by Anna Gerard
“Fine by me,” he replied with a shrug and stood. “Then I guess this meeting of the Scooby-Doo club is adjourned.”
“Hold on. That’s not why I wanted you to wait. Did you ask Tessa to send you those applications on all the troupe members?
“Already done. She’s going to e-mail me everything after we finish rehearsals for the day. As soon as I get them, I’ll forward them to you.”
Since I knew from past e-mails he’d sent regarding the ownership of Fleet House that he already had my addy, I nodded. “Thanks, I just wanted to be sure. Now, give me five minutes to toss the dishes in the dishwasher and I’ll be right out to rehearse.”
While he went out the hall door, I surveyed the leftovers. The containers that had held the sides were pretty well scraped clean, and all that was left of the condiments was a single spicy mustard, which I’d toss just to be safe. The sandwich platter was pretty well decimated too, but there was enough left that I decided to find a smaller container that would fit in my refrigerator. Between Marvin and Radney, they’d finish off the remaining sandwiches by mid-afternoon.
I pushed open the swinging door to the kitchen intent on my search mission for plasticware, only to hear the distinctive sound of running water and a grinding motor.
The last person I’d expected to see at my sink was Bill. But there he was, along with the pile of dishes I’d left there a few minutes earlier, busily scraping and rinsing them, and sending the food scraps into the running garbage disposal.
And, of course, those scraps included Exhibit B, the half-eaten sandwich that might or might not have almost poisoned Chris!
Chapter Twenty
“Wha–What are you doing?” I choked out over the clashing sound of the garbage disposal.
“Oh, Nina, there you are.”
The man met my disbelieving look with a smile and flipped off the disposal.
“I had to come back in for a fresh glass and saw all these dirty dishes waiting to go into the dishwasher. I knew you were busy talking with Harry, so I thought I’d help out as you’re pulling double duty. You know, your regular job plus rehearsing with us.”
Bill’s smile wavered as he finally noticed my shocked expression. “Like I said, I was just trying to help. That’s okay, isn’t it?”
I took a deep breath. Either he’d craftily gotten rid of any evidence that someone had tampered with Chris’s food, or Tessa had trained him well as far as household chores went. Before I’d found out about his battery arrest, I might have been inclined to go with the second explanation. But he had been the one in charge of serving the sandwiches. That fact, and knowing he could be pushed to violence if someone messed with his agenda left Bill squarely on my suspect list. All I needed was a plausible reason for him to target Chris.
For the moment, however, I managed a smile and said. “No problem. I was just a little startled to find someone in the kitchen when I thought it was empty.”
“Well, I’m finished rinsing. I’ll let you stick everything in the dishwasher. I know everyone has their own way of doing it.”
While he left with his glass of ice water, I went looking for a container for the sandwiches. I’d put away the food and leave the cleaning for later. Maybe running lines with the troupe would help settle my brain.
Though, of course, by an hour into rehearsals my brain felt like it had gone through my garbage disposal. Tomorrow, Harry promised, we’d be doing dress-dress rehearsals—no costumes, but complete run-throughs of the play—but today was the final blocking of scenes.
Better late than never, Professor Joy finally had texted him the festival stage dimensions during lunch. And so, at Harry’s direction, Marvin and Radney had commandeered a quartet of decorative pots from the front gardens. Pacing out the measurements Harry gave them, they set the pots at our virtual stage’s four corners so that we had a visual of our limits.
I prayed that Hendricks wouldn’t make an unexpected swing by the house and see this desecration of his landscape artistry.
Rehearsal continued, but in increasingly boot-camp mode. We repeated each scene multiple times, with Harry clapping out the rhythm and calling stage directions. While I continued to read from my script pages, the rest of the troupe had long since memorized their lines. They spouted slightly modernized Elizabethan dialogue with pathos or vigor, as the moment required, and I had to admit that for amateurs they were pretty darned good.
Early on with the rehearsals, I’d been a bit surprised when Harry had decreed that no one, including himself, would attempt an English accent for their role. Though, apparently, he bent his no-accents rule when addressing the audience. But other than that, we all spoke in our normal accents.
As our characters are Danes, he’d pointed out, they wouldn’t be speaking the Queen’s English anyhow. Consider our play a translation. When you translate something from another language into English, you don’t throw on an accent, and so neither would we.
In his role as Hamlet, Harry was in the majority of scenes. Seeing him at work, I acquired a new admiration for the skill it took to direct and act at the same time. I didn’t even want to know how much time and effort it had taken to condense the play into its foreshortened length but still retain its integrity. And though Harry’s classic speeches were constantly interrupted by directions to the troupe—Gertrude, stage right … Polonius, I want another beat between lines—I still found myself sucked in by his portrayal of the Melancholy Dane.
Susie, I was surprised to see, held up for the entire rehearsal. Never once did she succumb to any of the histrionics that could have been forgiven under the circumstances. In fact, in my opinion, she more than rivaled Chris with her slightly more fragile but equally powerful take on Ophelia. From his vantage point in the Adirondack chair next to Harry, Chris could see it too. When I glanced over at him during Susie’s version of Ophelia’s mad scene, his baleful expression spoke folios.
