by Leslie Meier
This was getting way out of control. “How many nights are you doing this tour? I don’t think we can shut down the restaurant.”
“The tour lasts seven nights, starting Saturday, a week before Halloween. You open for dinner at six o’clock, right? It gets dark at five-thirty. If you push back opening time by an hour or so, the tour will be in and out of there before you know it.”
“I don’t know. It sounds like a big commitment. I have to talk to Chris. And Gus, too.”
“Of course, of course. You can confirm with me as soon as you’ve talked to them. If it doesn’t work out, I can always ask your mother again.”
That felt vaguely like a threat.
Harley bounced on the balls of his feet again. “I’ve had the most marvelous thought. I know exactly the person who can play Ned Calhoun. Spencer Jones. He’s a professional actor who works at the Barnhouse Theater every summer. I’ll call him right away. I’ll make all the arrangements. Costumes, props, the works. You figure out what refreshments you want to serve. This is going to be terrific.”
He turned to leave, as enthusiastic as a puppy who’d just spotted his owner.
“Was Sweet Sue even present at the murder?” I shouted at his back as he retreated down the steps.
“Poetic license,” he called back. “We can’t put on this show without Sweet Sue.”
Chapter Two
And so it was that six weeks later, a group of us gathered at Gus’s for a dress rehearsal. It was in the quiet of the afternoon, my favorite time at the restaurant. Gus was done serving for the day and the place was, as always, spotless.
As I’d anticipated, Gus and Chris had balked when I told them about Harley’s plan.
“I don’t want a lot of tourists trooping through the place,” Gus had insisted, which I admit, was an unusual position for a restaurateur. Gus catered exclusively to locals. If he didn’t know you, or if you didn’t come in with someone he knew, you weren’t getting served.
Chris and I didn’t observe Gus’s rule about strangers. Chris’s objection to the haunted house tour was the late start to dinner service for the week. Our restaurant was popular with lobstering families and retirees, both groups notoriously early supper eaters. I pointed out the delay in opening was only for one week. We were closed Tuesdays and Wednesdays. It was a bye-week for the New England Patriots, which meant business would be down in our bar on Sunday.
“So it’s really only Thursday, Friday, Saturday,” I concluded, looking as appealing as I could.
“What happened to Monday?” Chris asked, though in a teasing tone that told me he was softening.
“Okay, I’ll give you Monday.” I went in for the kill. “The main reason I want to do this is to get Harley off Mom’s back. She really, really doesn’t want to be involved.”
“Well . . .” He wavered and I knew I had him. Chris and Mom been skeptical of each other in the beginning. My mother thought Chris, with his rangy body, green eyes and dimple in his chin, was “too handsome for his own good.” And despite the fact that she’d lived in town almost as long as he’d been alive, Chris had viewed Mom, the descendent of a wealthy summer family that owned a private island, through the usual locals-versus-summer-people lens. Lately, however, they’d settled into a tight alliance, driven by a grudging respect on each side and their mutual love for me.
“You’ll be here,” I’d assured both Gus and Chris, “every evening to make sure nothing goes wrong.” That had gone a long way with each of them, especially Gus, until they heard that not only would they be present, they would be wearing costumes and participating in the “reenactment.”
More conversations had followed, challenging my persuasive skills, but in the end, they’d agreed.
Harley and his wife, Myra, were the first to arrive. My sister, Livvie, her husband, Sonny, and their almost eight-month-old, Jack, came in next. Jack was strapped into his stroller and Livvie made no move to take him out. I’d tried to get Livvie to portray Sweet Sue, but she’d used the “Jack card.” I didn’t see how that prevented her from playing the role, especially since she was able to be present at the dress rehearsal, but she held the line and I gave in.
Sonny had agreed to be one of Al Capone’s men. He walked in with his costume on a hanger he held over his shoulder. No way was he walking through town dressed like a 1920s-era gangster.
