Set Change: A Nina Bannister Mystery (The Nina Bannister Mysteries)

by T'Gracie Reese

  “What’s it like?”

  “Mixing them?”

  “Right. Also, add four or five shots of Scotch.”

  “Well, that goes without saying.”

  “What’s it like?”

  “Oh, I’m trying to remember. Ahhh, nothing for a while then happy then amorous then dizzy then unconscious and then dead or dreadfully hung over, depending on the dosage.”

  “Nothing for a while.”

  “No. Then…”

  “Nothing for a while.”

  “No.”

  “Okay.”

  She sat for a time, thinking.

  Then she asked:

  “What if neither one of them did it?”

  “Did what?”

  “It.”

  “I don’t know what you could be talking about.”

  “Maybe neither of them does, either.”

  “Nina, have you taken these drugs, Percodan and Pitocin? Is that why you’re asking me about them? Because if you have, we need to get you to a doctor.”

  “How long do we have?”

  “Nina!”

  “How long do we have?”

  “Half an hour, but not much more!”

  “Half an hour. Half an hour.”

  “You’re scaring me! Nina, do we really need to go to the hospital?”

  Nina shook her head.

  “No, Margot. We need to go to the Auberge des Arts.”

  “Why?”

  “Maybe to catch a killer, Margot.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Come on. The play’s the thing, wherewith we’ll catch the conscience of the king. And who knows? Maybe life is a cozy mystery after all.”

  They left the shop together.

  CHAPTER 20: THE PLAY’S THE THING…

  Within ten minutes, they were driving through the grounds of the Auberge des Arts, which now resembled Galveston after the Great Hurricane of 1901. Trash was everywhere, and, as far as the eye could see, nothing existed but stark reminders of the power of nature over once great civilizations.

  Tables were overturned.

  Dogs wandered aimlessly, too exhausted to bark.

  Young men in white coats followed the dogs around, trying to avoid strange twisted metallic objects that had either been chairs or small helicopters.

  Clothes lay discarded on motorcycles.

  “It was really,” Margot remarked, parking the Volkswagen and killing the engine, “a good party after the play was over.”

  “You enjoyed it, did you?”

  “I don’t remember it. That’s always a good sign.”

  They got out, ducked out of the principle of general fear, and began to make their way toward the entranceway, trying to avoid stepping in anything that looked liquid.

  “You can see a lot of the actors wandering around,” said Margot. “There’s Laertes. Really hot, is Laertes.”

  “Did you proposition him last night?”

  “I tried, but the best offer I got was from Polonius, and he collapsed just after making it.”

  “So you said no.”

  “Actually I said, yes, but…”

  “I don’t want to know. Here. We go in here.”

  They made their way through the vestibule, the entrance hallway, the black box theater space, the children’s writing area, the retired person’s archery range, the beanbag storytelling area, the weight room, the small dining hall, the larger dining hall, the cinema, the bowling alley, and finally, the theater itself, where Alana DelaFosse spotted them and rushed to Nina.

  “Are you all right, dear?”

  “I’m all right.”

  “Are you aware of what’s been happening? One horror after another.”

  “I’m aware of a few things.”

  “Come then. I’ll fill you in.”

  Alana was dressed as Margot was dressed except with food stains, and what appeared to be a few splotches of blood.

  She took Nina and Margot to a small table that had been set up just in front of the stage, and, as chaos reigned all around them, Alana explained the situation, as she now understood it, on the basis of listening to a day’s gossip.

  “Hope is in New York, apparently in intensive care.”

  “All right,” Nina said quietly, realizing the utter stupidity of contradicting utter stupidity.

  “Helen has left the country. For what destination, no one knows.”

  “Check.”

  “There was an autopsy this morning. The results are not yet official, but word has it that Clifton Barrett was actually strangled by one of his own shoelaces.”

  “Amazing.”

  “This is all I know up to now. But news is coming in all of the time.”

  “I’m sure it is.”

  “This is one of the advantages one gets from associating with truly artistic people.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Nina, “that I’ve missed out on it.”

  “It’s never too late to begin, My Dear.”

  “I hope it is, for me. How is the cleaning going?”

  “We won’t even start on it until tomorrow.”

  “Good.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Nothing. Alana, I have a big favor to ask.”

  “Ask anything, Darling Nina.”

  “There’s a tape of last night’s play, isn’t there?”

  “Of course. Actually there are several. The master tape that will be broadcast nationally has already been sent to New York.”

  “Could I see it?”

  “You want to watch Hamlet? Now? Nina, how can you even think of doing that, knowing what has happened to Clifton Barrett?”

  “You have to humor me. Is there a place where I can watch it?”

  “I suppose it could be set up in the cinema area. But I still don’t understand…”

  “Please do it, Alana. And hurry. There may not be much time.”

  Alana looked at Margot, saying:

  “Do you know what she’s talking about?”

  Margot shook her head.

  “I never know what she’s talking about.”

  Within a few minutes she and Margot were seated in what seemed a small movie theater, Alana holding out a tape.

