Eve nodded, pleased when the character confessed her lies and deceptions to Vole’s barrister. “She knew he was guilty. She knew it, and she lied to save him. Idiot. He’ll brush himself off and dump her now. You watch.”
Eve turned her head at Roarke’s laugh. “What’s so funny?”
“I have a feeling Dame Christie would have liked you.”
“Who the hell is that? Ssh! Here he comes. Watch him gloat.”
Leonard Vole crossed the courtroom set, flaunting his acquittal and the slinky brunette on his arm. Another woman, Eve thought. Big surprise. She felt both pity and frustration for Christine as she threw herself into Vole’s arms, tried to cling.
She watched his arrogance, Christine’s shock and disbelief, Sir Wilfred’s anger. It was no less, no more than she expected, however well played. And then, she came straight up out of her chair.
“Son of a bitch!”
“Down girl.” Delighted, Roarke dragged Eve back into her seat while onstage, Christine Vole plunged the knife she’d snatched from the evidence table into her husband’s black heart.
“Son of a bitch,” Eve said again. “I didn’t see it coming. She executed him.”
Yes, Roarke thought Agatha Christie would have enjoyed his Eve. Sir Wilfred echoed those precise words as people rushed out onstage to huddle over the body, to draw Christine Vole away.
“Something’s wrong.” Again, Eve pushed to her feet, and now her blood was humming to a different beat. This time she gripped the rail tight in both hands, her eyes riveted to the stage. “Something’s wrong. How do we get down there?”
“Eve, it’s a performance.”
“Somebody’s not acting.” She shoved the chair out of her way and strode out of the box just as Roarke noted one of the kneeling extras scramble to his feet and stare at the blood on his hand.
He caught up with Eve, grabbed her arm. “This way. There’s an elevator. It’ll take us straight down to backstage.” He keyed in a code. From somewhere, down below, a woman began to scream.
“Is that part of the script?” Eve demanded as they stepped into the elevator.
“No.”
“Okay.” She dug her communicator out of her evening bag. “This is Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. I need a medivac unit. New Globe Theater, Broadway and Thirty-eighth. Condition and injury as yet unknown.”
She tossed the communicator back in her bag as the elevator opened onto chaos. “Get these people back and under control. I don’t want any of the cast or crew to leave the building. Can you get me a head count?”
“I’ll take care of it.”
They separated, with Eve shoving her way through to the stage. Someone had had the presence of mind to drop the curtain, but behind it were a dozen people in various stages of hysteria.
“Step back.” She snapped out the order.
“We need a doctor.” The cool-eyed blonde who’d played Vole’s wife stood with both hands clutched between her breasts. There was blood staining her costume, her hands. “Oh my God. Somebody get a doctor.”
But Eve crouched beside the man sprawled facedown on the floor and knew it was too late for doctors. She straightened, dug out her badge. “I’m Lieutenant Dallas, New York Police and Security. I want everyone to step back. Don’t touch anything, don’t remove anything from the stage area.”
“There’s been an accident.” The actor who played Sir Wilfred had pulled off his barrister’s wig. His stage makeup ran with sweat. “A terrible accident.”
Eve looked down at the pool of blood, the gored-to-the-hilt bread knife. “This is a crime scene. I want you people to step back. Where the hell is security?”
She tossed out a hand, slapped it on the shoulder of the woman she still thought of as Christine Vole. “I said back.” When she spotted Roarke come out of the wings with three men in uniform, she signaled.
“Get these people offstage. I want them sequestered. You’ve got dressing rooms or whatever. Get them stashed, and keep the guards on them. That goes for crew as well.”
“He’s dead?”
“That or he wins best actor award for the century.”
“We need to move the audience along to a safe area. Keep it controlled.”