Death of a Goddess: An Emily Lewis Mystery

By Sally Weinraub

Before a shocked cast and a packed audience, Raymond Stark furiously stabs his glorious leading lady and ex-lover, Elena, with a fake knife, but she smilingly rises to take her bows. Later that evening, she is found stabbed to death by a replica of the stage prop. Raymond is arrested, and his friend, Lou Massey, reluctantly agrees to defend him. Lou and his girlfriend Emily set out to investigate, but they soon become entangled in a gang of jewel thieves and a second death before the two unravel the threads of love and evil that led to Elena’s murder.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sally Weinraub
• Release date: Mar 11, 2016
• ISBN: 9780997161236

Sally Weinraub

Sally Weinraub was brought up in Manchester, England, and came to the US as a young woman. After working in publishing and raising her children, she earned a degree in law and worked as an appeals lawyer for over thirty years. She divides her time between Westchester County and New York City. Her family cookbook, in its second printing, is prized by her friends and relations.

Book preview

Chapter 1

"We’re overdrawn on time, Anthony, she said with a shudder. I’m leaving you. I must. But my love remains binding. And you…swear to me. Swear behind all the other faces, you’ll see only mine."

Her face, a pale oval under massed red hair, looked up at him. He took the satin-sheathed body into his arms. Always or forever…whichever is longer, he muttered. Yours will be the face I will see. Damn you for that promise!

He pulled her against him before driving the knife into her back, holding her hard until red drops spurted over his sleeves. Only then did he let her body sag down to the floor. She fell awkwardly onto her side, her face toward him.

A frightening moment hung in the air while he fumbled in his pocket. The dinner jacket bulged over scrabbling fingers. Then his hand jerked up, pressed into black metal, waving and glinting in the rays of an afternoon sun.

The gun stopped its flight for a few lingering moments before it exploded against his head, and he staggered sideways, crumpling, his arms flung upwards.

Silence hung like grey smoke. Nothing stirred. No breeze ruffled the long grass or rippled the pond’s surface to disturb the repose of the water lilies. The two figures sprawled alone and devoid of all passion, waiting for nothing except the coming darkness and the return to earth.

A long sigh broke the harsh tableau. Heavy curtains swooped across the stage. Seconds passed before the crowd burst into tumultuous applause, and the theater echoed with cheers and stamping feet. In response, the curtain lifted to a triangle of sunlight, hesitated, and then fell swiftly.

Lou Massey, seated third row, center, clapped his hands loudly. He’d seen the play when it opened but had forgotten the surge and fall of tension. The audience was on its feet, the applause slow and rhythmic now, waiting for the curtains to open so they could embrace the efforts of the players. Hardly surprising that they wanted to take this one to London. Raymond had been superb.

He turned to Emily. I can’t wait to go backstage and congratulate him on this one.

* * *

The blood coursed back into Raymond’s veins. Another death, another explosion, one more night of noise and sorrow, and the play had been running two years now.

The curtains swung together – Elena’s cue for her long limbs to stretch and bend upwards.

Come on, he urged. They’ll be raising the curtains. Come on, Elena. Time to get up.

He reached for her hand, but she lay unmoving. Come on, he repeated loudly, tugging at her lax fingers. He bent toward her, grabbing at both her hands, pulling at the knife still protruding from her back, blood streaming around it, staining the green satin dress and the floor boards.

The rest of the cast watched from the wings as he strained to pull her up, his fingers still red and sticky. Come on, Elena! he cried. They want you. Can’t you hear them cheering like crazy?

He snatched at the knife. Dammit, they’re raising the curtain.

Elena’s head fell back, her eyes closed. Raymond watched her in growing horror.

Elena!

He held on to her hands, clasping her fingers until her body slipped and sagged to the floor. Holy Mother of God! he cried.

His horrified eyes went to the crowd of actors huddled in the wings, watching. No one moved. He dragged his gaze back to the still figure.

Dear God! What have I done? Please, Elena, get up. I didn’t mean to hurt you. His lament circled the stage to reach the men and women waiting in the wings for their final bows.

From a distant place, Morris, the second male lead, waved his arms. For Christ’s sake, Raymond!…What did you do to her?

While Raymond stood, limbs frozen, eyes locked to the closed green eyes that once had haunted his dreams, her lids quivered and slowly opened.

Elena!

