“She’s already got one up her . . .” Robbie muttered to one of the other stagehands. Fionna couldn’t hear her, but Liz could. Tactfully, she pretended she hadn’t. She didn’t want to revisit the matter anyhow. Fee would have had furious hysterics all over again if Liz had explained the psychic monitor she’d planted on her for security.
“Come on, sweetheart,” Laura Manning, the makeup artist, said, putting an arm around Fionna’s narrow shoulders and leading her away. “I’ve got a bottle in your dressing room. We can wait for the tea there.” She glanced back at the two investigators. “That’s where you’ll find me. I’ve got things to arrange for tomorrow.”
“We all have,” Michael Scott complained, his blue eyes flashing with indignation. The other members of the band added their voices to his.
“This won’t take but a short time,” Boo-Boo promised him. “We just want to know where everybody was when the dress went up. We don’t even have to go down to a dressing room. We can talk right here.”
Eddie Vincent frowned. “I don’t like this. You’re accusing us? Us? We’ve been with Fionna for yonks, mate.” He planted a finger in Boo-Boo’s chest and poked it a few times for emphasis. “Now, she may not be the world’s easiest broad to live with, but we back her up in more ways than one. Got it?”
“Everybody’s gettin’ so bothered,” Boo-Boo said mildly, but Liz saw the glints in his eyes. He walked back to the instrument setup. Almost involuntarily, half the crowd of roadies and musicians followed him. He stopped beside the open square of keyboards. “You was here when Fitz came out? Rehearsing?”
“No, I was dancing on the ceiling with Fred Astaire,” Eddie said, sneering. “’Course I was. Len saw me.”
“Yeah,” Len, one of the lighting crew, stepped forward. “I was fixing everyone’s key lights.”
“Good!” Boo-Boo beamed. “See how easy this is?”
Liz admired the way his easygoing manner helped to soothe the ruffled feathers of Fionna’s entourage. After a surprisingly short time, their voices softened. Several people began to add their accounts, interrupting each other, helping to reconstruct the moment of the attack now nearly two hours past. Boo caught Liz’s eye over the shoulders of the others, and she nodded back, understanding him. While he was charming everyone, Liz sauntered casually over to the keyboard setup, and sent a tiny tendril of Earth power through the floor where Eddie Vincent must have been standing.
Everyone’s backs were turned when the glitter came to life on the dusty boards, showing pairs of footsteps overlaid on one another again and again, when Vincent was playing, turning from electric piano to organ to multi-synthesizer and back again. It looked like some bizarre Arthur Murray quickstep pattern. The air around them was empty of even a single spark of magic. Whatever had happened, the musician was innocent of the attack. Liz had just enough time to wipe the glamour away when Vincent broke out of the pack and came over to see what she was doing.
“Quite some instruments,” she said, idly. She started to run a finger along the top of the synthesizer console. He reached over to slap her wrist. She snatched her hand away, staring at him in astonishment.
“Never touch my stuff again,” he said, flatly. He aimed a finger at her nose. “Never handle anyone’s instruments, do you hear? Anybody could tell you’ve never been within a mile of a band.”
“Why would I need to?” Liz asked sweetly. “Anybody could hear you playing from a mile away. I’d never need a ticket.” She was surprised at herself. Being peevish was not what the office expected of its agents. She ought to be acting like an adult in this crisis. “I’m sorry,” she said. “We’re all under a bit of a strain.”
Vincent grunted wordlessly. Apology accepted. Liz turned and walked back to join Boo-Boo, who was standing with Voe Lockney. The drummer was explaining his drum set with enthusiasm, picking out rhythms with quick dabs of brush and stick.
“Anything?” Boo-Boo asked her out of the side of his mouth.
“Not a thing,” she said.
“Do me now,” Michael Scott said, coming over to loom over them. He was the tallest of the band members, and his blue eyes burned into Liz’s like Green Fire’s lasers. “I’ve plenty to get on with.”
