Rewriting Rita Read online

  She worried about Corinne, Poke and Matilda and hoped that Kidrick had been so busy kidnapping her that he had left them alone. In a few short hours she would leave this place forever with the Rose Arbor Traveling Troupe and she would never see those people again. Her heart twisted, but she pressed forward. She stopped briefly beside the streetcar tracks before realizing it was too early for them to be running. She would have to walk. Pulling her cloak around her shoulders, she headed in what she hoped was the direction of a bright future.

  ***

  Christian woke with a crick in his neck and a massive headache. He promised himself he would never drink again until he remembered that he hadn’t been drinking. He had watched Miss Ryan drink but hadn’t had a drop. Good. Feeling proud of himself for his abstention, he sat up, looking for his reason to remain sober.

  Where was she? Dem. Maybe he should have been drinking. At least then he’d have an excuse for letting her go—again.

  He stood and rubbed his aching neck, wondering what to do. Miss Ryan would undoubtedly return to the theater. He should at least make sure she had arrived safely. Wondering when she had left, he smiled at the memory of her sleeping, curled and snoring on the bed, reminding him of large purring cat.

  The sun had risen midway and burned away the morning mist so typical of Seattle. Fishermen bustled around the pier, loading boats with bait, crab cages and fishing nets. A few greeted him with curious stares and tips of their hats. Christian smiled affably, wondering what they must have thought if they had witnessed Miss Ryan’s early departure.

  He stopped on the boardwalk as a thought struck him. What if she had left in the middle of the night? What if she hadn’t left willingly at all—what if she had been absconded by Kidrick? He touched his temple and felt his blood pressure rising. He ran.

  ***

  The theater wore a dark and sleepy look. Not seeing any movements through the lobby windows, Rita pulled open the door and slipped inside. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the light, but she blinked as the familiar sights, smells, and sounds of the theater engulfed her. She would miss it. Her heart swelled with gratitude for Ivan giving her a chance, for Matilda offering her friendship and gentle tutoring, and even for Clarisse, who unknowingly had pushed Rita to try harder. She soundlessly crept up the stairs.

  Matilda bolted up when Rita opened the door. She stared wide-eyed. “Where have you been?” she whispered-yelled. “Are you all right? Did Kidrick—”

  “I’m fine,” she assured Matilda as she crossed the room.

  Matilda fell back onto the bed. “Thank goodness! Poke said Kidrick had captured you.”

  Rita sat on the bed beside Matilda. “He did. I got away.”

  “How?”

  Rita told her everything, but stopped as a realization swept over her. “What has become of Corinne?”

  “She’s at the home of a woman who rescues girls from houses of ill repute. Poke, who was wounded by Kidrick, is there too. The woman has employed a discreet physician.” Matilda lowered her voice. “This woman is remarkable. She looks like a porcelain doll, but she must have tremendous courage, strength and organizational skills to accomplish what she does.”

  “If only we had taken Corinne there in the first place!” Rita felt ill. She had so many questions. Who was this woman? How had Matilda found her? Why hadn’t she found her before? But she settled on, “And Poke? How is he?”

  Matilda nodded. “The doctor said he should be back at the keyboard in a few weeks.”

  “A few weeks? So he’s not going to New York with us?”

  “Child, there will be no New York for you if you aren’t ready to dance and sing as soon as Ivan is ready to leave.”

  Shell Falls

  Addison reluctantly put down the manuscript as Ginny, head high, shoulders braced, and back rigid, stomped into the bookstore. Had Ginny been born a hundred years earlier, she would have made a wonderful suffragette. Even in grade school, where they had met and become fast forever friends, Ginny had been a warrior of the underdogs and defender of the bullied. Despite her size. She’d always been the smallest girl in their grade. The biggest hearts sometimes come in the smallest packages, Addison’s mom had liked to say.

  Ginny dropped a stack of books on the counter. “You were wrong!”

  Addison tried to think of what she’d done to cross over into the forbidden territory of Ginny’s displeasure and came up empty. “How so?”

  Ginny sniffed and lifted her chin. “That blonde you saw James with? His niece.”

