“For a moment our eyes met; his were frightened, seeking help. Was it my imagination gone wild? No. After all those years of teaching elementary school, I knew this child was afraid.”

After a chance encounter on the subway, Miss Augusta Weidenmaier, a retired schoolteacher living in New York’s Greenwich Village, is determined to help the police in the search for missing nine-year-old child actor Kevin Corcoran. Never mind that she has no training in law enforcement—she spent decades teaching. She knows when someone is lying.

Once set upon a course of action, the indomitable Miss Weidenmaier cannot be swayed—or intimidated. Facing down megalomaniacal business executives, stuck-up celebrities, pushy stage mothers and a rabble-rousing talk show host, Miss Weidenmaier will stop at nothing—not even the disapproval of one Lieutenant Brown of the NYPD, who does not take kindly to amateur sleuthing—to bring young Kevin home.

Dear Reader,

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Scene Stealer

Elise Warner

CONTENTS

COPYRIGHT

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CHAPTER ONE

I must have been staring at the child. They were such an unlikely pair: the boy clean and neatly dressed, the man unkempt. For a moment our eyes met; his were frightened, seeking help. Or was it my old lady’s imagination gone wild? No, I understood children. All those years of teaching elementary school, I knew this child was afraid. The man seated next to the boy nudged him and the child lowered his eyes.

As usual, the Broadway/Seventh Avenue local at Sheridan Square was crowded; I stood to one side to allow passengers to exit but the man pushed his way on, dragging the child behind him. A new rush of passengers hid them from my sight when the subway stopped at 14th Street.

Such a darling boy; why did he seem familiar? Of course! The child was the spitting image of that little tyke in the Cowboy Bob’s Big, Bad Burger commercial. The commercial where the boy, dressed in chaps and a ten-gallon hat, twirls a rope and dances a hoedown with animated French-fried potatoes. Big blue eyes and a warm smile people returned. But this adorable child wasn’t smiling.

The train stopped at several more stations. Where were we? I couldn’t see a thing with that portly gentleman standing directly in front of me. I craned my neck to see around him but garish sprays of graffiti obscured the sign indicating the station; I could barely decipher the lettering. This stop was Columbus Circle; the next would be Lincoln Center. Folding my unread magazine, I clutched my purse and umbrella and murmured, “Excuse me. Pardon me,” over and over again as I tried to make my way through the throng. I managed to reach the door just as the train announced its arrival at the 66th Street station with a nerve-jangling screech.

Two extremely rude teenagers blocked the door. One was lost in the cacophony of sound that leaked from his oversized earphones. The other was engrossed in paring his fingernails. A gentle thrust with the tip of my umbrella and I was able to make my exit.

The child and his companion were about fifteen feet ahead of me. When the boy looked back, I thought I could see his lower lip tremble. Impossible, he was too far away and my vision, though I hate to admit it, is not what it used to be. The man placed his hand on the child’s shoulder; they picked up their pace, reached the stairway and melted into the crowd.

Was it the young actor who performed in the commercial or was it someone who looked very much like him? And why wasn’t he attending class this morning? Today was Tuesday, a school day. A very special Tuesday for a retired gentlewoman like me; at 9:45, Alan Gilbert was scheduled to conduct the New York Philharmonic in an open rehearsal of Strauss “tunes” at Lincoln Center. The public was invited to attend. I eagerly awaited a morning spent with Mr. Gilbert and was pleased to have obtained a $10 ticket. It wasn’t often I could afford such a treat. My concern for the boy abated as I thought about the music, Maestro Gilbert and what was reputed to be the maestro’s “blazing heat and power.”

The traffic light turned yellow, then green. Car horns blasted the air with impatience. I checked to see if the vehicles flowing past would obey the signal, since at my age the body slows a bit, and was about to step off the curb, when the little boy tugged at the sleeve of my jacket.

“Ma’am.” The child gasped, then took a deep breath. “Help me.”

“What is wrong, child?”

I never heard his answer. There was a sharp poke in the small of my back and the next thing I knew I lay sprawled flat in the gutter. A crowd gathered round-eyes staring, mouths jabbering.

“Should I call 911?” A stranger tucked his coat beneath my head. “Whatcha think, lady?”

I was shaken but no bones seemed to be broken. The boy! I looked for the boy but he had disappeared.

A young girl handed me a wad of pink facial tissue. “They’re clean,” she half apologized, “just crumpled.”

A cab driver helped me to my feet and dropped some change into my palm. “Musta spilled out of ya pocket. Can I drive ya to the emergency?”

“May I drive you.” Oh, dear. I dabbed at the dirt that smudged my skirt, hoping I hadn’t embarrassed that thoughtful man with my automatic correction of his grammatical error.

“Thank you. No. I’m fine. Just fine,” I assured the crowd. A bruise or two would show up later—there was a red mark on my knee that would eventually turn yellow, then purple mixed with black—but except for the dirt and a ladder running down the left leg of my support hosiery, the only thing hurt was my dignity. The show was over.

A teenager handed me my purse, an old gentleman presented the umbrella and a button with a photograph of a dancing French fry. Where in the world had the button come from? The magazine was lost. The crowd dispersed and went about its business.

Ten minutes of tidying up in the ladies’ restroom at the Center and I decided I looked fairly presentable. I expected a morning spent listening to the Philharmonic would soothe my apprehension, and my expectations were met. Music is always a comfort and by the time the rehearsal ended, my uncertainties with regard to the man and the little boy had been rationalized and tucked away.

By early afternoon, I was sprinkling a bit of wheat germ on my yogurt when a bulletin interrupted the weather report on New York One. A photograph appeared on the screen with the caption Missing! A child was missing. Kevin Corcoran, age nine, the child I had first seen on the subway. He had never returned home from school. The reporter speculated—had the boy been abducted or had he run away from home? He was indeed the boy who played the part of Cowboy Bob in that hamburger commercial. In rapid succession, the commercial and an interview with the child’s mother, distraught—the poor soul begged for his return—appeared on the screen followed by a reporter interviewing the sponsor of the child’s commercial. The man had a distinguished appearance. His hair was gray at the temples, he sported a trim mustache and dressed in a conservative suit. There was something vaguely familiar and disturbing about his uncalled-for smirk. He mentioned the name of his company, Cowboy Bob’s Big, Bad Burger, an inordinate amount of times while offering a substantial monetary reward, in addition to a year’s supply of free hamburgers, French fries and milk shakes, to anyone supplying information that would lead to the capture of the perpetrator and the release of Kevin Corcoran unharmed.

“Then you believe Kevin was kidnapped?” the reporter asked.

“Kevin is not the sort of child who runs away. He enjoyed representing Cowboy Bob’s Big, Bad Burger.”

Past tense. Why had the man used past tense?

The voice of the announcer requested anyone having information regarding little Kevin Corcoran, age nine, call the hotline number that was now being superimposed over his photograph.

I made a mental note of the number and…no, definitely not…I would offer my help in person; a call might be overlooked by an inexperienced telephone operator.

Detective Lieutenant Timothy Brown’s precinct house, located in the East Village, appeared to be as old as the neighborhood it served. I glanced at my watch, barely 2:00 o’clock but the smell of uncollected garbage permeated the atmosphere; I dared not breathe too deeply and held my handkerchief against my nose. It was unusually muggy for this time of year and I longed for a crisp fall day. Leaves changing color, apples in the greenmarket, vendors roasting chestnuts. Not in this section of the city. The entire district was in dire need of repair. The pavement, riddled with potholes and ruts, hadn’t been resurfaced in years. There was hardly room for breathing space between the tightly parked cars and vans that lined the sidewalks. Police vehicles were parked, higgledy-piggledy, on the street in front of the station. I navigated this twenty-first century maze with some difficulty, finally reaching the worn cement steps where several police officers lounged, cigarettes and containers of coffee in hand, oblivious to their surroundings.

I approached the nearest officer. “My name is Augusta Weidenmaier. I have vital information regarding the Kevin Corcoran case and I wish to see the officer in charge.”

“Detective Sergeant Marjorie Harris, Ms. Weidenmaier, I can help you.”

“Young woman, I must insist on the officer in charge.”

Detective Sergeant Marjorie Harris studied me for a moment. “I work with the lieutenant in charge of the case. Come with me, please.”

I sensed a bit of mischief when the detective introduced me to Lieutenant Brown, a polite, though somewhat patronizing young man. He obviously entertained serious doubts about my statement; understandable, perhaps, from his point of view. There is an unjustifiable prejudice directed against mature women, I find it most frustrating.

“Ma’am, are you sure it was Kevin Corcoran? All that’s been established is that the child is missing. Children run away from home. Kevin might be visiting a friend or relative. You could have mistaken another child for Kevin.”

The lieutenant eased his strapping frame into a swivel chair patched with strips of friction tape. The chair, in need of lubrication, groaned in protest. The man’s fingers tapped an impatient beat against the side of his archaic, metal desk. Except for a computer, everything inside and outside the station house was in need of refurbishment.

The button! I retrieved the button, carefully wrapped in tissue paper, from my purse and handed it to the lieutenant. He studied the picture of the dancing French fry.

“I’m sure Kevin dropped that as a clue,” I said. “These buttons are used as promotions for Cowboy Bob’s restaurants.”

The lieutenant compared the button with cartoons imprinted on a cardboard tray holding a half-eaten Big, Bad Burger and a few leftover fries. He wiped his hands on an already crumpled napkin and asked Sergeant Harris to find the police artist.

“Thanks, honey,” Lieutenant Brown said.

I pressed my lips together. It was, in my opinion, an overly familiar way for the lieutenant to address a subordinate.

The sergeant winced; she undoubtedly shared my view.

As the sergeant left the office, carrying a tray of dirty mugs, I caught the lieutenant eyeing the woman’s lithe body. Lieutenant Brown, I surmised, was a rake.

“Lieutenant?”

“Excellent worker that girl—woman—sergeant,” he mumbled. His ears turned crimson with well-deserved embarrassment. “A credit to her—the uniform.”

When the police artist arrived, I began my description. “The perp, as they say on television, is a stocky man, muscles turning to fat, judging from the jowls of his lower jaw and the pouches beneath his heavy-lidded eyes. His nose is veined, a condition caused by excessive drink, his hair dirty-blond in color and unruly. His teeth are discolored by the habitual use of tobacco. The man’s best feature is his eyes—dark and hypnotic.”

The police artist listened intently to my description and, as the lieutenant and I hovered over his shoulder, produced an exact likeness.

“Your powers of observation are certainly acute, ma’am.”

I took that as a compliment. My impression of Detective Lieutenant Timothy Brown was, on the whole, favorable. A bit young for his position on the force but that, I believed, was a positive factor. No doubt he would prove steadfast and reliable.

“I believe the sketch will help you identify the villain, Lieutenant.”

“We’ll run it through the computer, ma’am.”

“Perhaps the child’s mother will recognize the man?”

“Unfortunately, Mrs. Weidenmaier, the…”

“Miss Weidenmaier,” I corrected Lieutenant Brown.

“Yes, ma’am. Miss. Miss Weidenmaier.” He cleared his throat and shifted from foot to foot. “Ma’am, Kevin’s mother collapsed after being interviewed by reporters. She’s been hospitalized and is heavily sedated. We’re trying to locate other relations and we’re speaking with Kevin’s schoolmates and business associates. Of course, we’ll show them the sketch.”

“Perhaps it should be printed in the newspapers?”

“Not just yet, Miss Weidenmaier.”

“Oh, dear, Lieutenant, you mean it might make the malefactor nervous. No telling how he would react. We have to find his motivation, don’t we? I do understand. By all means, keep the sketch under wraps.”

“Under wraps. Yes, ma’am,” the lieutenant said and stared at his shoes.

“If I can be of any assistance with his schoolmates, Lieutenant Brown, please call. I had the pleasure of teaching youngsters for many years and they do respond to me.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Lieutenant Brown said. “I could tell.” He promised to keep me informed, thanked me and escorted me to the front steps of his precinct house.

He had forgotten the television and newspaper reporters encamped there, hoping for a break in the story. When they saw the two of us together, they guessed correctly that I had relevant information concerning Kevin. Despite the lieutenant’s brusque, “No comment,” a microphone was thrust in my face and I was inundated with questions. A rather unsettling, though I must admit, exciting experience. Thankfully, I had enough sense to echo the lieutenant, but a photograph did appear in the late-afternoon edition of a tabloid better known for lurid headlines than content. The photograph bore the caption Mystery Witness! Needless to say my supper was interrupted several times by inquisitive acquaintances demanding to be told “all about it,” and refusing to believe I didn’t know more than I was willing to tell.

Just before retiring, I watched a television special on missing children. The children’s photographs, innocent and happy, contrasted with the faces of their families as they were interviewed. Children disappeared, never to be seen again, leaving loved ones to cope with guilt and despair the rest of their lives. Children stolen and sold, victims of sick minds or pawns in a game of love turned sour. I was witness to the kidnapping of one child. I should never have attended that concert; what had happened to my sense of responsibility? Never mind that I came forward; I must make up for my failure to contact the police immediately.

Sleep would not come. A large red welt had appeared on my right hip, one, slightly smaller, just below the knee. I would apply an ice pack in the morning. Vivid, unwelcome images flashed before my closed eyelids. I dreamt of menacing French fries, hamburger rolls with the same smirk as the sponsor of Kevin’s television commercial, milk shakes that rose and swept toward me in a tidal wave of froth.

The bedroom felt unusually hot and stuffy. My nightdress was damp with perspiration, necessitating a change. I decided to lower the window a bit more, then thought better of the idea. The apartment was on the second floor, a difficult climb but not impossible. I checked the lock; it had been purchased at a discount store and I wondered if it was adequate.

“You are behaving like a silly, old lady, Augusta Weidenmaier,” I reprimanded myself, then plumped the bed pillows and ordered my mind and body to sleep.

I sat straight up in bed when the phone rang. The first call was a warning to keep my mouth shut. His crude language recalled threats sounded in the B gangster films so popular in the 1940s. I was fond of those films, tending to stay up long past my usual bedtime whenever a particular favorite was scheduled for showing on the motion picture channel. How would the caller have obtained my phone number? Of course, my missing magazine had my address clearly printed on the mailing label.

Heavy adenoidal breathing was added to the second and third calls. By the third call I was more angry than frightened, I set the receiver in its cradle with a heavy hand. There! That would give the scoundrel an earache he’d remember.

The shrill shriek of a car alarm disturbed the little that was left of my morning sleep. I awoke to find the bedding in disarray, the sheets wrinkled, a pillow thrown to the floor. Had I imagined the phone calls? The threats? Were they a sleep-produced fiction?

There were no reports relating to Kevin on the radio. I quickly scanned the pages of the morning newspaper; a gory murder occupied the first two pages, yesterday’s story on Kevin had been relegated to the third. The child was still missing.

The theatrical page featured an article on fading Hollywood stars who had faked their own abduction to garner publicity to boost flagging careers. But Kevin’s career was just beginning, and the boy truly frightened.

I washed the newsprint off my hands, then called the station house to check with Lieutenant Brown. He was unavailable. The clerk accepted my name and telephone number; the lieutenant would return my call. Fifteen minutes crawled by; the call was not forthcoming. Feelings of frustration overcame rational consideration. I wandered from room to room, stopping in front of Goldie’s bowl. Who would have thought I could become so fond of a goldfish? The brassy creature was a gift from a former student’s daughter. The seven-year-old had named him Goldie and Goldie remained his name. Perhaps he deserved something more original but when I received the present I was unaware of his distinct personality.

“Call me, Lieutenant, call me.” I turned toward the telephone, willing it to ring.

Goldie stared at me as he swam round his watery world. No wonder. I was talking to myself. That would never do.

“Goldie.” This time I spoke to the goldfish. “Goldie, I promise I’ll find you a companion.” I sprinkled his breakfast into the bowl. The sensible thing to do was enjoy my own.

I marched into the kitchen. A cup of Irish Breakfast tea and a slice of cinnamon toast and I would be ready to put on my thinking cap. A child had asked for my help, I would help that child.

What was the proper way to begin? The shelves of my bookcase were filled with mysteries; how would Miss Marple, Mr. Holmes or Jessica Fletcher investigate the child’s abduction?

Who did it? How? When? Where? Why?

Suspects, of course. I composed a list of interviewees then a list of possible suspects. The criminal’s motivation would be most important. Greed, power or perversion? Was the boy in danger? According to the news reports, Kevin had gone to school that morning, taken his first class. What happened next? Did any of Kevin’s schoolmates see what transpired? Did he know the kidnapper? Was more than one person involved? Perhaps his classmates knew of someone. Heard something; a name mentioned? The boy might have confided in a chum. All boys and girls have a special friend. Yes. I would visit Kevin’s school. I would begin with the children.

CHAPTER TWO

Leaving my apartment on Bethune Street, I walked up Bleeker to Cornelia; my steps slowed as I passed our local shops. The pungent odors of cheese, mingled with the rich, yeasty smell of hot, freshly baked bread and the aroma of coffee beans, imported from faraway lands, teased my nostrils and offered an invitation hard to resist.

Noxious fumes emanating from cars and trucks hadn’t permeated the air; it was still too early in the day. I enjoyed walking,; an economical form of exercise that I had practiced long before it became fashionable. The normal act of breathing was a pleasure this morning. The air was sharp; a cool breeze previewed late autumn’s invigorating weather. By late September, most summer visitors were back at work or attending school. Guests arrived, primarily, in the evenings and on weekends. During the day, Greenwich Village belonged to its residents.

Living in Greenwich Village is never boring. A diverse lot occupied its small apartment buildings, brownstones and lofts. Housewives mingle comfortably with artists and drama students. Here and there, clusters of teenagers wearing oddly sculpted hairdos in a psychedelic range of colors, rings in every orifice and tattoos that would do a sailor proud, gathered to stare and be stared at. Preferring old-fashioned pearl clips for social occasions, I had never bothered to have my ears pierced, let alone anything else. I wondered how anyone could enjoy a meal with a pierced tongue.

I longed for a second cup of tea, but there just wasn’t time to linger at one of the outdoor cafes; the children would soon have their morning break.

I crossed West 4th Street to Washington Square Park; here the composition of the neighborhood changed. Mothers pushed baby carriages and kept their eyes on toddlers eager for adventure. At this hour, families shared the park with vagrants still sprawled on benches. The poor souls wasting hours and lives in a mental and physical stupor, their bottles of cheap wine emptied and then thrown aside.

The park was filled with activity. Dogs enjoyed their runs; an elderly gentleman distributed chunks of bread to pigeons who quarreled over choice morsels. Two shabbily dressed men loudly debated the merits of various horses and their jockeys, while a third studied the want ads. The chess players were, as usual, engrossed in their game, oblivious to the few onlookers who second-guessed their moves.

A friendly youngster, clad in denims and sneakers, ran up to me.

“What has four wheels and flies?” she asked.

“Don’t annoy the lady, Elizabeth.” The child’s mother grabbed her hand.

“It’s all right. I know the answer,” I said.

“What is it?” Elizabeth, hands on hips, challenged me.

“A garbage truck.”

“Excuse us.” The pair walked away. “Elizabeth Ann Smith. How many times do I have to tell you not to talk to strangers?” The woman’s voice carried. “Pay attention.”

How depressing, I thought, to be afraid of other people. Understandable, of course. Kevin Corcoran missing. So many others—one reads such tales of horror and misery.

I picked up my pace, trying to regain my earlier feeling of optimism, but the breeze turned damp and chill, and the wispy cotton-candy clouds darkened.

Kevin’s school—The Preparatory Institute for Theatre—was located on Astor Place directly across the street from an old off-Broadway theatre. As I approached, I noticed knots of actors crowding the sidewalk in front of the theatre’s locked front doors. Several sipped coffee from cardboard containers. One brushed his over-long hair; another practiced deep knee bends fortunately (or perhaps, unfortunately,) he was dressed in a sweat suit. Other actors gossiped and compared notes. Copies of trade newspapers were scanned and exchanged.

The theatre had, in years past, been home to several dramas and musicals that enjoyed successful runs of some duration. Recently, however, all ventures presented were artistic as well as financial failures. A show window, cracked and suffering from a severe case of grime, displayed a poster advertising a play that had opened and quickly closed at least a year before. The critics found none of the productions to their liking and the playhouse, now considered jinxed, was primarily used for auditions.

Mimeographed flyers, pasted and stapled to the theatre’s doors, notified passing browsers of entertainment in other theatres, rummage sales, lost pets and lonely hearts clubs. I noticed a broken beer bottle resting against the grille of the closed box office window.

A harried-looking chap, carrying a clipboard and a stack of index cards, arrived and removed a list of names from the door. I found myself unable to move. my path blocked by the actors surrounding the man.

“Sorry, ma’am,” he said. “No women in this play. Come to our next open call.”

“I’m not an actress,” I began to say but my words were lost as he turned and called the first name.

I edged my way toward the gutter, crossed the street and continued on my way.

Not too many blocks distant, on Lafayette Street, stood the acclaimed Public Theatre. I recalled several blissful summer evenings spent attending their Shakespearean productions in Central Park. The children attending the Preparatory Institute for Theatre would be reminded how short the distance was between fame and failure every time they passed the two theatres.

Noise erupted and spilled into the quiet village street as school doors opened for lunchtime recess and children scattered in every direction. One troupe of youngsters, behaving just like their non-professional counterparts, emerged and headed for a pizza parlor up the block. They were Kevin’s age; I followed. On close inspection, the group wasa bit comelier, better dressed, and, of course, more articulate. Their voices projected; every syllable was enunciated. Vocal tones were sweet and pleased the ear.

“Slice and a Coke, please, Joe.” A petite, carrot-haired nine-year-old smiled at the counterman.

“There you go, Patti.” She was rewarded with one of the larger slices of pizza.

The other children pelted Joe with their orders.

“Calzone, Joe.”

“Slice with lots of onion.”

“You’re going to stink up the whole school with that onion.”

“What’s it to you?”

“I sit next to you, that’s what!”

“Who cares?”

I had to smile. How many times had I heard children interact in the same manner? I interrupted the squabble.

“Boys and girls, I am Miss Weidenmaier. I taught children your age at Public School 98.”

“A public school?”

“Were you an acting teacher?”

“No. I was a speech teacher. In addition, I taught reading, writing, arithmetic and history. I did direct the school play in honor of George Washington’s birthday.”

“We perform Shakespeare and Shaw at PT,” Patti said.

“I am a friend of Kevin Corcoran’s,” I said, ignoring the slight to President Washington, “and I am assisting Lieutenant Brown in his search for Kevin.”

“Where’s your ID?”

The question came from the young man who had ordered “lots of onion” with his slice. He could have stepped out of the old Our Gang comedies that featured a pretty girl, a chubby boy, a rascal and a freckle-faced boy. I handed the boy with a taste for lots of onion my old school identification card. The youngster took his time examining it before nodding his head in affirmation and handing it back to me.

“Did any of you see Kevin talking with a stranger?”

The children focused on Patti.

“Kevin was with me,” she said. She bit her lip, trying to hold back tears.

“They’re special friends.” A girl, her face covered with freckles, snickered then clapped both hands over her mouth.

“My grandfather, Abner T. Bean, is his agent.” Patti cast a withering look at Freckle-face who took three steps back and, hiding behind an athletically built twelve-year-old, disappeared from sight.

“Sweetheart, sweetheart, sweetheart.” A surprisingly strong soprano emanated from a pint-sized boy with enormous brown eyes, wearing a T-shirt with masks, representing comedy and tragedy, stenciled across the front.

“Stop showing off,” Patti admonished him. “His great-grandmother sang in the chorus of all the Victor Herbert operettas.”

“She wasn’t in the chorus, she was featured.”

“My grandmother sang for the Shuberts.” The freckle-faced youngster peeped from behind the twelve-year-old.

Patti ignored them both. “Kevin and I were on a break between classes.” She took a deep breath before continuing. “We were going to Baskin-Robbins for an ice-cream cone.”

“You’re not supposed to leave school between classes,” Freckle-face said. “I bet you snuck out.”

“Goody-goody.” A chorus of voices heckled the child.

“It’s my fault he’s kidnapped.” A tear slid down Patti’s cheek. “It was my idea to go for ice cream. They’re featuring Gummi Bear Swirl this month and it’s my favorite and now Kevin is gone.”

“Ych!” One of the children commented on Patti’s choice of flavor.

“It’s not your fault, Patti. We will find Kevin; now tell me all you can remember about the man.”

“He came up to Kevin and gave him a big greeting. Kevin looked surprised. I don’t think he recognized him at first, but then he said ‘Hello’ back. The man said he wanted to ask Kevin something in private and Kevin said we were friends and I was going to be his manager someday, which I am, so the man could talk in front of me. The man said it had to be private so I said I would meet Kevin at Baskin-Robbins. Kevin never showed up.”

“Stood you up,” the pint-sized boy soprano declared.

“Kevin would never stand me up! That man must have abduc…abducted Kevin.” Patti struggled with the word but finally succeeded in pronouncing it correctly.

“Aw c’mon. My dad says it’s all a publicity stunt to sell more burgers.”

“What did the man look like?” I asked.

“Nothing special,” Patti said.

“Tall or short?”

“Sort of in-between.”

“Fat? Thin?”

“Not fat. Not thin either.”

“Hair?”

“A real mess. He was in desperate need of a hair stylist.”

“What about his features?”

“The camera wouldn’t like them. His skin was bad too. A cosmologist might have helped but he’d need a lot of treatments.”

“Can you think of anything else, dear?”

“I didn’t know it was going to be important. What if he hurts Kevin?” Patti stifled a sob.

“It’s going to be all right, Patti. I promise.”

Patti’s face brightened. “His teeth,” she said. “The man had terrible teeth. I remember thinking he couldn’t be an actor or he would have had his teeth capped. They were awful. Does that help?” She looked at me—anxiety written all over her sweet face.

“Yes, dear, thank you. You’ve been most helpful.”

Patti had just described the man on the train.

“Did any of you see Kevin and the man go off together?”

None of the children had. They grew restless.

Three alarms rang; each had a distinct and, to my ears, discordant tone. Three boys checked their cell phones.

“Uh oh, time to get back to school,” Freckle-face said.

There were no more answers to my questions. Recess was over.

CHAPTER THREE

I confess. I misrepresented myself in order to obtain an interview with Robert Barton, the sponsor of the Cowboy Bob’s Big, Bad Burger commercials. He had been interviewed on Good Morning America and was obviously a publicity hound; why not play upon his desire to bask in the spotlight?

Before my retirement, Scholastic Magazine had published several articles I had penned and I rationalized my deception with the thought that I was not lying, merely fudging the truth a bit when I flashed my laminated library card at Barton’s secretary and she mistakenly accepted it as a press credential.

I crossed a plain of gold-colored carpet, my oxfords sinking into the deep, plush pile that covered the vast expanse that led from the burnished mahogany door to Barton’s huge semicircular glass-topped desk. He perused a sheet of paper, head down, eyes scanning the sheet. My presence went unacknowledged.

I used his pretense to glance at the studies of cartoon characters grouped on one wall. Kevin’s picture, dressed as Cowboy Bob, was in center place. On the left was a sketch of the dancing French fries executing a hoedown. On the right, a framed drawing of Frederick the Fresh Fish, blowing bubbles. Another sketch, as yet unmounted, rested against a corner of the desk—a trio of luscious brownies dressed in cowgirl outfits. Photographs of the sponsor with celebrities and political personalities, including New York’s mayor and both senators, filled in the rest of the wall. I reached the desk and cleared my throat.

“Good afternoon.”

“Hello! I’m Robert Barton.” Springing to his feet, he circled to the front of his desk, extended his hand and pumped mine with unwarranted enthusiasm. The same smirk he had worn during the television interview flashed across his face for an instant, to be replaced by open-mouthed recognition.

“Miss Weidenmaier?”

“My word! Little Bertie Barton!”

We stared at each other in disbelief. I was the first to recover.

“Well, Bertram, you certainly have made something of yourself.”

“I’m sure you can take some credit for that, Miss Weidenmaier.”

“Most gracious of you, Bertram.”

Silence. We eyed each other; insincere grins stretched our mouths into something similar to those carved on pumpkins. I mentally totted up the years that had passed since his elementary school graduation.

The scent of expensive aftershave perfumed the office air. The scent triggered memories of Bertram as an impeccably clean, well-groomed child; a sign of the man to come. His thick, dark brown hair was now touched with silver at the temples, but his complexion, smooth and clear, appeared untouched by time. He wore a fine, custom tailored suit and a conservative, red-and-blue striped tie. The tie was decorated with a whimsical gold stickpin shaped like a dancing French fry. Bertram had grown taller than I would have expected—unless he was wearing elevator shoes. He certainly wasn’t the roughneck I had seen with Kevin.

I was a trifle disconcerted. Bertram never paid proper attention in class but managed to achieve the highest marks in tests. Though his grades were consistent, I had sensed something lacking in the youngster. He was a mental butterfly touching lightly on every subject before flitting off. I never found any definitive proof but I had thought of him as a sly-boots who would not be averse to cheating.

“Please, Miss Weidenmaier, have a seat. I’ve thought of you often. School days, school days, dear old golden rule days. You’re a writer now, Miss Weidenmaier?”

“Freelance, Bertram. Newspapers. Magazines. Something to occupy my idle hours. If I may ask you a few questions?”

He walked to a bar stocked with sodas of every flavor and chose a diet cola, popped the tab and drank from the can while eyeing me over its rim. “May I offer you a soft drink?”

“No, thank you, Bertram.”

“The name is Robert now, Miss Weidenmaier.” His manicured hands smoothed his perfectly styled hair. “What a shame, if you had bothered to call ahead, one of my assistants would have set up an interview at a more convenient time.” He made quite a show out of checking his watch. “I do have five minutes before my next scheduled appointment.”

Bertram, now Robert, opened the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a printed fact sheet. “You know, of course, about my early education. This should fill you in on my business background. What else would you like to know?”

I glanced at the biographical profile. It listed his higher education, accomplishments in the fast-food field and the names of several prestigious charities with which he was associated.

“Most impressive. But I would appreciate a different slant, Bertram. Uhh…mm…Robert.” His new name did not fit the boy I once knew.

“Slant, Miss Weidenmaier?” He smiled an ever-wider smile; the boy surely had more than the requisite number of teeth. Was that a glimmer of amusement I saw in Bertram’s eyes? If so, I intended to ignore it.

“What about your relationship with Kevin Corcoran? Kevin is your Cowboy Bob, you must certainly be concerned. Have you received a ransom note or a telephone call? Any word from Kevin’s kidnapper? Do you have any idea who or why anyone would execute such a dastardly deed?”

“Are you a crime writer, Miss Weidenmaier? Shouldn’t a retired school-marm write poetry and paint watercolors?” Barton wasn’t amused anymore.

“We never know where fate will lead us. Who would have thought little Bertie Barton would grow up to be Robert Barton? Now, young man, have you heard from Kevin’s kidnapper?”

“Not a word, Miss Weidenmaier,” he said. “A terrible thing to happen to the youngster. Terrible. Upsetting. Kevin is like a son to me.” Concern passed his lips but never reached his eyes. He pressed a button on his desk. “We are cooperating with the police, of course and…”

His secretary opened the door then knocked.

“Your staff is here, sir. Time for your meeting.”

“Ahh, yes. Of course. Come in, gentlemen.” Bertram ushered me to the door as a group of men identically dressed in dark blue, pinstriped suits filed in.

“Thank you for dropping by, Miss Weidenmaier. A pleasure to see you again.” He pressed something into my hand. “Please, be my guest.”

I found myself standing outside the door holding a glossy booklet of coupons. They entitled me to a free burger, fries, shake and a Cowboy Bob’s Big, Bad Brownie Bonanza at any of Cowboy Bob’s fast-food restaurants.

Bertram’s voice carried through the door; modern skyscrapers do not offer privacy. I could hear him issuing orders to his subordinates.

“All right, boys, it’s time to move,” he said, sounding more like the sly child I remembered. “Number one. The kid’s disappearance is great publicity. Let’s get the lead out and use it to the max. Number two. Cowboy Bob’s Big, Bad Brownie Bonanzas are making their debut today and they’re going to push our chain from the number two spot in the fast-food market to number one. Got me? Cousin Cora’s Cakewalks have met their match. We have the dessert no one can resist. Cowboy Bob’s Big, Bad Brownie Bonanzas are selling out in every test market. The reaction has been phenomenal and that’s before advertising. Now I want to see the city blanketed with flyers and coupons. The new commercial will be on all the major networks and the Sunday papers will be carrying full-page ads. I have fifteen delectable models coming in and starting today, they’ll be handing out samples on every street corner. No more first place for Cousin Cora’s Chicken Crisps. Her chickens are going to lay one big egg.”

