Trust Me

long.”
    “True.” Juliet smiled. “Well, I’ll let you deal with the fancy high-tech stuff by yourself. I’ve got an acting career to pursue. See you.”
    “Bye.” Desdemona put the personal digital assistant on her desk.
    Juliet waved farewell and disappeared. The front door of Right Touch closed behind her a moment later.
    Silence filled the kitchen and Desdemona’s office. It was broken only by the insistent beep-beep-beep of the PDA. Desdemona hoped she could figure out how to turn it off.
    She read the message on the screen.

NEW MAIL
    Someone had sent her a message via computer. Tony perhaps. Or maybe Stark had had a change of plans. Desdemona pressed the enter key. A tiny message addressed to her appeared on the screen.
    Desdemona – Let’s hope this thing works. Henry says he’s got fabulous news. He and Ian have found a way to achieve financial stability for the Limelight. They want us to meet them there ASAP. Meet you in a few minutes, Kirsten.
    Desdemona briefly considered sending an email message back to Kirsten and then decided it was easier to pick up the telephone. She reached for the receiver and dialed the number of Exotica Erotica.
    There was no answer. Desdemona glanced at her watch. It was after five-thirty. Kirsten had already closed the shop and left for the Limelight.
    Perhaps Henry and Ian actually had figured out a way to persuade an angel to back the Limelight for another season.
    Desdemona replaced the PDA in her jacket pocket. She collected her purse, locked her office, and walked through Right Touch one last time to make certain everything was shipshape for the night.
    As always, the sight of the gleaming counters and sparkling tiles filled her with a great sense of satisfaction. She stood in the center of the kitchen and turned slowly in a circle to examine her private, personal stage. Everything was back to normal, ready for the next performance.
    Desdemona smiled to herself and went out the door. She paused to lock up carefully.
    The balmy warmth of a long summer evening had settled over Pioneer Square. The last wave of shoppers was emerging from the boutiques and galleries that lined the streets. The taverns and clubs were still quiescent. They would not come to life until much later in the evening.
    Desdemona walked down a side street toward the water, went around the corner underneath the viaduct, and down a row of dark, sullen, old warehouses until she came to the Limelight. There were no cars parked in front of the loading dock that served as an entrance. Henry and Kirsten had probably walked, just as she had. There was no one hanging around in front. The background roar of the traffic on the elevated highway was the only sign of life.
    Desdemona knocked loudly on the black and white door. There was no response. Kirsten and Henry were probably already inside. It was too noisy to wait outside.
    Desdemona opened the door and stepped into the gloom-filled lobby of the tiny theater. A single dimly glowing lamp lit the passageway that led into the seating area.
    “Kirsten? Henry?”
    She closed the door to cut off the roar of traffic. The soundproofing insulation that Ian had installed was surprisingly effective. Silence settled on the lobby.
    “Ian?” A disturbing sense of uneasiness coursed along Desdemona’s nerve endings. Wainwright intuition. She recalled the short conversation she’d had with Stark yesterday as he was leaving her apartment.
    You’re thinking about Ian?
    Well, the thought did cross my mind.
    Trust me. It’s not Ian Ivers.
    Stark knew about that sort of thing, Desdemona reminded herself. He would be the first one to harbor a suspicion of Ian if there were grounds. In any event, it wasn’t Ian who had summoned her here. It was Kirsten who had sent the email message.
    Desdemona took a grip on her nerves and on the heavy black curtain that separated the lobby from the small auditorium. She lifted the curtain aside.
    The weak glow of the dimmed footlights lit the tiny stage. The light illuminated the prone body of a man. He lay unmoving, his face turned toward the back of the stage. But Desdemona recognized the pony tail and the gold earring.
    “Ian? My God, Ian.” Desdemona ran down the narrow center aisle. Dread rose within her. The thought of encountering another dead body was too much to bear.
    She jumped up onto the stage, stepped over the footlights, and hurried to Ian’s still body.
    To her enormous relief, Ian groaned just as she reached