“Maybe not, but police do get suicides wrong. How many times have you seen stories on the television where the police determine someone committed suicide and other experts say that’s impossible? That the victim would have had to have arms eight feet long to pull the trigger at that angle, but someone else—the murderer, let’s say—could have it done quite easily?”
“I suppose that happens occasionally.”
“I think the police got it wrong this time.”
“Do you base that on anything, or is it just a hunch?”
“Well, first of all, guns are such an American thing. Edmund was English. If Edmund had wanted to commit suicide, which I don’t think he did, I don’t think he’d have shot himself. That’s just not what an English person would do.
“And there’s something else bothering me,” said Charlotte. “Did the police process the bungalow properly? Or did they just go in there assuming it was a suicide and then look for things to confirm their theory so they could get everything wrapped up quickly?”
“What are you getting at?”
“There was a teapot on the table. Still had a bit of tea left in it. But there were no teacups. It looked to me as if someone had been in that bungalow drinking tea with Edmund shortly before he died. And quite possibly, that person killed him.”
“Wow, that’s a big leap to make from a teapot.”
“It is, but you see, Ray, there were two tea bags in the pot. Now an English person making tea just for himself would use one tea bag, not two. And, God forbid, he might even just make the tea in a cup and not even bother with the teapot. And here’s something else: If Edmund was alone, washed his teacup, and put it away, why wouldn’t he empty the teapot and rinse it out at the same time? That’s just how you do it. You’ve seen me do that a hundred times.”
Ray’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Go on.”
“I think someone else was with him in the bungalow on the night he died, drinking tea in the sitting room, and before they left, the other person remembered to rinse out the teacups and put them away, but maybe they were in a hurry and forgot about the teapot sitting on the kitchen table. I think your police colleagues should take a closer look at this case to be absolutely certain that it really was Edmund Albright who pulled that trigger.”
“Charlotte,” Ray said gently, “they’ve conducted their investigation, and the evidence has led them to the conclusion that suicide is likely.”
“Well, I think it’s highly unlikely. I think they’re wrong. Is there any evidence that Edmund Albright was in the right frame of mind to commit suicide? That he was depressed or unhappy? That he was overcome by financial or emotional problems he felt he couldn’t solve?”
Ray shook his head. “I haven’t heard anything like that.”
“Exactly. Quite the opposite. Everyone thought he was happy to be in America and that he was really excited about working on the play.
“And here’s one more last bit of information to back up my theory.” Ray raised an eyebrow.
She dropped the letter Aaron had delivered on the table.
“His desperate mother, not knowing who to turn to, wrote to the theater company asking for help. She doesn’t believe he would have taken his own life, either, and wants to know how to get the police to investigate a cause of death other than suicide. Don’t you think the police owe it to her to just consider the possibility that Edmund’s death wasn’t suicide? Shouldn’t they look at all possibilities?”
She wiped her hands on her paper napkin, crumpled it, and dropped it on her plate. Certain that Edmund’s death was neither accidental nor suicide, she shot Ray a determined look filled with meaningful purpose.
“Oh, oh,” he said. “I know that look.”
She smiled sweetly at him. “Well, it’s too bad you’re not seeing the same look around that police station of yours, because it’s the look of someone who’s not going to let somebody get away with murder.”
Chapter 17
In the hotel’s heyday, the large room down the hall from what was now the theater auditorium had been the day care center. Back then, parents eager for a day of tennis, swimming, and lounging by the pool with cocktails dropped off their precious offspring after breakfast and picked them up before dinner. Now the room—with its green-tiled floor, red plastic chairs stacked or set around the room, bicycle leaning against one wall, and a couple of old tables upon which actors had placed scripts, bottles of water, and coffee cups—was the theater company’s rehearsal space.
“Could I ask you to gather ’round, please?” Wade Radcliffe clapped his hands, and the low level of chatter died away. “Just like in Shakespeare’s day, when there was barely any rehearsal time, we don’t have the luxury of a lot of time to prepare for this production. And that’s unfortunate because there’s so much we could explore, so much subtext to discuss.
