OLIVIA FOLLOWED AMBER AND JOHN INTO THE THEATER, SMILING to herself as Amber chatted away about a variety of topics Olivia had never heard her discuss in the history of their friendship, including her love of musicians, her deep empathetic understanding of the artist’s soul, and how she’d always believed she needed to be with someone who understood that part of her. John couldn’t get a word in edgewise, which was probably a good thing, judging by the dazed look on his face. Amber didn’t seem to notice. She was delighted by her escort, and her mood was positively giddy by the time they grabbed seats near Jezebel and Peanut.
“Quiet down,” Mr. Cunningham said, the moment the bell faded into the echoes of the theater. “Unfortunately, I have some bad news. You all worked extremely hard to get Twelfth Precinct up and running in time for opening night, and I know we all hoped we’d be able to resume performances this week, so it is with great sadness that I must report the cancellation of the rest of the run.”
“What!” Amber cried, her good mood evaporated. “You can’t do that. My parents paid for this production.”
“My hands are tied, Miss Stevens,” Mr. Cunningham said, palms raised in surrender. “This decision was handed down from the archdiocese in light of what happened to poor Miss Mejia on opening night, and there is nothing I can do.”
If this had been last year, even last semester, Olivia would have been devastated at having an entire production canceled after opening night. It was an actress’s worst nightmare, the old Broadway joke about shows closing at intermission because the early reviews were so bad.
But now, with everything that had happened, Olivia was almost relieved.
“But do not despair,” Mr. Cunningham continued with a smile. “I also have some good news! We have a guest professor auditing our class for the next two weeks.” He gestured to the wings and Fitzgerald Conroy strode purposefully onto the stage.
Amber gasped. “No!”
“Yes!” Fitzgerald said, matching her tone to perfection. He wore a dark turtleneck under a piped black blazer, with his wavy white hair poofed up into a modern pompadour. “Ladies and gentlemen, I am at your disposal. I find myself with an unexpected gap in my schedule which I decided to spend here in California, enjoying the hospitality of my dear friend Reginald, who has indulged my curiosity by allowing me to come and observe his classes in person.”
Mr. Cunningham beamed. “It is no trouble at all, Fitzgerald. I assure you.”
“I thought I’d take the opportunity to get to know Reginald’s Twelfth Precinct more intimately by working with the original cast,” Fitzgerald continued. “Since we’ll be mounting the production at Aspen this summer.”
“Oh my God!” Olivia cried. “Congratulations!” She knew how desperately Mr. Cunningham had wanted this production to catch Fitzgerald Conroy’s eye.
Mr. Cunningham dipped his head. “Thank you, Miss Hayes.”
“Kiss-ass,” Amber said under her breath.
Olivia almost countered with “Takes one to know one,” but she managed to bite her tongue.
“I’m merely here to observe,” Fitzgerald said. “I don’t want to step on any toes.”
“Step on any toes?” Mr. Cunningham said. “Nonsense. I wouldn’t dream of depriving my class of your knowledge and experience. Mi class es tu class.”
Fitzgerald threw back his head and laughed heartily. “Excellent!” He clapped his hands and brought everyone to attention. “Let’s get right to it, then.” He pointed to Olivia. “Miss Hayes, will you join me onstage for a little exercise?”
Amber grunted in disgust and Olivia sensed an opportunity. “I’m not feeling very well today,” she said. “Maybe Amber could take my place?”
“Very well,” Fitzgerald said. “Amber?”
Amber rose regally to her feet, casting a glance at Olivia, her face a mix of skepticism and confusion, as if she thought that Olivia might be trying to trap her by giving up her one-on-one time with the famous director. Unable to figure it out, she scurried up to the stage and began a posture exercise with Fitzgerald.
Olivia watched but was only half paying attention. Being back in that space was still strange. It was like her second home, the place she felt most alive in the world, but after what happened to Margot, the theater felt dark and unfriendly, and it gave Olivia a jittery feeling in her stomach that she couldn’t quite shake.
She leaned back in her chair and stared at the stage. Fitzgerald was poking and prodding Amber’s body, pointing out the lazy, unengaged way with which she held herself. And Amber was clearly starting to get irritated by the constant criticism. Olivia smiled to herself. It was the same look Amber had on her face during the curtain call opening night, when Mr. Cunningham insisted that Olivia, not Amber, take the coveted final bow.
That’s when Amber had stormed off the stage. Which might have given her just enough time to attack Margot.
Would it have, though? Barely. It made more sense that Margot was attacked during the finale, when the noise of the band would have obscured any offstage commotion.
Fitzgerald called the class up to the stage, but Olivia lingered in her seat, staring intently at the wings as she tried to picture who was where during the final dance number: the band, the crew, and the actors.
“I can’t stop thinking about it either,” someone said close behind her.
Olivia jumped, and swung around to find Logan. She’d been so lost in thought she’d never even heard him take the seat behind her.
“Margot?” she asked.
Logan winced as if in pain, and Olivia was instantly sorry she’d been so blunt with her question.
“Have you seen her at all?” she asked gently, hoping not to sound too anxious for information about her friend.
Logan blinked rapidly. “Family only in the ICU,” he said.
“Oh.”
“But I meant opening night,” he continued quickly. “I can’t stop thinking about what happened.”
“Me neither.”
Logan stared at the stage, his eyes unseeing. “Do you remember what the cops said? About how we should report anything suspicious we might’ve seen?”
Olivia tensed. Was it possible Logan had seen something? “Yeah,” she prompted.
“I . . .” He paused, then shook his head. “It’s nothing.”
“What did you see?”