  “Here’s one of our copies, Nina. There are several others.”

  “Can you take it back to the projection room, put it in and play it?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Margot, can you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Alana, is there anybody here who can?”

  “There are technicians from The Public Broadcasting Company.”

  “I need six.”

  “I’ll try to find them at once.”

  She left.

  “Nina,” said Margot, “you’ve got to tell me what this is all about.”

  “I think,” said Nina, quietly, “it’s about the night you slapped Clifton Barrett.”

  “Yes, that was one of my finer hours, wasn’t it?”

  “Certainly was.”

  “I’ll never forgive myself for apologizing.”

  “I’ll never forgive myself for being so blind.”

  “What do you mean? You saw me slap him, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. But that was all I saw. That was the only part of the play I focused on. The rest of it, the most important part, went flying right over my head. There it was in front of us, the whole answer. And we didn’t even see it.”

  “Nina, sometimes I simply…”

  “Ladies?”

  They were interrupted by a young straw haired man in an orange jump suit. He looked like a prisoner on the county road crew, except for the letters PBC stitched neatly in blue on his left shirt pocket.

  “I’m told you need some technical assistance.”

  “There is,” said Nina, sullenly, “only one of you.”

  “Well,” he said, smiling, “I’m head of technical services for the Mississippi branch of the Public Broadcasting Company.”

  “Don’t
’ you need an assistant?”

  “A lot of things I can do myself. What is it that you need done?”

  Nina held out the tape, which was larger than those that she’d never been able to play as a classroom teacher, but just as forbidding.

  “I need you to play this tape.”

  He took it, still smiling.

  “That’s all?”

  “No. It’s more complicated than that.”

  “Tell me. Do you need a remix or an editing job or…”

  “I need you to make it go faster at times.”

  “Fast forward?”

  “Whatever it’s called. Is it possible, technically?’

  “It may be. I know I’ve seen it done. We studied about it at MIT.”

  “Nina,” whispered Margot, “He’s being sarcastic.”

  “That isn’t true,” said the young man, taking the tape. “I’m a tech guy. We don’t understand sarcasm. But let me see what I can do with this.”

  He disappeared into the back of the room, and, in a minute or so, could be seen in the dimly lighted projection room.

  The screen before them burst into bright blue light; regal music surrounded them, and there, marching along above what were either the misty fiords of Denmark or the back fifty acres of Mississippi State University, were the names of the cast and crew that had produced this Hamlet.

  Then Bernardo and Francisco, on the parapets of the Old Robinson Mansion that had become the new Auberge des Arts that had become the timeless Elsinore.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Nay, answer me. Stand and unfold yourself!”

  ”Yes,” Nina whispered. “Unfold yourself.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said, Margot, that the play’s the thing, wherewith we’ll catch the conscience of the king. But it’s not the king, I think. Not this time.”

  “Nina, this is just the same play we all saw last night.”

  “No. It’s the play we didn’t see last night?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The mousetrap. We missed the mousetrap.”

  “Are you sure you haven’t mixed Percodan and Pitocin? If you have, we’re about out of time.”

  But Nina was standing now, shouting to the man from MIT who understood time travel:

  “Make it go forward.”

  There was the crackle of an amplification system, and a metallic disembodied voice asked:

  “To where?”

  “Act III: scene 4.”

  “Act III: scene 4 it is.”

  And it was. And there was Hamlet, lunging at the tapestry, shouting, “Dead for a Ducat!” and there was Hope, leaping to her feet and shouting, “It’s Polonius!”

  “Dear Hope,” whispered Margot. “Poor thing.”

  Nina sat down, shaking her head, replying:

  “That’s what we were all watching, wasn’t it? Hamlet. And Polonius. And Hope. So we missed the play.”

  “I still can’t…”

  “Listen. Listen to Gertrude. Listen to the queen, talking to Hamlet.”

  “What have I done, that thou darest wag thy tongue in noise so rude against me?”

  “You didn’t do anything,” said Nina. “Nothing at all.”

  “Who are you talking to?”

  “Listen, Margot. Listen to the queen.”

  “Oh, Hamlet, speak no more: Thou turnst mine eyes into my very soul; and there I see such black and grained spots, as will not leave their tinct. Speak to me no more, these words, like daggers, enter in mine ears.”

  “Remember, Margot. Remember how the old king died. “And in the porches of mine ears didst pour the leprous distilment.” Now listen, listen to Gertrude:

  “Ah, Hamlet, thou hast cleft my heart in twain.”

  “That’s it,” whispered Nina. “That’s it. That’s the line. All right! Stop it. Now I need one thing more!”

  Lights went up in the room.

  She looked back and up, able to see the engineer’s smiling face and hear his electrified voice:

  “You see? It worked. Forward. Backward. Eight years of higher education, but it’s worth it!”

  “Yes, it is. Now I want one more thing.”

  “Just name it.”

  “I’m going to try to find another tape. Can you meet me here in ten minutes or so and play it?”

  “I’m your man.”

