Midsummer Mayhem

by Marty Wingate

  “I told you that yesterday,” Will said to Christopher when asked to explain his whereabouts before Gabriel’s body was found.

  “Nevertheless, Mr. Abbott, I’m asking you again.”

  Will stuck his chin out in defiance and didn’t answer. Good luck with that, thought Pru, knowing few could hold up under the DI’s intense stare. At last, the young man gave a sketchy account of his morning, ending with a nod toward Pru as he said, “And I carried out plants for you,” making it sound like an accusation.

  “Yes, you did,” Pru agreed. “Thanks for the help.”

  Will lost a bit of his belligerence. “You’re welcome.”

  “What did you think of Gabriel Gibb?” Christopher asked.

  Will stuck his hands in the pockets of his denims. “He was a chancer—taking advantage of my sister—and I don’t mind saying, she’s better off without him. We all are.”

  Nick broke out in a coughing fit, and caught everyone’s attention. He looked up and said, “Sorry—dry throat. Pen, could I have a glass of water?”

  Will watched Penelope turn on the tap, and then he frowned and added, “The thing is, Max really believed in him—Gabe. He’s that cut up about it.”

  * * *

  —

  Max called for a forest scene. Pru had yet to finish that set, as it involved heavy lifting—the rest of the large smoke bushes, from which she’d clipped all smoky flower heads, as well as a couple of mounding Japanese maples and variegated viburnums. She stood in her corral, hands on her hips, wondering if she should call Hal back from the double border.

  “Here we are now.” Nick Bottom appeared with Peter Quince and Snug the Joiner by his side. “We’re your stage crew. You tell us what to move where and when, and Penelope will write it up, and she’ll give us a copy with our directions.”

  “That’s so kind of you,” Pru said.

  “Not a bit of it,” Snug replied. “Acting, moving scenery—we all pitch in and do whatever we can to make the production a success.”

  They lugged out pots, and Pru followed with one of the Japanese maples, its ferny foliage like a parasol over her head.

  “Come and sit with me, Pru,” Penelope called. “We’ll get this sorted.”

  Pru felt a bit like an orchestral conductor, waving and pointing as she directed the Blokes to position the shrubbery. “Mind the urns!” Penelope warned when Peter Quince nudged one and set it swaying. Once arranged to Max’s approval, Penelope made notes, and the rehearsal proceeded while Pru returned to take account of her stock.

  She’d overbought on thyme, that was obvious, but at the last minute had thought Titania’s bower might look good ringed with a variegated selection and had included a few flats in her nursery order. She hadn’t set them out yet, and thought she’d better run it past Max first.

  “Would you look at this,” Pru said to herself when she came across an overlooked flat of large silver-leaved perennials. “I’ve more brunnera than I thought. I wonder would there be room in the forest.”

  “Ah, here it is.” Christopher stood in the entry to the compost yard, hands in the pockets of his trousers. “The heart of the production—Pru’s Plant Corral.”

  She rose and rested her arm casually on the top of a post. “Howdy, pardner.”

  “I thought Hal was helping. Where is he?”

  “He’s away with the catmint,” Pru replied. “Actors make him nervous.”

  “Well,” Christopher said, “I’ve a B and E call up at Michelmersh. I’m leaving Sophie and two PCs here, one at the gate and one at the cottage, and I’ll be back as soon as I can. You’ll be all right?”

  “Of course.”

  Christopher toyed with the coins in his pocket as he looked round at the plants. “Is that the sort of jar honey comes in—the one found with the body?”

  “They aren’t usually that big, I don’t think. That looked more like a canning jar,” Pru replied.

  “Why would the murderer put honey in the jar with the flowers?”

  “To catch as many bees as possible? They’re attracted to honey as well as nectar and pollen.”

  “Where did the honey come from?” Christopher asked. “We found nothing in the cupboards here—apart from packages of biscuits.”

