The Apostrophe Thief (12 page)

“Ohhhhhh, yes!”

“Well, Gene brought me that jacket as a sort of confidence-booster. He gave me this little speech about how the jacket should be worn only by those worthy of it—me, brand new to the stage, wearing something that belonged to Bernhardt herself! Whoo! But I wore it, you betcha! And now it's gone.”

“So wearing it was an honor?”

“Just slightly short of canonization. Is that the word I want? When somebody's made a saint?”

“That's the word. Was the jacket kept in the costume room along with everything else?”

“Yes, but Gene had new locks put on. It was
supposed
to be safe there.”

“Safe … what about that safe in John Reddick's office? Why not keep it there?”

“That little old thing? You'd have to wad the jacket up into a ball to get it in
there
.”

Marian ran her fingers over the imitation gemstones that were sewn on the front part of the jacket; the sleeves and back were an amber velvet. “Are you sure this is just glass? From the audience, they look like real jewels.”

Kelly grinned. “That's the idea. They aren't cheap, you know. Good fakes cost money. And those are larger stones than the ones on Bernhardt's jacket. These show up a little better, I think.” She'd finished changing. “Marian, you can do me a tre
men
jous favor. Come dancing tonight. I've already got two dancing partners lined up—”

“John Reddick and Gene Ramsay, I know. But I'm no dancer, Kel. Why don't you ask Ian Cavanaugh and Abigail James to go along?”

“Oh,
them
.” Kelly dismissed the two with a wave of her hand. “Their idea of a good time is to go home and lock the doors and shut out the world. They
never
go to clubs like Column Left.”

“That's the name of the place you're going?”

“That's the place
we're
going.”

“Sounds like a marching order—about face, column left. Change of subject, Kelly. Gene Ramsay just told me that John Reddick is in love with you.”

Kelly made a face. “Gene is a terrible gossip. John
thinks
he's in love with me. It's the Pygmalion thing,” she said earnestly. “He took this raw television personality and created a real actor out of her—and then fell in love with what he'd created … isn't that the way the story's supposed to go? Well, that's how he looks at me. But he'll forget all about it when he starts work on a new play. I hope.”

“Did he ‘create' you?” Marian asked skeptically.

“He helped.” Kelly was trying to be fair. “But I created myself. God, that sounds extensional, uff, I mean existential. But I think John is giving himself too much credit.” She laughed easily. “It's best not to take him too seriously.”

“I'll remember.”

“Now—you
are
coming dancing. No arguments!”

“Uh, I've got Holland here with me.”

“Holland?” Kelly didn't try to hide her surprise. “Well. Imagine that.” She mulled it over for a moment. “Curt Holland, huh?” Then the corners of her mouth lifted and she asked: “Does he dance?”

Marian laughed. “I have no idea.”

Kelly's smile got even bigger. “Well, then—let's find out.”

8

Holland didn't dance, or wouldn't. When Kelly invited him to come along to Column Left, he spun toward Marian and snapped out, “Is that what you want? Celebrity dancing? A whirl in the old spotlight? A little reflected glory for yourself?”

“Whoa!” Marian said, annoyed. “What's the matter? Is dancing against your religion?”

“I find it … exhibitionistic.”

“Oh, thank you very much,” Kelly said archly.

Marian found that an odd comment, coming from a man who at times displayed more than a touch of the exhibitionist himself. “It's just a way to unwind, Holland,” she said mildly. “Don't make it into something else.”

“You're determined to go?”

She hadn't been, until his surprisingly unreasonable response to such a simple invitation. “I'd like to go, yes.”

He smiled his most cynical smile. “Then far be it from me to interfere with your pleasures.” And with that, he walked out.

“What an
aggravating
man,” Kelly growled, low in her throat.

Marian agreed. What had set him off like that? She was provoked with Holland, and with herself as well, for allowing his behavior to push her into something she'd only half made up her mind to do. But she went along to Column Left with Kelly and her two conscripted dancing partners, John Reddick and Gene Ramsay. And she went determined to put Holland out of her mind; every time she thought she was coming close to understanding him, he pulled some stunt like this one. But if the man was determined to remain an enigma, let him.