“However, I worked on the text overnight, and I’ve also researched the RSC production that was set after World War I in an English country house. So like many of you, I’ve come around to the idea of setting this play after the Civil War. I now think it’s an intriguing idea that will make for a dynamic American theater experience.”
The cast members smiled at one another, and the heaviness that had been weighing on the company began to dissipate.
“Now Much Ado is grouped in with the comedies, and people tend to think of it as frothy, but I think it’s a dark play, with some comic scenes scattered throughout.” Several cast members nodded in agreement, and a couple took a few steps closer to him. Charlotte, with Aaron seated beside her at a table with their backs to the wall so they could observe the rehearsal, took that as an encouraging sign.
“Now the military side of things is going to be much more pronounced because we’re setting our version right after the Civil War. And the war could explain a lot of the characters’ somewhat erratic behavior.” He looked at Charlotte. “Now let’s talk about act one, scene one, when we first meet the soldiers. I liked the idea of Don Pedro fighting for the North and Don John for the South. That would instantly explain their estrangement to the audience. They’d understand immediately.” Charlotte made a note. One men’s gray Southern uniform costume. The rest would be the Union blue of the North.
Beside her, Aaron listened carefully. She was glad she’d agreed to his request to design and create the women’s costumes, leaving her to arrange the rental of the men’s costumes.
“I don’t see Mattie,” Charlotte remarked in a low voice, leaning over to him. “Have you spoken to her in the last day or two?”
Aaron shook his head. “But I’ve got her measurements on file. I can go ahead with her dress.” He tucked his pencil behind his ear and tilted his sketch pad toward Charlotte. “What do you think?” Charlotte peered at the gray-and-white outline.
“Who is this for? Before you show a costume sketch to anyone, and that includes me, write the name of the character on it. Otherwise, how am I supposed to know if it’s appropriate or not? Is this for Hero?”
“No, it’s for Beatrice.”
“Could be too fancy. We’ll talk about it outside, later. Don’t want to talk while Wade is speaking to the cast. It’s rude, and besides, we might miss something important.”
The bar that opened the door lowered, signaling someone was pressing on it from the corridor. A moment later, the door opened slowly, and Mattie crept in. She aimed an apologetic look in the direction of Wade Radcliffe, but he did not stop speaking and he did not acknowledge her arrival. Arriving late for rehearsal is a cardinal sin in the acting world; it disrupts the work in progress, can cause delays, and is considered highly unprofessional. It can even cause an actor to lose a part.
Dressed in a green-and-white-striped shirt tucked neatly into his jeans, Wade continued working with the actors, inviting them to explain how they saw their characters’ interactions with others. Charlotte frowned as Mattie hovered on the fringe of the group; her participation level was low, and what there was of it seemed desul
tory and forced. Finally, the director called a break. The actor playing Claudio, Hero’s love interest who cruelly rejects her at the altar after believing malicious lies about her, approached Mattie and rested his hand on her arm as he spoke to her. She shook her head and turned away.
“Something’s not right with Mattie,” Charlotte said to Aaron. He looked up from his sketching.
“She can be a bit moody. Best thing is to leave her alone when she’s like that. She’s probably having an off day.”
“Maybe. I’m going for a coffee now, but I’ll try to have a word with Mattie later to make sure she’s okay. You coming?”
Aaron tucked his pencil behind his ear and shuffled his sketches into some sort of order. “I guess so.” As they walked down the corridor to the cafeteria with the rest of the company, Aaron asked, “What did you want to tell me about the sketch? You said it might be too fancy.”
“Have you read the play?”
“Well, not all of it. I find the language pretty heavy going.”