  “The company’s store,” Pru explained. “That’s where Penelope stashes them—custard creams, chocolate digestives, and the like. But other than biscuits, the cupboards have been bare.”

  * * *

  —

  After Christopher left, Pru continued with her plant survey, until she heard Theseus say, “Come, my Hippolyta. What cheer, my love?” and stepped out of her corral to listen. How would Hermia fare with no Lysander, only Penelope’s voice filling in?

  From Pru’s position, she had a straight view behind the single line of yew that created the back wall of the stage, all the way down to a far corner, where something jutted out from behind the hedge. She shielded her eyes against the sun, squinted, and spotted the handcart sitting idle. Hal had used it to collect trimmings from the catmint—she could see the pile of gray-green stems with a spot or two of blue from the last flowers—and he must be bringing it to the compost pile.

  Pru saw Theseus, Hippolyta, and Egeus exit the stage as the monotone voice of Penelope reading Lysander drifted over the hedge.

  “How now, my love? Why is your cheek so pale?

  How chance the roses there do fade so fast?”

  Hermia answered, her voice animated and sure.

  “Belike for want of rain, which I could well

  Beteem them from the tempest of my eyes.”

  The cart moved and Hal came into sight, steering it toward Pru’s Plant Corral. As he pushed, Penelope read out lines, but this time, Hal joined in.

  “Ay me! For aught that I could ever read,

  Could ever hear by tale or history,

  The course of true love never did run smooth…”

  It was like stereo speakers out of sync—Penelope’s dry recitation contrasting with Hal’s lively performance. When he finished, there was a pause.

  “Is that young Hal?” Max called. “I thank you for your rendition, and I hope we aren’t disturbing your work.”

  Hal froze. “Was I doing it again, Pru?” he whispered furiously.

  “You mean you don’t realize it?”

  “Prunella!” Max boomed. “I think I’d like these plants with the enormous leaves up right instead of left.”

  Hal put his head down and hurried off to the compost yard, and Pru answered the call to shift the hostas.

  * * *

  —

  Hoping to chat with Miriam during morning coffee, Pru looked in the stables but found the costumer in furtive conversation with Les Buchan in a far corner, both of them gesturing sharply. It didn’t look like an argument, but it also didn’t look as if they’d welcome interruption, and so Pru took her coffee and slice of almond cake back to the cottage, where Frances plopped down next to her on the sofa and blew a curl off her forehead.

  “Why are the police still asking us questions?”

  Pru had been afraid that the cast wouldn’t talk to her when they’d learned she was married to the investigating officer, but they did talk—and they wanted answers. She had already fielded questions from the rest of the Mechanicals, answering much the same each time with one vague euphemism or another. She’d already used, “They need to eliminate everyone from their inquiry” twice.

  “Details,” Pru replied. “They’re important to the case. You can’t ask too many questions.”

  “Gabriel.” Frances shuddered. “What a horrible way to go. We’re all shattered, you know—he was such a…vital part of the production.”

  The Mechanicals were called to the stage. Frances rose to leave but stopped in the doorway and turned back to Pru. “Max
especially,” she added, repeating, “shattered.”

  Anna had been circling as if she were next in the queue to quiz Pru. What would she say to her? But Anna must’ve lost her courage because she departed, too, leaving the cottage empty except for Ambrose, who settled into the chair across from Pru and gave her a hopeful look.

  “Have a nice evening?” he asked.

  This was quizzing of a different sort—he was fishing for information about Miriam. “It was a quiet evening.”

  No need to mention that Miriam appeared to harbor a fear that he was a murderer—a fear Pru believed grew out of Miriam’s guilt at how she treated Ambrose, not out of any reality Pru could see. She certainly couldn’t cast the man sitting in front of her in the role of killer.

  “It’s difficult to put in a good word when I don’t know what I’m endorsing,” she told him. “What happened between the two of you?”

  He became wistful, a faraway look in his eyes. “We were in love,” he said. “And then she left.”

  “Why?”

