“I’ll wrap it for now, and you can keep it wrapped for a while,” Dr. Cutts told her, rolling an Ace bandage around her foot and ankle. “Don’t ice it after today. And when the swelling goes down, leave the bandage off.” The elastic rose up her leg, bringing instant comfort. “Liz will give you something for pain.”
“Do I have to stay off it?”
“Nope. The more you walk, the better.” He smiled up at her. “That’s how I keep my girlish figure.” Dr. Cutts was indeed trim, and Joan suspected that he meant it.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. You’re going to be fine. Come back if the pain intensifies after tomorrow or doesn’t subside in three or four weeks.” Three to four weeks—there went her summer.
“How about swimming?”
“With my blessing. It’s great exercise and good for the ankle.” He pinned the top of the bandage, gave her foot a pat, and washed his hands before heading out the door to the next patient.
Joan squeezed her bandaged foot into her unlaced sneaker and hobbled out to collect whatever painkillers Liz was dispensing. She wasn’t looking forward to the next few weeks.
5
Judge: For now I am a Judge!
All: And a good Judge too!
—Trial by Jury
The next day was Saturday, and it was a relief to stay at home. Joan was relaxing with her foot propped up on the sofa when David and Ellen Putnam arrived at her back door, bearing spectacular peonies that she thought must have come from a distance—nothing living in their yard could have survived the storm. She put her foot down, but kept her seat while Andrew let them in.
Outside, a chain saw began its racket. Someone was taking care of the tree that had fallen on Henry’s house.
“We had to thank you properly,” Ellen told Joan, handing her the flowers. “Even though there’s no way we can thank you enough. Laura’s running around as if nothing had happened. It’s amazing.”
“They’re beautiful,” Joan said, looking at the peonies. Ants were marching around the buds—her mother used to say they opened them. “But you would have done the same for me.” And having seen David in action, she was sure it was true.
“That doesn’t make us any less grateful,” David said.
“Won’t you sit down? And Andrew, could you find some water for these?” Andrew carried the peonies off to the kitchen. When he brought them back in her pewter pitcher and set them on the mantelpiece, she introduced him to the Putnams.
“We’ve met.” David smiled at him from the big chair.
“Of course,” Joan said, remembering. “How is your uncle?”
David’s face darkened.
“It looks as if he’s going to live, but there’s some paralysis. They can’t say yet whether the damage is permanent. It never should have happened.”
“You mustn’t blame yourself.”
“I don’t.” His tight lips didn’t invite further discussion. “But I’m going to spend some time today boarding up that house, so no one else will get hurt there.”
Joan and Andrew exchanged glances. Their porch!
“Are you a carpenter?” Andrew asked him.
Ellen laughed. “He’d like to be. Any day now I expect him to quit the bench and set up shop.”
“The bench?” Joan was puzzled.
“He’s a circuit court judge.” Ellen beamed at David.
“A judge—I’ve never known a judge. And here I was going to ask whether we could hire you to rebuild our front porch. The insurance adjuster hasn’t been by yet, but I don’t expect much, and the deductible is going to take all I can spare. I’m afraid it’ll have to be no-frills. I don’t suppose you could recommend anyone …”
“Not as good as I am!” David grinned. “But you might try Zach Yoder. He’s done a lot of the work for Virgil Shoals—the builder on our new addition.”
“And now he’s going to have to redo a lot of it,” Ellen said.
Joan shook her head sympathetically.
“Yoder—isn’t that an Amish name?” Andrew asked. “We read about the Amish in Indiana history a couple of years ago.” Transplanted to Indiana as a high school senior, Andrew had just finished his freshman year at Oliver College.
“That’s right,” David said. “But Zach left the Amish community when he was about your age. Married an English girl. They have a nice little family.”
“English?” Joan asked, wondering how an Amishman would have met someone from England.
“Non-Amish,” Ellen explained. “They speak a version of German, so they call us English.”
“Zach’s a good worker,” David said. “And he understands wood. He’ll do you a good job, at a reasonable price.”
