Stage Fright (Bit Parts) (7 page)

In contrast to Hedda’s beauty, her companion looked as if he’d crawled from his deathbed.  His black tuxedo hung on his sticklike frame, and his skin had a yellow pallor.  His thin, blond hair barely concealed his scalp.  The worst were his sunken eyes which were so empty of expression that they might have been made of glass.

Victor eyed her companion.  “Who is this wretched creature?”

“He’s tonight’s guest of honor.”

The man at Hedda’s side straightened a little and held out a trembling hand.  “Luquin Astor.”  His smile was like the rictus grin of a skeleton.

I was shocked.  Not by the man’s appearance, but by the fact that Charles had been so jealous of him.  Clearly, Luquin was dying, and, no doubt Hedda wanted to honor him before he passed away.  Charles’s selfishness appalled me.

As if afraid to catch a contagion, Victor refused to shake Luquin’s hand.  “Interesting choice.”  He cupped his chin in his hand.  “He’s weak, no doubt very passive, and fully devoted to you.  Absolutely no threat whatsoever.”  A dark light entered his eye.  “Very unlike your beloved Marcella.”

Hedda’s eyes blazed, but Luquin – unperturbed – gave Victor a little bow.  “I’m honored to have someone of your caliber at my show.”

“You should be,” Victor said.

Seeing that his compliment had failed to schmooze, Luquin’s smile faded.  “I’m sure that my artwork could never match anything created by the Stuyvesants.”

Victor’s hard stare could have cut glass.  “The Stuyvesants are too busy running their businesses to waste time doodling with crayons.”  He glanced at Hedda.  “We leave that to the lower castes.”

“What’s a financial empire without soul?” Hedda asked lightly.

“Business is what matters,” Victor said.  “Because business creates money, and money is what sustains life.  With enough money, you can buy anything.  Even souls.”

My sister busied herself with lighting the Sterno cans under the chafing dishes, but I could tell that she was listening intently.  She had graduated from college determined to be an artist, but after a while, the lack of good-paying jobs and my parents’ pressuring had convinced her to go into catering.

Luquin blinked his empty eyes.  “Money can’t buy happiness.”

“And art can’t put a roof over your head.” Victor fired back.  “Artists don’t generate enough capital to support themselves, so they crawl to the rich looking for handouts.”

I couldn’t keep my peace any longer.  “Art
is
important,” I argued.  “It gives as much to its audience as it does to the person who created it.”  I pointed at Victor with a salad tongs.  “Besides, aren’t
you
a playwright?”

Victor’s glare was so sharp I felt as though a freshly honed razorblade had been sliced across my eyeballs.  But amusement danced in Hedda’s violet eyes.

Contrary to what Geoffrey originally said, Hedda informed us that dinner should not be served until after the unveiling of the new exhibit.  The guests who arrived early milled around, drinking glasses of chardonnay and admiring Luquin’s other work.

Elena stared moodily over the crowd with her arms folded over her chest.  “I can’t keep this food hot forever,” she muttered.  The chicken was drying out, and the rolls were growing soggy.

Another ten minutes ticked by.  As we continued to wait, I noticed two types of people in the crowd.  Most were fidgety and kept looking at their watches or wistfully eyeing the covered trays on the buffet table.  The others maintained perfectly deadpan expressions and stood so still they might have been modeling for the artist.  This group also dressed with more flair.  One woman wore a blue dress of such boxy proportions that she seemed to have dressed in Lego blocks.  Another couple – a man and a woman – wore identical tuxedos complete with top hats, tails, and enormous, pink bowties.  Others wore fanciful half-masks of animals or jesters.

“Do you notice that some of these people are a little odd?” I whispered to Elena.

“Not really.”  She’d gone back to checking on the food.  When one of the Sterno cans sputtered and went out, she swore under her breath.  “I already used up the extras I brought.  Did you take any along?”

“No, but I can get one from the van if you want.”  Elena nodded and handed me the keys.

I went to the lobby and hit the call button for the elevator.  When it arrived, the doors parted like stage curtains to reveal a giant of a man with dark skin and dreadlocks.

I froze.  My midnight rescuer!  In the well-lit elevator, he looked twice as handsome as he had at the Lamplighter.  The proud forehead, the sensuous lips, his perfect jaw, all of it came together in a single, flawless form.  Tonight, his look was business casual with a touch of boho: jeans, an un-tucked white shirt, and a blazer.  Once again, the silver ring winked from high up in his ear.

