by Cynthia Kuhn
They nodded assent, as if it made a difference, and watched him walk away. Tolliver bent down toward Zandra and the two of them whispered energetically. She stood up and they drifted away together, through the crowd.
After a moment, I realized that the chancellor had reversed course and veered my way. Lacking an exit strategy, I stood up straighter and put down my plate.
“Dr. Maclean,” he boomed. “This picketing is a nuisance. I’d like it to be over as soon as possible.”
I agreed.
“So I’m counting on you to contact the Historical Society this week to straighten things out. Please take care of it promptly.”
“But—”
“That would be best.” He sniffed and wished me a good evening, then spun around to go wherever he was going next.
Good talk.
I was reaching for my plate when someone called my name.
“Lila! At last. I was looking all over for you.” My fellow Americanist and close friend Nate Clayton appeared at my elbow. His longish brown hair with sun-bestowed highlights was smoothed back into a ponytail above the collar of his navy blazer. He looked more formal than I’d ever seen him. He tended to favor rumpled button-down shirts and khakis for teaching–and more sporty gear for his many outdoorsy pursuits.
Next to him was my petite cousin Calista James, a poet and tenured professor in our department. She wore a long sheath and jacket in a color that matched her smooth platinum blonde bob, accessorized with an intricate hammered-copper necklace and matching earrings. It was sophisticated and perfect for the event.
In contrast, I was still wearing my work clothes—there hadn’t been time to stop home after rehearsal—a long black blazer over a white tee and jeans, with boots. My dark hair was gathered into a messy braid, and as I reached back to smooth it, I realized that there was a pencil sticking out. I surreptitiously removed and shoved the pencil into my pocket.
At least I’d be ready to jot something down if necessary.
“Come with us.” Nate steered us to the end of the bar in the main room as I cast a longing glance at the fondue table over my shoulder. He took our drink order and transmitted it to the bartender, adding a bottle of Peak House Ale for himself. “I heard about the kerfuffle yesterday,” he said, placing some bills on the bar as a tip.
“Already?”
“Faculty pipeline,” he said, grinning. “But we want your perspective. Please give us every little detail.”
I described the scene for them.
“Why is the play being performed at the Opera House anyway?” Calista arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Don’t campus productions usually take place in Brynson Theater?”
“Yes,” I said. “And they just put in a high-tech sound system, so it would have been nice. But they’re doing additional renovations right now.”
“I heard that the remodeling there was intentional,” Nate said, in a low voice.
We all leaned forward to confer more quietly.
“Apparently the chancellor got ahold of the script of Puzzled and hated it, so he decided that it would not be performed on campus. Hence, the renovation was extended.”
“That’s not true, Nate,” I protested. “Jean Claude said Tolliver requested that it be staged there. He likes the ambiance. The chancellor’s renovations were a coincidence.”
Nate shrugged. “Just repeating what I heard. And Tolliver may be trying to save face. Ask yourself why a newly renovated theater is being renovated again immediately, that’s all I’m saying.”
“It’s that bad?” Calista asked.
“Rumor has it,” he said.
“In some ways, that makes me want to see it even more,” said Calista, with a laugh. “What do you think, Lil? You’re in the thick of it.”
I tried to put it delicately. “It’s...like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”
The bartender plunked two sodas and a beer in front of Nate. We all took our drinks and waited until he left to continue.
Calista smiled. “I’m excited to see it. You know I love a good musical.”
“I can say that there are some delightful songs.”
Nate took a sip. “Tell us what you really think.”
“What do you mean?” I didn’t want to badmouth the show. Nor Tolliver, who, to be fair, might be a genius too advanced for us to understand for all I knew. Just because I found the play illogical didn’t mean that critics wouldn’t adore it. The likelihood of that was frankly slim, based on previous reviews of his plays, but still, many a literary heavyweight had trouble being celebrated in their own time period. Plus, the students were putting so much effort into it and I wanted to support them.
“You know what I mean.” He winked and picked up a handful of pretzels from a bowl behind him.
I saw Tolliver and Zandra approaching rapidly. “You’ll have to come and decide for yourselves.”
“Hello, people,” Tolliver said, adding a flourish with his right hand. That was something he did, punctuate his pronouncements with gestures. He had a regal wave of greeting, a twist of both wrists to indicate that we should know what would come next, and a two-handed flutter above his head that meant whatever was happening was more than he could deal with.
We greeted them both.
Zandra stood very close to Tolliver, her perfume cloaking us in something lush and unidentifiable. She’d put her knitting into an embroidered bag slung over one shoulder, but the needles poked out. One was in danger of penetrating Tolliver’s left arm. I began to say something, but he took a step toward us and launched into promotional mode.
“I hope you are all saving the date for the opening night of Puzzled. It’s November first.”
They both nodded. Despite, or perhaps because of, the rumors about the play’s general dreadfulness, our whole department would likely show up to support our colleague. Tolliver had a certain charisma that invited observation.
Some people would surely go hoping to see him fail—schadenfreude and all that. But there would be support of the arts, at least as far as the community was concerned, indicated by the attendance of the university faculty. The chancellor included. No matter what his personal feelings were about the quality of an event, he never missed a public relations opportunity.
