Everyone was silent until Carol said, “Thank you, Mr. VanBrook, for your enlightening explanation . . . Shall we make a decision now?” she asked the board. “Or do we need time to mull it over?”
Larry spoke up for the first time. “I move that we mount Henry VIII as our first fall show.”
Fran Brodie seconded the motion. “Let’s take a gamble on it,” she said, and Qwilleran could imagine visions of Queen Katharine dancing in her steely gray eyes.
“Okay, I’ll go along,” said Gippel, “and hope to God we sell some tickets. There’ll be more flesh on the stage than in the audience—that’s my guess.”
Hixie Rice said, “It has great publicity possibilities, with all those high school kids carrying spears.”
Junior Goodwinter capitulated. “Count me in, so long as you lop off the last scene.”
And so The Famous History of the Life of King Henry the Eighth went into production. Qwilleran was not further involved, although he knew that Carol and Fran were auditioning for Queen Katharine, and Larry and Dennis wanted to read for Cardinal Wolsey. Everyone assumed that Larry would get the choice role.
On the evening following the last audition, Qwilleran was going to a late dinner at the Old Stone Mill as the Lanspeaks were leaving. He intercepted them in the restaurant parking lot, saying to Larry, “I suppose I’m expected to kiss your ring.”
“Oh, hell! I missed out on Wolsey,” the actor said with a disappointed smirk. “Hilary wants me to play King Henry. Isn’t that a bummer? I’ll have to grow a beard if I don’t want to use spirit gum. Scott should be doing Henry; he wouldn’t need any padding.”
Carol said, “Scott could never learn the lines. The only line he ever remembers is at the bottom of the page.”
“So I suppose Dennis is doing Wolsey?” Qwilleran asked.
“NO!” Larry thundered in disgust. “Hilary’s doing it himself! Of course, it’s expedient, because he’s done it before. He’s also bringing a woman from Lockmaster to play Katharine. He directed her in the production down there a few years ago.”
“When do rehearsals start? I might drop in some evening.”
“Next Monday,” Carol said. “Five nights a week, starting at six-thirty. We’ve always started at seven to give working people time to eat a decent meal, but Horseface has decreed six-thirty. He wants me as assistant director and understudy for Katharine. Since she lives sixty miles away, she’ll come up only two nights a week, so I’ll have to read her lines the rest of the time.” She raised her eyebrows in a gesture of resignation. “I don’t expect to enjoy it, but if I learn something, it won’t be a total loss.”
Qwilleran said, “I wanted to do a profile on VanBrook for my column, but he refused flatly. Wouldn’t give a reason.”
“Typical,” said Larry with a shrug. “Where’s Polly tonight?”
“Hosting a dinner meeting of the library board. What did you have to eat?”
“Red snapper—very good! And try the blue plum buckle—if they have any left. It’s going fast.”
The Lanspeaks went to their car, and Qwilleran entered the restaurant that had been converted from an old stone grist mill. The hostess seated him at his favorite table, and Derek Cuttlebrink filled his water glass and delivered the bread basket with a flourish. Although Derek was the busboy, his six-foot-seven stature and sociable manner caused new customers to mistake him for the owner.
“I’m playing five parts,” he announced. “I get my name in the program five times—for Wolsey’s servant, the court crier, the executioner, the mayor of London, and a messenger. I like the executioner best; I get to carry the axe and wear a hood.”
“You’re going to be a busy boy with all those costume changes,” Qwilleran said.
“I figure I can wear the same pants and just change the coat and hat.”
“In Shakespeare they’re called breeches, Derek.”
“I’ve been thinking it over,” said the busboy. “I’ve decided I’d like to be an actor instead of a cop. It would be more fun. You stay up all night and sleep late.”
The waitress appeared, and Derek drifted away to clear some tables. Qwilleran ordered the red snapper. “And save me a piece of plum buckle if you have any left.”
During the following week the number of cars in the theatre parking lot every evening indicated that rehearsals were in full swing, and one evening Qwilleran slipped into the auditorium to observe, thinking he might pick up some material for a “Qwill Pen” column. It was six-thirty when he took an aisle seat at the rear. The entire cast was on hand, except for the woman from Lockmaster; it was her off-night. The director had not yet made an appearance.
