“I did.” Donna shuffled her booted feet, then glanced at the nearby security guard. He had recognized me and let us in.
The crowd, believing that I represented someone who wanted to negotiate the closure of Christmas in Crazytown, had cheered.
“But something has changed since then?” I pressed. This was none of my business, really. But I was afraid Roger Balthasar would show up at any moment and terrorize Donna. He had to have caught wind of the protest and come here to deal with it.
I doubted he would handle the matter with any compassion.
“Honestly, I was happy to shelve this year’s production,” Donna admitted. Her gaze sought mine. I nodded in affirmation. “I’m positively overloaded with work and projects right now. I would have canceled it for nothing! It was a relief not to have to coordinate one more thing.” She studied the snow melting from her boots onto the theater lobby’s marble floor. “It’s been a difficult year,” Donna added with enviable understatement.
I understood. “That’s too bad. Work pressure?”
Her face took on a venomous cast. “Not exactly.”
Yikes. Apparently, Donna Brown had a dark side, too.
Was Donna dark enough to murder someone? Being under public attack might have made her want to strike out in some way.
After all, she’d never asked for a public feud with Albany.
I swallowed hard. “Oh? What happened?”
My nonchalant tone seemed to convince her that I was unware of the awful online situation. Donna shifted, glanced outside at the protesters, then looked at the security guard again. She was certainly uneasy. Her gaze returned to me. She looked unhappy. “I had a disagreement with one of the students I mentored.”
“A disagreement?” That was one way to describe the situation. I wanted to keep her talking. “Really?”
“Yes. While she was a student in my class, I thought she appreciated all the guidance I gave her,” Donna explained. “All the extra time I spent encouraging her and editing her work after hours. She was gifted, you see, but needed discipline.”
She had to be talking about Albany. That made alarm bells go off in my mind. Albany’s own mother had said that Albany was touchy about having her work edited. I doubted she would have reacted well to Donna Brown’s well-meaning critical feedback.
“I loved my mentor,” I shared, thinking fondly of Monsieur Philippe Vetault in Brittany, France. “He taught me so much. Without him, I never would have found my true calling in life.”
“Exactly!” Donna brightened as she gave me a vigorous nod. “That’s all I wanted to be for this student. Once she did succeed, I liked to think that I’d played a part in that, however small. I thought that maybe the help I’d given her had sunk in, after all, and she simply hadn’t wanted to admit it.”
“Sometimes that happens.” My next statement was a risk, but I had to know. “But not this time? Not after the book came out?”
I was referring, of course, to Albany’s memoir. But either Donna didn’t notice we’d switched from the abstract to the specific or she didn’t care. Outside, the protesters chanted.
“After the book came out, I couldn’t wait to read it. I knew I’d find some sign, some subtle hint, that I’d made a difference.” Donna’s gaze turned pleadingly to mine. “Isn’t that what everyone wants? To make a difference to someone?”
“I know that’s what I want.” That much was true. “I do a lot of freelance consulting work. I want to leave my clients happier and more confident than I found them, every time.”
“See? You understand.” Donna gave a relieved nod. “I don’t have children of my own, but in a way, I like to think of all my students as my children. I care so much about each of them.”
“Of course you do,” I told her and hoped I didn’t sound unbalanced.
“This particular student was a favorite of mine,” Donna told me. “She was challenging, but I was so proud of her!”
“Of course you were!” Had pride turned to resentment? “If I’d mentored someone successful, I’d have been shouting from the rooftops about it.” Especially if they wrote a tell-all book.
At that, Donna blushed. She shifted again. “Well . . . I did.”
I gave her a playful, friendly look. “Really? You did?”
Abashed, she said, “I told everyone I knew! I’d mentored a famous writer—you must know it was Albany Sullivan—so of course I told people about it. But then, when Albany’s book came out . . .”
Donna had been scarcely mentioned, I knew. Albany certainly hadn’t recognized her teacher as a cherished mentor. “The appreciation just wasn’t there?” I guessed sympathetically.
“No.” Donna’s gaze turned stony. “Quite the opposite.”
