by Robbi McCoy
“Fantastic show, everybody!” she boomed at the cast as she swept into the room. “Beatrice, loved the fan action!” She nodded toward Raven, who beamed his pleasure at the compliment. “Dogberry, stay stiff, arms straight at your sides. You’re always at attention. The chuckle was perfect! Got a laugh every time.”
Wren searched the room to locate Tammy, aka Dogberry, the officious, ineffectual constable, who was nodding emphatically. Tammy was their designated driver. She was a friendly, hefty young woman with short blonde hair and a pink face. She played Dogberry as he should be played, as a clown. Wren laughed whenever she walked on stage. She didn’t need to say a word. She did it all with her face and body. Brilliant.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Cleo said, holding a palm up to Tammy like a stop signal. “That review that said you went too far, over the top. Forget it!” Someone placed a glass of champagne in her hand as she turned to address the entire room. “Don’t read reviews, people! Critics don’t know shit. They think they have to slam somebody to make it look like they know what they’re talking about. I mean, look what he said about our deliciously campy John the Bastard.” She waved toward the play’s villain, who bowed his head. “Critics! Worthless wannabes!”
Hearing these familiar insults, Wren stiffened. Raven gave her a sympathetic pout.
Cleo drained half the glass of champagne without pause, then said, “Listen to the audience. They loved our Dogberry. They wanted to take her home, for Christ’s sake! Did you hear the applause when she took her bow? Am I right? Am I right?”
Everyone clapped and hooted their agreement. Tammy blushed.
“Boy!” Cleo called. “Boy, where are you?”
What could she possibly have to say to Max? Wren wondered. She had only two lines and she had delivered them without mishap. Max popped up like a prairie dog and faced Cleo, her orange eyebrows slanted in a worried question.
“I could see you,” Cleo accused, “waiting to come on in the wings. Stay back a bit.”
Max nodded her understanding and ducked out of sight behind her fellow actors.
“We can continue this tomorrow,” Cleo said. “Conclusion is, it was wonderful and I’m proud of you all. Well done! Party on!”
Cleo proceeded to mingle and join into spirited conversation with the cast and crew. She was a riveting presence, Wren noted, made more interesting by one of the few things Wren knew about her, that she’d banned Cassandra from the theater for life. When Raven brought her over for an introduction, Wren decided to simply ask her about it.
“That’s a story I’d like to forget,” she said before taking a swallow of champagne.
“Oh, come on,” Raven urged. “Tell it.”
Cleo smiled at him and shrugged. “All right. I was playing Ophelia. Cassandra thought the role should be hers. It had been hers, but she was abominable at it. I had to take over. We were midway through the season but I had no choice. Her father, Anthony Marcus, was a great actor.” She thrust her free hand into the air and pronounced the name as someone might introduce a king, her eyes looking off into the distance. Lowering her hand, she said, “But the daughter, a pale imitation.”
“I heard she was actually very good,” Wren interjected, recalling Sophie’s remarks.
Cleo shrugged. “I didn’t fire her. I let her stay on and help with props and set changes and such. She was good with a paintbrush, I’ll give her that.”
Wren glanced at her brother, wondering if he was as skeptical of Cleo’s motives as she was.
“I’m sure you know that Ophelia carries a bouquet of flowers in her final scene.” Cleo scanned their faces and they nodded to reassure her that they were following the story. “In this tender, somber scene, I walked across the stage parsing out herbs from my bouquet. I’m saying the lines, thusly: ‘There’s rosemary; that’s for remembrance.’” Cleo made a plucking motion above her champagne glass. “As I’m returning to my bouquet for pansies, I’m assaulted by a stream of water that comes shooting out of it and squirts me full in the face.” She jerked her head back, opening her eyes wide in an expression of terror, reliving the moment. “Like a goddamned clown’s prop. I scream. The audience bursts into uproarious laughter and you could hear Cassandra cackling in the wings from any seat in the theater.”
