liked?  What do I
know about her private life?  Who might have wanted to kill her?  I
nearly say "Me!"  Stop myself in time.  I'm learning you don't joke
about murder to the cops, unless you're hell-bent on becoming a prime
suspect.

Chapter 14

The kugel is buried in my freshly stocked fridge behind five thousand
pounds of Mom's beer-cooked brisket.  Roblings helps me juggle the
pans, which leads to his asking about the brisket, which leads to me
inviting him to stay and eat some, if he isn't afraid it's poisoned.
"You can be my taster," he says.  He sets the table and pours the wine
while I nuke the food.  I am thankful Mom forced a shopping bag full of
home cooking on me last night.  This is our second meal together.  Each
unplanned, each delicious.  He is good company, this Roblings.  The
Chianti, sipped against a backdrop of soft jazz, relaxes us enough to
take measure of each other.  He has wit and a self-confidence that
doesn't come off as arrogance.  All right, so his questions keep
winding back to Beth.  Wouldn't I do the same, if I were in his
size-eleven-D oxfords?  Beth was at the center of Lily's life.  It's a
natural enough place to begin an investigation.  What I really want to
do is tear a piece of challah and dunk it in the rich brisket gravy.
But this is not how Edie and Sam Tiersky raised their daughter to eat
in polite company.  One of the very best things about living alone is
eating exactly the way I want.  Dunking, wiping, sipping, slurping.
Emily Post positively corkscrews in her grave.  I distract myself by
pushing a drip of Chianti into patterns around the base of my glass.
"Did you ever find out what killed Lily?"  I ask.  "Now, that's
interesting."  He adds wine to our glasses.  "The ME's report shows an
overdose of crystodigin."

"Is that a poison?"

"It's a common heart medication."

"I thought the autopsy showed Lily didn't have a heart condition."

"She didn't."

He tilts his goblet side to side.  Blood-red Chianti coats the glass,
runs down in smooth waves.  My, what big hands you have.

"The crystodigin was injected into the grapefruit she was eating when
she died," he says.  "We're pretty certain the grapefruit came from
that gift basket delivered to the theater that morning."

"The one sent to Wexler?"  He nods.  "Did you find this crysto-crysti
'

"Crystodigin."

' in any of the other fruit?"

"None that we've recovered."

"Including the banana and orange I gave you?"

"The grapefruit was the only tainted piece."

"So' - I clear my throat 'that anonymous phone call you received was
right: Lily's death was anything but natural."

"Looks that way."

I try but can't compute this information.  Someone I knew, had spoken
to, had seen on and off over many years of my life, had been murdered.
"It's so easy on television," I say.

"Sorry?"

"Murder.  Gunfights, knifings.  I don't even notice them anymore.  But
this .. . actually knowing someone .. ."  I swig the wine.  "Was that
grapefruit meant for Lily?"

"Ah."  He runs a finger around the rim of his glass.  Be still my
heart.  "That's the big question.  It's just as likely the grapefruit
was sitting in the basket for anyone who happened to pick it out."

"Like those people who tamper with drugstore medications?"

"Exactly.  It's a scattershot approach to murder.  The killer gets his
kicks watching us run around in circles on the evening news."

"So maybe this creep poisoned the grapefruit, waited to see who keeled
over, then called the police to be sure they knew the death was no
accident."  "I was sort of leaning that way," he says, 'until this
afternoon."  "Diana's murder?"  "Suddenly the killings don't look so
random.  What I don't know is who the killer meant to kill.  Diana or
you."  I wait for the punch line.  There is none.  A cold hard thing
knots in my gut.  "I haven't had an enemy since high school."  "Some
people hold grudges a long time."  "High school wasn't that long ago."
He smiles.  "What happened?"  "It was one month before the prom.  My
best friend's boyfriend dumped her, so she just turned around and stole
mine.  If anything, I'm the one who'd be holding the grudge."  "And
you're not?"  "I ran into him a few years back.  She did me a favor."
I don't mention my anger at my boyfriend-stealing sister.  But Sylvia
does cross my mind.  My mother doesn't do desserts.  I dig out a box of
stale Snackwell's and set them on the table.  "How about," says
Roblings, 'we go in search of a cappuccino and something chocolate."
"Oh, twist my arm."  A surprising number of people are out on the
streets enjoying one of our first spring like nights.  Sometimes I
forget there is a world around me free for the taking.  I tend to hole
up, turn hermit.  It is lovely to stroll in the comfortable company of
an interesting man.  With very little effort, I am able to block out
the murderous events that brought us together.  Fate will have her
little joke.  We wind up at Ennui, hangout of Northwestern and Loyola
students, professors, neighborhood intellectuals.  While Roblings
orders at the counter, I liberate a corner table, shoveling off
remnants of Sunday's New York Times, a chess set, scraps of paper
scrawled with mathematical formulas.  He sets a plate of chocolate
biscotti in the middle of the table, returns with two cappuccinos.
"What can you tell me about Wexler?"  he asks.  "I barely know him."

"What you've heard."

"Just rumors."

"Fine by me."

I stir my coffee, sorting through the gossip.  "I've heard talk of
alcoholism, but he seems sober enough.  He is, or at least was, a
brilliant director, depending on whom you talk to."  I think about what
Harold told me.  "Some think he was a wunderkind, made a big splash
very young, then disappeared."

"What do you think?"

"Too early to tell.  Our first rehearsal was today."

"I've heard he has an abrasive personality."

"I haven't seen that."

A young couple takes the table next to us.  Something in the way she
looks at him is so pure, so clear.  Is it the eyes?  The soft parting
of the lips?  Her love is palpable.  Encases her in an impenetrable
rosy shell.  Nothing can hurt her.  Nothing of the real world can make
its way in.  If I ever play a character in the throes of love, this is
the look I'll want.  I try to mimic the shape of her mouth, the droop
of her eyes.

Roblings clears his throat.  "I've also heard," he says, trying to make
me focus, "Wexler is sometimes volatile and egocentric."

"I haven't seen that, either."  The coffee goes down smooth.  Ah, the
delicious decadence of fresh grounds and a new filter.  "You think he
made someone angry enough to want to kill him?"

"The fruit basket was sent to Wexler.  That makes him the likely
target."

"Was my kugel intended for him, too?"

He graces me with a slight smile.  "Did you lace it with poison," he
asks, 'and plan to serve it to Wexler for lunch?"

I offer the plate of biscotti.  "A little arsenic?"  I ask.

He takes one, dunking it, sucking the coffee from the sweet biscuit.
So, he is not altogether rigid about proper table etiquette.  I relax a
notch.

When he excuses himself to the bathroom, I take our cups to the counter
and order refills.  I feel wonderfully lithe.  Haven't felt this
particular buzz since Adam.  As in Adam and Sylvia.  Anger rush.  Okay,
I hold grudges.  I have the right.  No harm wallowing in righteous
indignation a while longer.  The lovers at the next table haven't moved
since they sat down.  They evidently can stare into each other's eyes
for hours.  Sweet.  Young.  Unspoiled.  She with the doe eyes, he with
the soft, boyish face.  Round cheeks, soft skin.  Like Adam.  Roblings
is rougher around the edges.  More textured.  Ho!  a bit of a spark.
Great.  That's all I need.  A cop in my life.  It's the one occupation
with hours worse than an actor's.  Besides, it's exhausting trying to
guess what Roblings is thinking.  Much easier to be with uncomplicated
men, more pulp fiction than Ulysses.  It's also infinitely more boring.
I push thoughts of Roblings-as-lover aside.  Halfway into our second
cups, Roblings asks for a crash course in theater.  "My favorite
subject," I say.  As I talk, I watch for signs of come-on.  The good
detective keeps his distance.  I regale him with witty, charming, pithy
stories.  He is more amused than ardent.  I pith harder.  By the time I
run out of steam, Ennui is closing.  On the walk home, an idea occurs.
"What if Lily and Diana's deaths aren't about killing a particular
person?"  I ask.  "What if they're about perpetuating the myth of the
jinxed play?"  "Murder as publicity stunt?"  He mulls it over.  "I
doubt it.  Outside of gang-bangers and TV wiseguys, people don't engage
in murder lightly.  Especially murders like these, which take advance
planning.  I'd be much happier if we could link the two deaths, find a
reason someone specifically wanted to kill Lily and Diana."  I try to
think of connections.  "They were both actresses, Chicagoans .. ."  An
uneasy feeling nags.  "What if it's not the person?"  "What, then?"
"What if it's the role?  Lily played the daughter forty years ago.  I'm
playing it now.  Diana was my understudy.  Maybe I was supposed to die
today.  Diana might have saved my life by stealing my food."  "Why
would anyone want to kill oft" the daughter?"  I can't think of a
single reason.  He opens the door to my building, walks me into the
lobby, waits while I unlock the inner door.

"I'd like to read the play," he says.  "May I borrow your copy?"

"I only have one and I need it.  I'm sure Wexler has extra '

"I'd like to read it tonight."

"I can't let you take it."

"I can read it here."

Ah.  Once again I look for signs he's on the make.  But Roblings seems
all business, not at all attracted to me.  Not that I want him to be,
not particularly.  Although it would be interesting.

I set him up on the sofa with the script and a pot of coffee.  "I'm
beat," I say, yawning, stretching.  "Not used to getting up before the
crack of noon.  It's been a rough day all in all."

He says good night with barely a glance my way.  "I'll let myself out,"
he says.

The next morning, I find his note on top of the script.  In a strong,
clear handwriting, Roblings thanks me for the coffee and says my mother
called to say she'd seen an old friend of mine on The Late Show.  She
wants me to call.  Great.  Now I have to face Mom's questions about
some strange man answering the phone in my apartment while I was
sleeping.  That was no man, Mom, that was a cop.  Wonderful.

I drag myself into the kitchen to make coffee.  Before leaving,
Roblings washed out the coffeepot and cup, stacking them neatly on the
sideboard.  While he was at it, he washed the week's worth of dishes in
the sink.

I once dated a fastidious man, the kind who triple-folds his guest
towels after guests wash up.  The kind who owns guest towels.  Our
relationship was a disaster.  If Roblings is a neatnik, there isn't a
prayer the two of us will ever get together.  Not that I want that. Not
at all.

Chapter 15

I'm a few minutes late to rehearsal, which for me is early.  Trouble
is, the other actors have already selected their seats, severely
limiting my options.  I circle the long table, trying to decide where
to sit without being obvious about it.  Yes, I know some actors better
than others.  Is that any guarantee of safety?  Aren't most people
murdered by family or friends?  Gone is the friendly banter of our
first rehearsal.  We've grown wary, fearful.  Who is the murderer?
Where is the murderer?  When will the murderer strike again?  Backpacks
and rehearsal bags, usually tossed carelessly around a rehearsal space,
sit clutched on laps or snuggled safely under chairs.  If someone wants
to kill us, they'll have to use something more direct than poison.
Murray waves me to the chair next to him and I slide in as Wexler
arrives. Hunched, pale, he looks as if he's taken a blow to the gut.
He is followed by the talented red-haired woman I'd read with at my
callback. "Who's that?"  Murray whispers out the side of his mouth.
"Don't know. But she's good."  An uneasy thought niggles.  Maybe, since
Queen Tut bit the dust, Wexler imported another understudy for
Daughter.  This one is a bit long in the tooth, but a little stage
makeup and the right lighting could take care of that.  She pulls up a
chair next to Wexler. "Let's begin," Wexler says, fingers trembling as
he opens his script. "Evelyn," he says, nodding at the redhead, 'will
read Mother until the role is cast."  This reading moves more slowly
than the first, people occasionally interrupting for line
clarification, scene interpretation. The mood remains subdued.  I
wonder if we will ever crawl out from under the murder pall.

During the break, I walk down the block to the corner to call home for
messages.  I can go months without work but it seems as soon as I land
one job, another pops up.  Feast or famine.  A teen boy hunches over
the phone.  Gang-banger.  His pants sit low on his hips, the brim of
his baseball cap angles to the left.  I wait, keep one eye out for
drive-bys as I turn my face to the sun, breathe in the cool air a
welcome respite from the tension in the rehearsal room.

It occurs to me that the boy isn't talking.  I open one eye and see his
finger holding down the receiver.  He's hogging the phone, waiting for
an incoming call.  Drug deal, most likely.  The phone rings.  He picks
up.  Ten seconds later, he hangs up and disappears around the corner. I
drop in my coins and dial my voice-mail code, listen hopefully for job
offers.  One phone message, from Beth.

"I'm at police headquarters."  Is she crying?  "They've brought me and
Lyle in for questioning."  Damn Roblings.  "I told them I barely knew
Diana, but they seem determined to connect me to her murder."  Her
voice breaks.  The thought of my fragile friend adrift in that sea of
human scum turns my stomach.  "I ... should never have told them Lyle
.. . was at the rehearsal loft the morning Diana died.  Now they think
he had something to do with it."

I assume Beth called to ask me to come down and bail her out.  I assume
wrong.

"I need you to take care of Hamlet," she says.  No, no, not that. "Lyle
is desperately allergic to dogs so I've kept Hamlet at my apartment
while I've been staying at Lyle's.  It's been hard, what with the MS
flare-up, going over twice a day to walk and feed him, but he makes
Lyle deathly ill."  I know the feeling.  "Please, just until I come
home?  I've asked Mrs.  Hamu in Four-o-one to let you in.  Please call
my machine, let me know you got this message and that you'll take care
of Hamlet.  Thanks."

How long ago had she called?  Is she still at the police station?  I
dig more coins out of my wallet, dial Detective Roblings.  I need to
know what's going on.  He's not in.  Beating Beth with a rubber hose,
no doubt.  I leave a message asking him to call.  Another teen in
oversized pants, the crotch seam riding somewhere around his knees,
pimp-rolls my way.  He's aiming for the phone.  But I need to make one
more call.  I violently shake my purse, coaxing loose coins to the
bottom, shoving them into the phone slots, pushing Lester's
all-too-familiar number.  Just because Beth didn't ask for my help
doesn't mean I can't do something.  She would help me if the situation
were reversed.  Lester's secretary immediately puts me through.  I tell
him what's going on.  "Can you do anything to help?"  I ask.  "I'll
check into it."  I know, I know.  I promised to stop taking advantage
of Lester's good nature.  I can't keep stringing him along, making him
think there is even a microscopic chance we'll get back together.  He
hasn't said anything.  Yet.  He will.  I suspect even Lester has his
limits.  I call Beth's machine and tell her yes, I'll walk and feed the
furry beast.  Not to worry.  And, by the by, Lester the Constant might
ride by police headquarters.  He'll be the attorney on the white horse.
Wexler starts the afternoon rehearsal.  It is no more satisfying than
the morning.  The specter of Diana's death dries up all creative juice.
It isn't fair.  We go so long between jobs some of us longer than
others that we are desperate to savor every drop of the experience. But
this is hopelessly cut and dried.  Where is the fun?  The games? The
reason we put up with lousy pay, horrible hours, and cruel and unusual
treatment?  The afternoon drags on.  From time to time, Evelyn whispers
to Wexler, touching him lightly on the arm.  She seems to have a
calming effect.  Wexler's assistant?  Lover?  There is a certain
intimacy between them I can't quite read.  I haven't heard any juicy
tidbits from the actors' rumor mill.  Of course the rumor mill's not
always accurate.  And what is it saying about me, finder of Lily's
body, supplier of Diana's killer kugel?  I'd rather not know.  It isn't
until the end of rehearsal that Wexler explains.  "Evelyn will be
handling publicity, arranging radio, TV, and print ads, setting up your
interviews and otherwise generating interest in our production."

Evelyn smiles.  "Please," she says, 'if any of you have personal
contacts in the media, I encourage you to share them with me.  I'm from
New York so I can use all the help you can give."

"Why doesn't he use someone local?"  Brenda sniffs.  I'm certain she
doesn't intend her voice to be so loud.

"Evelyn is also my daughter," says Wexler.  "I am a great proponent of
blatant nepotism."

Brenda's creamy skin glows red.  She mumbles something as she hurries
out.  I, on the other hand, feel a thousand-pound weight lift. Evelyn's
not an understudy, my understudy, at all.  Begone, ye demons of
self-doubt and paranoia!  This is my role fair and square.

I float down the loft steps, light enough to fly all the way to Beth's
building.

Mrs.  Hamu opens her door on a short chain and peers out.  I have to
shout my name a couple of times before it registers.

"Beth said as how you'd be coming."  She slams the door on me,
disappears for a year, returns with Beth's key and mail.  She feeds
everything to me through the narrow opening.  "Slide the key under the
door when you leave," she says.  The door slams, two dead bolts click
into place.  Reminds me of Grandma Ruth.  Hasn't stepped out of the
house since I was ten.

Hamlet starts barking as soon as I key the lock.  I ease open the door
and he wriggles through.

"Down, Fang!"  I yell as he jumps all over me, yipping and yapping.
"Leash?"  He stops, cocks his head.  "Leash?"  He dashes back into the
apartment.  I follow.

What a mess.  He's pulled all the pillows off the sofa.  Chewed a stack
of magazines.  Unrolled balls of yarn.  Knocked the large bowl of keys
off the entry-hall table.

I don't understand the appeal of dogs.  I swear I don't.  The guy who
invented the Pet Rock had the right idea.

"Bad dog," I say, tossing my gear in a pile on the floor, trying to
straighten things so Beth won't come home to this mess.  I scoop the
keys back into the bowl, including the large daisy key chain with my
house and mailbox keys.  Beth and I exchange services, bringing in mail
and watering plants for each other when we have out-of-town jobs.  I
retrieve a diamond-studded Big Ben key chain from under the table. Lily
London is etched in the plastic.  The unexpected name jolts me back to
the dingy backstage bathroom, Lily's wide unseeing eyes.  I shudder.
She would have been mortified at such an undignified death. I may not
have liked her, but I'm sorry she died the way she did. Hamlet races
up, clamps his rabid little teeth on the pieces of mail I'd set on the
floor, then tears off down the hall.  Rats!  I run after, following the
trail of dropped letters to the bedroom.  "Where are you, you little
thief?"  No answer.  "I know you're here."  I find him under the bed,
happily chewing a manila envelope.  "Let me have it," I say, reaching
under the bed.  He growls, snaps at my hand.  "Oh no you don't, you
mangy mutt."  I manage to grip a corner of the envelope and wrestle it
away.  Hamlet comes out barking.  "Leash!"  I command again.  He barks
twice then takes off down the hall.  I sit on the bed, checking the
envelope.  Rissman, Gordon, Kanter, and Denberg Attorneys at Law.  I
turn it over and over, debating.  The last time I read something I
shouldn't was half a year ago.  My chronically tidy little sister just
happened to leave her diary on top of an otherwise immaculate desk.
Granted, I'd broken up with Adam two months before. Still, reading
about Sylvia's love for him and his for her turned my life inside out.
I had no business reading that diary, and I have no business reading
Beth's mail.  But the envelope is badly torn.  I slip out the contents,
just to be sure Hamlet hasn't damaged anything.  And I should check to
see that there's nothing upsetting inside, something that can wait
until Beth is stronger.  It is a copy of Lily's will.  I fan the pages,
scanning paragraphs of legalese until I come to the list of Lily's
sizable estate: jewelry, property, investments.  All willed to Beth.  I
whistle as I reread the list.  Does Beth know she inherits all this?
Roblings asked me that, Lester asked.  No.  I can't believe Beth has
any idea.  Hamlet races in, drops his leash at my feet, jumps and yaps
until I hook him up and take him out.  I let him drag me around the
block while he sniffs trees, fences, flowers.

What a con artist Lily had been.  She never carried more than a couple
of dollars.  We all assumed she was scraping by, like the rest of us.
Felt sorry because she was so much older.  At rehearsals, we'd share
food with her, pick up the tab if we went out to dinner.  When Beth ran
errands, she often paid for Lily's laundry, groceries, other things.
Maybe that's where all Lily's money came from.  From not spending
any.

"All right, class.  How do we spell "opportunistic"?"

"L-i-l-y."

"Excellent."

I wait while Hamlet leaves a deposit at the base of a large oak.  A
woman trimming her hedge across the street watches with interest.  I
didn't think to take a pooper-scooper.  No matter.  I couldn't bring
myself to use one.  The idea of cleaning up after a dog repulses me.
When Hamlet finishes, we walk off.  I think I hear the woman shout
"Hey!"  but I don't turn.

Back at the apartment, Hamlet follows me around as I freshen his water,
fill his food dish, and gather my things.  "Don't give me that look," I
say, trying not to feel guilty about leaving him alone.  "Beth will be
back soon."

But what if she isn't?  What if the police detain her?  Or if all this
trauma makes her MS flare so badly she can't take care of herself, let
alone Hamlet?  I'd have to run back and forth to walk and feed him.  I
don't have that kind of time.  Hamlet blinks at me, waiting.  Damn.

"If I take you home," I say, 'you'll live by my rules.  Understood?"

He tilts his head to one side, flips up his ears until the tips flop
over.

"You think you're cute," I say.  "But that stuff won't work with me.
I'm warning you, you tear up one thing of mine and I'll freeze-dry your
sorry self and use you for a paperweight."

I go to pack his food.  Two cans left.  I'll have to stop at the
grocery store, a chore only slightly less appealing than total tooth
extraction.  I pat my pockets for money.  Shake my purse on end.
Pathetic pickings.  A dollar and change and my un deposited Junque and
StufFe paycheck.  Certainly not enough to actually buy something.

Then I remember: Beth once complained that Lily bought dog food by the
case, heavy cases, difficult for Beth to carry.  There are probably
tons of tins at Lily's.  Her apartment is on my way home.  I take
Lily's diamond-studded key ring from the bowl.  I'll stop and pick up
food for Hamlet.

And maybe, while I'm there, I'll take a little look around.  The police
may know about murder, but I know about actors.  Maybe there is
something in Lily's apartment the police missed.  Something that will
set them on the trail of the real killer, make them leave poor Beth
alone.

Chapter 16

The aging brick three-flat overlooks Indian Boundary Park.  Benches of
old women and men guard the playground.  I wedge my car into a space in
front of a large fenced enclosure and am locking the door when Hamlet
yanks the leash from my hand and races away, barking.

"Hamlet!"  I yell, running after.  "Stop.  Heel.  Come back."  Lily
obviously never invested in obedience school.

By the time I reach him, he is trying to wedge through a small opening
at the base of the enclosure.  "Bad dog," I say, stepping on the end of
the leash, wrapping it around my hand.  An animal roan in my ear.  I
shriek.  Jump back.

A bear!  A large, moth-eaten bear lives in the park, its stinking fur
mangier than Grandma Ruth's old mink stole.  Another roar.  It flashes
yellow teeth against dark fur.  Its nose glistens, wet and runny.  What
idiot puts a vicious animal where children play?  It roars again,
swatting the cage with a huge paw.  Hamlet barks, bearing tiny teeth.
"That's smart," I say, picking him up.  "Pick a fight.  Make him good
and mad.  Way to go."

Nothing about Lily's building hints at the wealth she's socked away.
Paint peels from wood window frames and too many seasons have passed
between tuck-pointings.  Hamlet wriggles as I un wedge mail from the
lobby box.

"Hold on, hold on," I say, unlocking the inner door, pushing it open.
"Go on."  Once inside I drop the leash and he races upstairs.  The
second I open the apartment door, Hamlet flies through the apartment,
tearing in and out of rooms.  He darts back to me several times, cocks
his head, then takes off again.  Lily.  The poor mutt's looking for
Lily.  It never occurred to me how confusing a trip home might be for
him.  I feel a twinge of pity.  He can't understand that Lily is dead.
All he knows is that the one person who loved him most has disappeared
from his life.  Hamlet might be annoying, but he is also a creature
capable of feeling love and affection and pain.  He curls on the sofa,
whimpering.  I sit next to him, petting him gently as I look around the
room.  Roblings told me the police were here, but there are no signs of
anything disrupted.  Beth must have come and straightened up after
them.  As weak as she is, it couldn't have been easy.  But it's pure
Beth.  What a loving gesture to honor the memory of a fastidious old
friend.  A battered green fishing tackle box, Lily's name stenciled on
one side, sits like a piece of sculpture on a pedestal end table.  I
open the metal clasp and lift the lid, unfolding rusty trays crammed
with theatrical makeup: half-squeezed tubes of greasepaint, stained
sponges, blunted pencils, brushes, shadows, powders, emery boards,
opening-night telegrams flaking at the edges, a St.  Genesius medal and
a St.  Christopher's, needle and thread, glue, spirit gum, a small
knife.  Flesh-tone face powder coats everything.  I poke through the
smeared tubes.  We haven't used grease in years.  Why on earth did she
keep these?  They wrench my heart.  Of all an actor's tools, makeup is
the most intimate.  These should have been buried with Lily the way
favorite oils and fragrances were buried with Egyptian queens.  Didn't
they also bury the queen's pets?  Hamlet growls softly.  A mind-reading
dog.  Swell.  I get up and roam the living room.  It is a shrine to
Lily.  The walls chronicle her career: posters from plays, playbills, a
Spanish fan, a rhinestone bracelet, ruby slippers, kindly reviews, fan
letters.  The one thing Lily spent money on, lavishly, was framing.
Some items are encapsulated in huge frames with tri-cut mats,
displaying a photo in one, a play program in another, and a prop of
some sort in the third.  I've seen memorabilia framed like this for
Abraham Lincoln, Babe Ruth, Marilyn Monroe.  None of the actors I know
can afford such framing.  Even if they could, they'd be embarrassed by
this scale of self-accolade.

Only two photos don't include Lily.  Centered on one wall is a
professional studio portrait of a perfectly groomed Hamlet perched on a
satin pillow.  The other is Beth's most recent head shot, autographed,
To Lily, a gifted actress and treasured friend, with love, Beth.

Hamlet whimpers at my feet.  I pick him up.  He's trembling.  "It's all
right," I say, stroking his coat, making soothing sounds.

"Will you look at this?"  The original cast of my play poses for a
photo on an empty stage, striking attitudes of their characters.  I
find Lily London, forty years younger, a wispy young woman with
delicate features and regal posture.  I don't get it.  I'm more the
Judy Jock type.  How could Wexler have cast Lily and me in the same
role?

I scan the photo.  A gorgeous young Wexler, an imposing presence even
then, sits in his director's chair surrounded by the company.  He
couldn't have been much more than in his late twenties, early
thirties.

And the crew!  They look like babies with their close-cropped hair and
fresh-scrubbed faces.  I never see such young kids in companies
anymore, not since unions became strong and insurance went through the
roof.  No, this photo dates back to simpler days when a star struck kid
could hang around a company running errands, make himself useful, plant
a foot in the stage door.

Matted next to the photo is the program.  I scan the acton' names,
looking for anyone who might have survived forty years in Chicago
theater.  A couple ring faint bells, but no one I've worked with.  Then
I read the crew list.  Harold Shaw Wardrobe Assistant.  Harold?  My
Harold?

I take the photo off the wall, turn on the reading lamp.  It takes a
while to pick out the young man in the back row.  His hair was thicker
then, naturally black, and he didn't wear glasses or mustache.  But it
is Harold, all right.  Proprietor of Junque and Stuffe, mentor,
financial savior, and costumer to Chicago stars.

Harold was there forty years ago.

Why didn't he say so?  Why hasn't Harold, a dedicated gossip,

bragged about knowing Lily and Wexler?  I pack the photo and stage bill
in my bag.  I will ask about this at work tomorrow.  Indeed I will. Mr.
Harold has some explaining to do.  I wander through the rest of Lily's
apartment.  The back bedroom closet is filled with theatrical garments,
boas, sequined dresses, gowns and furs, a harem girl's jeweled pants,
World War II fatigues, a fringed cowgirl jacket.  I recognize a
milkmaid's outfit from one of the living room photos.  How did Lily get
these?  I've never been allowed to keep a costume. Sometimes you can
buy bits and pieces if the costumes aren't rented. But Lily wasn't the
type to part with her money.  Did she steal them? Or were they gifts?
Even more curious than how, is why.  Why keep so many ingenue costumes
all these years?  Mementos, perhaps?  An unwillingness to accept the
fact of her age?  Beth was right: The supervain Lily would have died if
she'd seen her real age listed in the obituary.  Hidden behind the
costumes is a shelf of scrapbooks dating to Lily's birth.  I flip
through a chronology of family Christmas photos, an unsmiling mother
and father in rigid pose with four unsmiling children.  In one snowy
photo, the clan stands before a large sign:

WELCOME TO PARKERSBURG, WEST VIRGINIA.  ALMOST

HEAVEN.

Flowery script lists each name in red ink.  Lily is not Lily.  She is
Beatrice.  Not London, Berolzheimer.  How many of us swap our birth
names for more appealing inventions?  That I changed my name when I
started in show business isn't something I'm in a hurry to tell people.
Shifting from Miriam Tiersky to Morgan Taylor seems a dated affectation
in these days of Schwarzenegger and Snodgrass.  After a few pages,
Lily's family disappears from the scrapbook as theater takes over her
teenaged life.  Unlike the glowing testimonials on her living room
walls, this history of Lily's life contains negative moments.  Bad
notices, plays closing after one week, stubs of train tickets to
Hollywood and back, a can of brittle film labeled

MGM SCREEN TEST.

There are people who never toss anything, who form attachments to
minutiae.  I am like that, find peculiar comfort in piling great
quantities of useless stuff around me.  I will likely end up one of
those old ladies they find dead on a bed stacked high with newspapers
dating back to the Boer War.

But Lily was a fastidious housekeeper.  Not at all the pack-rat type.
Why keep old costumes, bad reviews?  Why preserve moments of her life
the rejections, the failures she would undoubtedly rather forget?
Perhaps Lily thought her life so important that she kept the record,
the good and the bad, for posterity.  Like the watercolorist I once met
who was obsessed with having her work survive the ages.  She showed me
her paintings, quoting chapter and verse on archival paper.  From what
I saw of her artwork, her energies would be better spent paying more
attention to what she put on the paper.  The same way Lily could have
put more effort into updating her outdated acting style.

I don't find anything that might take suspicion off of Beth.  And I
don't like Lily London one bit more than I did before I came.  I put
Lily's mail into a shopping bag with a two-week supply of dog food and
a few of Hamlet's toys.  I'll bring Lily's mail to Beth to go
through.

It isn't until I am back in my apartment and see Roblings's note, Your
Mother called, that it hits me.  What's missing from Lily's scrapbooks,
from the life displayed on her walls, is contact with the rest of
humanity.

Once the young Lily left home, she seemed to leave all human bonds
behind.  There were no mementos of men in her apartment, no love
letters, photos, pressed corsages.  No evidence of lifelong friends,
for that matter, male or female, no vacation photos, trips with loved
ones.  She was totally alone, unconnected, until Hamlet and then Beth
came into her life.

Roblings investigated Lily's apartment.  He must have noticed the same
thing.  One more reason Beth is the only viable suspect in Lily's
death.

The phone rings late at night, disturbing me mid-memorizing.  Hamlet's
sharp little barks hit me directly between my eyes.  "Shhhhh," I say,
setting my script aside, letting him jump on my bed to keep him quiet
while I answer.

Lyle is frantic.  "Beth .. . attack .. . police station."

"Beth was attacked?"

"No, no, she had an attack."  His voice cracks.  "I could kill those
guys.  How could they '

"How is she?"

"Stable."

"Where is she?"

"Lakeview Hospital."

"I'm on my way."

"They've given her something.  She'll be out until morning."

"I'll go first thing."

"I-I-I .. ."  He stops.  Takes a deep breath.  Somewhere in his
childhood he stuttered, learned to overcome it.  It tries to sneak back
when he's agitated.

"Take your time," I say.

"Th-the cops thought she was putting on an act.  I had to explain to
them about the multiple sclerosis.  Had to.  You understand."

"Of course."

"Beth doesn't.  She's furious.  W-won't talk to me."

Pride goeth before the seizure.  "Try to get some rest," I say.  "I'll
call you after I see her."

Chapter 17

I steel myself against acrid hospital smells, follow a long corridor to
Beth's room.  Her door is open.  A young woman in the bed nearest the
door has slathered on full makeup and styled her hair into an elaborate
sculpture.  She talks on the phone, hugging it between chin and
shoulder while adding a coat of red polish to already perfect nails.  I
nod, tiptoeing past the curtain separating their beds.  Beth lies limp
as a rag doll, looking small and helpless.

"This sympathy ploy won't work," I say.

She opens her eyes, smiles.  "Morning."

"Thought I'd subject myself to hospital coffee.  I hear it builds
character."

"Toxic waste will do that."  She presses a button, shifting the bed to
a sitting position.  "Don't you have rehearsal?"

"I'm not called today."

"Ah."  She rubs her eyes.  "Why are you up so early?"

"I'm doing battle at Junque and Stuffe around ten."

"My love to Harold.  '

I fluff a pillow, set it behind her back.  "Truth is, I had to flee my
house before that demented dog ripped my last pair of panty hose."

"Hamlet's at your place?"

"He destroyed yours.  And the pound won't take him.  I threw him out
the window a couple of times but he always found his way back."  She
laughs.  A good sound.  "You know, I'm not falling for this sick
routine.  You're getting that mutt back the second they spring you from
this place."

