by Gail Lukasik
She’d skillfully sidestepped my question. “What’s it like acting with Nate Ryan?”
She laughed and started walking. “It always comes back to the famous Nate Ryan. He’s a total dog, apologies to Salinger. First rehearsal he made a pass at me. Put his arm around my shoulder and whispered something disgusting in my ear about his pound of flesh. Then he showed up on my doorstep that night with a bottle of wine and two glasses. I politely told him no. But he keeps trying.”
The empty bottle of wine and two glasses I’d seen in Nate’s apartment flashed into my brain and with them, the lacy bra. Surreptitiously, I glanced at her body. The lacy bra might fit her. Was she telling me the truth? After all, there was that intimate moment between Alex and her at the Isle View Bar that I’d witnessed. Was Harper a serial flirt? I didn’t know. So I pushed her. “Not even a little bit tempted? After all, he knows a lot of people in the biz.”
“More like he knew a lot of people. I’m going to make it on my talent, not on my back. What did Nate do for Nina? Nothing, and she was married to him. Can we talk about something else besides Nate Ryan?” She said it kindly, but I sensed her annoyance. Her pace had increased, and I was having trouble taking notes and keeping up with her.
“Sure. Tell me one surprising thing about you.”
She lifted her voluminous hair off her neck, held it atop her head for a second, and then let it fall. “I’m very superstitious.”
“Aren’t all actors superstitious?” I countered.
“Well, yeah. But I have this one thing I do that other actors who are superstitious would never do. You know about it being unlucky to wear real jewelry on stage?”
“No, I hadn’t heard that one.”
“Okay, well, it is unlucky to do that. Anyway, I always have this teeny, tiny gold key somewhere on me when I perform. When I tried out for that junior high play, I was wearing it on a chain around my neck. Then after that I just kept wearing it.”
She stopped and grabbed my arm. For someone so petite and thin, her grip was surprisingly strong. “Oh, I shouldn’t have told you that. Please don’t put it in your article.”
I was planning on doing just that. “C’mon, Harper, what difference does it make if I put it in the article?”
“Because if the other actors find out, they’ll freak.” She sounded truly panicked. “Julian Finch is one of the most superstitious actors I’ve ever seen. Not that I’ve seen that many. He has all these rituals, like pulling on his tongue with a paper towel, hitting his chest repeatedly, jumping up and down twenty times.”
“He really does those things?” I’d have to ask Julian about his rituals. He’d told me the most surprising thing about him was his fear of spiders, which he’d had to confront when he starred in a B-movie about killer spiders.
“Then tell me something else surprising about you.” Why did she tell me it in the first place if she didn’t want me to use it? I was beginning to think that Harper was purposely misleading me. For what reason, I didn’t know.
She thought for a moment and then said, “I once was arrested. Before you get too excited. I was part of a group protesting the tearing down of a historic building in our town to build an incinerator. We tried to block the demolition of the building. I spent a few hours in jail with the other protesters, and they built the incinerator anyway.”
I would have never figured Harper for an environmentalist. She seemed too self-absorbed.
We reached the bench that marked the path to the Moyers’ cabin, and Harper stopped and looked off into the woods. “You want to see the Moyer cabin? You know about Danielle Moyer, right? That would be so interesting for your article.”
So Harper knew about the cabin and Danielle Moyer. “Yeah, Bob the intern told me that she disappeared after the performance of The Merchant of Venice, only he was wrong about the play, it was A Streetcar Named Desire.”
“So sad,” Harper mused. “Have you seen pictures of her? She was so beautiful. Then to take her life like that.”
“She committed suicide? That was never reported.” After my conversation with Bob and rereading the fiftieth anniversary booklet, I researched the Gazette’s archives for information about the Moyer family. Danielle Moyer had disappeared after Streetcar, as I surmised, and was never seen again, just as Bob said. There was no mention of suicide.
“Well, what else could have happened?” She looked at me with those limpid hazel eyes that seemed too big for her face.
