Page 6 of Script Swap (The Last Picks #11)

The next morning, I did go to the gym.

The less said about it, the better.

I showered and dressed—jeans, wallet chain, suede vest and newsboy cap—and by mid-morning (yuck—there’s no way anyone can convince me that ten-thirty is mid-morning), I was backstage at The Foxworthy.

I hadn’t spent a ton of time in theaters.

I’d done my mandatory gay-boy stint with the drama kids in high school, and so far as that went, backstage at The Foxworthy was similar.

Kind of. The floor was painted black. The walls were painted black.

Black masking curtains hung in neat rows, rippling and billowing every time someone walked past them too briskly.

What I hadn’t seen in Mrs. Donnegar’s high school theater was three massive painted backdrops meant to depict the interior of Hemlock House.

One showed Vivienne’s study—someone had taken the time to carefully hand-letter the title of each of the Matron of Murder books on the bookshelves.

One showed her bedroom (where, presumably, I had murdered her).

And one showed my bedroom—my former bedroom, anyway.

The one with the secret passage in the fireplace.

Overhead hung lighting trusses and a narrow catwalk.

Someone was moving around up there, occasionally sending down the sounds of rubber on metal, and then a series of pings.

But whoever it was, they were hidden by the glare of lights.

I was starting to feel like hiding myself.

“Someone is trying to ruin me,” Terrence Foxworthy said. Instead of a tabard, today he wore a rumpled flannel suit that probably could have passed for normal except for the cape. (Okay, who am I kidding? Even without the cape, it was like someone had turned Mary Poppins’s sewing bag inside out.)

Dressed today in a white, shift-like dress, Tinny was cupping a large crystal in her hands, staring into the milky stone.

(I want to say it was quartz?) I think she was shooting for the adverb dreamily— she was, as she had told us several times, scrying.

And even for a guy like me who had spent way too much time designing his own imaginary castle with lead shielding to prevent anyone from spying on him by casting Wizard Eye (it’s third-level, and it’s not as good as it sounds), it was a lot to swallow.

“No one—” Fox said.

“That’s the only thing it can be,” Terrence said. “Someone is out to ruin me.”

Tinny made a sound that was supposed to be mysterious. Right on cue, Terrence glanced over at her, hope rising in his expression.

“No one is out to ruin you,” Fox said. But they shot a dirty look at Tinny.

“My money is gone,” Terrence said. And with surprising cynicism for someone who looked like he could either be a magician’s assistant or, at any moment, get shot out of a cannon, he said, “The theater doesn’t operate on wishes and fairy wings.”

Color rose in Fox’s cheeks, but before they could say anything, I opened my mouth. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?” I asked.

“You were here,” Terrence said. “You know what happened. Someone ruined the opening night. I want you to find out who!”

“I mean before that.”

“Before that? Nothing happened before that. We were rehearsing a play. And then someone switched the script. And then the lights went out, and someone stole all my money.”

“Right. I guess what I’m trying to ask is: if we start at the beginning, shouldn’t Kyson have known his lines already? Why would it matter if someone swapped the script? For that matter, why would it matter at all? Why bother if you’ve already programmed the lights to go off?”

Terrence’s expression became strangely guarded, and I got the feeling he was working on a real whopper.

Before he could say anything, though, someone said, “We were doing rewrites.”

I groaned. I recognized that voice.

The words came from behind one of the masking curtains, which was now billowing enthusiastically as steps clipped toward us.

A moment later, Pippi emerged. She was dressed in what I assumed she thought high-powered Hollywood types wore: black flats, black leggings, a black top, and yes, a black beret.

She even had big, black Woody Allen glasses.

She still had her hair in that volumized-to-the-max bob, and she wore her violently green eye shadow, and it all clashed horribly, as you can imagine.

I think she might have also been leaning into a beatnik vibe because (and I swear I’m not making this up) she was holding what looked like a tiny joint.

Pippi must have caught my gaze because she said, “Don’t go running to Bobby; it’s only a clove cigarette. I’m addicted to the things.”