At six forty-five Carol said, “No point in wasting valuable time. Let’s go over the scenes that Hilary blocked last night. We’ll skip the prologue and start with the first scene as far as the dirty-look episode. Let’s have the Duke of Buckingham, the Duke of Norfolk, and Lord Abergavenny on stage. Norfolk enters first, stage left. The others, stage right.”
Three actors, carrying scripts and looking far from aristocratic in their rehearsal clothes, made their entrance.
Carol called out from the third row, “Norfolk, take a longer, more deliberate stride. You’re a duke! . . . That’s better! And Abergav’ny, show respect for your father-in-law but don’t hide behind him. Let’s do that entrance again and take it from Good morrow and well met.” As the scene progressed, Carol made notes and occasionally interrupted. “Norfolk, don’t just look at the speaker, listen to what he’s saying. It’ll show in your face . . . And Abergavenny, keep your chin up . . . Buckingham, take a couple of steps downstage when you say O you go far.”
When Dennis reached Buckingham’s clever line—No man’s pie is freed from his ambitious finger—he stopped and laughed. “That’s my favorite line.”
There was a ripple of amusement as the actors in the front rows looked at each other with understanding.
Carol said, “Okay, take it again. And Norfolk, use your upstage hand so you don’t hide your face.”
When they reached the dirty-look episode and VanBrook had not yet arrived, Carol read Cardinal Wolsey’s lines and walked through the scene with the others. Suddenly the doors at the rear of the auditorium burst open.
“What’s going on here?” came the director’s stentorian demand. Starting down the aisle in his green turtleneck jersey, he caught sight of Qwilleran. “What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for the six-thirty rehearsal to begin,” said Qwilleran with a pointed look at his wristwatch.
“Out! Out!” VanBrook pointed to the door.
Dennis Hough walked to the stage apron and boomed, “He can stay, for God’s sake! He owns the damned theatre!”
“Out! Out!”
Qwilleran obligingly left the auditorium, walked upstairs, and slipped into the dark balcony, while VanBrook proceeded without apology or explanation. Whatever had delayed him had also annoyed him, and he was impatient with everyone.
Brusquely he said, “Archbishop, stop looking at your wristwatch! This is the sixteenth century . . . You—the Old Lady—we’re doing Henry VIII, not Uncle Wiggley! You’re carrying your hands like a rabbit . . . Who’s giggling backstage? Keep quiet or go home! . . . Suffolk, there are four syllables in ‘coronation.’ It’s the crowning of a monarch, not something from the florist.” None of this was said in good-natured jest; it was pure acrimony. “Campeius, can you act more like a Roman cardinal and less like a mouse?”
The actors waiting for their scenes glanced at each other uneasily. Eddington Smith, playing Cardinal Campeius, was a shy little old fellow who was always treated gently by members of the club, no matter how inadequate his performance.
When VanBrook told Anne Boleyn to stop simpering like an idiot, the flashing of Fran’s steely gray eyes could be seen even from the balcony. As for Dennis, his square jaw was clenched most of the time. At one point Dave Landrum, who was playing Suffolk, threw his script at the director and walked out. Qwilleran d
oubted that anyone would return for rehearsal the following night. He doubted, moreover, that Henry VIII would ever open.
Nevertheless, the rehearsals stumbled along with a new Suffolk, and Qwilleran received reports on the play’s progress from Larry, with whom he had coffee at the Dimsdale Diner twice a week.
Larry, whose royal beard was growing nicely, said, “Hilary’s always picking on poor Edd Smith, who wouldn’t be in the club at all if Dr. Halifax hadn’t ordered it as therapy. Edd still doesn’t project, even though Carol coaches him. He shouts the first two words, then trails off into a whisper. Dennis has come to his defense a couple of times. There’s a real personality clash flaring up between Dennis and Hilary.”
“How is Carol taking it?”
“She’s being a saint! She puts up with Hilary because she hopes to learn something. If you ask me, she’s learning what not to do while directing a group of amateurs. He works hard with some and ignores others. He butters up the woman from Lockmaster and insults everyone else.”
