an excerpt from
PERSEPHONE COLE
and the Halloween Curse
by Heather Haven
Copyright © 2012 by Heather Haven and published here with her permission
Chapter One
Persephone Cole’s hand hovered over the ringing telephone. Waiting for the third ring was almost too much effort, like everything else in this heat, but Percy had a thing about answering a phone on the first ring. Sucking in a hot, sticky breath, she was ever aware of the oppressive temperature. She dripped with it. Eight-thirty-five a.m., eighty-three degrees, and climbing. Humidity high enough to wash your socks in. Welcome to Indian summer on the lower east side, one of the hottest ever recorded.
Percy reached over and turned off her only source of moving air, a small, beat-up oscillating fan that sounded like her eight-year old son’s bike the time he put a clothespin on the spokes of the back wheel. Looking up at the wall, her gaze focused on her newly framed private investigator’s license, barely a week old.
New York State Department of Licensing,
Private Investigator, Persephone Cole
Effective Date: October 15, 1942
Pride filled her at being one of New York City’s first female P.I.s, instead of merely a secretary. Of course, technically she was both now, but a little extra work never scared Percy. She took a slug of tepid water - no ice to spare in weather like this -- and picked up the receiver. She pushed back in her chair, lifted and crossed her legs, resting them on a corner of the desk. She’d relax if it killed her.
“Good morning,” she said, going into professional work mode. “Cole Investigations, Persephone Cole, private investigator speaking.”
There was a beat, where both parties were silent. Then a male voice asked on the other end of the line,
“Is this Cole Investigations?”
That’s what I said, bub. “Yes sir, it is.”
“Who’s this?” The voice was gruff, almost rude.
What are you, deaf? “This is Persephone Cole, private investigator.”
“You sound like a woman.” He barely disguised his astonishment.
And you sound like an ass. “That’s right. This is Persephone Cole, private investigator for Cole Investigations.”
She pulled her crossed legs off the desk, and leaned forward, her large, five foot-eleven inch frame causing the chair to creak in protest. Strands of long, flaming red hair broke free of the rubber band atop her head, damp locks sticking to her forehead and neck. Everything stuck to everything in weather like this.
“How may I help you?” She tried to keep her voice sweet. It was an effort.
“You can help me by handing the phone over to a man. Who’s there? Give me Gil or Pop Cole.”
“Gilleathain is deceased and Pop is out of the office on a long-term assignment.”
“Crap.”
“Uh-huh. So can I do something for you or not?” If you hang up, you might just be turning down the best ‘man’ for the job. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.
He let out a long hissing sigh, as if parceling out his breath in accordance with his thought processes. Percy blew down the front of her blouse waiting for him to either hang up or tell her what the hell he wanted. The cast iron phone felt like it weighed a ton, and if this was a big venture into ‘no thanks’ land, she’d just as soon end it now and get it over with. There was some grub in the kitchen with her name on it.
I’m starving. Oatmeal and canned peaches with diluted condensed milk ain’t doing it for me. Maybe there’s something else. Even Spam sounds pretty good right now.
While he thought, she pulled out the ever present sack of pistachios from the pocket of her trousers and threw it on the table. Still holding the earpiece with one hand, she rooted around inside the bag with the other. She popped a nut into her mouth and separated the meat from the shell with her teeth.
“Very well,” he finally said. “I don’t have time to try to find another agency, if there is one. Besides, from what I understand, every available man seems to be tied up or drafted. It’s such a nuisance.”
“The war’s a hassle, but don’t let it get you down.” She picked the shells out of her mouth, continuing to chew the nut as silently as possible.
If he heard what she said, he ignored her comment. “I knew the Cole Brothers from when I was starting out years ago. The boys helped me once before and they were honest. Are you honest?”
“I can be.”
“I guess it’ll have to be you, God help me. My name is Dexter Wainwright. You know who I am, little lady?”
“I do. You’re a hotshot Broadway producer and you can call me Miss Cole. Now we got the introductions out of the way, what can I do for you?”
“Last night one of my actors fell from the overhead catwalk and broke his neck. He’s dead.”
“That’s too bad. I hope he had an understudy,” Percy added.
Clearly taken aback, Dexter Wainwright gurgled. “No. Yes. What? Yes, of course, but that’s not why I’m calling.”
“Then get to it.” She popped another pistachio into her mouth.
