Page 92 of Script Swap
“No,” I said.“I’m afraid not.”
She stared at me, air whistling in the back of her throat.And then she said, “Let’s go, Mr.Dane.”She motioned at Tinny with the gun.“You too.”
“It’s over, Nora.”
“It’s not over!”The words were a scream.Some of her hair swung in front of her face, into her mouth, but she didn’t seem to notice.“Nothing is ever over.You keep trying and trying until it works out!”
Behind me, Tinny let out a single sob.
The hair on the back of my neck was standing up.
Nora wiped her mouth.The gun was trembling now, and she made a snappy movement with it.“Let’s go.”
Even though it was clear that Nora’s cheese—to borrow a Foxism—done slid completely off her cracker, she was still surprisingly careful as she marched us out of the box office.We moved down the darkened hallway, heading toward the backstage area.Tinny’s crying and moaning weren’t actually all that loud, but with the blood pounding in my head, I couldn’t seem to hear anything else.As we moved away from the lobby, daylight dwindled, and the shadows thickened until we were swimming from one pool of light to the next, like this was some kind of awful dream.And every time I thought I saw an opportunity, Nora was careful to minimize my chances.When we got to the fire doors I’d passed through on my way in, she made me and Tinny lie down on the floor while she opened them.When we reached the doors that led backstage, she repeated the maneuver.
And then, with Nora behind us, Tinny and I stepped backstage.The sound of the space was distinctly different, and it had that open, empty quality that probably had something to do with good acoustics.A few emergency lights suggested the shapes of curtains, the flies, even—faintly—the catwalk.But the darkness swallowed everything else.The smell of fresh paint and sawdust had faded to a faint note on the chill of the air conditioning.
What was her endgame here?If I could figure that out, maybe I could figure out how to escape—presumably with Tinny, too.I hadn’t been bluffing when I’d told Nora earlier that she couldn’t expect to shoot us and get away with it; Bobby would catch her eventually.But on the other hand, Nora was, uh, one tostini short of a charcuterie board, and clearly my argument hadn’t swayed her.Was she going to shoot us anyway?Maybe she’d force us into the trap room below the stage and kill us there, hoping that nobody would find the bodies until she could make her escape.But that didn’t make sense either—she didn’t want to run.She wanted to be famous again.(Well, not again; B-List famous.) (And yes, I’m exactly petty enough that even with the threat of imminent death poking me in the rear, so to speak, I wasn’t going to let Nora get away with delusions of grandeur.) A part of me that had been dormant for the last few weeks—the writer, that section of my brain devoted to jumping to conclusions and making wild inferences and generally indulging in flights of fancy—poked its nose out, tested the air, and suggested maybe Nora was going to try to make it look like Tinny and I had killed each other in a lovers’ quarrel.The wave of hysterical laughter that swelled inside me nearly carried me off my feet.
I was still trying not to break down with a fatal case of giggles when Nora said, “Stop right there.”
I stopped.Tinny bumped into me.And, to my surprise, she slipped her hand into mine; she was shaking.
“You’re not going to get away with this—” I began.(Hey, it’s a classic for a reason.)
But Nora said, “Enough of that, Mr.Dane.”And then, calling up into the dark, “How’s that, my love?”
The catwalk creaked as someone up there moved.
It was like my guts, my bones, everything turned to water.
“A little to the left,” Betty called down.No fear.No worry.The same stage director’s voice that had seen hundreds of productions through The Foxworthy successfully.And now she was stage-directing Nora’s performance of a lifetime.
“Betty,” I said, “you don’t have to do this.Whatever she told you, she’s using you.She doesn’t love you.She doesn’t love anyone.That’s why she killed Ray.That’s why she framed Jonni.As soon as she’s got what she needs from you, she’s going to abandon you.”
“You don’t give up, do you?”Nora asked.Her tone wavered between admiring and a growing certainty that I wasn’t right in the head.“I read the stories, of course, but then I saw you, with that ridiculous haircut, those idiotic clothes, the way you zipped back and forth, ‘investigating,’ making a total fool out of yourself, and I thought there was a misunderstanding.Someone was helping you.Your friends, maybe.Or that deputy you’re so attached to.But is this how you do it?Persistence?”
“As someone pointed out to me once,” I said, trying for haughty, “I mostly solve mysteries by blundering around until the killer shows up and tries to kill me.”
“I don’t think that’s as flattering as you seem to believe, Mr.Dane,” Nora said with a smile.“Step to the left, please.”
Tinny moaned.
“Betty, she’s going to leave you again—” I called up.
A shivering, metallic boom rang out overhead.A shadow leaned out over the rail.“She won’t!Because we’re tied together now!This is the last thing, and then we’ll be together for the rest of our lives.”
Irritation flickered across Nora’s face, gone almost as quickly as it appeared, but I had the sneaking suspicion that Betty was going to have an accident of her own sooner rather than later.
When I opened my mouth to say something to that effect, though, Nora wagged the gun at me and said, “One step to the left, Mr.Dane.Right now, or Iwillshoot you.”
Tinny’s grip tightened, crushing my hand.
“An accident,” I said as I stepped left.Tinny moved with me—mechanically, automatically, like a frightened child.“That’s your plan?”
“It’s an old theater,” Nora said breezily.“Accidents happen all the time.And Betty has been hounding Terrence for years to replace the rigging.I have to admit, Milton gave me the idea; the only useful thing that man ever did, and it was an accident.In any case, it’ll be a simple but all-too-common tragedy: Tinny was here doing whatever she does—presumably finding fresh ways to ruin the show with her creative ‘vision.’My God, child, you do realize there are other colors besides neutrals, don’t you?”
(Two scare quotes in two minutes—apparently, I wasn’t the only one who was petty.)