  “Wonderful. Now, come on, Margot.”

  They left the cinema and made their way back to the main stage where Hamlet had been performed.

  Alana was just as she had been, running back and forth, yelling at the walls, and apologizing to people who thought she was yelling at them.

  “Alana!”

  “Oh Nina, I’m glad you’re back! Did you see the play again?”

  “No. I saw it for the first time.”

  Alana frowned, then looked at Margot while gesturing toward Nina and asked:

  “How long has poor Ophelia been thus?”

  “Will you two,” Margot shouted, “stop quoting Shakespeare?”

  “Alana,” said Nina, ignoring Margot. “I need two big favors from you now.”

  “Name them.”

  “First, lock the kitchen.”

  “What?”

  “You said nothing was going to be cleaned in there until tomorrow?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then lock it. Just don’t let anybody go in there.”

  “But I don’t…”

  “Please, Alana.”

  “All right. Probably no one was going in there anyway.”

  “Good. Now the second thing, and this is most important. I need another tape.”

  “Of Hamlet?”

  “No. I need a tape of the real play.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Do you remember the gathering after the play was over? When Clifton Barrett made his speech to Bay St. Lucy?”

  “Yes, of course. I was taping it myself. So were all the reporters there, all ten thousand or so of them.”

  “You’re an angel!”

  “I know, dear, but what does Mr. Barrett’s speech have to do with it?”

  “The man who showed the tape of Hamlet…”

  “From the PBC you mean?”

  “Yes. He’s supposed to be meeting us back at the cinema. Can you get your tape, and let him have it, so he can play it?”

  “Of course.”

  And she did.

  And he did.

  And there, standing on a sodden post-deluge platform, dressed in black, with Ophelia standing beside him and a crowd of adoring people in front of him, was Clifton Barrett again, beaming, orating, gesturing, thanking—and drinking Scotch.

  Now putting the glass down.

  And now orating again.

  And now…

  “Look, Margot.”

  “At what? He’s just making that speech again.”

  “No. He’s drinking Scotch.”

  “So what?”

  “So where is he getting it from, Margot? Where is he getting it from?”

  “I don’t…I don’t..”

  “Into the porches of mine ear.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The mousetrap. There is the mousetrap. Look. He’s reaching back, and sticking his hand right into it.”

  “You’re insane.”

  “Just North by Northwest, Margot.”

  She rose, stepped into the aisle, and gestured for her friend to follow:

  “But it’s the Gulf, remember? And tonight the wind is from the south. Now I’ve got to go and catch a killer. And by the way—I may need your autograph book.”

  So saying, she walked out of the room.

  CHAPTER 21: THE MOUSETRAP

  There are a great many things that one can do at sunset on the Mississippi Gulf Coast.

  One can dine. One can frolic in the surf. One can prepare for an evening in the theater or cinema. One can fish.

  Or one can simply si
t anywhere a chair happens to be handy and watch, awe struck, as the near inevitable thunderstorm begins to form some forty miles distant—whether offshore or inland matters little—and goes on to do its own particular cloud thing, billowing, glowing golden, shading itself an evil purple, flattening out anvil-like on top, lacing itself with streak lightning, belching out a thundermoan now and then, and foaming like aerial cotton candy as the sun gradually sets, leaving it to go where thunderstorms go when not wanted any more, to vegetate in a Storm Retirement Village and muse about old glories and past magnificence.

  Such a storm was billowing up to the East when Moon Rivard’s squad car, Nina sitting ensconced in the back seat, made its way into Bay St. Lucy’s airport parking lot.

  The air was deathly hot, making creosote underfoot tend to liquefy and emit an odor redolent of licorice and paint thinner.

  “There. That’s the plane.”

  They were both walking toward the main airport terminal.

  “That may be the plane, Miss. But they ain’t on it yet.”

  And they were not.

  They, meaning those cast members scheduled to fly to Memphis on the 7:30 puddle-jumper that held perhaps twenty people and also allowed all of them to take part in flying the airplane, so close were they to the cockpit controls—they were spread out in the waiting area, talking in small groups, or perhaps giving one last interview to the representatives of tabloid journalism, an interview marked by low tones, sad whispers, and completely hypocritical eulogies to a dead reprobate.

  As she entered the terminal and glanced at the requisite flight insurance kiosks, car rental booths, and arrival/departure screens, Nina could not help flash back a month—no, it had not been quite that long—well, however long it had been, to that night in early July when Hope Reddington had stepped off the plane and plunged into a world of adoration.

  And now…

  And now…

  She stepped onto the escalator, watching as the lower floor and baggage claim disappeared, then peering upward at the great glass windows of the airport, through which the thunderstorm, now seemingly twice as large, could now be seen exercising its quiet and awful grandeur.

  “There. There they are.”

  “Yes, Ma’am. Do you want me to…”

  Nina simply shook her head.

  “I don’t think you’re going to need to do anything, Moon. Is someone else on the way?”

  “Yes. Another patrol car coming. Are you sure you right about this?”