Applause, a few whistles, many oohs and ahs. I was as surprised as anyone. Including someone from the station was a brilliant touch. Doan would be delighted and so would Captain Billy. Buck obliged with one of his fanciest Vegas-style shuffles, swiftly dealt six hands, one for each of the wide-eyed players, then bowed, smiling, and exited the stage to more applause.
Mr. Pennington gave a quick explanation of the Clue party rules. “Mr. Boddy is dead,” he said. “The deceased was murdered somewhere in this great house.” He looked from side to side, and his tone was hushed. “It’s our job to discover which of the partygoers was the murderer, and what weapon was used in the dastardly deed. All of the players are free to ad-lib and alibi as they see fit.” He pointed to Betsy. “Miss Scarlet, please come forward, and after consulting your own cards, pick a room. You will be followed in order by Colonel Mustard, Mrs. White, Mr. Green, Mrs. Peacock, and Professor Plum.”
He moved the card table to stage left, then gave a quick rundown of the rules, explaining the use of the cards held by the suspects, how to use the cards to contradict another player’s guess as to who had killed Mr. Boddy, where and how. “When somebody’s accusation can’t be contradicted and the room, the weapon, and the killer are identified”—he patted his pocket—“the game is ended. The murder is solved.”
Betsy got into the spirit of the game right away. She selected the ballroom, and the slide depicting a formal ballroom zoomed into place. She commented on the beautiful gold mirrors, then sidled up to Eddie Symonds. “Good evening, Mr. Green.” Hand on one hip, batting eyelashes, she pointed to his feet. “Are those your dancing shoes?”
Eddie looked blank for an instant, then quickly recovered and smiled, glancing down at his own white Nike-sneakered feet. “Absolutely, Miss Scarlet,” he said, holding out both arms. “Shall we?” The two, sans music, performed a credible Viennese waltz. He bowed. She curtsied. The remaining players and the audience applauded. Betsy moved to center stage and pulled her cards from a pocket. “Here’s my solution to this heinous crime.” She pointed to Aunt Ibby. “Mrs. Peacock did it—in the library, of course, with a candlestick.”
“I did not,” said Aunt Ibby, holding up a card. “Here’s the library to prove it.” Properly contradicted, Betsy, holding Eddie’s hand, pretended to pout, and the two stepped to the back of the stage. Looks to me as if Eddie has his next “wealthy older woman” lined up.
It was Colonel Mustard’s turn to choose a room and take a guess as to who had killed Mr. Boddy. Harrison moved to center stage. Clearly intending to make the most of his debut Tabby stage performance, he began an obviously well-rehearsed description of his chosen murder site, the billiard room. He must have written mini-scripts for each room in the game. Good for him. It took a while for the rest to check their cards and contradict Harrison’s guess that Mrs. White had bludgeoned poor Mr. Boddy with a lead pipe in the kitchen. The pipe and the kitchen setting gave him an irresistible opportunity to display a little stand-up comedy talent with some silly plumbing jokes. (“The plumber broke up with his girlfriend. He said, ‘It’s over, Flo.’”) The audience groaned, and next it was Louisa as Mrs. White’s turn.
So it went. As the evening progressed, and Mr. Pennington’s running dialogue provided an increasingly exciting backstory for the fictitious murder of Mr. Boddy, the players became increasingly comfortable in their parts. The audience applauded often and with enthusiasm. By the time Mr. Pennington opened the envelope, revealing the solution to the crime, it was apparent that by the next evening, the Clue party would be ready for prime time.
When the cast lined up in a row for a well-deserved curtain call, they were suddenly upstaged by a large yellow cat walking along slowly, carefully, right in front of them.
Chapter 38
My first thought was How did he get here? and the next thought was It must be important if he purposely missed Wicked Tuna. Aunt Ibby used a ladylike version of a cop voice.
“O’Ryan! You naughty, naughty boy! Come here immediately.” She pointed to the floor directly in front of her. The cat, unhurriedly, but obediently, strolled toward her and sat on the exact spot she’d indicated—and proceeded to wash his bottom. The audience loved it. Laughter erupted, accompanied by applause. The cast took another bow. Aunt Ibby picked up the cat, lifted one of his paws, and made him wave.
