Peak Season for Murder

by Gail Lukasik

  “That would make a good quote for your article, don’t you think?” He raised his eyebrows and stared at me with his bluish-gray eyes.

  “Does a bad rehearsal include a switched knife?”

  “Not usually. But these things sometimes do happen, you know. Mistakes are made. People fall short.”

  His sudden mood change from frustration to calm was peculiar. Again I chalked it up to actors’ mercurial personalities. Their emotions must course so close to the surface that the slightest touch ignites them.

  “Maybe Nate was getting even with you for putting a fake chicken in his fridge.”

  “What are you talking about?” He stared at me as if I’d just sprouted a second head.

  “Nate told me you two have a history of practical jokes. He found a fake chicken in his fridge when I was there interviewing him yesterday.”

  “Is that what he said?”

  I nodded my head yes.

  “No, I didn’t put it there. Not my style.”

  “But you two like playing jokes on each other?”

  He let out a deep breath. “I made the mistake once of sinking to his level. You’ve probably noticed he’s a bit of a child.”

  He got up and straightened his crisp white trousers. He was a meticulous man, who chose his words as carefully as his clothes. “Well, no rest for the wicked. You coming?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  The next hour flew by in a dramatic haze. Finch was flawless, and everyone else had to rise to this performance. Even Ryan lagged behind.

  After the run-through, I asked Barbara Henry what time dress rehearsal was that evening.

  “You’d better check with Alex first and ask if he wants you there.” She twisted her thin ponytail around her finger, her one eyebrow raised defiantly.

  That was a change. Only yesterday I was told that I had carte blanche for my article.

  Since the knife incident, Alex had been avoiding me, not even looking in my direction, even though I sat next to him for the remainder of the rehearsal. I had to literally block the door to talk to him.

  “Barbara said I had to check with you about dress rehearsal tonight.”

  “I can’t let you backstage. It’s too distracting to the actors.”

  “No problem. I’ll just sit in the audience. What time should I be here?”

  He glanced over my head as if someone was behind me. “Look, I’m running a closed dress tonight.”

  “I’m almost finished with the interviews. And the dress rehearsal will really add another dimension to the piece,” I protested. “What happened to carte blanche?”

  He let out a deep sigh. “My first obligation is to the actors and the play. And frankly, some of them have told me they find your presence a distraction.”

  Now I was miffed. “Distraction? Which actors?” I had my suspicions that Nate Ryan was behind this.

  He pursed his thin lips. “Sorry, but that’s the way it is.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Bob was waiting for me by the beer garden, a plastic cup in his hand. That explains a lot, I thought. Maybe Alex was right to blame him for the switched knives. It was just after four o’clock, and he was drinking.

  “Want one?” he asked, holding up the cup. “Free for you.”

  The yeasty beer smell was tempting, but I passed. I’d finally shaken my headache, and I wasn’t going back there.

  “Sometimes Rich comps me one.”

  Rich Koch was the groundskeeper and bartender at the beer garden. I could see him in the back, stacking up cases of beer, his Irish setter pup, Dixie, hanging on his every movement.

  “Perks of being an intern?” I asked. Bob grinned as if he’d been given the keys to a Milwaukee brewery. I was still miffed about being shut out of tonight’s dress rehearsal. But Bob’s youthful enthusiasm over a free beer was infectious.

  “The least they can do, all the crap I take. So, the quickest way to the old Moyer cabin is the path that runs along the bay, unless you want to see where the actors live.” He pointed up the hill. “You can’t see them from here, what with the trees, but it’s a bunch of six packs.”

  “Already saw them yesterday, thanks to Nate Ryan.”

  “Then you know how good the actors have it. Unlike us interns and techs, who have to share one bathroom. But, hey, you can’t beat our view.”

  Bob wasn’t handsome, but his openness made up for what he lacked in the looks department. His hair was a corn yellow and longish, his wire-rimmed glasses thick, and he had a slight overbite that made him seem a bit dopey. His short, soft, pudgy body reminded me of that Doughboy character in those TV commercials, minus the chef’s hat.

