by Louise Lynn
It was a reasonable enough question, and Mr. Allen didn’t seem to take offense to it.
He sighed and scuffed his shoe into the dirt, much like his son had into the fancy carpet in Dominic Dane’s tent. “When you say the festival, you mean me. Because that’s what this is going to do. I had to fund his performance myself.”
Hazel wasn’t expecting that. “How did you even track him down? I mean, he’s a famous actor, isn’t he?”
Mr. Allen scoffed. “I think you mean was a famous actor. And yes, his price was exorbitant. Not to mention his wife’s price tacked on alongside it. But, I have friends in high places. I was a producer in Hollywood until—well, that’s not important. What is important is that I have enough connections to get a hold of Dominic Dane, and I scrounged up the money to afford his bill. Only now, in case you haven’t noticed, he’s dead and the festival is awash,” he cried and threw his hands into the air.
Being upset about someone’s death didn’t necessarily preclude him from being the killer, but it was a pretty good indication he wasn’t.
Unless it was an act.
“Did you know anyone who would want to ruin you?”
Mr. Allen rubbed his hand over his face. She noticed he had day-old stubble on his cheeks, which was unusual for him, and dark bags under his eyes. He hadn’t been sleeping, which wasn’t good for the director of the plays this week.
This added stress was enough to give someone a nervous breakdown, never mind a man like Mr. Allen that always was teetering on the edge anyway. “I left Hollywood to get away from this kind of thing, so I have no clue. I’m not a threat to anyone. I just wanted to raise the caliber of the festival and now…” He shook his head.
“Was it your idea to hire Dominic?”
Mr. Allen’s shoulders slumped. “No. It was my wife’s idea, and I wish I said no. Because it would’ve saved me a giant headache if I had. You know, I tried to talk Sophia out of it. I suggested we hire Clark Duncan instead, but his schedule was full, so this is what I got.”
Hazel took a step forward. “It’s really unfortunate. Could you get a refund from Angela Dane? You said their contracts were tacked together?”
As long as he was talking, she might as well see if she could get him to say more.
Mr. Allen laughed bitterly. “Not a chance. She gave an interview before Dominic’s body was even cold about how she wouldn’t leave the festival. She had to finish it to honor her husband,” he spat. “Which is a lie. I’m surprised they were staying in the same house they fought so much. And their contracts aren’t anywhere near connected. They both had different ones drawn up, and in Angela’s case, if she doesn’t finish the festival, she doesn’t get her full compensation for it. That’s another reason she won’t leave.”
That was interesting, and Hazel was about to ask why Dominic and Angela’s contracts were different, but Mrs. Allen approached before she could.
“The actors are waiting for you, Ms. Hart,” Sophia said and narrowed her eyes in Hazel’s direction. Her expression seemed unnaturally hostile, though perhaps Hazel was imagining it.
Maybe it was just the atmosphere of the festival now that Dominic was dead. Or the atmosphere of Macbeth itself.
“Of course, I was just giving your husband my condolences. I’m really sorry you guys are going to lose so much because of this,” she said.
Sophia’s expression grew shrewd. “We don’t need your pity. And you should get back to work,” she said and pressed a copy of the local paper, the Cedar Valley Post, into her husband’s chest.
As Hazel ducked away, she heard the beginning of a hissed argument between them.
“At the end of that article it says that he gave an exclusive interview before he died, and the editor says she’ll print it before the final performance. So, what did he say?” Sophia snarled.
“How am I supposed to know?” Christopher answered, equally angry.
With a sigh, Hazel walked back around to the front of the stage to photograph the players. The words of that argument rang in her ears.
If it involved the Cedar Valley Post, that meant it involved the editor of that paper, Darla Maple.
So, at least Hazel knew who she had to talk within the next couple of days.
First, however, the cast of Macbeth needed to survive their second performance.
Chapter 12
While the matinee went off accident free, a different sort of energy hung over Macbeth that night.