He hates that.
Mr. Pennington took center stage again, wished the showgoers a good night, reminding them to come back the following evening to see the finished production. The players chatted among themselves for a few minutes. I excused myself to Kate, Penny, Carl, and Conrad and hurried onstage. I reached for the cat, who favored me with a chin lick and purr.
What the heck was all this about? Had he stowed away in one of the cars? Or had he walked all the way from Winter Street to downtown Salem? And once at the Tabby, how had he managed to get inside? I knew part of the answer. He didn’t want to be away from me. He thought I needed protection. But protection from what? From whom?
The “how did he get in” question was soon answered by Susan, who’d seen him stroll in behind a few of the day-hop students who’d entered through the door from the attached cafeteria. “I tried to catch him,” she said, “but he didn’t look dangerous or anything so I figured he’d find his way out.”
By this time the twins had made their way to the stage area. “What’s up with the cat?” Roger asked.
“I’ll ask him,” I said, “but it was his idea. He wasn’t invited.”
“Fool cat always did have a mind of his own,” Roger said. “Ray and I are going backstage to talk with the actors—or players—or whatever they are. Want to come with us?”
“I do,” I said. I thanked Kate, Penny, Carl, and Conrad for coming. “See you tomorrow night.”
“Sure thing,” Penny said. “We’re going to hang around here for a while and pretend we want Harrison’s autograph.”
With O’Ryan in my arms, his big front paws extending over my right shoulder, I followed the twins to the large onetime furniture stockroom, directly behind the stage, with entrances to either side of it. All of the players, along with Mr. Pennington, talked excitedly among themselves. A smiling Aunt Ibby left the group and walked toward me. Or O’Ryan. Or maybe she walked toward Ray. Hard to tell.
“It went well, didn’t it?” she asked. “Rupert is so pleased. Tomorrow will be even better. You’ll see.” She reached for the cat and patted his head. “I wish you could tell us why you’re here, dear cat,” she said, “but I’m sure you have your reasons.”
That’s what bothers me. Why is he here?
I knew O’Ryan was protecting me—but from what? It has to be somebody who is here tonight, I thought. I looked around the long, almost bare, room. Eddie and Mr. Pennington now seemed to be deep in conversation. Harrison had rejoined his classmates with smiles and high fives all around. Alan Armstrong had cracked a bottle of champagne and was filling a plastic flute for Betsy—who seemed to be enjoying the attention. Aunt Ibby, Louisa, and Ray and Roger Temple had formed a circle of sorts and all seemed engrossed in whatever they were talking about, while Buck Covington and Old Jim inspected the viewer on his camera.
If there was something wrong with this picture, I couldn’t see it. “Dear cat,” I whispered, to the purring, totally relaxed feline, “help me out here. Who is it? Why are you afraid for me?”
“Mmrrup,” he said. “Mmrrup mrrup.” He squirmed in my arms, signaling that he wanted to get down. I loosened my hold, and he slid easily to the floor. Then, looking back at me every few steps, he walked toward Costume, where the 1950s family of mannequins, in the half darkness, had taken on a frightening aspect. I felt their dead glass eyes on me as I followed the cat past the entrance.
I knew immediately why he’d brought me there. A full-length mirror was straight ahead of us, lights already flashing, colors already whirling. I couldn’t look away. It was a scene from A Christmas Carol. On a theater stage—not the simple one we’d just left,
but a real theater stage with curtains and footlights—an old man in a long nightshirt sat on the edge of a four-poster bed. Scrooge? His face was indistinct. There was a huge safe next to the bed—the kind you see in cartoons. He opened the safe and pulled out a stack of magazines, spreading them on the bed. Then he did the strangest thing. He stood on the bed and began to dance on the magazines, the long nightshirt flapping around skinny legs as he turned in graceful circles. Blink! The vision was gone.
“What does that mean?” I turned, and asked the cat. But he’d already left Costume in favor of backstage, where the champagne celebration was in full swing. A second cork had been popped, and I was glad to see that River had joined the party. I wasn’t surprised, since Buck was there. She hurried to greet me, with O’Ryan following close behind her. “Sorry I missed the performance,” she said. “Overslept. I’ll try to see the real thing tomorrow night.” I understood completely. I’d worked that late-night show shift long enough to understand how sleep patterns get turned upside down. “It’s okay,” I said, “but I need to talk to you soon.”
