by Alice Duncan
"Dammit," mumbled Sam.
"You're in church, you big galoot," I reminded him. "Don't swear."
"Nuts."
Mr. Hostetter didn't appear pleased to have been interrupted when he turned toward Harold. "Yes, Mr. Kincaid? We're having a serious conversation here."
"I understand that, but I do believe your Mikado problem is solved. At least for this morning's rehearsal."
Very well, I would never, ever, accuse Mr. Floy Hostetter of being more interested in a production of The Mikado than in the church for which he directs the choir. But I saw the smile beam forth from his countenance when Harold told him we had a substitute Mikado. He actually rubbed his hands together in glee when he said, "Is it? You have a substitute?"
"Sure do," said Harold, gesturing at Sam.
If I were Mr. Hostetter, I do believe Sam's glower might have put me off, but I'm not Mr. Hostetter. Anyhow, he didn't know Sam.
Squinting at us—the lighting in the sanctuary wasn't great—Mr. Hostetter said, "Do you mean you can sing, Detective Ro-Ro—"
"Rotondo," said Sam, still glowering. "And I'm not volunteering. I've been volunteered."
"But you can sing?"
Because Sam didn't look as though he were going to answer that question, I piped up. "Yes! He has a lovely bass voice. I'm sure he can follow the libretto, at least for this morning."
"What do you mean, at least for this morning?" Sam muttered at me.
"I'm so pleased!" said Mr. Hostetter, and I could tell he meant it.
However, Pastor Smith was a good deal less sanguine. "Floy, please. We need to get this issue settled." He gave me a brief smile, but I think it was only because I was a member of his congregation. It didn't look to me as if he meant it. Max didn't bother smiling at any of us, but seemed annoyed. The three men recommenced their consultation in low voices.
After several minutes of that, Pastor Smith said, "Very well, but if anything else of a like nature occurs, you'll have to move this production. I don't know why I gave my permission to begin with." He sounded grouchy.
"So many of your parishioners were delighted with the idea," said Mr. Hostetter. "That's the reason. And don't forget that it's for a very good cause."
"Perhaps. But none of the parishioners will be pleased if there are any more unsavory goings-on. I trust I make myself clear?" He looked at Max Van der Linden as he delivered the question.
"Yes, sir," said Max.
"There will be no more problems," Mr. Hostetter assured him.
Hmm. I don't know how he knew that, unless he'd pushed that paving stone from the church roof. Then I chastised myself as an idiot. Mr. Hostetter would no more try to kill a person than I would. And I wouldn't, so there you go.
Mr. Smith marched down the chancel steps, and aimed for the first pew. Guess he wanted to monitor rehearsal for himself.
"Thank you, Pastor Smith," I said as he marched past me.
"Hmph. You're welcome." He still didn't sound happy.
"All right, everyone!" Mr. Hostetter clapped his hands, and the echo in that huge sanctuary was a trifle uncanny. It worked, though. All buzzing and chatting stopped, and everyone started slightly and turned to look at him. "We have a substitute Mikado for today's rehearsal." He turned to Sam. "Thank you, Detective... uh... Detective." From which, I deduced he'd already forgot Sam's name. Again.
"You're welcome." I don't think Sam could sound too much more grudging. He, Harold, and I walked up the chancel steps and joined the rest of the cast.
"Aha. You do sing!" said Max, smiling broadly at Sam. When we'd first entered the church, Max had appeared annoyed. Not now.
"So these two say." Sam hooked a thumb at Harold and me.
"Wonderful." Max turned around, and his gaze lit on his wife. "Connie, darling, will you get one of the libretti for the detective to follow?"
Good heavens. I hadn't taken a good look at Connie yet that morning. She appeared gaunt and thin and... Well, the thought crossed my mind that she might have some wasting illness. Like, maybe, tuberculosis. I sure hoped not.
"I'll help you look!" I chirped, and ran across the chancel to join her. When I got to her, I said in a low voice, "You don't look as if you're feeling well, Connie. Is anything the matter?"
She took off backstage—which wasn't really backstage, since we were in a church. However, there were rooms on either side of the chancel and a back hallway, which Connie and Max said we'd use to hold the costumes. I followed her, concerned because she hadn't answered me. I found out why a second later.
