The Falcon Always Wings Twice

by Donna Andrews

  “Yeah, I know that now. I should have known it then. But I was on edge—you know how it is when you’re getting ready for a big audition. I just thought, I’ll keep it under my hat, and if nothing comes of it, no one will ever know.”

  “I’m still in the dark, remember?” I said. “No one will ever know about what?”

  “I went up to D.C. for an audition,” he said. “A callback. I know Michael wasn’t keen, but he has a great career now, teaching. It could mean all the difference to me. Get my career started again. But I didn’t want to seem ungrateful for the chance you’d given me, and I didn’t really want people to know anyway, in case it didn’t work out, so…”

  He took another deep gulp of tea.

  “I think I get the picture,” I said. “You snuck off to audition for Neil O’Malley’s production of Hamlet.”

  He nodded and swallowed hard.

  “For what part?”

  “Polonius. And I got it.” He smiled, and I realized I hadn’t seen that broad a smile on his face in the several weeks we’d been here at the center. My heart sank a little.

  “Polonius? You’re sure?”

  “Reasonably sure, yes.” He struck a deliberately theatrical pose and intoned “‘Give thy thoughts no tongue, nor any unproportioned thought his act. Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar. Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, grapple them unto thy soul with hoops of steel.’” His face fell a little. “Guess I didn’t do such a great job of that last part, did I? I should have told you guys. Before the callback. Better still, before the first audition. But for sure afterward, once I had the part.”

  “And how solid was it, getting that part?” I asked. “Did you have anything in writing? Like a contract?”

  “Well, not exactly.” Nigel frowned slightly. “Not a contract. But he told me after my reading I was in, and that evening he sent me an email thanking me for coming up for the second reading, saying I’d nailed it, and that his assistant would be mailing out the paperwork soon. Paperwork as in contracts, I’m sure.”

  “Interesting,” I murmured.

  Michael, who knew very well that “interesting” was rarely a compliment in my family, stifled a grin.

  “Look, I can tell him I need to finish out my contract here,” Nigel said. “I’m sure he’ll understand. Especially if I point out that thanks to Terence’s murder you’re already shorthanded. And I’m sorry about missing Saturday, but I skipped my breaks on Sunday and I was scheduled to have Wednesday off from the costume shop during this week and I worked it anyway and—”

  “Relax,” Michael said. “I get it. A part like that could restart your career. If you’d asked, I’d have given you the day off, and I’m not going to give you a hard time now that you’ve landed it.”

  “If you feel guilty about missing last Saturday, just help us pull off today’s Game without Terence and we’ll call it quits,” I said.

  “Thanks,” he said. “But I still have to worry about what the cops will think, don’t I?”

  “But why?” Okay, maybe not a fair question, since I already knew what O’Malley had said, but I wanted to see what else I could learn before disclosing that bit of information. “Why would they care that you snuck away to do an audition last weekend?”

  “Because Terence was blackmailing me about it.”

  Chapter 22

  “Blackmailing you?” Michael echoed. I could tell from his tone that it didn’t sound all that plausible to him. “About sneaking off to audition?”

  “Yes.” Nigel nodded, then hurried on. “You see, I was so excited when I got the call to go up for the second reading that I had to tell someone, and unfortunately Terence was the only person nearby. And as soon as I told him he started warning me that I’d better keep it a secret. That maybe you’d understand—or maybe not—but that Cordelia would go ballistic if I asked for the whole day off. And he offered to help me—to cover for me. He was the one who suggested the migraine idea. I felt a bit guilty, but I really wanted to make that callback, so I took him up on it. Maybe I should have been suspicious about how nice he was about it.”

  “Not exactly in character, yeah,” I said. “But it was a smart idea, the migraine cover story. Just about everyone would understand. And be especially sympathetic, since coping with a migraine—or even an ordinary headache—is bad enough when you’re home in your familiar surroundings, with whatever usually helps.”