She gazed up at him, half smiling. Gave you a scare, didn’t I? You deserved it, you bastard. Altogether too rough, my dear.

Damn you. Get up. He pulled at her hands. There’s an audience out there. He swayed awkwardly, the strength draining from his limbs.

The little stage manager, Nate Gordon, touched his arm. Hey, take it easy…don’t pass out on us. Mr. Stark…Raymond. Watch yourself!

He shouted into the wings, You out there, blockheads! Keep the curtain down! No, not the safety…the curtain! Don’t raise the curtain!

Then he stepped through the folds, held up his hands briefly to the audience, signaling them to remain seated before he stepped back to the stage.

He turned to Raymond, who was wiping his forehead but now stood steady on his feet. Okay, Mr. Stark? Feeling better? Let’s go. He gestured upwards. Right, now. Move it!

The applause had stopped. Pale heads tilted expectantly toward the stage. What else would happen?

The curtain swooped up, and the cast appeared, assembled, smiling and bowing as they did every night. Elena’s arm was around Raymond, and together they walked to the front of the stage, where she dropped into a deep curtsey, laughing and blowing kisses to tumultuous applause. The purple folds dropped for the last time, and the house lights came on. Exit doors opened at the sides and in the back of the theater, and the cold winter air surged in.

Two chandeliers, their huge brass and black arms dominating the theater, lit up. Men and women picked up their coats, blinking in the strong light. A few hesitated, as though expecting the curtain to part again, before beginning a slow shuffle by the red plush seats into the aisles.

Progress was slow, and Lou leaned into his seat, letting them by, listening to the exclamations he heard about him.

That end bit, what was that about?

Beats me. I got scared there for a moment. The lady looked like a goner to me.

Do they do this every night?

Lou knit his brow. Not quite like that. Raymond had seemed different tonight, more like an avenger than a lost lover. Well, he’d find out soon enough.

Two days ago, Raymond had sent around tickets for the evening’s performance. His friend wanted him on the spot because there’d been serious talk of a London run, with the lead part for him. He needed legal advice, friendly advice. He’d emphasized theatrically that he needed all the advice he could get. Was that something to do with this stunt?

He turned to Emily. Something’s going on back there. I don’t recall the ending as quite so fierce. Like I told you, I’m meeting him backstage, so I’ll soon know. Can’t I talk you into coming?

No. Emily shook her head. I do have to go. I promised the babysitter, and I’m arguing an appeal tomorrow. I probably shouldn’t have come at all. Besides, I don’t relish being charming while you and Raymond talk contracts all night. She smiled at him, her dimples taking the sting out of the words.

I’d have done better than that. My innocent thought was to take you backstage. You can flutter your eyelashes at the male leads and make all the females jealous. How about it?

Tempting, but no. I’m going home. Just think, darling, the enchantress will be there, and I’m leaving you a clear field.

Dark and petite, Emily’s soft hazel eyes and her charming readiness for laughter often disguised the intelligence behind her smiles, an unexpected sagacity that, over the months, had drawn Lou to her and made him willing to forgo all the others – at least for now.

It looks pretty crowded out there. Come on, I’ll put you into a taxi before I go back to see Ray. Lou took her arm, and they inched together down the aisle. Just give me a minute to let him know I’ll be back.

Lou ran up the side steps and entered the stage from the left wing, bumping into a round table set with a wine bottle and two glasses. A glass fell over on its side, rolling toward the edge of the table, but he caught and righted it before it could topple to the floor.

He met no one until he stepped onto the stage, where he saw a small crowd of people, most of them clustered toward its center. He pushed his way through carefully until he saw Elena Morrell.

He stopped and drew in his breath. The star stood center stage, surrounded by the men and women he’d been watching just a few minutes ago, and what looked like blood stained her green silk dress and lay in pools on the floor. A young woman was wrapping a shawl about the star’s slim shoulders. There was no sign of Raymond.

The young woman dropped her hands. Who are you? she asked. Who let you in here?

No one, Lou said. I was looking for Raymond Stark. Does anyone know where he is?

No one answered. They had turned away, occupied in twittering anxiously over their leading lady. Watching them huddled about her, Lou realized how brutally Raymond had driven the knife into his leading lady. And while the death had been the only logical ending to a strange play, like all the others, he’d sighed with relief when the star appeared, smiling for her curtain calls.

