Drawn and Buttered

by Shari Randall

  I enlarged the photo.

  Royal Parish stood with the Parish sword, well, its reproduction, behind him on the wall. I enlarged the photo to see the details of Royal’s costume. He had a long black cape over a white linen shirt with a stiff collar that stood out from his neck and black pants that ended beneath his knees. His calves were covered in lace-up leather, and his shoes were adorned with pewter buckles. He was a tall man, so his broad-brimmed pilgrim hat almost brushed the low ceiling of the room.

  To his right, Lyman Smith held the winner’s plaque, his chin high, chest puffed out, looking extremely pleased with himself. It was quite a coup to win that much money. I imagined most history departments weren’t exactly rolling in cash. His outfit was a carbon copy of Royal’s except that his shirt was more beige in color and his hat was tucked under his arm.

  The college kids stood behind them, also in long capes, trying to look like they were at attention. Of the college students, only Max had the same Pilgrim-style hat as Royal and Lyman. A couple of guys held pikes, long wooden poles topped with long leaf-shaped blades. I zoomed in. They were dangerously sharp.

  To my surprise, the photographer had captured Fred Nickerson and his watchdog Gladys Burley, standing in a corner of the room. Fred looked lost, Gladys looked daggers at … It was hard to tell from the angle, but it appeared she was looking at Max Hempstead.

  Strange.

  Photos by Beltane. I tried to remember. Had she been at the Halloween party? I didn’t remember seeing her, though her typical garb was practically a Halloween costume. She would have blended right in. Even if she hadn’t been invited to the Halloween party, it was a short walk from her house on Old Farms Road to the Parish House. She’d just have to cut through the woods behind the house—the path ran right by the cemetery.

  Beltane’s love affair gone wrong had been two years ago. Who was president then?

  I went to the counter, where Aunt Gully was serving lobster rolls to a group wearing LOBSTAH LOVAHS T-shirts. She posed for a photo, then I tugged her back into the kitchen.

  I lowered my voice. “Aunt Gully, do you remember telling me that Beltane Kowalski had an ill-fated love affair with someone at the historical society?”

  “Yes, I’d heard it from Aggie. She said it was civil—eventually.” She stirred her chowder and shook in some white pepper.

  Hector laughed. “Probably civil because she had a voodoo doll of the guy hanging over an open flame at her house.”

  Hilda shook her head. “Now, Hector.”

  “Who was the president then?”

  “Oh, let me think,” Aunt Gully said. “This year it’s Royal Parish. Last year, it was a history professor from the college.”

  “Lyman Smith.”

  “Yes, Lyman Smith.”

  Chapter 26

  That evening, I stopped by the college fencing studio. Several student fencers practiced, their faces covered with mesh masks, their steel blades flashing and ringing when they made contact. I could tell Isobel wasn’t one of them—her confident movement was so distinctive.

  Dance class went well. The students were eager, quickly catching on to the combinations of steps I gave them. It was good that they were so focused because I kept thinking of all I’d learned from Bronwyn and Delilah. My gaze turned repeatedly out the windows to the glowing lights that illuminated the chapel and the fraternity house just past the exit gates. Coop’s words kept echoing: on script. What were Nate and Coop hiding?

  After class, I drove to the hospital. As I walked down the hallway I heard a low murmur of voices from Madame’s room. I wondered who was visiting as I hurried in.

  “Allie!” Madame was sitting up, a dinner tray on the table in front of her.

  “How are you?” I took her hand.

  Her voice was stronger, but her speech was still indistinct, slurred. “I had a stroke. I have started my rehab. My good brother-in-law has done research.” She paused for breath. “The sooner I start, the sooner I can recover. I refuse to believe I won’t get better. The body can heal. I believe that.”

  “I’m glad to hear that!”

  The nurse came in. “She exhausted her therapists today. When they wanted four repetitions she gave them eight. When they wanted eight she gave them twenty!”

  “I will work hard,” Madame said simply. “Now you must tell me about the ballet and the class.”

  While I spoke, the nurse took away the tray. I noticed that Madame had barely touched the food. Russ and Yulia stepped out to get some air.