Column Left had a long line of customers waiting to get in. Gene Ramsay ran an eye over the crowd and said, “Remember those restaurants in China that were found to be putting opium pods in their dishes to addict customers to their food?”

“Nothing that sneaky here,” Kelly said. “This is just one of the few places in town with a dance floor bigger than a postage stamp.”

They were able to bypass the line once the doorman caught sight of Kelly; luminaries had priority there. The waiting customers hooted good-naturedly as the four of them were ushered in, perhaps thinking that soon they'd be on the same dance floor as the celebrated Kelly Ingram. Inside was about what Marian expected; jam-packed with customers, strobe lights playing over the dance floor, a band performing with ear-shattering intensity. The place had one nice touch: the tables were divided from the dance floor by a thick Plexiglas partition that muted the music enough to permit talking without having to shout. But the effect of that was to make stepping on to the dance floor something like entering an arena, an arrangement that intimidated Kelly Ingram not at all.

Marian spent the next hour sitting at a table and talking to whichever man was not trying to keep up with Kelly on the dance floor. John Reddick was drinking a lot, tossing it down while watching Kelly like a moonstruck schoolboy. Gene Ramsay was right; the director was besotted with his star. But Kelly was the same old Kelly—friendly but not encouraging, having fun but keeping her would-be lover at arm's length. At one point Kelly acquired
five
extra partners on the dance floor, men and women both, all of them strangers and all of them having a glorious time.

“Look at that, Larch-Tree,” John Reddick said blurrily. “Everything rotates around her. She makes her own universe, wherever she goes!”

Oh dear. “How about some coffee, Mr. Reddick?”

“John. Call me John. Are you tryin' to get me undrunk?”

“Wouldn't be a bad idea.”

“It would be a
terr'ble
idea. And why, you ask? No, you don't ask. But I'll tell you anyway. It would be a terr'ble idea because … because … I don't remember why because.”

Marian asked the waiter to bring a pot of black coffee.

Gene Ramsay came back and sank into a chair, panting and laughing. “Kelly doesn't need me out there. Whoo! I'm too old for this.”

“Sheesh really byooful, isn' she?” the director mumbled.

Ramsay winked at Marian. “Yes, John. She's really beautiful.”

The waiter brought the pot of coffee. Marian poured a cup and pushed it across the table. “John—drink this.”

He made a face but did as she said. “I'm makin' a fool of myself, arn eye?”

The producer laughed. “Not yet, but you're getting there. The coffee's a good idea, Marian. Do you mind if I call you Marian? ‘Sergeant' and ‘Mister' seem a little formal for this setting.”

Marian didn't mind.

A young woman hiding behind a ton of make-up and wearing a short dress that looked made of aluminum foil came up to their table. “Excuse me—aren't you Gene Ramsay?”

He groaned. “Only during office hours, darling, only during office hours.”

“Mr. Ramsay, I was wondering if you'd look at my portfolio? I know it's an imposition, but—”

“You take your portfolio dancing with you?”

“Oh, I don't have it
with
me, but I thought—”

“Drop it off at the office and someone'll take a look. Just don't bother me now.”

“Really? You mean it? You promise?”

“Really, I mean it, I promise. Now run along.”

“Oh,
thank
you, Mr. Ramsay, that's really wonderful, I really ap
pre
ciate it …” She went on burbling until he turned and glowered at her; she backed away, still thanking him.

Marian was curious. “Will you look at it?”

“Someone on my staff will. I've got one person who does nothing but read portfolios and reviews and mail from the wannabes. Every third person in New York is an actor looking for work, which still beats California, where
everybody
is an actor. We'll look at this girl's portfolio—there's always a chance she has talent.”

“How can you tell that from a portfolio?”

“Her credits. You don't get a lot of roles without
some
talent. But if all she's done is Marian the Librarian in her high school production of
The Music Man
, we'll pass.”

“Ha!” said John. “
Marian
the Librarian.”

Marian waved a hand. “Not me—I've never worked in a library.”

