Regan Reilly Boxed Set 1

by Carol Higgins Clark

  Devon finally closed the door, his mind reeling. When he turned around, the rest of his cast were standing together at the other end of the huge kitchen, their faces solemn. Oh no, Devon thought. It’s going to be a long, hot summer.

  Hadley Wilder, the actor playing the father, took a step forward. “Devon, we need to speak to you.”

  Devon opened his mouth but before he could get a word out, Annie, the sweet little actress playing the ingenue, tore into him. “How can you possibly expect me to sit next to Floyd during the reading tomorrow night if he has a big knife whose ‘blade glistens’ in his hand? It’s much too dangerous!” she cried.

  Brandon, who played Annie’s boyfriend in the play, patted her back. “It’s okay, Annie,” he said comfortingly. “We won’t let that happen.”

  The first cast romance ignites before my eyes, Devon thought. With such a small group, it will probably be the only one. I hope. Several years ago, in one of Devon’s off-off-Broadway productions in New York, the two leading actors fell in and out of love during the run of the show. It was bad enough they had to see each other at the theater, but at least everyone went home at night. If the show had been on the road, it would have been a nightmare. These two better continue to get along, he thought. “Believe me . . .” Devon began.

  Apparently Annie had more to say. “It’s not as if I don’t fully appreciate the opportunity to be in this play and to act with the legendary Floyd Wellington. I know I will learn so much from him. He never plays it safe onstage, which is admirable. As an actress, I know I have to take more risks.” She paused. “But he’s a little crazy! I will not risk life and limb, even for the chance to work with him!”

  What about the chance to work with me? Devon wondered, his feelings hurt.

  “No, Annie,” Brandon was saying, “You are so beautiful and . . .”

  At least the initial audiences won’t have a hard time believing these two are infatuated with one another, Devon thought. He opened his mouth to speak, but it was too late. Hadley had the floor again.

  “Devon, it’s essential that you find a fake knife for tomorrow’s performance. I’ve been in dozens and dozens of shows over the years, and there has never been a real gun, or a real knife, or a real sword onstage!” he said forcefully. “I understand you want to indulge Floyd, and the prop truck isn’t here yet, but you’ve got to find a solution.”

  Now it was Martha’s turn. “Last month at a theater in Europe where a friend of mine was working an actor picked up a knife during a scene, expecting it to be a fake, of course, and stuck it in his mouth. It was a real knife. Someone had switched the prop knife!”

  Chuck, the actor who played Martha and Hadley’s son, blinked. “Is the actor okay?”

  “Yes. A few stitches closed the wound in his cheek and he was back onstage the next night.”

  Chuck pumped his fist. “That’s what I’d do!” he boasted, then asked eagerly, “Did they find out who made the switch?”

  “Last I heard they were taking DNA samples of the cast and crew.”

  “If you please,” Devon said quickly. “I understand your concerns, believe me. I feel the same way.”

  “Then why didn’t you tell him he couldn’t bring a real knife?” Annie asked, Brandon’s hand now on her shoulder.

  Someday you might understand, Devon thought. If you ever have investors breathing down your neck and your whole world is at stake. “As you can see, he just left,” Devon began, pointing at the door. “What I plan to do now is call and find out if I can get the prop knives sent to us overnight. That would be the best-case scenario. Floyd has seen those knives and approved of them. But even if I know they’re on their way, I still won’t sleep tonight unless I have a backup. I will contact the other theaters on the Cape and see if any one of them has a suitable knife in their prop room. If not, I will find a store somewhere on the Cape or in Boston . . .” Devon sighed. A second later he straightened up and squared his shoulders. “I would never ever have allowed him to use a knife that could possibly endanger any one of you!”

  For a moment, the actors seemed to be placated. But it was a brief moment.

  “What if the knives he’ll use in the show don’t arrive and Floyd refuses any other knife you find?” Chuck blurted. “Then what?”

  “Then I will fire him!” Devon barked.