  “They get tired of my dance talk,” Madame said.

  “You know I never get tired of it.”

  I filled her in, watching her face brighten and color return to her face.

  “My schedule is crazy, but I’m making it work.”

  “Dancer’s life, Allie. Not easy. Most wonderful and most difficult of the arts. You must live your art in a way that other artists don’t, in your body.”

  “So true,” said a woman’s voice behind me.

  I turned. Kathleen Parish stood at the door, carrying a bouquet of roses. Huge dark crimson blooms, at least two dozen, spilled from her arms. A black belted trench coat emphasized her dark brows and eyes, filled with worry. Her eye makeup was smudged.

  “Kathleen!” Madame held out her hand.

  Kathleen rushed to Madame. I stepped back as they murmured to each other. The pang of jealousy I felt surprised me. I knew that Madame must care about Kathleen from the way she acted at the party.

  “How is Isobel? And Royal?” Madame whispered.

  “Royal.” Kathleen shook her head. “Madame, the police took Isobel to the station to question her. It was the worst moment of my life.”

  “Maybe I should…” I took the flowers. “I’ll get these in some water.”

  As I left the room the nurse appeared. “Oh, let me put those in water for you.”

  “Thank you!”

  I’m not proud of what I did next. I sat in the chair outside the open door and pulled out my phone. But I listened. And I exulted. If the police were questioning Isobel Parish, did that mean that they no longer suspected Madame of Max’s murder? I let myself hope. Still, listening to Kathleen weep and Madame try to comfort her, I felt like a rat.

  “Isobel knew the boy who died, Max Hempstead,” Kathleen said. “She dated him. He, he broke her heart. No, that’s too nice. He used her. And you know how she is.”

  What did that mean?

  “I’m afraid, Madame.” Kathleen’s voice shook. “I’m afraid that she did kill that boy. He was stabbed. It could’ve been her sword. She wore it with her pirate costume. The police kept asking her if she fought with him. She lied—I knew she did! I heard them.”

  I had, too. I prayed that the nurse would take her time.

  Kathleen continued, “But she won’t talk to us. She left the house for a while during the party. We can’t account for her movements and she refused to tell us what happened!”

  “My dear, my dear…” Madame murmured.

  I’d seen her slip away with Nate Ellis. Was that what Kathleen meant? They’d seemed more interested in hooking up than murder. I held my breath.

  “Royal is furious. He said terrible things to her. Called her terrible names. But he’s been so hard on her. Saying she didn’t keep up the standards of the Parish family because she has no morals dating all those boys. I think she tries to hurt Royal with all of her boyfriends. He’s hurt her so badly I don’t know if they can ever repair their relationship.”

  She hiccupped. “Royal’s trying everything he can to keep her from being thrown into jail, but even he might not be able to—”

  Madame Monachova whispered something I couldn’t make out.

  “I’ll tell you one thing. My marriage is over.” Kathleen laughed bitterly. “Maybe I never really had one. He never loved me. He loves my money. He loves his family, those dead ancestors, more than he ever loved me.”

  The nurse reappeared with the flowers. I jumped to my feet.
>
  Russ and Yulia returned, carrying paper cups. “I brought you some tea, Allie,” Yulia said.

  “Thanks.” Drat. Now I couldn’t eavesdrop any more.

  Kathleen jumped to her feet as we entered the room. She forced a smile, but there was no hiding her blotchy cheeks and smeared eye makeup. “Yulia, Russ. How are you? Sorry, I have to go. I’ll come back tomorrow.” She slung her bag over her shoulder. “Good night.” She hurried from the room, swiping her eyes with a tissue.

  “What’s going on with Kathleen?” Yulia stood next to the bed and put a cup of tea on Madame’s table. Russ took a chair. I perched on the bed and sipped my tea. Madame used one hand to lift the other, trembling, to her cup. She wrapped both around it. “Success.”

  Her eyes were red and she’d lost the spark I’d seen just minutes before. Now her face looked gray against her white pillowcase.

  “Haven’t seen Kathleen for years,” Russ said. “Do they still live in Rabb’s Point?”

  Madame nodded.

