Wishing in the Wings Read Online Free PDF Page A

speech by heart. “I’m sort of like a…psychotherapist and career coach for the production itself, helping everyone involved to achieve their full potential. I bring together interested parties, pull whatever strings I can so that a show is the best it can possibly be.”
    Bill nodded slowly before glancing at his notes. “How involved are you with Mercer Project financials?”
    “Financials?”
    “Does your job involve your keeping books for the theater?”
    I shook my head. “No.”
    “Do you write checks on any of the Mercer accounts?”
    “No.” Two simple, straightforward answers. Go, me.
    I looked at the board members again. What was this all about? Was I in trouble for that reimbursement slip I’d submitted last month? Did they think I’d been too generous with my tip to that cab driver, the one who’d stopped for me in the middle of a deluge at three in the morning, after the first rehearsal for the Shepards? I’d thought the service was worth ten dollars, and if they weren’t going to approve the tip, I’d pay for it out of my own damn pocket.
    The board members stared back at me. Yeah. This wasn’t about any ten-dollar tip. The board of directors didn’t give a collective damn about my reimbursement slips.
    Bill continued, apparently unaware that every single person in the room was scrutinizing me as if I were some freakish new specimen of bug. Even Hal looked distant, bemused. Bill asked, “What is the maximum amount that you can sign for, here at the theater?”
    “Without prior approval?”
    “Without prior approval,” Bill agreed.
    “Two hundred and fifty dollars. But my job doesn’t really require me to put out a lot of money up front. I might buy a book or two, or make some copies at the library. Sometimes I download fee-based articles online.”
    Bill nodded, as if he expected as much. “And just to clarify, Ms. Morris. Are you on the signature cards for any of the Mercer Project bank accounts?”
    Signature cards? Like the ones you fill out when you first open up an account? “Um, no.” I licked my lips and flattened my fingers on the tabletop. “Why are you asking me all these questions? What exactly do you think I’ve done?”
    Bill looked around at the board members, as if he were requesting permission from them. When both Hal and Mr. Ames had acquiesced with the tiniest of nods, Bill turned back to me. “Ms. Morris, we’ve been investigating some…irregularities in the Mercer Project’s accounts. With an organization of this size, we’re accustomed to seeing some fluctuation on a daily basis. The board called this meeting, though, and asked me to attend, because three of the Project’s accounts were closed out completely yesterday morning.”
    Closed. Out. Completely.
    The words seemed to echo in the suddenly too-small room. My stomach swooped, as if I were flying down a roller coaster’s steepest descent. The board was here. A lawyer was here. And Dean was nowhere to be seen. And money—apparently a lot of money—was missing.
    Even as I tried to come up with a benign explanation, I repeated to Bill, “Completely?”
    He met my gaze impassively. “Dean Marcus had authority to sign for each of those accounts. He could write checks on them, up to whatever amount he deemed necessary for the Mercer.”
    I tried to swallow, but my throat was suddenly too dry to complete the motion. I had to be misunderstanding what Bill was saying. There had to be some mistake. “I—I don’t know,” I stammered, as if someone had asked me a question. “I— How much money are you talking about?”
    Bill answered as if he were reciting some obscure clause in the Constitution. “Three million, five hundred thousand, twenty-seven dollars and thirty-two cents.”
    My lungs froze. “Thirty-two cents?” I managed to chip past the ice crystals, incredulous at the absurd detail when the figure Bill had just named was a quarter of the theater’s annual budget.
    He nodded curtly.