by Cindy Davis
The cast and crew crowded the doorway. All were looking at her. For what? She had no more answers than any of them.
“What the hell—excuse my language, Mrs. Deacon—is going on around here?” asked Evan. “Why did the cops come back?”
For quite some time, the only sound was the in and out breathing of people rooted in shock. Nobody had an answer to his question.
Everyone eased back into the green room. As one they stopped again as they noticed that her office door, which she’d carefully locked before heading to the teacher’s lounge, was ajar. Confused gazes shifted from kids to teacher and back. She motioned for them to stand back near the wall. With growing terror, Angie realized the police weren’t responsible.
With two fingertips she pushed the door open hard. It slammed off the wall. When nobody burst out. When no gunfire erupted, Angie reached around the doorframe and flipped on the light. Her office was in the same condition as the green room. Everything had been swept from the desktop to the floor. Clothing, both the jacket she’d hung in the closet that morning, and the yellow one Gwen had left, was strewn there too.
Evan bent to clean up some manuscript sheets. He straightened and heaved them on the desk. Most sailed across the slick surface and landed on the floor. Nobody went to pick them up.
As they stepped back into the green room, Kiana said, “I don’t think this was done by any cops.”
“Obviously somebody wants to stop our show,” Evan said.
“It ain’t happenin’,” somebody called. The rest of the group chorused that.
Just then the band arrived, clanking and thunking equipment. The crew helped carry it out front.
She shut the door and followed the kids to the arena where she sat in the very last row to watch rehearsal. Occasionally she called out for someone to “Project, project!” Now and then she helped with lines or with set arrangement on-stage. All in all, things went well. But her stomach remained in upheaval. Why had someone trashed the place? Angie didn’t believe they were trying to stop the production. If so, they would’ve done more than throw things around. They were looking for something. But what? Better question, had they found it? Angie hoped so. That way they’d go about their business and leave her kids and her show alone.
Suddenly it was 4:15. The kids had gone to get something to eat; they were coming right back to clean up the mess in the green room. Their own idea.
Should she seek out Randy? Yes, it would be the responsible thing to do. Besides, she had to ask about the cleaning of the auditorium. She walked—though not too quickly—to his office, dodging kids in front of lockers, loading books into enormous backpacks. No such things as backpacks when she went to school. It was uncool to carry books inside anything. Actually, it had been uncool to carry books of any kind.
Angie prepared for her meeting with Randy. He would say “Uh…I had a complaint about…well, about your kids. Then he would ask what they were doing in the green room without adult supervision. She didn’t know the specific reason they were there, but surely it related to finding Gwen’s killer—which no way could she tell Randy. Then he’d want to know why they treated the janitor with disrespect. There was no answer to this question either, since she hadn’t been there and didn’t know the gist of the conversation—which cycled back to the original question about why they were there without supervision.
Most of all, Randy would want that photograph. This she could produce. She supposed there was no harm in him knowing the photo existed. It was nothing unusual for people to keep photos of past relationships. Probably he had a copy of the same one at home. He could wonder all he wanted why Gwen would hide it under her blotter—there would never be an answer for that.
What would bother him was having Kiana and Evan know of his marriage to Gwen.
Why hadn’t Jarvis called? Must be he hadn’t learned anything about the picture. Wouldn’t he have called either way? Then again, since she’d refused to work on the case, probably he wouldn’t bother. Did she want him to? Yes, she wanted him to call, just to talk. And no, she really didn’t want to know what he’d learned. The more she learned about the case, the more the information would churn in her head, the more chance it would have of getting her into danger and the better chance there’d be of her getting involved. Wrong! She was already involved. The overturned office proved that. She amended the thought to—a better chance of her working on the case. This made her feel sicker than that virus she and her brother came down with when she was in sixth grade.
Angie found Randy in his indoor office kicked back in a comfortable looking chair with his feet on the desk. He dropped them to the floor and sat up straight when she rapped on the doorframe. He stood and walked to a leather sofa along the right hand wall and gestured for Angie to sit also.
“Sorry I’m late. I didn’t get your note until after noontime.”
“I figured as much. It also dawned on me that I never gave you the tour of the school, that you probably had no idea where the lounge was.”
“I found it.”
“Coffee?”
“No thanks.” He wouldn’t know how unusual it was for her to turn down coffee, but she was pretty certain the acid would carve holes from stem to stern.
“How was your day?” he asked.
Okay…if he wanted to talk fluff, she could talk fluff. “Great. The kids are wonderful. I especially loved the ninth graders. I see why Gwen loved this job so much. A few of the kids show real talent. They all have tremendous enthusiasm. It would certainly be a shame to eliminate this program.”
He laced his fingers in his lap, not falling for her dodge one bit. “I agree wholeheartedly. I have no doubt that this weekend’s show will be a rousing success. I’m not sure Kiana told you but she’s got her fingers into a couple of businesses whose owners have shown interest in financially supporting the program. Apparently both have front row seats for Saturday night’s performance.”
“Really?” The girl showed incredible foresight.
“She hasn’t mentioned it?”
