by Anna Gerard
“Seriously?” Harry slanted me a look over the top of his sunglasses. “You do realize that the troupe—which includes me—has prepaid for a two-week stay. That’s a pretty nice chunk of change to be turning down,” he said, and reminded me of the amount in question.
I gulped a little—it was, as he’d said, a lot of money—but still shook my head. “No problem, I’ll give you a refund. Now, do you want to tell your folks you’re leaving, or are you going to leave the dirty work up to me?”
Harry shrugged. “I’ll tell them. But keep in mind that there’s not a free room to be had in Cymbeline until after next week, not with all the out-of-town vendors and visitors coming for the festival. And if the troupe doesn’t have a place to stay, then this year’s event will be minus its Shakespeare play. That probably will mean a fifty percent drop in attendance, and a lot of revenue lost for the town.”
“Not my problem,” I said with an answering lift of my shoulders, even as it occurred to me that it was.
For the festival was a heck of a big deal to the community. Like many other small towns, Cymbeline had gone into a major decline starting in the 1960s. With jobs scarce, the younger generation began fleeing their hometown for employment in Savannah or Atlanta, or even farther afield. But more than a dozen years ago, Cymbeline had forcibly reinvented itself as a tourist destination. The result was an influx of jobs to the area, along with a return of those now middle-aged former residents. Events like SOCS helped keep the tourists—and the money—coming.
Moreover, despite my short tenure in Cymbeline, I had a pretty fair idea about how small towns worked. Harry might haul his ruffled self back onto his bus and drive off with his players, but I could guarantee he’d make sure that everyone he passed on his way to the city limits would know why the troupe didn’t have a place to stay. And then, when this year’s Shakespeare festival went bust, I’d be the one the whole town blamed.
Harry knew it, too, for he edged closer.
“Look, I’ll sweeten the deal,” he urged in a conspiratorial tone. “I’ll talk to Denis Joy about adding your B&B to the sponsorship list. He’s head of the festival committee, and he can put your logo on the festival website. Plus we’ll see about getting you some signage at the outdoor stage. You can’t pay for that kind of advertising.”
Of course, you could. That was, if you had planned far enough ahead. When I had asked the festival committee a few weeks earlier about doing some promo, I’d learned that the primo ad space had been locked in for months. But I’d seen the rate sheet, and what Harry was offering wasn’t inconsequential … assuming, of course, that he had the pull to get it done. Besides, I’d long since signed a contract with Peaches and Java, the local coffee shop-slash-bakery, to handle breakfasts for a party of eight for the next ten days.
“OK, fine, all of you can stay,” I agreed in an ungracious tone, and then paused in case an offstage soundtrack sounded an ominous note to tell me that I’d just made a very bad mistake.
Harry, meanwhile, nodded slightly and put an elegant hand over his heart. He turned a smile on me that was not a triumphant, toothpaste-commercial-worthy display of perfect dental work but seemingly a genuine expression of gratitude.
“Hey, it’ll be fun,” he assured me.
At that, I felt an unexpected tingling sensation in areas that had not tingled in some time. If I hadn’t mentioned it before, Harry was definitely leading-man material, at least in the looks department. Neatly chiseled features that were neither too sensitive nor too craggy; just a hint of manly stubble; black hair that had been razored into deliberate boyish disarray. I’d learned from his online bio that, at thirty-nine, he was only a couple of years younger than me. That meant no uncomfortable age difference that would cause folks to gossip, should he and I ever …
Ruthlessly, I quashed my momentary reaction and the thoughts that had followed. No way would I consider “ever-ing” with Harry. Certainly not until I had notarized assurance from him that he’d dropped his crazy claim against me that I wasn’t the legitimate owner of his great-aunt’s house. I’d not heard anything from him since he’d gone to Mexico, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t still plotting. As he’d told me when he had left, now that he had a decent-paying acting job, he could afford an attorney again.
“Uh, Nina,” Harry spoke up, his voice shaking me from my reverie, “you want to let those folks in?”
