Lindsey knew the unspoken question was whether Brian was Robbie's killer or not.

"Fine," Violet said. "Brian, you're out. Do not return to this theater again or you'll be arrested for trespassing. Am I clear?"

"What? No!" Brian protested. "It's her fault!" He nodded his head toward Brandy. "If she wasn't such a slut, I wouldn't have had to do it."

"Brian Loeb, you have the right to remain silent . . ." Emma read him his Miranda rights while she dragged him up the main aisle to the front of the theater.

"All right," Violet said. "We need a new Nick Bottom. Who was slated to understudy that part?"

The cast on stage looked at one another. No one stepped forward. Violet frowned and looked down at her legal pad, where she kept all of her notes.

"Oh, my god," she cried. "I never assigned an understudy to that part because Brian was such an ass-literally-that I knew he'd rather die than miss his performance. Opening night is two days away. What am I going to do?"

"Don't panic." Nancy stepped from behind the curtain and crouched down at the edge of the stage, in front of which Violet was now pacing. "We'll figure it out."

"How?" Violet cried. "Who here knows Nick Bottom's part? Anyone?"

"'That will ask some tears in the true performing of it: if I do it, let the audience look to their eyes; I will move storms, I will condole in some measure,'" a deep voice said from the back of the stage.

"What?" Violet looked up. "Who said that? That's Bottom's part in Act I, Scene II. Continue!"

Ian Murphy strode forward and bowed. Then he continued, "'To the rest: yet my chief humour is for a tyrant: I could play Ercles rarely, or a part to tear a cat in, to make all split.'"

"Ian Murphy, I could kiss you, you brilliant man," Violet said. "Why haven't you auditioned before?"

Ian looked down as he scuffed the toe of his shoe on the wooden floor of the stage. "I'm shy."

"Ha!" Violet laughed. "Well, now you're a star. Lindsey, take him to Mary to get fitted. Ian, I want you back here in fifteen minutes for a run-through."

"Yes ma'am," they said together. Ian gave Violet a snappy salute and jumped off the stage to stand beside Lindsey.

Lindsey led him to the back room, where Mary stood finalizing the stitching on one of the faerie costumes. She glanced up in surprise and looked questioningly at Ian.

"Mary, meet our new Nick Bottom," Lindsey said. "I think you might be familiar with his measurements."

"What?" Mary asked. "Ian, what is she talking about?"

"Brian, the original Nick Bottom has been fired," Ian said. "Apparently Violet didn't assign anyone as understudy, so she needed someone who knew the part."

"You do?" Mary asked. She looked at Lindsey. "How do I not know this about my husband?"

Lindsey shrugged.

"So, I need a costume," Ian said. "What do you think of a pair of leopard-print tights and a gold lame tunic or is that too much?"

Mary grinned at him and shook her head. "Well, the donkey mask will certainly be appropriate."

"Hee-haw." Ian brayed and pranced around his wife while she laughed.

"Don't forget, you have fifteen minutes until Violet wants you on stage," Lindsey said.

"Oh yeah, that's right. I have to admit, I'm a little afraid of Violet," Ian said. He stopped prancing while Mary got out her measuring tape.

"We all are," Mary agreed.

Lindsey left the room and went back into the theater to see if Nancy needed any help. The players were on the stage and Dylan was practicing his final speech as Puck.

"'If we shadows have offended, think but this and all is mended, That you have but slumber'd here. While these visions did appear.'"

Not wanting to interrupt, Lindsey sat and watched him. He was a perfect Puck: less polished than Robbie, but he had the same twinkle in his eye and the same perfect pitch with his delivery.

She saw his mother sitting in the row in front of her. She was mouthing the lines with her son, and Lindsey thought it was remarkable how her tune had changed with his advancement to a larger role.

When Dylan finished, Violet called him forward. "That was excellent," she said. "You've really nailed it."

Dylan beamed at her, and Lindsey noted that his mother looked quite pleased. She found this ironic given how much she had previously expressed her dislike of Violet and her immoral lifestyle.

As Joanie Peet rose, Lindsey leaned forward and said, "He really is a wonderful actor. He must have some very strong acting DNA."

Joanie frowned at her. "Why do you say that?"

"He just seems gifted," she said. "He almost looks like Robbie Vine up there."

"I don't see any resemblance," Joanie said. "In fact, I think Mr. Vine's talents were always a bit overrated."

"Oh, well, I'm sorry," Lindsey said. "I meant it as a compliment. Dylan is very talented for a seventeen-year-old."

"He'll be eighteen in a few weeks," she said. "He's very mature for his age."

"Yes, well, he's really something special," Lindsey said. She was getting the feeling that Joanie was annoyed with her, but she couldn't for the life of her think why unless she really resented having her son compared to Robbie Vine.

"I'm fully aware of how special my son is," Joanie said. She moved around Lindsey. "I haven't spent all these years nursing my sickly boy back to health to not know what a gift he is. Please, excuse me."

Lindsey watched as she approached her son. He was crouched on the edge of the stage, listening to directions from Violet. When he turned his head, the lighting lit up his reddish-brown hair and he grinned a sort of sideways smile that looked so much like Robbie Vine's that Lindsey felt her breath catch.

Suddenly, Lindsey remembered the tattoo on Robbie's arm. It was a stylized sun with a date in the middle of it. He had told her that the date was a reminder of the most significant day of his life.

