Get Even (Don’t Get Mad)

MARGOT TRIED TO MAKE HERSELF COMFORTABLE IN THE prompter’s box.

It was actually a corner of the stage left wing, set up with a stool and a music stand, complete with a small light shuttered and caulked with electrical tape so that the only direction the meager beam could shine was directly on Margot’s copy of the script.

There had been an alarming number of slipups and missteps during last night’s dress rehearsal, and though Mr. Cunningham assured the cast that “a bad dress rehearsal foretells a grand opening night,” Margot couldn’t help but worry about her ability to keep the actors on the script.

Especially since she was having her own focus issues.

She checked her phone approximately every one hundred and twenty seconds. She couldn’t help herself. Ed the Head had sent her one tantalizing text around lunch time and had then gone incommunicado.

He was supposed to dig into Christopher and Ronny’s past at Archway Military Academy and hopefully find a clue that would shed some light on the killer’s identity. But she never guessed he would go above and beyond, and his text had caught her off guard.

Hi, Sunshine! Don’t wait up for me. Had to take a field trip to Arizona.

Be back in time for the big show tonight.

Have a surprise for you that you’ll never see coming.

All her follow-up texts to him had been left unanswered, all her calls went straight to voice mail.

Based on the speed limit, current traffic and road conditions, the reliability rating on Ed the Head’s 2008 hatchback, and the personal reliability rating Margot had assigned to him based on their years of acquaintance, Ed the Head still should have hit the Bay Area an hour ago with the information he’d managed to dig up at Archway. Could he possibly have discovered the identity of the killer? Would they be able to put an end to the ordeal once and for all?

The rest of the girls clearly thought so. After Margot had briefed them, Bree had sent her a text approximately every thirty minutes, asking if she’d heard from Ed.

No, Bree. If I did, I’d have told you.

Another buzz from the music stand as a text came into her phone. Margot sighed as she picked it up. “Yes, Bree. I know,” she said out loud. “You want to know if—”

In Gilroy. Refueling. Should hit DuMaine in an hour. Meet you at the theater.

Bring your big girl panties because you aren’t going to believe what I’ve got.

Ed the Head. Finally.

Margot replied right away, typing as quickly as her virtual keyboard would process.

Meet us backstage. Prompter’s corner, stage left.

She was about to text Bree with the good news when she felt someone’s breath against the back of her neck. For an instant, she tensed, then she heard Logan whisper in her ear.

“You’re going to be amazing tonight,” he said.

Margot smiled as she spun around on her stool. Logan wore the same tight-fitting black jeans as the other members of the count’s gang, and through his low scoop-neck tank, Margot could still see the contours of his surfer’s body. Over that, he wore a silk brocade dressing gown, indicating his leadership.

“Aren’t I supposed to be saying that to you?” Margot asked.

Logan winked. “I’ve done this before.”

“And I’m the rookie?”

“Exactly.” He sidled up to the stool and placed both hands around Margot’s waist. “So . . .” He kissed her, sending a shock of electricity racing through her body. When he pulled away, she leaned into him, desperate to keep his lips against her own. “Have a great show. I’ll see you on the flip side.”

Bree was starting to despair, when she finally got the text from Margot.

He’ll be here in an hour.

She wasn’t sure if she was going to hug Ed the Head when she saw him, or throttle him. Probably depended on what kind of information he brought back from Arizona.

Either way, they finally had a leg up on the killer. In an hour, they might actually know who they were dealing with, hopefully with enough evidence that they could turn him over to the police and exonerate Don’t Get Mad once and for all.

At least, she hoped so.

The frazzled voice of the stage manager buzzed through her earpiece. “Five minutes. We’re at five minutes, everyone.”

Bree pressed talk on the headset. “Five minutes, thank you.”

They just had to get through this performance.

Olivia let out a tremendous sigh as she read Margot’s text.

Good to go. Break a leg.

Ed the Head had come through. With any luck, by the end of the evening Olivia would have an internship with the Oregon Shakespeare Festival and a captured killer to her credit. Not too shabby.

“More shading under your cheekbones,” her mom said, scrutinizing Olivia’s face in the mirror.

“The theater’s not that big, Mom,” Olivia said. “I don’t want to look like a drag queen.”

“Don’t you think I know how big the theater is?” Her mom sat back down, pouting. “Haven’t I been to every single performance you’ve given at this school?”

Yes, you have. Without a word, Olivia picked up the contour brush and added several additional swipes of the dark beige powder below her cheekbones. It wasn’t worth the argument.

