Peachy Scream

by Anna Gerard

  “Gemma!” I called. “Hang onto Mattie. I’ll be there as soon as I change.”

  The woman smiled and nodded, so I flipped the curtain shut again and hurried upstage toward the nearest wing. I was smiling, too, now that I’d actually survived a performance. I could even understand now the lure of being on stage … not that I planned on acting as a second career!

  As the stage area wasn’t exactly soundproof, I could hear the men laughing and joking on their side, and Tessa and Susie chatting on theirs. So buoyant was the mood that I almost forgot not only that we had lost Len but that his killer was among our number.

  Almost. As I slipped into the wing, I heard another voice—this one seemingly coming from the other side of the canvas, right outside the stage. And the voice, if I wasn’t mistaken, was Chris’s. All of which sent me back into full alert.

  The words were muffled, but as I didn’t hear a second voice I guessed that the youth was on the phone. Though why would Chris suddenly be making a call right after a performance, when all I’d ever seen him do was text? As I was hidden in the wing, with no one nearby to see me, I succumbed to curiosity and put my ear to the canvas, unabashedly trying to make out his words.

  There was a long pause, long enough that I wondered if he had hung up. And then I heard the youth say, “I don’t know what to do. I think she knows what I did … and pretty soon everyone else will, too.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “I have to say that I’m feeling a little whiplash here,” Harry proclaimed, and put a dramatic hand to the back of his neck by way of illustration. “This morning, Chris supposedly almost succumbed to a poisoned burrito. Now, he’s your number-one suspect in Len’s death.”

  It was well after ten PM, and I was once again up in the tower room with Harry, having informed him that we needed to talk. It had occurred to me before I’d made the climb that I could have asked him to come down to my room. Just as quickly, I had decided there was too great a chance that he’d take my request the wrong way. Especially if he had any inkling of my brief but intense lapse into schoolgirl crush at the start of dress rehearsal. Besides, letting him into my private quarters meant allowing him to cross a line that I couldn’t afford to let him cross … not with the currently unspoken yet still unresolved threat of lawsuits hanging between us.

  And so, once again we were sitting in shadow, Harry in the comfy chair and me perched on the ladderback. I made a mental note to check the house in the morning for another upholstered armchair that could be hoisted up there.

  “Fine,” I conceded, “I’m probably jumping the gun. But you have to agree that the phone call I overheard puts the spotlight back on Chris. Here I was sure that Chris was the one being targeted by someone, but now Chris thinks that I think he … she … killed Len. And why else would that even be something on Chris’s radar unless she … he … actually did it?”

  Harry sighed.

  “First off, you don’t know that the she in the phone call meant you. And second, you don’t know that the thing Chris thinks that this unknown person knows has to do with murder. And, third,”—he clutched the sides of his head in dramatic fashion—”for the love of all that’s holy, would you quit that he/she routine and just say they?”

  I leaped to my feet and did my own dramatic bit of hand-flinging.

  “Harry, quit focusing on pronouns. We’re talking about murder. And if you’d let me finish, I’ve got an idea that might pry a confession out of Chris. But I’m going to need your help.”

  He sank back into his chair, crossed his arms over his chest, and gave me a long-suffering look. “Fine,” he echoed my earlier response. “If I promise to listen, do you promise never to badger me about this again if I think your plan is insane?”

  I hesitated—never being a long time—and then nodded. Because I knew Harry well enough by now to be certain my idea was right up his devious alley.

  “Let’s just say that the play’s the thing, and we’re about to prick the conscience of a killer.”

  * * *

  “All right, people,” Harry announced at breakfast the next morning while the troupe milled around the buffet table. “To save time, I’m going to give you your final notes while we eat. Please sit.”

  Plates and coffee in hand, everyone obediently sought out their usual chairs. I hadn’t bothered with the animal dishware this time out. Instead, my plan was to keep a covert eye on Chris this morning, as well as on my own food; and Mattie’s too, because all I had was Chris’s word that Mattie had swiped the tainted burrito the other day. If Chris suspected me of … something … maybe my food wasn’t safe either.

