EQMM, November 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Jaime cut me off with a wave of her hand. “Say nothing of it. I always said that our apprentices become part of the family, forever, for life.” And then she changed the subject. “The Mousetrap closes tonight. I've reserved a seat for you. It's been sold out. They just love mysteries up here. And then we're on to Shakespeare. They've built the stage, and the set is almost ready. You must have seen it on your drive in."

  "Oh, yes,” I lied. I hadn't noticed. Too many other things on my mind.

  "We're doing Hamlet again. Haven't done it in ages. I think the last time was, well, the summer you were up here. How long ago was that? They come from all over now. Free Shakespeare. Outdoors. You were our Ophelia, weren't you?"

  I set my bags down in the far corner of the blue room—which was indeed blue. Dusty blue walls. Blue floral bedspread. Blue curtains. Everything trimmed with lace. It was the only room on the top floor of the Cottage—thank God for central air conditioning.

  "The understudy."

  "But you performed. And you were precious. Why did you stop acting?"

  I shrugged. “The room is lovely.” I sat on the bed, attempting to end the conversation.

  "I always said we are family here, that you'd keep coming back. Of course, it has been too long since you've been up here to see us. You'll see some familiar faces at dinner tonight. You will join us at the Inn, won't you?"

  I nodded reluctantly. I'd have to eat eventually. And Jaime didn't know. No one really knew what had happened that summer. I'd managed to convince myself that I'd forgotten.

  * * * *

  A nap, a shower, a change of clothes. On my way to the Inn, I passed a group of grungy twenty-somethings. Apprentices. They looked so young. Had I really been like them? They were piling set pieces into the back of the pickup truck.

  I heard one of them whine about a splinter. Another one complained about unfinished props.

  "You just gonna use that skull from the prop room?"

  "Yeah. It looks real enough."

  "Dude, I think it is real."

  "Alas, poor Yorick.” One of them began to spout Shakespeare—overacted, a farce. “I knew him, Horatio: a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy."

  They had dark circles under their eyes and dirt beneath their fingernails to prove that they'd been slaving away for half the summer. One show up, one show down. And if they were lucky, an actor they were understudying would fall sick (which practically never happened).

  The Inn hadn't changed in fifteen years. The smell of pork loin and roast potatoes was permanently embedded in the wallpaper.

  "Over here.” Jaime waved me over to her table. She wasn't alone. “We saved you a spot.” And the introductions began. “You remember Gavin, of course.” My Laertes. “He's playing Polonius this summer."

  "My darling Ophelia. I've been meaning to read your book. Really."

  "And do you remember Bristol Dell, our lighting designer? Weren't you here that summer?"

  "No, no, I wasn't here that summer. That was the summer I worked at Williamstown. Missed all the excitement.” Bristol shook my hand.

  "Sheila, I barely recognized you!” I didn't recognize her at all, but I knew it was Ginny. Her faced had filled out, as had the rest of her. But her voice was still gratingly high. I had barely known her. She worked props with Harrison, and then got sick, and that was that. She would have been the last of our apprentice class I'd have pegged for success. Fifteen years, and she hugged me like I was her long-lost lover.

  Menus were passed around. “Sheila's seeing the show at eight."

  "Shouldn't we wait for Dara? I thought she was joining us,” asked Ginny, in between bites of butter-soaked bread.

  Gavin coughed, looked down at his empty plate. “You sure about that?” he muttered. I could feel his eyes peer in my direction.

  "Oh, you don't think ... no, that was so long ago."

  "All about Eve.” Jaime gave me a devilish grin.

  "What?” I asked. “You don't mean Dara Mills? She's here?"

  "You, the convenient understudy, while she's off being questioned for the mysterious disappearance of Harrison Mann."

  "Please, Gavin. I hardly think she holds a grudge. Besides, she's just busy memorizing her lines. All that TV work, she's out of practice.” Ginny turned to me. “You remember Dara, of course."

  How could I forget? I'd shadowed her at countless rehearsals for two weeks straight.

  Bristol set down his soda and spoke up. “Please, Ginny dearest. Fill me in. You forget, I wasn't here that summer."

