“Was anyone hurt?” Boo asked, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket and offering it to the man. Fitzgibbon looked at the grimy square and shuddered.
“No, but the dress is ruined. I can’t stand it.” He turned woefully to face Patrick Jones, the publicist, who was jogging toward them up the main aisle of the theater. Fionna, dogged by a grim Preston, strode behind him. Jones started to speak, but Preston pushed by him and shook a fist in Liz’s face.
“What I want to know is, you think you call this taking care of the problem?”
“Shush, Lloyd,” said Jones, patiently. “Can anyone tell us what happened? You, sir?” He snagged the arm of a passing firefighter, dressed in rubber coat and boots. “Are we in any more danger? Can we stay here?”
“The fire seemed to be localized right here,” the man said. His dark-skinned face gleamed with sweat, and Liz empathized with him for having to wear a heavy costume like that in the middle of the hellish heat of the city, let alone a conflagration. “We’re examining the rest of the scene right now.”
“Well, can’t you speed it up?” Jones asked. He looked peeved, but was trying to remain reasonable. “We’ve got a show to do.”
“Sorry, sir. These things have got to be done in the right order,” the firefighter said, patiently. “You don’t want hot spots to break out. Burn the place right down.”
“Oh, marvelous,” Jones said, throwing his hands in the air. The fireman walked in an ever-increasing circle around the center of the stage, studying the floor, and occasionally stooping to touch the wooden boards. Jones watched him go with an expression of worry. Liz felt sorry for him. This would be a very public public-relations nightmare.
Other firefighters searched around in the outer reaches of the Superdome, clambering up into the tiers of multicolored seats. Liz spotted the ant-sized figures in their yellow protective gear, and marveled at how large the arena was. Without figures to compare for scale, it seemed no larger than a circus tent, but it was fully as big as a football stadium. Which, she recalled wryly, it was.
A few of the band members and some of the security staff were following the firefighters around, asking questions. The rest were frozen in a huddle on one side of the stage, staring at the sodden costumer.
Liz surveyed the scene, puzzled by the lack of evidence. When the accident, or attack, or whatever it was had occurred, there had been a blast of some kind. Fitzgibbon stood in the center of a ring of ash. It was marked by footprints of every size, left by firefighters, the members of the band, and now her and Boo. The pattern radiated outward from the costume itself in a complete circle, interrupted only where the costumer’s body had blocked the burst. But it must have been a remarkably mild explosion. Fitzgibbon was unhurt, though badly frightened, and she couldn’t say she blamed him.
“Who was near you when it caught fire?” Liz asked.
“No one!” Fitzgibbon exclaimed. He was still clutching the soggy remains of the dress. “I was standing here, holding up the gown for the lights. Robbie can back me up on that. Can’t you, sweetheart?” he called to the special effects coordinator, who was sitting on a folding chair at the stage rim with her hands and knees together and ankles apart like a little girl.
The special effects coordinator nodded her head solemnly. She looked puzzled and worried.
“Take me through it,” Liz said briskly to Fitzgibbon. “Just what happened?”
The costumer threw up his hands. “Nothing! I came out of the dressing room with the green number for the ballad at the end of the first set. The crew can tell you. Some of the spotlights were moving up and down, and I saw some laser lights flashing. Fionna’s key light was pointed down onto the center of the stage. I went into the beam to see how her costume would look. That’s all. Then, whoosh! Look at it! Those perfect, filmy sleeves, reduced to ashes. I don’t want everyone blaming me. I didn’t do anything!” His eyes filled with tears. “It was supposed to match her hair.”
“Now, now,” Boo-Boo said soothingly, patting the costumer on the back. “No one’s callin’ you names. Could anyone have booby-trapped that dress?”
Fitzgibbon looked indignant. “Certainly not. I had just finished tacking the hem. I had the whole thing inside out on my cutting table. If there had been any . . . infernal devices, I would have seen them. There was nothing there!”