  Once everyone had taken their places, Harry opened his ever-present binder and commenced with the rundown from his observation of the dress rehearsal.

  “Radney, excellent work yesterday, especially the sword fight. But I want you to work on your physical interactions with Ophelia. You’re her big brother, but you’re too tentative in dealing with her. A little clutching at her shoulders, giving her a bit of a shake. As long as Susie’s okay with that.”

  “Oh, I’m fine,” the woman replied, batting her eyelashes in exaggerated fashion. Deepening her Georgia drawl, she went on, “I just love it when a man takes charge.”

  Then, as we all chuckled, Harry went on: “Speaking of that, Susie, your Ophelia is way too cozy with Hamlet. By the time we get to the play scene, she should be looking at him like he’s a real creep. So lay off on the mooning expressions.”

  She pouted a bit, but nodded.

  Satisfied, he continued: “And that brings us to Hamlet’s famous “Mousetrap.” The scene went well enough, but I’m not sure our high school players hit quite the right note. Nina, since there’s no dialogue, I want you to join their little troupe and be a part of the pantomime. We’ll discuss this offline with Mrs. O’Malley at noon.”

  I nodded, trying to look surprised, though Harry and I had gone over our revision to The Murder of Gonzago in quite a bit of detail the night before. Now, while he continued giving notes to the others, I recalled how I’d presented my idea to him.

  As I’d suspected, the showman in him was intrigued by the notion of presenting The Murder of Len Marsh to see if someone’s conscience would be pricked in real life. And the devious part of him knew just how to go about it.

  He’d hastily rewritten the pantomime and Hamlet’s dialogue to fit those events that I suspected had gone on behind the scenes. But as this would be a pantomime, we’d cast about for ways to create a better visual impact. We agreed that the obvious solution was to take advantage of the projected backdrops, and so we had scoured online for just the right images. That done, we were satisfied that the festival audience wouldn’t pick up on the nuances, whereas any one of the troupe who had been responsible for what happened to Len would recognize their handiwork being enacted onstage. And hopefully, as with King Claudius, their reaction would be swift and obvious.

  By now, Harry was winding down with the notes. Closing his binder, he said: “The day is yours until five PM, at which time we will load up with our costumes on the bus and drive over to the square. We have a parking spot there for the duration of the festival, courtesy of Professor Joy. We will use the bus for costume and prop storage between performances, and also as a secondary dressing room, if needed. I will expect everyone to be in makeup and costume no later than six so that Mrs. O’Malley can give notes prior to curtain at seven sharp. Any questions?”

  Bill raised a hand. “Since it’s a free day, can we go to the Shakespeare festival?”

  “Absolutely,” was Harry’s magnanimous reply, drawing murmurs of approval from the others. “In fact, I was about to suggest that very thing. Feel free to wear a cap or a cloak to draw attention to yourself, and talk up the play to everyone you see. But I strongly urge that you wear sunscreen. Believe me, there’s nothing worse than trying to apply full stage makeup over a sunburn.”

  And on that cautionary note, he raised his cup of rooibos. “To Mr. Sha
kespeare.”

  “Mr. Shakespeare,” we echoed with smiles, raising our own coffee or orange juice or water.

  The breakfast lasted a bit longer than usual, as there was no rush to rehearsal. And while I wouldn’t normally have begrudged the troupe the time, I was impatient to get started on my chores. Not only did I have the usual B&B work before me, but I also had something of a scavenger hunt to complete before Harry’s and my meeting with Mrs. O’Malley at noon. But finally the actors dispersed, with all of them making plans to head over to the square as soon as the event opened at ten.

  “That went well,” Harry observed once everyone else had quit the room. “Though I must say that I didn’t see anyone quivering in their boots at the mention of the play.”

  “Just wait until tonight,” I assured him. “Do you have the new script written out?”

  “A few more tweaks and it’ll be ready to go. I’ll need to connect to your printer if you don’t mind.”