My word! Where had Bertram learned all those unfortunate expressions? He certainly did not learn them in my class. He harbored a good deal of ill will toward Cousin Cora, a string of restaurants that specialized in chicken. I decided to add someone from Cousin Cora to my list of people to be interviewed. Little Bertie had never been a good loser—was he capable of being the brains behind a plot to kidnap Kevin? The publicity generated could create enough new business to move his burger to the top of the fast-food market.

Bertram’s secretary, an attractive but lacquered woman, cradled her telephone between ear and chin. The woman’s officious manner with the party on the other end of the line suggested a misguided sense of her own importance.

“Next week, Mr. Barton wishes to audition all-American, apple-pie type girls. Kids who can learn lines fast and no one over ten. Got that? Mr. Barton insists. Think young. Understand?”

She listened for a moment. “I don’t question Mr. Barton. Maybe he just wants to add a new face. Maybe he thinks the Corcoran kid is never coming back. Maybe he just likes to audition. Me, I don’t ask. I just do my job and I suggest you do the same. Call me back or fax me a list of the girls you’re sending over.”

Bertram’s secretary eyed me and abruptly ended the phone conversation. “Anything I can do for you? The bank of elevators is to your right.”

“Yes, dear. I know.” I smiled sweetly, though with some difficulty, at the woman and adjusted my jacket and hat at as slow a pace as I could manage. “I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation. Is Mr. Barton auditioning for a child to replace Kevin Corcoran?”

“Oh, Mr. Barton is known for his auditions. Holds general auditions every couple of months, likes to give new talent a break. Excuse me, I have a lot of letters to type.” She swiveled her chair toward the desktop computer then back toward me. “Can I help you with something?”

“May I, dear.” I could not resist correcting the woman. “Can means ‘am able.’ Do not confuse the word as a substitute for may. I would suggest the purchase of a book titled The Elements of Style. An invaluable purchase for a person in your position.”

“Yeah? Yes.” She looked confused. “I’ll do that.”

A giggling band of extremely attractive, wholesome-looking girls costumed in mini-skirts, leather boots and Stetson hats stepped off the elevator and entered the reception area. Not one looked over fifteen. All were bright-eyed, clear-skinned and filled to the brim with youthful energy.

Bertram’s secretary called his office. “Mr. Barton, the models are here to hand out the flyers, shall I bring them in?” The answer was affirmative, she escorted them into his office.

I pressed the elevator button, and then almost missed it when it finally arrived; my thoughts were so focused on Barton. Was he preparing to replace Kevin? If the man was having auditions to replace the boy this soon, he must know something. Although Bertram bore no resemblance to the rough, uncouth fellow I had seen on the train with Kevin, he might have hired a thug to carry out his dirty work. Could he be the mastermind behind a devious plot? I believed, but had never proved, that Bertram encouraged other children to do mischief. I had once caught him selling cans of spray paint to his classmates. Soon after, mustaches appeared on the school mural of Clara Barton, Betsy Ross and Florence Nightingale. If Bertie Barton was the instigator of that desecration, could he, as an adult, have engineered the kidnapping? The man was a suspect, a definite suspect in my mind.

I glanced at my watch; the library would be open until 9:00 tonight, enough time for research. Cousin Cora’s fast-food restaurants would be first on my list, but I would study anything that had a possible connection to Kevin Corcoran.

CHAPTER FOUR

I managed to schedule an interview with Felicity Silk, the director of Cousin Cora’s Chicken Crisps, for 12:00 noon the following day, and decided to have an early lunch at a nearby restaurant in the chain. Much as I disliked the restaurant (I had found the food inedible when I lunched with a friend who swore by the menu), it was convenient, and added to my research. As I entered Cousin Cora’s I noticed, not for the first time, that they all looked alike. Chintz curtains bordered picture windows, and artificial philodendron, planted in copper pots, descended from beamed oak ceilings. Chubby, plush bears, dressed in frilly pinafores sat on shelves next to carved wood trains and pseudo-antique bric-a-brac. Embroidered proverbs and maxims were framed and displayed on the floral papered walls. Children’s games like tic-tac-toe and connect the dots were printed on paper placemats placed on oak laminate tables.

The public image of Cousin Cora’s chain of family-style restaurants was warm and motherly. The restaurant’s motto, Chicken for the Pickin, invited patrons to use their fingers; no utensils were offered, you had to ask for them. Social conventions had certainly changed since I was a girl. Books of etiquette are rarely seen on The New York Times bestseller list these days.

Cheerful senior citizens, exuding warmth and good nature, serviced the restaurants. Tendrils of gray peeped from poke bonnets worn by counter ladies dressed in gingham skirts and crisply starched white blouses. The “boys” who cleared the tables and mopped spills were retirees with too much time on, and not enough money in, their hands.

The restaurant chain was as well known in Western Europe as the United States. A Cousin Cora’s had recently opened in London. Le Poulet de Cousine Cora would soon make its Parisian debut, and Forbes magazine hinted at negotiations with up-and-coming Russian capitalists.

One of the “boys” carried my tray to a small booth near the front of the restaurant. “Help yourself to the salad,” he said. “A green a day keeps the doctor away.”

I tried not to wince.

Every Cousin Cora’s featured a salad bar placed in the exact center of the room. The bar was constantly refilled with vegetables and fruit so fresh-looking they appeared waxed. Tasted that way too. The Chicken Crisps were all crisp and not enough chicken. Poor scrawny birds. I picked up my requested plastic knife and fork and tried, without success, to cut a piece of the chicken; the result was mutilation. Cousin Cora’s food except for the brownies, named Cakewalks, which I enjoyed, had an artificial taste. My taste buds were in the minority; Cousin Cora’s restaurants were busy from breakfast through closing. The company was accorded a number-one rating by Barron’s business magazine, but in an ugly competition for top spot in the fast-food market, Cowboy Bob’s Big, Bad Burger was snapping at Cousin Cora’s tail feathers. If Cousin Cora thought Cowboy Bob would push her out of first place, the woman might be desperate enough to resort to criminal exploits.

I studied the box in which the food was placed. The box bore the image of a stout, apple-cheeked, elderly woman holding a tray of chicken and Cakewalks, and a large pitcher of iced tea. The containers could be found, discarded, in trash baskets all over the world.

In the course of researching the company, I had learned there was in fact no Cousin Cora. The face, used in photographs reproduced on the bags and boxes, belonged to the deceased grandmother of the chief executive officer of the conglomerate that included the fast-food chain among its diversified holdings. In addition to Cousin Cora’s, the conglomerate owned a group of low-priced department stores, rental cars, toy shops, a cable television shopping network, romance magazines, chewy vitamins for tots and gourmet dog food.

There was just enough time to enjoy my Cakewalk and a cup of tea before meeting with Felicity Silk. I bit into the rich chocolate then studied the advertisement I had found in the business section of The New York Times. The ad placed by Cousin Cora’s Chicken Crisps sought franchisees who were highly motivated. In return, Cousin Cora promised training, support and prime unit locations. When I spoke with Silk’s secretary I posed as a wealthy spinster seeking a sound investment; interested in a franchise but returning home to Florida the following day to take care of another company. A meeting with Miss Silk, at a suitable time, was arranged to accommodate me.

There was very little written about Felicity Silk. The information I did find stated that she was young—early thirties—and had moved up the corporate ladder with quick, sure steps. There was no information available regarding her personal life and the only photograph I could find, after hours of research in the Central Library, appeared in a society column. A picture of her at a charity dinner with, of all people, little Bertie Barton. The camera caught them nibbling canapés and gazing fondly at each other, apparently unaware of the photographer.

Five minutes and a short walk after my lunch brought me to Cousin Cora’s building; their offices were located in a modern glass-and-steel structure composed of something resembling horizontal blocks of blue ice-cubes, laxative bottle blue. The blocks stretched skyward as though seeking to chill the sun. If this was the architect’s purpose, he succeeded. Pedestrians walking past the building never saw the brightness of day. The building’s reflections of similar looming towers were distorted and disturbing; they made me long for the comfort of a second cup of tea.

The elevators were caskets encased in glass. One look at the visible motors, platforms and cables being raised and lowered in their vertical shafts and my legs became as wobbly as a bowl of warm Jell-O. I reached the open door and stopped, unable for a moment to continue. Felicity Silk’s office was on the 55th floor.

“Lady? Are you going up?” A group of passengers had bunched up in back of me.

“Sorry,” I mumbled and managed to force my unwilling feet into the glass receptacle.

“Fifty-five, please. Would someone press fifty-five for me?” Could my fellow riders detect the note of panic in my voice?

“That’s my floor too. The button’s been pressed.”

I reluctantly shifted my gaze from the back of a herringbone jacket to a petite brunette.

“That’s my floor too,” the brunette repeated. “High isn’t it?” Chirps of nervous laughter made her sound like a cricket. The elevator stopped at the 33rd floor. Our companions exited. The young lady and I were the only ones left in the car.

I closed my eyes, not daring to look down, trying to think of anything but the distance between our enclosure and the ground below. I failed miserably.

“Heights terrify me,” the brunette said. “I even took Dramamine this morning. It was the first time I came up this high, and now I’ve lost the bottle. Usually I’ve got my act together, never lose anything. Can you believe, my first day on the job and I lost the Dramamine, then a library book? It’s this elevator. I hate this elevator but I better get used to it now that I’ve been promoted and I’m working on fifty-five instead of ten.”

“You must work for Cousin Cora,” I said. I opened my eyes and quickly regretted the act.

“Close enough. I’m Felicity Silk’s new secretary. Do you work for the company?”

The door to the rear of the car opened. My companion stepped onto a steel-blue carpet and checked her watch. I followed. My legs regained some muscle tone and I walked toward the reception desk and gave my name.

“Cissy!” the receptionist called after the young lady. Cissy backtracked.

“Cissy, this is Miss Weidenmaier. She has an appointment with Miss Silk about a franchise.”

“Hello again, Miss Weidenmaier. I’m Cissy Love. Please follow me.”

We walked past a series of cubicles furnished with computer work centers. There were no doors, windows or privacy. Except for family photographs, an occasional potted plant and small vases of flowers, the stalls were interchangeable. The sterile surroundings did not make any contribution toward warmth or stimulation; however, as I passed the embrasures I could hear snippets of whispered but excited conversation. All the talk seemed to involve recipes. A contest sponsored by the company, to find a new dessert. Words like apple, raisin, vanilla, sugar, lemon, custard, icing and—the most popular word of all—chocolate, floated through the corridors leading to Felicity Silk’s office.

“Hi, Cissy.” A short, fat girl stepped into our path. “How are you making out with the icicle? Think you’ll last the week?”

Cissy rolled her eyes. We kept walking.

“There’s a big turnover in secretaries for Miss Silk,” Cissy explained. “The last secretary was out the door so fast I began the job this morning and didn’t receive any training.”

“Wasn’t the woman given notice?”

“No. The rumors are flying. If even half of them are true…Wow! Here we are.”

“Thank God, you’re back, Cissy.” A frazzled-looking woman snatched her purse from beneath the desk, stood up quickly and prepared to leave. “This is a hell of a job for a temp. I disconnected Miss Silk twice. Now I must have pressed the wrong button again, everyone can hear as well as see her.” She waved her hand at Silk’s office. “Listen. She’s tearing that guy apart.”

The temp had pressed the conference call button. Anyone standing in front of Cissy’s desk could hear Felicity berate the unfortunate soul on the other end of the line.

“Get that crummy rag to issue a retraction,” Silk said. “Cousin Cora pays you big bucks to keep her name out of cheap supermarket tabloids. If you can’t handle the job we can take our business to another public relations company.”

Felicity Silk’s voice, in my opinion, assaulted the ear like the high-pitched ping of a spoon striking a bottle of mineral water.

I heard the man try to defend himself. Felicity overrode his interruption. “Quiet! When I’m talking, you just listen. Do we understand each other? Good. Send me a copy of the retraction.”

There was a pause.

“I’ll take care of it,” the man said.

“I’m sure you will.” The call ended.

“I don’t dare push anything else,” the temp said. “I’m lucky it’s my last day. You better take over, Cissy. I’m going to hide.”

The smile Cissy gave me was a bit tentative. “Good luck. I’ll tell Miss Silk you’re here.”

Once I was ushered in, Miss Silk’s index finger indicated a chair. I sat while she closed the drapes, according us privacy denied her staff.

“Miss Weidenmaier, how nice to meet you.” Silk, a tall, antenna-thin, silver-blonde woman who exuded authority, turned on a professional smile. The hand she offered was as cold and smooth as the enveloping glass.

Her eyes inventoried my good tweed suit, the leather handbag (a gift from the graduation class of ’99) and the sturdy Rockport shoes (bought off-season and on-sale).

“I understand you are interested in a Cousin Cora’s Chicken Crisps franchise.”

“I have questions.” I took an immediate dislike to the woman. Unfair of me, I suppose.

“Of course.” There was that professional smile again. “We would certainly be willing to consider you for one of our prime locations in Florida.” She nodded, satisfied. “How does Boca Raton sound to you? Yes. Boca Raton might be suitable. Now shall we discuss your background? Relative experience?” Her long, tapered fingers, nails clipped straight across at the tips and polished with an iridescent pearl lacquer, played with a letter opener.

“Competition in the marketplace,” I said. “I would like to discuss competition in the marketplace.”

“We have no competition,” Felicity Silk said. “Cousin Cora is number one. Cousin Cora exercises strict control over her franchises and her franchisees.”

“Before I invest my money, Miss Silk, I need a few answers.”

“If you invest your money,” Felicity countered. “Cousin Cora is most particular about the people who run her units. She does not grant a license to just anyone, in fact Miss Weidenmaier, my ex-secretary should never have scheduled an interview before your background had been thoroughly checked.”

“I’m sure you’ll find my credentials satisfactory. Now about the competition? For instance, I understand Kevin Corcoran’s commercials for Cowboy Bob’s Big, Bad Burger made the stock price of the company rise to new heights.”

“Their value hasn’t caught up with ours,” Felicity Silk said. “Cowboy Bob doesn’t appeal to the same market. We cater to families by serving wholesome all-American meals. Big, Bad Burgers are nothing but junk food.”

“Still, I hardly think someone would kidnap the poor child because they disapproved of Cowboy Bob’s hamburgers. Who would do such a thing?”

“I doubt the child’s been kidnapped, Miss Weidenmaier. It’s a fake, like Cowboy Bob’s greasy burgers. Robert Barton is capable of pulling any kind of stunt to get publicity. It wouldn’t surprise me to hear he’s engineered the whole scummy business. Under that smooth veneer, Barton is pure unadulterated sleaze.” Felicity Silk stopped, suddenly aware of her outburst. Flustered, she poured herself a glass of ice water, took several sips and regained her composure.

“Now, Miss Weidenmaier, we are going to discuss you and what you can contribute to Cousin Cora’s image.”

The intercom buzzed: a harsh sound like that of an insect trapped in a Mason jar.

“Yes,” Felicity said in response, stabbing at the button.

“The print-out is here, Miss Silk.”

“About time. Bring it in.” She turned toward me. “New secretary. A bore to train them. One is more inept than another.”

Cissy brought the sheets in, and escaped. Felicity studied the sheets. “Who are you? One of Barton’s bargain basement spies?”

“I’m here to investigate a franchise.”

“You are a retired schoolteacher with a limited income. You can barely afford to buy a soda to go with your crisps. No way could you afford the fee and start-up costs for one of our units.”

Felicity pointed her letter opener in my direction. “You tell Barton he will not find out the secret ingredient used in Cousin Cora’s Chicken Crisps and if he dares to use the Cakewalk recipe for his brownies, I will expose him.” Felicity’s voice grew strident. “I will destroy him. His little cartoon characters will be a lot more animated than his prostrate body. Goodbye, Miss Weidenmaier.”

“I assure you, Miss Silk, I am not a spy for little Bertie Barton.” The photograph in the society column had pictured them as something more than friends and business associates; now avarice, it would appear, had made them enemies.

“Little Bertie? Oh, Miss Weidenmaier.”

Felicity’s mocking laughter followed me as I walked back down the corridor. The sound startled the clerks in the nearest workstations. I imagined humor was a foreign concept in that office.

I closed my eyes as the elevator descended. My stomach dropped, reaching ground level long before the rest of my body. When the door finally opened, I decided to rest for a bit in the atrium, regain my equilibrium. The acute anxiety that overwhelms me when faced by high elevations is ridiculous but real.

There was a vacant seat on a wrought-iron bench stationed next to a potted palm. I sat down and tried to concentrate on the palmate leaves.

“Excuse me. Could you move over a little?”

A corpulent woman wedged her body between a neighbor and me. The neighbor glared her disapproval, which was totally ignored, and left. My new bench companion took a newspaper, an enormous sandwich and a thermos out of a tote bag. She spread out the paper and began her lunch.

Thick slices of corned beef overlapped seeded rye bread. My mouth began to water as my seatmate bit into a sour pickle, and I regretted having lunched on Cousin Cora’s Chicken Crisps.

“Would you look at this.” The woman abruptly set the thermos on the floor and slapped the newspaper. A few drops of coffee spotted my left shoe.

“Sorry,” my companion said and swabbed the stain with an oversized napkin as she continued to talk. “That’s why I never eat in one of them fast-food joints. Pure poison. I always make my own lunch. Save a bundle that way too.” She punctuated her speech by taking an overlarge bite out of her sandwich.

Cousin Cora’s Chicken Crisps Don’t Make the Grade, the headline on the tabloid read.

“May I?” I asked, holding out my hand.

“Sure.” The woman handed me the paper. “I’m done with it anyway. Read most of it on my coffee break. Keep it. You know the girls in the office make fun of me for reading it. This paper I mean, but I tell you one thing, you can’t read The New York Times on a fifteen-minute coffee break. Careful, I got a little mustard on it.”

No wonder Felicity was upset. The article, I thought, must have been what the overheard phone call was all about. The report was—if false—libelous, but a lawsuit would give legitimacy to the tabloid. Still, an accusation of salmonella could not be ignored. Could Bertie Barton be the unnamed source responsible for planting the story? I wouldn’t put it past him.

Was there a connection between the kidnapping and the relationship between Silk and Barton? There clearly had been a relationship, one that ended with bitter accusations and recriminations. Sales of Cowboy Bob’s Big, Bad Burger had gone up since Kevin Corcoran’s commercial but to use a child as a pawn in their fast-food game…it didn’t seem plausible. My word, I had a lot of suspects to interview. I brought out a list I had started, and placed a tick next to Felicity’s name. Kevin’s mother was next.

CHAPTER FIVE

Nothing in this case followed the usual pattern found in a police procedural. There was the absence of a ransom note; Kevin’s mother or, perhaps, Bertram Barton as sponsor of the child’s popular television commercial, should have received the missive. But Bertram denied receiving a note. The police, according to the tabloid left on my next-door neighbor’s welcome mat, had not been able to communicate with Mrs. Corcoran, who had been hospitalized for stress.

While I had sympathy for the woman, his mother would simply have to pull herself together. Kevin had asked for my help on Tuesday, today was Thursday; an interview was absolutely essential. It would, of course, be easier for the woman to talk with me, a genteel spinster, rather than a burly police officer like Lieutenant Brown.

Fortunately, the tabloid had also named where Mrs. Corcoran was being attended to: New York Hospital, the very hospital where, since retirement, I volunteered my services as a librarian. I pushed the book cart down the hospital corridor, pausing at the reception desk.

“Good afternoon, ladies.”

“Good afternoon, Miss Weidenmaier,” the receptionist and a nurse’s aide responded in concert. They appeared harried; both a nurse and an aide had called in sick. As we talked, I managed to glance at the chart lying on the desk. Mrs. Corcoran was in room 1003. So far, so good, I often worked the floor.

An attentive security guard was posted outside the door to the room; his eyes constantly checked the corridor for suspicious characters. My watch read 1:45. At 2:00 p.m., patients were offered their choice of fruit juice. I exchanged the books for cans of pineapple, grapefruit and apple juice, moved my identification badge to a more prominent place on my lapel and approached the guard.

Luck was with me. He paused—just once—for a brief but appreciative glance at a petite nurse walking by. The nurse, a stethoscope adorning her neck, granted him a smile as she passed, then continued on her way through the wing with a tray of thermometers. I greeted the distracted man as if he was an old friend, and sailed past him into Mrs. Corcoran’s room.

A basket of daisies, one of fruit, two vases of roses and a huge bouquet of balloons crowded the room. The scent of the flowers almost succeeded in covering the usual antiseptic atmosphere of the hospital. A fragile-looking creature, Mrs. Corcoran’s complexion was as pale and white as the sheets on the hospital bed. I became aware of a blue vein throbbing in her temple.

A lunch tray sat, untouched, on the bedside table. The chicken broth was tepid and the vanilla ice cream had melted to an unappetizing puddle. She had not eaten a thing, which would never do.

“Mrs. Corcoran.” I addressed Kevin’s mother in a gentle but firm manner. “Mrs. Corcoran, I am Miss Weidenmaier. I consider myself Kevin’s friend and I hope you will allow me to be yours.”

Mrs. Corcoran turned her head away; her eyes remained closed. She spoke so softly I could barely decipher the words. “Kevin. I want my baby.”

I cranked the bed up a bit, straightened the bedding, placed a second pillow behind her head and, when she looked at me, handed her a glass of apple juice. “Mrs. Corcoran, you need nourishment. Take small sips while we talk.”

Mrs. Corcoran wrapped both hands around the glass. Her large hazel eyes were swollen and red-rimmed from crying.

“How do you know Kevin?” Her voice was a little stronger now.

“Lincoln Center,” I answered.

“Which audition was that? There have been so many.” The poor woman had mistaken me for an actress. A natural mistake; I had trod the boards in my college days, playing an acceptable Jo March in Little Women. If my memory serves me correctly, the local paper reviewed my performance in glowing terms.

“Mrs. Corcoran, have you received any type of communication regarding Kevin’s disappearance? A phone call or a note making demands? Something you might have thought too insignificant to mention?”

She shook her head. Tears again threatened her eyes.

“Now, none of that. We must talk and tears will only delay us.”

Mrs. Corcoran gulped and swallowed, looking much too young to be the mother of a nine-year-old. “Yes, of course,” she whispered.

“Do you know anyone who would wish to take Kevin away?”

I bent my head to hear her answer.

“Charles,” she said. “I was hoping it was Charles.”

“Who is Charles, Mrs. Corcoran?”

“Kevin’s father. At least he’d be safe with Charles.”

“You are divorced?”

“Separated. Captain Corcoran doesn’t believe in divorce. No one in the Corcoran family has ever been divorced.”

“Captain Corcoran. He’s in the service?”

“An army man like his father, his family is all gone now just like mine. I was so happy when we found each other. But the war has changed Charles…he’s become so rigid especially with Kevin.”

Mrs. Corcoran touched her barren ring finger.

“I don’t fit his world. He wants Kevin with him., He said he’d hire a lawyer. He feels that marrying me was imprudent. He told me many times how much he regretted it. But I don’t really think he would take Kevin. Charles believes in doing things by the book. He wouldn’t kidnap Kevin, he loves Kevin. He doesn’t love me anymore but he loves Kevin. Kevin is all I have. I guess Kevin is all Charles has too.”

A wisp of baby-fine hair fell across one eye. She pushed it away and rubbed the eye with a hand balled into a fist, determined not to cry. “Everything’s gone wrong, Miss Weidenmaier. I loved Charles so much. We should have been so happy together. But since he came back from the war, he doesn’t talk. It’s not just me, he won’t talk about the war to anyone.”

Had Kevin’s father become impatient with the law? Snatched the child? I asked for his description.

“Kevin and his father look alike. The same hair. The color’s a little darker than mine but his has a natural curl. That was the first thing I noticed about Charles. I always wanted hair like his. They both have blue eyes, but Kevin’s are warm. Kevin looks like his dad but he’s more like me, he loves art and music and, of course, theatre.” Mrs. Corcoran’s face brightened. “We explore museums and go to concerts when Kevin has the time in between his school assignments and commercials. His father disapproves. He wants Kevin to play baseball or soccer. That’s one of the reasons we separated. He says Kevin will end up a sissy.” Mrs. Corcoran’s hand trembled. A few drops of apple juice stained the bedsheet. She dabbed at the spot with a tissue. “Maybe Charles is right. I don’t know anymore. I just want Kevin to be safe and happy.”

“Where is your husband now, Mrs. Corcoran?”

“Charles is in the veteran’s hospital on Kingsbridge Road in the Bronx. Do you think Charles took Kevin?”

I didn’t know the answer to Mrs. Corcoran’s question but I intended to find out.

The man I had seen with Kevin did not fit Mrs. Corcoran’s description of the boy’s father. Perhaps the captain had persuaded some underling to kidnap the child. Unlikely, but possible, especially if he too were hospitalized. I intended to discuss the matter with Lieutenant Brown.

The absence of a ransom note was frightening, raising the most terrifying scenarios. Augusta Weidenmaier, I thought, you must stop. Do not let your imagination run away with itself. Take one step at a time.

“Do you or Kevin have any enemies? Is there anyone who dislikes you for any reason?”

“Everyone loves Kevin.” The tears she was trying so hard to suppress clouded her eyes.

I examined the cards attached to the floral arrangements. Robert Barton had sent the largest. The basket of fruit came from Abner T. Bean, Kevin’s agent, and his granddaughter Patti.

“My phone number, Mrs. Corcoran, call if you think of anything or anyone that might be involved. And you must eat. Regain your strength. I’ll come visit you again.”

“You’re not at all like most actresses.” Mrs. Corcoran managed a smile as she spoke. “You remind me of my favorite elementary-school teacher.”

I telephoned the lieutenant from a public phone booth located in the hospital’s lobby. He was taking a lunch break. Too bad, I would have been happy to share what I had learned.

“I’ll contact the lieutenant later today,” I told the desk sergeant.

There was no time to waste and luck was with me; I checked for Abner T. Bean’s address in an old Manhattan telephone directory that had survived years of mishandling and called, but Abner T. Bean’s answering machine stated he was not interviewing actors today. He might not be interviewing but he would be in his office and he would surely want to help find Kevin.

CHAPTER SIX

Lieutenant Brown covered a yawn by vigorously blowing his nose; it was hard to keep awake when Clarence decided to plead guilty. He pulled on his left earlobe and wondered if every nutcase in New York was going to confess to kidnapping Kevin Corcoran. The damn phone was ringing off the hook and two of the early calls were complaints about that schoolteacher who was making like an amateur detective.

“Clarence,” he said. “You didn’t do it. Give me a break. Give yourself a break. Go home. Go back to work. Just go away before I lose it.”

“Nobody believes me,” Clarence said. “Nobody takes me seriously.” His nose dripped. A disagreeable sight. Lieutenant Brown handed him a box of tissues and wondered where Sergeant Harris had gone. Handling creeps like Clarence was part of her job.

“You didn’t kidnap Kevin, you are not Jack the Ripper. Robbery doesn’t want you. Narcotics doesn’t want you, you are not wanted for auto theft, muggings or homicide. But if you keep bugging me, I might be jailed for murder. Why do you confess to every damn crime you read about? What are you, a concerned citizen who thinks he’s tidying up New York? Maybe, like the commercial says, Clarence, you need to reach out and touch someone.”

Anything for attention, the lieutenant thought. The scrawny, non-descript man was easy to ignore. Sallow skin, pale brown eyes that constantly watered, receding mouse-colored hair; it was impossible to even judge the man’s age. A personality so withdrawn it was like communicating with a glass of skim milk.

“All right, Clarence, where were you last Tuesday? Where was Kevin when you abducted him? Where have you hidden him?”

To the lieutenant’s surprise, tears washed over and down the would-be kidnapper’s cheeks.

Clarence couldn’t have kidnapped Kevin. Details? He knew zilch and had no motive.

“Clarence, weren’t you working the day Kevin disappeared?” He worked in an office building two blocks away. “Jesus, every time you come here and confess I have to check with the superintendent over there. Why do you have to choose my station house?” Lieutenant Brown glanced at his watch. Sergeant Harris was late. He’d have to talk to her.

“Clarence, it’s time to go now.”

He walked Clarence past the front desk, presided over by Sergeant O’Brien, and found O’Brien and Marjorie Harris playing with the street kid who had adopted the lieutenant’s unit as a second home. What the hell—the kid didn’t have a real home.

“Clarence, go back to work.” Lieutenant Brown opened the door, Clarence walked down the front steps before he turned back and raised one hand in a tentative wave.

The boy was sitting on top of O’Brien’s desk, stuffing potato chips into his mouth. Crumbs decorated his torn T-shirt and dirty jeans. A stray chip had landed on top of a stack of O’Brien’s paperwork. O’Brien either hadn’t noticed or was too charmed to care. The eight-year-old was getting the attention he obviously craved. Half the force, the lieutenant noted, including Marjorie Harris, was neglecting their work entertaining the kid.

“Sergeant Harris,” the lieutenant said. “Walk down the block to Clarence’s building and see if he was working last Tuesday.”

The usually composed Marjorie Harris jumped at the sound of his voice. He couldn’t help himself; he got a kick out of her reaction. No one else noticed it. Good thing, too. He was much too conscious of Marjorie Harris. She wasn’t a bad cop—considering she was a woman. An attractive woman.

“Right away, Lieutenant,” Marjorie said. She tied the boy’s shoelaces. The child’s sneakers were full of holes and looked a size too small. Marjorie would be making a collection to buy the kid a new pair.

Every couple of weeks, the kid could be found sitting on the steps outside the building, crying crocodile tears, pretending to be lost. The cops were turning into his surrogate family. The boy had no father. His mother had disappeared. The grandmother lived from welfare check to welfare check and he competed with half a dozen brothers and sisters for her attention. The kid was smart enough to come to the police for what he didn’t get at home. The Police Athletic League might be a solution.

“O’Brien,” he ordered. “Have someone escort this young man home and see if you can enlist him in the PAL.” He pulled O’Brien’s cap over the kid’s eyes and handed him the bar of chocolate he’d bought for an afternoon snack. Plenty more in the vending machine. Besides, he should lose a few pounds; the elastic on his jockeys felt tight. Maybe he’d take up jogging or biking, something he could do with his son.

Every time his son said he wanted to be a cop, his ex-wife threw a fit. He had mixed feelings about it. Plenty of time—his son was only eleven. No. Twelve. He’d have to give him a call, didn’t see enough of the boy. Boy. He wouldn’t be a boy much longer. Next birthday he’d be a teenager. They got along all right when they got together. Seemed like his son was skipping years, growing up too soon He’d call him tonight. Maybe they’d have dinner together.

“Lieutenant.” Marjorie was back. “Clarence checks out. The superintendent says Clarence worked all day. The security guard saw him, so did one of the tenants who slipped and nearly fell on the wax Clarence sloshed on the floor near the elevators.”

“Lunch hour? The loser could do it on his lunch hour.”

“Didn’t take one. Had to clean up the wax before the landlord got sued.”

Marjorie handed O’Brien a peppermint and offered him one. In her battle to stop smoking, Sergeant Harris constantly popped Life Savers into her generous mouth. He wouldn’t mind a taste of that peppermint. Damn. He banished the thought of Marjorie Harris, her lips, legs, the whole enchilada from his mind. The woman should get married and have a kid of her own. She’d make a good mother. His ex-wife was a good mother; he’d give her that. Just couldn’t stand being a cop’s wife. Few women could.

He thought about the street kid again. Three strikes against him but the lieutenant had a feeling he’d never be out. Sharp and street-wise, the kid would survive. The lieutenant wished he could feel as sure about Kevin Corcoran. No ransom note yet; there should have been a ransom note by now. Worst case scenario: some crazy had the kid, and they were standing around playing.

“Marjorie, we have work to do.” The lieutenant pulled on his left earlobe again and headed for his office. “We’re gonna take the Corcoran kidnapping from the top.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Abner T. Bean’s Theatrical Agency was located in a famous, but by New York standards, old building on Broadway. There is always an old building being torn down or a new edifice going up in Manhattan. Bean’s building, in the heart of the rapidly diminishing theatre district, had once housed music publishers and tunesmiths. They were gone now, along with their melodies and lyrics. The building’s designation as a landmark, however, kept its handsome brick from being torn down and replaced by another featureless office tower.

