by Jen Carter
I knew what I was getting Nico for his birthday.
“So, can you tell me what Dr. Stevens wants to buy? What’s he into right now?”
“Edgar Allan Poe,” Amy said. “I’ve got a couple collections of stories and poems, and Dr. Stevens isn’t sure where he wants to start.”
I stopped walking and looked across the room at Amy. “Edgar Allan Poe?” I repeated.
She nodded. “Dr. Stevens is actually why I thought of ‘The Cask of Amontillado’ when the drama teacher was found in the cellar. He had been here to look at some Edgar Allan Poe at least twice by that point, so it was on my mind.”
“Edgar Allan Poe,” I repeated again, this time my voice lower.
Amy looked at me for a long moment before answering. “The one and only,” she said slowly.
So Dr. Stevens was an Edgar Allan Poe fan, he had tried to fire Marcus Fleming years ago but failed, and now Fleming died a horrible death mirroring a famous Edgar Allan Poe story.
Certainly I wouldn’t be the only one to raise an eyebrow at that. Right?
I started across the room toward Amy, resisting the urge to stop at the display cases and promising myself I could take a look after I finished this conversation with her.
“Let me ask you this,” I said. “And please be honest.”
Amy nodded.
“What do you think of Dr. Stevens?”
She looked away. “I know your experience with him hasn’t been pleasant, but he’s been great every time I’ve met with him. I actually like him a lot. He’s friendly, super excited about books, and really grateful when I don’t push him to make a decision. He’s like a kid in a candy store here. And kind of funny, too.”
I scrunched my nose. “Really?” I couldn’t imagine him ever being happy or funny.
She nodded, her eyes still on the shelves of books across the room. “I’m sure the environment matters. Maybe he’s more passionate about books than he is about being a school administrator.”
Maybe.
That gave me even more to think about.
First there was the weird link between Stevens, Fleming, and Edgar Allan Poe. Then there was the fact that everyone seemed to love Stevens except the teachers at my school. The moms from Temecula Hills High School, Amy, probably Sandie Oaks if she sent him to Amy in the first place…why was he so well liked in Temecula but not in Carlsbad?
I needed my notebook. There was so much more to write down.
SEVENTEEN
When I showed up for play practice that afternoon, the scene in East Park wasn’t what I expected. First, the Council of Elders was finishing up its afternoon walk around the park—but it wasn’t just them this time. The Berke sisters who ran Snapdragon Inn and Sandie Oakes of Hathaway House were walking with them. It was great that the group was growing. I loved seeing people being active. I was just a little surprised that the group had nearly doubled already.
And second, I hadn’t expected to see Jules talking to Livy when I walked up.
“Hey, what are you doing here?” I asked, dropping my bag of scripts on the grass.
Jules grinned and wiggled her eyebrows. “I got someone to cover the store for me this afternoon so I could come to play practice. I wanted to see this Victor guy. I’ve been wondering all day if he really could be Xavier’s brother.”
“To clarify,” Livy said, “Jules is going to help out. But in the process of helping out, she’ll get to see who Victor is, which, hopefully will quell her curiosity and put an end to the texts she sends me every five minutes about him.” She gave Jules an exaggerated, I-hope-you-take-the-hint smile.
“Great,” I said. “Can’t wait to see what you think of him.”
Livy looked at the time on her phone. “Let’s get the kids over here so we can break into groups and start.”
As she called the high schoolers over, I noticed Aldo and all his exercise buddies had camped out near a bench at the edge of the park. Apparently they weren’t done exercising yet. The Berke sisters were doing yoga poses while Sandie and Aldo tried to follow their lead. Morrie and Artie were doing squats. Eduardo was drinking water and repeatedly wiping sweat from his forehead. And none of this was happening quietly.
