A Catered Tea Party

by Isis Crawford

  Casper was sitting on the steps, smoking a cigarette, and fiddling with the ivy growing over the stair railing when Libby, Bernie, and Marvin pulled up.

  “I thought you quit,” Bernie called out to Casper as she killed the van’s engine and hopped out.

  “I did,” Casper replied. “This is an e-cigarette.”

  “Is it like smoking the real thing?” Libby asked as she exited the van.

  Casper frowned. “Unfortunately, no. Alas, it is but a poor, pale substitute for the real thing. It is nothing but a fake, a fraud. ”

  “So why smoke it?” Marvin inquired once he’d exited Mathilda and finished stretching. He’d forgotten how tight the front seat was when three people were sitting in it. Fortunately, they hadn’t had to go far.

  “That’s a question I frequently ask myself,” Casper replied.

  Bernie twisted her skirt around so the front was in the front and the back was in the back. She kept forgetting that she had to have the waistband taken in an inch so it would stop moving around as she wore it. “And your answer is?” she prompted Casper.

  “Ah, a good question,” Casper replied. “My answer is simple. I am a weak-willed individual who needs to have something in my mouth at all times or I blimp up. The last time I gave up smoking completely I gained eighty pounds. I’ve lost forty of that, but I have forty more to go. So it’s either this thing,” Casper raised his e-cigarette, “or eating, and I’ve just donated all of my fat-fat clothes to Goodwill. Now, I’m wearing my medium-fat clothes.”

  “Maybe I should start smoking too,” Libby said, thinking of the weight she kept trying . . . and failing . . . to lose.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Marvin retorted, giving her the evil eye. Anyway, he liked Libby just the way she was. He didn’t want someone who was all skin and bones.

  Libby was going to tell Marvin she was just kidding, but before she could, Casper got up and brushed the dirt off the bottom of his chinos.

  “Shall we proceed?” he said, starting for his front door.

  “What are we looking at?” Bernie asked.

  “You’ll see,” Casper told them. Then he opened and held the door until everyone was inside. “Now I won’t be able to sleep tonight. Every time I hear a noise I’m going to think that someone’s coming into the house.”

  “Take a sleeping pill,” Marvin suggested.

  “Just what I want,” Casper snapped. “To be unconscious when someone comes in to slit my throat.”

  “Sorry,” Marvin said as his thoughts jumped to how neat Casper’s place was as opposed to his—but then he reminded himself that Casper didn’t have Petunia the Pig living with him.

  It wasn’t that Petunia wasn’t clean; she was. She was cleaner than any dog he’d had. It’s just that she had a tendency to root, which meant that Marvin always found all the sofa pillows, books, and magazines on the floor when he came home at night from the funeral home. Also she could open the cabinet doors with her snout, so there was that to contend with. He really had to get around to pig-proofing his house.

  As Marvin thought about what Petunia might possibly be doing and the fact that he should probably get back to his flat fairly soon, Casper was walking his visitors through the living room, with its beige carpeting and beige furniture and white walls, into the dining room, which was also a sea of beige.

  “There,” he said, pointing to a package of tea and a piece of computer paper sitting in the middle of the dining room table. “That’s what I found.”

  “What about it?” Bernie asked. The whole thing looked innocent enough to her.

  “Read the note,” Casper instructed.

  Bernie went over and picked up the piece of paper. “ ‘Don’t think I don’t know what you did,’” Bernie read out loud. “ ‘Be careful or you’re next.’ ”

  “Well, that doesn’t sound good,” Libby said. “Maybe you should call the police.”

  Bernie put the sheet of computer paper back on the table. “So what did you do?” she asked.

  “See,” Casper said to Libby as he pointed to Bernie, “this is why I didn’t call the cops.” He turned to Bernie. “And for your information, I didn’t do anything, except, of course, make the mistake of agreeing to direct Alice in Wonderland for the lunatic.”

