Stagestruck

by Shelley Peterson

  “Samuel Owens is my grandfather.”

  “No kidding.” Abby paused to consider. “Your father’s father?”

  “My mother’s father.”

  “But, Sam,” Abby said. “Your mother’s black.”

  “Half black. Her mother, my grandma, is black. Owens is white. Gran worked for the Owenses. She was very young. When she told him she was pregnant, he denied any responsibility and had her fired. Things were very tough for her. Then, when my mother was three, Gran met and married my grandpa and they had two sons, my uncles.”

  “Wow,” she repeated.

  “Yeah.” Sam leaned back and stared at the ceiling of the truck. “I was at our family reunion last March. I overheard two of my aunts talking about mixed marriages. The Owens thing just sort of came out in conversation. Like it was a given. Then they stopped talking and looked at me. Leslie didn’t hear.” Sam was deeply troubled. “I can’t believe they kept it from me all this time. Why didn’t they tell me? I don’t know which was more of a shock, Abby; to find out Grandpa isn’t related or to find out that Owens is.”

  Abby was quiet for a long time. Sam watched her, wondering about her reaction.

  “Have you talked to your parents about it?” she quietly asked.

  “Yeah. My mother.”

  “I can see it’s really eating you up.” Abby said carefully.

  “Wouldn’t it eat you up? To find out you’re related to someone like Owens? I wouldn’t blame you if you never want to see me again.” Sam’s voice was harsh.

  Abby was stunned. “Why? What’s it got to do with you?”

  “It’s the heredity thing. Samuel Owens is my grandfather. What if I’ve got his evil genes? What if I turn into a psycho?”

  “You won’t.” Abby spoke softly. “You are one of the nicest guys I’ve ever known. And you won’t go bad.”

  Sam stared at her. His eyes shone. “You mean that?”

  “Yes.” Abby reached across the seat and touched Sam’s hand. It was a beautiful hand, long-fingered and strong.

  Sam placed his other hand over hers and held it tightly. “Abby, my grandfather threatened you with a shotgun last Wednesday. Can you honestly say it doesn’t affect how you think of me?”

  “Samuel Owens is a horrible, scary, mixed-up man. What he does affects how I think of him, not how I think of you.”

  “I was afraid you’d turn against me.”

  “I wouldn’t turn against you because of something someone else did,” Abby said. “Never.”

  “Thank you, Abby.”

  “Does Samuel Owens know that you’re his grandson?”

  Sam looked blank. “I don’t know. I guess so. I mean, he’d know that my mother was his daughter.”

  “I’m going to guess he doesn’t want to know,” said Abby thoughtfully. “That he completely refuses to acknowledge his part in this. It’d be in his interest not to be accountable.”

  “You’re probably right,” agreed Sam. “Anyway, I’m certainly not going to tell him.”

  “This doesn’t affect how you think of Samuel Owens, does it? Now that he’s family?”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Sam said. “I’ll never think of him as family. He turned my grandmother out, and Grandpa is the only grandfather I know.”

  Abby nodded. Another question occurred to her. “Why would your mother name you after someone who’d treated her own mother so badly? Who’d used her, then threw her out into the streets to fend for herself in a world that would’ve been hostile, to say the least?”

  “I asked her that.” Sam paused. “She said our family had been living in shame over something that Owens did and got away with. It was always a dirty secret, and why should we help him hide it? ‘Facilitate’ was her word. She said that naming me Samuel kind of released her, was cathartic. ‘Opened the windows’ was how she put it.”

  Abby thought about how unfair it was. The more she knew about Samuel Owens, the more she disliked him. She sat looking through the windshield. It was nice sitting in the old red Ford, next to Sam again.

  She turned to face him. “So. Is there anything else you want to tell me? Any more hidden secrets?”

  “No. That’s it.”

  “That’s all? That Owens is related to you?”

  “Yes.”

  Abby paused and smiled at Sam. “So?”

  “So what?” asked Sam.

  “Now that you’ve told me, aren’t you going to ask me out again?”

  Sam began to laugh.

  “That’s what you said, you know, before you told me.”

  “I did, didn’t I?” Sam slowly stopped laughing. “Abby Malone, will you go out with me?”

