Curtains for Romeo

by Jessa Archer

  I waited at the counter for several minutes, but Mercer kept pounding away at her keyboard. Finally, I cleared my throat, thinking perhaps the woman hadn’t heard me enter.

  Tandy Mercer’s head jerked up instantly. “I know you’re there, Ms. Alden. I’m still trying to figure out where to place your set-design course. Go over there and sit.”

  I didn’t yet have a parking sticker and had no desire to lose it before it was granted, so I retreated to one of the two chairs along the wall. But just as I was about to sit down, the door behind Ms. Mercer opened and Dean Marjorie Prendergast motioned for me to join her in the office.

  Dean Prendergast, a short, well-padded woman in her mid-sixties, started teaching at SCU a few years after my mother. I remembered her from faculty picnics when I was still too young to talk Mom into letting me stay home. Prendergast was an assistant dean back then and a good thirty pounds thinner, but her smile was the same.

  She motioned me toward the guest chair and took her spot behind the desk. “Apologies for Tandy,” she said in a low voice. “I’d say it was her advanced age, but that’s a lie. The old bat’s been that way as long as I’ve known her. And even though her attitude is a bit…brusque, shall we say…I’d gladly clone her if I could.”

  I had a very different b word in mind for Tandy Mercer’s attitude, but I returned the dean’s smile. Dean Prendergast had always been nice to me—one of the few friends of my mom’s who didn’t treat me like a nuisance or ask stupid questions like what grade I was in now or what my favorite subject was.

  “And I’m afraid she’s a little more uptight than usual. I always tell her to go through a travel agency to arrange these trips, but she says she can get the students a better deal. She’s probably wishing she’d listened now that she’s having to reschedule everything. Martin Peele shipped his gear for teaching his class ahead and now it’s waiting at a hotel they won’t even be staying at…it’s a major headache. Anyway, I’m sorry we didn’t get a chance to talk yesterday, Tig. Finding Jerald’s body like that had to have been truly awful. I hate that you had such an unpleasant first day at SCU. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” I assured her. “I think it was more of a shock for Ben—the teaching assistant—than it was for me. I’d never met Dr. Amundsen, and he saw him pretty much on a daily basis.”

  Dean Prendergast sighed. “I just finished talking to Jerald’s sister, who is his next of kin. She lives in Copenhagen, so I didn’t try to call yesterday with the time difference. And she’s seven months pregnant, so she won’t be able to make it for the service. I didn’t get the sense that they were particularly close—he lived in the United States most of his life—and the only other family is a distant cousin up in Connecticut. So, I guess the university will be planning the memorial service and funeral.”

  “Did he have any close friends among the faculty?”

  She shrugged. “Martin would be the closest, I guess. They were even neighbors for a while, before Martin bought his place in Kitty Hawk. The students seemed to enjoy Amundsen’s classes, but his personality didn’t endear him to most of his colleagues, although he did manage to charm some of the more…susceptible…women on the staff and faculty. Jerald was a shameless flirt. While I hate to speak ill of the dead, he had an ego the size of a small planet. He was constantly threatening to resign if he got stuck with a few extra students, saying he’d go back to New York. Back to the stage, where his talent would be appreciated. The police aren’t sure yet whether his death was accidental, but to be honest, I wouldn’t be surprised in the least if it turns out to be foul play.”

  My ears perked up at the words foul play, but I pushed my curiosity back into its box. A huge chunk of my teen years were spent “solving” the weekly crime, which makes it second nature for me to try to fit the puzzle pieces together. But I moved here to teach theater, not to hunt for clues in a possible murder case. So as tempting as it was to prod for more information, I didn’t.

  She straightened a stack of papers on her desk, then added, “I found the man to be obnoxious, and now it looks like I’m going to have to write a eulogy for him. It’s going to be very short, I’m afraid.”

  “What a nightmare,” I said. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

  I made the offer automatically, because it seemed like the right thing to say. And given that I didn’t even know Amundsen, it also felt like a safe thing to say—what could I possibly do to help?