“She could have just run away. Three years after Danielle disappeared, her parents, Constance and Alfred, sold the BT, lock, stock and barrel.”
“What happened to them?” Harper asked.
“No one knows.”
“Kinda like their daughter, huh?”
“Yeah, like that.”
“The cabin’s so spooky. I just love it.” She shivered dramatically. “Let’s go see it.”
Before I could object, she’d disappeared down the rocky path. I had no choice but to follow her. Why did I feel like Harper was manipulating me? That the entire interview had been rehearsed? And I’d yet to see the real Harper Kennedy.
In the shadowy afternoon light, the cabin appeared even more dilapidated and abandoned. “Oh, look,” said Harper, “someone’s taken the plywood off the windows.”
All the windows on this side of the house were unboarded. I looked around for the plywood. It was neatly piled against a tree. What is going on here? I wondered.
Harper went to the back of the cabin and peered through one of the windows. “Look at this. Two plates and two glasses are on the table. Oh, and knives and forks.”
“What?” I came around behind Harper and looked over her shoulder. “That wasn’t here yesterday,” I blurted out.
“Well, it is now. Do you think someone’s staying here? Like a homeless person, or maybe grifters,” Harper speculated. “That’s kinda scary. What if they break into one of our apartments and steal something?”
Where was she going with this? Her imagination seemed to be on overdrive, and it was making me nervous. Even Salinger seemed wary, her tail between her legs as she nosed around the house, taking sidelong glances at Harper.
“Have you seen someone suspicious around the apartments?” I questioned.
“No, not really. But you never know.” She tugged on her peasant blouse as if it were too tight.
I walked around to the other side of the cabin with Harper following. The Shown By Appointment Only sign was still there, but those windows were unboarded as well. The low-slung front door’s doorknob was still missing, the wood slat still hammered across the door.
I tried opening the windows and found a loose one at the rear of the house. I pushed on it and it creaked open. Below the window the grass was tamped down. I was about to climb through the window when Harper said, “Listen, if you don’t have any more questions for me, I’d like to head back to my apartment.”
“Just a few more, but I can ask them as we walk back.” I could always nose around the old house later.
When we reached the garden, I shook hands with Harper and told her to break a leg.
“If you need anything else, just call me,” she offered. “Are you attending the after-party tonight?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
After her lithe figure disappeared down the flagstone path, I doubled back to the Moyer house, with Salinger leading the way. When I reached the house, I told Salinger to sit while I pushed open the window and climbed into the kitchen. The air was damp, but the place didn’t have that stale smell houses have when they’d been shut up for long periods of time. And the floor was free of dust, as if it’d just been mopped.
I picked up one of the white stoneware plates, then a glass. No mystery here. These were from the BT’s cafeteria. I recognized the ringed glasses and the fluted-edged plates as well as the knives and forks. Unless a homeless person or grifter had stolen these items from the cafeteria, which was possible but highly unlikely, the culprit was part of the BT’s
cast or crew. Though both glasses were empty, I sniffed them anyway. Nothing. Then I checked out the two small bedrooms and the one bathroom. Empty. No furniture, no footprints marring the dusty floors. The kitchen was the only room with furniture: table, four chairs, a cupboard and a spotless floor.
There was only one more thing to check before I left: the pine cupboard.
I yanked the door open and jumped back, knocking over a chair and causing Salinger to start barking outside.
Hanging inside the cupboard was a white nightgown, a pair of white satin slippers beneath it, giving the impression of a headless ghost. The gown was frayed and worn and had a brownish stain on the bodice. Was that dried blood?
Barking and jumping at the window, Salinger was frantic to get inside. Her outburst had sent animals scurrying back and forth over the roof, inciting her even more.
I shouted at her to be quiet. Finally, she whimpered into silence.
What’s going on here? I took a deep breath. Who had placed these items here and why? The room resembled a stage set. The nightgown was something out of a horror movie. Could Bob be the prankster? After all, he and Rich had put up the realty sign.
