“I’ll be out there in five minutes,” Derek said, glancing at his watch.
“Okay.”
I joined Angie in the hall. “How’s Randy feeling?”
“He looks like crap,” she said. “I don’t know. He was fine earlier, but now he’s got it bad, whatever it is.”
“Should he go back to the hospital?”
“He refuses.” Clearly worried, she stuck her lower lip out in a pout.
“I’m sorry, hon. Any news on the moving front?” I asked.
“He’s been too sick to talk about it.”
“I think we need some cheering up. Good thing I have an extra cupcake.” I held it up in front of her face. “And I’m willing to share.”
“Oh, my God, is that chocolate coconut?”
“Yup.” I took a big bite and handed the rest to her.
“Are you sure? Really?”
“Yes,” I said. “And look, there’s a chunk of creamy chocolate in the middle.”
“Oh, my God. Oh, my God. I’m not worthy.”
“Then give it back.”
“No way!” She took a bite and moaned. “It’s so good. I want to meet your cupcake friend and kiss her.”
I laughed again. “You’ve got coconut frosting on your nose.”
She pointed at me. “You’ve got it streaked across your cheek. How did that happen?”
“I don’t know. Guess I got carried away.” I tried to wipe it off.
“You’re making it worse.” She snorted.
“You’re not helping,” I said, laughing. “I’d better go to Makeup.”
She made a face. “I’ve got to get back onstage.”
“No, wait for me.” As we reached Randy’s dressing room, I noticed the door was open so I peeked in to make sure it was safe. Randy was gone. “Where is he?”
“He’s already out onstage. And I’m in deep doo-doo if I don’t get out there now.”
“Okay, you go ahead. I’ll just be a second. I’m going to use Randy’s mirror. He’s got his own deluxe makeup kit in here.”
“I’ll see you out there,” she called from the hallway. “Oh, hi, Garth.”
I popped my head out and waved to the friendly old janitor sweeping the floor near the door that led to the stage.
I stared at the vast selection of makeup in the tiered case on Randy’s dressing table. It’s nice to be the star of the show, I thought. The makeup man came to him instead of the other way around.
I grabbed a tissue from the box and wiped the frosting off my cheek. Then I picked up a pot of pale cream makeup that matched the color of my skin and found a clean sponge. Dabbing it into the makeup, I leaned in close to the mirror and brought the sponge up to my face.
“No!”
Somebody slapped my hand and the sponge flew across the room.
“Wha—?”
Garth stared at me, his eyes wide with panic.
“Why’d you do that?” I demanded.
“It—it’s . . . nothing!”
“What’s nothing? What are you talking about?”
“The makeup,” he shouted, and moved closer. “It’s been poisoned.”
I tried to step backward but my hip hit the makeup table. “You saw someone put poison in Randy’s makeup?”
He swallowed convulsively. “I . . . I . . . yeah. I saw someone do it.”
“Who was it?”
His eyes were shifting wildly. That’s when I noticed that we were the same height.
But that was impossible. Garth was several inches shorter than me. I remembered from when he’d helped me with the stage flats.
“Garth, are you all right?”
“Gotta go.” His voice was deeper than usual.
He turned to leave, and I noticed his shoulders weren’t as hunched over as they usually were.
I recognized that deep voice.
“Gerald?”
“Nope, that ain’t me,” he said, his voice sounding crackly and old like Garth’s.
“Gerald, I know it’s you.”
He spun around. “Shut up! Shut up! Why can’t you leave it alone?”
“You’ve been here all along! You were Garth, the janitor. You’ve got a fake beard and shaggy eyebrows. No wonder nobody noticed you.”
“Nobody ever notices the janitor.” He rubbed his hand over his mouth and pulled something out from between his teeth. His cheeks were no longer sunken in. The appliance he’d been wearing had been giving him that gaunt look, and now it was gone. Garth was gone.
“When you came in yesterday as Gerald, I knew I recognized you from somewhere.”
He reached for the door and slammed it shut. He had dropped the pretense of being a shorter, weaker man. Now he was tall and strong. And angry. At me.
I held up both hands. “Just let me walk out of here, and nobody will ever have to know.”
He shook his head like a temperamental bull. “It’s too late for that, isn’t it, Brooklyn? And it’s your own fault.”
“My fault?” I said. What nerve! “Was it Randy’s fault that he was hired and you were fired?”