I was already in my costume. Like the ones the guys were using, it had come from a Barnhouse Theater production of Guys and Dolls. The Barnhouse was our regional summer playhouse. The bulk of the costumes used in its productions were rented, but the costumers supplemented them with clothes solicited from local and summer people. I had a gorgeous, shimmering, flapper dress accessorized with a long onyx necklace, a felt cloche, and a beaded handbag. I loved it. I’d been back in Busman’s Harbor for almost two years and had put on a dress only for funerals, so I enjoyed the chance to get spiffed up.
While Chris, Gus, and Sonny went up to my apartment to change into their costumes, Harley, Myra, and I walked through the layout of the open front room of the restaurant. Myra would ride the trolley with Harley, looking after guests and helping him herd them around and stay on schedule.
“We’ll put the cookies, pumpkin bread, and cider on a long table over there,” I said, “to keep people away from the counter and the kitchen.” On one side of the big room, open to the area where Gus and Chris cooked, there was an old-fashioned counter with a linoleum top and wide chrome sides and round stools with red leather seats. “You’ll come in the front door, down the stairs with the guests.” Gus’s restaurant was below street level, built on stilts on a rock over the back harbor, the working part of Busman’s Harbor.
“Ned Calhoun will come up here.” I pointed to the trapdoor, which had been hidden behind the backbar and nailed shut. Chris and Gus had “liberated it” that morning. A year earlier when Chris and I had started the dinner restaurant, Gus had agreed that if we were going to be a place for locals to gather in the evening over the long winter, we had to have a bar. However, he’d insisted it had to be built in a way that allowed it to be removed over the summer when Chris and I were occupied with other things. We’d agreed, and that flexibility had come in handy for this endeavor.
Chris and Gus had untethered the bar and backbar and rolled them on their castors to the back of the space. Then the three of us had clustered the bistro tables in the corner so the tour members would have a ringside seat when Ned Calhoun rose up through the trapdoor.
Harley rubbed his hands together. “Ah. Café seating. This is perfect.”
“Where’s the actor who’s playing Ned Calhoun?” I asked.
“Spencer’s already in position under the trapdoor, awaiting his big entrance,” Harley answered.
It was chilly out and I imagined the poor guy crouched on the boulder under Gus’s, ten feet or so above the cold Maine water.
At that moment, Livvie shrieked. I stared at her, my heart beating wildly. Then she doubled over with laughter. I turned and saw Chris, Gus, and Sonny in their costumes, exiting the stairs from my apartment. Their three-piece suits and fedoras made them look like idiots. Sonny’s dress shirt strained across his barrel chest and Gus’s hat was so big it wobbled around his head, nearly covering his eyes. Chris’s pants ended far above his ankles, leaving six inches of bare calf visible over the top of his spats. None of them looked happy.
Most hilarious of all, each of them carried a pint-sized Tommy gun that was obviously plastic and obviously a toy. The big men in their too-small clothes with their tiny guns was too funny. I couldn’t help myself. I laughed, too, until my sides hurt. Myra giggled and soon the guys joined in, the tension broken by the absurdity of the situation.
Harley wasn’t amused. “Let’s get to this,” he barked. “Myra and I have more venues to visit.” He looked at the men. “Okay. You’re there. You’re there. You’re there.” He pointed to the area stage right of the trapdoor, away from the audience. Chris, Gus, and Sonny got in position.
“And Sweet Sue, you’re there.” He pointed to one of the café tables in the front row.
“I’ll tell the story. When I get to the part about Ned Calhoun coming up through the trapdoor, Myra will send a text to Spencer. He’ll enter.” Harley looked at me. “Sweet Sue will scream, terrified of what she knows is going to happen.” He turned to the guys. “And you three will gun him down. Spencer does his death scene. Got it?”
It was pretty simple. We all nodded.
“Okay. From the top.” Harley started the tale. When he got to the part about the ambush, Myra typed something into her phone. A few seconds later, the trapdoor flew open and “Ned Calhoun” emerged. I screamed my loudest, most full-throated scream. Chris, Gus, and Sonny lunged forward. They pulled the triggers on their plastic guns, which made the most unconvincing burp-urp-urp sounds. That set Livvie off again. She broke up, and then I did, and then we all did. Except Harley, who scowled.