  As Ginny drew in a deep breath, Jaime lunged in. “Dara was our Ophelia that summer. But when Harrison disappeared, she practically had a breakdown. It was common knowledge that the two were screwing around.” She glanced over at me. I didn't blink. “And then, of course, the police inquiry. The accusations. She never performed. Lucky for you, I guess?” Jaime winked at me. “The only understudy to perform in practically forty years."

  "I always thought it was Harrison's wife who did it,” said Bristol. “I mean, I wasn't here that summer—but every other summer—he did like the ladies. How did she put up with it? And why wasn't she ever suspected?"

  "Airtight alibi,” informed Gavin. “Besides, I'd prefer to think that Harrison is still alive. South of the border, living the kind of life we can only imagine. As for Dara, I never thought she'd step foot in Vermont again after that summer."

  "Jaime insisted that I cast her as Gertrude.” Ginny poured herself another glass of wine.

  "I caught her in an episode of Law and Order. She just seemed so right. And from what I hear, her career seems to be taking flight."

  "Jaime wanted to get her up here again before she became too famous, isn't that right,” Gavin chuckled.

  A waiter approached us. We placed our orders. The conversation drifted from the personal to the utterly inane. Who was doing what regionally and in New York. Whose success was completely undeserved. Which artistic endeavors were so full of genius or so bizarre. I'd been out of the loop for so long that I simply smiled, nodded, slurped up my French onion soup. Another bottle of wine arrived. Bristol had his ginger ale refilled and Gavin made a toast. “To old friends and great success,” he said. We clinked our glasses.

  "You know, Jaime had forgotten that I'd gone home sick that summer,” Ginny squeaked. “I remember at the time thinking I was burning a bridge—would never work in the theater again."

  "And what's next for you?” Jaime stroked Ginny's hair as if she were her own daughter. “Broadway, maybe?"

  "Not yet.” Ginny peered bashfully down at her plate. “I'll be directing another show in New York in the fall."

  "I hope you won't forget about us up here?"

  "Of course not."

  "Why did you leave us so suddenly that summer?” Gavin was beginning to slur his words. “Was it really mono, or something else?"

  Ginny's face turned blood red. Had she been one of Harrison's amusements too?

  Before she could answer, we were interrupted. “Friends, Romans, countrymen.” It was Jed. The dust on his overalls flickered in the candlelight. “I'm here to escort Miss Brighton to the theater."

  "Is it time already?” I asked, reaching for my wallet. “How much do I owe?"

  "Dinner is on me tonight, Sheila.” Jaime smiled. “Go, go, you don't want to be late."

  I said my goodbyes while they were contemplating dessert. It turned out that Jed hadn't seen the show yet either—too busy building the props for Hamlet. “And these Agatha Christie plays, not my favorite,” he confessed. “The murders always seem so contrived.” He winked at me conspiratorially.

  After the show, I retired to the blue room. Of course, I couldn't sleep. I stared at the ceiling, eyes wide open. Vermont could be dark in a way that New York City never could. What had I been thinking, coming up here? I'd put that summer far behind me, and then Jaime had to call. All those memories came flooding back. And yet, it was a relief in some ways, being back. There we all were, sittin
g, enjoying dinner. And none of them knew—they didn't even suspect that Harrison had another lover that summer.

  I thought about reading, or writing. But I was too tired for that kind of focus. Although it was just past midnight, I knew there would be people awake. The Mousetrap had just closed, which meant that strike was in full swing.

  I tossed on the clothing I'd left lying on the floor and crept out of the room. It was one of those gigantic old houses in which you could feel solitude surrounded by people. At this point in the summer, I was quite sure that there was someone staying in every room. Gavin lived in town, but Ginny and Bristol were surely residing in the Cottage, along with the casts of The Mousetrap and Hamlet. Any overflow would have been lodged at the Inn. I didn't want to wake any of them with my midnight prowling.

  I strolled briskly over to the theater, which was lit up like a torch. The big barn doors were flung open, and apprentices scurried about like cockroaches, heaving slabs of wood into a large dumpster. The buzzing of drills and a power saw seeped from somewhere inside. We never played music. We'd been told it could be a safety hazard. We needed our eyes and our ears in case a wrench went tumbling from up above, or a set piece lost its balance.

