by Anna Gerard
I’d just finished aligning the housekeeping schedule—having Harry in the tower room and Len in the parlor was throwing off my numbers a bit—when Mattie lifted her head and gave a sharp woof. Her bark was promptly followed by a rap on my door.
“Coming!” I called, and saved my document.
So much for the “Private” sign on the door. Although I did try to make myself accessible to guests in the evening, at least on their first night’s stay. It probably was Len come to complain that the parlor bed I’d set up for him wasn’t quite up to his standards. If so, I’d have to give him two options—go with the makeshift downstairs accommodations or grit his teeth and manage the stairs.
But when I opened the door, instead of the Brooks Brothers saint, I found my least favorite actor-slash-director lounging against the jamb.
I favored Harry with a bland expression. “Yes, may I help you?”
“Actually, I’m here to help you. We’re about to call in a delivery order to the Dancing Tiger, and I was wondering if you wanted me to order you some supper. My treat, of course.”
The Dancing Tiger being the nearby Chinese restaurant that, in my opinion, had more than earned its average four and a half stars on Yelp. Which was why I had the menu numbers of my favorite dishes memorized
I blinked. Yet again, Harry was being solicitous, which was not a normal state of affairs for him. So what did he want?
“What do you want, Harry?” I demanded, clutching the knob in case I needed to slam the door in his face. “What’s worth a number 23 and a side order of spring rolls?”
He gave me a pained look. “I don’t want anything. I’m simply trying to show my appreciation for your hospitality and for accommodating my star performer and his, er, temporary infirmity. I would hope you’d accept my offer in the spirit it was intended.”
“Oh.”
I glanced down at Mattie, who’d joined me at the door. Her head was cocked in questioning doggie fashion, gaze fixed firmly on the actor. Then, with a small woof and a flick of her ears—the canine equivalent of a shrug—she turned and trotted back to the desk, flopping down there in a furry puddle of black-and-gray-and-white fur.
“Fine,” I replied, trying not to sound churlish. And then, because I knew I did, I added, “Thanks. Chinese does sound good. White rice not fried, and don’t forget the order of spring rolls. They’re for Mattie.”
“Noted. I’ll add you both to the list. As soon as the food arrives, I’ll send someone to fetch you. We’re still commandeering your dining room, so no need to clear anything away. We’ll eat there and then continue with our read-through.”
“Perfect,” I agreed and waited for him to turn away so I could decently close the door on him.
But when he made no move to go, I swallowed a sigh and asked, “Anything else I can do for you?”
“Actually, I was hoping we might talk. I’ve observed a bit of frostiness on your part ever since the troupe arrived.”
“It’s not the troupe that’s the problem.”
“Fine, ever since I arrived. You’re not still holding a grudge about that whole lawsuit thing, are you?”
I slanted him a wry look and shot back, “Let’s just say that I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. For all I know, your whole reason for bringing the GASP people here was to get back inside the house. You figure that if you lived here for ten days, you’d have a case for tenancy.”
“Would that work?” He gave a considering nod. “Thanks. Let me run that past my lawyer and see what he says. Now, off to call in that food order.”
He spun about and headed down the hall, leaving me to stare after him and mutter bad words that made Mattie’s ears twitch alarmingly. I hadn’t meant to give him what obviously he’d taken as advice. But if I recalled correctly, there was more to the tenancy thing than simply overstaying one’s paid-for vacay.
“Don’t worry, girl, we still have the upper hand,” I assured Mattie as I firmly closed the door.
But, just in case, after supper I’d send an e-mail to my cousin Kit, who was an attorney back in Dallas and undoubtedly would have some suggestions on how to handle the situation.
It was almost an hour later when Mattie woofed again, and I heard another knock. Gesturing the pup to follow, I opened the door to find Susie Marsh standing there, an uncertain smile on her lips.
“Harry sent me to tell you the food is here.”
“Great, because I’m starved,” I told her with a reassuring smile back. “Mattie is looking forward to her spring rolls. I let her have them every so often as a special treat.”
