Burt was frowning. “We didn’t find anything open.” Sam nodded morosely.
Max poked his head out of the right wing. “Carla, did you come in through the stage door today?”
“No. The front entrance.”
“Arthur and I found the stage door open.”
The sudden relaxation of tension was as palpable as the emergence of the sun from a cloud bank. It was abruptly much cheerier in the dusty auditorium; the world was now suspect, not just this select group.
Burt turned to Carla. “Did you check the stage door before you left Sunday?”
“No, no, I didn’t.” Was Carla’s answer a shade too eager?
“So anybody could have done it,” T.K. said ponderously.
“Anybody? Any citizen presently residing on our golden isle?” Hugo asked, his gravelly voice rising ever so faintly in inquiry.
Everyone looked at him.
“I do hate to cast a pall on the resurgence of cheer. But there is a minor matter.”
“My God, Hugo, spit it out. How much foreplay do you want?” Sam was impatient.
“Think of the circumstances. The cat in the window seat.”
The director drew his breath in sharply, but Hugo held up an imperious hand to forestall an outburst. “Think, my friends. I know, of course, that Arsenic and Old Lace is one of the most popular—and familiar—plays in the world. However, how many people know or would remember that the window seat is opened in Act One?”
They waited uneasily.
“A goodly number, I admit. However, I don’t believe this can be considered common knowledge on the island. I believe, in fact, that we must limit our suspicions to those who have been involved in theater productions now or in the past.” Hugo’s probing dark eyes touched each face briefly. “No, my friends, I think the fox is in the chicken coop—and the fox is one of us.”
The sun slid behind the cloud bank again.
“Hugo’s point is well taken,” Burt said grimly. “In any event, I want to make an announcement. I’m taking Freddy to Chief Saulter.” (Annie suspected Max’s prepping here.) “If there’s any way to trace the bullet that killed him, I’m going to do it.”
“Good for you,” Henny said warmly.
“Further,” he continued, “I want to make one thing perfectly clear.”
It was so quiet they could hear a mouse skittering backstage.
“If one more piece of sabotage occurs, this play is canceled.”
Sam began to pace, his hands flapping wildly. “Now wait a minute, wait a minute. I got a contract. I got a producer coming. I got to stage this play. Dead or alive, I got to stage it! No way am I going to let some loony ruin my chance.” He halted in front of Burt, his fringe of yellowish hair quivering, and poked Burt’s chest with a pudgy finger. “You can’t do this to me! No way can you do this to me!”
Burt ignored him. “The sabotage has to stop. It’s going to stop. If it doesn’t, this play’s canceled.”
Sam moaned. “Done in by a crank. Oh, God, what am I going to do?”
“Now, if anyone has any idea who’s behind all of this, come and talk to me.” Burt paused, and the silence crackled with uneasiness and quick, sideways glances. Burt finally cleared his throat. “All right. Everybody knows the score now. I’ll see you here tomorrow night for a run-through of all three acts.” His upper teeth gnawed on his lower lip for an instant, then he concluded gruffly, “That’s all.”
There was a moment of uncertain quiet, then a general movement toward the exit.
Hugo’s clear, carrying voice rolled across the stage. “An addendum, my friends.”
Everyone stopped. His voice commanded obedience.
Hugo waited just long enough to give the pause an edge. “As long as we are making pronouncements, I wish to make one of my own.” His craggy face was grim. “I have no intention of participating in this play unless it is presented in a professional manner—and that means that not only must there be no more unpleasant interruptions. It also means that every actor must know his lines.”
His black eyes challenged Shane.
8
Max stared over Annie’s head into the refrigerator. “My God, don’t you have anything edible?”
“Sure. There’s leftover pepperoni, leftover barbecued ribs, and—” She poked a lump of foil. “Oh, yeah, leftover shrimp toast.”
He moaned. “I don’t want to ask anything too personal,” he said mildly, “but have you ever made any meals from scratch?”
“You mean, like bought the ingredients at the grocery store?”
“Exactly.”
“Of course. How about bacon and scrambled eggs?”
Max sighed. “I can see that come September, I may have to prepare little grocery lists.”