  I hovered like a ghost outside the barn doors. “You here to help?” asked Jed. He heaved a large board into the dumpster and jumped in after it, cracking down a pile of plywood. “Or are you here to catch a glimpse of our resident ghost?"

  I blinked twice. “Ghost?"

  "Comes out during strike. Starts moving drills to odd locations. Wasn't Ole Spooky around in your day?"

  "Sure."

  "Last year, he locked one of the apprentices in the prop closet. No one found her until the next morning. Seriously, if you want to help, for old time's sake..."

  "Just watching. Swore I'd never do another strike after that summer."

  "Why?” He looked up. Those eyes were too familiar to me.

  I shrugged, nonresponsive, and watched him. He caught my stare. “What?"

  "You just look a lot like your dad, that's all."

  "That's what they all tell me."

  A chubby girl with oily black hair and broomstick eyelashes poked her head out of the barn doors. She was clutching a revolver.

  "Hey, Jed, where does this live?"

  "Be careful with that, Stacey.” He tossed her his key ring. “Lock it in the prop closet."

  "Do me a favor and grab that axe.” I realized that he was talking to me. He pointed to a bench where one was resting. “Careful, it's heavier than it looks.” I knew that. I remembered. I handed it to him, and he began to swing away inside the dumpster. It was too much for me. I turned and went back.

  * * * *

  I tried to sleep in the next morning, but was woken up by stairs creaking, doors slamming, voices raised, and finally a knock at the door. It was Ginny. She eyed my pajamas and the sleep in my eyes with apprehension.

  "I didn't mean to wake you."

  "What time is it?” There was no clock in the room.

  "It's just past ten. We're trying to do a run on the outdoor stage before the final coat of paint goes on, and we can't find Dara anywhere."

  "I haven't seen Dara in fifteen years."

  "She's always at rehearsal early, ready to go. Thought she might've gotten confused. Last few days it rained, and we rehearsed in the church basement over on Main Street. But I just checked over there and..."

  A door slam cut her off. “Jaime. Jaime!” Jed yelled from below. “Call nine-one-one. Someone—help!"

  Ginny and I scurried down the stairs, in time to catch Jed running off toward the pasture, back toward the Shakespeare stage. Ginny phoned 911 from her cell as we followed him. She lost reception twice before reaching them. She tried to explain our intended destination, which we assumed was the stage. Accidents were preventable in the theater, but not uncommon, especially when actors were hung over or still drunk from the night before. Twigs swung back and hit us in the face. Although the pasture was off a main road, the quickest route from the Cottage was a quarter-mile trek through the woods. The path had been beaten down by Jaime's old pickup truck and countless pilgrimages by apprentices, hauling every manner of theatrical necessity.

  But we never made it to the stage. We spotted Bristol and Jed standing frozen in the middle of the trail.

  "It's too late.” Bristol shook his head.

  Ginny and I lowered our eyes to their feet.

  I hadn't seen Dara Mills in fifteen years. If the back of her head were intact, I might have said that she'd aged well. Her hand was clenched unnaturally around a revolver. It looked just like the one from The Mousetrap. Once again, Dara Mills would fail to take the stage in Hamlet.

  * * * *

  "If it walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck...” Bristol was busy peeling the label off a bottle of Amstel Light. He was referring to Dara's apparent suicide.

  I had managed to forgo what appeared to be the obligatory dinner at the Inn, having found some time amongst the madness to buy a few staples at the general store. But as I was finishing the last of my eating-merely-to-sustain-life buttered pasta, Bristol had waltzed in, half tipsy, begging for some company. Apparently, the sight of death kicked the wagon out from under him.

  "But why?” I asked.

  "Guilt, of course, for having murdered Harrison years ago."

  "Ludicrous!” Gavin had crept up beside us. “An actress would have done the deed center stage, not off in the woods.” He ordered himself a Killian's Red and pulled up a stool. “I think that little apprentice did her in. What's her name? Suzy? Stacey?"

  "It's Stacey. And please, that poor girl was hysterical. She worshiped the ground Dara walked on.” Bristol finally managed to pull the label off. He stuck it to his forehead for a moment, and then thought better of it. It was not the time for humor.

