The Princess and the Poison

by Carol E. Ayer

  By the end of the show, I was in a buoyant mood. I tormented Donna by singing "Good Morning" as we gathered up our purses and programs. Finally, she gave up trying to shush me and joined in. Our fellow theatergoers were tolerant of our impromptu concert, probably because the production had put them in just as good a mood. A woman who couldn't have been younger than eighty sang a few lines with us, and we all giggled.

  Donna and I walked down to the stage, where the actors, still dressed in costume, streamed out to give autographs and talk to the audience members. Jenny, Kiara, and Rob were clustered together. Donna and I stood to the side and watched the three of them laugh and joke with each other, happily give out autographs, and accept kudos and hugs. They all seemed young and innocent and decidedly un-murderer-like.

  Jenny broke away to smoke a cigarette, and Donna and I approached.

  "Hi, Jenny," Donna said.

  "Hey. Donna, right? From the Jack Sprat?"

  "Right. This is Ashling, the owner and manager of StoryWorld. You probably saw her around."

  "Nice to meet you." She switched her cigarette to her left hand and shook with her right.

  "Nice to meet you too, Jenny," I said. "Good job tonight."

  "Thanks. I love this show. I don't get to sing and dance often enough."

  "You're very good." Okay, enough with the chitchat. I cut to the chase: "We just wanted to ask if you noticed anything unusual around the time of Katrina's death. Either the day of or the day before."

  "The detectives asked all of us about this already. I honestly don't have an answer for you." She took a drag on her cigarette.

  "What did you think of Katrina? It seems like no one really liked her."

  Jenny raised an eyebrow. "She was pretty mean. Especially to us actors who had the smaller parts. She criticized everything we did."

  "No one befriended her?" I asked. "Other than the members of her entourage?"

  "Not really. What's weird is Florence asked her over for dinner one night. Florence complained about her as much as the rest of us. She really didn't like her. But here she was, asking Katrina to come over for dinner. Katrina said no in a really snarky way. It was so rude."

  Hmm. Interesting. "Okay. Anything else?"

  Jenny just shook her head.

  "Jenny!" Rob called. "Come and meet the director of the Oak Heights Theatre. He might have some parts for us."

  "I'll be right there."

  I touched Jenny's arm. "Do you think Rob or Kiara would know anything more?"

  "I doubt it. As you can imagine, we've all talked about this until we were sick of the whole thing." She finished her cigarette, threw it to the ground, and stomped on it with her shoe.

  "Okay. Thanks, Jenny."

  We all said good-bye, and Donna and I turned for the parking lot.

  Once I'd scraped together enough money to release the car from captivity, and we'd waited in an interminable line to exit, we rolled out of the parking lot and headed back down the tortuous roads of the Springdale hills.

  "I feel the same way about them as I do about my staff—not very likely suspects," I said to Donna. "But what about this thing with Florence asking Katrina to dinner? Do you think it means anything? You don't think Florence was going to hurt her, do you?" I was feeling closer to Florence, but I knew I had to acknowledge the possibility she could be the killer.

  "Impossible to know. This detective stuff sure is hard work."

  "Yeah. I'll ask Florence about it when I get the chance."

  As we wound around the curves down the hill, Donna said out of the blue, "You know, if this were a movie, the brakes would have been cut. By the killer."

  I almost drove off the road at the very suggestion. I pumped the brakes a couple of times, but they were fine. "Donna, don't even say that… Uh-oh."

  "Oh God. Oh no. Is it the brakes?" Donna steeled herself by gripping the sides of her seat. Like that would help.

  I bit my lip to keep from laughing at her. "No, the brakes are fine. But I forgot to do something this afternoon."

  "What?"

  "Get gas." The car started to stall, and I coasted until I could reach the nearest turnout.

  "Ash. Really?" Donna said once we'd pulled over.

  "I know. I'm sorry. Too much on my mind. Hand me my cell. I'll just call the auto service."

  But try as I might, I couldn't get a signal, and neither could Donna with her phone. That was what you got for not remembering to gas up before a drive through the hills.

