Peachy Scream

by Anna Gerard

“Let’s get inside,” I told them, opening the gate and waving the players in the direction of the front door. “We don’t want the neighbors complaining, and I’m sure Harry will want to get an early start tomorrow with rehearsals. Besides”—I paused and slapped at my arms—“another couple of minutes and we’ll all get bled dry by mosquitoes.”

  “Not me,” Marvin chortled, loud enough to be heard all the way down at Peaches and Java. “Heck, I’ve got enough booze in me to drop any mosquito that tries to bite me in its tracks.”

  “Me, too!” Radney bellowed. He threw his beefy arms around Bill and Tessa in what was more a headlock than a hug, though from the pair’s sloppy grins they apparently were fine with his manhandling.

  Chris trailed behind them, carrying what appeared to be the remains of a large, whipped cream–covered ice cream sundae. I smiled, knowing this was the closest the youth could get to overindulgence, as he wasn’t old enough to drink. Though if he managed to finished the whole thing, the sugar high would likely rival the buzz the adults in the group were feeling.

  Harry brought up the rear, along with Mattie. I held the door open for them both. Then, while the rest of the troupe dispersed to their rooms, I turned to the actor.

  “Looks like everyone had a good time. Do you think they’ll be up to going through with the play?”

  He nodded. “We had a few nice toasts to Len, then gossiped about him and Susie a while before eating the best that Cymbeline has to offer … not counting Daniel and Gemma’s breakfasts, of course. I’m pretty sure everyone is going to regret it in the morning, but they’re not feeling any pain right now.”

  “What about you?” I asked, since it appeared to me that he’d not indulged like the rest of them.

  He raised a brow. “You mean pain? Don’t worry, Nina, I’m fine. Now, do you mind rustling up a big pot of boiling water? I’m going to make everyone drink a cup of rooibos before they go to sleep. Detox, you know.”

  I went to the kitchen and put on my largest kettle, then pulled down a stack of cups and saucers that I left there on the counter. The rest was on Harry, I thought with a grin. I’d tried his rooibos tea last time he stayed at the B&B and had not been a fan. My guess was his troupe wouldn’t be either.

  Leaving the kitchen, I made a stop by the parlor. I found the room empty when I flipped on the overhead light, though Len’s luggage sat neatly in one corner. I’d strip the cot and store it away in the morning, I told myself. But recalling my promise to Susie, I hauled the luggage upstairs.

  As I could hear the unmistakable sound of snoring from within—apparently, she’d finally taken one of her pills—I left the suitcases outside her door and then headed back downstairs to my room. It was barely nine, but given the exhausting day I was ready to make an early night of it. Besides, I’d likely need to brew double the usual amount of coffee come morning if there was to be any hope of keeping the troupe awake for that day’s rehearsals.

  I checked my phone once I got to my room and saw that the good reverend had returned my earlier call. His voice message indicated that I should stop by the church office any time after nine AM and ask Sister Malthea to track him down. Perfect. And then, to quote Radney, it was lights out the minute my head hit the pillow.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Number Nine, you got any more coffee? We about drained this pot.”

  Marvin held his head in one hand and waved an empty coffee cup with the other, looking as green as the pale plaid of his shirt. Tessa, Bill, and Radney appeared to be similarly suffering, drooped over their respective breakfast plates, which this morning were conspicuously empty.

  Chris, however, had no such problem. Radney gave a dramatic groan as the youth sauntered past with what I guessed was a deliberately overflowing collection of burritos and quiches on his plate. Taking a seat, he began stuffing himself while the others queasily keep their gaze averted from him.

  As I’d expected coffee would be in high demand this morning, I already had another insulated carafe of fresh brew ready, with yet another backup pot at the ready. I brought in the refill and, since the coffee drinkers all looked too weak to manage it themselves, grandly refilled everyone’s cups.

  Harry, of course, had his usual tea in lieu of coffee. He looked none the worse for the previous night’s outing. I didn’t know if it was because he hadn’t indulged at supper to the same extent as the others, or if his rooibos tea was really the miracle beverage he claimed it to be. Yorick was in his familiar spot in front of Harry’s plate, also looking relatively rested.

