Much Ado About Murder

by Elizabeth J Duncan

  Paula was instantly alert. She pulled a thick engagement book with an elastic band around it from her purse and flipped it open. “How does Friday the thirtieth sound?”

  “Fine.”

  “I’ll send Barnes to pick up Audrey, Maxine, and Albright. And Ray could drive you and Harvey and his wife.”

  “I’ll have to check with Ray. I hope he’s not working an evening shift, but if he is, perhaps he could switch with someone.”

  “Any menu thoughts? Since our special guests are English, they might like lamb. Or roast beef and Yorkshire pudding?”

  “I’ve got a feeling Audrey eats very light. Maybe fish? She could have hers just plain grilled if she wishes, and the rest of us could have a sauce.”

  “That’s a thought. Or we could have a choice of entrée. And soup as a starter. I’ll get the invitations written, and you can hand deliver them” She checked her watch. “I’d better let Barnes know I’m ready to go home. I hear he’s been spending a lot of time in your canteen lately.”

  “Yes, he was going on about how you can’t get decent pie these days.”

  Paula laughed. “Maybe I’d better suggest he spend his waiting time walking in the grounds rather than eating pie.”

  “Shall I ring the cafeteria to see if he’s there?” Paula nodded, and a few minutes later, Charlotte informed her that Barnes was on his way.

  “Fine. I’ll be off. See you soon.”

  Charlotte wrapped up a few things in her office and then headed home. As she stepped on the path that led to her bungalow, a figure hurtled toward her. A moment later, she recognized Mattie, the young actress who had sat beside Audrey at the cast meeting that morning. Mattie had joined the company after the previous ingenue had died, and Aaron designed a Juliet dress for her. Charlotte had wondered at the time if there was something more between them, but if there had been, it had mellowed into friendship—as far as she could tell, they were not romantically involved. Aaron was, however, fond of her. That much Charlotte did know.

  Head down, her hair loose and falling out of the clip that had held it in place on top of her head earlier in the day, Mattie charged on. She did not look at Charlotte, who leapt aside as she rushed past. She let out a choking sob, and Charlotte realized only then she was crying.

  “Mattie!” she called out after the girl. But Mattie didn’t turn around and sprinted in the direction of the hotel.

  Charlotte gazed after her for a moment and then hurried home to Rupert.

  After receiving an enthusiastic greeting, she clipped on his lead and they walked through the grounds, keeping to the path until they reached the star bungalow. The curtains were open, and the elaborate bouquet Aaron had delivered could be glimpsed in a vase on the table in front of the window.

  They really are beautiful, she thought as she and Rupert continued walking to their usual turnaround spot at the edge of the property. I wonder who sent them.

  Chapter 7

  The next morning’s rehearsal went ahead as scheduled, although the unresolved Civil War issue hung over the proceedings like smoke on a battlefield. A few actors seemed confused and withdrawn, while others responded enthusiastically to Edmund’s hands-on, relentlessly demanding directing style.

  While Aaron assisted with the running of the rehearsal, Charlotte noted costume change requirements.

  Mattie, cast in the role of Beatrice’s cousin Hero, appeared sullen and uncooperative in response to Edmund’s direction. And on Audrey, he seemed particularly hard, criticizing and belittling her.

  Finally, to everyone’s relief, he called a twenty-minute break. A few actors left the rehearsal room; others sat on the floor and thumbed through their phones. Audrey, having spotted Charlotte, made a beeline for her, dropped into the seat beside her, and unscrewed the cap to her water bottle.

  “This is hard work,” she said, “and it’s certainly not fun. Nothing like what I expected. He certainly wasn’t like this the last time we worked together.” She took a long sip and shifted slightly toward Charlotte. “I must apologize to you. I should have trusted your judgment and gone with the American director you recommended.”

  Charlotte tipped her head in acknowledgment. “It’s good of you to say. I wouldn’t have dreamed he’d be so authoritarian with the cast. I expected his style would be much more modern, more democratic. Consultative.”