  "And yet, rumor has it, she has each and every one of Gertrude's lines down pat. Now, if they could squeeze that dumpling of a body into Dara's costume..."

  "You don't really think ...?” I asked. It was all too disturbing for me.

  "Who else had a motive?” Gavin asked.

  "Perhaps the theater ghost has inspired our Jeddy boy to avenge the death of his father?” Bristol winked at me. If the thought weren't so morbid, I might have laughed. “He did find the body. There's a sight I wish I had been spared."

  Everywhere I turned that night, Dara's death dripped from lips. Was it suicide, or just some terrible accident with a prop? The Cottage, which had seemed tomblike the previous evening, was suddenly the place to be. The cast of Hamlet, a straggler from The Mousetrap, and half a dozen apprentices grew out of the walls, whispering, sipping wine, flipping through old magazines. Ginny sat cozied up to the chubby squirt I'd seen the night before.

  "Come join us.” Ginny started to make room on the couch, but I sat myself on the stone hearth instead. “Stacey's a nervous wreck about performing in two days."

  "You'll be fine.” I offered one of those soothing half-smiles. “Just trust yourself."

  "I just can't believe it...” I thought the little hobgoblin's face was going to explode. But at that moment, Jaime entered with a tray of hot chocolate, extra marshmallows. The apprentices under twenty-one dove for mugs. The older ones stuck with wine.

  Jaime's presence served to change the conversation. She simply wouldn't allow the morbid talk of death. I learned what I could when she left the room: The police were investigating; suicide had not yet been confirmed. Everyone was being interviewed; I should expect to be questioned soon. Apparently, fat little Gertrude had nearly broken down completely when they asked her why Dara might have done the deed. “I just can't believe it,” she repeated, and for a moment I wasn't sure if she was referring to Dara's death or her chance to take the stage.

  But then Jaime floated back into the room. Didn't the apprentices have an early morning the next day—finishing touches on costumes. Props to move. Things would be more complicated now that the shortcut to the pasture was a crime
scene; they'd have to drive around on the main road to the Shakespeare stage. The room began to clear, until it was just Ginny and me, and a bottle of wine that had just been opened. I helped myself to a glass. Ginny polished off the rest.

  She too felt the need to speculate. If she hadn't cast Dara in the part—if she hadn't taken this directing job, but how could she say no to Jaime—if, if, if. The world was full of ifs, and by the time Ginny had gotten through all of them, she was slurring her words and could barely stand. I held her arm as she walked up the stairs. We reached her door, on the floor below mine, only to discover she'd misplaced her keys. “Probably at the theater. We could go get them.” But she was in no shape. So I led her up to the blue room and tucked her safely into my bed. Me—I spent the night in the main room, staring at the empty hearth until I drifted into unconsciousness.

  * * * *

  Another dark night in Vermont, another groggy morning. I was up with the light, my back kinked up from the couch, my drool dotting the afghan that covered just the top part of my body. I crept up into my room. Ginny was just a lump under blue covers. I silently poked around in my bag until I'd pulled out fresh underwear and a sweatsuit. A good walk always did wonders for my writer's block.

  Morbid curiosity led me first to the path. The police had had the good sense to block the entrance with police tape. I didn't defy the yellow mandate. Instead, I retraced my steps and headed down to the main road. There were hardly any cars. The ones that did drive by whizzed past as if they were the only cars for miles, ignoring posted speed limits, yellow lines, morning strollers. I eventually made my way to the pasture where the Shakespeare stage loomed in all its glory. They kept a trailer in back of it, locked with costumes, props. The stage was bare, and glistened with a hint of dew. It was the same stage that I had acted on fifteen years ago, with a few minor improvements. The wood might have been new, the colors more vibrant, but the shape the same.

  Shakespeare's words came flooding back to me, along with the lost emotions of the stage. Ophelia's fear, her love, her madness, in waves, in bursts, as if they had been real. But hadn't they? I had pulled her out of myself, and she was just as real as me. I stared out at the pasture. The audiences had been somewhat smaller fifteen years ago, if I were to believe Jaime, but still ample. Spread out on their blankets, bottles of wine, toddlers roaming. I spotted the crime-scene tape in the distance, marking the other end of the path. Gavin was right. An actress would have taken center stage.