  The room was silent. “I will fire him,” Devon repeated, not quite believing that he had uttered those words. “But it won’t come to that. No matter how unusual the experience might be to work with Floyd, he is still a consummate professional. He has always been committed one hundred percent to any role he plays, so much so that he’s been known to live the role offstage.”

  Annie rolled her eyes. “I’m glad he’s not staying here with us,” she said with a laugh.

  A few of the actors chuckled.

  “My good friends,” Devon said with a relieved smile on his face, raising his arms. “This is life in the theater! Unpredictable, crazy, but in the end, thrilling! We may encounter problems along the way, but we’re going to put on a great show! Now go relax, rest, call your loved ones, whatever floats your boat.”

  “Are we going out to dinner?” Brandon asked. “You said you’d made a reservation . . .”

  The last thing on my mind right now is food, Devon thought. “Yes, I have,” he answered, “at a marvelous Italian restaurant. Let’s all meet back here at seven thirty. We’ll have a wonderful meal, we’ll laugh, we’ll enjoy, and I promise you, I will have in my possession a faux knife that even Floyd Wellington will think is real!”

  It took a few minutes, but the actors dispersed. Devon went into the room off the kitchen he was using as an office, and sank into the chair at his desk. That convinced me, he thought. I knew I shouldn’t let Floyd brandish a knife, especially in front of the press, who would be sitting a few feet away from the actors. Staging the reading was risky enough. Devon had wanted people to get a taste of the very beginning of the rehearsal process. Hopefully it would hook them, they’d feel connected to the production, and they’d come back with all their friends to see the fully produced show when it opened. But what if they didn’t like the play in the first place? They’d never come back and word would spread that the show wasn’t worth the price of admission. I have all that to worry about and now I have to spend my precious time worrying about finding a fake knife that is suitable for Floyd?

  Devon reached for the phone. I’m going to make this work, he told himself with determination. I have to. If Floyd insists on using his own knife, I’ll play Grandpa myself.

  Even though I’m much too youthful.

  26

  To be or not to be!” Floyd thundered, waving a large kitchen knife around the air. “That is the question.” He paused and stomped his foot. “Line please.”

  Adele didn’t need to look at the script. “Whether ’tis nobler—”

  “I got it,” Floyd said impatiently. He took a moment, then continued. “Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or take arms against opposing trouble. . . .”

  “Mom, Grandpa is freaking me out,” Adele read. “Make him stop.”

  Floyd shook his head. “Adele!” he shouted. “Would you mind reading those lines with a little more passion? How can I really learn my part if you give me nothing to work with? Nothing!” He charged toward her.

  Adele swallowed. He was two feet away, his face enraged. “I’ll try harder,” she promised. “I’ve never acted before.”

  “And you never will!” he screamed.

  I hope he means because I’ll never be hired, Adele thought. He hadn’t tied her up, but she didn’t dare try to escape. “If you don’t mind,” she said to him, “I feel a little weak. Could I have a cup of tea? I never did get to finish the cup you made me this morning. I’d also like to use the ladies’ room.”

  “Oh, fine,” he said with disgust. “You have no commitment to your craft.”

  “What craft? You just sai
d I’ll never act.”

  “Any craft! Whatever field, whatever endeavor in life, nothing happens until one commits!”

  Commit, Adele thought. I’d like to commit you to an institution for the criminally insane.

  “Did you ever have a job?” Floyd demanded.

  “Yes I did.”

  “Did you commit yourself to your work?”

  “Yes,” Adele answered. “I put my heart and soul into my work every single day.”

  “Good! Good! Then you enjoyed it! It made you happy!”

  More than you will ever know, Adele thought. I was such a fool. “Can I please—”

  “Yes, yes. Go ahead. The topic obviously bores you.”

  “No it doesn’t,” Adele protested as she slowly got up from the couch. It just makes me incredibly sad, she thought.

  “Ten-minute break,” Floyd announced. “But first, tell me. What do you think of the play?”

  “It’s funny,” Adele answered, then began to walk slowly across the room. Her whole body ached. Floyd was right be-hind her.