Her demeanor had taken a decided turn for the furious. Despite her harmless appearance, I suddenly believed Donna capable of a Christmastime punch-bowl death by drowning. That was worrying. I had enough suspects already. Also, too many victims.
I waited a few seconds, in case she volunteered more.
She didn’t. Instead, Donna swiveled expectantly to me. “So, you said you might have a suggestion for fixing this mess?” Her arm wave encompassed the Sproutes playhouse, the protestors outside, and possibly the entire holiday season.
I gulped. That was what I’d promised on the sidewalk a few minutes ago, when I’d swept Donna inside with me. Now it was time to make good on that declaration. I thought I had a good idea, but I needed Albany’s participation to make it work.
“All I want is to put all of this behind me,” Donna pushed, looking beleaguered. “But I honestly have no idea how.”
I empathized. “Don’t worry,” I said, hoping I wasn’t accidentally consoling a murderer. “I think we can work out everything—and in a way that makes everyone happy, too.”
“A compromise?” Donna seemed skeptical. “Not likely.”
“That’s what everyone says before they realize where the common ground is.” I channeled my inner Travis, trying to seem like an expert negotiator. “Now that I know what you want, I can go have a chat with the Christmas in Crazytown folks and find out what they want. After that, we’ll all reconvene.”
“And in the meantime?”
“In the meantime, I have just the thing for everyone.”
* * *
When I arrived backstage after my chat with Donna Brown, Danny was waiting for me. He spotted me and shook his head.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” he growled.
I knew he wasn’t referring to my impromptu conversation with the teacher. “Why not? It was fun. Everyone enjoyed it.”
“I agree with the enforcer,” Travis boggled my mind by saying. “It’s a bad idea to make a splash around here.”
“Come on! It was a peaceful protest full of teenagers and tiaraed children. All I did was defuse the situation outside.”
“Yeah,” Danny grumbled, “by taking the whole crowd to the local donut shop and treating them to all the free donuts they could eat.” He tsk-tsked. “Nobody likes a show-off, Hayden.”
Hey, I didn’t have a trust fund for nothing, I reasoned. What good was all that money if I couldn’t share sometimes?
But I knew better than to say so to tightfisted Danny.
“It’s not even a tax-deductible business expense,” Travis pointed out dampeningly. “Or a principally sensible expenditure. There were dozens of people outside. Conservatively figuring one donut per person, at an average of three dollars per donut—”
Danny snickered. “One donut? Be real. Try five apiece.” He scowled at me. “People take advantage of things that are free.”
“Good point.” Travis resumed his calculations. “Let’s say three dozen people times five donuts each, at three dollars—”
“That’s a damned expensive donut,” Danny grumbled. “What’s in there, anyway? Solid gold? Sugar is cheap. So is fryer oil.”
“It’s not a big deal,” I protested. “I was in a jam. I needed a diversion. Good
ies are the best diversion out there.”
I hadn’t had an appetite for deep-fried, sugar-dusted treats myself. Not after my two-pastry breakfast. Especially not when I hadn’t yet figured out a way to get in my usual heart-healthy, calorie-burning run while on the road in wintertime.
It had been fun, though, watching all the kids running around, choosing donut flavors. Fun seeing their contented parents. The students had required no urging at all to indulge.
“The important thing is,” I went on, squaring off with Danny and Travis simultaneously, “that I learned a few things.”
I told them about Donna’s perception that she’d nurtured and mentored Albany—and her disappointment that Albany hadn’t seen their relationship in the same way. I mentioned her dark look when referring to the publication of Albany’s memoir.
“Donna felt ignored. Unappreciated!” I explained. “She’d bragged to everyone in town about mentoring Albany, especially after Albany’s book deal was announced. Then, during Albany’s press tour, the social media and meme attacks happened. Donna was publicly broadsided by someone she sincerely tried to help. You can see where she’d have an ax to grind against Albany.”
“I can see where she’d have a murder motivation,” Danny said.
I expected Travis to leap to Albany’s defense, as usual. Instead, he said, “You think Donna is dangerous, and you made a promise to her, anyway? A promise you know you can’t keep?”
I raised my chin. “Keeping it is partly up to Albany.”
