Shooting Star by Cynthia Riggs Page A

dorm.”
    “Darling!” said Becca, breathlessly.
    “No, no,” Dearborn repeated. “Frankenstein’s bride is a lovely young girl, pure, innocent. Fresh, untouched beauty.”
    “Innocent? Pure?” Laughter again. “How sweet!”
    Dearborn’s spirits rose further. “You can do it, Becca.”
    “Of course I could, darling,” she said, using her lower register. “But I won’t.”
    “The audience doesn’t expect you to know your lines. You can read them, and you can.” He took a breath and heard a rumble of thunder. “The bride of Frankenstein has never been given a break before now. I can see you reading that part. The subtlety, the hidden wit, the naive girl with a raging appetite. For unknown delights,” he added.
    “That’s in the play?” asked Becca.
    “The role is yours to do with as you wish. You’ll enthrall the audience. No one has ever done this. We’ve been fed movie and television versions until that’s all we know. This play is the real thing.” He thumped his fist on the desk. “With your acting, no one will even notice the play script in your hand.”

    Had he hooked her yet?
    “You need a drink, darling,” she whispered.
    “Pull this off and I’ll take you to any bar on the Island.”
    “I suppose you’ll be drinking your usual Shirley Temples?” she muttered. “I don’t drink alone.”
    “By Godfrey, I’ll join you.”
    “I’ll think about it,” murmured Becca.
    “Double-time run-through in a half-hour?”
    “I’ll let you know.”
    Dearborn cleared his throat delicately. “Grand way to jerk your sister’s chain.”
    Peal of merry laughter. “What a silver tongue you have, darling. See you in twenty minutes, then,” and she hung up.
    Dearborn opened his bottom desk drawer and took out the Jack Daniel’s he’d bought earlier, when he’d felt his lowest. He broke the seal, twisted off the cap, poured an inch, two inches, of the tawny liquid into the bottom of the mug he’d been drinking coffee from all afternoon, and, to celebrate, downed the first drink he’d had in eight months, sixteen days, and, he looked at his watch, three hours.
     
    Trooper Tim Eldredge reported to Sergeant Smalley at the police barracks after interviewing Jefferson Vanderhoop on his boat. He had tried, too, to track down Peg Storm’s ex-husband, Leonard Vincent. Eldredge had been caught in the downpour, and was now wet, rumpled, exhausted, unshowered, and unshaven.
    Smalley was still crisply pressed and smelled clean. “So the T-shirt shop doesn’t know Mr. Storm?”
    “Mr. Vincent, sir,” said Eldredge.
    “Vincent, then.”
    “They know who he is, but he doesn’t live there.”
    “Or work there?”
    “No, sir.”
    “Check with the registry. Must have a driver’s license.”
    “No record of a license, sir.”

    Smalley sat at his desk. “Check the voting records, Tim.”
    “Yes, sir. I did. He’s not registered.”
    “In none of the six towns?”
    “No, sir.”
    Smalley swiveled his chair and faced the corner of the room where the flag of the Commonwealth hung limply on its staff. “A person can’t hide forever on this Island.”
    “No, sir.”
    “You check at the courthouse, the address he gave in the divorce records?”
    “Yes, sir. His sister’s address in Jersey City.”
    “What did his sister have to say?”
    “The address turned out to be a Chinese restaurant.”
    Smalley swiveled back. “Contact the Jersey City police.”
    “Yes, sir. No record of anyone named Vincent, man or woman. Or Storm, either.”
    “In the entire city?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    Smalley ran a hand over his short hair and muttered, “Where can the guy be?”
    Eldredge was about to drop into the wooden armchair in front of Smalley’s desk, but propped himself up, holding its back instead. “Sir, would you mind if I went home and changed?”
    Smalley stood. “Sorry, Tim. Of course.” He looked at his watch. “Two hours give you enough time?”
    “Yes, sir,” said Eldredge, stifling