  “Funny? Of course it’s funny!” he fumed. “Do you think I’d accept a part in a play that’s considered a comedy if it weren’t funny?”

  “No. I know you’re much too smart to do something like that,” Adele answered.

  “The director annoys me, but I guess I’ll have to put up with him.”

  She’d reached the bathroom door. “May I go inside, please?”

  “Yes. I’ll wait right here,” he announced, pointing at the floor with the knife. “Don’t try anything stupid.”

  27

  After speaking to Jack, Dorie Carpenter called her husband on his cell phone and left a message. “Dan, when you finish your workout, please come home right away. Don’t worry. Love you, ’bye.”

  Then she had run into the bedroom and packed a bag for the two of them. She turned on the TV and was horrified that the story of Adele Hopkins’s death had already hit the wires. At least they don’t know how idiotic her landlords are, Dorie thought. Not yet, anyway. Though it was obvious the press was looking for more details. She quickly called Jack again and asked if it was possible to avoid telling people they knew nothing about Adele Hopkins.

  A mile away, Dan was leaving the gym, a smile on his face. He’d exercised hard, relaxed in the steam room, and enjoyed a nice hot shower. His endorphins were flowing and all felt right with the world. The pouring rain didn’t bother him in the least.

  As he was leaving work yesterday, Dan had waved good night to his boss, who replied by asking him to come in and sit down. His heart in his mouth, Dan took a seat at the foot of his boss’s massive antique desk.

  “Dan, I just want to say how proud of you I am,” Mickey McPhee III began. “You work hard, but even more important, you have good judgment. That’s what I like about you. In a crisis, I know that I can count on you to do the right thing. I know that you will always make our company proud. I know that you will never do anything that would reflect poorly on McPhee and You, the advertising agency my grandfather started eighty-two years ago tomorrow.” He lifted his arm and pointed backward with his thumb to the portrait above his desk of a smiling, muttonchopped, Mickey McPhee the First.

  Dan had nodded and murmured his thanks. The reputation of McPhee and You was a touchy subject. One of their award-winning copywriters had been caught stealing from the collection basket at his church. The local papers had gotten hold of the story and run with it, gleefully citing ads the dishonest employee had created that stressed trust in a product. “Your grandfather was a brilliant man,” Dan said reverently.

  “They don’t make them like Grandpa anymore,” Mickey said sadly. “That’s why we will always honor him on April seventh. I know there’s been a lot of pressure around here lately. My wife thinks we should all come to the office tomorrow and get things done, but I told her no—April seventh will always be a day to honor Mickey McPhee.” He clapped his hands once, then stood. “Enjoy your day off, say a prayer for Grandpa, and come back to work Monday raring to go. I hope to have the signed contract back from the folks over at Sinclair’s by then.”

  “I am very excited about that project,” Dan had said eagerly, always anxious to please. Sinclair’s was a department store in Boston that wanted to liven up its image. “See you Monday.”

  He’d hurried home to tell Dorie about his chat with the boss.

  Dan smiled at the memory as he got in his car and reached for a Bruce Springsteen CD. As he backed out of his parking space, “Born to Run” started to blare from the speakers. In the three minutes it took him to drive home, Dan sang at the top of his lungs. Anyone who knew him would have been shocked at the sight of the quiet, slightly nervous Dan letting it rip. When he pulled into the driveway, he stayed in the car, continuing to sing and gesture until he and Bruce wrapped things up, Dan pounding the steering wheel with a fierce passion as the song ended.

  Getting out of his car, he had no idea his bubble was about to burst. He opened his umbrella, hurried up the walk, and went in the front door of his house. He hadn’t even put the umbrella in its stand when Dorie came running down the stairs.

  “Don’t take off your coat!” she cried. “What were you doing in the driveway? Didn’t you get my message?”

  “Huh?” Dan asked, his boyish face confused. He ran his hand through his wavy reddish brown hair. “I was just . . .”

  “Never mind. We have to get down to the Cape.”

  “The Cape?” His eyebrows were now almost vertical.

  “Yes, the Cape. I’m afraid I have bad news. I’ll tell you in the car. I packed a bag for us so we can leave right away.”