  I’d recently set up a little business center on a small table in one corner of the parlor, complete with a printer/scanner combo and an old desktop computer I didn’t use anymore. While it wasn’t high-tech at its finest, the setup was sufficient for those guests who needed emergency office equipment on their vacation.

  Leaving Harry to haul out his laptop and review his documents, I started on my chores. By the time I finished and was ready to begin my scavenger hunt, the troupe had long since departed for the festival, which meant I didn’t have to sneak around in my quest. Fortunately, I found everything on Harry’s list. It was a little after eleven when I packed the last item securely into a lidded box and then went in search of the actor.

  He was still at work in the parlor. I stuck my head past the door and told him: “We should leave pretty soon. I know it’s only a three-block walk, but it’s going to be crowded, plus I have a feeling Mrs. O’Malley doesn’t suffer latecomers gladly. Are you about done?”

  “Finished,” he corrected my grammar, clicking his laptop’s mouse and causing my printer to whirr to life. He stuck the printed pages into his binder and shutdown his laptop, carrying it back upstairs lest inquisitive eyes decide to take a look at his files.

  A few minutes later, he was downstairs again, having changed from black sweats and a rock-band T-shirt into a more directorial pair of white jeans and a subdued-pattern Hawaiian shirt that looked both vintage and expensive. He was wearing his movie-star wraparound sunglasses that effectively hid the baby blues.

  I retrieved my box o’ props, grabbed keys and sunglasses, and left Mattie behind to hold down the fort. Feeling a bit conspicuous beside him in a pink-and-purple-striped oversized linen top and matching pink cropped pants, I started off with Harry on foot in the direction of the town square.

  The sidewalks between the B&B and the square already were seeing a significant amount of foot traffic compared to usual. We passed probably twenty people walking in the same direction as we were headed. Some were neighbors; others were tourists staying in other B&Bs or guest houses. But all seemed equally eager to take part in the annual festival.

  This also meant that Harry and I didn’t have much chance to talk with each other during the short trek. It became particularly problematic when, despite the shades, a few people recognized him as the Harry Westcott, either as star of the recent performance on my front lawn, or as a character on some random cable show or other. In fact, we stopped more than once for him to sign an autograph, which meant that I ended up carting both my box and his binder.

  We finally reached the square, and I saw that three of the four streets leading into the quadrangle were now blocked with concrete traffic barriers. This allowed only pedestrian traffic into the festival area save for the designated spot near the stage. That street was apparently where the fair vehicles were allowed to drive in, for it was blocked with moveable steel-rail panels and hung with signs proclaiming “Not an Entrance.” Doubtless this was where Harry would be parking his bus later in the day.

  We made our way to one of the designated entries only to find a line already formed there. For beyond each of those short concrete walls was a secondary line of those same portable steel-rail panels. This funneled the festivalgoers down to a single access point at each corner, which was manned by one of Sheriff Lamb’s deputies and a couple of members of the festival crew. An unfortunate but necessary precaution in this day and age, I realized with a shake of my head.

  Harry’s only comment was, “I hope you left all your contraband at home.”

  Deputy Mullins had been assigned to our entrance, supervising the festival staff members stationed behind a table who were checking purses and bags. As we reached the front of the line, Mullins gave us a friendly nod and waved Harry in, only to catch sight of my box.

  He raised a warning hand at me. “Sorry, Ms. Fleet, but we have to take a look inside that carton.”

  I smiled and handed it over, even as I wondered what the security team was going to make of its contents. “Not a problem, Deputy. But I warn you, it’s nothing exciting, just a few last-minute props for tonight’s show.”

  The burly young man behind the table gave the box a quick look-through, eyebrows raising a bit, and then handed it back. “Enjoy the festival, ma’am.”

  “I will,” I replied, already feeling a bit of childlike anticipation despite the seriousness of my and Harry’s mission.