No longer a mecca for musicians, the building served as a backdrop for gaunt, sad-eyed peddlers and hustlers who set up cardboard boxes on the once-glamorous street; here they hawked their bogus merchandise. New Yorkers ignored them; tourists stopped, examined and occasionally bought an imitation Gucci scarf or fake Rolex watch.

The building was equipped with two elevators, their doors decorated in early twentieth century art deco designs and vibrant colors. Unfortunately, only one was in working order. A man who looked as though he had been installed along with the car operated it. The worn, visored cap perched on his head must have been the last surviving remnant of his uniform.

“Afternoon, miss.” He removed the cap and passed a comb over his nearly hairless head.

“Good afternoon. Mr. Abner Bean’s floor, please.”

“Won’t see you, miss. Mr. Bean has an open call for actors on Tuesdays between 12:00 and 2:00 p.m. Today’s Thursday. Come back tomorrow. If you like I’d be glad to hand him your picture and resume.”

The old coot winked at me! Oh, dear. It couldn’t be. Perhaps it was merely a twitch.

“Thank you very much but Mr. Bean will see me.”

“I doubt it. Only sees actors on Tuesdays.”

“I am not an actor.”

“C’mon. Don’t kid a kidder. Sure you are. I saw you on TV. I know I saw you. What was the show?”

“I am not…”

“Wait. Don’t tell me. Let me guess. It’ll come to me in a minute.”

“Are you going to operate this elevator or do I have to march up those stairs?”

“I’ll be glad to take you up, miss, but Mr. Bean won’t see you. Doesn’t like being disturbed, might throw away your picture.”

“I’m not about to give Mr…Never mind. I’ll take my chances. Up, please.”

The elevator operator shrugged, scratched his scalp and replaced the cap—this time he tilted it over one rheumy eye—and closed the elevator door. He sang snatches of “Let Me Call You Sweetheart” in an asthmatic tenor as the elevator creaked and grumbled its way to Mr. Bean’s floor. When we arrived he doffed the cap, told me his shift ended at five that afternoon and he’d be glad to buy me a cup of coffee and advise me on my career.

I bit my lip, held my temper, thanked the poor soul and informed him I’d had quite enough advice.

Abner Bean’s office was at the far end of a long, dimly lit hallway. I could hear the ring of a telephone as I approached his door. Light showed through its heavy, opaque window. A note, taped to the glass, read “Actors will be interviewed between the hours of 12:00 and 2:00 on Tuesdays. No exceptions! Please do not knock.”

I knocked.

There was no reaction.

I rapped on the door again.

“The office is closed. Mail your picture and resume.”

“Mr. Bean? I must see you. I am not an actress.”

The door opened. Mr. Bean looked me over with a practiced eye. In turn, I studied him. I towered over a chubby, dapperly dressed man. A ruffle of red hair—the same shade as his granddaughter’s—circled his round, pink head. A button nose separated two pudgy cheeks.

“All right,” Mr. Bean said. “You’re not an actress. Who are you?”

“A friend of Kevin Corcoran’s. My name is Augusta Weidenmaier. I’m assisting the police with their investigation. Your granddaughter, Patti, informed me you were his agent.”

“You spoke to Patti?” Mr. Bean’s eyes twinkled. “Some kid, huh?”

“A charming young lady.”

“Wants to be my partner, someday,” he said and adjusted his red vest. “So? How’s it coming? You guys making any progress? Nothing’s on the tube. You think Kevin’s okay? I didn’t get a wink of sleep last night worrying about that boy. I don’t know what to say to Patti. He’s a nice kid. Not one of those precocious brats who are nine years old and act like forty. Should I ask you for identification or something?”

I sensed my library card would not fool an agent. “The hallway is a touch warm. Shall we go into your office, Mr. Bean? I expect it’s a tad cooler and I need to ask you a few questions.”

“The police already asked plenty but why not?” Mr. Bean said. “You might as well come in and park it. Take a seat, I mean.” He pointed to a chair facing his desk. “You know a Lieutenant Brown? He cleaned my mind out. But anything to help Kevin.”

My glance strayed around the room. Photographs of theatrical personalities, a few of them recognizable, cluttered the office. They were tacked to the walls. They sat on the desk; they were stacked in lopsided piles on the top of a metal file cabinet. The photos on the walls and desk were all addressed to “Dear Abner” and signed with “Love,” “Gratitude,” “Affection” or “Kisses.” Abner Bean watched me study the photos. “What can I tell you? I’m a lovable fellow.” He chuckled and I joined in. His laugh was infectious.

“Mr. Bean, how did you become Kevin’s agent?”

The phone rang, and Abner Bean picked it up on the first ring. “Abner T. Bean Agency,” he said. “Come by Tuesday between 12:00 and 2:00. Mr. Bean only sees actors on Tuesday between 12:00 and 2:00. No, you can’t. Mr. Bean only talks to actors on Tuesdays between 12:00 and 2:00. Take it or leave it.”

Mr. Bean listened for a moment. “Same to you, fella.”

He replaced the receiver. “Actors,” he complained. “They never stop. Now, where were we? You wanted to know how I became Kevin’s agent. Through Patti, they’re in the same class. Naturally I had to go and see my one and only grandchild in the school play. A charmer, my granddaughter, but to be honest, as an actress she’d starve to death. But Kevin, the kid’s a natural.

“Cowboy Bob’s was looking for family types for a commercial. A wide range of actors—fathers, mothers, grandparents, sisters, brothers, I submitted all different types. I signed Kevin to a contract and got him an audition. Sure enough he got the job…the only one of my clients who did. Nothing wrong with their readings, the sponsor changed his concept, decided to use cartoon characters instead of live actors. Kevin’s the only flesh-and-blood actor. They loved Kevin, at least I thought they did until Robert Barton started auditioning again. Cowboy Bob’s is his company. The publicity that guy’s getting. No heart. The guy has no heart. Dollar bills where his heart should be. Tough business, this, somebody always looks to brush you aside. Take your spot. He’s auditioning youngsters like he thinks the police won’t find Kevin. If they don’t he’ll probably have an open call Kids will be lined up for a block and the tabloids will give him more publicity.”

Mr. Bean shuffled a stack of children’s photos. “I don’t think I can do it,” he said. “I submit other kids, it’s like giving up on Kevin. How could I face Patti?”

Kevin had only been missing for two days when Bertram Barton began auditioning children; was he really doing it for publicity, or did he know something? I moved Bertram to the top of my list of suspects.

The phone again interrupted our conversation. Another actor looking for an agent. Mr. Bean repeated his speech about Tuesdays then turned toward me.

“Maybe you’d like to give up police work and become my secretary? The pay’s lousy, the hours are long, the aggravation’s constant and my last girl is in a lot of trouble. Yesterday she eloped with an actor. A bad one at that. You look like you’d know the difference.”

The phone was insistent. Mr. Bean closed his eyes and massaged his forehead.

“Abner T. Bean’s Theatrical Agency.” I answered the call this time. “No. Mr. Bean will see actors on Tuesdays between 12:00 and 2:00 p.m. He is not available at any other time. Thank you for calling.” My tone of voice convinced the actor who returned my thanks, told me to “Have a good day,” and hung up. There was a glint of admiration in Mr. Bean’s eyes.

“Did many children audition for the commercial, Mr. Bean?”

“Sure. I submitted three children myself. Another boy. Too old for the part. Thirteen. Awkward age. Hard to get him work for the next couple of years. And Willow Leigh. She used to be my client.”

“Willow Leigh? Should I be familiar with her work?”

“Beautiful. Sixteen now, been doing commercials since she was in diapers. Willow had quite a few callbacks, in fact I thought she’d be a shoo-in for the commercial, but Kevin got the job. Willow’s mother threw a fit, she used to be a pretty big model herself, made the cover of Vogue, earned big bucks. Now she’s getting a little long in the tooth. Couldn’t stand the thought of an unknown beating out her daughter. Guess she’s reliving her days of glory through Willow.”

“She was upset with you, Mr. Bean?”

“Upset isn’t the word. Haven’t heard that kind of language off-stage in a long time. Told her I just set up the auditions, I don’t do the picking. Maybe Willow had been seen on too many commercials. Maybe they thought a boy would sell more burgers. Who knows? There could be a million and one reasons. Some sponsors just prefer a man to a woman as a spokesperson. Maybe Barton was tired of seeing Lorna and wanted to move on. Dates them and drops them. Could be his way of giving her the heave-ho.”

“Lorna?”

“Mrs. Leigh, Willow’s mother. Listen. Forget I said that. Only a rumor, who knows if Lorna and Barton were really making it? Show business is a small business, sort of like six degrees of separation, and rumors run wild. Anyway Lorna blamed me. Figures. Knowing Lorna, she had to blame somebody.” Mr. Bean looked at his phone as if expecting it to ring again.

“Ungrateful woman,” he continued, sounding aggrieved. “I got Willow top dollar on the picture she’s acting in right now. Kid’s gonna make a fortune and now her mother’s fighting me on the commission. Wants to walk out on her contract with me. No appreciation. Believe me, it’s not the money, it’s the principle of the thing. Though my landlord doesn’t care about principles, he cares about the rent.” Mr. Bean popped a licorice drop in his mouth, then offered me the bowl of candy. “Good for the digestion.”

“I could tell you stories,” he continued. “Actors beg me to be their agent. They’re unknown. I start them off. Get them auditions. A part in this, a part in that. They start getting hot, what do they do? Drop me for one of those big agencies with all the initials. That’s what Willow Leigh did. I got Willow a sweet deal. She doesn’t even have to go on location, they’re filming right here in Central Park. Still, she leaves me for another agency.

“Actors.” Mr. Bean passed his hand over his eyes. “I should take ’em to court but the lawyers would make the money.”

“Would Willow’s mother be capable of kidnapping Kevin?” I asked.

“A stage mother is capable of anything and everything. She couldn’t stand Kevin, though, I told you before, most people love the kid. But not Lorna and not Larry Dunn. He’s the actor that read with Kevin at the audition. Submitted him for the part of Cowboy Bob. Kevin got it. Originally, Kevin auditioned for Cowboy Bob’s grandson.”

“What does he look like, Mr. Bean?”

“Larry? Larry is a nice-looking, older man. Still thinks he should be playing leads. How do you tell an actor he’s too old? Especially when he doesn’t have a name and can’t afford plastic surgery? Believe me, never tell an actor he’s too old. Anyway, Larry doesn’t get the job and he blames it on Kevin. Is it Kevin’s fault the sponsor prefers cartoons? Animated cartoon characters. With a computer they can make French fries dance and sing, fish sticks play instruments and you name it, Cowboy Bob’s Big, Bad Burger can do it. The sponsor prefers cartoon characters to live actors. There are days I think he’s right. Anyway, Larry blamed Kevin and me because he didn’t get the job playing Cowboy Bob. Said the kid did everything he could to upstage him. I set Dunn up with other auditions. You know, typical American grandpa, commercials for cereal, anti-acid, diapers, life insurance and aspirin. He ended up with a bit on a Cousin Cora’s Chicken Crisps commercial. A buy-out, no residuals. One payment. Screen Actor’s Guild minimum. Still, it was a job.”

“What is he doing now, Mr. Bean?”

“Now? Now he’s busy setting up his own theatre. Don’t know where he got the money. Off-Off Broadway, I guess. Shakespeare. Gonna be a one-man show. Produce. Direct. Act. Doing everything himself. Designing. Carpentry. Lights. Built that bookcase for me. The guy should do that for a living. Could make a bundle building things. But he’s an actor. Not a good actor but an actor. He’ll lose his shirt.”

I asked for Willow Leigh’s phone number as well as Lawrence Dunn’s. While I was jotting them down the phone rang again. This time the call was from an assistant director on a film.

“How many extras?” Mr. Bean asked, then scribbled a number on a scrap of paper as he listened. “Sure. When’s the call?”

Mr. Bean looked a bit thrown. “That’s really short notice,” he said. “No. No. You don’t have to call anyone else. I’ve got ’em.” There was a short pause while Mr. Bean took notes. “All right,” he said, reading them back, “you want a teenage couple in love, a homely housewife with a baby, a man with a dog—preferably a schnauzer, two cop types—one big and beefy, one skinny, and a lady over sixty—society type. Ten assorted men, ages twenty to thirty. And eight women—same mix. You want them to report to the Wollman Rink in Central Park at 6:30 a.m. tomorrow. You got it.”

Mr. Bean took a white linen display handkerchief from his vest pocket and mopped his brow while staring at a large-faced clock on the wall directly opposite his desk.

“Miss Weidenmaier, would you mind handing me that pile of pictures? Got to find all these extras tout suite. There goes my nice hot supper. I’ll be working the phone all night calling actors. It figures. Same movie that Willow Leigh’s in. Nothing but trouble. At least I get a fee for the extras I supply.”

“Mr. Bean, what does an extra do?”

“Stand around or sit mostly. Background. People walking up and down the street. Sitting at a table talking or eating while the camera focuses on the stars.”

“Perhaps I could be of some assistance,” I said. “I’ve done a bit of acting and I’m certainly the right age for the society lady.”

Mr. Bean hesitated.

“One less actor you have to call.”

Mr. Bean nodded. “Doesn’t pay much,” he said. “You’d be one of the non-union they’re allowed.”

“Money isn’t everything, Mr. Bean. I’m sure it will be a most interesting experience.”

Mr. Bean repeated the instructions as he escorted me to the door. “Here,” he said. “No sense wasting the coupon.” He handed me a coupon for a Brownie Bonanza. “Cute girls in Western outfits were handing these out on the streets. May as well try one, it’s for free if you buy a Cowboy Bob’s Big, Bad Burger.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Mr. Dunn wore a royal-blue smoking jacket and an ascot marked with a paisley print.

“A proper choice of wardrobe—casual but dignified,” he told Kevin.

“You look really great, Mr. Dunn,” Kevin said.

“My voice will be on the air tomorrow night, Kevin, and it is of no import that the television audience will just hear my voice via the telephone. Remember preparation shows in the performance. Practice day after day, hour after hour. My theatre audience will be disappointed, of course, all lovers of Shakespeare and the theatre will be disappointed. It hurt me too, canceling a legitimate stage performance for television. But I have to be practical. Television, Kevin, is a necessity in these crass commercial times. You will remember tomorrow, Kevin. It will be a memorable Friday, for after Friday, I shall begin my rendezvous with fame.”

“I love Shakespeare and the theatre too, Mr. Dunn.” Kevin smiled at his abductor.

“Fame will at last be mine and a bit of well-deserved fortune too. I have scrounged for years taking any job, I have at times, Kevin, demeaned my talent. Lived in the squalor of a cold-water flat where I suffered chilblains and heat rash while fighting a constant and losing battle with vermin. Now, one call to Norman Bottoms and my years of deprivation will end. I have paid my dues.”

Dunn glanced at his pocket-watch; Kevin watched him lovingly trace the name imprinted on its back. Mr. Dunn showed him the engraving: O’Neill.

“The watch once belonged to that great American playwright, Eugene O’Neill. A fortunate purchase at a pawnshop, I’m sure the magnificent master of words wanted me to have his treasure. But I digress.”

Dunn picked up the sheet of paper and scanned the lines. “Friends, Bottoms, countrymen, lend me your ears.”

Gee, Kevin didn’t want to interrupt Mr. Dunn but in Julius Caesar, Marc Antony doesn’t say “Bottoms,” he says “Romans.” when he delivers his speech.

“I come to bury Cowboy Bob’s Big, Bad Burgers not to praise them.” Dunn paused, and Kevin tilted his head, confused. Why was Mr. Dunn talking about Cowboy Bob?

“The evil that men do lives after them…” Dunn skipped several lines. “Take heed—here I am to speak what I do know—” Lawrence Dunn reluctantly stopped reciting Shakespeare’s words. “The baneful burger will be death in the pot. Robert Barton, the sponsor of Cowboy Bob’s, is a cheat, a mountebank, an ass in lion’s skin. He hath stolen the recipe for Cousin Cora’s Cakewalks and will cheapen this dainty viand with inferior ingredients.”

That was a terrible thing to say about Mr. Barton, Kevin thought. Now Mr. Dunn was massaging his throat.

“The flesh of an actor’s throat, my dear Kevin, should feel as soft as butter, then you must run through a series of vocal exercises designed to warm up the vocal cords. Who, ho, ha, how, hunt, hum, him, hem.”

Kevin watched as Dunn addressed his reflection in the three-way mirror standing in the far corner of the storage room. “Heavy, heavy hangs the head.”

Boy, Kevin thought, Mr. Dunn’s training was sure different from PT’s.

“Your tongue is nimble tonight.” Dunn addressed his image in the mirror. “Ringing and swinging. Ringing and swinging. O wind, a blowing all day long, O wind, that sings so loud a song.” Lawrence Dunn drew a deep breath, held it until his face threatened to turn purple, then expelled the air with a long, drawn-out hiss. He glanced at his pocket-watch again and turned toward the door of the storage room.

“I will see you in the morning, Kevin,” he said, bowed slightly, pulled out the keys to the door and left.

He was locked in the room again.

CHAPTER NINE

The basement storage room turned cold at night; Kevin burrowed into the thin mattress and pulled the black, velour drape he was using as a cover, over the bottom half of his face. Dust, caught in the folds of the musty drape, tickled his nose and made him sneeze. The sneeze woke him up and he couldn’t fall back to sleep. He kept thinking about how mad Mr. Dunn looked when he came back into the room and told him his television show was cancelled and then he blamed him, Mr. Dunn scared him so much; he thought he was going to hit him or even kill him but all they did was rehearse Julius Caesar for hours before Mr. Dunn left.

His Cowboy Bob watch lit up when he pressed a button; it read eight o’clock. Cowboy Bob’s lariat had lassoed the eight. There were no windows in the basement storage room and no way he could see whether it was day or night but it had to be 8:00 p.m. not 8:00 a.m. because he didn’t have to use the empty, potato-chip can that served as his toilet. Mr. Dunn said he used wood shutters and burlap drapes to cover his windows in a railroad flat; Kevin wasn’t sure what a railroad flat was but it must be awful the way Mr. Dunn talked about it. Mr. Dunn said cold air swept through every crack and crevice during the winter and in the summer an electric fan stirred the air and directed it over a cake of ice placed in the kitchen sink. The same sink he took his bath in; imagine taking a bath in the kitchen sink…ycch. When he told Mr. Dunn how cold the basement was at night, Mr. Dunn said he had to carry a heater from his bedroom to his kitchen. “One must suffer for one’s art,” Mr. Dunn said. Geez, he almost felt sorry for Mr. Dunn, except then Mr. Dunn left him here. Was he suffering for his art?

Heels tapped against the cement floor. He sat straight up, dropping the velour. Someone was walking around the basement. It wasn’t Mr. Dunn; Mr. Dunn wore soft leather, handcrafted shoes that were made in Italy. “An actor needs to indulge his feet. Shoes are my sole indulgence,” Mr. Dunn confided. Besides Mr. Dunn calmed down after they rehearsed Caesar and said he’d see him in the morning.

Could it be a ghost? Ghosts of dead actors wandered around theatres. If this theatre was haunted, he might bump into John Barrymore or Edmund Kean. Would they still be walking around? Maybe they would appear and help him. Probably not. Old actors didn’t like children. Didn’t like dogs either. Called them scene-stealers. Ghosts were silly anyway. “I’m too old to believe in ghosts,” he whispered. “Besides ghosts don’t wear shoes. Ghosts glide everywhere—through walls and windows and trees—everywhere.”

A sliver of light appeared at the bottom of the door. It had to be someone coming to rescue him. Kevin scrambled to his feet. He’d better let them know he was in the storage room, then they could break down the door and he’d be on his way home. His mother needed him.

Keys dropped to the floor. Whoever dropped them cursed a blue streak. His mother always said people who cursed had a limited vocabulary. The door muffled the voice. Maybe it was more than one person.

He opened his mouth to shout, then closed it again. The police wouldn’t have the keys to the theatre; they’d break down the doors. A private eye? Could Mr. Barton have hired a detective? A detective would call out his name. Maybe it wasn’t someone coming to his rescue, maybe it was someone who wanted to wreck Mr. Dunn’s theatre. Someone who had once been Mr. Dunn’s prisoner or maybe…Oh Geez, if they had keys it was an accomplice of Mr. Dunn. Someone mean and rotten. His legs felt wobbly; the room was cold that was why. He wasn’t scared.

Kevin’s eyes adjusted to the darkness in the room; he’d better find a place to hide. He tiptoed toward the flats leaning against the far wall. Halfway there he remembered he slept in his undershirt. His pants and shirt and shoes were right next to the mattress. Whoever it was better not see his clothes; he picked them up and hurried behind a flat painted to look like a forest. The door creaked open and he made it to his hiding place just in time. Kevin concentrated on being still; as still as the trunk of a tree, a redwood growing in the forest for years and years and years.

He peeked through a hole in the muslin covering the flat. It was too dark to tell whether it was a man or a woman. Tall enough for a man and wearing pants but that didn’t mean anything. The person searched the room with a flashlight, looking for something. If the light flashed on the hole in the flat, would his eyeball show? It was a good thing he hadn’t called out; someone must be robbing the theatre.

If only he had Cowboy Bob’s six-shooters and lariat with him then he could capture the varmint, tie him up and Lawrence Dunn would be bound to let him go. “Pard,” Dunn would say, “you done a good job, I’m beholden to you.”

The person walked over to the shelves that held the wigs and hats. The light hovered over first one hat then another. Finally, a hand reached out and picked one. The beam from the flashlight lit her face for a second. A woman. Why would she steal a hat from Mr. Dunn? He should call out. A woman, even if she were a thief, would rescue him, wouldn’t she? While he was trying to make up his mind, she walked out the door.

Maybe the door would be left unlocked; he’d count to sixty to be sure it was all clear then he would escape and go home and tell everyone about his big adventure. A big movie producer might make a movie about it. His mother would be glad to see him. She must be worried and all upset by now. Maybe she and his father had got back together so they could find him. It would all be worth it if they had.

The key turned in the lock and he was stuck here, waiting for the morning when Mr. Dunn would arrive with a carton of milk and a Cousin Cora’s Cakewalk. Sometimes Mr. Dunn was nice. He knew a lot of stories and he loved Shakespeare. Kevin liked Shakespeare too. When he grew up, he was going to play Hamlet. No one knew that yet except Patti. She had to know because she was going to be his manager. He hadn’t told his mom or Mr. Bean; they’d just laugh at a nine-year-old boy wanting to play Hamlet. He didn’t think Lawrence Dunn would laugh. Mr. Dunn never had a father. Kevin changed the subject real fast when Mr. Dunn talked about his childhood. One minute he was nice and the next, he’d be angry. His eyes would turn cold and beam through you like a laser. Kevin felt shivers running up his back just picturing Mr. Dunn’s eyes. Dunn spoke very slowly when he was mad. So slowly he’d clip his consonants and leave spaces between each word. Kevin would hold his breath when he did that, not sure what would happen next. What did Dunn want with him anyway? Maybe it had something to do with Cowboy Bob?

How would he feel if his father forgot about him? That’s what happened to Mr. Dunn. Maybe his father would forget if Dunn didn’t let him go soon.

“I want to go home. I want to go home. Please, please God, I want to go home.” He could hear himself whimper.

Don’t be a baby, he thought. Only babies cry. You’re nine years old; nearly a grown-up. You have to take care of your mother. You’re her little man. You’re all she has.

CHAPTER TEN

“Spray the trees with a little more snow, gentlemen.” The film crew must have begun their day’s work before the crack of dawn. Trucks, lights, trailers and army of actors and technicians had taken over a large section of Central Park. Cameras were being set, lights focused. Staff members, carrying walkie–talkies, hurried from one spot to another, relaying orders. I hadn’t been up this early on a weekday since my retirement. My instinct told me today was going to be one of the longest Fridays in my life.

A long line of extras snaked around a table laden with coffee urns, platters of bagels, croissants, cheeses, jams and danish pastries. They managed to balance plastic utensils and Styrofoam cups while heaping paper plates with generous helpings of everything in sight. I would never have believed food could disappear so quickly. It was a testimonial to the legendary appetite of actors.

“Join the line before all the goodies become nothing but a gastronomical memory. I know I’m good for nothing if I miss my breakfast.” The ample girth of the man who suddenly appeared at my side proved that he seldom did.

“Have we worked together before?” he asked. “You look familiar. Don’t tell me. I know. It was that soap last week, wasn’t it? That eight-hour shoot at the Russian Tearoom. I couldn’t sleep a wink that night; too stuffed with caviar and Chicken Kiev.”

“No. I nev…” I started to reply.

“Woody’s new film?”

I shook my head. “My first job in motion pictures.”

“Still, you look so familiar. Perhaps the theatre or television? Well, no matter, I’ll think of it eventually. I have a good memory for faces. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Harding Monroe.” He held out a small exquisitely manicured hand. “Careful when you shake. I earn most of my daily bread hand modeling.”

“I’m Augusta Weidenmaier. Hand modeling?”

“You are a novice. Commercials. My hands grace the television screen holding everything from soap to cereal. They used to be in great demand for cigarettes. Can’t show cigarettes on the tube anymore. Too bad. Loss of income. Have to hustle a bit more.”

“I’m sure I’ve seen your work, Mr. Monroe.”

“Call me Harding. Unfortunately the rest of my bod isn’t seen much these days. But,” Harding’s face brightened, “that too has its compensations. The public doesn’t tire of me.” He pulled a plastic bag from his jacket pocket and dropped in two pieces of pastry. “Here, put this in your purse, we may need a snack later.”

“Check in with me, please!” A young woman, holding a clipboard and wearing an air of importance, raised her voice and stared in our direction.

“Come on.” Harding placed his hand on my elbow and guided me toward the woman. “These PAs think they’re real hot shots.” He lowered his voice to a confidential whisper. “Really, my dear, they couldn’t be any lower on the totem pole. Production Assistants. In reality, glorified gofers.” There was a touch of disdain in the way he enunciated go-fer, but his manner changed as we neared the assistant.

“Darling,” he gushed. “Remember me? Harding Monroe. So nice to be working with you again.”

The PA placed a check next to his name.

“Pick up your voucher, then report to wardrobe.” She gestured toward another assistant sitting at a folded table next to a trailer. “Name?” The girl turned her head in my direction without lifting her eyes from the list attached to her clipboard.

“Augusta Weidenmaier.”

The PA flipped a page and scanned the sheet.

“There she is. Halfway down the page, dear,” Harding said. He again took my elbow and we walked toward the second assistant.

“You’ve done a good deal of extra work?”

“Oh, darling,” Harding replied. “Since radio died and theatre remains the fabulous invalid, film work is one of my mainstays. The cinema has rescued many an actor.”

Harding had just begun his instructions on the proper way to fill out the voucher, when a policeman left the trailer followed by a harried-looking woman dressed in a smock decorated with safety pins and cigarette ash.

“Don’t eat another mouthful, Clive,” she said to the policeman, without dropping the cigarette that remained glued to her lip. “Your pants will split.”

“Sweetheart, let them out,” Clive replied.

“There is nothing left to let out. Another bite and you’ll end up mooning the audience.” She turned her attention to Harding. “Maroon sweater for you, watch-cap to match. You do skate, don’t you, dear?”

“Certainly, darling. One of my many skills,” Harding assured her. “And this is a friend of mine, Gussie Weidenmaier. I know you’ll take good care of her, darling.”

The woman dropped another ash and focused on me. “Society lady. Definitely. Waltz?”

“Darling,” Harding said. “You’ve heard of the Harvest Moon Ball? In her day, Gussie won many a contest.”

Gussie, I thought. I hadn’t been called Gussie in years. As for winning contests, I remembered being a wallflower at high-school dances. At 5’8”, the opposite sex considered me much too tall for partnering.

“Right.” The woman took my arm and yanked me into the trailer. “Try this.”

I couldn’t breathe. The lime-colored dress proved much too snug for my rib cage. A mauve, two-piece print was several sizes too large. The wardrobe woman rummaged amongst the racks and finally tossed me a burnt-orange crepe with shoulder pads more suited to Knute Rockne than a schoolteacher.

“Finally,” she said. “The perfect dress.”

“You have a most interesting job, don’t you, dear?” I said, belatedly remembering my purpose in taking the job as an extra.

“Don’t kid yourself,” the wardrobe woman said. “My legs have varicose veins, my back is killing me, my stomach is earning an ulcer and I smoke too much. Interesting, hah.”

“Still, the stars you work with must be fascinating and I’m sure Willow Leigh is a charming young woman.”

The woman shifted her cigarette and placed a number of straight pins between her lips. “The kid’s all right,” she managed to say.

“Takes after her mother?”

A pin dropped to the white-sheeted floor of the trailer.

“You are new to the business, aren’t you, dear?” She took a step back and considered the burnt-orange crepe, then selected a stole of fox fur and draped it over my shoulders. The glass eyes of the little creature stared at me.

“You’re almost ready for society, Gussie,” the wardrobe woman said and handed me a pair of long white gloves. “Just stop by make-up. Two trailers to the right.”

The trailer was full; I waited and waited and waited. Making a motion picture seemed a long, drawn-out process. Not quite what I expected. I wanted to have my little talk with Willow Leigh’s mother, but saw no way to find her, much less start talking. It would be nice to get on with it.

An elderly gentleman, dressed in a tuxedo, sensed my impatience and tried to initiate a conversation. My word, I wanted to concentrate on my mission. Fortunately, I was called into the make-up trailer.

A cosmetician eyed me critically, squinted, sighed, then dabbed and smoothed a pale cream base all over my face.

“Something wrong, dear?” I asked, adopting the overly friendly idiom of theatrical endearment.

“I’ve seen worse,” he said. “Don’t mind me, I’ve got a headache. Too much caffeine.” He picked up a cardboard container and took a sip. “Vile.”

“I suppose you make up all the stars?”

“Haven’t latched on to one yet. The big stars have their own make-up artists. Willow Leigh just got one. Her own hairdresser too. Can’t say I envy them. They make the big bucks and get screen credit, but they have to put up with Lorna.”

“Who is Lorna?” I saw the opening I’d been hoping for, and took it.

“Willow’s mother,” a reedy tenor voice said. “Take it from me, darling, a bitch in heat. Miss Thing thinks she’s the one starring in the film.”

I peered from beneath eyelashes, made heavy with mascara, to see who would make such a declaration.

The tenor, armed with a spray can and scissors—his glossy, black hair pulled back in a pony-tail—studied my face then attacked my head with a brush and comb.

“I have just the chignon for you,” he finally said, rummaging amongst different colored hairpieces cluttering a shelf. He anchored the knot of hair to my head with a multitude of pins that he seemed to store in his mouth. A common receptacle, I noticed. By the time he stepped back and surveyed his handiwork, my scalp felt like a pincushion but he seemed satisfied.

“I do love a challenge,” he said before blasting the arrangement and contaminating the atmosphere with great clouds of hair spray.

“Did you ever fix Mrs. Leigh’s hair?” I asked.

“Once,” he said. “When Willow was doing all those auditions for the Big, Bad Burger commercials. In all modesty, I must say I outdid myself. Lorna’s frizzy hair is the pits to work with. She loved the ‘do.’ That was when she thought that Barton was serious. Of course, he dropped her. A man would have to be desperate to stick with Lorna. Besides Barton likes to date women who either get their names in the gossip columns or advertise the freshness of youth.”

“Mrs. Leigh was upset?”

“Darling,” the hairdresser said as he tucked a tendril of hair behind my ear, “she makes Lady Macbeth look like Goody Two-Shoes.”

Before I could ask another question, he turned and shouted through the open door, “Anyone need to be touched up?”

Harding offered his hand and I descended the steps feeling every inch a society matron. Amazing, I thought, what a little make-up and a costume could achieve. Eyes, teeth, hair, complexion. Never before had I been so conscious of my appearance.

“Harding,” I asked, “when do we begin?”

“It’s hurry up and wait in the picture business, darling.”

Outside a third trailer, a glowing adolescent was being fussed over. Her hairdresser finished combing the last strand of the child’s auburn hair and her make-up man, after deliberating over a small case filled with powders, brushes and creams, stepped in and began to paint her face.