“The police don’t believe it was an accident. They want to close my whole show down. It’s the…ah…Scottish play. Maybe you’ve seen it? We’ve been in previews for the last four weeks.”
Like I have a buck-fifty to throw away on your show. “No, I haven’t, but I’ve read about it in the papers. Macbeth, right?”
“Uh-huh.” He grunted. “It happened sometime around midnight. I don’t know what the hell Carlisle was doing in the theatre at that time of night.”
“Getting himself killed, for one thing.”
“I have until eight o’clock tonight to find some answers or the police are threatening to lock the doors.” He paused for a moment. “You know, I think you might be a wiseacre.”
Percy let out a chuckle. “Could be, but like you say, everybody else is drafted or tied up. If you want me, it’s the going rate, fifteen bucks a day plus expenses. You got that?”
“Got it.”
“Good. You’re at the Royal Theatre, right?”
“Right.”
“I’ll be there in an hour. And Mr. Wainwright…”
“Yes?”
“When I get there, you’re going to tell me the truth. All of it.”
“I…I…”
Percy hung up on a stuttering Broadway producer.
*
Chapter Two
Elsie, you were right. Since we dare not be seen together, this is the perfect place to leave messages for one another. No one will suspect a thing. I received a letter yesterday about father’s estate. After death taxes, debts, and mamma’s illness and funeral, there is nothing left. You and I are on our own. I saw one of the warning missives you sent out and it was cleverly done. From now on, no more warnings, dear sister; we will simply do. Wainwright will pay. They will all pay. I miss you. Evelyn
*
Chapter Three
Percy blew an errant wet curl off her forehead, and left the parlor, office, carrying the empty water glass. She trudged down the long hallway of the railroad apartment on the lower east side she and her son shared with her mother, father, and much younger sister, Sera.
Sera’s real name was Serendipity, named after arriving unexpectedly fifteen years following the first two children spaced one year apart. Percy’s older brother, Adjudication, married and became a lawyer, no doubt influenced by his given name. Stuck with Adjudication, Persephone, and Serendipity, the three Cole offspring went by the nicknames of Jude, Percy, and Sera, except to parents who called them by their given names.
Pop’s Christian name was Habakkuk, for the biblical prophet. Everyone called him Pop. Mother’s was Lamentation. Everyone called her Mother. When these two met, their first names convinced everyone who knew them, theirs would be a marriage made in heaven. Forty-three years later that was still true. Percy christened her eight-year old son, Oliver, putting a minor chink in the Cole family tradition of odd first names. She hoped.
Percy pushed the swinging kitchen door open and went inside. Mother sat at the table, peeling and cutting up potatoes. Her long, untamed white hair was contained for once, twisted and clipped off her face and neck in the heat. Worn down as a rule, people often remarked that between her wild hair, thin body, and daffy personality, she reminded them of a Dandelion caught in a windstorm. Naturally, this was not said in the woman’s presence.
Persephone looked at the woman who bore her with great affection. “Mother, you’d never know by looking at you the east coast is in the grip of a killer heat wave from Florida to Maine. And in the middle of October.”
“There you are, Persephone.” Mother gave her a bright smile. “If you’re taking a break from the office, come help me peel potatoes. Your father wants potato salad tonight. I think I remember the recipe.” Her shoulders hunched over, as if burdened by a sudden thought.
“Oh, dear, I can’t recall if it’s two pounds of potatoes or two pounds of fresh dill. I was thinking of throwing in some parsnips. They’re white, too. You don’t suppose it’s two pounds of mayonnaise, do you? No,” she answered herself. “That would be too runny.”
“My money’s on the potatoes, Mother. Work with that. I’d scratch the parsnips, if I was you.”
“Oh, dear, I have so many of them and they’ll just go bad.”
“Any cold sodas left in the fridge?”
“You might check, dear. It’s hard to keep them around with so many of Serendipity’s gentlemen callers.”
“Guzzle them right down, do they?” Percy crossed the worn linoleum of the large kitchen floor and faced the old refrigerator, the top cooling coils vibrating more than usual. The morning sun streamed through the large, paned-glass window facing a courtyard four stories below.
“Jeesh, it already feels like a steam bath in here.” Percy moved from the refrigerator to the window, and pulled down the aging shade. “That’s better.”
