Free The Fourth Wall by Barbara Paul Page A

calmed down a little more, I had to admit that part of my annoyance sprang from Sergeant Piperson’s easy assumption that I disliked John Reddick because of his overactive sex life. But John’s Don Juanism was none of my business and didn’t affect my life one jot. So far as I knew, John never pursued a woman with whom he was associated professionally. If he and Sylvia Markey had had an affair, I was willing to bet it was sometime when they weren’t working together.
    The next few days were full ones. A friend called, wanting to see the latest Eugene O’Neill revival; I talked him into going to a movie instead. (Sorry, folks, I’m one of those who never learned to like O’Neill.) I attended a “literary” party I’d been looking forward to but left early because it quickly degenerated into a one-upmanship affair. I caught up on some reading.
    I made several more unsuccessful attempts at getting in touch with Jake Steiner. I went to the hospital once looking for him, but he wasn’t there. The no visitors ban was still in effect, and all I could learn about Sylvia was that her condition was stable. Loren Keith was stable in Santa Monica and Sylvia Markey was stable in New York. Terrific.
    Christmas was fast approaching. I was finishing up a letter to my aunt saying I’d definitely be coming to Boston when the phone rang. It was my favorite policeman.
    â€œHope you aren’t planning on going away for the holidays, Abby,” Sergeant Piperson started off.
    â€œI am, as a matter of fact. Why?”
    â€œI’m going to have to ask you to stay in town. All of you. We’ve just learned something that puts this thing in a whole new light.”
    I began to get a bad feeling. “What?”
    â€œSylvia Markey just talked to us—wrote notes, actually. Talking hurts her. Mouth’s all screwed up.”
    Dear God .
    â€œShe told us about the cold cream,” Piperson went on. “Seems she ran out of it after the performance, when she wanted to take off her make-up. She said when she went to get some, the make-up cabinet was locked.”
    â€œYes, Carla doesn’t always remember to unlock it.”
    â€œCarla? Carla Banner, right—the assistant stage manager. Anyway, Markey just went into the next dressing room and looked through the drawers of the dressing table. She found some cold cream that hadn’t been opened and took it. You see what that means? That cold cream wasn’t meant for Sylvia Markey at all. It was intended for someone else.”
    My throat felt tight. “Whose dressing room?”
    â€œIan Cavanaugh’s.”

8
    It made sense, in a horrible sort of way.
    Sylvia Markey hadn’t risen in the world by being a great beauty but by being a great actress. She was part chameleon: she could be dowdy in one play and regal in the next. She could be calm and contained, or she could be a perpetual emotion machine. Sylvia could be whatever she had to be. But it was Ian Cavanaugh’s good looks that had gotten him most of his roles—and made many people (including me) overlook his real skills as an actor. Ian was the beauty in our cast, not Sylvia.
    The police had reluctantly released the news that Sylvia Markey’s disfigurement had been a freakish accident and Ian Cavanaugh was the intended victim. The entire cast and crew of Foxfire were being questioned anew (this time concentrating on Ian), and there would have been no way to keep the matter from leaking out. The resulting publicity meant another jump in advance sales. Foxfire was settling into a solid hit, and for all the wrong reasons.
    Gene Ramsay had hired a guard to protect the investors’ money. The guard was a quiet, gray man who quickly learned the backstage routine and made a point of checking everything before it was used—make-up, props, the set, the rigging, heaven knows what else. He was in the theater two hours before anyone else and was