Blood Will Have Blood (2 page)

“No.”

“The last of his kind. A true nineteenth-century man of the theater. He did
everything
—directed, produced, even built his own playhouse. A man of vision, a man of dreams—”

“What happened when the money ran out?”

“A man with a great sense of theater. When his last show folded, he opened the grand drape, trained the spots on center stage, and hung himself from the catwalk. An unforgettable closing night. A few of my cast members figure he still haunts the place.”

“Do they think he fed Frank his bloody Bloody Marys?”

Darien concentrated on an ant crossing his desk. “I didn't tell the cast about Frank. I was afraid to stir up trouble. I told them something—some personal reason he had to leave. I couldn't risk losing anyone else so close to opening. The actors are nervous as hell.”

Here it comes, thought Spraggue.

“Michael, I need your help. You could stop this joker. You'd be there, in the company, onstage—”

“Spying,” Spraggue added flatly.

“This play deserves a chance to be born.” Darien's voice dropped. “I want a chance. Everything I own is tied up in this project. I
need
this play! I can't just let it go!”

Spraggue shifted in the uncomfortable chair. He could feel the iron seat beneath its tiny pink cushion. “May I suggest you call in the police?”

“I want a show, not an investigation! Imagine rehearsals with the troops belching in the balcony! Picture the publicity! Absolutely not.”

“Arthur.” Spraggue waited until Darien's wide blue eyes met his before he spoke. “Is there anyone you suspect? If there is, tell me now.”

“If I knew, if I had any idea, I'd tackle the bastard myself.”

“Is there anyone you can positively eliminate?”

“Yes.” Darien closed his eyes, rubbed his temples with shaky fingertips. “First of all, the crew. The disturbances started before they came up from New York. My house manager, Dennis Boland. He was out of town when a few of the pranks were pulled. My stage manager—no. You'll have to leave her in.”

“Her?”

“Karen Snow. Excellent stage manager. Very professional.”

“That leaves the cast, Arthur.”

Darien threw up his hands. The feeling, Spraggue supposed, was sincere. The gesture was pure theater. “I can't believe any one of my actors would try to hurt this show. Why, Michael? Why would anyone want to—”

“That's the question,” Spraggue agreed. “Why?”

Darien shoved a dark blue folder across the desk top. “Then you'll do it? I knew—well, let's say I hoped you would. Here's the script. Nine o'clock tomorrow morning.…”

“Wait a minute. No commitment yet. If you're really serious about this, I'll need a lot more than a lousy script. I'll need a cast list, a crew list, résumés, a list of your financial backers—”

Darien held up a silencing hand. “I have responsibilities toward those people. I can't give you any money stuff. Look”—he was thinking hard—“how's this? You can meet the backers next week. I'm going to throw a party, a gala like the ones old Phelps used to host when the theater first opened. The backers will all be there and—”

“I'm supposed to sit on my butt for a week? There's not enough time as it is. Too many people involved, too many possibilities.”

Darien waved the script in front of Spraggue's eyes. “Just read it,” he pleaded. “Come back tomorrow and give me your answer.”

“I can give you half an answer now. I'd like to play Seward. But one week—”

“Hell, Spraggue, you're a quick study. If I didn't know you could do it, I wouldn't have spent three days tracking you down. I had to call your aunt personally, beg her to get you to come and talk to me. I'm not saying it'll be easy.” He jerked open the top desk drawer, located a single sheet of paper. “Here's a rehearsal schedule. We're well into the crunch; you won't get a day off for two weeks—”

Spraggue lifted his eyes from the neatly printed timetable. “And then it'll be Monday.”

“Right. It's good-bye weekends.”

“Matinees on Sundays,” Spraggue said.

“And Wednesdays,” Darien added. “I know you don't need the money, Spraggue—”

“But I'd like the work.”

“I was hoping you'd say that.”

“It's just that the other half of the deal doesn't exactly smell like lilacs to me.”

“You'd be helping all of us. The actors are
scared
. Hell, I'm scared.”

Spraggue got to his feet. “I'll read the script,” he said.

“That's all I can ask.”

