Checking both ways and seeing no one, she wedged her fingers in the opening, pried the door open, and slipped inside.

  She blinked, trying to adjust to the darkness. That familiar smell of mold from the weeping walls returned as she looked around, spotting a few empty costume racks, light fixtures, and clothing trunks. One block wall was covered with framed posters from other performances—Othello, Romeo & Juliet, Hamlet, Much Ado About Nothing, The Taming of the Shrew. Diana’s eyes caught on a photograph of Marcello, wearing a ruff and holding Yorick’s skull, in the Hamlet poster, his mouth shaping the words, “Alas, poor Yorick!”

  He’d played Hamlet. What a talent.

  Marcello. Now dead. Murdered, probably, in this very building.

  Shivering, she climbed a short staircase and found herself in the hallway with the dressing rooms. To her left was the one belonging to Marcello. His name was still scrawled upon the chalkboard.

  Just what she was looking for.

  The only problem was, there was some yellow crime-scene tape across it. Not really a problem. She could simply push it aside, something that was made much easier since the Do not cross part of it was in Italian. She could just pretend she didn’t understand it.

  If she dared . . .

  Did she? In any language, this was illegal. And she’d gotten into a few not-quite-legal scrapes in Paris. Luckily, she’d finessed her way out of them, or else she might never have left France. But it was only a matter of time before her luck ran out . . .

  She imagined Vidal, laughing at her in that high-pitched way. Diana’s in trouble! she’d screeched. Even the memory of it was enough to shred her eardrums.

  Wincing, she took a deep breath. She’d just put her hand on the doorknob when she heard a voice call out in Italian, behind her. She jumped and whirled to find another dark hallway, rimmed with curtains. After a few yards, though, this one widened up. Beyond another curtain was the stage.

  She took a tentative step toward it, pushing aside the simple black curtains as she moved through. “Hello?”

  “Hello?” a male voice called back, as uncertain as her own.

  She stepped forward, away from the curtains, and found herself on the stage, which was empty, and looked much larger from this standpoint. Scanning to the seats, she noticed a young man with a close-cropped haircut and a gray jumpsuit, standing near the orchestra pit. He was picking at his teeth with his fingernail and leaning up against a push-broom. “The place is closed,” he said when she appeared, not unkindly. “How did you get in?”

  She pointed behind her. “Sorry. The door was open.”

  “I leave it open. To get air through. Smells like stink here, otherwise.” He motioned her back. “You’re not an actor or a part of the crew. That means you shouldn’t be here.”

  “Oh, but I—”

  “You selling something? Doesn’t matter. You shouldn’t be here anyway. The police told me to keep anyone out. It’s a crime scene. You come to see the show?” He checked his watch. “Might not even have a show today. Police might not let us. They’re still investigating.”

  “I didn’t come to see the show. I saw it yesterday, though.”

  “Did you? Then you know why the police don’t want anyone here.”

  Diana looked for a way off the stage, and finding a set of stairs to the side of the curtain, went over and descended until she was at eye-level with the man. “I understand. Were you here yesterday, too?”

  “Yes. One of two stagehands they got. Me and the old man, Berto. I mind the area behind the stage, set things up, and clean the place when everything’s done. Wasn’t able to do it last night because the rehearsal ran late. And the police don’t want me touching certain things in the back.” He eyed her curiously. “You didn’t touch anything, did you?”

  She shook her head. “Just the door, when I opened it.”

  He sighed, went to the cupholder on one of the near seats in the front row, and picked up a bottle of water. Taking a long gulp, he shook his head. “Hard to believe Camillo is dead. I don’t get what happened.”

  “Could’ve been a heart attack?”

  He shook his head. “That’s all to stop people from freaking out. What I heard, and what the police have been saying, is that it’s murder. Someone poisoned his wine. And you didn’t hear it from me, but I think a jilted lover had a hand in it. He was always one for the ladies.”

  “Is that right?”

  He nodded.