"You're a hard, hard woman."  A nurse comes in to do nurse-type things
and I stare out the window, cringing, unable to watch.  Needles, tubes,
swabs.  Instruments of torture.  I will never become sick.  I will
simply grow old gracefully and, one fine day, swoon delicately onto a
velvet-covered chaise.  End of play.  Applause, applause.  The
roommate's getting on my nerves.  Never stops talking.  One of those
Chatty Cathys who prattles on forever about nothing.  I played one
once.  Had to find my way into the character.  At first I thought she
feared silence.  But I came to understand that what she really feared
was not getting a chance to be heard.  My throat hurt after each
performance.  The actress part of me feels tender understanding. Beth's
friend part of me wants to glue this woman's lips shut.  After a while
Beth calls, "Coast is clear."  I pull up a chair, pushing aside her
tray of separating orange juice, clotted oatmeal, cold coffee. "Want to
talk about what happened?"  She makes a face.  "This is a stupid
disease.  Doesn't leave you your dignity.  Comes and goes as it
pleases."  She smooths her sheets with trembling hands.  "I was with
the Grand Inquisitors, trying to explain I had nothing to do with
Lily's death or Diana's death or monsoons in Japan, when my body
disconnected from my brain.  I felt like a spastic marionette, my arms
and legs jerking in all directions.  Not a pretty sight, I reckon."
"Did it hurt?"  "Only my pride."  She reaches for the water container.
I beat her to it, pouring a glass, unwrapping a new straw.  The
roommate has grown quiet.  At first I think she is off the phone, but I
hear her whisper.  Perhaps talk of death has caught her attention.  I
hold the glass for Beth, bending the straw to her lips.  "You were
lucky Lyle was there.  To explain."  "That Benedict Arnold?"  She takes
a couple of sips.  "He told them.  Betrayed my confidence."  "The cops
thought you were faking, trying to get out of their interrogation. Lyle
had to tell them."  "What if some cop-shop hack gets wind of this?
Writes a lit de blurb for the columns: "Actress stricken by MS while
being questioned in friend's murder."  Talk about a double whammy.  It
will be the end of me."  She hands me the glass, sinks into the
pillows.  "Who wants a damaged actress?  No one, that's who."

I feel the roommate listening.  "You're overreacting."

"Don't be naive.  Do you honestly believe that the same people who stay
up forty-eight hours straight working a telethon for MS would actually
hire someone who has it?"

She closes her eyes, exhausted.  I can't tell her she's wrong, because
she's not.  Our industry has the biggest heart in the world, until the
pocketbook becomes involved.  Money for the arts is so tight no one can
risk hiring a sick star.

"Look on the bright side," I say.

"Which is?"

"I don't see any armed guards outside your door.  Looks to me like the
cops don't consider you public enemy number one.  I'll bet they're out
right now trying to find the real killer."

The phone rings.  I answer it.  "Lyle," I mouth.  Beth shakes her head.
I make excuses to Lyle, tell him to try later.

I should get going.  I debate a few seconds before handing Beth the
chewed envelope with Lily's will.  "This came for you."

With her emotions already close to the surface, Beth doesn't make it
past "The last will and testament."  She sets the envelope aside and
polishes off a small box of tissues.  I scrounge another from the
visitors' waiting room down the hall.  She can't stop crying.  I could
kick myself for bringing the will.  But how could I not?  I stand like
an Acting 101 student, awkward beyond belief, hands hanging useless at
my sides, not a clue how to behave.

"Is everything all right?"  Miss Inquiring Mind swirls around from the
other bed clutching her toothbrush and paste.  She wants us to think
she's on her way to brush her teeth.  The bathroom is in the other
direction.  I plant myself between her and Beth.

"Her goldfish died," I say, staring her down until she gets it that I'm
not buying her show of concern.

"Well, then .. ."  She smiles, holding up her brush and paste, flowing
off to the bathroom.

A nurse the size of a Rush Street bouncer comes in to change

Beth's sheets.  "Take your friend for a walk to the end of the hall,"
she orders, handing me a metal walker.  "And no shortcuts."  We head
down the hall.  I try to block out the sickness around me, breathe
through my mouth, look straight ahead.  A scene oozes up from a dark
place.  A person hurries down a hospital corridor.  But there is no end
to it.  No matter how fast he (she?) runs sides of the walls flashing
by, floor tiles disappearing underfoot he is no closer to the end.
Something real?  Something dreamed?  A little girl's fear for her
'dying' grandfather.  The nightmarish scene has haunted me from
childhood.  A candy striper passes, pushing a mail cart overflowing
with cards and gifts.  It reminds me.  "I have a shopping bag full of
Lily's mail at my place."  Beth shuffles the walker down the hall.
"There's so much to do when someone dies.  I've been paying Lily's
bills, notifying everyone about her death."  "Do you want me to bring
her mail tomorrow?" "I'm not up to going through it."  "If you want,
you can give me Lily's checkbook.  I'll write the checks, bring them to
you to sign."  "That would be a great help."  We're halfway down the
hall when she stops. "I can't do this."  "You can't quit.  That nurse
will kill us both." "Might be less painful."  After a minute she starts
moving again. "It's so sad that Lily had no one to take care of her."
"She had you." "You know what I mean.  She had no family.  Acting was
her whole life. She never married.  Her only child died years ago."
"Lily had a child?" "She couldn't bear talking about him."  We make it
to a row of chairs at the end of the hall.  "Just for a minute?"  she
asks.  "Until I catch my breath?"  "Fine by me."  She eases into the
chair as if she's a hundred years old, breathes in slow and deep.
Takes a tissue from her pocket and dabs perspiration from her neck.
"Lily's child?"  I coax. "Lily bore a son out of wedlock."

"I don't believe it."

"I know.  It's hard to imagine Lily '

Beth's right leg begins bouncing.  Little jerks.  We ignore the spasm,
preferring to gaze at a pastoral painting on the opposite wall.

"Her family sent Lily away to have the baby," Beth tells the painting,
'then forced her to give him up."

"I saw her parents' photos in her scrapbook," I say.  "American Gothic
without the humor."

She smiles.  "That's them.  Her baby was adopted by a Chicago couple.
Somehow Lily kept track of him over the years.  When he became active
in his high school theater, she secretly arranged to have him hired for
the summer by a small troupe she'd joined."

"She never told anyone he was her son?"

"In those years?  Having a child out of wedlock was the type of scandal
that destroyed careers."

Beth's leg settles down.  "Poor, poor Lily."

"What happened?"

"Her son died early that summer.  Asthma attack."

"How horrible."

"Lily never really recovered."

I layer this information over my memories of Lily London.  It softens
the edges of my dislike.

"I know you think Lily was selfish," says Beth.  "But you didn't really
know her.  I've always thought what she did took tremendous courage."

"What she did?"

"After his funeral, she stood up and admitted to the entire theater
company that he was... he was..."  Beth digs a tissue from her pocket,
dabs her nose 'that he was her son."

Far down the corridor, the sheet-changing nurse steps out of Beth's
room and waves.  The room looks a million miles away.

"Ready?"  I ask.

"No."

I help her up.

Later, as I leave her room, I promise to take care of Hamlet and not to
eat him unless I am absolutely starving.

Chapter 18

I would personally like to draw and quarter the Wicker Park merchant
who came up with the idea of May Madness Days.  Mimes and clowns roam
the crowds; vendors hawk food from pushcarts.

Chicagoans, cooped up too many months by a brutal winter, swarm over
sidewalks, into streets, dance to conflicting rhythms of assorted live
bands.  It is drudgery trying to get to work, pushing through mobs of
shoppers, racks of clothing, tables of wares.

I am fighting through a cotton-candy-machine crowd when I see Mr.  and
Mrs.  Hold-Still-So-We-Can-Stab-You-in-the-Back standing guard in front
of Junque and Stuffe.  My little sister looks pale and thin.  The
handsome Adam has aged in the past months.  A tightening around the
mouth, a hooding of the brow.

I consider shifting course to avoid them, dart down the alley, enter
the shop through the rear door.  No.  This is my turf.  I'm not the one
who needs to disappear.  I make my way straight for the front door.

Sylvia sees me.  Smiles.  I do not smile back.  Now Adam sees me.  My
knees feel trembly but I manage to maintain my stride.

"Miriam," Sylvia says.

I stop.  "Morgan," I tell her.  "My name is Morgan Taylor.  Has been
for ten years."  She wants to return to those glorious days of
yesteryear, when I loved her without reservation.  I am not up to time
travel this morning.

"Excuse me," I say, trying to get into the store.

Adam puts his hand on my shoulder.  "Please.  It's enough."  I push his
hand away.  "I'm not in the mood for this.  I've just come from the
hospital.  Visiting a friend who is very ill."  Sylvia pulls him away.
"This isn't a good time."  "There's never going to be a good time."  He
looks at me and I see how much he's hurting for Sylvia, for the
heartache I'm causing.  I could end it right now.  With a single word,
a simple hug.  I could do a lot of things I'm not going to.  I don't
like surprises, don't enjoy being pushed.  Prefer doing things my own
way, in my own time.  Adam puts a protective arm around my sister,
leads her off down the street.  I watch them go, aching from the
soreness of the old wound.  It wasn't self-inflicted, but I am the one
who won't let it heal.  The shop is more chaotic than the street.
Harold has dragged out every piece of goods stashed in the basement and
attic, tossed them around like churn on water.  Bargain hunters are in
a feeding frenzy.  Harold flutters around, dapper and doting, doing his
shopkeeper shtick.  He is the raconteur of the ribald, the king of
kitsch.  There is little for me to do but write up sales and take in
money.  Which is, I figure, about all I can manage after this morning's
emotional wringer, first Beth, then Sylvia.  By late afternoon I am
selling the dregs of the dregs from a folding table out front.  Harold
sticks his head out the door.  "It's your darling mother," he shouts,
'line three."  "Tell her I was abducted by aliens."  "Kinky."  He
disappears into a sea of young men hell-bent on buying every cigar
humidor in stock.  I take the call in the back room, collapsing into
Harold's leather chair, lifting my aching feet onto the desk.  "Hi,
Mom," I say.  "And just who was that wonderfully sexy man who answered
your phone last night?  Late last night?"  Roblings.  "No time to talk.
It's a madhouse here."  "You're keeping secrets."  "I'll call you
later." "You say you will but you never do.  Tell me about your new
young man."

"He's not new.  Not young.  Not mine."

"Come to dinner.  I'm cooking your favorite."

I smell a trap.  "Who else is coming?"

A pause.  "Not Sylvia, if that's what you mean."

"That's exactly what I mean."

"Tell her to bring a photo ID," yells my father.  "It's been so long,
we may not remember how she looks."

"I was just there," I say.

Mom ignores both of us.  "You can bring your young man," she says.

"I'll be there," I say.  "Alone."

I stay an extra half hour after closing to help Harold straighten
stock, prepare for tomorrow's onslaught.  As I pack up my bag to leave,
I find the photo I took from Lily's wall.

"Got a surprise for you," I say, slipping the photo in front of him.

I can't make out his expression as he stares at his young self, at the
cast and crew he worked with forty years before.  If I thought he'd be
delighted, I was wrong.

"Why didn't you tell me you were there?"  I ask.  "That you knew Lily
and Wexler?"

Harold hands back the photo.  "Sometimes, dear heart there are things
better left forgotten.  Events still too painful to talk about.  Even
after forty years."

He turns off the lights, herds me out, and locks up the store.  We walk
together in silence through the May Madness streets.  It isn't like
Harold to be quiet.  He has the look of someone working through
something.  I leave him alone.

We come to my car.  "Give you a lift?"  I say.

"My bus will be along in a few minutes."

"Want company?"

We settle on a graffittied bench.  Dusk rouses the night animals.  Star
light, star bright.  I spot my first hooker of the night.  Midthirties,
athletic build, crotch-high skirt, plunging everything.  She decorates
a doorway across the street.

"May I see the photo again?"  asks Harold.  I dig it out, hand it to
him.  He shakes his head.  "That was a time.  We thought we had the
world by the balls.  In truth, we were all so innocent.  Babes playing
at life."

A brown sedan slows, pulls to a stop near the hooker.  She leans into
the open window, negotiating.  Her breasts mound over the top of her
low-cut blouse.

Harold sighs.  "Back then, homosexuals didn't come out the way they do
now.  Everything was hush-hush.  Only the arts embraced us.  The
theater was my salvation."  He runs delicate fingers over the long-ago
faces.  "The year of this photo, I fell in love with a young intern.  I
have never been so happy, before or since."

"What happened?"

"Wexler.  Wexler happened.  He had eyes for the same young man."

"Wexler?"  I must have misheard.  "The director, my director,
Wexler?"

"The same."

I think of the newspaper clips in Lily's scrapbook.  "The "stud of the
decade" Wexler?"

"Ah, the press."

"How do you explain his daughter?"

"Daughter?"

"He has a daughter.  Red hair.  Fortyish.  She's been at rehearsals."

"I had no idea."  He brushes a dust speck off the photo.  "But that
doesn't change a thing.  You'd be amazed how many of us married and had
children.  It threw the rumor mongers off the scent."

"I wonder if Evelyn knows about her father."

"How much do any of us know about our parents' sexuality?  It is an
uncomfortable topic in even the most heterosexual of families."

The driver of the brown car someone's father, husband, grandfather?
changes his mind and drives off.  The hooker sashays back to her
doorway.  A streetlight flickers on.  The scene takes on a surreal
movie-set look.

Harold dabs his nose with his kerchief.  "Wexler became obsessed with
my lover.  I tried to hold on.  Fought with all I had.  But what could
I, a mere wardrobe assistant, do against someone so handsome, so
powerful?  You can't imagine the depth of my rage."

He ages as I watch, withering.  Will my anger at Sylvia last forty
years?  Did I ever love Adam as fervently as Harold loved his young
man?  Does that matter?  Isn't a lover's rage about betrayal, after
all?

A black four-door pulls up, honks.  The hooker walks out to the curb.
She bends lower this time, showing more breast by way of negotiating
price.

"Do you ever see your old lover?"  I ask.

"Oh, my dear," he sighs deep and long, 'that's the hard thing about it.
He died, you see.  Shortly after he left me.  An asthma attack, of all
things."

I am stunned.  "You're talking about Lily's son?"

Harold nods.  "Of course, at the time, I didn't know.  None of us did.
When she told us, after .. . after he died, I could hardly believe it.
To tell the truth, she never even seemed aware of him."

"She couldn't risk it," I say.  "Lily told Beth she was terrified
people would discover she had an illegitimate child."

The hooker stands, begins walking back to the doorway.  Her body
ripples in a most seductive way.  When I go home I will put on my
highest heels and practice that walk in front of my mirror.  The man in
the black four-door honks, calls her back.

Harold sniffs, dabs his nose, refolds the kerchief.  "Weren't we some
sad group?  You young people think life was simpler back then.  That's
only because so much of our anguish was hidden."  The streetlights cast
weary shadows around his eyes.  "I always thought Wexler gave Lily the
lead in the play to help distract her from her grief

"You think he felt sorry for her?"

"Must have.  It was obvious Lily was all wrong for the part."  Harold
smiles.  "Oh my dear, the uproar that caused.  I'd quite forgotten.
Wexler had all but promised the part to another actress.  I caught a
glimpse of her at an audition, a pixie of a gal, much more energetic
and gutsy than Lily.  Someone, actually, quite a bit like you."

"Now that makes more sense," I say.  "I didn't understand how Wexler
could cast me and Lily in the same role."

Harold's bus rounds the corner.  Across the street, the hooker stands
and takes a comb out of her hair.  Lovely blond curls fall to her
shoulders.  I reckon a bargain has been struck.  I see the brown sedan
return, creeping up behind the black four-door.  Too late, buster.  You
missed your chance.  The lady of the night has been spoken and paid
for.

Harold's bus pulls up, blocking my view.  He hugs the photo to his thin
chest.  "May I keep this?"

He looks so small and sad.  "Sure.  I'll tell Beth I gave it to you.  I
doubt she wants much of Lily's memorabilia.  She'll probably ask you to
sell it off."

Normally, the promise of such a cache would perk Harold right up.  Not
tonight.  He climbs on the bus, subdued by the ghosts of forty-year-old
memories.

The bus pulls away.  Across the street, the hooker and the black
four-door are surrounded by plainclothes cops.  The driver's face glows
red under the streetlights.  Sweat pours off him as he's herded away.
I wonder why they don't arrest the hooker.

The brown sedan pulls up.  The driver waves to the hooker, who returns
to her doorway.  They all disappear into their hiding places to wait
for the next victim.  Won't you come into my parlor..  .

Things aren't always what they seem.

Chapter 19

I pull into my parents' driveway.  Why is this house of my birth still
home?  I've been away ten years, have lived in assorted apartments,
lofts, basements.  But my history lives in this Skokie ranch with its
yellow brick and blue slate roof.  The five trees my father planted
when each of us was born have overgrown the backyard.  Even the Sylvia
sapling, planted twenty-three years ago, stands twice the height of the
garage.  At first, my father wasn't sure it would survive my tree's
nearby shadow.  He needn't have worried.

My father attacks as I climb out of my car.  "This business between you
and Sylvia it's eating your mother up alive."

"If that's why you invited me over .. ."

He notices I haven't closed the car door.  That I can jump right back
in and drive off.  That would leave him alone to face Mom, explain why
I left.  A scary prospect.  He sneaks a look at the house, lowers his
voice.

"Your mother warned me not to say anything."

"Smart woman."

"But how can I not?  Our oldest and youngest at war.  It's tearing the
family apart."

"You and Uncle Morrie didn't talk for three years."

"That's different."  I give him a look.  He holds up his hands in
surrender.  "All right, all right.  So I said what I said and now you
know.  Come in, come in.  Aunt Francie's here."

The house smells of pepper steak, challah, oil paint, and turpentine.
Dad retired from the shoe business and discovered painting.

His newest crop lines the walls leading back to the kitchen.  We pause
briefly at each as he explains the initial inspiration, nuances of
meaning.  I oooh and ahhh at all the appropriate places, even though my
father does not afford my work the same respect.  My love of theater
baffles him.  Such a fleeting art form.  "Magician's flash paper," he
calls it.  "You put on a play, then Whoosh!  you disappear.  What kind
of legacy is that to leave your children?"  Dad's 'legacies' fill his
children's walls.  Landscapes, portraits, still lifes, abstracts.  He
consumes more canvas than the America's Cup, gifting paintings to
everyone close to him, some not so close and the occasional total
stranger.  The tour over, he relinquishes me to the women in the
kitchen.  I hug my mother, inhale her delicious blend of Chanel No.  5
and sauteed onion.  She dips a ladle in the soup pot.  "Taste," she
says.  I do.  Heaven.  "Ah, the Beauty."  Aunt Francie comes at me,
arms outstretched.  No sense ducking.  She always finds me.  I relax
into the folds of her hug.  Floral powder.  Hair spray.  Spice perfume.
"Such a treat to see you."  She looks at me with a jeweler's eye, sees
the diamond in my rough.  "We were just passing by' she picks a piece
of lint from my blouse, tucks back a rogue hair 'and I said to Milton,
"Let's stop in and see my oldest and dearest friend."" "Milton?"  I
glance at my mother, who turns away, pretending not to be a party to
this deception.  Aunt Francie, the family matchmaker, pulls me to the
doorway, where I get a view through the dining room into the den.  A
forty-something man sits on the sofa, intent on a TV baseball game. "My
cousin's son on Leonard's side," Francie whispers.  "Recently moved to
Chicago from Cleveland."  She whispers, I know, lest another single
woman swoop down and steal this catch before I have a chance at him.
Introductions are made, Aunt Francie talking nonstop to help get us
through this awkward patch.  Finally, we all sit to dinner.  By
tactical error, Mom has seated Milton facing the den where the TV -sans
sound stays on.  Both Milton and my father strain to watch.  Ill Mom
and Francie extol Milton's virtues, talking about him as if he weren't
seated next to me.  To hear them tell it, this man is the greatest
catch since Onassis: brilliant conversationalist, successful
businessman, never married, loves theater, music, dancing.  I look at
the disinterested, uninteresting Milton and think of the old punch
line: "Are you going to believe what you see or what I tell you?"

During a commercial break, I make a stab at conversation.  Milton's
single-syllable responses echo from a cavern deep in his sinus
passages.  A little nervous laugh punctuates every other sentence.  He
does a funny thing with his mouth that makes a soft smacking sound.

Later, I will sit Mom and Francie in front of the All Sports Channel,
tell them: "I will personally force you to watch sports the rest of
your matchmaking days should you ever, ever try to fix me up again."
Sometimes, tough love's all they understand.

Milton brightens when Francie runs a quick list of some of my 'famous'
acting jobs.

"I've seen your floor-wax commercial," he says.  "Very well done."

"Thank you."

"If I waxed my floor, I'd certainly use that product.  But, heh-heh,
that's why God created cleaning services.  How much does something like
that pay?"

Men always ask about the money.  Women are curious about the work.  "I
dunno," I say.  "Figure I average about a hundred thou a week, give or
take."

His beady eyes widen.

"What a kidder."  Aunt Francie jabs her elbow into his ribs by way of
emphasis.  "Did I tell you?"

God forbid I make more than he does.  Men of a certain age don't take
kindly to the idea.  I've found it's the young men who are more
receptive to the idea of woman as economic provider.  Not that, with my
particular employment history, out-earning a boyfriend has ever been an
issue.

"No, really," he says.  "Whaddya earn for something like that?"

"Bupkes.  Fact is, I'm just another starving artist."

After dinner, Mom shoos the men into the den for coffee and dessert so
she can pump me for information.

"So' she stirs milk and sugar into my coffee 'tell me about this man in
your apartment last night."  "What man?"  asks Francie.  "That was no
man," I say.  "That was a cop.  He was at my apartment on police
business."  "About those terrible deaths?"  asks Francie.  "You
remember Lily London?"  asks Mom.  "I remember."  Francie clamps a
sugar cube in her front teeth, loudly sucks coffee through.  "Thin,"
she says.  "Very thin," agrees Mom.  All three of us sigh.  "Thin women
are selfish," says Francie.  "Thin women put themselves before their
families."  She breaks off a piece of coffee cake to dunk.  "I never
match my older men with thin women.  Not that I would complain if I
lost a pound or three..  ."  "Emaciated isn't attractive," says Mom,
pushing a plate of cookies my way.  "Especially after a certain age."
Energetic gossips, Mom and Aunt Francie pump me for information about
Lily and Diana's deaths.  I think it wise not to mention the use the
killer made of Mom's kugel.  I try to steer the conversation toward
Mom's work at the local newspaper, Dad's new career in art, but Mom is
stuck on murder. "Poor Diana," she says.  "I saw her in Teeth.  Such a
gifted actress." "You think she was gifted?"  I ask.  "She was
married?"  asks Francie. "Not that I know of."  Francie nails me with a
warning look.  "Today's world is a dangerous place for a young girl
alone," she says.  "Thirty isn't so young," I say, meaning I can take
care of myself.  "Exactly," says Francie, meaning it's time I married.
No matter how I dip and dart, the topic of my single hood follows.  I
spin the conversation off to the side.  "Beth's in the hospital," I
say, catching myself as I'm about to mention the MS.  "She must be
terribly run down," Mom says. "Grief will do that.  I know how close
she was with Lily."  "I hope she has insurance," says Aunt Francie.  "I
have friends who thought they were covered but weren't."

"Actor's Equity," I say.  "It's great insurance."  I wonder if Beth's
found out if they'll cover replacing her old fillings.

The baseball game ends and the men return to the table.  To save my
sanity, I allow my thoughts to float off to Detective Roblings how easy
he is to be with, how upsetting his suspicions about Beth.  I must make
him see that Beth is no murderer.  Her fragile health, her precious
independent life, depend on his believing that.  And if he won't back
off?  Well, then I must simply or maybe not so simply get him out of my
mind.

As the evening grinds on, Milton hogs center stage, extolling
Cleveland's virtues.  I find it some small comfort that even my
mother's eyes with their visions of me floating down the aisle in an
antebellum gown begin to glaze over.

Chapter 20

It is one of those nights my mind won't be quiet.  I toss, I turn, sip
hot tea, warm milk, read, pace.  I'm too hot, I'm too cold.  Somewhere
around one thirty, I drift off.  Lily London floats toward me, gauzy as
a Monet, holding out a sweet piece of kugel.  "I'm not hungry," I say.
She keeps coming.  Syrupy cream drips through her bony fingers, makes
dull splats across the floor.  Thunder explodes.  I bolt upright,
tangled in sweaty sheets.  My heart pumps painfully.  The clock flashes
12:00 and 12:00 and 12:00.  Sometime during the night the storm knocked
out power.  I turn on my bedside lamp, squint at my watch.  It is two
in the morning.  Hamlet paces, his sharp nails clicking on the hardwood
floors.  I flop back in my pillows, trying to recapture sleep before it
escapes.  Too late.  Hamlet waits at the side of the bed, tilts his
head, gazes up with those big black eyes.  "You just think you're so
cute, don't you?"  He pants.  The thunder scared him, too.  "All
right," I say, patting the bed next to me.  He jumps up, circles twice,
and settles next to me.  I am not repeat, not bonding with this canine
Lilliputian.  I am simply sprinkling a few drops of the milk of human
kindness.  I make a nest of my comforter, tucking it around the
trembling creature.  I take my script from the nightstand and go over
my lines.  This usually puts me to sleep.  Not tonight.  An hour later,
I make myself another pot of tea, then curl in bed with the shopping
bag filled with Lily's mail.  As long as I have the time, I might as
well weed out catalogs, flyers, and other junk before I bring the mail
to Beth.  I toss everything except for a few bills, including a
returned electric bill Lily forgot to stamp.  There is no personal
correspondence, no postcards, letters, invitations.  What a sad and
solitary person.

Hamlet snores softly.  "If it weren't for you, she'd have no one," I
say.  No wonder Lily took him everywhere.  How empty her life would
have been without him.  Without Beth.

I open an insurance company envelope.  Lily's Equity dues statement and
check are stapled to a letter bearing the insurance company's
letterhead.

Dear Ms London,

Please find enclosed your Equity check mailed to us in error.  We still
await your completed medical form 1072A.  For your convenience, we
enclose another copy of the form.  Please fill this out and return it
in the enclosed envelope as soon as possible.

The date on the Equity check is a month old.  Leave it to Lily to think
so far ahead.  Not like some of us who race to the office in a panic
the day our membership expires.  Well, Lily won't be needing Equity or
health insurance anymore.  I jot a note on the insurance company letter
informing them of Lily's death and instruct them to address all further
correspondence to Beth.

I have to dig my address book out of my audition bag to look up Beth's
zip code.  I used to be able to hold a tremendous amount of numbers in
my head, addresses, phone numbers, birthdays, anniversaries, some
remembered since childhood.  But the new longer zip codes,
ever-changing Chicago area codes, and people moving to new addresses
every other month have done me in.  I must write things down.  It makes
me feel old.  I keep forgetting to take a memory course.

A gold Priscilla's Produce label sticks to the cover of my little phone
book.  Must have fallen off the banana or orange I tossed into my bag
at the audition.  I press the gold sticker inside my phone book cover.
An old habit from my childhood sticker days.  There was comfort in that
collection.  I have fond memories of Priscilla's, a produce wholesaler
on South Water Street.  A couple of years back, I worked on a John
Hughes movie being shot in the district.  No matter how early my first
call, the market was already open.  The hustlers drove up at 1:00 A.M.
bringing truckloads of produce to sell.  Buyers rolled in around three.
Sidewalks and streets became clogged with crate-filled dollies and
trucks.  The film company shot interior scenes in Priscilla's, which
means I got to spend time with some great characters.  I finish writing
Lily's checks and set them aside for Beth's signature.  The storm has
quieted to a steady rain, and I again try to sleep.  My mind won't
settle.  I am haunted by images of Beth, pale and lethargic, wasting
away in that prison of a hospital.  The best medicine, of course, would
be to catch the real killer so the police would leave Beth alone.  The
gold Priscilla's sticker shines like a beacon from my phone book.
Maybe, if I find out who sent Wexler the fruit basket with the deadly
grapefruit... I flip to Priscilla's number and dial.  The phone rings
seven times.  I'm about to hang up when Angie answers, her harried
voice nearly drowned by the din of the morning market.  "Priscilla's."
"Angie, it's Morgan Taylor.  I was an actress in the movie ' "Hey,
gorgeous.  How're you doin'?  Long time.  You famous yet?"  "Working on
it."  "What can I do you for?"  "Well, it's sort of an odd request.
But there was a fruit basket delivered to ' "Hold on."  The receiver
clanks on the desk.  Angie goes off, shouting at someone.  Street-wise,
gum-cracking Angie runs Priscilla's front office.  "Angel Angie' we
called her.  She let us actors use the office phone and the office
toilet, and the office heater to warm ourselves between exterior shots.
She also made sure there was a steady supply of hot coffee and fresh
fruit nearby.  She grabs up the phone.  "This place is gang busters she
says.  Lets loose a lusty laugh.  "Better call me later.  Or come on
down.  God knows we could use some class."

Come down and do what?  But I'm awake and restless and it's a whole lot
of long minutes between now and dawn.  I figure I've got nothing to
lose.  Might even stumble on something of use to Beth or Roblings.

I throw on some clothes.  Hamlet's little clickity-click nails remind
me I have another living creature besides myself to think about.  I
consider taking him along.  Bad idea.  Too dangerous with all the
crates and trucks and galumphing giants in hob-nail boots.  Still, I
can't just leave him alone in the storm.  I finally turn the bedside
radio to a talk station.  Hamlet nestles into the comforter, lulled by
the sound of human voices.

I've missed the raw energy of Market Street, the pungent smell, the
chaotic urgency.  A movie set can do that to me.  Ground me in a place
so solid it seems part of my natural history.  I pull behind a guy
loading tomatoes into his truck, wait for his space.

It'll be fun seeing Angie again.  She's pure Chicago, hard and sweet, a
straight-up gal.  For some reason, she thinks she owes me.  John
Hughes, with his sharp eye for character types, made her an extra in
the office scene.  I saw she was nervous, taught her a few little
tricks, the kind of shtick that gets you on camera as much as possible.
She thought I did something miraculous.  In truth, she was a natural.

I pull into the space and run through the storm toward Priscilla's,
careful not to step on rain-slicked pieces of vegetables and fruits
littering the street.

Somehow, Angie survived the final cut of the film, remaining on screen
for nearly a full minute.  "My family thinks it's the greatest thing
since cannoli," she said.  Mom always says, what goes around, comes
around.  Angie is the kind who remembers a favor.  I make my way back
through the cavernous warehouse to her office.

"Hey, Movie Star."  She's all smiles and hugs, a curvy blond with big
hair and attitude.

"Hey, yourself.  You own this place yet?"

"Who'd want this dump?"

We chitchat between phone calls, pickups, deliveries.  There is a
rhythm to asking and giving favors.  After the right amount of time,
Angie asks what I need.  "I'm trying to find out who sent a fruit
basket to Martin Wexler."  I give Angie the date and address of the
delivery. She sits me at a table and drops a large ledger in front of
me.  "I don't have time to check the book," she says.  "You're welcome
to go through the orders, see what you can find."  A steaming cup of
fresh-brewed coffee and a carrot bran muffin appear.  I settle in,
nipping through piles of orders.  The names read like a Who's Who of
Chicago movers and shakers.  Nothing for Wexler.  I check other names
on orders sent around the same date.  Other addresses.  Look for
something.  Anything.  Nothing rings a bell.  I tell Angie.  She shakes
her head.  "If the fruit basket came from Priscilla's, it's in that
book."  I'm tired.  It's possible I missed it.  I try again.  Nothing.
"Could the police have taken the paperwork?"  I ask.  She shrugs.  "I
was in Cincinnati for a wedding when the cops came around.  Marty, one
of the owners, said they looked through the orders.  They weren't
supposed to take anything without saying.  But, maybe .. ."  I go back
to the beginning, check the numbers on the orders.  They are in
sequence.  Nothing is missing.  "Every order gets written up in that
book," says Angie.  "Not this one."  "Are you sure the fruit was from
Priscilla's?"  I take out my phone book, show her the gold sticker.
"Well," says Angie, 'unless someone's counterfeiting our sticker, the
only way there wouldn't be paperwork is if the fruit was a Peter Ruby."
"What's that?"  "Gift assortment.  Real special stuff.  From us to
whomever.  Like when the Pope came.  Or when the mayor's wife had a
baby.  We crate up a sampler of our best, send it with a card.  People
like when you do things like that.  They remember, tell their friends."
"Would you have sent a Peter Ruby to Wexler?"  She laughs.  "With all
the theater in Chicago?  We'd go broke sending gifts to every new
production.  No, no one sends a Peter Ruby without my okay.  Wexler
never got one."

I'm at the end of it.  Brick walls loom in every direction.  "There was
fruit," I say.  "I saw it.  Touched it.  Put it in my bag.  It came
from Priscilla's."

Angie glances around.  We're alone.  "There is one other way," she
says.  "But you can't say anything."

"What?"

"Sometimes the guys in back pick up a few bucks doing a cash deal.
They're not supposed to, but .. . it's like, someone walks in with a
handful of bills.  Less than a retail basket would cost, but enough.
One of the guys throws together an assortment.  Bim bam boom, the
basket's out the back door, the cash is in the pocket, and no one's the
wiser.  That kind of basket doesn't leave a trail."

A crack opens in the brick wall I've been banging my head against.  The
thinnest shaft of sunlight squeezes through.  "Do you think '

"Forget about it.  If that's what happened and I'm not saying it is
you'll never trace it.  A guy does that kind of thing, he keeps quiet.
Risk losing his job?  No way."

She sees I'm not letting go.  That this means something.  She remembers
she owes me and it's payback time.

"I'll ask around," she says.

"It's important.  It's for a friend."

"I'll give it my best shot," she says.  "But don't go getting your
hopes up."

Too late.  It's how we actors pass our lives.  And then we die.