“Is that young lady Willow Leigh?” I asked Harding.

“Gussie! What planet have you been living on? Of course that’s dear Willow.”

“Do you know her?”

“I make it my business to know everyone,” Harding said. “Contacts are extremely important in the motion picture industry.”

“I would appreciate an introduction, Harding.”

An older version of Willow, still beautiful but slightly faded, stood watch; a sentry at her post.

“You can’t just walk over and talk to a star, Gussie. Lorna doesn’t like strangers hovering around,” he said a bit pompously.

“If you introduce me to Mrs. Leigh, Harding, I won’t be a stranger.”

Harding was about to refuse when Mrs. Leigh beckoned to him. Forgetting my presence, he walked, as rapidly as his small feet would allow, to her side. I followed.

“Good morning, darl…” he began.

“Harding,” Mrs. Leigh interrupted. “I can’t find a PA anywhere. The little gophers are never around when you need one. Would you be a love and get my sweater? It’s in our trailer.”

“Certainly. My pleasure, darling.”

I cleared my throat. Harding’s lips pursed with annoyance but he made the introduction.

“This is Gussie Weidenmaier, new to our business. I’m taking her under my wing, so to speak. This lovely lady, of course, is Mrs. Leigh.” Harding bustled off then glanced back, apparently surprised at my not dogging his heels.

I crossed my fingers and smiled at Mrs. Leigh. “I find myself doing the most extraordinary things to get a story. I have been wanting and waiting to interview you.”

Mrs. Leigh acknowledged me, a glimmer of interest in her eyes.

“A short article, in first person, on film making in New York City.” I lowered my voice to a confidential whisper. “New York Magazine”. I flashed my library card at Mrs. Leigh. The woman had no idea what it was; I had guessed right that she was too vain to wear glasses.

“Author’s Guild of America,” I said—fabricating again. “And then, of course, there is my book. Meeting you is most fortuitous. Could you spare me a few minutes of your valuable time?”

“Why?” Mrs. Leigh placed a cigarillo between her carmine lips. Willow’s make-up man jumped to her side and offered his lighter.

“I’m writing a book about the people who nurtured and encouraged the legends of yesterday, the stars of today, tomorrow’s legends. I’ve already completed a chapter on Mozart’s father and Napoleon’s aunt.”

“You want to interview me?” She managed to sound both skeptical and pleased.

“You are Willow Leigh’s mother?”

“Guess I have time,” she said. “Takes forever before they’re actually ready to shoot a scene. Deadly dull. It’s boring, my dear. Simply boring. Tedium reigns. We can sit down over there.” She pointed to two canvas director’s chairs that had been placed under a large shade tree. One had “Willow Leigh” stenciled across its back, the other read “Willow Leigh’s Mom.”

We walked toward the shade tree, Mrs. Leigh’s spike-heeled shoes leaving a trail of small holes in her wake. A young man hurried past us as we walked. Mrs. Leigh called him back.

“Kid, we’ll be sitting over there. Bring us a couple of coffees.”

“Sure thing, Mrs. Leigh.” He forced a smile and reversed his steps.

“The park is crawling with production assistants, all dreaming of becoming big directors. Might as well do something useful like gopher our coffee.”

She sat down, removed her shoes and massaged the ball of her right foot as we talked. “Okay. What would you like to know?”

I pulled out my memo book and pretended to take notes, asking the typical background questions I presumed every biographer would ask and gradually leading up to what I really wanted to know.

“Mrs. Leigh, how do you feel about commercials?”

“Those bread-and-butter jobs are behind us now,” she said. “We’re being inundated with offers. Theatre, motion pictures. We’re shooting a pilot for a television series next month. With a talent like ours, commercials are beneath consideration. We don’t have to sink that low.”

“I was given to understand that Willow auditioned for the Cowboy Bob’s Big, Bad Burger commercial and lost out to Kevin Corcoran.”

“Lose out to an amateur like Kevin?” Mrs. Leigh stopped massaging her foot and glared at me. “That weasel Robert Barton didn’t want to pay our price. And our ex-agent,

Abner ‘Minor League’ Bean doesn’t know the first thing about playing in the majors.”

“You know, of course, about Kevin being kidnapped?”

“Hah!” she said. “A publicity gimmick. That slime Robert Barton, would do anything to sell his greasy burgers.”

“Do you know him well?” I asked.

Lorna Leigh barely paused. “Just a pro’s instinct.”

Laughter drifted in our direction and hovered in the air. Mrs. Leigh recognized the sound. Her daughter was the primary source; Willow was part of a group that paid rapt attention to a handsome, familiar-looking man. I recognized his face, a most engaging fellow who had starred in a television series I had followed faithfully some years back.

Mrs. Leigh didn’t think so. A deep frown divided her forehead. “Has-been,” she said, not bothering to mask her opinion. “Don’t know why he has star billing.”

The production assistant, unfortunately, chose this moment to arrive with the coffee. He held out her cup just as Mrs. Leigh rose to return to her position as Willow’s guardian.

“Clumsy!”

Mrs. Leigh’s shoes were drenched with coffee. The poor assistant stood still, his face an impassive mask, while the “lady” verbally abused him with unprintable Anglo-Saxon invective. Finally, her vocabulary depleted, she turned and addressed me. “I think you have enough material on Willow and me.”

Shoes squishing as she walked, Mrs. Leigh returned to the happy group. The laughter faded.

“A rather fierce lady,” I murmured.

“Friend of yours?” the assistant asked.

I knew an affirmative answer would surprise the lad.

“We’ve just met. Business.”

“Be careful,” he warned me. “Mrs. Leigh has the sensitivity of a pit bull. She’ll…”

He chose the next word with care. “Flirt with the producer and try to get me fired. Luckily, the producer of this film is my uncle and Willow Leigh isn’t big enough yet to have him disown me.”

“Background!” the assistant director called.

“Background,” the production assistants echoed. They circled around the area rounding up extras who had ranged, like cattle, too far from the set. The producer’s nephew escorted me to the area where the other extras waited.

“There you are, Gussie,” Harding said, joining the group. He sounded a bit breathless. “Getting to know your way around I see. There’s a rumor that the kid you were with is the producer’s nephew. Is he?”

“The young man didn’t confide in me, Harding,” I said.

“I have a feeling we’ll be used in the next scene. It took me forever to find Lorna’s sweater. Had to run to get here. Wouldn’t you know the sweater wasn’t in the trailer? She left it at the breakfast table, and then she had the nerve to scream at me for taking so long. A bitch on wheels. No wonder he dumped her.”

“Who dumped her, Harding?”

“That Cowboy Bob sponsor, Barton. Pictures of them in the theatrical section, teasers in the gossip columns for about two fast weeks. Everyone in the business knows about it. Between you and me, dear, I think he was after Willow. He likes his women young and tender. Couldn’t get near the child and settled for boffing her mother. Lorna Leigh doesn’t let anyone near Willow. The kid’s her own personal gold mine. Although there were rumors.”

“Rumors?”

“Well, I’m not one to gossip,” Harding said. “You can ask anyone how I feel about telling tales out of school, but show business is such a small business and I was told by someone who should know that this Robert Barton arranged a private audition with Willow and managed to keep Lorna away. And then, my dear, Barton had the nerve to hire that boy with no experience whatsoever for those commercials. Nationwide commercials with big, fat residuals. Every time they show one of the commercials, that child gets a payment. He’s going to be a very rich little boy.”

“If the poor tyke is found.”

“I don’t want to disillusion you, Gussie. But it’s probably a publicity stunt. I’m sure he’s safely tucked away.”

“How did Mrs. Leigh react when Willow didn’t get the commercial?”

“My dear,” Harding giggled, “I understand she had kittens.”

“Background.” The production assistants herded us to a dance floor, an orchestra played and I found myself waltzing with the elderly gentleman in the tuxedo. Six takes, six long takes, and we finished the scene. I couldn’t wait to leave and continue my investigation. All I had to do was sign my voucher.

“I need an interesting face,” I heard the director say. The chatter stopped.

His assistant whispered something in the director’s ear and pointed to a teenager with a pixie grin.

The director frowned. “Interesting, I said. Not funny.”

The girl blushed.

“You!” The director pointed a finger in my direction.

Harding pushed me forward. “Maybe you’ll be upgraded, Gussie,” he said.

“Do you skate?” the director asked.

“She skates,” Harding said.

“Harding,” I hissed, “I appreciate your taking me in hand but I haven’t skated in years.”

“Easy,” Harding said. “Don’t worry about a thing.”

“Well?” the director said.

“She can do it,” Harding said and poked me in the ribs.

“I’ve always been a daredevil,” I said.

The director turned to his assistant. “Have wardrobe put her in a nun’s habit and a pair of ice-skates.”

“Congratulations, Gussie.” Harding deposited a peck of a kiss on my cheek. “You should be good for at least ten extra dollars.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Several practice turns around the ice-rink and, much to my amazement, I was executing a figure eight with considerable grace. It wasn’t until the shoot was completed—the assistant director called it a wrap—and I handed in my voucher that my ankles and calves complained.

I hadn’t skated in forty years; a passing ache or pain was to be expected. I promised myself a good soak in a hot tub filled with bath salts. The tub would serve to relax my tired muscles and allow my brain to sort out the bits and pieces of information I had gathered in my quest for Kevin.

The bath had to wait; the insistent ring of the telephone greeted me the moment I placed my key in the lock.

Lieutenant Brown said he would appreciate my stopping by his office. I suggested we confer in the morning. The lieutenant said it was imperative I meet with him immediately if not sooner. An odd turn of phrase. I, of course, delayed my plans. The lieutenant, a nice young man, was obviously in need of my help.

“Miss Weidenmaier, please sit down.” Lieutenant Brown placed a hard, straight-backed chair directly in front of his desk; an unfortunate, but understandable holdover from his usual practice of interrogating suspects. I waited for the lieutenant to begin; I could see he was trying to choose the right words. Men often have difficulty asking for help. Perhaps he wanted to use me as a decoy but feared placing me in danger’s path. I was the logical choice.

Spit it out, young man, I thought, then decided to break the silence. “Have you made any progress in the case, Lieutenant?”

“Perhaps I should ask you that question, Miss Weidenmaier?” I detected a trace of sarcasm in his tone of voice but decided to ignore it. After all we shared the same goal.

“I believe my interviews have uncovered information that will be of interest to you, Lieutenant Brown.”

“Miss Weidenmaier, this city has a police force. That force is here to protect you, every other resident and every visitor. We are trained to protect you. I am very proud of this police force. Now, we know you want to help, but you are impeding our investigation. You must stop telling people you are assisting us. Miss Weidenmaier,” the lieutenant seemed to be speaking through clenched teeth, “I’ll make a deal with you. Don’t try to be a cop and I won’t try to be an elementary-school teacher.”

“Bertram Barton complained, didn’t he?”

“Miss Weidenmaier, you cannot go around questioning possible suspects.”

“Ahh. Then you suspect Bertram too.”

“I didn’t say that.” Lieutenant Brown appeared flustered.

“I beg to differ with you, Lieutenant. Little Bertie Barton hasn’t changed one bit. Always was a little squealer. Perfectly typecast as Benedict Arnold in the school play.”

It was quite apparent my work on Kevin’s behalf had touched a sore spot in Lieutenant Brown’s ego.

“Miss Weidenmaier…”

I had to interrupt the man. Rude? Yes. But still. “Lieutenant Brown, have you found Kevin?”

“Tim!” A uniformed officer burst into the room without bothering to knock. “Tim, we just heard from a television producer.” The officer checked his clipboard. “He’s with WSAP. That’s the station. They got a telephone call from a guy sounds like a nutcase, maybe he just has a screw loose but maybe it’s something we should check into. Says he knows all about the Corcoran kidnapping. Says he’s gonna call a talk show tomorrow tonight. He’s got a message. Wants to broadcast it coast to coast.”

“What show is he calling, Charlie?”

Charlie looked at his notes. “Norman Bottoms has a late-night talk show called Hitting Bottom. The audience calls in with comments, questions. We’re setting up a trace.”

“Any demands?” Lieutenant Brown asked.

“Nothing much, something about a Robert Barton.”

I pretended to be a fly on the wall. I didn’t want to miss a word of this conversation.

“One other thing,” Charlie continued. “He said something about Cowboy Bob’s Big, Bad Burger being pure poison.”

Lieutenant Brown glanced at the half-eaten burger sitting next to a hill of French fries and deposited it in the wastebasket.

“We’ve got someone talking to the secretary who took the call,” Charlie said. “Maybe she’ll remember something else. Could be we’re dealing with another off-the-wall nut with a screw loose but we’ve had fifty phony calls from people claiming to be the kidnapper. What’s one more wacko?”

“Two more,” Lieutenant Brown said. “Only Norman Bottoms is paid to be crazy. We booked him last week for assaulting one of his guests.”

“Figures,” Charlie said. “I was on vacation last week. We book the celebrities when I’m on vacation. Not that I watch Norman Bottoms. My wife watches him. Big mouth.

Shoots from the lip. Anti-everything. He yells at the guests, pushes them around. Curses. Kicked a couple of people off the show. My wife thinks he’s real obnoxious. Never misses his show. Someone finally made a complaint, huh? Bet the network drops him.”

“Not if he becomes a hero,” I said, unable to resist giving my opinion.

“Miss Weidenmaier.” Lieutenant Brown opened the door. “Miss Weidenmaier, your cooperation will be appreciated and I promise you, word of honor, I will keep you informed. Now, I’ll have one of my men drive you home and I strongly suggest you stay there.”

“Thank you,” I said, taking pity on my legs. “Usually I prefer to walk but I’ve had sufficient exercise today. I firmly believe exercise at any age is vital to a person’s well-being.”

Lieutenant Brown took a deep breath and tried to suck in the paunch that was sneaking over his belt.

Sitting in the audience at a television talk show was the last place I wanted to spend my Friday evening but duty calls us all.

Norman Bottoms’s show was the most controversial show on television this season. Not many people approved of the program or admitted to viewing it more than once, but there was a three-month wait for tickets and Bottoms’s ratings were high enough to question the veracity of the public. Fortunately, a former student of mine was employed as a camera operator with the show. While surprised at my request, he was happy to oblige and indulge an older lady’s whim.

Hitting Bottom, as the show was called, emanated from an old theatre on Broadway, refurbished as a television studio. How times had changed; in the past, W.C. Fields and Helen Morgan had performed there. Today, the appearance of a young chap wearing a fringed leather jacket in a bilious shade of green attracted the crowd’s attention. The monologue he used to warm up the audience was greeted with scattered applause, overridden by whistles and cat-calls. Taking his reception in stride, he responded by pelting the people sitting in the front rows with miniature candy bars. As they scrambled for the sweets, he randomly insulted unfortunate individuals to the delight of the predominantly rough and crude throng that packed the theatre.

“All right,” the comic finally said. “Tonight’s topic is kidnapping. That’s right. You heard me. Now if you’ll shut your faces, I’ll fill you in on who Norman’s guests are.”

He introduced two men and a woman; ex-convicts recently released from incarceration after completing jail sentences for kidnapping. Obscenities filled the air around me. When the noise level finally subsided he introduced the next guest. The leader of a newly formed band of teenagers—self-appointed vigilantes—dedicated, they declared, to the eradication of crime in the city. The audience divided, judging from its reaction to the adolescent, into two hostile camps.

“And that’s not all we have in store for you tonight,” the comic continued. “Norman’s expecting a phone call from a guy who claims to know all about little Kevin Corcoran’s kidnapping, claims Kevin Corcoran will be released if Robert Barton accedes to his ultimatum. So Hitting Bottom has a special guest, Robert Barton.”

The audience was quiet.

“Think you don’t know the guy? Well you do—especially you junk-food addicts. Barton’s the guy behind Cowboy Bob’s Big, Bad Burger. Fatburgers, some newspapers are saying. A little meat, a lot of fat and, to add extra spice, residue left over from the steroids and antibiotics mixed into the cow feed. That burger is Robert Barton’s baby, guys and gals. Is it pure poison? Norman is gonna ask Barton about that charge and maybe he and the man who claims to know all about little Kevin Corcoran’s kidnapping will have an intimate chat. Maybe Barton even knows who the crud is. Maybe we’ll get to the ‘Bottom’ of this hamburger caper.”

The audience was paying strict attention to the comic’s words now. A self-satisfied grin spread over his moon-shaped face.

“Sit tight, folks, ’cause we’re about to begin. Now I know you’re not shy so feel free to react. Let’s smack those paws together and create a lot of noise because Norman Bottoms is here!”

Bottoms, neatly dressed in a conservative, dark blue suit, button-down shirt and red tie, strode to the center of the stage, nodded to the crowd, glanced at his guests and finally stared directly into the camera—marked number one—as the stage manager cued his opening line.

“Listen up, everybody,” Norman Bottoms said.

“We’re listening, Norman,” the audience shouted back as camera number two panned around the theatre.

“America,” Norman continued. “America is really Hitting Bottom tonight.”

“Yeah! Bottom!” The audience chanted in near unison.

“Sitting here on stage. Here. Right here with you decent folks are three of the lowest scumbags ever to be my guests. On this stage are convicted kidnappers. After vacationing in their country-club prisons for a couple of years—free room and board—paid for by you and me, you and me, people, these scum are out. Breathing the same air we are. How about that?” Camera three focused on the kidnappers.

Bottoms walked toward the lip of the stage. Camera three followed his every move. He raised his arms high above his head, the palms of his hands, fingers splayed, faced the audience. The crowd fell silent. With a sweeping gesture he pointed out a teenager, wearing a purple bandana around his head, standing near the right wing of the stage.

“That kid, that kid says he’s gonna protect you and me. He and his merry band of punks are going to protect us. Think he can do it? You want him to protect you? Want him to take over?”

The crowd’s reaction was loud and mixed.

“Well somebody better take over,” Norman said, “’cause I’m getting calls from kidnappers. A grade A, number one jerko called. He’s got Kevin Corcoran. The bucket of sleaze has our Kevin. Well? We gotta do something about that. Right?”

“Right!” The roar was united this time, responding with additional jeers and obscenities. The tone was loud and ugly.

The ex-convicts onstage shifted uncomfortably. The woman stared at a spot on the floor. Wadded pieces of paper and chunks of half-eaten candy bars flew past me and landed on the stage. One of the ex-convicts scratched at a persistent itch on his elbow.

The woman half rose.

The man seated next to me stood; trod on my right foot and rushed into the aisle without a word of apology. I stood and pressed against my seat to avoid being stepped on by other people seated in my row but I wasn’t fast enough to avoid a pointed elbow that grazed my ear. The elbow belonged to a tall, impeccably dressed woman wearing a large hat that obscured most of her face. I could just about see one eye, noting something familiar about the shade of the iris—an unusual shade of blue. The thought barely had time to register when I found myself being pushed down the aisle by the disorderly mass. A sizable portion of the by now mob-like audience advanced toward the stage, and I was caught in the rush. Several jumped to the stage; one burly giant, thinking I was eager to join them, hoisted me up.

Several teens wearing the same type of purple bandana favored by the teenage vigilante surrounded the ex-cons and blocked their exit.

“Hold it! Hold it! We’re expecting a call from Kevin’s kidnapper.” Bottoms held up his arms again, trying to stem the tide of anger that was washing onto the stage. This time no one paid attention to the gesture. He had lost control of his audience.

A melee erupted. The female kidnapper ducked behind Norman Bottoms’s desk. One of the kids wearing a purple bandana and a scowl tried to drag the woman out.

“Take your hands off her,” I ordered, outraged.

“Mind your own business, old lady, before you get hurt.”

Bottoms’s pointer was lying on the desk. I rapped the young man smartly on his knuckles. I had never used corporeal punishment in all my years of teaching but sometimes even the most civilized amongst us can be pushed too far.

The vigilante let out a howl of surprise that revealed two jagged front teeth. My arm received a nasty twist. I dropped the pointer—his cohort had grabbed me from behind. But they hadn’t gambled on my being ambidextrous and I was able to reach Bottoms’s ice-filled water pitcher and pour the contents over the young thug’s head. He backed off and I was able to retrieve the pointer. I advanced—a feminist d’Artagnan—and cornered the ruffian. A strong bass voice stopped me just as I was about to give the thug a piece of my mind.

“Miss Weidenmaier,” Lieutenant Brown said, “would your students approve of your behavior? I certainly don’t.”

A high-pitched siren of a scream pierced the pandemonium; the fighting ceased and a young woman became the focus of attention. She looked just like the hairdresser on the motion picture set, wearing the now-familiar smock, comb, hair spray and brushes protruding from her pockets. She clutched a can of diet cola.

“He’s dead,” she cried. “He’s dead.”

I waited a short period as the crowd emptied out, then slowly followed the police to the guest dressing room. The reclining chair that held Robert Barton’s body sat against a sink used for washing the hair of Norman Bottoms’s more glamorous guests. My former student was dead; poor Bertie Barton’s head was submerged in water. So was a blow-dryer. The expression on his face was half sneer, half surprise.

“Did you touch anything?” Lieutenant Brown asked the hairdresser.

“Oh, my Gawd. No! I took one look and ran.” The woman’s complexion under her heavy make-up was an anemic white. She still clutched the can of soda. “I was only gone a couple of minutes,” she said. “Mr. Barton said he was feeling thirsty. A lot of guests get thirsty. Their mouths get dry. Nerves, you know. He asked me to get him a Diet Coke. My Gawd! This is his Coke.” She stared at the can.

“Where was the hair-dryer when you left the room?”

“On the cabinet next to the sink. We always keep it there.” Shaking, she shifted the soft drink from hand to hand, unable to put it down.

“Which shelf?” I asked.

“The top one. So it would be handy. Above the shelf with the shampoos and conditioners.”

“Was the hair-dryer plugged in?” Lieutenant Brown and I both asked the same question.

“Miss Weidenmaier, will you please wait with the others.”

“Perhaps, Lieutenant, the identity of the perpetrator may be found on a security camera?”

Lieutenant Brown turned a glare that was meant for me on a young recruit nearby. “Escort this lady to the Green Room.”

It was my turn to glare. “Lieutenant Brown, Bertram Barton was my student. I should like to be of assistance in finding his murderer.”

Timothy Brown gazed at the ceiling for a moment as if the answers to all his problems were to be found there.

“I understand your feelings, Miss Weidenmaier.” He spoke in a condescending manner—more suited to discourse with a five-year-old. “But the police department has certain rules that must be followed just as schoolteachers have rules and procedures. Surely you understand that? Now you will be informed as soon as a determination is made. Besides, there is the possibility of an accident.”

“Young man, I have never talked down to a student. I would appreciate your granting me the same courtesy. We both know that hair-dryer did not dive into the sink!”

“My Gawd!” The can of soda struck the floor. The recruit released my arm, and with one spring, managed to catch the hairdresser and make a comfortable cushion for her fall.

CHAPTER TWELVE

I thought my behavior professional, but Lieutenant Brown ordered me to stop my amateur sleuthing. The last thing I wanted to do was upset dear Lieutenant Brown; he had quite enough on his plate. I hid my hands in my lap, crossed my fingers and made him the promise he expected—children claim a promise doesn’t count if you cross your fingers. I neglected to mention my upcoming visit with Kevin’s father, Captain Charles Corcoran.

His doctor resisted my efforts to find out the nature of the captain’s illness but I managed to convince the man my visit would be just the right medicine. Something I said must have given him the impression I had been Captain Corcoran’s favorite grade-school teacher.

10:00 a.m. the next morning when I left my apartment, the temperature had climbed past eighty degrees Fahrenheit. A record-breaking temperature according to the weather report; it was much too warm for a fall day. I dabbed the beads of perspiration from my forehead and unbuttoned my tweed jacket; wishing I hadn’t packed away my summer clothes.

The subway had been stifling, the atmosphere fetid. I navigated past spilled soda pop that left sticky patches on the car floor to the disgust of all but a buzzing horse-fly, avoided an empty beer bottle that rolled from one side of the train to the other and finally found a seat not occupied by discarded newspapers. By the time the hour-long ride brought me to the Kingsbridge Avenue station and I walked up a steep hill to arrive at the hospital, my humor was as damp as my blouse.

The security guard, stationed at the door, handed me a clipboard and I added my name and time of arrival to the sparse list of visitors. A few grizzled veterans wandered aimlessly around the lobby; relics from a forgotten war. If my fiancé had survived, I thought, he would be their age. My eyes felt moist; allergy, perhaps, it was so hot today. I pressed the elevator button, determined to concentrate on the present. Best not to dwell on the past, on what might have been.

Where was the elevator? The wait was interminable; I pressed the button once again. If there hadn’t been an alarm attached to the door leading to the stairs, I would have been tempted to make the climb. Climbing stairs were reputed to be an excellent exercise for the muscles of the heart.

The first car to arrive was filled to capacity with a cart laden with dirty luncheon trays. I managed to squeeze into the second elevator, sharing the limited space with a laundry cart pushed by another tired-looking orderly who answered my greeting with a grunt. The elevator groaned and creaked but made the climb to its destination.

Walking down a long corridor, past rooms with open doors, I caught sight of men taking afternoon naps, playing solitaire, thumbing through magazines. Except for an idle glance or two, I was ignored; just another occasional visitor, here to see a neglected relative or friend.

The nursing station sat in the center of the hallway where an attendant kept one eye on his charges, the other on a televised ball game. The patients in this section sat staring into space, conjuring images of a better past. The attendant stirred just long enough to give me the captain’s room number.

I found the room at the end of the corridor, a double room with only one occupant at present. The man sat on the edge of the twin bed, closest to the window, morosely eyeing a skein of lime-green yarn.

I tapped on the door. He looked up; a slow smile panned across his face.

“Ahh,” he said, “you must be my fairy godmother.”

“Unfortunately, I am not, I am Augusta Weidenmaier. You wouldn’t be Charles Corcoran?” He certainly did not match Mrs. Corcoran’s description; this young man had straight, jet-black hair, a drooping mustache and sad, brown eyes.

“No. The captain was discharged to a halfway house thursday. Lucky bas…’Scuse me, ma’am. He was so anxious to get out he left all his medals in a drawer.”

He looked uncomfortable for a moment then grinned again. “My name is Thomas. You can call me Tommy.”

“Yesterday! The doctor never mentioned that the captain had been discharged.”

“Breakdown in communications. Happens all the time,” Tommy said, referring to the doctor. “With all the pills they gave him, he was feeling better. He stopped getting that stabbing pain behind his eyes. He was a good patient; the doctors and therapists all respected him. They gave him this breathing exercise—breathe in then exhale, breathe in then exhale. He did it when he was feeling nauseous.”

“Why was Captain Corcoran hospitalized?”

“Breakdown. Women will do it to you. Kevin’s mother has custody of the kid and the captain hates that. Me—I’m never gonna get married. Women get a man in trouble. That’s why I’m here. Could I borrow your hands for a minute?”

“Beg pardon?” Oh, my word! Was I in the psychiatric ward?

“To hold the skein of wool,” he explained. “Have to roll it into a ball. Occupational therapy; they say knitting is good for the nerves. Mine are shot.”

I held out my hands.

“Are you related to old Charlie?”

“I’m a friend of Kevin’s.”

“He’d knock the shi…Excuse me, ma’am. Captain Corcoran would kill me if he heard me call him Charlie. A real stickler. No one calls him Charlie. Hell! I bet no one called him Charlie except his mother and she died when he was a kid.”

“I take it the captain is a strict disciplinarian.”

“You’re not kidding.”

“Do you know about Kevin, have you heard about the captain’s son?”

“You’d have to live in a monastery not to know. Every time you turn on the TV, there he is. Cute kid. Some bastard…I beg your pardon, ma’am…stealing the kid. It’s not like Kevin’s a star on one of the soaps. How much money do you suppose he makes doing those commercials?”

“Where was Captain Corcoran the day Kevin was kidnapped?”

“C’mon, lady. You don’t think the captain did it? Besides he was here last Tuesday—that’s when the kid was taken. Right?”

I decided to just listen to the young man.

“He was…wait a minute…there was a game at Shea Stadium…the captain had a day pass. He put on his civvies and off he went to the game. He said that’s where he was going. The captain wouldn’t lie. Everybody admires him; he’s straight, an up and up guy. Besides, why would he do a thing like that? Why would he steal his son? No, no he wouldn’t. They’d lock him up and everyone wants to get out of this joint. I’m working on getting out myself. Secret is don’t get too excited in front of the medicine men. Know the captain wanted to talk to the guy who runs Cowboy Bob’s. Ran Cowboy Bob’s. The captain thought maybe he could get some leads.” Tommy switched from present to past tense. “The guy who was murdered. Gee! You think the captain offed him? No. Not the captain.”

The boy looked as if he might break into tears. I changed the direction of our conversation. “Where is the halfway house?”

“Manhattan. I’m hoping to make it there myself.” He tossed the ball of wool into the air. “What do you think of this shade of green?”

A tired counselor downstairs told me Captain Corcoran had never arrived at the halfway house. The counselor had notified the authorities and would keep the captain’s file open. There was nothing more he could do. We shook hands and he accompanied me to the front door where we came face to face with Lieutenant Brown, Sergeant Harris and a covey of police officers. One of the officers flashed his identification at the bewildered counselor and they disappeared inside.

The lieutenant’s face and neck turned ruddy red. I could feel a similar color creep over my own.

“Lieutenant Brown,” I said—determined to smooth over the awkward encounter. “Such a pleasure to see you again.”

“Miss Weidenmaier, what are you doing here?” Without waiting for my answer, he made a slight motion with his head. Marjorie Harris placed a firm hold on my arm and led me to an unmarked police vehicle half a block away.

“Lieutenant Brown is not happy with you, Miss Weidenmaier.” Sergeant Harris tried to cover her amusement with a scowl. “What are you doing here?”

“I thought it would be nice to have a chat with Kevin’s father.”

“Did you have your ‘chat,’ Miss Weidenmaier?”

“Not yet, Sergeant. Unfortunately, the captain…”

“Miss Weidenmaier, you are coming dangerously close to interfering with a police action.”

“I merely wished to exchange a few words with Kevin’s father but he is…”

“Kevin’s father may be a dangerous man.” Lieutenant Brown joined us.

“A rash statement, Lieutenant Brown, you haven’t interviewed the man yet and, you must admit, Captain Corcoran does not look at all like the chap I saw with Kevin. Unless he persuaded someone to assist him in the child’s abduction, he certainly did not kidnap his son.”

“Not kidnapping, Miss Weidenmaier. We want to talk to him about a murder.”

“Murder! Captain Corcoran? Kevin?”

“Robert Barton,” Marjorie Harris said.

“Time, opportunity, motive. He had them all. Go home, Miss Weidenmaier. Stay home, Miss Weidenmaier.”

“What motive do you ascribe to the child’s father?”

“Maybe he didn’t like fast food.”

“There is no need to shout, Lieutenant.”

“I’m not shouting. I just speak in a loud voice when ladies don’t listen. When ladies interfere in an investigation. Now, I will say it one more time. Listen to what I am saying. Go home, Miss Weidenmaier; I’m going to question Captain Charles Corcoran and I am seriously thinking of arresting you. They do not serve tea and crumpets in jail. Do I make myself clear?”

“The questioning will be delayed, Lieutenant. Captain Corcoran is not here.”

“I discovered that myself, Miss Weidenmaier. Trust me, I do not need your help.”

“In life, Lieutenant, everyone can use a little help.”

The door to the police car slammed. The odor of burned rubber assailed my nostrils as Lieutenant Brown left without saying another word. I can’t imagine how he obtained his license; he was a terrible driver.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The slim, blonde nurse wore her long hair in a braid clasped high on the top of her head. The braid swayed from side to side as she pranced into Jean Corcoran’s room to say goodnight. A smile touched Jean’s lips; she thought of a game she and Kevin often played.

“What animal does she remind you of, Kevin?”

“A filly,” Kevin would say. “That’s easy.”

Her son; her bright, beautiful boy. She was lost without Kevin, her little man, her life. She pressed the back of her hand against her mouth.

“Shift change, Mrs. Corcoran. Is there anything I can do for you before I go?”

“I’m fine.” If only they would leave her alone. The nurse meant well; they all meant well. Everyone acted as if they cared, but no one did anything to find Kevin. “Thank you,” she added.

