by J. R. Ripley
Rhonda, who, for as long as I’d known her, had worn her thick brown hair in a fifties bouffant, tugged at the large string of pearls around her neck. “I’ll be in back, if you need me.” She wriggled her fingers and ducked through a dark doorway to our left.
Rhonda was working hair and makeup on the production. Her brother, Riley, left with her. But before leaving, he laid a hand on my shoulder and said, “Just follow the steps down to the stage. Everybody should be there by now. Except Miss Turner. I’ll go pick her up myself later.”
“You chauffeur Ava Turner to the theater every day?” asked Kim.
“Of course,” replied Riley. “You don’t expect her to drive herself, do you? She’s a star.” With that, he departed.
There was no need to observe Cousin Riley’s directions. All we had to do was follow the sound of arguing coming from a dark corner of the stage. There was also an incessant hammering coming from backstage that rattled the boards beneath my feet.
“What have I gotten myself into?” I muttered. I turned to Kim. “What have you gotten me into?”
Kim grinned sheepishly. “I hear showbiz folk can be a bit high-strung.” She patted my shoulder. “Don’t worry. It’ll be fun.”
“Great.” Paul Anderson’s admonishment the day before that I didn’t know what fun was reverberated in my head. “Why don’t I see if I can get you a part in the show?”
Kim ignored the suggestion. “Call me when you need a ride back to the shop.” Riley and Rhonda lived downtown and could walk to and from the theater if they wanted to.
Kim turned to go, and I latched on to her arm. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Back to Birds and Bees.” She gently pried her arm free. “You don’t want your mother to be stuck there alone all day, do you? Besides, Randy’s coming by later and he’s going to show me plans for the flip.”
“Fine.” I frowned. “But don’t think I’m going to forget you, Kim.”
Kim grinned. “Hope not!”
I watched Kim disappear up the ramp, then turned and followed the sound of raised voices, all the while attempting to drown out the sound of whoever, probably Riley, was pounding so hard I could feel two of my fillings coming loose.
The stage was deserted. A lone spotlight from the booth in back provided little illumination to the black stage. I crossed in front of the orchestra pit, toward the sound of the voices. I stopped dead in my tracks as I heard a man’s brusque speech.
“I’m telling you, it was no accident!” the man snarled. “Somebody tried to kill me.”
“Now, Robert, why would anybody—”
Robert? I thought I recognized that voice. Robert LaChance, the car dealer. Not a person I’d be putting on my Christmas list this year or any other for that matter. He’d treated his ex-wife, and my dear friend, Tiffany, very poorly. To make matters worse, I was sure that he was somehow involved in the plot to get the street widened and my store rezoned. I just couldn’t prove it.
“I don’t know why,” Robert cut him off. “But they are.”
I slowly pulled back the deep purple curtain with my index finger and peered through the tiny gap. Robert LaChance, arm in a cast and sling, had his face pressed up against a second man, whom I didn’t recognize. Robert wore a sharp pinstriped suit. Tiffany called it his sleazy used-car-salesman costume.
The second man was an obese fellow pushing fifty with a cherubic face and a blond crewcut. His fleshy nose looked like it had been smeared across his face with a butter knife. By contrast, he dressed more casually, in khakis and a white short-sleeve polo. “I know there may have been a few accidents . . .” He wheezed, tugging at his collar. I noticed a line of sweat along his forehead.
“Accidents?” Robert laughed sourly. “First,” he said, holding out his fingers, “somebody tries to run Riley off the road. Next, we get a string of thefts—”
“I wouldn’t call them thefts exactly,” cut in the second man.
“Lou,” said Robert with little patience, “several of the cast and crew have reported missing personal items.”
Lou. I realized this must be the theater manager, Lou Ferris.
Lou hitched up his pants. “Tiny, little things,” he said, pinching his fingers together.
Robert snarled. “What about the fire?”
“Fire?” I snapped my mouth shut. I hadn’t meant to say that out loud. Both men turned my way. Figuring the jig was up, I pushed my way through the heavy curtain. “Hi, I’m Amy Simms.” I extended my hand.
