Peachy Scream

by Anna Gerard

  I was perched on one of the throw-covered ladderback chairs in the sitting area, while Harry enjoyed the comfort of the room’s single upholstered chair. As he had studied my screenshots by the light of a vintage floor lamp, I recounted my conversation in the parlor with Chris, including my only partially successful attempt to get the youth to admit his true identity. Harry had listened to it all with interest if not a little skepticism.

  Now, setting down the pages on the suitcase table, he opined: “It does appear that an Amanda Boyd was married to a Len Marsh. And it also appears that the same couple had a daughter named Christina. But the whole ‘Chris is Christina’ scenario is a stretch. For all we know, this is some sort of identity theft. Unless the kid admits outright to being someone else, we’ve got nothing.”

  “And, no,” he cut me short when I opened my mouth to protest, “pulling a trick you saw in The Great Escape doesn’t count as firm evidence. And while I applaud your ingenuity, I hope you realize that was so not cool.”

  Hearing echoes of Chris and knowing Harry referred to the possible deadnaming, I winced and nodded. “But even if he doesn’t admit anything, it’s pretty evident he … she … is up to something even if it doesn’t have anything to do with Len’s death. So we can’t just turn a blind eye to it.”

  “Aha!”

  He jumped to his feet and pointed a dramatic finger heavenward.

  “And there—to paraphrase my very close friend Hamlet—is the rub. Or the eye, more accurately. If we go with your theory about Chris being Christina, why after all these months in the troupe together didn’t Len recognize his own daughter? And wouldn’t Susie have known her too?”

  I’d already asked myself those questions. So while Harry leaned against the dresser, arms crossed and waiting expectantly, I was able to lob this one back at him pretty easily.

  “If the public records are right,” I began, “Len and his first wife divorced when their daughter was eight or nine. And Susie said she and Len had been together for about ten years. So if the daughter is around nineteen …”

  “… then that’s not a lot of time in between wives,” Harry finished for me.

  I nodded. “Right. And Susie didn’t say if the divorce was finalized or not when she took up with Len. But I’d guess either way that he probably didn’t have much time to spend with his little girl at that point, not when he had a hot new girlfriend to worry about.”

  “Okay, so maybe your timeline works,” Harry conceded, somewhat to my surprise. “But between the name and the face, I don’t see how a parent wouldn’t recognize his own kid.”

  “The name part is easy. Len probably didn’t even know that she dropped his last name for her mother’s after the divorce. And even if he did, Christina Boyds are a dime a dozen. You wouldn’t believe all the hits I got when I typed in that name, even when I narrowed the focus to Georgia.”

  The actor nodded. “And the face?”

  “Think about it. If Len had been slacking on the visitation pretty much from the start, his mental picture of his daughter would have been that of a little girl. Not an adult who had dyed black hair and wore unisex clothes and was passing as a male. So chances are that meeting a Chris Boyd who was a guy probably never even rang any kind of familiarity bell with him.”

  Harry was silent for a moment. Finally, he said, “I love a good Secret Squirrel conspiracy as much as the next person. But there’s still a lot of supposing and chances are for me to totally buy into your theory.”

  When I started to protest, however, he held up a finger. “Let’s say for the sake of argument that you’re right. What’s the point? Assuming that it’s not merely a case of transitioning, why would Chris go through such a charade and hide his identity for all this time?”

  Now it was my turn to go silent. I’d come up with a few theories while I was doing all that Googling. As I ran through the list in my head again, they all sounded like rejected plotlines from one of those after-school specials I’d watched when I was a kid. But because Harry was waiting, I tossed them out there.

  “Maybe she was spying on Len for her mom. Or maybe she wanted to renew contact with him but didn’t know how he’d react, so she was scoping out things first. Maybe she really wanted to join the troupe but was afraid he’d veto her if he knew she was his kid.”

  While I was talking, Harry had resumed his seat across from me. The time was closing in on nine PM, meaning with the shortening summer days that it was long since dark outside. With only the floor lamp and the meager stairway bulb throwing out any light, the tower room was heavy with shadows now, making it hard to read the actor’s expression.

