by Cynthia Kuhn
After Jean Claude hung up, I moved into the row and took the seat next to him.
“Who’s that guy?” I asked quietly, as I fumbled through my satchel for the script.
“What guy?” He sounded distracted.
“Over there.” I snapped my head up and started to point, but the figure had vanished.
“Never mind.” I returned my attention to my bag and dug around until I found a pen.
“I saw the Worthinghams outside.” He scowled. “I thought I’d told them to take their—how do you say?—hats and shove them.”
“They’re leaving now.”
“Good. I don’t have time to deal with that nonsense. Let the university handle it.”
“But the chancellor told me to work it out with them.”
He made a sound of annoyance. “There is nothing to work out. We are here and they can’t do anything about it. I told Madame she needed to accept that fact.”
Oops. I’d already volunteered a conversation. “Would you mind if I tried to talk to them myself?”
His hand shot up in a swift dismissal. “Your choice, my friend. I don’t want to have anything to do with those people.”
Suddenly, a loud metal screech could be heard, and Jean Claude looked up. “What was that?”
A crew member ran out from the wings, skirted the dancers, and scuttled up to the director. “One of the wall brackets on the catwalk came off,” he said, hastily adding a “sir,” after catching sight of Jean Claude’s face.
“What? Is everyone safe?”
“Yes.”
“Was anyone on it?”
“No.”
“How did that happen?”
“Um...”
“I’m not blaming you,” Jean Claude said to the student, whose shoulders relaxed. “These things happen, okay? You will show me and we will fix it.”
He stood up. “Take ten, actors,” he yelled. “Crew, set up the party scene.” To me, he said, “I may need to stay backstage to keep an eye on the catwalk if we can’t repair it right away. If I’m not back in ten, please run through the party scene for me.”
“Will do.”
He winked at me and turned to the tech crew member. “Lead the way.”
While I waited, I pulled out my phone and did an internet search for the Stonedale Historical Society. They had a website that described several locations they’d “preserved from destruction,” to use their description. I clicked on the About Us link, which listed Clara and Braxton as president and vice president of the Historical Society. The secretary was someone named Bella Worthingham. The rest of the membership was not listed, which made it appear that the Historical Society was pretty much run by Worthinghams.
On the Current Projects page, there was a long, angry rant disparaging the performance of Puzzled at the Stonedale Opera House. I skimmed it quickly. The gist was that we were going to destroy the most historical of all historical sites in Stonedale and that we must be stopped. I sighed. If the chancellor wouldn’t call and the paperwork hadn’t made a difference, I would have to confront Clara and Braxton Worthingham in their offices. I couldn’t see a way around it.
After ten minutes had passed and Jean Claude hadn’t returned, I called out for everyone to get in their places so we could run through the party scene. Picking up the headset, I pressed the button that connected backstage and confirmed that the crew was ready.
“Standby for party scene.” Everyone positioned themselves and the stage manager took over giving the cues. The lights came up, and the partygoers entered from both wings, talking quietly amongst themselves. After the main character, Oliver, had given his short speech about there being “a murderer among us,” we hit the part of the scene that Jean Claude had been so adamant about getting right the other day. The lights went down, a shot rang out, a bright flash appeared, and there was a thud. It seemed different than last time, though I couldn’t have said exactly how. Jean Claude wasn’t going to like that.
Or maybe he would. You never knew with him.
When the lights came back up, Parker Lane, the student playing Oliver, took two steps upstage toward the fake fireplace where he was supposed to kick off the song, but instead he froze, pointed, and screamed.
“That’s powerful acting, but—that’s not in the script, is it?” I said, flipping pages in confusion.
He pointed and screamed again, then the actor playing the victim on the couch sat up, squinted into the wings, and started yelling too.
It wasn’t great acting—it was genuine fear.
The whole cast was screaming as I ran up the side steps onto the stage and into the wings, where Jean Claude lay, his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. There was a round hole in his forehead. I yelled for someone to call 911. He didn’t seem to be breathing and I couldn’t find a pulse, but I administered CPR for what felt like centuries.
Chapter 5
Detective Lexington Archer arrived just minutes after the 911 call had been made. He’d quickly taken charge of the scene, moving the actors off the stage and into the audience seats, instructing them to stay put until the police could talk to them.
I’d begun to shake when the paramedics had taken over the CPR. Despite their efforts, it became clear that Jean Claude was gone.
The coroner arrived not long after.
Lex had brought me backstage, where I’d cried into his fleece vest for a while, then got ahold of myself. I hoped the students hadn’t seen the tears, but if they had, well, it’s normal to have emotions when your friend is killed.
Now Lex and I were sitting on the front of the stage, dangling our legs over the side while I drank the unpleasantly warm and overly sweet soda he’d handed me. This was a little awkward, to say the least. I hadn’t seen him in over a year, and the first time we ran into each other, I shook and bawled all over him.
