She hit the first step with the toes of her shoes and flailed her hand to the right, looking for a handrail or wall to hold onto. The blister on her foot screamed in protest. With the metal of the railing firmly in her hand, she quickly scaled the steps. Grabbing the doorknob to Marcello’s room like a lifeline, she turned it, pushed the door open, and slipped inside, trying not to get tangled in the crime-scene tape.

  The room was dark. When she was inside, she ripped off the mask, static crackling in her hair, and drew in an uneasy breath. She scanned the area, hardly knowing where to look first. Much had been removed from the room, probably by the police. The wine bottle was not there, but the tray that it and the glasses had sat upon was sitting atop the dresser, empty. No, if she was going to find any interesting clue to the identity of the murderer, it’d likely be hidden.

  The white linen shirt Marcello had been changing out of was draped over the top of the screen. She touched it, leaning into it. It even still smelled like the cigarette he’d been smoking, shortly before his death. It almost looked as if he’d just stepped out for a minute, as if he was one of the actors, on stage, rehearsing right now.

  Her eyes caught on the spot behind the screen, where she’d first seen Marcello’s lifeless body. Heat flooded her face, and her heart began to palpitate erratically.

  Concentrate, Diana.

  Taking a step forward, she dove for couch. She got to her knees and peered underneath, finding nothing but a discarded shoe. Shuffling to the side of it, she found a trunk with drawers. She opened them, one by one, finding nothing but stage makeup and costume accessories.

  Still on her knees, she pivoted, her lips twisting. Think, Diana. Think.

  The dresser. Of course. She crossed over to it and began to open those drawers, as well. Stationery. Cards from admirers that had probably once accompanied lovely bouquets. She read one of them. I burn for you, my love – G.

  Hmm. Well, she’d always known he was a womanizer, even before Luca told her that, because as good-looking as he was, how could he not be? But as she went through the cards, finding similar messages, her stomach churned. He wasn’t just a womanizer. He was a serial collector of women’s affections. He probably had a clan of women groupies in numbers that rivaled the population of some small countries.

  She sat back on her haunches, thinking. He’d encouraged the affection of so many women, but . . . Mariana, he’d shoved off. Often. That was strange, wasn’t it?

  Maybe he really did care for her, but didn’t want to admit it and blow his reputation. Sad.

  She shoved a drawer closed and opened another one. Nothing. Everything that could’ve been construed as evidence had clearly already been removed by the police.

  Still on her knees, she reached under the dresser, sweeping her hand along the thick carpet. Her fingers touched paper.

  Falling to her stomach and shuffling closer to the dresser, she reached as far as her fingers could, grabbed an edge of the paper, and dragged it forward. When she brought it to light, she recognized the shape instantly. It was another piece of origami, folded into a rose.

  But on this one, instead of her name, it said, Linda.

  Who was Linda? And why would he still be holding onto that note? Did he do that at every show, pick out a woman to woo and lure to his dressing room? The man at the door hadn’t seemed to think so, but he was old. Or maybe he was just trying to spare her feelings.

  Still, when had he intended to give this note to Linda? Diana was at his last performance. Maybe she was one of the smart ones who had decided not to show up, at an earlier performance. But no . . . Diana had been at opening night. So who was this woman?

  Slipping it open, she read:

  Lovely Linda,

  You look so beautiful out there. Please meet me backstage after the show. I’ll be waiting for you.

  Yours,

  M.

  So basically, word for word, the same message she’d received.

  But why was this letter here? Had he handed out notes to more than one woman for opening night, hoping one of them would dare to meet him backstage? Had this lady realized what a womanizer he was and left this as his calling card? After all, if the note had gotten Diana backstage, it had likely gotten others backstage, too.

  Nothing made sense.

  She looked around some more, feeling helpless. The photographs of Marcello, with various movie starlets on his arm, stared down at her, seeming to say, You must find who did this. You’re missing something.

  But the more she looked, the less convinced she became that whatever she was looking for was here. There was nothing else.

