by Jessa Archer
“Some actresses continue working in live theater,” I said. “In fact, I was on stage for several years with a repertory company. That involves a lot of travel and odd hours, though, and…I have a child. And even if you land a career break early on, smart actors realize that getting an education is important. I went back to school. Even earned a master’s degree. So when this opportunity arose, I was fortunate enough to be able to take advantage of it.”
I didn’t mention that there were probably dozens of candidates more qualified for this position than I was, at least on paper. There was no doubt in my mind that my mom’s three decades of teaching psychology at SCU, combined with her recent accident, were a critical factor in this job offer. If not for my mother, I doubt the administration would have been as willing to weigh my practical experience in the industry more heavily than my slim academic credentials and total lack of teaching experience.
And it probably didn’t hurt that I’d said yes, I could be in Caratoke in five days, when the dean called. She’d received an email from the previous professor saying that he was resigning, effective immediately. Caroline’s house was only a ten-minute drive away, so I hadn’t even needed to house hunt.
“Fortunate for you, maybe,” Bethany said. “But what if Professor Amundsen shows up and wants his job back?”
“He resigned,” I said. “In the middle of the year. You don’t generally get to come back after that.”
A girl in the front row turned back to the others. “Mandy Bierce told me he ran off to Barbados with that girl Ashley who graduated two years ago.”
“He did not,” Bethany retorted.
“You’d think he could’ve waited until final grades were posted,” another guy said. “I still don’t have my grade for his Playwriting class.”
Baseball Cap snorted. “You were failing that class, weren’t you? Are you sure you didn’t off Amundsen and toss his body into the ocean?”
“Half the class was failing,” the first guy said. “Can’t pin this one on me. More likely one of the girls who wasn’t happy with her…ahem…extra-credit grade. Where were you over the holidays, Bethany?”
The blonde girl glared at him, and I cleared my throat to restore order.
“I don’t know any more than the rest of you. The only thing I was told is that he resigned.” That wasn’t entirely true. I’d also been told that he abandoned his car in the parking lot and hadn’t bothered to clean out his office. But going into all the details seemed a bit gossipy, and I needed to get things back on track before Miss Bethany thought up another snarky question.
“If any of you have evidence of foul play,” I added, “please call campus police and give them your statement. But for now, we need to take a look at the course objectives.”
I spent the rest of the hour explaining the scope of the course, my expectations, the fact that class participation was a considerable portion of their grade, and other housekeeping tasks. All in all, it went better than I had expected. One kid mumbled that she was dropping, and another flat-out left when he learned he’d have to write a five-page paper, something he claimed was outrageous for a class that was an elective. But the rest seemed at least somewhat eager to learn, and I sighed in satisfaction when the class was over.
Maybe the new job wouldn’t be as bad as I had feared.
Chapter Two
I had just finished stashing the extra syllabi and class roster in my box of books when a tall, thin guy entered from the back of the auditorium.
“Professor Alden? I’m Ben Baker.”
“Hi, Ben.” I dug the roster back out and scanned through the list, looking for his name. “You’re running a bit late. We just wrapped up.”
“Oh, no. I’m not in the class. I was Professor Amundsen’s student assistant last semester.” He shrugged. “So…I guess I’m your assistant now. If you need help, that is.”
I laughed. “If you’d arrived during class, you’d know I’m going to need all the help I can get. Welcome aboard!”
“Cool,” he said. “I’ll also be stage manager for the Coastal Players this summer. You know about that part of the job, right?”
Ben’s mention of the Coastal Players took me instantly back to the summer after my mom started teaching at Southern Coastal, and I couldn’t help but smile. Early in the season, Mom had bought tickets for the two of us to attend a show at the little melodrama theater located about eight miles up the coast, near the town of Duck.
I can’t remember the plot of that summer’s show at the Coastal Playhouse, but they were all pretty much the same. Damsel placed in distress by mustachioed villain, and dashing hero comes to the rescue. Usually there was a pirate or seaside theme woven into the story, as well. What I remembered most vividly from that particular season, however, was the “vamp,” a femme fatale in a long crimson dress. Even as a little kid, I realized that the vamp had a far better part than the heroine. Better songs, too.
That was the summer the acting bug bit me hard. I persuaded my mom to take me back to the show three times, and I learned the vamp’s part word for word, practicing each gesture in front of my bedroom mirror draped in an old red tablecloth, wearing Caroline’s darkest lipstick. I even learned the song the actress sang: “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend.”
The final show of the season fell on the day after my ninth birthday. Mom presented me with a kid-sized version of the crimson dress and three tickets. I was delighted with the dress and thoroughly confused as to why there were three tickets, until my father, with typical dramatic flair, burst out of the closet. He had flown all the way from Los Angeles for my birthday, the first and only time that happened.
What I didn’t realize until the actress pulled me onstage was that my parents had also arranged for me to sing the final verse of the vamp’s song. It could have been a recipe for disaster if stage fright had kicked in. My dad had worn a worried frown for the first few minutes. But Mom knew better. She’d watched me practice all summer and knew I had the act down to the tiniest gesture. I got a standing ovation and left the stage positively drunk on applause. It was my best birthday ever. I still have a framed picture of my nine-year-old self with my parents and the actress—Melinda Barry—who signed the back of the photo.
