THE SPIRIT IN QUESTION

by Cynthia Kuhn

  “Lila, I’ll need to conference with you before we begin today. Everyone else, please take the next hour to read over the scripts, learn your new lines, and so on. Tech crew, please discuss any adjustments that will need to be made. I’ll come backstage for a meeting in a bit. Is everyone clear on their assignments? Any questions?” He scanned the group. “No? Good. Then go, my ducklings. Daddy’s got work to do.”

  People scooped up their things, took the pages from Zandra, and began to move away from the gathering.

  Tolliver beckoned me over. I stepped closer as requested.

  He lowered his voice. “I know that may have been a bit...bright in tone,” he confided. “I’m devastated about Jean Claude—we all are—but the silver lining may be that we can get this production back on track to fulfilling my artistic vision. And I will lean on you as assistant director, I will. You will need to be both strong and bold.” He stared into my eyes. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes,” I said, fighting the sense that he was about to bestow knighthood upon me.

  “Very well then,” he said. “My first order of business is to ensure that the cuts are reinstated. Please read through the changes carefully and I’ll meet you down front in a moment.”

  I took the pages that Zandra was holding out and went into the theater to sit in our usual spot. Tolliver had added back in everything that Jean Claude had removed, including two musical numbers and a very long stream-of-consciousness monologue where the main character covers the entire history of the mystery genre for the audience.

  As Tolliver careened down the aisle, I called him over. “May I ask you a quick question?”

  “Of course. Proceed.”

  “Are you sure about the monologue? It seems a little...”

  He waited, practically twitching. “A little what?”

  “It slows the action down quite a bit.”

  His eyebrows drew together, but he didn’t say anything.

  “I mean, the pacing is superb everywhere else,” I mentally crossed my fingers behind my back as I stretched the truth a tad. “And this brings things to a standstill.”

  “That’s precisely the point, dear. It’s intended to contrast the enthusiastic tension that characterizes the rest of the play. Give the audience some time to reflect.”

  I wasn’t so sure audiences wanted time to reflect built into their play-watching experience for them.

  Tolliver launched forward. “You’re a literature person and not a drama person, Lila, but there’s something that has to be sensed about the three-dimensional experience that only comes with years of training, as I have.”

  I counted to ten. Well, five.

  “Let’s come back to this after the rehearsal, Tolliver? Once we have a chance to see it in action.”

  He seemed satisfied, if still slightly annoyed that I’d dared to ask in the first place, and he went off to talk to the tech crew.

  It was true that I didn’t have years of training in theater. But I’d taught many plays and I had been to many plays, and I had never encountered anything as dreadful as that monologue. It wasn’t even on the amusing side of ridiculous, like the rest of Puzzled had potential to be. It was straight up deadly boring and went on forever.

  I had to say something. They’d hired me to consult, after all; certainly offering an occasional strong opinion was warranted, right?

  I straightened my shoulders with new resolution and returned to the script, recognizing a twinge of empathy for the students, who not only had to deal with their feelings about having seen the tragic death of their director but also had to reinstate lines they’d long abandoned. We’d been off book for weeks. It was a tall order.

  The empty seat next to me triggered a fresh wave of sadness about Jean Claude. It was as though he’d simply disappeared. Someone with that much passion for life. Here one day, gone the next.

  And none of us knew who had shot him.

  Which reminded me: here we were, back again in the same place, with the same people. One of whom might be responsible for murdering him.

  Who could have done it? I studied the faces of the cast members, seeking an outward sign, but no one looked overtly guilty.

  The base of my spine tingled. In college, a psychic my friends and I once visited on a lark had claimed that the sensation was the spirits’ way of telling me to pay attention. I’d laughed about it back then, but ever since, I had indeed paid a little more attention when it happened.

  I took another look around. Everyone was acting like they usually did, if a bit subdued.

  It was unnerving to be here, but I wasn’t sure what the alternative was, if anything. We either had to stop the production altogether—and deprive the students of performing—or go forward warily.

  The good news was that we had two police officers joining us for a week, at the chancellor’s request. I appreciated that the chancellor wanted to make the students feel safer as we eased back into the production.

  Or maybe it was an insurance thing.

  The sooner we got through this mess, the better.

  A thought struck me, and I made my way up the stairs, stage left, to the spot where Jean Claude had lain. There was no discoloration on the floor to mark it, but he’d been behind the second leg, the vertical black curtain intended to obscure any view of the wings from the audience.

  I glanced around uneasily, realizing that it might look strange for me to be standing there. But the actors were running lines or chatting with one another, and no one paid any attention.

  After walking in a semi-circle around the spot, I closed my eyes to summon up the memory of the last time I’d seen him here. I braced myself for the inevitable wave of grief, then concentrated hard on the image. He’d fallen with his head toward the stage, which suggested that the shot had come from deep in the wings.