  As for myself, I had slept surprisingly well. Even so, I’d barely made it out of the shower in time to throw on white jeans and a jaunty blue-and-white striped boatneck top to answer the door for Jasmine at seven.

  Not that I could have overslept. Harry had made sure that everyone was out of bed by seven sharp, channeling his inner drill sergeant with a little door pounding and whistle-blowing to roust everyone. I’d heard the protests issuing from the hungover troupe members all the way downstairs as I got breakfast ready. I’d felt bad for Susie, who I was sure needed the additional rest, but hopefully her sleeping pill had allowed her to snooze through Harry’s approximation of reveille.

  Now, with everyone’s coffee replenished, I poured a cup for myself and loaded up my own breakfast plate. I suspected no one would protest my hanging out with the troupe for a bit. For I was curious to learn if I was correct about how Harry planned to recast the play with the loss of Len.

  I didn’t have long to wait.

  “My lords and ladies,” he began with a dramatic flourish of one hand as I took the empty seat on the other side of Marvin, “I need not remind you that we suffered the loss of one of our troupe members yesterday. As we discussed at supper last night, we’re all of the opinion that Len would want us to continue on.”

  “And there is the matter of the contract,” Tessa broke in, clutching her coffee cup to her kaftan-draped bosom and looking as limp as her drooping gray braid. “Don’t forget that.”

  Harry nodded.

  “Tessa is correct. We do have a signed contract with the Shakespeare on Cymbeline Square Committee that commits us to performing for the festival. Breaching that agreement could prove unpleasant for all concerned, so the reality is that we have little choice but to uphold the contract despite our tribulations. But I am confident that the Georgia Amateur Shakespeare Players will rise to the occasion.”

  That should have been the moment when everyone clapped and huzzahed … except that none of the troupe save for Chris looked capable of summoning much more than a nod. Harry obviously realized this, for he quickly moved on.

  “To get us back on track,” he continued with a tap on Yorick’s bony head, “our first step will be recasting Len’s role of Hamlet.”

  “Me, me,” Chris promptly piped up, waving his arm as if waiting to be called on in class. “Choose me!”

  “Thank you, Chris. I appreciate your enthusiasm,” Harry replied with an approving expression, “but we’ve talked about this before. Maybe next season, when you’ve got a few more performances under your belt, we can consider a more prominent role for you.”

  Then, while Chris muttered under his breath, another voice spoke up beside me.

  “I’ll do it,” Marvin said. “I know the part, and it would be a dream come true for me to play Hamlet. Heck, I’ll even shave off my whiskers for the role.”

  I shot Marvin a look of mingled surprise and respect as he stroked the whiskers in question. I knew that sacrificing a beard that had obviously been cultivated for years wasn’t something a man did lightly. Then I suppressed a smile. Of course, if he were to play Hamlet, it might take some doing to find princely tights and a doublet that would fit him … and that wasn’t plaid.

  Harry, meanwhile, gave him a considering nod.

  “Marvin, your dedication to the play puts many professional actors to shame. But I won’t require such a sacrifice from you. Because you are so versatile, you’re too valuable to me
in other roles to recast you.”

  The man nodded and took a long drink of coffee. From his expression I couldn’t tell if he was disappointed or relieved not to be playing the Danish prince, but he did seem accepting of the decision. Then Harry’s gaze traveled to Radney, who raised both hands in a gesture of mock surrender.

  “Don’t worry, I already know I don’t know the part,” he said with a wry shake of his bald head. “So don’t feel you need to make up an excuse.”

  “None needed. You’re right … you don’t know the role.”

  Then, tempering the bluntness, Harry smiled and added, “But you’re the best swordsman of the troupe, so we shall see you shine as Laertes. No, I’m casting someone who knows the tragic prince backward and forward.”

  Backward and forward.

  I glanced at Bill, surprised. That was how the older man had described his knowledge of the lead role. And now, hearing that same phrase from Harry, Bill looked up from his empty plate, his expression brightening and bleary eyes suddenly hopeful.

  “You mean …?”