“For whom?” she inquired politely, her face attentive.
“For the chef. And I guess we both know who that will be.”
“That will be lovely,” Annie said serenely. “You know how much I enjoy your cooking.”
He bent down, slid out the pizza box, and turned toward the microwave.
Annie set the table. She had real plates, but she reached past them to the stack of nice pink paper ones. It wouldn’t do for Max to get set in his ways. She did whip together a tasty salad, just to throw him off balance: Bibb lettuce, cherry tomatoes, diced avocado, green onions, mushrooms, celery, and green pepper. Luscious thick Roquefort dressing for her, oil and vinegar for Max. (Did he want to live forever?)
The timer on the microwave beeped and the telephone rang at the same instant. She gestured for him to answer, while she lifted out the pizza.
“Oh, hi, Laurel.” An indulgent smile crossed his face, and he leaned comfortably against the wall, obviously propped up for a lengthy conversation.
Annie sighed. After a moment’s thought, she transferred the pizza to a pie tin and stuck it in the conventional oven to keep warm, then poured beer into frosty mugs and wandered into the living room. Handing a mug to Max, she plopped on the couch. But her ears weren’t stoppered. An occasional phrase reached her.
“No kidding, Laurel!” “Oh, say, that sounds great.” “Thrones? I’d like that.” “Would the roots go into the wedding cake?”
Annie studied him dispassionately. Long. Lean. Good-looking. A perfect ass.
He glanced her way and grinned.
She resisted an almost overpowering impulse to retrieve the pizza and drape it over his head.
“A coupe de mariage?” He whooped with laughter. “Sounds more like the winner’s cup at a horse race.” He stifled his laughter. “Sorry, sweetheart. Of course I’m serious about it. It is a glorious opportunity to—” He paused. “How did you put it? Oh, yeah, a glorious opportunity to create unity. Yeah. You bet. And I’ve been thinking, Ma, how about a casino night? We can—” He listened. “Well, no, it’s not a custom anywhere so far as I know, but we can create some new customs. Like a treasure hunt. First prize—a round trip to Peking. Now, that’s international, isn’t it?”
Annie turned her head away and stared determinedly at her bookcase. Her eyes focused on Marriage Is Murder by Nancy Pickard. Wasn’t it just?
Then she stiffened.
“Annie? Oh, sure, she’s right here, but maybe you’d better talk to her another time, Ma. She’s up to her elbows in the kitchen.” He slapped his leg in appreciation of his own wit.
Annie scarcely dared to breathe.
“Sure. I love you, too. And it’s going to be a blast, Ma.” A pause. “Of course I’m taking it seriously. You can count on me. Night, now.”
His eyes brimmed with laughter as he hung up.
Annie didn’t say a word.
Max tipped his head to study her. “Did anybody ever tell you how cute you are when you’re mad?”
“Max!”
He bounded across the room and pulled her up and into his arms. “Oh, come on, Annie. Grin a little. Laurel means well—and who knows, it may turn out to be the wedding of the century.”
�
�I don’t want the wedding of the century. I just want a—”
“—simple, dignified, unpretentious ceremony. Annie, relax. Go with the flow.”
She only hoped she wouldn’t be swept away. Laurel was capable of generating a torrent. Annie kept trying to make this point, but Max’s lips kept getting in the way. Finally, she recalled herself enough to remember the pizza.
“Dry,” she murmured. “Leathery.” And she pulled away and steered him back to the kitchen.
The pizza was hard, but the beer helped. However, Annie found it difficult to concentrate on food. And she was determined not to inquire about thrones or roots. Roots in the wedding cake?
It might not be pleasant to dwell on the recent rehearsal, but it did distract her—at least a little—from Laurel. “I wonder what will happen at the run-through tomorrow night?”
“Don’t borrow trouble, as my grandmother used to say.”
If it was a saying by his maternal grandmother, she must have used it to survive life as Laurel’s parent. That, however, started the same old cycle of concern. (Where was Laurel now? What was Laurel doing? What was Laurel planning?)
Max refused a second serving. Even Annie had only managed one. It was pizza that could walk unaided. It only took seconds to clear the table, and the dishes (paper plates) were no problem, so Annie made cappuccino and they settled on the couch.