“I’m worried about your father, Persephone.” Mother stopped her peeling. “Twelve-hour shifts, working all night trying to catch these vandals. He never does sleep right during the day. Destroying the Lord’s house is not a nice thing to do. I don’t care if you are an atheist. Or is it agnostic? I can never remember which one is what. What they need is a little faith.” She shook her head and clucked her tongue, picking up the paring knife again.
“I think the problem is too much faith, Mother, coupled with strong feelings of self-righteousness. Then they start swinging a pickaxe. Pop won’t be doing the job much longer, anyway. He said the rabbis are pulling the plug next week on the project. Running out of money. But we’ll be okay. I just got a client, and I plan to get a lot more.” Percy opened the refrigerator door. She clucked her tongue, as well, but for another reason. “This stupid thing is almost as warm inside as it is out. I know this is your pride and joy, Mother --”
“Your father got it for me brand new, Persephone,” her mother interrupted. “It was the only present I ever wanted, a nineteen twenty-seven Monitor Top refrigerator. And we were the first ones on the block, too.”
“And now it needs to be fixed.”
“Maybe, but I’m not keeping anything perishable in there, Persephone. I’m using the Schlitz cooler in the corner by the larder.”
“So what is this, a glorified closet? We should unplug it. Save ourselves the noise and electricity.”
“If you wish, dear. Serendipity is bringing more ice on her way home from work for the cooler. She’s working half a day.”
“Before she runs off to an air-conditioned movie. That’s the only date she’ll go on these days.” Percy reached down and pulled the plug out of the wall socket. The kitchen fell into an agreeable silence.
“She does like it when the boys take her to an air-cooled movie house. I’ve never been to one myself. I wonder how they chill the air? It must be done with ice. Did you say you have a client?” Mother stopped peeling potatoes again and looked at her eldest daughter.
“I did. I have. Is there any fruit around? I’m hungry.”
“On the table.” Mother pointed to a bowl in the center. “What kind of a job?”
Percy glanced into the fruit bowl. “Oh, not these old apples again.” She picked one up, took a bite, and made a face. “I swear, this batch came over on the Mayflower. Where is all the fresh fruit these days?”
“The best pickings go to our boys overseas. You know that, my dear. You’re just enjoying yourself complaining.”
“Along with the best dairy, meat, and vegetables.” Percy mumbled, as if her mother hadn’t spoken. “Except for potatoes and rice. That’s why I’m shaped like the Hindenburg, not because I can’t control myself. It’s the war’s fault I’m fat,” Percy joked.
“Persephone, dear, don’t you say that about yourself. You’re not fat.”
“Thank you, Mother.”
“You’re zaftig.”
“Thank you, Mother.”
“Such a sad day for the airship industry when that beautiful ship caught fire.” Mother looked away, musing. “After that you couldn’t ride one at all; they just went away. Poof! I’ve always wanted to, you know, ride in an airship. Float through the air like a bird.” She continued peeling potatoes and throwing them into a bowl of water. “Tell me about your new client, dear. Is it more secretarial work? Not that it surprises me someone else would want to hire you. You are very good at organizing an office. You’ve done wonders for your father’s filing system, but --”
“I’m going to cut you off at the pass, Mother. You’re beginning to wander, and I’ve got to leave for midtown sometime this century. No secretarial work. Detecting, Mother, and don’t tell Pop.”
“Persephone, you know how your father feels --”
“Yeah, well, too bad,” Percy interrupted, taking another bite of the apple. “Mother, I’m thirty-five years old. Three. five. In five more years I’ll be forty. I don’t have to tell you, time passes like that.” She snapped her fingers.
“That’s what calendars are for, dear.” Mother’s tone was one of cheer, coupled with imparting helpful information. “So we can keep track. I can get you one, if you like.”
Percy knelt down in front of the older woman. “Mother, what I really mean is I been working for Cole Investigations for seventeen years. I helped Pop and Uncle Gil solve a lot of cases, too, between us chickens.”
“Your father always said you were a big help.”
“Now I want to be out there doing it for myself. I’m tired of sitting behind a desk answering a phone and saying, ‘Cole Investigations, may I help you?’ I want to be Cole Investigations…along with Pop, of course. It took me eighteen months of studying nights and weekends to get the P.I. license. And I paid two hard-earned bucks for it. Now I got the chance. Percy Cole has a brain, and she wants to use it.”
“That’s lovely, Persephone, just lovely. You have such a way with words.”
“But will they work on Pop?”