  “Exactly,” Harry replied to him with a satisfied nod. “I shall follow in the footsteps of Branagh and Welles and Chaplin, and direct myself in the role of Hamlet.”

  Bill’s expression sagged like the aged brown batik dashiki he was wearing today. Seeing his reaction, I couldn’t help but feel a bit sympathetic to his disappointment. Obviously, he’d thought that, as none of the other men was up to Harry’s standards, the Hamlet role was his by default.

  Just as obviously, he’d forgotten that Harry had been an actor before he was a director.

  No one else seemed to notice Bill’s dismay, however. Harry’s announcement had done what the coffee couldn’t and roused the rest of the troupe into a semblance of enthusiasm.

  “That’s wonderful,” Tessa gushed, never mind that she’d privately suggested to me that her husband should take the role from Len. “Not only will we have a famous actor as our director, but we’ll get to play opposite you as well. This is so thrilling, and such a boost for our resumes!”

  “Great decision, Spiel—er, Harry,” was Marvin’s opinion, while the others nodded their agreement. “I can’t wait to see you and Rad-man crossing swords … literally.”

  “We’ll concentrate on that tomorrow. For now, we have one more casting change to make. Unfortunately, someone also will need to take over the role of Ophelia from Susie.”

  I nodded along with the rest. It made sense that she wouldn’t be able to carry on with something as frivolous as a play while trying to cope with the aftermath of her husband’s death. But the ranks were thinning rapidly. Pretty soon Harry would be drafting me!

  He went on, “I realize we’re already doubled up on some roles, but that’s what a Shakespeare troupe does. And so, for Ophelia, my thought was that the part should be played by—”

  “Me, of course,” finished a familiar voice from the doorway.

  Smile tremulous, Susie walked into the dining room. She looked different, I thought … and it wasn’t just how her hair was caught up in a messy bun, or the dark circles around her eyes, or the fact that her full lips were free of lipstick.

  I realized after a moment that it was her clothes. Instead of the carefully matched trophy wife summer outfit complete with coordinating jewelry and sandals she was wearing tight faded blue jeans, a black silk T-shirt, and what appeared to be discount-store running shoes. I had to admit that, stressed features aside, she looked far younger and fresher than she had the day before.

  Marvin and Radney both leaped up to pull out a chair for her and help her into her seat beside Bill, who gave her an approving smile. Even Tessa deigned to lean across her husband’s plate to give the younger woman an approving pat on the arm. Only Chris seemed unimpressed by Susie’s return, attention studiously fixed on the breakfast burrito he was devouring. I got up and poured Susie a cup of coffee. She gave me a grateful nod, then swept her gaze around the table.

  “Thank you, all y’all, for your kindness,” she said in a quavering voice. “This is the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to face, losing my first and only love. You’ve been true friends. I just know that Len is looking down everyone and smiling at you for taking such good care of me.”

  “Looking down?” I heard Marvin mutter as I resumed my seat, voice loud enough for my ears only. “I woulda figured he’d have to look up.”

  I shot him a disapproving look, the effect of which was marred by my involuntary snicker, which I hurriedly disguised as a cough. Fortunately, everyone else was responding with encouraging words, so that our moment of irreverence went unnoticed.

  Harry let the chatter go on for a minute, then tapped his water glass for silence.

  “Susie, I’m happy you’ve decided to rejoin us. But are you really sure you’re up to a week of rehearsals and then three performances?”

  “I am. I can’t sit around doing nothing while waiting for them to … you know, let Len come home. This will keep my mind occupied. Besides, I know Len would want me to do it.”

  All of which made sense. Moreover, she had gotten through this emotional speech without tearing up or breaking down, which boded well for the rest of the week. And she was right. Without the rehearsals, what would she do with herself while waiting for Len’s body to make it to the front of the ME’s autopsy lineup? Better to keep her mind occupied with lines and stage directions and such.

  “Fine,” Harry decreed, and then glanced at his Rolex knockoff. “As several of you did not take my advice to drink a cup of rooibos last night, I’ve left a few teabags on the sideboard. I strongly suggest that you avail yourself of a cup, since we have a long day ahead of us. Finish your breakfast, and be sure to hydrate well. We’ll meet promptly at 8:30 on the front porch to begin rehearsal.”

