by Anna Gerard
B-a-a-a, I answered myself.
“Of course, I can’t speak for the troupe officially,” I told the professor, “but I do know that they will be performing as planned. Unfortunately, Mr. Marsh was the lead player, so they are minus a Hamlet. But Harry is going to do double duty and play that role himself as well as directing the troupe.”
“Indeed? How very Orson Welles of him.”
He didn’t exactly sound convinced, however, so I found myself strangely compelled to defend the actor.
“You do realize that Harry has appeared in numerous major motion pictures. Plus he just finished filming a brand-new cop show for Netflix. Frankly, having someone of his caliber both acting in the festival play and directing it is sure to increase attendance. If you hurry, you can even update the festival website with that information.”
Joy rubbed his gray-stubbled chin. “Perhaps you’re right. Lemonade from lemons. Thank you, Ms. Fleet.”
“Nina,” I corrected him with a smile. “See you opening night.”
Feeling rather proud of how I’d managed, I headed to where I’d parked the Mini. Hopefully, by the time I made it home the troupe would still be busy rehearsing. And that would give me an opportunity to do a bit of snooping in their rooms under the guise of housekeeping.
Because, yes, that’s what I’d decided to do.
But when I pulled into the drive Harry was the only one of the troupe on the front porch. I left the Mini in the garage and walked around front.
Harry was sitting motionless on the porch swing, Yorick beside him. Both wore pensive expressions. Mattie had joined them, sprawled on the Adirondack chair beside the swing and keeping a stern doggie eye on the skull.
“Everyone still on lunch break?” I asked in surprise, as it was already well after two.
Harry shot me a weary look.
“More like a mental-health break. Susie collapsed halfway through the second scene, so she’s out at least for the rest of the day … and probably for the duration. I let everyone go for a long lunch while I figure things out.”
Susie was out permanently? I thought back to Harry’s casting choices. Not much there.
He continued, “And now we’re down to one woman in the show, and she’s already playing Queen Gertrude. No way can she play dual roles, as the queen and Ophelia appear in scenes together.”
“What are you going to do?” I asked, squeezing into the Adirondack chair next to Mattie.
He shrugged. “Best I can come up with is having Tessa put out a call to the full GASP company for any Ophelias who can fill in last minute. If not, I can give the Cymbeline High drama club a shot. There’s got to be at least one girl in town who knows the part.”
“I know it.”
The confident voice came from behind the screen door.
I glanced over to see Chris walking out to join us. For once, the omnipresent earbuds weren’t stuck in his ears.
“I know it,” he repeated, slipping into the other Adirondack chair. He leaned forward, elbows propped on knees, and gave Harry an earnest look.
“I know the role. I could play Ophelia.”
Harry frowned back at the youth, his expression considering. I knew that boys and men had taken on female roles during Shakespeare’s time simply because women had been forbidden to set foot on the stage. And Chris did have an androgynous look that, with the right costuming, could allow him pass for a young woman.
“Please, Harry,” he persisted. “This is my big chance. I’m not afraid to play a girl’s part. I’ll do good, I promise.”
“If I say yes—which I haven’t yet,” the actor replied, raising a cautioning hand, “what do we do about your other parts?”
“How about me? I could play his roles,” I blurted impulsively.
From his expression, my offer surprised Harry almost as much as it did me. But in the next moment, I found myself warming to the idea. When else would I ever get a chance to perform Shakespeare? And, besides, being part of the troupe would make it easier for me to learn more regarding their respective relationships with Len.
“It’s not that crazy an idea,” I went on. “I’ve seen Hamlet performed a lot of times, and Chris doesn’t have that many lines. What I can’t memorize, I could always write on my arm or something.”
Chris grinned at that and reached out for a fist bump. We tapped knuckles, and then he and I waited while Harry considered our proposals.
After a moment, the actor stood, gathering up Yorick and tucking the skull under his arm.
“Fine,” he said. “We’ll give it a try, at least through today’s rehearsals. But I’d better see some stellar work out of both of you.”