  “If you’re showing her the Moyer cabin, you’d better finish that beer first.” Rich emerged from behind the bar. “I don’t want anybody to see ya walking around with it.” He was a tall, gangly guy with a pronounced slouch and a lush dark mustache, which was in contrast to his balding head. He was probably in his early fifties but moved like a much older man.

  Bob chugged the beer and threw the cup in the open garbage bin. “I’m legal.”

  “You know what I’m talking about. You’re not supposed to be drinking during work hours.”

  “Got you covered, Rich. Don’t sweat it.”

  “Now I know I’m in trouble,” Rich joked, winking at me. “You just holler, Leigh, if he gets out of hand. And hey, when you gonna let me show you around the gardens?”

  Last week he’d stopped me in the parking lot, introduced himself and asked me when I was going to tour the gardens. There was a feverishness about his request. I suspected he never felt appreciated and wanted some recognition. “How’s Wednesday morning around nine?” Better to get it over with than have him dogging me.

  “It’s a date, Leigh.” He grinned at me as if it were a date.

  As Bob and I walked the shoreline, I caught glimpses of the bay through the tall cedars lining the shore. The water was flat as glass, not a whisper of a breeze ruffling it, which kept the mosquitoes and black flies in front of my face like a veil.

  “So, besides props, what else do you do around here?” I asked.

  “Lighting, work on sets. Whatever Alex the boss wants me to do.” That note of anger was back. “He’s always ragging on me. Thinks I’m lazy and stupid.”

  “I’m sure he wouldn’t have you back for a second year if he thought that.”

  “Maybe he gets off on torturing me.”

  As the trail curved, I saw a bench up ahead near the water. Bob went to it, picked up a rock and threw it into the bay. We stood for a moment and watched the water ripple out. “C’mon,” he said, turning away from the water and crossing the trail. “It’s this way.” He walked off into the woods.

  “Where you going?” I called to his retreating back. My nifty red wedge sandals weren’t made for hiking through dense woods.

  “The Moyer cabin. Where else?”

  “I don’t see a path.”

  He pointed back from where we’d come. “Yeah, that’s what’s so cool. The path is right across from the bench.”

  If you didn’t know it was there, you wouldn’t see the path. It was narrow and rocky, and at times seemed to disappear then a few steps later appear again. I stepped carefully over the rocks jutting up through the ground, planting my wedges tentatively.

  “How much farther?” I protested. We’d been walking for what seemed like forever, but was probably only about ten minutes. My calf muscles were aching from the strain of walking this tightrope path.

  Bob stopped and turned toward me, a stupid grin on his chubby face. “We’re here.”

  I glanced around and didn’t see anything except trees and more trees. “Where is it?”

  He was grinning so broadly, I thought he was playing a joke on me. “It’s right there, behind that stand of trees.” He took my arm and pulled me forward a few steps.

  Buried deep in the woods, surrounded by tall trees, was a green hodgepodge of a cabin. It seemed sad and dil
apidated. Tall grass and scattered rocks surrounded the entire structure as if nature was reclaiming it. Trees precariously overhung the moss-carpeted roof.

  “C’mon,” Bob beckoned. “You have to see this thing up close. It blows my mind that a whole family lived in that dump. Though it probably wasn’t a dump back then.”

  When we reached the cabin, I noticed that all the windows along the back were boarded up with plywood. I ran my hand over the weathered wooden slats, which crumbled between my fingers.

  “Check this out,” Bob called out excitedly from the other side of the cabin.

  As I walked around the back of the house, I noticed that one of the windows wasn’t covered in plywood and stopped to glance inside. The dusky room was a kitchen.

  “Leigh, you gotta see this,” Bob called again.

  Bob was standing next to a sign that read Shown By Appointment Only.

  “Rich and I put that sign there,” Bob boasted. “Pretty funny, huh?”

  “Hilarious,” I said sardonically.

  I was beginning to think Bob was the prankster. Maybe the pranks were his way of getting even for all the blame Alex heaped on his doughy shoulders.

  “Did you and Rich take the plywood off that window over there by the back door?”