  “No! They were pawing each other!”

  Ginny quirked an eyebrow.

  Addison raked her memories. Hadn’t she seen them kissing? They had definitely been physically engrossed. Gross was an apt description “They were all over each other. I saw him giving her a piggyback ride!”

  Ginny folded her arms and glared at Addison. “His niece is mentally handicapped. He said she’s not great with social boundaries and physical space. On Saturday, he spent the day with Marcy—her name—because his sister wanted to attend a funeral.”

  A sick feeling washed over Addison. “I owe him an apology.” She studied Ginny and took note of the pink flushing her cheeks. A realization hit her. “You like him.”

  The pink deepened and Ginny turned away, trying to hide it. “Of course I like him. He’s a nice man.”

  “No, you like like him.”

  “I just think you should give him a second chance,” Ginny said as she fussed over the books in the mystery section.

  “No. I don’t think I will,” Addison said.

  Ginny’s head snapped around and fire lit her eyes. Before Ginny could say anything to rekindle the argument, Addison added, “I’ve been thinking a lot recently about something Lauren said to me after Paul’s funeral.”

  “But…you think Lauren is—”

  “Sometimes off base, yes.” Lauren, a frequent customer and certified life coach, bought every new age spirituality book that came into the store. “But I think she may have been right about this.”

  “About what?” Ginny sounded skeptical, but also a smidgen hopeful. Fiercely loyal, she would never date James if she thought Addison was interested in him. And was she?

  No. Not really. She enjoyed his company and the attention. But did she feel fluttery around him the way Rita felt around Christian, or she had been around Paul? No. She had told herself that her lack of response to him had been because she was older, more mature, but, if she was honest, he stroked her ego more than anything. And from the wistful look in Ginny’s eyes, he did much more than that for her. Which was great. Addison couldn’t think of anyone Ginny had been interested in since her divorce last year.

  And, of course, Landon Brooks had nothing to do with what Addison said next. “Will you tell James I’m sorry?”

  Ginny slammed down a book on the counter. “What? We’re back in junior high? This is just like when you asked me to tell Rick Meyers that you wouldn’t go with him to the sock hop!” Ginny pretended to be mad, but her lips were twitching.

  Addison sighed. “You’re right. I’ll tell him myself, but I don’t want to send the wrong message. I don’t want him to think I’m interested. What do you think I should do? Do you think a text is too cold?”

  Ginny wrinkled her forehead. “I don’t know, let me think about it.” She picked up a dust rag and began to work on the romance aisle. “What were you saying about Lauren?”

  Addison fetched her own dust rag. “I thought it was, you know, Lauren-speak at the time, but now…”

  “What?”

  “Lauren said I needed to forgive Paul before I could ever hope to have a real relationship with someone else.”

  Ginny nodded. “My therapist told me the exact same thing after my divorce.”

  Addison wanted to point out that forgiving Kevin, Ginny’s ex, was easier because she could actually talk to him face to face and hear his side of the story…but on the other hand, maybe not since she actually had to talk to hi
m face to face and listen him to tell her why she hadn’t been enough for him. How she’d been inadequate. How she’d failed. Why he’d been so unhappy that he had to look for someone else. These were things Paul would never be able to tell Addison, things he’d never say, things she’d never learn.

  To hide the sudden tears in her eyes, Addison pulled herself out of the reading chair, moved over to the display of greeting cards and fussed over them even though they were all in order.

  “Dr. Claude said that forgiving a wrong is a lot like sewing a seam in a dress,” Ginny told her. “If you have a bunched seam, your dress won’t fit right. You can’t just sew over it and hope no one will notice. You have to rip out the seam and do it over again.”

  Addison blew out a frustrated breath. “Yes, but Kevin and Paul didn’t seem to have a problem moving on.”

  “We don’t know that. We can’t know what’s going on in their heads. We can only know and do what’s right for us.”