But then there were Julian and Ryan and their history of pranks—that Julian denied. Stepping closer, I touched the lifeless nightgown; it felt cold and damp. This close, I saw the brown stain wasn’t blood. It was too watery looking. If either Ryan or Julian had done this, I didn’t see the humor. No, this felt like some kind of message. But to whom and for what purpose?
Slowly I closed the cupboard door, listening to what sounded as though the animals that had scampered overhead were now inside the house. Without waiting to find out, I crawled back through the window, ripping my cotton camp shirt in the process. Once outside, I walked around the cabin, my eyes searching the roof, but didn’t see any holes. Maybe the scurrying had been on the roof and not inside the house.
On my way back to the parking lot, I stopped at the box office and asked a spritely older woman with the reddest lipstick I’d ever seen if Barbara Henry was around. Salinger was resting under one of the big cedars nearby, clearly spent from her antics at the cabin.
“Barbara,” the woman called to the adjoining office. “That reporter wants to see you.”
Barbara had a pasted-on smile, and her ponytail drooped off the back of her head. Surprisingly, she was wearing a flowing white and black sundress. “Yes. Something I can do for you?” she asked.
“The Moyer house,” I began. “What can you tell me about it?” I decided to ask a vague question so as not to alert the overly protective PR director.
She looked genuinely perplexed. “It’s where the Moyers lived. It’s been shut up for years.”
“Do you plan on demolishing it? Using it as a museum? It’s in pretty good shape.”
Her chin jutted out. “What were you doing there?”
How much should I tell her? Especially with the other woman glued to my every word. Contrary to my best interests, I decided on the truth. “The Moyers are part of the BT’s story. I wanted to see where they lived.”
“The board hasn’t decided yet what to do with it. There’s been some discussion about moving it once the new theater is built, maybe using it as a museum. But nothing’s definite, so don’t mention it in the article. Okay?”
“You should have someone board it up until you decide,” I advised her. “Because someone’s been inside.”
Uncharacteristically, Barbara started chuckling. “Oh that’s probably Bob. He and Rich put up a realty sign.”
“Have you been inside?”
“That creepy place? I don’t think so.”
“Well, someone has been, and recently. The table’s set for two, and there’s a nightgown and slippers in the cupboard.”
If Barbara was surprised, she hid it well. “I’ll make sure it’s boarded up. And I’ll have Alex talk to Bob about it.”
My intention hadn’t been to get Bob in trouble. I wasn’t even sure Bob was the culprit. “It might not have been Bob. It could have been anyone.”
“We’ll take care of it. Thanks for telling me about it.”
Now I was sorry I’d told her. She’d made up her mind it was Bob. He might even lose his internship and not graduate.
I walked over to the beer garden with Salinger trotting alongside and asked Rich if he knew where Bob was.
“What’s he done now?”
I told Rich about the Moyer house and the staged room with the creepy hanging nightgown and how Barbara Henry was convinced Bob had been the culprit.
“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”
“How?”
“I’ll say it was me. They’d never fire me. I know where all the bodies are buried.” He grinned and then squeezed my shoulder. “Good thing you told me. Don’t forget our date tomorrow morning.”
I smiled weakly. “Interview,” I corrected him. “Tomorrow around nine.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Before heading home, I checked out a rental house off Route A in Fish Creek: a squat modular house that listed ever so slightly sideways and looked like it’d been dropped in the middle of the weedy field by a tornado. I didn’t even bother getting out of the truck. Finding a place to live by the end of the month might prove more difficult than I thought, especially considering my limited budget. Who knew when I’d get the divorce money?
Damn you, Tom, I fumed. Divorced and homeless really sucked.
CHAPTER NINE
A flutter of bats rose toward the lights in the crescendo of applause and bravos. The audience en masse was on its feet as the cast took their fourth curtain call: Nate Ryan front and center, Harper Kennedy on his right, and Julian Finch on his left—all holding hands, all looking like the best of friends.
