Mortified, she leaned forward on the guardrail, apologizing profusely to Camille. The railing splintered and broke away from the post. Molly’s surprised scream echoed through the auditorium. She plummeted over the edge of the platform and landed in a crumpled heap on the stage floor.
Chapter Forty-Eight
C amille raced to Molly’s side. The girl lay unconscious on the stage, her left arm twisted. The end of a white bone protruded through her torn muscles and tawny skin.
I shook myself and grabbed my cell, dialing 911. I spoke with the emergency operator, watching Molly briefly regain consciousness. When she turned her head and saw the cracked bone poking out of her arm, she fainted again.
Agnes Bigelow stood behind Camille, wringing her hands and making appropriate remarks of horror. For a split second, I detected a faint, unguarded gleam of satisfaction. I glanced at Camille to see if she’d noticed, but couldn’t tell.
With disbelief, I looked back at Agnes, realizing the expression had vanished.
Had I imagined it?
She shrugged out of her bulky pink sweater, bunched it up, and offered it to Camille to use as a pillow for Molly.
The emergency workers arrived in fifteen minutes and began working on Molly’s arm.
In twenty, Molly’s father stormed the theater. Mr. Frost, an attorney-at-law for the Village of Conaroga, hurried down the aisle. “Who the hell’s responsible for this?”
He charged up to me. Before I could answer, he hollered, “Where is my daughter? Whoever built that set is going to be sued for all they have! Who’s accountable for this mess?”
Frost’s eyes bulged out of his head and he roared in my direction. Before I could answer, Siegfried pushed through the curtain carrying a bolt of black fabric. He looked at Molly, and then at her beefy-faced father who had just repeated his questions to anyone who would listen. The color drained from Siegfried’s face. He dropped the fabric and strode toward me .
Siegfried questioned me rapidly in German. I slowed him down and explained what happened. We both skirted the EMTs, who were in the process of loading Molly onto a stretcher, and walked over to examine the set. Scrutinizing the splintered pieces of railing on the end that had broken apart, we realized the screws on one side of the platform were missing.
“I want to know who built this monstrosity!” Mr. Frost barreled around the stage. His red face spit at anyone who would listen.
Finally, Siegfried stepped in front of him and placed one giant hand on Mr. Frost’s chest. “I built it, Herr Frost . I did. I cannot imagine how this happened. I was very careful to make it strong. I am very sorry.” Siegfried’s voice caught in his throat as he looked again at the immobile girl in the stretcher.
“Why, you damn Nazi, I ought to punch your lights out!” Frost screamed.
I ran to Frost and grabbed his arm before he could throw a punch at Siegfried’s midriff.
“Hold on there, Frost. Just hold on! It wasn’t Siegfried’s fault at all. Take a look at this.” I dragged the flustered father over to the railing Jonesy had begun to lug away from the crowded stage. “Just a minute, Jonesy. Leave it alone, please. We need to call the police.”
Jonesy stopped with an astonished expression on his face. He rubbed his bald scalp and bowed out of the way, staring at me sideways through his glasses. His lower lip drooped and he stood back and watched.
I knelt beside the two-by-fours that should have been fastened together with long wood screws and pointed to the corner posts. “Look. The screws have been removed from one corner. This side didn’t fracture, or break loose, or pull out. There are no screws in this at all. The other side splintered off from the pressure.”
I looked up at Mr. Frost’s doubting face. He continued to sputter nonsense .
“Take a look for yourself, Mr. Frost. Someone tampered with this railing over the weekend. It was fine on Saturday. I checked it myself after the rehearsal. We’ve been very careful about these platforms, Mr. Frost, very careful.”
Frost knelt down, and then looked futilely all over the stage for the missing screws. Finally, he stopped his harangue, flipped open his cell phone, and dialed. “Police? This is Attorney Frost. We need your best men at the school, pronto.”
Officer Adam Knapp and two of his fellow officers arrived shortly after Molly was whisked to Rochester Memorial Hospital.
“Adam, thanks for coming. I’m glad they sent you.” I shook his hand.