  The look of longing vanished, replaced by a clenched jaw and a hard look. “Because I was young. And stupid.” He spat the word out, dropped his head, and added, “Much like Gabriel—although, of course, I had the chance to grow up. And for the past thirty-two years, I’ve been working my way back to her.”

  That’s a long road. Pru was on the edge of asking what broke them up, when a raucous chorus of barking erupted out in the yard. She rushed to the door, Ambrose behind her, to find Bubble and Squeak creeping along on their stomachs as they circled Linden and Nick. PS Grey stood nearby.

  “Ms. Parfitt,” Sophie said, “I’d like you in the stables now, and you, sir”—she turned to Nick—“you may continue to the rehearsal.” Linden shrugged, took a step, and stopped as the dogs leapt up, recommenced barking—all the while staring at Sophie.

  The sergeant looked at the dogs and shouted, “Sit!”

  Silence, as two dog bottoms plopped to the ground.

  “Well,” Nick marveled, “would you look at that. They gave you the eye, and you gave it right back.”

  “My uncle had Australian shepherds,” Sophie replied, straightening her derby. “It’s only a matter of letting them know who’s in charge.” Bending over, she set her hands on her thighs and said, “You’re good dogs, aren’t you?” Tails wagged and ears pricked, and she gave them both a rough pat.

  * * *

  —

  After lunch, Pru came upon the Bumbling Blokes giving Nell a juggling lesson in a corner of the theater lawn.

  “What do you think, Pru—will you give it a try?” Nick Bottom asked.

  “I don’t think I could ever…” She watched as Nell got all three balls going to a round of applause. “Oh, all right, why not?”

  He tossed her a ball.

  “Don’t I need three?” she asked.

  “Start with that one. Toss it over and over, until you can get it to the same spot, eye level, every time.”

  One ball was a breeze, and two balls not impossible, but Pru held her breath when Nick handed over the third.

  She’d never concentrated so hard in her life—toss, toss, catch, toss, drop. When at last she managed to keep it going for five seconds and shouted, “I can juggle!” all three balls fell to the ground.

  “Well done, you.” Nick picked them up and began to juggle as if he couldn’t keep them still. “Look, Pru, I wanted to say it’s a pity what happened to Gabriel. He was a vital part of the company. We’re all gutted, truly—especially Max.” He shook his head in sorrow.

  Pru, wiping the sweat off her brow, decided she’d never seen such a load of overacting in her life.

  I frown upon him, yet he loves me still.

  1.1.194

  Chapter 15

  “How is it going? Has he found a new Lysander?” Pru asked Penelope. Max had called tea break but remained under his awning, and now, as the women reached the edge of the theater lawn, Penelope shot a worried look over her shoulder at her uncle. He saw them and waved.

  “Not yet,” she replied. “It’s short notice, and so far everyone he’s tried is booked. I do hope this whole thing doesn’t fall apart just because—well, you know.”

  That’s the thing about Max, Pru remembered, he knows people. But perhaps the people he knew were all too old to play a young lover. What if he couldn’t find a Lysander?

  “Looks like we may be out of luck for biscuits,” Penelope said when they walked into the empty cottage and found stray wrappers littering the kitchen counter.

  Pru poked round in the cupboards and saw, just as Christopher had said, they were bare—not only no jars of honey, but also not a ginger nut to be had.

  “Tea will do for me.” She put the kettle under the tap and began to fill it.

  “I believe I’ll nip over to the stables and see what might be left,” Penelope said.

  When the water had boiled, Pru poured it over the tea bag in her mug and waited, looking out the corner of her eye at the closed study. Blue-and-white police tape crisscrossed the door, barring entry, although, what could be left to disturb? Perhaps the overlooked body of a dead bee? She pictured the scene of terror—Gabriel flailing his arms in an attempt to ward off the honeybees that became so agitated they’d stung him, one after the other. The result had been death—both for the bees and for the actor. The image of his body slumped against the wall, his satchel turned out on the floor beside him, the bloated, distorted features of his face…

  The cottage door swept open behind her, and Pru started.