  “Well, actually—” The dean cut herself off, shaking her head. “Never mind. You’re just getting settled. I can’t put anything else on you.”

  Okay…maybe it hadn’t been entirely safe thing to say, after all. But I broadened my smile and said, “No, really. It’s no bother. If there’s something I can do to help, I’d be happy to pitch in.”

  Dean Prendergast hesitated for a second, and then said, “Well, if you’re sure. I need some…I guess you’d say anecdotes for the eulogy. As I noted, the students seemed to like him a lot better than the faculty. Maybe you could ask your classes for some remembrances that I could use at the memorial service on Friday? Just pick the best ones and summarize them in an email.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Sure. I can do that.”

  “Thank you so much. I knew you’d be a team player. Tandy has your classes reassigned to new spaces, right?”

  “Except for the set-design class, yes—and I can see why that one might be a bit of a challenge. It’s hands-on, and not really something we can do in one of the smaller classrooms. But…maybe this would be a good time to have the students work over at the Coastal Playhouse? It’s only eight students, and it’s a ninety-minute class, so we’d still have an hour to work once we got there, even with travel time. Dr. Peele mentioned that the place needed some repairs, and learning to use a hammer and nails is one of the course objectives.”

  Dean Prendergast considered this for a moment and then said, “If you can work out the transportation, then that sounds like a good plan. But don’t let them take on anything dangerous. Some of our students have very litigious parents.”

  “Understood.”

  “Do speak with Martin before he leaves for Italy,” she said as she ushered me toward the door, “and be sure that he’s put the wheels in motion for the Playhouse repairs—the big stuff, not the minor things you can task the students with completing. He and Amundsen had all of fall semester to deal with that, and I don’t want you having to supervise the repairs along with everything else during your first semester. Oh, and be sure to let me know if you need anything. Either here on campus, or just getting settled back in Caratoke. I’m sure it will be a bit of an adjustment for both you and Paige.”

  “You’ve already helped a lot by cutting through the red tape to get her registered at the high school. Pretty sure she wouldn’t have been able to start yesterday without your help.”

  “It helps when you know the principal,” she said. “And it was the least I could do, given your willingness to make the move so quickly.”

  “Well, it’s still very much appreciated, Dean Prender—”

  “Marjorie,” she said, with a warm smile. “We’re colleagues now. And as much as I hate the circumstances, I’m really glad you were available to take the job.”

  “Me, too. Thanks for the opportunity.”

  As I started to close the door, the dean added, “Oh, and Tig? Don’t pay any attention to that article. I don’t know why Dale Feeney hired that awful, awful girl. He could have found a better writer in the freshman class at Caratoke High. The OBX Clarion used to do a decent job for a local paper, but it’s really gone downhill since he took over a few years ago.”

  I hadn’t seen the paper yet, but my stomach sank at the thought.

  Tandy Mercer was on the phone. I was wondering how long I’d have to wait, and also really wishing I could snatch that newspaper from under her mug of possibly blood-spiked coffee to see exactly how bad it was. But then I spied my schedule at the far end of the
counter. I skimmed the list and saw that Set Design was now in one of the exercise rooms at the gym. Telling Ms. Mercer that we’d just decided to hold the class at the Coastal Playhouse would probably only annoy her further, after she’d gone to the trouble of finding a new location. I simply muttered a few words of thanks, snatched the schedule from the counter, and headed for the door.

  Once I reached Burton Hall, the new location for my improv class, I found a bench and pulled up the local newspaper on my iPad. The lead story was, of course, the discovery of Dr. Amundsen’s body. Caratoke was a small town, and during the winter after the tourists departed, there weren’t many big scoops. I had only scrolled a few lines into the main story when I noticed the inset with the picture Alicia had snapped of me the day before. The headline above it read: D-List Celebrity to Fill Vacancy at SCU.

