She shook her head, too nervous to drink. The last thing she needed was to be losing her head here.

  He had two glasses sitting on his dressing table, almost as if he’d expected her. Or expected someone. Likely, that was his usual modus operandi—inviting a woman to accompany him backstage after his performance; as necessary as that after-performance cigarette or glass of wine. He poured himself a glass and shrugged. “All right. You can help yourself if you’d like. I’d love to talk more and find out all about you, Diana. Mind if I change first?”

  Her breath caught. “Here?”

  He let out a long, deeply amused laugh, then knelt in front of her. “Oh, Diana.” He pointed behind the screen. “You are a funny one. I shouldn’t imagine doing anything that would make you uncomfortable. I won’t be long.”

  “Oh, of course,” she said, feeling stupid. “That’s fine. I’ll just wait here.”

  He took a gulp of his wine, smacked his lips together, and let out an exaggerated, dramatic sigh. Likely he did everything that way, considering he was an actor. “I needed that. After that disastrous performance.”

  “Disastrous? I thought you were very good.”

  He chuckled. “Well, thank you. I try. Some of them are a bunch of buffoons, though. I’ve been with them for a while and some of them are the best at what they do. Others—who knows how they got a place in our company? Certainly not by talent. But we muddled through.” He disappeared behind the screen with his glass. “Tell me,” he called over the screen. “We never discussed it on the train. What brings you to Europe, all by your lonesome?”

  “Oh,” she tittered, folding her hands on her lap as she looked around the room. Along with many folded origami shapes—birds, boats, airplanes, animals—there were plenty more possible signs that he’d had women friends around. Cards with hearts stuck in the frame of the mirror, one which said, “Ti amo, Marcello!” A tube of lipstick on the dressing table—or was that just part of his own stage makeup? A lacy cape that could only have been part of a female’s costume, or perhaps an article of clothing left by a female visitor. “I’ve been wanting to do it all my life. I just decided it was time.”

  “Time?”

  She swallowed back the urge to titter again. Stop acting like a child! “Yes, you know. I was bored with the daily grind. I worked as a Vice President of Marketing for Addict Cosmetics in New York, commuted in from Long Island, and every day was the same. So one day, one of my co-workers was talking about her trip to Europe, and I guess you could say I caught the bug. I realized I’d done very little of what I wanted to do, all my life, for what I thought I had to do. So I quit my job, put everything in storage, and decided to spend a year over here.”

  “A year?” he said, and coughed. “My goodness. Really? Where have you been so far?”

  He sounded impressed. Again, she fought back the urge to giggle under his attentions. There was one sure way to nip that in the bud. She got up and crossed to the vanity, where she poured herself a glass of wine. She’d only have a little, just to take the edge off.

  “I’ve only been out here a few weeks. I started in Paris. Then Florence. And now, here. Verona.” She brought the glass to her lips as she turned and stared at a photo collage on the wall. It included snapshots from what must’ve been Marcello’s entire career. Pictures of him with various actors, young and old. And, wait. Was that Sean Connery?

  She moved closer, until her shins were flush against the cushion of the velvet sofa, squinting to see.

  “Ah. How’d you like Paris?” he asked, tossing his doublet and apron to hang over the screen.

  Yes, she was almost certain it was Sean, in his younger days. In the photograph, Marcello looked very young, too. A teenager, with a thick head of dark hair and a white smile that made him look like he was up to no good. He looked a bit like a young Frank Sinatra. “It was an adventure,” she said, scanning over to someone who looked very much like Julia Roberts. He was only a young man in that photograph, but he had his arm draped possessively around her, as they walked some red carpet. She nearly choked. Did he date Julia Roberts? “I went to Versailles and got a little bit more than I bargained for.”

  There was a bit of rustling behind the screen, and then he draped his white undershirt over the top of the frame. He coughed again, and his voice was fainter. It sounded like he was losing interest in her. “Eh? How so?”