  Taking a deep breath, she turned toward the door and slipped the donkey mask over her head. It was only when she yanked the door toward her that she heard the voices in the corridor.

  The voices suddenly went quiet, and she cringed. She’d been spotted.

  What had Bea just said to her? First rule in being a spy: Open doors with caution.

  Probably the first of many reasons why she’d never applied for a stint in the CIA.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  No going back now, Diana thought, her hand clammy on the doorknob. Whoever is out there knows you’re here.

  At that moment, she felt very much like the animal whose head she was wearing.

  She poked her head out totally, to find a man she recognized as Oberon, king of the fairies, from the play. She was sure of it—he had a pointed, trimmed beard and was short in stature. But for some reason, he wasn’t wearing the wings and tights of the fairies. He was wearing a hat similar to one that Lysander wore. He was walking toward her, frowning.

  Her vision blurred. It felt mighty stuffy within the confines of the mask, as if it was squeezing her cranium. Oh god, here it comes . . .

  He stopped in front of her. “Roberto!” he shouted, then started to go on in mile-a-minute Italian. Diana simply nodded her ass-head and took it, unsure of what he was saying. He motioned grandly with his hands, then beckoned for her to follow him.

  Her heart stopped as she realized where he was asking her to go.

  He wanted her on the stage.

  She started shaking her donkey-head, now, fervently. There was no way she’d go on the stage. But she couldn’t get away. She glanced toward the end of the hallway, to the door to outside, to freedom, and saw Bea peeking out from behind a rack of clothes, finally looking as truly horrified and scared as Diana had felt, this entire time.

  She mouthed, Help me, but then she realized she was being stupid—Bea couldn’t see her mouth. She was wearing a donkey-head.

  Meanwhile, Oberon continued to shout to Stefano, who must be the actor that had been chosen to play Quince after Marcello’s death. Something about how the scene was going on and they’d been looking for him, she thought. Oberon actually got behind Diana and began to nudge her toward the stage, as if she really was some obstinate ass that needed the extra shove in the behind.

  She let out a little moan. She’d never felt more like an ass than she did right then. This was absolutely ridiculous. She might as well give herself up right now.

  As she reached for her mask, ready to rip it off her head, suddenly, out of nowhere, someone shouted, “Fuoco!”

  Fuoco? It sounded like a dirty word. Diana was momentarily confused until the same voice, Bea’s voice, screamed, “Fire!” Suddenly, an alarm began to clang overhead.

  Oberon’s eyes filled with dread. He turned and bolted down the hallway, toward his dressing room, mumbling something in Italian. Doors on either side of the hallway opened, and the halls filled with actors, all heading for the front doors. Diana slinked down the back stairs, toward the exit. She threw off her donkey mask, tossed it aside, and rushed outside. Bea was leaning against the wall of the adjacent building.

  “Find anything?”

  Diana was so breathless, she could hardly speak. The blood was still rushing through her ears. Smoothing her flyaway hair down around the crown of her head, she began to power-walk toward the sidewalk. She wanted to get as far away from this theater as possible, so she reached back, took Bea’s hand and rushed her out to the main street.

  When she got there, away from the commotion, she said, still hyped up on the adrenaline, “That was terrifying.”

  Bea laughed. “Oh, Mom, you need to get out more. It wasn’t even a little scary. You were in no danger whatsoever among those scary actors.”

  Diana glared at her daughter, wondering exactly what danger she’d been getting into in Japan, if that little episode was so mild to her. “You weren’t in danger, Miss Hide-Behind-the-Costume-Rack. I was. I almost had to go out on stage and act out the part of Nick Bottom—in Italian!”

  She giggled. “I think that might’ve actually made me want to see A Midsummer Night’s Dream, for once in my life. It would’ve been hilarious.”

  “For you, maybe.” She shuddered, but even she had to admit it was kind of funny. She started to laugh, too. “Seriously, though! I wouldn’t be alive, if I did go out on the stage. The director hates me. He’d have probably had me arrested, but not before I passed out from pure humiliation.”