“Yes, well, the thing is, Beatrice is Leonato’s niece, which makes her Hero’s cousin. She’s the poor relation, really, and may have some responsibilities running the household. Remember what I told you about how we use costumes to reflect status and social importance? To show a character’s place in the hierarchy? So Beatrice can’t be dressed to the same standards as Hero, who is wealthier. So here you have the servants’ clothes.” She made a gesture with the palm of her hand facing down and then raised her hand. “And here you have Beatrice.” She raised her hand again. “And at the top, in terms of women’s dress, you have Hero.
“So if Beatrice is wearing a simple calico dress, then you can add some finery to Hero’s to indicate she is wealthier. Bits of lace, maybe. Or her dress is made from a more expensive fabric. But remember, there’s been a war on, so their costumes should reflect that. Maybe their dresses are faded and worn because they haven’t been able to buy new material. Think it through. But whatever you do, Beatrice’s dress has to be flattering to Audrey. So you’ve got your work cut out for you.”
“Not yet I haven’t,” Aaron replied, and they both grinned.
The cafeteria was crowded and noisy with collegial banter. Wade Radcliffe had chosen a seat in the middle of a long table, where several actors had joined him. Seated beside him, and beaming up at him with everything she had, was Audrey Ashley. He smiled at her and then looked around the room. He’s in his element, thought Charlotte. He’s doing what he loves, and he belongs here.
Spotting Mattie hesitating in the doorway, Charlotte waved her over. “Would you like Aaron to get you a cup of coffee?”
“Yeah, that would be great, thanks.”
When he was out of earshot, Charlotte turned to Mattie. “I’m worried about you. You were late this morning. That’s not like you. And when you were here, you seemed distracted and not at all your usual self. Is everything all right?”
Mattie looked at her hands resting in her lap.
“No,” she said. “I don’t think it is. I wasn’t just late for rehearsal. I’m . . . late, as in, you know. Late.” She gave Charlotte a beseeching look. “Late.”
The background noise in the cafeteria disappeared as Charlotte focused intently on what Mattie was saying. She touched Mattie’s hand. “How late?”
Mattie let out a long, slow breath. “I’ve been a bit worried for a few days.”
Aaron returned and set a takeaway cup of coffee in front of her. “I got it to go,” he said, “because Wade wants everyone back to the rehearsal in a few minutes.”
Mattie nodded her thanks but didn’t meet his eyes and didn’t touch the coffee. Charlotte picked it up and took it with them.
Chapter 18
With the cast enthused and energized, Wade led everyone back to the rehearsal room. Several younger actors clustered around him, gesturing with their hands as they asked questions or suggested motivations for their characters. They had just reached the rehearsal room when Charlotte’s phone alerted her to a text.
“Harvey wants me to come to the front desk,” she said to Aaron. “You carry on and pay attention to what Wade says, but I think we’ve got all the information we need to get started.”
When she started working with this theater company, it had taken her ages to find her way through the labyrinth of hallways that led from the backstage theater area to the hotel’s front desk without getting hopelessly lost, but now she navigated her way easily and efficiently, taking the shortest route, until she reached the door that opened onto the lobby. Harvey’s head turned toward the sound of the opening door. He stood behind the reception desk, arms folded, in front of a large spray of cut flowers. They weren’t wrapped in cellophane or thick, decorative paper, as they would have been had they come from a florist, but were tied together by a rough piece of string. They showed no signs of drooping, so they were either freshly picked or had recently been in water.
“These just came,” Harvey said. “For Audrey Ashley. I thought you wouldn’t mind giving them to her. I have no idea where she is. I would have asked Aaron to deliver them, but he’s not answering my texts, and I have no idea where he is, either. I think he’s avoiding me.”
“No problem,” said Charlotte. “I’ll see that she gets them.” She lifted the bundle of roses up by their stems, ran her hand under them, and then looked around the desk. “Did they come with a card to say who they’re from?”
“No. They came just like that.”
“Well, did you see anybody drop them off? Do you know who sent them?”