“I wouldn’t count on it, dear.” Mother shook her head. “You know your father, once he makes up his mind. What are you going to be doing, Persephone? I hope it isn’t dangerous. You have a young son to think about.”
“Naw. A cake walk, Mother. A little trip uptown to a Broadway theatre, talk to the producer, and head on home. You’ll never even know I’m gone.”
Big words, toots, but what the hell.
“I still don’t think your father will be happy.” Mother mused again then picked up a potato and dug out one of the eyes with the knife.
“That’s why we won’t tell him. Besides, I haven’t been paid by Cole Investigation for three weeks. Why? No moola. I’ll bring in fifteen bucks a day doing this. Pop’s only getting five a day and he won’t see any of that ‘til the job’s over. But that’s Brooklyn for you.”
“Fifteen dollars,” Mother said in awe. “In a day! My, my, my. And this sack of potatoes only cost three cents,” she said looking at the ten-pound bag. “Of course, it was on sale.”
“Fifteen bucks a day can buy a lot of potatoes.” Percy pressed her advantage. “And I plan to parlay this into a few days, at least. Oliver could use a new pair of shoes soon. He’s almost outgrown his last pair. Where is he, anyway?” She looked around the kitchen.
“He’s at his cub scout meeting. Then you promised he could spend the afternoon at little Freddy’s house making teepees out of popsicle sticks and working on their Halloween costumes. The boys are going to walk straight there after the meeting. I think Oliver wants to be the Green Lantern.”
“Maybe I can talk him into going as the Sheik of Araby. That’s only a headband around your face on an old white sheet. Unless you’re willing to make his costume, Mother. You sew so beautifully. I love that new robe you made me.”
“You can save your sweet talk, Persephone Cole. I already told the boy I would make it for him.”
“Thanks. And in return I promise to take care of the refrigerator, scout’s honor.” She held up two fingers. “I’ll give Sylvia a call later just to make sure everything’s okay with Oliver.” She tapped her forehead. “I’ve got her number somewhere around here.”
“Fred’s mother’s phone number is on the side of the refrigerator.” Mother pointed with the paring knife.
“Well there, you see? I was wrong.” Percy raised her hands to the ceiling in praise. “This broken-down piece of crap still has a purpose.” She went to the myriad of papers taped or held to the surface by magnets on the side of the fridge and started searching. “Got it! Murray Hill four-seven-seven-three.”
“What is her last name?” Mother, closed her eyes and concentrated. “Rendell. Sylvia Rendell. Such a lovely young woman. She asked for my recipe for split pea soup. Her mother was one of the Pipsmeyers over in Great Neck. No one ever asked me for a recipe before. She’s gone now.”
“Sylvia’s mother, right? Not Sylvia.”
“Sylvia couldn’t ask for my split pea recipe if she had passed over, now could she? And you a detective with a certificate and everything,” Mother chided.
“Just trying to keep it clear.”
“Sylvia’s husband is overseas somewhere in the Pacific. They can never tell you exactly where, can they? I think her father lives with them. Here, not the Pacific. He used to be in plumbing --”
“Hold that thought, Mother,” Percy interrupted. “You can fill me in later. I’ve got to go change into work clothes and hop on the BMT. I told this guy I’d be there in an hour.”
Percy bumped the kitchen door with the side of her shoulder, setting it on an outward swing, and passed through. She stopped, held the door open, and wheeled around to face her mother.
“And remember, mum’s the word to Pop on what I’m doing for now. I’ll call you later. I’ll try to get some decent fruit when I’m in midtown, something that doesn’t have as many wrinkles as Winston Churchill’s face. They’ve got a few good farmers’ markets in Hell’s Kitchen. And thanks for pointing me in the right direction for the phone number; Murray Hill four-seven-seven-three,” she repeated, trying to memorize the number. “And tell Pop I’m taking his number two fedora.” Her mind flashed to his thick, silver hair, often covered by one of two favored hats.
“Did you lose your hairbrush, again, Persephone?”
“Yes, ma’am, and no time to search for it.” The doorbell rang. “Someone’s at the door, Mother. I’ll get it.”
Percy ran down the hallway, looked out the peephole, and swung the door wide open for the downstairs neighbor and friend, Rachel Goldberg.
“Mrs. Goldberg.” Percy’s tone was warm but hurried. “Come on in. Mother’s in the kitchen. I need to get dressed and go see a new client.”