Once Livy got the kids’ attention, she told them the afternoon’s plan. Every ten seconds or so, she glanced over at the exercise crew by the bench. They seemed to be getting louder, probably because Aldo was flat on his rear after falling out of downward dog, and all the women were asking if he was okay. Morrie and Artie were now lunging while doing Lamaze-style breathing. And Eduardo was just realizing we had play practice because he sat on the bench, pointed at us, and called, “What are you all doing over there?”
“Practicing for a play,” Livy called back.
Eduardo lifted his palms toward the sky. “What play?”
“A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
“Why?”
Livy groaned. “We don’t have time for this,” she said under her breath. Then, to Eduardo, she called, “Can I tell you all about it after practice? We need to get started.”
Sandie finished helping Aldo over to the bench and looked at us. “Livy, do you need help? I’d be happy to run lines with the kids.”
Aldo wiggled forward to the edge of the bench, his face lighting up, “Oh, I would be happy to help, too. What can I do?”
Morrie and Artie stopped doing jumping jacks. “What play did you say?” Morrie asked. “I once played a messenger in Macbeth.”
“I’ve never acted, but I can help,” Artie added.
All seven of the exercisers walked over to us.
Livy looked at me and Jules. “What just happened?” she muttered.
“Maybe this will be good,” I muttered back. “The kids really need to be drilled on their lines right now. They’re not practicing at home, so let’s do a drill day. We almost have enough adults to work one-on-one with the kids who are struggling the most.”
“Okay.” Livy nodded. “You’re right. Where’s Esther?” She looked around, her eyes eventually landing on me. “Maybe she’s still in the parking lot. Can you find her and ask if she has extra scripts for our new helpers?”
I did as Livy asked. And just as Livy expected, Esther was still in the parking lot, loading up a rolling cart. I told her about our new helpers, grabbed an extra stack of scripts from her car, and walked back across the park with her. I tried to make small talk but didn’t get very far since she was prone to one-word answers. That was fine, though. I worked with teenagers. I was used to awkward silence.
By the time we reached the group, Livy had divided everyone up.
“You’re with Eli,” she told me, first looking at her clipboard and then scanning the park. “There.” She pointed off to the left. “He’s sitting over where Jules and Victor are.”
Jules and Victor. So Livy really had indulged Jules’ curiosity by pairing her with Victor. And lucky for me, my kid was friends with Victor so he naturally camped out nearby. Maybe I’d get to hear a little of Jules and Victor’s conversation.
I started across the grass toward Eli. Behind me, Livy said, “Esther, you’re amazing. I can’t believe you had all these extra scripts. Let’s get them passed out. How are you always so prepared for everything?”
Silently, I agreed. Esther might not have been good at small talk, but she sure was helpful.
“All right, Eli,” I said as I sat a couple feet away from him. “Did Livy tell you where to start?”
The tall blond sat cross-legged, staring at the script in front of him on the grass. He didn’t bother to look up at me. “Yeah. Act Three Scene One.”
“Okay, let’s find it. Why don’t you do a quick read through to refresh your memory, and then we’ll start memorizing any tricky parts.”
“Kay.” Leaving the script where it was, he flipped over the first few pages. Then he dropped his elbow onto his knee and propped his head on his fist, eyes still down.
Behind me, I heard Jules’ voice. “You look really fa
miliar. Do you ever come into the Sweet Spot Bakery?”
“Nu-uh,” Victor said.
“Oh. I wonder what it is, then.”
Victor heaved a bored sigh. “I look familiar to everyone because of my older brother. People think we look alike.”
“What’s his name?”
“Xavier Zapata.”
“Oh, I know Xavier,” Jules said. “We went to high school together.”
“Excuse me, Jules?” That was Esther’s voice. I resisted the urge to turn and see what was happening. “Here’s a script for you.”
“Oh thanks,” Jules said. I imagined her taking the script and Esther continuing on to hand out more scripts to our extra helpers.
I glanced at Eli. He hadn’t moved since he began reading the scene. Maybe he was trying to memorize as he read.
“So,” Victor said behind me. “Where do we start?”