  “Sorry,” Linden whispered, holding a packet of chocolate Cadbury Fingers. She glanced round the room as she pulled a spaghetti strap back up onto her shoulder. “Did you want to be alone?”

  Not with those thoughts.

  * * *

  —

  It turned out that Linden wanted to talk—about her garden. The glory of the laburnum walk, the battle with rust on the pears, the search for a climbing rose that had once grown on the walls of Salisbury Cathedral. It seemed ages before Pru could steer the conversation in the direction of the production, the company, and the murder. Even then, she’d begun obliquely by asking about Nick.

  “We’ve no claims on each other—it just doesn’t seem possible, our lives are too separate.”

  Linden stared into her tea. Steam rose, and her heart-shaped red lips drooped at the corners.

  “You see, the Blokes spend winters in Florida,” she explained. “Except for Frances—she seems to have her priorities straight. But I can’t leave in winter—there’s too much work here. And then summer arrives, and we’re both busy, but rarely in the same place. That’s why this show is such a gift—Max’s doing, of course. And if all goes well—if the Blokes can find steady work here—then perhaps they’d give up Florida.”

  “If you have no claims on each other, does that mean you’re free to see other people?” Pru tried her best to sound casual, but her face went hot, and Linden’s gaze dropped to her lap.

  “You mean Gabriel, of course. I didn’t keep that much of a secret, did I?” She sighed. “It was a bit of petulance on my part, and although Nick wasn’t…happy about it, he’s forgiven me. And I told Gabriel in no uncertain terms that what we had was nothing—a brief fling.” Her brow furrowed, and the tiny diamond stud in her nose glinted in a ray of sunlight. “I was surprised he took it the way he did.”

  Had Gabriel wanted to keep up the affair? Had Linden taken drastic measures to stop him? Or perhaps Nick had stepped in to exact revenge.

  “But now what?” Linden asked. “Nick and I will probably just continue as we’ve been—spending a few days together here and there, neither of us able to make a commitment.”

  A heavy blanket of gloom settled over them. Pru had a million more questions, but before she could ask another, Linden sat up, took a Cadbury Finger,
and snapped it in half.

  “The company is in mourning, of course, over what has happened,” she said, as if picking up a line in the middle of a scene. “Max included.”

  Yes, everyone shattered, devastated, in mourning over Gabriel’s death. Did they realize this was overkill? Pru needed a long talk with Christopher.

  “Your place in Kidlington sounds lovely,” she said, hoping to bring this scene to a close.

  Linden’s face lit up as she returned to the glory of her allée of early-flowering almonds and the mixed hedgerows lining the lane, before ending with, “I have a gardener, of course, although I would love to do it all myself. Oh, and I put in an herb garden this spring—a Celtic knot design edged in germander. It was in bloom when I left.”

  “We’ve used germander, too,” Pru said. “Don’t the bees love it?”

  “That’s why I put it in, for the bees—I have my own hives.”

  * * *

  —

  “It just came out,” Pru explained to Christopher when he arrived back at Coeur-de-la-Mer late in the afternoon. “I don’t think she realized how it sounded. But, so what if she has bees, what does that matter?”

  They stood in the middle of the empty theater lawn as Pru gave him a rundown on her conversation with Linden and tried to talk herself out of believing the woman capable of murder-by-bees. The company had been dismissed, but none of them seemed in a terrible rush to leave, and so it was useful to catch up where no one could eavesdrop—accidentally or otherwise.

  “Did you find fingerprints on the broken jar?” she asked.

  “No,” Christopher replied. “It was remarkably clean.”

  “Does anyone know there was honey in the jar of flowers?”

  “Only the murderer—we’ve said nothing, and the jar couldn’t be seen when you all rushed in.”

  “Does that show Linden didn’t do it? Because she didn’t seem embarrassed or shocked that she had let slip the fact she keeps bees.”