  I moved quickly to the wall and turned around, studying the stage. If someone had shot him from here, the only possible exits were down the steps into the house seats or through the backstage area. In either case, during rehearsal, there were actors and tech crew members in both places.

  How had someone walked right through the middle of everything—with a gun, no less—without anyone seeing them?

  Parker stood center stage, deep in his performance as Oliver. A short and somewhat pale young man, he had a long face and high eyebrows that granted him an air of perpetual surprise. He wore a trench coat and Sherlock Holmes-style cap; in his hand was an unlit pipe, which he waved around for emphasis at certain points. He had made it through half of the monologue and was easing into celebration of the Golden Age. The rest of the company had found seats and most of them were staring at their cell phones.

  I didn’t blame them. I was squirming in my seat myself. The monologue was just too long.

  Tolliver, however, stood watching in delight, mouthing the words along with Oliver. His hands were clasped in front of him.

  I stared at the actor, trying to absorb the words, but my mind kept wandering to the grading I had waiting for me after this. I was teaching Mystery this term, along with an American Literature survey, and I was thrilled that the course was being offered concurrently. A number of my mystery students had volunteered to help out with the play, and Tolliver had put them onto the publicity team. They’d been very inventive about blasting updates and memes via social media and were generating a helpful buzz about the play on campus.

  I turned on my phone, angling the screen away from Tolliver so it wouldn’t bother him. Glancing over, I confirmed that he was still transfixed by the endless recitation and not even aware of what I was doing.

  The Instagram account had action shots of various musical numbers and seemed to be garnering a steady stream of likes. I opened Twitter next and saw that there was a respectful acknowledgment and expression of sadness about Jean Claude’s passing. Someone had retweeted it, and I clicked to se
e, more out of a desire for something to do until the monologue ended than anything else. It went to the Stonedale Historical Society account, with the words “One obstacle down.”

  Oh no. My throat clenched.

  That was beyond unacceptable. Now I was definitely going to pay them a visit. I pulled up their website to find their office hours and saw a new post on their blog.

  “Protest Successful!” was the headline. Below, it detailed how they’d arrived “en masse” at the Opera House and “made our case in no uncertain terms.” There were descriptions of the various contributions of Clara, Braxton, and the “committed and single-minded” crowd members, along with claims about how they were making it difficult for us to “continue the destruction of our beloved building.” Basically, they wrote a battle story, and we were positioned as the bad guys.

  My face heated up. I was more than a little bothered by the tone of the piece, which sounded like Clara all the way. They made it seem as though we were doing something harmful to the Opera House, when in fact we were honoring its original purpose: to provide entertainment.

  Suddenly, the members of the company gasped all around me, almost as one. I looked up to see Parker in a heap on the floor of the stage.

  Chapter 7

  Turned out that the wool trench coat and cap, combined with the heat of the spotlight and the length of the speech, overheated our leading man. After a brief rest, some cold water, and vigorous fanning by friends holding scripts, Parker was back to himself again.

  It was the end of rehearsal, though, and Tolliver called it a day. The students began to leave.

  “Wow,” I said to Tolliver as I packed my satchel. “That was something. What should we do? Change the costume? Alter the lights? Streamline the—”

  He frowned. “I suppose you’d like to shorten the scene.”

  “That would be better for Parker, probably,” I agreed.

  “But,” he said, shoving the script into his bag, “the whole point is to focus the audience’s attention on the magnificent traditions of the genre. I’m not sure that scrapping it is the answer.”

  “I wonder,” I said gently, “if we might include the monologue in the program instead of in the play?”

  He pursed his lips. “Continue,” he said, circling his hand gracefully.

  “It might serve as a helpful guide to audience members, especially those who are not as familiar with the history of the mystery as you are?”

  He straightened his shoulders and sniffed. “Yes, I suppose that would be useful. It would be a shame to lose such a masterful speech completely.”

  I held my breath. The play was a thousand times better without it.

  “And this way they could carefully read it.” He pushed his glasses further up on his nose.

  “And re-read it.”

  “They could savor every word, you mean?” He tapped his chin and looked up at the ceiling, presumably imagining all of the savoring.

  “As much as they wanted to, yes.”

  Finally, he clapped his hands and rubbed them together briskly. “Let’s do that.” He started to walk away, then turned back to face me. “You know, Lila, I wasn’t sure about having a consultant around. Especially one more entrenched in the written word than in the stage world—”

  I managed not to take offense to that. Again.

  “—but now I’m starting to think that you’re earning your keep.”

  “Thank you.” Then it occurred to me: Jean Claude had been the one who hired me. It wasn’t much of a stipend to begin with, but in any case, he wouldn’t be paying me anymore.

  Tolliver must have realized the same thing. “Was Jean Claude footing the bill for your assistance?”

  “Yes. So if you don’t want me to continue, I’ll understand.” For a split second, the promise of time gained danced before my eyes. But then I remembered the students and felt guilty for even thinking of walking away.

