Peak Season for Murder
Page 21
“Checking out the actors’ quote wall.”
She took a deep drag on her cigarette and spoke through the smoke. “Do us all a favor and only use the good quotes. Things have been pretty rough around here since Nate died. We don’t need any negativity. We might be getting another large donation, and we need to keep everything on an up note.”
I hadn’t seen any negative quotes, but I’d gotten sick before I could read all of them. “Who’s the other big donor?” I asked, intrigued, swallowing down the acidic taste in my mouth.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” With her tongue, she wet her index finger and thumb, then pinched the end of her cigarette methodically until the cigarette went out. “The donor remains anonymous until the ink is dry. So work with us here, would you? The BT is good for everyone on the peninsula.”
She touched my arm as if we were great friends, and her look of sincerity was Oscar worthy. But I wasn’t fooled. For whatever reason, Nina didn’t like me. Maybe because she still believed I’d had sex with her ex-husband and was just another weak woman in a line of weak women, a reminder of her broken marriage.
“Nina,” I began, striking the same syrupy tone, “my intention has always been to write an in-depth piece on the BT, highlighting its long history and its contributions to the fine arts. I don’t know why everyone thinks I’m out to find dirt on the BT.” Though my stomach was gurgling and my head pounding, I wanted to ask her what she’d done to make Nate so angry he wanted to withdraw his donation. But that would hardly convince her of my good intentions.
“No one believes you’re out to screw us. We’re just on edge until everything’s finalized with this donation. When Nate died, the media was unbearable. So we’re a little leery of the press right now.”
“Understandable. But I’m the local press. I know what the new theater would mean to the peninsula’s tourism business. I’m on your side.”
She shook her head and smiled, a big warm grin I didn’t trust. “Of course you are. Now that we’re on the same page, I’m personally inviting you to the party after Saturday’s performance when I’ll make the announcement about the new theater. The party’s at the house where we had the after-party for MOV.”
Barbara Henry had already invited me to that party, but I didn’t say anything. Maybe Nina didn’t know that. “So how’s rehearsal going for Twelfth Night?” I asked. Twelfth Night was the next play after The Importance of Being Earnest.
“It’s going to be the highlight of the season. Gotta go. See you later.”
Before I could ask why it was going to be the highlight, she walked away. Wasn’t MOV supposed to have been the highlight of the season? Probably that’s what she said about every play.
I returned to the backstage area and searched the actors’ quote wall, looking for the Two Shakes’ quote. The mention of the two Shakespeare plays, Twelfth Night and MOV, might shed light on the quote.
There it was, written in faint ink on a slant. Underneath Two Shakes were the initials NR. When I returned to my apartment, I’d check the fifthieth anniversary book, but NR could stand for Nate Ryan.
But what was the significance of Two Shakes? Nate had never appeared in two Shakespeare plays in one season. If he’d lived,
this would be the first time he’d have done so: The Merchant of Venice as Shylock and Twelfth Night as the Duke of Illyria. The famous opening lines spoken by the Duke came back to me: “If music be the food of love, play on;/Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting,/The appetite may sicken, and so die.”
Was he saying he’d return to the BT to play in two Shakespeare plays? He couldn’t have known that. Maybe it was a goal of his? He’d appeared in only one season of the BT, playing Sebastian in Twelfth Night and Stanley Kowalski in A Streetcar Named Desire. After that, his acting career skyrocketed. He’d been the overnight success most actors dream about being and only achieve after years of paying their dues. He was the exception that proved the rule.
Or was Two Shakes some private reference having nothing to do with Shakespeare?
Though I had a raging migraine, I went over the wall meticulously, reading every quote, even the ones written upside down and in the far corners. I didn’t find one negative quote. There were quotes that were playful, bordering on cautionary, but clearly harmless, like the one about watching the actor behind the one in front of you. There were no quotes that would cast an aspersion on the BT. Nina was just looking for a way to tell me to be a team player and play nice.