  Addison thought about pointing out that all that was going on in Paul’s head was maggots, but didn’t. Ginny didn’t like to harbor negativity, and she would assuredly consider that comment negative. And morbid. Besides, Addison wasn’t sure if that was what she really believed. Her gaze landed on the greetings cards in front of her. A birthday card with a picture of goats caught her eye. Her mother-in-law loved goats. With a shock, she realized it was Maureen’s birthday. Bracing her shoulders, she decided that while she couldn’t talk to Paul, she could talk to his mother.

  Even though that was something she didn’t like to do, not even when Paul was alive.

  Maybe she’d read Rescuing Rita before she went. Rita wasn’t afraid of anything, especially not seventy-something little old ladies. She picked up the manuscript and settled back into the chair.

  #

  Hours later, Rita and Matilda stood at the train station, engulfed by the engine’s powerful steam. Trunks and cases lined the station, and travelers and porters bustled around them. Pierre and Phillip, members of the troupe, lifted the costume trunk into the baggage car, faces red with exertion.

  “I will miss you.” Rita hadn’t expected tears.

  “And I you.” Matilda wiped her eyes with a corner of a handkerchief.

  Rita moved from Matilda’s arms to Poke’s bear-like embrace. Mindful of his wounded shoulder, she held him briefly. “I’m so sorry you won’t be joining us.”

  Poke studied his boots. “I been told y’all will find a new pianist in Portland.”

  “I’m sure he won’t play as fine as you,” Rita said.

  Poke motioned to his shoulder. “I won’t be playing fine for some time.”

  “I’m so sorry. If only I hadn’t meddled.”

  “Now, Miss Rita, don’t be beating yourself up over that,” Poke said. “You know you done a good thing helping that girl escape.”

  “I suppose.” But Rita couldn’t help feeling sorry for Christian Roberts. She opened her mouth to suggest that perhaps she should stay, just so she could say goodbye, but the porter blew his whistle and Poke pushed her toward the open door of the train.

  “Miss Rita, you are going to get on that train if I have to put you there myself.”

  “You know this is what you want,” Matilda said. “Staying here won’t help that man one whit.”

  “I suppose,” Rita said again, still dragging her feet.

  Matilda grabbed her in one last, fierce hug, and Poke helped Rita climb aboard. She gave them a sad smile and a final wave before turning away to find the berth she would share with Clarisse. It would be a long, lonely trip to their first stop, Portland, Oregon.

  ***

  Standing in the basement of the Portland Majestic, surrounded by the costume trunks, Rita fought back a surge of homesickness. She loved the theater, the lights, the music, the pleasure of the performance and the audience appreciation, but she often wondered why she couldn’t have both the comfort and niceties of her home, her real home, and the thrill of the crowd. Why did it have to be an either-or proposition?

  But she knew it must be so. She couldn’t live on Fifth Avenue or have a place in New York society and also perform on the stage. She couldn’t live in her father’s house and call herself an actress—not that the roles were so different, she now realized. Living under her parents’ all-seeing gaze and in the constant scrutiny of New York’s society had been the most perplexing role of her life, and feigning interest in the gossip of that closed, elect society had been more challenging than learning the longest soliloquy. No, Rita knew for certain that she would rather play the grandma on stage than be forced to sit through another of Mrs. Borough’s luncheons or Mrs. DeWinter’s garden parties.

  Sunlight trickled through the basement windows and reflected on dust particles spinning to the floor. If dust could be allowed to dance, then so should she. Even if doing what she wanted meant she had to share a room and a bed with Clarisse.

  Rita shuddered and reminded herself why she had gone to the basement. She needed a parasol, or, to be more precise, her character Belinda Beloved needed a parasol. The trunks, as large as and even more substantial than coffins, stood like sentries. Rita frowned, wondering which contained what. All wore heavy padlocks save one.

  Clarisse flounced down the stairs. “Well, I say, it is taking you an age.”

  Rita, not wanting to be found idly thinking, went to the trunk without a lock and lifted the heavy lid. Frilly dresses, ribbons—a toe of a man’s boot. Rita stared, as an odd tingle started at the back of her neck. What on earth?

  “What are you doing down here?” Clarisse stood on the last stair and put her hands on her hips.