  “No, no. We need you. It’s only another two weeks. Do you think you could manage it pro bono?”

  “Absolutely.”

  He beamed at me. “I knew you wouldn’t want to miss out on being a part of my masterpiece.”

  Sure. That’s what I meant.

  The Stonedale Historical Society was located a few blocks away. After elbowing through the protestors who had showed up while we were rehearsing—a much smaller group today, perhaps in deference to Jean Claude—I strolled along the sidewalk of University Boulevard, past the little shops mixed in among the restaurants and bars. Students had access to pretty much everything within walking distance, from vintage clothes and used books to computer services and cell phones. Stonedale was fond of its small-town ambiance and had worked hard to cultivate its appeal by adding streetlamps, statues, and fountains everywhere you looked. The citizens made sure the big box stores were relegated to the outer edges of town. No doubt led by vocal opponents such as the Historical Society members.

  On the way, the cool breeze whipped my hair around. I made a valiant attempt to braid it as I walked, musing over what I already knew about the society. One, they liked to be in control. Two, they seemed to be presided over by Clara and Braxton. Three, they knew how to organize and even if it was just a small crowd, it could still make a fuss.

  Clara seemed like the kind of woman who longed to be recognized as alpha and didn’t let anyone else’s opinion make a dent in her plans. It was pointless to argue with those kind of folks—they were so convinced of their own rightness that all it did was make you crazy.

  The Historical Society was a brick cottage surrounded by a white picket fence. A garden took up the space between the road and the house, with neatly trimmed bushes and small trees. It was probably a riot of color in the spring and summer, but this late in the fall, only one red plant still had blossoms. The whole thing had an air of welcome, though I didn’t anticipate feeling welcomed inside.

  I went through the gate and up the steps, then rang the doorbell located to the left of the arched wooden door, next to a sign that said Please Let Us Know You’re Here. It played a few melodious trills, and the door was answered by a slender young woman with large brown eyes and long, caramel-colored hair. She opened the door slightly, so that I was theoretically invited in but couldn’t squeeze through unless I pushed her out of the way.

  I didn’t, of course.

  “I’m Lila Maclean from Stonedale University,” I said. “English professor.”

  “Bella Worthingham,” she said quietly, with a slight dip of her head. “Historical Society Secretary.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise.”

  “Is your mother here, by any chance?”

  She stared at me.

  “I’m looking for Ms. Worthingham,” I repeated.

  Something moved in her eyes and she stepped back, pulling the door fully open this time.

  “Please follow me,” she said, moving down the short hallway. The walls were completely covered with landscapes in ornate frames. “Wait here,” she said, pausing just before a set of double doors. She slipped through and closed them behind her.

  The paintings on the walls were all tranquil scenes—the artist had an eye for detail despite the overenthusiastic use of pastel shades. Standing in the colorful hallway was like being smothered by Easter eggs. I moved to read the signature on the closest painting and could just barely make out the letters “CW.”

  “Dr. Maclean?” Clara stood in the doorway, looking down her nose at me. All she had said was my name, but the tone was so disapproving that I almost couldn’t bring myself to respond.

  “Hello, Ms. Worthingham. Could we please talk for a moment?”

  She made a tsk of displeasure. “Again, I prefer Mrs.”

  “I’m sorry. I won’t forget again.” I would try not to, anyway.

  She gave me the once-over and gestured me in.
“I am very busy today, though,” she said over her shoulder. “I only have a few minutes.”

  I followed her in and settled on the wingback chair in front of her desk when she patted the air to indicate that I should sit down.

  “Your paintings are—” I began.

  She cut me off. “As one of the sole remaining etiquette teachers in Stonedale, I feel I should advise you that it’s not polite to drop in on someone unannounced. It’s not ladylike.”

  “Sorry about that,” I said, though being ladylike would never make my list of concerns in this lifetime. “Thanks for seeing me. I had a little window of time and took a chance. I wanted to make sure you’d received the paperwork and ask if there was anything I could do to help sort things out.”

  Her thin white eyebrows rose. “Sort things out?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Make sure that we can proceed with your blessing.”

  A very unladylike snort followed that. “You’ll never have our blessing. But permission is quite another thing.”

  I smiled at her.

  “Let me see,” she said, sorting through the neat stacks on her desk. I could tell she knew where every single item was located, but she made a show of having to check each pile until she reached the last one. “Ah, here it is.”

  Clara grabbed the reading glasses attached to a long gold chain around her neck and applied them to her nose, then turned her attention to the page in her hand. She used a finger to tap paragraphs as she skimmed the words.

  “Everything is in order,” she pronounced. “So the final approval depends upon our inspection.”

  “Inspection? What does that entail?” Seriously? Was she just making it up as she went along? No one had mentioned an inspection before.

  “We need to attend a rehearsal, view the scenery, observe the company in action, that sort of thing. To make sure that no damage is being done to the theater.”