  I turned on my hazard lights, and we sat in our seats, staring out into the dark. This part of the road had no lighting whatsoever and could have doubled for Aladdin's Cave.

  "Now what?" I said. "Do you think someone will stop and help us?"

  Just as the question was out of my mouth, a car pulled over to the shoulder ahead of us. The driver got out and came walking over to us.

  "Oh, yay!" Donna said at the same time I said, "Uh-oh."

  I'd recognized the silhouette of our rescuer's mop of curly hair.

  The driver had a similar reaction to mine when she leaned in my window. "You've got to be kidding me."

  "Hi, Julie," I said with a big smile. "Fancy meeting you here." Of course. She'd been at the musical to see her actors perform.

  "Well, I'm not going to help you." She started back to her car.

  I opened the car door and called out, "Julie? Please? I sincerely apologize for accusing you. Let's talk it over. Give us a ride to StoryWorld. Please."

  She stood still for a second, obviously considering, and then came back. "Okay. Get in my car."

  Donna and I got our purses and clambered into Julie's car, me in the front and Donna in back behind me.

  I eyed Julie's steely profile as she started the car and pulled out onto the road.

  "So you saw the musical? It was really good, wasn't it?" I said. "Kiara, Jenny, and Rob did a nice job, don't you think?"

  She didn't answer.

  "Look, Julie. I mean it. I'm really sorry. I was completely off base and out of line. And we really, really would like you and the actors to come back for Snow White and Cinderella." Of course, I still wasn't convinced she wasn't the killer. She'd been pretty vicious toward me, as well as when speaking about Katrina. But onward. "Will you consider it?"

  "I suppose. But I want more of a cut for The Springdale Players. Five percent more."

  Cripes. I couldn't cut what we were giving the CLLC, nor what the seniors' troupe would get. StoryWorld would have to take the hit. But what could I do? It was better than canceling the plays.

  "Okay," I agreed. "So we'll see all of you back at the park? The detectives have released the stage as a crime scene. You can come back to rehearse."

  "If we must."

  Julie suddenly accelerated as we reached the next curve.

  "Julie! What are you doing?" I screamed. Just as Donna had done, I gripped the sides of my seat. Not so funny anymore.

  She rounded the curve, tires squealing, and sped up some more.

  "Stop!" Donna cried.

  I didn't know about her, but I was feeling completely nauseated. Why did I have to eat a club sandwich and French fries right before we went to the show? Of course, I hadn't anticipated at the time that we'd be at the mercy of a maniacal driver a few short hours later.

  Julie continued in the same manner as we descended the hill, careening much too fast around every curve. Did she have a death wish? It certainly seemed like she had a death wish for us. Donna and I alternately begged her to slow down and yelled at her to stop to let us out. Somehow, we reached the bottom of the hill without crashing and without Donna or me having an aneurysm or vomiting all over ourselves.

  "Julie, what the hell was that?" I asked as she slowed to a stop at a traffic light.

  She looked over at me and smiled. "What the hell was what?"

  I gritted my teeth. "You know what."

  We drove on in silence until we reached StoryWorld.

  I told Julie where to drop us off,
and she barely slowed to a stop at Donna's car. Donna and I quickly got out, and Julie peeled off with not so much as an "I'm sorry I almost killed you" or even a good-bye.

  Donna and I faced each other.

  "You really know how to show a girl a fun time," Donna said. "I could use a glass of wine and a hot bath right about now."

  "You said it. Let's call the auto service and get my car taken care of. Then we can finally go home and put an end to this day."

  CHAPTER NINE

  Late the next morning, as I was pondering whether Julie was a cold-blooded killer or just a singularly unpleasant person who got her kicks from scaring the passengers in her car, Donna came into the office carrying a cardboard box labeled Longfellow Napkins.

  I asked the obvious question: "What's that?"

  "Before I tell you, I have something else to discuss."

  "Okay. Shoot."

  "I talked to Marcus earlier. Julie followed through, and everyone's back."

  "What? You did? Why? I thought you said he couldn't have done it. He was sick the day before and the day of the murder."