“Aw, that’s sweet,” Susie replied and gave the Aussie a tentative pat on her fluffy head before we started down the hall. “I’ve been wanting a dog—you know, for company when Len travels—but he keeps saying he’s allergic.”
Right. Not that I wasn’t sympathetic to allergies, but I hadn’t heard any sneezing from the guy since he arrived. And I’d learned over the years that, half the time when people claimed an animal allergy, it was simply code for dogs are smelly, barky, shed, need walking, and I don’t want to deal with it. But that was probably better than Len letting his wife get a pet and then making her get rid of it the moment he decided the pup was too much trouble.
“So, how did you get interested in joining the Shakespeare troupe?” I asked instead. “Was it one of those bucket-list things like with Marvin?”
This time, her smile was untroubled.
“Actually, I was a theater major in college. I’d even gotten a little acting work here and there, though it wasn’t enough to pay my tuition. When I met Len ten years ago, I was waitressing to make extra cash,” she said, mentioning the restaurant chain known for its owl logo and scantily clad servers. “Of course, he didn’t want his wife-to-be appearing in tampon ads and hawking used cars on the local channels, so I quit everything as soon as we got married.”
Sounds like Len, I thought with an inner snort. Aloud, I merely said, “That’s too bad. But if that was his attitude, how did both of you end up in the troupe?”
“We were at this Halloween charity event in Atlanta called Peachy Scream, and GASP was performing little vignettes of the supernatural elements in Shakespeare’s plays. You know, the witches’ scene from Macbeth, the ghost of Hamlet’s father.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“It was,” she agreed. “Not that I expected Len to enjoy it, but by the time the performance was over, he was hooked. It must have been all the peach daiquiris they were serving or something. He tracked down Tessa, and before you knew it, he and I were part of the troupe. Of course, a big donation really helped secure our spots, but we both are pretty good, if I do say so myself. And since we don’t have kids—well, any that are both ours—it gives us something to do in our free time.”
“Free time?” I echoed, wondering how a VP of a multinational corporation had time to indulge a theater hobby.
Susie gave another of her tentative smiles. “Well, most of the free time is mine, but Len’s got lots of vacation accrued. That’s how we’re able to take off all these days for the festival.”
By then we’d reached the dining room, from which the enticing aroma of steamed rice combined with garlic, ginger, and soy were wafting. I heard an ominous growl from Mattie padding alongside me that came, not from her throat, but her tummy. We’d eaten from the Dancing Tiger enough times before that she knew what was to come.
“Ah, there you are,” Harry grandly declared from behind a veritable wall of takeout bags as Susie and I entered the room. “Your order has your name on it, so feel free to dig in.”
While everyone sorted through the bags, I passed around a stack of everyday plates and, for the non-traditionalists, a few sacrilegious knives and forks. Of course, Harry proved adept at wielding the wooden chopsticks supplied with the takeout, though the others seemed grateful for the westernizing of their meal.
But utensils were not the only unusual accoutrement on display. In front of Harry’s plate
sat a lifelike skull. I wasn’t surprised he had one—meaning one in addition to the skull surrounding his devious brain. On his last stay, he’d mentioned owning his own personal “Yorick” as part of his Shakespearean regalia. Likely he intended for his little friend to set the mood for the troupe at that night’s table reading.
Once everyone had indulged, the troupe obligingly helped pile the dirty dishes and utensils together. As usual, Mattie trailed after me into the kitchen, obviously hoping there would be more for her than just the spring rolls. But I was a bit surprised when Tessa followed me too.
“We shouldn’t really let this go to waste,” she declared in her trademark lecturer’s voice, indicating several half-full cartons of side dishes she was juggling. “There’s enough left for another meal.”
“I’ll get you some storage containers.”
I set the plates and bowls in the sink; then, pulling three large, glass-topped Pyrex containers from a lower cabinet, I added, “Feel free to stick everything in the refrigerator once you’re done. I keep the shelf in the middle empty for guests to use.”