  “No, Dorie. Tell me now.”

  “Jack Reilly called. He and Regan and are down there for the weekend. Adele Hopkins was swept out to sea.

  Dan’s eyes widened and his stomach dropped. “What happened?”

  “I’ll explain to you in the car,” she repeated. “We have to get down there. Jack and Regan are going to help us try and figure out where Adele came from and who to contact.”

  Swallowing hard, Dan said, “Surely there is something in the house that will identify her, right?” he asked hopefully.

  “Jack and Regan have already been in the house with the police. Mrs. Hopkins must have had her wallet with her. We have to get down there and unlock the garage so Jack can trace her license plate.”

  “Dorie!” Dan cried. “How could we have been so stupid? If my boss ever found out that we rented our house to a complete stranger and didn’t ask for references . . .”

  “It was twenty-five thousand dollars cash, honey,” Dorie reminded him. She picked up a bag by the umbrella stand. “Let’s go.”

  “I just hope Mickey McPhee III never hears about this,” Dan lamented.

  “It’s been on the news.”

  “What?!”

  “They’re just reporting that she drowned and the neighbors don’t know anything about her. They don’t know yet that we don’t either. That’s why we have to hurry. If the Reillys find out who Hopkins was, the media will never have to know that we were so naïve that we never checked her references.”

  “We lacked judgment!” Dan cried as they hurried out the door and down the walk. “That’s what McPhee counts on me for.”

  “I know. You just told me yesterday! Get in the other side,” Dorie ordered. “I’ll drive.”

  As they pulled out of the driveway, Dan was shaking his head. “I knew it was a mistake. I just knew it.”

  “Dan, the poor woman is dead! Think about that for a minute.”

  “I feel terrible for her. But what if it turns out she had a crazy past and we put our neighbors in danger? How is that going to look?”

  They rode down to the Cape in silence.

  28

  Adele eyed her wet clothes that were thrown over the side of the bathtub. To think that the only reason I set foot outside the house this morning was to pick up my computer at the repair shop, she mused. My laptop was finall
y ready and I was anxious to get it back. So anxious that I leave the house in the middle of a raging storm, impulsively decide to check my boat, and the next thing I know I’m being held captive by a lunatic. Those jerks who spread viruses on the internet should know the trouble they cause.

  Adele tiptoed across the bathroom to the tub. If by any chance her cell phone still worked she’d try sending a text message to 911. All in caps. With lots of exclamation points so they’d know she meant business. She had no idea if 911 accepted text messages but she’d give it her best shot. Slowly she unzipped the right front pocket of her jacket and slid her hand inside. A chill ran through her body. Her cell phone, keys, and small wallet were gone. She pulled out a jagged piece of paper and stared in horror at the wild scrawling. OH ADELE. YOU’RE SUCH A SILLY WOMAN!

  Floyd pounded on the door. “Your zipper is very noisy. I’ve never been so insulted in my entire life,” he yelled, then started to laugh. “You think I’d be stupid enough to let you in there alone if your cell phone were still in your jacket pocket! I’ve got news, my dear. That phone is at the bottom of Cape Cod Bay.” He paused. “Where everyone thinks you are.”

  29

  House Junction was crowded with shoppers. In the lumber aisle, Skip had to wait twenty minutes to get help from a salesman. He ordered the proper size plywood—which would be wrapped in plastic and available for pickup at the back door of the store—and set out to find the other items he needed. Ginny and Fran followed him through the aisles as he threw assorted odds and ends into a basket. Finally they got in a long line for the register. When it was their turn to pay, the store’s computers went down.

  The sound of customers’ grumblings and complaints filled the air.

  “This place should be called Madhouse Junction,” Ginny observed.

  Fran nodded. “I’m exhausted.”

  Skip just stared off into space.

  Moments later, the sound of someone tapping a microphone came over the loudspeaker and a man’s voice boomed through the store. “Ladies and gentlemen, we appreciate your patience. Our computer system is down but hopefully not for long. This has happened in the past . . .”