  Bernie studied him for a moment. “So someone broke into your house and left a random note and a tin of tea for laughs?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe whoever did this wants me to go to the police and give them this note so they can use it as another piece of evidence against me,” Casper said. “That’s right, blame the victim,” Casper added when Bernie didn’t say anything.

  “I’m not blaming you,” Bernie told him as she turned her attention to the square, light-green tin. It had both English and Chinese lettering on all four sides, proclaiming that its content consisted of first-quality Chinese gunpowder green tea. “I’m trying to understand.” She pointed to the tin. “Have you opened this yet?”

  Casper shook his head. “No, Bernie. I was waiting for you.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  Casper gave an embarrassed little shrug. “Who knows what’s inside of it? It could be anything.”

  “Like tea,” Bernie said.

  “Or scorpions or black widow spiders,” Libby said.

  Casper visibly shuddered. “I hate bugs.”

  “Or anthrax,” Libby added. “What if it’s anthrax?”

  “You’re not funny,” Bernie told her sister.

  “I’m just seeing how you like it when the shoe is on the other foot,” Libby answered.

  “Oh my God.” Casper put his hand to his mouth. “I didn’t think of that,” he said.

  “I was just kidding.” Libby told him, feeling sorry she’d opened her mouth.

  Casper waved a finger at her. “No. You could be right. Maybe we should call the police. Or the FBI. Or the CDC.”

  Bernie stifled an exasperated sigh and snuck a look at her watch. At first she’d thought, if that’s what Casper wanted to do, it was fine with her. The sooner she got out of here and back with Brandon the better, as far as she was concerned. But then she realized that waiting for the police and having to talk to them would eat up the rest of the evening.

  “Hey, it’s your decision,” Bernie told him. “But for what it’s worth, I think Libby’s suggestion is way off the mark.”

  “It was a dumb thing to say,” Libby said. “It really was. If Zalinsky’s killer wanted to kill you, you’d be dead already.” She pointed to the piece of computer paper on the table. “If you ask me, this looks like a bad joke from someone who doesn’t like you.”

  “Me?” Casper pointed to himself, his face a mask of outraged innocence. “That’s absurd. Everyone likes me.”

  “Right,” Bernie said.

  “They do,” Casper insisted.

  “Fine. They do,” Bernie replied. “So do you want me to open the tea tin or not?”

  Casper shook his head. “I just . . .” He waved his hands. “It’s just . . . I guess I don’t know what to think anymore.” He paused for another minute, then said, “I can’t . . . You decide.”

  “Fine. I will,” Bernie said. “Let’s see what’s in here, shall we?”

  Chapter 19

  Libby, Marvin, and Casper all took a step back as Bernie picked up the tin and began try to twist its top off. It didn’t budge. Very anticlimactic. She handed it to Marvin.

  “You try,” she told him.

  He did, even though he didn’t want to. The results were the same. “I think I need a screwdriver,” he said.

  “Or a knife.” And Bernie went into the kitchen, got a butter knife, came back, inserted the blade end between the top and the body of the tin, and pried the top up, keeping the tin as far away from herself as she could. Then she carefully lifted the top off and peeked inside. Whatever this was, it wasn’t gunpowder green tea. Gunpowder green tea had leaves that were rolled into little pellets, hence the name gunpowder—or at least the kind sh
e’d seen did.

  “So?” Casper asked as he watched Bernie click her tongue against her teeth.

  “I’m not sure what this is,” Bernie admitted. “I’ve never seen tea this color. It’s yellow.”

  “What are you doing?” Libby cried as Bernie took a cautious sniff.

  “Smelling it,” Bernie said. Whatever it was smelled like what? She identified a grassy note and something else. Maybe a slight residue of bleach? She wasn’t sure.

  “Yellow?” Casper repeated.

  “Yup,” Bernie said. “Why?” Bernie asked, noting the look on her friend’s face.

  But Casper didn’t answer. Instead he said, “Here, let me take a look,” elbowing Bernie aside. “That’s yellow tea,” he told them after he’d peeked in.

  “That’s what I just said,” Bernie told him.

