Peachy Scream

by Anna Gerard

  “I’m sure you’re not the only one,” I replied, pointing him to the coffee while covertly studying him.

  Nothing alarming had appeared in my web search about the man. Still, I hadn’t forgotten the look he and Susie had exchanged when Len had mocked him about his ruined notes. That, and Radney’s assertion that Len had tossed up roadblocks in his, Radney’s, career path. Either could be a motive for seeking revenge.

  By now the rest of the troupe minus Susie was trooping in. By seemingly mutual agreement, everyone pretty well kept to themselves. That was fine by me, as it gave me the chance to quietly observe.

  Now that I knew more about what had happened between Marvin and Len, I found myself looking hard to see if I could read any guilt behind that beard of his. I’d still not laid hands on those business journal articles yet, but it seemed—to quote Marvin—that Len really had done him wrong.

  And I found myself giving Bill the Brawler a bit of extra scrutiny too. His comment about the widow had struck me as odd, almost as if he thought he should be the one providing her comfort. The only thing I could hang on Tessa was her desire for Bill to have the Hamlet role. Maybe she’d thought slipping Len a mickey would take care of that, never actually meaning him permanent harm. I couldn’t come up with a motive for Chris, which, had this been a television cop show, would probably have meant he was the guilty party. Though the drug thing did seem rather Generation Z. Frankly, at this point I couldn’t afford to dismiss any of the troupe as suspects, not even Susie.

  I frowned into my rapidly cooling coffee. Susie’s shock and tears in the face of her husband’s sudden death had seemed genuine to me. Then, again, she was an actor like the rest of them. Besides, wasn’t it usually the spouse that the real-life police always looked at first when they suspected foul play?

  I’d checked in on her after I’d laid out the food and before everyone else came downstairs. Somewhat to my surprise, she had answered the door looking freshly showered and dressed, and even with a bit of makeup on.

  “Thanks, Nina,” she said when I reminded her about breakfast. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll wait until everyone else has eaten and then I’ll pop down and grab a bite. Tell Harry I’ll try to rehearse today too.”

  So had Chris not told her that her role had been recast, or had she chosen to ignore that bit of news? Figuring that problem was between actor and director, I merely nodded and agreed to pass on the message. Which I did when Harry came strolling in at 7:45.

  At promptly eight, Harry gave the troupe their ten-minute warning. “And a slight change to our rehearsal space. With Nina’s permission, today we’ll be moving onto the front lawn. We need to block out some big scenes, including the final sword fight. Radney, I’ll leave it to you to haul the weapons downstairs.”

  “Do me one favor today,” I told Harry as the troupe dispersed and I began stacking dishes. “Try not to chop up the front yard with your sword fighting. I’m already in Hendricks’s bad book over the backyard and the hawthorn. He’ll be livid if he has to repair anything else on the grounds.”

  “We’ll leave the golf cleats behind,” he wryly promised. Then, with a sigh, he continued, “For the moment, I’m more worried about dealing with Susie. I know she wants to try rehearsing again, but I think I’ve got to cut her loose.”

  I sighed too. “I know it stinks, but you’re doing the right thing for the festival.”

  Harry nodded. “Bottom line, we’re too close to opening night. I know she’s going through a lot right now, but the play is too important to risk her falling apart on stage. I feel like a jerk replacing her, but I’ve got to do it.”

  “If it helps, I’m right with you in the jerk club,” I reassured him. “I tossed and turned all night, thinking about the whole situation with the champagne glass. I kind of told Dr. Bishop I wouldn’t say anything, but I’ve already told you. You know, barn door and horse and all that. So, don’t you agree it’s only right that Susie should be told, too?”

  Harry gave me a quick head shake, but it was too late. I heard a little gasp from the open dining room doorway, and then a familiar voice demanded, “Susie should be told what?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  I had momentarily forgotten that Susie planned to come down to breakfast after the rest of the troupe had finished theirs. And so, of course, she had walked in on my conversation with Harry. And while I meant what I’d told Harry, I had also wanted time to decide how best to broach the subject. Unfortunately, it seemed like I was going to have to organize my thoughts on the fly.