Raven and Wren began to snicker, but they both cut it short at the sight of Cleo’s stern look.
“If I were you,” she said quietly, “I’d reconsider guffaws of delight as an appropriate response to my humiliation.”
“Sorry,” Raven said, barely controlling his urge to giggle. “I’m sure it was a horrible shock.”
“That woman was completely off her rocker even then,” Cleo said, as if in defense of her actions, as if, Wren decided, she were answering to someone’s accusation that she had driven Cassandra mad.
When Cleo had moved on, Raven whispered, “That isn’t the whole story. I asked around.”
He led Wren to a nearby hallway containing several posters from past productions. They stood in front of one advertising Macbeth, starring Anthony Marcus in the lead and Cleo Keggermeister as Lady Macbeth. It wasn’t an Ashland production, but one from a theater on the East Coast. The image was of the two of them, heads only, facing away from one another, set against a stormy sky above a forest of spooky black trees, both of them looking positively menacing. Marcus was dramatically handsome, his eyes penetrating, one eyebrow raised strategically. Cleo was young, exotically beautiful, her hair jet black with no sign of a white streak, her thin nose pointed sharply frontward, her eyes dark and intense. They captured the chilling, horrific spirit of the play precisely with that pose.
“Cassandra’s father and Cleo,” Wren said. “They worked together.”
“They did more than work together. They were lovers.”
“When was this?”
“Twenty-five years ago, more or less. Marcus gave her up and returned to his wife, then the family moved here. The girls, Cassandra and Ellie, were still little kids then. Years later, Cleo turned up here and got hired into the company.”
“She followed him?”
“Right. The whole mess started all over again. This time, Marcus’s wife divorced him. As a result, Ellie became very angry and wanted nothing more to do with her father. Cassandra went the opposite direction, doing everything she could to get his love and attention.”
“So she became an actor.”
Raven nodded. “After a few years, their mother got sick. Marcus, driven by guilt, left Cleo to take care of her. Cleo was absolutely furious.”
Wren regarded the harsh eyes of the man in the poster, trying to imagine the husband and father behind the character. “What happened to Ellie’s mother?”
“She died. It devastated them, the girls and their father. He felt he had ruined them all, that it was his fault. He took off. Ran away, basically, and hasn’t been seen since. That was several years ago.”
“That explains a lot, doesn’t it? Ellie’s resentment. Cleo’s bitterness.”
“And her revenge against Cassandra, his daughter. Not fair or even logical, but Marcus was beyond her reach. Cassandra was easy prey once Cleo became artistic director here.”
“Is that story about Ophelia’s flowers true?”
“Yes. But that was just a small episode. That was Cassandra fighting back, getting in a last dig before she got tossed out.”
“That’s a sad story, especially seeing what’s become of Cassandra.”
“She’s not the only victim. They say Cleo never got over Marcus. One of those grand passions, I guess.” Raven sighed at the poster. “Ready to go home?”
A few minutes later, they were buckled into the backseat of Tammy’s SUV. Behind the wheel of her car, Tammy looked ordinary in jeans and a T-shirt, no longer wearing Dogberry’s oversized navy blue coat with gold buttons, but even now when Wren caught sight of her round pink face in the rearview mirror, she felt like laughing.
Wren had drunk a fair amount of wine, enough to in
sure that she would be asleep within seconds of hitting her pillow, which she impatiently longed for. She was still smarting over Sophie’s harsh rebuke from earlier in the day. Raven had decided the party would be just the thing to cheer her up, and he’d been right. She did feel better. Easy come, easy go, she told herself. Sophie had never been hers to lose, so she had lost nothing.
Tammy was quite a chatterer, it turned out, and talked continuously from the moment they left the party. Fortunately, the drive was a short one.
