by Edie Claire
Warren let out a long, exasperated sigh. “I gave a paying client sound financial advice, that’s what.”
Leigh followed his tortured gaze out over her shoulder to where Gordon stood hissing into his cell phone.
“Oh,” she said heavily.
“Yes. Oh,” Warren agreed. “Gordon asked me about this venture and what it would cost him — not just up front, but over time. Bess keeps telling him that the Society can bring in enough revenue to at least cover the insurance and upkeep, but he doesn’t think that’s realistic. He thinks it will be — to put it poetically — the gift he keeps on giving.”
“And you think so, too,” Leigh surmised.
Warren cocked an eyebrow. “From a financial perspective, this place is the definition of a money pit. He might as well throw suitcases of cash off the side of the Fort Pitt Bridge.”
“That’s not true,” Leigh argued. “Other people will be getting something out of this — the community will be getting a theater. If he really won’t miss the money, it could turn out well. Couldn’t you tell him—”
“Leigh,” Warren said miserably. “I’m not going to lie to a client. But for the record, I didn’t try to talk him out of it, either. I just laid out the reality of the situation in dollars and cents. The irony is that Bess thinks he’s reluctant because of my advice, when the truth is he would never have gotten involved in the first place if he weren’t besotted with her!”
The sincere grief in his voice tugged at Leigh’s heartstrings. “Don’t let her get to you,” she said warmly. “It’s 95% pure play-acting; you do realize? She’s not really mad at you. She’s only trying to make you feel guilty so you won’t say anything else that could hurt her case with Gordon.”
“You think?” he asked, looking relieved.
“I know,” she assured.
“Well, I certainly hope so,” he replied, lowering his voice as Gordon wrapped up his call. “Because I get the feeling her case is about to take a turn for the worse.”
As if on cue, they heard a sharp rapping on the front doors to the sanctuary. Gordon responded by looking at Leigh expectantly. Fighting her annoyance at being considered the defacto “help,” she crossed to the back of the church and into the alcove and opened the door. She had the feeling that the arrival of whoever was knocking was fully anticipated.
She was right.
“Hello,” the tiny woman said brusquely, pushing past Leigh and into the vestibule. “Sonia Crane, Esquire.” She extended the rocklike hand again.
This time, Leigh refrained from trying to shake it. “Leigh Koslow,” she offered. “We met two days ago, in the parking lot.”
Sonia’s hawklike eyes showed not a glimmer of recognition. “I’m here to see Mr. Applegate,” her deep voice rasped. “I’ll just show myself inside.”
Leigh saw no benefit in arguing. She merely followed as Sonia strode into the sanctuary and made a beeline for Gordon, extending her rigid hand before her like the cattle guard of a train engine.
Gordon greeted the lawyer with equal briskness, then turned to Warren as if to make an introduction. But as soon as Sonia glanced in Warren’s direction, her face lit up. “Why, if it isn’t the County Councilman himself!” she purred, taking his hand in both of hers. “Lovely to see you again, Mr. Harmon.” Her crocodile smile cracked the makeup around her eyes like clay in a desert, and Leigh watched with growing ire as the woman’s thumb caressed the back of his hand.
“I’m afraid I can no longer lay claim to that title,” Warren responded smoothly, extracting his hand with a practiced gesture that fell just short of a rebuff. “I retired as chair of the council years ago, as I’m sure you’re aware, Ms. Crane. But I thank you for the compliment.” His smile was equally practiced; friendly, but noncommittal. Leigh relaxed her clenched jaw muscles. A little. She was well aware that her recovering-politician husband was consummately skilled in handling all sorts of pandering and manipulative people, and she trusted him implicitly. But that didn’t stop her from wanting to heft this particular woman into the nearest dumpster.
She stepped to her husband’s side. “That’s Leigh Koslow Harmon,” she said pointedly, amending her previous introduction.
Sonia Crane ignored her completely.
“Warren is my financial consultant,” Gordon said impatiently. “I want him to hear whatever it is you have to say, Ms. Crane, so let’s just get to it, shall we?”