I still intended to talk with the memoirist about it. Also, with a few other people—including, regrettably, Roger Balthasar.
My financial advisor looked dubious. “You’re meddling.”
“You’re being negative! Who knows? It might work,” I insisted as rehearsals kicked off nearby. “Also, you’re ignoring the most important part. When I was talking with Donna about the show, she told me she ‘would have canceled it for nothing.’”
“So?” Danny kept an eye on Tansy, who was safely onstage.
“So that means she didn’t cancel it for nothing,” I said.
Travis caught on. “Someone paid Donna Brown to cancel her production of The Nutcracker.” He looked up at the stage lights, lost in thought. “If that’s true, why stage a protest later?”
“That’s adorable, Trav.” I grinned. “You can’t even conceive of anyone going back on their word.” I loved that about him. “But Donna didn’t stage that protest. Her current and former students did. The ones who did love and appreciate her”—unlike Albany—“took advantage of their Christmas break to march downtown.” I thought of their eager faces when I’d gone outside to announce that a solution to the situation was in the works. “They were protesting for Donna, because they care about her.”
It would have been heartwarming if Donna weren’t (potentially) murderously rage filled and fueled by betrayal.
Danny harrumphed. “The bottom line is, who paid her?”
As if on cue, Roger Balthasar barged onstage. Until that moment, I hadn’t seen him anywhere, despite thinking that he must have raced away from the B&B to deal with the protest.
“Hey, hey, hey!” He flung his arms wide. “Daddy’s home!”
Ugh. Nevertheless, the cast and crew applauded him.
“Let’s get down to work!” the producer said, rubbing his palms together. “I heard that nutball theater director was outside doing crazy stuff, but I guess I scared her away!”
Travis, Danny, and I exchanged meaningful glances.
“I’ll look into that payment,” Travis promised.
I glanced at Danny, anticipating a similar “Go get ’em” comment from him. Instead, he quirked his mouth. “Hey, I’m still pissed you didn’t bring me a damn donut. I’ve got work to do.”
They both left me alone, standing offstage, in the wings.
Unfortunately, their joint departure drew Roger Balthasar’s attention to me. He spied me in the wings, then grinned widely.
“Hey, it’s hot-to-trot Hayden Mundy Moore! How ya doin’?”
As one, everyone involved in Christmas in Crazytown turned to gawp at me. I wished I could hide behind the stage curtains.
“Aww, don’t be so unfriendly! Ha-ha-ha!” Roger waved off my (probably obvious) mortification. “No hard feelings! It takes a while to warm up to me. That’s what everyone says.” He grinned, unbothered by that characterization. “Come out and say hi!”
I shook my head, then gestured that I had to be going.
Given Roger’s manic behavior, it occurred to me, he might well be on medication—something to help him cope. Poor guy.
“Hayden Mundy Moore wants to hook up with somebody!” Roger announced next, loudly, seemingly oblivious to that phrase’s double meaning. To someone his age, it merely meant “meet.”
To someone my age? It was more analogous to “sleep with.”
I couldn’t believe this was happening. Nearer to the stage, Danny, Travis, Tansy, and Albany all had the nerve to chuckle. Behind them, Ophelia had stopped in the midst of taking a phone photo, wearing a look of utter disgust. Old people still do it?
“Anybody know someone Hayden Mundy Moore can hook up with?” Roger boomed. He seemed under the impression that he was making amends—righting the wrong foot our relationship had started on. “She’s especially interested in Joe Sullivan. Albany, you ought to introduce Hayden to your dad.” A wink. “Go on. Do it!”
Albany’s expression morphed from one of amusement to confusion.
Ophelia’s switched from one of disgust to indignation. I could discern the exact moment when she thought that I was trying to ditch her for an alliance with Albany and/or her own father.
Not that any of those outcomes made sense. We’d already discussed Albany’s overloaded schedule, and Joe Sullivan wasn’t an influencer—not beyond Sproutes, at least. But with an emotional young woman like Ophelia, sometimes the facts didn’t matter. She shot me a malevolent look, then stormed offstage.