Chapter 21

I am sorely tempted to drive to rehearsal but can't convince my miser
gene to part with fourteen bucks for the parking lot.  Unfortunately,
the three-sided wind shelter at my El station is worse than useless
against rain whipping in from the south.  I arrive at rehearsal so
sodden, chilled, and exhausted that I risk a cup of coffee from the big
pot on the sideboard.  People sneak glances to see if I keel over.  If
I do, it's more likely from lack of sleep than poisoned Java.  I set my
coffee on the rehearsal table and collapse in a chair.  I dragged home
from Priscilla's after dawn.  Had to walk a terrified Hamlet in the
torrential downpour.  I seriously considered holding him out a window,
see if he'd do his business midair.  Dogs.  What a concept.  We actors
are not morning people.  By evening, you can't shut us up.  But we wake
up slow.  I sip coffee, going over my lines as quietly as those around
me.  "Good morning, ladies, gentlemen."  Wexler breezes in and starts
immediately.  No postmortem.  No indication that what happened,
happened.  No mention of the recently entombed Queen Tut.  "Today we
begin blocking the play."  I brace myself.  A play when you're sitting
is a whole different animal from a play when you're standing.  Until
now, I could hide behind the table, my script, cups of coffee. Blocking
requires trying to read lines and move at the same time.  At best, I
find blocking awkward, embarrassing.  An entire ensemble standing,
exposed.  Wexler moves us around, configures us in various combinations
while we try to read lines from our scripts.  We criss, we cross, we
tiptoe around, casting suspicious glances, as if it's the other actors
guilty of stinking up the place.

Blocking is bad enough under normal conditions.  But it's terrible in
this space so recently occupied by Diana's body.

"What are you doing?"  Wexler snaps at me.  "I told you to cross stage
right."

I can't.  An invisible negative force field keeps me from stepping on
Diana's body, "Maybe we could move the stage to the other end of the
loft," I say.

He fixes me with a glare.  "It's fine where it is."

I wither.  Try again.  My moves are skittish, like a horse around
snakes.  I catch Wexler smiling.  He's enjoying keeping me on edge, off
balance.  I teeter until noon.

A group of us decide to taxi to Rush Street for lunch.  We sit over
juicy hamburgers at Griller's Cafe, gossiping, swapping war stories.
When we come back, Wexler and his daughter have laid out pages of
beautiful costume renderings.  We gather around to see what Wexler's
New York designer has in mind for our characters.

I look at the sketch of my outfit.  "We have a dress like that," I say.
The words fly out too fast to catch.

"We?"

"Where I work.  At Junque and Stuffe."

I shrug like it's nothing.  But the others jump in, telling Wexler all
about Harold's fabulous collection of period clothes and accessories,
many of which would be great for the play.

"I'd like you to take Evelyn there," says Wexler.

She pulls a pencil from her frizz of red hair, checks her calendar.
"I'm free after tomorrow's rehearsal," she says.  "If that's good for
you."

I speed-scan for a worthy lie.  How can I hand-deliver this daughter of
the hated enemy into Harold's shop?  They stand, waiting.  "Sure," I
say, 'tomorrow's fine."

Afternoon rehearsal goes well.  I catch a glimmer of ensemble, a hint
of how we might work together.  Once we go 'off book' and are free to
move around unencumbered by scripts and notes,

the play will begin to flow.  Brenda has learned not only her lines,
but all of ours.  It makes the rest of us look like sluggards.  She has
also mapped each of our characters' interior landscape and manages,
during moments of quiet time, to share her insights.

"Your character," she confides while Wexler blocks Mother and Son, 'is
dealing with unresolved anger at an uncle who abused her as a child."

"Brenda, there's no uncle in the play."

She tis ks as if she finds me hopeless.  It's mutual.  "It is so
obvious from the stage directions," she says.  "Daughter needs to
overcome .. ."

I tune her out.  It's amazing to me how people like Brenda find the
time and energy to live so many other people's lives.  I can barely
manage my own.

We are packing up at the end of rehearsal when someone whispers, "Cop."
I glance at the stairs, where Roblings has stopped to catch his breath.
The last time he was here, Diana was sprawled on the floor.  A few of
the cast quickly flow around him down the stairs.  Roblings plants
himself in my path.

"A moment?"  he says.

Brenda and her small clique of anal retentives watch with open
interest.  I grab my stuff and lead Roblings down the stairs.  "Yes?"

"We can't identify some fingerprints on the piece of kugel foil we
found in Diana's bag," he says.  "Who, exactly, did you see handle
it?"

I try to remember.  "I watched my mom wrap the kugel in her kitchen."

"Was anyone else around?"

"No.  It's just her and Dad, and he went to watch the news.  I brought
the kugel home.  The next morning, I put two pieces in my audition bag.
Me and Mom were the only ones I actually saw touching it."

"We have Diana's prints, and yours.  I'd like your mother's."

I haven't gotten around to mentioning to Mom how someone poisoned her
kugel.  I explain this to Roblings as we hit the street.  It is still
raining.

"Need a lift?"  he asks.

Of course I need a lift.  I am still clammy from this morning's bout of
El-platformitis.  But I want to visit Beth in the hospital on my way
home and I don't want Roblings tagging along.  He has upset her
enough.

The wind whips rain in my face.  Somewhere a dog barks.  Hamlet.  I
keep forgetting.  Before I visit Beth, I need to go home to walk him. I
hope he has good bladder control.  Bowel control.  The thought of what
I might find waiting on the rug makes me queasy.

"Thanks," I say.  "A ride will be lovely."

He is a graceful driver.  Weaves in and out of rush-hour traffic with
great rhythm.  Smooth starts and stops, easy lane changes.  A dancer,
this Roblings of the big feet.  He spins stories of his Los Angeles
boyhood, of chasing tiger swallowtail butterflies among lantana that
grew big as bushes, 'not like the puny plants we get in Chicago."  He
confesses his recurring nightmare of falling into a La Brea tar pit,
being sucked down among the woolly mammoths and other unfortunates
encased in primordial tar for all eternity.

A word-weaver, this detective.  Mind painter.  Storyteller.  I feel
small pulsings in my nether regions.  I am not at all sure I want to
feel anything.  Not for him.  My future lies in the safety of a Lester,
a nine-to-five professional man with great quantities of money socked
into mutual funds and real estate holdings.  I must have a good hard
talk with myself, give up this crazy actor's life for something
'normal."  Normal does not include a Roblings.  His type doesn't fit
anywhere in that picture.

He coasts to a stop in front of my apartment, turns toward me.  I would
never grow tired of looking at those eyes.  I jump as a car honks
impatiently behind us.

"Thanks," I say, opening my door, gathering my bags.

"Do you know why Diana came to that first rehearsal?"  he asks.

I am so braced for him to make a move on me that I don't, at first,
understand what he's talking about.  The car honks again.

"Diana was at rehearsal because she was my understudy," I say.

"That's not the reason."

Several cars are honking now.

"You go on in," he says.  "I'll park the car and come up."  I smile all
the way up the stairs.  What does Roblings know about Queen Tut that I
don't?  Nothing, that's what.  It's just a lame excuse to stick around.
Hamlet jumps all over me, wagging his stub of a tail, yapping, racing
out of the room, flying back with his leash.  A part of me is thawing.
Not that I'll ever like dogs, but Hamlet isn't like other dogs.  He
doesn't drool, smell bad, hump my legs, bark nonstop.  Best of all, he
peed on the newspaper I laid out, held the rest.  God love him.  We're
on our way out of the building when Roblings jogs up.  I make room for
him under my huge golf umbrella, a hopeful gift from Lester.  I might
have been more receptive to the sport if golf, like skiing, allowed one
to swathe oneself in designer sportswear and hang around the chalet
without ever having to actually do anything athletic.  Although, my
brother Arthur the Adventurer, who is currently scaling a mountain in
Africa, says any activity that doesn't require a jockstrap isn't really
a sport.  I think he means that for women, too.  I have trouble
juggling the leash and holding the umbrella high enough to cover
Roblings.  "Let me," he says, taking the umbrella, slipping an arm
around my waist as he covers us both.  Much better.  "What did you mean
about Diana?"  I ask.  "When Diana died, I asked Wexler for a list of
cast members. Diana was the only understudy on that list.  You must
have wondered why."  "I assumed Wexler was holding Diana in close
reserve in case I loused up."  "Is that usual?"  "No.  But just because
a thing's never happened doesn't mean I don't live in fear it might.
We all have our tar pits."  He laughs.  Hamlet stops to sniff a tree.
Roblings leans close.  His scent mixes with the aroma of spring soil.
Not fair.  My defenses are dissolving.  "I asked Wexler," he says, 'why
just Diana, why not understudies for all the major parts?"  I'm almost
afraid to ask.  "What did he say?"

"Diana called him after he cast you in the role.  She told him you were
secretly suffering from multiple sclerosis."

"I'm what?"  I shout, startling us all.

"She suggested, because of the disease, you might not be up to the
rigors of rehearsal and performance."

Anger rips through me.  "That back-stabbing, double-dealing..  ."

"Easy, sport.  She's also dead."

I roll that around a while.  It helps put things in perspective.  "So,
Wexler had her come to rehearsals as insurance."

"He said it was her idea.  He couldn't exactly fire you before there
was a problem.  But if she attended rehearsals, she'd be ready to take
over when you fell apart."

"I can't believe Wexler let her move in like that without at least
talking to me first."

"About?"

"I don't have MS."

That stops him cold.  Obviously, the thought never occurred.  "You
don't?"

"No."

"What would make Diana came up with something like that?"

It wasn't hard to track.  "She must have overheard me at the Equity
office.  I was checking insurance information for Beth.  I guess Diana
assumed I was asking for myself."

"So, when you beat her out of the role, she called Wexler."

"Sounds vintage Diana.  Now I understand why he's been watching me so
closely.  He's waiting for me to foam at the mouth or something."
Hamlet squats.  I turn away, pretending not to notice.  "Didn't you
think it odd that Beth and I would both have MS?"

"It could just as easily explain the bond between you.  People who
share particular hardships tend to draw together.  Divorce, cancer,
death.  There's comfort in being with people who understand what you're
going through."

Hamlet finishes taking care of business and tugs toward home.  Roblings
and I turn, changing leash and umbrella hands, his other arm sliding
nice and tight around my waist.  That's when I notice the car.

It's been moving slowly down the street behind us.  I'd seen it a
couple of times when Hamlet stopped to sniff.  I'd noticed it on the
far outer fringes, the vague way I might notice the sound of a jet or a
distant siren.  But when we turn to go back, the car slows to a stop,
starts backing up.

"I think that car's been following us," I say.

Roblings's body shifts.  Animal on alert, energy focused on the car.
The car's windows are rain-streaked.  It is hard to see inside.  One
thing is clear: The driver is definitely staring our way.  Roblings
takes a couple of steps toward the car.  The driver speeds off.

I don't realize I'm trembling until he puts his arm around me.
"Probably just someone trying to catch an address," he says.

Oh, I like the feel of this Detective Roblings, the comfort of his
large hands on my back.  Stop.  No more dead-end relationships.  I must
look toward the future.

"I'm not usually this skittish," I say, pulling away.

"With two murders so close to home, you have a right to be jumpy."

"Do you ever get used to death?"

He chews on this.  "No.  But I've learned how to hold death at a
distance so I can do my work."

Winds gust, whip the rain hard.  We run up my stairs, Roblings
valiantly trying to shield us with the umbrella.  There is an awkward
moment in the foyer.  He waits for me to ask him up.  Part of me wants
to.  Another part must feed Hamlet, then go to the hospital.  I can't
mention Beth.  Roblings might insist on driving me to the hospital. How
can I bring Beth's tormentor to her sickbed?  I turn Hamlet loose to
run upstairs.

"I have to study my lines for tomorrow," I say, 'do more of Lily's
paperwork."  It is hard for me to turn him away.  I am grateful he
doesn't push it.  I would cave.  "Take the umbrella," I say.

"Thanks."  Still he doesn't go.  "Look," he says.  "I still haven't
found a logical connection between Lily and Diana's murders.  They may
be random.  But I don't think so.  I think they have something to do
with your play.  Which means any one of you might be next."

"You're scaring me."

"Good."

His kiss comes and goes so quickly he is out the door and down the
stairs before it registers.  Soft lips, warm.  I look out the window,
watch my umbrella move swiftly down the block.  He'll have to return
it, which means we'll see each other again.  Wasn't that what I wanted?
I know I am sending mixed signals, "Go away come back," but can't seem
to help myself.

I towel rain from my hair as I call Beth.  At first I think the
far-away voice comes from a bad connection.

"I'll call you right back," I say, hanging up, re dialing  It's not the
connection, it's Beth.  I barely recognize her voice.  She's slipped
into a severe depression.  I am thrown off guard  How am I supposed to
act?  What do I say?

"Maybe," I tell her, 'it might be better if I put off my visit until
tomorrow.  Give you time to rest."

"Yes," she whispers.  "Yes, that's good."

I hang up, much relieved.  Anything to put off a trip to the hospital.
Roblings!  I run to the rain-streaked window.  Impossible to see.  I
throw open the window, lean out, look up and down the street.

No sign of him.  Two sides of me battle it out.  Even if I could see
him, would I call him back?  Do I really want to start something I may
not be able to finish?  Maybe when all this murder business is over,
when my life is back to normal as normal as my life ever gets ... I
fall into bed with my clothes on and don't move until morning.

Chapter 22

The theater gods have turned a deaf ear.  On the El down this morning,
I specifically prayed they make Wexler forget about looking for
costumes at Junque and Stuffe.  Harold will flay me alive or, worse,
fire me for hand-delivering the daughter of his hated rival to his
door.  I am barely up the rehearsal-loft stairs when Wexler hails me.
"My costumer is flying in from New York," he says.  "She'll be here in
time to join you and Evelyn on your costume hunt."  I force a smile.
"Great."  He hovers a moment.  "Feeling all right?"  A casual enough
question, until I consider the reasons behind it.  I flash a broad
smile.  "Just fine."  He ambles off and I try not to feel guilty.  I
briefly consider calling him back, telling him that I don't, in fact,
have MS.  But, he hasn't mentioned it so why should I?  Serves him
right.  If only he'd talked to me as soon as Diana told him I was sick.
I could have set him straight, avoided all those uncomfortable moments
of him and his staff sneaking glances at me.  Actors arrive in dribs
and drabs, gathering in the rehearsal area.  "Hello, darlings, hello,
hello."  Annie Andrews, a grand old Chicago actress, sweeps in, blowing
kisses.  She is as wide as Lily was slender, as effusive as Lily was
reserved.  Annie exudes the elegant presence of a Helen Hayes, the
spunk of a Katharine Hepburn, and the warmth of Maureen Stapleton. It's
a dynamite mix onstage and off.  We've worked together in a few plays,
some staged readings.  I've always been a little awestruck.  She makes
it all look so easy.

She spots me.  "There you are!"  Cheerful, breezy, unaware the others
consider me the prime suspect of the group.  She throws open her arms.
"Come hug your dearly beloved mum."

"Oh, Annie."  I accept the hug.  "How wonderful!"  What a relief.
Unlike Lily London, Annie knows her way around a part, is generous to
other actors in a scene.

"I was finishing up a film in France during your auditions," she says,
'thought I missed my chance.  Then all this terrible business happened
and, well, a friend called my agent, my agent called Wexler, Wexler
called me, and the rest, as they say, means a paycheck."

"You have no idea how happy this makes me."

For the first time, rehearsal is fun.  Annie injects new life into the
production.  Untainted by horrific memories of Diana's death, she moves
across the stage like a cool breeze.  My lines flow and I am amazed how
rarely I need to refer to my script.  God bless Wexler for hiring
Annie.  If this keeps up, I might just have a great time, get some good
reviews, have a long run, get a Jeff nomination.  Omigod what will I
wear for the awards dinner?

By day's end, I am having such a swell time I forget I am supposed to
squire Wexler's daughter and costumer to Junque and Stuff.
Unfortunately, Rochelle Blanc arrives on cue.  She is in her early
forties, funky, with an attitude.

About everything.

None of it good.

It's creepy to be introduced to someone who doesn't look at me.  Her
emerald-green contact-lensed eyes dart like pinballs, up and down and
all around.  For her, I don't exist.

I slouch in the back seat of Evelyn's car, eavesdropping as she drives
us to the shop.  The two women gossip about New York theater, their
lives, their friends.  Being invisible gives me time to formulate a
plan, some deception that will allow me to sneak the women past
Harold's gossip-sensitive nose.  I can't afford to lose my job at
Junque and Stuffe.

While Evelyn parks, I lay out the ground rules.  "You can't tell Harold
who you are," I say.  "Why on earth not?"  Because your father and
Harold were in love with the same man.  Because your father stole
Harold's lover away from him.  I can hardly tell Evelyn the whole
sordid story. So I lie.  "Harold's a hungry old shark," I say.  "He'll
shoot his prices into the stratosphere if he knows you're on budget
from the Heartland Theater."  I cross my fingers and keep them crossed
as we enter the shop.  Harold is his best charming self, kissing hands
as I introduce the two women as old theater friends.  I never once
claim they are my old friends.  Let Harold draw what conclusions he
might. Evelyn and Rochelle charm Harold right back, fabricate some
story about helping out a friend who's costuming a local production.
The words community theater stick in Rochelle's Broadway-coated throat.
But she manages the small lie.  Harold, God love him, is in fabulous
form, asking all the right questions, getting a feel for their project.
It takes about two seconds for the women to appreciate that they are
in good hands.  They follow him like converts, up to the attic, down to
the basement.  Every other sentence out of Rochelle's mouth is "Do you
know how much this would cost in New York?"  "If you could find it, my
dear," says Harold.  "Which, of course, you can't."  Evelyn and
Rochelle remain wonderfully vague about their project.  The usually
prying Harold, much too busy putting the wardrobe together, doesn't
press for information.  Three hours later, I help them load the
garments into Evelyn's car and send the dynamic duo on their way.  I
stop back to say good night to Harold.  He is glowing.  "Those costumes
will absolutely make his play," he says.  Uh-oh.  "His play?"  "Oh,
don't be coy."  He replaces trays of jewelry into the display case.
"It doesn't suit you."  I tense for the explosion.  Nothing.  "Did one
of the women give it away?"  "Not at all.  I thought them both quite
accomplished liars."

"Then how did you know they were buying for Wexler?"

He runs a knuckle over his mustache.  "I may forget some of my lovers,
my dear, but never a character I've costumed."  He straightens the
accessory display.  "They're like old friends.  I'd have recognized
them anywhere' - a sly smile 'even if several actors in your company
hadn't called last night alerting me Wexler's costumer would be in."

"Who called?"

"No matter.  Every one of them swore they personally recommended my
shop to Wexler.  They figured it should be worth some sort of finder's
fee."

I take the glass cleaner and paper towels from behind the counter,
spray fingerprints off display cases.  "You don't seem upset."

"Why ever should I be?"

"You hate Wexler."

"Ah, that.  Indeed I do.  Though I must admit I'm feeling a tad better
now that I've charged him triple my usual prices and added a little
finder's fee for each of the actors who called.  What better salve for
an ancient wound than a lit de comeuppance?"

Although I am the one who blurted out Junque and Stuffe to Wexler, who
hand-delivered Evelyn and Rochelle to Harold's door, I leave without
laying claim to a finder's fee.  The theater gods have shown mercy
after all.  My job will be waiting after my run is over.  No sense
pushing my luck.

Chapter 23

Sometimes I burrow so deep in my own little world that no outside light
gets in.  Didn't I know Beth was still recovering?  Didn't I see her in
the hospital so weak she could barely stand?  Still, her first night
home, I bring Hamlet along when I visit.  Yes, I admit I fully intend
to leave him.  Beth opens the door, leaning heavily on a four-toed
cane. She tries a smile.  It doesn't work.  I follow her in, heartsick
as she navigates furniture in jerks and starts.  "You sit," I say,
settling her on a kitchen chair.  "I'll cook."  Hamlet jumps up to her
lap and she strokes his coat as I chatter nonstop about the play and
rehearsals and anything I can think of to push away my fear for her.
She listens without energy, an audience I can't reach.  This is not my
sunny Beth. This is another creature altogether.  "Voila' I say,
setting out the spaghetti, garlic bread, salad.  She humors me, picks
at her food. "This is good.  Thanks."  After a while, I can't stand the
sound of my own jabbering.  I shut up.  She flows into the quiet space.
"I lost the industrial," she says.  "I told them I was in the hospital
with the flu.  They were real understanding but they couldn't afford to
wait for me."  She stabs her fork into the spaghetti, twirls it around
and around.  Doesn't bother picking it up.  "One way or another, word
about my MS is going to leak out."  She tilts her head, shifts from
soft friend to ballsy hooker, squeezes her tender voice through her
nasal passages.  "I ain't never gonna get woik in this town again," she
says. "I'm on the skids, down and out, a has-been of a never-was."

I smile, grasp this glimmer of the true Beth as a sure sign of hope.  I
pat her hand.  It is icy cold.  "Don't make any life decisions until
you feel better," I say.  "Give yourself time to heal.  Any word from
the insurance company about replacing your fillings?"

"Nope."

"If you like, I'll call Equity tomorrow.  Sic Rosie on them.  She'll
know how to dig information out of those guys."

"Thanks.  That'd be great."

She can barely sit straight.  How is she going to take care of herself?
"Maybe you should go back to Lyle's place until you're stronger."

"Hard to do, kiddo."  Her tears come lightning fast.  "We broke up."

"That coward.  Did he '

"No, no, no.  I broke up with him.  The police have been harassing him
because of me."

"You want to blame yourself for global warming, too?"  She doesn't
smile.  I try to rub heat back into her hands.  "Beth, the police
questioned all of us who were at the loft the day Diana was murdered.
That includes Lyle."

"It's more than that.  Some cop claims Lyle was following him."  She
shakes her head.  "They're making up stupid things like that, leaning
on him because he's my boyfriend.  So I broke it off.  Maybe now
they'll leave him alone."

After dinner, Beth settles on the sofa with Hamlet.  They have missed
each other.  I wish I could leave him here.  The little fur-ball seems
able to soothe the part of Beth that's in so much pain.  I bring her
the bag with Lily's mail, hand her the checks I've written, wait as she
slowly signs each one.

"It's silly to keep paying rent on Lily's apartment," I say.  "You need
to think about closing it."

She shakes her head.  "I barely have energy to go to the bath room.

We are quiet as we consider all that's involved in dismantling Lily's
seventy-year accumulation.

"Harold," I say.  Beth brightens.  "Harold."  "He'll love it.  Let him
take charge of the whole thing.  Run an apartment sale, pay you fair
market price for Lily's old costumes and theater memorabilia."  "I need
to go through the apartment one last time," she says, 'say good-bye.
Take a few items that have special meaning."  "Let me know when.  I'll
drive you.  Meanwhile, I'll tell Harold so he can begin setting things
up."  Beth starts fading as she signs the last of Lily's checks.  "Come
with me," I say.  "Stay at my place a few days."  "That's sweet.  But
I'm better here, with my own stuff."  It's sad to watch Beth and Hamlet
say their good-byes.  I hope my offer didn't sound insincere.  My
cowardice in the face of serious illness weighs heavily as I leave.
Halfway to my car, Hamlet stops to sniff a hydrant.  An approaching car
slows.  Little warning shivers stipple my nape, flash across my
shoulders.  Act natural.  I bend down, scoop Hamlet into my arms, and
casually turn into the nearest apartment entrance.  Inside the foyer, I
duck against the wall, peer out a side window.  The car creeps past.
The driver scans the street for me.  I've seen him at the Heartland,
one of the set builders, a big bruiser of a man.  What does he want
with me?  He stops, puts the car in reverse, backs up to the building
where I'm hiding.  I race across to the panel of apartment buttons,
push them all.  "Please, please, please," I say, pushing them again,
and again.  No one buzzes me in.  I dash back to the window.  He's
still there.  Looking.  Waiting.  My mind races in a million different
directions.  If he comes in, I'm cornered.  If he gets out of the car,
heads up the walk, I'D run out, screaming.  Throw Hamlet at the thug to
distract him while I escape.  I am scanning my options when a car
parked in front of the building pulls out.  The car following me takes
the space.  Two lit de heads pop up in the back seat.  Children.  A hit
man doesn't go out on jobs with his kids in tow.  The driver gets out.
Looks nothing like the set builder.  The car was cruising for a parking
space, wasn't following me at all.  I leave the safety of the foyer,
letting a perturbed Hamlet finish his business at the hydrant.  The
car, I see how, is not the same car that was tailing me and Roblings
the other night.  Could that have been Lyle?  Beth said he was accused
of following some cop.  But why would Lyle follow Roblings?  And why
hasn't Roblings said anything to me?

There are two messages waiting when I get home.  Mom, her voice bubbly,
excited, tells me all about having her fingerprints taken down at
police headquarters.  Leave it to a writer to consider the experience
even mildly appealing.  Then a nameless, phone-numberless client
dictates a lengthy order to his nameless paper supplier.  He doesn't
leave a number, assumes his order is being taken care of.

This kind of stupidity irks me.  Why don't people listen?  I clearly
state my name and number on my answering machine message.  Very
clearly, so even a casting director can understand.  No one but a total
imbecile could mistake my phone for an office-supply house.  My anger
is bigger than the event.  It is not until I am soaking in a hot tub,
scented candles burning all around, that I tap into the real source of
my anger.  There was no message from Roblings.  He hasn't called since
our walk in the rain.  Since I sent him off without inviting him up.  I
toy with the idea of calling him.  What do I want from the man?

Chapter 24

Rehearsals speed by.  Our ensemble is hyped.  Macabre interest in the
play's dark history coupled with Lily and Diana's murders have sold out
the house for the first few weeks.  Every morning I open the papers and
read another of Evelyn's little publicity teasers sly innuendoes,
second-guesses, vague rumors.  Wexler is all over, on TV and radio
interviews, local entertainment and news shows.  The swell of energy
propels us through rehearsals.  We are mounted square on the back of a
winner, racing hell-bent for opening night.  It can't last.  I brace
for tech week syndrome, await my insipid inevitable shift from euphoria
to panic.  One night I go to sleep confident that I own the play, and
the next morning I bolt awake, terrified I'll forget every bit of
dialogue and stage business.  Tech week rehearsals are a nightmare.  I
make the same dumb mistakes over and over and over.  Demon voices
taunt: You're no good.  You're going to get fired.  You can't do it.
If my days are dismal, nights are hell.  I can't sleep.  The script
stinks.  The producer stinks.  The director stinks.  The other actors
are obnoxious human beings.  I am angry at everyone and everything.

Roblings.  Why doesn't he call?  I've begun falling asleep fantasizing
how the scene would have played had I invited him up that night.
Several times I start to dial his number, hang up.  Again.  And again.
Then I dial, wait until it rings, and hang up.

My phone rings.  I practically rip it off its cradle.

Not Roblings.  Not nearly.  A mono toned tenor introduces himself.
Another of Mom's poker club's fix-ups.  I tolerate him for ten minutes,
painting dark red polish on my toes as he crawls through a detailed
account of how he reconditions fifty-five-gallon steel drums for resale
to the secondary market.

The Lord works in mysterious ways.

I hit my boredom limit, cut him off, have no trouble at all dialing
Roblings.  I am, of late, attracted to fewer and fewer men.  I must
learn to strike when there is even faint interest.  Besides, it's not
as if I am without real, concrete, defendable reasons for calling.  I
have several.  His need to return my umbrella.  My need to inquire
about Mom's fingerprints.  And to ask if it was, in fact, Lyle in the
car following us that night.

I feel warm fuzzies when he answers.

"Morgan?"  he says.  Sounds of the police station echo in the phone.
"Morgan Taylor.  Name sounds vaguely familiar."

"Time magazine's Woman of the Year," I say, 'cover of the Sports
Illustrated swimsuit issue, lead article in Variety."

"Ah, that Morgan."

We fall into easy conversation and I wonder why I waited even one day
to call.  He puts me on hold.  When he picks up again he has moved to a
quiet room.

"You think that was Lyle following us?"  I ask.

"I know it was.  I caught the license plate numbers, ran a trace.  He
claims he just happened to be driving in the neighborhood."

Neither of us believes that.  But I let it drop.

"Your mom's a nice lady," says Roblings.  "Made me give her a tour."

"She had a good time.  Were her fingerprints a help?"

"I'm left with one unidentified print on the kugel foil.  A fourth
person handled it."

I shiver.  "The killer."  Someone calls his name.  "I've got to go."  I
don't want him to.  "Next Thursday," I say.  "Our preview.  I'd like
you to come."  "What time?"  "Eight o'clock."  "I'll be there."  "I'll
leave your name with the box office."  He hangs up and I immediately
want to call back, tell him to forget it.  If he's in the audience,
I'll be doubly nervous.  The preview, coming at the end of tech week,
is the first time we perform in costume.  Its function is to get us
used to an audience.  Wigs fall off.  Dress trains get caught in piano
benches.  Props fall or fail.  Previews are always awful.  Always.
What if I'm awful?  What if he hates the play?  What if he's like
Lester, who once said my actor friends remind him of tall children?
What if... "If, if, if," Grandma Belle likes to say.  "You worry too
much, tatalah.  If, if, if.  If my grandmother had balls she'd be my
grandfather.  You've got to be like the old Eskimo put out to sea. Just
go with the floe."  I've lost count of Grandma Belle's husbands. Four,
for sure.  A couple more she hints at from time to time.  She loves her
little secrets.  I never could understand her need to be married.  She
can't understand my reluctance.  I slide between the cool sheets,
hoping sleep finds me quickly.  Hamlet paces.  Waits until I pat the
bed.  He's up in a flash, curled at my feet.  Adam wanted to get
married, start a family, but I wasn't ready.  For some reason, I
thought he'd hang around until I was.  Grandma Belle was the only one
who came right out and told me it served me right when Adam left me for
Sylvia.  "Maybe next time," she said, 'you will be quicker to say yes."
"But what if it doesn't work out?"  I asked.  "You want guarantees?"
"I don't like surprises."  She has a deep, throaty laugh.  "Surprises
are the best reason to keep living.  If you know how the movie ends,
why bother going?  One man is only one man.  There will always be
plenty of other bees buzzing around your honey."

Except I don't want to settle for drones.  Life's too short for
mediocrity.

I begin to drift.  Maybe that's what intrigues me about Roblings, my
inability to define the man.  He seems to shift each time I see him.
It's true, I don't like surprises.  But it's even more true that I bore
easily, lose patience with people who are always the same.  I am
attracted to the ones who are continually unfolding.  Roblings is the
unfolding type.

Why didn't I invite him to come the following week, to see the real
play at a real performance?  I fall into a troubled sleep, knowing the
answer, wishing I didn't.  I don't want to wait that long to see him
again.

Chapter 25

I fidget on the stoop outside Lily's apartment.

Beth called early this morning.  "I am going stir crazy," she said.
"I'd like to go over to Lily's, pick out a few keepsakes before we
close the apartment.  Do you still have her key?"

"I do, indeed."

"I know your previews start tomorrow.  I wouldn't bother you if I
weren't absolutely climbing the walls."

"Not a problem.  I can meet you there right after rehearsal."

I am so relieved Beth feels strong enough to venture out that I push
aside my own need to have a quiet, meditative night before tomorrow's
opening.

Lyle's car pulls up, catches me off guard.  Looks like their breakup
was all smoke and mirrors.  A split meant to throw cops off his trail
but keep him in her life.  I am not emotionally prepared for a
face-to-face with Lyle.  I have some tough questions he might not want
to answer.

It takes a while for Beth to climb the stairs to the apartment.  She
wrinkles her nose at the stuffy air.  Lyle and I jump to open windows.
"I'd like to go through Lily's things alone," Beth says, abandoning me
and Lyle to the living room.

I break a nail prying open a reluctant window.  "Why were you following
us the other night?"  I say.

He tries to look surprised.  "I wasn't following you.  I '

"Lyle, I saw you.  Saw your car."

"Let me finish?"

I fold my arms across my chest.

"I'd just come from the hospital.  Beth was in such a bad way, so
depressed, I ... I didn't know what to do.  I thought talking to you,
someone who loves Beth as much as I do, might help.  I was pulling up
to your apartment when you came out with some guy.  It was hard to tell
in the rain, but he looked like that detective.  I couldn't believe you
would be so lovey-dovey with the cop who's hounding Beth."

"So you followed?"

Lyle looks sheepish.  "The second he turned my way, I knew it was him.
There can't be another mug that ugly on this earth."

Of all the ways I think about Roblings, ugly isn't one of them.  I've
always preferred weathered faces to pretty boys.

"Not that it's any of your business," I say, 'but he gave me a lift
home from rehearsal.  We didn't even talk about Beth.  It was the way
you were shadowing us that made him wonder."

Lyle's eyes narrow.  His voice turns low, threatening.  "You'd better
watch out for that guy.  He's too suspicious of everything and
everyone.  You can't trust someone like that."

"Well, right this moment, I'm not so thrilled with you, either."  I
head back to check on Beth.

I find her crying softly over a pile of Lily's clothes.  With all
that's been going on in her life, Beth hasn't had time to mourn her old
friend's death.

"I'll go out to the cemetery this weekend," she says, 'lay flowers on
her grave."

I soothe a hand over her back.  "Anything I can do?"

She looks around the room, takes in the sheer volume of Lily's
possessions.  "It's overwhelming.  I thought I had a lot of paperwork
with being sick.  Medical record keeping, files.  But death, death is
an avalanche.  There's no end to what needs to be done."

"I asked Lester if he'd help you with the legal stuff."

"He called last week," she says.  "Came to see me in the hospital. What
a sweetheart."  She runs a hand absently over one of Lily's
puffy-sleeved sweaters.  "He's been fabulous, putting in way too many
hours getting my life organized.  And he absolutely refuses to send any
sort of bill.  Every time I ask he says, "A friend of Morgan's is a
friend of mine."

That makes me feel nice and guilty.  Lester's helping Beth, hoping he
and I will get back together.  We won't.  He has to know that.  I'll
try to break it to him gently.  Again.

Beth sets the sweater on a pile of sweaters just like it.  "I've sent
him some of my special homemade brownies by way of thanks," she says.
"I'll pay him a real fee as soon as we settle Lily's will."

She finishes culling the items she wants, a few photos, Lily's
fishing-tackle makeup box, a Spanish shawl with long silken fringe. She
stops a moment on the way out of the apartment, takes one last slow
look around.

