Pale as Death

  But they couldn’t stop living. Rent would still be due; electricity and internet bills would not stop because Lili was gone.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said softly.

  “Kenneth will be making an announcement tonight. Tonight’s performance is being given in honor of Lili.”

  “So, I take it that Lili was supposed to be in this show?” Bruce asked her.

  “Yes.”

  “So who is taking her place?”

  “An old friend of Kenneth’s. The ‘elevator operators’ will be giving you programs. The new actress is named Grace Leon.”

  “Ah.”

  “You know of Grace? You’ve seen her perform before?”

  “We’ve met,” he said simply.

  “Oh, well, good, anyway... I can tell Kenneth you’re coming. We’re on an intercom. I got distracted. Walk by the elevators and down the hall. There are some carved double doors that lead to the dining room—don’t go there. Some of the guests will come back down and be with our ‘Nine-days Queen’ there. It’s a great show—all about the death of Henry III’s son, and Lady Jane Grey, the poor cousin who was supported by the Protestant masses, and queen for nine days before Mary—Henry’s oldest daughter—came in with her troops. And, eventually, poor Lady Jane...well, it’s all history. Kenneth wrote the script. It’s great. So—go by the double doors on down the hallway. There are plain doors there—that’s the working kitchen, but of course, it’s not working tonight. There is a bar out in the courtyard. That’s where they let people out.”

  “I’ll find Kenneth,” he said. “Thank you.”

  The lobby was beginning to fill up. He wove his way through the theatergoers until he came back to Jackson and Sophie.

  “All set with tickets, and we walk past the elevators to get to Kenneth Trent. He’s giving his performers last-minute notes.”

  “I really can’t wait to see this,” Sophie told him.

  “You do like a good historic story,” he said, smiling.

  “I do.” Her smiled faded. “But let’s go ask the director some questions.”

  “Lead the way,” Jackson said.

  He did. They went down along the hallway, past the double doors to the dining room and on to the kitchen.

  He tapped lightly on the door and opened it. Kenneth was at a table by a large serving station. He looked at the three of them with a bleak smile as they entered.

  “No performers,” Sophie murmured.

  “I just sent them off to their starting places. Madge said you were coming.” He inhaled, and exhaled deeply on a sigh. “What can I do for you tonight? This is the first night of this show.” His voice grew raspy. “It’s our first show without Lili.”

  Sophie found a chair across from him; Bruce slid into a chair next to her.

  “Kenneth, we’re not here to make you miserable in any way,” Sophie started. “But we need to know about the masks the company uses.”

  He frowned, looking perplexed. “Masks? This show doesn’t make use of any masks.”

  “But you did a takeoff on a Greek tragedy a while back. Your performers all wore masks,” Sophie said.

  “Oh, those, yes. They were Greek tragedy masks. That performance was really more of an interactive workshop—we invited guests to learn about acting—about using their voices and bodies to portray emotion when their faces weren’t visible. It was...it was excellent!”

  “But,” Bruce asked, “did you wind up being down a mask or two?”

  He laughed softly. “We were down dozens of masks. The audience members who wanted to participate in the event as a workshop all kept their masks.” He looked perplexed, and then he sat up straight. “Oh, no...someone used one of my masks? How? Do you know? Have you got anything?”

  “Not yet. But we do believe that the killer is disguising himself,” Sophie told him.

  “Or herself,” Bruce murmured.

  “I bought two hundred of those masks. I bought them from Hide N’ Seek. It’s a costume company on Vine. I’m so sorry—they could be anywhere.”

  “Do you have any kind of a record of people who were involved in that workshop?” Bruce asked.

  “Um, mostly. A lot of tickets are bought online, and most people use credit cards. Sometimes, though, someone comes up with cash at the last minute.” He cleared his throat. “The show is due to begin.”

  “We’re going to need everything you have on the masks,” Sophie told him.