  I managed a weak smile. “Really, it’s nothing. I just—”

  “Please don’t patronize me, Nina,” the woman cut me short.

  She marched into the room on high-heeled sandals, grabbed an empty coffee cup off the sideboard, and started pouring. “I might be a blonde but that doesn’t mean I’m a half-wit. You said that Susie should be told. That must mean something about Len. So please tell me.”

  I exchanged a quick look with Harry, and then I nodded.

  “You’re right, Susie. You have the right to know. I was just trying to decide how best to break it to you. So here it is. The afternoon after Len, uh, after he …”

  “After Len died,” Susie sharply prompted, dumping a few teaspoons of sugar into her coffee.

  I blinked, and then frowned. If Susie wanted blunt, then that’s what I’d give her.

  “Right. After Len died, I realized that the champagne flute he’d been drinking his mimosa out of was missing. I remembered he’d carried it off when he went for a smoke, so I went outside to search for it. I actually found it hung up in the hawthorn, not far from where he fell.”

  “Oh, well, I guess that’s a good thing for you,” she said, sliding a triangle of quiche and some sliced peaches onto a plate and settling at the table. “There’s nothing worse than an uneven number of glasses. It makes it so hard when you’re entertaining. But, seriously, is that what I needed to know?”

  “Not exactly,” I told her. “When I found the glass, it still had some of the mimosa Len was drinking left in it. It turns out there was some sort of residue, as well.”

  “Residue? You’re saying Len was drinking out of a dirty glass?”

  She gave a dismissive wave of one hand and then dug into her quiche.

  “That’s real sweet of you, Nina, but it’s okay. I know you worry about things like that, but I promise I won’t put anything about that glass in the online review. Just wash it out real good and no one will ever know the difference.”

  “It wasn’t dirt, Susie,” I said with a sigh. “Yesterday, I took the glass to Dr. Bishop—he’s the coroner—to get it tested. What we found out is that the residue in the drink was actually Pazaxa.”

  Susie set her fork down with a clatter.

  “What do you mean, Pazaxa?” she demanded, giving me a sharp look. “That’s some sort of antidepressant, isn’t it? Len didn’t take anything like that. Your Doctor-Whatever-His-Name-Is has to be mistaken.”

  She gazed down at the half-finished slice of quiche on her plate. “You know, I thought I was hungry, but I guess I’m not. Harry, I’m not sure I can make rehearsal today after all. I thought I was doing better, but Nina’s got me all upset now talking about Len and drugs. I think I’d better go lie down again.”

  With that, she abruptly shoved away from the table, high-heeled sandals clicking on the wooden floor as she hurried out of the dining room. I could hear the echo of her shoes on the stairs, and the faint sound from upstairs of a slamming door.

  Harry slid back his own chair and rose. I noticed that, along with the untucked gray cotton shirt he wore, he was sporting a pair of ankle-length black tights in lieu of the usual jeans. Obviously ready for swordfight practice, I told myself, trying not to notice that the black tights were definitely tight and that they showed off some well-developed glutes.

  “I’d say thanks for running off my actor for me,” he said as he tucked Yorick under one arm and his binder under the other
, “but you saved me the trouble of telling her she’s out. And I guess I’ll see you after you finish all the housemaid-ery things you do.”

  “Sure,” I told him, but my thoughts already were elsewhere. I watched him leave the dining room, followed by Mattie, who’d apparently been bitten by the show-biz bug. Since the entire property was fenced in, I had no problem letting her hang out with the gang. And besides, for the moment I was mentally replaying my brief conversation with Susie.

  Talk about the lady protesting too much, as Hamlet’s mom would say. The blonde had been quick to claim that no way had her husband been taking any antianxiety meds. Had Susie known all along that Len was taking Pazaxa and been keeping his secret safe? Unless the meds were hers, and Len had been pilfering her stash.

  I glanced at my watch. Once I turned on the dishwasher it would be time to give the rooms a quick run-through. As I changed the linens every other day, today I’d only be remaking beds and wiping down counters and sweeping floors. And while I cleaned, I could do something that I had never yet, as an ethical innkeeper, done to my guests. I could take a look at their stuff.

