Free Blood Will Have Blood by Linda Barnes

I like Eddie. Thanks for helping him.”
    That thin secretive smile again. Spraggue found himself hoping her immunity didn’t extend to all actors. And hoping she didn’t like Eddie Lafferty too much.
    She interrupted his thoughts. “Do you know who did it?”
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œSpraggue, I know about you. I know you’re not here just to act—”
    â€œThat obvious?” he asked.
    The color in her cheeks deepened and she looked away. “To me, yes. I’m the one who had to get rid of the regular understudy so Darien could bring you in. I’m the stage manager. It’s my job to know everything that goes on in this company.”
    â€œCongratulations. You do your job well.”
    â€œI’d rather have information than compliments. Why you? Why does Darien think you can find the joker?”
    Spraggue sighed. “Once upon a time I was a private detective. Believe it or not.”
    â€œAnd you gave it up to play games onstage.”
    â€œI started out as an actor. RADA. Rep. Some Off-Broadway.…”
    â€œMovies. You were good.”
    â€œThanks.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œI discovered I wasn’t all that fond of actors. I developed a dislike for agents. The whole business turned me off. I’m basically nosy; I was always getting involved in stuff I had no business getting involved in. So one day I shocked my family and friends and applied for a private investigator’s license.”
    â€œYou didn’t like it?”
    â€œIt got a little too real for me. Hurt people stayed hurt.” She nodded. “No curtain calls.”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œDid you find out anything at Eddie’s?”
    â€œNo.”
    Her dark eyes peered into his. “Cautious. That’s good, I suppose. Still, if you need any help, remember I’m always around.”
    Spraggue doubted he’d have any trouble remembering. “Do any of the others know why I’m here?” he asked.
    â€œThe actors?” Karen grimaced scornfully. “I doubt it. If Langford knew, he’d get appointed your deputy or take over altogether. He’s our number-one busybody. The others spend every waking moment in total self-absorption.”
    â€œStill,” Spraggue said, “they seem to have plenty of time to dwell on each other. John and Emma, Greg and Emma, John and Caroline Ambrose—”
    â€œThat’s not affection; that’s just reflected ego.”
    Spraggue grinned and recalled the unopened book in his hand. He checked the index quickly, riffled through the yellowed pages until he found the small section on the Fens Theater. The stage manager read over his shoulder, comfortably close.
    One quarter of the first page was devoted to a faded photograph. Beady dark eyes glared from a pale wrinkled face. Hawk-nosed and thin, the lower half of his face obscured by a graying beard, Samuel Borgmann Phelps had been a striking man.
    Spraggue stared at the picture, a faint memory clutching at his mind. “He looks—” he began.
    At that moment, they heard the noise overhead.
    â€œWhat’s that?” Karen’s voice sank to a whisper.
    â€œCleaners?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œStay here.” Spraggue started for the door.
    â€œNo. I know this theater better than you.”
    â€œPlease. It’s not chauvinism, just a safety precaution. Be my backup.”
    She nodded. “I’ll give you five minutes.”
    â€œFine. Then bring something to hit somebody with.”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œBut not me .”
    â€œDo you have a gun?” she whispered.
    â€œNever touch them.”
    â€œHere, take a flashlight. You might need it.”
    Spraggue turned at the door and disappeared.
    At the foot of the stairs, he halted and slipped his feet out of too-new loafers. The wooden stairway was creaky enough without shoes. He kept to one side, testing carefully with his weight as he progressed. The