Something Wicked

by Carolyn G. Hart

  Sam looked seedy in a dinner jacket that had seen better years. The collar had frayed and the cummerbund wrinkled against his paunchy abdomen. He had approached his hostess with a smile. Now it stuck to his face like garnish on yesterday’s tea sandwich.

  “Nothing much,” he said sourly. “Somebody’s screwy idea of a joke.” But his watery blue eyes were full of dread. He stuttered in his eagerness to deflect Sheridan. “Want you to—to—to meet Tonelda. This is Tonelda Divine—and she’s going to be a great actress.”

  The flush was receding from the girl’s face. She puffed her spiky hair and simpered.

  Sheridan nodded curtly. “Come on, Sam. What’s it all about?” she persisted. “Shane muttered something about a Shakespeare play.”

  Carla moved restively, and almost spoke.

  “A superstition. Theater people are chock-full of them,” a robust voice announced at Annie’s elbow. She looked up at Vince Ellis, who had an Irish face and a mop of brilliant red hair. He played Officer Brophy in the play and was also owner and publisher of the Island Hills Gazette, the weekly newspaper that served Broward’s Rock. “Has something else happened at the theater?”

  Sam made a valiant stab at looking unruffled. “Naw. No big deal. Listen, I meant to tell you what a great Brophy you are, kid.” It wouldn’t have played even in Paducah, and Vince was nobody’s fool. With mounting curiosity he looked at Annie and Max.

  Brusque as always, Carla broke the short silence. “Oh, come on, Sam. You can’t keep it quiet.” She turned toward Vince. “Somebody included a quote from Macbeth on one of Shane’s prompt cards.”

  Vince whistled.

  Boredom replaced the avid interest in Sheridan’s eyes. “Is that all?” she drawled. “What’s so bad about that?”

  Carla clenched her big hands. “It’s supposed to cause lousy luck if anyone even mentions that play in a theater,” she said gruffly.

  Sheridan’s full lips curved in an amused smile. “Oh, that’s really funny.”

  “Funny!” Sam’s voice rose sharply, and he hunched his shoulders as if cowering against a blow.

  Tonelda yanked at his arm. “Flip her off, Sam. Tell her to go get screwed.”

  “Sweetie—” His tone was strangled.

  Max hastily intervened. “It’s a deep-seated taboo,” he informed Sheridan, moving between her and Tonelda. “Some people think it started in Shakespeare’s time and had to do with the supernatural elements of the play, that when you invoked the witches it summoned evil spirits who would then injure the players. But some experts believe it was simply because a lot of people took sick playing in Macbeth during the Restoration period, and the feeling got out that if you quoted from the play, you could be struck down, that it was very, very bad luck.”

  Vince moved closer to Sam. “You know, maybe it’s time to do a story on all this in the Gazette.”

  Galvanized by this new threat, Sam reached out and grabbed Vince’s arm. “Oh, no, buddy, you don’t want to do that. You’re an island booster, right? You want everything to go swell—and that kind of story could scare people away. You want us to have a good season, don’t you?”

  “That’s what everybody wants,” a deep voice boomed. “Right, Sheridan?”

  Harley Jenkins III, all 295 pounds of him, resplendent in red dinner jacket and green-and-red-checked trousers, clapped a meaty hand on Sheridan’s bare back. The head of Halcyon Development’s thick lips spread in a loose imitation of a smile that wasn’t reflected in his eyes. “Sounds like a bunch of nuts to me. I don’t believe in bad luck. A man makes his own luck.” He pulled Sheridan’s sinuous body close to his, gave her a hug. “Now, here’s the kind of luck any man can enjoy—and I don’t mind telling you it would take a woman like Sheridan to bring me out for this bash.”

  Sheridan gave him an enigmatic smile, then gracefully slipped free of his embrace. “It always helps for opposing camps to talk.” She looked earnestly at Sam, who was watching Harley like a rat who’s just spotted a cobra. Annie thought the mantle of civic helpfulness rode uneasily on Sheridan’s smooth, naked shoulders. “I asked everyone to come tonight, hoping we could all work together for the artistic community. It seems such a shame for creative people to be at cross-purposes.”

  “Cross-purposes?” Carla’s violet eyes raked Jenkins’s broad figure. “It’s the same old story, a bully wanting his way.”