I closed my notebook and kept staring at the wall, realizing that there were no quotes from Nina or Julian, veteran BT actors who had performed in numerous plays over many seasons. Maybe the wall was like a tourist guestbook: you had to be bored or inspired to write something.
Back in the apartment I popped two migraine tablets, then settled on the sofa with a bag of potato chips and the BT’s fifthieth anniversary book. I read through the cast list for each season, year by year. In sixty-five years, the BT had performed only one Shakespeare play, Twelfth Night, which had starred Julian Finch as the Duke of Illyria, Danielle Moyer as Viola and in the minor role of Viola’s brother Sebastian, Nate Ryan. This season was the first one to present two Shakespeare plays, bucking the BT’s mission of bringing mostly contemporary drama to the BT stage. So I had no explanation for Two Shakes.
I had more luck with the initials NR. Only one other actor in the cast list had those initials, Natalie Rodgers, circa 1950, before the BT moved to their current theater and before there was an actors’ wall. So the initials were Nate’s. I felt the loosening effects of the migraine pills starting to overtake me. I closed the program and lay back on the sofa. It was 4:30. A short nap before the communal dinner at 5:00 p.m. couldn’t hurt.
A buzzing sound woke me. I jolted upright in a panic, looking around, not sure where I was. The room was cast in twilight shadows, and the buzzing was coming from behind me. I stumbled up from the sofa to the kitchen counter. My cell phone was buzzing as if possessed. I flipped it open without even bothering to look at the number.
“Hello,” I croaked, my throat scratchy from sleep.
“Leigh, it’s Joe.”
Suddenly I was wide awake and anxious. “Has something happened to Lydia?”
“No,” he said quickly, then retreated. “Yes, but she’s still alive. She’s been medivaced to Green Bay. There’s a neurosurgeon there who specializes in these types of traumatic brain injuries. She’s in surgery now.”
I walked over to the light switch and turned on the lights. The kitchen clock read 7:16. I’d slept for three hours. “Tell me the truth, Joe. How bad is it?”
He didn’t hesitate. “It’s bad.”
I felt my stomach tighten. “Has her brother in California been notified?”
“Yeah, I read him the riot act. But that son of bitch isn’t coming.”
“She’s alone?” I asked, horrified. “She can’t be alone. I’m leaving now.”
“Hold up. I’m with her. Soon as she went into surgery I called you.”
“I should be there too,” I argued.
“Nothing you can do now. So stay put. She’ll be in surgery for a while.”
I didn’t want to stay put. But Joe was right. There was nothing I could do. “I don’t care what time it is, you call me when she gets out of surgery.”
“She’s got a good chance,” Joe reassured me. “This guy knows his stuff. If anyone can save her, he can. She’s got a lot of things going for her. She’s in good health.” I heard his voice break.
“And she’s got you there.”
“Listen, I gotta get back. When I know more, I’ll call.”
I’d never heard Joe sound so low. “She’s going to make it,” I said with more conviction than I felt. “She has to.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Just as the lights dimmed, I sat down in the canvas chair to the angry stare of Barbara Henry who’d greeted me at the tent’s entrance with, “A minute later and I wouldn’t have seated you,” shoving the playbill at me
.
As the curtain opened, I glanced at the cast list of The Importance of Being Earnest, noticing that two actors were playing two parts, and in the spirit of gender-bending that Oscar Wilde most likely would approve, Lady Bracknell was being played by Gary Westerly, a Chicago actor.
The play passed in a fog. I was beyond hungry, and all I could think about was Lydia, checking my cell phone from time to time. I’d put the phone on silent so if Joe called or texted, I’d see the message envelope.
Only two things broke through my fugue state: the marked diminishment of the bat population and Julian Finch’s phenomenal performance. By the second act, you could feel the audience sharpen its awareness when he was on stage, savoring his every word and gesture, laughing in anticipation of his lines.
When he took his curtain call, the theater erupted into applause so thunderous, it was deafening. They cheered and shouted “Bravo!” standing in appreciation. Julian bowed modestly and gestured to the other actors to join him in the adulation. I couldn’t help but think Ryan wouldn’t have come close to Julian’s performance.