  But when he finally replied, his response was not what I’d expected.

  “Forget the whole Chris or Christina situation. If someone did deliberately spike Len’s drink—whether or not they actually planned to kill him—then someone in this house is a murderer. And if Chris didn’t just have a bad reaction to a deli sandwich, then there’s a good chance he was almost the second victim. Which begs the question, is our prankster-slash-killer going to go after him again … and is there going to be a third victim, and maybe a fourth?”

  I whooshed out a big breath, feeling the stereotypical shiver run down my spine. I’d been so busy looking at the details that I hadn’t considered a bigger picture. And the picture that Harry was painting was nothing short of ginormous.

  Then I shook my head.

  “I can’t believe someone is planning to kill off the whole troupe. That’s a little too Agatha Christie even for me. If Chris really was targeted, it has to be that he knows something about Len’s death … or else the killer thinks he does. Maybe it’s time to call Sheriff Lamb?”

  “And tell her what? That a kid got sick over supper? You said Dr. Bishop was going to let her know about the benzos in Len’s mimosa. Connie’s a pro. If she thinks there’s anything to investigate, she’ll be investigating it. But if we bring her over here on a wild-goose chase, all we’re going to do is let the prankster know we’re onto them.”

  “So what do we do in the meantime?”

  Harry gave me a hard look. “We keep our eyes open, our mouths shut, and lock our respective doors at night. And then, we put on the best version of Hamlet that the town of Cymbeline and the state of Georgia has ever seen.”

  “Agreed,” I told him, gathering my notes and getting to my feet. True, he’d just ramped my paranoia level to a full ten out of ten, but I felt better now that he’d validated my suspicions.

  “I think that’s enough detective work for tonight,” I told him. “I’m going to do a final lockup downstairs and then work on my lines before I go to sleep.”

  “Eyes open, mouth shut,” he reminded me.

  I nodded and started down the ladder stairs, then paused to call back up to him, “And thanks for not thinking I’m crazy.”

  “I never said that,” I thought I heard him reply.

  I slipped out of the tower-stair closet and quietly closed the panel behind me. The hallway was dark except for the small lights I usually kept on at either end of the corridor. I could hear the murmur of voices from behind Bill and Tessa’s door, but otherwise all was quiet. Still, I hustled downstairs a little faster than usual.

  Once back in my own room, I debated a moment, then stuck the screen captures that I’d printed into my shredder. If any prying eyes made their way into my suite, the only incriminating evidence they’d find would be nice diamond-shaped confetti.

  “We’re done playing detective for the night,” I told Mattie, who was still lounging on the foot of my bed where I left her. “Time to get back into innkeeper mode. C’mon, let’s lock up.”

  The Aussie knew the routine, so she leaped from bed to floor and followed me back out into the hallway. And this night, I definitely appreciated her stalwart presence as I flipped on the usual nightlights and front porch light, and turned out the rest as I made my sweep of the parlor and dining room and kitchen. I turned the deadbolt of each exterior door after f
irst looking outside to make sure that no one was hanging about on the darkened porch. Mattie patiently served as my double-checker, detecting no errant guests afoot until we reached the back door. There, she halted and stared at the windowed door, giving a soft woof.

  “Good girl, is someone outside? Let’s take a look,” I said, my tone braver than I actually felt as I peered through the glass.

  I moved to one side of the window so that the fountain wasn’t blocking my view. And when I did so, I could see a small shadowy figure crouched atop the steps that led from the garden to the yard beyond. With only the solar garden lights and a sliver of moon above, I couldn’t make out the person’s identity; still, I had a feeling I knew who it was. And so I opened the door just a bit.

  “Go on,” I whispered to Mattie.

  The Aussie obediently padded outside, trotting around the fountain and making a beeline for the seated figure. I heard a soft cry of surprise as the pup plopped herself down, then saw a thin arm reach around to hug the dog closer.

