“Why is the weather always gorgeous on matinée days?” Isobel complained to Sunil as they crossed the bustling green, savoring maple walnut ice cream cones from the village fudge shop.
“It’s one of those immutable laws of theater,” he replied. “Right up there with ‘A bad dress rehearsal means a great opening night.’”
“Well, we had a rocky dress rehearsal and a bizarre opening night, complete with unscripted dead body. So what does that mean?” asked Isobel.
“In the end, not much. Aside from that unfortunate incident, it’s been a pretty smooth run. We’ve sold out every performance.” Sunil shaded his eyes and looked at the white clapboard façade of the theater. “Apparently, a little scandal sells a lot of tickets.”
Isobel waved her cone toward the theater. “You know, for my first experience with non-Equity summer stock, this has been far more professional and satisfying than I was led to expect.”
“The Galaxy Playhouse has a long reputation as one of the best,” Sunil said. “We have the Jackson family to thank for that, I guess.”
They parked themselves on a wrought-iron bench from which they could see the stream of summer visitors clustered in groups in front of the village shops. A quiet chuckle escaped from the side of Isobel’s mouth.
Sunil laughed. “Okay, I know we’ve only been friends for, what…nine months? But I can totally read you.”
Isobel pulled her feet up onto the bench and kicked him playfully. “Okay, Sigmund. What was I thinking?”
He stood up and began to pace like an interrogating lawyer. “You are thinking that the medical examiner’s autopsy report confirming a massive coronary does not tell the whole story. You are thinking that the immediate onset of rigor mortis is important.” He thrust a j’accuse finger at her. “You are thinking that Scott Seward had the most to gain from Vaughn Jackson’s death, since he’s gotten great reviews as Sir Roderic. Am I right?”
Isobel tapped the side of her nose with her finger. “You were doing okay until you got to Scott.”
“Am I right that you think Vaughn was murdered?”
“Oh, yes.”
“But you don’t think it was Scott?”
“Definitely not!”
“Then who?”
She smiled. “Garrett Jackson, of course.”
“What?” Sunil screeched.
“It’s the only explanation that makes sense.”
“Except that it’s impossible. But, hey, don’t let that stop you!”
She sat up and patted the bench next to her. “Think about the family history, going all the way back to Garrett Jackson’s whole career being inspired by the premiere of Ruddigore at the Savoy. Think of the Jackson curse as it was handed down through the family, and think of Vaughn’s betrayal.”
“Betrayal?”
“He sold his birthright! He gave away the theater that his ancestors had sacrificed so much for. Obviously, the decision tormented him so much he turned to drink.”
“You don’t know that. People drink for all kinds of reasons,” Sunil reminded her.
“Fine. The jury will ignore that remark,” Isobel said. “In any case, after years of staying away, Vaughn returns to the theater—in Ruddigore of all things—and Garrett takes his revenge.”
Sunil rubbed his hands over his face, then took a deep breath and tried again. “All right. Let’s assume for a moment that ghosts are somehow capable of murder, which I don’t believe for a minute. But fine. Let’s say Garrett leaves his perch on the edge of the stage and does the deed during those forty measures of music before Roderic sings. What about the rigor mortis?”
Isobel gave a demonstrably world weary sigh. “Didn’t you hear what Dr. Risley said? Extreme physical or emotional stress right before he died. We know that Vaughn’s physical warm-up was no more strenuous than pouring out a tumbler of scotch. But emotional…”
She pulled Sunil to his feet and spun him around to face the theater. Putting her face close to his, she spoke in a low voice, “Just imagine. Onstage, Robin is being tormented by his ghostly ancestors, and backstage, Vaughn is seated in his chair, being tormented by his.” She circled Sunil and began to sing:
Coward, poltroon, shaker, squeamer,
Blockhead, sluggard, dullard, dreamer!
He pushed her away. “Stop that! You’re creeping me out.”
She stretched her arms wide in a triumphant gesture. “See? Wouldn’t that cause Vaughn extreme emotional stress? Not to mention the heart attack.”
“Wait a sec…did you mean ancestors plural?”
“Yep. Garrett, Nicholas, Martin, and Albert.”
“I thought you only saw Garrett.”
“The others must have taken longer to come out of their frames,” she said, matter-of-factly.
“What?” He gaped at her in disbelief. “How do you know there are portraits of the other three? Did you see them? Did you go back in and look?”
“No and no. But they’re down there.”
Sunil’s eyes grew wide. Then he began to laugh so hard that he doubled over. It was several minutes before he was able to pull himself together, but Isobel was happy to wait. Finally, he wiped his eyes and sniffled.