"Call Harold," she says softly, 'tell him to go ahead, sell what he
can, donate the rest."

The bright sun is a shock after the dark apartment.

"We'll drive you home," says Beth.  "Now that I'm out in the real
world, I hate to go back inside.  Is that ice cream place still on your
corner?"

We stop for double-dip cones.  Beth wants to try to walk a little way,
so we stroll down the block to my building.  A florist's truck pulls
up.  The driver juggles a large white box while scanning the mailbox
names.

"Help you?"  I ask.

"Lookin' for Morgan Taylor."

"That's me."

"These are for you."

I tangle with the box while Beth and Lyle hover.  The "Break a Leg'
card is signed JR.

"Keeping secrets?"  teases Beth.  "A new man in your life?"

"This is nothing like that," I say, my face on fire.

She laughs.  "Have you checked the price of roses lately?"

"Roblings," says Lyle.

I could kick him.

"Auto-da-fe Roblings?"  Beth shivers.  "You have very strange taste in
men."

"I like who's talking," I say.  If Lyle takes offense, he doesn't show
it.

Beth and I kiss good-bye and I promise to give her a detailed account
of tomorrow night's performance.

Roblings is out of his office.  I don't leave a message.  I'll thank
him in person tomorrow night.

I stand at the sink, going over my lines as I clip rose stems on a
slant under running water, a trick learned from Grandma Belle.  A
oft-married woman receives many flowers along the way, learns many
useful tricks.  "The running water keeps oxygen from entering the fresh
cut," she told me, 'makes the flowers last longer."  At least I take
her advice about some things.

I am carefully setting each magnificent salmon-colored rose into a
glass vase when Hamlet starts whimpering.  He's standing at his empty
food bowl, which sits next to his empty water bowl.  It's amazing I
haven't killed him yet.  Although, it's still early in our
relationship.

I abandon the flowers to take care of him.  Spoon food from the tin,
cut it into lit de pieces, wash and fill the water bowl.  I finish
putting the flowers into water, then sit cross-legged on the floor next
to Hamlet, scratch his head as he chows down.  Giving sustenance to
another living creature creates a peculiar satisfaction.

He stops a moment.  Looks up into my eyes.  Blinks.  Waits.  Tilts his
head.  Does that floppy-ear trick.  Makes a small whimpering sound.

"Yeah, okay," I say, 'okay.  I like you, too."

He smiles.  I swear.  Then goes back to his meal.

Now that Beth's better, she'll probably be wanting Hamlet back.  Why
doesn't this delight me?  If I didn't know me better, I'd think I was
hoping to have him around a lit de while longer.

Chapter 26

I prepare the canvas, cleansing my face with astringent-soaked cotton
pads, studying myself in the dressing-room mirror.  Over the next
twenty minutes, I metamorphize from me to Her.  Daughter is much paler.
Hard lines pull down the corners of her mouth.  Dark circles ring her
eyes.  Her life has been hard and cruel and she wears it like a badge.
The interior landscape shifts as well.  Every line of makeup helps me
make the emotional shift from Morgan to Daughter.  I ache with her
despair, am weighed by her depression, suffer the pain of her heavy
heart.  I think of Beth, unfair target of a murder investigation,
trapped in a body that has betrayed her.  She grieves for a dead
friend.  Suffers guilt for involving her boyfriend.  The depth of her
anguish overwhelms me.  I draw on it to build Daughter.  By the time I
finish making up, the world has gone bleak; I see no point in going on.
Time is called and, as I move toward the stage, I catch my heel,
tearing the hem of my dress.  Wanda from Wardrobe stitches me up. "Hold
still," she says, but Daughter fidgets, edgy about yet another fight
with Mother.  Murray Banks, aka Brother, hands me my missing earring.
"Found it in a shoe in the men's costume area," he says. Theater elves,
no doubt, sneaking around, leaving objects in all the wrong places.
The earring, its mate back in the dressing room, will have to wait
until I make up for act 2. I take my place onstage. Theater dust
settles in my nostrils, coats my throat, dries my lips. The
undercurrent of audience hums through me.  My heart has grown to three
times its normal size, thuds painfully against my ribs.

House lights down.  Cue music.  Curtain up.  Applause, applause.

I am off like a shot, words and movements racing before thought.  Much
too fast.  I bring down the pace.  The night moves on.  Lights mis-cue,
lines go unanswered, doors stick, music fades in and out.  Preview
night is everything I feared it would be.  But we are a troupe of
professionals.  Remain cool under fire.  So cool we are unfazed by the
assortment of disasters making the audience laugh in all the wrong
places.

By the middle of act 2, we find our rhythm.  Since intermission,
Daughter's outlook has taken a huge turn for the better.  In this act,
she falls in love and defeats Mommy Dearest.  My between-acts trip to
the makeup box put a rosy blush on her cheeks, removed the circles from
under her eyes, and turned up the frown lines around her mouth.
Daughter has become less Timid Beth, more Flamboyant Grandma Belle.  I
pick up the tempo, play the part broad, for laughs.

Five, ten, fifteen minutes fly by with nary a glitch.  During my brief
moments offstage, I sneak glimpses at the audience from the wings.
Roblings is not in the seat I reserved for him.  But my sister Sylvia
is here.  Last row, far right.  She sits unsmiling among laughing
strangers.  She's come alone no Adam, no Mom and Dad to watch her big
sister.  The same way she has come to every preview week of all my
plays.  My cue snaps me back into the play and I leave her behind.

Near the end, waiting in the wings for my final cue, I peek out from
behind the curtain and spot Roblings in the back of the theater.
Pacing.  Nervous energy?  A little attention deficit disorder,
perchance?  Sylvia's seat is empty.  She left so I wouldn't know she'd
come.  It's like Sylvia not to want to upset me.  I feel a twinge of
tenderness, a pale shadow of sisterly love.  This time anger is slower
to wash it away.

As I move closer to the stage, focusing on Annie, who is delivering my
cue, I feel my earring pop out.  I whirl, snatch it midair.  Something
whizzes past my head where my head would have, could have, should have
been, was, in fact, mere milliseconds ago and crashes at my feet.
Glass and metal explode.  I stifle a scream, cannot move.  The floor is
covered with the twisted remains of an overhead light can.  Onstage, I
see Annie mouth her lines, but I cannot hear.  Characters around her
begin adlibbing their movements jerky, off tempo, stalling.  I cannot
move.  Annie does an elaborate bit of stage business with a piece of
candy, which gives someone backstage enough time to figure out what
needs to be done.  I am pushed onstage.  Cannot think of my line.
Annie touches my arm.  Repeats her last line and tucks in a few words
of what I need to say.  Thank God responsible actors learn all the
lines.  I hear my voice, feel my mouth working on automatic.  My
movements feel stiff as a fifties hairdo.  I manage to make it to the
end.  Two actors lock their arms in mine, hold me up for the curtain
call.  I can't stop shaking.  Death came to visit, its foul breath a
whisper away.  I force a smile, watch as the audience disappears behind
the closing curtain. The cast surrounds me.  "What happened?"  "Are you
all right?"  "It sounded like a bomb."  I am numb.  The specter of
death looms a whole lot larger when it's aiming at me.  Roblings is in
the wings as we come offstage.  He and the stage crew huddle over the
wreckage.  The rest of the cast files slowly past, pausing to take a
look, like mourners at a wake.  I bring up the end, grateful it's nob
my body on view.  "You okay?"  asks Roblings.  I hug myself, still
shaking.  "What happened?" He points to the connecting end of the light
can.  "It looks as if the threads are stripped."  "On purpose?"  "That
leko's older than God," says one of the stage crew.  I'm not convinced.
"Someone could have rigged it," I whisper to Roblings.  "Someone who
wanted me ' "It looks like an accident."

"But '

"You were great in the play."

"Are you trying to distract me?"

"Yup."  He leads me away.  "But that doesn't mean I don't think you
were great."

I wasn't.  But I'm relieved he thinks so.  We follow the cast toward
the dressing room.  Family and friends crowd the corridor.  Roblings
stops outside the door.

"You're sure you're all right?"

"Shaky."

"You have every right.  That was a nasty scare."

"You really think it was an accident?"

"I'm going back, take a closer look."

"Good."

"Can I buy you dinner?"

"Tonight?"

He laughs.  "Yes, tonight."

Wexler's sure to hit me with notes I'll need to absorb before the next
performance.  But, hey, you gotta eat.  "Give me ten minutes to change
and scrape off an inch of makeup."

"I'll be here."

I find that incredibly comforting.

Everyone in the dressing room is laughing, chattering.  The men lob
sweaty socks over the partition dividing our dressing areas.  I usually
like to take my time after a performance, languish in the warm womb of
giddy gossip.  Tonight, I'm a wreck from the double hit of performance
and near-death experience.  I cream off makeup, tear off my costume,
dress in my civvies, and toss my gear in my bag.  I am half out the
door when Annie stands and claps her hands for attention.  "You are all
invited back to my apartment for wine and pizza," she says.  "My
treat."

A chorus of insincere protests goes up.

"I insist," she says.  "It's something I want to do in Lily's memory. I
know in my heart, she should be standing in my place onstage. Please,
feel free to bring your friends."

She passes out little slips of paper with her address.  I take one,

tell her I'll try to get there.  It's an empty promise.  There's no way
I'll bring Roblings.  He'd be too out of place.  Also, I'm feeling the
need for some quiet, settle down my innards.

Wexler comes in.  "If I might have your attention a few minutes," he
says.  "I have notes."

The ten-minute wait I promised Roblings stretches into a half hour.  I
edge toward the door, desperate to leave but not daring to.  The second
Wexler finishes, I bolt for the lobby.

Roblings is gone.  I check inside the theater, backstage.  I finally
find him outside, leaning against the building, enjoying the warm night
air.

"Sorry," I say.  "Wexler kept us after school."

"Hungry?"

"Ravenous."

"Come on.  I'll buy you the best meal in town."

Chapter 27

My digestive system is on full battle alert stomach growling, tongue
swimming in expectant juices, head lighter than usual as we walk east
from the theater toward Monroe Harbor.  The only class-act food spot in
this direction is the yacht club.  Veddy tony.  I sure didn't peg
Roblings as the yachting type.  Then again, I'm a chronically lousy
judge of character.  Just ask my mother's poker club.

I glance down, checking whether one might see the hidden row of tiny
gold safety pins holding up my torn hem, if one should care to look.
Seems all right.  Over the years I've become adept at invisible
pinning.  Learning to wield a needle and thread is way down my long
list of' Things I Really Should Learn to Do."  With luck, the yacht
club will have the kind of subdued lighting designed to mute the lines
of aging faces.  My clothes, with their interesting collection of
tears, stains, and wrinkles, don't stand up well to bright lights.

We reach Monroe Street and the Drive just in time to miss the world's
shortest green light.  Twelve lanes of high-speed traffic whiz past.
Roblings offers his arm as we wait.  I take it.  It'll help slow my
fall if I pass out from hunger.

It bothers me that Roblings has not mentioned the play.  Oh, sure, he
threw out some obligatory compliment following the performance.  But I
crave more.  Like most actors, I long to talk about Me after a
performance.  And I so rarely get the chance.  The trick, here, is to
introduce the subject without seeming to.  Casually bring his thoughts
back to the theater.

"I still can't believe that light nearly killed me," I say.  "You're
positive it fell by accident?"

"Someone would have to have been standing on a very tall ladder in
order to drop it on you."

I'd been alone in the cramped wings.  "I probably would have noticed a
ladder."

He smiles.  "Figured you might."

A thought niggles.  "Could the can have been rigged?  Released by some
kind of remote control?  I mean, anyone who's seen rehearsals knows I'm
the only one in that spot at that time of the performance."

"I checked everything.  The threads were stripped from years of use. It
was a freak accident."

I believe the man, allow myself the luxury of relief.  He still doesn't
mention anything about tonight's performance.  Oh, sure, it's possible
for me to say "Did you enjoy the play?"  but that feels like begging. I
prefer to formulate a clever line, idea, introductory thought arrange a
few bons mots about my fellow actors, the evening's more amusing
moments, titillating inside gossip.

I am working on the exact phrasing when the light changes and we head
out across the drive.  We nearly make the other side when a blonde in a
snazzy red car, anticipating the green light, jumps into the
intersection, slamming on her brakes inches from Roblings's legs.  She
lays on her horn.

I feel Roblings's firm hand on my back gently push me onto the safety
of the curb.  Instead of moving, he plants himself in front of her car,
staring at her.  Never mind that she now has the light, that cars
behind her honk.  She leans out her window, yelling something lost in
the roar of traffic.  I know her type, played her enemy in a couple of
movies.  She is a movie-line cutter, a sneaky lane-changer, considers
societal laws and rules for ordinary, less beautiful people.  She steps
on people so often she doesn't notice the bodies anymore.  Until she
comes up against someone like Roblings.

She is still screaming, an ugly mouth on such a beautiful face.
Roblings slowly lifts his arms, his massive hands spreading up and out.
I think: Lon Chancy, sitting at the piano in Phantom of the Opera,
about to strike the first chord.  Suddenly, Roblings slams his hands on
the hood.  The car rocks violently.  The sound carries like a shot
across night traffic.  The driver jerks her head inside, frantically
rolls up her window.  She stops honking, has the good sense not to make
rude gestures.

She looks around.  Her wide eyes say "This man is obviously mad."  No
one seems interested in becoming involved.  Cars behind her pull
away.

Roblings holds up a hand and waggles a finger at her.  Naughty girl. He
takes his own sweet time ambling toward me.  As soon as he clears the
bumper of her car, she peels away.  A calm man, this Roblings.
Grounded.  But that is not to say he is a man without passion.  I can't
remember ever meeting anyone quite like him.  I'll have to study him
more closely.

"Still hungry?"  he says.

"Can't wait."

We walk along the joggers' path skirting Lake Michigan.  I have steak
seared so deep in my thoughts that I don't immediately understand why
Roblings is leading me into line behind a stream of fishermen,
tourists, Rollerbladers.  I'm thinking Caesar salad, double-baked
potato.  I am not thinking Tony's Pump Room, the name stenciled in neon
colors on the side of the metal hot-dog cart.  A toothless old man
wearing a Cubs hat and White Sox T-shirt serves up hot dogs and Polish
to a line of late-night diners.

No!  I need real food.  Sustenance.  Something requiring a china plate
and metal utensils.  The words are almost out when it occurs to me this
may be all the good detective can afford.  What if Roblings supports
three ex-wives and fifteen rug rats, as well as aging parents and
assorted siblings?  What do I know of his situation?

I am sorely tempted to offer to treat us to a grand meal except: (1) I
don't have that kind of money, and (2) I don't have that kind of
money.

A twenty something couple in line ahead of us can't keep their hands
off each other.  I realize I am staring when Roblings gently directs my
attention toward the boats bobbing in the harbor.  For the first time,
I notice what a beautiful evening this is.  Full moon on still water.
Balmy air.  Seductive smells of hot dogs and pretzels.  The line moves
up.  The couple in front of us progresses from playful kissing to an
open-mouth-probing-tongue sort of thing.  Roblings, facing me, misses
the show.  "I've got some good news and some bad news," he says.  I
brace myself.  He hated the play.  Hated my performance.  "Give me the
bad news first."  "I'm having trouble identifying the fourth set of
prints." "Prints?"  "Fingerprints.  On your lunch.  The kugel foil?"
"Ah."  I force my mind from Play to Murder, affect a nasal Mae West.
"So, you still don't know who done it."  "Right."  "And the good news?"
"The prints don't match any of the cast members."  "Thank goodness.
You wouldn't believe how we've been watching each other."  The amorous
couple has become entangled, arms and legs twisted like a monkey puzzle
tree.  Roblings catches something in my look.  Turns to see.  Stares
with open interest.  Takes his own sweet time turning back to me.  "Can
you think of anyone else who might have had access to your lunch?
Anyplace besides the rehearsal loft where you might have ' I shake my
head.  "I've gone over it a hundred times.  It went from Mom's kitchen
to my kitchen to rehearsal."  "No one was in your kitchen?"  "No one."
I speak slow and clear.  "Not Beth.  Not Lyle."  Chef Tony barks a
command and the lovers break apart long enough to order.  We move up.
My stomach rumbles, a five on the Richter scale.  Roblings is polite
enough not to notice.  "That means," he says, 'someone snuck into
rehearsal, rummaged through your bag, poisoned one piece of kugel, left
without being seen."  "That's not as impossible as it sounds.  The
first day of rehearsal is a total zoo."  "But it's risky.  Very risky.
What if you caught them, or someone else had seen them?"  I shrug.
"Sounds like the murderer is either dumb or lucky."  "I don't think
dumb."

"That's not very comforting."

"Murder usually isn't."

"Know what's really scary?  If Diana didn't steal my food, I'm the one
who'd be six feet under.  You'd be standing here all alone."

It's our turn.  Tony takes one look at Roblings and starts assembling
his order.

"Hey," Tony directs his rasp my way, 'what's a classy lady like you
doing with this bum?"

"You know," Roblings tells him, 'you're not the only hot-dog stand in
the city."

"The only good one."  Tony loads Roblings's dogs into a cardboard box,
adds Orange Crush and chips, then winks at me.  "What'll you have,
gorgeous?"

I look at the two hot dogs smothered with fresh tomatoes, chopped
onions, peppers, relish, mustard, sprinkled with celery salt.  I am so
hungry I can barely talk.  "That looks perfect."

"Beautiful and smart," says Tony.  He fixes the dogs and hands them to
me with a slight bow.  "This should take the edge off."

Roblings takes out his wallet.  "Get outta here," Tony growls, 'you're
blocking my paying customers.  Next!"

We sit on the jetty, dangle our feet over the lake.  The beam of the
full moon reaches toward us across still waters.  I practically inhale
the first hot dog, washing it down with an icy cream soda.  Roblings
paces himself, a neat eater.  He catches me watching.

"The best," he says.

The best."

Roblings tosses fragments of hot-dog bun into the water.  There is
sudden movement beneath the surface, thrashing, like water coming to a
boil.  A nearby fisherman casts a line our way.  Off to our left, Navy
Pier's giant Ferris wheel circles lazily.  Faint voices float down.
Happy voices.

"A Chicago hot dog," says Roblings.  "Moonlight on the lake."

"A brilliant and breathtakingly beautiful companion."

He smiles.  "I was going to say that next."

He bends toward me, slowly, his breath all celery salt and mustard and
Vienna Kosher.  I swear, this man has the softest lips in the world.  I
worry briefly about tongue, my mouth still working on bits of hot dog
and chips, but his kiss is a pristine foray, short and sweet.  After,
we stroll along the shore toward Navy Pier.  Moths to light.  The
narrow mile-long building, formerly ship dock, university, Indian
powwow site, convention hall, is enjoying its newest incarnation as a
major city attraction.  Bright, bold, and lively, it sparkles with Las
Vegas wattage.  We weave through the sculpture garden, local artists'
works sprouting like exotic plants along the lake.  Vendors hawk
souvenirs and food from pushcarts.  A crowd leaving the Imax Theatre
pushes past us.  The moan of a tenor sax from a live blues band floats
in the air, invites people to come and dance.  It must be Roblings's
protective arm around my shoulder that makes me think it's all right to
get on the Ferris wheel.  It isn't until the gondola door slides shut
and the ride begins that air presses in around me.  It's hard to
breathe.  Inhale. Exhale.  Slow and easy.  Calm.  Stay calm.  Stupid.
How could I be so stupid?  I panic on any balcony higher than the first
floor, can't breathe in glass elevators sliding up and down the
outsides of buildings.  What am I doing heading five stories up in a
Ferris wheel? Our gondola rocks slightly in the night air.  I gasp.
Roblings squeezes my shoulder reassuringly.  Slow, now, easy.  The
wheel will not tip over.  The gondola will not disengage and plunge us
to certain death.  The ride will be over in ten minutes.  I can last
ten minutes. I can last "I've been digging through theater archives,"
says Roblings. "Found some information on the original production of
the play.  Came across your boss's name."  "Of course.  Wexler was the
original director."  "No, I mean your other boss."  It takes me a
moment. "Harold?  How do you know ?"  "The morning Diana was murdered,
you said you stopped by Junque and Stuffe to pick up your pay."  "I
did."

"I know."

"You checked me out?"

"Don't sound so hurt.  It's my job."

"Why would I lie about something like that?"

"You wouldn't believe the things people lie about."

Tension creeps into my shoulders, welds my neck in place.  I crick my
neck side to side, roll it around a bit.  Roblings rubs his thumb in
circles between my shoulder and neck.  Heaven.  I don't mean to moan.
It just slips out.

"Tell me about Harold," he says.

Dilemma.  Yes, I want Roblings digging for a murderer someplace other
than in Beth's backyard.  But I sure don't want him bothering Harold.
"Aren't there other suspicious people around," I say, 'people I don't
know, don't care about?"

"I don't create suspects," he says.  "I work with what I've got.  I'm
not much of a believer in coincidence, which is why it interests me
that Harold was involved in this play, knew Lily, forty years ago."

"You are way off base on this one.  Harold's a sweetheart.  A harmless
sweetheart.  Hires actors so we don't starve between roles.  Pays us on
time.  He also happens to be one of the best sources of theater gossip
in the city."

"What's he like?"

"He's a fabulous friend.  If Harold likes you, there's nothing he won't
do for you."

"And if he doesn't like you?"

Aye, there's the rub.  Harold can be a bitch on wheels.  Destroy you
with one scathing look, one well-aimed word.  I've seen him in action
in the store.  He does not suffer fools gladly.  Roblings waits.  A
gust of wind hits the gondola broadside, sets us swinging.  This is not
fun.

"And if he doesn't like you?"  Roblings says again.

"You are so on the wrong track," I say.

Roblings sees I'm not going to bad-mouth Harold.  He regroups.  "Did
Harold like Lily?  Diana?"

This man doesn't let go.  Only one thing for it.  I slip into my Liza
Doolittle cockney.  "E 'ated them," I say.  "Loathed and detested, is
wot.  Thought they overacted something fearful.  Hacked 'em into wee
small pieces with an antique silver butter knife and served 'em to the
'ogs."  Roblings is not amused.  That's tough.  He started it.  This is
the slowest Ferris wheel in the world.  I look down.  Big mistake.
Dizzy.  I am not going to make it out alive.  Far down the pier, a big
band strikes up.  "Stella by Starlight' floats on the night air.
"Look," he says, 'two women are dead."  "Well, Harold didn't kill
them." "Then let me find that out.  Stop protecting him."  "I'm not '
"Did he know Diana?"  "No.  I don't think.  At least, not personally."
"But he'd know who she was."  "Harold lives for the theater.  Sees
everything in town, no matter how awful."  "That's a yes?"  "Yes."
"And we know he and Lily go back at least as far as the first
production of your play. Could there have been anything between them?"
"You mean romantically?" "Anything.  Love, hate, friendship."  "She was
hardly his type, for any of that."  How much do I tell without
betraying a confidence?  Since Harold makes no secret of his sexual
orientation, I give that up to Roblings.  He asks a few easy questions,
probes so gently that before we're back on the ground, he's somehow
gotten me to spill the forty-year-old tragedy of how Wexler stole
Harold's young lover.  "The boy turned out to be Lily's son," I say.
Roblings's left eyebrow goes up.  "Then he died.  Asthma attack."  His
other eyebrow lifts.  The light is dim but I think I make out a smile.
The big band music swells dramatically, underscoring my story.  The
effect is comical, melodramatic.  "He died," I say, 'without ever
knowing Lily was his mother."  Roblings has the good grace not to
laugh.  "Some soap opera," he says.  "You can't make up a story like
that."

"Who would want to?"

"Exactly."

Maybe it's the music, but the whole thing suddenly sounds silly.  All
that intrigue, unrequited love, secrets, death, a mother's loss.  Yet
it seemed so believable when Harold told me.  I suspect the problem is
Roblings.  He lacks the actor's willingness to suspend disbelief, our
insatiable craving for drama.  A trip to the grocery, a visit to
traffic court, a walk through the Laundromat; we create theater
everywhere in our lives.

My legs wobble when I step out of the gondola.  Roblings slips a hand
under my elbow and we join the stream of people strolling along Navy
Pier.  Grandma Belle has a variety of photos of her and three of her
husbands walking like this along the old Edgewater Beach Hotel
boardwalk.  It always looked so romantic, my grandmother beautifully
dressed with matching gloves and shoes, gazing lovingly into her
husbands' eyes as they strolled along the lake.  I used to stare at the
photos, fall into them, fantasize walking the boardwalk with my husband
one day.  I was a teen before I learned the city had torn down the
boardwalk years ago, hauled in a zillion tons of landfill, created
acres of public park and a six-lane expressway where Lake Michigan used
to be.

I assume Roblings has been quiet because he, too, is enjoying the walk.
I am wrong.

"None of my research," he says, 'turned up any hint of Wexler's
homosexuality."

Great.  The whole time I'm gearing up to feel all warm and sexy, he's
been chewing on what I told him about Harold.  Tenacious, this
Roblings.  Not much comfort on a cold night, I wager.

I repeat what Harold told me.  "Those were repressive times.  Wexler
was the bright young darling of the theater world, couldn't risk the
wrong kind of exposure."

"Isn't that pretty redhead his daughter?"

"You think she's pretty?"

"I think she's proof Wexler had at least some sexual interest in
women."

"He may have dated to hide his homosexuality."

Roblings whistles a soft tune between his teeth.  My father also
whistles while he thinks.  It used to annoy me until I moved into my
own apartment.  Now I find it kind of endearing.  Roblings stops mid
whistle  "So, you don't think Wexler and the late great Lily London
might have had one of those director-actress affairs?"

I laugh.  "You never met Lily."

"I'll take that as a no.  And you also don't think Harold and Lily ..
."

"Not a chance."

His beeper sounds.  We find a phone and I wait while he makes a call.
"I have to go," he says.

He can move fast when he wants, this plodding detective.  We hail a cab
and are back at his car in five minutes.  He offers to drive me home
but I am too wound up from the evening.  I ask him to drop me at
Annie's place.  I've had enough of civilians for one evening.  What I
crave is the family of theater people.

Chapter 28

Annie's duplex, joined at the hip to its twin next door, is nestled in
die bosom of a blue-collar neighborhood.  The street of two-story
buildings sits dark, quiet, all the God-fearing hardworking neighbors
snug in their beds.  Only Annie's place is ablaze with lights.

A crowd of people smoke on the front porch or sit on the tiny lawn.
More people have spread out onto the neighbor's porch, lounging in
wicker chaises and chairs.  I hope they don't make trouble for Annie.
She probably didn't know what she was letting herself in for when she
invited us all over.

Theater people track free food and good company like heat-seeking
missiles.  We tend to turn out in great numbers for funerals and
parties.  I squeeze past the bodies sprawled on the stoop, sidestep
pizza boxes and beer cans, wade through the pungent haze of cigarettes,
cigars, and pot.

I recognize stage crew, friends of cast members, theater friends. Annie
has also invited staffers from SAG, Equity, a few of the other
theaters.  This is probably her one big party for the year.  Maybe the
decade.  If I had the money I'd do this, take care of all my
entertaining in one evening.  I owe everyone.  Not that acton keep
score.  Whoever is flush shares.  Except, of course, for people like
Lily who sock their money away in stocks and bonds while living like
parasites off the rest of us.

A shout goes up as I enter the house.  I follow the noise to the living
room, where the ensemble is playing a raucous game of charades.

"Morgan, Morgan."  Annie waves.  "Over here."  She is radiant, beaming,
twenty years younger without her Mother makeup.  "We claim Morgan," she
says.  The other team boos as she hands me a hat filled with folded
pieces of paper.  They've been trouncing us," she says.  "Now we'll
show them."  I close my eyes and pull out a slip of paper.  I read the
phrase.  Once.  Twice.  "Got it," I say.  The other team snatches the
paper from me, makes all manner of rude noises over my selection.  My
mind races a thousand different directions.  How to act out .. . How to
"Go!"  says the timer.  I make the sign for 'song."  "Song!"  yells my
team.  I turn my back on them, bend forward, flash my pants down and
up. "Moon over Miami!"  they scream.  "Yes!"  "Five seconds!"  yells
the timekeeper.  Our team pulls ahead and we immediately launch into
the next phase.  This is what I needed.  To be with my people.  Like
battle-weary soldiers, we are most ourselves in the company of
comrades.  We have, all of us, been through the war.  Understand its
horrors and heroisms.  The night's tensions fall away the rough-edged
performance, the light falling, Wexler's complaints about the
production, the enigma that is Roblings.  Gone.  I feel light.  Almost
weightless.  I meet a few old cronies of Annie's who, it turns out,
also live in the neighborhood.  Evidently, this area houses an enclave
of theater people who bought in the fifties.  It is after midnight
before the hordes begin moving out.  I join a cleanup detail, picking
up pizza boxes, empty cans.  "Please don't fuss," says Annie.  "Leave
it for tomorrow."  We ignore her.  She's a tidy woman, hardly the type
to go to sleep with the place in such a mess.  I grab a garbage bag and
tackle the rooms off the long hall, picking up dead soldiers, paper
plates, straightening chairs, wiping wet rings off antique wood tables.
This apartment is everything Lily's wasn't.  Bright, alive, it's
filled with positive energy.  Pictures of family and friends cover the
walls, are grouped in antique frames on dressers and nightstands.
Annie's life is all about family, children, grandchildren.  And dogs.
A wide assortment of breeds and sizes are threaded through Annie's
life.  What is it with actors and dogs?

More family photos line the hall.  I stop in front of a huge portrait
showing Annie in a formal pose with a pleasant-looking man.  He has a
thick head of white hair and the longest earlobes I've ever seen. Every
inch as wide as Annie, the two of them look like a geriatric Tweedledee
and Tweedledum.  His certified public accountant's license is
beautifully framed, as are several magnificent photos with labels
stating that he had won various photography competitions.

"That's my Walter."  Annie has come up next to me, her arms brimming
with stained tablecloths.  "The photo was taken at our fortieth wedding
anniversary party."

"Was he here tonight?"

"I lost him last September."

"I'm sorry," I say.  "He looks like a nice person."

"He was.  Very kind.  Truly, a gentle man."  She wipes a speck of dust
off the photo.  "We're not easy, you know, we actors."

"So I've heard."

"Walter was my biggest fan, helped keep me grounded."  She sighs.  "I
don't understand how people like Lily London manage without someone in
their lives.  All those years .. . What did she do when she didn't get
a part, when rehearsals or performances didn't go well?"

"She had Beth to lean on."

"It's not the same.  My Walter would tell me how wonderful I was, even
when I was horrible.  He gave me the strength to try try again."  She
straightens the corner of his CPA license.  "I still talk to him, you
know.  Friends are all well and good, but nobody listens like
Walter."

She looks at me.  I know that look from my mother.  Brace myself for
the inevitable.  "Is there someone special in your life, dear?"

"Not at the moment," I say.

"Well, don't wait too long."  She continues down the hall to the
laundry room.

I study the photos lining the hall back to the kitchen.  Time travels
backward, Walter's white hair grows darker, Annie grows thinner.  I
wonder if I, too, will widen with age.  Lily didn't.  She stayed thin
her whole life.  Perhaps it's a happy marriage that spreads you out as
time goes by, like those of my mother and her poker buddies.  The last
photos are of Annie when she was around my age.  She reminds me of a
healthy Beth.  Clear skin, slight peachy tint, bright eyes, well-toned
body.  The contrast makes the ravages of Beth's illness all the more
heartbreaking.  Will Beth ever have a wall filled with photos of
husband, children, grandchildren?  Will I?  We finish cleaning around
one, and Annie sends us all off with bags of homemade cookies.  "Since
Walter died, I've had no one to take care of," she says.  "It's nice to
bake for someone again."  I can't imagine how it would feel to lose a
man I loved after forty years of marriage.  I can't imagine marriage.
Wanda from Wardrobe offers me a ride.  We're leaving Annie's when we
spot beer cans and pizza left on the neighbor's porch.  "Slobs," says
Wanda.  We climb over the low railing connecting the two porches and
quickly collect the garbage.  "I'm glad we saw this stuff before the
neighbor," I say as we take it back to the alley.  "She wouldn't have
cared," says Wanda.  "Nice old lady.  She stopped by the party early in
the evening.  I had the feeling she really wanted to stay, but she had
to get back.  Annie says her husband's pretty sick.  It's hell getting
old."  Wanda flips the lid off a full trash can.  We jump as a small
possum scuttles out from behind, backs away, staring at us with ugly
pink eyes.  "A baby," says Wanda.  "How cute."  "You crazy?  It looks
like a bald rat with thyroid trouble."  I keep my eyes on the varmint
as I toss in the garbage and help push down the lid.  We follow the
possum as it waddles down the alley toward the street.  It ducks under
a parked car but I feel its eyes follow us down the block.  Wanda takes
a parking ticket off her windshield and tosses it in back with a bunch
of others.  I scrunch into the front next to a stack of heavy-wool
Confederate Army coats.  "Thank goodness for war," she says.  "Half the
television and film work I do is about one war or other."

We drive past Annie's as she's turning out the lights.  It's not good,
an old woman alone like that.  What if someone breaks in?  What if the
murderer

I shudder.  Shake it off.  Force the bad thoughts out, let the good
thoughts in.  Annie has many wonderful friends on the block to watch
out for her, call for help if help is called for.  All right, so it's
not the same as coming home to Walter, but at least there are people
around ready with a friendly word and a cup of coffee.  Old people know
how to be neighbors.  I can't name one person in my apartment building.
Well, maybe the Potters across the hall.  And Rooster Man.  But
everyone in Chicago knows Rooster Man.

I am outside my door, fishing for my keys, listening to Hamlet claw the
other side of the door, when it occurs to me that I should bring him to
visit Annie.  I bet she'd love the company.  Better, if the two of them
get along, Hamlet could move in with her.  He certainly deserves a home
with someone who will fuss over him the way Lily had.