A faint blush rose on his face. Since he’d begun showing an interest in my daughter Freddie, our relationship had changed.
I realized he might feel uncomfortable and tried to smooth the way for him. “You’re the man for the job, son. We need someone with an eye for detail here.”
A half-smile crept onto his face. He straightened and stood tall in his uniform. “Thanks, Professor LeGarde. So, what’s going on? A student fell from the platform?”
“She fell, but it wasn’t an accident. Someone’s been trying to sabotage this show from the beginning. Whoever he is, his antics are heating up. I’ve got a really bad feeling about this, Adam. Molly could’ve been killed. ”
Adam and I crouched down to investigate the rails.
“I’m afraid several of us have already handled the pieces, Adam. Of course the kids’ fingerprints will be all over the wood.”
Adam flashed his light into the screw holes, squinting and moving his head around to catch the light. “You’re right, Professor. The holes aren’t stripped. The fasteners were definitely unscrewed from the holes. Just these few corner screws, though. Just enough to make it break away when someone leaned on it. ”
A heavy feeling of dread settled in my stomach. I had been avoiding the idea that the kids in the show might actually be in danger. I hadn’t wanted to believe the situation could spiral to such a level.
Adam took pictures of the set and together we checked out the remaining structures. After ten minutes of close inspection, we found the railings on the stage left platform similarly sabotaged.
“Gus? Can you give me a list of everyone who has touched this railing over the past few weeks? I know it’s a long shot, but I’m going to have both rails dusted for prints. We’ll probably get a mish-mash, but, if we are very lucky, we might be able to isolate one set that doesn’t match your list. At the very least, we’d know if he’s one of your group or not.”
Camille shepherded her troops into the cafeteria while the police dusted and took more photographs. We rolled over the TV/VCR from the chorus room and inserted a Woodstock documentary into the set.
Before long, Adam’s fingerprinting technician arrived. She began to help Adam record smudges of all ten fingers from each child on a newly designed digital system. She entered the name, age, and address of each student into a laptop. Next, Adam placed their fingers, one at a time, over the mini-scanner that recorded the whorls and swirls of each fingertip. I added to the list of people whose prints might be found on the rails, including the janitorial staff and parents who had helped build the set. The list was extensive. The possibility of discovering the identity of the saboteur seemed fragile at best.
Chapter Forty-Nine
R ehearsals were suspended for three days while the police investigated the attempted murder. Camille and I seized the opportunity to visit Shelby for three nights in a row. I also took special time to play with Johnny before dinner each night. We read mountains of books and he seemed satisfied.
On the third night, Friday, I'd become accustomed to the new routine.
We entered the nursing home that evening around six, and I greeted the receptionist with familiarity. “Evening, Amelia. How are your boys?”
She looked up from the desk. Her cappuccino complexion glowed and her eyes sparkled when she talked about her sons. For the last three nights, we'd swapped stories about her two boys and my grandson. Amelia's youngest, Leroy, was the most mischievous. She smiled broadly, recounting events from her day.
“—and Matthew passed that science test, Lord be praised. But
Leroy buried Matthew's game boy in the garden! They were still out there digging for it when I left for work. Leroy couldn't remember where he'd hidden it. My husband was so mad when he came home.” She paused for a breath, raising both hands in the air. “I thought he'd bust when he saw all those holes in his garden. He'd just mulched it for the fall. It looked like some kind of war zone out there.”
Camille and I chuckled over the story. I handed Amelia a grocery bag full of beets I'd dug for her that afternoon.
“Goodness gracious, Gus. You didn't have to do this. I know I said I haven’t had beets since I was a little girl, but this is too much.”
“It's my pleasure, Amelia. I always grow far more than we need. ”
She accepted the bag and patted the back of my hand in thanks. Suddenly, she stopped, leaned over the bag, and inhaled. “What else is in there? What's that I smell?”
Camille and I exchanged smiles.
“I threw in a few stalks of apple mint. We're overrun with it.”
