The Princess and the Poison

by Carol E. Ayer

  An hour and a half later, standing with Donna and Scott behind the last row of our outdoor theater, I looked around at the audience. In every crowded row, children leaned forward in their seats, rapt with attention, as they watched the action unfold. The parents seemed equally entranced. The only audience member apparently not enjoying the play stood to the side of the first row. A pretty woman who looked to be in her mid-to-late twenties, she seemed downright irritated to be there. She looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn't place her.

  Donna caught me looking. "That's Laura, Katrina's understudy."

  "Oh, okay. I thought I recognized her. I remember her now from the PR material."

  "She looks like she's been sucking lemons, doesn't she? I guess she's mad she isn't the star. Whenever I was over at the stage, she looked the same way. But there's always the possibility something will happen to Katrina."

  I nodded. "Right. She may still get her chance."

  My anxiety from earlier in the day subsided as I became engrossed in the play. The princess was born, and the evil fairy pronounced her curse. One of the good fairies countered the curse by saying the princess would only fall asleep and not die. The curtain dropped.

  Next, one of The Springdale Players crossed the stage with a sign reading 17 Years Later. The curtain opened, and Katrina walked on stage to overwhelming applause. Even Donna and I managed a few claps. Katrina approached the old woman at the spinning wheel but had to wait to speak until the clapping died down.

  Finally, Katrina and the old woman recited their lines. Then Katrina stuck herself with the spindle and fell backward onto the bed. The curtain closed.

  "She's good. I'll give her that," Scott whispered to me.

  I nodded my agreement.

  Several more scenes followed, including some humorous ones of various princes attempting unsuccessfully to make it through the castle gates.

  Once more, one of The Springdale Players crossed the stage, this time with a sign reading Many Years Later.

  The scene switched back to inside the castle, where Katrina lay motionless on the bed. Bradley strode on stage and spoke his lines.

  "It's just like the snow globe," I whispered to Scott, and he squeezed my hand.

  Bradley leaned down to kiss Katrina, but she didn't respond. A gasp traveled through the crowd.

  "That little witch," Donna said more loudly than was appropriate. "She's deliberately not waking up. Probably making him kiss her more."

  "I knew it. I was afraid she'd pull something like this." My heart started pounding again, and sweat broke out on my forehead. Would Bradley somehow be able to cover? He leaned down to kiss her again, but once more, she didn't respond.

  "I don't think she's doing this on purpose," Scott said.

  "Yeah. I'm afraid there's something wrong with her," I agreed.

  "Ashling, we'd better get this crowd to disperse. And we should call 9-1-1. Now."

  * * *

  The next few hours passed in a blur of emergency responders, questions asked and answered to the best of our ability, the shepherding of customers out of StoryWorld's gates, the calming of my excitable staff, and in the end, Katrina's departure in a coroner's van. Whether it was from shock or adrenaline or Scott's soothing presence, I managed to oversee the aftermath of Katrina's death in a (mostly) competent manner. At one point, while attempting to avoid a clog at the main exit, I directed a large group of customers to the back gate, stepped to the right to let them pass, lost my footing, and fell into the Little Mermaid pond, much to the amusement of several children who found it even more entertaining than anything that had come before.

  Finally, Scott, Donna, and I were the only ones left in the park. Scott perched on a corner of my desk, and Donna slumped into the visitor's chair. Filled with restless energy, I paced back and forth across the office floor.

  "She was so young," Donna murmured. "But you sometimes hear about these undiagnosed heart problems in young people."

  Scott nodded. "It must be a nightmare for the parents. Parents are supposed to outlive their children. That's the natural way of things."

  I flashed on the faces of Jamie's parents at his memorial service, remembering how completely devastated they'd been. Just as quickly, I shooed the painful thought away.

  "It has to be that, right?" I stopped my pacing. "A heart attack, I mean?"

  "That's what the responders thought," Donna said. "What do you mean, Ash? What else would it be?"