Then, as Chris and I eagerly nodded, he finished, “I’m going inside to call in my lunch delivery order. Let the rest of the troupe know that I expect them back here on the porch in fifteen minutes so we can resume rehearsing.”
* * *
“That was fine, Tessa,” Harry said, rapping with his pencil on his binder to call a halt in the action. “That is, if your intent was to portray a soccer mom angry about a tie-up in the carpool lane. But if you were attempting to communicate the outrage of a wronged queen, then you failed miserably. Let’s try again.”
We’d been rehearsing for almost two hours. Harry and Yorick had resumed their spots on the porch swing, the former wearing one of those battery-powered neck fans to keep him cool. The remaining porch furniture and fixtures that weren’t screwed down had been temporarily relocated to my screened-in porch. This left a small but suitable open area to serve as the stage for the performers.
Given the afternoon’s blazing temperatures, everyone was wearing the minimum amount of clothing required for modesty. Even Tessa had abandoned her usual yards of flowing skirts and kaftans for a more practical pair of shorts and a moisture-wicking Atlanta Falcons T-shirt. As a group, we’d already gone through two pitchers of ice water plus a jug each of iced tea and lemonade. On the bright side, I told myself, I’d probably lost two or three pounds just from sweating.
Rather than rehearsing the play from beginning to end, Harry had been running through the major scenes, coaching the troupe member who had the most significant role in each. I’d already survived my debut as the hybrid gentleman renamed Rozencrantz Guildenstern, reading my first scene, which included both Tessa and Harry. When it ended, Harry had given me an approving nod.
“A bit rough, but not at all bad considering this is your first attempt. Brava.”
Scant as the praise was, coming from Harry it was the equivalent of an award nomination, and so I’d basked in the momentary limelight.
Of course, being on the actual stage in front of an audience would be a whole different thing. Fortunately, Harry already had come up with a solution to the obvious problem of memorizing all my lines in time for the performance. He decreed that each of my characters, Rozencrantz Guildenstern and the Gravedigger, would have an oversized cap as part of their respective costumes. My script pages would be pinned to the cap’s underside, and while I would appear to be servilely clutching my headgear before me, I’d actually be reading my part.
But Chris in the Ophelia role was the performer that all of the troupe was watching. So far, the scenes we’d gone over had required only a few lines from him. But Harry had already announced that coming up next was the second act scene where Ophelia confides in Polonius that she’s afraid of a crazed Hamlet. We all knew without it being said that this would determine if he did or didn’t have the skill to pull off the role.
“Much better, Tessa,” Harry decreed once the woman had repeated the scene that Harry had previously dissed. “I now feel your pain.”
Glancing down at his binder again, he went on, “All right, act 2, scene 1. As you know, we’ve lopped off that unnecessary first portion where Polonius and Reynaldo are plotting to spy on Laertes. We begin with Ophelia confessing to her father her fear for … or is it of? … Hamlet. Marvin and Chris, take your places. And action.”
“How
now, Ophelia? What’s the matter?” Marvin as Polonius asked, rushing to his “daughter” and rather ineffectually patting her on the shoulder.
Chris as Ophelia—and minus the oversized black glasses—assumed a brave if piteous expression. “O my lord, my lord, I have been so affrighted!”
“With what, in the name of God?”
The scene continued with a few more speeches between the pair, until Marvin’s world-weary Polonius ended with, “Come, go we to the King. This must be known; which, being kept close, might move more grief to hide than hate to utter love. Come.”
“And, exeunt,” Harry called. Then, with a nod, he added. “Do it just like that on opening night, and we’ve got a hit on our hands.”
“Woohoo!” Marvin decreed, breaking character to slap Chris on the back, which sent the youth staggering.
Chris was grinning, however, as he began an exaggerated bow that he switched in midstream to a curtsy, complete with holding out imaginary skirts. The rest of us, meanwhile, applauded enthusiastically.