“It is, and I say this with utmost humility, my best work yet.” Tolliver bowed his head for a moment to demonstrate said humility.
“Looking forward to it,” Nate said, enthusiastically.
“Me too,” Calista smiled brightly at the playwright.
“I’ll look forward to your detailed reviews,” Tolliver said, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “Can’t wait to hear what you think.”
They both appeared slightly less excited at that prospect.
* * *
After the chancellor had demanded everyone’s attention and thoroughly toasted Jean Claude, who appeared miserable to be in the spotlight, we felt as though we could leave. When I came through the front door toward the valet station, ticket in hand, Tolliver was already in front of his car, patting his pockets. He smiled sheepishly. “Can’t find my keys. I swear the valet just handed them to me a minute ago.”
“Do you need some help looking?” I began scanning the ground around us.
Zandra swooped in, dangling some keys. “Here they are, hon. They fell into my bag.” She said “my bag” as though it were the center of the universe: capital M, capital B. After she delivered the keys, she gave me a little wave, climbed into the passenger side of the car, and resumed her knitting.
“Lila, I’m so grateful for your help on Puzzled. We haven’t had much of a chance to speak, but I wanted to let you know that your assistance is much appreciated. How do you think rehearsals are going?”
“Well,” I began, stalling for time. I drew it out as far as I could, then had to commit to additional words, so I opted for some
thing safe. “I think they’re going fine.”
In the light of the street lamp, I could see that he was pursing his lips. “Could you be a bit more specific?”
“The cast seems to be working hard, and the set choices are inspired.” I was trying to avoid the main subject.
“But as our industrious dramaturg, do you think we are doing justice to the script?”
There it was. Honestly, I thought they’d done an incredible job making anything at all out of the script. It was almost unreadable, with stage directions that went on for pages and pages, insistently rendered in a bossy tone that made it one of the least enjoyable scripts I’d ever read. There were confusing scenes, with characters whose motivations were unclear at best and contradictory at worst, and the dialogue was incomprehensible. The best parts were the musical numbers—mostly because the songs were fun and the dancing, thanks to a talented choreographer, was wholly engaging.
“Yes,” I said.
He blinked rapidly.
“I’m not sure that Jean Claude understands my vision,” he said, using his scarf to clean his glasses before resettling them onto his head.
“What do you mean?”
“There are many nuances that he appears to be ignoring. He pays so much attention to the timing and technologies that he is simply missing the heart of the play.” He paused, looking up in the air like he was accessing an invisible script. “And I can’t say that I care for the way he fails to consult with me. I mean, I’m the playwright! Everything comes from my creative mind. I have much to contribute.”
“I understand. Do you want me to talk to—”
“Oh no, no. Don’t mention it.” He put both hands up in front of him, as if stopping traffic. “You know, I think I just needed to say it out loud.”
“Say what?”
“You do know that Jean Claude has a bit of a reputation, don’t you?”
“A reputation?” I repeated. “For what?”
“Oh, you don’t know. Never mind then.” He waved away whatever he’d been broaching.
“Is there something I should know?” His vagueness was disconcerting.
“No, but thank you for listening, Lila. You’ve been very helpful indeed.”
I didn’t know how in the world I could have been helpful in any way.
“Good night, Petal,” he said over his shoulder as he walked around his car. He often called me that. I’d been wearing a silver daisy pendant the day we’d met, and it had stuck, apparently.
He tucked himself inside the driver’s side and turned on the engine.
“Good night,” I said, wondering what he clearly wanted to tell me but hadn’t.
Chapter 4
Monday after office hours, I left for rehearsal. From campus, it was a short walk to the west on University Boulevard. I admired the mountains as I strolled down the busy street; on a sunny fall day like this, only the highest peaks were white, but we’d be getting the cold soon enough. Typically our first snowstorm blew in around Halloween. Until then, though, I would make the most of my favorite season. The leaves were crunching satisfactorily underfoot, and the trees along the street offered a stunning array of colors ranging from bright yellow to deepest red.
Although I was able to lose myself in the scenery, by the time I reached the Opera House, I felt a wisp of apprehension at the sight of protestors chanting and waving their signs. I skirted the circle and hurried into the lobby, only to run smack dab into the Worthinghams. Clara, in a bright lilac suit, waved her arms as if conducting an invisible orchestra. The knot of the flowered silk scarf around her neck was drifting slowly toward the back in response to her gesticulations.
Braxton was listening and nodding. “There, there, dear,” he said, as I drew close. A red cashmere sweater was draped over his button-down shirt, striking a cheerful note.
“Excuse me,” I said, hoping to pass them without incident.
Clara broke off her rant and whirled around. She closed her eyes for a moment, perhaps hoping that when she opened them, I’d be gone.
“Good afternoon, Mr. and Ms. Worthingham,” I said.
“I prefer Mrs.,” she sniffed. “Nothing wrong with tradition.”
“Mrs. Worthingham, then. Is everything okay?”