  “I’ll call my bookkeeper first thing in the morning. We’ll get you anything you need,” he promised. “Are you—are you here to see the show?”

  “Yes, we are, Kenneth,” Bruce told him.

  “I’m hoping that you’ll love it. Painless history,” he said. He was quiet for a minute. “It should have been Lili,” he said softly.

  “And, instead, it’s Grace Leon—as Lady Jane?” Sophie asked.

  Kenneth Trent nodded. “I—I need to open,” he said. “And you all... I know we’re still talking tragedy. But I believe our show is good. I hope you’re able to enjoy it. In some small way.”

  They thanked him, and left, heading for the elevators themselves. A number of theatergoers were getting into the elevators.

  Some had already gone up.

  The “ushers” were there, in 1920s red-and-gold uniforms with little pillbox hats. “Enter, if you will, an old realm, where kings held sway, and power, faith and love could be punishable by death!” a young woman usher told them.

  She stopped them, handing Sophie a single red rose and pinning little boutonnieres to the lapels of Bruce’s and Jackson’s blazers.

  Their roses were red, too.

  “Beauty and life,” the usher said. “Delicate, and fleeting.”

  They entered the elevator with a group of other people. It went up and stopped on the second floor.

  “You six, this is where you begin your journey into Tudor England.”

  Bruce was about to protest; Sophie was selected in the six. He was not.

  But she looked at him, and he knew what she was thinking.

  Divide and see everything we can!

  She was a cop; she was armed. They were at a performance. He had to let her go.

  The elevator door began to close, even as she stepped off.

  * * *

  Sophie wished that she had come just to see the show, that she was here only for fun purposes. Her group joined another that had just stepped off one of the other elevators.

  They were greeted by Grace Leon as Lady Jane Grey.

  “Dear friends, that you’ve supported me so beautifully is such a dear and wonderful thing. But then, of course, you are Protestants, those of the true faith of England, and initiated by our great king, Henry VIII! Such blood that ran, such blood...oh, dear friends, it breaks my heart that so many died in the flames as England found her way to holiness. I bear my dear cousins, Mary and Elizabeth, no ill will, but we all fear Mary—and her way of worshipping idols in her Catholicism!”

  Grace Leon was in a spectacular costume, and she moved among the crowd, greeting them, welcoming, explaining the situation in London.

  She urged them to come with her as she led them through rooms that explained a bit about her great-grandfather, Henry VII, and then Henry VIII—and the beheadings and burning that had gone on. Henry’s son, the poor child, her dear friend, who had passed so young, had sworn that she must be queen.

  As the spectators moved along, Sophie noticed that Dr. Chuck Thompson was in her crowd.

  He saw her.

  And beamed at her.

  He quietly made his way around others. As Lady Jane talked about the troubles that had rocked the country, Thompson made his way to her.

  “Sophie,” he whispered. “This is fantastic. I didn’t know you enjoyed the theater.”

  “Oh, I love e
ntertainment in any form,” she whispered back. “But, of course, I’m here specifically to see the Hooligans—and the young lady taking Lili Montana’s place.”

  “Such a sorry thing. Any headway? We don’t get as much information in the morgue as you do at the station. Of course, my work on the victims is done—and I have spoken for them the best that I can.”

  “Come! Come and see London!” Lady Jane said.

  They were ushered down the hall into a large conference room. An excellent set designer had changed it into a street in London. Actually, a lot was a backdrop—of the Tower of London.

  Kenneth Trent was there himself, now in Tudor costume, a hat with a sweeping plume, leggings and a shoulder cape over a rich shirt in crimson velvet.

  “Friends, countrymen! Here we are, caught in the vicious turmoil of the day! Be ye Catholic? You risk your necks beneath the reign of such as Lady Jane! And yet, be ye of Henry VIII’s good English faith, you risk life and limb if Mary is proclaimed. Ah, Bloody Mary! She has already promised a purge—a purge of blood and fire, when she regains her throne.”