“Lou Ferris,” the big man replied. His grip was doughy and warm, like a proofed loaf ready for the oven. “Welcome.”
“Thanks. I see you’re into birds, too.”
“Excuse me?” Lou said.
I looked pointedly at the tiny tattoo on the inside of his wrist. “The bird. A swallow, isn’t it?”
“Ooh.” Lou smiled. “Yeah. Sometimes I forget it’s there.” He rubbed his wrist.
“It’s beautiful.” Not that I’d get one tattooed to my wrist, but it really was a lovely lavender and teal sketch of a swallow.
“Thanks, I got this—”
Robert interrupted the manager. “Yeah, yeah. Can we cut this little bird lovers convention short?”
I turned to the car dealer. “Hello, Robert.”
Robert’s jaw worked back and forth. “Miss Simms. I hear you will be replacing Coralie.”
“That’s right.”
“Let’s hope you don’t suffer the same fate,” the car dealer said ominously.
“Excuse me?”
Lou interjected. “Miss Sampson suffered a foot injury.” Lou gave Robert an ugly look. “That’s why you’re here.”
“Yes, Riley told me there had been an accident.”
“Hah!” Robert snorted. “Somebody tried to kill Coralie. Broke her foot, and she’s lucky it wasn’t her head.” Robert pushed his cast toward me. “Me, too.”
“It was an accident,” Lou said, visibly struggling to retain his composure.
Robert practically spat as he said, “Somebody rigged the damn curtain rod and tried to crush us!”
Lou waved his hand. “Really, I think crushed is too strong a word.”
“That curtain rod is two-inch-thick iron. Don’t tell me crushed is too strong a word!” Robert scratched at his nose with this cast. “It was sabotage.”
I pulled at my lip. “Sabotage? Who’d do a thing like that?”
“Nobody,” Lou replied quickly.
“You’re blind, Lou.” Robert shook his good arm at the other man.
Watching and listening to the two men, I knew something strange was going on here, but I had no idea what. Whatever it was, I wanted no part of it. I was beginning to think that showbiz was not the biz for me and said so. “I’m not sure I’m really right for the part, Mr. Ferris. And I am rather busy with my own business, Birds and Bees?”
“Nonsense,” the theater manager said, clasping my hands in his. “You’ll do fine.”
A heavy vibration shook the ground, and a large man with a lavish white beard and a mustache that stretched out to infinity in two directions bounded, penguin-like, down the black steps toward us. “I’d say she’ll do perfectly!” he said with a singsong lilt.
I turned toward the gentleman. I guessed he was in his late fifties or early sixties. But they had clearly been hard years. Dark gray eyes glowed unwaveringly at me, and his long black coat swirled around him like it was alive. I wondered how he did that. Black cuffed trousers hung loose over his dress shoes. He carried a white silk scarf wrapped several times around his neck.
“Your eyes are as green as the hills of Eire, mademoiselle,” he said, putting a point to his mustache.
“August,” said Lou. “This is Amy Simms. She’s replacing Coralie.”
“Ahh.” He grabbed my hand and kissed it in an extravagant gesture. “August Mantooth at your service.” He bowed. “You will be playing the role of Winnie.”
“Who?” My brow wrinkled up and I rubbed my
nose. Mantooth smelled heavily of spicy cologne.
“Dolly Tate’s sister.” This from Robert, his voice hard.
“What? Not a chance!”
We all turned. There, at the corner of the stage, a woman in skintight beige pants, a pink blouse, and pink heels was staring down on us with an angry red face.
And I knew her. Sort of. She was me. Sort of. Because her name was Amy, too. She was the ex-wife of Derek Harlan, an attorney who’d helped me out recently. She’d also warned me to stay away from him. She’d said something about how she’d kill me if I didn’t.
Something told me she wasn’t quite over the man.
“That woman”—she thrust her arm out and pointed—“is not going to play my sister!”
“Now, now, Amy,” August Mantooth began, waddling back up the short flight of stairs toward the woman. “Let’s not have any theatrics.” He guffawed at his small joke and shot me a quick wink. “I’m sure whatever the trouble is, we can sort it out.”
