Antiques Fruitcake

by Barbara Allan

  Female cook: (thrusting plate forward)

  Why, I already have. This is the original fruitcake. I took the liberty of making a sample.

  Hattie: (taking fruitcake)

  Oh, you clever girl. Let me test the cake to see if it’s as good as I remember....

  (Hattie takes plate, breaks off piece of fruitcake, eats it.)

  Again, Madeline broke character, this time by spitting the fruitcake on the floor.

  “You expect me to eat that!” she shouted toward Mother. “My lord, woman! It’s rancid!”

  Mother, exasperated, said, “Must you exaggerate, my dear? Move along!”

  The actress grabbed at her chest.

  For a second it seemed like overacting, more of the melodrama Mother had complained about from her leading lady. But then Madeline’s body went into convulsions, and she dropped to her knees, fell over on one side, and rolled over on her back.

  The convulsions ceased.

  Madeline lay still.

  As the actors stood stunned, frozen in place, a hush falling over the theater, Mother rushed up onto the stage. I was not far behind her, sprinting down the aisle, Sushi not far behind me.

  Someone said, “My God. I think she’s had a heart attack!”

  Someone else muttered, “She’d have to have a heart.”

  Mother, kneeling next to Madeline, put two fingers on the woman’s throat.

  “Mother?” I asked.

  But I didn’t hold out much hope that the woman was breathing. Our star’s face was an ashen mask, open eyes staring up at the stage lights, but not seeing.

  Mother stood. Shook her head. “I’m afraid the dying scene we’ve just witnessed was quite real.”

  A visibly shaken Kimberly asked, “How can you be sure? We should call the paramedics.”

  “Doing so would be a waste of time and taxpayers’ money.” Now it was her turn to be melodramatic: “Madeline was poisoned by the fruitcake.”

  Someone asked, “How do you know?” Mother pointed to Sushi, who had sniffed the fruitcake and backed away, repulsed. “Tell them, dear,” she said to me.

  “Because,” I said, “Sushi’s not eating it.”

  Act Two

  It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Fruitcake

  Dearest ones!

  This is Vivian talking/writing. I do apologize for interrupting Brandy’s enthralling narrative, but I’m afraid I must clarify and correct a few statements she’s made. That child has quite the vivid imagination. Where do you suppose she got it? (I would attach a smiley face here, but both Brandy and our editor have forbidden me the use of emoticons. Which is in itself worthy of a frowny face.)

  Contrary to what Brandy said/wrote, I did not take a tumble into the orchestra pit and get my right foot stuck in a tuba. How big does she think my feet are? I got my left foot stuck in the bell of a baritone.

  Furthermore, I did not send horses running across the stage—for heaven’s sake, how could they get up to speed? They just trotted across, and there were only two of them. (I couldn’t fit any more backstage.)

  Brandy was correct, however, in saying the horses caused something of a panic in the audience, and poor Mrs. Sneidecker (the mayor’s wife) fainted dead away. But His Honor’s better half had plenty of time to recover during our impromptu bonus intermission as we (shall we say) did a little tidying up of the stage before proceeding. Where there are apples, there comes the harvest!

  All I can say is that someone with such a delicate constitution as Mrs. Sneidecker should not have selected a ringside seat for one of my productions. Definitely not my bad.

  On with our dramatic presentation.

  After determining that Madeline had made her final curtain call, I asked everyone—actors, stagehands, musicians—to take seats in the auditorium, leaving at least two empty seats between filled ones. And to refrain from speaking to each another.

  As a skilled investigator, I knew that much as a crime scene can be contaminated—so can the stories of witnesses, if they are allowed to intermingle and compare notes. What each may have seen that might be relevant to the murder must be preserved.

  I then called Sheriff Rudder on my cell (like our chief of police, he’s on speed dial), since the death occurred in his jurisdiction.

  But for a few sobs and sniffles, cast and crew took my direction well, waiting in silence. I took note of who appeared upset, and who did not, and began assembling a mental list of suspects—my “top picks” you might say.

