Chapter Fourteen: Lyewkin

I spent my evening in the house, seated at the back row of the orchestra—one eye on the list and another following Terrance's finger as it pointed to the next ticket-holder or laborer on our list. The calligraphy pen in my right hand was given a heavy workload, striking through each one ad nauseum.

Most as they were too stiff. Others were too rich—no motive. And on occasion, he or she listed wore gloves—gloves. There was no way our pickpocket wore slippery, silky gloves.

Minstrels held instruments. Ushers and bouncers stood like statues. Porters kept to the shadows with at least fifteen paces between them and the nobs at all times. And waiters, when they weren't balancing crystal-laden trays, refused to stray from their places by the width of a hair follicle.

Our thief needed some mobility.

By the time Terrance and I were finished, hardly any ticket-holders or laborers remained—aside from Esselle. She and a handful of spirit-goers were all that was left of our list.

Perhaps a part of me sought to abstain from putting my eggs in one basket. Though more of me knew that this was a game of last man standing. The less I suspected everyone else, the more justified I'd be in accusing Esselle.

I needed something to pass the time before the firebrand did something to condemn herself.

My head fell back, the motion jerking me awake. Terrance shot me a disapproving glance, but I knew he was also on the verge of dozing off. He was simply better at hiding his boredom.

In all of Diamond Theater's glory, and as expensive as the tickets to a single showing were, the acting was dull, and the plotline was exhausting. It was too serious, depressingly so. Did rich folk have a thing against humor?

They called it art but was art not supposed to be captivating?

"What is our next move?" Terrance whispered into my ear.

"Watching the bar until close," I replied, "From your office."

"We'll need to put names to faces," he began, "I don't know what these spirit-goers look like." He lifted the parchment and wagged it in the air. "Regrettably, the only one that could help us with that is Esselle."

I had predicted as much, considering the ticketmaster's involvement, or lack there-of, with the bar's clientele.

Terrance went on, "If Esselle already knows what we're up to, why not just ask for her help?"

"No!" I hissed, winning several glares from nobs seated at the fore of us. Calming and quieting my tone again, I whispered, "I don't want her thinking we suspect anyone other than her. And I don't want her thinking we have any doubts. Not yet, anyway."

Terrance nodded, and redirected his gaze to the stage. The so-called "big finish" was finally upon us. At last, my derrieré could leave the cushion it had been glued to for ninety minutes—the stifling air of the house, the pretentious nobs, the stageside cohort with their woodwinds blaring throughout every scene.

Preparing myself for the pity-claps and undeserved standing ovations, Terrance muttered, surprisingly loudly, "Is that… a banana?"

My eyes darted to where his gaze was fixed, atop the stage where the pixie stager held a banana, so yellow and perfect, so shiny it appeared almost fake. This was new.

Collective gasps and laughter burst from the audience, whilst my half-brother and the pixie stood frozen, mouths ajar, apparently oblivious as to what they could do. It was all I needed to discern that no part of this was planned, though it was genius. It made the first eighty-eight minutes entirely worth it.

The actress—posing with the fruit like a gun—turned a brilliant shade of pink, the candlelight cast over the stage spotlighting her embarrassment.

"By Djinn…," Terrance breathed.

The audience and actors were clearly torn, unsure whether to clap or to bow… or to make a run for it off-stage. Jumbled shouts penetrated the curtains leading backstage, conveying the sheer panic permeating throughout cast and crew.

One voice carried over them all, "Draw the curtains, dammit!" And that did it—my chin tipped up, and laughter soared from somewhere deep within me, a chord that hadn't been struck in too long a time.

I leaned to the edge of my chair, muttering to Terrance, "Thus, the aftermath of the tipping point."

His mouth widened in recognition. "Esselle," he gasped.

I beamed.

I could only imagine the thief capable of pulling off such a maneuver. A banana in place of the pistol—it was an excellent sabotage, but one that undoubtedly took skill. A sleight of hand, cleverness, stealth, and above all, willingness to rebel against the rich and savor their wrath.

Yes—this fiasco had the redhead written all over it. And it all happened as I'd prophesized, right on time.

By now, the entire house had sprung to life in gasps, laughter, and murmurings. Some of the audience clapped, some of the audience stood to clap, but most of the crowd appeared too stunned to move. Anger and delight were in equal abundance

I concocted a new plan in seconds. "Head for the bar," I instructed, standing from my seat and hoisting Terrance by the arm as I did, "Take note of everything you see." I pulled him into the aisle. "If she's barely out of breath, has a hair that's out of place, beads of sweat—"

"Where are you going?" He queried, cutting me off and dripping in nervousness.