The two disappeared.
I turned to Lou Ferris and Robert. Why didn’t Robert disappear as well? What was he doing here anyway? If his arm was broken and he was no longer in the show, why didn’t he go back where he belonged? To LaChance Motors.
“You were saying something about a fire?” I said.
Lou gave Robert a warning look. “It was nothing. This is an old structure. We have certain”—his tongue played over his lips a moment—“electrical issues.”
Robert snorted and looked at his watch. “I’ve got things to do.” He gave me a look, which made me worried that those things had something to do with me.
Lou pulled me toward the stage. “Come, let me introduce you.”
He led me out on stage and yelled for someone to turn up the stage lights. In a minute, the stage was washed with bright white lights.
August dropped Amy Harlan’s hand and scooted over to the end of the stage. “Will somebody please make that hammering stop?”
“Sorry!” came a muffled cry from behind the stage. A moment later, a face I recognized popped out from behind a prop wall. “You want me to stop?”
“Please,” August Mantooth replied. “Can’t you continue whatever it is you are doing later?”
“But Lou said we needed to get the rest of this scenery done by tomorrow.”
“Aaron?” I interrupted. “What are you doing here? I mean, I know what you’re doing here.” Working, obviously. I moved closer. “But I’m surprised to see you.” Aaron Maddley is a farmer by trade, but also a skilled craftsman. He had built a number of bluebird houses for me to sell at Birds & Bees, each one beautifully handcrafted and assembled. Unfortunately, I’d also practically accused him and/or his sister of murder.
“Hello, Amy,” he answered curtly, his fingers tightening around the claw hammer hanging at his side.
“Lou isn’t directing this show,” August said, tossing his scarf over his left shoulder. “I am. So, if you don’t mind?” He waved Aaron away with a flick of the fingers.
“Catch you later?” I called, rising up on my tiptoes, but Aaron gave no answer.
Lou whistled for the crew and cast to gather around. I recognized several of the faces, like Mayor MacDonald; Ben Harlan, Amy Harlan’s former father-in-law; Dick Feller, who worked over at the Ruby Lake Motor Inn; Amy Harlan, of course; and a couple of the crew. Lots of the faces were new to me. I hadn’t been back in Ruby Lake long, so that was no surprise.
“Everybody, this is Amy Simms,” explained Lou. “August, I will leave you to make the introductions.” The theater manager started for the stairs at the left side of the stage. “I’ll be in my office if you need me.”
August made the introductions and handed me a well-worn script. “Our next rehearsal is at seven this evening. Please be prompt.”
I promised I would.
August clapped his hands to silence everyone. “I’ll keep this brief, ladies and gentlemen. As you all are aware, there have been some accidents.”
He paused as members of the cast and crew started whispering with one another. “Enough! I called you all together this morning to introduce you to your newest cast member and to tell you that yes, indeed, the show will go on.”
The director paused once again, looking decidedly annoyed, as a smattering of applause erupted.
“Quiet, everybody!” A nattily dressed man in a brown suit with the largest hands I’d ever seen stamped the floor. His suit was straight out of the Wild West.
“Who’s that?” I whispered to Dick Feller beside me.
“T-Bone Crawford,” Dick replied out of the corner of his mouth, so softly his lips barely moved. The man could have been a ventriloquist. “He’s portraying Davenport.”
I nodded briefly. The character of Charlie Davenport, the manager of Buffalo Bill Cody’s Wild West show was one of the major players in the cast. T-Bone Crawford was not a tall man, but he was stocky, with coal-black hair and thick lips.
Dick’s hand went to the side of his mouth. “He’s an ex-con.”
“What did he do?” I couldn’t help but ask.
T-Bone Crawford turned his hard green eyes on me and glared.
Dick stepped away and I clammed up.
“I’m beginning to have second thoughts about this show,” Amy Harlan pouted, pulling at her hair and raking her steely gaze over me.
“I’m beginning to think this whole damn show is cursed,” Mac MacDonald grumbled in reply.