Connie collapsed onto a bench in the room on stage-right (if you're looking at it from an actor's perspective) and began sobbing weakly. I sat next to her and put an arm around her shoulder. "Connie, what is it? Is there anything I can do to help you?"
"Oh, Daisy, I don't know what's wrong with me! I have such a headache all the time. And half the time, I don't know what I've been doing or anything. I lose track of time. My stomach is always upset, my insides hurt, my bones ache, and I'm exhausted all the time. I feel awful. Oh, Daisy, I'm afraid." She brought her hands to her face and wept miserably.
"Good heavens," said I. "That sounds terrible. Have you been to a doctor?"
She shook her head. "No. Max is a darling, and he's taking care of me. But I don't know what's wrong."
Nerts. If Max was such a darling and was taking such good care of her, why was she suffering so from headaches, pallor, a painful tummy, exhaustion and, if I understood her correctly, unstable thinking. "I still think you need to see a doctor. Your symptoms don't sound good to me. I'll be happy to accompany you to see Dr. Benjamin. He's our family physician and a great fellow."
"I don't think Max would like that," she said through sniffles. "He tends to believe in Mary Baker Eddy's Christian Science practices. He's sure I'll get better if I drink lots of orange juice and eat properly."
"Eating properly is important," I said because I couldn't think of anything else to say.
She took a deep breath and stood, withdrew a hankie from her skirt pocket, wiped her face, and said, "I'm sorry, Daisy. I didn't mean to burden you with my silly problems."
"They don't sound silly to me. They sound serious." I meant it.
She gave another weary shake of her head. "Oh, no. I'm sure Max is correct, and I just have a little bug or something that will go away if I rest and take my vitamins."
I'd heard of vitamins, but wasn't altogether sure what they were. "Vitamins?"
"Yes. Max gets vitamin pills at the vegetarian restaurant on Colorado. They're supposed to provide your body with the healthy benefits it needs when your body doesn't get the nutrients it requires from food—and I've had such problems with my digestive system lately. Therefore, I take a Vitamin C tablet every day and a spoonful of cod liver oil."
I shuddered involuntarily. "You take cod liver oil on purpose? My mother used to make me take it when I was sick."
"That's precisely right. I'm sick, so I take Vitamin C and cod liver oil," said Connie, sounding sure of herself.
"Isn't Vitamin C the stuff that comes from oranges?"
"Yes. It's supposed to be very good for you."
Hmm. I'd rather eat an orange than take a pill, but what did I know about vitamins? Clearly, nothing. "I can bring you some fresh oranges from our tree," I offered.
She gave me a shaky smile. In fact, her whole person appeared rather shaky that morning. "Thank you, Daisy. I'm really not awfully hungry these days, but that would be kind of you."
"Happy to do it." I sucked in a bushel full of stale church air. "Now. Where do we find a libretto for Sam?"
"Back here." And Connie led me to the hallway where the costumes would be kept. There, sure enough, we found a pile of extra libretti on a small table, so I snatched one for Sam.
As we walked back to the chancel, I said, "I really wish you'd see Dr. Benjamin, Connie. He might be able to give you more than... well, vitamins. Although I don't know what."
"No. Nobody knows what to giv
e me," she said in a sad-sounding voice. "But I do wish I'd perk up. My stomach hurts so badly, and I have all the energy of a wet noodle."
"I'm awfully sorry."
"Thank you."
Phooey.
Chapter 16
Sam snatched the libretto from my hand as if he hated the very sight of it and was only taking it because he had to. Gee, I wonder why that was.
"Took you long enough," he snarled.
"Connie's ill. She won't see a doctor, because she says Max is looking after her so well." I sniffed. "He's giving her cod liver oil and vitamin pills."
Sam's nose wrinkled. "Huh. My mother used to force cod liver oil down my throat when I was sick." Sam opened his libretto and flipped through it. "Where the heck does my part start?"
"You don't show up until the second act."
"Huh." He glared at the libretto and shook it slightly. "Why do they call the damned thing The Mikado if the Mikado doesn't even show up until the second act?"
"I don't know. I guess because the Mikado's dictates are what motivate everyone in the play to do what they do."
"Huh. Well, when will they do that part?"