"Hold on, hold on," I say.  The second I crack the door, he jumps all
over me, darting away, running back.  "Will you calm down?"  I try to
sound firm but he's not buying it.  Maybe that's because the more he
acts up, the more I'm smiling and laughing.  It's a great big warm
fuzzy coming home to someone happy to see me.

Later, snuggled in my bed, yielding to the weight of sleep, I
experience one of those moments when I feel the desire to share my life
with someone.  It doesn't happen often.  Especially not after some of
the dates I've had.  But tonight is rough.  It was fun eating a hot dog
at the Lake with Roblings, riding the Ferris wheel.  I enjoyed his
company, in a mildly adversarial sort of way.

And Annie's love for her dead husband reminds me that, Grandma Belle
aside, lasting love is possible.  I drift off, thinking how nice it
might be to have someone besides Hamlet waiting at the door to greet
me.

Chapter 29

Opening night.  Two of the most exciting and terrifying words in an
actor's life.  Opening night.  Yes, thank you, I would love surgery
without anesthetic.  Yes, please push me out of the plane without a
parachute.  Yes, total tooth extraction would be just peachy.
Titanic-sized disasters happen on opening nights.  Of course, there can
be an upside.  Sometimes.  But that's something you never know until
after.  Opening night.  It can go a million different ways.  All of
which I try not to think about as I put on makeup, costume, wrap myself
inside a bubble of calm.  Good-bye real world, catch you later.  Hello
Mother, Brother, Sister, Boyfriend.  "Five minutes.  Five minutes,
everyone."  The disembodied voice comes and goes down the hall.  "Five
minutes."  The air crackles with energy as we fall into line.  Whose
idea was this?  I've changed my mind.  I need to go home, wash my hair,
do my nails.  We cluster in the wings, listening as the producing
director makes a pitch for coming performances, subscriptions, inviting
one and all to enjoy wine and goodies in the lobby after the play. Then
the theater goes still.  Music up.  Lights.

Curtain.

Mother goes onstage.  Then Brother.

Something wicked knots my innards.  I feel the new leko dangling
overhead like a loose tooth.  It will fall again.  This time it will
find its target.  Cleave my poor head in two.  I dare to look up.  The
lights sit tight in their nice neat rows.  Not a waggler among them. My
nervousness is not about death-by-light-can; it is about
life-by-acting.

Cue Daughter.

I step onstage.  Every scrap of nervousness, misgiving, and fear that
crippled me during the weeks of rehearsal disappears.  Poof!  I enter
the 'zone."

Lights blind me, but I sense the audience the way a snake senses prey
part movement, part scent, part sound.  This group is lively and
responsive.  They energize and inspire our ensemble.  Rhythms click as
we hit all our emotional and physical marks exactly right.  What are
the odds of that, me bucko?  Nil to none.  I get high on the rarefied
air.  Oh yes.  It is one of those magical nights that make sense out of
this insane way of life.

Excuse me, but why does a relatively sane, moderately intelligent young
woman subject herself to the humiliation and degradation of cattle
calls, low pay, arrogant directors, inept technicians, ego conflicts,
and other slings and arrows aimed directly at her heart?

Because of moments like this.  Exactly like this.  When the world and
my muse dance in perfect step.  Mystical moments erupt, unexpected.
Magic happens.  And then we are done.  Just like that.  After weeks of
rehearsal, it is over in an eye-blink.

Daughter speaks the last line of the play.  A moment's pause.  Then
thunderous applause reaches past Daughter back to Me.  My heart pumps
dangerously fast as I free-fall into the sound.

Annie squeezes my hand as we take our third curtain call.  I squeeze
back, profoundly grateful to play my Daughter to her Mother.  Lily
London, may she rest in peace, had no clue how to bring such heart and
warmth to a part.  I close my eyes, thanking the theater gods for gifts
received.  Maybe, if I'm grateful enough, they'll do it again.

Brenda Moore strolls ahead of me from stage to dressing room.

Each of her anemic white arms is linked with those of two well-tailored
financial-looking types.  Her laugh runs up and down the scale.  How
witty the men are, how much fun she is having with them.  Brenda might
only have forty-eight cards in her deck, but that's all she needs to
play this particular game.  I could get work, too, if I flirted with
the right people.  "If, if, if," Grandma Belle likes to chide, 'if
Paris were a cork, you could put it in your pocket."  I sit at the
makeup table, slather cold cream over my face.  What do I want most
right now?  Now that the play is over and the audience is leaving and
the theater lights go down?  What do I really want?  I want to climb
into my grungy clothes, join the rest of the cast for greasy burgers
and cheap wine, and relive every delicious moment of the enchanted
evening.  I tissue off the cream.  What I must do, what we all must do,
is dress like civilians, affect our best manners, and mingle with
members of the board, the backers, the press all the mucky-mucks who
make theater possible.  Lord bless them one and all.  I wash my sweaty
self as best I can in the women's room sink, dab on lighter makeup, and
slip into something less comfortable.  This gearing up to go from one
performance to another takes nearly superhuman effort.  Beth comes into
the dressing room, beaming, a thinner version of her old self.  "You
were fabulous," she says.  "You made it!"  I jump up, hug her, feel the
jutting back-bones she's hidden under her oversized sweater.  "Twisted
my ankle," she says, loud enough for the others to hear.  She's wrapped
an ace bandage around one leg to explain why she's using a cane.  She
sinks into a chair.  "I have to go out front and make nice," I say.
"Come with me.  It will do you good to see everyone."  She begs off.
"I'll wait here.  Revel in the roar of the greasepaint, the smell of
the crowd."  I laugh.  "You're sure?"  She nods.  "I'm still a little
shaky around crowds."  "Can you stick around, go out with us later?"
"I'll try.  I slept a lot during the day.  I might have enough stamina
to make it a couple more hours."

The theater lobby is one large party.  A phalanx of waiters circulates
with food and wine.  I enter the fray, inhaling a few small hors
d'oeuvres from a passing tray.  They don't begin to take the edge
off.

Evelyn brushes past me, working the crowd.  Lively, gracious, Wexler's
daughter has a way of making each V.I.P feel as if the play couldn't
have happened without him or her.  It's obvious she's done this before,
many times.  Wexler, cemented in place, waits for people to come to
him. Evelyn brings a steady stream to pay homage.  She is his best
promoter. I wonder how much of his comeback is due to her energetic
efforts.

"Morgan?"

I turn to a man I don't know.  Fiftyish good-looking in a slick
soap-opera sort of way, he shows a smile of even white teeth.

"Hello," I say, smiling, holding out a hand.  He could be anyone.  I
play my Most Charming Self.  He takes my hand in a firm grip.  I catch
a whiff of expensive aftershave.  Nice.

"I'm Stan Parker," he says.

No clue.  "Oh, yes," I say.  If he's someone important theater critic,
play producer, casting director the last thing I want to do is ask,
"Who the hell is Stan Parker?"

"You don't know me.  I'm a friend of your Aunt Stella's."

"Ah."  Aunt Stella is the only one of my mom's poker buddies who never
fixes me up.  Until now.  The entire world is conspiring against me.
Paranoid?  Moi?

"When I told her I was coming here tonight, she said I must say hi. So,
hi."  The crowd pushes against us as new food is passed.  "I know
you're busy.  I don't want to keep you."

"I hope you enjoyed the play."

"You were perfect.  The way you captured the Daughter's conflicted
emotions.  A difficult role.  You really nailed it."

I warm to this perceptive man.  "Are you in theater?"

"I wish."  His smile crinkles fine lines around hazel eyes.  "I'm at
the Board of Trade.  But theater is my passion.  I see every play in

Chicago and try to get to New York every other month or so."  He
releases my hand, "It was nice meeting you," and then he is gone.
Interesting.

"Morgan."  Evelyn waves me over.  "These charming people would love to
meet you."

I float to the middle of an expensively dressed group, graciously allow
them to shower me with kind words.

All right.  I lied.

Not only do I want to be out here schmoozing the mucky-mucks and the
money people, I thrive on it.  It's been so long since I've done live
theater that I'd forgotten how much I love the attention.  People touch
my arm, my shoulder, wanting to be near the star.  I accept it as
humbly as possible.  "Yes, thank you, how very kind of you to say so.
But remember (slight lowering of eyes), I am but one part of an
ensemble.  Everyone helped make the play a success."  Pish-tosh.  I am
too, too modest.

It is nearly an hour later when I realize that most of the others have
left.  I've been deep in conversation with two producers interested in
having me read for a musical they're putting together.  "Of course I
can sing.  And dance.  And play the piano."  If I get the role, I'll
learn to do it all.  "Always say yes," Grandma Belle told me.  "It
creates options."  They give me their cards and we agree to have our
people call each other.

I head back into the theater, cutting across the stage to get to the
dressing room.  Brenda, still in full costume and stage makeup, gives a
behind-the-scenes tour to her crowd of admirers.  They block my way.  I
reroute, squeezing behind the backstage scrims, ducking through a dark
passageway.  Nearby, a stagehand's radio blares a basketball game.
There is barely any light in this area.  I must feel more than see my
way through.

"Defense  Defense"  scream the basketball fans.

Wha ?  I nearly bump into two dark forms entangled in an embrace.  What
stops me from ramming right into them is catching the scent of
expensive aftershave.  If my nose is as good as I think, the fragrance
belongs to Stan Parker.  Aunt Stella's friend is in an unmistakably
intimate hug with another man.  A faint light glints off Wexler's
silver hair.

"Defense  Defense"

The hors d'oeuvres and champagne claw their way up my throat.  I
swallow them back.  Hot sweat erupts from every pore.  I grab a nearby
cable to steady myself.  The men don't turn.  Haven't heard or seen me
.. . yet.  The deafening screams from the basketball game mask my
footsteps.

"Defense  Defense"

My legs feel numb as I back up.  Please don't let the men turn around.
Please let the radio keep blaring.  Please don't let me bang into
anything.  I back out of the darkness into the light, remember to
breathe.

"Just what are you doing?"  The urgent voice behind me is low,
threatening.  Warning shivers bolt up my spine.  I turn and face a
glowering Evelyn.  She stands, legs apart, arms crossed.

"I'm not doing anything," I say.

"You're spying."

"I am not.  I'm on my way to the dressing room."

Her eyes narrow.  "I know exactly what you're up to."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

Her upper lip curls.  A dog about to attack.  "If I hear one word, one
innuendo, the slightest hint of a rumor, I'll know where it came from."
She hesitates an instant to be sure her message is understood, then
turns and storms off.  How hard this must be for her.  How much she
must love him to protect him like this.

I am trembling as I go to collect Beth.  One thing is certain: Lily
lied to Beth.  Lily claimed Wexler was attracted to her when they
worked together all those years ago.  It's obvious Lily said that to
build herself up in Beth's eyes.  How sad, when there wasn't any need.
Beth's love for Lily was unconditional.

Chapter 30

We squeeze around Act Four's pushed-together tables passing bottles of
rotgut red, ordering burgers, pasta, anything cheap and filling in that
order.  Conversation is stuck on theater critics spotted in the
audience.  "I definitely saw Martinson wink a few times," says Brenda.
"I'm sure it's a good sign."  Murray affects a comic twitch.  "Nervous
tic, luv," he says.  Twitch.  Twitch.  "Occupational hazard for
critics.  Conics from wincing.  Anyone see the Times critic?"  "I
watched her nibs from the wings," says Annie.  "Her head drooped a bit
at the end of the first act.  Couldn't tell if she was concentrating or
napping."  "When will the reviews come out?"  Brenda asks.  Annie
sighs. "They didn't review the last play I was in until after it
closed."  We share a round of horror stories, actors' names misspelled,
tides of plays gotten wrong, theater names mixed up, addresses and
times sheer fantasy.  "To the good old days," says Murray.  We hoist
our glasses. "To waiting up together for the morning editions, bracing
for opening-night reviews.  We'll not see those days again."  "Here,
here." We drink a melancholy toast.  "Could she really have been
sleeping?" asks Brenda, two beats late as usual.  "Very possible," says
Annie. "Although when Murray dropped trou, she did seem to perk up a
bit."

"Wish it had that effect on my girlfriends," he says.  "Oops, don't
turn 'round.  The heavy hitters have arrived."

We all turn.  As waiters bang in and out of the kitchen doors behind
us, Wexler, Evelyn, the producing director, artistic director, and a
few members of the board flow across the restaurant to reserved tables
near the windows.

"I would love, just once," Murray says, 'to sit above the salt."

"Quitcherbellyachin'," I say.  "Travelin' steerage ain't all that bad.
Look at all the fine upstandin' people you have to commiserate with."

Murray gives us a doleful look.  "My point, exactly."

"Here."  Beth puts a saltshaker under Murray's chair.

He wiggles his rear like a bird settling on the nest.  Sighs
contentedly.  "Much better," he says.

An hour passes as we devour everything not bolted to the table.  Beth
pushes food around her plate, trying to make it appear that she's
eating.  A noble performance for my benefit.  Although, her color does
seem less pasty, more its old healthful glow.  I look harder.  Nothing
has changed.

We are awaiting dessert and coffee, passing time by hanging spoons from
various areas of our faces, when Wexler comes over.

"There is a dead spot at the beginning of the second act," he says,
'that bit when Mother and Son move around Daughter as if she's
invisible?  You need to pick up the pace.  It didn't get the laughs it
should."

I glance over at Wexler's table.  Catch Evelyn's eye.  She shoots
daggers my way.  Direct hit.  Don't worry, little lady, I'm not
squealing on your dad.  A gifted actress such as myself, one with a
spoon hanging from her nose, has more interesting things to discuss
than her director's sex life.  Like .. . like .. .

"So," says Wexler, "I'll have these suggestions typed up and leave
copies in the dressing room for tomorrow's performance.  Any
questions?"

We couldn't think of a one.

"All right then, tomorrow."  He abandons us for the more refined group
at the grown-ups' table.

"It wouldn't have killed Mr.  Warmth to say "Nice job,"" says Murray.
We remove the spoons from our faces, use them to stir cream into our
coffees.  "I think," says Beth, 'that what this evening needs is a
toast to Lily's memory."  We all hoist glasses.  Annie arranges her
face in a brave smile, but I know she's uneasy about the way she got
the role, as if she's dancing on Lily's grave.  Beth's eulogy only
freshens the guilt.  I keep quiet, weighing Annie's discomfort with
Beth's need to commemorate Lily in this particular surround, with the
cast of this particular play on this opening night.  "Toast Diana, too,
of course," says Beth.  "But most especially Lily.  What a great loss
her death has been.  Such a dear, dear friend.  Not a day passes that
some small thing doesn't trigger memories of my time with her.  And so,
to Lily, who first had the joy of appearing in the play forty years
ago.  And whose spirit guides us all."  We drink.  A lot.  Quickly.
Beth's eulogy invites the specter of death to our celebration, throws
the wettest of towels on the evening.  The party fizzles as, one by
one, people remember the late hour, how tired they are, places they
need to be.  She gives me a wan smile.  "I really know how to clear a
room."  "Don't worry about it.  Everyone's tired.  It's been a long
day."  I dig my keys out of my purse.  "Come on, I'll drive you home."
"Murray already offered," she says.  "My place is on his way home."  We
hug and I watch her make her unsteady way out.  That's it, then.  The
night is over. Except I'm wired.  I rarely sleep right after a
performance, need a few hours' winding-down time.  I have no desire to
go home and stare at the walls until four in the morning.  I need to be
out.  Need late-night buddies to hang with.  Trouble is, most of the
people I see out after midnight are kids searching for loud music and
cheap booze.  There are a few adults who work late shifts.  Such as?
Oh, firemen, nurses, certain police detectives.  The house phone next
to the coat check beckons.  I find Roblings's card in my wallet a sign
if ever there was one and drop in the coins.  Slowly punching in his
phone number, I try to think what I will say.  He is probably knee-deep
in blood and gore.  Spent the night poking the decaying underbelly of
man's inhumanity.  And here I come, all bright-eyed and cute, fresh
from a lovely evening in the theater.

My finger hovers over the last number.

And just what are we doing?

Asking a friend if he'd like to join me for a late-night .. . a
late-night .. .

A late-night what?

I'm not sure.

What do you want it to be?

I don't know.

Where is a script when you really need one?  I have no idea what to
say.  Which comes, as my acting teachers drilled into me, from not
having a clear idea of what my character wants.  Motivation.  What is
my motivation?

Grandma Belle's advice floats up.  "You're like the belly dancer
working at the same old grind.  Get out a little.  Live life.  Take a
chance every now and then."  Easy for her.  She keeps a divorce
attorney on retainer.

I push the last number, then immediately hang up.  I'll have to think
of another way to amuse myself these next few hours.

I find Annie outside, trying to hail a cab.  "Come on," I say, "I'll
give you a lift home."

She's feeling talkative, which is fine with me.  "This is one of those
hard times," Annie is saying.  "No one waiting at home to share the big
moments.  I'm usually pretty good, try not to feel sorry for myself.
But I do so wish Walter were alive to see this.  He likes this kind of
play.  Old-fashioned.  Predictable."  She smiles wistfully.  "He never
did understand my love of experimental theater.  Liked his world
simple, recognizable.  A meat-and-potatoes kind of guy."  We pull up to
her duplex.  A dim light glows on the front porch.  The house is dark.
She hesitates a moment, as if bracing to go inside.  "Well, thank you
again.  See you tomorrow."

Curtains shift in the next-door neighbor's window as Annie shuts the
car door.  A vague form peers out.  Must be Annie's friend with the
sick husband.  My parents live in this kind of neighborhood where
people look out for each other.  Last year, their eighty-year-old
neighbor noticed four men in jogging suits leaning against a van,
smoking.  She called the police.  "I just don't think joggers smoke,"
she said.  Four squad cars arrived immediately.  Turns out the joggers'
were part of some radical foreign political group bent on kidnapping a
local politico.  "Old people are the best," the cop told my folks.
"They know how to watch and they're not afraid to call us."

Annie looks fragile as she climbs the front steps.  I picture her
walking through empty rooms haunted by photos of loved ones dead and
gone.  I live alone too, but I've always lived alone.  More or less. It
must be more brutal when you're used to forty years of coming home to
someone you love.

The idea hits.  "Annie.  Annie, wait."  I run after her.  "Look, I have
to visit my parents tomorrow after the matinee.  Sunday dinner sort of
thing.  Anyhow, I was thinking, if you'd like, I can bring Hamlet over
for a visit.  Let him stay with you a couple of hours.  My dad's
allergic to dogs, so Hamlet would just be sitting home alone.  This way
you can spoil him a little.  He's really a cute dog.  If you like
dogs."  Which I know she does from all the dog photos in her house.

"I ... you're sure it's not out of your way?"

"I pass right by.  After the matinee, I'll run home, pick him up, bring
him over."

She's beaming like a kid at Christmas.  "That will be lovely," she
says.  "Yes, that will be very lovely.  Thank you, dear."

I leave feeling fabulous.  Hamlet is just the tonic Annie needs.  I'll
bet a small dog can restore joy to an aching heart.  And if things go
well, who knows?  Hamlet may have a new home.  My mother's poker
buddies aren't the only matchmakers in town.

Chapter 31

Old bottles of nail polish Blimey Limey Green, Halloween Black, Vampire
Red help me amuse myself into the wee hours of the morning. Accompanied
by old English war movies and cups of Sleepytime tea, I paint intricate
designs on my toenails.  I strive for artistic.  What I get is
Kandinsky on speed.  Hamlet holds reasonably still while I paint his
toes black with green and red polka dots.  Around four, I finally
unwind enough to climb under the covers.

Tappity-tap pity-tap pity  Hamlet's fashion-forward nails click back
and forth on the floor, waking me around the crack of noon.  He tilts
his head at me, leash in mouth.

"Go ahead without me," I say, pulling blankets over my head.  When I
was out of work I spent leisurely Sundays in bed, reading the Times
cover to cover, occasionally not getting dressed at all.  Careful.  The
theater gods are everywhere, hear everything.  They may consider this a
wish and grant it.

Hamlet jumps up on the bed, prancing over my body, rattling the leash.
I peek out.  "All right, all right.  Go brush your teeth and comb your
fur.  I'll be there in a sec."  He refuses to be distracted.  Maybe, if
I roll out slow, I can walk him and feed him without waking up.

Outside, he darts down the steps and heads left, our usual route.  This
time I pull him right, down two blocks to the newsstand.  Luckily it's
a beautiful Sunday.  Crowds of walkers keep the surly vendor busy while
I sneak peeks at the Sun-Times and Tribune theater sections.  No
reviews.  Not one word.  I knew there wouldn't be any; didn't we talk
about it last night?  Still, there's always the off chance I was wrong.
The critics never seem to come when I've turned in a great performance.
Some kind of perverse critic-radar lets them hone in on off nights.
Depressed, I lead Hamlet home.  He has the compassion to do his
business quickly.  Back upstairs, I fall into a pot of coffee and the
Sunday New York Times.  I barely make a dent in the arts section before
it's time to leave for the matinee performance.  I set out Hamlet's
food and gather my bags.  Glancing in the mirror on my way out, I see
where last night's wine, food, and lack of sleep have ballooned the
bags under my eyes.  I lean in for a closer look.  The overhead light
plays mean tricks.  Grandma Ruth's face stares back at me.  My luck.
The rest of my siblings take after Grandma Belle's side of the family,
the side that doesn't age, that eats what it wants and still stays
slim.  Next incarnation, I'm going to pick my dominant genes more
carefully.  I slip on a pair of dark glasses.  Don't want to terrify
small children and dogs on my way to the theater.  Roblings leans
against his car in the theater parking lot.  He straightens as I pull
in, ambles over.  "Morning, Detective," I say.  My voice sounds like
wet mud.  "Rough night?"  I try clearing my throat.  Air through
sludge. "What brings you out in daylight?"  "Want to check a few
things."  He waits as I gather my many bags what are all these things I
drag around? walks me to the theater.  Twin sisters, on the far side of
eighty, strain to open the theater door.  Bent like a couple of
Vaudeville hooks, they are identically dressed: floral silk dresses
belted at the waist, large bows clipped like gardenias above their left
ears.  Both women carry ebony canes with gold swan-shaped handles.
Roblings reaches over their heads, holds the door.  "Thank you," they
say together.  Same voice.  Same tonal quality.  Like Sylvia and me.  I
wonder if these two also sang duets when they were young.  Sylvia and I
would work on harmony for hours and hours.  I miss Sylvia.  The thought
catches me off guard.  I am stunned by the powerful truth of it.

Roblings and I follow the sisters in.  I spot Frick and Frack, two of
the funnier characters on staff, working the ticket booth.  Their real
names, something like Laura and David, are hardly ever used.  They look
up when we enter, eyes widening in mock terror.  Shtick.  I assume
they're reacting to the presence of Roblings the cop.  Frick reaches in
his pocket, pulls out a half-dollar, flips it in the air, slaps it onto
the back of his hand.

"Heads," calls Frack.  Frick peeks at the coin, winces as if he's just
been stabbed.  He jams the coin in his pocket and lurches like Igor to
the ticket window.  "Yesssssss?"  he hisses at the twins.  This bit of
improv, I realize, has nothing to do with Roblings.

Roblings's voice pulls me away.  "You once told me," he says, 'that any
food found backstage is fair game for actors."

"That's right."

"Lily died because she ate something intended for Wexler."

"Yes."

"The question is, would a nice old lady like Lily London have stolen
the fruit from the basket?"

"I don't think she was all that nice."

"Is that a yes?  She would steal?"

"In a heartbeat."

My answer doesn't please him.  "Then the next question is, when, where,
and how did she get it?"

"That's three questions."

He gives me a look.  Sighs.  Takes out his notebook and flips through
in search of something.

Over at the box office, two ancient voices rise in protest.  "This
won't do.  Not a bit."

"Ladies, please," says Frick.  He turns the ticket-office computer
screen toward them.  "Look."  The theater's seating plan displays
available seats in green.  Sold seats in red.  The screen is mostly
red.  Frick points to two green seats in the balcony, several rows and
sections apart.  "This is the best I can do for you today."

One sister points third row center.  "You will put us here."

Roblings, sensing that I am easily distracted, slides his hand under my
arm, guides me off to one side.  "I need you to help me understand what
happened here," he says.  "If all of you steal food ' I bridle.  "It's
hardly stealing.  It's more by way of a time-honored theater
tradition."  He lets it slide.  "All right.  But you see my problem?"
"Not really."  I try to stay with him, but my mind is already shifting
into my role.  "I'll keep this simple.  My problem goes to motive.  Did
Lily and Diana happen by chance upon poisoned food?  Or did someone
purposely hand them the food."  "Different scenarios.  Different
motives."  "Exactly."  "She can't hear," shout the sisters, pointing at
one other.  A line has formed behind them, people wanting to buy or
exchange tickets.  "We have audio aids," says Frick.  "Can't abide
those things."  They jab the computer screen with gnarled fingers.
"You put us here."  "Those seats are taken."  "Here!"  they insist.
Third row center.  Roblings ignores the side show, seems focused on the
space around us.  "I'd love to know what happened here the morning Lily
died," he says.  He checks his notes.  "Beth drops Lily off around
eight-fifteen and watches her walk through these doors.  Lily is never
seen alive again."  He flips a page.  "The custodian opened these doors
at seven thirty.  The fruit basket was already on the Equity monitor's
desk when she arrived at eight forty.  Somewhere in that hour, the
fruit arrived and, by theft or design, Lily got hold of a grapefruit."
Crew begins arriving.  Cast.  More people join the box office line.
"Well," I say, "I'd better be going ' "How did the fruit basket get
here?  Who delivered it?"  Roblings folds his arms, rocks back and
forth on barge-sized feet.  Murray and Brenda walk in, spot me with the
good detective.  Guilt by association.  Their disapproving expressions
speak volumes, none good.  They pass without a word.  I check my
reflection in the glass door to see if "Guilty' is branded on my
forehead.  "I really need to get ready," I say.  Roblings nods,
distracted.  I sense him moving into the world of the murder the way I
move into the world of a play.  I pause a moment, try to feel Lily's
presence.  She floats regally through this space.  What happened to
you, Lily?  She doesn't answer.  I strain for an image, an idea.
Nothing.  Out of the darkness comes the stare of her eyes, lifeless on
the bathroom floor.  Guilt niggles.  "If only I had gone to the
bathroom .. . that bathroom, before my audition," I say.  "Maybe I
could have frightened off whoever killed her."  "Let it go," he says.
"You'll drive yourself crazy."  "That's what we actors do.  We thrive
on angst. If I were well adjusted I'd be a lawyer, a real estate agent,
sell perfume at Field's."  Evelyn walks in with Wanda.  They are in
heated discussion.  I try to distance myself from Roblings before they
see me. No such luck.  Evelyn gives me the evil eye.  She probably
thinks I'm siccing the cops on dear old Dad.  I'm usually better at
reading people.  I liked her so much the first time we met, was
grateful to audition my Daughter with her Mother.  How can she be such
a delight onstage and such a dragon lady off?  Will the real Evelyn
Wexler please stand up?  I am much relieved as they weave through the
box office line and head downstairs.  Poor Frick slumps at the ticket
window.  The elderly twins are wearing him down.  "Ladies, we've had
this discussion before.  Many, many times before.  If you want good
seats, I am delighted to give you good seats.  I live to give you good
seats.  It is my raison d'etre.  But you must make reservations in
advance."  "In advance!"  says one.  "At our age, we don't buy green
bananas."  "And they're a whole heap cheaper than your tickets," says
the other.  More cast members arrive.  See me with Roblings.  "I really
need to go," I say, hurrying off before Roblings can stop me.  As I
pass the box office, I hear the twins say "Senior Discount."  Frick
screams.  In the dressing room, sitting alone in front of the long wall
of mirrors, I feel decidedly leper like  Everyone keeps a healthy
distance.  The makeup areas to my right and left remain open.  Easy
banter passes over and around and through me.  I am invisible.  Cast
members who didn't actually see me with Roblings have obviously been
told I was with him, drew some of their own
where-there's-smoke-there's-fire conclusions.  I pretend I don't notice
I've been sent to Coventry, busy myself studying photocopied sheets of
Wexler's notes.  But the more I'm ignored, the more agitated I feel.
This has to end.  By rights, I should be milking enjoyment from every
second of this run.  Instead, my Shining Moment is being tarnished by
some joker bent on killing people.  This is becoming highly personal.
Annie, bless her heart, comes in and moves her makeup box right next to
mine.  I could kiss her.  A rumpled Wexler shuffles into our dressing
room.  Deep folds of skin bag under his eyes as if he hasn't slept for
days.  "Gentlemen," he calls over the partition, 'if you will.  I need
a moment."  The men, in various stages of dress, join us.  Wexler's
speech slurs as he takes us through his notes.  Directors usually
disappear once a play opens, move on to the next job.  It's clear that
Wexler doesn't have a next job.  Which is why he needs this play to be
a critical and financial success.  This could mean endless tinkering
with our lines, staging, and blocking.  Doesn't Equity say we get paid
extra for stuff like this?  I'll check my contract.  Better, I'll ask
Murray to call Equity.  He is deputy, after all.  It will give him
something to do besides turn up his nose at me.  It is hard to figure
out exactly what it is Wexler wants.  His focus jumps from one scene to
another, one actor to another.  We try to follow but only seem to upset
him with our questions.  Has he been drinking?  Taking drugs? Is the
pressure wearing him down?  Evelyn passes the doorway, pauses a moment
as her father harangues us for lackluster performances.  I try to read
her.  Sad, I think.  Weary.  She moves on before Wexler sees her.  We
are greatly relieved when he finally storms out.  "Well, wasn't that
special?"  says Murray.  "I hear ticket sales are a disaster." This
surprises me.  "I thought we were sold out."  "Those were early sales.
The advance was terrific because of the curiosity generated by the
murders.  Old news, old news.  Unfortunately, word-of-mouth after the
previews hasn't been all that great.  People are waiting to buy tickets
until the reviews come out."

"I've always felt this play a bit of an old chestnut," says Annie.

"If you ask me' Brenda looks directly at me 'what this play needs is
another murder."

Is it my imagination or do several of the others glance my way?  I
become extremely busy with my makeup, have no desire to attract
unwanted attention.  "Pretend you're the mother of the groom," Grandma
Belle's voice cautions, 'sit down, shut up, and wear beige."

The matinee goes surprisingly well, considering all the new directions
we have to remember.  We adjust our timing, our movements, our
intonations a la Herr Wexler's suggestions.  Even our mis-cues and
stumblings work one person remembering a change that another person
forgets.  The audience loves it.  Laughs frequently and loud, if often
for the wrong reasons.  Not what Wexler intended, I reckon, but if it
works, it works.  If only we can duplicate our mistakes next
performance.

A huge deli tray is waiting in the dressing room after the performance.
The accompanying note, from Wexler, apologizes if he seemed harsh
earlier.  "We all want this play to be the best it can be and sometimes
that means sacrifices of time and energy."

This is Evelyn's work.  I recognize her tone of writing from publicity
releases.  How exhausting it must be to spend her life smoothing the
waves her father creates.

Call me crazy, but the gorgeous tray heaped with expensive meats and
cheeses holds absolutely no appeal.  None of us who witnessed Diana's
death go anywhere near the food.  Her contorted face, Saint Vitus'
dance, the sound of her nose crashing against the floor, are
impressions burned deep into memory.  No corned beef in the world is
worth that risk.

Outside the theater, I pause to take a deep breath of cool, clean air.
I half expect to see Roblings in the lot, leaning against his car. He's
not.  At first I feel disappointed.  But after the way the cast
ostracized me for being seen with him, I also feel relieved.  I don't
remember the ride home.  My mind is on the play, the troublesome way
I'm being treated by the other actors.  Am I going to be 'the suspect'
the rest of the run?  Will this cloud of suspicion follow me to new
auditions, other plays, my entire career?  "Ah, yes, Ms Taylor. Weren't
you involved in all those murders over at the Heartland?"  Once
half-truths, innuendos, and lies rise from the muck, they tend to grab
hold, take on a rotten life of their own.  "Oh, the unfairity of it
all," as Grandma Belle would say.  Feelings of being the Victim take
hold and I am on the verge of some serious breast-beating when, for
some reason, the character of Blanche DuBois from Streetcar comes to
haunt, "I have always relied on the kindness of strangers."  Well, not
me!  I'm no victim.  I don't need to rely on anyone.  Where is it
written that I have to be a spectator?  As soon as I get home, I'm
calling my buddy Angie at Priscilla's.  I never followed up to see if
she was able to find out who sent Wexler's gift basket.  I've been
putting it off, afraid she came up empty.  As long as I don't call, I
can cling to a thin thread of hope.  Just deciding to make the call
clears my sinus passages and sets my spinal column straight.  Angie's
my ace in the hole.  If there's anything to find, she'll dig it up. She
has to.  Was Angie right?  Did some guy working in the warehouse make a
few quick bucks selling produce out the back door?  And, if she gets
him to admit it, will he remember what the buyer looked like?
Priscilla's answering machine comes on.  They're closed.  I leave a
message for Angie.  "Call as soon as you get this message," I say,
'anytime, day or night."  I know Roblings has drawn a blank at
Priscilla's.  No record of an order.  No record of a delivery.  That
doesn't mean there's nothing there.  Just because he's good at what he
does doesn't mean he's infallible.  Roblings has his methods, I have
mine.  I feel better than I have in a long time.  Positive.  Hopeful.
Something is going to break soon.  I sing snippets from "Cockeyed
Optimist' as I ballet-leap around the apartment, packing a few of
Hamlet's favorite toys for his visit with Annie.