“A client, Persela?” Short and tubby, head topped with salt and pepper-hair, good-hearted Mrs. Goldberg spoke with a heavy Yiddish accent. She was the only person in the world to call Percy ‘Persela’. It was a term of endearment from a family friend that had known Percy since she was a small child. She clapped her hands together in delight.
“So go! Who’s stopping you? Get on those clothes and see if you can make somebody happy with your detecting business, such a thing for a young lady to do, but if someone has to do it, Persela, it might as well be you, because you are such a clever girl, always with the thinking and the looking at things like nobody else does and who found my wallet, which I accidentally threw down the laundry chute all those years ago.” Mrs. Goldberg finally stopped talking in her run-on sentence and took a deep breath.
“I am here to try to teach your mother to make latkes like I promised, but she doesn’t want to make them with potatoes. She says parsnips because they are in the larder and they are going bad! Did you ever hear of such a thing?”
“Well, you know Mother, Mrs. Goldberg.” Percy laughed lightly, as she turned and opened the door to her bedroom. “You’ve been trying to teach her to cook for years and you see where it’s got you.”
“Oy! Not years, bubala, decades.” Mrs. Goldberg hollered to her. “Decades I’ve been trying to teach that woman to cook, as if I have nothing better to do with my time and my Henny wasn’t a man waiting for his own dinner, God bless him for waiting and never saying a word --”
“Mother’s in the kitchen. Go on in,” Percy interrupted, pointing down the hall, as she closed the door to her room behind her.
“Oy!” Percy leaned against the door, sounding a little like Mrs. Goldberg. “Sometimes it’s hard to get out of this place.”
*
Chapter Four
It’s working, Evelyn, just like you said. The show is coming to a halt. I’ve been practicing throwing the knife when no one is around. I’ll try to throw one during the show, if I can get away with it. Even if it doesn’t strike Sir Anthony, someone else will be hit. There are so many of them onstage, someone’s bound to see the blade of Macbeth’s dagger coming at them. I know I mustn’t feel so wicked. We’re only doing what needs to be done. Right is on our side. I miss you, too, so very much. Elsie
*
Chapter Five
Percy climbed up the subway stairs at Forty-second Street and Seventh Avenue, better known as Times Square. Ordinarily she enjoyed this part of the City, so different from the lower east side. Midtown Manhattan pulsed with energetic, stylish people, going here and there in their late-model cars or scurrying along the sidewalks on well-shod feet. Percy liked to observe this condensed part of city life. It was a study in human nature like no other.
The overheated subway had smelled of urine and sweat. Along with all the other bodies, she emerged from the bowels of the City looking for fresh air. What she found was broiling hot streets and sidewalks, littered with piles of garbage and trash. Gusts of scorching air from the exhausts of passing vehicles blew bits of rubbish around, the only moving air in this hot spell.
What a time for the teamsters to pull a garbage strike, as if the City doesn’t stink enough.
She threw the dark blue jacket of her pants suit over the other arm of her damp, tailored blouse, allowing the previously covered arm some cooling off time. Adjusting Pop’s fedora over the red curls piled on top of her head, she pulled the brim forward to shield her face from a remorseless sun. Masses of tourists, civilians, and soldiers jousted with her for space on the crowded sidewalks the four short blocks to Forty-Sixth Street.
Arriving at the Royal theatre, a large marquis overhead announced the previews of Shakespeare’s Macbeth. The marquis featured a stark black and white drawing of the face of what some people considered one of Britain’s finest Shakespearian actors, the newly knighted Sir Anthony Slattery. Sir Anthony’s strong features were surrounded by smaller caricatures of people brandishing swords and archaic weaponry, all looking grim and murderous. Strategically placed bright red lettering used words like “brilliant” “riveting” and “wonderful” followed by lots of exclamation points. Similar posters were plastered everywhere possible on the building’s façade.
Percy pulled out a ripped newspaper clipping on New York City theatres from her pocket and read. The Royal Theatre was one of the last bastions of the golden age of theatre, having been built in the late eighteen hundreds. At that time, productions included not only straight plays and musicals, but operas, as well. The theatre’s proscenium arch, which framed the stage, was close to forty-feet high, accommodating the most opulent of operas. Reportedly, Aida marched two elephants onstage, plus a cast of eighty. Eleonora Duse, Sarah Bernhardt, Enrico Caruso were just a few of the performers who flocked here to be a part of its magic. So did the audiences. Seating capacity was fifteen hundred people.