  “You’re sure you want to?”

  “Yes, Abby, I’m sure. I’ve missed you.” He gently encircled her with his arms and pulled her to him. He slowly smiled as his lips met hers. They kissed, pleasant sensations tingling down to their toes.

  “Forget the burger,” Abby said dreamily.

  11

  PLANS AND SCHEMES

  ABBY JUMPED OUT OF BED the next morning, humming. Life was good. It was Saturday, the sun was shining, and Sam was her boyfriend again. He said he would call when he awoke to make plans. He worked Saturdays and Wednesday nights at a video store.

  “Sam, Sam, Sam, Sam!” she sang as she jumped into a sweat-suit. She made his name sound like bells ringing. “Sam, Sam, Sam, Sam.”

  “Someone sounds happy this morning,” Joy called up the stairs. “Come on down! Breakfast is ready.”

  “Sam, Sam, Sam, Sam,” she sang as she half-hopped, half-slid down the banister.

  “Mousie called earlier. She and Sandy have some errands to run in town, but she wants to know if you can go over to Hogscroft after lunch.”

  “Perfect. Nothing could be better.” Abby plunked into her chair and drank the glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. “Ahh! This is so good, Mrs. Featherstone. You’re spoiling me with all your yummy food.”

  “That’s the idea. You’re worth spoiling, Abby. Besides, it gives me pleasure. I love to cook, and it’s no fun cooking just for myself.” She placed a plateful of steaming waffles covered in butter and maple syrup alongside aromatic sausages in front of the hungry girl.

  “Thank you!” Abby bit into a sausage. “What are Sandy and Hilary doing in town?”

  “Choosing an engagement ring, among other things.” The older woman’s eye sparkled mischievously.

  “An engagement ring! They’re getting married?”

  “I don’t know of any other reason to get an engagement ring, do you?”

  “When are they getting married?” Abby dug into the waffles with her fork.

  “They haven’t set a date, but I think they’d like to be married before they go off to Belize this fall. Orange juice?”

  “No, thanks. Well, okay, sure. Please. That means this summer. Holy.” Abby cut a piece of sausage and dipped it in mustard. “Holy,” she said again, then popped it into her mouth.

  “What are you doing today, Mrs. Featherstone?”

  “Theatre work, mainly. Robert and I are making our final casting selections. The list goes up this afternoon, tomorrow the cast meets for a get-together, and Monday evening rehearsals start.”

  “What play are you doing? Can you tell me? I know it’s been a secret.”

  “Actually, it wasn’t a secret at all. We wanted to see what kind of talent we had before we decided on a play.”

  “Smart move,” nodded Abby. “You don’t want to pick a musical if you don’t have singers.”

  “Exactly. Turns out we have plenty of talent, and plenty of people interested in acting. It’s wonderful, really.”

  “You and Mr. Wick are spending a lot of time together.” Abby watched to see Joy’s reaction. Her back was turned as she poured Abby’s juice, but Abby saw her cheeks tighten into a smile. “What’s the scoop?”

  “We’re friends. We have a good time,” said Joy cryptically.

  “That’s it? A goo
d time?”

  “That’s all I’m prepared to say at the moment.”

  “Are you going into politics, or what?” Abby asked, laughing.

  Diva scrambled from under the table and started her high-pitched barking.

  “Diva! It’s all right!” commanded Joy. The little dog continued, “Yarf! Yarf! Yarf! Yarf!”

  “Diva!” Joy hurried to the door.

  Abby slid her chair back to see Robert Wick at the door, his freshly shaved face split by a smile. He held out a bouquet of colourful spring flowers with one hand, and placed the other behind Joy’s back. They kissed. Abby quickly put her chair back into position and resumed eating.

  Joy bustled to the sink and gaily arranged the flowers into a vase while Robert Wick whistled as he hung up his coat in the hall.

  “Friends, eh?” whispered Abby. She gave Joy a stage wink.

  “None of your business,” Joy whispered back, smiling as she swatted Abby’s head with a dishcloth.

  Robert Wick entered the kitchen.

  “Coffee, Robert?” asked Joy sweetly.

  “Love some, Joy,” he answered.