  Before long my imposed silence was broken by the faint wail of a siren, growing ever louder, and as heads turned in that direction, I dispatched Brandy to wait out in front of the Playhouse to meet the sheriff.

  A few minutes later, Sheriff Rudder came striding down the center aisle, a tall, beefy, imposing figure, who—if I were to squint or remove my glasses, anyway—reminded me of the older John Wayne; he even had the Duke’s sideways gait. Affectation or bunions? Who could say?

  In Rudder’s wake, trying to keep up, came a deputy named Jim Something, a scarecrow of a man with a long face and unruly brown hair, who reminded me of nobody. Not even Ray Bolger.

  Rudder came to a stop in front of me with a shudder, like an old car. I stood poised with the orchestra pit just behind me.

  “Okay, Vivian,” he said gruffly. “Where’s the body this time?”

  That seemed a trifle gratuitous.

  “Downstage left,” I replied.

  He squinted as if trying to bring me into focus. “Where?”

  Apparently, the Philistine law enforcer knew little of stage lingo.

  Brandy, wandering up next to me, interjected, “She’s up on the stage, Sheriff.”

  Rudder ascended the steps (audience left), walked over to Madeline’s prone form, and knelt to examine her. After a long thirty seconds, he straightened and came to the edge of the stage.

  “Who is she?” he asked looking down at me.

  “Madeline de Morlaye,” I said.

  His eyebrows climbed his forehead. “No kidding? I heard about her all my life, but I don’t remember ever actually seeing her. Where are the paramedics?”

  “I didn’t call them. I called you.”

  “Vivian, my God, why didn’t you—”

  “My dear sheriff, what would they accomplish at this late stage . . . no pun intended . . . other than contaminate the crime scene? Call them yourself, if you think it prudent.”

  His eyes were wide, eyebrows still high. “You’re saying she was murdered?”

  Rather slow picking up his cues tonight, our sheriff.

  “Yes, she was murdered,” I said. “Sushi wouldn’t eat the fruitcake! Do pay attention.”

  (In retrospect, I may have skipped a step or two. But I was very upset, having lost a very old and dear friend to person or persons unknown.)

  Sheriff Rudder was descending the steps (audience right this time). “By God, I thought you knew better than to joke about things like this, Vivian—”

  “She’s not, Sheriff,” Brandy interjected. “We’re sure the fruitcake Madeline ate onstage had been poisoned. Sushi is crazy about the stuff and turned her nose up at the one Madeline ate a bite from. It’s a play prop? We were in dress rehearsal?”

  Rudder had the look of a man who’d been soundly slapped. He took a few moments to process Brandy’s nicely concise summary, then grunted, looked from Brandy to me, decided we were telling the truth, and used his cell to call the coroner and a forensics team.

  And the paramedics, I will admit, for transfer of the body to the hospital morgue.

  Then the sheriff turned his attention to a captive audience of witnesses more used to being onstage or in back of it than out front.

  “All right, everyone,” he said, loud enough to be heard at the back of the house (nice projection!). “My deputy will begin taking names and addresses. If anyone has pertinent information about what happened, speak up at that time, because I’ll be wanting to interview you myself. In the meantime, get comfy—this may ta
ke a while.”

  A female stagehand called out, “Can we use our cell phones? I’d like to notify my babysitter.”

  “For that kind of purpose, yes.” Rudder paused. “I suppose it’s too late to ask you people not to text about this?”

  When more than a few had shrunk in their seats, he grimaced. He had quite a range of expressions! When this was over, I might invite him to try out for Big Daddy opposite my Big Mama in the musical version of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof I was planning. (Though I hadn’t ruled out playing Maggie the Cat just yet.)

  As Deputy Jim began gathering personal information, I took Rudder to one side. Brandy had taken a seat in the audience with Sushi in her lap, near enough to eavesdrop. Good girl.

  “Sheriff,” I said confidentially, “I have several strong suspects who might benefit from the ol’ third-degree treatment.”

  “Afraid I left my rubber hose home, Vivian.”

