Chapter Text
“And I do think he’d go for an actress, you know, he’s quite open-minded.”
“Pah! Open-mindedness by the wealthy’s standards is downright miserly anywhere else.”
“Come now, don’t you think…”
Typical dressing-room chatter filled the backstage of the New Orleans theater with a warm glow reminiscent of its electric lights. It flowed over Vaudeville’s headliner like an ocean wave against unmoving coral while she sat at a mirror that had no right to be as tarnished as it was. The faint scent of cold cream met her nose as she rubbed the substance over her face, watching idly as bright grease and rouge clouded the bowl of water she used to rinse her hands.
“And what about you, Christine? Is your man doing anything nice for Christmas? Mine’s taking me to the pictures.”
She paused and turned from her ritual to the oddly faceless girl who had spoken. A performer from the acrobat troupe, if she recalled correctly.
“The only man I’m seeing is George Jean Nathan.”
One of the other singers groaned. “Christine, he’s just a critic! It’s been a month, can’t you talk about anything else?”
“I will as soon as my career has recovered,” she answered with a deepening frown. Standing, she dried her face and headed out.
“Are you going to get drinks with us?” the acrobat girl asked. “It’s our last night in town, we ought to make it count!”
Christine paused in near-exit to consider her offer. But she eventually continued onward, grabbing her coat from a peg on the wall.
“No, not now. I’m tired.”
“Oh,” said the girl, who looked as though she expected this. “See you at the hotel, then.”
A gust of December wind tossed Christine’s loose hair about as she exited through the stage door. It faced a rather shabbier street than the theater’s front, and she wrinkled her nose against a foul smell while heading towards the corner to call for a cab. While the weather may have been balmier than her last Christmas in Boston, a faint wish for that soft snow still lingered in her heart.
It distracted her from her surroundings and cast the trash-ridden street into a peaceful light. When the soft caress of a blade pressed into her neck’s soft flesh, she nearly didn’t notice.
“Don’t scream,” a rough voice whispered as the unseen assailant shoved her. “Into the alley.”
Christine moved in the direction ordered with a calmness that surprised even herself. She’d thought of this situation before, of course (how could she not with a wealth like hers?), but those grim theoreticals always included the possibility of incapacitating panic.
“I haven’t much money on me,” she murmured as he directed her. “Just enough for cab fare.”
“You expect me to believe you with furs like that?”
Instead of responding, Christine stomped hard on his foot.
The delicate point of her heel made contact, and he dropped the knife with a shriek. She kicked it away, then immediately realized the advantage it’d give and tried to scramble for it. His hands grabbed at her waist; they both hit the ground.
Before realizing what she was doing, Christine had encircled his neck with her fingers and started to squeeze. The would-be mugger, much smaller than his voice implied, choked out a gasp. Eyes bulging, he desperately tried to push away, but adrenaline had turned her grip to a vise. Adrenaline and the feeling of his tender windpipe beneath her weight.
The man didn’t die at first. When he slipped into unconsciousness, she didn’t believe it, assuming a trick to lower her guard. She held steady.
It took the faint pulse of his heart finally ceasing in her hands to bring Christine back. Even then, she felt sluggish, as though rising from the table where a great feast had been prepared. The man’s glassy blue eyes met her own, and it took several moments before she had the sense to scramble back.
Christine pulled off her gloves, a difficult feat with her trembling. The smooth hands beneath, the real ones, displayed no evidence of the crime. No blood, no damned spots for her to wash until raw. Nothing.
Shakily, she redonned them and stood. This feeling must be adrenaline, this sense of clarity a remnant of her life having just been in danger. The thrilled flush that rose to her cheeks was fear of being caught, nothing more.
Christine was a murderer. A faint twinge of defensiveness tried to claim self-defense, but it gave up before long. She knew implicitly that if she hadn’t wanted to kill him, she would have stopped. That thought didn’t frighten her as much as the excited pounding of her heart did.
No one saw her exit the alley, nor had they seen her enter. The touring group left for Memphis the next day, and the man adorned with her handprints made for just another John Doe in the morgue.