“You have really outdone yourself. It’s a great tale, but it’s completely absurd.”
“Is it? It explains everything.”
“So Vaughn took his place at the top of Act Two, despite nobody remembering having seen him.”
“He must have gone up first, before the others,” she said impatiently. “How else do you think he got there?”
“And this ghost attack took place during those forty measures of music?”
“While the same scene was being played out onstage, yes.”
“And nobody saw anything?”
“There’s practically no wing space on that side of the stage. In any case, Vaughn was probably the only one who could see them. Even if one of the tech guys was there, he’d only have seen Vaughn sitting there, being silently frightened to death. ”
“Then why did Garrett show himself to you?”
Isobel shrugged. “Maybe he thought I was cute. Maybe I reminded him of Gracie. Maybe he likes Rose’s second act aria.”
“You don’t even like that aria,” Sunil reminded her. “Besides, you don’t know for sure the other portraits are down there.”
She held out her hand. “I’ll bet you a month’s rent they are.”
“Half a month.”
They shook on it and stumped across the green, entering the theater by the stage door. After checking off their names on the sign-in sheet, they went in search of Tim.
They found him in the shop, going over designs for the next show with the technical director.
“What’s up?” Tim asked, flicking his pencil between his fingers distractedly.
“We were just wondering. Are there portraits of any of the other Jacksons in the storage room?” Sunil asked.
Tim leaned over and crossed out a staircase, penciling it in on the other side of the blueprint. “Not that I know of.”
Isobel let out her breath slowly, unaware until that moment that she’d been holding it.
Sunil punched her lightly on the arm. “Half a month!”
“Are you sure?” she pressed. “I really think there must be.”
Tim rubbed the back of his neck. “There’s so much junk down there, I suppose it’s possible.”
Isobel brightened. “Can we take a quick look?”
Tim glanced at his watch. “It’s fifteen minutes until half-hour. I guess we could go back in.”
Isobel and Sunil followed him to the storage room. When Tim flipped on the light, Isobel ducked around the costume racks and skirted the overflowing prop boxes as quickly as she dared. The portrait of Garrett was still visible, leaning against the wall. She traced the perimeter of the room, looking for more portraits, but there weren’t any others leaning against the walls.
“Where else could they be?” she asked Tim.
“I
suppose they could be behind some of these old flats.” He indicated the large set pieces propped against the walls. “But if we start moving them, it’ll be a huge mess.”
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He scanned the text and groaned. “Box office. The only downside of selling out is the angry patrons who missed the boat. Just shut the light when you leave. I’ll lock it later.”
Sunil started after him. “There’s no point. They’re not here.”
Isobel ignored him and began to move around the room methodically, peeking behind the tall, wooden flats as best she could.
“Come on,” Sunil said. “Even if they are here somewhere, you’ll never find them with all this crap.”
Isobel came to a stop in front of Garrett’s portrait. Her eyes met his, and again, the lips seemed to smile at her. She glanced over her shoulder at Sunil.
“Guess again.”
The tall box they had shoved aside earlier to reveal the portrait was unsealed. Isobel folded back the flaps and saw several large picture frames leaning against one another. The darkly handsome face of the first looked up at her.
“Over here. Help me.”
Reluctantly, Sunil made his way back to her. Together, they lifted the heavy portrait from the box and set it next to Garrett. The family resemblance was unmistakable.
“What do you think?” she asked. “Nicholas?”
Sunil didn’t answer, but he helped her lift out the next portrait. This one bore an even stronger resemblance to Garrett. They set him next to the first two and removed the last. A little boy of about eight years old sat on the lap of another identifiable Jackson. It had to be the young Vaughn with his father, Albert.
“Here they are,” Isobel whispered. “Painted emblems of a race, all accurst in days of yore…”
“Each from his accustomed place steps into the world once more,” Sunil finished.
They looked at each other in silence.
“I think you owe me half a month’s rent,” Isobel said.
He took her hand and they backed away from the portraits. “Okay, so you were right about them being down here. But I still think you’re crazy. Vaughn Jackson was not killed by the ghosts of his ancestors!”
Sunil turned off the light and stepped out into the hall. Isobel followed, pausing in the doorway to look one last time across the long room at the portraits, now lined up in a row against the wall.
“Oh, yes, he was,” she said softly, her voice carrying across the room in a gentle murmur.
The faces of the Jacksons seemed to glow, lit by the rays of afternoon sun that streamed in through the high casement windows. Before Isobel could pull the door closed behind her, it flew out of her hand and slammed shut.
# # #
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