We were in, and that was all that mattered.
33
Behind the Scenes
“Frank really is a courageous soul,” I remarked, as Dana and I darted deeper into the building.
“He is,” sighed Dana, and once again I detected that love light in her eyes.
“We have to find Zack,” I said, as I studied our surroundings. We were in a red-carpeted corridor, royally decorated with pictures of stars of the stage and screen. People were running in and out of the dozen or so rooms giving out into the corridor. Judging from their appearance—all of them were in diverse states of undress—they were the artists starring in Father Sam’s play. And all of them displayed those typical pre-premiere jitters not uncommon with stage artists.
There was a gentleman wearing a tuxedo, a monocle pressed firmly under his left eyebrow, who seemed in excellent spirits, humming a gay tune and smiling a pleasant smile at anyone who cared to look in his direction. He disappeared into a dressing room and I slipped in after him, wondering if perhaps here was where I would find my human. The room was humming with the hustle and bustle of opening night, several extras looking equally spruce in tux and monocle, and all of them talking too loudly and laughing too hard for no reason at all. Conspicuous in his absence, though, was Zack.
I slipped out again. Dana, meanwhile, had checked one of the other dressing rooms and gave me a thumbs down—yes, cats have thumbs. No, they’re not opposable ones, but yes, we do have them.
It was at this moment that disaster struck. From a room marked with a golden star—one of the dressing rooms for the stars of the show, I gathered—Barbara Vale suddenly emerged and, seeing Dana, swooped down on her, and scooped her up in her arms. Barbara was a big, motherly woman, with Nana Mouskouri glasses, and a wide, endearing smile that made her cheeks dimple.
“Dana, my pet! What are you doing here?” she squeaked, and before I could intervene, Barbara had disappeared back inside her dressing room, taking Dana along with her. I caught a desperate glance from Dana, and then she was gone. One more soldier was down, and I now faced the enemy alone.
The incident had given me pause, though. If Barbara had her own gold-star dressing room, wouldn’t it stand to reason that Zack, too, would be holed up in one? I checked the corridor: only five gold-star rooms left. I sighed. How was I going to get inside? Then I remembered one of the FSA tricks I’d picked up: all I had to do was get inside a human’s head and ‘nudge’ him into action.
I decided to get inside Zack’s head and induce him to open his door for me. Closing my eyes and focusing on my human, I willed him to open his door. Opening my eyes, I saw that nothing had happened, apart from a slight headache thrumming behind my left eye. Dang, I still hadn’t mastered this particular technique.
Then, remembering Stevie was more proficient at this than me, I started wondering where my fellow agent and trusted partner could be. Dana and Frank had come running when I’d sent out my distress signal earlier, but Stevie was a no-show, and so was Brutus. That Brutus hadn’t heeded my call, I could understand. The cat was, after all, not an FSA agent. But why hadn’t Stevie showed up?
I sighed. I only saw one avenue left open for me to pursue, so I pursued it. I ambled over to the first door and gave it a hearty buffet. The door swung open and a red-faced Mayor McCrady popped out. It didn’t occur to the chairman of the Brookridge Theatrical Society to look down at little old me, so after scowling down the corridor for a moment, trying to pinpoint the joker who’d played this fool’s trick on him and cursing under his breath, he slammed the door closed with a bang that made me jump.
One door down, four more to go. And it was as I’d pounded on door number three, that my luck finally turned. A familiar face popped out of the door and I gave a shriek of elation. I’d found my Zack. Directing his gaze downward, he seemed equally thrilled to see me, for he stooped down and gave me a cuddle, then carried me inside his dressing room. He didn’t even seem surprised to see me, but then I could sense that his thoughts were not really with me but with the play.
Attila the Hun could have showed up on his doorstep and he would have bade him entrance, no questions asked, so occupied were his thoughts with the part he was about to play.
Dropping me onto a couch that was conveniently placed against one wall, he started pacing the floor, half-crumpled script pages in his left hand while gesturing wildly with his right.
“Nuts about you!” he vociferated, just a little too loudly. “And I’ll be damned if I’m going to let that little weasel get in the way of our future happiness. Either he goes, or I go!”
With a jolt I recognized the scene I’d seen play out under my elm tree that fateful night, and I knew what would follow. I sat watching, enthralled.
“Eitherhe goes, orI go,” repeated Zack, his arms wide. Typical overacting, I thought.
“Either hegoes, or Igo,” he said once more, impressing the line upon his memory. He then mumbled something to himself and flipped to another part of the script. “Oh, my darling. My love, love, love.” He coughed, closed his eyes and puckered his lips, then made as if to kiss. He grimaced, and I could tell he was thinking about Barbara Vale. He then grabbed a huge knife from his dressing table and started wielding it with uncommon fervor.
“Take that,” he cried, as he slashed the air, his face suddenly contorted in rage. “And that, and that, and that!”
Oh, boy. This wasn’t good. No, sir. This wasn’t good at all.
34
Pipe Cleaning
Just then the stage bell rang, and Zack looked up, as if surprised, the knife temporarily held high above his head. Then he sheathed the monstrosity in a hidden pocket of his coat, abruptly turned a pretty Nile green and, quickly grabbing a wastepaper basket, vomited.
So much for the glory and glamour of the stage artist’s life, I thought.
Dabbing at his blue-tinged lips with a cleansing wipe, Zack checked his look in the mirror one last time, then blinked ten times in rapid succession, and vomited again.
Now was this the image of a cold-blooded murderer? I think not. I wracked my brain to figure out what to do next. The best thing would be for Zack not to appear in the play at all. He was an understudy’s understudy, so was it so hard to imagine Father Sam had provided for an understudy’s understudy’s understudy?
Just as I was thinking up ways and means of sabotaging Zack’s participation in the play, Father Sam himself suddenly popped his head in the door. He was dressed in some sort of penguin suit, and I remembered he was playing the butler.
“All ready?” Sam said cheerily.
Zack burped.“All ready,” he said, though he didn’t sound convinced.
“Great,” said Sam, beaming. “Just remember, Zack. When Barbara says, ‘No, Jack. Don’t go,’ that’s your cue to bring out the knife.”
“I’ll remember,” said Zack, licking his lips and fingering the small sword in his pocket.
“Good man. All right. Break a leg.”
“Huh?”
Sam laughed.“Just something we theater folk like to say before going on stage.”
“Oh, right,” said Zack. “Well, break a leg, too, I guess.”
“Thanks,” said Sam earnestly, and popped out again.
I was still trying to figure out a way to stop Zack from making a huge mistake, but time was running out, so I simply hopped onto his dressing table, stared into his eyes, and mentally projected the intention he refrain from leaving this room.
For a moment I caught his eye. Then he smiled weakly, patted my head absentmindedly, and abruptly did an about-face and left the room.
I groaned. Total mission failure. And the worst thing was: Zack had closed the door on his way out.
Frantically looking for an escape route, I suddenly noticed an air vent located near the ceiling, its grate dangling from a single screw. A cupboard had been placed underneath, stocked with boxes of theater paraphernalia. There was a box marked‘wigs’, another offering ‘beards& mustaches’ and a third promising all manner of make-up.