“Enough.” August Mantooth cleared his throat and glared at the mayor. “There is no such thing as a curse, despite what certain persons might intimate.” His eyes passed slowly over us all. “Merely cursed critics.”
This brought several chuckles.
“Excuse me, Miss Turner. May I speak with you privately?”
We all looked to the dimly lit back of the theater house. Ava Turner, in a sleek red dress with flouncy sleeves, was striding down toward the stage. A tall, slender woman in a denim jacket and jeans followed along, matching the former movie star’s long stride with her own quick little steps.
“Not now,” said Ava, stopping and looking down her nose at the woman. “I’m rather busy.”
“But Miss Turner—”
“Later, darling.” She gave the other woman a patronizing tap on the shoulder. I noticed a large diamond ring on her right index finger and an equally large emerald on her middle finger.
Riley hurried down the steps and took Ava Turner’s hand. “Miss Turner, what are you doing here?” Riley looked nonplussed. “I wasn’t supposed to pick you up till later.”
“Yes, I didn’t want to disturb you for our little meeting,” added August, moving closer.
“Thank you, darling,” Ava said, allowing Riley to help her up the steps. “My neighbor offered to provide a lift.”
The woman on the floor cocked her head up toward the stage. “Miss Turner,” she began, a white cotton blouse peeking out of her jacket, “if you want to talk later—”
“Not now, Patsy!” barked August.
“But—”
The director towered over her. “Please go check on the wardrobe for Ms. Simms.” His eyes raked over me. “You may be required to make some alterations.”
I fidgeted uneasily, unsure if that was a compliment or an insult.
“Yes, Mr. Mantooth.” The woman’s shoulders sagged and she skulked off.
“You’ll have to pardon Ms. Klein,” August said, turning to me. “She’s quite useful, filling in wherever needed, but sometimes her zealousness gets to the point that she makes a pest of herself.”
Ava Turner pushed herself between me and the director and stuck out her hand. “Ava Turner,” she said, her voice soft as silk. “Call me Ava.” Her head twisted to August. “Do you need me for anything? I wanted to have a word with Ms. Rhonda about my makeup.”
“No, my dear. Rehearsal’s at seven,” replied the director, bowing slightly. He tilted his head back and clapped. “You’re all free to go or get on with whatever you were doin
g!”
“Wait.” Ben Harlan stepped forward. Ben’s a lawyer, or maybe a semi-retired one, but he always dresses like he’s got a date in court. Today was no exception with his crisp brown suit, yellow shirt, and navy tie. “I understand that Amy’s taking Coralie’s role, but who’s going to play Frank Butler, what with Robert out with a broken arm?”
“Not to worry. Our new sharpshooter couldn’t make it this morning, but he’s promised to be here this evening,” August replied. “I’ve already sent a script over to him.”
“Okay if I get back to work?” I heard Aaron yell from beyond.
“By all means!” shouted August Mantooth.
With that, Ms. Turner turned and headed backstage. She’d never even asked me my name.
“So we’re done here?” I asked, rolling the script up in my hands. Time to call Kim and get back to my real work.
August pressed his hand into my shoulder. “Try to read the script before this evening, Miss Simms. We are terribly behind schedule, and we do open in less than a week, you know.”
The sound of hammering started up once more, and I couldn’t wait to leave. I heard someone power up a vacuum cleaner in another room. The theater was a sudden cacophony of voices, sawing, pounding, and miscellaneous mayhem. I didn’t understand how anyone could think under such circumstances, let alone act.
I promised August I would try to read through the script. Maybe I could get Mom or Kim to run my lines with me.
As I turned to leave, we all heard the scream.
4
I raced to the sound of the scream, the director close on my heels.
“Miss Turner, are you all right?” I knelt beside the movie star, who laid sprawled out on the floor in a most unladylike fashion. “What happened?”
A stagehand pulled out his cell phone and snapped a picture.
“Knock it off!” I commanded.
He sheepishly thrust his phone in his back pocket and hovered.
Ava was rubbing her head. “I don’t know,” she said weakly. “I was on my way to my dressing room when something hit me.” She propped herself up with her right hand pressed against the ground.