  "She wasn't exactly running a marathon at the time. She was pretending to be asleep. I thought when it's one of those undiagnosed heart conditions, the person dies when they're playing sports. At least, that's what I've always read."

  "But what else could it be?" Donna repeated.

  I voiced the suspicion I'd been concealing since the incident. "It's just that she wasn't the most liked person around here."

  "You're talking about murder?" Scott asked.

  "Yeah. It crossed my mind."

  "But even the police didn't think it was murder," Donna said. "How could someone murder her during the play? There wouldn't have been an opportunity."

  "She obviously wasn't stabbed or shot," Scott said.

  "What about poison?" I asked. "Something she ate or drank before she went on, maybe. And it kicked in later."

  "No, I don't think so," Donna said. "She didn't eat or drink anything during or before the performance. I brought her the usual latte this morning, but she said she didn't want it. She said she doesn't eat or drink anything on the day she performs until she's finished working. And she was fine all day yesterday, as far as I know."

  "Yeah, and she seemed well this morning before the play," I agreed.

  "No one injected her with anything during the play," Scott said. "Or if it happened when she wasn't on stage, someone would have seen it. All the other actors would have been there."

  I considered. "What about medicine? Maybe she took medication before the performance, and someone had poisoned it."

  Scott shook his head slowly. "You know the theory of Occam's Razor? The simplest explanation is usually right. She probably had a heart attack, just like everyone thought."

  "Wait!" I said. "What if she was allergic to peanuts and the kiss did it? Maybe Bradley ate a peanut butter sandwich before he went on stage, and when he kissed her, it killed her! I've read of that happening."

  Donna frowned. "But wouldn't we have heard about that? That she was allergic? I'm sure her highness would have conveyed that to me. Besides, I think the EMTs would have seen the signs of an allergic reaction."

  I paced around in a circle. Then I stopped, hit by a new idea. "Her fingernails! I noticed this morning she had a new manicure. Maybe her manicurist put poison in her nail polish, and she bit her nails and inhaled the poison." But this too seemed unlikely. Her fingernails had always looked perfect. No, Katrina didn't bite her nails.

  "They'll do an autopsy," Scott said. "So we'll find out."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Katrina's death was all over the news that evening and the next day. Every one of the local channels covered it, as well as most of the national ones. My strict policy of not allowing media inside the park hadn't stopped the reporters from interviewing witnesses outside the gates, including, to my great distress, some of my own staff. I watched the Channel 14 news before I left for work, and my jaw dropped when I saw Cameron's mug fill up my TV screen. He uttered the words "dude" and "awesome" (the latter of which surely wasn't the best way to describe Katrina's demise), and I immediately muted the sound. I didn't need to hear his comments, but I would have to deal with that problem ASAP.

  As far as I knew, no one had speculated that anything other than a heart attack had killed Katrina. Donna and Scott seemed satisfied with that explanation, but I just couldn't get over the feeling it was something more.

  * * *

  On the way to my folks' house for dinner that night, I slowed to a stop when I caught sight of a woman walking along the sidewalk, weaving slightly and d
rinking from what looked like a liquor bottle. I recognized her as Florence Windegarten, the actress from The Older but Wiser Seniors' troupe who had played the dual roles of the evil fairy and the old woman in Sleeping Beauty.

  I rolled down the passenger window and called out, "Florence? Hi. Ashling Cleary. I'm the manager at StoryWorld. Would you like a lift?"

  She shaded her eyes and looked into the car. "I'd sure appreciate it. I live on Acorn, real close. I went out for a walk, but I'm pretty tuckered now."

  A walk? To the liquor store, I assumed. I unlocked the door, and Florence slipped into the passenger's seat. I discreetly lowered the other window when the overwhelming smell of alcohol assaulted my nose, then pulled away from the curb.

  "Don't forget your seat belt," I said, noticing Florence hadn't fastened hers yet.

  "Never wear one. Too many rules in life."

  Some rules were for our own good, but I didn't say so. I'd be the one to get the ticket if we were pulled over, but we were only going a short distance. I decided to let it lie.