She wasn’t smiling now. Tall and compelling, she was standing, arms flung out and angry sparks flying from her eyes. For two hours, he had watched her, flooded with light, generating pure sexual energy. Few men, or women for that matter, could have remained untouched by her performance or unstirred by her urgency.

Raymond? I never want to see him! the girl in silver suddenly cried, tears streaking the grease paint on her cheeks. He was horrible the way he stabbed Elena. He has never stabbed her like that. Never. You could see the hatred in his face, like he wished she would die.

The man who played Elena’s husband nodded. You’re right, Claudia, the guy looked venomous. Small wonder she passed out. His voice was stern, and his full mouth was grim under a soft blond moustache. His fair hair was brushed back, leaving a blond lock falling over his forehead. Lou remembered his name, Morris Stern, a star in his own right. He played Elena’s accepting husband with a touch too much passivity, a foil to Anthony’s dynamism, his role serving to illuminate the passion of the other two.

When you see Raymond, could you please tell him to wait? I’ll be back in a half hour. Lou touched the shoulder of a thin, graying woman – definitely not an actress. He’s expecting me, he added.

Where the devil is he? Morris asked. We were supposed to be talking business. Aren’t we meeting the London people in an hour?

"We are, Elena said. Not Raymond."

* * *

Emily stood at the end of an aisle, looking up at the heavy curtains. Were you having fun behind the curtains? Did you meet the enchantress?

You could say that. Lou took her arm. But nothing personal. Not enough time, darling.

Good luck later, then. She laughed up at him.

Watching her sideways, he caught the curl of long lashes, and the firmness of her curved lips. For all her feminine charms, Emily was no pushover. The appellant’s attorney would have his work cut out tomorrow. Lou’s money was on Emily.

I loved the show. She wound a coral scarf over her black coat. Elena Morrell was terrific. Those men never had a chance. I wish you good luck, but don’t get too close to her. And say thank you nicely to Raymond. She flashed him a smile and kissed the tip of his sandy sideburn.

As they reached the cool air and the crowded street, Lou shook his head. No hope of a cab now. We could drop in at The Blunt Axe and have a cup of coffee while the crowd thins out.

Actually, something a little stronger would hit the spot.

Sure. Ray won’t be ready for a while, and I left a message to wait.

The idea of a drink suited him fine, but Lou knew Emily wouldn’t change her mind about staying. She had agreed to come with him, but she’d been adamant about leaving early. She was an appeals lawyer, and she had an oral argument before a panel of judges the next morning. He was going to be on his own tonight. His lovely attorney had a mind of her own, a trait he often considered to be a major failing. On the other hand…Well, on the other hand, when two stubborn minds melded, the explosion of light was not so bad, either. Unbidden, the words of an old song came into his head: Once you have found her, never let her go. He shook himself. He wasn’t ready for holding on. Not yet.

That sort of ending adds some panache, don’t you think? An unknown voice behind Lou trailed into laughter, as he and Emily turned into the café. If you can call death a mystery.

Talk about mystery, what in hell did Elena mean about Ray not meeting with the London people? Had he already met with them?

* * *

Behind the stage, a narrow staircase led downward. Lou had been backstage before and knew the stars’ dressing rooms. He hummed softly, passing Elena’s room, marked with a star by her name. The door was closed, but he could hear excited voices. A few steps farther, on the opposite side of the corridor, was his friend’s dressing room. The door was flung open. Track lights shone over two dressing tables covered with pots and jars. A smaller table was littered with broken glass. Red stains, still wet, painted the shards.

He found Raymond in the adjoining bathroom, a cubicle containing a toilet bowl and a mirrored sink. The lights over the sink were blazing. Underwear was strewn on the floor. Socks were scattered by the toilet bowl. The window curtain was drawn.

Raymond stood at the sink, holding a knife in his hand. Steam rose up from the porcelain basin. He swung around to face his friend.

Lou! he cried. Thank God you’re here! I think I’m going mad!

Easy there, old man, Lou said, taking the wet knife from his unresisting hands. What’s wrong?

Raymond’s face, always pale, was the color of ivory. His tall, slim frame was hunched over. He scrubbed his hands on a towel.

Elena, he muttered. I don’t know what happened, but I think she’s dead.

Elena? Come on, Ray, half an hour ago, she was blowing kisses to us all.

Sure. She shone like a beacon of fire in front of the world. But the light’s gone out, Lou. She’s dead.

He pointed to the knife Lou held in his hand, and his shoulders sagged. And I don’t know what in hell to do.