  It was so unbelievably catty that I had to laugh. The writing was abysmal, as Dean Prendergast—Marjorie, I reminded myself—had noted. But the reporting was actually pretty thorough. It covered my career, carefully highlighting the minor roles, barely mentioning major roles, and it gleefully detailed the bankruptcy without noting that it was because She-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named ran off with most of our money. There was a brief mention of my brief marriage and the fact that my teenage daughter would be attending Caratoke High, so just in case any of Paige’s classmates didn’t learn who she was through the grapevine, they’d probably hear it from the adults in their lives who read The Clarion.

  The article also noted the closing of the Wildwood Dinner Theater, where I’d worked as artistic director for the past five years. No mention was made of the fact that the Wildwood’s attendance had been steadily declining for well over a decade. Instead, there was a vague insinuation that the theater would still be doing very well, thank you, if Antigone Alden had never darkened its doors. Alicia had even included a second picture—not from Private Eye High, which most people over age thirty would probably have remembered—but from my tiny role as a tearful assault victim on CSI: Miami a few years back.

  I was so focused on Alicia’s hit piece that I didn’t even notice I had company until I looked up to see Ben Baker reading over my shoulder.

  “Ooh, that girl’s photography skills need some serious work,” Ben said. “You don’t really have a bad side, and she still managed to find it. What did you ever do to her?”

  “Stole her man.” I laughed at Ben’s surprised expression. “Back in high school. Probably before you were even born.”

  “Whoa. That is some world-class grudge holding.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. Are you doing okay? After yesterday, I mean. You must have known Amundsen pretty well.”

  Ben shrugged. “I was assigned to work for him last summer, before the Coastal Playhouse season. Truthfully, when I first applied for the theater assistant position, I hoped it would be with Dr. Peele. He’s a lot nicer. Working for Amundsen meant I also got the summer job at the Playhouse, though, and that’s a good thing. Both in terms of cash and as a learning experience. But Amundsen was one of those bosses who gives you a task and then you don’t see him for a week.”

  “Should I take that as a hint?” I said with a grin.

  “Nah. I think I’m cool with you. But a remote management style was fine with me when Amundsen was my boss. He wasn’t on campus much aside from teaching. Wasn’t at the Playhouse that much either. He had lots of, um…extracurricular activities, if you get my drift.”

  “With students?”

  I really, really hoped Ben’s answer to that question would be a definitive no, but thinking back to the comments students made in class the day before, I wasn’t surprised when he responded with a shrug of admission.

  “Some, yeah. I mean, a lot of girls would drop by during office hours, but most of them were just crushing on him. Mostly he hung out with women around town, though, not students. A lot of tourists during the summer season. He was a good-looking guy, although you really couldn’t tell that yesterday.” Ben swallowed hard.

  I scrolled up to the picture in The Clarion, which showed a tanned blond guy who looked around thirty or thirty-five. “He’s not really my type, but I guess I can see the appeal if you’re into surfer dudes.”

  “That’s an old picture,” Ben said. “Add ten years, and you’ll be a lot closer to how he looks—looked—now. He was still in really good shape, though—and tried to make sure everyone knew it. I was in Dr. Peele’s stage-combat class last year. He and Amundsen always did some demo fights at the beginning of the semester, with the katana and broadsword. Peele kept his shirt on, but Amundsen stripped down to the waist.”

  “Why would he need to strip down for that?”

  “Peele’s specialty is stage fighting. That’s what he’s teaching in Rome this semester, and Amundsen isn’t nearly as good. The only way Amundsen could one-up him was by flaunting his buff bod. The funny thing was, Amundsen got a little too aggressive this last time and missed his mark. Those stage swords will break if you clank them together too hard. He must have put a hairline fracture in his broadsword, because the next stroke he barely tapped Peele’s weapon and the top third of his own sword tumbled to the stage.”

  “Ouch. That could have been dangerous if the piece went flying. I mean, they’re not sharp, but they’re still metal.”