Jeesh, fifteen hundred people in one place eight times a week. That’s a lot of hoi polloi.
The front of the theatre was closed and locked, it being nine-thirty in the morning. Percy looked for a side entrance and found a narrow alleyway. She walked down it noting the trash piled high on one side. A slender fledgling tree fought for survival amidst the rubble. Three quarters of the way in, there was a door with an overhead sign marked, ‘stage entrance’. Percy shrugged into her jacket then pulled on the handle only to discover it was locked. She rapped on the metal door, and it sprung open immediately.
An old man stood on the other side of the door, sparse grey whiskers sprouting here and there on an unshaven, sad face. A hat similar to the one Percy pilfered from Pop’s hat rack sat atop his head, but more faded and beat up. He looked her up and down.
“You’re a big one. You that detective lady?”
“I am. You that stage door Johnny?”
“Very funny.” His voice had a disapproving edge to it. “Everybody’s got a wise crack around here. I’m Ned. Mr. Wainwright is waiting for you in his office.” He gestured with his thumb. “Third door to the left.”
Ned flattened his body along the wall to let her pass. Percy stepped up the one tread into the theatre. She paused for a moment, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dark, so different from the merciless glare of the unrelenting sun. The air, too, was different, cooler, but stagnant and ancient, reeking of old ropes, dust, and gears.
To the right was a small booth carved into the wall. A Dutch door wearing a sturdy lock had the top half open to reveal a wall lined with tiny, numbered square cubicles. Each cubicle held a matching numbered key. In front of the cubicles, a single weathered wooden barstool sat, a messy newspaper tossed on top.
The man reached around her, undid the latch on the lower half of the door, and pushed. He passed through, picked up the newspaper and sat down, scrupulously ignoring her.
“I’m glad I don’t have your job. I don’t think I could get in there.” Ned grunted but did not look up from his papers. “So, Ned, tell me what’s your schedule? How many hours a day do you sit here?”
He looked up into her face, wariness coloring his features. “The theatre’s open, I’m here. Nobody supposed to be here without someone at the stage door. Them’s the rules.”
“Were you here last night at midnight?”
He pointed an arthritic, twisted finger at her. “I knew you was going to try to blame me for this. I done nothing. Got no call to. I just sit here and mind my own business.”
“Ned, you misunderstand me.” Percy crooned, leaning into the small room and bathing him in a warm smile. “No one’s blaming you for anything. I just wanted to know if you’d seen anything when you were here.”
“Whatever I seen, I told the coppers.”
“Good. That’s good. You mind your business, sure, but you’re a smart man. You see everybody coming and going. I could use your help, that’s all.”
“My help?” He looked up at her, mystified.
“Sure. You see what’s what. I need that.” She reached inside her pocket, pulled out three one-dollar bills, fanned them out, and laid them on the top of the narrow shelf of the Dutch door.
Ned dropped the newspaper to the floor. He looked up at her, his face breaking out into a toothy, yellow grin.
“Maybe I can help you, lady.” He preened. “There’s a lot to see around here, and I sees it. Not much gets by me; that’s the truth.” His hand slipped over the fanned bills.
Percy opened her mouth to speak, but heard a deep, base voice calling out from inside the darkened theatre.
“Miss Cole, are you out there? I thought I heard someone knock on the door. I’ve been waiting for you.”
“That’s Wainwright.” Ned whispered and pulled back into his booth. “You’d better go. He’s not always the most pleasant of fellows.”
Percy nodded. “I’ll catch you later, Ned.” She started down the hall.
“You know where I’ll be,” he called after her.
She glanced back, as Ned picked up the money. She smiled; he winked. He was her new pal.
The detective continued down a narrow hallway wearing a mish-mash of neutral colors. Splatters of beige, grey, white, and yellow paint covered irregular walls, walls plastered and re-plastered many times. What color the interior was supposed to be was difficult to say.
I’m going with drab.
Near the ceiling, low wattage bulbs, protected from breakage by steel mesh screens, were screwed into wall sockets every five feet or so, and provided a minimum of light. In between, eighteen by twenty-four inch posters, encased in dusty glass, showed previous productions, some dating back to the turn of the century.
If she hadn’t been summoned by the commanding voice and saw the shadow of an imposing man standing in a door frame, she would have stopped and read a few. Even someone from a non-theatrical background such as she, knew the importance of New York City’s Royal Theatre. It was legend.