  “Oh, shush,” Bea said, waving that idea away. “I took care of things. My shouting Fire at the opportune moment saved the day, didn’t it?” She blew on her fingernails and pretended to buff them on her T-shirt. “I told you I had your back, Mom.”

  “Hmm,” Diana said. “You sure are a superhero!”

  The theater was no longer in sight, so Diana slowed her pace. By now, her blister was screaming on her foot. Bea stopped altogether, so Diana loosened her shoe to take a look. It was redder than before. She needed a Band-Aid.

  Bea said, “So? Tell me everything! Did you find a smoking gun?”

  “Not even close. I found nothing.”

  Bea’s nose wrinkled. “Come on. That was the scene of the crime. You had to have found something.”

  Diana shook her head. “The scene of the crime was combed over by every police officer in this town, I’m sure. There was nothing even remotely interesting there, unless you count a note that he sent a woman, similar to the one he sent me.”

  Bea’s jaw dropped. “He sent you a love note? Really? That’s awesome! When?”

  “It wasn’t a love note. It was a folded thing, just asking for me to visit him backstage after the performance. That’s all.”

  “Oh!” She clutched at her heart. “That’s so romantic.”

  Diana rolled her eyes. “Bea, it’s not really all that romantic considering that one, it’s looking like he sent letters to quite a few women, and two, he’s dead. So really, pardon me for not being flattered.”

  “Oh, Mom,” she said, her voice laced with pity, as something must’ve just occurred to her. “But you went backstage to meet him, so were you thinking . . .?” She patted her heart again. “Oh, Mommy.”

  She shook her head and took Bea’s hand. Heartbreak as a twenty-year-old was a life-ending thing. But Diana had met with enough disappointment in life to know not to hitch her hopes to some actor. Still, she had had those silly thoughts of falling in love, of happily-ever-after. And no, while it wasn’t life-ending, it was just sad.

  “It’s fine, love. I’m not upset. In fact, I’m glad,” she said with a smile. “After all, if I had met the man of my dreams here, I would have less time to spend with you.”

  Bea reached over and hugged her mom. “Yes. Men. Who needs them?” she muttered, but even as she did, her expression turned stormy.

  “Hai hasn’t called?”

  She shook her head. “I think it might be over between us.”

  Diana wrapped an arm around her. She had a flashback to when Bea would skin her knee during one of her many outdoor adventures, and come in crying, wanting mommy to make it all better. Back then, an ice pack and an ice cream had always done the trick.

  “Well, Dr. Watson, what do you say I treat you to a gelato?” she asked.

  Bea smiled. “I’d love that. Thanks, Mom. I’m starving.”

  They started to walk down the street, as Bea thumbed in directions, trying to find the location of the nearest gelato shop.

  Suddenly, she looked up. “Wait. You said there was a love letter for someone else there. In Peril at End House, that was the key to solving the whole mystery.”

  “Maybe but real life isn’t anything like an Agatha Christie mystery, where it’s obvious which of millions of potential clues you can discount, and which ones actually mean something. It’s far more confusing than that.”

  “Okay, true. But was there any name on the letter? Who was it for?”

  “Someone named Linda,” Diana said. “But I don’t know how we’d find—”

  She stopped and stood still in the street. Of course.

  “Scratch that. I’ll have to get you that gelato later. I have an idea that Watson and Holmes need to investigate. Now.”

  Bea laughed. “As much as I love gelato, I’d much rather be your Watson!”

  *

  The women raced up the street, back toward the festival. By then, the crowds were worse than before, so they had to weave their way among festival-goers on the busy sidewalk.

  “Come on. I have an idea,” Diana said, leading Bea outside and up the street and down the alley. When she approached her door, she was just about to ring the doorbell when the door swung open.

  Mariana stood there, her shock soon morphing to annoyance. “What are you doing here?”

  “We have questions for you,” Diana said, barring her way on the front stoop.