  "Would you shut up so I can tell you?" She grinned to show she was kidding. "I took him aside and asked him about Julie. He admitted she'd been angry about Katrina getting the commercials. And she quit acting after she lost that part. But then she moved up here and met her husband, to whom she's apparently devoted. So, although Katrina wasn't her favorite person—especially because of the way she'd been acting up here—Julie didn't care that much anymore about the commercials because she wouldn't have met her husband if she'd stayed in Hollywood."

  "In other words, Julie moves down the suspect list. Just because she's as reckless a driver as Mr. Toad doesn't mean she's a murderer too."

  "I think so. Good news, huh?" Donna gave me a halfhearted smile. We both knew the more suspects we eliminated, the worse it was for her.

  "Well, what about the box?"

  "I need your help. Again. For something more."

  "Of course. You know I'll do anything. What's in there?"

  She upended the box next to my computer. Entertainment magazines, movie ticket stubs, and DVDs of Katrina's films and TV show spilled across the desk.

  I gaped at Donna as I fingered a Katrina Irvine calendar from the year before.

  "I told you I was a fan," she said softly.

  "A fan, yeah, but this… I mean, Donna, it's like you're fourteen!"

  "I know, I know. And can you imagine if the detectives found this stuff? They'd think I'm some crazy stalker or something, and they'd arrest us for sure. Please, will you throw it all away for me? Here, in the StoryWorld dumpster? Just in case I'm being watched outside my house. Or they're going through our garbage."

  "You think the detectives are watching? And going through your trash?"

  "I don't know." She shook her head sadly. "Just to be safe. Please. I probably should have done it sooner."

  I nodded. "Of course."

  She left quietly. I suspected that every time her upbeat humor had lightened a situation since the murder, it had all been a cover for the way she was really feeling: miserable. She sure put up a better front than I ever could have.

  Dinah jumped up on my desk and rubbed against the corner of a DVD jewel case. I scratched her ears and placed her on the floor before she could jump into the box and claim it as her own. I repacked the box and closed it. Perhaps it was Donna's paranoia rubbing off on me, but I decided to take another box up to the dumpster too, just in case I was being watched. I found an empty box in the closet and filled it with trash from my garbage can. I went up to the dumpster and tossed in both boxes. Innocent Ashling, just clearing out the office closet and throwing things away.

  That evening, Donna called while I was finishing dinner. I'd picked up a burrito, a chile relleno, and a side of guacamole and chips at a restaurant near StoryWorld, and I was feeling quite pleased with my choices.

  "It's getting really bad," Donna moaned. "The police were just here. They searched our house and the garden and the greenhouse. And they took the computers and smartphones."

  "Oh, Donna. I'm so sorry."

  "I'm just glad I brought the box to you today. If I'd waited just a day longer…"

  "I know."

  Donna was quiet for a few beats. "This is surreal. I feel like I'm an actress in a movie."

  "Yeah, I know what you mean. Is Charlie doing okay? You haven't said much about how he's handling things."

  "You know him. He's a laid-back kind of guy most of the time, but this whole business is really getting to him. He doesn't much like being considered an accessory to murder. We've been arguing about getting a lawyer, ever since we were first called in to the police station. I think it's a good idea, but he seems to think it will make us look guilty. Not to mention it's expensive. I think it's worth it, but he doesn't. He snapped at me just now about it."

  This was new. I'd never known Charlie to raise his voice to Donna. He was completely lovesick for her. Whenever the three of us were together, he kept his arm around her and gave her frequent kisses and hugs. She felt the same for him. I'd never met a couple so close.

  I did my best to calm Donna down, promising I'd find the real killer and we could all go back to normal. I sure hoped I knew what I was talking about. We hung up.

  Feeling vaguely guilty now about my large dinner, I went into my bedroom and stared at myself in the full-length mirror. Turning to each side and then all around, I examined my stomach and hips. I certainly had put on a number of pounds, but I didn't think I looked too bad. I'd gained weight in my breasts, my tummy, and my rear, and the overall impression was a woman with curves. Nothing wrong with that. Of course, compared to Katrina and her entourage, I looked like The Cow Who Jumped over the Moon.

