Tell Me, Pretty Maiden (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #7)

“Have you decided how I can infiltrate your company without arousing suspicion?” I asked.

“I am always quite exhausted after a performance, aren’t I, Martha?” Blanche said, raising a languid hand to her face. “No energy left to think. But by tomorrow I’ll have thought of something. I know I will.”

“Then what should I tell the stage door keeper when I arrive?”

She frowned, which instantly made her look older. “You are a detective. What do you think?”

“I already signed in with a false name,” I said. “Kitty Kelly.”

“How very clever, isn’t she, Martha?”

“So I’ll just tell him that I’m to report straight to you on an urgent matter. It’s your show. Nobody will dare question me.”

“That’s right. The very thing.” She turned her dazzling smile on me. “Molly, I am glad that you came. You are going to save my show, my career, and my sanity. I know it.”

“I’ll do my best,” I said uncertainly, then remembered that we hadn’t discussed money. “Would you be paying me by the hour or shall we settle on a flat fee?”

I could see that she hadn’t thought much about the financial aspect of this either. “Oh,” she said. “Yes, of course. Your fee. Would fifty dollars cover it, do you think?”

I hesitated. If I found out the truth in the next few days, then fifty dollars would be just fine. If I was expected to show up at the theater night after night, then I’d be out of pocket. I decided that fifty dollars in the hand might be worth more than a hundred in the bush. “That would be fine to start with,” I said. “If this looks as if it’s going to require more than a week or so, we’ll discuss it again.”

“More than a week or so? God forbid,” she said. “I can’t perform in a haunted theater for a week or so. You have to find out the truth for me quickly, Molly. I’m counting on you.”

“As I said, I’ll do my best.” I turned to the door. “Until tomorrow then, Miss Lovejoy. Goodbye, Martha.”

“Oh, and Molly,” Blanche called after me, “if there are any newspaper reporters hanging around outside, don’t breathe a word about the theater being haunted. I’m absolutely terrified that if news of this leaks out, we’ll scare the public away from opening night.”

“Of course not,” I said.

As I came out of Blanche’s room and made my way back through the narrow passageway, I was conscious of eyes on me. I spun around. A man was standing in the shadows at the far end of the hall. Just as I was wondering if I was looking at the ghost, he retreated and I heard the sound of a door closing. Not a ghost then. They didn’t bother with doors. Besides, I had recognized him. He was the lean, dark-haired man who had watched the performance from the third row of the stalls.

Just why was he watching Blanche’s dressing room? I wondered. Was he watching out for her, concerned for her welfare, or was it something more sinister? This was no time to go back and confront him but tomorrow I’d find out who he was. The fact that he was safely seated in the stalls and no ghost had appeared in the second half of the performance seemed significant to me.

I made my way down the dark stair and reached the stage door.

“You saw Miss Lovejoy then, did you?” Old Henry asked. “Gave her the message all right?”

“I did, and I’m going to be coming back tomorrow to help her out with something, so I’ll see you then.” I gave him my most friendly smile. He could prove to be a useful ally.

“Button up your coat,” he said. “Awful fierce wind out there tonight. Cut right through ya.”

“Thanks, Henry,” I said, and stepped out into the night.

I had only taken a couple of steps down the alleyway when I noticed a dark shape looming in the shadows. It was large, featureless and grotesque. I gasped and was about to flee back to Henry when it spoke in a normal man’s voice.

“Pardon me, miss, but are you part of the play?”

I saw then that the strange appearance was due to an enormous shawl the man wore over his head and shoulders against the cold, so that just his eyes were showing.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, noting my reaction. “It’s just that it’s so damned cold tonight. Are you one of the chorus girls?”

“Not exactly,” I said, “but I will be working with the play.”

“So you’ll know then if it’s true that the ghost appeared again tonight?”

“Ghost?” I feigned innocence.

“You must have heard about the ghost. They’re saying the theater’s haunted. They’re saying the ghost is trying to kill Blanche Lovejoy.”

“Who is saying?” I demanded. “What is this—third-hand gossip?”

“Oh no, miss. I work for the Herald. My sources are quite reliable.”

“If you work for the Herald I suggest you go and find some real news and not a fairy story,” I said and walked away before he could stop me.

It seemed that the story of the ghost was common knowledge already, whether Miss Lovejoy wanted it to be or not.