Chapter 32

Hamlet chases his tail in the car.  Over, under, around.  "How am I
supposed to drive?"  I ask.  He climbs on my lap, licks my face before
sticking his head out the window.  Dogs.  "I'm sure this isn't safe.
Aren't there laws against this sort of thing?  Sit down and put on your
seat belt."  Nothing works.  He smiles all the way to Annie's.  She's
waiting on her porch as we pull up.  Hamlet starts barking, going crazy
until I open my door.  Annie whistles and Hamlet races straight for
her.  I'm left holding the bag with his leash, water bowl, favorite
toys.  I thought it would take at least a. few minutes for them to
become best friends.  "I'll be back in a couple of hours," I say.
"Here's my parents' number in case you need me."  "You go, have a good
time."  She cradles Hamlet in the crook of her arm.  "I have a backyard
in need of a little dog."  She nuzzles his nose.  "You'll be good and
tired when Morgan comes back, won't you?  Yes you will, you cute
thing."  The expressway, isn't.  Traffic crawls along at ten miles an
hour.  Even if I get off at the next exit, the ride's going to take a
good forty minutes.  I'll call Annie from my folks', tell her it'll be
more like three hours before I pick up Hamlet.  I'll have to remember
to let Beth in on my matchmaking plan.  Even though she's not able to
care for him, Hamlet's more her dog than mine.  And if Beth gets back
together with Lyle-the-allergic, it's a sure thing Hamlet is history.

The three expressway lanes narrow to one.  Roadwork.  Except no one
works on Sunday.  So why not remove the orange cones until tomorrow?
Let weekend traffic flow.  That would be too logical.

Breathe in, breathe out.  Breathe in, breathe out.  It's a pain to make
this drive every week.  Do I need this?  It would make my life
infinitely easier if my parents moved into the city.  What do they need
a big old house for anymore?  Every month something else needs fixing:
hot-water heater, roof.  They're paying taxes for a small mansion when
all they use are the kitchen, bedroom, bathroom, and den.  Maybe I'll
mention it to them for the hundredth time if I ever get off the
expressway.

By the time I get there, my parents are already preparing dinner. Dad's
assembling the salad.  That's usually my job.  "Sorry I'm late," I say,
taking over tearing the lettuce.  "Traffic was a bear."

The usual bombardment of questions about my day, my life, my
everything, doesn't happen.  Nothing happens.  An eerie quiet fills the
kitchen.

"We're moving," says Mom, without preamble.  Something in her tone
sends a warning buzz up my neck.

"Say that again."

"Moving," says my father.

"You're kidding."

"Don't I wish."

Quiet again.  Mom doesn't look at me, is extremely busy surgically
separating a chicken's wing from its breast.  I'm missing something
here.  "This is so weird," I say, testing the waters.  "The whole ride
here, I was wishing you'd move into an apartment downtown.  And, now ..
. where are you moving?"

"Naples," says my father.

"What about Naples?"

"That's where we're moving."

"Italy?"

"Naples, Florida," says Mom.

The solid bottom, of my world shifts underfoot.  "You're moving out of
state?"  "I thought you'd be happy," she says.  "You're the one always
after us to sell this place."  "Yes, but I want you closer, not farther
away."  "Well' her voice is crisp, snippy 'we can't always have what we
want.  Can we?"  Dinner is dreary.  This dinner, the one following an
opening night, is when my parents traditionally pump me for every last
delectable detail.  I should be regaling them with bons mots of lines
missed, cues blown, costume changes gone awry.  Tonight the
conversation revolves around their move.  "I've been offered a job as
the science and social reporter for the Naples Express," Mom says.  Her
voice is level, no joy, no excitement.  "With your father retired,
there is nothing to keep us in Chicago."  Dad turns to me.  "What am I
going to do in that cultural wasteland?"  "Same thing you do here," Mom
tells him.  He ignores her, pleads his case to me.  "They have palmetto
beetles the size of Volkswagens.  People saddle them up, race through
town.  Do you have any idea how hot it is in summer?"  "Chicago has
miserable summers too," says Mom.  "And, as far as cultural events go,
the last time you went to a museum was to chaperone Morgan's
eighth-grade class.  Besides, Florida beetles are tamer than Chicago
rats .. . both the two- and four-legged kind."  I listen in silence.
Why now?  Why are my parents suddenly upending their comfortable lives?
After dinner, we go to the attic.  The high-beamed, unfinished area
runs the length and width of the house.  Freezing in winter, sweltering
in summer, it has been used only for storage.  We can barely squeeze
through the years of accumulation, our family history crated and boxed.
My section has the most stuff, dating back to grade school.  "We're not
moving any of this," Mom says.  "Take what you want.  Anything left
after June twenty-fourth, gets tossed in the alley."  "You know I don't
have room."

She shrugs, unconcerned.  "Rent a storage space.  Give it away.  Donate
it.  Do what you like.  We are not schlep ping this to Florida."

I stare after her as she goes back downstairs.  This is not my real
mother.  My Real Mother would never talk to me that way.  She would
have started the evening asking how my performance went.  This impostor
didn't ask once.  And my real mother wouldn't ask me to part with my
possessions.

"You know, this is all because of you and Sylvia," Dad says.

"What is because of me and Sylvia?"

"Your mother never once talked about moving.  Leave her children, her
grandchildren?  Never.  Now, she can't stand being in the same state
with you two."

"You can't be blaming this on me."

"I can and I am.  I'm telling you what is.  Your mother is not the same
woman.  She doesn't laugh, she's short-tempered.  Your sisters say it's
change of life.  But I say it's a broken heart."

He leaves me to attic ghosts and dust motes.  I sit in the old rocking
chair, comforted by the rhythm of wood chair creaking on wood floor.
Mom is the heart of our family, solid, grounded, the reason the rest of
us felt free enough to go off in our quirky directions.  She has never,
ever been anything but excited for me, for my career.

I rock faster, staring at my hoard of stuff.  When am I supposed to
sort through it all?  How can I afford a storage locker?  Maybe one of
my siblings has space I can use.  Maybe a violent shiver runs through
me maybe I could move forward in my life if I cut anchor, stopped
dragging around dead weight.

Let go.

Just let go.

It's too much to think about now.

On the ride back to Annie's, I feel frightened for my parents, for
their future together.  Why have they, at this late date, uprooted
their lives, thrown themselves into the chaos of the cosmos?  It's
upsetting seeing fresh sparks rising out of sedentary lives.

Annie doesn't answer her doorbell.  I go around to the rear yard.
Hamlet's toys are everywhere.  I knock on the back door.  No answer.
Try it.  Locked.  Knock again.  Listen for Hamlet's bark.  Silence.
"Annie?"  I walk along the side of the house, calling up to a variety
of windows.  "Hamlet?"  This is when one of those cute little cellular
phones would come in real handy.  The problem is, they come with a
not-so-cute monthly bill.  I find a pay phone at the grocery on the
corner.  Annie's line is busy.  I walk back, ring the doorbell again.
Still no answer.  Still no Hamlet.  Now I'm getting nervous.  It's dark
outside.  A seventy-year-old street-smart Chicago native doesn't walk
these streets this late at night.  Even if Annie took Hamlet visiting,
she would have left a note.  I go back to the grocery, try calling
again.  Busy.  I call the operator.  "This is an emergency.  I need to
reach my mother but she's on the phone.  Please break through..  ."
"One moment please."  She comes right back.  "There is no one talking
on the line.  Perhaps the phone is off the hook."  This time I run
back. Annie's neighbor must have a key.  I bang on the door.  Yes it's
late, and they're old, and the husband is ill.  But this is an
emergency.  No answer.  A loud fan whirs in an upstairs window.  They
must be sleeping.  Can't hear.  Everything about this feels wrong.  All
the front windows are locked.  Around back, one of the kitchen windows
is open a crack.  I pull over a shaky wrought-iron table, stack three
lawn chairs on top so I can reach the window ledge.  I'm out of shape.
Running up and down my front stairs may keep me trim, but it does
nothing to strengthen my upper body.  Which is what I need now.  My
arms ache with the tremendous effort of hauling my body up and through
the window.  Rough wood scrapes my arms, a loose nail rips through my
slacks, scratches my thigh.  When was my last tetanus shot?  The window
is over the kitchen sink and I wiggle through onto the counter.  The
house is dark.  I recoil at the briny smell of corned beef and dill
pickle.  My stomach lurches at a sickening back-smell.  Light from the
other room casts dim shadows in the kitchen.  A small form lies just
inside the kitchen door.  "Hamlet?"  I say, moving down from the
counter, tiptoeing to the matted pile of fur.  "Hamlet?"

My eyes are adjusting now.  Hamlet lies still in a pool of urine and
vomit.  I kneel beside him, rest my hand on his small stomach.
"Hamlet?"

A sound from the other room.  Fear prickles my back as I look through
the doorway.  Annie lies sprawled on the living room floor,
unconscious, her fingers clutching the phone.

I grab Hamlet, rush to Annie.  Her skin is so white it glows.  "Annie,
Annie," I shake her, "Annie.  Please.  Annie," frantically push down
the phone button for a dial tone, call 911.  "Help.  Something's
happened.  Send an ambulance."  I give the address.  The woman tries to
ask questions but I drop the phone, see if I can't do something.

Why don't I know first aid?  I kneel over Annie's body, stick my finger
in her mouth, be sure she hasn't swallowed her tongue.  No, that's for
drowning, or is it seizures?  Should I induce vomiting or give
mouth-to-mouth?  What if I make things worse?  I bend my ear to her
mouth.  Hear her breathing.  Feel good warm breath.

Hamlet is the one not doing so well.  I push against his stomach.
"Don't be dead," I tell him.  "Don't be dead."  His body is warm.  Good
sign, right?  Is that a heartbeat I feel?  I spend a millennium rubbing
Hamlet with one hand, patting Annie's cheeks with the other before the
ambulance finally arrives.

"You can't bring the dog," the driver says.

"I can't leave him."

"Against rules.  Health department."

"He's very sick."

The guy looks at me like I'm nuts.  "Then an ambulance is the last
place I'd put him."

They are taking Annie's vital signs, putting her on a gurney, moving
out of the house to the ambulance.  I tag along, carrying Hamlet.

"Where are you taking her?"  I ask.

"Weiss Memorial."

The oxygen helps bring Annie around, but she's still more out than in.
When she does try to say something it's muffled by the oxygen mask.  I
smile encouragement, make soothing sounds as they load her gurney into
the back.  Then the doors close and the ambulance peels off, sirens
wailing.  I run back to the house.  I've got to get Hamlet help.  Fast.
Don't know a vet.  Can't find a phone book.  I run around in circles
holding his limp body, frantic because he's dying and I'm not doing
anything to save him.  He's shivering now.  I wrap him in blankets.
Need help.  Immediately, or Hamlet will die.  I call Roblings, manage a
couple of coherent sentences.  "Don't move," he says.  "Stay calm."  I
hear him dial another phone, talk to someone.  "All right," he says to
me, 'the cavalry's on its way.  Tell me what happened."  I'm telling
him what lit de I know when the wail of a siren pulls up and stops
outside.  "That'll be Frank," says Roblings.  "Go with him.  I'll talk
to you later."  I fly out of the house, jump in Frank's car, which
happens to be a canine unit complete with dog in wire cage in back.  "I
called ahead," he says.  "The doc will be there by the time we arrive."
Frank does not stop, works his siren and horn until we pull up in front
of the Chicago Veterinary Hospital.  He stays with me while Thelma, a
beautiful young vet who looks about twelve, works on Hamlet. "It is
definitely something he ate," she says.  "Maybe food poisoning." I tell
Frank about Annie.  He calls Weiss Memorial, tells them to check Annie
for food poisoning.  A lit de while later his beeper goes off.  "I have
to leave," he says.  He strokes Hamlet's matted coat.  "Poor lit de
guy.  You hang tough," he tells me.  "This one's a fighter."  Hamlet is
a fighter.  A survivor.  He'll make it through this.  Whatever this is.
"He's small," says Dr.  Thelma.  "Even a tiny bit of bad food could
have a devastating affect on his system."  She is, I realize, preparing
me for the possibility that Hamlet won't make it.  Frenetic air
molecules dart before my eyes.  The world grows wavy as my knees give
way.  I am on the floor, dizzy, sick to my stomach.  The vet's cool
hands press against the back of my neck, my forehead.  "Did you eat
whatever your dog ate?"  she asks.  "No."

She helps me sit, gently pushes my head forward until the dizziness
passes.  "Go to the waiting room," she says.  "I'll come in as soon as
there's a change."

An eerie place, this waiting room.  I keep the ceiling lights off,
opting for the quiet light of a table lamp.  The place is deathly
still.  I sit on the edge of a chair, my body bent in half, head
hanging down.  It helps ease the nausea.  For someone who hates
sickness, I seem to be wallowing in it lately.  I take bigger and
bigger breaths until I'm able to sit up.

Minutes tick past.  Fifteen.  Thirty.  I get up once to check on Hamlet
but barely make it to the door before dizziness sets back in.  I'll
wait here.

I call the hospital.  "I'm Annie Andrews's daughter," I say, so they'll
give me news, 'calling from Florida," to explain why I'm not at "Mom's'
side.

"She's doing well," says the floor nurse.  "We pumped her stomach and
now she's asleep.  We'll keep her overnight for observation.  Most
likely, they'll release her in the morning."

"Do they know what caused it?"

"Not yet.  They suspect food poisoning of some sort.  Your best bet is
to talk to the doctor in the morning."

Someone pounds on the outside door.  "Will you get that?"  Thelma calls
from the operating room.

I brace myself, expecting a grieving owner holding the bloody body of
the family cat.  Or dog.  Or parrot.  Through the peephole, I see
Roblings's face looking back at me.  I let him in.

"You look lousy," he says.

"Nice to see you, too."

"How's Hamlet?"

"He's in with the vet.  I ... I'm not good in there.  Maybe you could
go check for me?"

He does.  I pace the waiting room.  I've never felt so helpless.
Roblings comes back.  "She's still working on him," he says.  "Tell me
what happened."

For the second time, I tell him what little I know.  He makes a call.
Sends a couple of cops to Annie's house, see what they can find.
Fifteen minutes later they call back.  Roblings listens, turns to me.
"Do you know anything about some corned beef?"  I don't believe this.
"Not again."  "Is that a yes?"  "Wexler sent a deli tray."  "To you and
Annie?"  "To the whole cast.  It was in the dressing room after today's
performance."  "You didn't eat anything from it?"  "You kidding?"
"Good girl.  But Annie did?"  "I didn't see anyone touch it.  We're all
still a little skittish about theater food."  "But she could have?
Maybe took some home."  "It's possible."  He's back on the phone,
urgent this time, telling his people to go down the cast list, call
everyone.  See if they're sick.  If they are, tell them to get to a
hospital.  If not, warn them away from eating the food.  I try to sit
still but wind up pacing again.  Roblings goes back to check on things
in surgery. Hamlet doesn't deserve this.  I should have returned him to
Beth days ago, given him a more stable home with a more responsible
person.  Ha. Annie is a 'more responsible person."  A lot of good it
did Hamlet.  It is after midnight before Roblings's footsteps echo down
the corridor. I brace myself for the news.  "He's going to make it,"
says Roblings.  I am so prepared to hear 'death' that his words don't
immediately register.  Relief overwhelms me and I start sobbing.  I
never cry.  Am embarrassed by this outburst.  Roblings doesn't turn
away, seems comfortable with my emotions.  Wish I were.  Dr.  Thelma
comes in, peeling off latex gloves, wearily pushing a lock of hair off
her forehead with the back of her hand.  "I'll keep Hamlet overnight,"
she says.  "He should be his own sweet self by morning.  Lucky for him
you came along when you did."  Roblings makes calls as he drives me
back to Annie's to pick up my car.  "A few other people at the theater
ate those cold cuts," he says.  "The custodian says he wrapped
everything the cast left and took it home.  Says he made himself a
couple of real Dagwood sandwiches."  He's feeling just fine, thank
you."

"None of the others are sick?"

"Just Annie.  And Hamlet."

"Prophetic," I say.

"What?"

"In the dressing room before the performance, Brenda said what we
needed was another murder."

"Brenda's the cute blonde?"

"You think she's cute?"

"And why would she say something like that?"

"Ticket sales are off.  Another murder would stoke the public's
interest."

He waits while I climb into my car and start the engine.  I roll down
the window.  "You don't you can't believe Beth is responsible for this,
too."

"She and her boyfriend are up in Door County," he says.  "It's a
six-hour drive from here."

A non answer  But I don't press it.  I thank him for his help, then
drive off into the night.  The fact that he knows where Beth and Lyle
are means the police are keeping tabs on them.  Beth is still a
suspect.  Does Roblings think she paid someone to poison the food while
she's out of town, to throw suspicion off her?  That's how the good
detective's mind works.

The voice on my answering machine is Angie's assistant at Priscilla's.
She got my phone message.  Angie is on vacation until tomorrow.  Will I
please call back then?

I will.  But I know in my heart if Angie found out anything she'd have
called.  Why did I get my hopes up?  It's a great big world out there.
How do you begin to find one small killer?

Chapter 33

The theater is dark Monday and Tuesday, which gives me time to nurse
Hamlet back to health.  I cuddle him almost nonstop.  He whimpers if I
leave his sight for a second.  Annie, also back home, has turned off
her phone.  The recorded greeting assures everyone she's just fine.
Please leave a message.  She'll call when she has time.  On Tuesday, I
wrap Hamlet in a blanket, keep him on the seat next to me as I pick up
Beth.  "You're sure acting strange for someone who hates dogs and
sickness," she says.  I shoot her a look, which she cheerfully ignores.
Lily's apartment looks as if a tornado touched down; dishes and pieces
of furniture strewn about, the carpet filthy with scraps of papers,
threads, rubber bands, price tags.  I hold Hamlet close.  He lifts his
head, looks around, closes his eyes again.  If he recognizes his old
home, he is too weak to show it.  Beth is quiet.  This is hard for her.
But it has to be done.  We need to close the apartment, suture this
part of the wound so she can get on with her healing.  Harold greets us
with a Cheshire cat smile.  "You wouldn't believe the traffic," he
says.  "All those eager-beaver buyers, money just burning holes in
their very deep pockets.  They were lined up an hour and a half before
we opened.  All in the advertising.  The phrase "Estate of the famous
actress Lily London" created monumental interest."  His house-sale
workers scurry around, packing the leftovers.  "I found these in the
pocket of an old costume," he says, pulling out two fabulous antique
pins.  He pins a silver tragedy comedy mask pin on Beth, an Art Deco
woman's head on me.  "They are much too beautiful to sell."

"I never saw these," says Beth.

"Oh, our Miss Lily had all sorts of goodies tucked away.  A real pack
rat.  Lucky for us."

One of his workers calls and he leaves us to the wreckage.  "It's
eerie," says Beth as we wander the rooms.  "Like moving through the
skeleton of someone you knew."

"You all right?"

"Sad.  Losing a person you love leaves a huge hole in your gut."

Later, Harold sits Beth down at a folding table and hands her a bag
brimming with receipts to go through.  I take Hamlet outside and sit on
the stoop.  Gently, I unwrap the blanket from his tiny body, let the
sun's healing rays warm him.

"This will keep you busy," says Harold, handing me a glass of iced tea
and a large cardboard box.  "Theater stuff," he says.  "Thought you'd
enjoy a look-see while Beth finishes up."  He gets that gossipy look I
know and love, kneels on the stoop beside me.  "I heard about the
latest episode in Wexler's little melodrama.  Poisoned cold cuts.
Quelle surprise.  It's a miracle no one died."

"Hamlet nearly did.  And Annie was terribly sick."

"Wexler orchestrated the whole thing.  I have no doubt whatever."  He
pats the side of the box.  "Have fun.  I'll see how Beth's doing."

I rummage through the box of theater mementos, many from the time Lily
starred in my play.  Fascinated, I become lost in the old programs,
reviews, director's notes.  My nostalgia for a long-ago time in theater
comes bittersweet as I scan scripts typed on manual typewriters, read
fountain-penned letters.  It's not fair to love my work so much and
have so little opportunity to do it.  If only I had Brenda's husde,
could clone Murray's schmoozing factor.  Lily London knew how to
self-promote, keep working despite mediocre talent and out-of-date
style.  This is not sour grapes talking.  This is the sound of Truth.
Every theater school should make Sucking Up 101 a mandatory course.

Hamlet suddenly crawls from my lap, hobbles down the steps, yapping at
an old bag lady.  "Hamlet!  Come!"  He ignores me, tugging at items
overflowing from her shopping cart.  Terrified, she backs away from
him.  "Hamlet!  No!"  I run down, scoop him up, shake a finger.
"Naughty!  No!"  The woman cowers on the far side of her cart.  "I am
so sorry," I say.  "Are you all right?"  "Damn dog," she says.  "Should
be on a leash.  We got laws, y'know."  "You're right.  You're
absolutely right."  We stuff the scraps Hamlet dislodged back into the
pile.  I dig a few bills out of my pocket, fold them into an old boot
lying on top of her bags.  "This should cover any damage."  She snorts,
pushes her cart down the street, its squeaky wheels accompanied by the
soft clop of unlaced gym shoes.  Hamlet growls softly in my arms.
"Hush," I say.  "Hush."  Poor old woman, all alone, no place to go.
Something about her tiny body, wispy white hair reminds me of the
murderess at the police station.  I have to ask Roblings if they ever
found out what drove the old woman to bop her husband of sixty years
over the head with a skillet.  Harold escorts Beth down the steps.  I
hand him the box of Lily's mementos.  "It's a hoot seeing photos of
people who played our roles forty years ago," I say.  "I'd love to show
these to the cast."  "Anytime," says Harold.  "They'll be in the closet
at the shop. I'll use them for window display.  Maybe during the
Theater Festival." Beth seems preoccupied on the ride home.  Hamlet,
wrapped in his blanket, sleeps on her lap.  She strokes his head
slowly.  "A penny," I say.  "Lyle is pressuring me to marry him."  "The
man's head over heels." "I've noticed."  "Do you love him?"  She pauses
before answering. "That's not the issue."

"What's the issue?"  She doesn't say.  "Leaves the toilet seat up?
Tosses socks on the floor?"  A small smile.  "What, then?"

"I do love him.  But I'm afraid I'd be marrying him for all the wrong
reasons."

"Like?"

"Like I'm vulnerable right now.  My future's this huge question mark. I
have no idea how far the MS might progress.  I might have the mild type
that never gets any worse.  Or I could wind up ... wind up' she presses
her lips together, mustering courage 'wind up in a wheelchair unable to
do the most simple functions."

"But Lyle knows all this.  And, for some perverse reason, he isn't
daunted."

"Which is another reason not to marry him."  Her slight smile is
mischievous.  "He's obviously not too bright."

We round the corner.  Two men lean against a black car stationed
outside her apartment.

"Here we go again," she says.

"Cops?"

"Yep.  They were waiting yesterday when I came back from Door County. I
guess I'm somehow supposed to have poisoned Annie while Lyle and I were
hundreds of miles away."  She gently lifts Hamlet off her lap and onto
the seat between us.  "If only Lily had been as poor as I thought. If
only she didn't leave me a small fortune in her will.  Then the police
would have to look someplace else for her murderer."

"What possible motive could you have for poisoning Diana and Annie?"

She shrugs.  "Throw the hounds off the scent."

Two young women walk down the block.  The cops watch appreciatively.
They haven't noticed us yet.  "Don't go home just now," I say.  "Come
with me to visit Annie.  Let these lugs wait."

"Wish I could.  But I'm at the end of my energy."  She gathers enough
strength to open the car door.  "Need a good long nap.  I'll talk to
you later."

The cops snap to attention as she approaches.  They say something to
her, then escort her into her apartment building.

I cry as I drive to Annie's.  Been doing that a lot lately.  Not at all
like me.  But the frustration is just so great.  Knowing Beth is
innocent and not being able to help.  How do the families of innocent
people who are put in jail survive the anger?  I can't begin to imagine
how I would play that role.  Annie is delighted to see Hamlet alive and
recovering.  I feel the same about her.  "How've you been?"  I ask.
"Exhausted.  Friends, reporters .. . it's been nonstop.  Such fuss over
nothing.  I saw my doctor this morning.  She gave me a clean bill of
health.  I'll be back onstage tomorrow night."  "I called ' "Yes, sorry
I didn't call back.  So many people left messages.  I was going to
tackle the list tonight."  We settle in the little screened sunroom off
the front porch, look out over the quiet street.  Hamlet curls on
Annie's lap.  She rubs noses with him.  "I'm glad you don't blame me
for the other night," she tells him.  "Poor little baby.  Yes, so
sweet.-' He licks her face then settles in to have his ears scratched.
"What happened?"  I ask.  "It's so silly, really.  There was that
beautiful tray of food in the dressing room after the performance.  I
don't eat cold cuts, myself.  Too much salt and fat.  But no one else
was eating it and it seemed such a waste.  I thought it would make a
nice treat for Hamlet's visit.  I didn't think anyone would mind.  So I
wrapped up a few little things and brought them home and put them in
the fridge."  Hamlet rolls over, begging for a tummy scratch.  Annie
obliges.  "After you dropped him off, Hamlet had a good long romp out
in the backyard.  A real ham this one' she nuzzles him 'aren't you,
sweet thing?  Yessss, you are.  I gave him a nice little bath in the
kitchen sink.  Then I took out the meats and set them on the table,
meaning to tear them into little pieces and put them in his dish.
That's when the phone rang.  I left him for just a bit.  By the time I
came back, he was writhing on the floor.  Evidently, he pulled the
package of meat onto the floor and ate a good part of it.  That's when
I began to feel ill."  "Why would you be sick?  You said you don't eat
cold cuts."  "I don't.  But as I was setting them on the table, I took
a tidbit of the turkey.  A taste, was all.  It was nothing I even
remembered doing until the police pressed me on the matter.  I barely
managed to get to the phone before I passed out.  The next thing I
remember is paramedics putting an oxygen mask on my face."

"Was anyone else here?"

"Just me and Hamlet."

"What about earlier, when you were still at the theater?  Is it
possible you might have left the package of cold cuts where someone
could get to it?"

"I left it on top of my makeup case while I returned my costume to
Wardrobe.  Anyone could have tampered with it."

"Who was around?"

"Everyone.  Actors, board members, the managing director, Wardrobe,
Evelyn.  It's probably easier to think who wasn't there."  She strokes
Hamlet absently.  "What I find most troubling is that someone in our
troupe might be responsible for this.  I haven't harmed anyone.  And
Hamlet certainly hasn't."

As I'm leaving, Annie compliments me on the beautiful pin Harold gave
me.  I tell her about the house sale at Lily's place.  "I should do
that," she says.  "I don't have a square inch of extra space around
here, and I don't have use for ninety percent of the stuff."

"This is nothing.  Lily had closets full."  I tell her about the box of
mementos Harold put together from the original performance of the
play.

She claps her hands.  "What fun.  I would love to see that."

I promise to bring it to the theater.

A letter has been slipped under my apartment door.  My name is scrawled
in bold letters across the front.  A threat?  A warning?

I lift the flap, ease out the note.  Adam's writing slants across the
page.

You have every right to be angry with me, but what you're doing to your
sister isn't fair.  Sylvia has idolized you her whole life.  It's not
her fault you weren't ready for marriage when I was.  Did it ever occur
to you our breakup might be a blessing in disguise for us both?  Now
that I've experienced real love, I know that what you and I had was
great jriendship and mutual admiration.  But it was not love.  If you
are ever lucky enough to find the right person, you will know what I
mean.

Sylvia and I are going to be married September 21.  She wants you to be
her maid of honor but won't ask for fear you will refuse.  She couldn't
stand that.  Please, for all our sakes .. ."

I read and reread the letter.  Toss it away.  Rescue it.  Toss it
again.  My hand trembles as I pour a shot of the cognac I use to numb
menstrual cramps.  I down three quick shots.  It isn't until the fourth
that the pain starts to dull.

Chapter 34

The phone shatters my liquored sleep.  I rumble for the phone.
Radio-clock numbers glow bright red in the black room.  2:05.

"Lo?"

"Hey, Garbo.  It's Angie."  Her Chicago-Italian twang cuts through the
fog.  "Back from a week in Vegas."

"Hey, Angie."

"Got word you called."

"Right."

"You sleeping?  Gripes, I'm sorry.  The message said call right away.
Anytime."

"Yes.  No.  This is fine."  My tongue weighs three pounds.  "I was
wondering if you found out who sent that fruit basket to Wexler."

"Yeah.  Sure.  I called you on this."

I snap awake.  "Did you say yes?"

"I left a note the size of Texas for my temp to call you.  Ah, hell, I
thought you got it."

"Who?  Who sent it?"

"Would you believe, the old gal herself?"

"Priscilla?"

"Bingo."

"I thought you told me she's a hundred-fifty-year-old cigar-smoking,
poker-playing, stud-chasing golfer retired to Sun Valley, Arizona."

Angie laughs.  "True.  But some of the old-timers still call her for
favors.  It's like they think paying retail's a mortal sin."

"You're saying one of her old friends sent Wexler the fruit."  "The way
I get it is, this old geezer calls Priscilla for a favor, she calls the
warehouse and tells the guys to put a Peter Ruby together, heavy on the
citrus.  Then she tells them to run it over to Wexler at the theater.
Which is why I never had paperwork."  My mouth goes dry.  I am one
number away from winning the jackpot.  "Were you," I ask, 'able to get
the friend's name?"  "Yeah, sure.  Hold on a sec."  She clanks the
phone on her desk and I listen to the sounds of the warehouse coming
alive in the wee small hours.  Please let her find the name.  Please
don't let it be on the scrap of paper the temp lost.  Angie picks up.
"Harold Shaw."  It kicks the wind out of me.  "Harold .. ."  "Shaw.
Some old-time theater character.  Ever hear of him?"  "Yeah.  Yeah,
I've heard of him."  "The information here lists a business.  Junque
and Stuffe?"  "Thanks."  "Hope this helps.  Keep in touch."  Harold!
Why Harold?  I go around and around trying to come up with one innocent
reason Harold would send a gift to Wexler, a man he hates, has hated
for forty years.  There is no innocent reason.  Only dangerous, deadly
ones.  Harold sent the fruit, that's a fact.  What is not a fact but is
disturbingly possible is he somehow poisoned the fruit before it
arrived at the theater.  Ridiculous.  Harold would never hurt anyone.
Besides, why would he take action now, forty years after the fact?
Isn't time supposed to heal all wounds?  Didn't Harold cheerfully
overcharge Wexler's daughter for costumes for the play?  I was there. I
saw him with Evelyn and the costumer.  He didn't seem a man seething
with hatred.  But what other explanation?  Maybe time doesn't always
heal.  Maybe, sometimes, it also magnifies ancient hurts.  Like the old
woman who whacked her hubby.  All right.  So let's assume this is
possible.  He tries to poison Wexler, kills Lily by mistake.  But then,
why keep going and kill Queen Tut?  Why poison Annie and Hamlet?  No
matter how I push the pieces around, they don't fit the puzzle.  Night
crawls toward dawn.  I waver between calling Roblings and calling
Harold.  I'll have to tell Roblings.  But first I'll confront Harold.
He's been too good a friend for too long.  I won't sic the dogs on him
without warning.  And I'm not going to do it over any damned phone.
This has to be face-to-face.

Once I decide, I fall into exhausted sleep, not waking until the alarm
goes off at ten.

In a different lifetime, the one in which my mother still loved me, it
might not have occurred to me to volunteer to help my parents pack
thirty-five years of marital accumulation.  But since my unsettling
visit on Sunday, I've tried to think of ways to build Brownie points.
Yesterday I called my parents and volunteered to come over this morning
to help.  That was before I found out about Harold.  I need to go see
him.

I dial my folks.  This is a hard call to make.  No matter what I say,
I'm going to look bad.  As if my offer of help was insincere.  I feel
like a fraud.  "Something important has come up," I tell Dad.  "Not
that packing isn't important' dig myself in good and deep 'but this
can't wait.  I'll come help you tomorrow."

I listen as he relays the information to Mom.  My real mom would have
said, "That's fine, dear.  Don't worry about it."  This impostor
manages a bored "Whatever."  Her indifference drives a spike in my
heart.  There is a jostling of the phone as she takes it from Dad.  "I
should warn you.  Since you offered to help today, Sylvia said she'd
come tomorrow.  She's trying to be considerate of your feelings."  A
hugely pregnant pause.  "Do you think you can handle being with your
little sister in the same place at the same time?"

It's a rhetorical question, since she hands me back to Dad.  "You'll
never guess who I ran into at Max's Deli," he says.  "Remember Lester?
The attorney?"

"She remembers," I hear my mother say.  She never told Dad that Lester
parked his toothbrush at my place for a couple of months.  Dad doesn't
deal well with stuff like that.  Mom usually metes out that kind of
information on a need-to-know basis.  I wonder if this new mother will
be as considerate of his feelings.  I worry for him.  For her.  For
me.

"Shame you let him get away," Dad says.  "Nice guy.  You two would have
made beautiful children together."

"With my luck, Great-grandpa Ben's recessive genes would kick in and
our kids would look like Yoda."

He laughs.  "Well, any-hoo, it's a moot point.  He's getting
hitched."

"Hitched?"

"She's a real cutie.  Tax attorney specializing in real estate.
Articulate, good sense of humor.  Not as good-looking as you, though.
Well, see you tomorrow.  I'll have fresh bagels."

I stare at the phone after he hangs up.  Lester getting married?  It
doesn't compute.  Lester still yearns for me.  Is hoping we'll get back
together.  Why else did he run right down to the police station and
hold my hand so I wouldn't have to face Roblings alone?  And why else
has he been doing pro bono for Beth?

I run a quick ego check and find that mine has become an overgrown,
brambly thicket.  Time to hack it down to manageable size.  Lester
wasn't on the make at all.  Lester was being Lester, a genuine
solid-gold nice person.  I never trusted that.  Never thought he'd give
as much as he did without wanting anything in return.  Which seems to
say a whole lot more about me than about him.  None of it nice.

