Awaken the Devil Page 4

  After being collected by one of the young assistants, they were led to the same practice room as before and taught a new number from the show, this time by the skeleton herself, who was wearing another unflattering purple leotard. She even gave them, having made it this far, enough respect to let them know her name was Lynette. To Fielding's delight, the number she taught them was almost exclusively tap. This gave her an operating advantage. She no longer had any worries about making this second cut. Which just left her with more time to worry about the rest of what she had to do.

  When the dancers were led out on stage, Bentley crossed over to them immediately, instead of staying in his seat the way another producer would. Fielding's reaction to his wet hair and unshaven face was painfully elemental. In her entire life she had never wanted to kiss a stranger before. Now, it was all she could think about. The curve of his mouth hypnotized her. Even specifically trying not to stare at him, she slipped once, got entangled in a moment of misplaced fascination. He glanced her way and caught her fixated on his lips. She was surprised to see his eyes darken in awareness. Was he attracted to her? The idea made her stomach clench. Thrilled her in a way that was totally wrong, considering the situation.

  Rumors of Chandler Bentley's exacting production style turned out to be a harsh reality. During their performances, he and Armand circled around them shouting out orders and, mostly from Bentley, insults. They were made to repeat the number over and over. A few people chose to leave. Fielding had already gauged enough about Bentley's personality to know that this was an acid test. He was the sort who wouldn't be able to abide working with people who were openly afraid of him. So she did what he told her without argument and attempted to ignore him the rest of the time.

  The ignoring part was easier said than done. His tan V neck sweater and brown slacks made him look refined and achingly handsome. He moved with an innate animal-like quality, with a grace and economy that was startling. He was a man with total control of every muscle in his body. She had to remind herself several times that she wasn't supposed to be staring at him.

  By the end of the very long day of callbacks, Fielding decided that she still liked Armand, but she didn't like Lynette. Lynette was rude and unreasonably demanding. Her emaciation disturbed Fielding, and her arrogance seemed extreme. Sara sat in the audience reading a Georgette Heyer novel and participated only to periodically tell Chandler he was being cruel, which seemed to have no effect on him whatsoever. Not that the actress seemed to expect it to.

  Fielding had to admit, if only to herself as the information would have been very badly received by her beleaguered colleagues, that she admired something in Chandler Bentley's demands for exactness and precision. He would be a good producer to work with, even if she was afraid of him. She just wished she was on the up-and-up.

  Hours later, after they were finally told who would be staying and who would be going and had been released, she quickly packed up her bag, dreams of a long, hot shower dancing in her head. Her clothes were soaked through with sweat. She'd take a taxi home so that people on the train would not be required to smell her. She might even tip the driver extra. Hazard pay.

  She threw her bag over her shoulder and headed for the stage door that led out to the street. She'd nearly reached it when the door to one of the three offices along the rear of the theater flew open, and Chandler Bentley walked almost directly into her. Desperate not to touch him, she pulled back so quickly that she lost her balance and would have landed flat on her butt if he had not effortlessly reached out and grabbed her arm.

  His hand was large against her forearm, and she was not surprised to find that his fingers were elegantly long and thin. What else for a man like him? They were warm enough against her skin that she was shocked somehow he wasn't burning her. The pads of his fingers were faintly rough and his grip was hard. He examined her critically with his intense hazel eyes, and she ducked her head down to avoid looking at him. If he noticed that she was sweaty and probably smelled bad it didn't register on his face. In fact, nothing at all did. Before she'd lowered her head, she saw again the curious and disturbing lack of emotion on his features.

  "Excuse me," she murmured. He either didn't understand what was expected by the constraints of politeness or merely didn't care. His fingers continued to dig into her flesh. She stared up at him again, their eyes meeting in a battle she didn't entirely understand. She tore her arm away.