By the time we finally broke for the day, it was after six. All of us were exhausted and dripping with sweat. Except for Mattie, who had found a nice cool spot in the dirt beneath the magnolia tree and had been lounging on her belly all afternoon. And Yorick, who didn’t feel the heat much.
A couple of hours earlier, Harry had scheduled a delivery from my favorite Mexican food place. Right as we were gathering our notes and props, the Tino’s Tacos delivery van pulled up, earning a subdued if sincere cheer from us all. Worn out as I was, I was still determined to keep an eye on everything, and everyone. On my watch, no one was going to slip anything except Tino’s handmade salsa into anyone’s food! And so I personally walked the delivery guy into the house and stood guard over the food until everyone had washed up and joined me in the dining room.
Fortunately, the brief yet tasty meal proceeded without drama. The only groans came from Marvin, who ate one too many bean burritos. And from Radney, who lamented aloud that, as Marvin’s roommate, he would be subject to any side effects from the other man’s culinary overindulgence.
I was gratified to see that I didn’t have to recruit any cleanup help once we were finished. Everyone carried their own dishes to the kitchen, while Radney and Tessa made efficient work of consolidating the leftovers into a couple of the takeout trays. There was enough for lunch tomorrow, I judged, which meant more time for rehearsals.
In a few minutes, most of the mess was cleared away, and the troupe had dispersed— I assumed, to their rooms for more study and then an early bedtime. Which left me with only a dishwasher to load and breakfast to prep for morning.
Harry was the last to quit the room.
“I’d stick around, but I’ve got Secret Squirrel business pending,” he stage-whispered as he passed me on the way out. “You know, files to send one of my agents.”
The files. Sure, I’d asked for them, but after an afternoon spent in the heat, and breakfast prep still ahead of me, doing online searches for Chris and the other troupe members wasn’t exactly an enticing prospect. And so I grimaced a little but nodded.
That accomplished, I switched off all but the usual lights and headed to my room. I’d make the formal final rounds of the place before I went to sleep.
Even though it was barely seven thirty, Mattie was already lounging on the foot of my bed, blue eye and brown eye both firmly closed. I grinned at the way all four fuzzy feet stuck straight up, while her body was twisted about like a croissant. The posture hardly looked comfortable, but judging from the snores emanating from the pup she was apparently deep in blissful sleep.
I took a brief but satisfying hot shower. Feeling human once more, but with wet hair still in a towel, I pulled on a gray T-shirt and pair of matching gray cut-off sweats. Since I was off the clock as far as my innkeeper role, I didn’t need to look good for the guests. Comfy for me was all that mattered.
I checked my e-mail and answered a couple of reservation requests for the week after the festival. Harry’s expected message, sent from harrywestcottactor, was in with my spam where I’d previously relegated any correspondence from him. The subject line, of course, was Secret Squirrel. I shook my head and moved that e-mail to my in-box, then clicked on it.
A zipped file was attached that I assumed contained all the applications and backup documents for the GASPers. The message simply said, Will be awaiting your report. ~Agent Harry Westcott.
And then a PS a few lines down, which read: Seriously, this is confidential troupe information that is not to be shared beyond the GASP executive board, let alone with anyone else. Get whatever you need to do your web search and then permanently delete this file and message. I’m trusting you to follow through. If anyone discovers you have this information, I will claim that you hacked my computer. ~HW
And then a final PPS below that: Do not under any circumstances reply directly to this email. ~H.
I grinned a bit at the melodrama, even as I recognized that he was indeed violating troupe policy by sending me this information. I was a bit touched that he actually said he trusted me … but then again, I’d saved his bacon before, so he kind of owed me. But as all I needed was the pertinent data for each troupe member in order to do a search, I’d simply copy off that information into a separate file and then permanently delete everything else.
Had I not been so tired, I likely would have succumbed to nosiness and spent time actually reading each member’s acting resume and, in some cases, clicking links to their reviews. As it was, I did spend a moment looking their headshots.
Susie’s, of course, was pure glamor, professionally made up and dramatically backlit against a black background, so that her blond hair looked almost blinding. Len was Brooks Brothers handsome, a three-quarter profile against a black background that made him look quite dashing. Bill and Tessa each had emphasized the character-actor image in their photos, chin on fist (Bill) and finger to cheek (Tessa), expressions serious. Radney’s headshot looked like something out of a corporate publication, dressed as he was in a suit and tie, expression stern yet thoughtful. Chris had opted for full emo, hair spiked and combed to one side, angry eyes outlined in black, and looking more androgynous than ever. Only Marvin was smiling in his headshot, though he’d eschewed the usual flannel for a plain dark-blue button-down, giving him an appearance that was everyman appealing.
I did a quick cut-and-paste of each actor’s name, DOB, and current address into a document. Going full Secret Squirrel, I named my new doc Mattie’s Feeding Instructions, Updated. I saved said document into my personal miscellaneous file before permanently deleting Harry’s message.
Then, feeling virtuous, I composed a new e-mail. Mr. Westcott, be advised that requested information has been received and dispositioned per your instructions. Sincerely, Nina Fleet.