Chapter 35

I let myself into Junque and Stuffe and lock the door behind me. Harold
won't be in for another hour.  I have plenty of time.  I search his
rolltop desk for charges or checks to Priscilla's Produce. Nothing.
Most likely Priscilla doesn't charge old friends for favors. Still,
I'll feel a whole lot better if I have proof in hand before confronting
Harold.

I riffle the tidy slots of mail, looking for any clue as to why Harold
would have sent a gift to Wexler.  One cubicle is crammed full of
medical forms, reports, bills.  I thumb through them.  Harold has been
undergoing a series of tests and treatments.  He's never said anything.
And he certainly doesn't look ill.

Could he have a bad heart?  Might he be taking the heart medication
injected into the grapefruit?  The medical forms contain a maze of
incomprehensible terminology.  As near as I can tell, none of the tests
is for cardio or cardiac or anything heart related.  But there are tons
of blood tests.  Maybe AIDS?  Could he be dying?  Is that the reason
he's exacting revenge after all these years?  If Harold's dying, he has
nothing to lose by killing Wexler.  Except he didn't kill Wexler.  He
sent fruit, which could have been eaten by anyone.  That doesn't jibe
with Harold's precise nature.  He's not one to leave important matters
to chance.

I unlock the small closet where Harold stores special items.  The boxes
stacked floor to ceiling are clearly marked: EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY SNUFF
BOTTLES, PRE-WWII CIGARETTE CASES.  Mixed in with the stock are a few
personal boxes.  I find the box of LILY

LONDON THEATRE mementos and remove the lid.  Perhaps there is something
in here I missed.  The closet light is too dim to read the faded print
on yellowed pages.  I turn to go into the next room.  "What !"  "What
are you doing?"  An agitated Harold blocks the doorway.  Blood rush.
Heart explosion.  Easy.  Don't confront him while he has me cornered.
There isn't enough air in this claustrophobic closet.  I need to get
out or I'll suffocate.  "These," I say, holding out the box like a
cross before a vampire.  "Remember?  You said I could show the cast?  I
thought I'd take them to tonight's performance.  I didn't think you'd
mind."  What is that look?  Anger?  Disappointment?  Relief?  After a
moment, he relaxes, backs away.  "Sorry," he says.  "I've been terribly
on edge of late.  Such a great deal on my mind.  I was just on my way
to a doctor's appointment when I saw the store lights on.  I was
positive I'd turned them off last night.  When I peeked in and saw the
closet door open, I was certain I'd caught a thief."  Then why didn't
he call the police?  Because he's guilty of something?  I follow him
into the shop, clutching the box to keep my hands from trembling.  If I
don't confront him now, I never will.  Just bite the bullet, my dear,
and plunge.  "Harold, I know you sent the basket of fruit to Wexler."
His back goes rigid.  I brace as he turns around.  Will he deny?  Run?
Attack?  In one graceful movement, Harold drops into a wicker chair and
buries his face in his hands.  He begins crying.  Crying?  Not a
reaction I'd considered.  "Harold?"  I reach out a tentative hand, rest
it on his shoulder, feel the frail body under the hand-tailored suit.
He cries a long time before he's able to speak.  "I ... I never
intended to harm anyone.  Oh, dear God.  You must believe that.  The
whole thing was intended as a joke."  "Poisoning the fruit was a joke?"
"No.  Of course not.  Not that.  How could you think I'd do something
like that?"  "What else could I think?"  "I don't know what went wrong.
I had Priscilla put together a gorgeous basket, mostly citrus.  The
thing of it is, Wexler adores citrus but is highly allergic.  Breaks
out in the most hideous hives."

"That explains why he gave away such scrumptious fruit to mere
actors."

"Sending the basket was, perhaps, a bit mean-spirited of me, taunting
Wexler with something he loves but can't have.  The same way he
flaunted his relationship with my young lover.  Mean-spirited, yes, but
it did make me feel ever so wonderful."

He pats my hand, squeezes it gently.  His skin is cold.  "It was a
small joke, don't you see?  Easily arranged over the phone."

"You never saw the basket?"

"Never.  I called.  Priscilla sent.  Oh, my dear, you would love
Priscilla.  A real Damon Runyon character."  He shakes his head.  "How
or why someone tampered with my lit de gift is a mystery to me, too.
When I found out how Lily died, I was devastated.  If I hadn't sent the
fruit, might Lily be alive today?  I've thought of nothing else for
weeks."  He pulls a handkerchief from his breast pocket, dabs his eyes.
"I'm relieved you've found me out.  I am sick to death of carrying the
guilt."

"Detective Roblings will have to know about this."

"I understand perfectly.  Don't fret, my dear.  Do what you must."  He
pushes up out of the chair.  I help him.  "Now, I must get to the
doctor."

"Is it anything serious?"

"Of course."  He tries to sound flippant.  "Isn't it always serious
when it's you?"

I watch him return to a wa ting taxi.  He's moving slowly, with
difficulty.  How long has this been going on?  Why haven't I noticed?
For someone who prides herself on being such a keen observer of the
human condition, I seem to be oblivious to flashing neon signposts.

Harold drives off and I go back inside to call Roblings.  I probably
should have insisted that Harold wait for the good detective.  What if
Harold lied to me?  What if he is guilty?  What if he's making his
getaway right now?

Chapter 36

Detective Roblings has stepped away from his desk.  Would you care to
leave a message?"  Yes.  Tell him Ms Morgan lower-than-pond-scum Taylor
is calling to rat on her dear friend Harold.  "Yes, please," I say,
giving her Junque and Stuffe's number.  "Have him call as soon as he
gets this message."  While I wait, I thumb through the desk slot with
Harold's medical papers.  Have I been so wrapped up in my own life that
I never noticed the burdens he's been dragging around?  Either that, or
Harold is one hell of a good actor.  The medical papers date back
months.  Sad that a person can look so healthy and be so sick.  Or the
reverse.  Lily was always complaining about her health.  So, so sick.
Oh, her poor heart.  Ah, her delicate condition.  What a conniver.  A
few of Harold's letters bear the rising phoenix, the same logo as the
one on the letter I opened from Lily's insurance company.  The letter
telling her she sent them her Equity dues in error.  An old thought
shifts, catches new light.  If both the medical examiner and Lily's
doctor say she was disgustingly healthy when she was killed, why was
she contacting her insurance company?  What was on that insurance form
she mailed to Equity by mistake?  Did they ever send it back?  I call
Beth.  "No," she says.  "I haven't received anything like that.  Maybe
the people at Equity realized Lily's error and mailed the forms
directly to the insurance company."  "You're probably right."  That's
it, then.  No insurance company is going to tell me what's on a
client's form.  "Speaking of insurance," says Beth, "I've arranged to
have my fillings taken out."

"Your insurance will cover it?"

"Dream on.  They say it's an unproved procedure."

"Expensive?"

"I've bought cars for less.  But I talked to two women with MS who had
fillings replaced.  They both say they feel much better."

"Could be a placebo effect."

"You sound like my brother the doctor.  But if it were you, wouldn't
you try?"

"I'd pull out my own teeth if I thought it would help."

She laughs.  "My brother says this whole issue whether I can get
mercury poisoning from dental amalgam smacks of quackery.  But hey,
I've got nothing to lose.  Besides, this is the perfect time.  I've
tidied up the last of Lily's business as best I can.  Closed the
apartment.  I'm feeling stronger but still not up to auditioning."

"What does Lyle say?"

"Whatever I decide to do is fine with him.  I might as well go for
it."

She sounds up, for a change.  I debate whether to tell her about Harold
sending the fruit to Wexler.  The fruit that killed her beloved Lily.
Beth is sure to find out, sooner or later.  And when she does, she'll
wonder why I kept this secret.  "There is one other thing .. ."  I say,
laying out the news as gently as possible.

For a long time she doesn't speak.  It's too much for her to take.  I
never should have .. .

"After what I've been through these past few weeks," she says, her
voice tired, "I will never, ever, accuse someone of something unless I
know, firsthand, they are guilty.  People are much too ready to believe
the worst.  I loved Lily."

"I know."

"And the police have turned that all around.  They think I befriended
her for her inheritance.  For money I never knew she had.  It's been a
nightmare."

"I'm sure this will all be over soon.  They'll find who did it."

"I pray for that.  And I don't for one second believe Harold had
anything to do with Lily's death."

Relief.  "That's exactly how I feel."

"Tell him I send my love and wish him strength.  He'll need it."

I wait at Harold's desk for Roblings's call, fan out the medical papers
on the desk, stare at the rising phoenix.  What could Lily possibly
have wanted from her insurance company?  I turn that around a while.
What if, like Harold, she was hiding a serious illness?

All right, so let's say she's dying, finds out she's at the beginnings
of a slow, dreadful death.  And maybe she wants to spare Beth the pain
of watching her disintegrate.  She decides to commit a quiet suicide,
go out nestled in the bosom of the theater she loved.  She'd exit with
a flourish and everyone would assume it was a natural death.

Yeah.  Sure.

First of all, Lady Lily would never, ever stage her final bow
backstage, let alone on the floor of a bathroom.  Second, both the
medical examiner and Lily's doctor reported that she was disgustingly
healthy for a seventy-year-old woman.  One doctor might miss something,
but it isn't likely both would mess up.  What, then?

I would dearly love a peek at that insurance letter.  Beth says it
wasn't mailed back to Lily, which means it may still be at the Equity
office languishing on someone's desk.  Can't hurt to ask.

I call Equity.  "Rosie's out all week," I'm told.  "Taking personal
time."  Figures.  She's the only efficient person in the office.  I'll
have to wait a week.  Unless..  . The phone person sounds young, eager
to please.  I ease into my question.

"I'm the one who found Lily's body," I begin, establishing celebrity
status.

"Uh-huh."

"I'm working with her family, trying to clear up her estate, tie up
loose ends, that sort of thing."

"Uh-huh."

"There was a mix-up.  A letter she intended to send to the insurance
company might have been mailed to Equity instead."

"Uh-huh."

"And we're hoping you might be able to find it for us."

"I could take a look around."

Bless you, my child.  "Well, that would be super.  Do you think you
could do it now?  We're in a bit of a hurry."

"Sure.  Want to hold on or should I call back?"

I give him the number at Junque and Stuff.  Tell him I'll be there
another ten minutes.  Give him a deadline to shoot for.

I try Roblings again.  This time I get through.  "I found out who sent
the fruit to Wexler," I say, fast, before I chicken out.  I tell him
about Harold and his old friend Priscilla.

"Does Harold know that you know?"  Roblings asks.

"Of course.  I talked to him."

"Not smart."

"He's my friend.  I owed him a chance to explain."

"You put yourself in jeopardy."

"I can take care of myself.  Besides, Harold didn't hurt anyone."

"You should have called me as soon as you found out.

"He's a friend."

"Your friend just became number one on my hit parade.  Where is he
now?"

"Doctor's appointment."

"Where?"

I scan Harold's medical papers with their roster of doctors' names.
Harold has a right to his privacy.  "He'll be in to open the store at
noon, like always.  Harold's not guilty of anything, except a desire to
get even in some small way."

"What do you think murder is usually about?  Friends fighting, an
argument between husband and wife, one driver cutting off another."

I hang up, sorry I called, knowing I had no choice.  Yes, Harold did a
small, petty, stupid thing.  He's human, after all.  But that hardly
makes him public enemy numero uno.  I hope Roblings will be gentle.

Rosie's assistant calls back.  He found the letter on the bottom of one
of the many piles waiting to be filed.  "I'll be right there," I say.

I clean Harold's desk, replacing papers where I found them.  No need
for him to know I've been nosing around his personal stuff.  Lily's box
of mementos is on the desk.  Might as well take them to the theater
tonight.  A sickening sweetness permeates the Equity office.  I breathe
through my mouth.  "Eau de Rotting Tropical Garden?"  I ask.
"Frangipani."  Rosie's assistant nods at the giant floral arrangement.
It dominates the table set aside for out-of-town members' mail and
packages.  "A gift for the star of the new South Pacific production.
She's two days late getting into Chicago."  "Probably because she knows
this thing's waiting for her."  "Thank goodness her rehearsals start
tomorrow.  I'll messenger the damned thing to the theater first thing
in the morning."  "If it hasn't asphyxiated you by then."  He gives me
Lily's insurance letter and I race out to fresh air, waiting until I'm
in my car to open it.  There is a medical form from Equity's new HMO,
which Lily filled out.  A doctor's report it looks like information
from a routine physical is stapled to it.  An accompanying letter
explains that Lily's preexisting condition Turner's syndrome has
existed since birth and is neither life-threatening nor, for a
seventy-year-old woman, a condition of any import and should not impact
on her insurance eligibility.  What is Turner's syndrome?  I head home
to walk Hamlet and prepare for tonight's performance.  I call my HMO
and am shuffled through a deck of receptionists.  None has ever heard
of Turner's syndrome, but they all promise to leave word with the
doctors who will try to get back to me sometime this century.  I call
the reference desk at the library, leave my information request on
their answering machine.  I do have one other option.  Grandma Ruth.
Not only is she always home, but her house is wall-to-wall bookcases
laden with the thousands of books she's read over her years of
voluntary confinement.  A large number of those books are of the
medical persuasion.  Every pill, disease, treatment, alternative
treatment, folk remedy, charlatan's recipe, popular quackery, and
medical theory is represented in thick texts full of unpronounceable
Latin names and elaborate chemical compounds.  She also subscribes to a
variety of health newsletters: Harvard, Mayo Clinic, New England
Journal of Medicine, and scores of others put out, it seems, by every
hospital on the planet.  These she indexes and cross-references,
keeping impeccable records should a symptom or condition arise.

I need to ease into this.  It's been weeks since I called.  Months, if
I'm absolutely honest.  The guilt of not visiting stops me from making
contact.  Once I call, I'll have to promise to go see her.  The trick
is not to promise.  Which means not calling.

"Hi, Grandma.  It's Morgan."

Beat.  "Morgan?"

Oops.  She knew me when.  "Miriam," I say.

"Oh, sweetie, how good to hear your voice."  The smell of fresh-baked
cookies wafts over the phone lines.  "Isn't this dreadful news about
your parents moving?  Whatever can they be thinking?  You must be
terribly upset."

The conversation takes off in altogether the wrong direction.  Whoa!  I
don't want to discuss my parents' move.  Don't want to think about it.
If I ignore it, maybe it will go away.  But I can't ignore the quiet
terror in Grandma Ruth's voice.  Her only son is moving clear across
the nation.  When will she see him?  At least I can hop on a plane and
go visit.  She can't even make it off her front porch.  I assume, from
the way she's pouring her heart out to me, that my father hasn't told
her it's my fault they're moving.  Mine and Sylvia's.  Well, mostly
mine.

It takes half an hour before I work my way back around to the real
reason I called.  "Turner's syndrome," I say.  She lays down the phone
to look it up.  It takes a while.  A long, long while.  I consider
hanging up, letting her call back, but she wouldn't understand.  All
she has is time.

She returns, breathing heavily with the effort of moving.  "It's a
disease of some sort..  . Female trouble .. . Difficult to understand.
Here.  Ah, well, the gist of it is, it makes the bearing of children
impossible.  Oh' - a small gasp "Miriam.  You don't .. . it's not v
."

"Me?  No, Grandma, it's not me.  A friend of mine .. ."

"What a relief.  I would hate to think you won't have a house full of
beautiful children one day."  Another five minutes pass discussing my
lack of current daddy prospects.  "When are you coming to see me?"

Before we hang up I promise to visit her next week and bring stills
from my new production.

An hour wasted.  I'm no closer to an answer than I was before I called.
Turner's syndrome, whatever it is, isn't what Grandma Ruth said. Makes
the bearing of children impossible?  Ha!  Tell that to Lily's dead
son.

Chapter 37

"Half hour," calls the stage manager.

"Half hour, thanks," we say.

The entire company circles the round table in the women's dressing
room, picking through the ancient theater treasures in Lily's box. Even
Evelyn, who normally keeps her distance, has been lured by the quaint
old programs and yellowed publicity clippings.

Our dresser, Mitzi, kneels on the floor next to Annie.  She's been
trying to mend a fresh tear in Annie's costume.  The old fabric is
proving no match for Annie's girth.  "I can't work like thith!"  she
says, straight pins quilling from her mouth.  She needs Annie to take
off the costume, tries to shoo the men away.  They refuse to leave. The
old photos draw us all like magnets.

"Just one more minute," pleads Annie.  "Oh!  Look!  The woman who
played Mother looks like a lumberjack in drag."

Murray squints at the photo.  "Less feminine."

"Hold thrill!"  says Mitzi.

"You look nothing like Daughter.  See?"  Brenda passes me the photo of
Lily, swathed in chiffon, lithe as a Midsummer Night fairy.  It makes
me feel Godzilla-esque.  "Lily was so delicate.  Fragile."  Brenda
sighs.  "Like Diana.  She would have been perfect as Daughter."

Pity she's dead, I have the good sense not to say.

"Morgan is perfect," says Annie.  "Exactly right."  I shoot her a
thank-you smile.

Brenda the Oblivious hammers the sore spot.  "As petite as Diana was,"
she tells Annie, 'the contrast between you and her would have made a
much funnier visual onstage.  Sort of a Mutt and Jeff, Abbott and
Costello thing."  Annie doesn't flinch at the rude reference to her
girth.  She has the wisdom to consider the source.  I, however, don't
feel as generous.  How I long for a rapier-sharp retort.  Where is Neil
Simon when I need him?  Murray scrutinizes a forty-year-old photo of
Brother.  "Weird-looking duck," he says, checking the name on the back.
"Never heard of the guy.  Never heard of any of these .. . except Lily,
of course.  Wouldn't you love to know how they played our roles?"
"Absolutely not," says Brenda.  "It might color my performance."  One
can hope.  She squeals.  "Look at this!  Can you believe how gorgeous
Wexler was?"  "He's no slouch now," says Murray.  "What have you got
there?"  booms a voice.  Wexler!  We jump like children caught playing
with matches.  He comes to the table, smiling.  When was the last time
we saw him happy?  "I ... I thought," I say, 'the cast might like to
see .. ."  If he hears he doesn't show it.  His smile fades as the
mementos on the table register.  Delicately, as if afraid they'll
disintegrate, Wexler lifts a photo, a program, Lily's head shots,
reviews.  He picks up a photo of the cast and crew, his fingers
trembling.  "Where did you get these?"  "They were Lily's," I say.  "I
thought it might be fun ' He brings the photo closer, squinting at the
faces.  Years have turned the once sharp black-and-white photo yellow
as old bone.  Brenda muscles her way through, leans all over Wexler,
points to the handsome young man in the center of the photo.  "Is that
you?"  Wexler nods, half hearing. "Could you possibly mean," Murray
dead pans 'the person sitting in the chair labeled "Director"?"  Brenda
the brown-nose doesn't let up.  She moves past 'sincerely interested,"
goes directly to 'gushing."  "Lily was such a. beauty," she says.
Wexler, lost in the photo, doesn't respond.  Brenda reaches an arm
across, giving him full benefit of her perfume as she drops a manicured
finger on the photo.  "And who is this adorable boy next to you?"

Wexler jerks the photo away.  Too late.  Brenda's finger smears an oily
print directly on Wexler's lover's face.  He tosses the photo on the
table, leaves the room without a word.  Evelyn watches sadly but
doesn't follow.  It is a wise daughter who knows her parents' moods.

"Nice going."  says Murray.

"What?"  says Brenda.  "What did I do?  I was just asking.  Like, I'm
supposed to know who any of these people are?"

Annie picks up the photo, gently blots the print with a tissue.  "This
young man," she says, 'the one you anointed, was Lily's son."

"You know?"  I say, startled.

"Know?"

"She had a son?"

"Why, yes."

"How?"

Annie shrugs.  "I imagine Lily told me."

"I can't mend this," says Mitzi.  "Not with you in it."  She stands,
her knees cracking from kneeling so long.  "We'll have to finish in the
bathroom.  Come, come, come."  She bustles Annie down the hall.

So it seems Lily's son wasn't the great big secret Beth thought.
Doesn't surprise me.  Lily was the type who swears you to secrecy, as
if entrusting you with some great confidence, then turns around and
tells the person next to you the same secret.  Strictly grade-school
best-friend shtick.  Not particularly becoming in a seventy-year-old.

"Fifteen minutes," calls the stage manager.

"Fifteen minutes, thanks," we say.

"We'd better get ready," says Murray, leading the men's exodus to their
dressing room.

Brenda and the others return to the mirrors to check their makeup,
costumes.  Evelyn stays, helps me repack Lily's things.

She's been downright friendly since she realized I'm not running around
spreading gossip about her father.  She studies the photo of the gauzed
Lily.  "I owe her a great debt," she says quietly.  "You knew her?"
"Knew of her.  I was looking forward to meeting her but she died the
day I arrived in Chicago."  "What do you mean, you owe her?"  She sets
the photo tenderly in the box.  "You must wonder about me," she says
softly.  "I mean, you know my father isn't attracted to women.  But
there was a moment, back then, when he wondered if the psychology of
the day could possibly be right.  That homosexuality was a reversible
condition.  "My mother was a determined young actress with more drive
than talent.  She managed to get him into bed."  "Lucky for you."  She
smiles.  "I'm not sure what she expected from the pregnancy.  Marriage,
I suppose, to the famous new director.  Unfortunately, Dad considered
me an accident, his dirty little secret.  He had no interest in me.
None.  He gave Mom monthly checks to keep quiet.  Had his friends
supply enough roles on the stage and TV soaps to keep Mom happy.  "Then
Lily's son died."  She smooths a hand over Lily's photo.  "Dad says her
anguish was heart wrenching.  He watched her suffer the agonies of hell
for never having acknowledged her son.  She was, he said, inconsolable.
"My father saw himself in her.  He called my mother the next day and
arranged to become an active part of my life.  I was two that first
time I saw him.  I thought he was bigger than life.  I still do.  We've
been inseparable since.  I can't imagine my life without him.  And all
because of Lily London."  The stage manager passes by.  "Ladies and
gentlemen, places for act one."  Showtime!  Everyone rushes out.  I
toss Lily's box next to my makeup and head for the door.  Grandma Belle
stands in the doorway.  Blond hair piled high.  Eyeliner Cleopatraed to
brow's edge.

Lips painted into a bright red heart.  Leather skirt and jacket, silk
blouse, high heels.  Who wears high heels anymore?  Sexy lady.  Her
perfume, something floral and expensive, invades the room.

"Grandma!"  I say, delighted, reaching out for a hug.  She doesn't
smile back.  Keeps her arms crossed.  "What's wrong?"

"Time, please," the stage manager's voice drifts down the hall.

"I have to go," I say.  "You okay?"  She doesn't move.  Trouble with
her newest beau?  I like when she confides in me.  "I'll get you a seat
out front.  We can talk at intermission."

"Do you remember the sandbox your father built when you were a little
girl?"  she asks.

Sandbox?  Is this the onset of dementia, a mental cataract clouding her
once sharp mind?  The timing is lousy.  "Grandma.  I have to '

"DO YOU REMEMBER?"

The verbal slap stops me cold.  I do a quick mental shift, out of
Daughter, out of Morgan, back past Miriam to when I was Mimi.  A
willful little girl who desperately wanted a sandbox.  Which my father
built.  Four wood sides, triangular corner seats covered in yellow
Naugahyde.  "Yes," I say.

"Good.  And do you remember that no one was allowed to use that sandbox
without your permission?"

"Yes."

"Even when you were not using it."

"Grandma, I really '

"And when you were older, too old for the sandbox.  When the only ones
using it were neighborhood cats.  Do you remember then?"

The stage manager comes up behind Grandma Belle.  "Time, please."  His
voice urgent.

Grandma Belle lifts a bejeweled hand, waves him away.  He looks
pleadingly at me.  "Morgan .. ."

"Grandma ..."

She lifts a well-plucked brow.  "You don't like to be kept waiting?
Now, isn't that too, too bad.  You'll wait until I'm through with you,
young lady.  The way you've kept the rest of the family waiting."

"Me?"  The manager slinks away.  "Now," she says, 'about the sandbox.
Your mother, who has always been much too sweet for her own good,
wanted to plant flowers where your sandbox was.  That disintegrating,
splintery eyesore.  You were in high school by then, hadn't used it for
years, and still wouldn't let them get rid of it."  "I don't remember
that."  "I'll bet you don't."  Her tone Arctic ice over rusted nails
-makes me wither.  She could teach Annie a few things about playing
Mother.  "I make it a point not to interfere in my children's lives.
Lord knows I don't want them meddling in mine.  However, when you went
off to college, I couldn't stand it anymore.  Late one night I came
over with Theodore, or was it Alex?  No matter.  And I had him destroy
that piece of filth, cart it away.  Your parents were aghast that I did
such a thing without first consulting them, or you, or I expect the
United States Congress.  Do you know what I told them?"  I assume it's
rhetorical so I don't answer.  She waits me out.  "No," I say.  "I told
them you wouldn't even notice it was gone.  And you didn't.  I wager
you haven't given it a second's thought until right now."  True.  All
of it.  Footsteps in the hall.  Wexler appears behind her.  His eyes
are red as if he's been crying.  My fault for bringing the photos.
"What's the problem here?"  he asks.  "I'm nearly through," says
Grandma Belle. "Madam, we have a play to put on."  Grandma Belle
doesn't turn, keeps her eyes fixed on me.  "And I, sir, have a family
to run."  "I am the director, and ' She whirls around.  "And I am the
matriarch.  Surely you can spare five minutes."  He hesitates.  I feel
the weight of tonight's performance square on my shoulders.  Audiences
do not like to be kept waiting.  Actors hate it even more, grow tense
in the wings. Sweat streams down my underarms.  My heart chugs loud and
irregular. Cotton grows in the corners of my mouth.  Something in
Grandma Belle's tone, stance, body, convinces Wexler to back off.  He
leaves but I have a feeling he stays close enough to listen.

"You need to learn to let go."  Grandma Belle's stare immobilizes me.
"Just because something once belonged to you doesn't mean you have the
right to hang on to it forever.  Especially those things you don't need
or want or use.  Like Adam."

"You don't know what he and Sylvia did."

"I don't care.  I know what you did.  What you're doing.  And you're
going to stop it.  Now."

"But '

Evelyn passes down the hallway behind Grandma Belle.  Is about to say
something when she suddenly leaves.  Her father, no doubt, has signaled
her not to interfere.  They are probably pressed to the wall within
hearing distance.  A humiliating death, this tongue lashing by
grandmother.  Can't think of any way to stop it.

"You don't love Adam."  says Grandma.

"That's not the '

"Your sister does.  And Adam loves her.  They're really quite
nauseating about it.  I expect theirs is one of those relationships
which is doomed to succeed.  Boring.  But that's their problem.

"They should be married by now, raising runny-nosed children, getting
on with their lives.  It is an absolute mystery to me why Adam and
Sylvia care one whit what you think, why everyone in this family is so
concerned about your feelings.  Because, it seems to me, you don't give
a good goddamn about theirs.  I love you but you are a selfish child.
Spoiled from the get-go."

That hurts.  I adore Grandma Belle.  Her love has always been important
to me.  It would kill me to lose it.

"You abandoned Adam," she says, 'but don't want anyone else to have
him."  She grabs my arms.  Squeezes hard.  "Adam is not a sandbox.  It
is time to stop the cats from shitting, to let the flowers grow.  Am I
making myself clear?"

"Yes."  Flaming arrows of pain shoot up my arms.

"You will call Sylvia."

"Yes."

"Tomorrow."

"Yes."

"And tell her ... ?"

"I am happy for her and Adam.  I wish them a long life and great
happiness together."

She releases my arms.  Blood races from shoulders to hands.  The pain
is excruciating.  "Good girl," she says.  She cups my chin in her hand.
A loving gesture.  "Good girl."  Her anger leaves as quickly as it
came.  "It's best not to mention this little visit to your mother.  She
wouldn't understand."

"I won't."

"Good girl."  She pats my cheek, leaves me to my play.

Chapter 38

The night is a black hole.  The emotional focus I need to do my work
has been torn and trampled and shredded.  I remember lit de from the
time Grandma Belle leaves until I unlock my apartment door. Snippets.

Annie's costume rips in a new place.

Brenda upstages me nonstop.

Murray, who suffered most from my emotional absence, follows me
offstage muttering.  "You could have phoned it in, you know."

I'm en tided  One bad night.

Brenda leans against die dressing room door, flirts prettily with an
admiring stable of star struck studs.  It's more than I can take.  I
turn and leave without changing.  Escape.  Flee.

It's not until Hamlet jumps on me, licking the stage makeup off my
face, that I begin coming out of the dark.  And with the coming-out
comes pain.  And with the pain comes crying that hits like a squall and
won't let up.

I hug Hamlet close, cry loud and long into his fur.  Wail at the past
months' madness.  Ache from the hurt I've caused people I love Sylvia,
Mom, Dad, Adam all because I want what's mine, even when it's not.
Grandma Belle is right about my not letting go.  But she's wrong about
why.  It's not about being selfish.  It's about fear of loss.  Not
wanting to let go of one thing before I have something to replace it.

Wiped out, weary, I head for my room to crawl into bed and never come
out.  Hamlet has other ideas, brings his leash, drops it at my feet.  I
want to wallow in depression.  He wants to potty.  Who has priority
here?  The cool night air clears my head.  Hamlet tugs me along,
excited to be out in the world.  Lily took him everywhere, doted on
him, spoiled him.  It isn't fair for me to lock him inside all day.  He
deserves a home with children, a yard, all that normal human stuff I
don't have.  Beth and Lyle aren't an option.  Annie's still my best
bet.  I'm sure Hamlet has forgiven the poisoned cold cuts.  He's not
the type to hold a grudge.  I'll run the idea past her, see how it
flies.  Hamlet waggles up to a teen couple strolling hand-in-hand.
They stop to oooh and ahhhh.  The angular boy looks like a young
Lester. Was it just this morning that Dad told me Lester is getting
married? It seems a million years ago.  Adam's out of my life, now
Lester.  It's better that way.  Neither was right for me.  Grandma
Belle thinks I'm waiting for the perfect man.  I'm just waiting to fall
in love. Roblings comes to mind.  His quiet energy.  Contained force.
No easy man, this homicide detective.  Forget it.  He's too complex.
Exhausting.  I need a no-brainer.  But then I'll be bored.  How do
people ever wind up together?  Am I the only one who finds this
coupling business hopelessly complicated?  I didn't intend a long walk
but, once we get started, we just keep going.  In truth, now that I've
promised Grandma Belle to give Sylvia and Adam my blessing, I feel
relieved.  This tawdry little drama I created is over.  We can all get
on with our lives.  It's too late to call Sylvia tonight.  Tomorrow,
while we help pack up the folks' house, we'll talk things out.  I will
try to act humble.  Not my best side.  The walk energizes me, defuses
then dissipates my depression.  The woman who walked out of my
apartment an hour ago is a whole different animal from the one walking
back in.  I give Hamlet a couple of doggie treats and pour myself a
tall glass of water as I play my phone messages.  Harold: "Hello, dear
heart  Not to worry.  Bulldog Roblings's third degree wasn't nearly as
difficult as I thought.  He did say sending that fruit basket was very
naughty, [laugh] Of course it was.  Otherwise, what's the point?  Did
you know your detective friend is something of a Shakespeare expert?
Can quote chapter and verse.  Correctly.  Wouldn't think it to look at
him.  Ah, well.  The book's cover and all that sort of thing.  I've
decided to dress the front window tomorrow.  Theater motif.  I'll want
the stuff in that box you took.  Drop it off tomorrow?  That's a love.
Call me.  I'm usually somewhere."

Roblings: "Thought you'd like to know [car phone static] friend Harold
is alive and well.  The whip marks should heal in time, [static] ... to
make it to the theater tonight.  If not, call me."

Roblings was at the theater tonight?  I didn't see him.  But then I
didn't see anyone.  Took the final curtain and pulled a Houdini.  It's
better he didn't see me in my fugue state.  It would have scared him
away for good.  This way I have a chance of seeing him again.  Maybe
tomorrow night.  I'll call.

Dad: "Hi.  I broke a crown.  Need to see Doc Rosenstein tomorrow.  As
long as I'm going, Mom wants to have her teeth cleaned and checked
before we move.  Come help pack Friday, instead.  Come early.  Come
hungry.  I'm making matzo brei.  I've been doing it a new way with egg
whites and margarine.  Healthier."

Research librarian: "This message is for Morgan Taylor.  You called for
information on Turner's syndrome.  It is a genetic condition that makes
it impossible for a woman to bear children.  I have several books and
articles I can refer you to if you like.  I will keep the information
at my desk for one week."

I replay the message once, twice, listening in disbelief as she repeats
the same information Grandma Ruth gave me.  An old logic course kicks
in, sorts things out.

FACT: A woman with Turner's syndrome cannot bear a child.

FACT: Lily London bore a son.  (Supporting evidence of his existence:
(1) I saw his photo.  (2) Both Harold and Wexler knew him and loved
him.)

THEREFORE: Lily London couldn't have had Turner's syndrome.

