Polly Deacon Mysteries 4-Book Bundle

by H. Mel Malton

  Amber had been a second-year acting student, which is probably why she hadn’t been cast in the lead role of the year- end show. That part would have been reserved for one of Shane’s contemporaries. Jason was a third-year techie in 1997. In their mid-twenties, all of them, so the hormones must have been just a-raging.

  I was dying to ask Amber if her pregnancy had something to do with her old flame, but I was too polite (or chicken, depending on which way you look at it). Because she had told me the news in confidence, I wasn’t about to go blabbing it to the artistic director, but I wondered how it would affect the tour. I don’t know a heck of a lot about babies, Miz Scarlett. Still, I couldn’t help but be curious. Would Amber be puking in the school washroom during early-morning set-ups for shows? Should she be exempted from carrying heavy stuff? I suddenly remembered that Jason had booked her to carry fluffy cargo like the puppet bags and the tool boxes. Had he suspected that his girlfriend was with child? Is that why he had proposed?

  Amber read my mind, which saved me asking.

  “I didn’t tell him about the baby,” she said. “I think I told you that already. Anyway, I’m getting rid of it, I decided. I have an appointment next week, and I’ve already talked to Ms. Keating about it, so it’s okay. She said I could have a puppy instead.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “To take on tour. You get to take your dog, so I get one too. To help get over the grief. I’ve got one picked out already,” she said. Lord help us.

  Nineteen

  PRINCESS: At home, I sit and sew or rest or play / The king says working makes your hair go grey.

  KEVIN: All day I tend the fire and care for Mom / My hair’s not grey—I think the King’s a bum.

  -The Glass Flute, Scene viii

  Bradley, it seemed, couldn’t remember a line if his life depended on it. This became apparent quite early on, and by the end of the day, it was worrying everybody. If Brad had been a spy, entrusted with state secrets and passwords, we would be horribly dead by now.

  “I’m sorry, guys. I just can’t seem to retain anything today,” he said. We had finished a rough block of the show and were working Scene Four, between the Princess and the Woodsman. Meredith and Shane were running lines (in the literal, not the carnal sense) for Scene Five, with the Cat and Kevin puppets, at the other end of the studio.

  Juliet was showing some impatience, which was understandable. Brad was a reasonable puppeteer, but if he couldn’t remember his lines, the show would be in trouble. There was very little room for error in The Glass Flute.

  “Bradley, darling, you haven’t been smoking too much of that wacky-tobaccy have you?” Juliet said. “I understand it’s hell on the memory. If you have, cut it out until the show’s up, would you?” Brad’s reaction indicated that she may not have been far off the mark. He reddened and said something inaudible to Amber, who let out a little yelp of laughter.

  “What was that, Brad? Didn’t quite catch,” Juliet said.

  “Nothing, Juliet,” Brad said. “You may be right, though. I’ll cut back on the herbal remedies forthwith.” We struggled on with the scene.

  PRINCESS: It’s hard to be a princess when you’re lost and cold and scared / I’d ask that stranger over there to help me if I dared.

  WOODSMAN: (Chopping at a tree with an oversized axe) (Singing to himself) Oh, I’m a lumberjack, and I’m okay . . .

  PRINCESS: Excuse me, sir, for barging in, when you’ve got work to do.

  WOODSMAN: (Looking up) A voice! I heard a voice—and look, I see a princess, too.

  “When the Princess starts speaking, freeze the axe in midair,” Juliet said. “I think it would be funny if it just stayed like that, frozen in mid-swing.”

  “We’d need someone to hold it,” I said.

  “What are the others doing at that point?”

  “They’re waiting to come on for Scene Five. As long as he goes back to the axe and takes control of it again just before the end of the scene, either Meredith or Shane would have time to deke backstage and grab their puppets for the next bit.”

  “Let’s try it. Shane, dear? Can you be in this scene, please?”