“Why don’t I just fluff those pillows before I leave? Make you nice and comfy. Lift your head now.”

“Thank you,” Jean said again.

The nurse placed the call-button close to Jean’s hand.

“There. Now it’s handy, in case you need anything. Just press it and someone will be with you in a jif. I’ll see you in the morning.” She wiggled her fingers just like you would when saying goodbye to a baby.

Jean could hear her laugh in response to a teasing, male voice just outside the door to the room. The nurse radiated a poise and self-assurance that attracted men. Young or old, they would all adore her. Jean felt a twinge of envy; she was just the opposite. Petite, even pretty in a pale, washed-out way, but shy, she had always been shy. She had enough friends; wasn’t a loner. They liked her because she never talked. Jean was a listener and everyone needed someone who would listen.

Charles said he found her attractive because she didn’t chatter or flirt. She fell in love with Charles because he looked like a movie star she fantasized about. He was handsome and tall and had perfect manners. Her friends had dated awkward, crude men; she wanted to marry a gentleman; someone like Charles. When Charles proposed she immediately agreed, and when she knew she was going to have a baby it was the happiest time of her life. She visited museums and art galleries and attended shows because she had read it would influence the child she was carrying. It was true, Kevin loved all the arts but everything changed after he was born. Charles called him his little soldier; he treated Kevin like a new recruit. When he came back after his second tour they began to disagree about everything, and the happy family Jean dreamed about was just that—a dream.

The nurse laughed again; then the sound of her footsteps receded as she walked down the hall. For a moment the hospital was quiet.

Jean shifted her position. A newspaper crackled beneath her head. The nurse must have left it. The first paper Jean had seen since she entered the hospital; the paper was folded to the arts page. There was a tiny photo inserted in a gossip column; the vaguely familiar face caught her attention. The caption beneath the photo read Lawrence Dunn. Did she know him? The name…something unpleasant had happened. She tried to think but the tranquillizers they gave her were too strong, and she closed her eyes, instead.

Jean stirred in her sleep; the faint, spicy scent of bay rum disturbed her dream. Charles entered the dream—the Charles she loved. It was early in their marriage, before Kevin was born. They were laughing, happy.

She turned her head, wanting to put her arms around him, bury her face in his chest and feel warm and loved and protected.

“Jean, are you able to talk?”

His voice. Her eyelids flickered and the dream faded away. Someone was sitting on a hard, plastic chair next to the hospital bed. It was Charles and he was wearing a white coat and he had a stethoscope around his neck. Charles wasn’t a hallucination brought on by a combination of tranquilizers and fear. Charles was real. Her hand gripped the sheet.

Don’t show your fear, she thought, but she had never been much good at hiding her true feelings.

“It’s all right, Jean.” He tried to pat her hand with his. He was awkward about it; Charles wasn’t used to small tender gestures.

“Kevin? Kevin’s with you, isn’t he?” At least she would know where her baby was. Know he was safe.

“I wouldn’t take Kevin without telling you, Jean. I want custody but I wouldn’t steal my son. I know things haven’t been right between us for a long time…” He groped for his next words. “You’re the mother of my son; I couldn’t hurt you or Kevin. You believe me, don’t you?”

She did. Whatever else he was, Charles Corcoran was not a liar. She believed him.

“If he’s not with you, where is he? He could be sick or hurt or he could be dead. You read about it happening to other children. I don’t want to live without Kevin.”

“Jean, listen to me. Kevin’s not dead. I’m going to find him. I swear it.”

“What will we do?” This time her hand reached for his. The hand was cold. She studied his face; he looked emaciated, haggard. The penetrating blue eyes were lost in shadowed cavities.

“You look so pale, are you still at the hospital?” His sun-washed complexion had been replaced with unhealthy pallor.

“No, they released me. I’m doing okay.”

A quiver of fear made her hand tremble. Charles was different, even before the hospital he had changed, become a stranger. Was he telling her the truth? She wanted to—needed to trust him. She had to trust someone.

“Start from the beginning. Tell me everything, Jean. Even things that seem trivial to you. Who are your friends? Kevin’s? Does anyone have a reason to dislike you or the boy? Tell me, Jean. Don’t leave anything out.”

She did the best she could, but he wasn’t satisfied. “Is there anything else, Jean? Think. Someone, anyone, you might have forgotten to tell the police about?”

She was about to say, “No,” when she remembered the picture in the newspaper. She pointed out the photo in the gossip column. “His name is Lawrence Dunn. According to this he’s in a one-man show titled An Evening with Larry and Will at an off-Broadway theatre called Saint Genesis. He and Kevin auditioned together for the Cowboy Bob’s Big, Bad Burger commercial.”

Jean hesitated. It didn’t make sense. “At first, Dunn was charming; telling Kevin stories, laughing and chatting, then they read together.”

“What happened next, Jean?”

“Kevin was asked to wait; Lawrence Dunn was dismissed. Dunn became so nasty, Charles, as if Kevin had anything to do with the casting. Actors are rejected more often than not, Kevin is just a little boy; it wasn’t his fault Dunn didn’t get the job. Dunn behaved as if it were.”

Stage mother! Dunn had hurled the words at her making them sound obscene.

Maybe, she thought, studying the photo, maybe now that he had his own theatre, now that he was performing Shakespeare, he’d be less frustrated. A nicer person.

“It’s my fault. I wanted Kevin to be an actor. I wanted everyone to know his name.” She couldn’t look at Charles.

“Jean, listen to me. I’m going to find Kevin. I’ll find Kevin and we’ll be together again. The three of us. Everything will be all right.”

Charles kissed her forehead. She buried her face in his chest but the scent of bay rum was mixed with the acrid odor of sweat. An odor that had been foreign to the man she had married. Jean slipped out of the embrace, rested her head against the pillows. She closed her eyes—wanting to tell him to go away—afraid to say the words out loud.

When she woke, the newspaper was on her table and Charles was gone. She looked at the front page. A headline on the front page, Robert Barton Murdered. Jean read every word in the article, her hands shaking. Maybe someone had murdered her baby too. Jean screamed, and a nurse ran into the room. She felt a needle prick a vein, her screams subsided and she sank into the comforting darkness.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Lieutenant Brown paced back and forth. He no sooner walked the length of his small office—from filing cabinet to window—then he’d retrace his steps and do it once again.

Distracted, Marjorie Harris punched the delete button on her CRT and had to type an entire line of her report again.

He sat down, shuffled a stack of papers, stood and began pacing again.

Marjorie pulled open the top drawer of her desk, reached for the pack of cigarettes she had thrown out, then opened a roll of peppermints.

“Filthy,” Lieutenant Brown said, running a finger over the windowsill. “Marjorie, tell the cleaner to wash the windows.” Jesus, he was in a foul mood. His ex-wife would get a laugh if she heard him. When had he last paid attention to his surroundings? What was bothering him?

Lieutenant Brown couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was. Marjorie Harris would call it a nudgy feeling. Nudge, that was it. Marjorie had once called him a nudge. He’d looked it up in the dictionary; it was defined as someone who constantly pestered. That was the last time he’d tried to date Marjorie Harris. After that put-down, it was strictly business. The sergeant was off-limits. Hell. There were plenty of other women in the world, women turned on by a uniform. Anyway, when you worked together it was best to stick to a professional relationship.

Nudge. Miss Weidenmaier fit that description and Miss Weidenmaier hadn’t called today.

Tim Brown checked his message box, then straightened and reread the crumpled slips of paper he had tossed in his wastebasket. Nothing. Not a word from that schoolteacher.

“Excuse me. I gave you all your messages, Detective Brown.” The civilian telephone operator had a thin skin, and felt her competence was being questioned.

Maybe, Lieutenant Brown thought, Miss Weidenmaier was busy with whatever elderly ladies busied themselves with and had become too preoccupied to call. Think again, he told himself. Not Miss Augusta Weidenmaier.

Finally he sat down, dialed her apartment and let the phone ring at least a dozen times, allowing for the deafness and the slow arthritic movements of old age, knowing full well Miss Weidenmaier suffered neither of those infirmities. The lady wouldn’t countenance the maladies associated with the elderly. She was a genteel but tough old bird.

All right, he asked himself, if I were Miss Weidenmaier, why wouldn’t I call Lieutenant Brown?

Made a decision to butt out? Never. Administering to a sick neighbor? Better. But the lady would manage to pick up a phone and call. Was she playing detective again in complete disregard of his orders and getting herself into God knows what kind of a mess?

Tim Brown whistled through his teeth and drummed his fingers against the desk.

Sergeant Harris winced.

“Sorry,” he said. “Marjorie, if you were a retired schoolteacher, what would you be doing right now?”

“I’d be soaking my feet, watching soap operas and eating chocolates. Nothing would get me off the couch. Not even commercials.”

Lieutenant Brown whistled again. Suppose Miss Weidenmaier was right. Suppose Kevin’s father hadn’t murdered Robert Barton. Who did it? Was Barton’s murder even connected to Kevin? Why would someone kidnap Kevin? Money? Where was the ransom note? No calls demanding money. What else? A lot of questions with no real answers. Start again. What was the connection between Kevin and Robert Barton? Fast-food television commercials.

Marjorie was still talking. “You want to know what Miss Weidenmaier is doing? Easy. Miss Weidenmaier is playing detective.” She stared at the pile of reports stacked on her desk and began typing again.

“How would you describe me?” Timothy Brown drummed his fingers against the desk.

Marjorie Harris sighed and transferred her gaze from the monitor to the detective.

The drumming stopped; now he was pulling on his left ear. A sure sign he was troubled. Probably a habit carried over from his childhood.

He stared at her, waiting for her response.

Marjorie flexed her fingers.

“What do you see?” the detective asked, then answered his own question. “What you see is a decorated cop. A supposedly brave cop. A cop who’s shot and been shot at by a couple of the toughest cons in New York. A cop that saw action in the war. And this cop…”

“Can’t keep one elderly schoolteacher from meddling in police business.” Sergeant Harris finished the sentence for her boss. “Miss Weidenmaier is out doing her Miss Marple act again. Agatha Christie has a lot to answer for.”

“She’s the spitting image of my elementary-school principal. Same orthopedic shoes, permed white hair, even the same white handkerchief in the pocket of her English tweed jacket. You know how many hours I spent sitting in that principal’s office?”

“Miss Weidenmaier must be her sweet revenge.” Marjorie’s eyes crinkled at the corners. A throaty laugh escaped her generous mouth before she covered it with a mock coughing fit.

“It’s not funny, Marjorie.” Think about the sergeant’s mind, he told himself, not her mouth or her legs. “The lady is going to get hurt.”

“I don’t know, Tim. That lady is a match for anyone.”

Had Miss Weidenmaier stumbled onto something or someone? Lieutenant Brown began pacing again. They hadn’t picked up Captain Corcoran yet. The man could be anywhere. And if the kidnapper and Robert Barton’s murderer weren’t one and the same, that meant there were two criminals at large.

Why did he worry about that schoolteacher? He had certainly warned the woman. Lieutenant Brown turned on his computer, called up the Corcoran file and began checking each piece of information, every name again. Robert Barton had made an inquiry about Weidenmaier. Felicity Silk had made a complaint. Silk was with Cousin Cora’s, another fast-food restaurant, Barton’s main competition. Could there be a link between Cousin Cora’s and Cowboy Bob’s?

The intercom sounded; interrupted his line of thought.

“Yes,” Lieutenant Brown said. He listened for a moment then grabbed his jacket and headed for the door.

“C’mon, Harris, one of our men spotted Captain Corcoran near New York Hospital; he must want to visit his estranged wife after all. Let’s go talk to him about a murder.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

No one at the front desk at the hospital remembered Mrs. Corcoran having any visitors.

“No sir.” The voice of the guard stationed at Mrs. Corcoran’s door was firm. “No one gets by me. Only hospital personnel has gone in or out of Mrs. Corcoran’s room.”

“Damn. I hate hospitals,” Lieutenant Brown said.

Marjorie slowly opened the door to the room, approaching the fragile-looking woman in the bed.

A few routine questions, then…“We just need to talk to your husband, Mrs. Corcoran. We’re talking to everyone who knows Kevin,” Marjorie said.

“I haven’t seen Charles.”

“Your husband was seen near the hospital.”

“He hasn’t been here, I haven’t seen him. I haven’t seen him.”

“Calm down, Mrs. Corcoran. Your husband may have some ideas that will help us find your son. Your cooperation is necessary.”

Lieutenant Brown sensed Mrs. Corcoran could hear the pity and annoyance in the sergeant’s tone. He took over the questioning. “When was the last time you saw your husband?”

She looked away. “I don’t remember.”

“Does your husband know Robert Barton?”

Jean pulled the bed cover closer to her chin. “Charles never met Robert Barton.”

“Mrs. Corcoran, we have to speak to your husband. If you want us to find Kevin, you have to help us by telling us whatever you know. Anything at all. Let us judge what’s important.”

Silence. The lieutenant sensed Mrs. Corcoran was holding something back. He could feel it in his gut. Hell, they weren’t getting anywhere. He couldn’t browbeat an emotionally disturbed woman whose child was missing. He just couldn’t.

Sergeant Harris placed a card on the table next to her bed and finally the police officers left the hospital room.

Jean stared at the closed door. She had told Lieutenant Brown and the sergeant the truth, Charles hadn’t met Robert Barton. And maybe Charles hadn’t been here in the room; maybe he was nothing but a figment of her imagination, her neediness. She didn’t know; she wasn’t sure. Jean didn’t know if they believed anything she said. Lying was new to her something she wasn’t very good at.

After the police left, the doctor tried to give her a tranquilizer; she managed to stand up to him and refuse. A tranquilizer was the last thing she needed. She had to think, straighten out the thoughts that circled her brain and make some sense of them.

She ran her tongue over dry lips. Nerves; her hands clutched the sheet again as if it was a lifeline to a normal world. Robert Barton was dead and the police thought Charles had killed him. Lieutenant Brown didn’t come right out and say Charles was a suspect in Barton’s murder; he just said the police wanted to talk to him but Jean knew. If the police found her husband they would put him in jail and who would find their son then?

She rubbed her forehead, feeling as if her head would split open.

The police must be wrong about Charles, he told the truth even if the truth hurt. Charles hadn’t kidnapped Kevin and he hadn’t murdered Robert Barton. Not her Charles. Why would he want to murder Robert Barton?

Unless he knew Barton had propositioned her but how could he know that? It was her secret. She wanted to kill Barton herself; he had no right to touch her. He told her she was built like a young girl then crushed her body against his. She struggled and he held her wrists with one hand and laughed when she tried to fight him off.

“Fun time is over,” he finally said and loosened his grip. “Just a joke; you’re too old for me.”

She didn’t care that Barton was dead, she only cared about Charles.

The same thoughts over and over and over; did the police know she had lied about Charles? Charles would find Kevin. If only the police didn’t find Charles first and put him in jail. Someone had murdered Robert Barton. Why? What did it have to do with Kevin? God. Oh my God, she thought, someone capable of murder was holding Kevin.

Her husband’s photo would be splashed on the front page of every newspaper. If Kevin read a paper what would he think? Reporters would imply that he was guilty, slant everything just to sell their newspapers.

Charles couldn’t be the murderer. Not the man she had married; not Kevin’s father. But he wasn’t the man she had married; not the same man at all. Would he hurt Kevin? There were stories in the papers every day about people who did terrible things to their wives and children.

Jean caught herself making moaning sounds. The nurse would hear; she had to get hold of herself. She bit her lip until she tasted blood. No tranquilizers. Think straight.

She picked up Sergeant Harris’s card, then put it back down on the table.

What if she called the police and told them the tranquilizers got her confused; she remembered now. Charles had been in the room. Just call the police and ask for the lieutenant and tell him. Jean reached for the phone and then drew her hand back. She couldn’t do that to Charles. He was still her husband.

Talk to somebody. A friend, someone smart and calm, who would listen. Who could she turn to? Her new friends didn’t listen; they were actors. They talked mostly about themselves; used her as an audience. Except that old actress friend of Kevin’s. Where was that piece of paper with her name and telephone number? There it was, right on the table.

Weidenmaier. Augusta Weidenmaier was different. A schoolteacher type; playing schoolteachers gave her an air of authority. Miss Weidenmaier would know what to do. Jean’s hand shook but she managed to lift the receiver and press the numbers.

Calm down and take a deep breath. One. She counted each ring. Two. The woman had to be there. Three rings. What if she was out? An interview. An audition. A rehearsal.

She must stay calm and not panic. Her heart beat so loudly against her chest she was sure the guard standing outside the door would hear it. Four rings, then five…Where was Miss Weidenmaier? What kind of actress was she? No telephone service. No voice mail. No answering machine.

Be sensible. Perhaps she had dialed the wrong number. That was it. Try again. No hysteria. Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Where was Miss Weidenmaier? Why didn’t she pick up the phone?

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The dilapidated brownstones on West 66th Street had seen better days. Though the neighborhood was close to the opera house, the concert hall and the theatre at Lincoln Center, these streets had not been blessed with any of the Center’s newfound vigor. The dwellings, once owned by the more fashionable members of society, were now divided and subdivided into crowded units for the less-fortunate. Today, as I searched for Lawrence Dunn’s theatre, my eyes were drawn to dirt-streaked windows, my ears assaulted by the discordant sounds of the street. Curiosity, interest, prying, call it what you will, my steps slowed as I studied life in progress.

A bored child stared at me from one window, before thumbing a scabbed nose. I resisted an urge to thumb my own back. I stubbed a toe, lowered my gaze and paid more attention to the cracked sidewalk.

My word. I studied a hardy weed that poked through one of the cracks, a Daisy Fleabane. How had it managed to grow in this inhospitable spot? The daisy, stepped on and undernourished, had found a spot in the sun. I quickly became aware of a few more plants, placed on windowsills and fire escapes, a testimony to the resilience of human nature. The sight of these sprigs of green lifted my spirits. Kevin was here, alive, somewhere in this neighborhood, I was sure of it.

Lawrence Dunn’s theatre had once been Saint Genesis, a small neighborhood church. Its congregation had moved to the suburbs and the board that formerly announced sermons and masses now advertised An Evening with Larry and Will—Poems, Sonnets and Soliloquies.

The church appeared to be as rundown as the neighborhood. Age and pollution discolored its stone walls. Grout had cracked and disintegrated; leaving unsightly crevices between blocks of masonry only partially concealed by the heavy vines of ivy that climbed toward the stained-glass windows. One window, located to the right and above the front doors, was clean and bright despite a visible fissure that split the face of the patron saint of actors in two. The heavy, oak doors, weather-beaten and wood-splintered, were propped open, disclosing a slip of a girl wearing an overlarge sweat shirt emblazoned with an inked sketch of William Shakespeare. She sat at a table next to a hand-lettered sign resting on an easel. The sign requested a contribution of three dollars for a show program; there was no fee for attending the show.

The girl’s buoyant, paprika-colored hair spiraled around her head like one of Saturn’s rings. Her up-turned nose was sprinkled with the freckles common to natural redheads. She looked as if she had stepped out of a modern dress version of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

The programs, piles of thin mimeographed sheets of paper, were stacked on the table next to an empty candy box containing two single dollar bills. The walls of the vestibule leading to the theatre were decorated with framed theatre posters, programs and photographs. I donated my three dollars, took a program and began to study the photographs and posters attached to the walls.

“Welcome to Saint Genesis Theatre.” The young girl stood and introduced herself. “I’m Annalise Sheridan, Mr. Dunn’s assistant. Would you sign the roster, please? Name and address. That way we can notify you when we do future productions. We plan on a subscriber series. Something like the Public Theatre, only more artistic. Mr. Dunn says the Public Theatre has forgotten its roots and become commercial. Oh…would you like a cup of herbal tea? We’re not making a profit; the tea is only fifty cents a cup. And the carrot cake is one dollar and fifty cents, cranberry muffins a dollar. I make them myself without a drop of sugar. I use fruit juice and Canola oil, no egg yolks, just the whites so there is absolutely no cholesterol. Talk about healthy. If you want one just drop the money in the saucer by the hot-water urn. The honor system, you know. I mean, you have to trust people, don’t you? Excuse me, I enjoyed our conversation but I have to sell, I mean offer a few more programs.”

The child had talked without once coming up for air. Her breath control was admirable; I must say I was impressed.

A group of four equally young people came through the door. Their good looks and exuberance as well as their unconventional garb marked them as actors. They managed to scrape up enough money between them for one program, looked longingly at the cake and muffins, muttered about diets and entered the theatre. I followed.

A gold lamé draw curtain hid the stage. The heavy fabric appeared new but not out of place in the old church. The chancel and altar that had served the congregation remained, as well as the pews where the assembly had once been seated. I shifted my posterior; there were no cushions on the hard, wooden benches.

I examined my program, noting that while Lawrence Dunn had many illustrious plays listed in his credits, he had not mentioned the parts played or where they had been performed.

There weren’t many people interested in An Evening with Larry and Will. By the time Annalise Sheridan flashed the house-lights on and off, indicating that the curtain would soon part and the entertainment begin, only seven more attendees had been added to Lawrence Dunn’s scant audience. A shabbily dressed, elderly couple, a pretty blonde ingénue accompanied by a juvenile who clutched her hand, two exuberant girls—friends of Annalise, judging from the hugs, kisses and squeals that were exchanged, and a reedlike gentleman of advanced years who wore a bowler hat and a white foulard and sported a walking stick as glossy as his old-fashioned, patent leather pumps.

I noticed Annalise slipping through the door to the vestry. The house-lights went out; the church became dark except for the strands of moonlight that managed to illuminate the stained-glass windows. Conversation slowed then halted in anticipation of the performance. After a few moments of sitting in silence, broken only by one half-suppressed giggle, the curtains parted and revealed Lawrence Dunn. Dunn, dressed in tights and made up to look like the Bard of Avon himself, stood center stage. In the background, the audience saw the parapet of a castle painted on flats. The perspective was extremely well executed. The audience applauded; a tradition that showed appreciation for the set and Dunn’s appearance.

I heard the sound of shoes racing up the side aisle to the back of the church. The top of Annalise’s head appeared over what must have once been the choir loft, and she pointed a spotlight in Lawrence Dunn’s direction. He stepped into the light and launched into his first piece. “All the world’s a stage,” he declaimed, his voice ringing out across the audience.

Dunn proved himself adept at changing costumes and make-up. He managed to appear as a young Romeo, a foppish Malvolio and Marc Antony (reminiscent of Marlon Brando) before attempting Hamlet. He walked to the right side of the stage, gazed out front, focused on a spot just above our heads and recited. “Angels and ministers of grace defend us! Be thou a spirit of health or goblin dam’d. Bring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from hell…”

Clouds of fog seeped from somewhere beneath Dunn’s feet and hid them from sight. The seepage turned to gusts of heavy, white smoke that soon enveloped Lawrence Dunn and wafted into the audience. The rest of the recitation was lost to a chorus of sneezes, wheezes and loud gasps of breath. I covered my nose with my pocket-handkerchief and tried not to inhale the pungent odor of ammonia. Tears drenched the linen; I searched my purse for tissue to replace it. Several members of the audience ran toward the exit.

“Wench!” Dunn bellowed. “Turn off the damnable fog machine!”

The fog dissipated slowly accompanied by barked coughs, phlegmatic clearing of throats and the flap of theatre programs; finally, Dunn emerged through the last wisps of smoke as a bald Julius Caesar. He concluded the first act with an elegantly attired Othello.

The set had impressed me; Abner T. Bean was right about Dunn’s talent as a carpenter. His acting, however, remained static. Lawrence Dunn illustrated emotions and passion as though they were set-dressings: there was no depth to his characterizations. Instead, the audience was treated to impersonations of other actors. Dunn’s inflections were reminiscent, his gestures all too obviously practiced in front of a mirror.

The first act over, I began to clap. The lonesome sound was followed by thunderous applause emanating from an area in the rear of the theatre. I turned—the back rows were empty. Annalise raced down the aisle, closed the gold lamé curtain and raced back. The applause screeched to a halt. Of course, a recording was used to augment the sparse audience. Annalise turned on the house-lights, then bounded up the three steps to center stage to address us.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she said. “May I have your attention?” Her tone was earnest. The shine of sincerity brightened her eyes. “Ladies and gentlemen. We are here tonight because we share a great love for the theatre, a love of William Shakespeare and Lawrence Dunn’s fine interpretation of his works. I ask you to support that work by contributing what you can to this theatre. Nickels, dimes, quarters, anything you can afford. Bills of any denomination are always acceptable.”

“She’s got to be kidding,” someone stage-whispered.

A semi-stifled snort emerged from the row that seated Annalise’s friends.

Annalise ignored the interruption. “I will pass this can around so you can make your contribution.” She handed it to the gentleman in the first row who still wore his bowler hat. The sound of a single coin meeting tin disturbed the unnatural quiet of theatre patrons trying to think of something to say. He passed the can to the group of dieting actors who quickly passed it on to Annalise’s friends. In the meantime, the child dashed backstage where she could be heard setting the props for act 2. Several members of the audience donned their coats and jackets and began to leave only to encounter Annalise standing at the top of the aisle. The girl, I thought, must have set some sort of record in her dash from the back of the theatre to the front.

“Tea? Muffins?” Annalise asked, determined to block their exit.

“Just need a breath of fresh air,” the elderly gentleman pleaded.

“We’ll be back,” his wife added.

Annalise reluctantly stepped aside.

I studied Lawrence Dunn’s photographs. Profile, front face, smiling and somber. In and out of costume. His appearance changed with every photograph. Which likeness, I wondered, captured the real Lawrence Dunn? One picture in particular caught my notice. I found my reading glasses and examined it with care. In the photo, Lawrence looked very much like the man I had seen with Kevin. Was he? I could feel my adrenaline glands begin to pump with excitement. If Dunn was the abductor, the boy might be here hidden in this old church.

“Annalise, where’s the bathroom?” one of her friends asked.

“Behind the door, down the steps, turn left at the bottom.”

The opening of the second act found me sitting in the last row of benches, close to the door; a good spot to observe Lawrence Dunn’s audience rather than his portrayals.

“If music be the food of love, play on,” Lawrence began..

By the end of that piece I could hear one member of the audience gently snoring. The sound came from the gentleman in the bowler hat. The hat had slipped past his forehead and settled over his eyes. His chin rested on the knob of his cane. The elderly couple, despite the wife’s promise, had not returned, and only the actors and Annalise’s friends were left sitting in the house. Dunn began his interpretation of Falstaff—slurping wine from a goblet, plunging a jewel-encrusted dagger into a loaf of bread and, unfortunately, spewing grape seeds into the front row. It was too much for the ingénue, dogged by the juvenile who no longer clutched her hand; she strode up the aisle and out the door.

While Lawrence Dunn emoted, I devised a rough plan. With the exit of the actress I was the only woman left in the audience except for Annalise’s friends. They had already paid a visit to the ladies’ room; I would be able to hide there until the performance ended. When the theatre became dark, I would begin my search for Kevin.

Lawrence had not repaired the stairs leading to the basement. They were narrow and rickety with age. The light cast by a single, dirty bulb painted deceptive shadows on the walls. I gripped the disagreeably moist and cold pipe that passed as a handrail and descended.

Where would Lawrence Dunn hide the child? I peered into the semi-darkness. Perhaps Kevin was right here in this basement; watching, listening, alert to any sound. Would he remember the gentlewoman he had asked for help?

A smattering of applause signaled that An Evening with Larry and Will was at long last over. It was time to hide; the ladies’ room was on my left. As I entered something brushed against my face. A timorous woman might have believed it to be a spider; I felt a frayed cord that could possibly turn on the light. I hesitated, wondering whether to pull it. Too late. I heard the rapid clatter of work-shoes galloping down the stairs. The light went on; Annalise was at my side.

“Are you all right? You didn’t stay for Richard III. It’s Mr. Dunn’s best piece.”

“A bit of a headache,” I muttered. “Most disagreeable.” I looked for paper toweling but there was none to be seen. A roll of toilet tissue sat on a shelf above the sink. I tore off a small piece, held it under the cold-water tap, then dabbed at my forehead.

“Can I get you an aspirin?” Annalise asked.

“May…” I began to correct the girl then caught and restrained myself. “No. Thank you,” I said. “I’m much better now. Have you worked for Mr. Dunn a long time? I see you wear many hats.”

“I guess you can tell I’m really an actress,” Annalise said. “Mr. Dunn gives me lessons in Shakespeare and, in return, I help him around the theatre. Though there haven’t been many lessons lately. He’s been so busy I haven’t had a lesson all week. I memorized Desdemona’s big scene for yesterday’s lesson and he never showed up, said he had a gig on television. I mean why didn’t he tell me ahead of time? I would have watched. I couldn’t even get into the theatre. Larry won’t give me another key. I waited at the door for an hour. What a waste of time; I could have filigreed the furniture if I had a key. He says I’m careless, that I lost the first set. I swear I didn’t. I can’t do my job if I can’t get at the props and glue gun, now can I? Tell you the truth, I don’t think he’s being very fair, do you?”

We heard Lawrence Dunn descending the stairs. He sang snatches of Celeste Aida in a flat tenor that rang through the basement.

“He sings opera when he’s in an especially good mood,” Annalise informed me. She opened the bathroom door a crack. “Good show, Larry?”

“They loved me,” he said. “I killed them. Annalise, tarry not. I need victuals.”

“Are you all right now?” Annalise addressed me. “He probably wants me to buy him more chicken and another container of milk. He drinks a lot of milk. He never used to eat chicken. Larry is a…was a vegetarian. Still won’t eat Cowboy Bob’s Burgers. Says they’re loathsome. I have to walk three extra blocks to Cousin Cora’s and buy Chicken Crisps. Sometimes I think he takes advantage of me.”

Kevin Corcoran was alive, thank heaven. The milk and chicken had to be for Kevin; at least Dunn was feeding the child.

“Annalise! Where are you?”

She shook her head and opened the door.

“In a minute!” Her reply to Dunn resounded throughout the basement.

“Annalise.” Dunn’s voice was just as loud. “Annalise, do not scream. Project. Plant your feet in the ground and project. Your piercing scream can puncture eardrums. Where did you put the peroxide and Q-tips?”

“In the first-aid kit, Larry.” Annalise lowered her voice a decimal. “I’m talking to one of your fans.”

“You may introduce my ardent devotee as soon as I am dressed to receive.”

Heavens! I ignored the queasy feeling that attacked my stomach. I couldn’t possibly meet Dunn.

“My apologies to Mr. Dunn, Annalise. My head is pounding; I must get a bit of air.”

“I’ll help you upstairs and try to find you a taxi.”

“Thank you, dear. I’m able to take care of myself. Don’t let me keep you from your errands. I’m sure Mr. Dunn is hungry after his performance.”

“Let him wait.” The girl’s voice rose in volume. “Back in a jif, Larry. I’m helping a patron get a taxi.”

Annalise kept talking as we mounted the stairs, left the theatre and searched for a cab. “I help Larry with the theatre in return for acting lessons; clean my singing teacher’s apartment so I get free singing lessons. I’m expanding my vocal range—I’ve added two notes and I’m going to a chorus call tomorrow just for practice—now all I have to do is find a dancing teacher I can make an arrangement with. Do you think I could blend into a chorus? I think I’d stand out too much. I guess it’s stardom or nothing. What do you think?”

While Annalise chattered, I spied a cab a block away, waiting for the traffic light to turn from red to green. Annalise waved.

“I’m sure he saw us, dear. You can go. I’m fine now. You’d better attend to Mr. Dunn. Buy his dinner before the restaurant closes.”

“Don’t worry about that. Fast-food places stay open all night. All Larry wants is junk food lately. Chicken, French fries, Cakewalks. Used to be, all he ate was yogurt. Sometimes fruit and sunflower seeds. Vitamins too, by the handful.”

The signal turned to green. The cab driver accelerated, sped to within five feet of us and came to an abrupt stop. No wonder, I thought, the vehicle looked ready for the junkyard.

“Goodnight, dear.”

“Bye. Come back and see Richard III anytime.” Annalise bounded back to the church.

“Thank you, driver, I’ve changed my mind.” Before the chap could remove a foul-smelling cigar from his open mouth, I left the taxi and entered a tavern I had spied across the street from Saint Genesis. I would bide my time, wait for Annalise to leave, find a way back into the basement and begin my search for Kevin.

Turning down the bartender’s offer of a table, I managed to find a stool at the bar that granted a view of the church.