While she handled the leftovers, I filled one side of the double sink with hot soapy water for a quick washup, expecting Tessa to return to the dining room. She surprised me again. Once she had stowed everything in the refrigerator, she picked up a folded dish towel from the countertop and began drying the rinsed plates I was putting into the dish drainer.
“I never use our dishwasher, either,” she confided with an approving nod as she rubbed the crockery dry. “Not eco-friendly.”
“Hey, we do our best here,” I replied a bit inadequately, as I normally was a fan of tossing everything into the dishwasher and hitting a button. If I wanted a five-star rating from the professor, it seemed I would have to wait and run the dishwasher at night after everyone was in bed.
“I appreciate the help,” I went on, hoping she was just being polite by offering a hand, “but it’s really not necessary. You’re a guest. Besides, I don’t want to keep you from rehearsal.”
“Don’t worry, they won’t miss me. They’ll be yakking about nothing for another fifteen minutes unless Harry shuts them up,” she replied with a dismissive flick of her gray braid over her shoulder.
I nodded and handed her a dish to dry. Since it was just the two of us, maybe I could take advantage and do a little fact-finding about a certain sneaky actor.
“So, how do you like having Harry as director of the Georgia Amateur Shakespeare Players?” I asked with an innocent glance at her while I continued scrubbing crockery. “It didn’t seem, well, like everyone was on the same page with him as far as casting.”
Her stern demeanor promptly brightened.
“Oh, no, you have it all wrong,” she gushed, suddenly sounding like a breathless groupie. “Everyone loves Harry … er, Mr. Westcott. It’s almost like having Ron Howard or James Cameron heading our troupe. We trust him implicitly when it comes to directing.”
Which sentiment was not quite what I was hoping for. Apparently, as far as Tessa was concerned Harry was no less than the second coming of Kubrick. But, just to be sure, I tried again from another angle, hoping she might expose a few chinks in the Westcott armor.
“How long has Harry been with you? Was everyone here already part of the troupe when he joined it?”
She nodded.
“Our actual troupe is much larger, but all of us except for Chris have been the GASP core group for the past four or five years. Harry—Mr. Westcott—walked into one of our rehearsals a couple of seasons ago while he was in Atlanta and asked to join the troupe. Of course, we were all pretty starstruck, working alongside someone with his professional resume. And then, when our director quit over creative differences back in the spring, he selflessly agreed to take over directing the play for this year’s festival here in Cymbeline! What a fortunate turn of events!”
I considered that last fact for a moment. If Tessa’s timeline was accurate, Harry would have taken on the director’s role before he and I had ever met. That meant I couldn’t accuse him of diabolical machinations there. I decided to let the situation ride. Maybe tomorrow after breakfast I could buttonhole another of the troupe and see if my questioning led to anything more concrete. And so I summoned an enthusiastic smile.
“Yes, you certainly were lucky,” I agreed and handed her the final plate. “Though I guess Cymbeline was the real winner. It would be hard to put on a proper Shakespeare festival without a play.”
“Why, I can’t even imagine it. Though I am disappointed with the casting of Len as Hamlet. I truly do think that Bill would be the better choice. With luck, maybe Len will reinjure his knee and be forced to withdraw from the role.”
With that, Tessa put away that last clean dish. Pretending I hadn’t just heard her wish an injury on a fellow player, I wiped down the counters while she returned to the dining room. Once I’d hung up the damp towels, I gave a final peek through the connecting door to make sure my guests were resettled. The table reading had commenced, and everyone appeared to be behaving themselves. Which meant that my innkeeper duties were pretty well completed for the evening.
“C’mon,” I told Mattie, “Let’s hang out together, just us girls.”
After a final disappointed look in the direction of the fridge, the pup obligingly followed me back to our room.
Mattie and I spent the rest of the evening doing a little online surfing and then lounging in bed catching up with a couple of our favorite TV shows. Around eleven, I got up to make a final check of the house.