As the applause died down, I quickly turned my cell phone on and checked for messages again. There were none. After waiting for the audience to disperse and Barbara Henry to leave, I made my way backstage. How could Alex fault me for wanting to personally congratulate Julian and the cast?
The dressing room was a buzz with frantic activity, so no one noticed me standing in the shadowy doorway. I should have announced my presence, but I was mesmerized as I watched the actors transform from their onstage characters back to their real selves—caught between fantasy and reality—costumes half shed, pale faces emerging from the thick pancake makeup—as if they couldn’t decide who they were.
“If it wasn’t good for ticket sales, I’d almost hate you,” Nina joked, catching Julian’s eye in the wall-length dressing room mirror lit by glaring makeup lights. Her dark curly hair was held back by a tortoiseshell headband, which accentuated her sharp nose and chin and dark eyes. She rubbed cold cream over her face, neck, and chest in tight circles. The loose Oriental-style wrap she was wearing gaped in front, showing that she was braless.
Julian sat next to Nina, carefully removing his heavy stage makeup with cotton balls, working in upward strokes. “Just doing my part,” Julian answered. But I saw a sly, self-satisfied smile play across his face. He was relishing the praise.
“And you do your part so well,” quipped Harper, who was slipping out of her hoop skirt. She stood for a moment dressed in only a tight bodice, which precariously held her small breasts aloft, and black dancer trunks that showed off her slim legs and hips, the hoop skirt around her ankles. She seemed to be utterly oblivious to Matt Burke’s leering gaze. He was ogling Harper in the mirror, appreciating her flagrant disarray.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you two are doing it,” Matt said, continuing to leer at Harper.
“Still no luck, Burke?” Julian kidded.
“Summer’s not over, old man,” Burke responded. Shirtless, he stood up and stepped out of his pants, revealing his toned, muscled body, as if daring Julian to do the same.
“You know, I’m right here,” Harper said hands on hips, chest thrust forward, still not moving to put on her street clothes. I half expected her to shed her bodice and stand topless to do Matt one better.
I saw Nina cast a fleeting glower at Harper. If looks could kill, Harper would be dead.
“On that note, I’m outta here,” said Gary Westerly, aka Lady Bracknell.
“Good job tonight,” Julian said. Gary saluted him and left.
Just as I was about to clear my throat and make my presence known, my cell phone rang. Everyone turned in my direction, a look of surprise on their faces.
Embarrassed, I held up one finger, saying, “Sorry. I have to take this,” and walked out of the dressing room onto the stage.
“She made it through surgery,” Joe said. “Now we wait. If she makes it through the next forty-eight hours, she’s got a good chance for a recovery.”
I let out a deep sigh. “That’s wonderful news. Thanks Joe,” I whispered.
“Where are you?” he asked. “Why are you whispering?”
“Backstage at the theater.”
“Go do your job. And call me later.”
I hung up and held the phone to my heart, letting my breathing settle. Lydia had made it through surgery. Then I walked backstage ready to be reamed out by Nina.
“Okay if I come in?” I said sheepishly.
“A little late for that,” sniped Nina, who was standing at the far end of the room, hanging up her costume and throwing me daggers.
“Hey, Leigh,” Burke began, ignoring Nina’s remark. “You want some?” He held up a half-empty whiskey bottle. “We’re celebrating.”
“No, thanks,” I said glancing around the dressing room.
Harper had slipped into a summery spaghetti-strap dress and was perched on the edge of the dressing table, sipping at her drink. Julian was still working on his makeup, his cup almost empty.
“Not to speak ill of the dead, but I’m gonna anyway,” Burke blathered. “No way Ryan coulda done better than Julian.”
Burke walked over and tapped Julian’s shoulder. “You are one talented dude. I only hope I’m half as good as you one day.” He raised his cup to Julian and then gulped down the rest of his drink.
At the mention of Ryan’s name, I felt the room go tense. “You’re well on your way,” Julian said to Burke. I wasn’t sure if Julian meant well on his way to being a better actor or a drunker actor. “Anyone want to head over to The Port for a nightcap? You’re invited, too, Leigh.”