As the cast took another bow, the audience began to chant, “Shylock, Shylock, Shylock.” Nate shrugged his shoulders modestly and then stepped forward to take a solo bow. When he stood up, he turned and gestured to Harper. For a moment she hesitated, then she joined him and together they bowed.
Just as they finished, Ryan reached out and pulled off Harper’s hat, releasing her glorious hair, then grabbed her in his arms and bent her backward, kissing her passionately. When he released her, he straightened up awkwardly. The audience roared with laughter, and though she was smiling, it was an uncomfortable smile. To cover her embarrassment over the kiss, Harper turned abruptly and gestured the rest of the cast forward for one last bow.
“Wow,” Lydia Crane gushed into my ear. “That was spectacular. I can’t wait to meet him at the party.”
I didn’t need to ask who him was. Lydia had been salivating over Ryan since we’d had a drink in the garden before curtain. And I’m sure kissing Harper only added to his allure.
The performance had been flawless, and the audience didn’t seem to mind the homosexual overtones, merely gasping when Bassanio and Antonio kissed, hard and on the lips. I couldn’t help but wonder where Harper had hidden her golden key. Probably inside her bra, or maybe inside her voluminous hair.
Once the applause died out, the cast exited the stage, and the audience slowly moved toward the open tent flaps. Some were dressed casually and others were dressed in suits and gowns. My guess was that the suits and gowns had paid the exorbitant ticket price of $500, entitling them to attend the after-party at Serenity House—a mansion adjacent to the BT’s grounds. Lydia, who was dressed in a short, ruffled magenta cocktail dress with a low decoupage, was attending, as was I, courtesy of my article.
As Lydia and I walked through the fragrant garden under a full moon, my cell phone began to vibrate again in the pocket of my black linen trousers. No gown for me. Black linen pantsuit with a pale blue silk blouse underneath. Black and blue. The colors matched my bruised psyche. Tom had ended our marriage so abruptly; I was still trying to deal with my hurt feelings and my new status as a divorcée. I hadn’t even told Lydia about it. Was I afraid that if I spoke the words aloud, they would make it real?
I took the phone from my pocket and looked at the number. Sturgeon Bay Police Department. Why would the police department be calling me? I flipped the phone open and listened to the message.
“You gotta come get me out,” slurred Ken Albright. “That guy had it coming. I’m at the police station. I didn’t have no one else to call. They said somebody has to come get me if I’m to get out of here.”
I closed the phone, debating what to do. Apparently Ken, under the influence of some substance, got into a fight and had been thrown in jail. Maybe I should let him stay the night to teach him a lesson. Besides, it was important I attend the afterparty where I could chat up the actors fresh from their performances with their defenses down, maybe get some unexpected quotes. Then tomorrow I could finish up the article, which would free me to concentrate on looking for a place to live.
“What’s up?” Lydia asked. “Bad news?”
“That was Ken Albright. You know, the formerly homeless guy I did the article on, whose friend just died.”
Lydia looked bored, her eyes roving the garden impatiently. “What about him?”
“He’s been arrested.”
She let out an impatient sigh. “Leigh, no.”
“Why don’t you go on ahead to the party? I’ll catch up later.”
“C’mon, you’re supposed to introduce me to Nate Ryan. How else am I going to get him into my studio for a private yoga lesson? That publicist never called to set it up. When I think of all the positions I could put him in.” She moved her eyebrows up and down suggestively.
“That’s wrong on so many levels.” I laughed. “Didn’t you tell me your father had the rich and famous to your house on a regular basis? I’m sure you can handle an actor.” Lydia was from money, and her family owned a mansion on Lake Michigan in Lake Forest, Illinois. In college she’d rejected their lifestyle and become a nurse, New Age shop owner, and now yoga master/masseuse/psychic healer. I had serious doubts about Lydia as a psychic healer. She seemed too bound to the physical plane.