We finished our chat and walked down the hall to Shelby's room. Camille carried an armful of new books and videos to share with her silent child. I rolled the TV cart in from the nurse's break room, having been assured that they rarely found time to use it.
I plugged it into the wall and arranged it to face Shelby's bed. Camille organized the books on the nightstand and lowered the bedrails so she could perch on Shelby's left side. She smoothed Shelby's hair and leaned over to hug her.
“Hi, baby. Gus and I brought you some new books and a movie. We're going to watch it with you, and I'll explain what's happening so that you can imagine the pictures in your head, okay?”
I pulled an armchair over to Shelby's right side and touched her arm. “Hi, sweetheart. It's me.”
She breathed regularly, didn't twitch a finger, or purse her lips. Her alabaster eyelids did not flutter. Her expression remained serene.
Camille opened the first book. It was an elementary French primer. We began with a few simple phrases, and then repeated questions and answers back and forth so that Shelby might gain understanding.
“Comment allez vous, Mademoiselle Coté?” I asked for the fourth time.
Camille responded, “Je vais bien, merci, Monsieur LeGarde.”
I hoped that it was true, and that this precious time we'd been granted with Shelby over the past few days had been as beneficial to her as it had been to me. As much as I loved helping with the show, it had been a relief to concentrate on Shelby instead of anticipating the catastrophe du jour .
I'd done some research online over the past few days and had consulted with one of my college friends who practiced neurology at the children's hospital in Rochester. I was relieved to hear him tell of documented cases of patients who had indeed reawakened after years of comatose existence. Shelby's case fit the profile of those who had awakened. I began to believe it was possible and joined Camille in the search for knowledge to share with her frail teen.
When we'd finished with the French lesson, I opened up a pop-up touchy-feeling book for very young children. I moved closer to Shelby, lifted her thin hand, and placed it on the book. I rubbed her fingers gently over the many pages of exotic animal tails with textured inserts. There were feathery, velour, and rubbery tails that I prayed would stimulate Shelby's tactile senses. As I moved her hand from page to page, I thought that I felt a slight flutter, the faintest of movements in her fingers.
Am I imagining it? Should I say something to Camille?
I was conflicted. If I’d imagined the movement, I might give false hope. I finished the book and decided against it.
After a short session on multiplication tables, we popped Walt Disney's “Pollyanna” into the DVD player and settled back for an enjoyable romp through delightfully innocent times.
Chapter Fifty
L ong practices were scheduled for the following Saturday and Sunday to make up for the time lost on Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday.
Although Molly hadn't been killed, the police took the sabotage very seriously and treated the incident as attempted murder. No one jumped out as a prime suspect, including Armand, who apparently had not been seen on the set by anyone since his suspension. They interviewed most of the cast and crew. Joe Russell and Adam Knapp reviewed guidelines with the students, describing situations that would warrant the reporting of unusual behaviors or even mildly suspicious activities.
A security checklist was produced. Lou Marshall and I performed the checks before and after each practice.
We inspected the platforms rigorously, pushed and pulled on each railing, and even checked inside some of the props for items that might threaten the actors or crew. Each time I reached inside a sneaker or shoe, I imagined the worst. A tarantula? Acid? Razor blades? I tried to put myself in the mind of our resident psychopath and found it painfully distasteful.
On Saturday, after cooking Spanish omelets and home fries for the family, reading with Johnny for an hour, and helping Siegfried with some of the barn chores, I showered and drove to the school. Camille and Maddy had gone in earlier to adjust costumes and to stick the final strips of contact paper on the long diner counter and booth tables that were used for most of Act 1.
I walked down the auditorium aisle toward the piano and overheard Agnes Bigelow talking to Camille. She had literally cornered her, leaning intently into her face .
“So you see, Lisa knows all of Molly's lines and has practiced her solos for months. I'm sure she'd be happy to fill in for poor little Molly until she comes back.”
My beloved exerted extraordinary control. I saw her tensed jaw, her half-closed eyes, and her fists clenching at her sides. She took a deep breath and simply raised her hand as if she were stopping traffic.
