As Lenny wandered off, Paul tried to think of what he should do with the sword. He didn’t know if his heart could take two stunts in one morning. But who would do something as dangerous as replacing a plastic prop with a real sword? Someone could have gotten hurt.
The obvious candidate was the same woman who had printed the leaflets. The students getting hold of a real sword could get the play cancelled, especially if someone got hurt. Still . . . the gorgon lady might be two geese short of a gaggle, but Paul couldn’t imagine her endangering any student, never mind her own son.
He turned to Sylvia. “Get the kids started with the cauldron scene. I’ll be back after I lock this in the trunk of my car.”
“You’re what?” Paul’s wife pressed up close and hissed into his ear. “You have to turn this over to the school. I’m not a teacher, but even I know that.”
“Technically,” Paul whispered back. “But Winston is looking for any excuse to cancel this play. He’ll have a heyday with a real sword being found in the auditorium.”
“How are you going to keep it from him?” Sylvia demanded.
Paul shrugged. “One problem at a time.”
Sylvia was shaking her head in disbelief as Paul turned away. He knew she was right but refused to let the gorgon lady win so easily. Cadwell had to be behind the sword, and if he could prove it, Winston could hardly reward her by cancelling the play.
As he walked down a leaflet-strewn hallway toward the main doors and the parking lot, it occurred to Paul that the sword prank had effected one good thing: it had put a smile on Lenny’s face.
Scene 5: This Is the Air-Drawn Dagger
“It’s hardly a decent likeness,” suggested Gertrude. “Heh. Though the artist has captured your eyes.”
Agatha twisted her upper lip. “That isn’t me. And the eyes are just dots.”
Gertrude looked up at the tall witch and smiled. “Your point?”
“My point,” said Agatha, “is that I don’t wear hats. My hair won’t allow it. Netty wears a hat.”
Netty snorted, spitting soda across the table. “When I pose for a picture, all they get is my hat.”
Agatha further curled her lip into a full-fledged scowl. “You were supposed to give Macbeth a sword. Not leave these . . . unwanted posters all over the school.”
Netty picked up the leaflet they had been studying and chewed on a corner of it. “Bah! Tastes terrible. I didn’t leave these. I just brought one back with me. Although . . . the likeness does look like Agatha when she was younger. Didn’t you used to wear a hat?”
“Well, I didn’t make these posters.” Agatha looked at Gertrude.
“Not me. It was Netty’s turn to curse.”
“I did the sword,” Netty said. She reached beneath the table and held up a plastic silver sword. She waggled her hand, and the blade blurred with movement.
“I didn’t realize you were good with a sword,” said Agatha. “I’ve never seen a blade move that fast.”
“That’s because it’s hollow.” Netty stopped waggling her hand and smacked Gertrude on the top of the head with the blade.
Gertrude tensed then frowned. “You couldn’t cut water with that sword.”
Netty tossed the plastic sword into the air and it vanished. “Weighs less than water too.”
Agatha looked thoughtful. “The real sword you left in its place. Does it weigh less than water?”
Netty opened her mouth then closed it. Her eyes wandered around in their sockets and rolled like marbles settling in a roulette wheel. “Shouldn’t we order some food?”
Agatha glared at her.
“I’ve always preferred daggers over swords.” Gertrude chuckled. “Easier to conceal about your person, and they get the job done.”
“Daggers have been done to death,” said Agatha. She picked up the leaflet and scowled. “I did have a hat like this once. ‘Witches are not welcome at Ashcroft High.’ Sisters, I think we need to find out who it is who doesn’t welcome us . . . and say hello.”
Scene 6: Thou Liest, Thou Shag-Hair’d Villain!
Paul had been so distracted by the real sword in Lenny’s prop bag that he had forgotten to drop by Winston’s office and mention the parking problem. As a result, the following morning, he and Sylvia had been forced to park both cars in front of someone’s house two blocks from the school and walk in.
“Are you sure it was a good idea to bring that sword home?” Sylvia asked. “I thought the school kept a closet full of confiscated items.”
“Water pistols and bubblegum,” Paul said. “If I turn in a sword, Winston’s going to want to know where I got it.”
