closely, as if it were a dark pool of water which had just risen from beneath the boards.
“I like that,” the man said. “Orchestra won’t notice, but it’ll be a nice effect for the people in the balcony.”
Once again he looked up toward the back of the theater.
“Okay, drop it,” he called, and the light flashed off immediately.
It was only then that he caught Frank in his eye. He leaned forward and squinted. “Can I help you with something?”
Frank walked down the center aisle and flashed his badge.
“I’m here about Angelica Devereaux,” he said. “Are you Mr. Jameson?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Well, I guess you’ve—”
“Just a minute, please,” Jameson said hastily. He looked up toward the balcony again. “Okay, Douglas, you can finish up later. Just leave the spot in position and go on to your class.”
Jameson waited until the boy had left, then he made the small leap from the stage to the floor. “The whole faculty had a private meeting about it this morning,” he said. He smiled slightly. “All that matters is that Angelica not be associated with Northfield.”
“Does everyone feel that way?”
“The board feels that way,” Jameson said. “That’s all that matters. As for the teachers, they’re a bunch of cowards, afraid for their jobs.” He shrugged. “Of course, Morrison has a point. Angelica had already graduated; she really wasn’t a part of the school anymore.”
“She was in a play, I understand,” Frank said.
“That’s right.”
“Which you directed?”
Jameson laughed. “Does that make me a suspect?”
“We’re not sure how she died.”
“Well, what does that make me then?”
“Just someone who had contact with her,” Frank said. He let his eyes drift down slightly. Jameson was dressed in a plain sweatshirt, spattered jeans and worn, unwashed sneakers. It was the sort of outfit that singled him out as a good deal less straitlaced than Northfield appeared to be.
“You did know her, didn’t you?” he asked.
“Yes, a little. Like you said, I was her director.”
“Did you know she was pregnant?”
“I heard she was.”
“From whom?”
“Morrison,” Jameson said. “That’s got them more uptight than her being dead.”
“Do you know who the father might be?”
Jameson shifted lightly on his feet. “Not me, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
It wasn’t beyond imagining, and Frank had already considered it. Jameson was young, perhaps thirty-five. He was handsome in a rough-and-tumble, scraggly-clothed sort of way, and he seemed to have a definite energy in his body and his eyes, the sort that might draw a young girl to it.
Jameson smiled slowly, and as he did so, Frank caught the un-evenness of his teeth. It gave him an odd, predatory look.
“Do you really think I might be the father?” Jameson asked.
“I don’t know,” Frank told him. “Are you?”
“Isn’t there some sort of test you can do if you really want to find out?”
Frank said nothing.
“Well, Mister …”
“Clemons.”
“Clemons. You can test me until the cows come home, but I didn’t fuck Angelica.” He waited for Frank to answer, peering intently at his face. “By the way,” he said, after a moment, “what happened to you?” He smiled. “You look like a mine blew up in your face.”
“When was this play?” Frank asked.
“Two months ago.”
“And rehearsals before that?” Frank asked.
“Yes.”
Frank took out his notebook. “For how long?”
“Six weeks.”
“Were they during the day or at night?”
“Both,” Jameson said. “When it got close to opening night, we had more evening rehearsals.”
“Did she come to most of them?”
“Yes, she did,” Jameson said, “and that surprised me. Kids sometimes burn out. I thought she would be one of the first. You know how it is, kids have different priorities than adults.”
Theories of child development were not what Frank was after, especially from a man who seemed to have an odd leer in his eye.
“Did she miss any particular night?” Frank asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, like every Thursday night, or every Friday night?”
“No. What would it mean if she did?”
“I don’t know Angelica,” Frank said. “It would help if I could pin down some pattern in her movements.”
Jameson thought about it for a moment. “Well, I can’t remember exactly when she did or didn’t show up.” His eyes continued to stare intently into Frank’s face. “You really got pounded, didn’t you?” He laughed. “Happened to me once, too. Only it was the cops who gave it to me.” He smiled proudly. “Little place called Chicago, nineteen sixty-eight.”
Frank did not bother to write it down. “What role did Angelica play?” he asked.
Jameson’s face stiffened, as if he’d been rebuffed. “The lead.”
“Which was?”
“Medusa. Ever heard of her?”
Frank nodded.
“Her hair was all snakes,” Jameson said with a thin smile. He placed his fingers on his head and wriggled them wildly. “Much abused by men, that was Medusa’s story. The snakes were to ward off rapists.” He drew his hands down from his head and dropped them to his sides. “I wrote the play myself. I figured it would shock the hell out of the old blue-haired grandmothers who usually show up at Northfield Academy productions.” He grinned childishly. “And it did, too. Poor Morrison must have gotten twenty calls about it.”
“How was she in the part?” Frank asked.
“Pretty good.”
“She wanted to be an actress.”
“Doesn’t everybody?”
“Did she have any talent?”
“Not really,” Jameson said dismissively. “She fit the part, that’s all.”
“Did you know she was planning to go to New York?”
Jameson laughed. “Isn’t everybody?”
“To be an actress.”
“I repeat: Isn’t everybody?”
“Did she speak to you about it?”
“She might have thrown the idea out a couple of times,” Jameson said.
“Did you get the impression that she meant it?”
“I didn’t get any impression one way or the other,” Jameson said, “but I’ll tell you one thing, that little girl would have ended up with her back on the casting couch more than once.” He patted the pockets of his trousers. “You have any cigarettes? I’m fresh out.”