  “So you clean up in the back? You cleaned their rooms, right? Where do you think that wine would’ve come from? Did an admirer leave it at the stage door for him?”

  “That’s just it. I don’t know. The man was very popular. He got lots of gifts, and I was the one to go to the stage door to get them. Lots of lady admirers. But not wine. Not that I can remember. Usually he got candy. Cards with lots of hearts on them. Romantic things.” He leaned forward and whispered, “Undergarments.”

  Diana’s eyes went wide. Undergarments? Really?

  “Maybe Berto knows. He usually waits at the entrance from the lobby. He’s older though. He don’t remember so good, and don’t speak English very good, either.” He shrugged.

  That was probably the uniformed man she’d seen before she went backstage the previous day. “Did you see the wine in the dressing room at all, like when you were cleaning up in there?”

  He shook his head. “Not that I remember. I cleaned the night before. If it came, it came the day of the performance. Either by one of the actors or crew, or it was left at the front with Berto. That’s the best I can tell you.”

  “And where is Berto?”

  He checked his watch. “He won’t be in for another few hours. He sleeps in after performances.”

  Okay, this wasn’t producing any concrete information. She decided to switch her line of questioning. “It is crazy. I just wonder who would do such a thing. Do you have any clue who’d want to murder him?”

  He started to shake his head, then gazed at her, eyes narrowed. “Why are you asking so many questions? Are you one of those armchair detective types? Nah, you don’t look like one. But if you are, I don’t think you should be here. Pietro wouldn’t like it. He told me to keep everyone else out and only clean up in the theater.”

  “Oh. No.” Thinking fast, she said, “I’m actually a friend of Marcello. Well, an acquaintance. He invited me to the play. And I’m just so shocked. I want answers. For him. For his family. He deserves them.”

  Sympathy flooded the man’s eyes, and his shoulders slumped. “I know. I feel the same. He was a good man. Most of the actors, they don’t care for us little people. But Marcello was kind. He should not have had this happen to him. I guess . . .” As if suddenly remembering, he reached into his pocket and pulled something out. It was a silver apple on a keychain. “He bought this for me. From his trip to New York. Gave it to me yesterday. He was always thinking about us.”

  Diana smiled. “That’s nice. I heard about his trip to New York for the audition.”

  “Yes. He was a good actor. One of the best. I think if anyone was angry or jealous of him, it would’ve been the other actors. They weren’t as good as he was. Maybe they had enough of him. Or the ladies. He had quite an eye for them.” He grinned at her, his expression suddenly wolfish. “I bet he had an eye for you. You look like his type.”

  Diana fought the blush on her cheeks. “Like I said, I didn’t know him well. He just invited me to see the play. So, you think other actors were jealous of him?”

  “Definitely. He was good at what he did. You should’ve seen him in Hamlet. Brought the house down in the title role. He won an award for it.”

  Now, this had definite potential. “Really? So . . .Which actors would you say might have been jealous?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. All of them? But in a competitive way. I’d never think in a murdering way.”

  Okay, that wasn’t helpful. Diana thought back to right after the murder, when the Nick Bottom actor had jumped at the chance to play Quince. That was kind of odd, that he would be so ready to fill his place, so over-eager, almost as if he’d been planning for that moment to pounce and take over. Maybe this was all part of his diabolical plan to get the role he really wanted. “What about the actor who played Nick Bottom?”

  “Luca?” He shrugged. “Nah. Not Luca. Or . . . I don’t know. Yes, he was very angry last night, but Luca’s a gentle soul. Kind of goofy. He couldn’t hurt a fly.”

  “He was angry last night?”

  “Yes. Or more like hurt and embarrassed, I think. He kept asking Pietro, our director, to play another role and he stormed out when he was turned down, after asking about a dozen times. He’s not a very good actor, in my opinion, though he thinks he is, so Pietro was right.” He laughed. “You know, he was acting like himself. Nick Bottom. That’s the only person he can play well . . . an ass.”

