THE LIGHTS CAME UP on the banquet scene. Sunil turned to deliver his first line to Isobel, but she wasn’t there. His blood froze. It wasn’t like her to miss an entrance, and he hadn’t told her the truth about what happened in the alley. The door had been propped open slightly, and when he’d looked out, he’d seen the ghost’s cape on the ground. He’d taken a step outside, when he was knocked forward, landing on his knees. He’d felt the cape being swished away next to him, and then he’d heard the door slam and lock behind him. The ghost had locked him out. On purpose. And now Isobel was missing.
He glanced into the wings stage left, but there was no sight of her. Next to him, Marissa gave him a quizzical look. He cleared his throat and ad-libbed.
“Ah, Mrs. Blakely, I’m glad we resolved our differences so you could join this celebration of the band.”
Marissa blinked at him.
“Mrs. Blakely?” he prompted.
“I’m not Mrs. Blakely in this scene. She’s dead,” Marissa muttered.
Jesus, thought Sunil. Does she not know the basic rules of improv?
“Pardon me, madam, it’s just that you very closely resemble the litigious widow of my late partner. But of course she is dead,” he spat the word, “and you are obviously someone else.” He smiled wickedly. “What is your name?”
“Oh!” Marissa started. “I’m Mrs.…um…Miss…”
She was saved by the appearance of Isobel, who fluttered in from the wings and cried, “Darling!” She threw her arms around Sunil and hissed in his ear, “Had to make a call.”
Before he could respond, she drew back and jumped into the scene.
“Oh, Philip, what an honor.”
Relieved, Sunil picked up his cue. “And tomorrow I launch my new venture in Philadelphia. Jennie, dear, I only wish you could join me.”
“If you had not established your silly ‘no wives on tour’ rule, I could. Hoist by your own petard once again, you darling old meddler.”
The scene continued without further incident, but the moment the lights came down, Isobel grabbed his arm and steered him into the wings with surprising force.
“It’s Jethro, and you’re next.”
“What are you—”
“Play dead in the next scene.”
“Well, it is my death scene.”
She yanked him closer. “No, I mean really dead. Your life depends on Jethro thinking you, Sunil, are dead.”
“Oh, shit,” he breathed.
“One other thing. When Delphi leans over you to check your pulse, tell her to scream, ‘Oh my God, Sunil is dead.’”
“What the hell?”
“I’ll explain later.”
“What if she won’t?”
“Make her.”
DELPHI PACED BACKSTAGE in her maid’s costume, waiting for the crew to set up the Philadelphia hotel room. Isobel and Sunil had been on edge all night, but there was nothing she could put her finger on beyond the obvious. Although now that she thought about it, she’d hardly seen either of them backstage during the show. And then Isobel was late for that last scene, which wasn’t like her at all. Delphi heard the ad-libbed exchange between Marissa and Sunil over the monitor. Sunil had seemed off during the act one finale, not that she could blame him since it was his first time going on as Sousa. But again, it wasn’t like him. Even when he didn’t know exactly what he was doing, Sunil’s confidence never seemed to falter.
The scene change seemed interminable tonight, but finally the lights came up. Sunil was sprawled on the bed in a strange position, with his head upstage, the opposite of the way he’d been blocked. It meant that when she bent over him, she’d be giving the audience a charming view of her backside. Sunil must have realized that, the swine. He’d done it on purpose. She’d make sure to give him grief for it afterward.
She strode onstage, breakfast tray in hand, and paused outside the wooden doorframe.
“Mr. Sousa? I’ve got your breakfast.”
She sighed and set down the tray, then knocked on the door and slowly nudged it open.
“Mr. Sousa, you ordered your toast for nine o’clock.”
She approached the bed and bent forward at what she knew was an unattractive angle and put her fingers on his neck. To her surprise, he grabbed her hand and pulled her close.
“Scream, ‘Oh my God, Sunil is dead,” he whispered. “Just do it.”
“What? Why?”
He opened one eye. “Isobel.”
Delphi screamed.
ISOBEL HOVERED ON THE STEPS to the vom, directly above the spot where Jethro, if he was following orders, was sitting on his chair, waiting for her triumphant return.
She was prepared for the gasps and shrieks from the audience when they came, but she put the sound out of her mind. She had to focus. It was imperative that this next scene play out according to the script in her head. She glanced behind her and then took the last few steps at a bound.
“It’s done! Did you hear? Just like I promised!”
Jethro was seated, his head bowed, his hands before him as if in prayer. His hat was in his lap, and when he looked up, his eyes glittered feverishly and a foolish grin overtook his pudgy features. In that moment, he resembled an overgrown child granted his greatest Christmas wish.
“You’ve killed the impostor,” Jethro said in awestruck tones. “Then you do love me?”
“I’ve proven it, haven’t I? I gave your poison to him. Now it’s only you and me, Jethro.”
“Philip!” he snapped. “I’m John Philip Sousa!”
Of course you are, in a Robert Livingston costume, thought Isobel. Ah, well, first rule of improv.
“Yes, and I am your Jennie. How did you arrange it?” she asked wonderingly.
“I got rid of the people in the way,” he said. “I killed that tart and the meddling costumer. And now the two impostors are gone.” He grabbed her arm. “I had to kill them so we could be together, my dove, and now we are!”
“We’ll perform in your masterpiece as ourselves, in love, as we were always meant to be,” Isobel said, although the words made her sick.
“Yes. Yes!” Jethro crowed. “We’ll be together in death as we never were in life.”
Over the monitors, the clamor of the audience was reaching a fever pitch.
“Wait—what?” she stammered.
“I said we’ll be together in death. For all eternity!”
Jethro lunged toward her. Isobel stood, horrified and rooted to the spot, as strong arms grabbed her and threw her roughly to the ground.