“I told you all this was real,” Fionna spat, striding up with Nigel Peters trotting behind her. She glared at the publicist. “Now do you fokkin’ believe me?” Jones held up his hands to fend off her fury. “Things like this have been goin’ on again and again. I’m at me wits’ end!” Fionna turned to Liz and Boo-Boo. “Yer supposed to prevent this, right? Why didn’t yer fancy machines tell you this was happenin’? Didn’t you bug everythin’ I own in the world?”
Liz marveled that Fionna’s accent stayed intact even under stress. “You weren’t injured, Fee—Fionna,” she said, stumbling deliberately over the name. The look of suspicion in her old schoolmate’s eyes verified that there would be no more hysterics, or Liz might let her secret out.
“This dress didn’t exist until an hour ago, sweetheart,” Peters said, soothingly. “Fitzy’s only just finished it.”
“I haven’t even been here yet, and they’re already trying to kill me!” Fionna shrilled. “And you’ve done nothing!”
“We couldn’t prevent an attack until we knew where it was coming from,” Liz said, looking at Boo-Boo for support. The American was on his knees, scooping ashes from the floor into his hand.
“And where is it coming from?” Fionna demanded.
“It’s coming from . . . beyond,” the costumer said, clutching himself. His eyes were wide with horror. “Oh, my God, what if all the green silk is cursed? Couldn’t we, you know, call in a priest to bless it and make it benign? Otherwise, I refuse to work with it. Heaven knows what it’ll do to my sewing machines.”
“Will you calm down?” Peters snapped. “The fabric is not cursed. There’s a perfectly sane explanation for what just happened. Right, Liz?”
“What are these things?” Boo-Boo asked, standing up with wires trailing from his hand.
“They’re from the LEDs. They were arranged in mystical symbols sewn into the cloth. They light up on stage. There’s no power source, though,” the costumer said, suddenly looking worried. “We hook Fionna up with a battery pack before she goes on.”
“We’ve done it a thousand times,” Fionna said, her eyes wild. “There’s no earthly reason why the dress should have gone up in flames. Someone’s trying to kill me!” She turned and, finding herself in Lloyd Preston’s arms, allowed herself to shiver. Robbie Unterburger glared at her from the sidelines.
“Could the dress have been exposed to any flammable substances? Or high temperatures?” Liz asked. “Could the spotlight have set it off?”
“We’re in that spotlight now,” Robbie said, pointing upward. Liz stared up into the blinding glare. It focused into a single point, far in the back of the amphitheater. “It’s no more harsh than strong sunshine.”
“It don’t look like these two busybodies can do a thing,” Preston said, hulking over them all as usual. Liz turned a high-power glare towards him, then dismissed him. “I’ll look this place over myself. Fionna’s security is my business.” He stalked off to confront one of the firefighters.
“What about those laser lights?” Boo-Boo asked. “Could that ignite the fabric?”
“You couldn’t even light a cigarette with them,” Robbie said, scornfully. “There’s stronger lasers in a food store checkout. Besides, the laser never touched this stage. I was testing it on the far wall.”
“All right,” Liz said. “I’d like to talk to everyone who was here when it happened. One at a time, please.” She turned to the publicist, who looked as if his ulcer was kicking up again. “Can we use one of the dressing rooms?”
Everyone protested at once. “We’ve got work to do, lady!” Robbie Unterburger said. “Tomorrow’s the show!”
“That’s enough,” Nigel Peters said, wearily. “There’ll be no show if there’s any danger to Fionna, so we have to let these people ask their questions, right? A little cooperation, please? God, I could murder a cup of tea.”
“Could you make us all some tea?” Liz asked the costumer. “It’ll give you a chance to calm down.”
“I’m a highly paid professional, with respect throughout the entire music industry,” Fitzgibbon protested, head high, but Liz thought he looked grateful for something ordinary to do. He threw up his hands. “All right. Tea.”
“I’d rather have a whisky,” Fionna said, crossly.
“You had four drinks at lunch,” Liz said.
“Well, I need one now! And how the hell did you know that? Have you got a bug on me now?” Fionna demanded.