“Right, yes, let’s go,” I agreed, and started back up the walk to the front porch.
“There was a nasty wreck on I-75 right outside of Macon,” he explained as he followed after me, indicating the route they would have taken from Atlanta. “Traffic was backed up for an extra hour. We were running late, so I didn’t take time for a pit stop. You might want to show everyone the, er, facilities first.”
“Got it.”
By now we’d reached the porch where my new guests were assembled. I summoned a bright smile. “Welcome to Fleet House. Let’s go inside, and I’ll let everyone freshen up first before I show you to your rooms.”
I opened the screen door. Calling a quick, Stay girl, to Mattie, I threw open the front door and ushered everyone into the main hall that ran shotgun-style down the middle of the house. I glanced back to see that Mattie, who’d been sitting obediently as instructed, was giving a little whine and excited thump of her bobbed tail as she spied Harry. He, in turn, checked to make sure that no one was looking before giving her a quick scratch behind her ears.
Traitor, I thought in resignation, and then returned my attention to my guests.
The passage was dark and narrow, with picture rails running high along the walls on both sides. I’d inherited remnants of Harry’s great-aunt’s original picture gallery consisting of oils, hand-tinted photographs, and even a daguerreotype of a teen-aged Confederate soldier. Usually, most people spent a little time gaping at this little time capsule of history, but not today
“Powder room is right here,” I said, pointing just beyond the main staircase.
A tall, silver-haired man who appeared to be in his late fifties promptly pushed past the others and disappeared into the small bathroom, slamming the door behind him. The remaining half-dozen guests abandoned their luggage there in the hall and rushed to line up outside the half-bath, muttering among themselves. I followed after them.
At the head of the line was a bluff, gray-bearded fellow whom I guessed to be about the same age as the man who’d commandeered the toilet. From the look of his blue jeans, boots, and plaid shirt, he did most of his clothes shopping at the Big and Tall Man’s Clothing and Tractor Supply store. His smile was genial, and his brown eyes glinted with good humor as he stuck a large hand in my direction.
“Marvin Lasky, ma’am,” he declared as we swiftly shook. “We’re sure lookin’ forward to staying in this nice house of yours.”
“Nina Fleet. And I’m very pleased to …”
Before I could finish my introduction, however, he leaned forward and gave the powder-room door a beefy-fingered rap.
“Folks is waiting to pee,” he called to the occupant within. “Get a move on, Len, before someone has an accident out here.”
“Don’t be so crude, Marvin,” the woman in line behind him softly reproved, though she was doing a genteel version of the potty dance herself as she awaited her own turn.
She caught my glance and gave me an apologetic shrug. “He’s right, though. It was a long drive.”
Since I’d not yet done my guest check-in, I didn’t officially know her name. But she didn’t sound like the officious Professor Benedict with whom I’d spoken on the phone, so I figured she was bathroom-hogging Len’s wife, Susie Marsh. The bloated diamond on her left hand confirmed my suspicions. I pegged her for being in her early thirties, though it was hard to judge for certain, given her liberal application of high-end cosmetics. That would make her a couple of decades younger than her husband and thus qualified her as a bona fide trophy wife.
I pointed toward the carved staircase.
/> “Upstairs, first door on the left, if you don’t want to wait,” I cheerfully told her, giving directions to the main second-floor bath.
Not needing further encouragement, she scampered toward the stairway as fast as her three-hundred-dollar sandals would take her. She was followed by a middle-aged woman whose graying waist-length hair had been twisted into a single long braid and who wore what appeared to be hand-spun Mother Earth garb circa 1970.
Has to be Professor Benedict, I decided, but definitely not what I’d pictured. A little too granola-looking for the self-important attitude of the woman who had made the reservation. Though, of course, disembodied phone voices could be deceiving.
That left still lined up behind Marvin a scholarly-looking, hippie-type gentleman pushing retirement age who was probably Mister Professor Benedict; a square-faced African American guy about Harry’s age who could have played college football had he been a foot taller, and a hipster college student-type absorbed in his smartphone.