And Spencer, who like the professional he was, went on with the show. “They got me,” he shouted, clutching his heart. He lurched, and twisted, and fell quite thunderously to the floor. He was older and heavier through the middle than I’d imagined the handsome rumrunner Ned Calhoun to have been, but at least his costume fit. I wondered if he’d brought his own.
“I am but a poor fisherman, trying to make my way in a violent world,” Spencer intoned, dragging himself across the floor in my direction. “All I only ever wanted was to help my town.” By this time he was at my ankles. “And to love you, Sweet Sue. To love you forever and to give you everything you deserve. Never. Forget. Me,” he gasped out with his dying breath. “I will always love you.” And then clunk, his head fell to the hardwood floor.
The laughter had died by this time. I had to hand it to Spencer. It was one heck of a death scene. We were silent for a moment.
Harley cleared his throat. “I have some notes.” Spencer opened his eyes.
“Here’s my note,” Chris replied. “I’m wearing my own pants next time.”
“And my own hat,” Gus added.
“I think I have a dress shirt somewhere.” Sonny looked over at Livvie, who nodded.
“What are we going to do about these ridiculous guns?” Chris asked.
“I don’t think we want more realistic-looking machine guns, do we?” Livvie said. “There will be children on this tour. Right, Harley?”
“Children, adults, seniors,” Myra answered. “In the summer, at least, we get a nice age range. Fun for the whole family.”
“But these guns”—Chris gestured with his plastic prop—“made us laugh. They’re going to make anyone laugh.”
“Burp-urp-urp-urp,” Jack babbled from his stroller, right on cue.
“How about this?” It was the first time Spencer had spoken out of character. His natural voice was a good deal higher than the one he used for Ned Calhoun. “When I emerge and Sweet Sue screams, we douse the lights. The room goes black. That will give folks an extra thrill. Then we play a recording of real machine guns, or at least a more convincing sound effect. The lights come up. I do my death scene. Et voilà! We’re done.”
Harley smiled and nodded along as Spencer talked. “I knew you’d have a solution, Spencer,” he said. “You’re a real professional.”
“Thank you.” Spencer stood up and gave a little bow. “By the time the curtain goes up tomorrow, we’ll be more than ready.”
“Thank goodness,” Harley said. He looked at Myra. “We need to get going. Add finding the right gun noise recording to the task list. Thanks, everybody. See you at showtime.”
“Remember the old theatrical expression, ‘Bad dress rehearsal, great opening night,’ ” Spencer said. “Tomorrow’s going to be fabulous.”
Chapter Three
But the next day didn’t go smoothly. At five-fifteen I was at Gus’s, accepting the two loaves of pumpkin bread and platter of lemon ginger cookies that Livvie, who made all the desserts for our little restaurant, had baked for the enjoyment of the trolley tour’s participants.
“Are you coming back for the show?” I asked.
Livvie laughed. “No, thanks. I’ve seen it. Break a leg.”
My cell phone rang. It was Harley.
“Julia, the worst has happened. The worst.”
“What’s wrong?” I mentally cataloged situations Harley might consider “the worst.” Perhaps he hadn’t sold any tickets for tonight’s tour.
“It’s Myra. She’s come down with the flu.”
“That is bad. Give her my best wishes for a speedy recovery.” Did Myra have any health issues that would exacerbate the flu? Harley seemed over-the-top upset.
“I will, I will, but that’s not why I called. I need you to ride on the trolley with me tonight.”
“Me? Why?”
“I can drive, and I can narrate the tour, but I can’t do all that and keep an eye on the customers.”
“Are they liable to be unruly?” The idea had never occurred to me.
“No, not at all, unless the Halloween crowd is very different than the one we get in the summer. I need someone to hostess, make sure everyone’s happy, that they don’t get up and walk around. That sort of thing. So naturally I thought of you.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“You’re the hostess at your restaurant and at the clambake. You know what to do. Besides, I happen to know you’re available.”
