“There!” she said, dropping the last weapon in her arsenal of cosmetics back into her purse and snapping the clasp closed. “All done. Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“Ugh,” I said, checking my reflection in the glass of the poster display case. “I look like a clown.”
“Better to look like a clown than to be one,” Abby huffed. “Trust me. If you tried to masquerade as a showgirl with that schoolgirl face of yours, they’d kick you in the seat of the pants and then shoot you out of a cannon.”
Chapter 9
NOT ONLY WERE OUR CLOTHES, MAKEUP, and cover story perfect, but our timing couldn’t have been better. As we rounded the corner and headed across the street for the Morosco, the doors to the theater flew open and the audience began pouring out onto the sidewalk. The matinee was over! We wouldn’t have to search for a back entrance to sneak into, or beg some doubtful stage door custodian to let us inside. All we had to do was push our way through the exiting crowd, slip past the ushers into the slowly emptying theater, and then make our way to the side door we had used the night before-the door that led to the stairs leading up to the dressing rooms.
“We have to stick very close together,” I whispered to Abby as we huddled in the dark, deserted passage just inside the door. “And you’d better let me do all the talking. That way, we won’t tell any conflicting stories or ask any incongruous questions.”
Or attract too much attention, I said to myself-but not to Abby. (I didn’t want to offend my wildly attractive, attention-grabbing friend… or give her any wild ideas.)
“Okay, chief!” Abby said, surprising me with her quick and easy compliance. Was she really deferring to me or just humoring me? There was only one way to find out.
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s go upstairs.”
The scene in the hall outside the dressing rooms was more subdued than it had been the night before. There was a light flurry of activity, but nothing at all like the hullabaloo inspired by Gray’s knockout debut. Some of the children from the play were chasing each other down the hallway, and a few well-dressed people were milling around in the vicinity, smoking and chatting, probably waiting for their friends or family in the cast to change their clothes and join them for an early supper before the next show. But that was the extent of it. There were no gossip columnists and photographers. No shouts and cheers and popping flashbulbs. No champagne, either.
I studied the arena before me (i.e., cased the joint), trying to decide which target to hit first. I knew I didn’t want to talk to any of the show’s main stars. Their status and success would, I figured, make them the candidates least likely to know much about the personal life of a mere understudy. I believed I’d have better luck talking to the more “humble” members of the cast and crew-other understudies, or stagehands, or technical assistants-people who, until last night, were on a parallel professional level with Gray and, therefore, more inclined to know him well.
As Abby and I ambled down the hall, peering through every open door, looking for promising people to question, I saw that several people were looking back at us. They obviously noticed our odd clothes and garish makeup, but seemed to take our appearance for granted. Nobody asked who we were or challenged our right to be there. I felt stronger and safer-and more like a
Bus Stop extra-with every step.
Bypassing all the star dressing rooms, even the communal ones, I led Abby down toward the end of the corridor, to a dim, quiet area that seemed to be abandoned. “I’m looking for the other understudies,” I explained to her, speaking in a very low voice even though we were alone in that part of the hall.
“Why?!” she squawked, totally unmindful of her own noise level. “I want to meet the stars! I caught a glimpse of Ben Gazzara when we passed his dressing room just now, and he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Oooh, baby, talk about hot! We have to go back and interrogate him. Right this minute, you dig? Before he puts his shirt on.” She turned and bolted in the opposite direction.
“Whoa!” I cried, lunging after her, grabbing hold of her ponytail and reining her back in.
“Ow!” she cried. “What the hell are you doing?”
“You promised to stick close to me, remember?” I snapped. “And we’re not going anywhere near Gazzara’s dressing room! There’s no reason to question him; we have to focus on what’s important. And in case you’ve forgotten what that is,” I said, forcing the words out between clenched teeth, “let me refresh your memory. We’re here to look for a goddamn murderer, not to gawk at an actor’s bare chest. You dig?” (I pronounced those last two words with enough acidic sarcasm to strip the enamel off my firmly clamped molars.)
Abby pouted and stuck out her chin. “Well, that’s not all I wanted to see!” she said, stamping her foot on the bare wood floor. “I was thinking about the murderer, too, you know! So I wanted to see what Gazzara is really like. That could be really important! I mean, is he the jealous type? Does he go crazy when his superiority is threatened? Could Gray’s fantastic performance last night have made him jealous and crazy enough to kill?” She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at me with a smirk that said, So there!
I rolled my eyes at the ceiling. Only Abby would try to turn a burning sexual impulse into a righteous quest for the truth. “That’s utter nonsense,” I said, “and you know it. Gazzara did not kill Gray. He was in the hospital last night, getting pumped full of fluids and massaged with shaved ice, overcoming his heatstroke and getting in shape for today’s performance. Get real, Abby! Pull yourself together and stop acting like a-”
I was about to say “slut” when the door to my right shot open and a striking young blonde sprang out into the hall. She was about five foot six in her bare feet (I mean that literally, since she didn’t have on any stockings or shoes), and her platinum locks and shapely curves were comparable to those of Marilyn Monroe, whose bombshell image she was obviously trying to ape. Besides her bra and panties (which I assumed were comfortably settled in their proper places), she was wearing nothing but an ivory satin slip.
“Hey, pipe down, willya?” she croaked, giving Abby and me the evil eye. “I’m trying to get some sleep in here!”
“Sorry,” I hurriedly replied, before Abby could get a word in. “We didn’t mean to wake you. We were just looking for a friend from our acting class. Gray Gordon. He’s an understudy in this show. Do you know him?” I watched her face for a revealing reaction.
Her sleepy scowl turned into a creepy smile. “Sure, I know him,” she said. “Gray and I are just like this.” She held up two closely joined fingers. “We’re Lunt and Fontaine. Romeo and Juliet. Ozzie and Harriet. Get the idea?”
She was either claiming to be Gray’s girlfriend, or telling us that she was his closest castmate-i.e., the play’s female lead understudy. Either way, I wanted to know more.
“You must be the stand-in for Maggie the Cat,” I ventured, figuring her scantily clad presence backstage made that answer the right one. (I’m so clever sometimes, it kills me.)
“Well, whaddaya know,” she said, sneering, looking me over from head to toe. “It has a brain.”
Uh oh. I had no idea why the young actress was being so rude to me, but I knew I had to pacify her immediately. Otherwise, Abby would leap to my defense and start telling her off-or, gasp, beating her up!-and that would bring a sure end to the interview. And I couldn’t afford to let that to happen. I had to get on the boorish blonde’s good side. Fast.
“So you’re Rhonda Blake!” I blurted, grinning from ear to ear (and giving myself a silent cheer for remembering her name from the Playbill). “Gray has told us so much about you! He says you’re such a wonderful actress you’re going to be famous someday.” I batted my lashes, shuffled my feet, and let out a fawning gasp of delight. “I’m so thrilled to meet you! May I please have your autograph?”