This chandelier was on much too grand a scale for a theater with only three hundred seats. Piss-elegant was the term he was looking for. Though, according to Nick Prado’s press release, it was an exact replica of the original fixture from Faustine’s.
Oliver Tree had spent a fortune re-creating his grandmother’s theater. The grand opening was three days away, and the construction work was not yet complete. The air had the smell of fresh plaster and paint.
Riker looked at his watch.
Where is she?
If Mallory didn’t arrive soon, she would miss the main event, the bidding on the platform.
He looked up at the stage, where men and women were inspecting long tables decked with magic props. During the intermission, the auctioneer had left his podium on top of the platform. The man from Hollywood was favored to make the high bid, and then Mallory’s precious evidence would be on its way to the West Coast. He wondered if the auctioneer had been nervous standing in Oliver Tree’s place and looking down at the crossbows.
Nick Prado gave Riker a friendly wave as he walked down a short flight of steps at the side of the stage. For the past hour, this man had been exuding professional charm and warmth, presuming the role of a dear and close friend. But Riker preferred the distance of a suspicious acquaintance. He disliked Prado’s wide smile that said to everyone he met, Love me. Ah, but then how could you not?
Now the man was coming toward him, swaggering up the long green carpet. And green was the color of the theater seats, the walls and their high balconies, and the long drapes gathered in golden ropes at the sides of the stage.
Prado hunkered down by Riker’s aisle seat. „Well, what do you think of the place?“
„So this is what the inside of an avocado looks like.“
„You can blame the decor on Oliver’s grandmother. Actually, it’s Federal green, the color of American money. Faustine loved tourists. That’s why she spelled out the name in English. She wasn’t sure Americans were bright enough to work out Theatre de Magie.“
Emile St. John stood at the edge of the stage, hailing his friend. Prado excused himself and walked back toward the auction crowd.
When Riker had gotten past his fear of the chandelier, he admired the ceiling fresco of characters from famous plays. None of the actors’ roles were detailed in Prado’s handout sheet, and the only one Riker could identify was the long-nosed figure of Cyrano de Bergerac. This was an obvious departure from the original painting, circa 1900. But was it a joke or a tribute? Apparently, decades had passed since the old man and the younger one had met, for Cyrano was portrayed as a teenage Charles Butler.
Riker left his chair and turned to face the lobby door.
Where is she?
Though Mallory carried a pocket watch, he knew she only consulted it for show, a prop of normalcy. She was guided by an interior clock wired directly into her brain, and she was never, never late.
He walked down the center aisle and climbed the steps leading up to the stage. When he was past the lengths of heavy green curtains, he looked up again.
Oh, more things to fall on him.
Space expanded upward for twenty feet beyond the curtain valance. A narrow suspension bridge spanned the length of the stage. This catwalk of wooden planks was none too stable, swaying high in the air as a workman stood at its center, testing the rigging that held massive backdrop screens in place over Riker’s head.
He turned his eyes down to the less hazardous display tables and made a rough head count of thirty bidders examining the remaining auction items. A small group was clustered around the base of the platform, and a lone magician stood behind the auctioneer’s podium. Franny Futura was the new target of the crossbow pistols.
For the second time this afternoon, Riker stopped by each of the pedestals and checked the weapon magazines to be sure they were empty of arrows. And still it made him edgy to see the old man standing in the crosshairs of four pistol sights.
The white-haired magician walked to the edge of the platform and caught the eye of Nick Prado on the stage below. Futura made a rolling motion with his hand. „Nick, come up here. Come up and look at this.“
Prado shook his head and turned away.
„Still afraid of heights?“ Futura said this with great glee, as if scoring a point. „It’s only nine feet. Not that much of a – “ His words faltered as Prado’s body went rigid, then slowly turned back toward the platform.
„Franny, may I remind you that I live in a penthouse – a very high penthouse?“
Riker counted a double-point score in Prado’s favor. A fear of heights did not square with an apartment in the sky. And Futura did not have the means to live as high as Prado did, not according to Riker’s credit reports on both men. Futura’s face took on the humble aspect of a timid man, the poorer man, a mere ground-dweller. He moved back from the edge with some fear of his own. Perhaps he was seeing the crossbows for the first time and feeling vulnerable. Cautiously, he made his way down the platform staircase.
Prado was staring at the lobby doors and smiling.
Riker looked over his shoulder to see his partner walking down the aisle. Mallory’s eyes took in the chandelier and the painted ceiling, then traveled over the green walls and the balconies. She had the look of – what? Recognition? Had she been here before? No, that was not quite it, for she was obviously surprised by her surroundings.
As she climbed the short flight of stairs stage left, Riker made an exaggerated point of looking at his wristwatch, relishing this rare opportunity to rag her about punctuality, to inform her that she was tardy by a full forty minutes. This chance might never come again.
But now a familiar giant in a three-piece suit was running down the center aisle toward the stage, and Mallory called out to him, „You’re late, Charles.“
Riker ceased to look at his watch.
„Sorry.“ Charles Butler paused by the front row to catch his breath. „I was down in the basement and lost track of the time. Thought I’d have another look at the posts on the platform. You know, there is a fracture line – “
„So now you believe me.“ Mallory turned away from him. „Riker, who bid on the platform?“
„Nobody yet. The auctioneer called a time-out.“
Charles was staring at the ceiling. He had found himself in the painting of Cyrano. Yet he was smiling, playing the good sport, as he walked up the stairs toward Mallory. „You want me to have a look inside the platform now?“
„You can’t. It’s sealed.“ Riker pointed to the security guard posted by the platform staircase. „The door stays shut till the lawyer has the cash in his fat little hand. I talked to the movie producer. He’s a sure thing for the high bid. After the auction, he’ll let us have a quick look inside before he ships it out to the Coast.“
„Not good enough,“ said Mallory. „That platform’s not going anywhere till I have time to – “
„Hold it.“ Riker put on his let’s-be-reasonable face. „You can’t impound it, and there’s no search warrant. We don’t even have an open homicide case. The new owner can ship it to the moon if he wants to.“
Charles was distracted by a table of magic props. He read one of the authentication tags, then held up a round silver object that Riker had taken for a covered cake plate. „This dove load is over a hundred years old.“
Mallory drifted toward another table, finding the firearms more interesting. She glanced at each tag as she made her way down the length of the table.
Shopping?
As if she didn’t own enough weapons. But none of these should appeal to her. What good was a gun that could not fire bullets? Riker had already checked them against the auction list in the will and read the tags identifying their different functions. The old muskets only fired smoke. One Luger could be loaded with lines and darts, and several revolvers looked as deadly as anything Mallory carried, but these starter pistols were just for noise.