“What the—” came a voice from the doorway to the hall. The threesome turned to see Bess manage — just barely — to stifle the next word on her lips. Her eyes trained on Sonia and flashed fire. “What is she doing here?”
Sonia’s confident expression quickly faltered. “Excuse me, Mr. Applegate,” she said in a hushed tone, moving closer to him as she spoke. “I was under the impression we would be meeting alone.”
Gordon looked from one woman to the other in confusion. “What the devil difference does it make?”
Bess strode forward. “I believe I told you in no uncertain terms, Ms. Crane, that you are not welcome on these premises!”
Sonia leapt to a position fully behind Gordon.
“I invited her to meet me here,” he insisted, holding firm against Bess’s steady advance. “And last I heard, I am the unlucky owner of this firetrap!”
Bess halted. Her lips pursed thoughtfully. “I suppose you do have a point, Gordon, dear.”
His ice-blue eyes twinkled at her. “Why, thank you, Bessie.”
The two exchanged a private look, causing Leigh to wonder suddenly just how much of her aunt’s flirtation was play-acting. The man had called her “Bessie” twice now and lived to tell about it. Interesting.
“Now, as I said,” Gordon repeated, stepping around to face Sonia again. “I want to get this over with. You said you had another offer. Let’s hear it.”
Sonia’s eyes darted nervously toward Bess again. She cleared her throat, but said nothing.
Gordon sighed. “Bess, dear, would you and your niece mind excusing the three of us for a moment?”
Bess gasped. “You won’t—”
Gordon held up a hand. “Just let me hear her out, then you can show me whatever it is you want to show me. All right?”
After a moment’s indecision, Bess relented. She turned toward the door and gestured for Leigh to follow her. “I suspect our dinner is getting cold, anyway,” she said with a sniff.
“Bess?” Warren called just as the two women reached the door. “I marked your enchiladas with those red cherry peppers you like. The Pack wouldn’t dare touch them.”
Leigh watched as her aunt’s eyes glowed softly, then began to moisten. Bess turned around just long enough to give a curt nod, then swept herself quickly through the door. “Damn, he’s good,” she muttered, swiping at one eye.
Leigh laughed out loud. “Yeah, tell me about it.”
***
“Well?” Leigh asked later when Bess appeared, alone, in the doorway of the old Sunday school classroom the Pack were using as a staging area for prop inventory. “Was Gordon impressed with the tour?”
Bess dropped down into an empty folding chair with a sigh. “I believe so, yes. He never thought we could accomplish this much this fast, that’s for sure.”
“And his meeting with Sonia?”
Bess gave Leigh a sideways glance. Her lips twisted ruefully. “That horrid little woman. I swear to you, she’ll stop at nothing to get this place back from Gordon. She’s upped her offer, do you believe that? Significantly. And she insists that time is of the essence. She wants this place now, or not at all.”
“What did Gordon say? Is he considering it?”
Bess sighed. “I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell me. He and your husband are deep in discussion over the topic, even as we speak.” She raised a carefully manicured fingernail to her lips and began to nibble.
Leigh gently reached up and pulled the hand away. “Don’t fret, Aunt Bess. Gordon doesn’t strike me as the type who’s easily pressured by the
likes of Sonia Crane. If he promised you he wouldn’t make a final decision until after opening night, I’m sure he’ll stick to that. Particularly now that he’s seen the result of all your hard work.”
Bess’s expression hardened. “He had darn well better! And if that grasping, pint-sized she-devil doesn’t lay off between now and then— ”
“That reminds me,” Leigh interrupted, lowering her voice. The Pack seemed otherwise occupied, but she’d been burned by that charade before. “Sonia Crane doesn’t strike me as a woman who’s afraid of much, yet she’s obviously terrified of you. Now, tell me what you did to her. I really don’t want to have to bail you out of jail over this.”
Bess drew herself up indignantly. “What exactly do you take me for? I never laid a finger on the wench! She’s a lawyer, for heaven’s sake. If I had accosted her in any way, don’t you think she’d sue the pants off of me?”