  Yulia smiled broadly, straining to keep things light, to change the emotional weather of the room. “Allie, you of course wouldn’t have known Kathleen, but she was one of Madame’s first students here. Years ago.”

  “Very athletic girl.” Madame’s voice had dropped to a whisper. “Tennis. Horses. Skiing. Not the best technique, but she fell in love with the ballet and helped the studio get off the ground.”

  I watched with concern as Madame lifted the cup to her lips. Yulia hovered, holding her hands around Madame’s to steady them. Madame took a sip but then her hands shook so badly Yulia took the cup and set it back on the table.

  I blinked back tears, my throat closed up. I coughed and said, “It’s great that Kathleen supported the studio.”

  “Remember those American women who were married off to British aristocracy?” Yulia said. “The buccaneers? The men had the title, the property, the name, but needed the money. That was Kathleen. Her father made a fortune with an auto parts chain. She didn’t have the pedigree of Royal’s family,”

  “Her pedigree is better. She has Micasset blood—her family was here before Royal’s even thought to come,” Russ said. “But that big house needed taking care of, repairs, never mind the historical society house. It takes a lot of money to keep houses like that running. Don’t get me wrong, Royal’s family had plenty of money, but Kathleen had real money.”

  Madame’s eyelids fluttered and she sank back against her pillow. Yulia moved the table away and I helped her settle Madame’s blanket.

  I wished everyone good night and left, my mind whirling with worry for Madame. As I got in the van I took a deep breath. She was getting good care. She believed she’d get better. I had to believe it, too.

  As I drove home my thoughts turned to Isobel Parish.

  So devastating with her sword.

  From what I knew, it was no surprise that volatile Isobel Parish had fallen under the eye of the police. Had her pirate sword been the “sharp, thin” weapon Bronwyn had mentioned? Had Isobel met Max at the grave and killed him? I’d seen her several times over the course of the evening. The graveyard wasn’t far from the house. It was possible but incredibly improbable. She’d been with me and Verity, then dancing with some guy, then arguing with her dad, then I’d seen her with Nate Ellis. It looked like they were running off to hook up. Was that the secret Isobel was keeping? Why would she keep quiet about an alibi?

  A memory stirred. When Isobel, Verity, and I had left her father’s library, I’d seen someone in a black cape running down the hallway. Was it Nate Ellis looking for Isobel? Could it have been Max? Hiding, waiting for us to leave Royal’s library? He needed money. Isobel had said how valuable the Parish sword was.

  I shoved in Aunt Gully’s Pat Benatar CD. I loved her 1980s power ballads. Benatar’s voice filled the van with ferocious passion. I imagined the force of a passion like that, turned against someone who’d betrayed me. Hurt me. Like Isobel’s love for Max.

  Isobel was the perfect suspect. She had means, motive, opportunity. But still—why didn’t it feel right?

  Chapter 27

  This was the first day that my commuting to Boston for rehearsal had gotten to me. I’d slept badly and traffic had been a nightmare. Even as I rehearsed my dance, I couldn’t keep my thoughts from returning to Madame and Isobel Parish and what she’d been doing the night of Max’s murder.

  Then, as we finished company class, Margot passed me, smiling and humming the Dewdrop music.

  Maybe Beltane could whip up one of her little potions for Margot.

  “Hey, Allie!” Cody Walton rushed over. Tall with sandy blond hair and broad shoulders, Cody and I have been friends since our conservatory years.

  “I really like the dance Serge made for you in act 1. You look like a movie star, you know, not like a lobster roll slinger.”

  I laughed. “Well, you make a pretty good Nutcracker Prince.”

  “Don’t let Margot get you down,” he whispered. “Check this out.” He showed me one of those action cameras that shoot video. “This one is motion activated. I left it on the floor by my dance bag.” He replayed the video. He’d captured the class dancing—from the knees down. We laughed. He gave me a kiss on the cheek then he ran off to his own rehearsal.

  Smiling, I headed to the van for my drive back to Mystic Bay. Before I got in the car my phone dinged with a text from Lorel. Call me.

  I sighed, but called.