  Jenkins’s bonhomie evaporated faster than a stack of quarters in Las Vegas. The veins in his mottled face bulged. “And I always get my way, you better remember that.” He turned his back on Carla, once again reaching out to clasp Sheridan’s arm.

  Carla started forward and stumbled. Her hand went up and a cup full of purple punch splashed on Jenkins’s back. “Oh, Lord, so sorry. Turned my ankle.”

  Annie gasped, Tonelda clapped her hands in pleasure, Max gestured for a waiter to come, and Jenkins whirled toward Carla, his face apopletic.

  6

  They made their escape during the mop-up and took refuge near the terrace windows on the lee side of an alabaster statue of Pan that should have been in the Getty Museum. As they looked out on the swirling currents of the party, Max tried to restrain his glee, but found it hard going. “Not that I would wish our friend Jenkins ill,” he said virtuously, “but his spirits did seem dampened.”

  “That punch is damn sticky,” Annie observed, wiggling her silver pump, which matched the smoky shade of her silk dress. “I stepped in it.” Across the room, a waiter offered a second wet towel to Jenkins, who shrugged it away, his empurpled face twisted in a furious scowl. Carla was swinging around, head down, evidently on her way out, when Sheridan caught her arm. The hostess patted her guest on the shoulder, nodding warmly. They spoke for a moment more, then Sheridan turned back toward Jenkins.

  “That was thoughtful of Sheridan,” Annie forced herself to say. “I suppose Carla’s terribly embarrassed about the whole episode.”

  “Embarrassed, hell. Carla did it on purpose,” Max chortled. “She’s a well-coordinated woman, even if she does stride around like an Amazon.” He frowned thoughtfully. “You know, she must think Harley’s behind all the trouble, too.” Then he grinned. “Sure glad we came. You were right. You never know what will happen at the Petree house.” He shaded his eyes, as if peering into desert distances. “I think I see a bar over there somewhere. Since it’s still a sexist world, I’ll go for our drinks,” and he plunged into the crowd.

  She hissed at that, but absently, because she was scanning the sea of faces. People were jammed elbow to elbow despite the sixty-foot length of the Petree.’ baronial living area. All the movers and shakers of Broward’s Rock were present. For the first time, Annie noticed the ten-foot banners strung across the center of the room, blazoning the titles of the five plays scheduled for the summer: Arsenic and Old Lace, The Mousetrap, Blithe Spirit, My Sister Eileen, and The Moon Is Blue.

  Annie’s eyes narrowed. Wait a minute. Wait a minute! The Mousetrap was already in rehearsals, because, in common with most summer theater groups, the players produced one play while simultaneously rehearsing the next. While the number two play ran, rehearsals would be underway for Blithe Spirit.

  But Annie hadn’t heard of any problems with The Mousetrap. Was the sabotage limited to Arsenic and Old Lace?

  She stopped gazing at the milling throng with mild interest and began to hunt. She saw the mayor listening attentively to a banker, Police Chief Saulter shaking hands with the Island Hills golf pro, a damp Harley Jenkins sullenly sampling some of the buffet extravaganza, and there, near the mirrored back wall, the very person she sought.

  When Annie reached the edge of the admiring circle, mystery author Emma Clyde smiled a greeting. Annie waited until she’d finished signing several autographs, then wormed her way closer.

  Emma welcomed her genially. “How’s crime, Annie?”

  As always, Emma’s frosty blue eyes seemed to delve into the untidiest corners of Annie’s mind and Annie had to fight the impulse to flee.
Tonight Emma wore a startling print dress, magenta begonias against an emerald background, instead of her customary caftan. She still looked like a housewife playing jet set … until you looked into those piercing eyes.

  “Crime pays you better than it does me,” Annie responded.

  The best-selling author chuckled. “It pays when I concoct, but I’m finding that a little hard these days. I don’t know why I ever agreed to direct The Mousetrap.”

  “Oh, I know why. It’s the fascination of seeing a Christie plot come to life.”

  Emma nodded appreciatively. “Perceptive of you, dear.”

  “How are rehearsals coming? Have you had any difficulties?”

  Not only had the crew and cast of The Mousetrap not suffered any hitches, the entire experience had gone exceptionally smoothly: cast members who liked one another, word-perfect rehearsals, props all gathered in two weeks ahead of time, a perfect attendance record by all the players.