  The front porch, not the back patio, I thought in relief. While the latter best approximated the stage area at the festival, it would have been too much to ask the troupe—particularly Susie—to rehearse a few feet from where Len had only recently met his end.

  The troupe had groaned and staggered their way out of the dining room by 8:29, and I got to work in the kitchen. As I loaded the dishwasher, from outside I heard a familiar sputter from a defective muffler. I looked out the window to see a decrepit compact black pickup creaking its way up the drive. It was Hendricks, arriving for his usual Monday cleanup of the grounds.

  I considered going outside to explain the situation with the broken hedge and the ruts in the lawn, but in the end chickened out. I’d let him find the damage himself and wait until after he’d taken off again to leave him a voicemail of apology and explanation. It was almost ten by the time I’d finished the guest rooms and was loading the last of the linens into the washer. By then, Hendricks’s pickup was gone, and so I ventured a look outside.

  As Harry had predicted, the ruts in the lawn were filled with clean sand. As for the broken hawthorn, it took me a minute to pinpoint the spot where Len had fallen into it. Somehow, with a bit of pruning and clever weaving of the remaining branches, the gardener had managed to disguise the worst of the damage to that particular bush. In a few more weeks, and with a little more growth, the hedge would be good as new again.

  But returning to the house I noticed that a note had been left on the patio bench. It was written in black marker on a page torn from a gardening catalog. In stark contrast to the elegant penmanship, the unsigned message was blunt.

  Ms. Fleet, do not let this happen again.

  “Believe me, I won’t,” I muttered and headed back inside to my room. Mattie had been lounging on the foot of my bed. She heard the car keys jingle as I pulled them from my oversized purse. She whined, then leaped down and launched into the little dance on her hind legs that meant, Please take me with you, Mom.

  I gave her a pat and an indulgent smile even as I shook my head.

  “Sorry, girl, where I’m going they don’t allow dogs. And you know it’s not safe to leave you in the car in this heat, even with th
e windows open. You hang out here and make sure that Harry doesn’t burn the place down while I’m gone.”

  A few minutes later, I had eased the Mini out of the garage and around Harry’s beater of a bus, heading to the Heavenly Host Baptist Church. The champagne flute in its potato chip canister was safely tucked into my purse. It would be a relief to have it off my dresser top and in the reverend’s hands. And hopefully, once he’d examined it, he could even return it to me so my glassware set remained whole.

  I consulted my GPS as I drove beneath the mature live oaks overhanging the street. The green canopy added welcome shade to a day whose temperature was rapidly climbing toward the nineties. Turning just beyond the town square, I could see crews already setting up there for the festival. Traffic was a bit heavier too, no doubt because of the out-of-towners already arriving for the big weekend.

  The church and funeral parlor were located about a ten-minute drive away in the so-called new part of town, meaning the houses there had been built in the first decade of the 1900s. (Of course, Cymbeline had its own suburbs too, but those were located beyond the original city limits and dated back only twenty years or so.)

  Homes here were smaller than in the historic area near the square where I lived. The predominant style was one that was popular in this part of Georgia and known as Folk Victorian. These were simple one- or two-story houses, but with the porches and roof gables “fancied up” with the same detailing found on Queen Anne homes like mine. Of course, like any good small-town Georgia abode, most homes featured a tomato plant or ten somewhere in the yard … or, failing that, in a tin bucket on the porch alongside the ubiquitous potted ferns found practically everywhere. (I’d not gotten around to getting any tomato plants of my own this year but had big plans for doing so next spring.)

  Almost as many houses featured a full-sized statue of a squat English bulldog, sometimes wearing a black-and-red sweater, somewhere in the yard. No, they weren’t members of some cult-like dog fanciers association. Instead, they were fans of the University of Georgia football team and showed their pride by displaying the team’s bulldog mascot, Uga. (University of GA—UGA—get it?) Once the college football season was in full bloom, those same houses would sport black-and-red flags and pennants with big G’s on them.