Orbra sighed. “Probably. But I don’t want to contribute to their delinquency.” She braced her hands on her hips and looked over at Jake, who’d just wandered into the lobby from who knew where.
“You going to bring me some more of that bread, there, young man?” She pitched her voice toward him. “Went through two loaves in less than thirty minutes. I made it a lunch special—your asiago tomato bread with a gazpacho soup and a small salad, with a pot of tea of their choice. Sold out almost immediately and had to change the specials sign because people kept asking about it.”
Vivien looked back and forth between Jake and Orbra—he was making bread? wasn’t he busy being a doctor?—but before she could ask or even decide if she should—after all, the less Jake in her life, the better—someone called her over to the restroom in the front of the theater.
After that, she was so busy that she didn’t get back to the lobby till much later, as the last of the volunteers were leaving.
“Thank you so much, again,” she said as they gathered up their things. “Coach Jeffreys, I really appreciate you getting your team out here.”
“They can always use different workouts,” Coach Jeffreys said. “And you gave them one hell of a workout today. Don’t forget to come check out our practice someday. Starting the week of August 15. It always ends by eight, and by then I’m ready for something to eat and a cold one.”
“I’ll do that,” she replied…pretty certain he’d just asked her out after a practice. And pretty certain she’d take him up on it.
“And by the way—it’s Drew, just like when we were back in school. I save ‘coach’ for the team and their parents.” His eyes twinkled.
And now she wasdefinitelycertain of his motives. “Have a good practice, then, Drew.”
She looked at the time as she waved goodbye and saw that it was nearly three o’clock. Four hours of work with nearly sixty people—with only a few short breaks—had made a huge dent in the demo and cleanup work. She thought she’d been being wildly optimistic ordering two fifty-yard dumpsters, but she’d have to have both of them hauled away and replaced tomorrow. They were already full.
She closed the doors to the outside and went back into the house. Everything was quiet in there too, and it was then she noticed that the catwalk was no longer hanging from above and heaved a sigh of exasperation. Jake’s doing, she was certain. So much for him listening—which was typical of him. The man was sweet, charming, said the right words—then did whatever the hell he wanted.
When she saw the large piece of broken catwalk leaning against the wall in the back, she had to at least be grateful it was somewhere safe—and that she hadn’t had to deal with it herself.
Now that everyone was gone and there was no possibility that a piece of heavy wood was going to fall down on her, she was able to walk through the building and take stock.
Although little swirls of dust remained from today’s activities and the gentle scents of must and cleaning supplies filled the air, the space was silent and still. Vivien was exhausted but exhilarated. So much more had been accomplished than she’d hoped.
The tattered red velvet curtains were gone—as were the others that hung in the wings—and it was a strange experience to stand on a stage that was so naked and open.
Normally, the performance area was cloaked with rows of curtains, scenery, and backdrops. Now the space—usually swollen with make-believe and illusion—seemed so spare and vulnerable. If she walked out into the house, Vivien would be able to see well back into the wings and even backstage.
Today, open and unshrouded, it was like someone’s private closet had been thrown wide for all to see.
What sorts of secrets lay within?
She smiled wryly at her fanciful, eerie thought. Secrets, schmecrets—she was going home for a good, long, hot shower. And then she remembered the trunk Stephanie and her friends had found in the orchestra pit.
Vivien was mildly curious why there would be a trunk in the orchestra pit, and her curiosity compelled her to take a look before she took off for the day. Usually, the pit was crowded enough with the musicians and their chairs, music stands, and microphones, so why anyone would want to add a large trunk to the space was anyone’s guess. Maybe it held old supplies. The girls hadn’t been able to get it open, though, and she wondered why it would be locked.
The pit was located below and in front of the stage. It could be covered or uncovered with various-sized panels as needed, and since it was currently shielded by those inset pieces, Vivien had to go around to the backstage area where a flight of steps led down to the pit.
She couldn’t help but think ofThe Phantom of the Operaas she descended into the “dungeon of black despair”—not that it was that deep or black or desperate—and hummed the song a little as she made her way below. She took the stairs because she wasn’t about to test the small, square elevator—which was a necessity for bringing a harp, upright bass, or a grand piano to the pit.
Despite the work that had been done earlier, a few stubborn cobwebs still clung to the top and sides of the stairway. The steps opened into a surprisingly spacious location with a ceiling that was low, but not so low that a violinist would jab it with her bow, and the top of the harp would be comfortably far enough away. Of course, the panels would usually be removed when the orchestra was playing, but there were times when a larger stage was needed or the pit needed to be hidden for some other reason.
There was a single naked light bulb dangling near where the conductor would be positioned—his or her boxlike platform was still in place. There were music stands leaning in a neat pile in a corner—obviously Stephanie and her friend’s work—and stacks of chairs joined them.
Vivien didn’t see the trunk at first, because it was tucked under the lip of the stage toward the front—behind where the conductor would stand. The chest was in a sort of crawlspace beneath the floor of the audience. From the scrapes on the floor, it appeared that the two girls had wrangled the large trunk further into the open space, so it must have been tucked quite far beneath.
Now she was even more curious.
It was what was commonly called a steamer trunk—large, old-looking, and roomy enough to carry a generous amount of clothing. It looked ancient to Vivien, and the leather straps that could be used to bind it closed were dried and curled with age. They lay where, it seemed, the teens had pulled them off. The chest’s corners were covered by tarnished brass bumpers, and whatever color the walls had originally been was now a dull, mildew-spotted dung-brown.
Despite removing the straps, Stephanie and her friend hadn’t been able to open the trunk, and Vivien shined her flashlight closely to examine the latch. There didn’t seem to be any sort of locking mechanism, and so she pushed, pried, and twisted to no avail. She was about to give up when she remembered the multitool in her pocket.
“This’ll do it,” she muttered to herself, flipping open the small pair of pliers and attacking the latch with their tiny metal teeth.
It snapped open easily after that—though not without a little scrape on her hand—and she tucked the tool away. Good thing she’d had a tetanus shot recently, she thought, and, having nothing else, resorted to wiping off the thin line of blood on her shirt.