“Is she good?”
“Sure, she’s good, but Carol or Fran could have done as well.”
“Who is she, anyway?” Qwilleran asked.
“Her name is Fiona Stucker. I don’t know anything about her except that she played Katharine in the Lockmaster production of Henry five years ago.”
“How are the student extras coming along?”
“Carol is working hard with the kids, getting them to walk like sixteenth-century nobles instead of couch potatoes. I think Derek, with his five roles and great height, is going to provide the comic relief in this play. He’s so conspicuous that the audience will recognize him as the executioner even with a black hood over his head. And I’m afraid he’s going to get a laugh during Katharine’s death scene. When he enters as a messenger toward the end of the play—his fifth role, bear in mind—Katharine’s line is This fellow, let me ne’er see again. We all have to struggle to keep a straight face, and the audience is going to crack up!”
“The play can use some comic relief,” Qwilleran said.
“Yes, but not during Katharine’s death scene.”
On opening night the audience made all the right responses. They wept over Buckingham’s noble farewell, gasped at the magnificence of the coronation, and suppressed their tittering over Derek’s frequent entrances. There was a rumble of excitement during the crowd scenes, when their teenage sons and daughters paraded down the center aisle as guards with halberds, standard bearers with banners, officers with tipstaffs, noblemen with swords, countesses with coronets, and vergers with silver wands.
Onstage there were only two miscues and one fluff—not bad for opening night. Qwilleran, fifth row on the aisle with Polly Duncan as his guest, cheered inwardly when Dennis delivered his poignant speech, cringed when Eddington mouthed words that could not be heard, felt his blood pressure rising when Fran appeared as the beauteous Anne, and waited fearfully for Derek to ruin Katharine’s death scene. Fortunately the director had deleted the lines that would get an inappropriate guffaw.
The next time Qwilleran met Larry for coffee, the actor said, “I have to admit that Hilary’s good as the cardinal. Despite his built-in arrogance he manages to make Wolsey’s repentance convincing. But I have a feeling that he resents the public’s adoration of Buckingham. When they flock backstage after the show, it’s Dennis they want to see. And when Dennis makes his first entrance and says Good morning and well met, you can hear the hearts palpitating in the auditorium.”
Qwilleran said, “Your Henry is perfect, Larry—straight out of the Holbein portrait.”
“That’s what Hilary wanted.” He rubbed his chin. “I’ll tell you one thing: I’ll be glad when I can shave off this beard.”
Three weeks later he had shaved off the beard, VanBrook was dead, and Dennis had disappeared without explanation.
FOUR
THE MONDAY FOLLOWING the Orchard Incident, as it came to be labeled by the Moose County Something, was a gloomy day suitable for the grim police business taking place in the barnyard. The comings and goings of officialdom ruined Koko’s morning bird watch. He liked to take his post at the window-wall overlooking the orchard, from which he could see red, yellow, gray, blue, and brown birds flitting in the branches of the old trees and scrubby berry bushes, once cultivated but now growing wild.
Koko’s particular favorite was the male cardinal who called every morning and evening in company with his soberly dressed mate. With his red plumage, kingly crown, and black face patch emphasizing his patrician beak, he conducted himself like a monarch of birds. There appeared to be mutual appreciation between the cardinal and the aristocratic cat. Koko sat almost motionless, with the last three inches of his tail fluttering to match the fluttering of the bird’s tail feathers.
At one point during the overcast morning a van pulled into the yard, and a photographer unloading camera cases, lights, and tripods was challenged by the police. Qwilleran assured them that this was John Bushland, commercial photographer from Lockmaster, who had an appointment to shoot the interior of the barn.
Bushy, as he was called, was an agile, enthusiastic, outgoing young man who joked about losing his hair early. “Hair Today; Gone Tomorrow” was the slogan on his sweatshirt. Seriously he said to Qwilleran, “I heard about the trouble. What’s the latest?”
“Police are investigating. That’s all I know. What’s the reaction in Lockmaster?”
“To tell the truth, everyone’s relieved. They were afraid he’d get tired of Pickax, and they’d get him back again. Got any idea who shot him?”