“Gotta admit, the kid’s good,” Radney said beside me, while I nodded my agreement. “I wasn’t expecting this. If we’re not careful, he might just show up the rest of us.”
Tap, tap, tap.
“Keep in mind that we have two-thirds of the play still to rehearse,” Harry said, cutting short the congratulations. “I suggest we wait until the end before we sprain our arms patting ourselves on the back.”
And on that note, rehearsals continued. By the time Harry the Taskmaster called a final curtain, it was seven PM.
“Whew,” Marvin declared in understatement, mopping the sweat from his face. “Number Nine, you got any more of those cookies you put out earlier?”
Tessa sniffed. “I believe that Radney ate the last one approximately two hours ago. And if my count was correct, that made at least three more cookies than anyone else got.”
“Hey, I’m a growing boy,” Radney protested, toweling off his bald head, which was literally streaming sweat past his ears and onto his shoulders. Flexing a bicep, which bulged alarmingly, he added, “You don’t want me wasting down to nothing, do you?”
I laughed harder than everyone else, but that was only because I’d seen pictures of Radney at his wrestling weight.
“Don’t worry, there’s more where those came from. But maybe we should think about supper first?”
Harry nodded. “If no one has objections to Chinese again, I’ll place an order with the Dancing Tiger … my treat.”
The cheers at this were heartfelt if subdued as everyone started going inside, presumably off to their respective rooms. I waited a moment on the porch with Harry, my own mood sobering. Busy as we’d been with rehearsal, I hadn’t had time to mull over what I’d learned about the GASP members at the library. And I definitely hadn’t had a private moment with Harry to tell him about my conversation with Dr. Bishop. Before I could broach the subject now, however, he said, “You really did do a good job today, Nina. Not Broadway caliber, mind you, but good for a rookie.”
“And I’ll take that,” I replied with a smile. Not wanting to spoil the mood—or delay our takeout delivery, since I was as hungry as everyone else—I decided to talk to him later tonight about the Reverend’s findings. And so I switched back to innkeeper mode.
“While you’re phoning in that order, how about I check on Susie and see if she’s up to eating with us.”
I left him on the porch, phone to ear, while I headed inside. But when I reached the second floor, I saw that Marvin was already tapping at Susie’s door.
My first impulse was to step back toward the landing so that he wouldn’t see me—why, I wasn’t certain. But before I could, he was already inside the room, closing the door after him. And if I wasn’t mistaken, the metallic click of the door being locked followed.
“Looks like the widow won’t be alone for long,” came a voice behind me, causing me to jump.
I whipped around to see Bill right behind me. Apparently, given the glass of iced tea he was holding, he’d made a stop in the kitchen first.
“I’m sure Marvin’s just making sure she’s okay. I was on my way up to do the same thing, myself,” I told him, feeling a little creeped out by the man’s observation. Though whether that was because it was a creepy thing to say, or because I suspected there might be some truth to it, I wasn’t sure.
Bill merely smirked a bit and passed me on his way to his room.
Throwing up figurative hands, I returned downstairs for a badly needed shower. Once sweat-free, I changed into a fresh white linen top and denim shorts. I even had Mattie fed before the Dancing Tiger delivery guy rang the bell.
Supper in the dining room a while later was companionable if subdued—and, for once, Yorick-free. Marvin was there, but minus Susie.
“I’m kinda worried about that girl,” he said as he dug a fork into a big plateful of chow mein. “I checked on her before I came down, and she was still kinda out of it. Maybe someone can bring her up some food after we eat.”
“I’ll do it,” Chris piped up, surprising us. Shrugging a little, he added, “I’ll let her know that her part as Ophelia is covered so she doesn’t have to feel like she’s letting the troupe down.”
Harry nodded his approval. “Good idea. As for the rest of you, I suggest once you’re finished eating that you retire to your rooms to study your lines. You did good work today, but we cannot afford to slack off this close to opening night. Your wake-up call tomorrow will be at the same time as this morning.”