  The notion made me a little queasy. In fact, a whole lot queasy. After all, that was one of the unwritten understandings between innkeeper and guests, the idea that one’s possessions were sacrosanct while under the B&B’s roof. Not that I’d be digging through their suitcases.

  What was that discreetly admonishing sign in Cymbeline’s one art gallery? Look With Your Eyes and Not With Your Hands. If something pertinent—say, like a prescription bottle—was sitting out in plain sight, I’d simply take a hands-free gander at the label.

  Conscience only a bit eased, a few minutes later I was pulling my wheeled bucket with my cleaning supplies out of the upstairs linen closet. The door to Susie’s room was closed, so I assumed she was still barricaded within. I’d start with Bill and Tessa’s room. Just in case, I gave the usual courtesy knock and called, “Housekeeping,” before letting myself in.

  Even a few days into their stay, the pair kept a relatively neat room. They’d availed themselves of the vintage highboy dresser and had unpacked all their clothes into it. Their suitcases were stowed in a similarly neat tower on the folding rack in the corner. Tessa had claimed the top of the dresser, leaving Bill the small desk as his drop zone. The only disorder was the clear plastic tub beside the highboy from which spilled bits of costuming and wigs and what appeared to be a leather codpiece.

  Taking a prudent step back from that last, I made quick work of straightening everything else, visually searching for anything that looked like medication. But no incriminating plastic cylinders dropped out of the sheets as I remade the bed, and none were neatly lined up on either desk or dresser. Since the desk and dresser drawers were firmly closed, I declared them off-limits.

  Finishing the bedroom, I moved into the shared bathroom between their room and Susie’s. Her connecting door was shut. Just to be sure, I put an ear to the door. Faint sounds from what sounded like a movie drifted to me, so chances were she was watching something on her laptop.

  I gave the fixtures and floor a quick cleaning while doing my best to peer into Bill and Tessa’s unzipped toiletry bags. Nothing … that is, not until I spied one of those plastic pill organizers alongside a well-worn bamboo toothbrush on the hanging shelf.

  Bingo.

  Except that (a) I had no idea whose pills they were, and (b) loose in their individual day-of-the-week sections as they were, I could only guess at the medications’ identities. It didn’t help that the Sunday through Saturday slots were filled with more than one size and colored pill. For all I knew, they could be vitamins or perfectly benign supplements. More importantly, I wasn’t sure what Pazaxa actually looked like.

  I finished in there and moved to Radney and Marvin’s shared room. As their bathroom was down the hall, I’d have to catch it later. For now I concentrated on the bedroom.

  Despite the “girly” decor, as Marvin had put it, anyone could see that a couple of guys were sleeping there. From Day One, I’d had to tiptoe around their open suitcases and piles of electronic accoutrements. Now their bordering on slovenly ways made it easy for me to do my stealthy observation. Even so, I almost missed the amber-colored plastic pill bottle sticking out of the leather shaving kit on the small table next to Radney’s bed.

  I squinted at the bottle’s label, which was half concealed by a deodorant stick tossed on top of it. My earlier queasy feeling returned with a vengeance as I made out the letters PAZ.

  I glanced around me even though the door was shut. Then, telling myself that this fell into the “out in the open” category, I bit my lip and pulled the bottle out of the leather bag.

  Pazaxa XR 3mg Tab, according to the label, which also included Radney’s name and the address for an Atlanta pharmacy chain. There were instructions, too, that read, Take one tablet once daily, preferably in the morning. Do not be chew, crush, or break tablets. Do not take with alcohol.

  No alcohol. Which would include champagne. I thought back to the night after Len’s death, when half the troupe had come back from their evening at Brutus Burgers pretty well snockered. Did that mean Radney didn’t take his meds daily—which might also mean he wouldn’t notice a tablet or two missing? Or was he setting himself up for trouble by mixing booze with his meds? I wondered, too, about the whole chew-crush-break thing before realizing the XR on the label might mean extended release.