Hazel stood to the side of the stage as she had before, and she spotted several deputies in and around the audience as well. Sheriff Cross himself had checked the rigging on the lights and found nothing amiss, but that didn’t mean the actors or the audience was at ease.
Not in the least.
Christopher Allen buzzed around backstage like a nervous bee, while Sophia muttered Lady Macbeth’s lines under her breath, even if she wasn’t the one about to perform the part.
She spotted Darcy back there as well, his hands shoved into his pockets and a heavy frown on his face. Hazel had a feeling he was looking for Violet.
She had yet to talk to the girl about the photos, since Violet had been swamped with work, once again. And Hazel tried to think of a way to ask about them without Violet shutting her out, the way she did Sheriff Cross on many occasions.
She hadn’t come up with any yet, so she decided to be straight forward about it.
The only actor Hazel didn’t see was Angela Dane—until it was her turn to head on stage.
She did regally, and spoke her lines with cool elegance. If Hazel hadn’t known the truth, she never would’ve guessed this woman’s husband had died on the stage the day before.
Angela stepped her slippered feet over the spot where it had happened. Though the stage had been scrubbed well, there was still a dark splotch where Dominic’s blood had soaked into the wood itself.
Angela Dane didn’t seem to notice. Or perhaps it was Lady Macbeth who didn’t.
Dominic’s understudy wasn’t quite as talented as the actor before him had been. He spoke his lines with a little bit too much fanatic fervor for Hazel’s tastes, but Angela played off of him well. And for a time, perhaps the audience forgot what had happened there.
However, when it came to Macbeth killing Duncan, everyone watching, including Hazel herself, held their breath and waited.
Even Macbeth paused, his shoulders stiff, before he delivered the killing blow.
When no ill-fated accident occurred, the audience let out a breath.
Still, Hazel felt the tensioned tingling over her shoulders and up her spine.
She tried not to think about what her camera had caught the day before, and felt the bile rise in her throat.
Well, in all likelihood, that wouldn’t happen again.
She hoped.
As the play neared its end, Hazel felt her shoulders starting to relax. Or perhaps it was the weariness tugging at her bones that did it.
Macbeth was going to end the way it should have the day before, without a real grisly murder happening in front of everyone.
Lady Macbeth went mad, trying to get spots of blood out of her dress, and made for the window that would spell her doom.
In this production, Christopher Allen had decided Lady Macbeth should die on stage instead of off. Perhaps for a greater effect.
The stagehands, had built a special set for it—a tower with stairs round on the outside, which was rolled out as Lady Macbeth ran through the halls. The tower, was painted to look like rocks, and the forced perspective made it appear taller than it actually was. Still, it wasn’t short by any means since it looked a good fifteen feet tall.
Ever the consummate actor, Angela Dane charged up the wooden stairs, and when she got to the top of the tower, threw open the flimsy window in order to leap out.
Everyone in the audience held their breath as she leaned forward, and Hazel’s finger trembled as it hovered over the shutter.
She pressed it, and a burst of photos sna
pped one after the other.
Then, Lady Macbeth screamed and the wood under her hands gave way. She tumbled forwards, and her gown snagged on the wood as she fell.
The fabric ripped, slowing her fall, and she landed with a thud a moment later, unmoving.
Hazel started for the stage, but the actor playing Macbeth made it there first. Unlike Angela’s outbursts the day before, he approached slowly, and then Hazel saw why.
Angela Dane shifted, her face twisted in pain as she very carefully turned her head in Macbeth’s direction.
She was alive.
Alive and still in character, somehow. Though Hazel was sure that hadn’t actually been part of the production.
Hazel glanced toward Sheriff Cross, his entire body was stiff and ready to act, but he didn’t disturb the play until the stagehands carefully carried Lady Macbeth’s “corpse” offstage so Macbeth could deliver his final soliloquy.
Hazel hovered in her spot near the stage and clicked as many photos as she could, eager to get backstage and find out exactly what had happened.