  “You’re looking more dapper every time I see you, Mr. Wick,” said Abby. “I’d almost guess that you’re in love or something.”

  “Abby!” Joy turned to Abby, shocked.

  Robert smiled at Abby fondly. “I am. I’m in love with Joy Drake Featherstone. There.” He looked at Joy. “I’ve said it. What do you think of that?” For a moment his eyes were vulnerable. Abby’s heart went out to him.

  “I think that’s wonderful,” said Joy softly. “Because I’ve been in love with Robert Wick for years.”

  “Okay,” blurted Abby as she jumped up from the table, “I’m out of here! Time to go. Thanks for breakfast, Mrs. Featherstone.”

  Abby didn’t look back. Humming her Sam song she ran out the door to say good morning to the world.

  Samuel Owens drove up his lane cursing under his breath. It galled him that he’d had to pay full market value for the ratty one-acre property next door. He couldn’t see it from his house, but since he had to pass it each time he drove up or down his lane, it had become an irritant. Now he owned it, but he wasn’t happy.

  “I hope Gladys Forsyth chokes on the caviar she’s going to buy now that she thinks she’s rich. That little cat-loving hermit! Thinks she outsmarted me! Me! All because she called that goody-goody broad for a second opinion. Christine James should keep her nose out of other people’s business. That whole family better stay away from me. If they know what’s good for them.”

  He held a burning anger within his chest against all of them. Against Mousie because of Dancer, and Joy Featherstone and Christine James because of the Wick farm. How he longed to get his hands on that property! His jaw tightened and his molars ground against each other as he tried to come up with a way to get that farm. It was central to his plan.

  Helena Casey was making him miserable, too. She hated Christine James with a passion for marrying Rory, which was good. She couldn’t care less what happened to Dancer, also good. She thought that Owens should buy all the surrounding property, again good. But, and this is where the good stopped and the bad began, she didn’t like him lumping her precious son Sandy with the James family in his diatribes. He was engaged to one of them, wasn’t he? That put him firmly in the enemy camp, no doubt about it.

  And, if that wasn’t enough, Helena was having qualms about selling her property. Now she was telling him that it had been in the Casey family for three generations, that maybe Sandy or Rosalyn might want it someday. It was her blanking house, wasn’t it? Rory left her in it when he moved into his little love nest with Christine, didn’t he? Well, get with it, Helena, he’d told her, or get off the bus.

  Owens stopped his new steel-grey Mercedes coupe in front of his house. He’d have a Bloody Caesar with a cigar on the terrace before lunch. The thought cheered him up so much that he actually smiled. The smile disappeared as he began to get out of the car. His ribs hurt badly. All his muscles were stiff. Damned animal! he cursed.

  “Walter! Walter! Get out here!”

  The front door opened to reveal an extremely agitated manservant.

  “A tall Bloody Caesar, on the double!”

  “Mr. Owens, sir,” he began.

  “Did you hear? A Bloody Caesar! Now! On the terrace.”

  Walter went pale. “Yes sir! But Mr. Owens, sir . . .”

  “Mr. Owens, sir,” he mimicked. “Just do as you’re told.” With that, Owens hobbled past him into the house.

  He bumped right into Mack Jones, the Caledon chief of police. “What the?” he bellowed. “Walter!” He struggled to get himself under control. He smiled, showing all his teeth. “Why didn’t you tell me Mack Jones was here, Walter?”

  Walter bowed his head. He tried to disappear into the woodwork.

  “Good morning, Mr. Owens,” said Mack courteously.

  “What can Walter get you, Mack? I was about to have a drink before lunch. Join me?”

  “No, thank you. I have a few questions. Where can we talk in private?”

  “Anywhere we like. Don’t worry about Walter. He’s bought and sold! Ha ha ha.” Owens laughed heartily at his joke, but Mack noticed Walter flinch as he scurried away.

  Since his promotion to chief, Mack had rarely gotten involved in specific cases, but he’d known Christine James for years, and her husband, Rory Casey, was an old friend. Mack had been the officer in charge at Samuel Owens’ trial five years before. There was no love lost between these two men.