"I don't know. Mr. Hostetter—or maybe Max—will tell us in a minute."
It didn't even take a minute. All at once, Mr. Hostetter clapped again. This clap received every bit as much attention as his first one had. All chitchat stopped, we leaped slightly, and turned to pay attention to him. I hadn't realized until that day how many echoes a large congregation sitting in a church sanctuary can soak up. Without the congregants to muffle the noise, Mr. Hostetter's claps sounded like thunder and bounced around the room like India rubber balls.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we need to go over the part in act one where Ko-Ko receives word that the Mikado plans to eliminate the post of Lord High Executioner unless an execution takes place soon." He squinted at the paper in his hand. "All right. We'll begin when Mr. Van der Linden brings the rope onstage and tries to kill himself."
"That means they won't need you or me for a while." I tugged on Sam's coat sleeve. "Come and sit with me in the pew. I have something to talk to you about."
Sam scowled at me. Big surprise. "I'm supposed to be investigating a murder at this minute, you know, not chatting with you."
"But I'm worried about Connie."
"Huh. I'm going to talk to Gloria Lippincott. That woman must know more than she's told the police so far."
I didn't doubt it for a second. "But, Sam, what if someone is trying to poison Connie?"
He'd started to stomp off to the other side of the sanctuary, but stopped when he realized Gloria, as one of the three little maids, had to be onstage during part of this scene. I heard him utter a low growl, but he turned and came back to sit beside me.
"What the devil are you talking about? Poison? Where'd you get that crazy idea?"
"Well..." This was difficult, mainly because I hadn't thought it out before tackling Sam. I regret to say this was typical of me. "It's her symptoms." Maybe he was right, and I was crazy.
"Her symptoms?" He didn't believe me for a second; I could tell.
"Well... Yes. Her symptoms. She has a headache all the time, and digestive troubles, fatigue, and she forgets stuff. Isn't there a poison that creates those same exact symptoms?"
"Probably," Sam said with a grumpy huff. "So what? Lots of other stuff makes people feel bad, including influenza, malaria, and tuberculosis. The woman's sick. Did she tell you she thinks she's being poisoned?"
"No. She said Max is taking care of her."
"Well? What makes you think he isn't?"
I thought about it and then gave a huff of my own. "Nothing."
"He's not involved with the Lippincott dame, is he?" He shook his head. "How does she fit them all in?"
"I don't think he's involved with Gloria. In fact, he seems devoted to Connie."
"Well, then, if he's not poisoning her, who the hell is?"
Crumb. "I don't know. It doesn't make any sense, does it?"
"No. It doesn't."
So much for that. I gazed at the stage, where Harold and Max were having a comical heyday with their scene. They were both very good at their parts, and even Sam chuckled a time or two as Harold tried to persuade Max to allow him to execute him rather than let him take his own life. After they'd decided Max (Nanki-Poo) could marry Connie (Yum-Yum) and experience a month of wedded bliss, Sam actually laughed out loud. Of course, then Nanki-Poo would have his head chopped off and Yum-Yum would have to be buried alive, but they could be happy as a couple of larks for a whole month.
The townspeople entered on-cue, and my gaze got stuck on Connie. She really did appear haggard, poor thing. But Sam was doubtless right; my notion about poison was ridiculous. Just then she pressed a hand to her stomach, and I started thinking again, which was probably stupid, too. I narrowed my gaze and peered from Max to Gloria, just to see if the two of them were scrutinizing Connie.
But they were both singing and acting and paying no attention to—
"Mrs. Majesty!" Mr. Hostetter bellowed.
Egad! I forgot I had to appear in this scene. I scrambled up from my pew and dashed to the choir room, from which I'd have to appear in a couple of seconds. Luckily for me, I'd memorized my part, so I came on at the right time, and was pleased when everyone onstage drew away from me as if I were a wicked witch.
It was almost frightening how much I enjoyed playing Katisha.
"Very well. Stop!" Mr. Hostetter called out.
So I stopped singing and hoped he wasn't going to scold me for allowing my mind to wander.
"Mrs. Van der Linden, are you feeling quite well?" Mr. Hostetter asked Connie. "You don't seem to be singing with your usual vigor today." He didn't frown or anything, but I sensed he was a trifle annoyed with Connie.