Agnes halted midstream, her mouth opened in surprise.
“Thanks for the offer, Mrs. Bigelow, but I don't think it will be necessary. Molly's coming back this morning.”
Agnes’ mouth dropped open and all craftiness and hope drained from her expression.
As if on cue, Molly Frost entered through the backstage door. She sported a fluorescent green cast and was dressed in comfortable white fleece sweats edged with thin yellow piping. Her loose ponytail was held back with a yellow kerchief. She laughed and smiled broadly when Candy, Nelson, Maurice, Takeema, and Randy descended on her. I was surprised to see her exchange a quick kiss with Randy. He wrapped one arm around her shoulders, then stepped back as the others congregated around Molly. Lisa hung back, exchanged a devastated look with her mother and then walked over to greet Molly.
“Welcome back, Moll-girl,” Takeema chirped and gently hugged her.
The group chattered and each embraced Molly in turn.
Finally, it was Lisa's turn. She took a very deep breath. When she exhaled, it seemed as if she expelled all aspirations of ever becoming Celeste Freespirit. “Hi, Molly. How's the arm?”
Molly shrugged and smiled. “It really hurt at first, but now all I feel is this awful itching.”
Lisa laughed and gave her a good-natured hug. “Your dad let you come back? I thought he'd forbidden it.”
Molly flashed her a conspiratorial smile. “He did. But Mom helped me talk him into it. He's really just an old softy, especially when we both gang up on him. ”
Agnes Bigelow slinked to the back row of the auditorium where she began to sew beads onto a fringed white suede vest. Her shoulders slumped and her face drooped.
Cindi Fox swept sawdust from the stage. She wore green and red plaid pants, a floppy white sweater, and a mournful expression. Siegfried had worked all morning to reinforce the railings around the platforms with double two-by-fours, extra screws, and wood glue. He joked with Cindi while collecting his tools. “Why did the chicken cross the playground?”
“What?” She glanced up at him as if confused. After a second’s hesitation, she realized what he had asked. “Oh. I dunno. Why did the chicken cross the playground?”
Siegfried answered in his strong German accent. “To get
to the other slide .”
She stopped sweeping, digested the information, and looked up at the towering Siegfried. A smile slowly crept across her face. “Good one,” she said.
Rehearsals went smoothly Saturday and Sunday. By the following week, the orchestra had joined the troupe. They began to integrate into the production, and I used the free time to monitor the set. I walked back stage, checked doors to be sure they were locked, and wandered back and forth over the long catwalks that spanned the theater. Adam Knapp and Joe Russell stopped in frequently, sitting in the audience and chatting with the students. The peaceful interlude continued uninterrupted until Halloween.
Chapter Fifty-One
F reddie finished drawing black whiskers on Johnny’s face at six o’clock on Halloween evening. She straightened, rubbed her back with a moan, and smiled at her little tiger.
Johnny wore a caramel-and-black-striped fleece costume. On his hood were round white ears and an appliquéd tiger face. Astounded by his patience, I watched him stand quietly when she applied the makeup.
As soon as she was done, he broke away from her and crawled across the kitchen and under the table, growling. “Grrr!”
Candles flickered inside three jack-o'-lanterns Siegfried, Freddie, and I had carved. They sat on the kitchen table among the leftovers from dinner. Mrs. Pierce swept away the remnants of the chicken corn chowder and I snapped dozens of pictures of Johnny while he chased Tristan around the kitchen. Max followed Johnny, barking happily and racing in circles around him.
A tentative knock at the door stopped both boy and dog. Max sped to the door, switching to his watchdog bark. Freddie grabbed his collar to calm him down, and I opened the door to reveal three trick-or-treaters.
The Wilson girls shivered on the porch, their hand-decorated brown paper bags held wide open. The family lived about a mile down the road and attended our church. The oldest, Elise, nine-years-old, was dressed as a bride. She smiled at me with a gap-toothed grin. “Trick-or-treat.” Her sisters joined in the greeting.
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