I snuck a long glance at the detective. Same dark hair, same muscular build, same type of dark suit. He still emanated that blend of purpose and focus that I remembered too.
He gave me an appraising look. “Feeling better?”
I turned my head and met his striking blue eyes. “A little steadier, thanks. I can’t believe this is happening. How did you get here so fast?”
“I happened to be nearby.”
That was lucky for us.
“So what happened?” He flipped open the black cover of his notepad. “You’ll fill out an official statement later, but if you could give me a quick overview right now, something to get started, I’d really appreciate it.”
“Jean Claude went backstage—” My eyes filled with tears again at the thought of him. I wiped them away and took a few deep breaths.
Lex waited patiently until I was composed. “Any particular reason he went backstage?”
“One of the tech crew came out and told him there was a problem. Something on the catwalk had broken or come loose or...I don’t know exactly. He said he might need to remain backstage and that I should run the next scene if he wasn’t back in ten. He wasn’t, so I did.”
Lex made notes, waving me on when I stopped talking.
“And then the scene happened. When the lights come up after the shot—”
“The shot?”
“In the show. It’s a murder scene.” As I heard myself say it out loud, I stopped and swallowed hard, fighting off the shakes that threatened to return.
“Take your time,” Lex said, patting my arm.
After a minute, I tried again. “When the lights come up, the main character is supposed to find the victim.” I paused. “The actor playing the victim, I mean, on the couch.”
Lex nodded.
“But instead, he screamed. A real scream, not an acting scream. Then the actor on the couch screamed too. Then everyone started screaming. I ran into the wings, saw that it was Jean Claude and tried to give him CPR. Then
the paramedics came.”
“You didn’t see him fall after the shot?”
“He was off to the side, so no. Plus, it’s pitch black. Intentionally, for dramatic effect.”
“Hear anything unusual?”
“The shot sounded different. There was more of an echo or something.”
He dipped his head in acknowledgment.
“And the thud sounded louder—” I froze. “That must have been his, uh, body.”
The room seemed to sway a little.
He patted my arm again. “Keep drinking your soda. The sugar will help with the shock.”
I took another sip of the syrupy liquid and shuddered.
“You’re doing fine. One last thing: did you notice anything strange about the muzzle fire?”
“The flash? Yes. It seemed split somehow. Do you think the prop gun malfunctioned? We use a special revolver that can only fire blanks, though, so I don’t know how anything could have hit Jean Claude.”
Lex lifted his shoulders while jotting things down. “I can’t confirm anything.”
A horrible thought struck me. “Wait, you don’t think the prop master—” I twisted around to see officers talking to the red-haired young man who was openly sobbing. “Sam would never hurt a soul. He’s very sweet. Anyway, he was stage right, in the wings, next to the prop table.” I gasped and grabbed his forearm. “There must have been someone on the opposite side with Jean Claude, or the actors on the stage would have been in the way. And there must have been two shots at once—from the prop gun and a real one. That’s why the flash seemed split. Have you—”
“We’re on top of things, Lila.”
My words came out in a rush. “You should talk to the Worthinghams. Clara just told me that her pistol has been stolen. That’s suspicious, don’t you think? We should go see if she’s still here and ask her more about that. I’ll help you find her.” I put my arms down to use as leverage in jumping off the stage.
He put his hand out horizontally to stop me, as if we were in a car and he was braking hard. “Please. Just stay right there. We’re aware of the burglary and will perform the necessary tests to see what we’re dealing with.”
I stared out into the people scattered among the theater seats waiting to give their statements, wondering if the murderer was sitting there right at that very moment, trying to look innocent. The idea was nauseating.
“Anything else you can tell me? Did anything unusual happen today?”
“What do you mean?”
“Anything out of place?”
I closed my eyes for a moment. “Oh! There was someone here during rehearsal. I didn’t recognize him.”
“What was he doing?”
“Just standing there. Looking at the stage. But he left minutes after I arrived.”
I gave Lex the best description of the man that I could.
He slid down from the stage so that he was standing on the floor. “Thank you for talking to me, Lila. One of the other officers will take your official statement, then you’ll be free to go.” He closed the notebook and gave me a small smile before striding off to speak with his colleagues.
That exchange had been more formal than I would have hoped, but he was on the job, after all. I waited there until everyone had been interviewed, and the police informed us that we couldn’t return to the Opera House until we were notified otherwise.
The chancellor emailed that evening. First, he acknowledged that there had been a tragedy and provided information about counseling that was available on campus. Second, he asked for our input in how to proceed. He invited all of us—students and faculty—to let him know whether we wanted to cancel the show in order to preserve a safe environment (implied: because there is danger) or, given the amount of time and effort we’d already put into the production, if we wanted to continue (implied: then the danger will be on you and not on the university).