Because I couldn't seem to help myself, I butted in. "She's a little under the weather today, Mr. Hostetter. She'll be back to singing with her usual vigor when... well, when she's feeling better." Then I felt like a dimwit.
"Connie! What's the matter?" Max rushed to his wife, who sort of melted into him and began weeping softly.
"I'm sorry, Max. I felt all right this morning, but now I feel just awful."
"Oh, dear. Oh, dear." Patently worried, Max drew Connie aside and sat her in one of the choir chairs. He took the one next to her and kept hold of her hands. They chatted softly as we all looked on, Mr. Hostetter with a frown, most of the rest of us with compassion.
It occurred to me that perhaps Gloria had some reason to do away with Connie. So I searched for her, only to find her with her talons firmly attached to Dennis Bissel. Fortunately, Patsy had hold of his other arm and didn't seem inclined to give him up any time soon. Dennis appeared merely embarrassed.
Bother. So far, my detectival skills really stank.
But Mr. Hostetter spoke up again, so I had to stop berating myself and concentrate.
"Very well, let's see what we can do with the Mikado's first scene." He peered into the sanctuary, evidently searching for Sam. "Detective? We'll need you for this next scene."
"Right here," rumbled Sam, making me jump because I'd expected him still to be perched on the first pew. But there he was, looming behind Max and Connie amid the choir's chairs.
"Very good. Let me see here..." Mr. Hostetter peered at his stage directions. "You follow the procession in from stage-right."
"Who else is in the procession?" asked Sam, frowning hideously.
"Everybody. I'll show you," chirped Harold. He grabbed Sam by one arm and James Warden (who played Pish-Tush) by the other, nodded to the folks who made up the chorus of townsfolk and said, "Come on, everyone. You coming, Mr. Hostetter, or do you want to watch?"
"I'll watch until it's my turn to show up." Mr. Hostetter quickly set his stage diagram on top of the piano, behind which sat a delighted Mrs. Fleming. She was doing a masterful job of playing the piano for this operetta. In fact, if I were to guess, she was happy to be playing something other than c
hurch music for once. I didn't quite dare ask her, but I don't think I'd ever seen her so cheerful. Anyway, Mr. Hostetter trotted down the chancel steps and stood before the front pew in order to observe the action onstage with a critical eye.
I was pondering critical eyes—I don't think I have one—church music, operettas and so forth when Harold's peered at me through the open door to stage-right. "Daisy! You're in this scene, too."
Whoops. I'd completely forgotten that Katisha arrives on the scene with the Mikado, and makes quite a pest of herself, calling herself the Mikado's "daughter-in-law elect." I cast one last glance at poor Connie, who was still being comforted by Max, and scooted over to join in the royal procession.
Let me say right here and now that Sam Rotondo is a lousy actor. But, boy, does he have a voice! I swear, if he ever gets tired of police work, he could sing in any chorus known to man. If he ever learned how to act, he could probably be in grand opera. He didn't know the Mikado's part so he had to keep his gaze glued to the libretto, but his voice was deep and rich and precisely on-pitch. In fact, when I, as Katisha, performed my role, I noticed Mr. Hostetter gazing at Sam as if he wanted to chuck George Finster and install Sam as the permanent Mikado. Of course, Sam would have to learn his part and act as if he were enjoying himself, and I doubted that would ever happen, so it was idle speculation on my part.
The chorus sounded good, although I did notice several creaks and groans as the townsfolk fell to their knees and then bowed before Sam. But heck, we were a pack of amateurs, many of us members of the congregation, and some of us definitely not youngsters. I noticed that Dennis, or perhaps Patsy, had managed to disengage Gloria Lippincott's claws from his arm, because he was right down there in the chorus, kneeling and bowing like a champion Japanese person from the town of Titipu.
After I sat on the stool set out for me by Katisha's minions, I observed that Sylvia Allen also knelt and bowed, as befitted a commoner. She had an eagle eye on Lawrence, however, who had moseyed over to kneel beside Gloria Lippincott. As Sam regaled us with the Mikado's version of making punishments fit various crimes, I noticed Sylvia scowling up a storm as Gloria rubbed Lawrence's arm; she reminded me of a cat. I began to wonder, as Sam had, how she managed to juggle so many men.