  “I’m fetching a parasol.”

  Clarisse strode across the room and plucked one from the open trunk. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  Rita frowned. Frills, lace, ribbons—she hadn’t noticed a parasol and yet Clarisse had found one without even looking. And the man’s boot—where had it gone?

  “Well, come on, then.” Clarisse lifted her skirts and pounded up the stairs. Rita followed, but stopped on the landing when she overheard the words triple murder.

  ***

  The actors were standing on the stage, but Rita knew they weren’t acting.

  “A triple murder? Mr. Roberts?” Pierre asked, his voice squeaking. “Impossible.”

  “They found the bodies of three men in the river,” Phillip said, his head nodding. “And witnesses are claiming they saw Mr. Roberts fleeing.”

  “Three men? What witnesses?” Rita asked, but she knew. It had to be the men from the boat, and she was sure there would be only one witness—Kidrick, the real murderer.

  She sat down on the piano bench, hard, her feet giving out from under her and her knees collapsing. The bench groaned beneath her weight. She pictured Christian Roberts sprawled against the cushions, a small smile on his lips, eyes warm with laugher. She couldn’t let him hang for a crime he didn’t commit. “I have to warn him.” she muttered as she stood, determined to run all the way back to Seattle if needed.

  “Where are you going?” Pierre demanded. “The show starts in five minutes.”

  Five minutes until the show. Two hours until the closing curtains. Thirteen hours until dawn. When would the next train to Seattle leave? What about a ship? When would it sail? Like the train, not until morning. And running to Seattle was not an option. Not really.

  All during the show she felt detached, as if her body was on the stage, but her heart was searching for Christian Roberts. Was he in jail? When would he stand trial? Could she arrive in time to tell her story and save him?

  Pierre, AKA Mr. Dastard, took center stage. “My dear, I shall never forget the day we met. Overcome by your beauty and grace I failed to perceive your desperation.” He twirled his mustache and leered.

  Rita, dressed in the virginal white of the ingénue, touched her fingers to her lips in exaggerated surprise. “Desperation, sir?” She swung her valise in front of her as porters bustled around the mock train
station. Something about the stage setting reminded her of…something. And that something niggled in the back of her brain, trying to tell her…something. Something about the train, the station. About the boot and the costume trunk.

  She went through the show like a puppet—her mouth saying the words, her body moving to the correct positions, but her mind whirling, trying to work pieces that didn’t belong to the same puzzle—or did they?

  As soon as Ivan dismissed the cast, Rita flew down the stairs. Several trunks now stood unlocked or even open, but Rita went immediately to the one she’d checked earlier and threw open the lid. Pawing through it, she found frilly skirts, lace shawls, hats and bonnets in all shapes and sizes. No boots. She put down the lid and sat upon it, thinking.

  Clarisse again tripped down the stairs but on the bottom tread stopped, suddenly wary, when she spotted Rita. “Guarding the costumes?”

  Rita shook her head, hating how every encounter with Clarisse turned into a sparring match. She made her voice smooth and conversational. “Clarisse, did you know Christian Roberts in Seattle?”

  Clarisse made a purring noise. “Everyone knows Christian Roberts. Why do you ask?”

  “I did not know him well, but I find it hard to believe he could be capable of a triple murder.”

  “So sad. I wonder how his family must feel.” Clarisse crossed the room and dropped the parasol into an open trunk.

  The costumes on the rack rustled, although there was no breeze. Rita shivered, watching the now-still rack. Her gaze wandered around the room—blackened stone walls, an open-beamed ceiling with cobwebs in the corners. Daylight flittered through the tiny windows, but no breeze stirred. What had made the clothes move? Rats? She scanned the ground for signs of rodents and spotted the toe of a man’s leather boot protruding beneath a cancan dress. The boot disappeared behind the ruffles.

  “I don’t believe he did it,” Rita addressed the boot.

  Clarisse stopped in the middle of the basement and folded her arms across her chest, giving Rita a don’t-be-juvenile look. “It doesn’t matter if he did it—what matters is if the law believes he did.”