"Backstage." If there were clues, witnesses, evidence… they'd be backstage. And time was of the essence, for the chaos I knew existed in those corridors could sweep any traces away in a matter of breaths.

"Terrance," I urged his gaze to meet mine one last time, "Don't bother masking your suspicions. But don't explicitly tell her anything—about the thief, about me, about anything." We neared the doors, and I added one more thing. "Collect her whereabouts, and if she has an alibi…," I blew a humorous breath, for there was no way she'd have an alibi, "confirm it with everyone that was in the foyer during the third act. We'll meet in Antolie's dressing room."

The ticketmaster's throat bobbed, but he nodded. And, with no time to waste, I pushed him into the foyer before he could protest.

I hurried in the opposite direction.

The corridors backstage were a nightmare. There was yelling, shoving, tears—finding a witness would be impossible in such chaos. I figured the safest bet was to head directly for Antolie's dressing room. So I did, shoving past stagehands like they were barricades.

It was a wonder that Esselle managed to navigate these halls.

When I reached Antolie's dressing room, he was crouched over the vanity. And though he didn't move an inch, I could tell by the tension in his jaw and balled fists that he was a bomb waiting to go off.

The banana was resting by his hand, out of place beside the puffs, kohl, and rouge scattered atop the mahogany. It took everything in me not to laugh at the sight of it.

Perhaps more impressive than the switcheroo itself, was the thief's ability to find such a perfectly-ripened fruit.

I cleared my throat, but Antolie didn't bother acknowledging my presence. He just kept glowering on that magenta satin stool.

I hardly knew what to say. I had so many questions, and he looked the opposite of eager.

"What do you need?" He finally spat after moments of shared silence.

"I just wish to understand. Were you intending to eat it?" I jibed, relishing in my half-brother's fury, "Or did you just mistake it for a gun?"

He glowered. "Well you wouldn't be here if you thought it was an accident, would you? And perhaps if you did your damned job sooner, I wouldn't have to worry about some free-roaming thief," he was shouting now, "floating about the theater and sneaking produce into my bloody holster!" Spit was flinging from his mouth, he spoke so rapidly.

Antolie seized the banana in a fist, launching it at the wall nearest my head. I didn't flinch, though it collided eye-level, a mere foot-or-so away from where I stood. I watched it fall against the floor in chunks, yellowish mush seeping through the rips in its skin.

My lips peeled up. It was the second time with Antolie that I fought the urge to laugh.

"Sure—let it out," I crooned. Another bout of silence passed before I claimed seriousness, "So what happened back there?"

"As if I'd know!" He snapped.

"You didn't feel a thing?"

"If I did, I wouldn't have gone onto the stage without my bloody pistol, don't you think?"

It was as I thought. The exchange was undetectable—smooth. Too smooth.

"Did you notice anyone you didn't recognize?" I queried.

"No."

"No strange encounters whatsoever?"

"No!"

"And when was the last time you knew for certain you still had the pistol?"

Antolie sighed. "The bottom of act three. As far as I know, it was still a gun during the final wardrobe change. Otherwise one of the stagehands would've said something."

"So just before the final scene, someone came along and switched it out?"

"That would be my guess," he spat, attitude lacing his speech as he slumped back down to his stool. He stared off into space. "This will be plastered to the papers tomorrow. I can practically see the headlines already—it's dreadful." Cupping his head in his hands, he leaned over the vanity. "Bloody dreadful…"

I turned to the pitter-patter of footfall—Terrance's pitter-patter of footfall. He entered the room in a flurry.

I had been waiting with bated breath to hear of his findings.

"You wouldn't believe," he sputtered in a beeline to the loveseat, "how many patrons wanted their tickets refunded!" He chortled, and I watched as Antolie stiffened to the sound.

I jerked my head to the banana-splattered wall, then down to the mess on the floor. Realization immediately took over the ticketmaster's features. He backtracked. "If it's any consolation, the scene was certainly memorable. Everyone's chatting about it in the foyer—"

"Whoopee," Antolie interrupted, not holding back on the satire and sneer.

Terrance halted his speech, and I shut the door.

"What else did you see in the foyer?" I queried, prompting him to arrive at my reason for sending him there in the first place.

I expected him to beam in enthusiasm. Alas, his face was blank.

"Nothing, I'm afraid."

"Nothing," I repeated. Too stunned to react just yet.

"She was at the bar the whole night," Terrance shrugged, "Willow confirmed it herself."