“What about my costume?” I wasn’t giving up on that beautiful flapper dress.
“Put a coat on over it. But get over here. I need you at the trolley stop in fifteen minutes.”
I ran up to my apartment, threw on the dress, the necklace, and some makeup. Providently, one of the few pieces of clothing I’d kept from my New York City life was a black trench coat, which I put on over the dress. On my way out the door I left the cloche in Gus’s powder room so I could put it on quickly before my big scene. Chris had come into the restaurant earlier to do as much prep as he could for our delayed dinner start, but then he’d gone back out. I texted him.
HAVE GONE TO RIDE TROLLEY WITH HARLEY. WILL BE BACK WITH HIM FOR PERFORMANCE. SEE YOU THEN. BREAK A LEG. LOVE, ME.
There was already a small crowd milling around when I rushed up to the trolley parked in front of Kimbel’s. Harley stood on the trolley step, collecting money, giving change from an old-fashioned change belt, and joking with the people gathered around him.
“Here’s my lovely assistant now,” he called out when he spotted me crossing the street. “It must be time to get started. All aboard, all aboard.”
We piled onto the trolley. It was only half full, though Harley seemed unconcerned. Perhaps attendance would build through the week as it led up to Halloween. The passengers settled into their seats clumped in groups. Harley pointed me to a seat at the very back next to a big white cooler and I sat down.
He stood at the front and addressed us. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome aboard the Haunted House Tour. We’ll head out toward our first stop in a moment. A few rules. Do not move about the trolley when it is underway. Keep your hands, heads, and any other appendages inside the trolley at all times.” As he said this, Harley looked meaningfully at two teenaged couples sitting in the back across from me. Slumped in their seats, they muttered and joked, no doubt at Harley’s expense. They did seem the most likely to stick their heads out the window, but it was twilight on a fall day. The windows of the trolley were pulled up and I doubted anyone would open them.
“We have bottles of water in the back. If you want one, put your hand up and my co-host, Julia, will bring it to you. As advertised, we’ll also be stopping midtour for something warm to drink and light refreshments.” Harley paused and looked around the trolley. “Our first stop is not a haunted house at all, but the Busman’s Harbor cemetery where we’re going to hear about the most famous of the many ghosts associated with our peninsula.” With that, Harley sat down and started the trolley. Everyone settled into their seats and we headed out of town toward the highway.
The cemetery was about halfway up the peninsula that ended at the harbor. I could see why Harley had placed it first on the tour. It would be important to get there before full darkness if the tour members were to see anything. Harley pointed out local landmarks as we rode along. I tuned him out and studied the tour members. In addition to the four teenagers in the back with me, there was a group I took to be a mother with her two sons, one a teenager, the other an adolescent, who sat in two middle rows, the mother and the younger boy together, the older boy in front of them.
A slender woman sat by herself in front of the mother and sons, leaving an empty row between them. Like me, she was dressed in a belted trench coat, only hers was the more traditional beige. A haunted house tour seemed like a strange choice of activity to do alone, but I silently cheered her on. Do what you want. Go where you want, I thought.
There were two women traveling together, whom I took to be mother and daughter, given the solicitous way the mousey, younger woman helped the older woman onto the trolley. The older woman barked at her, “Not there, Elizabeth. No, no, over there,” until they finally settled on their seats in the row behind Harley.
Opposite them, also in the front row, perfectly positioned so he could lean across the aisle and talk to Harley, was another singleton. This one I recognized: Clyde Merkin.
Every small town had a know-it-all, and Busman’s Harbor had quite a few, but nobody knew more than Clyde. At least in Clyde’s opinion.
Even now, as we pulled up to the cemetery, Clyde leaned forward to give Harley advice about how to negotiate the turn and ease the trolley through the cemetery gates, never stopping to consider that Harley had driven his trolley thousands of miles and Clyde had driven it none.
Despite Clyde’s help, Harley successfully made the turn into the private road that led up the hill to the cemetery. The pavement was in terrible repair and the wooden seat of the trolley whacked me with every bump.