  She smiled. So he knew the play well, too. The irony hadn’t been lost on her, that the actor who played silly and self-important Nick Bottom wanted more important roles in the play, since that’s exactly what Nick Bottom had wanted in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

  “But I think Luca and Marcello got along well. I thought of them as thick as thieves. But I don’t know. I didn’t know any of them all that well. Just enough to say hello to. Certainly not well enough to think any one of them would stoop to something so terrible. I cannot believe that any of them could’ve done such a thing.”

  “But the police think someone did? You really do think they’re leaning toward murder?”

  He nodded sadly. “Yes . . . I keep thinking that it has to have been an accident, or a heart attack. At least, that’s what I want it to be. I don’t want to face the fact that it could be one of the company.”

  “What about Titania?” Diana blurted.

  “Mariana?” He smiled with a touch of dreaminess. “Oh, she is wonderful. She’s a very famous actress in these parts. A celebrity. Grew up right in town here, down the street from my aunt. She left for many years to travel in the theater, then she comes back. Everyone loves Mariana.”

  Clearly, he did, too. “Did she get along well with Marcello?” She thought back to what Marcello had said once. “They both grew up here, right?”

  He shrugged. “Yes. I think the two of them, they got along very well. As far as I know. I see them talking together. They were both very kind people. Such a shame.”

  Diana sighed, frustrated. According to this guy, everyone in the theater was so wonderful. She was getting nowhere. “Yes, it is. Do you—”

  Suddenly, the back door opened up with a crash, and the hulking director, Pietro, came plodding down the staggered steps from the back of the arena, toward them, clipboard in hand.

  He stopped about three steps in and looked up from whatever he was reading. Even from across the arena, Diana could see the narrowing of his eyes. She braced herself.

  “You!” he shouted, his words echoing, and then he began screaming something in Italian. “Cristoforo!” He motioned to the stagehand and then to Diana, shouting all the while.

  The stagehand, whose name Diana gathered was Cristoforo, gave her a nervous look. “He says you’re not supposed to be here, so I think you should probably go . . .”

  Diana took a step forward, preparing to leave. “I understand. Thank you,” she said, as the director continued to scream, gesturing so wildly with his face so red, the heart attack once again looked imminent. “I appreciate your—”

  Cristoforo suddenly took a giant step back, as if she was infected. When she looked up at him, his eyes were wide with a combination of horror and revulsion. “He says he thinks you killed Marcello?”

  Diana’s own eyes went wide, but with shock. “Me? Of course no—”

  “He says you were in the room with him when he died? That you put the poison in his glass and the police are almost certain it’s you?” The stagehand suddenly wheeled on her, gripping his push-broom in two hands, like a weapon he was ready to slash at her.

  “That’s not true,” she said, backing away and holding up her hands in defense. “Not at all. I just came here to get some answers because I know it wasn’t—”

  But clearly trying to tell them anything wasn’t going to work. They were advancing on her, getting ready to pounce, as if she were some common criminal. Pietro pulled out his phone and started to jab in a number. Probably the police. She moved another step backwards, nearly stripping over the first step of the stairs to the stage. Turning quickly, she rushed up them, heading for the backstage door as fast as she could.

  She only stopped for a second, to pick up a dog-eared copy of the play program, which had been discarded on the floor in the back room.

  When she was again on the street, she took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. This is not good. They think I’m the murderer. The police think I’m a murderer.

  She opened the program to the cast of characters. Right over Marcello’s picture was that of the rather square-faced, tan, and muscular man who played Nick Bottom . . . Luca Castille.

  At least she had a name. Now, if she wanted to stop these crazy rumors from flying around and save herself, she had to find the man. And she’d have to look—anywhere but here.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Though Diana didn’t know the town or language of Verona at all well, and though she didn’t have the latest model iPhone to help with her efforts, finding the address of Luca Castille proved to be far less difficult than she’d expected.

  All she had to do was stop in at the café, down the street from the theater.