Logan’s eyes flitted across her face, then back to the stage. “I don’t know. It’s kinda fuzzy. I told that police guy, but I don’t think he cared. Still . . .” He paused again, searching for the words, then suddenly turned to her, animated and speaking quickly. “You know how when you can’t get something out of your mind and you say to yourself, ‘Dude, maybe you’re crazy?’ but somehow you just know you’re not but still maybe?”
Olivia had no idea what he was talking about but nodded encouragingly.
“It’s like that. I saw something. From the stage. And I can’t shake the feeling that, I don’t know, it’s important.”
Olivia swallowed, her throat constricted. This could be it. The break they’d been waiting for. “What did you see, Logan?”
Logan took a deep breath. “I know this is hella stupid, but there are these two dudes—brothers—who work at the place where I get my board waxed, and I’d been telling them about the play because they used to go to Bishop DuMaine. I invited them to see the show, and they laughed and said there was no way in hell they’d ever be caught dead on this campus.”
Olivia’s hands were tingling. Brothers who worked at a surf shop and used to go to Bishop DuMaine? It couldn’t be. “Maxwell and Maven Gertler?”
Logan’s eyes grew wide. “You know them?”
Olivia shook her head. “Not really.”
Logan looked disappointed. “Oh. Well, anyway, I guess there was some trouble when they were at school here, and they got kicked out. Or arrested. I forget which.”
Trouble was an understatement. DGM had busted the Gertlers for selling topless photos of their classmates to a Russian porn site. After DGM outed their anonymous username, they’d spent six months in a rehabilitation camp in lieu of juvie, and their parents had settled out of court when they were sued by the victims’ parents. It had been the ugliest DGM fallout.
Until Ronny turned up dead.
“I kind of remember that,” Olivia lied.
“Yeah, well, after laughing in my face, they were the last people I expected to see in the theater opening night.”
Olivia blinked. Could former DGM targets have really been at the show that night? “Are you sure?”
“Totally. I saw them hurrying down the aisle during the finale.”
“And Sergeant Callahan didn’t take you seriously?” Olivia couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Wouldn’t he want to follow up every possible lead in this case?
“Not really,” Logan said. “Guy’s kind of a prick. He said I probably couldn’t see clearly from the stage with all those lights in my eyes.”
“But you can see the first eight rows perfectly,” Olivia said. She knew that theater better than anyone, its sight lines and its blind spots. If the Gertlers had been in the first few rows, or leaving the theater after exiting through the stage door, Logan could easily have spotted them.
If only there was some way to see what was happening on stage during the finale. Like a photo or a video . . .
Olivia caught her breath.
“What’s wrong?” Logan asked.
“The video,” she said, her voice trembling. “The opening-night recording. Mr. Cunningham has every single opening performance videotaped so we can watch them later.” Why hadn’t she thought of that before? If she could get her hands on the recording, she might be able to see who had attacked Margot.
“Come on.” Olivia ran up the aisle to the back row, where Mr. Cunningham sat in the first seat by himself, flipping through pages on his ever-present clipboard. “Mr. Cunningham!”
“Miss Hayes. Mr. Blaine. Is everything all right?”
“Fine,” she said, her voice breathless with excitement. “We were just wondering about the recording of opening night.”
“The video recording?” he asked, his British accent sounding more prim and proper than ever.
Olivia nodded eagerly. “I’d love to see, er, how the finale turned out with all that choreography.”
Mr. Cunningham sighed, his eyes rolling back in his head in ecstasy. “Ah, yes. It was a glorious sight. One which we absolutely must watch in class.”
“When?” Logan asked.
“Alas,” Mr. Cunningham sighed, “I know not. The police have confiscated the camera, and though they’ve promised to give it back to me in due course, as of yet, I’ve had no word.”
Dammit. She had to get her hands on that recording.
“Mr. Cunningham,” she began, laying on her sweetest voice and widening her eyes. “Do you think you could call Sergeant Callahan and ask when it might—”
“Miss Hayes! There you are.”
Olivia turned and saw Fitzgerald descending the steps stage right. Behind him, the entire class was walking around—chests raised, arms in a ballet first position—trying not to bump into one another. Dammit. She hadn’t been paying attention and now Fitzgerald was going to think she was a diva.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Conroy,” Olivia said, hurrying toward him. “I was asking Mr. Cunningham about the video of opening night and I didn’t hear your instructions.”
Fitzgerald waved his hand dismissively. “No matter. This isn’t really an exercise you need.”
Olivia smiled at the compliment, proud that he’d noticed her command of the stage.
“Mr. Blaine, however . . .” Fitzgerald jutted his thumb toward the stage.
“Right,” Logan said. “Sorry.” He cast a backward glance at Olivia as he scurried up the steps.
“I was hoping I could speak with you after school today,” Fitzgerald continued, as soon as Logan was out of earshot. “To discuss the details of your internship this summer?”
Olivia froze, all thoughts of the Gertlers momentarily forgotten. Fitzgerald had mentioned the internship on opening night. He came up onstage during the final bows and kissed her hand, then said, “You’d make an excellent addition to our company at Aspen.” But she hadn’t had any sort of formal offer. This was it. The beginning of her professional career. Working with a director of Fitzgerald Conroy’s caliber would put her on the map in theatrical circles, not to mention the lifetime’s worth of stage experience she’d learn from him. For the first time in days, she forgot about the killer she was hunting, and thought only of herself.
“Of course,” Olivia said.
“Meet here in the theater?”
Olivia nodded eagerly.
Fitzgerald winked at her as he turned back to the stage. “I shall see you then.”