Nina stared at me as if daring me to accept Julian’s invitation as she said, “Another time. I’m beat.”
“Aw, c’mon Nina,” teased Burke.
In spite of herself, Nina laughed. Other than onstage, that was the first time I’d seen her laugh. It changed her whole appearance, softening her sharp features and making her more attractive, almost beautiful. This must have been the woman Nate had fallen in love with.
“If I change my mind, I’ll catch up with you later.”
“Who’s driving?” Harper asked. “Not you,” she cautioned Matt. “You’re already past designated-driver status.”
Matt put his hand to his heart. “I’m mortally wounded by your cruel words.”
Harper snapped her fingers in Matt’s face. “Play’s over. Back to reality.”
“Didn’t you know all the world’s a stage to Matt?” Julian joked.
“Okay, I know when I’m outnumbered,” Harper conceded.
“If you don’t mind squeezing into my truck, I’ll drive,” I offered, smiling at Nina in defiance.
“Let’s take my car. Plenty of room,” Julian piped up. “How about you drive it, Leigh?”
“My pleasure,” I answered, not believing my good luck. A night out with the tipsy cast members was a journalist’s dream.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
From the way the hostess merely nodded to us as we entered The Port’s dining room, I figured the cast must be regulars. Only a few tables were occupied, so we practically had the room to ourselves. Julian guided us to a table with a view of Lake Michigan and the marina. Here and there the lights from boats glittered on the water, making the dark less absolute.
“The usual?” the waitress asked, handing only me a menu.
Everyone nodded their heads. “How about you, honey?” she asked me.
Though I’d have loved a glass of white wine, if only to catch up with the group’s festive spirit, I’d promised to drive. Besides, I wanted my wits about me. Maybe I could tease out info about the anonymous donor and, more importantly, what Nina had done to so enrage Ryan that he’d considered withdrawing his donation. Living cheek by jowl with each other, one of them might know something.
“An iced tea and a cheeseburger?” For some reason I was craving a cheeseburger.
“Sure thing. Anything else?”
“Be right back with the drinks and your salad,” she said. Then she tapped Matt on his head with her pencil. “And you, Mr. Burke, better behave yourself. No more monkey business. Nobody wants to hear you sing.”
Matt put his hand to heart again and said, “I’m mortally wounded by your cruel words, lovely lady.”
“Uh-huh,” she answered, and then sashayed her hips as she walked away.
“I think she wants me,” Matt joked, resting his head on Harper’s shoulder playfully.
“You think everybody wants you,” Harper said, pushing his head off.
“So, Leigh, how was Ryan?” Burke rested his elbows on the table and leaned in as if we were BFs sharing secrets.
“Honestly, Matt.” Harper play-slapped his arm.
“You’ve got a dirty mind, Harper. I meant acting-wise. How was Ryan, acting-wise?”
I didn’t think that was what he’d meant, but I went along with it anyway. “I’m no critic. I only know what I like. He was surprisingly good as Shylock.”
“Yeah, but our guy Julian here was better, right?” He kept his focus on me. Though I knew he was drunk, his intense gaze was unnerving.
“You don’t have to answer that,” Julian said to me. “Matt’s on the verge of making a complete fool of himself, and it’s best to ignore him when he’s like this.”
Matt was about to put his hand over his heart again and protest when the waitress came with our drinks and my salad. “That burger will be right up, sweetie,” she said to me before leaving.
“As I was saying,” Matt slurred, putting his hand back over his heart. “I am mortally wounded.”
Harper cut him off before he could finish his sentence. “By your drunkenness.” She took his hand and put it over her heart.
They all burst into a fit of giggles, even Julian. I might have to order a drink. Harper held Matt’s hand over her heart a beat too long before pushing it away.
“I was reading your actors’ wall today,” I began, trying to change the tenor of the conversation. “I was surprised that you never wrote anything on it, Julian.” I glanced sideways at him. “How come?”