The hallway felt miraculously cool and dark after the overheated office. Spraggue shut the door and stood silently for a minute, reviewing the conversation in his mind. Arthur Darien … It wasn't his words; they were mundane enough. It was just that you never got a chance to realize how ordinary they were while Darien spoke. He fixed you with that blue-eyed stare, turned the full force of his personality on you, and you succumbed. What an actor he would have made! What an actor he was.

Spraggue heard the door click and moved hastily forward. He didn't want the director to collide with his backside. But the door stayed shut; Darien didn't emerge. One of the other doors to the office must have opened. Inside, voices murmured. Spraggue moved off down the hall, but not before one sentence caught his ear.

“I just hope you know what you're doing,” said an oily voice that was not Arthur Darien's.

Chapter Two

Spraggue waited for the Dudley bus at the corner of Mass Ave and Huntington. The hazy late-August heat was little improvement over Darien's stuffy office. Not even a breeze to rattle the piles of broken beer bottles and empty Coke cans.

A chance to act for Arthur Darien again. A good role in a successful play. All Darien's shows worked—when he was sober.

Why were there always goddam strings attached?

Usually the pitch was financial. A part, yes, but would Spraggue be willing to guarantee just a bit of the backing? No? So sorry, but the part was taken … A
name
actor, a
star
would be needed. At least Darien wasn't after cash.

The bus came, backfiring flatulently. Spraggue boarded along with a floral-hatted matinee contingent from Symphony. He stood at the back of the bus—less crowded there.

A spy, a company spy. In the cast, but not
of
it. An outside observer, reporting every innocent conversation, each misunderstood gesture, straight to Arthur Darien.

He got off at Harvard Square, end of the line, and walked the mile home.

The box was centered exactly in front of the door of the Fayerweather Street triple-decker. It was wrapped in creased brown paper that had started life as a shopping bag, and tied with limp white string. His name was penciled in block capitals:
MICHAEL VINCENT SPRAGGUE III
. No address; it hadn't come through the mail.

His name was spelled right. So many people, tricked by the long A, gave the last name only one G. Of course, when they realized the family connection, knew he was one of
the
Spraggues, the mistake never occurred. Great-grandfather Davison Spraggue had taken care of that. Gossip columnists, hustlers, senators with bottomless campaign chests, they all knew how to spell Spraggue.

The sidewalk was clear. Two kids rolled a red dump truck up a tree root across the street. They didn't look up; too busy rerouting pebbles.

Spraggue hefted the box and climbed the stairs to the second floor.

The package was light—box, string, wrapping, and all came to not more than two pounds. Fourteen inches wide, a foot long, maybe three inches deep. It made a slight rustling noise when he shook it. He set the box on the kitchen table.

If he were still a licensed private eye, he'd be more suspicious, Spraggue decided. Fingerprint the paper? Useless. Too rough. Maybe open the whole shebang under water in the kitchen sink.

With his pocket knife, he cut the string.

There was birthday wrapping under the brown paper. Mickey and Minnie Mouse cavorted with Donald Duck. Huey, Dewey, and Louie danced in a circle around a pink-iced cake decorated with three flaming candles.

The box was plain white cardboard. No department-store name. No card. The sides of the lid were taped to the bottom.

Spraggue slit the tape neatly with the knife.

Tissue paper. Spraggue patted the thin white film, spread it back.

At least the bat was dead. No doubt about that. Gray-brown wings opened wide, held with pins to a cardboard backing. The thin membrane of the right wing was ripped almost in two. Maybe when he'd shaken the box.…

The furry body, amazingly mouselike, was small and shriveled. The head, completely severed from the body, was pinned an inch above the dark stain that marked where it should have been. Another pin stuck out of the tiny gaping mouth.

Spraggue swallowed twice, pushed the mess away, reached for the phone. Darien answered on the third ring.

“Arthur,” Spraggue said, “who knows about me?”

“What?”

“Did you tell the cast you were planning to offer me Seward? The crew? Anyone?”

“No.” Darien's response was definite.

“When you called my aunt, did you do it from your office?” That would be as private as skywriting over the Charles River. Three doors. Eavesdropper heaven.

“I may have. I think I did. Why?”