With the preliminaries done, I started my online search for Chris aka Christina Boyd. Immediately I was swamped with results, finding Christinas who ranged from lawyers to teachers to truck drivers. LinkedIn alone had more than three hundred possibilities, as did Facebook and Instagram. I narrowed my search to Georgia, and then Atlanta. That cut down the results significantly, and with that, I started searching the images, looking for her headshot.
Apparently, she’d never posted it online. And as for the various social media accounts, she’d done a good job of locking down her privacy. The one Instagram account that might have been hers had a profile picture that was a close-up of what appeared to be a tiger’s eye … definitely not identifiable as male or female.
After a few more minutes of this, I pushed back from my laptop and simply stared at the screen. Exactly what I was trying to accomplish, I wasn’t certain. Stumbling over incriminating comments on Twitter? Finding a Pinterest page with memes illustrating how to mix prescription drugs for very bad reactions?
I shook my head. Somehow, everyone else managed to find obscure twenty-year-old quotes from politicians and sports figures. Yet I couldn’t discover anything about Chris/Christina that would qualify as dust, let alone incriminating dirt! And certainly nothing that would tie her into a crime that might or might not even exist.
I pulled up my “Mattie” document again. Address and phone number. Why not try searching the old-fashioned way?
I typed in her name and address, and immediately got results from several of those public records pages. You know, the ones that promise to spill everything about bankruptcies and criminal records and so forth … for a fee, of course. I even found a listing with an address match, except that the age was at least ten years too old.
I frowned. The age difference wasn’t enough that this could possibly be her mother, assuming both had the same first name. But given the address match, this had to be the right Christina Kimberly Boyd. Maybe the records site had made a mistake?
An aha moment hit me, and I typed in the name of my teenaged nephew. His name and city immediately popped up—this despite the fact that, at seventeen, he shouldn’t have any records yet, let alone ones that were public. Sure enough, his age as listed on the site was twenty years off.
I nodded. The boy had had social media accounts since he was twelve or thirteen, despite technically being too young for sites such as Facebook. Which had meant he’d fudged his online age in order to create his accounts. Chances were that Chris had done the exact same thing; hence, the reason her purported age didn’t match.
Feeling rather proud of my online sleuthing abilities now, I retyped Chris’s name. The entry popped up again, and I took a closer look. No bankruptcies or arrests that I’d have to pay to find out about were noted. And then I checked the list of possible relatives.
Only one family member’s name was shown … Amanda Christina Boyd.
Her mother, I presumed. And, possibly the owner of the prescription I’d seen, if the older woman also went by the name Christina. Maybe still a reach, but worth checking out. And so I typed Amanda Christina Boyd into the search block.
Among the listings for that name was one at the same address as the person I assumed was Chris. The age shown was forty-seven, which fit for having a child who was nineteen or twenty. Unlike her daughter, Amanda had several lawsuits and even one criminal activity that the site teased was available for review.
The section listing possible relatives was longer, with Chris as well as five others—male and female—with the surname Boyd. Likely siblings and parents, possibly other children, though Chris has never indicated whether or not she was an only child.
That, however, wasn’t what interested me.
The final public section of the listing was “also knowns,” names the listed person might also go by. Thus, Amanda Christina Boyd was also Amanda Boyd and Amanda C. Boyd. But apparently the woman had gone by yet another
name … Amanda C. Marsh.
My heart suddenly began racing as it occurred to me what this might mean. Still, I wasn’t ready to believe it until I did more Googling. Finally, I located a few archived documents—by this point, only a few sentences each, as the original links had long since gone cold—that confirmed my suspicions.
Twenty years earlier, Amanda Christina Boyd had married Leonard Quayle Marsh at Holy Grace Episcopal Church in Atlanta. Their divorce had been finalized eight years later, with Amanda resuming her maiden name. In the interim, however, the once-happy couple had welcomed a child, Christina Kimberly Marsh.
All of which pointed to the incontrovertible fact that our GASP troupe member, Chris Boyd, was actually Christina Marsh, the late Len Marsh’s daughter.
Chapter Twenty-One
“Incontrovertible?” Harry echoed a while later as he scanned the screenshots from my laptop that I’d printed out. “I’m not going out on that limb. Not yet.”
It had taken a moment for my initial shock at discovering that Chris Boyd aka Christina Boyd aka Christina Marsh was Len’s daughter to subside enough for me to react. Next had come a bit more Googling. Finally, I’d texted Harry to tell him I was headed up to see him, pronto.
I hadn’t been up in the tower room since Harry had taken up residence following the troupe’s arrival. Somehow, between rehearsals, he’d managed to turn what had been a sparsely furnished open area into a quite livable suite that I almost didn’t recognize—mostly because the new accessories weren’t mine.
A three-paneled wooden screen complete with carved tigers now separated the sleeping area from the rest of the octagonal room. Several splashy batik throws in Woodstock hues were draped across the bed and other furnishings. But what made me roll my eyes was the bright-yellow happy-face pillow beside the yoga mats that were propped against the wall. Doubtless all this decorative flair had been stashed somewhere in Harry’s bus along with the trio of suitcases that he’d stacked to make a quirky table.