“Is he in the phone book?” Would he be that modern, Joan wondered, even if he had left the Amish community?
“Oh, sure. But Virgil’s got him helping me next door today.” That explained the hammering she was hearing in between bursts of the chain saw. “Come on over and I’ll introduce you.”
Hobble over is more like it, Joan thought. But Dr. Cutts said to walk. I ought to be able to make it that far.
It was a generous offer—carpenters had to be at a premium after the tornado. It would be good to have Andrew’s plastic windows replaced with something sturdier, even if temporary, but she couldn’t ask them to put off their own repairs. She stood up—and winced.
“Why, you’re hurt!” Ellen exclaimed, looking at the elastic bandage on her ankle. “What happened?”
“It’s not even a sprain.” Joan waved it off.
“It happened while you were protecting Laura, didn’t it?” David demanded, and she couldn’t say no.
“Our addition can wait,” Ellen urged. “We’re still a long way from moving into it. I’ll tell Virgil we owe you, and he’ll let Zach come over to help you as soon as he finishes helping David board up Uncle Henry’s place. There’s lots more to do, but there’s no hurry.”
“That’s right,” David said. “Uncle Henry won’t be home for a long time, at best. He’ll be in a rehab center for weeks after he leaves the hospital.”
“What about the dog?” Andrew asked.
“David brought him home to us the other day,” Ellen said. “Scott and Amy like him, but Laura’s ecstatic.”
“Let me know when I can visit Henry,” Joan said. “He’s a good neighbor.”
“We will,” David promised. “And you’ll use Zach.”
They left in a flurry of mutual goodwill that was still warming her cockles when the telephone rang for the first time since Alex had been cut off the day before. As always, there was no preliminary greeting.
“You’re right, I should have asked you.” Alex capitulating? Unheard of. “I really need you.”
It was almost an apology. Joan felt herself softening.
“Actually, I enjoy Gilbert and Sullivan. What’s the operetta?”
“Ruddigore. They’ve been working with a piano for over a month now, and they’re sounding good. When they begged me for an orchestra, I couldn’t resist. I grew up on that stuff.”
“Me too. And I always did like Ruddigore. It’s not Pinafore or Mikado, but it’s good, spooky fun. I could play, if you’re short a viola. I won’t manage the orchestra, though.”
“Do you think we’ll find enough players in the summer?” Oh, no, Joan thought. You might, if you ask them as a favor instead of telling them they have to.
“You might,” she said aloud. “How many rehearsals?”
“Only a couple. Plus a dress rehearsal and five performances, of course.” Of course. What have I let myself in for?
“Where? And when?”
“Oh, over at the college,” Alex said, and Joan could see her waving a pudgy hand in the air. “We’re performing in their theater.” Odds were good she hadn’t booked an orchestra rehearsal room yet. That was the kind of detail Alex preferred to leave to underlings like Joan. Not this time, Joan thought.
“Tell me when you know more,”
she said firmly.
“I knew I could count on you!” Alex hung up in a burst of enthusiasm.
6
Each lord of Ruddigore,
Despite his best endeavour,
Shall do one crime, or more,
Once, every day, for ever!
This doom he can’t defy
However he may try,
For should he stay
His hand, that day
In torture he shall die!
—CHORUS, QUOTING WITCH’S CURSE, Ruddigore
Joan never did find out who had arranged the hot, stuffy room for the orchestra-only rehearsal. Not a player, she was sure. She had survived it. Tonight, though, two weeks after the tornado, she was seated near the edge of the pit in the lovely little air-conditioned Oliver College theater, with a good view of the stage. Grateful that Alex had chosen to put the violas outside the cellos, who could see only a little of the action by turning and stretching, she felt sorry for the winds, who played with their backs to the stage and never saw a thing.
Not that there was much opportunity to look, as long as things were going smoothly. Until that first rehearsal she had forgotten how exhausting it could be to play the viola part in Sullivan’s operettas, often repeating the same rhythm on the G string until she thought her bow arm would drop off—or was afraid it wouldn’t, and her shoulder would have to last to the end after all.