  “You know what I mean, Sheriff—interrogate them! Or is the current preferred term ‘interview’? Not that there’s anything politically correct about murder.”

  Rudder gazed at me like I was a window that needed cleaning. But he asked, “Strong suspects, you say?”

  “I do indeed. I know this place inside out and these people like the back of my hand. Or should I say, I know these people inside out, and this place like the back of my hand? Six of one!”

  He sighed but he was mulling it. “I would like a suspect list from you, Vivian. That might be helpful.”

  “I am here but to serve.” I bowed and rolled my hands as if he were a pasha. Straightening, I added, “Furthermore, might I suggest that we use Madeline’s dressing room for the interrogations? That is, interviews?”

  “Why’s that? Wait a minute, we?”

  “It could make the killer mighty uncomfortable, don’t you think? Especially if I were to spray the room with Madeline’s signature perfume. What a ghostly touch!”

  “Yes, to using Madeline’s dressing room. No, to the perfume bit. And hell no, to the ‘we.’ ”

  I laid a gentle hand on his brawny shoulder. “I offer my services only because I happen to know certain intimate details about each of the suspects that might prove helpful in establishing motive.”

  He was looking at my hand like a butterfly had lit upon his shoulder. Only he didn’t seem to like butterflies.

  “Obviously you would be in charge,” I cooed. “I would be but a mouse in the corner, not making a peep unless called on. Of course, mice don’t peep, but you catch my drift.”

  He raised a warning finger. “No interrupting.”

  I put a hand to my chest. “I wouldn’t dream of violating your trust, Sheriff. I am but a supporting player in your dramatic inquiry.”

  He smirked, overplaying a little, I thought. “Yeah. Right.”

  “And might I also suggest that you, without further ado, seal off the maintenance closet?”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because, dear sir, it contains a most interesting array of poisons.”

  While the sheriff went off to do that very thing, I beat a fast track to Madeline’s dressing room to search for clues.

  I began with the dressing table—a messy array of stage makeup and used cotton balls—then checked the pockets of Madeline’s street clothes, along with the contents of her purse, looking for notes or correspondence that might be of interest, but I found nothing helpful. A quick rummage through the wastepaper basket also garnered nothing. But I did take time to use my cell to snap pictures of the murder victim’s quarters.

  I picked up Madeline’s play script, which she’d left on a side table, tore out a page, and on the back, wrote down my list of suspects:

  Leroy, janitor

  Paul, lighting designer

  Martha, wardrobe supervisor

  Miguel, stage manager

  Kimberly, understudy

  Of course, the prime suspects of the poisoned fruitcake included myself and Brandy—cooker and caretaker. Those names I admitted, I omit. That is, omitted, I admit.

  The sheriff arrived shortly accompanied by a Sushi-carrying Brandy, who’d shown him to the dressing room.

  “Ah, Brandy dear,” I said to her. “I’m delighted you accompanied our noble sheriff.”

  She gave me that blank look of hers. (Sushi’s was much more expressive.) “You are? Why?”

  “Well, first order of business in this inquiry is to clear ourselves.”

  She nodded. “Good point.”

  Brandy and I sat on the couch, and I filled in a pacing Rudder about our direct involvement, after which, he said, “While you have means and opportunity, neither of you girls has much of a motive.”

  “Thank you,” I said. At my age being called a “girl” has such a nice ring to it.

  “I said much of one. I’ll still need to get formal statements down from both of you. But that comes later.”

  “Sheriff,” Brandy said, leaning forward. Sushi on her lap seemed to be listening intently. “The fruitcake could only have been poisoned between the time I put it on the prop table—around seven forty-five—and when it was carried out onstage at about eight-fifteen.”

  I said, “We’re in a unique position, Sheriff, in that with Brandy backstage, and moi in the audience, we have between us the ability to determine who, besides ourselves, had opportunity.”

  Rudder was nodding.

  I beamed at him. “And here is what you’ve been waiting for, Sheriff,” I said, handing him the script page. “My list of suspects.”

