Cue the Dead Guy. H. Mel Malton
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to run best with a couple of thousand pounds of equipment in the back and seemed to resent being taken out with an empty belly. I passed a couple of kids walking a dog along the shoreline, and they gave me a friendly wave. I waved back, realizing that driving the Steamboat van was sort of like wearing a clown costume. It was painted to resemble (not surprisingly) a steamboat, and there was a fake smokestack on the roof. Very cute, in an icecream-truck kind of way. Every school-aged kid in Kuskawa had seen a Steamboat show. The company began each tour with a local performance or two, to test the waters.
I parked the van in the Steamboat lot, killed the engine and reached over to grab the new amp cables, just as the OPP cruiser pulled in beside me. It was Becker and Morrison, of course.
“What are you doing here?” Becker said. This was not an unusual question, coming from him. We had enjoyed several similar encounters last fall, when my best friend, Francy Travers, had been the prime suspect in a murder case in Cedar Falls. I’d done a fair bit of meddling, and I always seemed to turn up just a little bit before the OPP did. It made Becker fratchetty.
“I work here, Mark,” I said, as pleasantly as I could.
“Oh. So it was you who called in the missing person report?”
“No. That was probably the artistic director, Juliet. Our stage manager’s disappeared, and we found his vest floating in the pool in the basement. We think he might have fallen in the river.”
“How do you know he hasn’t just gone out for coffee?” Morrison asked, coming around the side of the cruiser to stand beside his partner.
“He’s a stage manager. He’s not at rehearsal. In the theatre biz, that’s a cardinal sin. It just doesn’t happen. That’s how I know, Earlie,” I said.
Becker sighed. “That’s all we need,” he said, “a bunch of flaky theatre people.”
I smiled sweetly. “We’re not all flaky, Officer. Some of us are actually quite normal, with mortgages, morals and a healthy respect for authority. Follow me, and we’ll see if we can find one.”
We headed inside, Becker muttering behind me all the way as if I were leading him into hell. Turns out, I was.
Nine
KEVIN: Everybody tells you when you’re young how to behave/Like ‘wipe your nose, say thank you, save the world, kid, and be brave.’
-The Glass Flute, Scene iii
“You’ll probably find this useful,” I said, pulling the cast and crew contact list off the callboard and handing it to Becker on our way through the lobby. He gazed at it suspiciously, as if I’d just typed it up for him as a kind of step-by-step guide to who might’ve dunnit.
“It’s standard procedure,” I explained. “When you’ve suddenly got twenty or so new people to deal with, it helps to have a list. This is everybody who works here, what they do and where they’re staying. If you need to talk to the cast, we’re upstairs in the rehearsal space.” I introduced the policemen to Kim Lee, whose calm efficiency seemed to reassure Becker.
“You’re the one who called us?” he said.
“Yes, I did. I’m Steamboat’s general manager. Jason McMaster, our stage-manager, is pretty conscientious, and his disappearance is odd, so we thought you’d appreciate a call. You’ll want to see the shop, I expect. Polly, why don’t you go upstairs and tell Juliet the OPP is here and keep the cast occupied.” She turned to Becker with an apologetic grin. “They’re all a bit freaked out by this, officer. You know theatre people.” Well, Becker didn’t, actually, but her attitude was right in line with his own, and he grinned back at her. I felt a twinge of jealousy, which was patently ridiculous, as I wasn’t the slightest bit interested in him any more; I suppressed it as soon as I recognized it for what it was.
“Lead the way, Ms. Lee,” he said, and followed Kim to the shop stairs. Morrison rolled his eyes at me and fell into step behind Becker, doing a hunch-backed, Igor-impression. I turned my snort of laughter into a sneeze, but I needn’t have bothered. Becker didn’t even turn around.
“The cops are here,” I said, walking into the rehearsal space. Ruth was the only one there, leafing idly through Jason’s prompt book.
“Good,” she said. “The video’s over and Juliet’s got them in the wardrobe room trying on their costumes. We’ve wasted the whole morning and they’re getting antsy. Let’s send our fearless leader downstairs and get some work done.” I handed her the amp cables and left her to get her equipment set up for the sing-through.
There would probably be no complaints about a music rehearsal at this point. The first rehearsal day is generally a full one, scheduled to the hilt, with non-stop business and a feeling of suppressed excitement and anticipation. With only one frantic week of rehearsal before the first performance, it was essential that the first day set the tone for the rehearsal period. Wasting a morning lolling around watching videos and playing dress-up would not be good for cast morale in the long run.
“Geez, these are attractive,” Bradley was saying, surveying his rotund figure in a full length mirror. The outfits worn by the puppeteers in the Flute couldn’t exactly be called costumes. The gear was known as “blacks,” which is what they are. The idea was to cover every inch of skin, so that the actors in the black playbox would disappear completely under the ultraviolet light, and the puppets and props would spring magically into view, glowing. Both men and women wore skin-tight black body stockings and tights, with black cotton turtlenecks over top. To cover their arms and hands, they wore tight black wool gloves with elbow-length velour cuffs. The lower extremities were masked with black socks and dance slippers, and their heads were covered with black velour hoods. The hoods were the worst part. Like the rest of the outfit, the hoods left no skin exposed, and visibility was poor through the square of black screening that fell from the peak of the baseball cap around which the hood was built. The hems of the hoods were fitted with snap fasteners, which corresponded to snaps around the collars of the turtlenecks to keep the headgear securely in place. After a few minutes in full blacks, the cast of the Flute would sweat buckets.
“There’s no doubt about it,” Bradley said, sadly. “Dance tights are not my best look.” The turtleneck stretched over his belly and stopped just short of modesty, an inch or two above his crotch.
“Dancewear only looks good on dancers, darling,” Juliet said. “If you like, we can have someone sew an extra length of velour around the bottom of your shirt so it falls lower.”
“Don’t bother, Brad,” Meredith said. “More material will just be hotter. As long as it covers your skin, that’s all you want.”
“You will, however, need a dance belt,” Juliet said, leering. “A size large, it looks like.” A dance belt is the arts-world equivalent of an athletic supporter. Required gear for men in tights, believe me. Bradley went very red but leered back, which was the only way to deal with Juliet at times like these. “Come and help me pick one out, Juliet,” he said.
I told the director that the police were downstairs, so she said “carry on” in a breezy way and swooped out.
“Good save, chum,” Meredith said to Brad. “But you will need a dance belt, you know. Don’t know where you’ll get one around here, though. I’m going to need an extra pair of tights as well. The backups they gave me have holes in them.”
“There’s a dance supply place in Laingford,” I said. “If you guys can figure out what extras you’re going to need, I’ll order them tomorrow.” Everyone would need two sets of everything, in order to be able to get through two shows a day without stinking up the playing area.
Meredith, having done the show before, had brought her own body leotards, top-quality cotton things that would be a lot more comfortable than the cheapo synthetic ones the rest of the cast had to wear.
“How come she gets to wear cotton?” Shane said, reaching out a hand to pinch Meredith’s sleeve. She jerked