“I suspect it was someone from Lockmaster trying to make it look like someone from Pickax. Did you know VanBrook when he was principal down there?”
“Not personally. Not having kids, Vicki and I weren’t involved in that scene.”
Bushy regarded the octagonal mass of stone and silvery shingles with awe. “I like those triangular windows around the top. We should do some exteriors, but not while the police cars are here.”
“Sorry it’s not a sunny day,” Qwilleran said.
“All the better for interiors. We won’t have to contend with the glare.”
“Come on in. Ready for a cup of coffee?”
“Not right now. I want to work first.” When they carried the gear indoors, Bushy was amazed by the lightness of the interior. “I expected it to be dark. All these white walls, all this light-colored wood—it makes my job a lot easier.”
“That’s what I wanted—a minimum of dark corners and shadows. It’s too easy for cats to make themselves invisible in a dark environment, and I like to know where they are at all times. Otherwise I worry.” He handed Bushy the binoculars. “Up there on one of those radiating beams you can see the mark of the original builder: J. Mayfus & Son, 1881. I’d like you to get a close-up of that if possible. Shall I lock the cats up in their loft?”
“It won’t be necessary. Who did the furnishings?”
“Fran Brodie. I didn’t want anything rustic, and she said that contemporary furniture would accentuate the antiquity of the structure.”
In the lounge there were two sofas and an oversized chair upholstered in oatmeal tweed—all boldly designed, square-cut pieces. The tables were off-white lacquered cubes.
“You don’t see anything like this in Lockmaster,” Bushy said.
Qwilleran pointed out certain items that he wanted included in the pictures: the pine wardrobe, the bat prints, the printer’s typecase, and the Mackintosh coat of arms. “My mother was a Mackintosh,” he remarked.
“Sure. No problem. Anything you want.” Bushy was wandering about, checking camera angles. “Everywhere you look, it’s a picture! And there are lots of places to spot a light under a balcony or behind a beam if I want to light a corner.”
“What can I do to help?”
“Nothing. You’ve got plenty of electric outlets, I see. I might have to move some of the furniture slightly.”
“So if you don’t need me, Bushy, I’ll
go out and do a few errands. Help yourself to cold drinks in the fridge. For coffee just press the Brew button. See you later! If the phone rings, my answering machine will pick it up. Be sure the cats don’t run outdoors.”
Leaving the barn, Qwilleran was intercepted by Brodie. “Where’s Dennis Hough?” he demanded. He pronounced it Howe.
“I don’t know,” Qwilleran said. “I haven’t been in touch with him since Saturday. Now that the barn’s finished he won’t be coming around any more.”
“He hasn’t been home since the party.”
“Probably drove to St. Louis to see his family. Doesn’t Fran know where he went?”
Brodie grunted unintelligibly. “This company called Huff & Puff doesn’t even have an office.”
Qwilleran explained patiently, “My barn was his first job. All he needed was a phone for lining up workmen and supplies, so he worked out of his apartment.”
“Do you know how to reach him in St. Louis?”
“No, but I’m sure directory assistance can tell you. His name is pronounced Huff, but it’s spelled H-o-u-g-h. Give him time to get down there; it’s a long drive.”
Qwilleran walked downtown. Most of Pickax was within walking distance, and he was accustomed to using his legs, being a former pavement pounder from the Concrete Belt. The rest of Pickax depended on wheels.
En route to Lois’s Luncheonette for breakfast he stopped at the used bookstore, an establishment he could never pass without entering. This time he had a mission. Eddington Smith had recently acquired a large library from an estate, and Qwilleran was hoping to find a copy of his own best-selling book written eighteen years before. During the ups and downs of his life following those halcyon days he had not salvaged a single copy, but now that his fortunes had changed, he was always on the lookout for City of Brotherly Crime by James M. Qwilleran. He had used a middle initial in those days. Professional book detectives had been unable to unearth the book; public libraries no longer had the title in the stacks or in the catalogue. Yet, doggedly he continued the hopeless hunt, like a parent searching for a lost child.
The Cat Who Knew a Cardinal Page 6