Free Shooting Star by Cynthia Riggs

me.”
    “Good.”
    “No, no, Victoria. He mustn’t tangle with Dearborn. He’ll only make things worse. This is why I wanted to talk to you. He’ll ruin his career before it starts. If you see George, please talk to him. He’ll listen to you.”
    “I’ll gladly hold his coat for him,” said Victoria.
     
    Dearborn Hill had been on the phone most of the morning trying to find actors willing to substitute for those who’d refused to go on stage tonight. Opening night. Amateurs, all of them. His hair was no longer artistically rumpled. He’d run his fingers through it so many times it was lank and disheveled. He’d had so many cups of coffee, his hands shook. He wanted a drink badly. Becca’s sanctimonious sister had offered him the artistic director’s job with too many strings attached, he thought with resentment. Twice he’d gotten up from his desk, ready to drive to the liquor store in Oak Bluffs. Then he realized how little time he had and went back to making his phone calls.

    There’d be a sell-out crowd tonight, he told himself. Peg’s death and Teddy’s disappearance would guarantee ticket sales. The substitute actors would have to read their parts, but the audience would understand. Add to the enjoyment.
    He’d found a new little William right away, the precocious seven-year-old daughter of a board member.
    Bob Scott would play two parts, the Arctic explorer and Bruce Duncan’s role as Frankenstein’s boyhood friend.
    Did Nature Boy think he didn’t notice what was going on between him and Becca? Dearborn smiled to himself. One of these days, he’d take care of Bob Scott. No hurry.
    What an ass Bruce Duncan was. Wooden when he was on stage, theatrical when he was off. Even Scott was a better actor.
    He hadn’t found a substitute yet for Gerard Cohen, who played the blind father. He was surprised when Cohen refused to go on tonight. Cohen was one of his supporters. He, Dearborn, could play both the blind man and Victor Frankenstein. The two were never on stage at the same time.
    The bride of Frankenstein was a problem. As insufferable as she was, Dawn Haines was an excellent actress, knew her lines, didn’t over-emote, knew how to cover for someone else’s missed lines. Dearborn tapped his fingers on the desk and slapped his shirt pocket as though he still carried cigarettes. He’d quit smoking three years ago.
    And then he had an idea. What was Victoria Trumbull’s granddaughter’s name? Perfect. She’d be perfect. Elizabeth Trumbull, that was it. He picked up the phone and dialed Victoria’s number.
    Elizabeth answered. “Absolutely not,” she said, when he identified himself and told her why he was calling. “No way.”
    Dearborn Hill could be charming when he wanted to be. He talked about her grandmother’s play. The work, the art, the soul her grandmother had put into her adaptation of the old classic. He spoke about the traditions of the theater. The show must go on. He mentioned gently and tastefully how Peg’s passing
would be honored. He avoided any talk of the sell-out crowd he hoped to attract. He cajoled, apologized, appealed to her loyalty to her grandmother, appealed to her sense of vanity, and, under other circumstances, might have worn Elizabeth down.
    She looked up and saw her grandmother’s expression.
    Victoria was variously described as looking like an owl or an eagle. Now, she looked like a stone warrior. Her flushed cheeks seemed to be daubed with war paint. Her deepset hooded eyes glittered.
    “Sorry, Dearborn. Find someone else,” Elizabeth said, and disconnected.
    On his end, before Elizabeth hung up, Dearborn heard what was unmistakably Victoria Trumbull’s low, clear voice saying, “The idea! The very idea!” and he frowned as he pressed the button that cut off the connection.
     
    “Why on earth would he call here?” Victoria sputtered. “‘The show must go on,’ indeed. How unfeeling! How mercenary! My own granddaughter … !”
    Elizabeth held