  “That was the idea,” Nigel said. “Terence even suggested that if anyone went looking for me and found my tent empty, he’d figure out some way to cover for me—like saying that he’d helped me find a quiet place in the woods where I could get away from the noise.” He turned to Michael. “I remember Saturday evening, when I told my migraine lie, you said you wished I’d told you I was sick, because you could have found someplace quiet, dark, and air-conditioned for me in the house.” He shook his head. “Can you imagine how guilty I felt? And then Terence started … well, I guess blackmailing’s the right term for it. He wasn’t asking for money—at least he hadn’t yet. But maybe he’d have worked up to that. Maybe he was testing the waters by seeing if he could get me to do whatever he wanted to do in the Game. Like agreeing to the betrothal with Dianne.”

  “That did seem a little out of character,” I said. “Since you’d probably figured out even sooner than the rest of us what a bad idea it would be to take the Game in a direction that gave him more reasons to hang around with Dianne.”

  “Yeah.” Nigel nodded. “He hit me with it yesterday morning, and hinted that if I helped him out, he wouldn’t have any reason to spill the beans on my going AWOL. I gave in, but it bothered me. I started thinking that if I let him get away with that, the sky was the limit. He’d hold it over me forever.

  “Well, after this summer it wouldn’t matter that much, would it?”

  “True, but I wasn’t thinking clearly. And I’d overheard him—at the time, I just figured he was having an argument with someone over the phone. But later I realized he was probably talking to someone he was blackmailing.”

  Michael and I exchanged a worried glance.

  “Just what did you hear?” I asked. “And when?”

  “One night this week I went out on the terrace after dinner, and he was on his phone. And as soon as he saw me he waved me off, looking a little annoyed, as if I should have known he’d gone out there for the privacy, so I went all the way to the far end and only overheard those first few words. Something like ‘I don’t care, I want it. Remember, I have the goods on you!’ At the time, I didn’t think much of it. But then when he started pressuring me to go along with his storyline for the Game, it came to me that maybe I’d overheard him blackmailing someone. No idea who.”

  “Do you remember exactly what night it was?” I asked.

  “What night?” Nigel’s expression showed that he thought it a peculiar and irrelevant question.

  “The police can probably trace whoever he was taking to anyway,” I pointed out. “But they can do it all the more easily if they know when it was. And if he really was blackmailing someone else, maybe about something a lot more serious than being AWOL from the Game—wouldn’t the blackmailer be a good murder suspect?”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.” He frowned. “I think it was Wednesday. I went outside to see if I could catch a breeze—it was that really hot day when the air-conditioning at the main house went out, and they had it fixed by the end of the day, but the house was still stuffy when we went in for dinner.”

  “Yeah, definitely Wednesday.” I’d spent most of the day dealing with the air-conditioning repair service.

  “Anyway, when I saw all the trouble the thing with Dianne caused, I decided maybe I should face the music. Tell one of you or Cordelia about it. But by the time I got up my nerve last night, you’d all three vanished.”

  “We went to bed early,” Michael explained. “So we could get up before dawn to take Meg’s grandfather owling.”

  “Yeah, I realiz
e that now. No idea what Terence was doing, but I couldn’t find him, either. I even went out to his tent—the new solitary one across the camp—to tell him the deal was off, but no luck.”

  “When did you go?” Michael asked.

  “No idea.” Nigel shrugged. “Couple times over the course of the evening. The last time was just before I went to bed. Eleven-thirty, or maybe midnight.”

  “Make sure to tell the police that,” I said. “It will look better than if you fail to mention it and someone else saw you and reports you.”

  “Because I’m a suspect.” Nigel tightened his jaw. “I know.”

  “Join the multitude,” I said. “Anyone who didn’t have a reason to dislike Terence wasn’t paying attention.”

  “You see why what you said surprised me,” Michael said, turning to me.

  “Should we tell Nigel?” I asked.

  Michael nodded.

  “Tell me what?” Nigel looked anxious. I wished we could go back, just for a moment, to that broad smile he’d showed when he’d told us he’d gotten the part of Polonius.”