Although I knew the chancellor was doing his job, he hadn’t even mentioned Jean Claude by name. Quickly, I hit reply-all to the email, inviting everyone to gather in honor of the director on Wednesday night, specific details to follow.
I had to do something for our friend.
The entire company showed up at Silver’s, a restaurant near campus. The lovely rock wall surrounding the patio provided a sense of privacy, but the arched windows built into the upper half created a sense of openness. Several tower heaters made for a cozy environment despite the chill in the air. The students completely filled the tables and chairs dotted around the space; they were conversing quietly.
Upon their arrival, Tolliver and Zandra came directly toward me. Both were clad completely in black, as were most of us.
“Thank you for organizing this, Petal.” Tolliver took both of my hands and squeezed them gently. “You have such a kind heart.”
I blushed. “Thank you for coming.”
“There is one little thing I wanted to ask,” Tolliver said, lowering his voice. “Have the students said anything about whether they’d like to...ah...soldier on?”
“You mean with the play? No.”
“Now they don’t want to continue?” His face fell.
Zandra put her arm around him.
“No, I mean, I haven’t heard anything from them.”
He lit up. “Oh, perfect. Just wanted to make sure the current was still flowing in one direction.”
“We can talk about that later,” Zandra murmured. “Let’s go find a seat.” As she pulled him away, she mouthed “Sorry” to me.
After a second, I followed them.
“What do you mean about the current, exactly?”
Tolliver and Zandra exchanged glances.
He bent his head toward me. “The student emails to the chancellor were unanimous. They want to go forward. He thinks that since it’s my play, I should be the one to direct. I was supposed to send out a notification tonight—but would you mind if I made an announcement near the end?”
“That’s a good idea. But let’s focus on Jean Claude first?”
“Of course.” He bowed his head.
I crossed the room to the rock fence and waved my hands to get the students’ attention. They fell silent almost immediately.
“Thank you so much for coming. I know this has been a difficult week for everyone. Jean Claude will be very much missed. Although he was a visiting professor, he had definitely become a part of our Stonedale University family.”
Their grief-stricken expressions tugged at my heart. Red-rimmed eyes met mine. We’d all been mourning, it was clear.
I pulled out a page that I’d written earlier, describing his accomplishments both personal and professional. When I was done reading, there were tears all around the room. I invited everyone to share their own stories, and for the next hour, the cast and crew related their heartfelt memories. Anecdotes tumbled out, one after the other. We laughed, we cried, and we celebrated the life of Jean Claude Lestronge.
When things began to wind down, Tolliver dabbed at his eyes with his fingertips delicately, then raised his hand. “I’ve spoken to the chancellor, and thanks to your support, he agrees that we should not cancel the production at this point. We’re so close to opening night, and we’ve all put a tremendous amount of work into this. I’ll be taking over the directing, and you may bring any questions to me. Rehearsals resume Friday.”
The students smiled at each other.
“If Jean Claude were here, he would indeed tell us to get back to work.” I pointed to the opposite wall, where servers were setting up a buffet that I’d arranged for the company. “Help yourself to some food and drink in the meantime.”
Tolliver came over and beamed at me. “Very well done, Petal. And I wanted to say that I hope there are no hard feelings.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re the assistant director. It wou
ld have made sense for you to take over as director after Jean Claude’s...after.”
I shook my head. “The thought never entered my mind, Tolliver. You’re the right choice.”
“Ah, good. Of course it would have been fabulous if the chancellor picked you.” He smiled brightly, then rushed ahead. “But it’s all been settled. I will lead us forward. The show”—he performed his signature hand flourish—“must go on.”
Chapter 6
On Friday, the students were gathered in the lobby of the Opera House. I overheard one of them sounding worried about today being Friday the thirteenth as the door swung open and the playwright swept inside, trailed by Zandra.
“Helloooooo, everyone,” he said cheerily, tossing his yellow scarf over one shoulder. He walked to the box office and clapped his hands to get our attention. Then he spoke more slowly, presumably remembering the context. “I pray that the days since our last rehearsal have been gentle to you. Please remember that Jean Claude would have wanted us to go on. Let’s have a moment of silence in his memory.”
He looked down at the ground, and we all followed suit. I tried to be unobtrusive about wiping away the tears that welled up immediately. I heard a few sniffs from others in the group too.
After a minute, Tolliver resumed his speech. “I have been thinking long and hard about the current state of the play, and I took the liberty of making some small changes.”
He nodded at Zandra, who began handing out new scripts. They’d been busy this week.
“I trust that you’ll be able to process them quickly. After all, we are professionals here, are we not?”
The students looked uneasily at each other, and there were some murmurs, but no outright rebellion. Truth was, they weren’t professionals yet. They were still in school. But if that’s how Tolliver wanted them to see themselves, they seemed willing to rise to the occasion.