Another accident, obviously, but had this one been designed to be deadly? Especially since it involved Angela Dane, one of the most likely suspects.
Hazel’s mind raced trying to think of what this could mean.
When the curtain fell, she let out a breath and turned.
The audience murmured and clapped, but it was nothing like the standing ovation given to A Midsummer Night’s Dream that afternoon, and Hazel could see why.
In the flickering lamplight that surrounded them, the promise of danger loomed. And the audience couldn’t escape that even if it wasn’t explicitly aimed at them.
As Hazel rounded the stage, she heard Angela Dane before she saw the woman.
“Do you see this? You can bet I’ll be sending my lawyer. I’ll sue you until you have nothing left, and then I’ll sue this entire town. I’ve never been in a production so shoddy and unprofessional in my entire life!” Angela Dane cried at Christopher Allen, who wrung his hands and hung his head.
“I have no idea how this happened. That set was built weeks ago and kept under lock and key in the community center. We only moved it to the festival grounds a few days ago.”
Sheriff Cross was on his knees in front of Angela, who sat on a chair with her leg up. “It looks like a sprain, ma’am. Are you sure you don’t need to go to the hospital? I really think you should get it checked out. Did you hit your head?”
Angela Dane gave him a dangerous smile. “Oh I’ll go to the doctor, but after how you treated me earlier today, I think someone else should take me.”
Sheriff Cross drew his mouth into a line, and he stood up and dusted off his pants. “I have to follow every possible lead, and in most murder cases, it’s the spouse who did it. I’m sorry if you find that uncomfortable, Mrs. Dane.”
Her brows pulled together. “Well, do you think I did it now? You think I’m trying to kill myself as well as my husband? What kind of lunatic do you think I am?”
Hazel glanced at Sheriff Cross, because he opened his mouth and was ready to actually reply to that, though she was pretty sure it was a rhetorical question. “The kind that lays on stage and pretends to be dead?”
Angela threw her hands in the air, and then winced. Yeah, she looked like she had more injuries than she wanted to let on. “I was in character. You think I want to ruin the production just because I got hurt? I broke a rib on the set of Lord of the Halos, and I didn’t even shed a single tear. Do you have any idea what a broken rib feels like? It hurts, but I’m a professional, so I dealt with it,” she said and held her chin high.
Hazel half expected the woman to say Dominic should have handled having his head smashed by a light, but she didn’t. Thankfully.
Even though Angela was all kinds of insufferable, Hazel couldn’t help but admire her—just a little. Not if she was a murderess, but being able to stay in character after she fell fifteen feet meant she was a good actress. Hazel had to give her that.
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am about this, Angela. I swear we’ll look at the set and see what went wrong, and if you want to get your lawyer involved…” Christopher said and ran his fingers through his hair. If he kept doing that, he was going to lose what was left of it.
Angela waved her hand, as if dismissing him, and a few of the stagehands helped her limp to a car that was presumably taking her to the emergency center.
Sheriff Cross gritted his teeth, and Christopher Allen trotted after her, probably trying to get out of a lawsuit.
“Do we still think it’s her?” Hazel asked as she stood next to him.
He didn’t answer for a moment, and the dim lights sent shadows crawling across his face. “I’m not sure. She is right about one thing. If she wanted her husband dead, why would she try to kill herself? It doesn’t make sense.”
Hazel nodded slowly. “Unless she’s trying to throw us off with a non-fatal accident.”
Sheriff Cross snorted. “I’d say there are less dangerous ways to do it. She really could’ve hurt herself. Broken her neck. And it didn’t look like she was ready for the fall. Did you get any of that on film?”
Hazel glanced down at her camera and held it protectively to her chest. “Not film. It’s digital. But yes. I think I got everything. Again.”
Her stomach filled with dread when she thought of looking at the pictures, but nothing could be as bad as the one she took the night before.