Raymond gulped down the water Lou held out to him. They called the police, he said, his voice unsteady. I heard Claudia screaming. They’ll think I killed her.

Lou managed to grab the glass that was slipping through Raymond’s shaking fingers.

Why should they think that?

Because they know I hated Elena and that she’d become my enemy. Nothing’s secret round here. Lou, you saw when I stabbed her with the stage knife. Nothing happened to her, thank God. But everybody saw what I did. Lou, I hardly knew what I was doing when I attacked her on stage. I drove the damned thing into her back so hard I think I wanted to kill her. He swallowed before he was able to speak again, and the words came out in a whisper. And now she’s really dead.

You’re crazy, man! She had her goddamn arms around you, smiling and blowing kisses five minutes after you stuck the knife in.

That was a stage knife. Look!

Raymond pulled another knife from his pocket and stabbed it hard against the porcelain sink top. The blade slid back into the handle

Here. He handed the knife back, and Lou saw the handle was hollow. He could feel the spring device inside, and when he pushed harder, he heard a slight click, and the blade disappeared.

That’s the knife I use on stage, and I used it tonight. Sure, I hurt her. I was mad at myself, but I was madder at her. Later, I went into her room to fight with her, if you must know. I was still mad as hell.

You mean you killed her just now, before I got here? Lou’s voice was wondering.

Raymond turned on him, eyes furious. You think I’m a murderer? My God, Lou.

Simmer down, Ray. Lou grabbed his shoulder. I don’t get it. Goddammit, man, just tell me what happened.

Raymond stopped pushing Lou toward the door and took a deep breath. I don’t know where to start, he muttered. I was in a rage, I was ready to kill her, I admit that. I practically ran to her room. And then I opened the door, and she was lying there…all that blood…and the knife sticking out of her back. I thought it was another one of her tricks, like when she pretended to faint on stage. But then I pulled out the knife…this knife…and it was covered with blood.

You pulled out the knife? Lou’s legal instincts jumped to the fore. Great cats! Ray, why d’you do that?

Raymond’s shoulders sagged. I didn’t know it was real. How could I? It looks exactly like the stage one.

But you weren’t on stage any more. Why didn’t you just go for help? And what were you so angry about to begin with?

A saint would be angry. You can’t know…Last night…you remember the London run we talked about?

Sure. Isn’t that why I’m here?

Not any more. Oh, God! I don’t know where to start. Raymond sank into a chair, his head bowed. You know that Elena and I were lovers?

Lou had known nothing of the sort, but given the passion of this play, a love affair between the stars was hardly a shocker.

I thought I was in heaven. I wasn’t worried about her husband. Everyone knew Mark was impotent. He never cared about that part of her life. God, Lou! She was amazing. He looked up, half smiling for a moment, before he relapsed into silence.

Okay, so you were lovers, and you were in heaven. Now she’s dead, and you think you’re in trouble. I’m still not following. But Lou was beginning to get a picture, and not a pleasant one.

But then…oh, just let’s say that, for whatever reasons, one day I knew I wanted out.

He got up and walked away, his back toward his friend, his hands still playing with the stage knife.

And Elena wasn’t happy with the idea? Lou persisted.

Happy? I’d thought we were playing an exciting game. I had no idea I was dealing with the goddess of love herself.

Lou raised an eyebrow. Goddess?

Better believe it. Elena was convinced she was a descendant of some Babylonian goddess, Astarte, I believe, who sent her to this earth as a disciple to do her bidding. Raymond closed his eyes wearily. I was rough with her in that last act, but she didn’t pass out. Elena’s a terrific actress. And now she’s dead, and no one will ever believe I didn’t kill her.

He covered his face with his hands. I’m through. Washed up.

Lou became alarmed. Pull yourself together, man. The police will be here any minute. You can’t go to pieces now.

Lou, you’ve got to help me. I hated her, but I didn’t kill her. Someone else did that for me, he added bitterly.

Yeah, right, thought Lou. They’re all innocent as hell. But Raymond was his friend. He wasn’t here to stand in judgment. He’d get him through the night and then find him another attorney.

Take it easy, man. I’m not going anywhere. But I sure could do with a scotch.

Chapter 2

Lou stared at the ball of stained cotton under the sink. What in hell’s name is that?