“Didn’t Livy tell you?” Jules asked.
“Yeah, but I forgot,” he said. “You were standing right there. Do you remember?”
“Act Three Scene One,” I said over my shoulder, taking a guess since Victor and Eli’s scenes were all together.
“Thanks, Jill,” Jules said.
I gave her a thumbs up over my head.
As they shuffled through their scripts behind me, Jules said, “So what’s your brother up to these days?”
“I don’t know. Nothing,” Victor said. “Work, I guess.”
“He was big into theater, too, wasn’t he?
“Yeah.”
Wow, Victor really was a great conversationalist.
“So is he still doing theater?” Jules asked. “Still acting?”
“No, that didn’t work out. He blew it.”
Blew it?
Jules must have been just as surprised by Victor’s admission as I was. “Blew it?” she said.
My thoughts exactly.
“Yeah, he blew it,” Victor said. “So what scene are we starting on again? Act One Scene Three?”
“Act Three Scene One,” I said over my shoulder.
“Thanks,” Jules said.
I gave another thumbs up over my head.
“So let’s get going,” she said. “Have you read through this scene before?”
Obviously she had read Victor’s tone the same way I had: he was done talking about his brother and ready to get to work. I focused back on Eli. It was time for us to get to work, too. His head was still propped on his fist, just as it had been when he started reading. There was no way that he could still be reading, though. It had been at least a couple minutes, and his part in the scene wasn’t that big.
“Eli, ready to go?” I asked.
He didn’t respond.
“Eli?”
Still no response.
I crawled over to him and tapped his shoulder.
Again, no response.
I leaned down, angled my head upward, and saw his eyes were closed.
The kid was asleep.
Seriously? What was I supposed to do with this guy?
Just as I was about to shake Eli’s shoulder to wake him up, Eduardo Salizar’s voice caught my attention. He had to be at least fifteen or twenty yards away, and he was working with a confused-looking student.
“No, no, that is not how the character Bottom would deliver the line,” he said. “Try it more like this.” Eduardo straightened up, his belly protruding further than his chest, and said, “Let me play the lion too. I will roar!”
I looked around for Livy. Where was she? It wasn’t Eduardo’s place to tell a student how to deliver the lines. He was just supposed to help the poor kid memorize them. Livy needed to nip this in the bud.
“Eduardo, Eduardo, no.”
I still hadn’t found Livy when I heard my grandfather’s voice addressing his oldest friend. Oh, good. Even if Livy wasn’t there, Aldo would be able to reel Eduardo in. He was pretty good at that. I turned back to see my grandfather with his hand on Eduardo’s shoulder. He shook his head.
“It’s like this, my friend.” Aldo straightened up and cleared his throat. With an almost baritone voice that didn’t sound at all like my grandfather, he said, “Let me play the lion too! I…will…roar!”
Oh no. What was going on here? My grandfather and his friends were hijacking our practice. This couldn’t be.
I spotted Livy and Esther on the other side of the park with the four teenagers playing lead roles. They were studying scripts intently. I could go over and let her know that Eduardo and Aldo were hijacking practice, but it might be faster to handle it on my own.
I got to my feet just as Jules did the same. We walked toward each other.
“My kid’s sleeping, so I’ll take care of this,” I said.
“My kid’s barely pretending to be awake, so I’ll help,” she said.
We headed toward Aldo and Eduardo, our own scripts in hand. Morrie and Artie had joined them and were also trying out the lion line, each using voices far different from their own.
“Let’s have them do their own play,” I said.
“Great idea,” Jules said.
Once I was close enough for them to hear me without yelling, I said, “I think you guys are onto something. How about you all practice acting out the scene, and then show us how it’s done.” Aldo and his buddies looked at me with wide, excited eyes and appreciative smiles. I turned to Jules. “Can you give them each parts from Act One, Scene Two and supervise? I’ll go wake up my kid, Mr. Sleeping Beauty, and get him working on something with your kid, Mr. Personality.”