  I quietly closed the door again. I’d check in a bit to make sure that both pup and human were back safely inside, and the door locked after them. But for now I’d leave Mattie to her fuzzy comforting, since after debating the matter with Harry, I was pretty sure now that the youth was not responsible for Len’s death.

  But barely had I reached my bedroom again than another explanation hit me—one so obvious that I couldn’t believe it hadn’t occurred to me before. For now I clearly recalled that the tainted peach mimosa had first been served to Chris. Not wanting to be responsible for a minor drinking alcohol, I had swooped in and handed off the drink to Len before Chris could take a sip. And then Len had polished off most of the mimosa, not suspecting anything was wrong with it.

  But if I’d not been paying attention, it would have Chris who ingested the overdose of the benzo drug … perhaps also with fatal consequences. Which, combined with the sandwich incident, told me one thing. Forget Chris being the second person in the prankster’s sights. There was a very real chance that Len’s daughter, and not Len, had been the true target of whoever had sabotaged that drink.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I slept fitfully that night, worried about Chris. Mattie had come scratching at my bedroom door sometime after ten, so I’d taken her on a quick check of the garden again. The grounds proved empty this time, and the upstairs hall was quiet too. Figuring that Chris was safe enough behind closed doors for the night, I’d retired to my room again.

  I’d wait until morning to run my latest theory by Harry. As for warning Chris to be careful, I knew that likely wouldn’t go well, not if our last conversation was any indication. The best I could do would be to keep an eye on the youth until the end of the Shakespeare festival’s run … or until Sheriff Lamb and her deputies stepped in.

  My alarm clock woke me a little after six. I felt slightly more revived after a long blast of hot water, so that I had breakfast ready to go by seven thirty. My time under the pulsating shower had also given me a chance to rethink my theory from the night before.

  Try as I might, I hadn’t been able to come up with a reason for Chris to have been the prankster’s original target. He’d only been with the company a short while, and everyone apparently accepted him at face value. Moreover, despite the significant age difference and omnipresent earbuds, he’d seemed to fit in well enough with the other players.

  But that didn’t mean he wasn’t still at risk of becoming collateral damage. And so I’d come up with a new plan to foil any future attempted poisonings.

  “Uh, Number Nine, we’re missing plates,” Marvin blearily observed as he led the other equally groggy troupe members into the dining room.

  I indicated the tea cart beside me. Instead of the usual fancy china, or even the less formal stoneware-style crockery, I’d pulled out a set of vintage children’s dishes that I’d found at an estate sale a few weeks prior.

  “Don’t worry, all the plates are right here. I thought as we’ve got a tough day ahead of us that I’d do something a little fun for breakfast. Now, everyone line up to get your set.”

  I handed Marvin a matching trio of brightly painted plate, bowl, and cup, which he studied in ill-concealed bemusement.

  “The theme today is circus animals,” I explained. “Marvin, you get the dishes with the lion on it. Radney, you’re the tiger. Tessa, you’re the zebra.”

  “Can I have the dog?” Chris asked with a hopeful look as he reached the front of the line.

  I smiled. “Sure. And Bill—”

  “Uh, I’d really like the giraffe, if you don’t mind,” that man shyly interrupted. “That is, if you have one.”

  “You bet. And Susie—”

  I paused and gave the woman a quick look. This morning, her hair was pulled back in a tight, business-like French braid, though she was dressed more casually than I’d yet seen, wearing jean shorts and a University of Georgia T-shirt. As for her expression, the usual look of vulnerability was once again gone, replaced by a neutral mask. I gave her a pleasant smile and went on, “Here you go, Susie. The circus pony is for you.”

  She shot me a tight smile as she took the dishes. “Thanks, Nina. They’re real cute.”

  Harry was last in line. He raised a brow, giving me an expectant look and said, “I’m afraid to see which animal you’ve reserved for me.”

  “Oh, that’s easy,” I answered brightly, and handed over the set emblazoned with a long-armed chimpanzee.