She took my hands. “You having visions?”
“Just had one. About two minutes ago. O’Ryan led me straight to it.”
“I could tell he was nervous about something.” She reached down and patted his head. “He’s a good boy. So, what’s going on?”
“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “There’s this murder, of course, and Aunt Ibby and I and Betsy and Louisa are trying to help the twins prove somehow that Cody didn’t do it. Then there are the visions—which as usual, don’t make any sense.”
“Don’t make any sense yet,” River pointed out. “They will, you know. They always do.” She looked around the room. “Where’s Pete?”
“He’s working late,” I said. “Probably on Cody’s case. And River, I don’t mean to sound disloyal to the twins. You know I love them both, but it doesn’t look good for Cody and Lucy. The truth is, everything seems to point to them.”
“I know it,” she said. “Talk around the station is maybe they did it after all.”
“Really? I haven’t heard that.”
“That’s because everybody knows you’re friendly with the family. Want me to do a reading for you?”
“Yes, please.”
“Can you come by the station before my show? I’ll be there around eleven—to watch Buck do the news. I could do it then.”
“You know? I think I’d like that. Maybe you—and the cards—can make some sense out of this mess.”
“We’ll try.” She gave me a quick hug, patted O’Ryan, and with that glowy look she gets when Buck is nearby, hurried to where he waited for her with two flutes of champagne. Ray and Roger seemed to be working the room, moving from group to group, Ray grinning, shaking hands all around, Roger stone-faced, giving an occasional nod or headshake. Good cop, bad cop? I watched as they interrupted whatever was going on between Betsy and Alan Armstrong, and smiled as Betsy shook Ray’s hand, waved a careless goodbye to Professor Dreamy, and darted across the room to join Louisa. O’Ryan got there before she did, and I wasn’t far behind.
“Okay, girls,” I said. “What are you two up to?”
“We’re gathering information,” Louisa said, lifting the polka-dotted veil away from her eyes. “The Temple twins need every bit of help they can get. It’s not looking good for their nephew. Not good at all. I’ve been trying to get a chance to talk to Eddie, but Rupert seems to be monopolizing him. What did you find out from Alan Armstrong, Betsy? Anything new?”
“I think so.” Betsy sounded breathless. “I mean, besides the fact that he’s crazy about me. Listen to this. He’s the one who gave Cody McGinnis those theater tickets!”
“He did? Are you sure?” That was a surprise.
“Oh, he didn’t mean to tell me. It kind of slipped out. Maybe it was the champagne.” She giggled. “Anyway, we were talking about real plays we’d seen lately—not amateur plays like the Tabby puts on. He said he was supposed to tell Cody that he’d won those tickets on a radio show and that he knew Lucy really wanted to see Shear Madness.”
Does Pete know that? Do the twins?
I looked around for Roger or Ray. One or both of them should hear this. If Betsy was correct, and Alan had given the tickets to Cody, had he been trying to set up an alibi for the couple? An alibi for the time of the murder before it had actually happened?
Another thought intruded on that one—as if the first one wasn’t bad enough. Was this the reason Alan had broken his date for the gathering at Sam Bond’s house on that fateful night? When he’d told the girl “something bad might happen”? I started across the room to where I’d last seen the twins, O’Ryan keeping pace close beside me.
“Hey, Lee! Wait up.” I turned to face Eddie Symonds. He had a champagne flute in each hand and handed me one of them. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you all evening. Rupert Pennington had me kind of cornered there for a while. He’s got some odd-ball idea about the Tabby’s acting, music, and dance classes all getting together to produce some musicals based on board games.” He put a casual arm around my shoulders, steering me back toward the seating area of Theater Arts. “Can you picture it?” He waved his glass toward the now-empty stage. “Kings and Queens and Knights dancing and singing on a giant chess board? Performing letters of the alphabet playing Scrabble?”
“He’s already run the Scrabble idea past me,” I admitted. “Can’t quite visualize that one, but Candy Land might work.”