Sheriff Cross sighed. “Let’s have a look, if you don’t mind.”
She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Not at all.”
As they were walking to Hazel’s tent, Violet ran up to them. She gave all of her attention to Hazel, not bothering to glance at her uncle. “What happened? Everyone said there was another accident during the performance, but I was in the costume tent mending. I didn’t even see it.”
Sheriff Cross let out a breath, and Hazel spoke before he got a chance. She put a reassuring hand on Violet’s shoulder, and felt the girl trembling beneath it. “It wasn’t serious. Angela Dane has minor injuries. She fell off the tower set.”
Violet shook her head. “I thought she was the one who killed Dominic. Now she’s hurt too? Does that mean she didn’t do it?”
Sheriff Cross pinched the bridge of his nose. “Nobody is crossed off the suspect list yet. But we’re looking into it. I think Hazel is going to be a little bit late tonight, so do you want one of the deputies to take you back?”
Violet scowled and wouldn’t meet his eyes. “No, thanks. I’ll wait with Mrs. Hart. She’s still giving readings at her booth.” Then she spun and stalked away.
“You’re not going to tell me what she’s upset about?” Hazel asked as soon as Violet disappeared into the night.
Sheriff Cross’s shoulders bunched. “I’m not sure myself. I know she thinks I’m too strict, which is nothing new. But she thinks she’s already twenty-one and should be able to do everything a twenty-one-year-old can.”
Hazel raised her brows. “She wants to go to bars?”
Sheriff Cross frowned. “That’s what it feels like.”
Hazel bit back the desire to say what she actually thought. That Violet most likely didn’t want to go to a bar; she probably wanted to stay at the library until closing, or something else scandalous like that.
But she wasn’t going to get in the middle of his and Violet’s argument, whatever that may be.
Michael and her father were just packing up the booth when they arrived, so Hazel promised to help after she showed Sheriff Cross the pictures.
Unlike the photos from the day before, nothing jumped out to them. The accident happened as Angela Dane claimed. The wood splintered beneath her hands and she tumbled forward.
Looking at the pictures, it seemed that the gown catching on the wood may have saved her life. Or, at least it lessened the impact of the fall.
She glanced at Sheriff Cross. “Still think she killed her husband?”
He stared at the sc
reen, and rubbed his jaw. “Probably not. But now it looks like we need a killer who wanted both Dominic and Angela dead,” he said and met her gaze.
A knot formed in Hazel’s throat, and she swallowed it.
She wasn’t sure if that narrowed down the list of suspects or doubled it.
Chapter 13
“You think this entire thing is about money?” Esther whispered, though there was no need. They sat on a picnic blanket tucked into a secluded corner of the park, near the lake. Normally, such a prized place would be snatched up in the summer, but during the festival, everyone wanted to stay near the booths and the stage, which meant the places closer to the shining jewel that was Lake Celeste were quite empty.
That morning had been uneventful, mostly.
Word of the accident involving Angela Dane had spread, but no new suspects had come up.
Hazel hadn’t gotten the chance to talk to Violet about the photos yet. The girl had been asleep by the time Hazel got home the night before since Maureen had dropped her off. And she’d been gone that morning when Hazel rose, though Violet had sent a text:
Farrah picked me up early to fix some costumes. C U l8r!
It took Hazel longer than she wanted to admit to puzzle out the second bit. Teens and their texting shorthand.
Now, at noon, Hazel shrugged and chewed on her bite of sandwich. She’d told Sheriff Cross what she learned from Mr. Allen night before, and he was trying to pull some financials for Dominic Dane. That would hopefully lead to a better idea of who killed the man and tried to, possibly, kill Angela too.
“I don’t know. And I’m not sure if they’re trying to hurt Mr. Allen or what. But money is a pretty good motivation for killing someone. At least it has been in the past.”
Esther frowned at her heavily, even if Ruth wasn’t within earshot. “Yeah, but a good motivation for killing someone in the middle of a play?”