I was dumbfounded. It made no sense. Rather the entire thing made sense until now—hearing that she had an alibi.

There was only one reason our thief would bother switching out the gun… to mess with my judgment. Yet there was only one person that knew who I was, only one person who could've stolen the list from Terrance those nights ago, and only one person with reason to believe I suspected them—with reason to go through the effort of exchanging the gun for a banana, thus averting my gaze. Esselle.

The timing of it all was so damning. So how was I supposed to believe such an act was impossible for the only one my gut screamed was the thief?

Antolie looked from Terrance to me in confusion. "Who was at the bar all evening?"

I ignored him, my head a muddled mess of thoughts. "You really mean to tell me she couldn't have been responsible?"

"She had an alibi," Terrance repeated, "You told me to confirm it, and I did."

"And no one else was in the foyer throughout the whole third act?"

"According to both bar-maidens, no."

I leaned my head against the door-frame.

The gun wasn't daubed in diamonds. It was nothing worth stealing. No—I was simply being toyed with.

Again, Antolie asked, "Who has an alibi?"

And again, I ignored him, querying right back, "Can you think of anyone that would wish to sabotage your play?"

My half-brother drew a blank. "No. Perhaps one of the actors that wants more stage-time, but…" His voice trailed.

"What?"

"All of them snort Djinn dust in Sterling's office most nights. Since they have nothing better to do."

"Who's Sterling?" I asked, just in time for a knock to sound at the door. A muffled voice traveled through the cedar, a kitschy voice, booming in vibrato.

"Antolie? It's Sterling! You won't believe what I found!"

I looked at my half-brother and raised an eyebrow. "My director," he mouthed, "Open it."

When I did, a short, meaty, Humpty Dumpty looking man filled the doorway with a pistol—Antolie's pistol—pinched between his fingertips.

He lifted it. "Look familiar?" He chuckled and wobbled to the vanity, setting the prop on its mahogany, and scouring the three of us in one long sweep of the room. His gaze paused on the banana. "That's a shame—I was hoping to get that framed."

When no one reacted, Sterling blew a breath. "Why the long faces? I'll tell you what," he claimed the seat beside Terrance, who shuddered when the director swung an arm over its camel back, "It's a split, but I think most of our audience found the stunt hysterical. Some of our oldest benefactors are saying this was their favorite show."

He was bellowing in thunderous laughter when I cut in.

"Where did you find the gun?"

Startled at my direct tone, he studied me in his gaze. "By Djinn," he looked back and forth between Antolie and I, "The two of you could pass for twins. Say, Antolie, I have been meaning to find you a new understudy—"

"The gun," I said again. Sterling's face grew morose.

"The gun," he choked, "somehow ended up inside my desk." Terrance and I, and even Antolie, looked at the director in bewilderment, so he went on. "One of our porter's key-rings went missing after curtain call. I keep my office locked, so believe me when I tell you I was shocked to find it in my desk."

"And what of the porter? Or the stagers in your office? They didn't see who put it there?" I queried, winning looks from everyone in the room, Antolie's being the most surprised I'd let that little known fact slip.

"The porter was just as much in the dark as the rest of us, and the stagers," Sterling tipped his chin back to laugh, "They were conked—what do you expect?"

"And the key-ring?"

Sterling blew a long whistle through pinched lips. "Not one to waste any time, are you, boy?" Shifting in his seat, he flashed me a wry smile. "I was saving the best for last. One of the stagehands found it in their pockets, but get this…," he leaned further forward, "The key to my door was pulled from the hook and found in a different pocket."

"Who's pocket?"

"My pocket!" The director burst into yet another fit of laughter. What's worse, he was serious. "Guess whoever it was that put it there wanted me to have both keys!"

No thoughts or words could express the emptiness I felt in that moment. Our thief—the one I was given the duty to not only find but kill—involved the entire cast and crew in a crime of locked doors and an overcrowded maze of backstage corridors.

All to steal a worthless prop, to laugh at me and every nob packed in the playhouse tonight. All to turn Pale's most renowned production into its laughing stock—its grand finale into a gag.

It was brilliant.

And it was infuriating.

Sterling was still laughing when I shut my eyes. He was still laughing when a pounding headache flooded my skull from left to right. Still laughing when I rubbed at my temples.

I pictured that laughter coming from our thief, who now proved equally capable of wreaking havoc behind the stage, and not just at the fore of it. I pictured that laughter coming from Esselle, after stumping me and rendering me back at square one.

No leads, no evidence, no witnesses. And nothing but hearsay and speculation.