“My husband won’t come to see the play,” she was saying. “Not his cup of tea, he says. He’d rather get harpooned in the eye than sit through a Shakespeare play. Or any play, for that matter. Just getting him off his boat takes a major act of God. Or me threatening to leave him. That’s what I did too. I told him he didn’t have to go to any of the plays, but he does have to be my date at the Gala next Saturday. I’ll be damned if I’m going without a date to the biggest event of the summer. I’m a married woman. My husband has to be there.”
“So he’s coming?” Raven asked.
“He damn well better be! But getting him on dry land is tough. He’s lived on boats all his life. We live in Westport, Washington. You know where that is? Not exactly in Westport. In the bay off Westport.”
“You live in the water?” Wren asked drowsily.
“Right. We’ve got a fifty foot sportfishing boat with all the comforts of home. When we’re not out on a cruise, we’re berthed there in the harbor. For this summer, though, we’re docked over in Rogue River. Not far.”
Raven sat up, suddenly alert. “How’d you get this far inland on a boat that big?”
“Oh, don’t ask!” Tammy threw up her hands. “Anyway, he’ll come to the party or he’s fish bait. But he’ll have to take some Dramamine to manage it. He gets queasy when he gets on dry land. Can’t tolerate it for too long. He’s always been like that. He belongs to the sea, he does, just like his daddy.”
“What costume are you wearing to the Gala?” Raven asked.
“Why not Dogberry?”
“Because Dogberry isn’t a character in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
Tammy considered it for a moment, then said, “Seeing as how Dogberry is an ass, maybe I’ll come as Bottom, since he was turned into an ass.”
Wren sat up straight to peer into the rearview mirror at Tammy’s face. “That’s logical…and consistent.”
“What about you?” Tammy asked Raven.
“I’m coming as Titania.”
“The queen of the fairies!” Wren squawked. “How appropriate.”
Raven nodded, looking pleased with himself. “And Kyle—”
“Oberon, of course,” Wren interjected. “King of the fairies.”
Tammy chuckled. They turned down their street and the car slowed.
“It’s the Victorian there on the left,” Raven said, pointing to his house. “Thanks for the ride. You were better tonight than I’ve ever seen you. I wanted to lie down laughing right there on stage.”
“You too,” Tammy said, looking at them in the rearview mirror. “That one time when you turned and flung your skirt over Benedick’s head, that was genius. The audience was rolling in the aisles. He was stumbling around blind, while you just carried on, walking across the stage, pulling him behind you, as if nothing had happened. How did you keep from cracking up?”
Raven shrugged with mock modesty.
“This is the third time I’ve seen the play,” Wren said, “and I could definitely see the improvement. So many little comedic gestures and expressions. Your characters are coming into their own. The entire company is so talented.”
Tammy grinned at her in the mirror as she pulled the car to the curb in front of the house. “Here we are. ‘Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow.’”
Raven stole the next line from her. “‘That I shall say good night till it be morrow.’”
“Good night!” Wren said, hopping out of the car.
Raven joined her at the curb, then Tammy made a U-turn and drove away. Raven yawned deeply and stretched his arms above his head. “‘To sleep—perchance to dream.’”
Wren’s own yawn was cut short by the sound of a loud thud at the side of the house. They both turned their attention to the den window where the dark figure of a man hung through the open casement, his lower half dangling outside, legs banging against the wooden siding. This scene was in deep shadows, as the streetlight didn’t hit that side of the house, so they could see no details as the man dropped from the window to the side yard, then dashed into the bushes, crashing straight through them in his rush to escape. Raven took off running after him, yelling, “Stop or I’ll shoot!” He too disappeared into the bushes.
Wren stood on the sidewalk, momentarily stunned. She gathered her wits and ran up the front walkway of the house, letting herself in just as Kyle came bounding downstairs in his bathrobe, looking sleepy and alarmed. But still, she marveled, not a hair out of place.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“Call the police. There was a man in the house. He just escaped out the study window.”
Kyle’s eyes widened. “I didn’t hear a thing!” He darted to the hall phone. “Where’s Raven?”