  Now her eyes caught on a picture of him giving a cheek-kiss to a smiling and delighted-looking Idina Menzel. So, Marcello dallied with A-list celebrities. What was she doing here, with him, when he could be with all of these more exciting, glamorous women? She couldn’t stop shivering enough to even think of bringing the wine to her lips without spilling it. Instead, she started to pour out the whole sordid story to him. “Oh, you see, I went to Versailles for their annual ball. And I met an individual who turned out to be a jewel thief, and the necklace I was wearing—the Madame Royale, which was worth over a million dollars—went missing. And then the man was mur—”

  THUNK.

  The sound made Diana whirl so fast that the drink in the glass sloshed onto her hand. All rustling behind the screen stopped, and a strange silence settled over the room, in which she could only hear the beating of her heart. She was about to ask him if he was all right, when her eyes drifted down to the ground.

  Lying there, palm upward, was Marcello’s hand, and a few inches from it, his spilled wine glass.

  “Marcello?” she asked, though she already know she wouldn’t receive an answer, even as she crept forward, revealing more of him—a pale forearm, a shoulder, a chest, clothed only in an undershirt.

  But it was when she finally went past the screen and saw his face, eyes wide and empty, staring forever at nothing, his mouth open in a silent scream, that she realized something was very, very wrong.

  Letting out a squeak of terror, she backed away, up against the wall, wishing she could unsee that ghastly expression on his face. His chest hadn’t been moving, so did that mean . . . was he . . .

  Oh, god.

  But he’d just been talking to her, and he was fine. Perfect. Virile and strong and happy to be done with the play. And now he was . . .

  Oh, god.

  She had to have been seeing things. This wasn’t right. Her eyes went to the screen, to the pale hand, fingers raised to the ceiling, as if clawing for something above.

  No. Still there. It was real, as real as the crystal glass just a hair away from his fingertips . . .

  Stifling the scream in her throat, she looked down at her own glass, then dropped it like it was on fire, wiping the spilled wine from her hand on her dress feverishly. Then she rushed for the door.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Diana sat in the front row of the theater, almost exactly where she’d watched A Midsummer Night’s Dream a few hours earlier. The silent stage and empty seats around her were eerie, even with the sun sinking behind it in a cheerful pink glow. She was holding the glass of water a police officer had given her in a trembling hand, pretty sure she was never going to drink anything, again, ever.

  Poisoned.

  That was the word that floated in her head. Even though she didn’t know it for sure, the word seemed to drift in and out of her subconscious. That, and another one.

  Murder.

  Marcello Camillo, the actor who’d played Peter Quince, the man who’d charmed her on the train and given her a ticket to the performance, was dead. That was obvious. If the fact that he hadn’t moved a muscle the entire time she’d rushed up and down the narrow hallway, asking for help, hadn’t given away the fact, it was made pretty clear now, as two EMTs carried a sheet-covered stretcher off the stage and up the staircase. As much as she tried to ignore it, she couldn’t unsee Marcello’s dead eyes, his pale, horror-stricken face. It was almost as if he was as shocked by it as Diana had been.

  She looked down at the clear water in the plastic cup, and her stomach swam.

  But she was being silly. It probably had nothing to do with the wine, or poisoning. Marcello Camillo may have looked virile and healthy, but perhaps he was masking a hidden heart condition. Or some other medical problem.

  Yes, that made more sense. He was a smoker. He was likely pushing sixty. He’d been excited by the play, and boom. Heart attack.

  Besides, most people never witnessed a single murder in their entire lives. Diana could remember thinking that back in Paris, when she’d seen the dead man underneath the balcony at Versailles.

  Witnessing two, in just one month? That was impossible. Or very unlucky.

  Though the stage itself was empty, there were plenty of police officers walking around the aisles of the theater, gathering up the other actors to interview. Diana couldn’t remember who they were or what parts they played, now that they were all dressed in their regular clothing. Not that she cared much about getting her program signed now. Or at all. In fact, she was pretty sure she never wanted to see another actor, ever again.