“So much better.” Her mom blew her a kiss. “Shall we go over your blocking for the duel again?”

Olivia turned around to face her mother. “Honestly, Mom, I’m good. I know it backward and forward.”

Her mom raised an eyebrow. “Even the final scene?”

“Even the final scene.”

Her mom sighed, then grasped Olivia’s hand and squeezed it. “You know I just want you to be perfect.”

“I know.” Of course it was easier just to give in to her mom, but all she could think about was the pack of Ding Dongs in her bag, which she planned to bust into the second her mom left the dressing room.

Her mom straightened Olivia’s pleather vest. “My own Twelfth Night meant so much to me . . .” Her voice trailed off and Olivia wondered if her mom was going to launch into her favorite scene from act 2 yet again. Instead, she gripped Olivia by both shoulders and smiled.

“Your career is just beginning, Livvie,” her mom said, oddly serious. “So much promise. I remember—”

A knock at the door interrupted her mom’s reminiscence.

“Hello?” Mr. Cunningham cooed. He cracked the door and stuck his head into the dressing room. “Everyone decent?”

“Reginald!” Olivia’s mom squealed.

Mr. Cunningham threw the door open and genuflected before Olivia’s mom. “June! My mistress, dearest; And I thus humble ever,” he said, breaking into Shakespeare’s The Tempest.

Olivia’s mom didn’t miss a beat. “My husband, then?”

“Ay,” Mr. Cunningham said solemnly. “With a heart as willing as bondage e’er of freedom: here’s my love.”

“My hand,” someone corrected from the hallway. His tones were round and mellifluous. “Ferdinand’s line is ‘here’s my hand.’”

A short, stocky man stepped into the doorway. He had a shock of white hair, close-cropped above the ears and tapered upward to allow the thick waves some space to poof up in a semi-obvious attempt to give him more height. He wore a black turtleneck under a black sports jacket, both loose but not ill-fitting, and pointy leather shoes, polished to within an inch of their lives.

“Fitzgerald!” Mr. Cunningham squeaked.

Olivia’s breaths came more rapidly. This was the Fitzgerald Conroy!

Mr. Cunningham scrambled to his feet. “Sorry. I got carried away.”

Mr. Conroy’s eyes were fixed on Olivia’s mom. “As one would with such a lovely creature.” He sidestepped Mr. Cunningham. “Fitzgerald Conroy,” he said, his eyes locked on to hers. “At your service.”

Olivia was shocked to see the color drain out of her mother’s face. She looked as if she’d seen a ghost, and her hand trembled as Fitzgerald raised it to his lips.

“Fitzgerald, let me introduce Ms. June Hayes,” Mr. Cunningham said, oblivious to Olivia’s mom’s discomfort. “Her daughter, Olivia, is starring in our production tonight, ironically as Viola.”

Fitzgerald tilted his head to the side. “June Hayes?”

“Livvie,” her mom said hurriedly, “I really should find my seat for the performance.” She tried to extricate herself from Fitzgerald’s grasp, but he held her hand firm as he scrutinized her face.

“Public Theater,” he said at last, bobbing his head. “Summer 1997. You were my Olivia in Twelfth Night.”

Olivia’s jaw dropped. Fitzgerald Conroy had directed her mom’s production of Twelfth Night? Why hadn’t she ever mentioned it?

Fitzgerald pulled Olivia’s mom closer to him. “You were magnificent.”

“Yes,” her mom said, blushing up to her hairline. She looked flustered as she scurried out the door. “Well, I’ll see you all after the performance. Break a leg, Livvie.”

Fitzgerald’s eyes followed Olivia’s mom out of the room. Then he seemed to remember Olivia. “If you’re half as good as your mother,” he said, his piercing blue eyes boring into her own, “then I’m very much looking forward to tonight.”

Kitty slipped into the seat next to Mika and tried to keep her hand from trembling as she read the front of the program. Tonight’s performance is dedicated to the loving memory of Ronald DeStefano.

And in his loving memory, they were about to unmask his killer.

Mika eyed her for a moment, then laughed. “I’d think you were the one making your stage debut, not Donté.”

“Sorry,” Kitty said sheepishly.

“He’s going to be fine,” Mika said, misinterpreting Kitty’s nerves. “Tonight is going to be perfect.”

The lights dimmed, signaling the beginning of the performance, and Shane White, John Baggott, and the other members of Bangers and Mosh slipped out from behind the curtain, taking their places at their instruments in front of the proscenium on stage left. Once they were in place, the lights faded to black.

Kitty took a deep, controlled breath. “I hope you’re right.”