He nodded. “You’re right. I can see that. Giant slides with kids on them.”
“They already have those at the Toy Trawler,” I answered, scanning the room, still looking for one or both of the twins. “Captain Billy would probably lend them to the school for the performance.”
“You think so?” Eddie’s words were slightly slurred. Too much bubbly? “You looking for somebody?”
“Yes. I was wondering where the twins are. I have a—um—a message for them.”
He stumbled slightly, surprising for the always-graceful dancer, tightening his arm around my shoulders. “Shall I help you look?”
“Sure. If you want to.” I stepped sideways, extricating myself from the increasingly possessive arm, aware that O’Ryan had positioned himself between us. “Last time I saw them they were sort of table-hopping, chatting with everybody backstage.”
“They chatted with me.” He was no longer smiling. “It felt more like an inquisition than a chat though.” I spotted Ray. Or was it Roger? His back toward me, he stood facing Aunt Ibby beside a forest of plastic stage-set trees.
“There’s one of them now.” I moved away from my unsteady escort. “Thanks for your help anyway, Eddie.”
“No problem,” he said. “I think I’ll go down to my dance studio and just hang around for a while. Got a little last-minute research to do on a piece I’m working on about a jailbird I thought I knew. See you around.” He smiled, giving me a brief wave. Then, hands in his pockets, he strolled back toward the elevators. He paused, picked up a full bottle of champagne from the improvised bar, tucked it under one arm, and pushed the DOWN button.
A jailbird I thought I knew? He’s writing about Cody McGinnis.
Something in Eddie’s conversation with the twins must have convinced him of Cody’s guilt. No wonder he was drinking too much. He’d been Cody’s biggest defender all this time. Poor guy, I thought. I hoped with all my heart he was wrong—for his sake and for the twins and Phyllis and the Angels and all those sign-carrying college kids who’d believed so completely in their teacher’s innocence.
With O’Ryan a couple of steps ahead of me, I approached Aunt Ibby and whatever twin it was, anxious to deliver the information about theater tickets—information Alan had given—or let slip—to Betsy.
“Sorry to interrupt,” I told them, “but I’ve just heard something that might be important.” I repeated what Betsy had told me as exactly as I could. “He said he was supposed to tell Cody he’d won the tickets on a radio show.�
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Ray frowned. “He was supposed to tell Cody that?”
“Did he?” Aunt Ibby asked. “Did Cody say he got those tickets from Alan? That Alan had won them on a radio show?”
“Sure,” Ray said. “As soon as we knew the two were lying about actually going to the theater, Cody admitted that Alan had won the tickets on some radio show and had already seen the play so he wasn’t going to use them.” Ray’s cop voice was back. He faced me. “You’re sure she said he was supposed to tell Cody that?” he asked again.
“For goodness’ sake, let’s just go and ask Betsy,” my aunt said. “She’s still here. I’m her ride. Come on.” She started for the backstage entrance, Ray, O’Ryan, and I tagging along behind her.
The backstage crowd had thinned considerably. Both Alan and Eddie were missing, and River and Buck had left earlier. Louisa, Betsy, Harrison, and Mr. Pennington sat in folding chairs arranged around the stage-prop card table while Roger and Old Jim looked on. An impromptu champagne-fueled game of Clue was in progress.
Ray approached his twin, and after a brief, muted exchange, Roger tapped Betsy on a red feather boa–wrapped shoulder, whispered to her, and motioned for Aunt Ibby to take her place at the table.
Betsy handed her cards to my aunt, pointed out the orange token, and with a puzzled but pleased expression followed the twins to the stage left exit. O’Ryan, without hesitation, followed. So did I. No one objected to my presence—or to that of the cat—so we stood by quietly in a narrow off-stage corridor while the twins questioned the very willing and talkative Betsy. Roger and Ray used a tag team method—not good cop/bad cop this time. Roger said something like “Now Betsy, think very carefully about what Alan told you.” While Betsy was presumably thinking, Ray said, “Take your time. Be as accurate as you can.” Betsy closed her eyes. Everyone was quiet. Then, eyes wide, she repeated almost the same thing she’d said earlier.
Murder, Take Two Page 22