Leigh considered. She was about to try another tack when a cell phone dinged. Bess reached into her pocket and looked at the screen.
“Oh, dear,” she murmured, rising. “Camille’s outside.”
“Who?”
“Camille Capone, the director of the show.” Bess glanced around quickly at the piles of props. “All right, staff!” she announced, raising her voice. “I have your first requisition. The actors will be here for rehearsal shortly, and as you know, I promised we’d have everything set up in time. I need the following. Are you ready?”
The Pack looked up at her eagerly. Allison grabbed a pad and pencil (items which she always, mysteriously, seemed to have close at hand) and Mathias drew up to his full height. “Ready!” he answered.
“We need to make the stage look like a church sanctuary that’s seen better days,” Bess announced. “So first off, we’ll need to bring in that old wooden lectern, the candelabras, and that hall table I said could pass as an altar. Then I’d like some buckets and mops to scatter about. Maybe a dusty drop cloth. We need to put some silk flowers and anything else that could be used as a wedding decoration in a cardboard box. And if they get to Act Two, we’ll have to find something that looks like an acolyte’s candle lighter…”
Leigh rose. “Are you kidding me?” she said incredulously. “You spent all this time turning a decrepit sanctuary into a nice looking auditorium just so you could turn it back into a decrepit sanctuary again?”
Bess blinked back at her. “Well, that’s the genius of it, don’t you see? I knew we’d be in a time crunch, so for our first production I picked a play that’s already set in an old church. No need to put up flats, or even a curtain. How perfect is that?”
Leigh bit back a retort as the Pack divvied up the tasks and began to scatter. She had been trying hard not to let herself dwell on the building’s grisly history. The sanctuary looked so different since it had been cleaned and repainted, she had almost succeeded. And now the Pack had been charged with turning the stage back into an eerie looking chancel all over again?
She needed another enchilada.
Unfortunately, there weren’t any left.
“Come with me, kiddo,” Bess urged, tugging her niece toward the door to the hallway. “I need you to be there when I let Camille in.”
Leigh’s eyebrows lifted. “Why?”
“Because I’ve been wanting to strangle the woman for at least a decade,” Bess answered matter-of-factly. “And today really has been quite trying already. Would you mind?”
Chapter 7
“I was rather hoping the audience could sit in wooden pews,” the figure on the stage said wistfully. “They would do so much to set the mood!”
“Yes, well,” Bess responded tightly. “The original pews were all stripped out ages ago, along with the organ pipes and the stained glass.”
Camille Capone’s large gray eyes blinked vacuously. She appeared to be older than Bess, but was still a very striking woman, with long silvery blond hair and a tall, lithe figure that seemed to float rather than move. “Well, let’s look around for them, then. I’d like to put them back.”
The muscles molding Bess’s face into an artificially pleasant expression began to twitch. “Although I can’t say I’ve searched for any of those things specifically, Camille,” she replied with strain, “one does not generally find several tons’ worth of wooden furniture and metal piping hidden behind a dust pan.”
Camille appeared to consider the information. “No, I suppose not. But perhaps we could rent—”
“No,” Bess said firmly. “You’ve seen the budget. We’re lucky to have found enough folding chairs. Now, will these props do for the chancel?”
Camille frowned at the narrow hall table that was currently serving as an altar. “Some colorful altar cloths would be nice.”
“Linda is already checking to see if Greenstone will lend us some of their old ones.”
“Purple, I think,” Camille mused. “With piping in canary yellow. And as for the embroidery—”
“We’ll take whatever they offer,” Bess declared. “Anything else you need for tonight?”
Camille rotated her head slowly around the room, taking in the furnishings the Pack had moved onto the chancel, the assorted personal props in a pile beside the stage, and the small grouping of folding chairs provided for the cast. Her gaze then moved upward, sweeping across the ceiling. With measured slowness, she began to raise her arms until both hands were high above her head. Then she tossed back her chin and shouted at the top of her lungs. “Let there be light!”
Leigh, Warren, and the Pack all started in surprise.