  It had been pure luck. After she ran away from the director and stagehand, tail between her legs, she found herself with an incredible thirst. So she’d stopped in there, hoping to rest her blistered foot and get something to drink. But as she looked around the small, busy place, she smiled.

  The café was practically devoted to the actors of the theater. Made sense, since it was called Caffè Al Teatro. Every available space on the wall was taken up by theater posters and other memorabilia. The same Hamlet poster from the theater took up prime real estate in the seating area. The counter itself was fashioned to look like a replica of the arena. Behind the counter were signed portraits of many of famous actors, and not-so-famous ones, too. As she was paying for her bottle of San Pellegrino, her eyes caught on a picture of Marcello. Right next to him, there was one of the man of the hour, the man she wanted to see—Luca Castille.

  She looked up at the young, tattooed barista and said, “Luca Castille, huh? Does he come in here often?”

  The man looked over his shoulder. “Si. Before every rehearsal and performance. A lot of actors do.”

  “You see him in A Midsummer Night’s Dream? He was amazing.”

  The man gave her a look that said, Whatever. I just work here. “I don’t go to plays.”

  Makes sense why you work here, then. “Oh. But . . . Luca obviously loves this place, considering he comes here all the time, huh?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “I saw him,” another barista, a middle-aged woman with long blue-tipped hair and a surprising American accent, said. “He’s okay.”

  “You’re American?”

  She nodded. “New Jersey! You?”

  “New York!”

  “Hey, neighbor. But I moved here a decade ago. Luca’s really good, but Marcello . . .” She fanned her face. “That man who plays Oberon in that latest production could light my panties on fire.”

  Diana debated whether this was the right time to tell her that Marcello played Quince, not Oberon, and that he was dead. “Yes, he was very good, too. So you saw it last night?”

  She shook her head. “But I heard about it. I’ve seen all the other ones. Soon. Maybe today.”

  “Did Marcello come here often, too?”

  She nodded. “Luca most of all, though, since he lives right upstairs.”

  Diana blinked, hardly believing her luck. “Upstairs? So are you saying there’s like, an apartment building up there, and Luca Castille lives there?”

  She nodded. “Yep. Right upstairs. He’s down here almost every morning.”

  The male barista closed the register and dropped the change in Diana’s hand, wordlessly shrugging, like, You got your coffee. Now be off and leave us alone, lady.

  “Thanks,” she said, twisting the cap on her bottle and taking a much-needed swig. When she went outside, she went to the right of the narrow building, finding only an alley with a bunch of trash cans in it. Then she went to the left. There was a long, straight metal staircase attached to the side of the building, leading up to a landing with three doors.

  One out of three. I’ll take those odds, she thought, her shoes pinging on the staircase as she climbed. The thing was mostly rust, and swayed a little as she climbed, making her worried it might collapse underneath her. She held tight to the railing, saying a prayer of thanks when she stepped onto the solid concrete landing.

  She knocked on the first door she came to, the middle one, and waited.

  No answer.

  Giving up, she went to the one closest to the street. She knocked, and again, got the same result. She checked her phone. It wasn’t too early, but it was the middle of the day. People with regular nine-to-five jobs probably weren’t at home. Actors, though? He’d probably gotten home late last night, from the rehearsal. Maybe he was out. Or already at the theater. Was it possible that she’d walked right past him, on her way here?

  Almost ready to call it a day, she knocked half-heartedly on the last door.

  It opened almost immediately, revealing the handsome, scruffy face of Nick Bottom himself. Door open only a crack, he eyed her suspiciously, wordlessly.

  “Luca Castille?”

  His eyes narrowed more. “Si . . .”

  “Hi, um . . . you probably don’t recognize me, but I was there at the theater, yesterday, and—” She paused as he continued to eye her, uncomprehending. His eyes slipped to the play program in her hand, and he let out a little sigh, like he wanted her to get to the point. “You do speak English, yes?”

 

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