  As she was sitting there, trying to wipe her memory of the last hour, the large man with the headset came lumbering down the stairs to the stage. He threw his clipboard down with a startling clatter that echoed through the cavernous space. “Disastro. Catastrofe!”

  Someone spoke up. “Pietro, remember to address the troupe in English. We have a few English actors here who don’t speak much Italian.”

  Diana nearly laughed. Disastro? Catastrofe? It didn’t take a genius to understand what he was saying, in any language. It was clear this Pietro Colombo, the director, had a bit of a temper, because he scowled and began to mutter on in Italian, his face as broad and red as a tomato.

  A woman who might have played Hermia came over to him and said, very gently, “Yes, it is a terrible shock for our troupe. He was a fine actor and a good friend to us all. We will all miss Marcello very much, both personally and professionally. In the light of this, I’m not sure how we can continue—”

  “Sciocchezza! We go on. No interruptions in our schedule, do you hear me! It is a full house! Every ticket sold for tomorrow! We no miss!” he shouted, so loud his voice echoed around the arena. “That is the last word! Final!”

  A man in khakis and a tie, who must’ve been an investigator for the police force, shook his head. “We still have our investigation to do, and there’s a good chance it won’t be completed by tomorrow afternoon.”

  Pietro’s dagger-eyes swung to the man. “How long?”

  “Difficult to say right now.”

  Pietro slammed both palms on the stage, and his hefty body shook with tension. For a second, Diana felt afraid for him. Carrying all that extra weight couldn’t have been good. And he was clearly so stressed out that she didn’t put it past him to have a heart attack and add to the night’s body count. Then he turned and scanned the actors who had gathered around them. “Then we prepare. We rehearse tomorrow with a new actor in place for Quince.”

  One of the men, a muscular man who Diana thought had performed as Nick Bottom, stood up. “I will take his role. Non. Is no problem. You see.”

  The director shook his head and muttered something under his breath. “Idiota. No. You’re in too many scenes with Quince, lo stupido.”

  Nick Bottom sat back down with a shrug. Another man, a slight man who Diana believed had played one of the fairies, said, “I’ll do it.”

  The director rolled his eyes. “Disastro! All right. But we must practice. Tonight. Tomorrow. No sleep for you.” He clapped his hands and started to shout orders in Italian to everyone around. The actors, all well-rehearsed in dramatic sighs, chorused their annoyance.

  Diana slumped in the chair. Wasn’t that the credo of the theater? The show must go on. Still, that seemed to apply well to broken bones or illness or bad weather. But murder? If that was even what it was. Even just an unexpected death in the cast . . . it all sounded so cold to continue on, as if Marcello hadn’t meant anything or contributed anything important to the part.

  Surely, his absence would be, just as Pietro Colombo had said, a disaster. But maybe thespians were used to that. And no, she didn’t know him well, but he’d been part of the company for a long time. It seemed wrong to simply replace him after a three-minute conversation. He was definitely one of the best actors in the troupe.

  But that was the thing. She hadn’t known him well. Yet she’d gone ahead and created all those stupid fantasies of him, once again. And now . . . all those dreams of him possibly being something more to her seemed to disappear in her head. Just like the man in Paris. Poof. Her record on this trip wasn’t exactly sterling. Men didn’t just reject her. They died on her.

  So much for “Fall in love in Italy.”

  A mustached man with a striped dress shirt and askew tie came over to her and started speaking to her in Italian. He had deep wrinkles in his forehead, and graying temples which suggested he was older, but his body was lean, with no stomach pooch whatsoever. He had a goatee, and his voice was that of a younger man. He showed her credentials, and in his picture, he looked almost like a baby. She wondered if the stress had gotten to him.

  Based on the credentials, she assumed he was some part of the Verona police force, but other than that, she was lost. She simply shook her head. “No idea what you’re saying.”

  “You’re American?” he asked, stroking his goatee.

  She nodded. “Yes. I’m from New York. Yes, my name is Diana St. James. No, I did not know the victim well,” she volunteered, all the things they’d wanted to know about her in Paris.

