Double Booked For Death

Knowing this, James had once felt the need to enlighten her on the seemingly confusing difference between Broadway and Off-Broadway shows.

“It is not so much where the theater itself is located,” he had explained, “as it is the size of the house. Anything under five hundred seats but more than one hundred falls into the Off-Broadway category, but the primary qualifier is whether or not the shows are mounted by companies working under an Equity contract.”

This place was definitely Off-Broadway. The Club Theater was a notorious former 1980s nightspot that had started life as a warehouse, and whose latest incarnation was as a trendy three-hundred-forty-seat venue. The new owners apparently had left much of the club’s original—and now cringe-worthy—décor intact. The old aluminum-and-mirror bar had literally been divided in two, with half now peddling drinks to customers on one side of the lobby, and the rest serving as a box office on the other. A lighted alcove near the ticket booth led to another pair of doors, both of which were marked “Private.”

The “Let’s Get Physical” vibe continued with the lobby’s shiny black walls, mirrored columns, and large-can track lighting that zipped along the ceiling. A pair of sculptures, each consisting of three giant aluminum cubes piled haphazardly atop one another, flanked the double doors leading into the main theater.

“All that’s missing is the disco ball,” Jake observed as she shed her long black leather coat and took a look around.

Used as she was to seeing her friend in her usual uniform of jeans, sweater, and boots, Darla had not been prepared for the sight of Jake in a clingy, off-the-shoulder leopard print dress that accentuated her lean body and stopped short of her knees by several inches. Combined with the yellow Docs, the outfit screamed “bad-girl chic” and was drawing more than one admiring set of male eyes in the ex-cop’s direction. She was also wearing lipstick, probably the clandestine purchase she had made at Great Scentsations, Darla realized.

Catching Darla staring at her a second time, Jake demanded, “What?”

“Nothing,” Darla exclaimed, sadly aware she’d never be able to pull off the same sexy, rough-and-tumble look. “It’s just that you look really great tonight.”

“You think? I had this in the back of my closet and just threw it on.”

She said it with a careless shrug, but Darla could tell she was pleased with the compliment. “Of course, I could have really rocked that red satin number of Morris’s, but I figured he probably would have missed it if I’d swiped it.” Then, returning the praise, she added, “You clean up pretty good yourself. I didn’t think with your hair you could wear red, but it really works on you.”

Darla had made do with the same black wrap dress—minus the picture hat—that she’d worn for Valerie Baylor’s memorial service. She had vamped it up, however, with a kitschy red velvet rose that she pinned to its neckline and then topped it with a matching red velvet stole, both items that she’d found in Mary Ann’s shop. Darla hoped that all her recent purchases there had more than made up for the loan of the vintage cigarette lighter. With her hair pulled back into a loose chignon, she felt like she’d stepped out of an old Katharine Hepburn film.

“Okay, enough with the mutual admiration society,” Jake decreed while Darla preened just a little. “We need to get the lay of the land before we take our seats. I’ll get the tickets and poke around a little bit. You go find a potted plant or something to hide behind and keep an eye out for Hillary. We need to know where she is sitting in the theater so we can follow her when she gets up to make the exchange.”

“How do you know it hasn’t happened already?”

“Trust me.”

With Darla looking over Jake’s shoulder, the older woman flipped through the program she’d picked up just inside the door. She paused at the page headed “Meet the Production Staff” and ran a finger down the alphabetized names. Near the bottom, along with the biographies and photos of the rest of the stage and behind-the-scenes crew, was a listing for one Mavis Vickson.

“Hair and makeup design,” Jake read aloud. “Mavis Vickson has been with the Club Theater since its opening three years ago. She has a bachelor of fine arts degree in theater from Boston University, blah, blah, et cetera, et cetera.”

Tucking the program into her bag—like Darla, she had prudently opted for a small clutch with a long strap that she wore crosswise over her chest—Jake went on, “Mavis is probably in the dressing room right now finishing up the cast’s makeup. She’ll be tied up until the curtain rises, but then should have some free time until the intermission. If I had to guess, she’ll want to do this while everyone is onstage or else watching the action, so chances are Hillary will get up sometime during the first act to go meet her.”

“That makes sense,” Darla agreed. “Do you think they’ll stay inside the building or run out to the alley?”

“Inside. This is Mavis’s turf. She’ll want to control the meeting and make sure there are no witnesses. In a place like this, especially one that’s been remodeled a couple of times, you’ve always got a rabbit warren of hallways and back rooms. That’s why it’s critical to spot Hillary before the lights go down, so we can tail her.”