Max sighed happily and slipped his arm behind her shoulders, but she jumped up and darted across the room to paw through her wicker carryall.
She returned, waving the printout he’d given her earlier, and plopped down beside him.
Max groaned. “I thought maybe you’d forgotten.”
“Forgotten? After Freddy?” Then she squinted in concentration. “Max, why Freddy?”
“Why concentrate on Freddy? Why any of it? Why the cut curtain-rope, why the—”
“No. Freddy’s important.” she insisted. “That was vicious. Don’t you think it shows a particular malice directed at Janet? Why else would such a hideous notion even occur to anyone?”
“Maybe it’s as simple as the fact that our creepy friend wanted to put something nasty in the window seat. And what could be nastier than someone’s pet? You’re probably lucky they picked on Freddy.”
She stared at him, appalled. Her voice stricken, she said, “You don’t think somebody would shoot Agatha. Do you?” She leaped to her feet.
Max reached out and grabbed her hand, pulling her down. “Annie, I’m sorry. Of course nobody would shoot Agatha. That would be really crazy.”
“Maybe somebody is crazy,” she whispered.
“No, no,” Max insisted.
“So, okay,” she demanded, “if nobody’s crazy, then what’s the point of the sabotage?”
“If I knew, I’d tell Saulter and get the nut—” He stopped and waved his hands. “No, no, I don’t mean nut—get the prankster arrested. You can bet there’s a rational reason. Somebody’s gone to a hell of a lot of trouble. There has to be a reason.”
“Maybe we ought to go over to the store. Check on Agatha.”
“Annie, she’s all right. Relax.”
But she wasn’t satisfied until they’d driven at a furious pace to Death on Demand, and she held a sleepy and surprised Agatha in her arms. Then the cat, thoroughly irritated at being disturbed, wriggled free, jumped to the top of the coffee bar, and glared.
Annie got out fresh food, crooned endearments to an unimpressed feline, and put on a fresh pot of coffee, decaffeinated chocolate.
Max settled comfortably at the wooden table nearest the coffee bar and watched with amused eyes. “Satisfied?”
“I guess. But I’d almost board her for a while.”
“Nobody’s going to catch Agatha with her paws down. You know how she disappears when strangers come in. She’ll be all right.”
Annie pulled the printout from her purse and spread it on the table. “We have to get to the bottom of this.” She tapped the sheets. “We know these people. I mean, you can’t rehearse for a month without learning more than you ever wanted to know about everybody’s basic personality. We should be able to figure out who’s causing the trouble.” She riffled through the pages, then asked, “Do you think we should include Vince Ellis, Father Donaldson, and Ben Tippet?”
“Because they were on hand for Freddy’s discovery? Nope.” Max was emphatic. “Not unless you think we have two saboteurs at work.”
“Two?”
“The saboteur had to be among us when the stink bomb went off. That was an Act Two rehearsal. Father Donaldson, Vince, and Ben weren’t there.”
That limited their list, at least a little. Max ticked the others off on his fingers. “Henny. Janet. Hugo. Arthur. Shane. Me. You. Sam. Burt. T.K. Cindy. Carla. Eugene.”
Max picked up the printout and began to read aloud. (He did enjoy the sound of his own voice. Attractive as it was, she wondered if this foretold lengthy excerpts from newspapers and magazines after they were married. She preferred reading her morning newspaper in absolute silence.)