  “I didn’t touch any windows,” Bob said petulantly, obviously hurt over my less than enthusiastic response to his joke.

  Bob trailed behind me as I walked back to the window. “Was it like that when you were here last?” The glass was amazingly clean, considering the filthy state of the rest of the cabin.

  Bob looked down at his sneakers, then up at me. “I don’t think so. But I really wasn’t paying attention.”

  I cupped my hands to the glass and peered inside. There was a small round table and four chairs in the middle of the room. Shoved in a corner against the back wall stood a tall cabinet. On the other side of the room were a sink and a counter top. Beside the back door was a wood-burning stove. Everything was covered with a thick layer of dust, except for one of the chair seats and part of the table. On the table were a partially burnt candle and a book of matches.

  “It looks like someone’s been here recently,” I surmised.

  “No way.” Bob came up behind me and peeked over my shoulder.

  “See how there’s no dust on that chair and part of the table? And look at the candle.”

  “I’d like to know how they got in.” He pointed to the piece of wood hammered across the door. “The front door’s the same way.”

  “Well, someone’s been here.”

  “Maybe it’s Danielle Moyer’s ghost,” Bob whispered eerily.

  “Right,” I said sarcastically. Before leaving, I jotted down a few notes, then snapped some photos. If this was where the Moyer family once lived, it might make a good side story to the article.

  “You’re sure the Moyer family lived here?” I asked Bob as I shoved my notebook and camera into my shoulder bag.

  “If you don’t believe me, ask Rich. He’s the one who told me about it. You know he’s been with the BT for, like, forever. He should know.”

  When I interviewed Rich Wednesday morning, I’d ask him about the Moyer cabin.

  Before we left, I gave Bob one of my business cards. “If you find out who’s behind the practical jokes, let me know. Okay?”

  He took the card and examined it. “You got it, Leigh.”

  When I got back to my truck, I pulled out the Bayside Theater’s fiftieth anniversary booklet with the list of past plays and flipped to the nineteen eighties section. I read through the list twice. Then I went through all the past plays. Bob was wrong. The BT had never performed MOV in the nineteen eighties or any other time. However, on page thirty-five, there was a photo of Danielle Moyer from the 1988 production of Twelfth Night. Danielle was Viola, dressed as a boy in period costume. And standing behind her with his arms around her was a very young Julian Finch. He was Orsino, the Duke that Viola falls in love with. They made a very handsome couple. Nate had a minor role as Sebastian, Viola’s brother.

  Curiously, there was no photo of Nate Ryan from his performance as Stanley Kowalski in A Streetcar Named Desire or, for that matter, anyone else from the cast. But Julian Finch and Danielle Moyer had appeared in the play—Julian as the gentleman caller and Danielle as Blanche DuBois. I read through the succeeding cast lists for the next few seasons, and Danielle Moyer’s name never appeared again. Had she disappeared after the production of Streetcar?

  I flipped back to the four-page introductory history of the BT and reread it. The intro briefly mentioned the Moyers saving the theater from bankruptcy, building the present pavilion, and then, because of personal and financial reasons, selling the property in 1992. That’s when the theater became a nonprofit organization. Since then, ownership had passed through several hands. From my interview with Alex Webber, I knew that he and Nina Cass were the present owners and had acquired the theater five years ago. Now they were in the midst of a major fundraising venture coinciding with the sixty-fifth anniversary year of the BT. The funds were to be used to build a new theater.

  Based on the scanty facts about the Moyers, Danielle had probably disappeared after Streetcar and then her parents, Constance and Alfred, stuck it out another four years before selling for personal and financial reasons. The question remained: What happened to Danielle Moyer?

  CHAPTER EIGHT: TUESDAY, JULY 11

  Already fifteen minutes late, I hurried down the stone path with Salinger in tow toward the BT garden where Harper Kennedy was waiting for me, sitting on the same bench she and Finch had occupied yesterday.

  She’d confirmed our interview last night, leaving a voice message on my cell.