This announcement brought a groan from everyone. Still, once they’d shoveled down their dinners—the heat having made everyone doubly hungry—the troupe obediently filed upstairs.
Except Harry. He remained stretched out in his chair, presiding over the empty table rather like the lord of the manor. The difference was that instead of a snifter of brandy or an oversized beer stein in his hand, he had a steaming cup of rooibos at his elbow.
“Just so you know,” I told him, “I might be filling in for one of your troupe members, but I still have a business to run. Those bathroom floors don’t mop themselves. So I might be late to the party tomorrow.”
Then, glancing about to make certain none of the troupe had slipped downstairs for leftovers, I asked, “Do you want to hear how things went with Dr. Bishop?”
“I was wondering if you were going to bring that up. I figured since you hadn’t said anything that it turned out to be pollen, like I told you.”
His smile was smug, so I took particular pleasure in replying, “You figured wrong. There was something in the glass.”
Pulling out the notes I’d made during my call with Dr. Bishop, I gave Harry a swift recap, repeating the names of the medications the man had specified. When I had finished, Harry nodded.
“So the Rev says that it was some sort of benzo in the glass. Does he think that’s what killed Len?”
“No one will know until the toxicology results come back from Atlanta, which will take weeks,” I said, repeating what was rapidly becoming a mantra. “The thing is, Susie gave Sheriff Lamb a whole list of drugs that Len was taking, and nothing like Xanax or Pazaxa was on it. And I don’t know about you, but that sounds kind of suspicious.”
Harry shrugged. “Maybe she didn’t know. Maybe he went doctor-shopping and had a secret ’script. Or maybe he bought a few tablets off someone in the troupe.”
The way he said this made me wonder just how many of the GASPers had their own prescriptions. Guessing what I was thinking, he shrugged again and said,” Half the actors I know are on antianxiety meds. Think of it as an occupational hazard.”
“And, no,” he added, easily guessing my next unspoken question. “I’m not part of that half. But just because these guys are amateurs doesn’t mean they aren’t quivering bundles like us pros. I bet you one or two of them are packing pills in their bags right now.”
Which could support my suspicion that Len didn’t take the med on his own, that someone in the troupe had
slipped it into his glass. But I wasn’t ready to share my thoughts with Harry at this point … not until I’d snooped around some more.
Instead, I changed the subject. “I meant to tell you earlier, but while I was out on the square this afternoon I ran into Professor Joy from the SOCS committee. He’d heard about Len and wanted to know if the play was in jeopardy. I told him you had everything under control, that you were going to take over the role of Hamlet. l even put in a plug for you as being a major draw for the show.”
“So he said.” Harry picked up his phone off the table and swiped a couple of times. “And I quote, Ms. Fleet thoughtfully reminded me of your star power. We shall update the website tonight so that your name is prominently featured as both director and headliner for the play.”
“That’s good … right?”
Harry shrugged. “If the play is a success, yes. If it bombs, I would prefer my name not to be associated with it.”
“Then we’ll just have to make sure it’s a success,” I declared.
We chatted a few minutes longer about the upcoming performance and then joined the rest of the troupe in calling it an early night. But weary as I was, I still had difficulty falling asleep thinking about what I’d learned from Dr. Bishop. Worse, despite agreeing to keep the results of the champagne-glass testing confidential, I was starting to feel guilty keeping the information a secret from Susie. Was it right that I, a veritable stranger, knew more about her husband’s death than she did?
Slumber finally claimed me well after midnight. I awakened with a groan less than six hours later when my alarm went off. Figuring I could skip the morning shower as I’d showered the night before, I hit the snooze button a couple of times. I managed to be dressed and at the door by seven to greet Jasmine, and had breakfast set up by seven thirty as usual.
Radney made it downstairs and into the dining room first.
“Sucks getting old,” he muttered. “Ten years ago, I coulda hung out in the heat all day and be rarin’ to go at dawn. But yesterday kicked my butt.”