  After a minute, I said, "Pretty horrible what happened, wasn't it?"

  "You mean about the little bitch? I s'pose so."

  Wow. "Little bitch"? Katrina hadn't even been dead forty-eight hours yet. How about some compassion? Sure, I'd been annoyed by Katrina as most of us had, but Florence's attitude was a little extreme.

  "You don't seem too broken up about her death. Did you, um, have issues with her?"

  "I didn't like her—I don't mind sayin'. You knew her, right?"

  "I had a few interactions with her, but I didn't really know her. Or understand her. I thought she wanted to support the charity, but it didn't seem like she was very happy to be at StoryWorld."

  Florence leaned out the window, removed the rubber band from her ponytail, and let the slight breeze waft through the gray hair that grew well past her shoulders, an unconventional length for someone her age. I guessed her to be in her mid-seventies.

  "You think she was here out of the goodness of her heart?" Florence said. "She was doin' the plays for the publicity. Made her look good. That was her reason for doing anything nice, not 'cause she was nice."

  Interesting.

  Florence gave me directions, and we soon arrived at her two-level Victorian at the corner of Elm and Acorn.

  "Thanks for the ride." She tumbled out of the car, leaving her empty bottle but spilling the entire contents of her crocheted purse. I turned off the engine and went around to the passenger side to help her pick up a flask, a tissue pack, her Sleeping Beauty script, a wallet, a checkbook, a pen, and an address book. She thanked me and tottered toward her house. She turned after she'd reached the porch, and we waved good-bye.

  I drove on to my mother and stepfather's house. My stomach growled, anticipating the home-cooked meal my mother had promised. Mom was kneeling in the front garden and had her back to me when I alighted from the car. She looked over her shoulder and smiled.

  "Hi, sweetheart."

  "Hey, Mom."

  She came over and pulled me into a bear hug. I inhaled the flower perfume she'd worn since I was a child. The scent never failed to calm me, and for a moment, I felt at peace.

  "How are you, sweetheart? You're a little early. We didn't expect you for another hour."

  "I didn't feel like hanging around work after what happened yesterday. I'll have extra paperwork tomorrow, but it's all right." I brushed some dirt off the knees of her jeans. "What are you planting, anyway?"

  Mom tucked a few strands of her short brown hair behind her ears. "Cucumber seeds! And it's okay that you're early. Tim's getting the grill ready, and I've got some chips and guacamole to start with."

  "Sounds great. I'm famished."

  "I'm done here. I'll come inside with you and clean up."

  * * *

  At dinner, my parents asked about Katrina's death, and I gave them a brief history of how she had behaved at StoryWorld and why I thought it possible someone killed her.

  "She said something to Katie—I don't know what exactly—and Katie now refuses to be scheduled at the same time as Brittany. They used to be the best of friends! But now I have to schedule them on alternate days."

  "What a hassle," Mom said. "Those schedules are so tricky to begin with." She was right. My schedules usually ended up looking like a baseball lineup in an extra-inning game. The summer was particularly hard as my employees often preferred going to the beach over coming to work and sometimes didn't inform me until the last minute—like when they were due to arrive for their shift.

  After I'd told my parents all of Katrina's transgressions, I finished by describing my drive with Florence and her comments about the star.

  "You know, Florence Windegarten used to be quite a well-known actress," Tim said. "Isn't that right, Sarah?"

  My mom nodded. "She was in that one adaptation of the Shakespeare production, remember? Gertrude in Hamlet, wasn't it?"

  "Yes, and she was Willy Loman's wife in that remake of Death of a Salesman." Tim passed me the rolls, and I chose the largest one.

  "From what I understand, she came to acting late," Mom said. "But she immediately got some good roles and favorable press for her performances. I guess she got too old for Hollywood, though, and ended up in the seniors' troupe."

  "She didn't say anything about that. We just talked about Katrina. Florence really didn't like her. Katrina sure didn't make any friends in the short time she was around."