The Coastal Playhouse closed down about twelve years back, however, when the owners reached retirement age. No one seemed eager to take over, so they put the building on the market. But people hated to see the local tradition die, and a wealthy patron from up north who spent summers on the Outer Banks purchased the property with the understanding that the university would be granted an indefinite lease as long as they continued to run the Playhouse during the tourist season. Thus began the tradition of tasking the junior drama professor with managing the troupe. Most professors seemed to view the summer duty as beneath them, but for me, it had been a factor in favor of taking the job. Definitely not the only or even the biggest factor, but it was a nice little perk.
I realized Ben was staring at me, waiting for an answer.
“Sorry!” I said, laughing. “I’m afraid you sent me wandering down memory lane. Yes, I know all about summers at the Playhouse. But thanks for reminding me. Dean Prendergast said that I might want to offer some extra-credit opportunities this semester for anyone willing to put in some sweat equity. Apparently some areas of the building need a little TLC.”
“Kind of an understatement, from what I’ve heard. Amundsen said the place took a lot of damage in that storm that hit in late November.”
“I guess I’ll add that to my list of things to discuss with Dr. Peele before he takes off for Europe. Thanks again for letting me know.”
“No problem, Professor Alden,” he said, scooping up the box of books. “I’ve got an hour between classes if you need me to show you around.”
“I haven’t even found my office yet, so I will happily take you up on that offer. But if we’re going to be working together, you should definitely call me Antigone. Or Tig. I answer to either.”
“Sure thing. You gotta know Antigone is seriously the best name for a drama professor. It’s like your mother knew where you’d end up.”
“Oh, no,” I said. “I’m quite certain the blame for that lies with my dad. My mother would have named me something a bit more sensible.”
Caroline Riggs-Alden had made exactly one rash decision in her life—marrying my father. In 1979, when she was a newly minted psychology PhD from UCLA, she was hired as a consultant on a film called Murder for Hire, in which James Alden played a dashing, razor-witted detective in search of a serial killer who was also a professional hitman. Most of Caroline’s time on the project had involved working with the writers, but she did spend one day on the set. Because if you get the chance to work on a movie in any capacity, of course you spend a day on the set.
Caroline was pretty and smart, so naturally she caught my dad’s eye. And James Alden was absolutely gorgeous back then. Even now, in his mid-sixties, my dad is still stunning, something that I can freely acknowledge without feeling the slightest bit weird. It is a simple, objective fact. I have never met a woman (and very few men) who would argue the point.
In addition to being unbelievably handsome, James was suave, sweet-natured, and an excellent listener. Caroline was, as the saying goes, swept off her feet. A mad, whirlwind romance ensued, followed by a Vegas wedding, and a honeymoon in Greece, where James was starring in a horribly written Hollywood adaptation of…you guessed it, Antigone.
“They split up a few months after I was born,” I told Ben, “when my mom realized they were a pretty major mismatch. My dad was heartbroken, and I’ve always suspected she let him name me as a consolation prize.”
Ben led me to a narrow hallway off to the right of the main entrance. The first office we passed belonged to my new colleague, Martin Peele. My office was located a few doors down, on the opposite side of the hallway. Someone had removed Amundsen’s nameplate, leaving a discolored rectangle in the center of the door, just above a cork-board for student messages.
As I dug around for the key that someone from Dean Prendergast’s office had left in the mailbox at Mom’s house, Ben said, “By the way, I’m…sorry about your mom. Should have said that first, I guess. I took one of her classes freshman year. She was a really good teacher.”
“Thanks, Ben. The past few months have been kind of tough.”
I opened the door to reveal a small, dimly lit office lined with bookshelves. Ben placed the box of books on the ancient wooden desk in the center of the room. The desk was empty, aside from the computer and an oddly ornate eight-by-ten picture frame, still in plastic wrap. The bookshelves, however, were full. I made a mental note to ask whether I should box them up for Amundsen’s family.
There was still a little over an hour before my scheduled lunch with the dean, so I grabbed the ring of keys hanging on the back of the door. Since my afternoon class schedule included Intro to Theatrical Design, it couldn’t hurt to locate the dimmer room, storage area, and so forth. Muncey Auditorium wasn’t state-of-the art, but it was quickly apparent that it was a step above the community theaters I was used to. In most of the places I’ve worked, the equipment was held together by duct tape and prayers because there was no room in the budget for anything new. Once Ben finished showing me around, I asked if he knew whether there might be a portable blackboard stashed in one of the storage rooms.
“The tech people said they’d have an interactive whiteboard for me,” I told him, “but if there’s one around, I couldn’t find it.”
“Not surprised,” Ben said. “The SmartBoard went on the fritz last semester. It was only a year old, too. You may need to nudge them again.” He stopped for a moment, thinking. “They store a lot of stuff down in the trap room. Flats from old productions, gear for the stage-combat class, a safe with old exams, even some of the costumes and stuff that spills over from the prop room. The blackboard Amundsen used before we got the high-tech version might be down there, too. Hold on. Let me grab the remote.”