“HENRIETTA HOLLIDAY BRAWLEY. Born July four, 1923, in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, only daughter of prosperous cotton broker. Convent educated. Attended Sophie Newcomb, left college in 1943 to train in the Women’s Airforce Service Pilots. Trained at Avenger Field, Sweetwater, Texas, receiving her silver wings, September 1943. Served as a test pilot and is credited with developing an innovative landing technique for the P-thirty-nine fighter. Married Robert Brawley, Captain U.S.A.A.F., December 1943. (Major Brawley killed in bombing raid over Berlin 1945.) At Wright Field, Dayton, Ohio, became one of the first jet pilots, testing the YP-fifty-nine, twin-turbine jet fighter. Honorable discharge, 1946. B.A., University of Texas, 1948. Taught English lit. in San Antonio, Texas, at a girls’ school, retiring 1975. Received a gold watch and a commendation for never having missed a day of school in twenty-seven years. Joined Peace Corps, spent two years in Zaire building fish ponds and teaching English. Proficient in Tshiluba. Commended for supervising construction of more fish ponds (thirty-seven) than any volunteer in the history of the Peace Corps. Spent next two years backpacking around the world, including jaunts to Tibet and Antarctica. Returned to U.S. in 1979, having inherited property on Broward’s Rock from a cousin. Member Altar Society, St. Francis of Assisi; moderator, Broward’s Rock Public Library; champion bowler, Cha-Cha League; member, League of Women Voters—”
Annie held up a hand. “More?”
“Another half page.”
“I get the picture.”
They grinned at each other.
“Maybe we should leave it to Henny,” Max suggested.
“She was so sure Shane was the culprit, but I saw her staring at him and shaking her head tonight. Who knows? I’m sure she’ll keep us informed.” Annie reached for the printout.
The phone rang. Annie jumped and stared like a deer at bay.
“Tsk tsk.” Max evinced grave concern. “I’m worried about you, Annie. What’s happened to your nerves?”
She glared at him. He knew damn well what had happened to her nerves.
The phone rang again.
Annie didn’t want to answer. She was only too afraid she knew who was calling. But she had never been able to resist the imperious summons of Ma Bell. With a strangled groan, she yanked up the receiver.
“Death on Demand.”
“Annie, I’m so glad I caught you.” A pause. “You don’t sound quite yourself. Is everything all right?”
“Of course I’m all right,” she replied sharply. “Henny, how in the world did you know I was here?”
“Your place, Max’s, or the shop. Where else?”
For an instant, Annie felt nonplussed. Was she really that predictable? After all, she certainly had many interests unknown to Henny Brawley. But Henny was plowing right ahead.
“I’m starting over, my dear. One point is clear. Shane, whatever else he may have done, certainly didn’t hide that cat in the window seat. I followed him home after rehearsal Sunday.
He didn’t leave the house all afternoon. When the first guests arrived, I ducked into the pool cabana and changed for the party. Then, right after the party, I pedaled back to the school, already had my bedroll on my bike, and spent the night. Right onstage. Then I popped up, brewed some tea in the parking lot on my Primus stove, and pedaled back to the Petrees'—and I followed him all day yesterday.” She sniffed.
Annie didn’t feel like inquiring into the activities that prompted that disgusted sniff. She grappled instead with the barrage of information.
“So Shane could’ve killed Freddy, since he was late to rehearsal Sunday, but he never had a chance to put him in the window seat ’cause you were either on Shane’s tail or at the school from Sunday afternoon on.”
“Right.” A discouraged sigh. “So, obviously,” and a Virginia accent became noticeable, “I’ve misinterpreted my data. Well, I’ll just have to look a little harder. And it seems to me the only thing to do is not to leave the stage unguarded for an instant. And I won’t.” The Southern accent was heavy now. “Never fear. Nil desperandum!” And the connection was broken.
Annie stared at the receiver for a bemused instant, then shook her head slightly. “Miss Julia Tyler. I’m pretty sure.”
He looked at her inquiringly.
“Southern accent and quoting Latin. Probably wearing a charming blue chambray dress. Miss Tyler is Louisa Revell’s retired schoolmistress-sleuth.”
He was impatient. “Does she really clear Shane?”
Annie repeated Henny’s report, then sketched the times on the bottom of the printout.
1:45 Sunday (approx.)—Freddy sunning on retaining wall.
2:00—Rehearsal begins.
“Remember, we finished our coffee so we were a few minutes late. I guess we got there about ten after,” Annie recalled.
2:30—Shane arrives.
4:10 (approx.)—Burt ends rehearsal. Which was a simple way of saying he called it off after all hell broke loose.
4:15—Henny follows Shane home.
10:45—Henny camps out onstage.
Monday—Henny tails Shane all day, up to arrival at rehearsal.
There was a moment’s quiet while they studied the timetable.
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