When he exited the elevator, I realized I’d overlooked his most amazing feature the night before: his eyes.  They were amber flecked with gold.  When those eyes met mine, pleasant shivers ran down my spine.

If he recognized me, he didn’t show it.  “Did I miss the unveiling?” he asked.  The timbre of his voice was so deep I swore it made the floorboards tremble.

“No.  Not yet.”

He thanked me and continued on through the lobby.  He walked with a slightly uneven gait, not quite limping, but shuffling, as if worried the floor would collapse under him at any moment.

It was probably a good thing that he didn’t remember me since I’d made such a fool of myself the night before.  Still, as I watched him enter the gallery, I was disappointed.  Not that I’d had any designs on him.  Drop-dead gorgeous men were out of my league.  It’s like they were put high up on a shelf with a sign that read: Look, but Don’t Touch.

Finally, it was time for the unveiling.  Elena quickly uncovered the chafing dishes while Geoffrey introduced the artist.  Members of the press snapped pictures.  As the curator droned on, I searched the room for my midnight savior.  He stood at the back of the crowd, his hands clasped in front of him.  But it wasn’t the curator or the artist he was watching.  He had his eyes on Victor.

I nudged Elena.  “What do you think of that guy over there?”

She raised her eyebrows.  “I think he’s a whole lot of heartache wrapped up in a gorgeous package.”

I dragged my eyes away from the man.  “Heartache?  Why would you say that?”

I never got my answer because Geoffrey finally grabbed the pull rope hanging from the shroud, and said, “Ladies and gentleman, I give you Luquin Astor’s latest installment: Stripped Bare.”  With a dramatic flourish, he unveiled the art.

There was a collective gasp followed by a moment of stunned silence.  Then one or two people hesitantly began clapping.  When the rest of the guests finally joined in, my hands remained dangling at my sides.

The immense, brick wall was covered with a grid of evenly spaced, larger-than-life, black-and-white portraits of women.  Some were head shots while others showed full-body nudes.  But these were no pin-up girls.  Each model had been battered in some way.  Some had black eyes, others split lips.  One woman, who looked to be my mother’s age, cradled an arm with a splinter of bone poking through the skin.  Another had blood pouring from her ear.  As if the pictures weren’t bad enough, Luquin had colorized the wounds so that every bruise, cut, and abrasion stood out starkly against the black-and-white photos.  They were like evidence pictures in the trial of a brutal serial killer.

Yet, as much as I wanted to, I couldn’t tear my eyes from the terrible pictures.  The vibrant colors were horribly attractive, and their poisonous energy called to me.

“Let’s get this show on the road,” Elena said briskly.  She handed me a silver tray of slightly-wilted shrimp puffs.  “You start on that end, and I’ll work over here.”

I numbly took the tray and began circulating through the crowd, willing my eyes away from the display on the wall.  Although I kept my back to the pictures, I could feel the weight of them pressing down on me.  When my shrimp puffs and I reached the farthest corner of the room, I took a deep breath, braced myself, and turned around.  Immediately, Luquin’s horrible exhibit drew my unwilling eyes.  This time when I saw it, I screamed.

The display was more than a grid of pictures.  When viewed all at once from a distance, the portraits formed an immense, photo mosaic.  I was looking at a twenty foot by twenty foot picture of an exposed neck punctured by two, violently red, wounds.

I screamed again.  All the blood left my arms, and I dropped the tray.  The shrimp puffs scattered across the polished, wooden floor.  I broke into a cold sweat, and my gorge rose.  Without a word to Elena, I sped from the gallery and into the bathroom.

Chapter Five

“What happened?”  Elena, worried, stood next to me as I braced my hands on the bathroom sink and willed myself not to throw up.

“I drank too much at the cast party last night, and when I saw those god-awful paintings, I felt sick, and…”  My throat clenched as a wave of nausea battered me once more.

Of course, my reaction had nothing to do with a hangover.  Luquin’s acrylic-on-canvas nightmare had set off a nasty vibration in my head which had triggered another panic attack.

The worried furrow remained between my sister’s eyes.  After all, who screams because of a hangover?  “Are you sure I shouldn’t be calling the Betty Ford Clinic?”