“He went after him.”
“What?” Kyle let the phone receiver drop to the floor. “He’ll get himself killed!”
“You make the call. I’ll go after him.”
“Why should you go after him? I should go after him.” Kyle seemed worried out of his wits.
“No, I’ll do it,” Wren said calmly and firmly. “I know where he went.”
“Oh!” He threw up his hands in exasperation. “It’s one of those special bond of twins things. You can smell his trail or sense his presence with your extrasensory perception.”
“No. I saw where he went.” She pointed at her eyes in case he was still thinking ESP. “Now make the call, please, Kyle.”
She dashed back outside and followed the path the other two had taken through the bushes. She emerged on the other side of the shrubbery on an open expanse of lawn in the neighbor’s yard. The sprinklers were on and Raven was lying face down and motionless under a shower of water on the lawn. Wren ran into the spray and knelt beside him, her heart pounding in her throat with terror. Just as she laid her hand on his shoulder, he rolled over, screamed in a high-pitched voice, then said, more deeply, “Unhand me, villain!”
He began swatting at her wildly, his eyes squeezed shut.
“Raven!” she yelled. “Stop! It’s me!”
He opened his eyes and looked up more calmly, then she helped him up and they moved out of range of the sprinklers. They stood dripping, looking around at the quiet night. There was no sign of anything amiss other than a dog barking in the distance.
“I tripped over one of those damned sprinklers,” Raven explained. “The scoundrel got away.”
“Did you get a better look at him?”
“No. His back was to me the whole time. If I hadn’t tripped, I’d have had him. He wasn’t much of a runner.”
They walked to the road and back to the house where Kyle was waiting, frantic. He wrapped his arms around Raven for a split second before leaping back, declaring, “You’re all wet!” He turned to Wren. “So are you.”
While Raven explained the sprinklers, they heard a siren approaching. Within moments, a female police officer was at the door to take the report. In her tipsy state of mind, Wren was reminded of Tammy’s portrayal of Dogberry. The officer had the same stocky build and fleshy lips. And, of course, the most obvious similarity was that she was wearing a uniform. It made it a little hard to take her seriously, having just come from a play where the most memorable moment of Dogberry’s performance was when she said with a great sense of righteousness, “But masters, remember that I am an ass: though it be not written down, yet forget not that I am an ass.” The performance had wedged itself so tightly in Wren’s mind that whenever this officer spoke to her, the refrain “Tho
u art an ass” repeated continually in her head. Which, she knew, was completely uncalled for. Officer Whiteley did nothing to deserve it, but Wren was unable to stop herself from thinking it.
They could give almost no description of the intruder, other than he looked like a man, a sort of bulky man in dark clothing.
“Have you been drinking?” Officer Whiteley asked Raven as they all stood by the open window in the den.
“Yes,” he answered, his hair plastered flat on his head. “But I know what I saw and my sister will back it up.”
Wren nodded. Officer Whiteley walked to the window and looked over the latch and casement.
“Was this window locked earlier this evening?” she asked.
They turned to Kyle, who shrugged. “I didn’t check it before I went to bed. It’s possible it wasn’t locked.”
“No sign of forced entry,” observed Whiteley.
After a cursory inspection of the room where Wren’s state-of-the-art laptop still sat on the desk running its screen saver of random flying fruits, and the valuable pieces of art, not Kyle’s caricatures, still hung on the walls, they could find nothing missing.
“Either you scared him away before he had a chance to take anything,” Officer Whiteley concluded, “or he wasn’t a burglar in the first place.”
She then peered at Kyle suspiciously. He stiffened and narrowed his eyes defiantly.
“If you come across anything missing,” Officer Whiteley said, “give us a call.”
Wren walked her to the front door, where she said, “You weren’t implying something back there, were you?”
Officer Whiteley regarded Wren impassively. “No. Just that you all want to report a burglary, but nothing’s missing. A burglar takes stuff. This appears to be something else.”