  “I don’t suppose there’s any way you could get him to leave? Can his contract be canceled?”

  Charlotte shook her head. “We’ve looked into that, and I don’t think so.”

  Audrey groaned. “If only he could just be made to go away.”

  “How does the cast feel about his Civil War idea?”

  “Some are okay with it, but most either aren’t convinced or hate it.”

  “It’s going to cause a huge problem with costumes, I can tell you.”

  “I wanted to speak to you about that. If it does have to go ahead, I hope you’ll be kind and I won’t look too ridiculous.”

  “Of course. That goes without saying.”

  “Good. Now there’s something I wanted to ask you. You’ve lived here in your bungalow in the grounds for some time, I believe. Have you ever felt, well, unsafe?”

  “Not really,” Charlotte replied, although it had occurred to her many times that the bungalows were vulnerable. The grounds were open to anyone, day and night; the property wasn’t fitted with motion detectors or CCTV cameras; and the old windows on the two bungalows that hadn’t been refurbished—hers and the director’s—could be opened easily from the outside. “Why do you ask? Has something happened to make you uneasy?”

  “No, no. I just think my bungalow isn’t very secure. If an intruder wanted to break in, I don’t think he’d have too much trouble.”

  “The windows on your bungalow are new,” Charlotte said. “They’re sturdy and the glass is tempered. I think you’re pretty secure.”

  “A woman like me who is a bit of a celebrity, a public figure, well, we have to be careful,” she said. “I learned a long time ago not to respond too warmly to an attentive fan.”

  “They can get the wrong idea,” agreed Charlotte. “I know. I’ve seen it.”

  “It starts small,” Audrey said, “and innocently. You don’t realize what’s happening until it’s too late. That’s why I don’t respond to people on social media. They think you’re their best friend and that they have a personal relationship with you. And then the day you don’t respond, they take it the wrong way and lash out at you. Or worse.”

  Charlotte shifted in her seat and leveled a steady gaze at her. “Has something happened? If it has, we need to know.”

  “I’m not sure. I received a beautiful bouquet yesterday, and at first, I thought nothing of it, really.”

  “I saw it when it was being delivered,” said Charlotte. “It was lovely.”

  “I’m not sure who sent it. The card just said, ‘From an Admirer.’”

  “I expect you’ve had lots of those over the years. Delivered to your dressing rooms and hotels.”

  “Yes, I have, but I always find it a bit unsettling. I don’t like it. I prefer to know who the flowers are from. If the sender doesn’t reveal his name, I always assume they’re from a married man.” She let out a nervous giggle. “But then this morning I received this note.”

  She reached into the pocket of her jacket and handed over a folded piece of paper. Charlotte unfolded it and read, I hope you liked the flowers. They were the best I could find but not nearly as beautiful as you. It was written in a legible, steady hand.

  “Oh, dear. When you say you received it, received it how, exactly?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Well, was it hand delivered or did it come in the post?”

  “Oh, I see. It was hand delivered.”

  “Was it left for you here in the theater or at your bungalow?”

  “In the theater. It was in my pigeonhole. The A to G slot. You know the ones. In the little room off t
he lobby where the staff collect their post and messages. Not that there’s much of it these days. Post, that is.”

  “Did it come in an envelope?”

  “No, it was just like that. Folded, with my name on it. But it got me thinking. Do you know if any other actresses who performed here received notes like this?”

  “No, not that I know of, but you’re the first well-known actress we’ve had in quite some time. I do recall one actor, though, who used to receive rather saucy notes filled with double entendres from middle-aged women, but he just found them amusing and didn’t take much notice. Used to read them out loud at lunchtime, and everybody had a laugh. Somehow, though, it’s different when the notes are sent to a woman.” She handed the note back. “The tone can seem a little more menacing. They can often be taken two ways, although this one does seem harmless and genuine.”

  “Well, it’s probably something and nothing. One doesn’t like to make a fuss.”

  Aaron approached Audrey to tell her the break was over and the director wanted her. With a small sigh, she got to her feet and looked down at Charlotte.