“I hate to interrupt,” Harry abruptly decreed, coming up behind me, “but I could use a hand getting the bus parked. We’ll do the rest of the introductions in a minute.”
I bared my teeth in an agreeable smile.
“Sure. Gentlemen, wait right here once everyone is, er, finished, and then I’ll check you in and show you to your rooms.”
While Harry and I headed out the door toward the street, I threw him a look. ”Why are you decked out like a courtier? Hamlet doesn’t debut until next weekend.”
“It’s part of the whole tour package.”
We’d reached the front gate now, and he gestured at his recently repainted bus.
“I actually had this in the works before the last time I was in town,” he explained. “I figured the best way to make extra cash between acting jobs is to run a tour company.”
“Aha,” I said, giving myself a figurative slap upside the head. “Hare … Harry. I get it now!”
“I thought it rather clever myself,” he replied with a modest smile. “If you check out my website, you’ll see I do tours all over the state. So far there’s a Capitol City tour of Atlanta, a Haunted Savannah tour, and an antiquing tour that includes Cymbeline. I dress the part and do colorful commentary throughout. I figure in the fall I’ll be booked solid. This trip with the troupe is my trial run, so to speak.”
“So, don’t tell me. This”—I gestured at his Henry VIII attire—“is your Shakespeare tour outfit?”
He nodded. “Yes to the costume, but no to the tour. I’m just the troupe’s ride back and forth to Atlanta. The company is paying for gas and expenses. But I figured we’d see plenty of traffic, so I wanted the public to get a good look when they drove past me. Now, be a dear and get the driveway gate so I can pull my conveyance off the street.”
While he hopped back into the bus and cranked it up again, I played the requested “dear” and dragged open the pair of wrought-iron gates that kept random tourists from using my driveway. Technically, he wasn’t supposed to park a vehicle of that size in my neighborhood for more than twenty-four hours; however, I suspected that the local code enforcement was going to have better things to do this coming week than look for scofflaws on private property.
After considerable coughing and choking—on my part, as well as the bus’s—we situated the fume-spewing heap in the driveway in such a way that there was still room for my green Mini Cooper to escape the garage. If the troupe needed to travel en masse during their stay, I told Harry, they could Uber themselves around town.
We headed back inside via the kitchen, which opened into the hall where the GASPers, as I’d privately dubbed them, awaited us at the foot of the main staircase. I saw in amusement that Marvin and Mattie had already made their mutual acquaintance, with the former giving the latter a belly rub.
I hurried over to the small secretary desk near the front door, where I kept my clipboard with my current guest list. Grabbing it and a pen, I side-stepped the luggage and returned to where everyone was waiting.
“Welcome again. Now, let’s sign everyone in, and then we’ll get you settled in your rooms.”
I made quick work of confirming names and collecting signatures from everyone, which included handing out a short printed list of the house rules. That done, I continued, “You’ll find your individual bedroom key on the dresser in your room. Now, let me show you where you’ll be living for the next ten days,” I finished, and led a procession up the main stairway to the paneled hallway above.
Chapter Three
Letting strangers make themselves at home in my home still felt a bit odd, but I was getting used to it. It helped that my own room was on the first floor, beyond the parlor. The bedroom was actually the house’s former billiards salon and boasted a small attached full bath, making for a nice owner’s suite. Even better, it had its own exit onto the side porch, off of which was an area away from the guests for Mattie to attend to her doggie needs.
With the rented rooms and baths all on the second floor, and with most of my guests spending their days wandering the historic square and neighborhoods, it was easy to maintain my personal space even when the B&B was full. Especially since I’d mounted on my bedroom door a tasteful burnished metal plaque I’d found at Weary Bones Antiques that said “Private.” And so far these guests—except for one notable exception whose initials were Harry Westcott—seemed like decent enough sorts.