Bess merely rolled her eyes. “I told you already — Kevin can’t load the lights in until tomorrow. For tonight, we’ll just have to make do.”
Camille hadn’t moved. Her face was still pointed toward the ceiling. “Yet it be true that darkness approacheth, Elizabeth, in all its cruel and gentle beauty. Shall we light candles, then?”
This time, Bess gave a start. Then she looked up and uttered an expletive. “The lights!” she moaned. “I completely forgot! Three of the four right over the stage are burned out. Once the sun sets, the actors won’t be able to see a thing!” She glanced toward the door to the annex, then snapped her fingers with annoyance. “And the men have left already, of course. I found two bulbs in the old choir room; I was going to have Ned put them in this afternoon—”
“I can change the bulbs for you, Bess,” Warren offered, rising. “Assuming you can reach them from the attic?”
Bess’s face brightened. “Why, yes,” she said warmly. “The inspector mentioned that; he showed me the access panel. Would you mind, terribly?”
Warren flashed a killer smile. “My pleasure.”
“Let there be light!” Camille repeated, still holding her pose.
The Pack, which up to now had been admirably silent, dissolved into muffled giggles.
“You don’t have to do this, you know,” Leigh whispered into Warren’s ear. Her husband had a brilliant mind for both finances and politics, but when it came to being “handy” around the house, he was as worthless as she was. Any task requiring more than a screwdriver had always resulted in a call to her Aunt Lydie. Changing a light bulb required no great technical acumen, true, but he had dressed for a business meeting.
“Small price to pay,” Warren whispered back.
“I can help you, Dad!” Ethan said eagerly, rising.
Leigh had a sudden image of her exuberant son putting a foot through the drywall and crashing thirty feet to the sanctuary below. “I don’t think so,” she said quickly. “I can help.”
“You boys can go get the ladder,” Bess instructed. “The one that’s in the old church office. Take it up those stairs in the curved hallway to the second level. We’ll meet you there.”
The boys headed off, and Bess leaned over toward Allison and Lenna. “I’ll need you two to turn the lights off and on and let us know if the new ones are working. And…” she said heavily, tilting her head toward the stage where Camille now drifted in rapid circles arou
nd the chancel, muttering to herself. “Keep an eye on her, could you please?”
The girls nodded. “Don’t worry Aunt Bess,” Allison said solemnly. “I’ll watch her.”
Leigh and Warren followed Bess out into the curved hallway and up the staircase. “Okay,” Leigh said when they reached the second floor. “I have to ask. How exactly did Camille Capone get to be a director for the North Boros Thespian Society?”
Bess stifled a low groan. “Because Charlie Capone caters our dinner theaters every November, that’s why. He’s got a fabulous reputation and he charges us next to nothing, which is the only reason we make any real money. The revenue from the dinner theater makes up more than half our yearly budget.”
“Gotcha,” Leigh replied.
“We only let her do one show a year,” Bess continued. “Generally, whichever one she can do the least damage to. This show’s pretty easy, and she was overdue, so my objections got overruled.”
“Is this the panel, Bess?” Warren asked, pointing up to a warped ceiling tile covered with water stains.
“That’s it,” she answered. The boys appeared with the ladder, and she instructed them to put it under the tile. “The inspector just lifted it and pushed it to the side. Then there’s a wooden trap door that opens straight up. Be careful, though. He did say we have a bit of a bat problem.”
Warren, who had taken two steps up the ladder already, stopped abruptly. “Bats?”
“A few,” Bess qualified. “But I’m sure it will be fine now that Ned sealed up the holes in the vent.” She smiled encouragingly.
Warren’s face paled a bit, but he nevertheless climbed the rest of the way up the ladder and hefted himself through the trap door.
“I’ll grab the bulbs,” Bess offered, opening a door in the hallway and disappearing inside.
“What do you see, Dad?” Ethan called up curiously.
In the hole above they saw the flash of a white beam of light from Warren’s cell phone app. “A whole lot of dust,” he replied without enthusiasm.