  “I wondered if you were able to set up that interview with the local reporter.”

  As she spoke, Charlotte had a flash of inspiration on who might have sent the flowers.

  “I’ll ring him right away. Are you free later today for an interview, say four o’clock, if I can set it up? You could use my office.”

  “I could be available at that time, but why your office? Why don’t you send him along to my bungalow?”

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. It would be better if you met on neutral ground. If you’re not keen on my office, how about the greenroom? It’s not used very often, and I’ll tidy it up over lunch and put an ‘Occupied’ sign on the door so nobody will come in and mess it up this afternoon.”

  “Audrey!” an impatient Edmund called. “If you wouldn’t mind, you’re holding us up!”

  “Coming!” She turned back to Charlotte. “Fine. The greenroom it is.”

  *

  Fletcher Macmillan, arts reporter for the Hudson Valley Echo, kept pace with Charlotte as she escorted him to the greenroom. “Of course, such short notice doesn’t give one much time to prepare, but fortunately, I’d already started my research, so I’m well up to speed. Got loads of files and backstories on Audrey. I would have called myself to set up an interview but wanted to give her lots of time to settle in.”

  “Well, she’s just in here,” said Charlotte, knocking on the greenroom door and then opening it. The room was used occasionally by actors waiting to go onstage or who had just come off. Charlotte had cleared away water bottles and coffee cups and run a duster over the furniture, and it looked presentable enough. Audrey, seated on the sofa with her legs crossed and turned to one side, looked up as Fletcher entered. He offered her the flowers he was carrying and, after Charlotte had introduced them, sat in the chair facing the sofa. Audrey admired the flowers, then held them up to Charlotte.

  “Would you mind putting these in water for me?”

  “Of course.” She took the flowers and, with a “Right, then, I’ll leave you to it,” closed the door quietly behind her. On the walk back to her office, she considered the flowers in her hand. The moment Audrey mentioned “reporters,” she was sure the starstruck Fletcher Macmillan had sent the presentation bouquet. But if he’d done that, would he show up today with a supermarket offering? When she reached her office, she placed the flowers in water, then picked up the telephone and called A Floral Affair, the flower shop whose name she had seen on the presentation bouquet Aaron had delivered, and asked who had sent the flowers to Audrey Ashley at Jacobs Grand Hotel.

  The florist, coolly professional, apologized and said she couldn’t possibly reveal that information. The sender had requested anonymity. Charlotte replaced the receiver and, picking up one of the scrap pieces of paper she used for notes to herself, wrote from memory the words on the note Audrey had shown her: I hope you liked the flowers. They were the best I could find but not nearly as beautiful as you.

  She exhaled slowly and asked herself how she would feel if she received a message containing those words from an unknown person. Perhaps they were meant in a harmless way, but she didn’t like the way they made her feel. As beautiful as you.

  *

  As Charlotte and Rupert stepped out of their bungalow for a short before-dinner walk, Ray’s marked police car pulled into the parking lot. Ray’s suggestion to Harvey that he park the car in front of the building had been welcome, and since its regular overnight appearance, late-night field parties in the grounds, with underage drinking and bonfires, had stopped.

  Charlotte’s heart flooded with love as she watched him walk toward her. The slanting sun glinted off his metal shirt badge, and she admired the way he carried himself with confidence. He looked fit and handsome in his uniform, and as he got closer, his face broke into a broad smile at the sight of her. When he reached her, he slipped his arm around her waist, pulled her closer, and kissed her. After he and Rupert had exchanged greetings, they stood together for a few minutes on the path.

  “We were just going to take a little walk and then do something about dinner,” Charlotte said.

  “Well, why don’t I get changed while you’re walking him and then I’ll take you out to dinner,” Ray suggested. “We haven’t gone into town for a while. You choose the restaurant.”

  “I’d like that,” said Charlotte. “I’ll think about where I’d like to eat and let you know when we get back from our walk.”