While we’d maneuvered the bus into the drive a few minutes earlier, with me hanging out the bifold door as lookout, Harry had given me a rundown of his troupe. I’d already met Marvin Lasky. Despite his farmhand wardrobe, the man had recently sold his small electronics development company, Peachtree Communications, for few million. Thus he had plenty of spare time to play around with his Shakespeare hobby.
As for the blonde trophy wife with the uncertain smile, I’d been correct in assuming she was Susie Marsh. Susie, of course, was married to Len Marsh, he of the distinguished silver hair and long bathroom stay. Len was VP of the U.S. division of some multinational electronics company headquartered in Atlanta. While he probably didn’t have Marvin’s same mad money, per Harry he still pulled in the big bucks—which Susie, in turn, spent. But when it came to the troupe, Harry confided, Len and not his wife was the high-maintenance one.
The Earth Mother who had followed Susie upstairs was indeed Professor Tessa Benedict, married to Bill. In their early sixties, both were professors at the Atlanta University of the Arts and were founding members of GASP. The Benedicts were diametric opposites of the Marshes—at least, stylistically.
The Birkenstock-wearing Bill sported the same ratty ponytail he likely had worn ever since the Grateful Dead cut their first album, even though his hairline had receded to mid-scalp. While he’d eschewed the tie-dye, his wardrobe was still vintage sixties—blue jeans, wrinkled paisley button-down shirt (untucked), and a brown suede vest worn shiny in spots.
Tessa’s straight-from-the-commune outfit consisted of a flowing skirt pieced together from squares of cotton saris topped by a peasant blouse that exposed a bit too much of her Earth Mother assets. I’d already mentioned the long gray braid, which I secretly envied. In fact, I had to give her props for not succumbing to the typical societal pressures that insisted women over sixty should chop off their hair and settle for a granny perm or man-cut. Despite their peace and love vibe, however, both of the Benedicts had that grim pedagogical gleam in their eyes, the one that brought back painful memories of pop quizzes and weekend homework.
Now, I pointed the two married couples to the larger two bedrooms, each of which had a queen-size bed. A full bath had been built between them, Jack-and-Jill style.
“You’ll have to share the facilities,” I told them apologetically, though it should have come as no surprise, since I’d given Tessa the rundown on the room setup when she’d called. “But there’s the other full bath at the end of the hall and the powder room downstairs if things get too crowded.”
I gestured the Marshes into
the first room that, because of its color palette ranging from lilac to plum, I privately called the “Prince Chamber.” You know, Purple Rain, and all that. I’d actually toned down the original decor somewhat, removing the plum-colored carpeting that covered vintage pale-wood planking and replacing the lavender curtains with crisp white. But the wallpaper with its cascades of purple flowers still hit you in the eye when you walked in.
“Oof,” Len muttered as he took a look around him.
Susie, however, clapped her manicured hands. “Ooo, purple, I love it!”
While they settled in, I opened the door of the next room. This one had more of a French provincial feel with its original toile wallpaper, the pastoral pattern in shades of pale blue and brown. The Benedicts gave it an approving nod.
“This vintage wallpaper is quite in fashion,” Tessa observed as she carried her hanging bag to the bed.
Bill nodded and followed after.
I turned to the remaining guests.
“All right, gentlemen, any preferences on how you’d like to split yourselves up between the other two rooms?”
“Me and Radney can bunk together,” Marvin promptly spoke up. “That is, assuming one of them rooms has two beds. I mean, I like the guy, but … “
Radney was Radney Heller, the black guy built like a fire plug. From what Harry had said, the man was some sort of research and development bigwig at the same company where Len was VP. Despite his short stature—only a couple of inches taller than my own five foot five—he was an imposing figure with his beefy biceps and shaved head. At Marvin’s comment, however, his stoic expression cracked into a rueful smile that made him suddenly approachable.
“Yeah, and those beds better be on opposite walls, or my man Marv is going to be sleeping in the hall with the dog.”
“No worries. We’ve got twin beds in this one,” I assured them both and opened the door to show them the room I’d dubbed “Country Living.”