  She pulled her purse up on her shoulder and shook her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t have time for this. They’re practicing Act Two at the theater, and I’m already late.”

  Bea smiled. “Oh, you don’t have to worry about that. There’s been a little delay in the rehearsal.” She winked at Diana.

  Mariana studied her. “How do you know? And for that matter, who are you?”

  “She’s my daughter,” Diana explained. “We just came from the theater. And—”

  “You have? Did you speak to Pietro? I doubt they’re even going to let us have a show. They delayed it until tonight, but I’m thinking they’re going to cancel it since the police don’t seem to know anything about who did this horrible thing.” She sighed.

  “It might help if you told them what you know,” Diana muttered.

  She sighed. “I told you, I can’t. Are we done here?” She tried to push past them.

  Diana moved aside, but Bea stood firm, crossing her arms. “Wait. Who’s Linda?”

  Mariana stopped. Her eyes widened a bit with recognition. “Linda?”

  Diana pulled the letter out of her pocket and handed it to the actress. “I found this in his dressing room.”

  She stared at it, then up at Diana. “Wait. . . what were you doing in his dressing room?”

  “That’s not important,” Diana said, blushing at the thought of herself traipsing around in that donkey mask. “Do you know who this person is, or not?”

  “Of course not. You think I kept track of all of Marcello’s women?” she said, avoiding her gaze. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I—”

  “You loved Marcello. You told me that. I think you know more about Marcello’s women than you’re letting on,” Diana stated.

  She started to shake her head, and then she sighed. “Linda. Yes, I suppose she was one of our troupe groupies.”

  “Troupe groupies?” Bea asked.

  “Yes. We have several. Most of them are in love with Marcello.”

  Bea said, “The note is in English. Is she—”

  “Yes, I believe she’s American, living in town. I don’t know where she lives, but I know where she works. The Caffè Al Teatro.”

  That struck a chord. Diana had been there. “Wait . . . doesn’t Luca Castille live over there?”

  She shrugged. “Luca? Maybe. I don’t know.”

  “I was in that café. I talked to an American barista this morning. She told me she was a big fan of Marcello’s.”

  “And?” Bea asked. “Was she acting weird?”

  Diana frowned, trying to remember if she’d been acting oddly at all. No, she hadn’t. In fact, from the way she spoke, she didn’t sound like she even knew Marcello was dead. She shook her head.

  Still . . . it was a lead. The best one she had.

  “Thanks, Mariana.” She took her daughter by the arm. “Come on, Watson. Let’s go ask Linda some questions.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  When Diana and Bea arrived, Caffè Al Teatro was buzzing. It seemed to be filled with well-dressed people who’d come to see the performance, only to find out that it had been delayed. As Diana and Bea stood in the long line, stretching nearly out the door, Bea stood on her tiptoes.

  “Is that the lady?” Bea asked, pointing toward the front of the room.

  Diana tried to stand on the tips of her own toes, but it did no good. She was several inches shorter than her daughter, even without the funny platform sneakers her daughter was fond of wearing. She tried to move to the side, but there was a wall in the way. “I don’t know. What does she look like?”

  “Kind of overweight. Middle-aged. Glasses. Oh, and the bottom of her hair is blue.”

  Diana nodded. “That’s her.”

  “Good. She’s still working here.” Bea reached into her wristlet. “I’m getting the biggest, baddest thing for me possible. It’s been hours since I was cheated out of my pizza, my lunch, my gelato . . .”

  Diana laughed. “Hey, you volunteered for this. Nobody said being a detective was easy.”

  Finally, they approached the counter. Luckily, it was Linda who waited on them. She looked at Diana through slightly bleary red eyes. “Hey, New York. I remember you! Couldn’t get enough of us, could you? What can I get you?”

  Bea leaned over the counter like a traveler at an oasis who hadn’t had a drink in days. “Espresso. And . . .” She looked at the display case and pointed out her selections. “One of those chocolate things . . . one of those little strawberry ones . . . and one of those cream-puff things with the powdered sugar.”

 

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