  “True. And all because Amundsen wanted to show off for the girls in the class.” Ben rolled his eyes. “I’m not glad he’s dead or anything like that, but I’ll admit I was happy when I heard he’d resigned. His whole love-’em-and-leave-’em thing caused trouble at the Playhouse. Two of the actresses last summer got into a catfight before one of the final shows last season. We had to cake about a pound of makeup on Melinda’s cheek before she could go on stage.”

  “Melinda…Barry?”

  “Yeah, that’s her stage name. I think she goes by Melinda Eastland otherwise. She’s been one of the regulars over the past few years. Lives up in New Jersey most of the time, but comes down here for the summer. One of the other actors said she’s married to some rich guy up there. She usually plays the villainess, but she’s actually really nice. You know her?”

  I shrugged. “Not exactly. She was one of the actors years ago, back when I was a kid. You think Amundsen was involved with her?”

  Ben nodded, looking a little embarrassed, like maybe he’d let something slip that he shouldn’t have. “I’m not sure that’s common knowledge among the faculty, though. Mostly dressing-room gossip—you know how theater troupes can be. Been going on for at least a few seasons, from what I heard. Amundsen didn’t cast her in the main show this past summer, though. He just gave her a song in the musical revue afterward and said she’d be Bethany’s understudy. Melinda took it okay until she found out Bethany had also replaced her offstage with Dr. Amundsen—or at least that was the rumor. That’s when it turned nasty.”

  “Bethany…” I said. “That name is ringing a bell…”

  “Last name is Tartt. She might be in your classes. That’s the one student I’m pretty sure Amundsen did have an affair with. Poor girl had it bad so she probably signed up for every one of his classes so she could stare at him all day.”

  “Does she have long blonde hair and an attitude?”

  “Yep. That’s her.” He grinned and nodded toward the entrance to Burton Hall. “And as a matter of fact, that is her right now.”

  Sure enough, Bethany was standing on the steps, talking with a cluster of friends. I groaned and glanced down at my tablet. It was nearly ten o’clock. “Do college students read the local excuse for a newspaper?”

  “Not usually,” Ben said. “But they probably make an exception when there’s a suspicious death on campus. So, I’m guessing maybe half of them will have seen the article.”

  “Half’s not too bad.”

  His grin widened. “True. But…the other half will have heard the version through the grapevine. You know, the one where everything is wildly exaggerated?”

  Chapter Six

  Ther
e were some snickers when I walked into my improv class, along with several veiled references to the article in The Clarion in one of the warm-up games. I just ignored the wisecracks, and also the dagger stares from Bethany, who seemed to have moved from resentment to outright loathing in less than a day.

  At the end of the hour, I passed along the request from Dean Prendergast. There were no immediate volunteers. No response at all, really, aside from a nasty look from Bethany.

  “It doesn’t have to be long or detailed,” I explained. “Just something you remember about Professor Amundsen. A kindness he showed someone. A funny story. You don’t have to tell me now. Think about it and send me an email by Thursday morning so that I can pass them along to the dean in time for the memorial service.”

  When class was over, I held office hours in the cafeteria, which basically meant that I ate lunch and browsed on my phone. About twenty minutes before my two o’clock class, I realized that the textbook I needed was in the box I’d left back in my office at Muncey. So, I refilled my coffee and hiked up the hill. Although the cleaning effort had definitely helped, the place still smelled off when I opened the front door, and I was glad that I only needed to stay for a few minutes. I began digging around in my purse for the theater keyring, but as I stepped into the hallway I realized a key wasn’t necessary. My office door was partially open, and Martin Peele was inside, rummaging through the bookshelves.

  I tapped lightly on the door, feeling awkward about interrupting, even though that was silly. It was my office, after all. Technically speaking, he was the intruder.

  Peele also seemed to feel that he shouldn’t be there, because he jumped when I knocked, nearly dropping the book in his hands. “Oh, I beg your pardon, Ms. Alden! I didn’t mean to intrude. I’m in a bit of a rush, you see, and I needed to retrieve a book that Jerald borrowed. I would have phoned, but I’m afraid I don’t have your number yet.”