It had been 10-23-95, just a few weeks short of being eighteen years ago. Lindsey had assumed it was the date of a big show or maybe the first lead role Robbie had gotten, but looking at Dylan and remembering the article about Robbie having fathered a child, she wondered.

She must be crazy. No, it was impossible. But hadn't Heather said that Dylan told her he was adopted? Still, the odds that he was Robbie's son were slim to none. And yet, she couldn't help but wonder if perhaps it was true. There was only one way to be sure.

She made her way down to the edge of the stage, where Joanie was listening in on Violet's instructions to Dylan.

"Now remember," Violet was saying, "you are Puck, the merry wanderer of the night. When you cross the stage, it needs to have a certain ethereal magic to it."

"You aren't suggesting he prance and mince his steps, are you?" Joanie asked. "That would make him look silly."

Violet turned her head to look at her. Lindsey knew Violet well enough to know that she was not pleased to have Joanie adding her two cents to her directions.

The fire in her eyes made it quite clear that if Joanie didn't shut her yap, she was going to go the way of Brian Loeb and be banned from the theater for the duration of the show.

Lindsey stepped forward. "Dylan, you were wonderful. Robbie would be very proud."

Dylan flushed and looked down at the stage. Lindsey couldn't tell if it was pleasure or embarrassment making him shy. She hoped it was the former.

"Thank you, Ms. Norris," he said.

"Your mother tells me you're having a birthday soon," she said. "What date is it? I'll be sure to have cupcakes at the library just for you, our star."

"It's the twenty-third of October," he said.

Lindsey had to concentrate on keeping her expression completely neutral. She could feel her blood pounding through her body. She did not believe in coincidences, and this was a huge one.

"I'll be sure to note it on the calendar," she said.

"If you two don't mind," Violet said, "Dylan and I have work to do."

"Yes, of course," Lindsey said. "I'm heading back to wardrobe right now."

Violet turned to Joanie and asked, "Aren't you assisting with ticket sales and ushering?" Her point that Joanie needed to go find something else to do was lost on no one. Joanie's mouth turned down in the corners.

"Yes, I am." She turned to her son. "I'll meet you here after rehearsal."

"Thanks, Mom," he said.

Lindsey watched as Dylan's mother made her way up to the front of the theater, where the ticket office was. She knew that several of the spouses and parents of the cast and crew were helping to take turns selling tickets and working as ushers on the nights of the performance. Right now they were all meeting in the lobby of the theater for training.

"Your mother seems very excited about your part in the play," Lindsey said.

"She's done so much for me," Dylan said. "I'd do anything to repay her."

He had a fierce light in his eye, and Lindsey felt a sense of unease drape over her like a cloak. She couldn't help but wonder exactly how far he would go to repay his mother for all her years of care.

20.

"Dylan? Our Dylan?" Beth asked. "You can't be serious."

"You should have seen his face," Lindsey said. "He looked as if he would do anything for his mother."

"Wanting to please your parents does not make you a murderer," Beth said.

They were seated in the staff lounge of the library, enjoying a lunch of clam chowder and clam fritters, which Beth had picked up at the Blue Anchor.

Lindsey dunked her fritter into the hot chowder before taking a bite of the chewy, broth-soaked cake. Delicious.

"But what if he is Robbie's son?" Lindsey asked when she finished chewing. "Wouldn't you hate your father for abandoning you, especially if your father turned out to be a rich and famous star?"

"Maybe," Beth said.

She sounded reluctant. Beth loved their teen workers and always took it personally if any of them ever got into trouble, which they frequently did with Ms. Cole.

"But I thought Brian was the chief suspect now, since he was so angry about his wife and Robbie."

"As far as I know, he's still in custody," Lindsey said. "But I can't shake the feeling that Robbie's death has something to do with Dylan."

"Just because Dylan's birth date is the same date tattooed on Robbie's arm doesn't mean that there is a connection."

"Even though the tattoo is of a sun?" Lindsey asked. "You know, sun could represent son."

"Reaching," Beth said. She spooned up some chowder. "Besides, Robbie's gone. It's not like you can ask him what the tattoo signified."

"No, but I bet Kitty knows," she said.

"She hates you," Beth said.

"I don't know that I would say hate, exactly," Lindsey said.

"Oh, no, it's definitely hate, loathing, abhorrence, antipathy . . ."

"Okay, I get it," Lindsey said. "You can stop now, really."

Beth shrugged and spooned up more chowder.

Lindsey frowned into her cardboard to-go bowl. She watched the potatoes and chunks of clam swirl around as she stirred. Was Beth right? Did Kitty hate her that much? And if so, how was she going to get her to talk?

There was no help for it. She'd just have to go to the beach house that she knew Robbie, Kitty and Lola had been renting and try to charm Kitty into telling her about the tattoo on Robbie's arm. She doubted that Lola knew what it meant.

Kitty had been Robbie's wife, and even though their marriage was apparently in name only, Lindsey had gotten the feeling that Robbie confided in Kitty. Lola, on the other hand, seemed entirely too fragile.

"Uh-oh," Beth said.

"What?" Lindsey looked up from her chowder.

"You've got that look in your eye," she said.

"What look?"

"The one that says you're going to go stick your nose where it does not belong."

"I am not," she protested. "I am merely going to visit Kitty and see what she can tell me about the tattoo."

"She won't talk to you," Beth said.