Just then the band took a break; Kelly came back and sat down. “John, your turn next, when they come back.”

He made an attempt to rise but sank back to his seat. “Larch-Tree, you dance with her. I tol' you I have two left feet.”

“And I've got three,” Marian said. “The music's stopped anyway. Here, have some more coffee.”

Kelly realized John was a little tipsy and ordered him to sober up immediately. “I have to talk to you about Xandria. Did you see what she did tonight? She tried to upstage me three different times.”

“They learn fast,” Gene murmured.

John was nodding. “I saw. I'll speak to her tomorrow. Can't have s'porting players upstaging the star.”

“We can't have anybody upstaging
anybody,
” Kelly insisted. “You said that yourself, the first week of rehearsal.”

“I'll talk to her, I'll talk to her!”

“She's young, Kelly,” Gene said. “Still trying to find out what she can get away with.”

“Well, she can't get away with upstaging me. I'll nail her shoes to the floor.”

“What's her last name?” Marian asked. “I don't remember.”

“Priest,” Kelly said. “Xandria-Holier-Than-Thou-Female-Priest.”

“I'll remember
that,
” Marian declared.

After a while the band came back from its break, and John valiantly struggled to his feet and followed Kelly out to the dance floor. Marian watched as he stood weaving in place and occasionally waving an arm in the air as Kelly danced around him. A for effort.

Gene Ramsay touched her arm. “I heard you telling Ian Cavanaugh you had a line on our burglar. Who is it, can you tell me?”

“I'd rather not say. What if I'm wrong? Besides, my suspect's not in custody yet.”

“Why not?”

“Out of town. Let me ask you something. When did Sarah Bernhardt die?”

His eyebrows rose. “You're thinking of the jacket. Bernhardt died sometime in the twenties, I don't remember the exact year.”

“So that jacket's at least seventy years old. And it was still wearable?”

“The seams had to be strengthened and the lining replaced. But the velvet wasn't faded—the jacket had been kept folded away in tissue paper all this time.” He smiled. “You know, Bernhardt thought that jacket brought her luck. She called it her
veste à bonne chance
. Eventually it would have gone to the New York Museum of Theatrical Costuming—I'm on the board of directors. I only hope the thieving sonuvabitch who took it knows its true value.” A sigh, and he changed the subject. “This music is starting to sound monotonous. Are you sure you don't want to dance?”

“Positive.”

“Oh,
thank
you,” he said with a laugh. “My feet hurt. I don't see how Kelly does it.”

But after another fifteen or twenty minutes, even Kelly had had enough. Gene and his still-sobering director climbed into one cab while Marian and Kelly took another, the latter having decided that Marian was spending the night at her place. Marian was too sleepy to protest.

However, sleep was not what Kelly had in mind. She kept Marian up listening to her complaints about Xandria Priest. “She never just
talks
to people,” Kelly said. “She
flirts
. Every sentence that comes out of her mouth is a flirt-sentence, even when she's talking to women. She can't even say ‘It's raining' without making it sound like a come-on. That's the only way she
knows
to talk. She comes in wearing pink and does that cute, coy, poor-little-me act until I want to puke.”

Marian yawned. “Notcher problem.”

“The hell it isn't! I've got to watch her trying to seduce every man in the place with that innocent little girl act—do you know she even hit on Ian Cavanaugh while Abby was watching? And she knew they were living together.”

“Mmnph.”

“And every night she goes out of her way to flirt with Leo Gunn. Somebody told her Leo doesn't care for girls, but did that stop her? Not on your life.”

“Mh.”

“I know what this sounds like,” Kelly said morosely. “It sounds like plain, old-fashioned jealousy, doesn't it? A woman can't say anything about another woman's behavior without being called catty. But damn it, Marian, that girl
embarrasses
me! She makes all women look bad! It's demeaning.”

Finally she let Marian get to bed. Marian fuzzily wondered about Kelly's tirade; was she in fact jealous? No, Marian decided; jealousy was not part of Kelly's psychic make-up. She just didn't like Xandria Priest, that was all.