  “Aunt Gully told me you had rehearsal today,” Lorel said. “Can you stop by my office? I had the certificates made—”

  “Certificates? For what?”

  “Remember the Lobzilla Wanted poster? I want to award certificates to the winners.”

  I’d forgotten about Lorel’s Wanted poster scheme. “I’ll be right there.”

  Lorel’s office was in a massive new building right on the Boston waterfront. It cost more to park there than a dinner for four at the Mermaid. Thank goodness I could get my parking validated by Lorel’s office.

  I took the elevator up to the top floor.

  Lorel greeted me wearing a navy blue linen sheath with a designer silk scarf. Suddenly I was aware that my leotard was sweaty and that my yoga pants had a rip in the thigh. I moved my bag to cover the tear.

  Lorel’s secretary, a Swedish guy who was a ballet fan, rushed over to greet me. “How is my walking work of art? Lorel said you have a special dance choreographed just for you!”

  He made me forget my ripped pants.

  “Come see me.” I smiled. “I’ll take you on a backstage tour after the performance.”

  He beamed. “I’ve died and gone to heaven!”

  Lorel and I went into her office. Her sleek desk overlooked the harbor through floor-to-ceiling windows.

  “Look at this. I had the art department whip it up.” She held up an oversized check made out for dinner for two. In the upper corner was Lobzilla’s photo and FOUND underneath.

  I folded my arms. “This just doesn’t seem right, Lorel. After he was stolen, Lobzilla was found at the scene of a murder.” I shuddered at the memory.

  “I still think Lobzilla’s a gold mine,” Lorel said. “So go present the check to the winners and be sure to take pictures. At their houses. I need the photos for the campaign.”

  I sighed.

  “Allie.” She gave me the I-know-better-than-you look she’d been perfecting for years. “There is no such thing as bad publicity.”

  It was easier to give in. “Who’s getting the check? The cops who found Lobzilla? The first ones to find him were probably the frat brothers who led the party guests out to the cemetery. Or the killer?”

  As soon as I said the words something clicked. The frat brothers had led us out there after they heard the story of Otis Parish.

  Most of the partygoers weren’t from Mystic Bay. They were out-of-towners from the fraternity at the college. I remembered the two freshmen who had asked me and Verity about Otis Parish. But before that Lyman Smith had been telling
a big bunch of guys about Otis Parish. Funny that he’d do that, wasn’t it? The Parish family hated the rumors and old stories. Surely Lyman Smith would know that, as a friend of the Parishes. He’d know to keep it quiet. By telling the story he’d had to have known that he was luring a bunch of drunk frat boys to the grave.

  Or was Lobzilla on the grave supposed to be the lure? Was that why Max was there? A Halloween prank to end all Halloween pranks?

  Both?

  “Earth to Allie,” Lorel said. I told her what I’d been thinking.

  Lorel sat on the edge of her desk. “I see your point but it was a Halloween party. Of course people would be talking about Otis Parish.” She was right.

  “Back to the campaign,” Lorel said, “I decided to switch it to focus on the people who originally found Lobzilla. That’s a feel-good story.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Maybe not for Lobzilla. Who are the winners?”

  “Fred and Bertha. And whoever they want their dates to be. Don’t forget.” Lorel pushed the check into my arms. “Photos.”

  Gladys would be Fred’s date, of course. Bertha and her date? I wondered who she’d bring.

  “Did you tell Aunt Gully?” I asked.

  She pushed me toward the door. “She’ll love it.” That meant the answer was no.

  On the drive back I barely saw the traffic. A memory was struggling to surface, some detail, something important.

  I kept coming back to Halloween night.

  My footsteps swishing through the leaves. The flashlight beams playing in the dark, illuminating the headstones.

  I could practically feel the soft, recently turned earth beneath my feet, see the wooden stakes connected with string. I recalled a television show about an archaeology dig. The archaeologists had used the stakes and string to mark off areas to dig.

  Had Fern told me the truth? Had they actually dug up the body of Otis Parish? Fern said that Royal wanted to prove that the rumors and old stories about Otis and Uriah weren’t true. But to dig up bodies! Didn’t you need permission from, well, who? The police? Health department? What was the word for that?