  “How nice that it’s all going so well,” Annie said cheerfully, as she thought how fascinating it was that The Mousetrap appeared exempt from the sabotage which had so crippled Arsenic and Old Lace.

  As they parted, Emma said briskly, “I’ve been meaning to get over to the store. Will you order those TR books for me?”

  Annie looked at her blankly. Had Eugene somehow instilled his mania for Teddy Roosevelt in Emma? She seemed a most unlikely recruit.

  With a shade of impatience, the writer said, “You know, the books with Roosevelt as the detective: The Big Stick and Speak Softly by Lawrence Alexander.”

  In her relief, Annie nodded excitedly. “Oh, sure. Certainly. Yes. Those books. Yes, I will. As soon as possible.”

  She was aware, as she backed away, smiling and waving, that Emma was studying her with renewed interest. She wondered if she would appear in Emma’s next book as a young entrepreneur suffering a nervous breakdown.

  She struggled back toward the French windows. Max, if he ever returned with libations, would surely seek her in that area. She found the statue of Pan and leaned against it, lost in thought.

  If the objective was to ruin the season, why was play number two apparently immune?

  Were she and Max off on the wrong foot entirely? Was disruption of the summer season not the point of the sabotage? Was the animus directed simply and solely toward the cast and crew, or perhaps the director, of Arsenic? But the sabotage hadn’t stopped rehearsals. The major result had been a lack of cohesion, a sense of unease among the cast and crew members, like corralled horses who have heard the unmistakable thu-rumm of a rattler and know he’s out there somewhere. Could that generally nervous atmosphere be the point of all the petty tricks? It scarcely seemed worth the effort. Of course, the most recent irritant, the inclusion of the Macbeth quote, had certainly affected Sam. But why would anyone want to devil the high-strung, emotional director? Maybe the same kind of person who liked to pull the wings off butterflies.

  Then a passing figure caught her eye. She strained to see better. What the hell was Henny Brawley up to now?

  No one else appeared to be paying the slightest attention to Henny, and that demonstrated just how much everybody, except Annie, had had to drink, because Henny was strikingly noticeable. She now appeared to have a quantity of mousey brown hair tinged with gray that was drawn back in a bun, the whole, including an Alexandra fringe of bangs, quite firmly controlled by a net. She wore a substantial hat with a mass of ribbons at the back and a clump of forget-me-nots and pansies on the left side. A pale complexion. Only the fox-sharp nose couldn’t be tamed. But there was no mistaking, Annie felt sure, the smooth, controlled passage of Miss Maud Silver.

  And she might as well have stalked across the floor with a magnifying glass held high, she was so obviously in pursuit of someone.

  Annie stood on tiptoe. Across the room, Max stood in a four-deep line at the bar. She whirled just in time to see Henny slip through the French windows and out onto the terrace.

  Of course, she wouldn’t be drawn. It was just Henny playing sleuth.

  But why had she gone out on the terrace?

  Annie took a few steps toward the French windows. After all, it wouldn’t hurt a thing just to take a peek. And the blare of the trumpets and the thick haze of tobacco smoke were wearing. Really, it was awfully hot. She slipped out onto the terrace, welcoming the cool, fresh air tinged with unmistakable dampness from the nearby lagoon. Lights in the southern red cedars danced on the dark water. Where had Henny gone? Annie started down wooden steps. The cattails along the lagoon wavered in the night breeze, and the willows rustled. She had almost reached the base of the steps when she realized there was an embracing couple in the gazebo at the foot of the slope. Tactfully, she turned and began to climb. Midway, a dark shape brushed past her. Was that Henny? She stopped. No, there was a darker shade near a tall planter’s vase at the edge of the terrace, and she saw a flicker of moonlight on straw. Henny’s hat. So who was she watching? Then the figure that had passed Annie reached the wash of light from the windows. Janet Horton stopped on the terrace and pressed her hands against her eyes. Even in the diffused light, Annie could see the trembling of her mouth, the tears glistening on her cheeks. She took several deep shuddering breaths. As she blundered back into the house, her mouth was twisted into a smile that was painful to see.

