“Oh great,” June huffed. “Just what we need.”
“What now?”
June had also finished reading through her packet and was scanning the room. “Don’t look now, but we can forget our concern about Eddie Sneed’s whereabouts and safety. He’s just across the aisle and one row behind us. We’re going to have to question him about Bob’s house and the fun house fiasco, but it will have to wait.”
Of course I had to turn in my seat and gawk. The nerve of that little weasel to just show up as if nothing had happened. June placed her hand on my knee, preventing me from hopping up and causing a scene. I was going to have to be patient, but he wouldn’t slip out of my sight this time. “Okay, fine, but I’ve got my eye on him, and I will be getting answers before any of us leaves this room.”
“Firearms employed for theatrical uses must be treated as though they were actual live-firing weapons, and the rules for safe firearm handling, as well as plain common sense, should always be observed.” Covington read the words out loud, and I went back to pretending to follow along. She paused for effect and scanned the audience, making sure we were taking her words to heart. Then she continued.
“The gravest errors that can occur in the handling of stage weaponry originate from an inappropriate sense of complacency.” Again, she stopped to highlight the seriousness of her words.
“I will be your weapons coordinator. This means I am in charge of all weapons. It is my responsibility to keep them secure between scenes and to maintain and control all blank and dummy ammunition. I will instruct and assist the actors who will handle the weapons, supervise loading, firing, and unloading, and, above all, oversee the staging and choreography of the scene and the safety of all who will be involved.”
June whispered to me, “This is a lot more serious than I thought it was going to be. I feel like I’m back in high school.”
“Give it a few minutes. The instructor is required by law to recite all that. I’ve heard the same introduction more than once. Once she finishes the formalities, the interesting part will begin. Maybe I’ll even get the chance to shoot that traitor, Sneed.”
June smiled at my enthusiasm.
“Okay. There’s just one more thing we need to do before we get started. If you all would turn to the last page of your packets, read the release of liability clause, print and sign your name on the lines provided, and pass the forms to the end of the row, one of my assistants will collect them. We’ll get everyone confirmed, and then we can get on with a little murder and mayhem.” A smile spread across Dr. Covington’s face, lighting it up like a proud mother at a toddler’s recital.
I tried to get into the spirit of the session, even though I was a little less excited after having been shot at for real less than three hours before. At least I knew there was no threat with all of the safety protocol in place. Maybe June was right and going through the motions would actually help me figure out what had happened on the beach and who was after me.
We were divided into two groups. Attendees to the left of center stage would participate in a sword fight scene from Romeo and Juliet, while the other half of the room would be using pistols to reenact the final scene from Orson Welles’ film noir, The Lady from Shanghai. June and I ended up in the latter group.
“Oh darn. I was kind of hoping to be in the sword-fighting group. Those swords look pretty awesome, and I wouldn’t mind doing a little swashbuckling.” June flourished an imaginary sword for effect.
“Now that we’re here, I’m warming up to the idea, and I think you’re going to like this scene, June. There’s lots of action and intrigue; it’s not just a matter of point-and-shoot.”
I was excited to be assigned to the group performing The Lady from Shanghai. To sweeten the deal, Dr. Covington selected me to play the role of Elsa, the female lead in the production. I had a secret love of the film noir genre, and this particular film, based on the novel If I Die Before I Wake, by Sherwood King, was one I had watched many times, admiring Rita Hayworth’s dark portrayal of the gorgeous Mrs. Bannister. The bizarre yachting cruise and the complex murder plot captivated my imagination right up until the final scene, which takes place in a hall of mirrors not unlike the one from the fun house we’d been trapped in the night before. Come to think of it, the memory of the ending of this film probably triggered my overactive imagination and elevated my sense of dread and panic at the time.
Dr. Covington handed stage directions to the twelve people in our group who would be actively participating in the skit and scripts to the rest of the audience so everyone could follow along with the scene. Seeing Eddie accept a sheet of stage directions from Alex, I snatched my own copy from her hand more out of surprise than annoyance. I knew he was in the room, but I didn’t relish the idea of working with him one-on-one. I hoped she didn’t change her mind and reassign the lead to someone a bit more appreciative. She shot me a stern look, but that was the extent of her reprimand. I went back to my seat, glanced at the typed pages in my hand, and set them aside.
June shot me a look. “Don’t you even want to read the script?”
“Call me a stage geek, but I pretty much know these lines by heart. There are some variations between the screenplay and the novel, but I’ve got this. I’m more concerned about keeping my cool having to work with Eddie on the scene. That will be the true test of my skills. At least I can keep my eye on him until I get the chance to get the truth out of him.”
“Well, aren’t you Miss Celebrity Actress? You shouldn’t have any problem staying in character, though.”
“Yeah, I guess. It’s what I do, except I’m usually on the other end, being the instructor. It will be fun to get to play the role of stage actress for a change. I haven’t had a lot of time to get involved in community theater lately. Funny . . . I thought once the twins went off to college, I’d have all kinds of extra time to join in local productions.”