  A flash of what might have been grim satisfaction flickered in his gaze. Surprisingly, he didn't insult her on her clumsy behavior. He merely tipped his head at her and said, "Good day, Miss French," before continuing down the back of the theater. Fielding watched him until he disappeared into the shadows, her pulse still tripping wildly. Her skin tingled as though the pressure of his fingers remained.

  An uncomfortable buzz broke through the daze he'd left her in, and she looked around her, rubbing her arms against the sudden sensation she was being watched. There was nothing to see but darkness and empty shadows. She hiked her bag back onto her shoulder and fled the theater at little less than a run.

  After she went home and changed, Fielding made herself stop at the Surveyor offices to check on things even though Mac had left his best page editor in charge. Of course, that editor was also her ex-fiancé, Dale. They had not parted on the best of terms after she'd discovered him in bed with another of the Surveyor's editors, Patrice Golden, only days before the wedding.

  Dale took himself seriously but the Surveyor no longer did. Three years ago, with newspapers going the way of the dinosaur, Mac had switched to the new, hip, format for which the paper was now known. It was free, only ads paid their overhead costs, and they'd gained a reputation for fun information and for asking the hard questions, but not the questions that were guaranteed answers. That was fine, though, since their new brand of readers didn't want answers. They wanted their minds stimulated.

  The Surveyor offices now reflected that mindset, full of college students and people like Josh who feared getting a real job. The cubicles were decorated with all manner of things that were not necessarily work-safe, and several employees had hair colors not commonly seen in nature.

  Even though she knew she should go to Mac's office and check his calls and letters, she snaked her way through the typical chaos of a newspaper office until she reached Josh's cubicle. Josh was unaffected by deadlines. People asked him for information and he delivered it. If they needed information that close to deadline, they were in more trouble than he could help them with.

  He was sitting back in his chair with his feet on the desk talking on his phone. Fielding could tell from his posture and tone of voice, although she couldn't hear his words, that he was talking to a woman. Women loved Josh, forever falling for his little lost-boy aura.

  When she was close enough to hear, he held a finger up gesturing for her to wait. His expression when he looked up at her said he was furious, but his tone of voice continued to beguile the girl on the other end. He begged off though she was apparently resisting.

  "No, baby, I'll call you, I swear. No, I mean it. Me and you, tonight. Ten o'clock. I can't wait to see you either. Okay, bye bye." He hung up the receiver of the office landline, and his legs hit the floor as he shot up, turning narrowed eyes on Fielding. "I was at the theater today."

  "Really?" She tried to pretend like she didn't care about his spy work or his continued anger. Even if she did care, what could she do? She'd never had any control over Josh, no one did. "How did I do?"

  "I wasn't watching you. I was watching Bentley." He shook his head at her. "You're a stupid girl, Fielding. You know that I love you like a sister, but you're stupid."

  Even though in this instance he was probably right, she took offense at the words. "I am not stupid. I know what I'm doing."

  "I'm sure that's what Eladora Coxton and Helena Bentley thought too. A pussycat, my ass. That man is hard as nails." Mouth pinched and white, Josh shook his head again. "Here's your mail." He opened up a large F
ed-Ex box and let several Xeroxed articles fall onto his desk. "Enjoy your bedtime story." He pushed past her and out of the cubicle.

  She stared after him. He was still mad at her. That had to be a record. Josh was so good-natured he was incapable of retaining any remotely tangible level of anger. Or so she had thought. She gathered the papers and shoved them back into the box.

  She left Josh's cubicle and headed toward the front of the building. Then, bracing herself for the emotional impact of his inner sanctum, she made her way to Mac's office.

  She put the box on the desk and spent a moment wandering through his office. Positioned on the edge of the desk was a picture of her standing on the right side of Mac as a child, maybe ten or eleven, on the stern of Mac's boat, The French Connection.. On the other side were Josh and his older brother David, this having been the point when Mac had been dating their mother. All three of them had that vaguely unkempt quality that all children seemed to possess in the eighties. Bad haircuts, ill-fitting clothes, and windbreakers made from synthetic, too bright fabrics. She ran her fingers over the silver frame.