“No. The only topic of conversation with the group is finding Gwen’s killer. I’m not sure that’s entirely healthy. I did want to ask if you’ve set up a grief counselor for the kids.”
“Of course. He’s been made available during all school hours though he just told me, very few kids have come.”
Would kids seek out a stranger at a time like this? Probably not. Kids didn’t tell their problems to anybody but each other.
She repeated the thought to Randy. “I thought I would propose they go as a group.”
“If you specifically see a need for them to talk, I could set up a whole-school thing in the auditorium tomorrow morning.”
“Couldn’t hurt.” She was surprised this hadn’t been done already but really wasn’t familiar with the protocol for school/student relationships.
“I guess you’re wondering why I really asked you here.” Finally the bomb was about to drop. Angie held her breath. “Don’t get angry now,” Randy added.
Angry?
“I need to know if you’ve learned anything. You know, gathered any clues. I need to know if—”
Angie leaped to her feet. Without a word she propelled herself toward the door.
“Angie, please.”
She stopped and spun around, almost losing her balance when a heel caught in his low-pile carpet. She stumbled against the doorframe.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just—”
He stopped. So she said: “Do you know if the janitorial staff will be cleaning the auditorium?”
His expression registered mild surprise. “What’s wrong with it?”
“The place is filthy.” No, too abrupt. Too forceful. She lowered her voice. “I just wondered, is all.”
Randy stood from the sofa and stepped toward her. “The place will be spit-shined to your satisfaction.”
She smiled. “Thanks, though from the way you said that it was almost as though you were trying to strik
e a deal. ‘I will have the auditorium cleaned in exchange for you finding Gwen’s killer.’”
“It wasn’t intended to sound that way. I just want you to realize my desperation.”
“Believe me, I understand exactly the position you’re in. I know exactly how you’re feeling. But I cannot help you. I cannot put the kids in danger.” Before he could say anything else, Angie took a step toward the doorway. “I’ve got to get back. For…for rehearsal,” she lied. She couldn’t exactly tell him about the mess. Or could she? Perhaps he could post somebody to make sure it wouldn’t happen again. So she told him, watching his eyes widen and his cheeks suffuse with anger. He dropped his face in his hands.
She waited till he looked up. When he folded his hands on the desk and raised his chin, she knew the next news would not be good.
“I’m afraid it would be in everyone’s best interests if I call a halt to the whole production.”
Angie dropped back into the chair. “I don’t think the person who made the mess is trying to stop the performance. I think they’re looking for something.”
“What?” He didn’t mean, what are you talking about? His question meant what are they looking for?
“No idea.” He gazed at her without expression. She could only imagine the thoughts going through his mind. “Really. I don’t know anything. Please don’t cancel the performance.” She turned and left.
The school stood nearly empty. One single thunk of a metal locker around a corner all that spoiled the silence. She told herself to hurry because any second Randy would remember the real reason he invited her there—the janitor’s complaint. And he would call her back.
Besides, it wouldn’t be good to leave the kids unsupervised for a second time. She stepped up her pace.
With only two days to the performance, surely they’d be suffering some jitters. She laughed to herself. More likely they’ll be churning with anger, ready to pummel the first person who looked guilty.
How to handle hyperactivity—or overblown anger? Could she make them run around the building to burn off energy? Probably not. Maybe she could line them up on stage to execute some primal screams… That sure would bring Randy running. Probably cops too.
Angie stepped through the auditorium door and walked down the aisle listening for voices so she could mentally prepare ways to neutralize behaviors. Funny, she heard no voices, no shuffling feet, no backpacks thumping on the long green room table. It was as though the kids had all left with the final bell. The stage was dark, the curtains open. It would be a good idea to examine their condition this afternoon. It wouldn’t pay to close them for the first time during the show and find the curtains riddled with moth holes.
She moved up the trio of uncarpeted steps and past the stage. The light was on in the green room. The same yellow glow she’d seen last night when the janitor’s shadow nearly gave her a heart attack filtered down the short hallway. Only now the yellow outlined a lot of silhouettes in a circle around what was probably the green room table. Not one silhouette moved.
Something was wrong, and with all that was inside her, Angie Deacon did not want to know what it was. But she was the grownup, the one who had to take charge if something were wrong. Angie stepped into the green room. Nobody seemed to notice. She inhaled her lungs full of stale air, and pushed between two shoulders, that moved so she could fit.
That’s when Angie turned into a statue also—struck dumb by the sight in the middle of the long table. Black smoldering ashes. Wisps of smoke meandering upward.
That’s when the school’s smoke detectors blared. A split second later, the sprinkler system deluged them with water.
SIXTEEN
Though gallons of water sprayed on their heads, not a person moved. The smoke subsided. The ashes turned to mud. Water snaked off the table in black streams. What on earth had burned here?
Be the grownup.
Angie stepped forward, pushing hair out of her eyes—God, she must look a sight—and lifted one of the less burned pieces of ash from the table. It looked like fabric of some sort: brown and orange print. Where had she seen it before?