He ran backstage and brought back something that looked like a garage door opener. “We can just open the trap and take the lift down. It’s quicker than going around, and I need to show you how it works, anyway. It’s a little quirky, but I figured it out when we put on Macbeth last spring.”
I was glad to hear the place had a lift, since I’ve worked in several small theaters that weren’t so lucky. You can get by without one, but they definitely come in handy for changing sets quickly between scenes, or if the Wicked Witch needs to melt into the floor.
But once we were centerstage we realized someone had moved a set of choral risers on top of the door to the trap room. Ben grumbled, noting that they weren’t supposed to leave equipment there, but it was a fairly quick fix. I helped him unlatch the three columns of metal bleachers and roll them toward the back of the stage.
“Here you go,” Ben said, handing me the controls. “I’ll let you do the honors. Just press the center button—that opens the trap and sends up the lift.”
When I pushed the center button, two concrete planks on the floor in front of us separated. The two halves tented upward, and then began to retreat, slipping into place below the main stage to reveal a small, pitch-dark concrete room. As soon as the planks clicked into place, the low whine of the machinery began.
The smell hit us at the same instant. Ben gagged, covering his nose and staggering backward as the lift delivered a very dead body to the stage.
We hadn’t found the blackboard, but we had found Dr. Amundsen.
Chapter Three
The discovery of Amundsen’s body meant that all of my classes were canceled. Lunch with Dean Prendergast was canceled, as well. I was perfectly okay with that since I no longer had the slightest bit of appetite.
Dr. Martin Peele arrived at Muncey Theater just before campus police, about ten minutes after Ben phoned him with the news about his junior colleague. Most of my interviews for the open position had been handled in an online video conference, but I’d met Dr. Peele in person once, when I was on campus with my mother a few years back. A short, squat man with thick eyebrows and an expressive face, he reminded me of a slightly taller and younger Danny DeVito. My first thought when I met him—aside from the fact that he had sweaty palms—was that he was tailor-made for character acting.
As soon as Dr. Peele was inside, campus police turned their questions to him, which made sense, given that I’d never even met Amundsen…well, at least not when he was alive. So I slipped out the side door with a book, in search of someplace quiet, preferably with lots of fresh air. I ducked into the cafeteria to grab coffee from the vending machine and then found an empty bench at a little park between Muncey Auditorium and the main campus. The last inch of the coffee remained in the bottom of the cup as I sat on the bench reading, so that I could bring it up to my nose and breathe it in as needed. Even a half hour later, out in the wide open where the January air carried a hint of the ocean, the awful smell from the theater remained lodged in my nostrils.
The scrappy girl detectives on Private Eye High encountered a corpse in pretty much every episode, and there were even a few cases where they stumbled upon a long-dead body. Given that the makeup department generally did an excellent job of making the bodies look real, I would have sworn that I was fully inoculated against squeamishness. But I’d never really considered the olfactory element. Murder mysteries will be much less popular if anyone ever invents smell-i-vision.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Antigone Alden. How is it that you’re in town less than twenty-four hours and we already have a dead body?”
I hadn’t heard Alicia Brown’s voice in more than twenty years, but the nasal twang was unmistakable. When I left Caratoke High School at the end of my sophomore year, after landing the part in Private Eye High, Alicia was the reigning Queen Bee-with-an-itch. She didn’t like me for one simple reason: Travis Lamm did like me. In fact, he liked me so much that we’d ended up dating for over three years, even keeping the r
elationship going after I was in California.
Sighing, I snapped shut the technical theater text I’d been thumbing through halfheartedly. “The body’s been in the trap room for way more than twenty-four hours, Leash.”
I didn’t even have to look up to know the expression on Alicia’s face when I pulled out the old nickname, Leash. I could picture the woman’s ferret-like nose twitch perfectly. That’s one good thing about old frenemies. You already know which buttons to push.
“You stepped right into his job,” Alicia said. “That might make some people a little suspicious. Or maybe trouble just follows you around like a bad stink. Can’t believe you’ve decided to come back and live among us commoners. Is California’s cost of living too high for washed-up has-beens?”
At that point I did look up, and was surprised that the Alicia in my head didn’t look much like the one standing in front of me. Alicia’s hair was platinum now, rather than her natural brassy blonde. Two decades of tanning booths, Quarter Pounders, and cigarettes had taken a toll. Alicia now looked more like her mother, who’d sat in the bleachers at home games, than the pert and perky head majorette who had strutted across the field at halftime.
Rather than try to cover my surprise, I decided to use it. “Wow. I am so sorry, Mrs. Brown! I could have sworn I was talking to your daughter, Alicia.”
Alicia cocked her head to one side. I could almost hear the hamster wheel spinning away as she tried to dredge up a smart retort.
I decided to spare her the torment, thinking maybe if I just cut to the chase, Alicia would leave. “Did you want something, Alicia?”