  She'd spent many a weekend with Mac on his boat off the shores of Long Island where her grandparents had all maintained residences. Mac refused to budge from Greenwich Village despite their begging. They were all dead now. Soon Mac would follow. She would miss him so desperately. Too desperately to wrap her mind around it right now, here in his office, surrounded by his things. She pushed the feelings ruthlessly away, to be dealt with later, and turned her attention back to the photo.

  She didn't remember the specific occasion when the picture had been taken. She did, however, remember the feeling. Mac had been a good dad. The best. She'd never felt unloved or inspired to find another role model to fill in for her lost father. In fact, for most of her life she had been glad to have Mac instead of her real parents who had been, at best, ambivalent about her upbringing. They'd been much too busy chasing the story to bother with one small girl. They had ended up leaving her in Mac's company so much that, after they died, the only natural progression was that she live with him rather than her grandparents.

  Mac would never know if she let this Chandler Bentley thing go right now. But she would know, and that was enough.

  Hanging on the wall behind his desk was the sampler Mac had taken from the attic of one of the Long Island houses. It had been stitched by some great-great maiden aunt at the turn of the century. Though Mac was not religious, he had loved everything about the piece of cloth.

  To him the stitched words, "Do not think to tease into hell and out again, lest you awaken the Devil," had little to do with the Bible and everything to do with tempting fate. Before dates in her teenage years, he would call out to her, "Don't wake up the Devil, Fielding." Don't get yourself in trouble.

  Just reading the words was like going back there, to those days before she had thrown away his dreams for her to follow her own, those days when the only thing between them was affection. A thick lump blocked her throat, and she tried vainly to clear it. Mac was too young to die. She was too young to lose him.

  The rattle of the doorknob drew Fielding's attention and through the glass door, she could see Patrice Golden the moment before she stepped into the office. Like many of Mac's employees, Fielding had known Patrice most of her life. For years, before Patrice had managed her final goal of stealing Fielding's fiancé away, Patrice had lived her life as a form of constant competition. One she was determined to win.

  Fielding simply didn't possess that level of aggression, and half the time, she didn't even want the prizes that Patrice sought. Patrice was motivated and satisfied by things that Fielding never even considered as important, let alone important enough to fight about. Like position and prestige and compliments from a stranger.

  Even invading Fielding's space, Patrice moved through the room as though she needed to put her imprint on the air around her before she could conduct business there. Patrice crossed over to the desk, moved a pencil sharpener and a stapler, and opened up the mailing box of articles on the desk.

  Fielding stepped forward and slammed the box shut, somewhat serendipitously in Fielding's opinion—Patrice's fingers were still inside. "Excuse me, but that's my mail."

  Patrice jerked her hand out, her surgically enhanced lips pursing. "Honestly, Fielding, writing an article?" She examined her nails as if to ensure that they'd survived the box intact. "I thought you gave up on that dream a long time ago." Patrice had a way of acting as though her sympathy was sincere, that it would be appreciated.

  "I never had that dream."

  Patrice's perfectly plucked eyebrows pulled together. "And a good thing too, Fielding. You don't have the skill. So why try now?"

  There was no point in rising to Patrice's bait. "Did you need something?"

  "I just came to see if you really meant to write something, or if it was just a cruel rumor."

  "It isn't a rumor." Fielding pulled the box closer.

  "Fielding, darling, just because you have a degree in journalism doesn't mean that you're qualified to write about someone like Chandler Bentley. Don't you think you should leave that kind of thing to…more seasoned professionals?" She sounded so sincerely concerned, like she couldn't stand the possible pain that would come from Fielding's failed attempts to write a story.

  So Mac had told everyone, or someone he'd trusted who'd let the story subject slip amongst the staff. "I don't think so. You stay away from him." Fielding was immediately sorry that the words had come out of her mouth when she saw the keen interest sharpen Patrice's features. Didn't she know Patrice well enough by now?