  Shane left Meredith and headed for the box. We ran the opening lines again, and as Amber spoke the princess’s line, Brad’s Woodsman puppet checked his upward swing of the axe and Shane stepped smoothly in behind Brad to hold it in place. During a performance, because the actors were dressed in black, none of the mechanics would be visible to the audience. The axe would be suspended in mid-air on its own. Meredith moved in to watch as the scene continued.

  PRINCESS: I’m hoping you can help me find the path that leads to home / I’m lost you see, and hungry and I hate to be alone.

  WOODSMAN: I’ve never seen a princess in the woods without a guide / You’re not exactly dressed for it. What made you come outside?

  PRINCESS: The King wants me to marry and I don’t like who he chose / I ran away to hide last night and practically froze.

  While the two puppets were having their exchange, Shane, as the axe, involved himself in the conversation, by making the axe listen. This is not an easy thing to do. Animating an object that has eyes and limbs is one thing, animating an axe is another. Somehow, the prop sprouted a face, and as the Princess and the Woodsman talked, the axe turned from one puppet to the other, cocked its head and nodded sympathetically. Out in the audience, Juliet, Meredith and I chortled with delight.

  “What’s so damn funny?” Brad said, breaking character.

  “The axe, Brad,” Juliet said. “It’s got a life of its own.” Brad didn’t say anything, just glowered at Shane.

  “Let’s incorporate that all the way through the Woodsman scenes,” Juliet continued. “If the axe has a personality, it could keep trying to get away from the Woodsman. We could do some nice slapstick bits.”

  “I don’t want all my scenes upstaged by an axe,” Brad said.

  “Maybe we could give his lines to the axe as well,” Meredith said. “Shane doesn’t seem to have a memory problem.” This was just plain bitchy, considering how early in the process we were, but it looked like Juliet was actually considering it.

  “What kind of a voice would an axe have?” she said.

  “Sharp. Choppy,” Meredith said.

  “No. He’d be blunt,” said Amber.

  “A little dull, but with an edge,” Shane said.

  “Excuse me,” Brad said in a wounded voice, putting the Woodsman puppet down on the playboard. “While you all go ahead and axe my part, I’ll just slip into the wardrobe room and slash my wrists.”

  “Brad, come back. We were only kidding,” I called, but he had left. The bathroom door slammed.

  “Is he, like, crying in there?” Amber said.

  “No, he’s just taking a hissy fit,” Meredith said. “He’ll get over it, once he knows he’s not really losing lines.”

  “Well, it’s something to keep in mind,” Juliet said, very quietly.

  “Smoke break,” I said.

  Juliet had given me my cell-phone when I started my puppet-making contract, because she said that if you work for Steamboat Theatre, you’re not allowed to be unreachable. The need to be in touch with her employees was obsessive, as I found out later in the afternoon when Juliet called me into the board room. On the long table, its hood up and humming faintly, was a laptop computer.

  “I want you to have this for the duration,” Juliet said. “I’ll expect you to e-mail me the show reports every night when you’re on the road, plus performance notes and so on. It’s a direct line to God, dear.” By “God”, I assumed she meant Juliet Keating.

  “Can’t I just phone you every night?” I said. The thought was unpleasant, like being allowed outside for a run in the woods and then finding that someone had attached a two-foot leash to your collar. Still, phoning was preferable to computer-ing. As far as computer-literacy was concerned, I was seriously challenged.

  “No, I’m not always available by phone. Besides, e-mail will give
you more leeway as to when you file your reports. You can’t call me after ten p.m., but you can send an e-mail any time, day or night.”

  “Juliet, I haven’t got the foggiest idea how to drive one of those things. They scare me.” I’d used Kim Lee’s big computer to re-do the cast list, but she had done everything for me except type in the names. I’d had the impression that putting a computer-illiterate person at the helm of her machine was as dangerous as letting a three-year-old operate a chainsaw. Now here was Juliet, handing me one for my personal use and pretending that the damn things didn’t bite.

  “Oh, don’t be a baby. Anyone can use a computer,” Juliet said. “They’re very simple. Sam will give you a lesson.” That would be Sam Ruttles, the theatre accountant, who worked in a tiny closet-space at the very back of the building. I hadn’t seen him since he presided over the bar on Sunday night. I hoped he would be more generous with his instruction than he was with the company scotch.