  The sheriff looked it over, then spoke into his shoulder walkie-talkie, “Jim, find this Leroy character—he’s the janitor—and bring him back to the star dressing room.”

  Rudder moved the chair from Madeline’s dressing table to the center of the room. Brandy and I remained on the couch with Sushi settled between us.

  A few minutes later, the deputy delivered Leroy, then stood waiting for his next instructions, which came by way of the sheriff shooing him away like a pesky skeeter.

  “Please sit, Leroy,” Rudder said, gesturing to the chair. “May I call you that?”

  “It’s my name,” the janitor said, sitting, slumping. He was a big, strapping individual, decked out in overalls and a plaid shirt and work boots— pale, balding, but with the ghost of a handsome young man lurking in his late middle-aged features.

  “You understand,” the sheriff said, seeking no chair for himself, preferring to loom, “that this is just a preliminary interview.”

  “Do I . . . do I need a lawyer?”

  “Do you feel the need to have one present? You’re not at this stage a suspect or person of interest, just a witness. And I figured it would be easier for you to answer a few simple questions here and now than a bunch of more complicated ones later on, over at the county jail.”

  Sly fox, our sheriff. You had to admire him for that.

  “No,” Leroy said quickly, “no, this is fine.”

  “Good,” Rudder said with a friendly smile. “As the janitor, you’re in charge of the maintenance room?”

  “Yes.”

  “What sort of things do you keep in there?”

  Leroy shrugged. “Usual this and that—brooms, mops, cleaners.”

  “Any of the cleaning stuff poisonous?”

  Leroy hesitated. “Well, yes. Nothing you’d want a small child to get at or anything.”

  “Such as?”

  “Rat poison comes to mind. We’ve been having a problem with them lately. Out in the country like this. This used to be a barn, you know.”

  “Pellet type?”

  “Powdered. Mice will eat pellets, but rats are smarter.”

  “Any other poisons?”

  Leroy shifted in the chair. Shrugged. “Arsenic.”

  “What do you use that for?”

  “For when the rat poison doesn’t do the job.”

  Rudder paced for a few moments, then asked, “Is the maintenance room kept locked?”

  Leroy shook his head. “O
nly when I leave for the night. Nothin’ worth stealin’.”

  “So anyone who might be at the Playhouse, cast and crew for example, would have access to that room during the day?”

  The janitor nodded.

  “Thanks, Leroy. This is all very helpful.”

  Leroy’s dull eyes brightened. “Is that all?”

  “Just one more question.” The sheriff put some oomph into his next line reading: “Where were you between seven forty-five and eight-fifteen tonight?”

  The janitor frowned in thought. “Let’s see . . . I woulda been backstage to operate the conveyor belt durin’ that time and maybe a little before.”

  “Conveyor belt?”

  Brandy put in, “It’s part of the play.” She briefly explained, adding, “The prop fruitcake was on a little table backstage. I wasn’t attending it right then. Actors and crew would pass right by it. Before that, it was in my care.”

  Rudder nodded, then turned to Leroy. “Which means you had ample opportunity to tamper with the fruitcake.”

  Leroy looked startled. “Me and how many others! But why would I? I had no reason to kill Madeline.”

  Just a little mouse on the couch, I peeped, “Oh, but you did, Leroy. A very old reason.”

  He swiveled in the chair toward me. “I don’t know what you could be referrin’ to, Vivian.”

  I said, “Sheriff, once upon a time, back when Madeline de Morlaye was Hildegard Gooch, and Leroy had all his hair and the reputation of a recent high-school football hero, the two got married. Then, less than a year later, the bride skipped town with their scant savings, leaving behind a mountain of charge card debt.”

  The janitor stared down at his hands.

  The sheriff said, “You care to comment on that, Leroy?”

  He raised his chin, his eyes wet and glittering with pain and memory. “It’s true enough. She left me in a hell of a fix. Lost my business—I had a trophy shop, ’cause I’d been an athlete and people still respected me back then. I wound up losin’ my house . . . had to declare bankruptcy. Worked factory jobs awhile, then lately . . . maintenance.”