“What’ll it be, lady?”

“Sherry, please.”

The saloon’s regular patrons stared at a television set that sat on a shelf above the back of the bar. They appeared hypnotized by the grunts and groans of two wrestlers, glistening with sweat and oil, who had managed to contort themselves and each other into the most uncomfortable-appearing positions. One had shaved his head and was called “The Hairless Wonder.” He grasped a handful of platinum hair being tossed around by his opponent, who was known as “The Blond Bomber.” Five minutes of shouting and bodies being thrown through the air—one managed to land outside the ring—and the wrestler with the bleached blond ringlets was finally declared the winner.

The program ended with a close-up of the bald wrestler threatening and cursing his opponent. A news program followed.

Most of the bar’s customers lost interest and turned their attentions to the bowls of thin pretzel sticks and beer nuts stationed along the counter.

“No comment is the only comment the police are making regarding the strange death of Robert Barton,” the news announcer told his viewing audience. “Barton was the president and founder of Cowboy Bob’s Big, Bad Burger fast-food restaurants. Was his death an accident? The police have not issued a statement.”

I forgot about watching the church door and concentrated on the news broadcast.

“Barton was electrocuted as he waited to make an appearance on the Norman Bottoms talk show, Hitting Bottom. The public wants to know—is there a connection between the strange death of Robert Barton and little Kevin Corcoran, the missing child who appeared in commercials for Cowboy Bob’s?” The camera focused on a woman sitting to the newscaster’s right.

“We have with us tonight, Felicity Silk, the managing director of Cousin Cora’s Chicken Crisps. In the fast-food market, Cousin Cora’s ranks as number one. Miss Silk, thank you for being with us tonight.”

My word, I thought, Felicity Silk is actually granting an interview. From what I had researched, it was completely out of character.

The interviewer turned toward the woman and asked a series of questions. “Miss Silk, Cousin Cora’s biggest competitor is Cowboy Bob’s. Would you give us your reaction? How do you feel about the death of Robert Barton? Do you think some fanatic is out to destroy the fast-food industry? Are you afraid? Do you feel threatened?”

“First of all, Eric; I may call you Eric? I feel I know you so well after watching your news broadcasts. First of all, Cousin Cora’s does not serve fast food. Our family-oriented restaurants serve plain, honest, family fare, just like your grandmother made, at prices a family can afford.”

“What do you think happened to Robert Barton?” Eric asked. “Was it murder?”

“We don’t know that, do we, Eric? The police haven’t informed us. I think it was natural causes. Indigestion, perhaps?” Her voice was rock-candy sweet and sad. “Yes, it might very well have been indigestion.”

Indigestion! The very idea. I glared at the woman as the camera moved in for a close-up.

The newsbreak ended, and a wrestling match returned to the screen. I turned my gaze back to the church door. A few minutes later I saw Annalise leave. I paid for the sherry, added a small gratuity for the bartender and returned to the church.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Except for the swish of tires and the occasional blare of a horn drifting over from Broadway’s traffic, the neighborhood was quiet. Rain clouds drifted across the city and a shroud of murk hung over the block. The streetlight nearest the theatre had been shattered by vandals, and I discovered the front doors of Saint Genesis were now locked. I fumbled through my purse and finally found my key ring. A miniature flashlight was attached; I removed it and shaded the glow with my hand as I took small, careful steps following an old cobblestoned path that led to the rear of the church, hoping I would have better luck gaining entrance there.

Somewhere nearby, a child cried out.

“Kevin, where are you?” I froze but the only sound I could hear was the accelerated beat of my heart.

The beam of light cut through the darkness, identifying old headstones that marked the final resting-place of parishioners long gone. The back yard of the church, I realized, had once been used for burials.

The wail I had heard became clamorous and insistent. A cat stared at me, then ran behind a headstone. A cat, only a cat.

I spotted a window close to the back door conveniently situated at ground level. My luck held—I inserted a nail file through a break in the window pane and pushed the latch to its open position. The window, loose in its frame, was easy to raise.

The penlight illuminated an old kitchen and warned of a heavy iron pot resting on the sill. I lifted the pot to one side and managed to climb over, thankful that a strict regimen of exercise, proper dietary habits and good genes had furnished protection from the scourge of arthritis. Dishes, covered with grime, occupied an open cabinet. The plop-plop of a leaky faucet revealed a sink discolored by a large rusted spot. A spider had built a web in a cozy corner next to an ancient stove.

I opened a door and found myself in a carpeted hallway that led to an area that must have once been the chancel. Here, the carpeting ended under an archway that led to the right wing of the stage, the carpeting replaced by a highly polished wood floor. A work-lamp barely lit the center area of the stage, casting shadows that might have unnerved someone of lesser will or discipline of mind. I was just able to see an old-fashioned light-board set against the wall. To its right stood a table cluttered with a king’s crown—its brilliant glass gems shining through the gloom—surrounded by false hair, gauntlets, cuffs, a tin of powder, rouge and a box of tissues. Next to the table was a second set of stairs. It would, I was sure, lead to the room in the basement where Lawrence Dunn dressed.

Careful, I thought; you never saw him leave. He must still be in the theatre and so, if my reasoning was correct, would Kevin.

The thought of notifying Lieutenant Brown of my suspicions grazed my mind. I quickly discarded the idea; I had to be sure. The detective would demand proof. If it wasn’t supplied, if I were wrong, he would dismiss me as a meddlesome, old spinster with nothing to do but get into mischief.

The basement was silent. I spied a splinter of light peeking from beneath a door decorated with an oversized star that managed to twinkle and glitter in the near dark. Dunn, I decided, would be in that room. I needed a place to hide until he emerged and led me to Kevin. A rack of costumes occupied a corner close to Dunn’s dressing room. I hugged the wall and moved, at a snail’s pace, in the direction of the rack.

The costumes that had served Dunn’s various characterizations would now serve as my screen. The waistcoats and doublets, pantaloons, padding, cloaks and robes were made of heavy stuff. The materials were brocade, velvet and fur decorated with jewels and chains. They appeared rich and royal in the gloomy light, but an unpleasant odor of perspiration and mildew hovered over this section of the basement. Age and improper cleaning of the costumes, bought second-or third-hand, worn by generations of nervous actors sweating under hot lights in cold theatres I suspected. I felt the glow of perspiration on my brow, but if I were to rescue Kevin, I had to be brave.

Suddenly a series of strange sounds penetrated the dressing room door and interrupted the silence of the theatre. Dunn, practicing vocal exercises over and over and over again.

Tears welled in my eyes as, unable to find my handkerchief, I stifled a cough with the back of my hand.

“Mee…mo…ma…mo…moo. Mee…mo…ma…moo.” He stopped and took a deep intake of breath then exhaled (an extremely long slow hiss), before he began to speak.

“Big, Bad, Brownie Bonanzas, Big, Bad, Brownie Bonanzas. Cousin Cora’s Cakewalks, Cousin Cora’s Cakewalks.” Dunn recited these lines over and over again; warming his vocal chords. Finally using the same grandiloquent sound he had produced in his characterization of King Lear, Lawrence Dunn addressed an unseen audience. “It is with heavy heart I appeal to my public…”

I poked my head between two robes, trying to fathom his words. Dust particles invaded my nose and throat. I swallowed a sneeze. Oh my word! That tickle in my throat again. I rummaged through my purse. Where was that tin of lozenges? The tin dropped out of the purse and hit the bottom pipe of the costume rack. The bell-like ping of the tin against the metal of the pipe brought Dunn to the door of his dressing room.

He was attired in a tatty, red velvet robe; a towel tucked like a bib into the collar. His legs, deprived of the padding that enhanced the shape of his tights, were sticklike and the absence of wigs and hats proved his natural hair to be pure white, collar length and blessed with a natural wave. Framed in the cruel, white light of the dressing room, barefaced, he appeared a good deal older than his stage presence had led me to believe.

“Annalise? Are you back?” A cough drop crunched beneath a shoe as Lawrence Dunn stepped forward.

“What…?”

I tried not to breathe.

Dunn grabbed a flashlight and dagger—it appeared to be Falstaff’s—from a bookcase standing against a near wall. The beam of light searched the corners of the basement, delved under a table and climbed to the top of a stack of crates; finally coming to rest on my oxfords. The only shoes, I realized, peeping from beneath the costume rack.

“Out, out damn spot,” he ordered.

Oh, my word. The only weapon I carried was my handbag. Think quickly, Augusta Weidenmaier, I thought, perhaps you can improvise your way out of this imprudent position. Keeping an eye on his dagger, I parted the doublet and padding, smiled and stepped cautiously over the bottom pipe of the costume rack.

“What are you doing here?”

Had he recognized me? Was his verbal emphasis on the word you? I decided to try flattery.

“Your dramatic presentation was extraordinary tonight, Mr. Dunn. I came backstage to tell you how touched I was by your performance. Such versatility. If it isn’t too much to ask, I would treasure your autograph.” The words that tumbled from my mouth were wasted. The scoundrel knew who I was.

“This way, Miss Weidenmaier.”

Dunn knew my name. I had found Kevin’s kidnapper. Was he also little Bertie Barton’s murderer?

Dunn’s flashlight pointed toward a door on the other side of the basement. At least, I thought, he hasn’t plunged the dagger into my chest. Not yet. I would have to follow the ruffian’s orders until the problem could be thought through. My choices at the moment were severely limited.

“Larry…I’m back.”

It was Annalise. Of course! The child had returned with the chicken. Should I cry out? Involve the girl?

“Don’t lock the door, Larry. I haven’t buried the props,” Annalise called from halfway down the steps. “Besides, we really have to talk.”

Lawrence Dunn unlocked the door, thrust me inside a room as dark as India ink, and locked it again. The momentum made me stumble against a chair, bruising an ankle in the process.

At least the chair was something to sit on. My hand trembling with nerves, I gingerly touched the contusion while contemplating my next move.

Was that breathing I heard? I could sense another living creature in the room. Thank goodness, I thought, I have never been afraid of small mammalia. Rodents do not upset me. In that respect, I knew I had been a severe disappointment to several of my pupils.

“Go home, Annalise,” I heard Dunn say. “You look tired. Besides, I want you to look over the props tomorrow. My stool needs to be painted and the goblet polished.”

“I painted the stool last week.”

“Goodnight,” Dunn said firmly.

I took my penlight out of my pocket. The light flickered and died.

“I thought we could talk while you ate your Chicken Crisps,” Annalise said.

“Just give me the box and go home.”

“Gee…Larry. I know you’ve been busy but you haven’t given me a lesson all week and I’ve been working extremely hard on my Ophelia.”

“I want you to work even harder. We’ll schedule a time tomorrow.”

“Right Thanks. Goodnight.”

It was now or never. I took a deep breath.

Hands were clapped over my mouth. A child’s hands.

“Lady,” the soft voice of a little boy pleaded. “Lady, don’t scream.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The room that held us captive served as the theatre’s prop, storage and rehearsal space. Sheets of plywood were stacked against one wall; flats painted or gilded leaned on another. Dinette chairs, kitchen chairs and an armchair that leaked stuffing and a spring were scattered about. Lawrence Dunn must have scoured the streets for discarded furniture to service his theatre. Kevin had drawn a picture of Frederick the Fresh Fish in the film of dust that covered a kitchen table. A sketch that would doubtless vex Lawrence Dunn; I brushed it away.

A roll of muslin rested on a dresser. A mattress, dingy with age and scarred by cigarette burns, had, for the present, been up-ended and rested next to the flats that lined the wall; the mattress clearly served as Kevin’s bed. I felt my lips pucker in disapproval. If we were forced to spend one more night in this room, I was determined to cover the mattress with the muslin.

Cans of paint, lights and piles of ropes and cords shared the room with black, velour drapes that gathered cobwebs in a corner and bells, buzzers and a telephone lived on top of a bookcase. The telephone, much to my dismay and Kevin’s amusement, had proved to be a prop—its wire stripped and discarded.

Yorick’s skull, when not being caressed by Lawrence Dunn’s nervous fingers, shared its space on a shelf with a large bottle of ketchup and a box of tea bags.

Turpentine and paint fumes pervaded the windowless room; I rubbed my dry eyes. A negligent sort of captor, Dunn had touched up a piece of scenery and cleaned his brushes shortly before deciding to rehearse a scene from The Two Gentlemen of Verona.

A persistent throb spread from my right temple to include the left. At Dunn’s oddly polite request, I had held the prompt book for hours without a true break. Lunch had consisted of Cousin Cora’s Chicken Crisps and Cousin Cora’s Cakewalks. Dunn was, to my stomach’s distress, either loyal to Cousin Cora’s fast food or a student of Torquemada. His skills would have been much in demand during the Inquisition.

“How now, Signor Launce! What news with your mastership?” Kevin, playing the part of Speed, launched into the scene; his youthful enthusiasm remained intact despite the situation we found ourselves in.

“With my master’s ship? Why it is at sea.” Dunn struggled with the usually comic role of Launce.

I longed for a cup of tea. Something, anything to encourage the brain to function; my thought processes had become mired in the damp and fetid air of the basement, irritated by the near-toxic fumes.

“Miss Weidenmaier, may I have my line, please?” Dunn asked.

“O illiterate loiterer,” I prompted.

“O illiterate loiterer,” Dunn repeated. “Illiterate loiterer…uhh…loiterer.”

“It was the son…”

Dunn picked up the line. “It was the son of thy grandmother. This proves that thou canst not read.”

“Come, fool, come; try me not in thy paper.” Kevin, I realized, had a photographic memory. He scanned a page once and knew his lines. The scene continued.

“Item: She can knit!” Kevin said.

“What…what…” Dunn hesitated. “What need a man care for a sock with a wench…”

“Stock with a wench…” Kevin corrected Dunn. “Stock not sock! Shakespeare wrote stock.”

“I believe I am the authority on Shakespeare. The book, please, Miss Weidenmaier.” Dunn squinted at the passage.

“Perhaps your glasses, Mr. Dunn?”

“I do not usually need glasses, Miss Weidenmaier. Play publishers are using smaller type. Penurious lot.” Dunn checked his pockets. “I seem to have misplaced…”

“They’re on top of your head, Mr. Dunn,” Kevin said.

“Yes, of course. Where else would they be?” Dunn placed the steel-rimmed spectacles close to the tip of his nose and peered over the top. “Now where was I?”

“You were checking the line—‘What need a man care for a stock…’”

“Yes. I know. I know. I said stock.” Dunn glared at Kevin. “Miss Weidenmaier is the prompter. If a mistake is made, she will do the correcting. Is that understood?”

Dunn picked up the jeweled dagger that had been lying on top of the bookcase.

“Okay,” Kevin said. “Yes, sir.” He backed away from Dunn.

The child’s lower lip trembled. Small boned, a strand of hair flopping over his forehead, jeans drooping under the weight of pockets stuffed with treasures peculiar to little boys; the child appeared younger than his actual age.

“Kindly empty your pockets, Kevin,” Dunn said. He stabbed the air with the dagger. “We of the theatre do not jingle when we make an entrance.”

“Yes, sir.” Kevin unloaded his pockets. A handful of tin buttons bearing the likeness of dancing French fries, hamburgers swinging lariats and hot dogs with cowboy hats were placed on the kitchen table next to my prompt book. The buttons were joined by a couple of pennies, two dimes, a nickel, a Susan B. Anthony dollar and a squashed caramel followed by a marble, several bent nails and, I noted with disapproval, a mini-calculator. No wonder children lost interest in doing their multiplication tables.

When the boy finished he turned and smiled shyly at Dunn.

“Completely empty?”

“Yes, sir, just a piece of Kleenex.”

“You may keep the Kleenex. We will proceed, Miss Weidenmaier,” Dunn said. “May I have my cue, please?” The dagger was tossed onto the armchair.

I stifled a sigh and gave his prompt. How many more times would Dunn want to rehearse this scene?

Dunn continued the speech. He was having trouble memorizing his lines although he claimed that once he “found” his character, the lines would flow naturally.

The room was quiet. I quickly threw Dunn the next line. “To be slow in words is a woman’s only virtue.”

“I knew that line,” Dunn said. “I was pausing for dramatic effect.”

“Mr. Dunn,” I said. “We have been rehearsing this scene for hours. It is time for a break.”

“We have not found the essence of the characters we are portraying, Miss Weidenmaier.”

“Perhaps a strong cup of tea would help you in your search.”

“Very well,” Dunn reluctantly agreed. “You may take a five-minute break. Kevin and I will use the time to find suitable rehearsal attire.”

Dunn began to lecture Kevin on character motivation. Poor Kevin, a captive audience of one, was not getting his break. On the other hand, I had once read that a kidnapper involved with his hostage is much less likely to harm him.

I retrieved the jeweled dagger.

“Five minutes, Miss Weidenmaier,” Dunn called. “No more.”

Heartbeat accelerating, I turned toward him; sure he had seen me pocket the weapon. No. His attention was focused on wardrobe. Dunn lifted a cape from the rack and examined it closely.

I found a saucepan on a shelf laden with kitchen utensils and entered the ladies’ room. A faint stream of light drifted above a narrow door next to the enclosed toilet. Upon opening the door my olfactory nerves were assailed by the dank odor of an ancient mop; I was in a makeshift closet. A sink, filthy but functioning, filled the tight space. A dented tin pail, stuffed with dirty rags, sat underneath the sink and a feather duster hung from a hook next to a broom that had lost most of its straw. Close to the ceiling I spotted the source of the light. A small window, its glass panes painted a dark blue, had over the years begun to flake and shed its cover.

Now that Dunn was busy expounding on his acting method, I was sure he would not notice if I took more than five minutes.

The window appeared securely fastened. If the sink was sturdy enough to hold my weight, I could reach the window and try to pick the lock. The sink wobbled; that took care of that idea. Of course if I could lift Kevin…that just might work. The child would be able to wriggle through.

“Miss Weidenmaier! What is keeping you?” Dunn’s words, a mix of suspicion colored with impatience, penetrated the bathroom door. Dunn was clearly impatient to rehearse that scene again.

“Just a moment,” I called. “The water is rusty. I must let it run a minute.”

“Forget the water, Miss Weidenmaier. We have something to show you.”

“Now, now, Mr. Dunn.” I emerged with a filled pot. “Actors must keep their throats lubricated.”

Dunn and Kevin stood side by side, splendidly arrayed in capes. Lawrence Dunn had chosen a wrap of vivid carmine and gold brocade edged in fake ermine. Kevin was enveloped in powder-blue velvet. They looked self-conscious and anticipatory; two boys waiting for the teacher’s approval.

“You are a sight to behold, Mr. Dunn.”

A black hat, decorated with a cluster of cheery feathers, was cocked at a rakish angle atop Lawrence Dunn’s head. He removed the hat and swept it toward me with an extravagant gesture meant to be courtly.

Something about that hat bothered me; I had seen a similar hat before. Where? I pondered that question as Larry and Kevin rehearsed the same scene for yet another tedious few hours. The throbbing in my temples had now developed into a headache that beat about my skull like a drum thumped by elementary-school children left to their own devices at band practice.

“Allow me to compliment you, Miss Weidenmaier.” Dunn finally memorized his lines and as a result became a bit more convivial. He bestowed what I believe was a sincere smile upon me. “You have the makings of an excellent prompter. When the public becomes aware of my gifts as an actor and my talent is as celebrated as Olivier’s, I shall, most certainly, offer you a position.”

I murmured thanks, ignoring the fact that I had been, literally, his captive assistant.

“If I had been born an Englishman instead of an American, I too would have a knighthood. I was meant to carry on the tradition of Keane, Barrymore, Drew, Irving. A woman as perceptive as you must have noticed that Olivier and I are much alike. Costume and make-up are an integral part of our technique. The English honor their artists, unfortunately, Americans don’t know the difference between high art and cheap commercialism.”

Dunn’s resentment of actors who had attained stardom was setting him off again. That poor unstable man, I thought. To always long for something and never achieve it.

“Youth.” He spat out the word, his mood darkening. “Youth and personality are the idols here. It is an abomination.”

The hat. I remembered where I had seen the hat. Norman Bottoms’s talk show. The woman who wore the hat; could it have been Lawrence Dunn in disguise? Dunn glared at Kevin now, his face a map of frustration. He moved closer to the child. I stood rooted to the floor, my body paralyzed.

Kevin edged back a few steps, tripped on his velvet cloak and fell.

“Clumsy. For goodness sake, if you are going to perform Shakespeare, you must study movement.”

I clutched the dagger but it proved unnecessary, Dunn’s mood had again changed and he helped the child up.

Kevin was fascinated by Dunn’s every word. The child’s fear had again returned to admiration. Dunn recognized Kevin’s feelings and, with a gesture of affection that I believe startled all of us, reached out and rumpled Kevin’s hair.

“Mr. Dunn,” Kevin was quick to take advantage of the moment, “could we have pizza tonight instead of chicken? I’m awfully tired of chicken.”

Lawrence never replied. Tap shoes punished the stairs as the would-be star descended, Annalise belting the words to “Tea for Two.” Clearly, the girl had found a dance teacher.

“The silly twit is early,” Dunn said and leapt toward the unlocked door. Too late—Annalise, framed in the doorway, executed a time step, extended an arm holding a stack of pink gelatins and bowed to Dunn.

“Look what I’ve got; the pink gels you wanted. You’ll look ten years younger when I put these on the spotlight.”

“Hi,” Kevin said.

Annalise turned, for once speechless, stared at Kevin, shifted her gaze to Dunn, then me and back to Kevin.

“Hello, Annalise,” I greeted the girl. “How nice to see you again.” An inane greeting considering our circumstances.

“You’re the boy in the commercial,” Annalise, the first to regain the power of speech, said. “You’re supposed to be kidnapped.”

She looked at me. “What is he doing here? Why are you still here?”

Words failed. I listened to the silence.

“Larry? What’s going on? Oh, my God! Did you kidnap Kevin Corcoran?” Annalise turned her attention back to Kevin. “Are you kidnapped?”

“Yes,” Kevin said. He sounded a bit smug.

“Larry,” Annalise said. “What are you doing? You could go to jail. It’s the wrong way to get publicity. I’ll call the police right now and you can turn yourself in. I’ll stand by you, Larry. You can plead temporary insanity. I’ll keep the theatre running and visit you while you’re in…” Annalise, never at a loss for words, kept talking as she walked toward the door and a telephone. I took Kevin’s hand and we followed the girl. He will not dare try anything with her here, I thought, not a young woman who was stronger than he, instead of an old lady and a young boy. This will soon be over.

Dunn blocked the door. His hands gripped Annalise’s shoulders; he shook the girl as he recited. “Who art so lovely fair and smell’st so sweet, that the sense aches at thee, would thou had’st neer been born!”

“Larry! You’re hurting me. This is no time to rehearse Othello,” Annalise said.

“Impudent strumpet!” Dunn’s hands moved toward her throat.

“By heaven you do me wrong,” Annalise croaked.

“What, not a whore?” His grip tightened.

“No, as I shall be saved.” Annalise’s voice was a whisper now. “Larry, let go!”

“Stop, Mr. Dunn. Stop.” Kevin’s hand gripped mine.

“Down, strumpet!”

Annalise gasped. The girl’s body sagged, a study in slow motion, toward the floor. Her mouth searched for a breath of air, her lips mouthed the last words. “Kill me tomorrow! Let me live tonight.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“Not more than hour ago, this handsome cop—he’s in plain-clothes—a detective, comes in flashing identification at me. He wants to talk to Miss Silk,” Cissy Love told the group gathered at the Mr. Coffee machine. “I couldn’t care less about identification, when I’m about to drown in his sea-green eyes. Wasn’t wearing a wedding ring either…”

“He has a policewoman with him,” the receptionist interrupted.

“Foxy chick,” the mailroom boy threw in. He might have braces on his teeth and zits dotting his forehead, but he knew a pretty woman when he saw one.

“This has to be mailed, Floyd. Now!” Cissy handed the boy a stack of envelopes and he dragged his feet as he moved toward the elevator bank, his ears straining to hear what he hoped was something bad about Felicity Silk. The big boss never said “Hello” to him. Treated him like the invisible man; like he wasn’t there. To his disappointment, an elevator arrived within seconds.

“What did she do, Cissy?” the receptionist asked. “Embezzle scads of money from Cousin Cora?”

“Maybe she stole a chicken.” The head accountant broke himself up, then, remembering his position as lower management, looked around as if the laughter had come from somebody else.

“Seriously, Cissy, what are the police doing here?”

“I don’t have the foggiest,” Cissy said. “Miss Silk doesn’t confide in me, my crystal ball isn’t working, I forgot to bug the office this morning and, unfortunately, the lieutenant didn’t want to question me.”

The police were, in fact, questioning Felicity Silk about her relationship with Robert Barton.

“Casual acquaintances,” Felicity said.

“Perhaps the relationship was something more than casual acquaintances?” Sergeant Harris spoke a little louder than necessary.

Felicity ignored Marjorie and concentrated on Lieutenant Brown. He received one of her professional smiles and returned it.

“We often attend…attended the same charitable functions,” Felicity said. “One or two events hosted by restaurant associations.”

Marjorie placed the photo of Barton and Felicity, smiling at each other, in Silk’s hand.

Felicity barely glanced at the picture. “Publicity photos can often be deceptive.”

“Where were you last Friday evening, Miss Silk?”

“Should I contact my lawyer? You act as if I’m a prime suspect, Sergeant…whatever your name is.”

“Harris. Sergeant Harris.” The muscles at the base of Marjorie’s neck grew tight.

“Purely routine, Miss Silk. For elimination purposes; it’s all part of the job. We need to ask questions of anyone even remotely connected to Robert Barton.” Lieutenant Brown flashed his version of a professional smile.

Marjorie popped a handful of peppermints into her mouth.

Felicity played along with the lieutenant, reached for her desk calendar and flipped back a page. “Last Friday, just another busy day. I worked late and had no social engagements that evening, Lieutenant. I went home and stayed home.”

“Can anyone vouch for you?” Marjorie asked. “You” emerged from Marjorie’s mouth as “ya.”

The green eyes that impressed Cissy Love twinkled with amusement. Timothy Brown could always tell when Sergeant Marjorie Harris thought someone was a pain in the butt. Her pattern of speech reverted to pure New York.

“I was home alone. You’ll have to take my word for it. Won’t she, Lieutenant?”

“When was the last time you saw Robert Barton, Miss Silk?”

“I couldn’t possibly remember. No doubt it was at an association function.”

“Miss Silk.” Timothy Brown spoke softly. “Are you familiar with an actor named Lawrence Dunn?”

“Should I be familiar with Mr. Dunn?”

“He worked on one of your commercials.”

“Lieutenant,” Felicity Silk said. “We interview and audition, as well as employ, hundreds of actors. All types. All age categories. If one isn’t available, we hire another. At my level, I am barely involved, certainly not to the point of meeting the actors. How could I possibly remember your Torrance?”

“Lawrence. Lawrence Dunn.” Marjorie’s forehead creased with annoyance.

“Miss Silk.” Lieutenant Brown stopped smiling. “We need to check your records and screen your commercials. The category would be older men.”

“Cissy!” Felicity stabbed the intercom with her index finger. “Cissy, set up an appointment for the lieutenant with the advertising department.”

“Yes, Miss Silk.” Cissy sounded breathless.

“Now, if there’s nothing else,” Felicity turned her calendar toward the lieutenant, “Today is Monday and I have an extremely busy day.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

Felicity Silk fingered the keys to Lawrence Dunn’s theatre and opened the door. No, my theatre, she thought, bought and paid for in return for the self-styled Shakespearean actor’s assistance. The spare set of keys was easy to lift, taken while Dunn was giving her a mind-numbing “Grand Tour.” She had feigned interest in his plans and swallowed yawn after yawn; it took a good deal of effort on her part. At the time, Felicity did not need the keys; taking things was just a game she enjoyed playing. The fun was realizing no one would suspect a woman in her position. Surprisingly, the keys had come in handy. Felicity could enter and leave the theatre whenever she chose, useful when she needed a costume to disguise herself.

Robert Barton had been a stupid and greedy man. A thief. After he had wined and dined and yes, courted her, Barton had the audacity to steal the recipe for Cousin Cora’s Cakewalks, lavishing gifts on her private secretary to obtain it. And then the stories he planted in those dirty rags some people call newspapers! The day the salmonella story came out in that cheap tabloid, Cousin Cora’s stock dipped twenty points. Barton had to be stopped before he did any more damage to the chain’s image. As the company’s director, she was responsible.

It shouldn’t have come to violence: Barton should have been scared witless with his loss of Kevin. She was a reasonable woman, and all she asked for was a groveled apology and a sworn statement, admitting in a televised press conference that he had stolen the brownie recipe. Kevin Corcoran would have been released; dropped off at a Cousin Cora’s restaurant upstate by a disguised Lawrence Dunn. Photos, taken of the kid surrounded by the most photogenic of the old crones and codgers who waited on tables at Cousin Cora’s, would have made all the newspapers. She had pictured Kevin holding a Chicken Crisp in one hand and a Cakewalk in the other, interviewed by reporters, on prime-time news. Wouldn’t that have made Robert Barton squirm! The kid would have been free and no one hurt except Cowboy Bob’s Big, Bad Burger.

Instead of the expected apology, Barton just laughed and thanked her for the free publicity. She could still hear the sound of his laugh; like the screech of an obscene rooster. Her former lover had actually threatened to name her as Kevin’s kidnapper on network television. The arrogant fool deserved to die; Felicity wasn’t sorry about that. His death was his own fault. Cousin Cora’s good name had to be protected. Anyone who made a fool of Felicity Silk deserved what they got.

The hair-dryer was right there sitting on a shelf next to the sink and she had thrown it…no…Lawrence Dunn had thrown it at Barton’s detestable face. Unfortunately for Barton, the dryer was plugged in.

His death did complicate things. She was proud of her appointment as director of Cousin Cora’s Chicken Crisps. But becoming involved with Robert Barton, a man totally unworthy of her affections, was a foolish mistake. A mistake she needed to rectify; she had worked too hard to lose everything now.

Felicity smoothed the feathers on the hat she had borrowed from the storage room; the hat worn when she visited Hitting Bottom. She admired the hat, the tilt of its brim; too bad it had to be returned, but the hat belonged to Larry. A master of disguise, he could have dressed as a woman and worn it the night Barton met with his unfortunate accident.

When Felicity had glanced through his portfolio, she knew Dunn was the right man. She had wanted to stop Barton before his company overtook Cousin Cora’s. Dunn, with a grudge against the kid already, was the perfect instrument The one thing that simpleton actor could do well was apply make-up. The photographs in his thick album exhibited the man in a multitude of disguises. Flattery, a bit on a television commercial and a few romantic walks, making a pretense of listening while he spouted Shakespearean sonnets, and Dunn became a willing accomplice. Lawrence Dunn would do anything she asked—including taking the fall for her, if need be.

The lukewarm tea left in the pot served to soothe Annalise’s sore throat.

“I was really into Desdemona,” she said. Though her voice had the rough quality of a rasp, the poor child kept talking.

“Larry surprised me, Miss Weidenmaier. He never rehearses a scene full out. He indicates. Larry believes in saving himself for the performance but this time he really let himself go; I’ll have to remember that feeling of fear and use it.”

Kevin’s moist hand kept a firm hold on mine. We would have no trouble remembering.

“Sip the tea, dear,” I said. “Don’t gulp. It causes hiccups.” Rehearsing. My word! I had no trouble believing Lawrence Dunn’s intention had been to frighten if not murder the girl. We, all three, needed to escape before the man snapped entirely. But how?

“Damnation!” The man’s curse carried through the locked door.

I checked my watch. An hour before the curtain rose and the play began. Dunn was setting up the props and lights without Annalise’s help and having a difficult time with his chores.

“Larry.” Annalise’s voice cracked as she called, “Larry, why don’t you let me set your props?”

“Don’t treat me like an addle-pated lack-wit, Annalise. You’d call the police. You will not be released until our plan succeeds.”

Our? Lawrence Dunn had used the possessive form of we. My suspicions deepened into certainty; another scoundrel must be involved in Kevin’s kidnapping.

“I won’t call the police unless you want me to,” Annalise said. “Larry, you have no one to work the spotlight; let me help you. Your spotlight needs the new pink gelatin; the white light will age you. Larry? You’ll disappoint the audience.”

We stared at the door. Silence was our only reply.