Sometimes I fumbled and stumbled through the crazy stuff real life hurled at me, but there wasn’t much on the stage I felt I couldn’t conquer. The room was buzzing with excitement. People were vying for position within their groups and trying to make themselves noticed for the roles they wanted to play. Between the adrenaline and the testosterone flying around, I knew the hormone level in the room could hold its own against an army of menopausal and pregnant women. We all were itching to get started on the weaponry demonstrations. Alex, as Dr. Covington asked us to call her, set down the cup of steaming coffee she’d been sipping while the groups acquainted themselves with the scripts. It was almost time for me and the two others selected as performers in the introductory activity to get our firearms and head up to the staging area to act out our mini-scene.
Alex made her way back to the podium. “At this time, I need everyone except for our first two groups of performers to take their seats.” She had to make the announcement twice before the buzz of excitement in the room began to fade and everyone made their way to their seats. I stayed up front and scanned the room to see where June was sitting so I could make sure she would have a good view of my performance. Every once in a while it was nice to be the center of attention and show off my skills for my friend, since, through no fault of her own, she found herself in the spotlight more often than not I finally located her, not sitting with the other participants waiting to observe me and my fine acting skills, but upstage left, tucked in the corner in a perfect Weaver gunman stance, right leg slightly back, allowing for accuracy to the target and a smaller profile to present to an attacker. Gabriel DeVille’s body was wrapped around hers, his hands covering her hands, demonstrating the move. She caught the raised eyebrow look I was throwing in her direction and scooted out of the circle of Gabriel’s arms. The spell broken, she headed across the makeshift stage toward the short set of stairs. At the bottom of the third step she turned to give me a thumbs-up in encouragement for my upcoming role and almost collided with that sneak, Eddie, who had apparently wandered behind the scenes and was now attempting to creep back
out without being noticed. That’s hard to do while sporting a hideous hibiscus-bedecked Hawaiian shirt and the ever-present orphaned opossum headdress. He sidled up to me all nonchalant, like I hadn’t even noticed he was gone. And then the room was once again in an uproar. There was a loud crack overhead. I looked up and saw one of the spotlights above Alex dangling precariously by its cord. I ran to where she was standing, oblivious to the danger, and shoved her out of the way just as the spotlight broke free and crashed to the floor. Alex staggered away from her podium and tumbled down those same three steps to land in a limp heap at June’s feet.
24
Ah, kill me with thy weapon, not with words!
Henry VI
Gabriel and I were the first to reach her. He was already on his cell phone dialing 911. I bent down and cupped Alex’s head in my hands. I could see that she was still conscious. Her forehead and upper lip were beaded with sweat, and her ankle was turned at an unnatural angle. The resort’s emergency medical responders rushed onto the scene just moments after Alex’s fall. After checking her vital signs and posing questions to the people in the immediate vicinity, the medics helped Alex up, and she was ushered out of the room.
Gabriel stepped up to the plate and took control of the conference session. I’m sure he was beginning to rethink taking on this whole convention scene, as the weekend was certainly not going according to plan thus far. In an effort to get the participants back into an organized and orderly state, he stepped up to the podium and announced, “May I have your attention everyone? Let’s please settle down and allow the medical staff to assist Dr. Covington. In the meantime, I will be taking over the role as weapons coordinator. Let’s try to focus. I hate to sound cliché, but the show must go on. I put in a call to hotel maintenance, and they are going to make sure everything is secure with the lighting system. Until they give us the okay, look over your lines and I’ll start getting the stage weapons ready. I’m sure there’s no cause for alarm, and we can go ahead and continue our lesson.”
After a brief moment of readjustment, the participants were ready to get back to work. It was amazing to me how people could just brush by the ugly and misfortunate plight of others as long as they had other things to keep them occupied. I, on the other hand, wasn’t quite ready to sweep this newest accident under the rug. The string of mysterious events taking place at this conference was feeling less like unlucky coincidence and more like an organized agenda. Whose agenda it was and its desired outcome remained to be seen.
Gabriel distributed each actor’s weapon along with an additional reminder about safety and technique. My character, Elsa, used a Colt 1908 vest-pocket nickel semiautomatic pistol with a two-inch barrel and a lovely pearl grip. The gun felt heavier in my hand than I imagined the ladylike replica would have been.
Due to time constraints, both groups were going to have to perform their scenes simultaneously. I figured it would work out all right, since it was the choreography and weapons demonstration we were focusing on rather than the actual dialogue. Besides, I was just excited to play my role and experience the high I always got from being at center stage. I must admit, I am a bit of a drama diva.
Gabriel cleared his throat. “Silence, please!” His commanding voice had the desired effect. The audience waited in hushed anticipation.
Then came the familiar command: “Action!” I felt like I was poised at the starting blocks of an Olympic relay waiting for the gun signal. The performance began.