  “Neil O’Malley showed up here just now, asking for Terence,” I said. “He mentioned that he’d just given Terence a part in his Hamlet.”

  “Oh, great,” Nigel said.

  “The part of Polonius.”

  “Wait—he what? No!” Nigel’s face cycled through shock and disbelief and ended up in anger. “No—that can’t be. That’s my part. O’Malley told me I’d nailed it. He can’t have gone behind my back and given it to someone else. And of all people, to Terence.”

  “O’Malley’s always been pretty … feckless,” Michael said.

  “I’ll sue.” Nigel’s face was beet red and his jaw was set. “Breach of contract. Or … something”

  “Hang on and see what happens,” Michael advised. “After all, O’Malley will need another Polonius, won’t he, now that Terence isn’t around to play the part.”

  “A good thing Terence isn’t still around or I might try to kill him myself,” Nigel said. “If he went behind my back somehow and snaked the part away—”

  “Regardless of how Terence got the part, or whether he ever had it at all, he can’t play it now, can he?” Michael said. “At best, he might be qualified to play the ghost of Hamlet’s father, but only if he can figure out how to haunt Arena Stage instead of Cordelia’s Kingdom of Albion.”

  “True.” Nigel laughed a little hollowly. “I might still have it, if I can stay out of jail. And I’m sure I just made myself the number one suspect, but I don’t really care. He was a horrible man. I’m not sorry he’s dead.”

  “You know,” Michael said. “There’s just a chance that O’Malley wasn’t telling the truth about giving Polonius to Terence.”

  “Why would he lie about a thing like that?” Nigel’s face wore a puzzled expression. I’m sure mine did, too.

  “To make himself more important,” Michael said. “The victim isn’t just one of the multitude of actors he’s auditioned over the years—he’s the actor to whom he was about to entrust a major role in his much-anticipated new stage production. Not only a cruel loss to the theater, but a profound personal loss to Neil O’Malley.”

  “You think he’d do that?” Nigel sounded dubious.

  “Odds are he’s already trying to figure out who to flatter so he can become a pallbearer,” Michael said.

  “I think he mentioned giving the part to Terence before he heard the news about his death,” I said. “Otherwise I’d agree completely. I bet I know what Dad will say when he meets him: narcissistic personality disorder.”

  “No argument from me,” Michael said. He turned back to Nigel. “We may never know for sure—but I think the odds are you had the part all along. Don’t let it get to you.”

  “I know you’re only saying that to cheer me up,” Nigel said. “But I appreciate the effort.”

  He glanced down and started, as he’d forgotten that the raised platform we were sitting on was visible to the seventy or eighty tourists currently eating and drinking in the Dragon’s Claw. For that matter, I’d forgotten it myself, and had to remind myself that all the upturned faces below might have seen our whole discussion, including Nigel’s sudden burst of anger, but they couldn’t have heard a word.

  “Look at them.” Nigel gestured with a slight nod of his head. “All busily watching. They probably think we’re hatching up the next twist in the Game. I wonder what they’ll think when word of the murder gets out.”

  “For Game purposes, I suppose we should figure out what we were just discussing with such heat.” Michael’s expression suggested that he wasn’t really feeling inventive at the moment.

  “Nigel offered to support your bid to succeed Cordelia if you married his daughter and made her queen,” I suggested. “And didn’t take rejection well.”

  “Sounds reasonable,” Michael said.

  “As good as anything I can think of,” Nigel agreed. “Let’s work that into the performance when next we meet.” He reached into the well-concealed—because arguably anachronistic—pocket in the side of his doublet and pulled out a modern wristwatch, which he shielded with his hands from the view of the tourists below. “When should that be?”

  “Why don’t you let Michael know when you’re finished talking to Chief Heedles,” I said. “Because if I were you, I’d go up to the house and get that over with as soon as possible.”

  “Good idea.” He nodded, tucked the watch safely back in his pocket, and stood up. “Once more unto the breach!”

  Nigel led the way down the wooden stairs to the main floor of the tavern. Outside, we all bowed and curtseyed and loudly wished each other a good morrow in approved Renaissance fashion. Michael and I watched as Nigel strode off toward the main house.