  Annie paused and glanced back down the steps. She didn’t have to go and see who embraced in the gazebo. Janet’s face told her that. Abruptly, footsteps grated on the stone terrace above her. T.K. Horton’s burly shoulders were slumped, and his face a study in misery. He hesitated, staring after his wife, then, face hardening, swung around and rushed down the wooden steps, moving so heavily that the boards shook beneath him.

  “T.K.—”

  He brushed past Annie as if she weren’t there, and she knew nothing existed for him but the reality of his daughter in Shane’s arms, and the haunting figure of his wife, running away from the discovery.

  Oh, God. Annie took two steps up toward the house, changed her mind, turned and started back down, stopped again and flapped her hands indecisively. What should she do? Well, it wasn’t her business to do anything. But somebody could get killed. At least, somebody would, if this were a Leslie Ford novel of love and lovers gone wrong.

  Over the bleat of the Dixieland five and the chorus of amorous frogs, she listened, waiting for screams, shouts, blows—

  It was almost anticlimactic when T.K. emerged from the gazebo, his hand clamped to his daughter’s arm, hauling her up the steps, a hostile, protesting bundle of teenage animosity. “Daddy, let go of me! I can kiss whoever I want to—and I don’t care what you and Mama say. You’re jealous. Both of you.”

  T.K. didn’t say a word. His face looked like leather that had been out in the sun too long.

  Annie squeezed back against the railing to let them pass. Neither seemed to notice her. The Hortons were too involved in their own emotions to spare a thought for onlookers. It was a funny feeling to be invisible. But T.K. and Cindy were surely visible on the light-flooded terrace as he yanked the shrilly protesting teenager toward the side of the house. And who was standing, framed in the window and looking down the steps, but Sheridan. The light etched her glamorous silhouette for a long moment, then she turned back into the room.

  Annie would have given a good deal to have seen Sheridan’s face.

  The wooden steps quivered beneath her.

  “Hey, Annie baby, how’s about a little kiss?”

  Shane reached out for her, and Annie adroitly dodged his seeking hands and ran lightly up the steps, carrying with her the cloying smell of bourbon and the picture of a flushed face streaked with lipstick.

  She paused at the top of the stairs. “Better wipe your face off, honey lover—or your wife may be curious about your taste in cosmetics.”

  “Oooh. Sounds like the lady’s jealous.” Shane swayed and grabbed the railing to steady himself.

  “God, you do flatter yourself.”

  As she stepp
ed through the window, she saw Henny’s hat-laden head poke out from behind the urn. So she was still tracking Shane. Even Miss Silver might find some of his activities daunting.

  Annie welcomed the tobacco-thick haze of the house. It and the battering pound of the music were preferable to the emotional dangers lurking outdoors. Searching for Max, she jumped when a heavy arm slid around her shoulder. “Aw, come on, Annie, you can give the host a little kiss, can’t you?”

  She saw Max approaching, with drinks in both hands. “Go find another playmate,” she snapped, sidestepping Shane and starting toward Max.

  Shane lumbered at her heels.

  They came even with Hugo. Glowering down at Burt Conroy, the big actor looked even more dangerous than when he was portraying Jonathan. Edging past, she heard Hugo snarl, as he gestured violently with his cigar, “Get rid of him, Burt!”

  Burt’s narrow face set in stubborn lines. “Look, Hugo, I know he’s a pain, but you’ve got to look at the money—”

  But Hugo wasn’t listening. He’d spotted Shane, and his malevolent glare was now directed at the drunken host.

  Tra-la, tra-la. What happiness and joy Shane was bringing into the lives of his fellow players.

  Annie put on a burst of speed. Reaching Max, she held out her hand for her drink. She’d never looked forward with quite the same eagerness to a gin and tonic, but this was one of the driest evenings she’d ever—

  Shane bumped against her shoulder, and her drink sloshed, spattering her new evening slippers.

  She looked at him in exasperation. “Shane, will you please—”

  “Annie, I’ve just had all I can take.” His words were slurred, but he spoke loudly enough that people standing near turned to look.

  He was drunk, but not so drunk he didn’t know exactly what he was doing. His eyes glittered with malice.

  “Yeah. I mean, why don’t you leave a man alone? Callin’ me, comin’ after me all the time. I keep tellin’ you, honey, I’m a married man, so, cool it, will you?” The words might be slightly slurred, but he delivered them with more force than he had ever exhibited on stage.