Damn you! Raymond muttered. That’s my shirt. He kicked it into the corner and stared down. His face blanked out. His eyes were glazed. Lou cursed quietly. He knew the signs and prayed the man wouldn’t fall apart when the cops came.

He grabbed his shoulder. Hold it, Ray!

Raymond took the knife from Lou, stuck it into his pocket and walked to the mirror. He ran his fingers through his hair, smoothing it away from his face.

He shook off Lou’s arm. What are we waiting for? He strode toward the door, but before they reached the threshold, a police officer clattered in.

Stop right there. He blocked the doorway. Police Officer Ross. He flashed his badge. You Mr. Stark? Would you follow me, please.

His eyes widened at the knife jutting out of Raymond’s pocket. I’ll take this. He wrapped a plastic bag over the hilt. Then he saw the rolled up shirt and stepped back. Holy shit.

Lou moved forward, blocking Raymond from the cop’s view. Well done, Vinnie! One snag. Mr. Stark is my client, and he doesn’t say a word until I get to talk to him.

I should have guessed, the ruddy-faced officer muttered. Retained you pretty quick, did he?

No, Vinnie, this was pure chance. With that in mind, I don’t suppose you’d care to fill me in on what’s going on up there?

Uh-uh. No harm telling you the doctor’s up there. He ain’t got his work cut out for him, either. Don’t need to fix the time of death. Right?

He started toward the steps and then turned to them.

Hey, Massey, he said. Five will get you ten they’re gonna bring in your man. They’re still askin’ questions, but that’s where the wind’s blowing.

Lou stared at him. Not Raymond! Think about it. Right up on stage, the leading man is faking the murder of a star. If he’d a mind to do away with her for real, don’t you think he’d want to wait a couple of days, or at least when no one was around?

I wouldn’t know. I been in this business too long to take bets on anything. Let’s go.

I don’t get this big rush to make an arrest. You could end up holding the wrong man. Look at him! He can barely stand. I’ll bring him in first thing in the morning. With that bloodied shirt in Vinnie’s hands, Lou spoke with more confidence than he felt.

The cop shook his head. Save your breath. It ain’t up to me no how. Houghton’s running the show. My guess is they’ll take him in. Move.

* * *

Above, on the stage, Lou watched as the police pushed aside the dazed men and women hovering in groups.

Quiet!

A bulky plainclothes officer gave orders to a couple of uniformed men. They moved away and he raised his voice.

Let’s go! Off the stage! The officer pointed a finger. Down there. In the front two rows. My name’s Detective Dennis Houghton. Midtown Manhattan precinct, homicide squad. Who’s in charge here? He looked around. Well…Let’s have it.

He waited. The men and women, still in heavy makeup, milled nervously at the edges of the stage. They shifted glances, gazing about them. At last, as though by silent consensus, all eyes rested on a lean, wiry-haired man in his mid-forties. He stood in his shirt sleeves, watching Houghton. His salt-and-pepper hair receded from a square brow, but a full moustache graced his thin face. He caught their looks and grimaced.

I’m the director. He stepped toward the detective. Name of Patrick Gill. Truth is, I’m not around much this late in the game. Mark Morrell’s the producer. He stopped. Elena was the star of the show, and Mark’s her husband. Where Mark’s got to is anyone’s guess, but he’d not be of much use to you, so what can I do?

Get your people off the stage, Houghton said. Out of our way.

He waited as men and women shuffled down the steps and, finding seats, looked up, blinking at the brightly lit stage.

That’s better. Next, I want the names of everyone here tonight and those who’ve left. Cast…crew…everybody on stage or backstage. And no one leaves till I give the word.

Gill looked around. Who all was here tonight? Okay… His thin arm shot up vigorously, waving the last dawdlers off the stage. Give me a moment.

He turned back to the detective. The secretary’s gone or we’d have the payroll list, but she’s long away. The doorman left. That I know. I can check his book. Let’s see who else.

He counted off on his fingers. There’d be lights…two of them. They’re still here. Nate, assistant stage manager, over there, see? Four stagehands…Look, they’re listed. Those two work the flies. Up there, see? They’d be nowhere near the backstage rooms, not unless…This is a nasty business. I’m not grasping it yet. He pulled at his moustache. Stagehands are easy, they wear black. I don’t see them, but they’d be around somewhere.