“Ah hah! I found it!” Dunn bellowed in triumph. A moment’s quiet then his footsteps sounded again right above our heads. Of course, I thought. The storage room was directly beneath the stage.

“I don’t suppose you have the key to this room?” I asked Annalise the question without expecting an affirmative answer.

“It was never locked until the last couple of days. I guess that’s because he had you.” Annalise nodded to Kevin and he gave her a modest grin in return, still oddly proud at having been kidnapped.

“Put on your thinking caps,” I commanded, remembering I had used those words when teaching my first-grade students. “We must find a way out of here.”

“If my dad knew where we were,” Kevin said, “he’d burst in here with a platoon of men and rescue us just like that.” The child snapped his fingers.

“We don’t need a platoon,” Annalise said. “I know how we can get out.”

“You do?” Kevin and I spoke at the same time.

“Up there. Look at the ceiling,” Annalise said. “See? To the right, that’s a Macbeth trap; it’s built for Banquo’s ghost. We’ll escape through there.”

“Shh!” Kevin said. “You’re not supposed to say the name of that play in the theatre. It’s bad luck. Evil things happen.”

“Say what?” I asked.

“The name of The Scottish Play.”

“Macbeth.”

“You just said it again, Annalise,” Kevin said. “Not that I’m superstitious.”

“Of course not,” Annalise said. “But maybe we’d better turn round three times and spit over our left shoulders just to make sure.”

“I suggest we save our saliva and make our exit before Mr. Dunn returns,” I said. “His catching us in the act of departure would be extremely bad luck.”

“All we need is a ladder,” Kevin said.

“Over there.” Annalise pointed to an empty space against the wall. “Well, it used to live right there.”

“Chairs?” Kevin asked.

The unmatched chairs appeared inadequate to the task, but desperate situations call for desperate actions.

“Let’s try,” I said.

We stacked three chairs, losing the fourth when one of its spindly legs collapsed.

“The table should give us sufficient height.” I motioned to the others. “One. Two. Three. Everybody lift.” We placed the table beneath the trap and steadied a wobbly leg with a scrap of plywood before resetting the chairs.

“Annalise!” Larry shouted from the stairway. “Where did you put my crown?”

We had become so involved in planning our escape we hadn’t heard him leave the stage. If he came into the room we were lost. We quickly took down the chairs.

Annalise ran to the door. “It’s on your make-up table, Larry.”

The door to Dunn’s dressing room slammed shut.

“Maybe we should wait ’til he leaves the theatre to carry out our plan,” Annalise whispered.

“What if he doesn’t leave the theatre?” Kevin asked.

“He feeds you after the show, doesn’t he? If he keeps me locked up, he’ll have to go out himself.”

Unless, I thought, he decides to do away with us.

Annalise must have read my mind. “Larry won’t hurt us,” she said. “Actors are too sensitive to hurt anyone.”

I did not mention John Wilkes Booth.

“All right, plan one,” I said. “When he leaves the theatre, we make our escape through the trap door…”

“Mr. Dunn made the trap himself but he keeps it locked,” Kevin said, clearly suddenly remembering that fact. “He told me it wouldn’t be safe if he didn’t.”

We stared at the trap. “I have a nail file,” I said. “But perhaps we should think of a contingency plan.”

“Maybe I could lasso him,” Kevin said, sounding a tad uncertain. He bent over a heap of ropes and tried to lift a length from the tangled pile.

I picked up the pot used for boiling tea and shifted it from hand to hand. Cheap aluminum; it would never knock out Lawrence Dunn.

“I know what we can use.” Annalise rummaged through several cartons. She was about to hand me a heavy iron skillet.

“Mee, my, moe, moo.” Dunn was right outside the door.

“Hi, Mr. Dunn,” Kevin said. His boyish soprano changed sharply in pitch and timbre, then broke. “We’re helping Annalise check the props.”

Dunn stood, framed in the doorway, staring at Kevin. How long had he been there?

“What is wrong with your tone and resonance?” Dunn asked the child.

“I think my voice is changing, Mr. Dunn.”

“Nonsense. You’re much too young. You have not, as yet, reached the awkward age. Some of us, fortunately, never do. I went from light tenor to resonant baritone with no discordant interval.”

“Gee, Mr. Dunn, I’d like to be just like you.”

Was the child sincere? Lawrence Dunn believed he was. The man blushed. For a moment he seemed to have forgotten why he had reentered the room.

“Annalise,” he finally said, “where is my dagger? I cannot find my dagger.”

“On the top shelf. Where we keep the hand props.”

“I checked the shelf,” Dunn snapped.

I slipped my hand into my skirt pocket. The dagger was there.

“Let me look,” Annalise said. “Larry, let me help you get ready for your performance. A star shouldn’t have to do everything for himself. Your wardrobe needs to be laid out. And your props, Larry. What will you do without your dagger? The lights? Lighting is so important. You taught me that yourself. You must have your moment in the spotlight. And who is going to prompt you? Just suppose you drop a line? A long stage wait and you’ll lose your audience.”

Dunn hesitated. I held my breath. If only, I thought, if only the child could convince the man.

Kevin Corcoran couldn’t be released now, Felicity thought. Too bad, the publicity would have been priceless. Lawrence Dunn’s dislike for the boy would be to her advantage; he would be happy to do one last assignment for Cousin Cora and get rid of the kid. Lieutenant Brown would find the actor’s photograph and see his commercial when he talked to Cousin Cora’s casting department. That would lead to the theatre and, of course, she was helping the police by replacing his hat. Dunn had worn so many disguises during his long undistinguished career. Why couldn’t he have been disguised as a woman? The woman in the audience at Norman Bottoms’s television show, perhaps he was caught on film the very night of the murder…

Felicity Silk opened the door to the storage room.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

“My darling,” Lawrence Dunn said in surprise, “your presence at tonight’s performance does me great honor.”

“There is no tonight’s performance. I cancelled it.”

“The show must go on!” Lawrence thundered. “Surely you know that, my love.”

“Why?” Kevin asked, although it was not clear to me who he was asking.

Felicity’s complexion turned an astonishing shade of pink. Her thin lips mouthed words that refused to emerge. “What is that boy doing here? I told you to hide the kid upstate,” she finally said.

“I’ve been here all the time.” Kevin stared at Felicity. “I know who you are! You were the lady that broke into the theatre a few nights ago after Mr. Dunn went home.”

“Felicity?” Dunn appeared confused. “Why didn’t you let me know you were coming? I would have waited for you, my love.”

“I was not in the theatre,” she said, indignant.

“You were too here,” Kevin said. “You snuck in with a flashlight and stole one of Mr. Dunn’s hats!”

The hat! I remembered now. That woman’s elbow. Norman Bottoms’s talk show.

“Felicity?” Dunn asked. His tone of voice was troubled. “Was it you that purloined…”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Felicity said. “What would I want with a hat?”

“My darling, you need only ask and the hat would have been yours.”

“Forget the damn hat. You’ll find the hat.” She turned toward Kevin. “You didn’t see me.”

“The hat is missing,” Dunn said. He appeared confused.

“Larry, answer my question. I gave you explicit instructions and money. Why didn’t you hide the kid upstate? What do you think I paid you for?”

“The money, O Mistress Mine.” Larry rounded his vowels and caressed Felicity with his ardent gaze. “The money…”

“I am not your mistress,” Felicity said.

“Ah, yes! The boy. We must not speak of such worldly things in front of the boy.” Dunn pretended to lock his lips. “The money has been used for a most noble cause. To further the Muse. Of course I speak of An Evening with Larry and Will. Never fear, the lad is quite comfortable.”

“Yes,” Kevin said. “The food is boring, though.”

“Shh!” Annalise said in what was supposed to be a whisper.

“My God! Who is that girl?” Felicity’s expression registered distaste as she surveyed Annalise’s paint-splattered jeans.

“I’m Mr. Dunn’s assistant.”

Felicity ignored the callused hand that Annalise offered and focused on me. “What is Barton’s spy doing here, Larry? Have you double-crossed me, you old idiot?” She spat each word. “No. You don’t have the intelligence.” The finger she pointed at Dunn exhibited a small tremor.

Dunn winced, backed away from the accusatory finger and proceeded to recite from another of Shakespeare’s sonnets. “O love’s best habit is a soothing tongue and age, in love, loves not to have years told.”

“Shut up!” Felicity screamed at him. “Let me think. The last thing I need right now is a senile actor spouting half-baked Shakespeare.”

“Half-baked…You lied. You lied to me.” Dunn’s face showed white beneath the stage make-up. “You don’t like Shakespeare.”

For the moment, squared off against each other, Felicity and Dunn forgot about their prisoners. Felicity had left the door open. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Kevin edge toward it.

“I don’t give a hoot in hell about Shakespeare!” Felicity’s temper was completely out of control.

“How dare you use such language in my theatre! In this Cathedral of the Arts. In front of this lady!” Dunn’s arm swept in my direction.

“What are you doing here, you prying old bat? Who are you?” Felicity directed that question to me.

“I am a great admirer of Mr. Dunn’s.” I smiled sweetly at the actor.

“Miss Weidenmaier is an excellent prompter,” Dunn said.

“Thank you, Mr. Dunn,” I said, belatedly recognizing the fact that in dealing with Lawrence Dunn, we were dealing with a psychologically maladjusted mind. Unfortunately, Felicity Silk realized it too.

“Larry, darling,” she said, oozing warmth and contrition. “Larry, I apologize for my behavior. I do adore Shakespeare, especially when you perform his works. Say you forgive me.”

Dunn paused, selected another verse and again recited, “When my love swears that she is made of truth, I do believe her, though I know she lies, that she might think me some untutored youth, unskillful in the world’s false forgeries.”

I thought I heard Felicity’s teeth grind as the woman strove to keep her composure.

“Thank you, darling.” Felicity’s words were now soft and measured. “Larry, you must listen to me. If you’re going to attain your rightful position in the theatre, you must get rid of these people. They’re in your way, Larry. Nothing must stand in the way of high art.”

“Miss Weidenmaier has been most helpful,” Dunn said. He sounded stubborn and defensive.

“Darling,” Felicity said. “We agreed that I would manage your career. These people can hurt you. Destroy your theatre. I’m sure you can find a comfortable spot for them in the churchyard; they can join the members of the congregation who have been at rest for eons. There’s plenty of room for three more bodies. Everything you’ve worked for is at stake. Art demands sacrifice. These people must go.”

Kevin had already gone, sliding out the door like a ghost.

Annalise tried to follow, but the child’s tap shoes as she walked across the cement floor of the basement interrupted Felicity’s appeal to Dunn.

Of all days, I thought, for Annalise to find a tap teacher.

“Don’t try it,” Felicity said. A small, silver revolver appeared in her hand and motioned Annalise to the center of the room.

Annalise’s reluctant feet followed the direction given by the gun. The girl moved slowly, giving Kevin precious seconds to make good his escape before anyone noticed he was gone.

“You too.” Felicity’s weapon pointed straight at me. Lawrence Dunn stood slightly to the right. He neither moved nor said one word. Felicity checked the room for Kevin. “Where’s the kid?”

I detected a note of hysteria in her rhetorical question then Silk regained control and addressed her accomplice, adding additional emphasis by aiming the gun at his head.

“Tie them up. Be quick about it.”

Lawrence stared at the gun then picked up uncommonly sturdy lengths of rope. The quiet, except for a hissed, “Hurry up!” from Felicity continued ’til he finished the task of binding us to each other; she then lowered the gun, apparently satisfied.

“I’m going after the kid,” she said. “Get rid of your two lady friends before I return. If you want a theatre to act in, get rid of them.”

Dunn bowed his head and retreated into the words of his beloved Will Shakespeare.

“Being your slave, what should I do but tend upon the hours and times of your desire? I have no precious time at all to spend, nor services to do, till you require.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Captain Corcoran checked the address he had found for Lawrence Dunn’s Off-Off Broadway theatre. The theatre, Saint Genesis, had been listed in one of those free newspapers handed out on busy street corners.

Water had managed to seep through the soles of his heavy, mud-caked shoes, making his socks cling to his damp feet. As he walked, the rain tapered to fine drizzle but stagnant pools merged near clogged sewers. He skirted a mound of plastic garbage bags; half the bags had been slashed and slop leaked onto the already filthy pavement. The slop contributed a pungent sauce to the rotting fruit, the chicken bones, the broken bottles and crushed cans. He had walked the streets for hours trying to make a decision. The fingers of his right hand clenched, made a fist, struck the open palm of his left.

What had happened? No pride left in the city. He’d like to level the streets; bring in bulldozers and wrecking crews. Build it up again from scratch. Clean lines, clean streets, everything in its place instead of decay everywhere you looked.

A teenager, muscles and tattoos displayed by a thin, cut-off T-shirt approached.

“Got a couple of bucks, mister?” The kid, a sullen look stamped on his face, blocked the sidewalk.

“You’re in my way,” he said. The boy tried to stare him down. Failed. Sauntered away. Captain Corcoran took a deep breath and exhaled slowly; the tremors that invaded and took charge of his body subsided. Young punk. The kid needed discipline. He needed someone in authority to tell him what to do and when to do it; probably dragged up by a single mother with no father around. Kevin, Kevin, he needed to be with Kevin. Something had happened to his son. He had to find his boy.

What had gone wrong? He had to think straight. His own boy missing. Why? Why? Nothing made sense anymore. He had to find Kevin and take him away from the stench of this city. Concentrate, Captain Corcoran. Concentrate. Find your son. Find Kevin. Maybe, he thought, I should have taken the pills but pills made a man sluggish. Still, they kept him calm; the sense of unreality wasn’t as strong when he took the pills. The emotion he felt now was almost physically painful. He had never been able to abide weakness in anyone; he couldn’t tolerate it in himself.

Stop thinking this way and pull yourself together. He remembered; an actor who auditioned with Kevin. The actor who had set up a theatre in an old church near here. What was the name? He glanced at the ad he had torn from the newspaper. Saint Genesis, that was it.

Another block and he saw the church.

An Evening with Larry and Will. He studied the sign in front of the theatre and wondered if a fancy-pants Shakespearean actor would have the guts to engineer a kidnapping. Not likely. Actors were weak, sissies; was he wasting his time? Kevin would stop performing when he and Jean got back together. Someday his son would thank him.

Kevin looked like him, had his eyes, his nose. But sometimes it was hard to believe Kevin was his son. Maybe it was his fault. Maybe he pushed the child too hard; he should let him go at his own pace.

Captain Corcoran liked to work out, take in a ball game. Kevin disliked sports. All he wanted to do was read. Go to museums. Act. Artsy stuff. That came from his mother. Things would change now that Kevin was older; they’d have more in common.

He checked his watch as he approached the theatre. The doors should be open by now but it was quiet, no one about. He noticed a sign posted on the locked front entrance. Closed. Not a surprise, Captain Corcoran thought. How many people want to waste an evening listening to one actor reciting words like thee and thou?

A couple of girls, dressed in tights and tunics, joined him at the door. “Try the handle,” one said. “Maybe the sign was put there by mistake. The theatre isn’t dark tonight.” Her fist hammered the wood door. “Annalise!”

“That Annalise is a real ditz,” the second girl said. “It was dark last Tuesday too, that’s when she originally invited me. At least she called and told me that one was cancelled.”

“Maybe she did call,” the first girl said. “I didn’t check my text messages.”

“I checked my voice mail just a half hour ago,” her friend said, then turned her attention to Captain Corcoran. “She’s been inviting everyone in our acting class. Did Annalise invite you too?”

“No.”

“Who invited you?”

“No one, I thought it would be an interesting evening.”

“You’re not an actor, are you?” Her eyes met her friend’s for a moment. “You can join us for a drink anyway. There’s a bar across the street where we can keep dry. It’s going to rain again, I can tell. My dancer’s bunion.”

“I don’t drink.”

“Oh…tough. Sorry.” The girls walked away. “Wait ’til I get hold of Annalise. She owes me one.”

Captain Corcoran stood by the door. The open gate bothered him. Why would the gate be open and the door to the theatre locked? As long as he was there he’d have a look around. An actor—Dunn wasn’t number one on his list of suspects. But he refused to be sloppy. He could be wrong. His life had no meaning without his son. He would find Kevin, and punish anyone who threatened his child.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Kevin gripped the rail; then crept halfway up the staircase before he stopped and listened. One squeak and that awful woman would realize he was gone.

He wanted to race up the steps two at a time but that wouldn’t be very smart. Instead, he climbed slowly, trying to figure out what his father would do if he was the one who had been kidnapped. But that was silly; no one would dare kidnap his father.

He turned his head toward the basement, practically strained his eardrums to listen, but all he could hear was his heart. It pounded like a machine-gun firing away inside his chest. Rat-a-tat-tat. Rat-a-tat-tat.

Two more steps. Now that woman was screaming at Mr. Dunn. So busy screaming she didn’t even notice he was missing. Screaming would ruin her throat; probably get nod…no-u-…nodules on her vocal cords. Serve her right.

Kevin reached the top of the landing. He wiped his hands on a corner of his shirt; they were all sweaty. Because he clutched the rail so hard; he wasn’t scared.

Shadows haunted the backstage area and phantoms threatened to reach out and grab him. All right, he was scared. But the ghosts didn’t scare him as much as that woman did. She was the enemy. He was fighting a war and he had to rally his forces. Only Miss Weidenmaier and Annalise and he hadn’t planned on his being able to just walk out of the room and he wasn’t sure what to do next.

Call the police, that’s what he should do. There must be a phone somewhere or he could run out to the street and yell for help. He just had to find the door.

Kevin followed a trail of phosphorescent paint spots that led from the wings to the stage. A pilot light stood smack in the middle of the floor; that’s what threw the shadows. He knew that. That’s why it was called a ghost light.

“Kevin, dear. Come back. I want to talk to you!”

That woman had discovered he was gone. He heard her running up the steps. He crawled under the stage curtain and found himself facing the benches where the audience sat. She’d never crawl under. She’d be stuck on the stage side.

But she was hunting him; he’d better find a place to hide. He spotted an old pulpit that must have been used for sermons when the Saint Genesis was a church and he ducked down behind it. It was a good place to say a prayer, but the only one he could think of was “Now I lay me down to sleep.”

“Kevin, darling; I have something for you, sweetheart. Where are you?”

Her voice was muffled because of the curtain and so full of honey, flies would stick to it. “Something for you.” Who did she think she was kidding? He wasn’t dumb. Not dumb enough to answer her.

What would his father do now? Captain Charles Corcoran would lead his men out of danger. Kevin raised his hand and signaled his imaginary followers, then started crawling down the aisle.

The sound of wood, glass and metal crashing to the stage floor brought him to a stop. That woman used words he wasn’t allowed to say unless they were in a script. She must have banged into a table full of props and knocked it over.

All of a sudden it was quiet. He could hear himself taking quick, short breaths. If he could hear himself, maybe she could hear him breathe too.

What time was it? He squinted at his watch but it was too dark to see what number Cowboy Bob had lassoed. It must be late. Maybe Mr. Dunn’s audience would be disappointed and break down the doors, then they’d be safe.

He was thirsty. Gee, it was funny how you never think about water ’til it isn’t there; he’d trade just about anything for a glass of water, even his autographed playbills.

He bet his mother and father had gotten back together and were trying to find him. His father would move back home. It would be nice having two parents again; especially if they didn’t fight anymore.

The stage curtain creaked and groaned. That woman had found the line that opened it.

“Kid, I’m going to count to ten, then you’d better show yourself.”

The gooeyness was gone from her voice now. Boy, talk about dumb. If being sweet didn’t work why did she think being nasty would?

It sounded like she must be on the lip of the stage now. He didn’t dare raise his head to find out; she might see him. He crawled into one of the pews and under a bench to plan his strategy. Instead of retreating he would mount an attack. Only he didn’t have any weapons. His father had a gun and a rifle and a knife when he went into battle; even a hand grenade. He wished his father were with him. Most of the time it was better being with his mother but he could sure use his father’s help now.

His eyes adjusted to the darkness under the bench. The back of the pew was all solid wood. He couldn’t crawl through; he’d have to go back into the aisle to get to the door. He inched his way, pretending he was on a mission, then peered around the end of the stall.

He didn’t see her. He bet that woman had given up and gone back downstairs to yell at Mr. Dunn some more. But then he would have heard her footsteps. Maybe she was unconscious. Maybe even dead. That could happen if she had hurt herself when she ran into the prop table. Maybe.

If he was to save his squad he had to take a chance and crawl up the aisle. A squad was a big responsibility; it was his duty to look after Miss Weidenmaier and Annalise. Soldiers fought for the folks back home, his father said. They were sort of like his folks back home.

“Ow.” The sound slipped past his tongue. He had caught his jeans on a nail sticking out of the floor. Ripped right through the denim and scratched his knee. A squad leader didn’t notice blood. It stung, but he was a leader like his father. He found the old piece of tissue in his back pocket and pressed it against the wound. Now the enemy wouldn’t be able to follow his trail.

He continued crawling up the aisle. His knees hurt, especially where the nail got him, but he would go on. Up ahead there were double doors! There was still no sound from his enemy. Run! Run for the doors and freedom! A quick glance to the rear and he raced up the aisle and burst through the center. The doors swung back and forth behind him. She would hear them swinging. Unless she was dead she would hear them.

It was darker here but he could tell he was in a lobby. Where was the door to the outside? He had to find the door to the street.

In acting class they had exercises—pretending to be blind or deaf and mute. At night before he went to sleep he practiced them; just pretend this was more practice. When he returned to school he’d be perfect. He held his hands straight out in front and imagined being blind.

His fingers touched something smooth and cold like chrome. He stood on tip-toe to reach the top. It must be a counter where they sold soda and stuff; his fingers felt along the top and found a glass. Did he dare drink from somebody’s used glass? It smelled like stale tea. Gee he was thirsty. Just one little sip then he’d continue looking for the door.

He could see a little better now; he could see the doors. He abandoned the glass and raced toward them, then reached for the handle and tugged. The door wouldn’t move. He pressed one hand against the wood and pulled on the handle as hard as he could. Locked. This was an old church, there had to be a window. He would break it and crawl out. Yell at the top of his lungs.

He looked at the walls of the hall; all he could two stained-glass windows, one on each side of the door. There were saints portrayed on the glass. Was it wrong to break saints? Help me. His lips moved in a silent prayer. Help me, help me, help me. The glass, framed by lead, was too thick to break and each pane of glass too small for anything but a cat to squeeze through. His heart was going to explode in his chest; it was beating so fast. He smacked his forehead with his fist.

“Mom.” It was just a whimper. He wasn’t a soldier. He was a little boy who wanted his mother. A tear escaped and his nose was getting stuffed. Stop. It was an order. He couldn’t be a little boy. Not now. Not with Miss Weidenmaier and Annalise depending on him.

Then he saw the phone; the saints had listened and answered his prayer. The phone hung high on a wall near a coatroom. The police would come and rescue them. He pushed a stool under the phone and clambered on top to reach it. No dial tone. Nothing. It didn’t work.

Lobster claws grabbed his arms and swung him off the stool; a sneaker fell off his foot. The phone dropped. He was conscious of it banging against the wall. He screamed. Loud. As loud as he could. The claws dropped him, and his body slammed into the floor. For a moment he lay there, stunned. He could feel the warm, sticky blood from his knee seeping through the tissue paper. He moved an arm. Something stuck. Slivers of glass. His Cowboy Bob watch was broken. Mr. Barton would be mad at him.

That woman bent to grab him again. He rolled away and scrambled to his feet, escaping with a raked arm from her long nails. He screamed again and again at the top of his lungs.

“Daddy!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Our bodies reeked of ketchup. I sneezed. One. Two. Three. Four times.

“Bless you,” Annalise said.

Lawrence Dunn used a liberal hand when he doused us with large dollops of the condiment. The rich, spicy sauce looked like gluey blood. Clammy liquid trickled down and seeped through my blouse. A large splotch attached itself to my good tweed skirt.

“Mr. Dunn.” I spoke softly. “Mr. Dunn, let us go. We would be more than happy to testify in your behalf.”

Dunn finished binding our wrists; ignoring my plea.

“Scream,” he hissed.

Annalise complied with a blood-curdling shriek. I followed suit. Dunn nodded in approval, straightened his back, strode to the door, turned slowly, faced us once more and, in a stage whisper, recited, “When shall we three meet again in thunder, lightning or in rain?”

Annalise, with unwarranted enthusiasm—considering our circumstances—picked up the next line. “When the hurlyburly’s done, when the battle’s lost and won.”

Actors! I would never understand actors; we were in grave danger and Annalise had joined Dunn in quoting The Scottish Play’s witches.

Perhaps there was some basis for the old superstition. The title of The Scottish Play had been constantly mentioned and now Felicity Silk plotted our murder. I felt unsettled. The title did seem to be cursed.

Control yourself, I thought sternly. You are a rational woman. You don’t believe in nonsense.

“Our play’s end has gone awry.” Dunn resumed a pattern of speech that sounded remotely contemporaneous. “I shall have to improvise a new second act. If in my absence, Felicity returns…” Dunn took a long, dramatic pause. “Pretend you’re dead!”

He turned off all but one light and locked the door. Annalise and I were alone.

Dunn hadn’t murdered us. He must have doused us in ketchup to fool Felicity in case she returned to the room We sat on the damp floor, trussed like fowl; if Felicity returned, and realized his weak ruse, were we waiting to be butchered? Kevin. Had Kevin escaped? If someone didn’t realize we were missing and notify the police, we would die in this basement.

I pictured Goldie swimming round and round his bowl. My poor fish would die too if he wasn’t fed soon.

I flexed my hands; my wrists and ankles were bound with lash line that Kevin had told me was more commonly used for securing stage flats. The bindings were loose; I worked at slipping my wrists through them. Annalise sat propped against my back, struggling in much the same manner. Dabs of ketchup flew in all directions as we squirmed through the fastenings. We were a sorry sight but I doubted Felicity Silk would be fooled for long; we might appear to be mortally wounded but we smelled like a Big, Bad Burger.

The line fell from my hands; I untied my legs then helped Annalise. We stood—both wobbly as ninepins. Annalise, with the resilience of youth, recovered first.

“We need a weapon,” she whispered.

I produced the purloined dagger.

Annalise’s face brightened then registered disappointment. “Macbeth’s dagger; Macbeth, act 2, scene 1,” she said, then clapped her hands over her mouth. “Oh, I said the name of The Scottish Play again. The dagger is a prop. The knife collapses when it presses against the body.” She demonstrated by plunging the point into her chest. The blade disappeared, thankfully, into the hilt of the dagger. “Is this a dagger which I see before me?” Annalise couldn’t resist the monologue. “The dagger toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee.”

“Yes, dear. Very good. But we don’t have time for recitations or superstitions.”

Our conversation ended abruptly as the click of Felicity’s heels sounded above the storage room. A table crashed, glass splintered, a muffled sound that suggested a shriek followed a string of epithets then silence.

Annalise and I stared at each other. I was sure my eyes mirrored the fear in hers. Silence was more worrisome than the clamor.

“We shall start by stacking the tables and chairs and unlocking the trap door. When we hear Miss Silk’s footsteps descending the stairs, we’ll climb through the trap and make our escape,” I whispered.

“Are you sure?” Annalise doubted my agility.

I imagined she was counting the wrinkles that lined my face, as one would count the rings on a tree, to determine my age.

“Don’t worry, dear. I’m quite spry,” I assured her and set to work lifting one end of the table. We performed our task as fast as we could; Felicity might return at any moment.

Annalise climbed atop the chairs and reached into her pocket for the key. After trying every other pocket in her jeans, she looked down at me shame-faced. “I forgot. I don’t have the key anymore.”

I stifled an impatient sigh. Perhaps we could pry the lock open with a nail-file. I handed mine up to the child.

“It’s too wide,” Annalise said. “Won’t fit.”

“Back to square one.” I could not manage to hide my disappointment.

“Maybe there’s something we can use resting in the prop trunk.” Annalise climbed down, agile as a monkey, and began searching through the jumble. “Nothing.” She stared at the trunk—nibbling at a fingernail—lost in concentration.

“Annalise, do not bite your nails. Put on your thinking cap.” I mentally discarded several ideas as unworkable and found myself fussing with a loose strand of hair. A hairpin pricked my thumb.

“The very thing. Most useful. I shall try my hand at picking the lock, Annalise.”

Before the child could think of a tactful way of saying I was too old to be standing on chairs, I managed to reach the lock. Annalise shoved Kevin’s mattress under the trap: a cushion in case an old lady fell. I supposed I appeared ancient to the child.

My wiggling of the hairpin resulted in the same lack of success that Annalise had achieved.

“Hot spit! Excuse me, Miss Weidenmaier.” Annalise held up a short length of wire and stretched out her arm to hand it to me. I diddled the wire back and forth while Annalise resumed her quest for a defensive weapon.

A sudden rush of excitement surged through my body. I enjoyed a momentary feeling of elation; I had jimmied the lock.

“I found it, Miss W!” Annalise said. “The glue gun; I’ll connect it, then we’ll have a weapon.”

The tread of heavy footsteps. A man’s steps. We froze.

Perhaps it was the police…I was brought back to reality when I remembered Lawrence Dunn was still in the theatre. The man might have defied Felicity, but he was erratic; we could not lower our guard.

“Are they Dunn’s?” I whispered.

“I can’t tell,” Annalise said. “His walk depends on the character he’s portraying.”

The trap, used in The Scottish Play, complained. A harsh grating sound like nails scraped across a blackboard. A muscle in my left leg contracted; a twinge of fear, I thought. Mesmerized; eyes riveted to the ceiling, I watched motes of sawdust drift through the stale air. Was it my imagination or had the trap dropped below stage level, one side slightly lower than the other? A penny slipped through a slit-sized space, hit the edge of the top chair, slid to the table and dove to the floor of our cell where it began to roll. It rolled past the mattress, past the boxes and chairs, gathered speed as it fled only to be stopped when it struck the locked door. The penny rebounded, spun in dizzy circles, then fell, face down.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Norman Bottoms put his lewd remarks to a fresh-faced production assistant on hold while he sprayed a liberal amount of cinnamon-flavored, breath freshener into his mouth. He gargled, then spit into the small basin she held under his plump jowl.

“Kiss me, sweetie,” he said. “I’m pure.” He flashed a mouthful of perfectly capped teeth and bent his head toward hers.

The girl ducked, familiar with his nightly routine. She heard him snicker as he strode out of the wing to the stage and made his entrance.

“Listen up, everybody.”

“We’re listening, Norman.”

“America is really Hitting Bottom tonight.”

“Yeah! Bottom. Bottom. Bottom!” The applause sign lit. The audience erupted into cheers, hisses and applause.

“Have we got a show for you tonight,” Norman continued. He studied the faces of the people sitting closest to the stage. Yeah, he thought, piece of cake. Tonight he would have them eating out of his hand. The hottest talk-show host to hit the tube in years.

Norman walked toward his desk, the camera followed. “Bend your ears, folks, we’ll spend a few minutes talking with my first guest. How are you, sir? Or is it ma’am? Can’t tell with that get-up. What’s hiding under that sheet and dunce cap?”

“A man, Norman. A red-blooded patriot, a true American man.” The guest placed his meaty hand over his heart. “Norman, I want to thank you for inviting me here tonight. Not many men have the guts or brains to listen to what I have to say. I represent the backbone of America.”

“The backside of America,” a voice shouted from the audience.

Norman held up his hand.

His guest poured himself a glass of water and managed to slip it under the covering that hid his face. He continued, “The God-fearing, patriotic men and women who make this country great; thousands of true, red-white-and-blue Americans who want to be heard.”

Norman wasn’t impressed. “Why don’t you take off that sack—you’ll be seen as well as heard.”

“Because, Norman, the enemy is watching; they know the power real Americans wield. They want to destroy us and take over America. They’re watching; waiting for us to let down our guard. Never forget we are surrounded by enemies.”

“Who are they?” Norman asked. “Are we talking outer space here? A creature from Mars?” Boring, Norman thought, this jerk was bor-ing. His staff was gonna hear about this one. Damn it to hell, he wished Kevin Corcoran’s kidnapper would pick up the phone and call in, already. When the slime-ball called his secretary that morning she’d told him to call any time, no need to reschedule. The boy was still hot news.