“Won’t Winston hear about it, anyway? That’s not the kind of thing that principals don’t hear about.”
“The sword will be less real if I describe it rather than let Winston wield it about his office.” An image of Winston doing just that flashed through Paul’s thoughts. The stout man was laughing manically as he spun the sword, double fisted, around the office, smashing furniture and slicing the wallpaper to ribbons.
“Good luck explaining why you took it home,” Sylvia said.
Outside the main doors to the school, Paul stooped to pick up a piece of paper. It sported a cartoon drawing stamped over by a red circle with a diagonal line running through it.
Sylvia looked over his shoulder and read the caption: PTA is not welkom at Ashkroft High.
Paul ignored the spelling mistakes and stared at the cartoon.
“Hmm,” said Sylvia. “Mrs. Cadwell appears to be having a bad hair day.”
“That is Mrs. Cadwell, isn’t it?” Paul groaned and stuffed the leaflet into a coat pocket. “I thought it might be one of the antiwitch leaflets. With what we saw yesterday, they’ll be popping up for weeks. I can’t imagine where this one came from. I hope not many were printed.”
Paul’s hopes were dashed when he opened the door to the school.
Sylvia gasped.
The hallways were a sea of paper, the polished linoleum floor visible only where the tramping of students’ feet had cleared a path. The walls were papered with leaflets. As was the ceiling. Amidst the carnage stood a lone student whose expression indicated he had been waiting for Paul to arrive.
“I have a note for you, Mr. Samson.”
“Of course you do,” Paul said. “Sylvia, please manage the class for me until I get there.”
Paul had to guess that the rest of the school fared no better than the entrance. He saw nothing but paper the entire way toward Winston’s wrath. As he neared the principal’s office, he spotted Jerry the caretaker shaking a broom at a hallway ceiling. Leaflets rained down on him wherever the broom touched.
“Thank God the students didn’t use glue,” Jerry said. “I don’t know what’s causing them to stick, but they let go easy enough.”
Paul pulled one of the leaflets off the wall, and it virtually fell into his hand. He ran his thumb across the back of the paper and against the wall but found nothing. “Static?”
“Beats me,” Jerry said.
Paul had never known Mrs. Kennedy not to have a smile, but as he approached the secretary’s desk, he saw that today was an exception.
“This has gone too far,” the fifty-something woman said. “Yesterday was too far, and today is farther.”
“I agree completely,” Paul said, pausing by her desk and nodding vigorously. Agreeing with the school secretary was never a bad idea. “The sooner we find out who is responsible, the sooner that student and Mrs. Cadwell can spend a month in detention.”
“Mrs. Cadwell?” Mrs. Kennedy cast Paul a perplexed stare. “But she’s the victim.”
“She’s today’s victim,” Paul agreed. “But she’s yesterday’s prankster.”
Mrs. Kennedy ground her teeth. “Apparently there are no regulations prohibiting the PTA from distributing leaflets.”
Paul snorted. “Distributing leaflets? Is that what that was?”
“You’d better go in,” Mrs. Kennedy said. �
��Mr. Winston is waiting for you.”
Winston’s face was stormier than Mrs. Kennedy’s. And it was only Wednesday.
“Please tell me,” Winston bellowed, “that you are not responsible for this fiasco!”
“Okay,” Paul said. “I am not responsible for this fiasco.”
“I’m being serious!”
“So am I.” Paul shook his head. “I was more surprised by today’s leaflets than I was by yesterday’s.”
Winston sighed and leaned back into his chair. “Mrs. Cadwell was responsible for yesterday’s leaflets.”
“Of course she was. She’s the only person in this school who spends more than five seconds thinking about witches. And she’s probably the only one who might think that littering the hallways with leaflets will convince anyone of anything.”
Winston wiped his face with a handkerchief and frowned. “There’s at least one other person who believes in leaflets. The person who retaliated this morning. It wasn’t you?”
Paul couldn’t believe that Winston regarded him as a suspect. “I consider myself fortunate that I know how to spell welcome and the name of the school.”
Winston shook his head. “I can only assume that the misspellings are intentional, but for the life of me, I can’t imagine why.”