Gill took a breath. That’d be one of the two dressers, over by the steps, Daisy. She worked for Elena. I only see one…Right…the other’s out sick. Wardrobe’s here – the skinny gray-haired lady, Violet. The wig man, Henry, I doubt he’d have been backstage. He’s fat and hates to move, so he stays upstairs. But he’s yours to ask, sitting at the end there. He pointed.

Understudies? One went home early, after the last curtain call. Elena was alive then. The cast, of course, seven of them. He fished a creased playbill out of his pocket. They’re all here, and Raymond Stark just came up. He pointed. You wouldn’t be wanting the doorman, I hope. He’s disabled. Sorry, but I sent him away a while before your officers showed up.

Houghton looked over the people below. Most had already found seats, and a few leaned over the brass rail in the front row. They talked in whispers.

Like I said, Raymond’s the main lead, and he’s the one who…who did the stabbing in the last act. But he used a prop. Poor bastard! He looks like death. He stopped. Hell! I didn’t mean that. Anything else?

* * *

The doctor spoke quietly to Houghton. She’s not long dead. But you know that. Looks like the knife entered to the left of the spine and pierced the aorta. Death must have been almost instantaneous. I guess that’s not news, either. Fairly straightforward job. Probably a right-handed killer. Used a hell of a lot of force.

He turned to leave. You’ll get the rest after the post-mortem. I’ll let you know if there’s anything else. No rush, I hope.

Make it fast, Houghton said. Sorry, but this one’s hot, and the brass will be on our tails. And, doctor, I’d be obliged if you’d stick around. The husband’s having a spell. Can’t say I blame him. Try not to knock him out before I get to him. Hear him now, screaming his head off? Poor bastard. Take a couple of my men and stop him from coming in here. Thanks, I appreciate it.

He looked down again. She’d been a beauty all right – even dead, and you couldn’t say that about most of his corpses. With those looks, the first thing that came to mind was jealousy. Then again, could be drugs. You couldn’t tell with actors, or anybody else for that matter.

He dispatched two men to search the place: every dressing room, the offices, the box office. He had warrants in his pocket, and a woman cop stood by, if the going got rough.

When he got back on stage, Vinnie was clutching what looked like a bloody shirt and holding a plastic-wrapped knife. The murder weapon? That was quick, but not surprising here.

The next few days would be hell. The media bastards would milk the killing for all it was worth. No wars, no summits in the headlines right now. Redhead Stabbed to Death on Stage or Blood Hits Broadway! Sure, the pressure would be on.

And the guy who did it was standing right there. The understudy actually saw the Stark guy running out of the victim’s room a half hour ago, blood all over him. More than that, Houghton had listened to half a dozen witnesses before he sent the lot of them down the steps. What he heard confirmed his conviction. The guy had been off the mark tonight, angry at the victim and vicious. There wasn’t much a lawyer could do about that. He could be in luck, for once. Live witnesses weren’t always so easy to come by.

He wouldn’t give a plugged nickel for celebrity crimes. Reporters on your butt day and night, second-guessing every move. His own wife, asking questions at the dinner table when all he wanted was a chance to forget the whole business for a spell.

He frowned when he saw Lou Massey. He’d been bested by Massey in the courtroom more times than he cared to remember. But here? Christ, the whole cast seemed to know Stark had killed the star. The story was he’d used a fake knife on stage, attacking the victim so viciously she’d fainted. And sure enough, he’d switched to a real one later. The case should be open and shut. And yet…

Raymond lurched toward him, holding a knife straight out. Here. He knocked Massey’s hand away from his arm. You’ll want to look at the prop. Your cop’s got the other one. I washed them both. I had to.

Houghton turned on Lou. You should have known better.

Come off it, Houghton, Lou said. The damage was done before I got near the place.

And you got to him pretty damned fast. Johnny-on-the-spot. I’ll talk to you later. What all else is screwed up? Are these the clothes he was wearing?

Not quite. He changed his shirt. Vinnie’s holding on to the one he was wearing, bloodstains and all.

Skip the humor, Massey. My men are down there. They’ll pick up underwear and anything else you didn’t think of. So, unless your client wants to make a statement…No? I thought not. The two of you, wait back there, last row.

Houghton turned again to Patrick Gill. Who takes care of the knives round here?

That’d be Nate Gordon, the stage manager. He’s in charge of props.

* * *

In the auditorium, the great chandeliers were dark. Reflected light from the bright stage grazed the two front rows, behind which dimly outlined seats faded into blackness.

In a back