If I hadn’t known Fox and Terrence were related, I would have figured it out right then from the shared eye roll.

In general, I believed the best practice with Pippi was to avoid her.

When that wasn’t possible, my goal was always to keep our interactions as short as possible.

And not talk about writing. Or about books.

Or about TV shows, podcasts, radio programs, or any sort of story, storytelling, or art in general.

So, it took a lot of willpower for me to say, “What rewrites?”

“This play is a piece of art,” Pippi said. She gestured with the clove cigarette in a broad arc. “You know how art is: it’s never finished.”

“Interesting,” Fox said dryly.

“Uh huh,” I said. “Why wasn’t Kyson’s part finished?”

“Because it wasn’t right,” Pippi said. “I was tinkering with it.”

“It had no soul,” Tinny said. I presumed her tone was meant to be ominous; she was still staring into that chunk of rock. “It was flat. It was lifeless. It was dead.”

Pippi’s mouth pursed, and she squeezed the clove cigarette so tightly it looked like she was going to pinch the end off. “Yes, well, we disagreed on the extent of the revisions, especially since certain people who aren’t writers themselves and know nothing of the craft—”

“It was only a few words,” Terrence said. “Tweaks.”

“So, he wasn’t supposed to say what he said last night?” I asked. “About ‘I know what you did and you won’t get away with it, or whatever it is.’”

Terrence shook his head.

“What was he supposed to say?”

“He was supposed to say he was leaving town, running back to his parents, who would take care of their darling baby boy,” Pippi said.

Her tone was prompting, with a hint of don’t you remember —and for one disorienting moment, I realized that some part of Pippi actually believed that was what had happened.

“Right,” I somehow managed to say. “Okay. So, why would someone put that in Kyson’s script?”

“I don’t know!” Terrence said. His face was flushed. “To ruin me, obviously!”

I looked at Pippi.

“Well, I don’t know, Dashiell.”

“Just Dash.”

“Oh my goodness!” Pippi glanced from me to Fox to Terrence. “It’s a mystery! Dash, we’re doing it again!”

“No, we’re not—”

“The team is back together!”

“No team. There’s no team.”

“Stay here,” Pippi said. “I need to change hats. And call Christian. Oh my God, where’s a microphone when you need one?” She spread her hands like she was envisioning words on a marquee. “ Betrayal at The Foxworthy . No! Betrayed! The Story of Betrayal!!!: The The Worm Has Turned Story .”

“You said ‘story’ twice. And ‘the.’”

“A Pippi Parker Production. With special guest Dashiell Dawson Dane—” She cut off. “That’s a bit much, don’t you think? With a guest appearance by Dashiell Dawson Dane.” She pranced a few steps stage left, stopped, and wagged a finger at me. “Don’t go anywhere!”

I kept my mouth shut—mostly because I had no idea what to say except a string of four-letter words—and Pippi scurried off.

Fox was looking at me.

“This is your fault,” I told them.

They gave me a surprisingly weary smile.

Tinny chose that moment to let out a sound of shock.

“What is it?” Terrence asked. His cape was quivering. “Did you see something?”

“A shadow.” Tinny peered more closely into the stone. “A shadow moves upon the glass.”

“I thought it was a rock,” I said.

Tinny raised her head long enough to try to incinerate me with her eyes. Then she returned her attention to the crystal. “A dark force is at work. Evil has been done.”

“Maybe it’s the shadow of whoever’s up on the catwalk,” I said.

“You mock because you think you know how the world works,” Tinny said, cradling the stone to her breast. “And you invite your own destruction. I feel sorry for you.”

I was about to offer a witty riposte—I was!!—when something came hurtling down from the catwalk. It struck the floor, and splinters sprayed up. They were close enough that some of them smacked against my jeans.

I took a step back reflexively—not that it mattered at this point.

A wrench lay next to the hole it had gouged in the floor.

Fox’s eyes were huge. Terrence grabbed Tinny’s hand and moved her back several steps.

Too late, my heart started to pound.

Because if that wrench had been six inches to the left, it would have hit my head.