  Sophie had managed to stay to the back. She realized that “Lady Jane” had met them, but this was the true beginning of the show.

  All ticket holders were in the conference room. A hundred people.

  She saw Jackson to the side. Searching, she found that Bruce was closer to the front.

  Kenneth Trent went on about London and the circumstances. Sophie half listened, and half looked around.

  She was no longer by Dr. Chuck Thompson.

  Kenneth drew an audience member to the front with him. Sophie saw why people were so fond of the group; his story was about Tudor London. His lines and his work might have segued readily to the day—not that Catholics and Protestants were killing one another in LA. But rather, he managed to keep the play historical, and yet make comments that had a great deal to do with tolerance in their present day—accepting others for whatever their beliefs might be.

  She listened...and she looked.

  And there, to the far corner, was Lee Underwood. He was with a few other members of the forensic team.

  And, searching, she finally saw Henry Atkins.

  Watching. Gleeful.

  “Well, you did get some cops out.”

  She almost jumped; Bruce had now come to stand with her. She nodded and whispered, “Hail, hail, the gang’s all here. Henry, Dr. Thompson—and Lee Underwood.”

  “And two others from your precinct.” He smiled at her. “And Jackson says there are two FBI members here—the two over there who look like a sweet young couple, holding hands.”

  “I did give a speech,” she murmured.

  “I’m going to try to stick with Henry Atkins,” he said.

  “I’ve already talked to Chuck Thompson.”

  “I’ll give Jackson Lee Underwood to watch.”

  He moved away from her.

  She looked for Thompson and moved back by him. He beamed again as she joined him. Other players suddenly came from around the backdrop. They included Jane’s doomed husband, Lord Guildford Dudley; Henry VIII’s last wife—the one who survived him—Catherine Parr; and the man she loved, her husband after Henry VIII’s death, Thomas Seymour. They met Thomas Cranmer, the doomed Archbishop of Canterbury. Henry’s only son, the poor dying Edward. Three others came forward, priests from the rivaling religions, and two more young women—a prostitute and a serving girl.

  And last, the executioner.

  When the players had been introduced, they began to separate the audience.

  Sophie clung close to Dr. Thompson.

  Their group followed Lord Dudley. She didn’t see where Bruce and Jackson wound up.

  They went through various scenes, Dudley—or, the fine young actor portraying him—talking about his love for his wife, and how, despite treason, Mary really had no longing to execute her. He talked about Lady Jane’s rise to power, and then her imprisonment. Wyatt’s Rebellion—against Mary’s proposed marriage to Philip of Spain, another Catholic—doomed Jane and Dudley in the end. To her credit—while she was guilty of burning and beheading hundreds, thus earning the moniker Bloody Mary, Queen Mary had not wanted to order the execution of her cousin. Wyatt’s Rebellion left her no choice.

  Especially since Lady Jane would not disavow her faith.

  They shifted scenes and moved throughout the inn.

  And then, as the players all shifted again, Sophie found herself being whisked away, on her own, by none other than Lady Jane Grey—Grace Leon.

  They went into a small inn bedroom—reset to appear to be a room in the Tower of London. Before the door closed, Grace fell to her knees in prayer. Her life on earth was nothing but flesh; she would not risk her soul and betray her faith.

  Then the door closed, and she turned on Sophie, completely dropping her character.

  “How dare you? How dare you harass and ridicule Kenneth? This is an abuse of police authority. I will report you! No, I’ll sue you—I’ll sue you and the LAPD!”

  She was vehement—and nasty.

  “Miss Leon, I came here to see a performance. Kenneth Trent knows that I’m here. Thus far, I had enjoyed the performance. I have the odd feeling that the rest of the Hooligans would not appreciate you attacking an LAPD officer. No one is harassing you in any way.”

  “You’re here!”

  “Yes, this is a performance open to the public.”

  “I’m warning you—if you continue to harass Kenneth, I will come after you.”