  Sam was summoned, and he and I went on a journey through cyberspace that gave me vertigo. All that stuff in such a small box. I took a lot of notes and Sam, surprisingly, was a gentle and patient instructor. He had me “surfing the Net” like a teenager in less than half an hour.

  “This could get addictive,” I said, as our lesson ended. “How does Juliet expect me to do any work, handing me one of these? I could lock myself in a motel room and never come out again.”

  “You’ll find that the novelty will wear off after a while,” Sam said. “Just avoid the chat-lines, or you’ll end up having an online affair with some charmer from Newark, you’ll arrange to meet and end up boffing a complete stranger in an airport bar.”

  “The voice of experience?” I said.

  “Yup. My last marriage ended up that way,” he said.

  “Oh, Sam, that’s too bad. Is she still with him?”

  “Not her—it was me. I meet a lot of women that way.”

  “Oh.” The twinkle in his eye told me that he was perfectly serious. Sam is right weird. I closed the lid of the laptop and added it to my growing collection of business buffle. Cellphone, laptop, briefcase, van keys. “Just gimme a pager and a power suit,” I muttered.

  The remedial computer class had taken up most of my lunch hour, and I still had to get out to Fish Gundy’s to pick up replacement cables for Ruth’s keyboard. Ruth had not been called for the morning rehearsal, but we were due to work on the music in the afternoon.

  As I drove the scenic route through the Kuskawa Falls Park to downtown, waving absently at the kiddies who greeted the theatre van like an old friend, I reflected how paid employment can change your lifestyle completely.

  It was only twelve-thirty, and I would normally have been working quietly at my cabin, carving the head for a marionette, maybe, or sketching. I would have risen at seven to feed and milk the goats, but it’s entirely possible that I might have gone back to bed for an hour or so afterwards. I’d have a leisurely lunch, maybe, spend a while practicing my guitar, then I’d have gone for a long walk in the woods with Luggy and dropped in on Rico for espresso in the afternoon.

  As it was, I’d already driven more in one day, interacted with more people and performed more tasks than I’d normally drive, see or do in a month. There was also the matter of the dead sledder and the puppet-body I’d found that morning. No time to think about them. No time for reflection. Just go, go, go. I wasn’t exactly stressed, but my brain felt full, as if it were a bowl brimming with water. One more drop in there, and it would spill over and I’d lose something. That’s why I had my spiral-bound notebook. Without the notebook, I’d be wandering around Sikwan, dazed and disoriented. I imagined that Jason’s notebook, getting progressively less squishy as it dried by the stove at home, would have been similarly important to him.

  Fish was gobbling Thai noodles and giving his son a violin lesson when I entered the emporium. Jake Gundy, a very small and beautiful eight-year-old, played the fiddle like an angel. They were working on a complicated Bach thing, the notes cascading over and under themselves at an impossible speed, the bow a blur. I stood quietly, bewitched, until the last note, then applauded softly.

  “Sounding good, Jake,” I said.

  “Thanks, Ms. Deacon,” Jake said, politely. He was a miniature version of his miniature father, with his mother’s stunning Asiatic cheekbones and eyes. He was the sort of little boy you feel compelled to pick up and cuddle, particularly as his manners were impeccable, but one has to control impulses like these, for the sake of dignity, the child’s and one’s own. I compensated by beaming at him. He beamed back, then began putting his violin away.

  “Jake’s getting ready for the Kiwanis music festival,” Fish said. “He’s coming along well with his piece, but the pizzicato section’s giving him trouble.”

  “My fingers are still too short,” Jake said. “Glenn Gould used to do finger exercises and soak his hands in warm water before he played the piano, but Dad won’t let me do that.”

  “Gould was a genius, but he was nuts,” Fish said. “If you start obsessing about your hands, you’ll lose your edge.”

  “Sure, Dad. I gotta get back to school. I’ll wait outside for my ride, okay?”

  “Okay, kid. Love you.”

  “Love you, too,” Jake said, hefted the violin case under his arm and raced to the door.