I smiled tightly.  “No, I’ve definitely sworn off alcohol.”  I splashed cold water on my face and accepted the paper towel she handed me.  “But I can’t go back in there.”

She sighed and patted my back.  “Okay, call Andrew to pick you up.  I’ll manage on my own.”

I struggled not to cry.  “I can meet you at the church after you’re done and help unload the van.  I’ll do the dishes, too.  And you don’t have to pay me for tonight.”

“We’ll talk about it later.  Right now, I’ve got to serve some food.”  She gave my shoulder a final pat and hurried out of the bathroom.

I slammed my hands against the sink in frustration.  God!  Screaming, running away, hiding…  If I didn’t tap into that blocked memory, I might be doomed to this for the rest of my life.

I closed my eyes and envisioned my audition at the Cipher.  I thought of my soaking wet dress, the chilly air conditioning, the man’s voice telling me to begin…but after that, the memories faded to black.  The next thing I recalled was waking up on the couch.  Like always, the locked door in my mind refused to budge.

Unfortunately, trying to access the memories nearly triggered a second panic attack.  Cold sweat drenched my t-shirt, and my knees trembled.  I dug into my pocket for a tissue, but found Maggie’s pictures instead.  As I studied the balloon-shaped cats, the calming energy slowed my heart rate, and evened out my breathing.  I still couldn’t face the gallery, but at least I could leave the bathroom.

I intended to call Andrew from the first-floor coffee house, but the sound of voices stopped me before I reached the elevator.

“Everything’s quiet tonight.”  My heart leapt at my midnight rescuer’s deep voice.  I edged around the corner to get a glimpse of him.  He stood as large and solid as a sequoia, frowning down at the flaming figure of Hedda who was half hidden by a potted fichus.

“Good.  Keep it that way.”  Hedda lowered her voice so much that I had to strain to hear it.  “I can’t have any interruptions during Luquin’s induction.”

“You won’t,” he assured her.  “Not unless any of your guests get out of hand.”

“They’ll be fine, Isaiah.”

“Does that include Victor?”  When Hedda didn’t answer, he added, “Why would a Stuyvesant come all the way to Detroit?  You and I both know it has nothing to do with a play.”

“Victor is
my
concern.”  Hedda’s voice seemed cold enough to burn the tips of my ears.  “You’re to do as you’re told and leave everything else to me.”

Isaiah’s tone was firm but respectful.  “These rogues showed up after he did, you know.  What if he’s the one who stirred up trouble at the Cipher last spring and came back to try it again?”

The Cipher last
spring
?  My pulse quickened as I edged further out for a better look.

“I can help you if you tell me what’s going on,” my rescuer said.

“I don’t need your help,” Hedda said.  “Not with this.”

Isaiah, however, didn’t back down.  “Fine.  Keep your secrets.  But if I see signs of trouble, I’m going to take action with or without your consent.  I don’t want a repeat of the Cipher.”

“Nor do I,” Hedda agreed softly.

It was the first time anyone had even hinted about trouble surrounding the Cipher Theater.  Even Charles believed my fainting was the result of low blood sugar.  These two knew a secret, maybe the same secret locked up behind the door in my mind.  If anyone could help me access those memories, they could.

Before facing them, I took a moment to gather my courage.  I inhaled deeply, wiped my sweating face, and got a quick drink from the fountain between the bathrooms.  Unfortunately, by the time I walked into the lobby, both of them had left.  Hedda had returned to the gallery, and the elevator was descending towards the first floor.

If I wanted answers, I’d have to be quick.  Because Hedda was mobbed with admirers in the gallery, I went for the stairs.  I raced down as swiftly as I could, but by the time I hit the ground floor, Isaiah was already halfway out the front door.  Without stopping to catch my breath, I chased him into the freezing cold night.

Unfortunately, his shuffling gait didn’t slow him down.  Since one stride of his long legs equaled two of mine, I couldn’t keep pace.  Halfway down the block, I lost sight of him.

Shit!  I turned in a circle, searching the sidewalk.  Maybe he had ducked into a bar or a convenience store.  Or perhaps he’d driven off in one of the cars parked along the curb.  In any case, he was gone now.  Frustrated, I turned back towards the Muse.

A pair of hands grabbed my shoulders and yanked me into an alley.  Before I could cry out, Isaiah pinned me against the brick wall.  He raised his arm, ready to strike.  Something flashed in his hand.  My eyes widened in horror.