Read Online JP Beaumont 11 - Failure To Appear (v5.0) by J. A. Jance - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: J. A. Jance
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number of people who come down from Seattle every year.”
Just then Monica Davenport raised her hand again. This time, instead of a long-winded speech, she settled for a mercifully brief announcement, saying it was time to head back across the street.
The two large theaters in Ashland, the Elizabethan and the Bowmer, share a common courtyard and also a common backstage area. The catered party was being held backstage. While Alex busied herself politicking, I wandered off by myself through a maze of dressing rooms and folded scenery.
It interested me to see the props laid out on tables. During a performance, when stagehands are working backstage in the dark with cues coming hard and fast, I’m sure every second counts. Each item needed onstage must be in its assigned place in order to be readily available at the exact moment it’s needed. To facilitate that, an outline of each prop was painted on table surfaces in orange, low-in-the-dark paint.
On one table, I recognized several of the props from the evening’s performance of Romeo and Juliet . One outline was empty, indicating that something was missing—something roughly the shape of a knife. Glancing around, I suspected it was the old-fashioned kitchen knife Juliet had called her “happy dagger” just before using it to do herself in.
I noticed the knife was missing from its appointed place, but I didn’t worry about it. What the stagehands did with their props was none of my concern. I was an uninvited guest who had been allowed to crash the party.
For a time, I cruised the buffet table. Since I knew only a total of three or four people from the entire gathering, there wasn’t much else to do but eat and/or drink. Luckily, my earlier urge for MacNaughton’s had passed, and I was safe on the other side of it. For that moment, anyway, I no longer wanted a drink, but watching strangers waste themselves at the hosted bar wasn’t exactly my idea of a good time. Alexis was too busy mingling to pay any attention to me. Finally, bored and overheated, I stepped outside.
The outside courtyard was blessedly cool and quiet. I stood there breathing in the still night air and looking up at the dark but starlit canopy of sky overhead. I was so far lost in thought that I almost missed the first warning sounds of squealing brakes and skidding tires. What did penetrate was a heavy sickening thud, followed by the grinding crunch of metal on metal and the tinkling shatter of glass.
If you’ve ever heard an automobile smash into flesh, it’s a sound that welds itself to your memory no matter how much you want to forget. Years of training drill cops to respond automatically when faced with such an emergency. It’s not so much a matter of conscious decision as it is reflex. I ran toward the sound of the accident long before the last of the glass finished falling.
“Help me!” a woman shouted. “There’s been an accident. Somebody please help.”
Racing toward the sound, I came to a Y in the courtyard. Turning right, I charged down a darkened staircase between two buildings to where I saw headlights and milling figures in the street below.
It was past midnight, an hour when most small towns would have closed up shop, but this was Ashland on opening weekend. Lots of people were still up and about. Already a small crowd had gathered in the street. I had to push my way through to see what had happened.
A once-perfect ’76 Plymouth Duster with its engine still running sat in a still-swirling cloud of dust. The twisted front bumper and mangled hood were buried deep in the shattered plate-glass window of a vacant storefront. As I neared the car, some quick-thinking passerby reached in and switched off the engine.
Nearby the woman continued to sob hysterically. Fearing the worst, I checked the interior of the Duster but found no passengers. Off to the side, I saw a man crouching on the curb of the sidewalk. He held his face in his hands, and I thought he was hurt.
I
Just then Monica Davenport raised her hand again. This time, instead of a long-winded speech, she settled for a mercifully brief announcement, saying it was time to head back across the street.
The two large theaters in Ashland, the Elizabethan and the Bowmer, share a common courtyard and also a common backstage area. The catered party was being held backstage. While Alex busied herself politicking, I wandered off by myself through a maze of dressing rooms and folded scenery.
It interested me to see the props laid out on tables. During a performance, when stagehands are working backstage in the dark with cues coming hard and fast, I’m sure every second counts. Each item needed onstage must be in its assigned place in order to be readily available at the exact moment it’s needed. To facilitate that, an outline of each prop was painted on table surfaces in orange, low-in-the-dark paint.
On one table, I recognized several of the props from the evening’s performance of Romeo and Juliet . One outline was empty, indicating that something was missing—something roughly the shape of a knife. Glancing around, I suspected it was the old-fashioned kitchen knife Juliet had called her “happy dagger” just before using it to do herself in.
I noticed the knife was missing from its appointed place, but I didn’t worry about it. What the stagehands did with their props was none of my concern. I was an uninvited guest who had been allowed to crash the party.
For a time, I cruised the buffet table. Since I knew only a total of three or four people from the entire gathering, there wasn’t much else to do but eat and/or drink. Luckily, my earlier urge for MacNaughton’s had passed, and I was safe on the other side of it. For that moment, anyway, I no longer wanted a drink, but watching strangers waste themselves at the hosted bar wasn’t exactly my idea of a good time. Alexis was too busy mingling to pay any attention to me. Finally, bored and overheated, I stepped outside.
The outside courtyard was blessedly cool and quiet. I stood there breathing in the still night air and looking up at the dark but starlit canopy of sky overhead. I was so far lost in thought that I almost missed the first warning sounds of squealing brakes and skidding tires. What did penetrate was a heavy sickening thud, followed by the grinding crunch of metal on metal and the tinkling shatter of glass.
If you’ve ever heard an automobile smash into flesh, it’s a sound that welds itself to your memory no matter how much you want to forget. Years of training drill cops to respond automatically when faced with such an emergency. It’s not so much a matter of conscious decision as it is reflex. I ran toward the sound of the accident long before the last of the glass finished falling.
“Help me!” a woman shouted. “There’s been an accident. Somebody please help.”
Racing toward the sound, I came to a Y in the courtyard. Turning right, I charged down a darkened staircase between two buildings to where I saw headlights and milling figures in the street below.
It was past midnight, an hour when most small towns would have closed up shop, but this was Ashland on opening weekend. Lots of people were still up and about. Already a small crowd had gathered in the street. I had to push my way through to see what had happened.
A once-perfect ’76 Plymouth Duster with its engine still running sat in a still-swirling cloud of dust. The twisted front bumper and mangled hood were buried deep in the shattered plate-glass window of a vacant storefront. As I neared the car, some quick-thinking passerby reached in and switched off the engine.
Nearby the woman continued to sob hysterically. Fearing the worst, I checked the interior of the Duster but found no passengers. Off to the side, I saw a man crouching on the curb of the sidewalk. He held his face in his hands, and I thought he was hurt.
I
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