Free The McCone Files by Marcia Muller Page B

of those complications made me grumpy.
    The grumpiness was probably due to the heat, I decided. Shrugging it off, I familiarized myself with the layout of the stage and the points at which someone could gain access. Satisfied that pavilion security could deal with any problems that might arise there, I made my way through the crowd—turning down two beers, a glass of wine, and a pretzel—and climbed to the promenade. From there I studied the stage once more, then raised my eyes to the sun-scorched hills to the east.
    What a great way to enjoy a free show, I thought. The sound, in this natural echo chamber, would easily carry to where the watchers were stationed. How much more peaceful it must be on the hill, free of crowds and security measures. Visibility, however, would not be very good….
    And then I saw a flare of reddish light and glanced over to where a lone horseman stood under the sheltering branches of a live oak. The light flashed again, and I realized he was holding binoculars which had caught the setting sun. Of course—with binoculars or opera glasses, visibility would not be bad at all. In fact, from such a high vantage point it might even be better than from many points on the lawn. My grumpiness returned; I’d have loved to be mounted on a horse on that hillside.
    Reminding myself that I was here on business that would pay for part of the new bathroom tile, I turned back toward the stage, then started when I saw Gary Fitzgerald. He was standing on the lawn not more than six feet from me, looking around with one hand forming a visor over his eyes. When he saw me he started too, and then waved.
    I rushed over to him and grabbed his arm. “What are you doing out here? You’re supposed to stay backstage!”
    â€œI just wanted to see what the place looks like.”
    â€œAre you out of your mind? Your manager is paying good money for me to see that people stay away from you. And here you are wandering through the crowd—”
    He looked away, at a family on a blanket next to us. The father was wiping catsup from the smaller child’s hands. “No one’s bothering me.”
    â€œThat’s not the point.” Still gripping his arm, I began steering him toward the stage. “Someone might recognize you, and that’s precisely what Kabalka hired me to prevent.”
    â€œOh, Wayne’s been a worrywart about that. No one’s going to recognize anybody after all this time. Besides, it’s common knowledge in the trade that we’re not what we’re made out to be.”
    â€œIn the trade, yes. But your manager’s worried about the public.” We got to the stage, showed our passes to the security guard, and went back to the dressing room.
    At the door Fitzgerald stopped. “Sharon, would you mind not mentioning my going out there to Wayne?”
    â€œWhy shouldn’t I?”
    â€œBecause it would only upset him, and he’s nervous enough before a performance. Nothing happened—except that I was guilty of using bad judgment.”
    His smile was disarming, and I took the words as an apology. “All right. But you’d better go get into costume. There’s only half an hour before the grand procession begins.”

    The next few hours were uneventful. The grand procession—a parade through the crowd in which all the performers participated—went off smoothly. After they returned to the dressing room, Fitzgerald and Tilby removed their makeup—which was already running in the intense heat—and the Kabalkas fetched supper from the car—deli food packed in hampers by their hotel. There was a great deal of grumbling about the quality of the meal, which was not what one would have expected of the St. Francis, and Fitzgerald teased the others because he was staying at a small bed-and-breakfast in the Haight-Ashbury which had better food at half the price.
    Nicole said, “Yes, but your hotel