"Feel better," he said.
She laughed. "I can make myself feel better," she said, "but I'd feel much, much better if you were to do it for me." With that, she slowly arched her hips, and pulled the nightgown up, and pressed her fingers against her own bare hips. She was going to start masturbating there and then.
He didn't say anything else to her but turned and left, aware that he was feeling the almost urgent desire to drop down at her side, and…
Do whatever she wanted. He gritted his teeth, hurrying out, and down the stairs. He heard the sound of her taunting, pleased laughter in his wake. Too husky, too deep…
"You'll come back for me, Grant. You know you want it!" she called in his wake.
He reached the landing. There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead, and he felt a pounding that remained, a vicious drumbeat in his penis.
Outside her cottage, a cool breeze struck his face, and he was deflated as instantly as he had been aroused.
Lena had to go. Someone needed to insist that she see a specialist in a bigger city. There was something wrong here, really wrong.
Stephanie.
With hurried footsteps, he headed for the rehearsal.
Clay Barton's friend was a girl named Liz.
She was very attractive and friendly, happy to meet the rest of the group, and quick to assure Stephanie that she didn't really want a job, but that she was pleased to fill in for whatever time was needed. "The comedy is based on their characters and their relationships, right?"
"Yes. Actually, Lena's character is the one with an Italian background. She had a few Italian asides to the audience. We'll just rework it as we go along."
"Um… actually, I speak Italian," Liz told Stephanie.
Stephanie wondered why she wasn't surprised. "Great," she said.
"Tomorrow night is the opening, right?" Liz asked.
"Yes. There's a lot for you to go through… but we'll just work with the first outline. That's what we'll use Friday night, and you can look over the second, which we'll use Saturday night, and since the tour group is only here for those two days, we'll probably go black on Sunday as well as Monday, in respect for what happened here, in the community," Stephanie told her. She had been talking to Arturo, and since they were having the tour group come in, there seemed no way out of the two shows, but as the tour group was leaving Sunday afternoon, there seemed little reason to be open for a community that would be in mourning.
"That's fine," Liz said, giving Stephanie a soft and beautiful smile.
Drew, smitten by the newcomer, was seated on the stage near them. "We are an ensemble group, so don't you worry about anything!" he told her. "Anything you miss, we can pick up for you. There's so much ad-libbing in the show to begin with… you really can't have a problem. We won't let you have a problem."
"Thanks, that sounds great, then," Liz said.
"You know, it's really super that you were here," Suzette said. "What a coincidence."
"Amazing, really," Grant said, reappearing from the stage-end entry to the club.
"Grant, Liz, Liz, Grant," Stephanie said. He had a look of thunder on his face, and she expected this to go as badly as possible.
As he'd said, though—this was her show. She did have the right just to tell Grant to get the hell out.
Luckily, as well as being extremely attractive and sweet, Liz seemed to have a real enthusiasm for improv theater, or a tremendous sense of diplomacy.
"Grant Peterson, this is a pleasure. I had told Clay I was eager to meet you. I was at your club a few times when I was in the Chicago area. It was tremendous. I do travel books—I mentioned your place in one. I'll have to get you a copy," Liz told Grant. Stephanie studied the woman, curious. Either she was a far greater actress than they might have dared hope, or what she was telling Grant was true.
"Thank you," Grant said, taking her hand. "I'd love to see a copy.
"We haven't much time, not if we're sliding Liz into the show," he added.
"You're right." Stephanie slid off the stage. "Liz, just keep that little book with notes and the outline on you. I'm assuming you'll need it. Grant?"
"Places, everyone," Grant directed.
And so they began.
Liz wasn't Lena, but for a newcomer, a writer, filling in and working with the others for the first time, she was extraordinary. Of course, the outlines and concept of the show allowed for an awful lot of leeway.
Still…
It was amazing that Clay had known Liz, that Liz had been able to come, and that it was all working out so well.
The first run-through was, naturally, a little slow. Stephanie decided to stick to acting, and she let Grant call stops, and give Liz her bits of stage direction and suggestions as to what to do with her lines. Liz listened to him carefully and incorporated everything he said into her lines and actions. Strangely, for that first run-through, no one else made any comments, but then again, they weren't really needed. Grant was good on stage himself, but directing and management were his specialties.