  “I should be off,” I said.

  “Where to?”

  “Back to the forge to check on things.” I set off, and Michael fell into step beside me.

  “Can’t Faulk handle things there for today?”

  “I wish.” I explained about Tad and Faulk’s trip to the ER as we made our way slowly down the lane, bowing and replying in kind to any tourists who wished us a good morrow.

  “Damn,” Michael said when I’d finished relaying the news. “A good thing the boys are here to help out. Maybe one of us should have a word with them. Clue them in to go easy on Faulk.”

  “I had the same thought, and I’ll do it now, assuming they’re at the forge. Also, I want to corner Tad and find out exactly what happened. I’m not sure I’m buying this ‘cardiac false alarm’ thing. Faulk has never been very good at asking for help or admitting any kind of weakness.”

  “It’s a guy thing,” Michael said. “Well, at least Tad and Faulk probably have an alibi for last night. And also—”

  “Michael, old boy! Where have you been all these centuries?”

  Chapter 23

  Michael winced, and we turned to see Neil O’Malley looming into our field of vision, filling most of it. He was wearing a spectacularly ornate costume made of cloth of gold and brown velvet that Mother had designed, based on Hans Holbein’s famous portrait of Henry VIII. I happened to know this painting was the source because I’d seen the copy of it hanging in the costume shop while Mother and the seamstresses sketched and played with their fabric scraps.

  We’d intended for Terence to use the outfit—either to play a Falstaff-like character in some future edition of the Game, or maybe even to play Henry VIII if we took a break from Albion one day and did straight English history, with Jacks as Catherine of Aragon and Dianne as Anne Boleyn. I’d told the costume crew to comp O’Malley one of the fancier nobleman’s outfits, not crown him king. He’d have had to wheedle this costume out of Mother, and I couldn’t imagine how such an annoying man could have managed that. And what was he planning to do while wearing the Henry outfit?

  I suspected from Michael’s expression that he was having similar thoughts.

  “Hello, Neil.” His tone was surprisingly neutr
al. “Long time no see.”

  Maybe it was only because I knew him so well that I heard the subtext: “Not long enough.”

  “I heard you were short one player, so I got your costume folks to kit me out so I could pitch in to help.” He twirled so we could admire the costume. If I were O’Malley, stocky to begin with and in the early stages of battling middle-aged spread, I’d have chosen a different costume—one not intended to pad out a normal-sized person to resemble the enormous bulk of the mature Henry VIII. But maybe he assumed everyone would think it was the costume that made him look stout.

  Or maybe Mother, like me, had taken an immediate dislike to him, and had deliberately talked him into donning the unflattering costume.

  “Very thoughtful of you,” Michael said. “Did—”

  “And may I say this is a fabulous idea!” O’Malley thundered. “Simply fabulous! You know how I love improv. This is going to be a blast!”

  Michael’s smile might have fooled O’Malley, but not me.

  “Did anyone brief you on the Game’s overall storyline?” he asked.

  “I gather we all dance attendance on the queen,” O’Malley said. “Scary old bat! Puts me in mind of working with Maggie Smith. So what’s my part?”

  “If you want to take over from Terence—” Michael began.

  “Of course! Of course! Damn, but that’s a shame, isn’t it? Did you know I’d cast him as Polonius in my Hamlet? Terrible loss to the theater. No idea how I’m going to replace him. So am I one of the contenders to inherit when She of the Steely Gaze pops off?”

  “George and I are the leading contenders,” Michael said. “George Sims—do you know him?”

  “Of course! Fabulous performer!” O’Malley exclaimed, though I thought his face had worn, just for a moment, the sort of puzzled expression that would suggest he didn’t know George in the slightest, but wouldn’t admit it, in case George turned out to be Somebody after all.

  “And you…” Michael paused for just a moment, doubtless wishing he didn’t have to say what he was about to say. “You are the troublemaker. The trickster. The Iago of the piece. It’s your job to sow discord.”