  “No,” Casper replied. “You said whatever it was, was yellow, and I’m saying it’s yellow tea. That’s what it’s called.”

  “Yellow tea?” Libby said. “I’ve never heard of that.”

  Casper nodded. “Me either until Zalinsky showed it to me one day. He was bragging about it being pretty rare stuff. I guess it’s pretty expensive. I take that back. It’s really expensive. Big surprise there. Then Zalinsky told me the tea was called yellow not because of its color but because yellow was the color that the Chinese emperors wore for centuries, so if you want to call something special, you name it yellow.” Casper scratched his head. Bernie watched a dandruff flake land on Casper’s black T-shirt. “I don’t get it,” he proclaimed, indicating the note and the tea. “I don’t get it at all. Any of it. What’s this supposed to mean?”

  “I dunna know,” Bernie replied, doing a bad imitation of a Scottish accent.

  Libby and Marvin didn’t say anything because they didn’t know either.

  “I mean what’s the point?” Casper asked,

  “That is the question, isn’t it?” Bernie said. “But there has to be one because someone went to a certain amount of trouble to leave this for you, not to mention getting a tin of gunpowder green tea, emptying it out, and refilling it with this other stuff.”

  “Maybe whoever did this just wanted to spook you,” Marvin suggested.

  “Well, they’ve succeeded,” Casper replied.

  Bernie turned to Casper. “So whose enmity have you incurred? Who would want to do a number on your head?”

  “No one,” Casper answered promptly, repeating what he had before. “Everyone loves me.”

  Bernie raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

  Casper sniffed. “Of course, seriously.”

  “In the cast?” Bernie had been at the rehearsals.

  Casper stood up straighter. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he declared. A distinctly defensive note had crept into his voice.

  “Well,” Libby replied, having been at the rehearsals as well. “Let me think. There was the time you called Erin a sow, and the time you told the twins they were too stupid to live, and the time you asked Magda if she got her hair cut by someone who used a bowl, and then there was the time you told Hsaio she was beyond talentless, not to mention the time you told the twins there was nothing redeeming about them, and you could see why their business had gone belly-up.”

  Casper held up his hand, staunching Libby’s torrent of words. “Okay,” he allowed. “I get it. So maybe I did get carried away. So maybe I was a little . . . harsh . . . once in a while.”

  “Harsh?” Bernie asked. “Harsh? How about downright mean?”

  “I wasn’t being mean, I was motivating,” Casper protested.

  Bernie crossed her arms over her chest and fixed him with an accusing glance. “Really? Surely you could have motivated some other way. You had Erin in tears one of the days I was there,” she said.

  “Hey, I’m a director, and sometimes as such I have to yell to get what I want,” Casper told her. “I admit I get carried away once in a while. But so what? Professionals know that’s what happens, especially the closer you get to an opening. In fact, they appreciate it. No one wants to look bad in front of an audience.”

  “That may be true,” Bernie said. “But we’re not talking about card-carrying SAG members here. These people aren’t even community theater people. They didn’t want to be there. They were all forced to sign up by Zalinsky.”

  “I know. I know.” Casper licked his upper lip. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have treated everyone the way I did, but in my defense, Zalinsky was making me crazy. He was calling me at all hours of the day and night wanting to change this scene and that piece of staging, and wanting to put the spots upstage instead of downstage. And then he kept rewriting scenes. Every time I turned around, he had come up with a different line of dialogue. And that stupid teapot.” Casper groaned. “Oh my God. First it was going to be onstage for the tea party scene; then he wanted it onstage all the time. It would have been easier to direct a full-bore production of Le Miz than what I was going through.”

  “I understand,” Bernie said, remembering Zalinsky and the constant menu changes for the tea she and Bernie were supposed to be serving. “I do.”

  “And then there were those costumes,” Casper continued, still focused on the injustices Zalinsky had dealt him. “They were horrible.” Casper jabbed himself in the chest with his finger. “They were beyond horrible. They showed everyone in the worst possible light. Zalinsky designed them and paid someone to run them up, but everyone in the cast blamed me for them. Me.” His voice shook with anger. “I tried, oh how I tried to get him to change them, but he wouldn’t. I was a victim just like everyone else, and now I’m being persecuted by someone who wants to kill me.”