Paul had to agree. Not even the worst student’s spelling was that bad. “They do make the anti-PTA prankster seem illiterate. Unless . . .” No, it was just too insane to be true.
“Unless what?” asked Winston.
“Unless the anti-PTA prankster is the PTA.”
“What?”
“Think about it,” Paul said. “If illiterate kids oppose the PTA, that only strengthens the PTA’s position.”
Winston worked his jaw. “No, I don’t buy it. And Mrs. Cadwell was scandalized by the cartoon. None of her people would risk that. Did you notice the hair?”
Paul had to admit that Winston had a point. “Where is Mrs. Cadwell, anyway? I expected her to be here with two beams of wood, several nails, and a hammer.”
“Gone home.” A twisted smile worked its way across the principal’s face. “Said the embarrassment was more than she could endure and that she wasn’t coming back until every last leaflet was destroyed.” He raised a hand to prevent Paul from commenting. “I know. It’s tempting to put a few out each day for the rest of the year. Don’t think I haven’t considered it.”
That was exactly what Paul was going to suggest.
Winston shook his head. “Cadwell may be embarrassed now, but she’s not stupid. She’ll be in my office by Friday, laying an egg.”
Paul sighed. “Yes, she will. I’ll ask my students what they know about today’s leaflets, but I don’t expect a confession.” He turned to leave.
“Samson. Cadwell hasn’t mentioned anything yet about a real sword showing up in your drama class.”
Paul’s hand froze on the doorknob. “Right.” Paul turned around. “Leaflets aren’t this week’s only prank.”
The principal continued. “A weapon on school property is hardly a prank. I suspect that she will mention it, rather loudly, the next time she barges into my office.”
“Perhaps . . .” Paul decided to take a gamble. “Could you mention it before she does?”
Winston’s eyes narrowed.
“I didn’t come to you yesterday to complain about Cadwell’s leaflets. And I didn’t come and complain about the sword she sabotaged—”
“Cadwell? She may be crazier than a sack of rabid weasels, but she’d never endanger a student.”
Paul made his play. “If it wasn’t her, it was one of Cadwell’s PTA sycophants. Or a student who helped with her leaflets. I find it more than coincidental that the sword was planted at the same time that the PTA was littering the hallways. Regardless, it was an obvious attempt to sabotage the play, and I hold Cadwell personally responsible. She’s the one leading the charge.”
Again, Winston worked his jaw. “You want me to tell Cadwell that you hold her responsible for a sword showing up in your drama class? I’m not your bloody mother!”
Damn. Paul had never been much good at gambling. “Just let her know that I complained to you about the prank before she did.”
Winston shook his head. “That woman has never taken responsibility for anything, and your accusation is just that, an accusation. She’s going to make a counteraccusation that one of your students played a dangerous prank on her son. Oh, yes, I know it was Lenny Cadwell whose plastic sword was switched. I’m not an idiot.”
Double damn. Paul shrugged. “It was hardly dangerous. The metal sword must have weighed five pounds.” Just a slight exaggeration. “Lenny knew instantly that it wasn’t plastic. His prop bag ripped from the weight before he even touched the sword.”
“I was told that Lenny cut himself.”
Paul’s heart lurched and he made a decision. He had never lied to Winston, not in fifteen years. He’d bent the truth more times than he could count, but he’d never outright lied. Today would be a first. “Paper cut,” he said, “from the torn bag. The sword was just a big butter knife.”
Winston stared at him, and Paul knew that he was going to demand to see the sword. Paul would have to compound his lie by going out and finding a different sword. One that really was a giant butter knife.
But then the principal shook his head and leaned back in his chair. “Get out of here.”
Scene 7: Blood Hath Been Shed
It was Two-for-One Sundae Day at the Dairy Queen. Business was brisker than normal, and nowhere more so than at the booth at the far end of the seating area. Three hags sat at a table crowded with sundaes, each one with a different combination of ingredients.
“Isn’t today Thursday?” Agatha asked.
Gertrude pulled a disk from a ragged pocket and glared at it. “Thursday. Seventeenth day of September. Quarter moon. Humidity twenty percent.” Then she put the disk away.