  I'd read once that girls in a remote Pacific island community hadn't suffered from eating disorders until television was introduced to them. Then the rates of anorexia and bulimia skyrocketed. How many girls and women around the world had watched Katrina's TV show and movies, seen her perfect body, and felt inferior, maybe to the point of developing eating disorders? Katrina may have inspired a lot of her fans, but she likely had damaged some too.

  * * *

  The next morning before the actors arrived, I went to the stage to clear away Katrina's memorial and put the stanchions and rope back up. The fog had rolled in overnight, and while I was grateful for the change in weather, I regretted not bringing a sweater. As I walked, I rubbed my bare arms. Although we'd opened for the day, the park wasn't very crowded yet, no doubt a result of the inclement weather. Maybe attendance would pick up later when the fog cleared. Seagulls squawked overhead as they searched in vain for leftover snacks. By now, they usually had their choice of breakfast tidbits abandoned by our customers.

  Katrina's memorial had grown even bigger, and it now covered almost the entire Pinocchio area. A few visitors walked around, looking at the cards and the stuffed animals. A man about my age knelt on the ground close to the stage and placed a pretty bouquet of white gerbera daisies next to a group of candles. He looked up, startled, when I approached.

  "I'm sorry," I said. "I'm afraid I have to take down the memorial. We're going to start having performances here again."

  The man wiped a tear from his eye. "Oh, okay. Sure. I understand." He picked up the daisies.

  "You were a big fan?"

  He shook his head. "I was her boyfriend."

  "Oh! I'm so sorry for your loss. I didn't know she had a boyfriend."

  The man looked up to the sky, perhaps to send a message to Katrina, assuming she'd gone in that direction. Then I censored myself. She hadn't been that bad. It wasn't like she had killed anyone.

  "Yeah, well, no one was supposed to know." He pushed a brown curl off his forehead. "Her agent and PR person thought it best she maintain her 'singlehood' status. Better for her image. For her fans to think she was available, I mean."

  I nodded soberly. Never in a million years could I have lived like that. I
wanted the world to know I loved Jamie and we were together. I enjoyed introducing him as my boyfriend, and I took every opportunity to work him into a conversation when we were apart. But Katrina's boyfriend seemed to have taken the secrecy in stride.

  Still kneeling, the man went on, "So I had to pretend Mariana was my girlfriend. That way I could be around Katrina."

  "Mariana?"

  "Katrina's manicurist. Mariana Almeida."

  "Oh, okay. I think I may have seen her but never met her. I should introduce myself. I'm Ashling Cleary, the owner and manager of StoryWorld."

  He stood and shook my hand. "Ryan. Ryan Rythersen." He gave me a thin smile. "It's a bit of a tongue twister. I don't know what my parents were thinking."

  "Nice to meet you, Ryan. I'm sorry it's under these circumstances."

  "Thank you." He looked completely lost, as though he had no idea what to do, either at the present moment or for the rest of his life. Feeling "oogy," I decided I could befriend him and maybe get some answers at the same time. I'd take down the memorial and put up the stanchions later.

  "Would you like some coffee?" I asked. "My treat."

  "Yeah. Sounds good."

  He handed the daisies to a young girl admiring one of the teddy bears. She rewarded him with a gap-toothed grin, and we started for the Jack Sprat.

  Before I got into the stuff I really wanted to ask, I opened with a banal question. "What kind of work do you do?"

  "I was working as an assistant to a producer. I quit two days ago. He was so inflexible. He wouldn't even let me come up here to visit Katrina during rehearsals. I finally managed to make it to StoryWorld for a few hours the Friday afternoon before she…died, but I had to go back before I saw her perform. I wasn't even here when she passed." He choked up on the last few words.

  I gave him a sympathetic smile and a pat on the back. At the same time, I wondered about the timing. Could this be a new suspect?

  At the Jack Sprat, we asked Donna for a couple of vanilla lattes and sat in the slipper chairs.

  "I just can't understand why someone would kill Katrina," Ryan said after a minute, staring at the pot of carnations in front of him. He took out the Cowardly Lion cupcake pick and examined it. "She was such a sweet and gentle person."