  “We don’t know that,” Bernie said.

  “Whoever is doing this might as well have,” Casper moaned. “My life as I know it is over.” And with that he collapsed on the sofa and buried his head in his hands.

  Bernie walked over and patted his shoulder. “There, there. It’ll be okay.”

  Casper looked up. “Don’t patronize me. It won’t be okay. If the police don’t get me,” he gestured to the dining room table, “this maniac will.”

  “We’ll find him before that happens,” Bernie told him, trying to reassure.

  Instead, Casper groaned louder. “I had a bad feeling about this play from the get-go,” he said. “Why didn’t I listen to myself? Why didn’t I trust my instincts? And on top of everything else, I still haven’t gotten paid, and now I never will.”

  “Neither have we,” Libby said. “Has anyone?” she asked, even though she knew the answer.

  “Not that I know of,” Casper said.

  “That’s why whoever killed Zalinsky stole the teapot,” Bernie said.

  “Or maybe they just hated Zalinsky,” Marvin suggested.

  “It’s like the chicken and the egg,” Libby observed. “Which came first?”

  “Who cares?” Casper cried. “What difference does it make?”

  “Casper, you of all people should know that motive matters,” Bernie remonstrated.

  “Yeah,” Casper mumbled. “I guess you’re right.”

  “So who among the cast was having money problems?” Bernie asked.

  Casper let out a moan. “Everyone. Everyone was counting on Zalinsky paying them for being in Alice.”

  “Isn’t that a little unusual, this being an amateur production and all?” Libby inquired.

  “Definitely,” Casper replied. “But it wasn’t just about the money. He promised people stuff—stuff that never materialized.”

  Libby thought about Magda, Erin, and Hsaio. “What did he promise you?”

  “The creative directorship of The Blue House.”

  “What did he promise Jason?” Bernie asked.

  “I have no idea,” Casper replied. “He pitted everyone against one another. He made secret deals.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” Bernie muttered.

  Conversation stopped. No one could think of anything more to say. Instead Libby
, Bernie, Marvin, and Casper stared out the living room window and watched the moths fluttering around the house lights and listened to the sounds of laughter from a party someone was throwing a few doors over.

  “So we’re agreed, no cops?” Bernie asked, rousing herself.

  “No cops,” Casper repeated.

  Bernie sighed. She wanted to go back to RJ’s and Brandon, but she and Libby still had to establish a credible timeline for the intrusion into Casper’s house.

  “Okay,” Bernie said, turning to face Casper. “When did you find the tea and the note?”

  “I told you. They were on the table when I came in. Why?”

  Bernie raised her hand. “Just bear with me for a second. When was that?” she asked.

  Casper thought for a moment. “About an hour ago. More or less.”

  “Was it more or less?” Libby asked.

  Casper turned toward her. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said irritably. “How should I know? I don’t time everything I do. I wasn’t looking at my watch. Anyway, I called your sister right after I read it.”

  “Fair enough,” Libby said. “So you came home and walked straight into the dining room?”

  Casper shook his head. “No. I walked in the door, then I went into the kitchen and got a drink of water and ate some strawberries, then I visited the bathroom, after which I walked in here, read the note, and called you.”

  Bernie pointed to the sliding doors. “Were those locked?”

  Casper shook his head. “Probably not. I usually don’t bother.”

  “Is this house alarmed?” Libby asked, though she pretty much knew the answer already since there was no sign out front announcing that fact.

  “No, it isn’t,” Casper told her.

  “So anyone could have walked into your house, left the tea and the note, and walked back out,” Libby said.

  “I suppose they could have,” Casper replied. “Not,” he added, “that the locks on those doors would be difficult to get through if one wanted to.”

  “Who knows you don’t lock your sliding glass doors?” Bernie asked.