Tonight, with the singers, she was grateful for the stage director’s frequent interruptions and for dialogue segments in which she could rest and enjoy what was happening onstage while watching from the corner of her eye for Alex to raise her baton. To her surprise, she knew a number of the cast members. Liz MacDonald, Dr. Cutts’s nurse, made a fine Dame Hannah, the aging contralto who accompanied Rose Maybud and the chorus of bridesmaids. Dr. Cutts himself was a most effective Sir Despard Murgatroyd, the accursed lord of Ruddigore. And Ellen Putnam was singing Mad Margaret—the best singer so far, Joan thought. Her older daughter, Amy, was in the chorus, as was Catherine Turner, Fred’s old flame and the only caterer in town. Joan resolved to keep out of Catherine’s way—their last encounter had been less than pleasant.
Not only was all the singing better than she would have expected—Alex had been right about that—but so far, at least, the leads even had their traditional Gilbert and Sullivan gestures and dance steps down pat. She wondered who had coached them.
Less precise, the chorus of bridesmaids ranged from schoolgirls to grandmothers. It figured, in a town as small as Oliver. The men’s chorus was a little older. Sure, Joan realized. The boys’ voices have to have changed.
The stage director called another halt, this time to build a fire under the laggards in the chorus.
“You bridesmaids, don’t just stroll off the stage when Sir Despard moves toward you! He’s no ordinary man—this is Sir Despard Murgatroyd, the evil baronet of Ruddigore! You all know he commits a dreadful crime every day. When you sing ‘No! No!’ you sound as if you mean it. But look at what you’ve been doing after that.” He minced a few steps away—and turned back on them with a leer.
“Would you stroll away from an attacker you met in the park? I should say not. So let’s see you run! Boo!” He lunged at a knot of girls, who scattered and ran from him, giggling.
John Hocking, who ordinarily sat third in the Oliver Civic Symphony’s viola section but who was sitting first for Ruddigore, leaned over to Joan.
“Wonder what he’s like in the classroom.”
“Who?”
“Duane Biggy.” He waved his bow at the curly-headed stage director. “He teaches English at the college.”
“No wonder he couldn’t resist playing a part.”
“A hammy one,” John said.
Hammy was right, Joan thought. When he wasn’t directing the movements of the rest of the cast, Biggy was Richard, the sailor who believes in following his heart, even when it tells him to win Rose Maybud for himself right after promising to court her for Robin Oakapple, the man he calls his dearest friend. Biggy had been throwing himself into the role to good effect, and Joan had to admit that his singing and acting more than justified casting him in it. On the stage now, he had rounded up the bridesmaids again.
“That’s more like it,” he said, “but without the giggling. You’re not embarrassed—you’re scared. Now you fellows follow suit. The girls have just put you down as clumsy clodhoppers not worthy of them, so you’d like to prove them wrong, but you’re as terrified as they are. Shake a fist here or a hoe there, but look scared, and clear the stage as fast as the girls. Find your places, and let’s take it from Sir Despard’s line, ‘I once was a nice-looking youth.’ Above all, I want speed.”
He got it this time, and they moved on. Alone onstage, Sir Despard mourned, “Poor children, how they loathe me—whose hands are certainly steeped in infamy, but whose heart is as the heart of a little child. But what is a poor baronet to do, when a whole picture gallery of ancestors step down from their frames and threaten him with an excruciating death if he hesitates to commit his daily crime?”
Richard followed his heart again and told Sir Despard that the older brother who should have inherited the accursed life he, Despard, has been forced to lead, is none other than Robin Oakapple, who is to marry Rose Maybud that very day. And Sir Despard rejoiced, “Free—free at last!”
Joan grinned. Not what I usually think of when I hear those words. Then she had to tuck her viola under her chin and play again.