For a moment Liz was reduced to a quivering blob of adoring teenage fan. Here was the Guitarchangel, close enough to touch, and twice as handsome as any photo she had ever seen. Those sharp cheekbones, and that long, black hair! But her Departmental training shoved the adolescent firmly into a mental cupboard and locked the door.
“We are sorry for the inconvenience,” she said, briskly.
“You sound like a sign on the London Underground,” Scott said, the corner of his mouth twitching. Could that be the hint of a smile? “Get on with it. I was playing at that edge of the stage.” He pointed. Liz and Boo turned to look. Liz noticed the blast pattern, much attenuated. It outlined a semicircle in ash where the guitarist had been standing when the dress went up. “I didn’t see the fire start. I had my back to the center. I was starting my solo.”
“Right,” said Jones, joining in. “The lights are down at first. Fee comes on in the darkness. Her dress starts flashing the symbols, then all lights come up at once. The musicians whirl around to see her. The spotlights start wigwagging across the stage. Lasers! Smoke! It’s smashing. You’ll love it at the concert.”
A brass fire hose nozzle slid noisily behind his feet, and Jones jumped.
“If we ever get to the damned concert,” Robbie Unterburger complained.
* * *
Green Fire’s dressing rooms were under the stage beyond a security door that was held ajar with a rubber wedge. Nearby was a reception room that must be used for parties and interviews. At the moment it was full of equipment in and out of battered, black travel cases. Most of the gear was unfamiliar to Liz. She assumed a good deal of it was special-effects equipment, under the direction of Roberta Unterburger. An angry young woman, that. Every time Fee reached out for Lloyd Preston, Robbie flared up as if she could light the show without benefit of laser beams. Liz was sorry for her. Unrequited love might have been nice in poetry, but it was hell in practice. She wondered why the woman didn’t quit her job, if she couldn’t stand the realities of the situation. Then she thought about it—who wouldn’t want to work for a world-famous rock band, no matter how hard it was on your heart? On Robbie’s side, though, Kenneth Lewis kept staring at her the same way she did at Preston. He watched her when he thought she couldn’t see, and turned his head away when she glanced his way. There was a neat little triangle going on, or quadrangle. All it needed was Fionna having unreturned feelings for Kenneth to really make a mess of the situation.
Fionna’s dressing room was the largest and best appointed. The concrete floor had been carpeted over with a rich green plush, a compliment to her band and her hair. Instead of the acid fluorescent lights, she had floor lamps with restful low-watt bulbs. The singer herself was enthroned in a big armchair with Laura Manning on one side and Nigel Peters on the other offering her drinks and cigarettes. Someone had unpacked Fionna’s possessions and arranged them around the room. Costumes of garish silks or black lace and tulle hung along the walls. The lighted mirror in the wall over the dressing table was supplemented by a double-ended magnifying mirror and a folding mirror, plus enough amulets arrayed along the rear of the table to open a shop. A couple of them did have the sniff of magic about them. They glowed feebly, to Liz’s experienced eye, like a child’s nightlights.
Enjoying an audience with Her Majesty was a plump man with a dapper summer-weight jacket slung over his shoulder by one finger.
“And there you are at last!” Fionna carolled. Her voice was a relaxed trill. The promised whiskey had obviously met a few friends on its way down her throat. “Meet Mr. Winslow. He’s a true darling.”
“Building management, ma’am, er . . . sir,” the man in the white suit said, turning to offer a hand. “When I heard about this . . . regrettable accident I just had to come down and offer my support. Are you . . . with the show?” he asked, looking Boo-Boo’s attire up and down.
“No, sir,” Boo said. “I’m with the Department.” He patted down several of his tattered pockets and came up with a shiny leather billfold. He flipped it open. “My credentials, sir.”
Winslow’s eyes widened as he examined the card and badge. “I see. I’m glad to see Miss Fionna has some . . . strong protectors. The fire marshall is upstairs now. They had to break in through the front doors, which will be replaced this afternoon, Mr. Peters,” Winslow added, turning an eye to look over his shoulder.