* * *
I caught up to Ophelia near the sixties Christmas set.
“Ophelia, wait.” I moved aside a plastic Rudolph figure that was blocking my path, then hurried to her. “I think you misunderstood what was going on out there with Roger.”
“I think it was pretty obvious.” Albany’s little sister fussed with her trendy outfit, not meeting my eyes. “You still want to connect with Albany. And you’re into my dad! Gross!”
“No. And double no.” I held out my palms in a pacifying gesture, then smiled. “I’m happy working with you! In fact, I was hoping to schedule another chocolate-peppermint bark photo shoot soon. I heard people go sledding on a certain hill outside town. Maybe that would be a good spot? You could wear a cute hat, pose next to one of those vintage sleds?”
“Mmm.” Ophelia gave me a reticent glance. “Maybe.”
Progress. “And as far as your dad is concerned—”
“Stop. I don’t want to know.” She made a revolted face. “I know everyone thinks he’s at work all the time, but I’m smarter than that. You should know, I’m not as naïve as I look.”
I nodded, unsure where this was going. “Of course not.”
A moment passed as Ophelia stared stubbornly at the holiday decorations. Beyond us, the show’s rehearsals had resumed.
“Did you really buy donuts for the whole town?” she asked.
I was surprised she’d heard about it. That must have shown.
Proving it, Ophelia raised her phone. “It’s already all over social media. Hashtag free donuts. People are coming from all over Massachusetts. I hope you have really deep pockets.”
I didn’t want to discuss my finances. “You should go pick up a few for yourself,” I urged instead. “I hear they’re tasty.”
Her gaze lingered curiously on me. “So you don’t care?”
“About . . . ?”
“About people taking advantage of you. I’d be mad.”
She tipped up her chin, her eyes glimmering. It oc
curred to me that Ophelia was a lot more sensitive than she let on.
“No, I’m not mad,” I assured her. “I like treating people. It’s my job, after all, making sure people have lots of delicious chocolate to enjoy. What’s not to like?”
A shrug. “Nothing, I guess!” She smiled, then appeared to shift gears. “Hey, let’s get out of here. You want to?”
“Aren’t you supposed to stay for rehearsals?”
“Nah. I half expect the whole thing to be canceled still. Plus, my priorities are not with Christmas in Crazytown.”
They were with her social-media influencer account, I knew. But still, “Roger is back today. Won’t he notice you’re gone?”
A grin. “Not hardly. He thinks I’m a bratty kid.” For a moment, her face darkened. “Melissa was worse, though. She wanted to get ‘someone with experience’ as Tansy’s understudy.”
That seemed reasonable to me. But I already knew how poorly Ophelia reacted to being doubted, passed over, or overlooked.
Had Melissa made the fatal mistake of pushing her too far?
Looking at the young woman then, I couldn’t believe it.
Until I cornered Albany and Roger to discuss a truce with Donna Brown, though, I had no particular reason to stay at the theater. I nodded. “Sure. Let’s go! Another photo shoot?”
Ophelia grinned. “This one’s going to be sick. I was, like, looking at my follower analytics the other day, and I realized—duh!—we’re ignoring a whole huge demographic!”
“You analyze your followers?” That was news to me.
“Duh. How else can I monetize them? Come on. Let’s go.”
Fourteen
Fortunately, I had mocked up a whole case of my faux product, in the event I found an opportunity to meet with Ophelia. So I was prepared with loads of ribbon-wrapped chocolate-peppermint bark in the backseat of my rental car.
Before heading over to the Sproutes sledding hill, though, Ophelia and I drove to her parents’ house. She had a few props in mind for use in our photo shoot and wouldn’t be deterred.
I didn’t mind. I was curious to see the household where the oddball Christmastime events depicted in Christmas in Crazytown had really gone down. I’d imagined the place while reading, of course, but my mental image was an amalgamation of sitcom and movie sets, polished up for the holidays and inhabited by the Sullivans instead of by TV and movie stars. It had been unlikely to be accurate, and it wasn’t. The real Sullivans lived in a small Cape Cod–style house just beyond Sproutes’s town common.
The Peppermint Mocha Murder Page 16