  "You really think someone might have killed her, Jack-O?" Tim asked. This was my stepdad's nickname for me, dating back to when we'd met on Halloween and I'd been incompetently carving a pumpkin. I looked at him fondly. A diehard runner, he was wearing his favorite Bay to Breakers T-shirt from 1986, now so threadbare I could see through it in spots.

  I shook my head. "I don't know. People were pretty angry with her. And she wasn't open to listening to anything I had to say when I tried to get her in line."

  Tim raised an eyebrow. He knew me too well.

  "Yeah, I know. Not my strong point. And I wasn't successful with Katrina. I've got to get used to dealing with difficult people, though. With Marissa not around, I've gotta do it. I'm the boss."

  My mom beamed at me, pride in her eyes. Her father had founded StoryWorld in the 1950s, and our family had owned and managed the park since its inception. Mom had been happily in charge for many years but had to quit when she was diagnosed with breast cancer. I took over, not particularly willingly. Although I loved StoryWorld when I was little, I never envisioned devoting my whole life to the park. But that was then. I was now fully committed and couldn't imagine doing anything else. And, fortunately, Mom had been in remission for many years, a tendency to become overtired the only indication she'd ever been sick.

  "Got any races planned?" I asked Tim, aware I was changing the subject. But I was tired of talking about Katrina.

  "Just the Springdale Sprint in early August. How about joining me, Jack-O? It's been a while since we've run together."

  I stifled a snicker. I didn't think I'd be able to run a block, let alone three miles. Despite its name, the Springdale Sprint covered five kilometers. "I'll keep it in mind." Yeah, I'd keep it in mind to avoid it.

  I left my parents' house about an hour later, filled with warm food and good feelings. The three of us were such good friends—more like pals than parents and child. But my good mood soon evaporated when the lead story on the ten o'clock news was once again Katrina's untimely death.

  * * *

  Given my suspicions that Katrina was murdered, I wasn't all that surprised when two things of interest happened a few days later.

  First, Cameron called from The Castle while I was working on my schedule for the following week.

  "Boss, some CSI dudes are here, just like on TV!"

  "What do they want?"

  "They said they need to go to the stage. Can I leave and take them over there?"

  "No! Just tell them where it is, and say I'll be right there to meet
them."

  I was delayed by a phone call, and by the time I got to the stage, the team had already set up crime scene tape and was turning curious customers away. I sidled up to the guy who appeared to be in charge.

  "Hi, I'm Ashling, the owner and manager of the park. I'm happy to assist you in any way possible."

  "Good, you can unlock the back door for us."

  We walked around to the back of the stage, and I unlocked the door. But when I didn't leave, the guy said, "That's all we need. We've got it under control."

  This was essentially the same answer I received the eight or nine times I returned, a very reasonable number in my opinion. Unfortunately, no one else seemed to share that opinion, and I was brusquely dismissed each time. They left a few hours later.

  Around three in the afternoon that same day, I took a call from a Detective Joseph Ochoa. He asked me to come down to the Springdale Police Station at my earliest convenience to answer a few questions. Good little civilian that I was, I told Cameron he'd be in charge of the park for a while, deflected his barrage of questions about the CSI team (none of which I could answer anyway), and set out immediately.

  The petite policewoman at the front desk sported short dark hair that didn't quite cover her somewhat pointy ears. She introduced herself as Charlene Mueller, but I couldn't help but think of Rumpelstiltskin whenever I looked at her. A cute, female version of Rumpelstiltskin, but still Rumpelstiltskin. She directed me into an interrogation room, making small talk about the weather and our local baseball teams along the way. I felt rather put out that she didn't offer me anything besides conversation, like coffee or pastries or spun gold.

  I wasn't good with waiting. I looked in my purse for something to read, but I didn't have a book or my e-reader or even a takeout menu. Because I still owned a flip phone, I couldn't even get on the internet. Sorting through the contents of my bag, I took out a few old receipts and used tissues. There wasn't a trash can in the room, so I ended up putting everything back. I memorized every stain on the table in front of me and every bit of chipped paint on the walls.