Read Online Blood Will Have Blood by Linda Barnes - Free Book Online Page B

carriage?”
    â€œThat thing backstage that looks like stacks of bullion in a bank vault. The weight on the carriage is supposed to equal the weight suspended from the batten. If it does, then no movement. The chandelier was a little underbalanced, that’s all.”
    Spraggue lay back on the wooden floor. “I think,” he said, “that it might be a lot more fun to watch a performance from here. You could see all the lights glow and dim. The scenery would come closer, then fly away.”
    Karen leaned back on one elbow. “I’ve always preferred to watch the technical stuff. When I was a kid my mom kept taking me to the ballet, hoping I’d beg for dancing lessons. I couldn’t take my eyes off the lights. Came home with a crick in my neck.”
    Spraggue wondered how anyone could put in such long hours and seem so alert. He half-expected to see dark circles under her eyes, but the skin was as pale and clear there as elsewhere. No makeup, either.
    He let the companionable silence deepen before breaking it with a carefully casual question. “You know a lot about this theater?”
    â€œOld theaters are my love.”
    â€œTell me about this one.”
    She pointed. “That’s where Sam Phelps died. Hanged himself from the fourth pipe. Properly weighted, too. There was some scaffolding on the stage. He climbed up, fastened the noose, and kicked the scaffolding down. It was a Saturday night. He hung there until Monday morning.”
    â€œYou think he haunts the place?”
    â€œHe’s supposed to put in an appearance every opening night,” she said. “Seriously, no. All theaters have legends attached to them. Show people are superstitious. ‘Break a leg’ instead of ‘good luck.’ No whistling in the dressing rooms.…”
    â€œNever quote Macbeth .”
    â€œRight.”
    Spraggue hesitated. “Was Macbeth ever performed here? Do you know?”
    â€œOnce. It wasn’t successful.”
    â€œNever is. I’ve heard more Macbeth horror stories—car crashes the night before opening; chicken-pox epidemics; box-office flops.”
    â€œ Macbeth was Samuel Phelps’s last production in this theater. A disaster, critically and financially. He killed himself closing night.”
    â€œHow did you know that?”
    She smiled faintly. “I do my homework. I found an old book on Boston theaters down at Goodspeed’s. If you’re curious, I’ll lend it to you.”
    â€œI’m curious.”
    â€œIt’s downstairs.” She got to her feet with a swift economy of movement.
    Spraggue stood up. “I’ll walk with you.”
    â€œAfter we get the book, we’ll run your scenes again,” Karen warned. “Then we’ll call it a night. Okay?”
    â€œFine. How about ice-cream cones at Brigham’s afterward?”
    â€œNo, thanks,” she said stiffly.
    â€œA drink, then? It’s Saturday night in the real world.”
    â€œJust another work night for me.”
    â€œSorry.”
    They stepped over a tangle of backstage cables and made their way out the double doors into the gloomy hall. Sconces, fashioned to look like Elizabethan torches, cast dim shadows on the gray stone floor.
    â€œYou keep the book in one of the dressing rooms?” Spraggue asked. Eddie’s? he wondered.
    â€œIn the green room. I thought some of the actors might be interested.”
    Downstairs, the green room was the first door on the left. The name was traditional rather than descriptive. The green room, the actors’ gathering place, was dingy battleship gray, highlighted with battered gold chintz-covered chairs and a sofa.
    They found the book in one of the cupboards over the corner sink. Spraggue reached for it.
    â€œEddie says you saved his life,” Karen said abruptly.
    â€œActors. They exaggerate.”
    â€œNot Eddie. It’s funny; I thought I was immune to actors, but