  He seemed taken aback by her bluntness, but quickly wrote something down. “I’m Detective Lucci. With the Verona police. I hear you find the body?”

  “No. I didn’t find him. I was with him when he died.”

  “Ah.” He raised his eyebrows as if it was some lurid tryst they’d been in the middle of.

  Diana sighed. “It was innocent, I assure you. I didn’t really even know him. I met him on the train this afternoon. He sent me a note asking me to stop by his dressing room after the show. I did. He was just getting changed and he dropped dead. That’s it.” She set the water glass down so that she could twiddle her thumbs better.

  “That’s it?”

  She shrugged. He seemed to be fishing for something. What else could he possibly want? Tawdry details about an affair gone wrong? “Like I said, I just met him. I barely knew him. I suppose I was just at the wrong place and the wrong time.”

  “Can you tell me exactly what happened from the moment you saw him?”

  “Yes. I went in. He was smoking a cigarette. He said the play was terrible. I don’t think he was happy with the way the other actors had performed.”

  “Did he mention anyone specific that he might have been having trouble with?”

  “No. Then he said he had some wine. He popped the cork and offered me some but I didn’t want any, at first. He told me I could help myself while he got changed, and then he went behind the screen.”

  “Did he seem all right to you then?”

  She nodded. “Yes. He was coughing a little, but he was very animated, despite that. Sounded like smoker’s cough. That’s it.”

  “And then?”

  “Then . . . he collapsed behind the screen. I went to check on him and I think he was already dead by then. He looked it, anyway; he wasn’t moving at all and his eyes were open. So I turned around and called for help. That was all.”

  “Are you sure?”

  What else are you expecting? “I don’t know. It was a heart attack or something, right?” Please tell me yes.

  The man’s lips twisted. “We don’t know for sure. We have to do a few tests and an autopsy. We did find a bit of residue in his wine glass that is concerning.”

  Her eyes went wide. “Residue?”

  “Yes. There were two glasses found in the dressing room. Was one yours?”

  She nodded. “I poured myself a glass. But I didn’t drink it. Was there residue in both glasses?”

  He ignored her question. “You poured yourself a glass?” He said it as if it were a crime. She nodded reluctantly. “Then those are probably your fingerprints, along with his, on the bottle.”

  “Yes . . . like I said, I didn’t want any at first, but then I changed my mind,” she said, her heart speeding up. They were fingerprinting. Collecting evidence. Interviewing witnesses. That meant . . . they were treating this as a homicide. Yes, they had to do that, until they were sure it wasn’t. But she was the last person to see him alive, so that also meant that she . . . was a suspect.

  Again.

  “Like I said. I didn’t know him. So I had no reason to . . .”

  He nodded as if to say, Not good enough. You’re still a suspect.

  “And to be clear, I didn’t give him the bottle of wine,” she added, twiddling her thumbs like crazy now. “It was there when I got there. He said it was a gift and offered to share it with me.”

  “A gift? From who?”

  “He didn’t say.” Had he said? Her mind was starting to spin. No, she didn’t think so, but now, as she replayed those last moments with him, she couldn’t tell what was real and what she might have just been inventing in her head. “It was just there, on the dressing room table, when I got there.”

  “And you were in there alone? There was no one else?”

  “Yes.” She nodded absently, then a thread of a memory came to her. “Oh. Well, when I got to the door, I was just about to knock when it opened, and someone came out.”

  “Someone?”

  “Yes. Titania. Um . . . I’m sorry, I don’t know the actress’s name. She had a strange look on her face and she seemed to be in a hurry.”

  “A strange look? Did she look agitated?”

  Diana swallowed, fully realizing what he was getting at. Had Titania brought him the wine to poison him? If she said that she had looked agitated, suspicion would fall directly on her. But that would be a lie, and she didn’t want to cast suspicion on anyone. “No. Not really. I can’t explain it. It was not quite a smirk, but close. She was a little distracted, I guess, and surprised to see me.”

 

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