“Come on, Norman, you know who they are. We all know who they are. Look around you. You can see who has taken over America; our schools, our jobs. They’re moving in on us, Norman. They’re all around…”

“Hold it!” Norman Bottoms raised his hand and stopped his guest before he reached the end of his sentence. The show’s floor manager was frantically signaling him to pick up the phone. He picked up the red telephone that sat in the center of his desk.

“You’re Hitting Bottom,” he said, and from coast to coast, his bored television audience perked up and paid attention.

Lawrence Dunn cleared his throat and addressed the largest audience of his performing life. “Canst thee, O cruel! Say I love thee not, when I against myself with thee partake? Do I not think of thee, when I forgot am of myself, all tyrant, for thy sake?”

Jesus, Bottoms thought, his wish had been granted. Listening to Kevin Corcoran’s kidnapper, even a con artist, would be a lot more entertaining than the same old run-of-the-mill bigot. Bigots could be heard on any talk show.

At that point, every line on the switchboard at police headquarters flashed with impatience. “911,” the telephone operator said, and with a practiced hand, popped open a roll of antacid tablets.

“Bingo!” The police sergeant, monitoring the program, put down his bag of potato chips and mug of reheated coffee and buzzed Lieutenant Brown.

Lieutenant Brown turned on the television set that had lived in his office longer than anyone could remember, used to track breaking news and daily soaps.

“Don’t conk out on me, sweetheart. Not tonight.” A picture popped onto the screen: Norman Bottoms, holding a phone to his ear, while the voice on the other end was piped into the studio for all there—and all those watching—to hear.

“What the…?” Norman Bottoms glared at his floor manager, certain the wrong call had been patched through.

The manager shrugged, shook his head and pointed toward the control booth.

“Make your point, fella.” Norman Bottoms loosened his tie and ran his index finger around the inside of his shirt collar. “Where’s Kevin Corcoran? Why did you grab the kid?”

“Look, what is done cannot be now amended.”

“You sorry you took Kevin?” Norman counted points. His ratings would soar tonight whether this creep calling in was phony or not.

Lawrence Dunn allowed himself a gentle cough and tried to continue. “Men shall deal unadvisedly sometimes, which after hours give leisure to repent.”

“Stop that phony, baloney English lingo,” Norman Bottoms said. “Give it to us straight.”

Repentance, Norman thought. Not a bad idea. He would do a show on sin and repentance. “You’re confessing! Right?” The moron was confessing on national television. A first for Hitting Bottom! A first for any talk show. Eat your heart out, Letterman, eat your heart out, Oprah. Norman extended his tongue and barely restrained a derisive raspberry meant for Leno.

In the precinct, Lieutenant Brown slammed a batch of papers against his desk. “Make that location. Fast! Trace that call before that idiot Bottoms loses him for us.

“An actor,” Brown said to himself. “An actor. That figures.”

Dunn paused, and thought about hanging up. Would Bottoms dare to talk to Olivier this way? Olivier would disconnect, as would Gielgud and Richardson. But their place in theatrical history was assured. The like of Norman Bottoms would be beneath their contempt. He, on the other hand, had just begun to reach his audience. No. Lawrence Dunn would not allow this illiterate, ill-mannered clod to rend the silken bonds spun between a great actor and his public.

“Hey, Bozo? You still on the line?” Bottoms asked.

“Varlet! Knave! Rascal! If thou dost dare interrupt this player again,” Dunn said, “I shall leave your stage never to return.” He composed himself, then took a breath that emerged as a sigh. “For you, my dear Felicity, though you no longer hear my voice. Fair is my love, but not so fair as fickle; mild as a dove, but neither true trusty; brighter than glass, and yet, as glass is brittle; softer than wax, and yet, as iron, rusty.”

“Who’s this broad, Felicity?” Norman Bottoms asked. “Your accomplice?”

“Felicity,” Lieutenant Brown said. “Felicity Silk.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Dark clouds threatened and the air was heavy with humidity. Except for a grossly overweight man who walked at a snail-like pace past Captain Corcoran, the neighborhood appeared deserted. The man’s breathing was labored; every breath he took produced a hoarse, whistling sound. The captain waited until he turned the corner before slipping past the side of Saint Genesis.

Thunder, lightning, then a curtain of rain turned visibility to zero. He wasn’t prepared; didn’t even have a flashlight. The matches he carried in his pocket were sodden, no use at all.

Another flash of lightning revealed a window; an open window. Carelessness on the part of whoever took charge of this place. He hoisted himself over the sill into a room blacker than the street. His arm hit a heavy iron pot and sent it crashing to the floor, making a noise loud enough to wake the dead. That was a morbid thought; he had enough of those lately.

Shaking again; after a month in the veteran’s hospital and without the pills for his nerves, he still got the shakes. Steady, he told himself. Hold on. Remember what the doctor said. Take your time.

He listened to the silence. No one had heard him, or no one was in the theatre. Good thing. He had messed up making that noise. Didn’t matter; a wild goose chase if ever there was one. Yet, those two young girls had been invited to see a performance tonight. Why had it been cancelled?

He followed a path of half-light to a carpeted passageway. When the carpet ended, he realized he had reached the side of the stage. His pulse quickened. A light should mean people.

A tall makeshift pole, with a bulb attached, stood in the center of a platform. It furnished just enough light to let him see and avoid a table that lay on its side next to shards of glass, a broken pitcher, cosmetics and pieces of fake hair. An accident? Had the performance been cancelled because Lawrence Dunn was hurt? Drunk? He checked the debris for a bottle. No bottle, no smell of alcohol.

Captain Corcoran edged closer to the light. So this was a stage from the actor’s angle. He seemed to be tilting toward the auditorium. A new symptom. He suffered from the shakes, depression, forgetfulness, fear but never before this feeling of standing on an incline.

He noticed a bench. Its back legs were longer than the front. Of course, the platform was built on a slant. He expelled a small sigh of relief. He wasn’t completely crazy. The back of the platform was raised. Odd thing to do. He walked down front and peered into the auditorium. A center and two side aisles and the stalls of benches.

He walked down a few steps, turned and faced the stage. The raised platform made the stage look wider and deeper than it actually was. That must be the reason for the slant.

The former church appeared to be empty; he sensed that it wasn’t. In the stillness he heard the faint tapping of high heels. The sound came from the front of the church. A woman must be in the lobby; someone would know what happened. Dunn had probably tripped, cut himself and gone to the hospital to be stitched up.

A child screamed. Instinct took over: his child. His Kevin. Captain Corcoran raced toward the sound.

“Let him go!”

Startled, the woman released her hold on the boy.

“Daddy. You came. Daddy.” Kevin ran toward his welcoming arms.

A woman. A woman had kidnapped his child, why?

He sensed the gun before he saw it. “Kevin! Run!” The boy obeyed.

Captain Corcoran lunged toward the woman. Once he would have made it, but not now; his reflexes had left him. He tried to move forward, couldn’t. He hurt too much. Liquid bubbled past his open lips. The world was a blur; he couldn’t see. He tried to rise but he couldn’t control his body; his mind began to drift. He heard Kevin scream, “Daddy, Daddy.” The sound came from far away.

“Kevin, run, hide; she has a gun.” He thought he murmured, then there was no more sound, no feeling but pain. The pain of losing—of not saving—his son.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Dunn’s pay-as-you-go cell phone had just enough time left for him to place his call to Hitting Bottom. His television debut and he had reached an audience that numbered in the millions. Lawrence Dunn believed in himself; ever since childhood he knew he was an artist. An artist ruled by divine inspiration, ardor, soul-stirring passion.

Common sense told him he was also an actor trapped in a situation fraught with danger. If he didn’t follow Felicity’s orders, her support for his theatre would disappear. Tonight he must make a decision and choose between that ungrateful wench and the child. Even as he thought that, he knew that he had already chosen the lad. Kevin was a polite child with some talent who revered the Bard of Avon as much as he did. He had come to feel that in more propitious circumstances, with the proper tutelage, Kevin could become his theatrical heir. A worthy successor when the final curtain fell.

Actors must stand together. The rest of the world did not understand them.

Dunn perched in the fly gallery, high above the stage, and tried to consider his options. He found it hard to concentrate; his thoughts were on his theatre; his creation. He had built the raked stage, painted the flats, installed the lights, sewn the draperies. His playhouse would soon be complete; he had been working on the gallery floor for months. The ropes were rigged; the heavy, canvas sandbags, to be used as counterweights, were in place. A few more hours of toil and he would be able to fly the scenery.

His Shakespearean monologues had gone well tonight. He was pleased Bottoms’s program had broadcast the Bard all over the nation. That television audience would now flock to see him perform the great roles, and his house would be full. He surveyed the stage; perhaps he would enact a scene from Phantom of the Opera as a divertissement. Hunchback of Notre Dame might be amusing. Yes. His public would appreciate an occasional change of pace. He would establish a repertory company.

“Kevin! Run!” The acoustics in the old church were excellent. The strange male voice carried to the gallery. Dunn leaned forward. It was a commanding voice. The voice of an officer. The voice of Brutus. The voice of Julius Caesar.

Whap! Whap! The swinging doors bounced back and forth, producing a rush of stale air that followed Kevin down the center aisle. The sad-eyed saints, set in stained-glass windows high above his head, watched him run but couldn’t help. There was no way Kevin could scale the walls to reach them.

The theatre was dark except for the patches of light cast by the pilot lamp on stage. Dunn watched Kevin run toward the light, feeling oddly distanced from what he saw.

The gunshots ended Dunn’s reverie. This was not a performance, and the shots were not fired from a prop gun. The sound echoed through the church. Kevin stopped running, feet frozen with fear, then ran again. Blindly. The boy’s knee slammed into the steps that led to the stage and he cried out. “Daddy!”

Tears stung Dunn’s eyes. He envisioned himself as Kevin. A face streaked with dirt, a bump on his forehead, a scratched arm. Dried blood where the sharp edge of glass had penetrated. Every part of his body would sting and ache. Make-up would be unable to hide all the black-and-blue marks. Dunn touched his knee; his fingers came away all wet and sticky. Blood. His trousers were soaked in blood. He would lose all the blood in his body and die. Never see his mother and father again. Don’t cry, he thought. Don’t be a baby. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt.

“Daddy,” Dunn said. He had to find a place to hide ’til his daddy came.

He saw Kevin grip the edge of the stairs as hard as he could. There was a hollow underneath where the child could hide. Kevin eased himself down and crawled over a piece of wood attached to the leg of the stairs. If he curled himself into a ball there was just enough room.

The boy’s shirt would be damp. Dunn’s own shirt was sticking to his back. It was hot up in the flies. He could smell the sweat. He needed a towel. A deathlike silence crept through the theatre. Then footsteps; who was here? Had the police found them?

A gust of air dried Dunn’s cheeks. He watched Kevin crawl from under the stairs, then stop. The footsteps didn’t belong to a man, they were Felicity’s.

The faithless wretch had found them.

Dunn watched Felicity walk down the aisle. Taking her time. Being careful. She stopped beside each row of benches, searching for the boy. She shifted her gaze to the fly gallery; Dunn moved out of the dim light into the shadows.

Felicity reached the foot of the aisle, walked toward the old organ on the left side of the church. She bent, looked under the bench then checked the pulpit standing to the right before moving closer to the stage. The blood on the steps—Kevin had left a trail that was easy to follow.

Felicity would be smiling now; knowing the child had to be beneath the steps. She reached for the boy.

Dunn heard Felicity’s sharp intake of breath even as he saw her pull back. The boy had used his only weapon; his teeth had pierced her pale white skin. She stumbled, clutching her arm. One drop of blood, another. Dunn pictured her blood mixing with the child’s.

He watched Kevin hoist himself onto the stage and run toward the left wing, Felicity two steps behind. Then the miracle happened. Saint Genesis, his Saint Genesis, the patron saint of the theatre, performed a miracle. It had been his church and Saint Genesis took care of actors. Kevin’s back pressed against the scenery, and the double-faced, door-type trap in the upstage flat pivoted. The child disappeared backstage. Felicity was left on the other side. The raked stage he had built slanted toward the audience. There was just enough room between the floor in the back of the old church and the raised stage for a small child. No grown-up could ever squeeze in there. The clever boy would find the perfect spot to hide.

Lawrence Dunn was pleased with himself and Kevin. More than pleased; he felt elated. The trap he had spent hours constructing had worked and allowed the boy a fast escape…Dunn’s moment of pleasure was spoiled as Felicity’s expletives reached his ears. The woman stood center stage, her presence in his temple to Thespis an obscenity that had to be erased. How could he have ever fancied himself in love with such a harridan? Hecate must have cast a spell.

In deciding to help the lad, Lawrence Dunn was certain he had made the right decision. Now it was time to make his grand entrance.

He stood, grabbed a long line—strung from his makeshift grid—and, howling, swung onto the stage.

To his surprise, Felicity vanished. The pistol, all that remained of her presence, slid across the stage into the wings. A chorus of a thousand discordant sounds made his ears ring. He looked at the top of his house; the grid was shifting. Cables and ropes dropped about him. He began to run, tripped and fell heavily to the floor. Beams rained from above. A pulley narrowly missed his upturned face. He covered his head, tried to rise but a pipe batten struck his leg and Lawrence Dunn heard the splinter and crack of bones. His bones. His instrument. The sinew and marrow of his being.

“Howl! Howl! Howl!” He began to recite Lear, but dust clogged his throat. He coughed and his ribs stabbed flesh. Dunn began the piece again, trying to ignore the pain, but memory failed. The words faded as he descended into black mists, his body gripped by intolerable agony, his face dusted with grains of sand.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

A long, loud, reverberating summons blasted the air above the storage room. “Miss Weidenmaier? Oh, my God! Larry and Felicity are blowing up the theatre!”

The noise had startled rather than frightened me, being reminiscent of the proclamations trumpeted by elephants while performing in a circus. The loud, strident cry was followed by a cracking sound, the thunder of wood and metal falling, the thud of bodies crashing to the floor of the stage.

Annalise clutched my arm; the relentless pinch of the girl’s fingers would leave a bruise. We stood side by side, stock-still; eyes riveted to the ceiling as a storm of sand and sawdust, followed by Felicity Silk, dropped through the trap door.

Felicity landed, in a supine position, on the mattress set beneath the trap. I stared at the woman’s body, taking inventory, unable to move my own limbs. Felicity’s arm had been bloodied, her attire torn, soiled and in considerable disarray. A bunch of keys had fallen out of a pocket. A shoe, missing from her right foot, lay close to her forehead.

An eye fluttered; her mouth opened. The wind had momentarily been knocked out of her sails; but Felicity Silk was alive. Her fingers gingerly touched her forehead; a moan escaped her mouth.

After what seemed an interminable period of time, but was probably just seconds, Annalise and I recovered our wits. Unfortunately, so did Felicity Silk.

“Keys!” Annalise said. “Those are my keys to the theatre. I knew I didn’t lose them.”

“Keys!” Felicity and I said simultaneously.

I scooped up the keys, managing to reach them an instant before Felicity. Strands of hair covered her eyes and temporarily obscured her vision, giving me a slight edge.

“The glue gun.” Annalise raced for the gun with Felicity breathing down her back. Annalise won and pointed the gun at Felicity. Felicity went into reverse; Annalise advanced. Felicity backed into a shelf of props, grabbed a bottle and smashed it against Annalise’s forehead.

Much to my surprise the bottle crumbled into bits. Of course, the bottle was a stage prop made of sugar glass. Felicity removed her remaining shoe; prepared to strike. Annalise pressed the glue gun’s trigger but her unsteady finger proved less than accurate. The only damage done was to Felicity’s tattered skirt. The glue decorated the skirt with sticky filigree that slowly converged on and covered what appeared to be spots of blood.

Whose blood? Bile threatened to rise and clog my throat. I choked it down and ran toward the door. There were so many keys. I tried one, then another. The door opened.

“Hands up where I can see them,” Annalise ordered Felicity. “This time I won’t miss; I’ll aim right for your eyes.”

“Amateur!” Felicity said.

I turned just in time to see Annalise take another step forward, aim and fire. Nothing happened. Annalise pressed the trigger again and again. Unfortunately, the cord must have pulled out of the wall socket.

Felicity lunged toward Annalise; the child reeled under the force of Felicity’s slap. Felicity’s nails were a millimeter away from Annalise’s eyes when I managed to grab a fistful of silver-blond hair.

Felicity shrieked, turned in my direction and immobilized me with a swift kick to the right shin. In the several seconds it took for Annalise and I to regroup, Felicity escaped the prop room.

Without thinking, ignoring the pain that stabbed at my shin, I followed Annalise as she pursued Felicity up the stairs. As we reached the top step, the door to the basement slammed shut. Though it took only a moment to reopen the door, by the time we emerged, Felicity had slipped out of sight.

The scenery composed of flats lashed together had survived. We peered through a crack.

“Oh, my God!” Annalise said. “The whole grid has fallen down.”

“Shh.” I held a finger to my lips. “I hear someone.”

“Come away, come away, Death, and in sad cypress, let me be laid. Fly away, fly away, breath: I am slain by a fair, cruel maid.”

“Larry’s leg is under a pipe,” Annalise said and, forgetting Felicity, ran to Dunn’s side.

Lawrence Dunn raised his head and tried to focus on Annalise. Annalise gently patted his hand, offering sympathy. Being of a more practical mind, I looked for a way to free him, while keeping an eye out for Felicity—and poor Kevin.

Beads of sweat joined together and traveled down Dunn’s pale face. He wiped his eyes with a feeble hand and spoke to an audience only he could see. “My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, O, prepare it! My part of death, no one so true, did share it!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

The ghost light stood, unscathed, despite the fallen debris. It cast its faint light on the ruined stage; littered with cables, pipes, clamps, and broken glass that crunched to fine particles beneath our shoes.

“Did you hear that, Miss Weidenmaier?” Annalise had looked up from Mr Dunn. She bit another nail. Nerves had finally taken hold of the poor child. Creaks and groans, some imagined, made me dart glances in every corner. All I could see were footprints in the sand strewn on stage by the burst sandbags.

What was left of the structured framework of parallel beams dangled, precariously, above our heads; one of the beams had fallen on Lawrence Dunn’s leg. The task of lifting the beam necessitated immediate action. The first-aid course I had taken when I volunteered my services at the hospital led me to believe the leg had been crushed by the beam’s weight.

To the accompaniment of fragmented soliloquies muttered by a semi-conscious Dunn, Annalise and I struggled without success; we hadn’t the strength to budge the heavy metal.

“We must get help,” I said. “There’s a phone in the lobby.”

“It’s not working. Larry never got around to paying the bill.” Annalise’s face turned lobster-red. “Do you have a cell?”

“No, dear. My generation isn’t into such technology.”

Dunn regained his senses. “There is a cell phone in my pocket.”

The cell phone was no longer in his pocket. It lay smashed to pieces next to him.

He eyed a pipe swaying above our heads. “Take heed. The Sword of Damocles dangles by a hair. This was a rash and foolhardy adventure. Go! Leave me to my fate.” Dunn’s tapered fingers fluttered toward his forehead. “Goodnight, sweet prince. And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!”

Sepulchral sounds rose from beneath the floorboards. I picked up a slab of wood and prepared to strike; my adrenal glands at the ready. From the left wing a dirty-faced, ragged Kevin materialized.

“Mr. Dunn? Mr. Dunn? Are you dead?”

“Oh, Kevin,” I said and hugged the boy.

“I’m all right.” Kevin wriggled out of my arms. “What about Mr. Dunn?”

I knelt beside the actor, who had passed out again, and touched the pulse point on the inside of his wrist. The rhythmical throbbing was strong and regular. Lawrence Dunn would live.

“Where’s my daddy?” Kevin asked.

“Your father?” Of course, the child wanted his father.

“He’s here,” Kevin said. “My dad came to rescue me.” He jumped off the stage and darted up the aisle.

“Kevin! Wait!” Felicity was out there, I thought. The center steps leading to the stage were still in place. I gripped the piece of wood and ran down them after the child.

“Daddy! Wake up, Daddy!” Kevin had thrown his small body over that of the man who lay in the lobby.

I searched for the man’s wrist. This time there was no pulse. Kevin’s father would never wake again.

“Kevin.” I placed my hands on his thin shoulders.

“I want my daddy,” he said. “Why doesn’t he wake up? He’s dead isn’t he?” The child could read the answer in my eyes.

A tremor ran through his body. I tried to hold him but he pulled away and ran back into the theatre.

I followed. For a moment he disappeared from sight and I stood motionless, at the top of the aisle, not knowing what to do. I detected a stifled sob; I turned in time to see the sole of a sneaker disappear as he climbed over the top of the ladder that led to the old choir loft.

The loft was high, far above the floor of the church. It seemed that way to me, a supposedly intelligent woman with a ridiculous fear of heights. If I tried to climb its narrow rungs, I knew I would fall. Immobile, in a state of near paralysis, I stared at the ladder.

Perspiration soaked my blouse. The loft appeared to sway. Black puffs hovered, clouding my sight, icy fingers of fear danced up and down my spine.

“This will never do,” I murmured. I took a deep breath, and then mounted the ladder; placing one shoe upon each slender, metal rung, then lifting the other to join the first. I climbed slowly, gripping the sides of the ladder, the metal biting my hands.

“One step at a time. Concentrate. Don’t look down. Don’t look down,” I repeated, ashamed of this debilitating fear.

My hands were sticky with blood. My tight grasp had led to ugly cuts. I couldn’t think about them now. I reached the last rung and managed to climb over the bar.

The child was unaware of my presence. I hesitated, unable to think of the right words, any words.

I moved closer to the boy, hardly able to restrain my own feelings. How could I help a child who had just lost his father? And to lose him like this, to find his father’s body…

Sobs blocked Kevin’s words, choked his speech. “It’s all my fault,” he managed to say. “He died because of me.”

“Where’s the old lady?” Felicity’s voice carried to the balcony.

Kevin shoved one small fist into his mouth, silencing his tears. We ducked down and were hidden from her sight by the lights positioned along the balcony rail.

“Where are they?” Felicity demanded. She had retrieved her gun and it was pointed at Annalise.

“Who?”

“Don’t fool with me. Weidenmaier and the kid,” Felicity said and cocked the gun. “You’re wasting my time.”

Lawrence Dunn half rose from his prone position, the movement clearly costing him. “Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindles villain! O, vengeance!”

He clutched a handful of sand and threw it with amazing accuracy, considering his physical state, in Felicity’s face. The gun discharged. Another pipe plunged to the floor accompanied by swirls of dust and dirt that obscured the players onstage.

When the dust finally settled, Annalise, her flaming red hair and freckled face now powdered a dirty gray, was still standing as if rooted to the deck. Lawrence Dunn had returned to his prone position. A piece of muslin drifted downstage. Felicity recovered first and picked up the gun again.

My hand brushed against the cold iron clamp of the spotlight. Somehow I found the strength to focus the lamp on Felicity.

“You wicked woman,” Kevin shouted. “You killed my father.”

Felicity turned and stared at the balcony. I threw the switch and Felicity stood, caught in the spotlight’s cold, white glare, blinded.

“We’ve got her,” Kevin said. “We’ve got her.”

The sound of doors crashing, loud, rough voices; we watched as policemen rushed down the aisles and leapt to the stage like Keystone Kops ready for a chase. The most impressive ordered one of his subordinates to get an ambulance, then strode to the foot of the stage and bellowed; directing the bull-like sound toward the balcony.

“Miss Weidenmaier, is that you up there?”

“Yes, indeed. Lieutenant Brown? How very nice to see you again. Your timing could not be more propitious.”

“I would appreciate your coming down now. I believe we’re capable of handling the rest of this mess.”

“I had planned to call, Lieutenant, but unfortunately, I was detained and I was unable to reach a working phone.”

Lieutenant Brown jumped from the stage and headed up the aisle.

Kevin scampered down the ladder. I placed a tentative foot on the top rung, then froze.

“Miss Weidenmaier?”

My lower extremities failed. I tried to marshal my strength in order to answer the lieutenant but felt a trifle light-headed.

The upper half of Lieutenant Brown’s body appeared over the top of the rail.

“May I offer you a hand, Miss Weidenmaier?”

“Your assistance would be appreciated, Lieutenant.”

“The police department is happy to oblige, ma’am.”

With the lieutenant leading the way, I managed to descend the ladder, resisting an insane urge to kiss the floor beneath my feet. Terra firma, at last.

On stage, attendants transferred Lawrence Dunn to a stretcher. I could see a flicker of hope in the way Kevin turned and ran back to the lobby.

“Come with me, Miss Weidenmaier.” Lieutenant Brown took my hand and led me over to where Kevin stood, his little body a picture of despair.

“Your dad would be very proud of you.” The lieutenant tried to comfort the boy. “He was a hero and so are you.”

“I don’t want to be a hero. I just want my daddy.”

“Kevin,” I said. “Let’s go see your mother. She needs you. She loves you very much.”

“How am I going to tell her?” the boy asked.

Neither the lieutenant nor I could answer the child.

CHAPTER THIRTY

“Make-up,” the director called. “Gussie needs to be powdered. Her face is glowing.”

No wonder, I thought. A day spent working under hot lights in a television studio would make anyone melt. I was taping a commercial for a cereal, guaranteed to be both tasty and nutritious. The nutrition came from added essential vitamins, minerals and complex carbohydrates. The taste was contributed by sugar, honey, corn syrup and bits of dried fruit.

Abner T. Bean now represented me in all negotiations of a theatrical nature. I was not at all sure how he had managed to talk me into it, but we had signed a contract and since I had landed a principal role in a Screen Actors Guild commercial, I would become a bonafide member of SAG within fifteen days.

This season, it seemed, advertising executives were looking for “schoolteacher types” to promote everything from detergents to automobiles. Mr. Bean took advantage of the trend, and I certainly enjoyed both the activity and the remuneration.

“Fab-u-lous, Gussie,” the director said. “That was terrific! Let’s try it one more time for good luck. Show us how much you enjoy it. Give me that healthy look. A big, wide smile; eyes and teeth! Eyes and teeth!”

After ten bowls of the mushy grains, I never wanted to see, smell or sample another spoonful again. Some worthy charity would be the recipient of the year’s supply presented to me as a bonus. I longed to soak my feet, brush my teeth, enjoy a simple supper of canned tomato soup, crackers, American cheese, and tea and settle in for an overdue reread of Julius Caesar.

In the aftermath of poor Kevin’s abduction, Lawrence Dunn had been committed to an upstate facility for the mentally disturbed. His therapy included directing a theatre group composed of fellow inmates devoted to the works of William Shakespeare. The last time I paid my former captor a visit, one inmate insisted he was Shakespeare only to be challenged by another poor soul who claimed he was Francis Bacon. Bacon continually accused Shakespeare of stealing the credit for his classic works. Dunn’s first production would be the aforementioned Caesar, the starring role played, of course, by Lawrence Dunn himself. I had promised to attend the dress rehearsal and bring a bald-pated skullcap to cover my erstwhile captor’s flourishing head of hair.

Five minutes before the technical director of the commercial called, “It’s a wrap,” a term I quickly learned was used to denote the completion of a scene, Mr. Bean arrived at the television studio. Now that I was in “the business,” we spent a good deal of time together.

I could see him in the back of the studio, nodding approval. The minute we finished the shoot he made his way to my side, stepping nimbly over the electric cables that snaked across the floor. Mr. Bean often told me tales of days spent dancing in vaudeville before it met its untimely demise. For a man long past his middle years, Abner T. Bean possessed an extraordinary energy level.

“Miss Weidenmaier.” Mr. Bean bestowed his most cherubic smile upon me. “That was excellent. If the immortal Eleonora Duse had ever appeared in a cereal commercial it would have been no more enchanting than your enactment.”

I had to smile. What was the man up to? Duse, indeed. One would have thought he had been the one working under the hot lights. Surely the paltry commission he earned as my representative didn’t necessitate such flattery.

“Miss Weidenmaier,” Mr. Bean continued. “You must be tired but don’t forget we’re going to see Kevin in his Broadway debut tonight. I have managed to get excellent orchestra seats. I hope you’ll enjoy our dinner before the performance after—” Mr. Bean looked around and lowered his voice, “after eating all those bowls of cereal.”

I did look forward to seeing Kevin, despite my exhaustion; I promised myself I would sleep in the rest of the week.

Mr. Bean arrived promptly at six o’clock, bearing a corsage of orchids. The enclosed card was signed “Fondly, Abner.” Was I being wooed? Ridiculous. I hadn’t been wooed in years.

We dined at Sardi’s—the restaurant where celebrities enjoy a bite to eat surrounded by caricatures of their fellow thespians. Mr. Bean mentioned that I had been honored with a front table; the better to see and be seen. We were presented with the actor’s menu. By the time a tourist asked for my autograph—the lady remembered my bit in a rye bread commercial—I felt a bit giddy.

The first act of Kevin’s play proved a delight. Mr. Bean (Abner—he asked me to call him Abner), and I found ourselves engrossed in the play. Kevin’s sense of timing, I thought amazing. The audience embraced his character. He was young but I realized the work helped the child cope with the pain of losing his father. If anyone could fully recover from such a thing, Kevin would.

At intermission, we joined members of the audience crowding the lobby; it buzzed with voices. Abner and I shamelessly eavesdropped, the comments we managed to overhear were laudatory. Abner’s eyes twinkled, he was so pleased. We made our way to the bar with just enough time for a refreshing soft drink before the lights flashed, signaling the beginning of the second act.

The house lights dimmed. The audience hushed. The curtain rose. There was no hint of trouble until a character, not seen earlier in the play, strode center stage. The house lights were turned back on.

“Abner,” I asked. “Is this going to turn out to be another of those avant-garde plays?”

The “character” turned out to be the producer of the production.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have some technical difficulties and would appreciate your leaving the theatre while we make some adjustments. We hope to begin the second act again as soon as possible.”

We joined the grumbling, restless crowd on the sidewalk, outside the box-office, in time to see several police cars, sirens wailing, draw up to the theatre. The audience was now joined by a rush of passers-by who added to the noise and confusion. A van, marked Bomb-Squad, followed the police cars. Technical difficulties, I thought. Not likely!

“Kevin!” We looked at each other.

“Where is the stage door, Abner?”

Lieutenant Brown stood at the top of the alley leading to the door.

“Miss Weidenmaier?”

“How nice to be remembered, Lieutenant. We were just going to find Kevin.”

“Kevin is waiting at the other exit, Miss Weidenmaier. He’s perfectly fine.”

“A bomb threat, Lieutenant? Who would do such a dastardly thing?”

“We didn’t say there was a bomb threat, Miss Weidenmaier.”

“Why is the bomb squad here?”

“Just a precaution. I’m sure it’s just another unhappy actor who didn’t get a part.”

“I’ve had a good deal of experience with unhappy actors, as you well know, Lieutenant Brown. This is Kevin’s play and I’m devoted to him.”

Lieutenant Brown called Sergeant Harris. “Sergeant, you remember Miss Weidenmaier.” His tone of voice was a trifle testy. “Please escort her around the block. She would like to see Kevin.”

“As long as the child is safe, Lieutenant, I would rather know what exactly is going on.”

“Augusta,” Mr. Bean said, using my given name for the first time in public, “I think we should let the lieutenant get on with his job.”

“Nonsense, Abner,” I said. “The lieutenant and I work very well together. And now that I’m ‘of the theatre,’ I’m sure my services will be most useful.”

I turned to Lieutenant Brown. “Who, what, when, where, why? Shall we start with the who?”

About the Author

Elise Warner, the author of Scene Stealer, worked as an actress, singer and stage manager before becoming addicted to writing. Small Time, her second play, won Theatre Guinevere’s “Guinny Award” and was later part of the Maxwell Anderson Playwright’s Series. An avid traveler, she has written for the travel section of the Washington Post and magazines such as Rock & Gem and The Gold Prospector (inspired by trips to Australia and New Zealand). Remembering her poodle, Jackie, she wrote about a musical-comedy troupe touring the United States with pet dogs, which was published in the anthology Good Dogs Doing Good, and a short story that won second prize in the American Kennel Club magazine’s 2008 contest. Elise’s articles dealing with American history have appeared in magazines such as American Spirit, Pennsylvania, The Elks and The Villager. An avid fan of mysteries, her short stories have appeared in Mystery Time, RTP and www.citywriters.com. She is married to Bob Bernard, a dazzling tap dancer.

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ISBN: 978-1-4268-9032-1

Copyright © 2010 by Elise Warner

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