  “In that case, let’s begin.” Standing on the polished marble in the spacious front hall, Police Chief Jones started his line of questioning. “Inspector Murski and Detective Bains arrested two men on your property this week. Tell me what these men were doing on your property.”

  Owens smiled, eyes half-shut. “Can a person not hire labourers anymore?”

  “A woman was almost killed. A girl was threatened with a shotgun. A horse was badly injured. Let me remind you, it might interest the court that the injured horse was Dancer. The horse you stabbed.”

  “I never threatened anyone. And let me get this straight. It worries you more that a horse was injured than that a woman was allegedly almost killed?” He spoke through a chilly smile.

  “I repeat, it might interest the court. Need I spell it out?” Owens glared at Mack and shook his head.

  “I thought not. What was your intention in digging the pit?”

  “It’s my property. I have a gun licence and a hunting licence. I can do what I like. But perhaps I was looking for gravel. My land would be worth a fortune as a quarry. Should I call my lawyers?”

  “It would be a good idea.”

  “I don’t owe you an explanation, Mack, but just to set the story straight, I was out with my shotgun, hunting for the rabid coyote that killed my cat.” Owens spoke slowly, thinking out his story. “I heard strange noises. When I investigated, I was savagely attacked by Dancer, bitten in the leg by the Malone girl’s coyote, and injured badly.” He pulled his shirttails out of his pants and unbuttoned his shirt. “Bruises. Note the horseshoe shape.” He lifted up the right leg of his pants. “Teeth marks. Deep. Potential for infection or worse, a horrible disease. I’ve been to the hospital.”

  He looked triumphant as he dropped the pant leg and buttoned up and tucked his shirt back into his pants. “I have pictures, of course. Since this happened on my property, and the girl was trespassing, and the offending animals were under her supervision, my lawyers and I are considering pressing charges.”

  “And you and your lawyers don’t have a problem with a gaping hole with sharp rocks in the bottom, dug on a path where it might become a grave hazard?”

  “A grave hazard. You’re ironic, but you don’t have a case. It’s private property and well-marked with ‘No Trespassing’ signs.”

  “And the bullet in Dancer’s saddle?”

  Owens’ eyebrows lifted. So I did hit him, he thought. “A bullet
? In a saddle, you say?” I haven’t quite lost my touch.

  “You don’t know anything about it?”

  He pursed his lips, to keep from showing his pleasure. “No. Should I?”

  “I’d like to take your rifle to the police lab. If you know nothing about that bullet, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “The problem is that I might need it if that rabid coyote comes around looking for my other cat.” His eyes glinted. “But if you had a warrant, I’d happily oblige.”

  Walter appeared, anxiously offering Owens a Bloody Caesar with lime on a silver tray.

  “Ah, just what I was dreaming of.” Owens lifted the frosted glass off the tray and took a big drink. “Excuse me, Chief, I must go rest. Walter, don’t go away. I might just want another. More pepper next time.”

  Mack stalked from Owens’ mansion to his unmarked car. He was upset. Where had this interview gotten him? Nowhere. Except now Owens knew that he was being watched. Maybe it would curb him. More likely it would make him more careful.

  At the trial five years before, Mack had argued strongly that Owens be locked up in jail. It didn’t happen. Fat lot of good the mental hospital did him, Mack mused. Mack had been worried when Owens was released, but could not have guessed how quickly he’d make trouble. Starting with the bullet in Dancer’s saddle, and leading to who knows where.

  It’ll only get worse, you can bet on that, he thought. Owens is a slippery one. There’s going to be trouble. Mack vowed to watch him like a hawk. He’d take no shortcuts, make no assumptions. He knew how dangerous Owens could be. He wanted him in jail.

  There was an excited crowd at the library bulletin board that afternoon. People of all ages were craning their necks to see what part they’d got in The Stonewick Playhouse’s first show. It was going to be Pinocchio. The village and circus scenes could have countless participants, allowing everyone to have a part.

  Volunteers for lighting crew, set building, props, wardrobe, and sound effects were asked to sign up on a large white piece of paper beside the cast list. Already there were dozens of entries. Petr Baloun had offered his considerable talents as an inventor and iron sculptor to create a movable giant dogfish for the ocean scene.