Kiana moved now too, and two-fingered one of the bits. “I know what this is!” Her accusatory words galvanized everyone else to action and the place became a flurry of activity, but Angie only had eyes for the mess on the table because she too recognized the pile on the table.
“It’s our costumes!” someone cried.
Someone else raced for the costume room—and returned holding an armload of empty hangers. “They’re all gone. Only the shoes are left. And they’re full of water.”
Angie dropped the brown material, wiped her fingers on her saturated slacks and yanked out her phone. “Anyone know the school’s phone number?” Someone supplied it. Angie dialed and spoke to the secretary. “You can have them shut off the water; the fire is out. Please send Mr. Reynolds here ASAP.”
“Is everything all right?”
“No, but the emergency is past. Please send the police also, to the backstage area.”
Angie put the phone away, knuckled water from her eyes and decided she needed to take control of the situation which would be a whole lot easier if the water weren’t still pouring down on them. She laughed and tried to lighten the moment. “Well, I guess we’ve seen each other at our worst.”
Everyone laughed but exploded with a new volley of comments about the show being ruined.
She planted her feet on the slippery floor and crossed her arms, wondering suddenly if her shirt had become transparent. “I’m surprised at all of you. Are you gonna let a little water drown your hopes for this program?”
A chorus of laughter at the words “a little water” was followed by louder shouts of “No!” and “What do you want us to do?”
Then, the water stopped. Everyone literally breathed a sigh of relief.
“Okay, that’s better.” Angie leaned sideways to wring out her hair. “Donna, are you here?” A blonde girl came forward, black mascara etching Rorschach blots under her eyes. “Can you find a dry sheet of paper—” which made everyone laugh again— “and make a list of every character and their wardrobes in every scene? If you use a copy of the manuscript you won’t leave any scenes out. At this late date, we can’t afford to miss anyone. Kiana? Evan?”
The disheveled teens sloshed to Angie’s side. “Wouldn’t it be better if I made that list?” Kiana said. “I probably know the scenes that need special costuming better than anyone.”
“I’m sure you do but I need you for something else. Evan, please organize everyone and see what you can do to get this place dried out and cleaned up. We can’t depend on the school staff to do it.”
“Tell me about it!” came from Kiana and Evan at the same time.
“What I meant was,” Angie clarified, “I don’t know how big an area got rained on; the janitors might be busy cleaning up other spots in the school. Actually, that’s a place to start. Can somebody go check the auditorium? See if it’s wet too.”
A boy separated himself and ran down the hallway. He returned in a moment. “It’s wet.”
“Okay. Everyone…” Angie waited till the faces focused on her. “Can you help Evan get this place cleaned up? Maybe raid the closest janitor’s closet for supplies. Kiana and Chantal, please come to my office.”
The girls followed her into the also-dripping room. “I suspect this place isn’t going to be usable for our show. Chantal, could you run down and see if either the cafeteria or the gymnasium is dry? We can use them for storage.”
“Good idea,” Kiana said. “But where can we have the performance?”
“That’s why I wanted to pick your brain. Do you know of another school whose stage we might be able to use? Or maybe there’s another place in town that has one—an opera house, a theater, a rec hall. Usually this would be done in a more organized manner but we have very little time. Another thing, do you know the phone number of the thrift shop?”
“Yes, it’s—”
Angie got out her phone again and jammed it into Kiana’s hand. “Let Cilla know what happened. Tell her Donna will call soon with a complete list of what we’ll need though I’m sure Cilla will remember quite a lot on her own.”
* * * *
The sprinklers continued to drip, sounding like a forest after a shower, but at least it the worst was over. Randy burst into the office in a flurry of red cheeks and huffing breath. A long strand of hair, which this morning had been combed over a bald spot, dangled onto his nose. One thing that stood out about him—he was dry.
He raked the hair back in place, shot her a look that said I thought you said there was no danger and asked, “What the hell happened here?”
“We haven’t had time to figure it out. I came in as the sprinklers went off, but what it looks like is somebody piled all the costumes on the table and set them on fire.”
“Why would anyone do that?”
Angie gave a small shrug because that question had no answer. Probably he didn’t expect one. He peered around at the kids swarming the area.
“What’s going on?”
“They’re working to keep the show going.”
“Keep the—” He waved a hand around the room. “This place is a disaster area, how do you intend— Besides…”
Evan rushed down the hallway, his face lit with excitement. “I just had a brilliant idea, if I do say so myself.” Anyone within hearing stopped what they were doing. “Why don’t we do the show outdoors?”
“Oh I don’t see how that can work,” Randy said. “The weather…”
“Last year we did a nativity show on the common,” Evan continued, undaunted, “so we already have the staging.”
“Yes, but that show was only a few minutes long.”
“It’s only October. The weather should be fine,” somebody said.
“All we’d have to do is rig up a pulley for the curtains,” added someone else.
The room was silent—except for the still-dripping sprinklers—but the change in the mood was palpable. Randy fingered the hair back in place again and shrugged. “You guys are amazing. If this were me, I’d be crying in my soup over the show being ruined. Then I’d be furious at the person who did this to you.”