  "This one is mine," Fielding reiterated. There was no reason to mention Mac's peculiar wishes. If he had wanted Patrice to know, he would have asked her to repay his debt. "If you run anything relating to Chandler Bentley without my specific say, I will consider that your resignation. Don't forget, even though Mac left Dale in charge for now, when he passes, this paper will belong to me."

  The words hurt, but they were the truth. She would fire all of them if she had to, in order to accomplish this one thing. But it was so hard to talk about Mac in a way that brought his impending death home as a reality.

  Patrice opened her mouth then shut it again. "We don't want to see you fail again, Dale and I." Of course, she'd bring up Dale. "Just come to me when…I mean if you need help." With that, she turned on one kitten heel and swayed out the door.

  Fielding watched after her until she was gone and shook her head. She had no energy to deal with Patrice right now. She would need every reserve she had to get through these next few weeks. She grabbed the package and headed out to hail a cab. She couldn't stand another minute in this place.

  For two long weeks, between the last audition and the first day of rehearsals, Fielding researched Chandler Bentley's life for an hour or so during the day and visited an increasingly confused Mac for the rest. It took forever to work through all the articles the sensational murder had produced, and she didn't have copy from any of the papers Mac owned. Yet the pile was still absurdly substantial.

  She had seen other cases like Helena Bentley's in the U.S. Laci Peterson. Nicole Brown Simpson. People whose murders had captivated the media and the minds of a nation. The articles about Helena Bentley had started off vaguely enough, after Fielding had managed to separate them into chronological order. At first there was merely the shocked pronouncement that Lady Helena Bentley, Duchess of Moreland, had been murdered. The general feeling was more like dismay than sympathy or actual grief. Perhaps there were so few lords and ladies left that people took offense to them getting murdered.

  The facts were remarkably scarce. Her murder had occurred sometime between midnight, the last time she was supposedly seen alive by Chandler Bentley himself, and one thirty, when someone from the Bentley staff, no identification in the papers, called the police. There was an obligatory obit sort of feel about the articles, comments on where Helena Bentley had been born and what she had done for most of her lif
e. The consensus seemed to be that the only thing she had ever done to deserve to have her death noted was marry a Duke. Of course, no one came out and said such a thing but even thirteen years later the feeling still permeated the words.

  Then one by one the papers started to pick up on the vibe that maybe, just maybe, the police believed that Chandler Bentley himself was responsible. Now this was big news. They pounced on it quickly. Not only was Chandler Bentley a lord, he was also a fairly famous producer. Although from what Fielding gathered, he'd still been doing other people's shows at the time. This kind of story was guaranteed to bring in the readers. And it must have, because the papers kept going, getting bolder by the day as the police produced more and more evidence they felt linked Bentley to the crime. But in the end, that evidence had not been enough to put him behind bars. Just enough to convict him in the court of public opinion.

  The actual evidence that the papers released, since that kind of thing was usually not available to the press in the midst of an open investigation, certainly wasn't tantamount to proof of guilt in Fielding's opinion. In the four years she'd reluctantly studied for a job she'd never taken, she had examined plenty of murder cases. Murder was newspaper fodder. The nature of the journalism beast.

  The truth was the police had nothing on Chandler. Even if John Reader didn't know it, any cop, journalist, or reasonably educated person would. Bentley had a motive and no real alibi. That was it. There was no murder weapon, no physical evidence of Chandler's guilt. There were not even any traces of blood on the man himself or in the shower he claimed to have just vacated. He would have had to wash up somewhere. There was nothing at all, except his lack of proof that he didn't do it and the consensus of everyone who had ever met them that Helena Bentley was a piece of work, and Chandler Bentley was a man on the edge. The feeling even seemed to be that, though heaven forbid anyone should come right out and say such a thing, she'd had it coming all along.