I was transported in my imagination to a dark hall of mirrors where I stood in a black dress, perfectly composed and aiming my Colt straight ahead at the mirror image of myself. I was Elsa. The clanking of swords and the banter between Tybalt and Mercutio just feet from where we stood were drowned out as I focused on the voice of my deceived lover reciting his lines from just beyond my field of vision. It was a voice I had come to know recently—not that of a jilted lover, but rather one that sent waves of apprehension, frustration, and pent-up anger pulsing through my bloodstream. It was the voice of Eddie Sneed, but the familiar grating sound now carried a darker undertone. Did he have unexpected acting skills, or did he possess a true element of danger?
“With these mirrors, it’s kind of difficult to tell. You are aiming at me aren’t you? I’m aiming at you, lover. Of course, killing you is killing myself. It’s the same thing. But you know, I’m pretty tired of the both of us.”
I barely breathed as I anticipated the deafening sounds the blank shots would make when we fired at the images of ourselves in the mirrors. My hand was steady with my finger tensed on the trigger, waiting for the three-second count from the last word spoken until I fired my weapon. I inhaled and held my breath, feeling the anticipation and the adrenaline, knowing that a gun was pointed at my chest, even though it was not loaded with live ammunition. And then the screaming began.
I squeezed the trigger when the first scream pierced the air. The blast from the blank round was deafening, but I was still able to hear the sound of shattering glass behind me and the shouts all around the room. I tried to sort out what was happening amid the chaos. On the other side of the stage, one of the male actors was lying on the ground clutching his leg. Blood was oozing through his fingers where it seemed he had cut himself while wielding his sword. Although dulled, the swords are still blades and can cut if you aren’t extremely careful. People from the audience flooded onto the stage to help him. I was about to go lend a hand myself when it registered that the mirror behind me was shattered, and shards of the reflective glass were still raining down onto the stage floor. How had the mirror broken? We were firing blank rounds at each other, and there was nothing and no one else around me to have caused the mirror to shatter. Unless . . . the round fired at me was not a blank.
25
Our doubts are traitors, and make us lose the good we might oft win, by fearing to attempt.
Measure for Measure
After the fiasco in the conference room, there was nothing else Gabriel could have done other than cancel the class and dismiss early for lunch. It was a beautiful, summer day—the kind of day a person should spend sitting on the beach or anchored out in the bay, not eating a brown-bag lunch in the courtyard, wondering what all of the recent accidents and coincidences had to do with us.
“It’s a good thing we haven’t had to pay for anything this weekend, because the only things we’ve gotten our money’s worth on so far is catastrophe.” June, deep in thought, bit into her turkey sandwich. “I wonder how Angelina is doing. I meant to ask Gabriel if he knew.”
“It probably slipped your mind, being wrapped in his arms and all.” Oops, my snarky side was rearing its sarcastic head.
“Hey, he was just showing me the most effective way to aim and shoot a pistol.”
“I bet Jack could have shown you how to do that if you were really interested.” June’s narrowed eyes and the scowl on her face told me I had gone too far. “I’m sorry. That was mean. I’m just feeling out of sorts. First Eddie disappears from the fun house and then he conveniently shows up as my partner in a shootout using blank ammo that shatters glass. And then we have Angelina turning up semiconscious in a burning building—one, might I add, in which I was taking cover from real bullets—and now Dr. Covington is whisked away in an ambulance.”
“And don’t forget Bob.”
“Ugh. Bob. Somehow it feels like Bob is smack in the middle of all of this. Everything has gone haywire since his murder and this investigation. I cringe every time I think about that box in his house.”
“And the clown videos in the theater.”
“And nearly getting sawed in half.” My head was starting to hurt. Instead of finding out what or who was at the root of all these strange goings-on, things kept getting exponentially worse. This was not turning out to be the relaxing, fun getaway we had planned.
My mental rewind was cut short when June pointed toward the gazebo in the middle of the commons area. I had no idea what she was saying because her mouth was fu
ll, but she obviously thought it couldn’t wait until after she swallowed. I directed my gaze in line with her pointed finger and scanned the grassy area. I saw people enjoying sunshine, snacks, pets, and other summertime activities, but nothing out of the ordinary. Finally she gulped, coughed, waved her hand some more and said, “Over there! It’s Damien. Come on. Maybe we can find out about Angelina.”
Like it or not, I was going, since June had a death grip on my arm as she propelled me up and toward Damien.
I had a chance to take in his appearance before we reached him. He was still Heathcliff-handsome, his black jeans and black T-shirt hugging all the right places. On second thought, I was not opposed to speaking to him.
When we approached Damien, he was standing statue-still, hands clasped behind his back—did I mention Heathcliff?—staring off in the direction of the charred beach office. His expression was unreadable. I pondered whether we should just walk away and leave him to his musings, but June settled the debate before I could weigh the pros and cons.
“Hi, Damien. How are you doing? How is Angelina? Is she going to be okay?” June fired questions at Damien in rapid succession. The image of Eddie Sneed flitted across my mind. Did people find June and me as annoying as Eddie? Yikes. Note to self: think before speaking . . . or at least try.
Deviled!: Lake Erie Mysteries Book 2 Page 10