The man hovering in the doorway, probably in his late forties, was tall even by her standards. Dressed in a three-piece pinstriped, charcoal gray suit that fit impeccably, white shirt and deep red tie, he had a certainty about his place in the world. This was a man used to being obeyed and believed his existence counted, probably more than most. Percy was on her guard from the first minute she saw him.
“Mr. Wainwright?” She approached him in the door way and extended her hand. “I’m Persephone Cole.”
She wasn’t sure if he would take her hand or turn away. It would tell her a lot, his initial gesture, so she measured his reaction to her carefully.
“Miss Cole.” He gripped her hand in his, holding it for a brief moment, then shook it. A smile broke out on his face, which transformed it instantly from cold and imposing to warm and compelling. Beautiful, even white teeth were set in a strong face with a Dick Tracy jaw line. “Dexter Wainwright. Thank you for coming on such short notice.”
Percy fought to keep herself in check. He was as handsome as any leading actor she’d seen on the silver screen and a good four inches taller than she. It was novel, looking up to someone not standing on a stepladder. Plus, she wasn’t completely sure how to deal with this man who could turn charm, intelligence, and animal appeal on and off at will.
“Yeah, hey, so I’m here.” Oh, grand, Percy. Good going. Clever repartee and all that.
“Please come in.” If he found her reply to be wanting, he didn’t indicate it.
The producer gave her hand a small tug and pulled her into the small white office. Percy looked around at a room that contained mismatched office furniture in what had once been a dressing room for several people. Naked bulbs surrounding six large make-up mirrors on all four sides provided lighting for the room. Side by side and evenly spaced apart, the mirrors hung above one long makeup table bolted to the wall. A desk, chairs, and two filing cabinets were shoved haphazardly into the remaining area.
Another man in his late twenties or early thirties sat at one end of the makeup table, studying a thick mound of papers clipped together in one corner. He raised his head, an appraising look coming into his eyes as he saw her. With slicked back, sandy brown hair and soft brown eyes, he had an easy smile.
He, too, wore a crisp white shirt, but there was no jacket in sight. The shirt sleeves were rolled up, giving an air of casualness, but were precise in their uniformity. Collar turned up, the starched shirt’s top three buttons were open to the man’s chest, once again suggesting a studied casualness. Around the waist of his black cuffed trousers, a patterned gray, yellow, and blue tie ran through the belt loops instead of a belt, finished off in a square knot.
Percy had seen something like that worn by Fred Astaire in a movie once. It looked as odd to her then as it did now. In fact, she wouldn’t have been surprised if the man before her leapt up and began to tap dance, breaking into a Cole Porter song. Instead, he turned to her with a questioning look on his face.
“Are you here for the tall witch’s part, luv?” Unlike Dexter Wainwright, he spoke with a clipped British accent. “You’re going to have to lose a few pounds first, dearie. Sorry, but do come back after that. Yours is an interesting face.”
“Ah, Miss Cole.” Dexter Wainwright stepped in between them. “This is our illustrious big-mouth director, Hugo Cranston.” He turned to the director. “Hugo, this is the private detective I’ve hired to find some answers to the problems the production’s been having.”
Cranston shot the producer a sideways look of surprise. “A lady dick? Cor blimey, I never heard of such a thing.” He stood up, stared into her face, and extended his hand.
“Then you need to get around more, Mr. Cranston,” Percy said, shaking his hand firmly. “We’re out there.”
Sure, maybe I’m the only one you and I have heard of, but there has to be a few more scattered across this great nation of ours.
“Then I stand corrected, Miss Cole.” He gave a short bow. “I like the look. Very Marlene Dietrich, although with those eyes, I’d stick to green. I’ll leave you both to it. I have auditions soon, anyway.” The director dropped her hand and threw her a warm, genuine smile. He moved to the door, pausing for a moment. “I jest not about your face, Miss Cole. When and if you should drop a few pounds…” He stopped speaking but looked her up and down.
“Gotcha. Should I find myself coming out of an eight-month coma, you’re going to be the first person I call.”
Hugo Cranston tossed his head back and gave off a hearty laugh. She could hear the sound of it resonating as he walked away. Despite his backhanded compliment, Percy liked him.
“Sit down, Miss Cole.”
The American producer pointed to a chair. Percy remained standing.