Apparently, Harry had finally let the troupe go for the night, for the dining room was empty. I flipped on the overhead light to make sure the room was somewhat in order for breakfast in the morning. Scripts remained in front of a couple of chairs, along with someone’s closed laptop, but otherwise all was in place. Harry’s skull still held court in front of his spot, favoring me with a leer as I turned out the light again.
Moving along the main hall, I could see light shining under the closed door of the parlor where Len Marsh had settled without issue into his makeshift accommodations. I tiptoed closer to that door and gave a quick sniff, relieved that no telltale cigarette smoke wafted from within. At least this first night he was following house rules.
I rechecked all the door locks and turned off all but a couple of small bulbs burning in the hallways. Everything upstairs seemed quiet too. I’d halfway expected to find Harry roaming around, maybe in the kitchen brewing a cup of his nasty rooibos tea, but it seemed even he was tucked in for the night.
So far, so good. Other than some contentious conversation earlier, the GASP troupe was proving to be model guests. As long as they didn’t resort to swordplay in the halls, maybe their stay would be uneventful, even with one Harry Westcott present.
Chapter Seven
I slept uneventfully enough myself and was up a little past six. This gave me time to let Mattie out for her morning potty break and leg stretch while I poured out her food. That done, I showered and then dressed in my semiofficial summer uniform of jeans rolled up to capri length and a short-sleeved linen T-shirt (today’s color being olive) before the Tanakas’s daughter, Jasmine, arrived by bicycle at seven with the morning’s catered breakfast from Peaches and Java.
“Good morning … come on in,” I greeted the teen, holding open the front screen door for her.
She responded with a yawn and a sleepy smile as she struggled inside carrying four large cake boxes from which drifted all manner of enticing aromas. “Mornin’, Miz Nina. Uh, what’s with that weird-looking bus in your driveway?”
“That was the ride for the Shakespeare troupe that’s staying here,” I told her, taking the top two boxes and leading her toward the dining room. “You know, the ones who’ll be performing at the festival.”
I didn’t bother to explain about Harry. I’d let Gemma know about that as soon as I could break free in the next day or so and visit her at lunchtime.
She shrugged in typical teenage dismissal
of adult foibles. Her lion’s mane of golden brown ringlets beneath a teal Peaches and Java ballcap bounced about her shoulders. Soon to be a high school junior, Jasmine was a stunning mix of her African American mother’s and her Hawaiian/Japanese American father’s DNA. With her dark golden complexion and almond-shaped amber eyes, along with that riot of curls, she could have been cover model for any teen magazine out there.
Fortunately, her parents were both sticklers for scholarship—Daniel with an MBA from the University of Hawaii, and Gemma with her RN from one of Georgia’s top nursing colleges and a dozen years working in the local hospital’s ER. And so, in addition to helping with the family business, Jasmine was on the fast track to a scholarship to one of the region’s major universities.
We settled the boxes on the dining-room sideboard, and I gave Jasmine her usual tip. Then, leaving the girl to make her own way out, I headed to the kitchen, where I already had my serving plates warming.
I started the coffee brewing and the hot water for tea boiling while I arranged the usual tray of mini cereal boxes and fruit, along with a few individual servings of Greek yogurt and a pitcher of orange juice that would supplement the bakery offerings. I also pulled a carafe of peach nectar and a bottle of champagne from the fridge.
This was what I’d settled on as my B&B signature specialty, a peach mimosa toast at the first breakfast with every new group of guests. So far, the concoction had been a hit with everyone who tried it. I pulled nine crystal flutes out of the cabinet and gave them a quick swipe inside and out before arranging them on the tray with the champagne.
As soon as I’d finished my prep in the kitchen, I would unbox Daniel’s fare—for this week, mini-quiches, open-faced egg white and avocado sandwiches, breakfast burritos with homemade salsa, and a selection of pastries including his famous peach cobbler. Still toasty in their double layer of tightly sealed foil, they’d go on the pre-warmed serving plates or else on one of my small warming trays