“Wasn’t that a sundial?” asked Netty.
Gertrude squinted at her. “What if it was?”
“Sundials are supposed to tell you the time. Not . . .” Netty waved pudgy fingers in the air. “All that other stuff.”
Gertrude smirked. “Agatha didn’t ask for the time.”
“Yes, but . . . it’s a sundial.”
A wicked smiled creased Gertrude’s face. “Heh. I threatened it into revealing more information.”
“My point being,” said Agatha, waving a gnarled hand over the table, “why aren’t these ice cream treats called Thursdays? Why are they called Sundays?”
“Perhaps they make them on Sunday,” Netty said, “then put them on clearance on Thursday before they go bad.”
The other two witches stared at her.
Then Agatha let out a chest full of air. “That’s the first thing you’ve said this week that made any sense.”
Netty offered a wide, nearly toothless grin, and all three witches cackled.
“I hope,” said Hecate, appearing on the bench next to Netty and taking in the array of ice cream, “that you are celebrating the destruction of The Bard’s Play.”
“What’s with the uniform?” asked Agatha. The senior witch was dressed in stiff white linen that included an odd-looking starched hat.
Gertrude peered up at Hecate with a crooked smirk. “Heh. Are you going to serve ice cream Sundays behind the counter? I didn’t realize the witching business was ailing so badly.”
Hecate raised an eyebrow at Gertrude and eventually understood the deformed witch’s implication. “This is not a server’s uniform. It is a nurse uniform. I’m off to Hinton Valley Hospital.”
Gertrude nodded her hunched head. “Pays better than waiting tables.”
The three sisters exploded into cackles.
Hecate did not join them. “The only place the witch business is ailing is right here. Tell me that you’ve cursed the play.”
Agatha licked ice cream off a gnarled finger. “Netty gave a murderous student a sword.”
Hecate
appeared confused. “Shouldn’t they already have swords? This is Macbeth.”
“They have prop swords,” Gertrude said. “Fakes. Netty gave our Macbeth a real sword.”
“I see,” said Hecate. “And how many of his fellow actors did your Macbeth cut to ribbons before realizing that his prop sword was real?”
The three witches looked at each other.
Hecate frowned. “Blood did flow?”
Agatha moved her lips. “There was blood, yes.”
Hecate frowned further. “Any fatalities at all?”
“Our Macbeth is a ponce with a sword,” Netty said. “He was his own first casualty.”
“Well,” Hecate admitted. “That’s better than nothing. Without Macbeth, the show can’t go on.”
“He, uhrm, recovered,” said Agatha.
“The resilience of youth,” added Gertrude.
“It was just a flesh wound,” said Netty.
Hecate’s nostrils flared.
Netty busied herself with examining the ice cream. “Or so I heard.”
“The hospital,” said Agatha. “What do you plan to do there?”
Loath to miss an opportunity to talk about herself, the senior witch smiled. “I’m going to swap some medications. Then perhaps I’ll spend some time in the maternity ward watching colicky babies.” She rubbed her hands together. “I never grow tired of the wailing of children.” Then she was gone.
“Raspberry,” said Netty.
Agatha looked at her. “What?”
Netty grinned. “I think I like the raspberry Sunday best.”
“I agree,” said Gertrude. “Let’s throw out these other ones and order a dozen raspberry.”
“That would be a waste,” said Agatha. “I’ll eat the other ones.”
“Even the caramel?” asked Netty. “It tastes like burnt sugar.”
Agatha drew a deep breath through one nostril. “Perhaps I’ll pass on the caramel.”
Scene 8: Give Us a Light There, Ho!
On Friday, after a week of running through lines, a few of the students actually knew theirs and could repeat them off book. Of the major roles, Lenny was coming along, as was Susie. Paul could hear Susie each evening in her room, enunciating eloquently and swearing each time she missed a word. William was doing surprisingly well as Macduff, and John Freedman kept stumbling over Banquo’s lines. Fortunately Banquo spent more time standing around, listening to Macbeth, than he did talking, so Freedman would probably be okay in the end.
Much Ado about Macbeth Page 7