Jules nodded.
I walked back toward Eli and Victor. As expected, Eli was still sleeping. Victor was stretched out on his back, spread eagle, looking at the sky. What a weird guy.
This was not how I envisioned play practice today. Not at all.
EIGHTEEN
I’ll be done in five minutes. Meet you at the tasting room?
Nico’s text barely registered as I typed back a response absentmindedly.
Perfect!
It was after eight o’clock that evening, and he had been stuck at Entonces trying to finalize paperwork for the new manager there. D’Angelo’s tasting room had been closed since seven, and I was sitting on the floor with Uni, staring at the wine barrels stacked along one wall. Specifically, I was staring at the last barrel on the bottom row—the one with Sonnet 94 fired into its face.
Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.
I read the poem over and over, but it was the last line that got me every time.
Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.
“Are you going to stay there all night?” Holly said from behind the bar. I imagined she was getting everything set up for tomorrow, but I didn’t bother turning to look.
“Will you let me?” I mumbled.
“Sure. But I don’t know if Jason, your wonderful brother-in-law-slash-part-time-boss, will let you.”
She was probably right. Stella’s husband, Jason, didn’t particularly like employees hanging around the tasting room after hours for no good reason, and I was pretty sure he’d classify staring at barrels as no good reason. Nico probably wouldn’t want me sitting there all night, either. He preferred being at home watching a movie or having a good old fashioned conversation, which of course was more than reasonable.
“What are you doing anyway?” Holly asked.
I wasn’t surprised by her question. While the Sonnet 94 note had weighed heavy on my mind all day, she probably hadn’t thought about it since our morning meeting at the coffee shop. And really, it wasn’t in her nature to remember anything that happened more than five minutes ago.
“I’m rewriting chapter three of your book in invisible ink on these barrels,” I said.
“Let me get you a real pen,” she said. “Invisible ink is for the birds.”
Before I could respond, a knock sounded on the front door. From where I sat, I couldn’t see who was there, but Holly must have recognized whoever it was. She crossed the
tasting room without saying anything, unlocked the door, and opened it.
“Hey Jules,” she said. “What’s going on?”
Jules stepped inside and held a white card toward Holly. My sister took it, read whatever it said, and handed it back. She pointed at me. “Jill’s right there.”
Great. What did that mean?
Jules couldn’t possibly have gotten one of those little cards with a bit of poetry written on it. What did she have to do with any of this?
Jules walked to me and handed over the card. I read it.
I speak no more than truth.
I’ll not meddle in’t.
“Where did you find this?” I asked.
“It was in my car, parked behind the bakery.”
“Were your windows cracked for air?” I glanced up in time to see Jules nod, and then I picked up my phone from where it sat on the floor next to me and snapped a picture. “I don’t recognize those lines from anywhere.” I typed them into my phone’s web browser.
“Why am I getting notes now?” Jules asked.
All I could do was shake my head. I had no idea. Part of me suddenly thought that these notes couldn’t possibly have to do with Fleming’s death at this point. There were too many of them, and the connections to the recipients were too flimsy. Jules showed up at play practice today. She went to high school with a guy whose brother found the body. That was pretty weak.
Wasn’t it?
“Pandarus,” I said after the search results popped up on my phone. “A character named Pandarus said that. He’s from a play called Troilus and Cressida by Shakespeare.”
“Shakespeare wasn’t the first to do that story,” Holly said. She was back behind the bar, straightening wine glasses. “Chaucer did it, Boccaccio did it, and I think maybe another writer or two did it before them.”
Jules and I looked at Holly.
“How do you know that?” I asked. “You said literature wasn’t in your wheelhouse.”
Holly shrugged. “Boccaccio spent a lot of time in Florence. I love Florence. I read about what I love. It’s like dominos falling over. Don’t you ever end up down a rabbit hole when you’re researching and then learn something unexpected?”