  Carefully sticking the pill bottle back where I found it, I pulled out my cell phone and did a quick search to find that the antianxiety medicine also came in a dissolvable form. If Len was used to the chewable version but had swiped a couple of tablets from Radney’s stock, maybe he’d crushed them up in error. And according to what my search results said, breaking up what was meant to be an extended release medication could prove dangerous.

  I was shaking a little as I left the men’s bedroom. I now knew more about anxiety meds than I had ever wanted to know. Worse, I had learned more about the private lives of some of my guests than I should. Never would I have guessed that Radney required Pazaxa, but the truth was that anyone was susceptible to mental health issues

  Certainly, I wasn’t judging, but I was beginning to wish I had heeded Harry’s advice and kept my nose out of the whole situation. Or that I hadn’t found that darned champagne flute in the hawthorn. But since I still had a final room besides Susie’s to clean, I would finish what I’d started.

  I entered Chris’s room, needing the tranquility of the decor’s cool yet earthy tones. The youth’s luggage consisted of two backpacks and a duffle bag. Everything was neatly laid out on the second bed, including a heavy pink vinyl box with black polka dots that looked surprisingly like a woman’s makeup kit.

  What were you expecting, camo? I asked myself. The box’s lid was closed but the heavy-duty zipper was unzipped. And as I straightened the bedspread around it, I managed to bump it hard enough (okay, it took two or three times) that the top flipped open, revealing the contents.

  I sighed. Lying atop the expected hair gel, toothpaste, comb, and what looked like a manicure kit was a familiar skinny bottle made of amber plastic. The medication name on the label, and even the dosage and warning were the same as for Radney’s meds. Even the pharmacy chain that had filled the prescription was the same.

  Poor kid.

  Being eighteen or nineteen and needing that sort of medication to get through life had to be rough, I told myself. On the other hand, the fact that the youth’s issues had been diagnosed at such a young age definitely was a positive. His treatment apparently was working too. Of all the troupe, he actually appeared to be the most balanced despite a certain tendency toward snarking and ignoring his elders.

  I went to flip the kit’s lid closed again, then frowned as I noticed something else. The surname printed on the medication label belong to the youth, but the first name wasn’t Chris. At least, not exactly.

  “Christina Boyd?” I puzzled aloud. Had Chris swiped the meds from a s
ister, or maybe his mother? That could explain why he didn’t seem to need the prescription … but not why he had the drugs tucked away in his luggage.

  Then a possible answer for at least one of those questions occurred to me. Just as quickly, however, I told myself that it was way too Shakespearean a scenario to even consider. Putting that theory on ignore—at least until I had enough mental bandwidth to deal with it—I left the room and rolled my way back to Susie’s door. I could still hear the faint sounds of the movie or whatever it was that she was watching.

  “Hey, Susie,” I called, knocking, “it’s Nina. Do you want me to straighten up?”

  I waited for an answer, but none came. I gave another knock and then tried the knob. The door was locked from within. Maybe she’d fallen asleep, I told myself. Or maybe she was simply ignoring me.

  “Fine, clean your own room,” I muttered, but without much real heat.

  I stuck my cleaning bucket back in the closet and headed downstairs. Since there was no laundry today, I was pretty much finished with the chores portion of my morning. That meant I could head outside and join rehearsals with Harry and the gang.

  Or, I could take a nice air-conditioned car ride over to the Heavenly Path Funeral Home and Crematorium for another chat with the Reverend Dr. Thaddeus Bishop.

  I smiled to myself. For the moment, that sounded like the more enjoyable choice. Of course, I’d use the excuse of picking up my champagne flute to explain why I’d stopped by, and I would even bring him a slice of Daniel’s cobbler as a thank-you. Then I sobered. Since we’d be chatting in person and not over the phone, maybe I could convince him to tell me a little more about drug interactions, particularly those that involved Pazaxa.

  First, however, I plated the remaining fruit and pastries from breakfast and added some of Marvin’s favorite cookies, then made a fresh pot of coffee. This I set up as usual in the dining room for my guests’ late-morning snack. When everything had been arranged to my satisfaction, I went out to let the troupe know it was ready.