“No,” she said. “It most decidedly is not.” She repositioned a white tendril into the bun at the back of her head and patted it, glaring at me all the while.
“What’s happening?”
“If you must know,” she looked down her nose at me, “someone broke into the Historical Society this weekend for the second time this fall.”
“Oh no. I’m sorry. Is everyone okay?”
Braxton, standing behind Clara, nodded reassuringly. He was rocking back and forth on his heels a little bit.
“We are physically fine,” she said. “But it’s extremely emotional, you know, to be violated in this way. And they have stolen very precious things.”
“What did they take?”
“This time, it was my favorite pistol. It belonged to my grandmother. It’s exquisite—silver with a pink pearl handle—and I am utterly heartbroken.”
“I’m sorry,” I repeated.
She looked down at her hands and turned the palms face up, as if she were reading a book. “The first time, which was a number of weeks ago, they took Althea’s journal. You do know who Althea Gaines is, yes?”
“No, I’m sorry.”
Clara’s lips curled up with satisfaction at knowing something I didn’t. “How about Malcolm Gaines? Do you know who he is?”
I shook my head.
“They used to own this theater.” She waved an arm at the lobby wall covered with framed pictures and newspaper clippings. “Perhaps you should make a point of taking in your surroundings a bit more.” With an air of indignation, she continued. “Suffice it to say that Althea’s journal is absolutely priceless.”
“Maybe someone stole it not knowing what it was?”
“That’s highly unlikely, don’t you think?”
I persisted. “Had you photocopied it?”
“Perish the thought! We would never expose those pages to technology and risk harming them. Plus, it was intimate and detailed, not for public consumption.”
“Who would have known about it?”
“Why are you so interested?” Her eyes narrowed.
“No reason. I’m just curious. But I’m very sorry that this happened. Have you called the police?”
“Of course. I’m not a child, you know.” She turned sideways and gave Braxton a can-you-believe-the-nerve-of-this-one look.
Which I saw.
Which she meant me to see.
“We had to go through the same exact rigamarole again. The same paperwork. The same questions.”
“Well, I’m sure the procedures are—”
“Oh, please. You cannot understand what we’ve been through. Plus, that horrible Professor Lestronge just kicked us out!” Her face was bright pink, and her frosted lips trembled. “Can you believe that?”
“What happened?”
“We just came here to see if he would listen to reason,” she said. “But no, he wouldn’t have it. He said we were encroaching—” She spun back to Braxton and repeated the word indignantly. “Encroaching!”
He patted her arm.
“On what?” I asked.
“His rehearsal time. The very thing we were trying to address.” She pulled a tissue out of her handbag and dabbed her eyes, even though they weren’t full of tears that I could see. “All we are trying to do is keep our Stonedale history intact. If we didn’t do it, no one would.”
Braxton smiled at his wife. He seemed fascinated by every word that came out of her mouth.
“Oscar Wilde tread these boards,” she added indignantly. “You’re an English professor, so I expect that yo
u know who he is.”
“Yes,” I said, finally earning a point in the Do You Know Who They Are pop quiz. “How wonderful.”
“It was part of his Colorado tour,” she said, her voice growing stronger. She yanked her scarf back into place. “And a very famous event.”
I glanced at my watch and noted that I was running late. I took a step backwards but Clara forged ahead.
“And he’s not the only one. The composer John Philip Sousa was here too. You know who he is, I hope?”
“I do.” Behind the Worthinghams, the door to the theater opened slowly. Jean Claude popped his head out, saw us, and shrank back with an expression of horror. “But I hope you’ll excuse me. I need to get to rehearsal.” I edged away. “Perhaps you could come back another time?”
She sniffed dramatically. Braxton automatically patted her arm again. He seemed highly capable of handling her emotional pirouettes.
I smiled at her. “The main thing is that we don’t want to be at odds with you or the Historical Society in general. So if we need to have a conversation about that, let’s do so sooner rather than later. Have you received the paperwork from the Theater department?”
Braxton nodded enthusiastically behind her. Clara paused and looked up at the ceiling. “Let me think,” she said, apparently unwilling to confirm that we’d done what we were supposed to do. “I may have seen something. I’ll have to go back and review my mail.” She crinkled the tissue up and slipped it into her sleeve, just like my grandmother used to do.
“Thank you,” I said. “Maybe that will give us a place to start. How about if I check in with you later?”
Braxton winked at me from behind her shoulder.
“I suppose. You probably need to be going. Don’t let us stop you,” she said abruptly.
I’d been dismissed.
Slipping past them and through the door, I moved down the aisle. The cast was in the middle of rehearsing “No Body Blues,” which was a slow dance number, so I tried to keep it quiet.
Jean Claude was up front in our usual row. There was a table before him with a small gooseneck light angled toward his script, though he was talking on his phone instead of reading. The words were indistinguishable, but the tone was unmistakable: he was pleading with someone. I slowed down, not wanting to intrude on him, and noticed a figure in a black suit, his long arms hanging down awkwardly like Dr. Frankenstein’s monster, watching the dancers intently from his position near the exit door.