When she stepped off stage, Stephanie was glad to see that Grant looked at her with a simple shrug. It was his way of admitting that Liz was going to work out just fine.
"Everyone has put in a lot of hard work, and that was excellent," he said, complimenting the cast. "Since we're having a show tomorrow night, I'd like to do it once more. That way, tomorrow, we do a really quick run-through… in costume—right, Steph?"
"Yes, the pieces we needed altered will be here by tonight," she told him.
He nodded. "Then we can spend the rest of the day working on the second outline for Saturday night, and if we can make it tight… everyone can take Saturday off until show time, and come into it fresh." He stared at Stephanie. "Does that work for you?"
"Absolutely," she agreed.
"Fine, then… places, everyone."
They completed a second run-through. It was going to be fine.
Early that evening when they finished, no one suggested drinks. It seemed that everyone was anxious just to return to their private space.
"We could meet for dinner—anyone who wanted to show up, that is—around eight-thirty?" Drew suggested.
"Sure," Stephanie murmured.
Then she gave them all a wave, and hurried out the back.
Dr. Barello, the local coroner, was still feeling somewhat irritated that there had been so much as a suggestion that he couldn't handle an autopsy on poor, sweet, young Maria. Leave it to big-city people to have such an aura of superiority!
But he had the law on his side. Maria was staying right here, and he would have Dr. Antinella assist him.
There wasn't a big hospital in the town, but their small facility was up-to-date. State funding had done a lot for them—along with the fact that they didn't have a terrible overhead, that no one in this region was out to cheat anyone, or to make a great deal of money off the misfortune of others.
Barello admitted to himself that there was not often a cause for an autopsy in the town—people usually died of old age. But the service had been performed before, and would be again. He had known Maria since she was a baby, and he would be tender with her, as would Antinella. She was one of their own.
Nor would the autopsy wait. He didn't care if he and Antinella worked all night.
At six, as arranged, he met Dr. Antinella in the basement morgue area of the small hospital. The police were there as well, since the police photographer was doubling as the morgue photographer. Pictures were taken of the remains with scraps of clothing still on the body. Then Dr. Barello ordered everyone out except for the photographer, and pictures were taken of the bloodied remains after the remaining clothing had been tenderly removed.
No assistant was called to bathe the body; Dr. Antinella, the girl's physician since her birth, performed that task as well, with equal respect and tenderness.
Scrubbed and masked, the doctors arranged the autopsy tools on a table by the gurney, then set about searching the flesh for signs of death as well as clues. It was while they were thus engaged that the door opened and closed.
Barello looked up angrily. "We're not to be disturbed!" he announced, and frowned. What the hell was the man doing there, in the autopsy room? What was he? Among the morbidly curious? Disgraceful.
"Get out!" he said, outraged. How on earth had the man gotten in to begin with? Though small, the hospital employed security guards, four of them, one man for each shift and an extra to allow for days off and holidays. Knowing what was going on, the young student on the night shift had been seated at the desk at the morgue door.
Antinella looked up as well, outraged. Maria did not deserve any disrespect now.
"There will be no cutting," the man said.
"What?" Barello said.
"No cutting. Sew her back together," the man said, walking on into the room.
"Yes, we'll carefully sew her back together," Antinella said, and looked at Barello. And Barello nodded.
An hour and a half later, he found that he was sitting at the desk himself, filling out the death certificate and the autopsy report.
He had no memory of the arrival of the man, not even a subconscious suspicion that anyone had interrupted his work with Antinella.
All that filled his mind was the thought that they had made Maria look beautiful again. Somehow, all the right things had been done. They had taken scrapings from her nails. There were vials filled with all the samples the police would expect; it had all been done correctly, professionally, and by the book. No big-city law or medical man could find fault with their procedures in the least.
Cause of death—an encounter with a wild animal, apparently a wolf, despite the fact there were few in the area, and there hadn't been a documented case of such an attack in… well, in eight or nine hundred years, at least.
The poor girl.
Barello knew Maria's fiancé, just as he knew Maria. The boy hadn't murdered her. She had been killed by an animal or animals.