She enjoyed prim Rose Maybud, who tested the moral worth of her suitors with her etiquette book (“The man who bites his bread, or eats peas with a knife, I look upon as a lost creature”) and who kept switching the object of her love, first from Robin to Despard and then from Despard to Richard. At each switch the bridesmaids caroled, “Hail the bridegroom—hail the bride!” It was the good fun Joan remembered, if not yet spooky.
“That’s it for Act One. Take ten,” Duane Biggy said finally, shifting again from happy sailor/suitor to stage director. The members of the cast flopped where they were or ran around, depending on their age. Real-life couples began pairing off.
Down in the pit, Joan was suffering from viola player’s back—sore muscles that almost made her wish her viola were a smaller, lighter violin. Serves me right for not practicing more, she thought. She shrugged her shoulders forward and back, trying to get the kinks out. The orchestra-only rehearsal had ended promptly at nine, but it was almost that late now, with the whole second act still to go. She was tempted to ask John for a back rub—she didn’t think he’d take it wrong. John, a happily married man with a couple of kids of his own, had never treated her with anything but good-natured camaraderie. She laid her viola in its case on the floor and straightened up to see him smiling at her.
“Want a back rub?” he offered cheerfully.
“John, you read my mind.”
“Only your gyrations.” Laying his viola on his chair, he stood up and moved behind her.
Gratefully, Joan let her head flop onto her chest and her arms rest in her lap. No point in having a back rub unless you relax, she thought. Gradually, her tight muscles loosened as his strong fingers kneaded the sore spots in her neck and shoulders and moved methodically down her back, finally beating a quick rhythm across it. She sat still a moment, feeling as if her arms could rise into the air without any effort on her part. Then she made herself offer to reciprocate.
“That was great. Want a turn?”
“No, thanks,” he said. “My back is fine, but my eyes are killing me.” He unscrewed the bulb on their stand light and went off in search of a brighter one.
Glad not to have to move while she felt so good, she watched the scenery being shifted without benefit of curtain. A couple of men were pushing heavy-based frames into place for the portrait gallery in Ruddigore Castle. The black steps leading down from each frame wouldn’t show from the audience, at least if the lighting were right, but they’d let the ghosts of the family portraits step down for their parad
e in the second act. The hard part would be standing still in the frames until the time came. She said as much to John, who had returned in triumph and screwed in the new bulb.
“I think Virgil Shoals has rigged something to help them,” he answered.
Where had she heard that name before? “Who’s Virgil Shoals?”
“That fellow Esther Ooley’s flirting with.” He pointed to a wiry man with a shock of straight blond hair falling across his forehead, deep in conversation with Rose Maybud. Esther Ooley was going to need considerable help to look like the sweet young thing Rose Maybud was supposed to be. She was wearing taut black stirrup pants and ballet slippers—the only thing about her that looked young. “He’s a building contractor.”
Of course. David Putnam’s. The one Zach usually worked for.
“And Esther?” she asked.
“Has that bridal shop on south Main Street.” He grinned.
“Bridal Delights? The one with the sexy underwear in the window?”
“Uh-huh.”
Joan watched Esther display her ample cleavage to Virgil—Rose Maybud would have been shocked. Then Esther laughed and came downstage, where Duane Biggy was comparing the heft of a couple of daggers from the prop box.
“Duane, honey, you’re not planning to take the second act in order, are you?” Esther asked him.
“You have a problem with that?”
“It’s just that I’ve got so much to do in the bridal shop—June is our very busiest month.” She turned the cleavage on him. “We’ve been rehearsing my last scene and the finale right after my first scene, so I could leave early. I’d be soooo grateful if you’d do that for me, too.”
“Sorry,” Biggy said. “I can’t leave the ghosts hanging up there all that time.”
“Couldn’t you let them climb up later?” Joan couldn’t see Esther’s face now, but her voice pouted.
“I could, but I won’t. More of us will get out on time if we go in order. Besides, people need to recognize their cues. But I’ll try to speed this up—for all our sakes.” He clapped his hands and called for the ghosts to take their places. Esther stalked offstage.
Murder & Sullivan Page 3