  “Do you mind if we meet in the BT garden, then take a walk along the shore?” Her voice matched her ethereal body, wispy and fragile.

  Usually chronically early for interviews, I’d run into bumper-to-bumper traffic in Sister Bay. Before Harper’s interview, I’d driven up to Marshalls Point to see if Ken knew why the police were treating Brownie’s death as a crime. I also wanted to offer him my support. But the place was deserted.

  He’s probably out on a job, I’d reassured myself. A twinge of sadness overtook me as I looked at the forlorn shed that had been the men’s refuge and home.

  It was taking all my strength to restrain Salinger, who pulled on her leash as she bounded toward the bench where an errant squirrel was frolicking. “Easy, girl,” I cautioned her, holding the leash with two hands.

  When we reached the bench, the squirrel had skittered up a tree, to Salinger’s chagrin.

  “Who’s this cute doggy?” Harper asked.

  “Salinger,” I answered, sitting down beside her. Salinger gave her a good sniffing and then settled down as well, sitting between us, one paw crossed over the other. I’d decided to bring her with me today. She deserved to be out and about on this crystal clear morning of puffy white clouds and high temps.

  “As in J.D.?”

  “Right. Sorry I’m late. Got tied up in tourist traffic.”

  “No problem,” Harper responded. She slid off the bench and knelt beside Salinger. “What a beautiful doggy you are.”

  As she ran her fingers through Salinger’s fur, a rich blend of what smelled like jasmine, lemon, and geranium rose from her skin. She wore jean shorts, a white peasant blouse, sandals, a black-corded necklace tight around her throat, and huge silver hoops. On her wrist was a silver mesh cuff. With the rising humidity, her fluffy blond hair haloed her delicate face. She looked more like a poet than an actor. Or maybe a poet’s muse.

  She stood up and pulled on her tight shorts. Her legs were like two twigs. “You up for a walk? I have to nap before my performance. It’s one of my rituals. And a walk helps me sleep.” Though she was twenty-four, she could have passed for sixteen.

  We headed toward the shoreline trail. The same path I’d walked yesterday with Bob. Once we were out of sight of the theater grounds, I let Salinger off her leash. She ran ahead
of us, stopping and turning every so often, ever watchful, one of her most endearing traits.

  I glanced down at my paltry research notes. Harper Kennedy had the shortest bio of all the cast members. She’d grown up in a small central Illinois town, studied acting at the University of Illinois and appeared in a few Chicago-area productions, playing minor roles. This was her first summer with the BT.

  “So why acting?” I sensed I didn’t need to ease into her interview. There was an openness about her, probably more to do with her age than her personality. So I skipped the small talk, which I was usually bad at, and began with the “real” questions. If she was a barracuda as Gwen had warned me, I’d had yet to see it. But then, she was an actress.

  Since this was my last cast interview, I already knew how I was going to focus the section on the actors: what drew them to acting; where they were in their careers; and one unexpected thing about them.

  She took in a deep breath. “This is so lame I’m embarrassed to tell you. I guess when I make it big, I’ll have to make up something better. Well, here goes. When I was eleven, I tried out for our junior high Christmas play. Why I got the lead, search me. I know it sounds ridiculous, but I was hooked from then on. Lame, right?”

  “No, it’s charming.” She’s not the only one who could stretch the truth. Why did that story seem disingenuous, meant to cast her in a naive, sweet light?

  I let it go, wanting to test Gwen’s theory about Harper’s competitiveness. “Were you surprised when you got the role of Portia after Gwen left?” Though Harper was the right age for Portia, Nina had the better acting chops for the role.

  She stopped for a moment and gazed at the bay where two sailboats were crossing, their sails billowing out. “Wow!” she gasped. “I just can’t get over how beautiful it is up here. Kinda like a dream of summer.”

  She seemed so lost in the moment, I didn’t break into her reverie. Once the sailboats had crossed, she turned toward me. “You were asking about my getting the part of Portia? Yeah, I was surprised I got any part. There were a lot of actors auditioning in Chicago. I almost turned around and walked out of the theater. But you know, when you’re a nobody, what do you have to lose?”