“Thanks, Arthur.”

“Don't hang up! Why did you want to know about—”

“Nothing, Arthur. Never mind.”

“Michael?” Darien's tone was hopeful. “Have you thought it over? I don't mean to put the pressure on—”

“I haven't even started reading the damn script.” The words died on Spraggue's tongue. He glanced at the beheaded bat, resting in fragments of bright wrapping paper.

“I'll take the part,” he said.

Chapter Three

“Places!”

“Get with it! Cut the work lights!”

“Just
minimal
blues between scenes! Take 'em down another point. Set it! Start with 47B. Preset 10. Okay?”

“Can I take the house lights out?” The stage manager shaded her eyes, stared expectantly at the center section of the orchestra. Experience rather than sight told her where Arthur Darien sat. The director nodded, then realized that the spotlights effectively blinded the woman.

“Please, Karen,” he shouted back.

Karen Snow, stage manager. Spraggue checked her off on his mental shopping list. Didn't look as tough as she sounded. Her voice was too big for her body. She gave a curt nod of her sleek dark head and paced steadily off into the wings. Authority set her tiny figure apart. In all the chaos of the long morning, Spraggue realized, he had never seen the stage manager run, never heard her voice go shrill.

A fat man glided across the carpeted auditorium and sat delicately in the seat next to Arthur Darien's. His face was as round and smooth as his body; his hair dark and greasy for one so pale. He folded his hands neatly over his belly, hiding the gap where his vast blue shirt failed to meet his navy pants.

Darien smiled, said hello. He called the fat man Dennis. Dennis. That would be the house manager, Dennis Boland. One more for the shopping list. Out of the running, Darien had said. Out of town when—

“Curtain!” The lights dimmed then came up slowly, deep blue shrouded in mist. The faint beams lit the unfinished set to advantage. All the scenery was constructed on a revolving platform. One semicircle handled the Westenra house and various rooms in Dr. Seward's sanatorium. The other side in stark contrast to the realistic Victorian interiors, consisted entirely of steps, landings, and platforms—a constructivist approach to both the rocky seaside at Whitby and the ancient battlements of Castle Dracula.

Now the setting was Transylvania, a chamber in the vampire's ancestral home.

The two actresses on stage, Spraggue decided, looked even better together than they did separately. Side by side, blond Georgina Phillips's slight figure emphasized brunette Deirdre Marten's model height. The blonde looked platinum; the brunette's silky hair glistened jet black. Together, the brides of Dracula were a testament to the excellent taste of the Vampire King.

Georgina muffed a line, broke character, groped for the correct words.

“Stop!” Arthur Darien's voice, world-weary, cut in. Spraggue grinned. God, he remembered that tone, that disappointed you've-failed-me-again sigh, that dreadful forebearance. Ten years ago, Michael Spraggue, the novice actor, had found it soul-shattering. Even now, he was glad not to be its target.

“Take ten,” the voice continued sadly.

Footsteps. Darien and the playwright left the auditorium. The dark-haired woman floated wordlessly off into the wings. The blonde bride, a pink flush settling over her round face, made a beeline for Spraggue's first-row seat.

“Another rewrite break!” she announced with a moan. “It'll be
my
lines that go. Every time I open my mouth on that stage I can just
feel
Darien suffer. Did you notice?”

“No,” said Spraggue truthfully. “Maybe it's just a technical thing.”

She flashed him a quick smile. “Honestly, I don't know why he ever cast me!”

A tall straw-blond man executed an elegant pirouette in the aisle, leaned languidly against a chair. “A man with Darien's reputation for the ladies,
especially
the younger ladies, and you can't
imagine
why he cast you? Isn't that sweet!” He had a tenor that threatened to lisp.

“Shut up, Greg,” said Georgina. “You're just jealous.”

“Ooooooh,” said Greg. “Is that supposed to mean that you think
I
harbor disgusting perverted desires for the old man?”

Georgina giggled. “Relax, Greg. Darien's got the hots for nothing but his show.” She sighed deeply. “Don't I know it?” She turned back to Spraggue apologetically. “You haven't met Greg yet, have you? Greg, this is Michael Spraggue, our new Seward.”