  More than one festivalgoer was dressed in Shakespearean garb—this not to mention the wandering entertainment. I could hear baroque-style melodies coming from a nearby quartet of costumed musicians, while a jester on stilts was breathing fire not far from us. I gazed longingly from the craft booths down one side of the square to the food vendors down the other. Much of the festival did live up to the Shakespearean theme, though a few of the vendors and performers leaned more toward fantasy and pirates than Renaissance. I even spotted my yoga instructor, Wendy Tucker, leading a collection of tourists in a sun salutation there at the bandstand. Then I spied Daniel at a grill set up across from Peaches and Java and made up my mind what my first stop would be.

  “We’ve got almost half an hour before we have to meet up with Mrs. O’Malley and the crew,” I told Harry and showed him my watch as proof. “Since it’s almost lunchtime, how about we stop by the Tanakas’ booth, and I’ll split a grilled peaches and peanut butter sandwich with you.”

  The actor shot me a look of faint horror. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

  “Not a bit. Come on. I promise you, it’s fabulous.”

  I led the way with Harry following after me and muttering dire predictions about my future gastronomic well-being. Not that I’d be the only one sliding down that slippery unhealthy food slope. Already, seven or eight people were lined up in front of Daniel’s grill.

  “Hey, Nina,” Daniel called as he saw us approaching. “Harry, good to see you again, bro. It’s been awhile. You two here to try one of my world famous Shakespeare’s Peachy PB&J sandwiches?”

  “Absolutely,” I told him.

  He was wearing yesterday’s yellow logo T-shirt again, though today he’d added one of those black velvet slouchy Renaissance caps with a curly yellow feather in it. Jasmine stood a few yards away wearing a matching tee and a similar cap atop her golden ringlets and carrying a tray filled with sample cubes of the special PB&J.

  I dragged Harry over to her. “Come on, take a bite and see what I’m talking about. I promise you won’t be disappointed.”

  With an exaggerated shudder, Harry took one of the cubes and stuck it in his mouth. I watched his face, waiting for the reaction. Sure enough, after cautiously chewing for a moment, he began to smile. “Not bad.”

  Still, when we reached the front of the line, I was the one who ended up paying for our snack. Each with half a sandwich in hand, we munched away as we headed off to meet Mrs. O’Malley and the tech crew.

  Fortunately for us, the festival volunteers had not yet removed the panels that surrounded the stage, which meant we would be able to do a
run-through with the lighting guy using our revised visuals for the play-within-the-play. First, however, we had to clear everything with our martinet of a stage manager, who did not approve.

  “I must tell you, Mr. Westcott, that I do not approve,” Mrs. O’Malley declared in her lilting Irish accent.

  Today, she wore a crisp, blue-striped seersucker jacket—short sleeved—and a matching short skirt, the latter showing off legs that looked darned good for a woman of any age. Her high-heeled pumps were blue as well. In deference to the heat, she was sporting an oversized and flower-strewn straw sunhat more suitable for Derby Day than a Shakespeare festival perched atop her red curls. Her expression was implacable as she sat in the bleachers reviewing the updated script pages that Harry had given her.

  “Let me be blunt, Mr. Westcott,” she went on. “To make such a change mere hours before opening night, when the scene played just fine at dress … well, I simply cannot countenance it.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry,” Harry told her, putting on a contrite expression. “And I assure you, this is no reflection on your high school troupe. They did excellent work yesterday. But it’s important that we make this change.”

  He paused and sighed. Then, with a subtle catch in his voice, he went on: “You see, this new version of Gonzago is a tribute to our deceased troupe member, Mr. Marsh. We lost him just a few days ago, and we’re all still rather bereft. The new play would be just for tonight, a little salute to a fine actor who is no longer with us.”

  Mrs. O’Malley’s stern mien thawed slightly. “Very well. I still do not approve, but under the circumstances I will not attempt to override you. But I must have your assurance that we’ll go back to the original script for all subsequent performances.”

  Harry put an elegant hand over his heart and favored the woman with his patented Harry Westcott “This is just for you” smile.