  “And I’m warning you—you continued to threaten an LAPD detective, I will see that your darling little ass is dragged downtown for questioning. There is speculation that Lili and Brenda’s killer might be a woman. Brenda had been about to audition. Lili was one of the favorite players. Who might have benefited from their deaths? Oh, that would be you!”

  Sophie hadn’t begun to think of such a suspicion until she had said the words. Even then, she didn’t believe what she was saying.

  She knew the killer was a man. Ann Marie referred to the killer as “him.” Then again, he wore a mask. Lili and Brenda had been told that they were meeting a man.

  A woman could play a man.

  She was pretty sure, though, that she had just retorted angrily—taken a shot in the dark because she’d been so startled by the attack.

  Grace Leon stared at her in pure shock, her mouth just wide-open at first, and then working. “Me?” The question was a squeak. “Oh, my God! You can’t believe...oh, God, no! How horrible, I’d never... I’d never...please, tell me you don’t believe that?”

  “Grace, we don’t know what to believe as of yet. We’re trying to find a killer, and we’re working every possible angle. We know where Kenneth was during the murders. We’re not accusing him of anything. But he is a help to us. And we are here to see the performance.”

  The door to the little bedroom burst open then. The performer playing Dudley was there, with a small group of audience members.

  He was perfectly in character, seeing Grace—or Lady Jane Grey—and rushing in to see her. “My love, my love...”

  He pulled her into his arms.

  “They’ve allowed us this time!” he whispered. “This precious time together. My love, how will we face this...how will we die?”

  “With honor, oh, my beloved, with honor. Sweet, my own sweet lord, this time on earth for any is so brief. What we do...we will be together in Paradise, together in the gentle love of our most gracious God!”

  “They say that the blade will be sharp. That it will be quick.”

  “I will die with dignity, so I swear!”

  “And, I, too, my love, and believe in sweet life after death!”

  Grace had done a good job of recovering her character. The door opened again.

  This time, it was the executioner.

 
The final scene took place back in the conference room, the backdrop shifted slightly to show that they were on Tower Green. A scaffold had been added.

  Lady Jane went up to lose her head, giving her last words—about Mary’s rights, about her acceptance of her fate—and then forgiving her executioner. She asked if her head would be removed before she reached the block; she was told no. She nearly lost her calm after she blindfolded herself and then couldn’t reach the block. She was helped, and spoke her final words—straight from the New Testament. “Lord, into thy hands I commend my spirit!”

  There was a drumroll, and a curtain dropped all the way around the scaffolding.

  The end was greeted with thunderous applause.

  “Interesting,” Bruce murmured.

  He had come up behind her.

  “Very,” Sophie said.

  Lee Underwood waved and came over to join them. “Hell of a performance. Of course, I don’t really know a lot about British history, but my heart was bleeding for that poor girl.”

  “Bravo, bravo! I loved it!” Chuck Thompson came to join them as well, and, just a second later, they were joined by Henry Atkins.

  Henry might have clapped a great deal. His rose boutonniere was crushed against his chest; a few of the petals had broken. His rose wasn’t completely red; it must have been exceptionally pretty as its petals were a mix of red and yellow.

  “Great!” he said, smiling broadly. “I thought that this might be another of their comedy skits, but, wow, fantastic. What experience did you have? Anything in a small group? I was with Mary Tudor—me, Lee and six other people. The actress was great. She was so torn. And then so righteous! Phenomenal!”

  “Then we went home with the executioner,” Lee said. “Met his family, and learned that he practiced with his ax constantly. He didn’t want any debacles, and, while he kept quiet, he hated that he killed so many people for being steadfast. Of course, he said that a man had to be careful, very careful, about expressing his opinion.

  “Henry, how the hell could it have been a comedy?” Lee asked. “Look at your program? It’s titled So Longing, Doth Beauty Die!”

  “Hey!” Henry protested. “Come on now. Death at a Funeral was a comedy.”