  As they turned to go, the side door of the hotel opened and Audrey emerged.

  “Wait a minute before you go in,” said Charlotte. “I should introduce you to our star actress.”

  “Please don’t ask her to join us for dinner,” Ray said in a low voice. “I know it would be the nice thing to do, but I really want you all to myself.”

  Charlotte laughed. “Oh, you are so sweet. Paula’s inviting everyone for dinner on the thirtieth anyway, so you’ll get to have dinner with her then. That reminds me, I need to talk to her about that.”

  Audrey had now reached them, and Charlotte introduced Ray to her as the town’s chief of police.

  Audrey’s deep-blue eyes widened slightly as she smiled up at him. She then gave Charlotte a questioning look that Charlotte found hard to read. Was it to do with the flowers and note she’d received from her unknown admirer? Was she signaling Charlotte not to say anything about that? Not that Charlotte would have. If Audrey decided she wanted something reported to the police, she was perfectly capable of doing that herself. “How did your interview with Fletcher Macmillan go?” Charlotte asked.

  “Oh, pretty standard. He didn’t ask me anything I hadn’t been asked before, although I must say, he’s terribly earnest.”

  “I should have warned you about him. He’s the most dreadful Anglophile, but he actually writes a pretty good feature story, and he’s a stringer for the New York Times.” Audrey perked up. “Anyway, Rupert and I were just about to head off for our walk,” Charlotte said, “and if you’re on your way home, we’ll accompany you to your bungalow. There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

  Ray watched them leave and then disappeared into the bungalow he shared with Charlotte.

  “About Fletcher Macmillan,” said Charlotte. “Did you get a sense that he could have sent you the flowers?”

  “He could have, I suppose. He was more than friendly. Almost fawning, I’d say.”

  “Sounds like him. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that Paula Van Dusen is giving a dinner party for us at Oakland. It’s like a beautiful English country house. You’ll love it and feel right at home. You and Maxine will be getting a proper invitation soon, but in the meantime, I hope you’ll keep the thirtieth free.”

  “Oh, that sounds lovely. I’ll look forward to it. It’ll be one of my last evenings out. I don’t go out much when we’re in rehearsals, and of course once the play opens, well, your evenings
are spoken for, aren’t they?” She gave a helpless, what-can-you-do kind of shrug.

  “The thing is,” said Charlotte, “it will also be a good opportunity for all of us to work on Edmund. To try to get him to change his mind about how he wants to present the play.”

  “Then I’m definitely in. And Maxine will be too. She spoke to him last night and tried to persuade him not to go ahead with the daft thing, but he’s determined that’s how he wants it done.”

  Chapter 8

  Charlotte spent the first hour at work the next morning tidying up her office and trying to catch up on her reading. But her thoughts always returned to the costuming for the play if the Civil War version went ahead. As long as she held out hope that Edmund Albright could be persuaded to change his mind, she saw no point in beginning work on the project. And what a lot of work it could turn out to be.

  She was starting to think about making another cup of tea when the door opened slowly and Mattie slipped in. Her face was drawn and pale. Charlotte reached out to her.

  “Mattie, are you unwell? What’s the matter?” Mattie’s eyes darted to the open door, so Charlotte shut it firmly and locked it. “Sit down,” Charlotte said. “I was just about to make some tea. I’ll be right back.” She dashed into the little cupboard off the main workroom that housed a small sink, fridge, kettle, and microwave. She filled the kettle, switched it on, and returned to Mattie, who was seated in Aaron’s chair, her head resting on her hand.

  “What’s happened?” Charlotte asked, crouching beside her and resting a hand on her shoulder. “Did somebody say something? Do something?”

  Mattie’s eyes filled with tears that brimmed in her lower eyelids until one slipped over the edge and rolled down her cheek. She wiped it away with her fingers. “Here,” Charlotte said, holding out a box of tissues, “please use these. I hate to see people mopping up tears with their hands.” She set the tissues on the desk. “Take a moment to compose yourself and I’ll be right back.”