Maybe I misread Lily's doctor's letter.  I check it again.  No, here it
is, "Turner's syndrome."  What a quack.  I've heard HMO-doctor horror
stories wrong limbs amputated, botched lab reports, fatal misdiagnosis
but this is my first experience up close and personal.  Wonder which
Island Paradise University awarded this joker his medical degree.  It
occurs to me that if Lily's new doctor was way off base with this
diagnosis, maybe he also got it wrong about Lily's heart condition.
Maybe she was sick, took medicine prescribed by a previous doctor, the
medicine they found in her system.  Maybe there was no murder, just an
old woman whose heart failed.  I start to get excited about this new
theory when I realize it doesn't explain a dead Queen Tut and a
poisoned Hamlet.  Darn.  Hate those loose ends.  I shove Lily's
insurance and medical papers in a drawer.  Thank goodness I
short-stopped this before Beth saw it.  There's no need to subject her
to this trash.  I'm still standing at the desk when the phone rings.
Roblings.  "Can you come downstairs?"  I look out the window.  In the
dim outer reaches of a streetlight, Roblings leans against his car,
phone pressed to his ear.  He lifts a hand when he sees me, waves.
Something constricts in my heart.  A violent squeezing.  Breathing
becomes impossible.  I fly down the stairs in thirty seconds flat.  Now
we both lean against his car.  Very close.  "You called?"  I ask.
Coquettish.  I am not the coquettish type.  He has a strange effect on
me.  "Looked for you at the theater," he says.  "I left early."  "They
told me."  He presses his hand against my cheek.  A warm hand, strong.
"You should have let me know you were coming.  I could have left a
ticket."  He runs a thumb over my cheekbone.  "I wasn't sure I could
make it.  My schedule isn't always easy."  I reach up, wrap my hand
around his wrist, bring his hand to my lips and kiss his palm.  "You're
here now," I say.  This voice is not mine.  This voice has no control.
He bends down, kisses me with warm, soft lips.  I kiss back.  Please,
let me lose myself in this man tonight, wait until tomorrow to worry
about all the ways he's wrong for me.

"Come up," I whisper.

He nuzzles my ear.  Wild currents run through my body, out my
fingertips.  "Can't," his voice husky.  "I'm on my way to a call.  I
just needed to see you."

The next kiss is slower, deeper.  It is painful to pull apart, to watch
him leave.  I stand, staring, long after his car is out of sight.  So
this is how women feel watching their men go off to war, fearing
something terrible will happen before they return.  Do the theater gods
cover nontheatrical situations?  Can't hurt to ask.  "Keep him safe," I
say.

The phone is ringing as I float back into my apartment.  "Are you all
right, dear?"  asks Annie.

I laugh.  "Actually, I'm fabulous.  Why?"

"You left the theater so abruptly."

That was a million years ago.  I have since crawled up from primordial
slime and shot into outer space.  "I was having an off night," I say.
"Thought it better to disappear.  Didn't want to hang around and
depress everyone."

"I know exactly how you feel.  It happens to us all."

"Not to you."

"You're sweet.  I've had my share.  We must swap war stories some
time."  Her doorbell chimes.  "Hold on a sec."  She puts down the
phone.  I hear the door open.  Voices.

She picks up.  "Sorry.  My neighbor and I enjoy a cup of tea and a bit
of gossip each night.  Look, why don't you come over tomorrow?  We can
have a bite of lunch and talk shop.  And you can pick up that box of
Lily's things you left in the dressing room."

"You have it?"

"That's all right, isn't it?  I wasn't sure it would be safe there
overnight so I've brought it home with me.  Don't let me forget to give
it to you.  See you tomorrow.  Noonish?  And do bring Hamlet.  He can
dig up my yard while we chat."

Chapter 39

Annie doesn't answer.  I ring twice.  Three times.  Deja vu.  This
isn't funny.  I press my forehead against the front window.  No bodies
on the floor.  All quiet on the western front.  I try the back door.
Nothing.  Return to the front.  Ring.  Knock.  Hamlet wriggles in my
arms.  The door of the other duplex opens.  A square-built woman in a
tired housedress and stretched-out slippers emerges, wiping her hands
on an apron.  "Hello, Morgan."  "Rosie?"  I almost don't recognize her.
Partly because she's out of place here, should be standing behind the
Equity counter.  But, even more, she's lost her steamroller energy.
"Sorry, I didn't hear you.  I was busy with Ralph."  She blows a wisp
of curl from her forehead.  "Have you been waiting long?"  "I didn't
know this was your place."  "Oh, for years and years.  I'm the one who
told Annie and Walter may he rest in peace they should buy next door.
She's a lovely neighbor.  A dear friend."  "Your assistant at Equity
said you're taking a week off?"  She nods.  A look wistful, sorrowful
flits across her face.  "Come on over."  "Thanks, but I'm having lunch
with Annie."  "She didn't leave you a note?"  "I knocked but ' "She
meant to leave a note.  Said she'd tack it on her door.  We old ladies
can be so forgetful."  A tired smile.  "Her hairdresser called.  He had
a cancellation.  Annie's been trying to get a haircut for two weeks.
You know how it is.  Anyhow, she dropped off a beautiful assortment of
takeout from the Siam Cafe, said I should feed you and keep you happy
until she gets back."

Somewhere in the distance, a kettle shrills.  "Tea's on," says Rosie.
"Come."

"What about I hold up Hamlet.

She hesitates a moment.  "Yes, all right.  Him, too."  I gather from
her tone she is not a dog person either.

She disappears into the house.  I climb over the low railing separating
the two porches and follow her inside.

The house stinks of sickness.  Medicinal, stuffy, the air is over
humidified and oppressively warm.  Something more.  There's a dank
back-smell, slightly acrid and thick as a wall.  Hamlet's body vibrates
with a low growl.  My eyes strain to adapt to the dark.  All the shades
are down, curtains drawn, the dimmest of bulbs in the lamps.  I would
never picture Rosie living in a place like this.  She shouldn't have
to.  A woman like her, who plays fairy godmother to all us
angst-ridden, neurotic, demanding thespians, belongs in sunny gardens
with fresh flowers and cool breezes.

I hear faint sounds from the kitchen, try to follow them through the
dark house.  The maple dining room table is set with three bamboo place
mats, chopsticks, delicate teacups.  Is the third place for Annie or
will Rosie's husband Rosie's sick husband be joining us?  Please let it
be Annie.

A huge Spanish shawl drapes an old upright piano, its fringe hanging
lifeless in the muggy air.  A beautifully framed collage of our play
sits propped up amidst photos of Rosie and her husband.  On a
background of burgundy brocade, Rosie has artistically arranged
publicity photos, pages from Stagebill, a ticket stub.

I bring it into the kitchen.  "This is great," I say.

"You like it?"  Her smile shows some of the old spark.  "I'm making it
for Annie as a surprise.  That brocade is a swatch of curtain from the
old Chicago Theater.  They used to present the most marvelous live
stage shows before each movie.  That was way before your time.  But
Annie will remember."

A timer bell rings.  She glances at the clock, sighs.  "Would you
excuse me a moment, dear?  It's time for Ralph's medicine."

"Can I do anything?"  meaning with the tea.

"I'd be so grateful," she says, 'if you'll help me turn him.  I've done
something dreadful to my back and I'm having a terrible time
managing."

Hamlet barks.  "Behave," I tell him, setting him on the floor.  He
flashes his offended 'and just what kind of dog do you think I am?"
expression and trots away.

The powerful back-smell grows stronger as we approach the bedroom. Even
breathing through my mouth doesn't help.  The smell is thick enough to
touch, to knead, to mold into something horrible.

The gather of gray bones in the bed looks nothing like the man in the
piano-top pictures.  I have seen death masks with more life.

Rosie transforms as she approaches her husband, chirrups girlishly as
she moves around the bed.  "It's time, sweetie," she says, her voice
light, carefree.  She opens a vial of pills and shakes a few into her
hand.  Ralph has not moved.  Does not seem to hear.  She pours water
into a glass, adds a bent straw.

"If you would," she says.

I am staring at Ralph, not paying attention.

"Morgan?"

"Yes?"

"If you could prop him up a bit."

I can do this.

I can do this.

Here I am, a nurse at the front.  World War I. This desperately ill,
brave brave soldier needs my superb care.  Without me, he will die. But
with my help, my love, my belief in his recovery, he will live to
return to his loving wife and children.  Thus empowered, I glide around
to the other side of the bed and slide my arm under Ralph.

"Uhhhhh."

I jump back as he moans.

"It's all right," says Rosie.  "He's really quite drugged.  I need to
get this dose into him before the last one wears off.  His pain has
become unbearable."

If he can take it, I can.  I slide my arm behind him again.  He cries
out, draws parched lips over yellowed teeth, but this time I ease him
up enough for Rosie to put the pills in his mouth, force in the
straw.

"Drink up, Ralphie.  That's my honey.  Come on."

It takes forever.  My arm aches with supporting the weight of his body.
The smell permeates my pores, crawls up inside of me.  It is, I realize
with dread, the smell of Death.

"Good, that's good."  She wakes him enough to understand he needs to
drink the water.  Talks him through each tiny sip.

His eyelids flutter open briefly.  He smiles at Rosie.  "You caught the
fish," he says.

"I sure did."

"Not even a hook."

She gives him a huge smile.  "The biggest fish ever."

"Atta girl."  His eyes close.

"It's the drugs," she tells me.  "Takes him in and out, sometimes to a
better place.  Fly fishing was his great joy."

There is such love here.  It's not fair.  These two deserve better than
this.  How she manages is a small miracle.  Her transformation from
tired caregiver to girlish lover is an award-winning performance. Where
does she find the strength?

My arm is soaked with his sweat.  I help Rosie turn him on his side,
wait as she pats a cool cloth over his face and neck, props a pillow
behind his back to keep him from rolling over.  "Sleep, now," she says.
"Sleep."

We opt for fresh air while we sip our tea, settle into side-by-side
chaises on the front porch.  Hamlet finds a cool place in a far
corner.

"It's near the end," she says softly.

"I am so sorry."

"Yes."

For a long time we are silent, leaning back, enjoying the warm sun.  It
is pleasant to sit quietly with someone, not feel compelled to
entertain.  Roblings is easy that way.  Doesn't need me to be a
cheerleader.  Warm ting lies buzz through.  I fall into a dozy place.
Wake as Rosie pours fresh tea.

"You may laugh," she says, 'but I was once a star struck girl."

"You were an actress?"

"Oh, not really.  I dreamed, like any girl.  But my father was terribly
straitlaced.  Somehow, Mother convinced him to give me one year after
high school to try acting.  One year to sink or swim."  She drops two
cubes of sugar in her tea, stirs thoughtfully.  "I nearly made it, too.
A couple of roles in community theater, staged readings, that sort of
thing.  Once I auditioned for an important role I hoped would launch my
career."  Her sigh is long and slow.  "I didn't get it."

"I know how that goes."

She pats my hand.  "I know you do.  I so admire the way you hang in
there, never give up.  I wasn't nearly so brave.  My year ended.  I
married Ralph, settled down and made a life.  I'm sorry you won't get a
chance to know him.  He's a sweetie.  Like Annie's Walter.  My life's
been a good one, all in all.  Working at Equity has been my way of
staying in touch with theater all these years."

Annie drives up, her hair freshly cut, nails manicured.  "You needn't
have waited for me," she says, obviously delighted we have.

In Rosie's kitchen, we open containers of fabulous Thai food, decide to
eat on the sunny porch.  These two ladies are gifted gossips, funny,
irreverent.  While I shovel in dish after scrumptious dish, they slice,
dice, and dissect half Chicago's theater community.  Funny stories.
Secrets I can't wait to share with Beth.

Hamlet climbs onto Annie's lap.  She feeds him tiny bites of satay.  I
feel the connection between them.  This seems a perfect time to present
my idea.  "I was thinking," I say, 'that you might like to look after
Hamlet."

"Are you going away?"

"No.  I mean keep him."  She looks puzzled, as if I'm offering to give
up a child.  "I'm not really a dog person."

Hamlet tilts his head at me.  He knows what I'm up to.  I hope he
understands, approves.

"What about Beth?"  says Annie.  "As close as she was to Lily.  Doesn't
she want Hamlet?"

"Her boyfriend's allergic."

She nuzzles Hamlet's left ear.  "This was Lily's dog, you know," she
tells Rosie.

"Don't I remember?  Always carrying him into our office in that bag of
hers.  I can't look at him without thinking of her."

"I know what you mean," says Annie.  She peers over her glasses at me.
"You're sure about this?"

"Only if you promise to let me come visit from time to time."

She hoists Hamlet, holds him nose to nose.  "Well, young man, it looks
as if you have a new home."

A huge boulder of responsibility rolls off my back.  Slugs crawl out
from under.  I'll miss the furry rat.  This comes as a huge surprise.

"I'll drop off his things on the way to the theater."

"No need," says Annie.  "I have plenty of dog things here.  Besides, I
have a million errands this afternoon.  It will be nice having Hamlet
along for company.  If you like, you can bring a few of his favorite
toys to the theater tonight."  She slips him another piece of satay.
"You'll want to be sure to keep a few things at your place.  He can
stay with you when I go out of town."

"I'd like that."  Never thought I'd hear my voice say those particular
words about a creature of the canine persuasion.

Chapter 40

Grocery store.  Shoe repair.  Watch repair.  Dry cleaner's.  Post
office.  Flowers to bring to Mom and Dad tomorrow.  A Fez container
with refills by way of a peace offering to Sylvia.  Errands, like
laundry, have an annoying way of piling up.  For some perverse reason,
I prefer tackling chores all at once, in one exhausting rush.  Strange
behavior for a woman descended from a long line of compulsive
list-makers.

I am nearly home, my mind on cruise control, thoughts of Grandma Belle
loving me again, Sylvia and Adam walking down the aisle, daydreams
about Roblings, trying to imagine his interview with Harold

Harold!

I promised to bring him Lily's box of mementos.  Annie forgot to give
them to me when I left her and Rosie, and I forgot to ask.

Old Selfish Morgan: This can wait until tomorrow.

New Un-selfish Morgan: No, it can't.  Harold is fanatic about dressing
Junque and Stuffs windows.  I promised him the box and I should bring
it.  Now.

Old Me: I don't have time.

New Me: Annie lives ten minutes from here.

Will I do the selfish thing or the right thing?  The specter of Grandma
Belle and my sandbox looms large.  "All right, all right," I say,
swinging around, driving back.

Annie's car is gone.  She and Hamlet must still be out running errands.
A hollow place opens in my gut.  I can't help it; I'm jealous of their
good time together.

Old me: Well, I tried.  Let's go home.

New Me: I'm sure Rosie has Annie's key, can let me in, help me find
Lily's stuff.

I ring Rosie's bell.  Knock.  She must be busy with Ralph.  I try the
front door.  It opens.

"Rosie?"  I ease inside, moving slowly as my eyes adjust to the dark.
"Rosie?"

A grandfather clock ticks in the corner of the living room.  The
collage Rosie made for Annie sits propped in the center of the dining
room table.  She's tied a large red bow around it and tented a card,
which says: For Annie.  My dear sweet friend, for making these last
months bearable.  Your friend forever, Rosie.

A voice drifts in from the kitchen.  I move toward it.

"Rosie?"

I stop in the doorway.  Rosie, her back to me, stands at the sink
wearing a long red gown and Spanish mantilla.  She is speaking to the
window over the sink.

"Yes," she says, 'they told me you were fools.  That I was not to
listen to your kind words, nor trust in your charity."  She stops,
swigs water from large glass.  "You think," she tells the window, 'life
is nothing more than not being stone dead."

She's doing Joan of Arc's speech from Shaw's St Joan.  It is
practically law that every beginning actress commit these impassioned
lines to memory.  She said she'd been a star struck girl.  I'm
impressed she still remembers.  I waver.  Is it better to cough, make
some noise so she knows I'm here?  Or to wait, let her finish?  Rosie's
reading is powerful, moving.  She has wonderful inflection and timing.
Curiosity gets the best of me.  I decide to wait.

Sequins glitter.  Sunlight from the window filters through the mantilla
lace.  Considering Rosie's depressing circumstances, it's amazing that
she's summoned enough energy and sense of fun to play-act.  She pauses,
swigs more water.  She refills the glass.  With a gin bottle?  Isn't it
a bit early to be tippling?  Well, why not?  With all she's had to
face.

"Bread has no sorrow for me," she says, 'water no affliction."

I suddenly feel the voyeur.  If I can tiptoe away, she'll never know..
. "But to shut me off from the light of day, from the sight of the
fields and flowers .. ."  She chugs the rest of the gin.  "Rosie!"  I
rush in.  "Wha ?"  She whirls, her eyes wide with shock.  It takes a
second for my presence to register.  "I ... I'm sorry.  I didn't mean
to star de ' "You mustn't be here!"  she says.  "I knocked.  I thought
you were busy with Ralph.  The door was open and I ' She rushes toward
me, chiffon gown billowing, back lace flowing.  I hardly recognize her.
Her makeup mascara, eyeliner, bright red lipstick creates a younger,
healthier Rosie than the one I left two hours ago.  "How long have you
been spying on me?"  "I'm not .. . wasn't That is, I didn't mean ' She
backs toward the kitchen table as if shielding something.  "I want you
out."  Lily's box of mementos lies on the table behind her, its
contents strewn about.  "What are you doing with Lily's things?"
"Nothing."  She tries to block me.  I duck around the other side of the
table.  She's lined up all the old photos of Lily.  Lily in rehearsal
with the actors.  Lily in a director's chair next to Wexler.  Lily in
full costume with the company.  Except -I shudder.  Lily's face has
been gouged out of every photo.  Another face has been pasted in their
place.  I pick up the Stagebill.  Cringe at the stabbed, jagged hole
where Lily's face used to be.  At the cute pixie of a girl now smiling
out at me.  At first I don't recognize her.  Then, I do.  Rosie.  Rosie
who longed to be an actress.  Rosie who lost her big chance to
no-talent Lily London.  I look across the table.  Rosie's eyes are
wild, frantic. She gasps erratic breaths.  Suddenly, she lunges for the
scissors on the table, the ones used to gouge Lily.  I throw myself on
the table, grab her wrist.

"Don't," I say.

"You shouldn't be here."

"Let go of the scissors."

"Get out of here.  You'll spoil everything.  Just get out!"

She has an iron grip, strength built from months of lifting her dying
husband.  I have trouble holding her hand down.  But I have youth on my
side and a powerful will to live.  I hold tight until, at last, her
hand relaxes.  Slowly, carefully, I take the scissors away.

She slumps into a chair, buries her face in her hands.  "Stupid, stupid
woman."

At first I think she means me.

"Stupid."  She grabs Lily's head shot, holds it in shaking hands.  Both
of Lily's eyes are gouged, the lips slashed to shreds.  "I accepted
what happened," says Rosie.  "For forty years, I accepted."

Tear-streaked mascara blackens circles around her eyes.  Eerie effect.
Like eye sockets in a skull.  Her face is a hard lifetime away from the
bright-eyed girl pasted over Lily's photos.

"You were the actress Harold told me about," I said.  "The talented one
he saw audition for Daughter."

She manages a small smile.  "He really said "talented?"

"Yes."  What else, what else, what else?  Come on, Morgan.  Think.
"Harold said he thought Lily was wrong for the part.  That Wexler gave
it to her to help distract her from her grief.  Harold said the part
should have gone to you."

"Really?"

"Really."

The effect is magical.  Layers of gloom peel away.  A small calm
settles in.  "We watched each other audition that day," she says.

"You and Lily?"

Rosie bites a piece of skin from around her thumb.  A small drop of
blood appears.  "I thought her performance was weak, uninspired.  I, on
the other hand, was at the top of my form, full of piss and vinegar.
Oh, my dear, you should have seen me back then."  She blots the blood
on Lily's photo.  "When I left that audition, there was no doubt in my
mind whatever.  The part was mine.

"That afternoon, that poor young boy died.  The next thing I

heard, Wexler had given my role to Lily."  She lifts a corner of her
gown, wipes away fresh tears.  "It was so painful.  You can't imagine
the pain.  All my dreams, the only thing I ever wanted, snatched away
in an instant."  She grips my arm with tremendous strength.  "But you
see, I understood.  After all, what was my pain compared to Lily's?  To
a mother experiencing the death of a child?  Except..  ."  She lets me
go, beats a fist against her chest.  "Except .. ."  It hits me full
force.  I reel at the horrible magnitude of Lily's selfishness.
"Except," I say, "Lily London never had a child."  "Never."  "A young
boy died, and she used that."  Rosie nods.  "Stupid, stupid woman.
Mailing me those insurance forms."  She crumples Lily's photo, hurls it
across the room."  Her voice grows husky.  Words slur, come out slow.
All that gin must be kicking in.  "I thought," her voice a whisper,
"I'd buried my rage years ago.  But it's been festering under the
surface, putrid and rancid and awaiting resurrection.  Lily stole my
life.  It's only fair I repay her in kind."  Her head lolls forward.
Her sequined bodice rises and falls in deep breaths.  She's passed out.
Thank goodness. What do I do now?  I need to call Roblings.  There's a
phone in the dining room.  I tiptoe out of the kitchen, find the phone.
No dial tone.  Must be unplugged so as not to disturb Ralph.  I trace
the cord down the wall, under the desk.  Something sharp jabs my neck.
"Get up!" She jabs again, harder.  "All right," I say.  "All right."
She steps back, lets me stand.  "Rosie ' "Not a word!"  She presses the
point in my spine butcher knife, midnight special, can opener?  leading
from behind, prodding me toward the basement door.  "In," she says.  I
open the door.  An automatic light goes on.  The steep wood stairs lead
straight down.  She pokes harder.  I arch my back.  Walk down a few
steps.  She pulls away her weapon.  I whirl around, catching a glimpse
of the 'knife' she'd stuck in my back, I've been captured by the jagged
stem of a banana.  The door slams shut.

Locks click into place.  Hurried footsteps shuffle away.

"Rosie!"  I slap my hands against the door.  "Rosie.  Please.  Let me
out.  Rosie!"

I am still banging on the door when the light goes out, sealing me in
total darkness.  The only way to turn it on is to open the door.  And
that's not likely to happen anytime soon.

The smell of the basement creeps up the stairs.  I know the smell.  It
is the same dank chill I slept in all those years my grandfather was
dying upstairs in my room.  Creepy crawly things live in this smell.
Evil seeks comfort here.

The wood railings wobble as I inch my way down the stairs.  At the
bottom, I slide my feet, one in front of the other, along the damp
cement.  I wave my arms in full sweeps in front of my face, feeling for
crumbling walls or splintery beams or sticky webs of spiders.

There is a click.  A whoosh.  The furnace kicks on.  Blue flames cast
sudden light, enough for me to make out shapes.  I find an outside
wall.  The small, high windows are boarded up.  To keep out thieves? To
hide other bodies stashed in the basement?  The acrid taste of fear
rises in my throat.  Stay calm.  Don't panic.  There is a faint
chemical smell.  Dusty plastic trays and an enlarger sit on a table.
This was once a darkroom.  That's why the boarded windows.

If I can pry off the plywood, I can break the window and .. . And what?
Am I going to climb through jagged glass?  Not bloody likely.  I still
have the mean scar, wrist to elbow, from when I was a little girl and
ran through a sliding glass door.  But, with the plywood off at least
I'll have light.  And with light, I'll find a way out.

The floor creaks overhead.  I freeze.  Is she coming back?  Panic
rises.  The half of me that feels sorry for Rosie gives way to the half
that says: She's killed Lily for sure, probably Diana, and possibly
tried to poison her best friend.  Why wouldn't I be next on her hit
list?

The footsteps move around a while.  I think she's in the bedroom. After
a while longer, the footsteps stop mid room  Silence.

Took.  I need something to pry the plywood off the windows.  I search
the wood shelves mounted over the darkroom table.  Push aside piles of
supplies, disintegrating boxes of chemicals.  A crystalline ooze coats
my hands.  There's nothing here of use.

The furnace clicks off.  The room goes black.  For an eternity, I
listen against the dark for sounds of Rosie coming to get me.  Silence.
Total.  Absolute.  I jump when the furnace finally clicks on again.

No time to waste.  I need a prying tool.  In the flickering furnace
light, I see where the top of one of the long metal shelf standards has
pulled away from the wall.  I sweep away the photographic supplies,
throw off the shelves, rip the standard from the crumbling concrete.

The U-shaped metal's too thick.  Won't fit under the plywood.  I grab
some thin shelf brackets, wedge them under the plywood, pry up.  They
bend.  Useless.  The furnace will go off soon.  I pick up the metal
standard, use an end to hack away at the concrete around the plywood.
In minutes, I've dug a hole deep enough to force the standard under the
plywood and pry up.  Little by little, the anchoring screws give way.
By the time the furnace clicks off again, a beautiful stream of
sunlight shines in through the window.  The window is made of glass
bricks cemented in place.  I couldn't break out if I wanted to.

I race through the two rooms of the small basement.  The only way out
is through the door Rosie locked.  Both rooms are immaculate.  No
bodies lying about, no piles of boxes or papers or racks of old
clothes.  They are, in fact, too immaculate.  Floors and walls
scrubbed.  As if the owners have cleaned in preparation to move.  Only
the photography equipment has been left.

Pungent chemicals ooze from a couple of the boxes I threw to the floor.
Don't want to die from noxious fumes before Rosie has a chance to hack
me to death.  Death by banana.  I pick up the boxes, set them on the
table.  Something rattles.  I shake out bottles of medicine hidden
inside two of the boxes, hold them up to the light of the window.
Prescriptions for Walter Andrews.  Annie's dead husband?

Some of the bottles are for crystodigin.  Easy enough for Rosie to
steal while visiting Annie.  Or maybe she found them when Annie was
throwing them out.  One way or another, Rosie took them and hid them.
Ironic. Lily was murdered with heart medicine she would have taken if
she really did have the heart trouble she claimed.

A cork board near the window overflows with yellowed pieces of paper.
Old news clippings, mostly, some theater programs, articles detailing
highlights and low lights of various plays, actors, directors.  Poor
Rosie's Almanac.  How painful it must have been to keep such careful
track of the last forty years of Chicago's vibrant theater community.

She's tacked a pink piece of paper front row, center.  It's stamped
with a Priscilla's Produce logo.  I shudder as I take it down, move to
the window to read it.  It is delivery paperwork for 'one gift basket
of fruit to Martin Wexler."  The basket was delivered to the Equity
office the day before auditions began, to be messengered over the
following day.

"Oh, Rosie," I say.  I don't need to look at the signature to know who
signed for the basket.  The same person who scheduled Lily first on the
Equity audition sheet.  Who knew Lily always arrived early to warm up
her voice, knew Lily's grapefruit-eating ritual.  Murder takes motive
and opportunity.  Rosie certainly had motive.  But, if Harold had never
ordered the fruit basket to be delivered to Wexler via Equity, would
Rosie's rage have gradually faded, played itself out?  Or would she
have found another way to kill Lily?

The point's moot.  Rosie brought the fruit basket to the Heart-land
Theater, was waiting when Lily arrived.  What fun Rosie must have made
it seem.  A lit de lighthearted larceny, a harmless theater prank
played on the great director.  One old friend helping another liberate
a beautiful grapefruit from Wexler's basket.

Bariong!  Hamlet!  Annie's home!  I stand on tiptoe, peer out the glass
brick into the backyard.  I can make out a small form frolicking in the
grass.  How Rosie must have hated seeing him in her yard, this living
reminder of Lily.  It was Hamlet Rosie meant to kill.  Not her friend,
Annie, who doesn't eat cold cuts,

I rap gently on the window.  Don't want to alert Rosie.  I rap again, a
little louder.  Hamlet runs over, begins turning in circles.  He starts
barking.  I hold my breath.  No sounds upstairs.  A bigger form moves
into the yard.  I grab a metal bracket and knock on the glass.  "Annie.
Here!"  The form comes to the glass, bends down.  I keep my voice low.
"Annie, it's me, Morgan."  "What on earth are you doing down ' "Be
careful."  "What?  You'll have to speak up."  I have to risk shouting.
"Call the police.  Rosie's the killer.  She's in the house.  Hurry.  Be
careful."  Thank God she understands.  She leaves.  I hear her run up
the stairs into her house.  What if Rosie heard?  I pick up the metal
standard, clutch it like a weapon in case she comes for me.  She can't
let me leave.  I know too much.  Everything.  I'm the only one who can
put it all together.  Minutes drag by.  Hamlet dances outside the
basement window enjoying our new game.  Rosie moves across the room
overhead, walks around, leaves.  She's coming for me.  I clutch the
standard tighter, press myself against a far wall, well out of sight if
she opens the door.  She's moving around, now, room to room.  She stays
in the kitchen a long time.  More gin?  What's she up to?  Where are
the police?  Why don't they come?  Locks click, echo against the cold
cement.  I flatten myself against the wall as the basement door creaks
open.  "Morgan?"  Annie's voice.  "It's all right.  You can come up
now."  I move to the bottom of the stairs.  "Where's Rosie?"  "You're
safe.  It's over."  I don't let go of the standard.  Annie looks down
from the top of the stairs.  "They're in the bedroom," she says.  "You
go look.  I'll call the police."  "You haven't called yet?"  "In a
moment.  There's no hurry."  I ease up the stairs.  I've seen enough
bad movies to be terrified that Rosie will jump out, slash at us with a
huge butcher knife, send us plummeting down the stairs to the concrete
below.  "It's all right," Annie says softly.  She's crying.  "I'd like
you to go see."  The civilian part of me longs to go someplace safe
while we wait for the police.  The actor needs to push the edge,
confront the nervousness knotting my gut.  I move through the kitchen.
A bowl of fruit sits on the table where the mutilated photos used to
be.  The empty gin bottle is gone from the sink.  Annie has cleaned up
after her friend.  I walk down the hall to the bedroom.  The door is
closed.  I push it open.

Bizarre tableau.

Pink bulbs in the nightstand lamps cast warm light over the two forms
stretched out in the bed.

The chiffon skirt of Rosie's gown spreads gracefully to either side.
Her hands clasp a beautiful Spanish fan to her chest.

Ralph, too, has been transformed.  Somehow I don't know where she found
the strength Rosie dressed him in a tuxedo.  The ancient jacket dwarfs
his wasted body.  The shirt collar stands away from his neck.  His
black bow tie is askew.  Gone is the ashen skin, replaced by a healthy
bronze foundation, a touch of rouge, a bit of mascara.  Here lie a
lively couple, taking a short rest before their big night on the
town.

An array of empty vials sit open on his nightstand.  A nearby pestle
and mortar are dusted with a telltale coating of powdered pills.  How
long did it take her to crush them, to coax them down his throat?

I would rather put my hand in fire than touch them, but I force myself
to press the back of my hand against Ralph's cheek.

Cold.  He was dead, no doubt, the whole time I was with Rosie in the
kitchen.  The gin I saw her chugging was all about her getting up the
courage to kill herself.

I touch Rosie.

Not yet cold.  But no less dead.

They are so peaceful, these two, their faces calm, untroubled. Probably
for the first time in months.  I back out of the room and close the
door behind me.

Chapter 41

You .. . were right," says Roblings, leaning against my doorjamb,
catching his breath from the climb up.

"About your need to exercise?"

He winces.  "Sure.  Hit a guy .. . when he's down."  A vein pulses in
his neck.  I give in to a strong urge to reach out and touch it.  He
smiles.  It does something wonderful to his eyes.  "Wouldn't you rather
.. . live on the first floor?"

"The long trek up weeds out the weaklings."

"I'll bet."  He comes in, handing me a bottle of Chianti Classico to go
with dinner.

"So," I say, 'what am I right about?"

"The fourth set of fingerprints on the kugel foil."

"Rosie's?"

"Rosie's."

After dinner, we take our coffee into the living room, settle next to
each other on the sofa.

"Do you think Rosie intended to poison me?"  I ask.

"No.  She was definitely after Diana.  I think they saw each other at
the theater the morning Rosie killed Lily.  Maybe passed each other as
Rosie was leaving."

"Queen Tut wouldn't have noticed Rosie.  She treated most people like
old wallpaper, something you look at but don't really see."

"Rosie couldn't take that chance.  What if Diana remembered?  So when
Wexler hired Diana as your understudy '

"Rosie came prepared, laced a piece of my mother's kugel with old
Walter's medicine, and gave it to Diana as a present."

"From what you say, Diana sounds like a woman who expected people to do
things for her.  I think Rosie was a great student of human nature. She
understood people's strengths and weaknesses, knew exactly how to play
them."

"I can't help feeling sorry for her," I say.

"Murderers are frequently pitiable people."  He drizzles a finger up my
arm.

"If Rosie had starred in that play forty years ago," I say, 'who knows
how her life might have turned out."

"We are all faced with life-altering choices every day.  Should we wake
up or stay in bed?  Go to work or stay home?  Try out for another play
or give up acting?  Rosie had a choice."

"She didn't see it that way."

He reaches into his jacket pocket and takes out a thick bar of
chocolate.  I watch, enthralled, as his large hands delicately unwrap
the outer paper, peel back the gold foil.  He breaks off a small piece,
holds it to my lips.  "A choice," he says.

I lean forward, take the chocolate and bits of his fingertips in my
mouth.  "Mmmmmrn," I say.  Then it is my turn.  We feed each other
until the chocolate is gone.

The thought wakes me during the night.  Keeps me awake.  I toss and
turn until he's up, too.

"What?"  his voice groggy.

"When Lily died," I say, 'we all believed it was a heart attack.  The
killer was home free."

"Right."

"Then, why did Rosie call the police and tell them Lily was
murdered?"

"I doubt she did."

"Who, then?"

He slips his arm around me, pulls me close.  "My money's on Wexler's
daughter."

"Evelyn?"

"Mmm-hum."  He nibbles my ear.  "She's a publicist.  Needs to draw
attention to your play.  An elderly woman's heart attack is hardly big
news.  But murder?  That's front-page stuff.  Spread the rumor to a few
reporters, start the police investigating, get people gossiping, and
pretty soon you've got yourself the kind of publicity money can't buy.
So what if an autopsy eventually shows the old woman died of natural
causes?"

"Except, in this case, the old woman really was murdered."  He pulls me
closer.  "Now can we go to sleep?"  "In a minute," I say, kissing the
tip of his nose, his eyes, his mouth.  "In a minute."

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Susan Sussman is the acclaimed author of several novels for both
children and adults, including The Dieter.  Audition for Murder is her
first mystery.  She lives in Chicago.  Sarajane Avidon is an actress in
Chicago.