  “Seems like he was in diapers yesterday,” I said. “What happened?”

  “I know,” Fish said. “Jake and Fiona will be in high school in six years, and we’ll be the grown-ups we used to write joke songs about.” He finished his noodles with a slurp and stood up.

  “Nose-job looks good,” he said. “Swelling’s gone down, I see.”

  “It’s feeling better. Thanks, Fish.” I didn’t know whether he’d really bought my line about the nose-job or whether he was just being kind. Didn’t matter. If someone says I look good, I don’t really care whether it’s true or not. It’s the thought that counts.

  “Did you ever find that stage manger you lost?” he said.

  “Not yet. We think he drowned, actually. At least some of us do, but the police don’t seem to be too interested in looking for him.”

  “I did see a bunch of divers and police boats in the bay this morning,” Fish said. “Maybe it just took them a while to get started.”

  “No, that was something else. A snowmobiler washed up at Port Mortimer last night. They’re probably dredging for his machine.”

  “There was a lot of that going around this winter,” Fish said. “I heard there’s about ten guys floating around under there, like a kind of winter tourist soup.”

  “They’d better get them out before the summer people come,” I said. “Those synthetic snowmobile suits can play havoc with the water quality.” Okay, so we were being callous. You get that way if you live in Kuskawa, unless you’re a sledder yourself.

  Every winter, the peace of the Kuskawa landscape is shattered by the howling of snowmachines. They belch fried fossil fuels into the woodland air, frighten the animals and travel at speeds that break the sound barrier. Every snowmobile club does its best to train its members to sled responsibly, but that’s an oxymoron, like military intelligence and jumbo shrimp. They’ll achieve responsible snowmobiling when they build machines that run on hydrogen or electricity, are soundless, and would lose in a race with Donovan Bailey. In the meantime, the winter watchword for many of us is “No ice too thin,” or, as one local put it, “The lake is safe for ice fishing when the snowmobilers stop falling through.”

  Fish fired up the wok he keeps in the back of the store and whipped me up some noodles while I picked through his box of audio cables. I only had a few minutes left before I had to get back to rehearsal, and I hadn’t eaten breakfast on account of my early morning date with a corpse.

  “There’s been a run on audio cables lately,” Fish said, handing me a steaming bowl. He’d thrown some shrimp in there for good measure, and I wolfed it down. “This seems to be the last one of this kind in stock. I’
ll have to order some more. Popular item.”

  “New fashion statement, maybe,” I said with my mouth full. (You can do that with really good friends.) “People using them as necklaces, eh?”

  “Well, they have a certain utilitarian charm, I guess,” Fish said. He tried one on. With an audio cable around his small neck, he looked just like the Kevin puppet.

  Twenty

  SERPENT: You thay you’re off to find the fruit of life, my little man? / It’th dynamite you’re playing with; control it if you can.

  -The Glass Flute, Scene vii

  By the end of the rehearsal day, things were shaping up nicely. Brad had spent his entire lunch hour in the bathroom, working on lines, and he was off-book in three scenes. The threat of having one’s part shrunk, so to speak, is an amazing motivator. Someone once said “There are no small roles, only small actors.” Nonsense. There are small roles and big roles, and actors want big ones. Size matters, okay?

  It was the end of Day Two, and we’d blocked the show, worked some scenes and rehearsed about a third of the music. I spent some time with Ruth after the actors were released, going over the sheet music. The songs had been written in 1980 by Juliet’s flame of the time, Solomon Lollipop, a kids’ entertainer who went on to become a million-selling tour-machine. He’s a big, bearded, huggy-bear type with a light tenor voice and gallons of charisma. You may have taken your kids to see him at some point. He hits every small town in Canada once a year, packs arenas and gyms and gets all the kids and their parents to sing along to “Buddle-Buddle-Stomp-the-Puddle”. Parents loathe him: kids love him. It always works out that way.

  The melodies themselves were gorgeous, but the lyrics needed updating from time to time. We had made some minor changes as we rehearsed, so we went over the alterations to make sure we both had the same ones.