Али Брэндон - Double Booked For Death

“Hair and makeup design,” Jake read aloud. “Mavis Vickson has been with the Club Theater since its opening three years ago. She has a bachelor of fine arts degree in theater from Boston University , blah, blah, et cetera, et cetera.”

Tucking the program into her bag—like Darla, she had prudently opted for a small clutch with a long strap that she wore crosswise over her chest—Jake went on, “Mavis is probably in the dressing room right now finishing up the cast’s makeup. She’ll be tied up until the curtain rises, but then should have some free time until the intermission. If I had to guess, she’ll want to do this while everyone is onstage or else watching the action, so chances are Hillary will get up sometime during the first act to go meet her.”

“That makes sense,” Darla agreed. “Do you think they’ll stay inside the building or run out to the alley?”

“Inside. This is Mavis’s turf. She’ll want to control the meeting and make sure there are no witnesses. In a place like this, especially one that’s been remodeled a couple of times, you’ve always got a rabbit warren of hallways and back rooms. That’s why it’s critical to spot Hillary before the lights go down, so we can tail her.”

“Got it.”

Leaving Jake to her own devices, Darla eased her way toward the bar. It was situated near another alcove, above which a garish neon arrow flashed the word “Restrooms.” Darla gave a satisfied nod. Everyone hits the bar or the head eventually , she told herself. If she kept an eye on both, surely she’d spy Hillary among the other theater patrons.

The crush at the bar had eased for the moment, so she stepped up and ordered herself a club soda with a slice of lime; then, drink in hand, she took up position by one of the mirrored columns kitty-corner to both her targets. She couldn’t help but be proud of her undercover skills. Once she spotted the agent, she could turn her back and pretend to use the mirrored column to check her makeup, but she’d still have an eagle-eyed view of the woman’s every move.

A few minutes passed, however, and Jake had not returned. Nor had Hillary made an appearance. Darla frowned and glanced at the rectangular aluminum clock posted prominently over the bar. Quarter to eight. The play would be starting soon, and even the drinkers were now abandoning the lobby for the theater. Was it possible that Hillary had arrived there before them and was already in her seat?

Uneasy now, Darla left her post and hurried over to the growing crowd at the double doors. When she reached the front of the line, a smiling young woman in a man’s tuxedo held out a gloved hand and said, “Ticket?”

Ticket?

Darla muttered a couple of bad words. Jake had picked up both their admissions from the box office but had neglected to bring one of the tickets back to Darla before heading off who knew where. Doubtless, Jake would show back up eventually, but in the meantime she needed that look around the theater in case Hillary was already sitting down. Trying to spy the agent among the other patrons after the house lights went down would be difficult at best, and a fruitless exercise at worst.

“I’m sorry, my friend is holding my ticket for me,” she explained to the usher, trying for what she hoped was a guileless look. “Maybe I can just step inside and see if I see her.”

“Sorry,” the usher echoed, still smiling. “You have to have a ticket to get in. Why don’t you wait for your friend in the lobby so you’re not blocking the way?”

“But if she’s already inside . . .”

Darla trailed off as the usher shook her head and made a polite little shooing motion with one gloved hand. Grimacing, Darla stepped aside, even as she reminded herself that she’d gotten past Everest when she’d been denied entry to the church. If she could manage to dodge a professional like him, she darn well could manage a perky little usherette! All she needed was another shield like Morris had been. She had just turned to scout out a potential unwitting cohort when she was all but knocked off her feet by a brunette wearing a pale pink satin pantsuit and matching pink-framed eyeglasses.

“’Scuse me,” the woman muttered, not bothering to look Darla’s way as she shoved on past her and handed over her ticket to the usher before vanishing into the theater.

Talk about pushy New Yorkers , was Darla’s first indignant thought as she stared after the woman. Then she gasped as recognition abruptly dawned, and she realized that the aggressive female had been none other than Hillary Gables.

Darla froze for a moment, unable to believe she’d avoided disaster in this encounter. Now, she had to get into the theater to see where Hillary took a seat.

But barely had she tried to follow after the agent when a restraining hand clamped onto her arm. Darla swung about, ready to loudly protest to the usherette, when she found herself face-to-face with Jake.

“You’re gonna need one of these,” Jake said with a wry look as she held out a ticket. Then, apparently recognizing Darla’s dismay, she demanded, “What’s wrong?”

“Quick, Hillary just went inside! Pink pantsuit, pink glasses.”

Jake didn’t ask any further questions. Handing over the tickets, she snatched the stubs back from the usher and then hustled Darla into the theater.

Immediately before them was a freestanding wall that created a hallway effect and was designed to shield the actors onstage from the patrons’ comings and goings to and from the theater. They could turn either right or left as they entered. And so, with a gesture from Jake, the pair split up.

As she peeked around her side of the wall, Darla saw that the layout before her was similar to the older-style movie theaters: an orchestra section only, with the floor sloping toward the raised, curtained stage. The slick black walls of the lobby remained here as well, and the disco balls that Jake jokingly had mentioned hung above them like a dozen mirrored clouds. A broad center block of rows seated the majority of the playgoers, with the rest settled into two narrow sections separated from the main block by aisles.

The houselights began a slow dim as Darla frantically scanned the place. How could Hillary have eluded them in such a relatively small venue? Then a flash of pastel color caught her eye, and she gave a relieved sigh. Joining Jake on her side of the wall, she whispered, “There, about halfway down the center, aisle seat on the left-hand side.”

Jake followed her pointing finger and nodded as she, too, gained their target. Pretending to confer over their ticket stubs, they clandestinely watched as Hillary settled into her chair. Once seated, the woman glanced about a couple of times, the glow from the remaining houselights glinting off her glasses.

“We’d better sit down, too, before she notices us,” Jake softly told her. “Our seats are right here, best in the house.”

She indicated the aisle seat and one next to it in the final row, just a few feet from where they stood. The show wasn’t quite sold out, and Darla saw that several choicer spots still remained open.

“Hope you got us a discount,” Darla muttered back as they took their places. “I guess I should be glad we’re not stuck behind a column.”

“Hey, kid, we’re not actually here for the show,” Jake reminded her as the last of the houselights flickered out.

The green velvet curtains parted to a polite rumble of applause, revealing a stark stage setting of scaffolding and gilded columns meant to represent a Renaissance Venice canal front. Roderigo and Iago took the stage, and the action commenced.

Darla was oblivious to what happened next onstage, her attention held by the solitary figure seated twelve rows down from them. Whether she liked the woman or not, Darla knew they couldn’t let Hillary come to any harm this night. She only wished she could ask Jake what, if anything, she had learned as she prowled about the theater before the show had started. Unfortunately, sound carried readily there, so she didn’t even dare strike up a whispered conversation.