He ended the act with the lean-forward kick and double back arm swing to the slightly flat rendition of Stars and Stripes Forever. You had to be unpatriotic not to applaud, especially when Kenny stopped dancing and pulled the flag out of his jacket pocket.
He tapped offstage, smiling over his shoulder, exhausted, tucked the flag in his pocket, and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He’d have to get the soaked costume cleaned. Two bits, maybe half a buck. Cost of doing this kind of business. The seals were sitting there already barking, being fed fish from a bucket.
“Corrine’s dead,” Lizzy Bronte greeted him, tears in her eyes.
The seals and Sandy Scrimberger moved onstage to the pit duo playing The Battle Hymn of the Republic that they played because Sandy was dressed in a Union uniform and the seals were going to play the song on their horns.
Scrimberger and the seals were number five on the list. Few would mourn a pair of deal seals.
Kenny allowed himself to stand panting and comforting Liz Bronte.
“It’s the drink what did it,” she wept. “We tried to tell her. Doctors tried to tell her. Would she listen?”
“No,” said Kenny.
Alf came down the stairs shaking his head.
“Doctor’s coming,” he said. “But she’s gone.”
Liz Bronte ran up the stairs where her sister stood at the top. They hugged.
“Between you and me and Charlie Chaplin,” Alf said. “Corrine’s breath smelled like she’d been drinking some thousand proof.”
Alf hurried off behind the flat of a Civil War battlefield.
If the doc said Corrine had a heart attack, he couldn’t kill Vogel and make it look like a heart attack. There are coincidences and coincidences, but… Kenny got an idea.
No Bronte sister act with only one Bronte sister. One Bronte sister with a broken leg and no act. Show business tradition. “Break a leg, girls,” someone would say when the house was good and they remembered.
Kenny would find a way to break a Bronte leg, probably Charlotte’s. Charlotte was stronger. She’d recover faster. Not fast enough to get back in the season. And Kenny wouldn’t have to kill her. So, get rid of the seals and one Bronte and Kenny would make the cut.
When? The sooner the better. Why not now?
Risky, but look at it this way: Corrine’s dead. Charlotte’s distraught. She comes down the steps crying her eyes out. She trips, with a little help from Kenny hiding under the stairs. It shouldn’t kill her. With luck, a broken leg, especially if he hits the leg hard when he trips her. Hit the leg, duck into the janitor’s closet under the stairs, go through the window, close it, back around fast to the stage entrance, to the sound of people screaming about the double tragedy. Get a chance to feel Liz leaning against him again. Bonus.
He moved under the stairs, hid in the shadows, picked up a broom leaning against the wall.
The seals on stage were blowing their horns. He could hear the Brontes coming, comforting each other.
“Maybe one of us should stay with her,” Liz said.
“Go on,” Charlotte said. “I’ll be right up.”
Perfect. Liz was heading back to the women’s dressing room. Charlotte was already coming down the stairs. He heard her at the top step. Then the second. Saw her ankle. Nice ankle. She was moving slowly. Kenny was sweating even more now. Life or death. Kill or be killed, but he wasn’t going to kill her.
He thrust the broom handle between the steps and swung it hard against Charlotte’s ankle. Charlotte screamed, maybe she reached for the metal railing. She tripped and tumbled down the last nine stairs, but Kenny had already put the broom back and was closing the closet door behind him.
He went through the window. Cold out there. Sudden shocking chill. His sweat froze. He felt dizzy. Had to move fast. Around the corner, stepping through a thin layer of ice into a puddle of icy water. Hurrying, taps sliding on ice under snow.
Inside, Liz heard her sister, ran down the stairs screaming. The two-man pit band got louder to cover whatever the hell was going on backstage. Alf appeared, shouting “Chrissake, what now?”
Charlotte lay at the bottom of the steps, her eyes closed, her sister cradling her head.
“Oh God, Char. Oh God.”
The old man who guarded the stage door shuffled over, tucking his pipe in his pocket. Vogel came down the stairs quickly and knelt at the fallen dancer’s side. He touched her forehead, cheek, put his ear to her chest.
“Water,” he commanded.
Alf ran for water.
Charlotte opened her eyes.
“What son-of-a-bitch tripped me?” she demanded, woozily sitting up.
“You fell down the stairs,” Vogel said gently.
“You were upset about Corrine,” said Liz.
“Someone tripped me,” Charlotte said. “Help me up.”
Vogel lifted her as if she were a raggedy doll.
“My ankle hurts like hell,” she said leaning over to look at the purple and red welt.
She tested it.
“For chrissake, who are you?” asked Alf looking at a lean, white-haired man in an overcoat and muffler who had apparently come in the stage door while they were busy with Charlotte.
“I’ve come at a bad time,” the man said.
“It could be worse,” said Alf. “The roof could collapse.”
“Happened in the Fairfax in New Haven four years ago,” said the stranger. “I was there. No one was killed but…”
Charlotte was limping around now.
The white-haired man turned not toward the stage door but the door that led into the theater.
“No,” said Alf. “You’re here for chrissake. What do you want? You a cop? That’s all we need.”
“No,” said the man. “I’m looking for Kenneth Poole.”
“Kenny?”
“I just saw his act. I’d like to talk to him and to you two,” the man said looking at Liz and Charlotte.
“We’ve got a dead woman upstairs,” said Vogel softly. “This is a bad time.”
“Where is Kenny?” asked Charlotte as the pit band played By the Sea to accompany Scrimberger and his seals off the stage. The applause was the best of the night.
“What’s with all the noise?” Scrimberger asked.
Both seals barked. Scrimberger threw each of them a fish from the bucket he was carrying.
“Corrine’s dead,” said Liz tearfully. “And Charlotte was almost killed.”
“I wasn’t almost killed,” said Charlotte. “Someone tripped me.”
“Can you still dance?” asked the white-haired man.
Charlotte looked at him and said, “By tomorrow I’ll be perfect, unless I break my leg kicking the hell out of whoever-”
“Where is Kenny?” asked Liz.
The stage door flew open, letting in a frozen blast of air. Standing in the doorway was a chubby little man in a black coat and derby hat wearing black gloves and carrying a black pebbled-leather satchel.
“Someone should be with the body,” the chubby man said, closing the door behind him.
Scrimberger muttered something and led his seals past the stairs to the downstairs room reserved for animal acts so the cats, dogs, seals, parrots, and occasional chimp wouldn’t have to go up and down stairs.
“Buddy Donald is upstairs with her,” said Liz.
“For Chrissake,” said Alf rubbing his forehead. “Buddy’s supposed to be on next.”
“Upstairs?” said the chubby man.
“Corrine’s upstairs,” said Liz pointing to the landing.
“Corrine?” asked the chubby man. “What in the blazes on a cold night in hell are you talking about? I’m Doctor Milton Frazier. Someone called about a dead body. I practically tripped over it right out there.”