  He smiled a little as he glanced from the plates back to me. “Clever,” he murmured, just loud enough for me to hear.

  I wasn’t sure if he was alluding to the chimp thing, or if he recognized there could be no swapping of dishes with the distinctive plates assigned to each troupe member. From the look he gave me, I was inclined to think both. And so, with a satisfied nod, I took my own set, painted with a colorful parrot, and joined the others at the buffet.

  I kept my birdy eye on everyone as we ate a mostly silent breakfast. Whether it was the dishware or simply the fact that everyone was still exhausted from the previous day’s practice, no errant plates ended up in the wrong hands.

  Today would be something of a marathon, for Harry had decided that we’d run through the entire play twice. The first time would be in the morning, followed by a session reviewing the actor’s notes he had for the cast (thankfully inside in the air conditioning). The second was actually to be held at the festival site and was what I’d learned was a technical rehearsal—basically, going through our paces for the benefit of the lighting and sound crew so that they could figure out, well, light and sound. The one other difference between today’s rehearsals and the dress rehearsal on Thursday was that, in addition to not wearing costumes, we would be minus the drama students who were serving as the actors in the play-within-the-play.

  Harry had also made the final casting decision, permanently restoring Susie to her role as Ophelia and returning Chris to his minor roles. Which also meant that I was out of an acting job. I wasn’t yet sure whether to be relieved or disappointed by this decision. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to watch with Mattie from the sidelines.

  And so, once everyone had eaten, I swiftly gathered the leftovers and loaded the dirty dishes in the dishwasher. That done, I pulled out fresh jugs of lemonade and tea from the refrigerator, and joined the rest of the troupe beneath the magnolia.

  The morning went by quickly. After thirty minutes or so of reviewing final stage direction and blocking, we—or rather, they—launched into their performance. As before, I saw everyone else dutifully jotting down final comments on their scripts. I learned in an aside from Radney that formal notes—instructions for each individual actor—were given only by the director. He’d gone on to warn me that, unless actively solicited, giving notes to your fellow actors was a major protocol violation. He had also revealed what he claimed was the biggest secret about acting.

  “When it comes to stage fright, everyone gets it,” he’d confided. “I m
ight look pretty tough, but you know what I have in my suitcase? A bottle of Pazaxa, because otherwise I’m about to cry like a little girl every time I have to do any sort of public speaking.”

  Which explained the prescription that I’d seen in his shaving kit.

  As for the note thing … that, I didn’t need to worry about. What I was scribbling on the back of my script pages didn’t fall into that category. Instead, now that I’d returned to my original theory of Len as primary victim, it was time to get serious about evaluating the likely guilt of each troupe member.

  It’s always the spouse … or significant other … or child/sibling/parent. That much I had gleaned from watching true-crime shows and reading the newspapers. And so I started my list with Susie.

  Motive: Len was a jerk and she wanted out, but there’s a pre-nup if she divorced him.

  Which was pretty much a strong motive, except that I had no clue what the terms of the presumed pre-nuptial agreement were. They’d been married long enough that chances were she met any minimum requirements for a hefty divorce settlement. Which would certainly offset the risk of being caught in a crime while trying for all his money. Besides, in the short time I’d known Len, I had never seen his jerkiness extended to his wife. In fact, they had seemed like a relatively well-matched couple. And so I moved on to Marvin.

  Motive: Seemingly got shafted by his one-time business partner, resulting in lost contracts followed by bankruptcy and a forced sale of the company. And might have the hots for his ex-partner’s wife.

  To my mind, this was a far more compelling motive … unfortunately, because I really liked Marvin. But the opportunity definitely was there. He would have known that Len was on some sort of opioids for his knee. Moreover, with Radney as his roomie for the duration, he’d have easy access to that man’s Pazaxa prescription. And there was one other thing. Marvin seemingly had a nickname for everyone he came across, but I’d yet to hear him call Susie by anything other than her given name. Which could be significant when it came to the secondary motive. I added that observation to my list and turned my attention to Radney.