“How should I know?” Harvey said with an impatient shrug. “I just came out here a few minutes ago and there they were, lying on the counter, just as you saw them.”
“Well, how do you know they’re for Audrey, then?”
Harvey raised his eyebrows. “I just assumed. Who else would be getting flowers? And all the other ones were for her. Why wouldn’t these ones be?”
“Wait a minute. When you say, ‘all the other ones’ and ‘they come just like that’—so this isn’t the first time?”
“No, there have been several bunches like that, so I just send Aaron down to her bungalow with them.”
“It’s not a good idea to keep delivering these to Audrey,” Charlotte said. “And anyway, they’re not addressed to her. Either throw them out or find a vase and put them somewhere here in the lobby.”
“I’ll take them to Nancy’s office. She’ll know what to do with them. Maybe she’d like them. They’re nice roses.”
“Yes, they are nice roses. On second thought, I’ll take them. But I won’t be giving them to Audrey.”
“Why not?”
“Because someone’s been sending her flowers anonymously, and there’s something a bit creepy about it.”
“I thought women liked getting flowers.”
“They do. I mean, we do, but only if we know who they’re from. Otherwise, it’s unsettling, wondering who sent them. There’s the person we wish they were from, and then there’s the person they’re really from. Who usually turns out to be someone you don’t want sending you flowers.”
“Well, I’ll leave it with you to do what you want. You know more about these things than I do.” He turned to enter the door behind the reception desk that led to his office, stopped, and turned around again. “I meant to ask you. Did you get all that business sorted out about the director and the play? Nancy wasn’t very happy about that. You know how she feels about anything that might reflect badly on the hotel.”
“If you’re talking about the Civil War version of the play, I think Nancy’ll find it does the hotel a world of good in terms of publicity,” Charlotte said. “As for the director, yes, it was very unfortunate about the English director, but we’ve got a replacement in place, a local fellow, and the cast seem to really like him, so everything’s fine. In fact, they’re rehearsing now, and from what I can see, there’s no reason why the play shouldn’t open on time. I mean, it has to.”
“W
ell, that’s good,” said Harvey. “We’re booked solid almost all fall. But you’ll keep me informed if anything happens, I hope. I hate being the last to know. Nobody ever tells me anything.”
Charlotte gathered up the flowers and set off for her office. She filled a vase with water and gave the flowers a drink while she examined them and thought about what to do. They were superior to supermarket flowers and comparable to florist roses. Except if they’d come from a florist, they’d have been wrapped in a more presentable way, and the delivery wouldn’t have been secretive. Most likely, they were homegrown, and she had a good idea whose garden they came from.
But first, she wanted to find out how many more bouquets like them Audrey had received. She scooped the flowers out of their vase and wrapped their dripping stems in a plastic bag. After stopping off at her bungalow long enough to get Rupert, the two set off for the star bungalow.
Rupert remained on the path, watching her, while she climbed the stairs and knocked on the door. “Just a minute,” called a voice from within. A moment later, Maxine opened the door, met Charlotte’s eyes, and lowered her gaze to take in the flowers she was holding. “Oh,” she said in a flat tone. “More of those. We’re running out of vases.”
“May we come in?”
“Of course.”
Maxine led the way to the sitting room, where several similar flower arrangements stood on windowsills and tables. Rupert gave a little growl at Maxine and then sat down beside the sofa.
“I was just about to toss that one,” Maxine said, reaching for a vase whose flowers sat in pale-green water. The roses’ petals, once a dark pink, were beginning to turn brown around the edges and curled in. A few petals had dropped and fallen on the table.
“How often do the flowers arrive?” Charlotte asked.
“Every few days. There are more in Audrey’s bedroom.”
“Still no idea who’s sending them?”
Maxine shook her head. “At first, she thought it might be Edmund, but now, of course, she knows it couldn’t have been him because they just keep coming. In fact, I think she even got a bunch the night he died.” She hunched up her shoulders in a vague shrug.
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